WHEN THE STILL SEA CONSPIRES AN ARMOR (Part 2 of “They fly toward grace”)



Just as a character in Pynchon’s Against the Day advocated that the world ended in 1914, I too, had an equivalent epiphany. On December 5, 1971, sitting on a hill outside of Boulder, my perceptions and mind-set ‘aided’ by substances not then legitimized in Colorawdough, I not so much ‘saw’, but felt/intuited the “end,” right then. The faithful, the gross-one-thousand transcendent souls were transported to whatever adjoining but safe realm, and the remainder of us left to forage, continue, dream/night-mare on in a collective illusion.


Sometimes, like today, I almost wake up. Driving to work, as I have done 4.5 times a week for the past 5+ years, I turned left and saw a rock outcrop above the river, superimposed on a checkerboard of alternating cliff-faces and passages in between. It clicked. The mental photograph stuck with me, much as the subsequent hillside of rock mounds and gullies yielded strong evidence (to me) of a not-impossible mathematical solution. It didn’t last long.


A few miles later I considered that myself, as an excuse for a human soul — the same stuff as everybody — might choose not to enmesh with the underlying all-knowing oneness of the fundamental cosmic unity, but continue on in sansara. The whirled of illusion. Pursuing what to the cosmic are petty dalliances, but for the individual, what we may, in our ignorance, conceive to be worthwhile pursuits.


Betty models the Stone (w)Ring of Doom.  The (w)Ring can suck in dog heads, and other semi-animate objects.


Later during the commute, my mind shut down entirely. I couldn’t even listen to the blather on the radio. I thought about beer, girlfriends and wives and lovers I’d have in future lifetimes, with only occasional forays into what could I do to advance and promote … happiness for everybody.

“Fuck that!”

(No, I don’t really believe that. I hope … )

mesa spring blusteryness

So, when the still sea conspires an armor

& her sullen&aborted currents breed tiny monsters,


awkward instant, and the 1st animal is jettisoned, legs furiously pumping, their stiff green gallop,

and heads bob up, poise, delicate, pause, consent.

In mute nostril agony, and sealed over !!

(with apologeez to GymMorrisun)

Poor equines.  But if you want to buy vintage blue jeans …


Yeah, it only took me 3 (more?) years to finish Against the Day (by T. Pynchon).  Heck, remember, it only took FIFTY years for me to become, if not the “Big” man in the Locker Room, well — a Medium-sized one.  (Hint:  read BMITLR).  It has taken umpteen lifetimes to get to whatever point i am in the yooniversal mobius strip.  Reminds me … a former friend made a real nice mobius strip, painted, stiff construction paper, a gift to me, of the two polarity-opposite-extreme sayings i once envisioned on one of those ‘quests’:  HANG ON, & LET GO.  Steve Boker.  He’s some sort of quasi-mystic whacko-psychology professor at the U of Virginia.  He (and enslaved grad students) has written learned? treatises on, among other things, how and why people dance to whatever it is they dance to.  I suppose I too, get paid for what may seem like esoteric pursuits…

My beautiful picture

THAT ROck is a weeurd one, eh? like overlaying gloves cumulatively of many many fingers — of course there is a geologic explanation. It’s a heavy sucker, otherwise we’d-a probably loaded it into the truck, and


Rosco’s “totem animal(s)”. Seems they’re often close, watching me. Many’s the times I’m on a run or bike workout and the shadows sweep overhead, across my path.


Betty adopted Georgia (“JaJa”) in late February. We CAN’T be just a one-dog family!


(Whining)The State of the Entropy

door kitten

The State of the Entropy


or … the continuing Entropy of the State. And whining about it.


Whining? the usual: i complain, no-one listens, gettin’ more and more tired (whuddelse izz gnu?). In part due to THE HEAT. i don’t know about you, but when the temps hit 80, then 90 (today) i fade. doin’ the yard chores at a pace which varies between a zombie-shuffle to the occasional medium-shuffle.


i’ll spiffify this happy post with CAT PIXURES, and when Betty flew away two daze ago to be GrandMa in Portland, she lamented she might miss her flowers bloomin’. so the cat pixures will be interspersed with flower-pictures.

gate milli

burgundy lilies

and a pict. of a kitten (well, heez a BIG kitten, small kitty now) with harmonicas.

seriously (really!) i had set the two instruments of destruxion out to photograff, and “kitten” decided he’d get in there, and

yeah, i “auditioned” tonite at a club in Fruita (check http://www.cavalcadefruita.com)
with the gist (or izzit speld “jist”?) of my plan of attack being
and they said “you’re on” for the next monthly show.
and that’s not all …
Betty and our “old band” is also playin’ Cavalcade “talent”! and someone wants to re-start up the banned! our ‘musical life’ temporarily looks optimistic. don’t worry, it’ll pass …


the annual José Puede Ver? occurred last weekend, with Friday being one of my worst performances and Satyrday i ratcheted it up and think i performed ‘somewhat above average’. (“José Puede Ver” is what i call my annual playing of the National Anthem with blooz intro and some banter at the W. Colorado H.S. Track (& Field) Championships.)

cat foreground dogs

betty’s complaints, my fault: her flight to Portland was delayed, twice. THAT was, somehow, my fault, for purchasing those particular plane tickets. and when she got there, her cell-phone wouldn’t work. That too, was my fault. ’til her daughter TURNED THE PHONE OFF, and when it turned on, the phone knew where it was and calls have been coming and going.

granma eddie
bein’ granMaw, with grandson, Eddie

Ah, the Whining: sometimes i think i ‘pen’ something which WerdPress might “take notice” of. profile. push to front and center (they call it “Fresh Pressed”). deafeningly not this!, but … i figgerd “tormented souls”?? — my previous post, which was the first serious not-totally-off-the-cuff post inna while. by that i mean i axually THOUGHT about it. edited it intensely. yeah, you probably can’t tell …
and, how about FICTION CATEGORY: they didn’t pick up ERIK/DYLAN snow cave camp? or Cry Kwakiutl? ? or Uggedda Buggetta??? Seminal short stories, people!
and Japhy ryder? — an intradimensional epic!

arch inuk

Perhaps WerdPress ought-a have ANOTHER, ‘renegade’ category, Pressedly-Frest, with the symbol being, oh, a bl(e)ak hole — or some weird outdoor demented rock sculpture, for categories hitherto unthinkable. un-label-able. just plain outside of definition.

arch inuk snow
You know, it somewhat recently SNOWED here, and now we’re in the 90-degree temps …

and T Pynchon (“Against when the sun is out”) (w)rang a chord recently:
Heading once more over the bridge, into the smoky orange sunset, he felt the sadness peculiar to the contemplation of recent time unrecapturable. Anything earlier, childhood, adolescence, they were done with, he could get by without any of that — what he wanted back was last week, the week before.
Hmmm… and i thought that was so significant when i read it a coupla daze back. Oh, well …


B ‘n me are entered into the local (low key?) Triathlon in a few weeks, as a team! She will swim, and i will split personas, one to ride, and (Rosco, i think) will run. The distance is such that i could easily have done the whole thing some 20 years ago. A mere 16-mile ride, followed by 3.5 mile CC. Heck, about 20 years ago i briefly held the (w)record for the local Duathlon (Citizen category), which was smusht the following year by REAL athletes.
The main race had departed, and all whom remained was us citizens. One fellow in particular, swaggeringly clad in lycra (there was a time when THAT was somewhat unusual) came up to me and asked what i’d do the 5k run in (the CIT du was a 5k run, 30k ride).
“Oh, i’ll try for 20-some.” That sounded good to him and he announced he’d hang with me, then take off.

rosco running

I ran the 20-some, finishing in the first 5 or so of our race-within-a-race. Mr. Lycra was maybe a minute back, but overtook me at mile 5 or so during the bike. Seeing his aero helmet, disk wheels, tri-bar, I (mentally) conceded immediately. (I didn’t have those then, nor ever have, since).
Much to my surprise I saw him again at about mile 16. Unbeknownst to me, I also passed the leader in the ‘team’ category. I couldn’t tell as we were moving up through the slowest riders in the “real athlete” category. They’d have to run another 5k, whereas when i finished the ride, i was done. And won.

o r c c
THAT GUY to the right … LOOKS TOUGH? — okay, don’t laugh, too much. Rosco with his son-in-law and grandson in-&-out of law

This year we hope to finish with enough energy to stay alive enough to go to the Cavalcade that night and be rock stars. Wottaday, for old weigh-overTheHill folks, huh?


Lets go to Hoobity-ville & Wankett some Boobideebapps


Yes.  As the man said, driving the Interstate thru’ Pendleton, Oregon over 30 years ago, the Suruasooraboob was seen crossing the road.  I’ve been on a mission ever since.

Basically — don’t look for what is there.  Keep searching for what isn’t there.  Not long after, I formulated and internalized a kind of dictum-operandi:  it’s THE GLUE BETWEEN THINGS.

You don’t have to live in an area with big rivers to contend with the bridges …

We cross the bridge between day and night.  Between sleep and waking up to begin the day.  The job and what you do after the job.  What may seem ridiculous; what is actually sublime.  Dreams, wallowing in the mud.  Recently, many of my dreams seem to involve mud-wallowing.  Could it be I might find a diamond or gold while mucking about in the mire?


one of the WEIRDest

discoveries was, after    working for a fellow  named BEN BULBOUS  for a few years (and not knowing we worked for him)  was the chance stumbling upon a picture of W B Yeats’ gravestone.

“Cast a cold eye

on life, on death.

Horseman, pass by!”

From Under Ben Bulben (“Last Poems and 2 Plays” 1939).  And yes, it seems most of my friends are, in more ways than the merely corporeal-dispatched, expired in other aspects of “gone.”

Oh, poor lonely dino …  wandering the landscape seemingly alone.  But few things are as they seem.  You are never, really, very, alone.

I was part of a close-knit group of compahdres for most the teen-aged and early twenties years.  As we didn’t exactly have a mentor, considering ourselves more-or-less equals, we invented an entity whom we named BEN BULBOUS.  Little did we know, that perhaps Ben Bulbous, in a sense, invented us.  Below, Ben and his muse frolic at ocean’s edge …

Professor Bulbous re-entered our collective lives a few years later.  Aspiring psychology students, all (well, most) of us, we acquired research positions based in the Univ. of Colo. Muenzinger Psychology Center studying a fledgling and cutting-edge project tentatively called “Amphetamine Psychosis.”  The lead researcher was, to our surprise — Benjamin.  (At first we all were mind-blown.  Later some of us claimed that this wasn’t a ‘surprise’ — that Prof. B had, behind the scenes, arranged for this juxtaposition of serendipity and continued joint exploration all along).  Well, I was surprised.

Below, some of our research subjects on a rare supervised trip away from the facility.  They had to be chained together, as if not, they would wander off and cause trouble in three different places.  This way, if they shambled off, the trouble was usually confined to just one location, and we usually could find them fairly easily.  Before they got into more trouble.

We can’t verify this with a high degree of certainty, but we are darned sure a couple movie-writer/producers were aware of our work with Delmar, Everett, and Pete and based the main characters in a big budget movie they made many years later on them.  Everett had an obsession with hair gel, it was either Pete or Delmar who considered gophers and other ground-dwelling rodents a delicacy when roasted on a stick, and the other guy frequently thought he was in danger of transmogrifying into some sort of reptile.

Our work with Delmar, Pete, and Elliot was mild compared to the ever-elusive and seldom-seen Dopey.

And I thought we had endured enough dumpster-diving while previously unemployed as starving under-grad students.

After a few months of amphetamine-psychosis research, we were prepared for what Professor Bulbous called “the next steps.”

“Look for the energy vortexes.  You might actually see the lines connecting many different life forms.”

Watch the river.  But, remember, that is but a small part of what is going on .

The river is watching you.  And there’s no way you can even begin to think you know what it’s thinking.

It might be safe to say that “Pete” (or whoever this is, below) is not only fascinated by the river, hypnotized by it, but

about to surrender part, or all, of his life-force to it.

Under Ben Bulben?

Or is Ben Bulben under everything?  W B Yeats was no light-weight …

Okay, this doesn’t have much to do with anything, but Everett, having briefly come home for a visit,

presents an ichthylogical present to his not-too-obviously-excited mom.

Delmar, temporarily free from the toadal and/or froggy influences, has a message which hopefully will deter Gort from destroying the whirled:


Sunny Day in Bongo-ville (she knew the nagual, and the nagual knew her)

She? and what she knew … we’ll get to that.  But first, wha gwan a la casa baytoonawdaw …

Slev & da Rox watch the SunTea Brewin’.  Broodin’?  Does a watcht pawt ever boil?  May a Moody Baby Doom a Yam? (i borrerrd thet frum Bela Fleck, a palindrome sawng).

I made up a palindrome once.  Maybe it’ll fit in, somewhere, nicely, some day.  Probably not.

A big windstorm swept through our place over a week ago.  Among the usual tree branches and trash cans donated to downwind neighbors (and inheriting similar from houses upwind) the inuk-thingy in the middull of the yard blew over.

I started to rebuild it last weekend.  I mentioned to Betty that I’d been considering quadripedal inunnguaqs (except that particular werd applies to “human-like”) — or inukshuk.  “Why not start now, with this one?” she said.

I’ll build another, as soon as.  Prob’ly ain’t obvious, but I have a toadull amphibious aspect in mind.

View from opposite dye-erexion.

The people who built our house, almost 60 years ago! were the only inhabitants ’til we acquired it some 20 years ago.  Yeah, “my, how time flies” — or the maggots self-propagate, or whatever.  Anyhow, the lady of the house took pride in her roses.  Won ribbons at the county fair.  It’s amazing the roses persevere, regardless and definitely IN SPITE OF our continuing benign neglect.  Above is just about the last rose of the season.

There aren’t many pixures of Terry, or sometimes “Serena.”  Terry struts down the walk and by choice/volition doesn’t get out much. (At first I didn’t notice the Inuk-of-the-Lower-Yard, at top).

No-one’s gettin’ in the lower level door without this doorbell ringin’.  Or, more probably, a lotta tail-waggin’ and droolin’ from Doolie.

Bruce is about to attack a pile of dandelion leaves.  A new era, in whatever form it’ll manifest we have no idea, is underway, in that I discovered Bruce likes certain kinds of DOG-FOOD.  (I didn’t know that ’til today).

Dandelion devourment.

milli hangin’ with “the bird”

This is one bird, the only bird on the premises, which the cats usually leave alone.  Da bird is ensuring that the flower-planter-box on the north side of the house continues to be inhospitable to flowers, as it likes to lounge in the safety and comfort many afternoons there.

Earlier today (mercifully NOT pixured) I ran a 5k race and failed yet again at what has become my only goal in any race –> DON’T set a new P W (for non-runners: “personal worst” — slowest time ever).  I smashed my previous PW.  But I’m still, barely (barelier) sub-8.  Then … Betty bought a new bed (to replace the one we’ve had for 20-plus years) and to prepare for the delivery in a few days, we spent a few hours clearing, cleaning, re-arranging, cleaning, tossing stuff out, un-re-arranging, consolidating and, while we’re at it, put up new curtains and hardware over some windows.  The heavy lifting was done by two of Betty’s college life-guard swimming buddies who moved the old bed and all appertunances thereto to the garage.  You don’t want any pixures of that, do you?

Retreating back in time, I went into the secret laboratory and brought an old essay back from the crypt.  Not quite a blast? (more like old w(h)ine) from the passed.

blorg of the least beast high on fermented yeast?  or —

 She knew the nagual, and the nagual knew her.

okeh… how’s that for the start of the book?  depends.  if i conjured up 300-some pages to go with it, great.  however, the never-ending downward spiral seemingly is infinite.  sigh.

i do NOTHING well.  that is, i’m really good at nothing.  everything, or anything — for that matter — i’m not so good at.

i aspire to be mediocre at various things.  golf:  mediocrity would be a step up.  hockey:  gosh, i’d like to improve two or three steps to become merely mediocre.  home-improvement projects:  well, i think mediocrity is within reach, but it slips away, usually.

i am good at a thing, or two, but i can’t really tell anybody.  really.  whether or not i’m right about that, it doesn’t matter.  (yes, it’s like that).

now, back to the realm where mediocrity is a possibly unattainable dream…  a guy i knew about 20 years back joked about starting The Institute of/for the Useless.  he was a/the prime example.  at that time i felt somewhat above useless.  but when talking about it, i had not only empathy, but what i thought were good suggestions for the curriculum.

now, i’m not so sure — about being “above” useless — what with the aspirations for mediocrity and all.

there have got to be good and positive and healthy and spiritual and emotionally-uplifting things going on, for somebody, somewhere.  has to be.  a counterbalance to all this negative stuff.

what negative stuff? someone might ask.  whoa — somebody might question the absolute force of negativity in this whirled?  heh …

ah, fee-yuck.  shuck the attempts to be filosawfeekal.  the flip sighed uv the quoin is apprehension of the open-ness, the un-folding, whirled without comprehensible end, omen.

tomorrow betty wants for us to participate in a double-suicide attempt.  take both horses out on the trail.  maybe it’ll snow, or the good news snoid will slither by with directions to the treasure chest in the forest, or one or the other or both of us will be struck in the head by the effervescent esoteric luminescent tendril of good sense and/or sublime intelligence or in some other fashion have my/our/her I.Q. instantly elevated to at least double what it/they is/are presently.  ah …. (intoned after a good voiding).

suicide? tomorrow, continued:  and in a vain/futile attempt to re-establish a semblance of familial harmony, she has arranged for my brothers and us to go out for dinner tomorrow.  the sort of experiment i/we don’t need.  speekin’ of weird experiments … in a little over a month we venture with the one (non-disparate) brother to las vague-ass to attend the spamalot show.

but, what is it, if anything, i’m looking forward to?  perhaps i’d like to be in the mindset or spirit-set where i really do have to pay complete attention all the time.  not a lascivious, greedy, soul-sucking sort of attention.  attention to … it.

she knew the nagual, and the nagual knew her.

sara didn’t know she knew the nagual.  it was a gradual thing.  the nagual, of course, didn’t care.

Who is “sara”?  she is the protagonist (the main one, other protagonists take the stage from time to time) in my ongoing novel (gnawvell) which will probably never be published.  The way I’m “writing” Sara, she does seem to intuitively know Naggy Wall, but not let it affect her.  It’s like she doesn’t know she knows.  Kind of like how I think I might feel some of the time when I depress the clutch on the personal-interaction-with-the-world mechanism, and just, let, it

rosco betunada, in the year 2007, hadn’t, fundamentally, changed, at all.