Welcome to Life on Planet Earth 

in the Ever Present Unfolding Here and Now

We are Here

We are Breathing

We are in Awareness and Knowing

We Acknowledge the Abundance of Well-Being

We Acknowledge that Something is Happening

and that We are an Aspect of that Something Happening

We Revel in the Spontaneous Production of Desire and Preference

As We Sift through the Contrast and Variety of our Environment

We Bask in the Emotive Feedback

Ever Responding to the Thought Signal Perspective We Offer

We Delight in the Continuous Delivery of Experience

Offered by the Co-Creating All-That-Is

As We Celebrate Our Membership

in that same Co-Creating All-That-Is

We Are Here!

We Are Here!

It is Good!

Toward A Breath-Based Economics

A new way to visualize our basis of exchange.

First:

1. Take a deep, natural breath, INHALE and EXHALE, and feel yourself relax, eager to dive in.

2 . On your next INHALATION, when you reach the natural capacity of your lungs, inhale a bit more, filling your chest and feeling yourself expand to accommodate the additional air. HOLD this breath for just a second or two, noticing the feeling of it in your body before LETTING IT GO, EXHALING.

3 . When you get to the natural end of this EXHALATION, force out a bit more remaining air in your lungs, and PAUSE a second or two, feeling the sensation of vacuum in the body before LETTING GO, INHALING again.

Notice that letting go at the extremes of both the inhalation and the exhalation initiates a natural return to a sort of baseline, from which a bit of effort on your part can be exerted to move air either into or out of your lungs.

Consider the following:

• Breathing is a natural and necessary process which every living individual practices non-stop from the day we are born until the day we die.

• At any moment, as long as one's respiratory system is working properly and one is in the required oxygen-rich atmosphere, there is ALWAYS air available for one's next inhalation, and likewise, there is ALWAYS room available to receive one's next exhalation.

• The planet's built-in life-support systems have done all the Operating System and Wetware design-and-build required for excellent delivery and distribution of the atmospheric resources upon which our lives depend. The cycle incorporates the continual flow of air in and out of the lungs, a constantly repeated delivery of fresh oxygen to the blood and to every cell in the body, and the delivery of carbon dioxide out. We are breathing for every cell in the body.

• We are each productive members of the Global Life-Support System, processing CO2 for the plants, just as they process O2 for us.
  

• Breathing is done continually, naturally and regularly, with no thought at all. No attention is necessary for systems to operate beautifully.

• The simple application of attention to our breathing can be revealing and therapeutic. This is done regularly in practices including sports and fitness training, yoga, meditation, hypnosis, visualization, and physical analyses and therapies of all kinds.

• There is a natural capacity which our lungs have, a maximum space for holding air in and letting air out. We can, through practice and conditioning, increase that capacity.

• One cannot inhale and exhale simultaneously. One is either inhaling or exhaling, or holding the breath somewhere in the cycle.

Exploring my own breath during meditation has led me to identify BREATHING as an excellent model for the way a healthy, vibrant, natural economy might function.

There are 3 categories or states of being in this Economic Model: Receiving, Holding and Releasing.

State A - Receive; Collect; Gather; Increase; Get; Grow; Inhale; Inspire; Expand; Attract

State B - Hold; Have; Store; Contain; Maintain; Stay; Remain; Neutral; Wait; Stasis;

State C - Release; Decrease; Distribute; Share; Diminish; Give; Exhale; Expire; Contract; Repel

A breath cycle might be illustrated in this way:

a - b - c - b - a - b - c - b - etc.,

i.e. Inhale - hold - Exhale - hold - Inhale - hold - etc...

• Consider that this is the way we process all things which move through our lives, in that we receive them somehow, we have them for a while, and we release them when they no longer suit us.

• In this economic model, the most valuable assets are forests, trees, green oxygen-producing land, and carbon sequestering resources. This seems much more reasonable than gold or some other standard, the value of which fluctuates from individual to individual and from market to market. Everyone needs air/atmosphere all the time.

• Also, in this model, there is no such thing as borrowing, credit or debt. One is always in the state that is natural in their own flow cycle, either receiving, holding, or releasing. No individual's state is better or worse than another's, and no one's state intrudes or relies upon the state of any other individual in the system.

• The oxygen-producing resources of the world may be regarded as a Commons. Each living individual has ongoing access to one Share of that Commons, and may hold no more or less than any other individual. One Share entitles the holder to a lifetime supply of fresh air to breathe.

• More than this: we expand the idea to incorporate access to a lifetime supply of whatever it is one is needing/wanting, and a "waste"-stream which receives that which one no longer wants or needs.

Here then is an opportunity to notice and discard an economy that struggles to compel the production of unwanted merchandise by unwilling labor and marketed to resistant consumers with limited resources.

A Breath-Based Economy encourages each individual's natural calling to be the impetus of creativity and trade, providing access to the world of resources based on desire, by an enthusiastic market and inspired producers.

You are hereby invited to accept your Share in the Breath-Based Economy. Breathe easy! We are rich! Enjoy!

Stephen J. Bushman

The Transdimensional Shenanigans of Lamont

Lamont, intrepid transdimensional systems analyst, receiving multiple unsolicited perceptionstreams from various points of view from throughout the dimensions, weaves together an uncanny grand tapestry of events, unfolding on the screens before him.

Summer Night 2008

Here at the tail end of year 41 I am immersed in transition and feeling exquisite.

Body: Strong; dense; flexible; dynamic; action-oriented; efficient; balanced; harmonious.

Mind: Present; awake; alive; aware; empty; ready; clear; quick.

World: Generous; supportive; cooperative; compassionate; loving; nourishing; inspiring.

Home: Safe; comfortable; welcoming; connecting; evolving; providing.

Flow: Effortless; available; liquid; sustainable; sharing.

A perfect time to be finished with my 9+year stint-at-Sprint, just as I complete the present phase of improvements this month on the carriage house project (more on this very soon). Also: moving 3 new tenants into the buildings, lots of details requiring my attention and getting it. Nothing overwhelming; it's quite manageable, even enjoyable when I focus on what is getting accomplished and how beautifully it is coming together. I am feeling very involved in a relaxed and enthusiastic way.

Drawings are up at Broadway Cafe. If you like that sort of thing, please accept my invitation to see them. A sample:

A Brush with Fame: Arthur C. Clarke

In the summer of 1983, after my junior year in high school, I spent about 6 weeks in Colombo, Sri Lanka with a Sinhalese family on an AFS summer home stay program. My stay was cut a bit short at the end, when the conflict between Tamil separatists and Sinhalese militants came to the country's capital. Tamil families living in our neighborhood were spending the night at my host family's home, fearing the roving gangs who were systematically identifying Tamil homes and businesses, chasing out the occupants, then looting, and burning the properties. My family wanted me back in Kansas City. With travel and activities all over Sri Lanka limited by a government curfew, I decided to leave. I contacted the US embassy and arranged passage. There, I met a few of my AFS cohorts. They had each been staying with Tamil families and had been physically chased from their host's homes. We'd all be heading back to the United States together.

It would be a couple of days before we could get a flight out of Sri Lanka, and I was placed temporarily in the home of an American family living nearby. Their son and I were about the same age. After we lunched with his parents, he asked me if I'd ever seen or read 2001: A Space Odyssey. I'd watched the movie in a film-as-literature class in high school. He asked me if I'd like to meet the author, who was a neighbor. With only another day in the country, I jumped at the chance.

We went under the pretense of borrowing his VHS copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey. The housekeeper made us take off our shoes before entering his villa. We were escorted to the upstairs office of Arthur C. Clarke. He was tall, silver-haired, with thick glasses and belly, a simultaneously distinguished and disheveled appearance. He introduced himself and apologized that he didn't have much time to chat. His assistant had been missing for a day, and he was concerned about their welfare in the city's recent chaos. Also missing was his video of 2001, which neighbors seemed to borrow on a rotating basis. He made a point of showing off his new personal computer, on which he was writing the screenplay for 2010. He was clearly excited with the new technology, which he'd been writing about for years, and he wondered aloud how he'd ever written without it. I shook the man's hand, and told him that I'd seen his movie, and what a pleasure it was to meet him. He thanked me politely before hustling us out and into the hot, humid Colombo afternoon.

In less than 24 hours, I sat on an airplane headed for Singapore with 4 or 5 other American high school students, our sojourn in Sri Lanka colored by larger events.

Best memories from Colombo, Sri Lanka, Summer 1983: Watching a Sri Lankan community theater production of West Side Story with my host family. Making a silver ring in my family's jewelry shop. Watching the Miss Universe Pageant on television with my host family, a world away from the live contest happening just across my home state in St. Louis, MO. Making rice crispy treats for my host family, who called it "a most-interesting pudding." Hearing "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" by Eurythmics on the radio for the first time with my host brother Chandima. And meeting the late, great Arthur C. Clarke, b. 1917; d. March 19, 2008. May he be remembered fondly.

Why I've Fallen Out of Love with the Movies

There was a time when I wanted to be a big movie director.

I cherished escape into the big stories of the screen in my adolescence and young adulthood: ET the Extraterrestrial; Close Encounters of the Third Kind; The Color Purple. Steven Speilberg made me think I wanted to be Hollywood. I was pretty good as a creative writer and if life required a career, I could think of nothing better than directing movies: telling stories and sharing dreams with the world of movie-goers. In college, my tastes focussed and congealed. I discovered the subtleties of the art film: Brazil; Blood Simple; Birdy. My heroes were Terry Gilliam, the Coen brothers, Peter Greenaway, and Louis Malle.

In the late 80s, after a few years in school pursuing filmmaking, I lived in Los Angeles and worked in the film industry, copying and delivering scripts for a screenplay development company which had had success getting movies like Short Circuit made. While trying my own hand at writing, I felt tension between my own instincts to write spontaneously and creatively and the demands of my mentors, who were married to the Hollywood formulae (i.e. plot point: create an obstacle to the protagonist's intended goal on page blahblahblah.) While my efforts were encouraged, I felt the results were disingenuous.

At a time when I was becoming politically and environmentally aware through the International Green movement, I began to see the film industry as an incredibly resource-dependant and wasteful operation. The compromises I was encouraged to make by those who wished me success in the film-making world were antithetical to my new objectives: to remind humanity of our co-creative relationship with fate, and to convince individuals and industries to take responsibility for the resources we borrowed and ease the burden of our debt to future generations. Film seemed like it should be able to communicate ideas like this to the people who saw them. But that isn't how it works. Rarely are audiences moved to action by stories of bravery, courage, and resistance. Most come and go with their points-of-view intact, entertained or not, they return to the patterns of their lives, which will probably include going to see another movie next week for another $8 bucks. I ultimately stopped trying to come up with something creative and original with which to revolutionize an entrenched and profitable beast.

Through this whole experience, I unashamedly still found movies to be my favorite form of entertainment. New filmmakers appeared on my radar which challenged and moved, entertained and nourished me: Pedro Almodovar; Wes Anderson; p.t. anderson; Jane Campion; Richard Linklater; Steven Soderburg; Trey Parker and Matt Stone. I could count on the arthouses and video stores to get me what I couldn't always find at the local multi-screen cinema. I still see movies that encourage me and offer me hope, (most recently, I loved Stardust and Two Nights in Paris) but I'm dubious of the reasons why.

Today, watching a few previews online for films out now, I recognize myself in a frustrated attitude toward the medium. I generally have not been a fan of outright conflict-oriented films. High-action; romantic comedies; horror and slasher movies. The genre material routinely churned out by the industry are the very formula-driven stink-pie that drove me out of a career in that industry in the first place. But today, I am even more keenly aware of how our storytelling and mythmaking shape our culture by speaking to the individuals who go and see the movies.

As we sit in a darkened room staring at a wall of light and the shadows cast there, we invite our subconscious out to absorb someone else's dream of the world. It is a world made of pre-packaged, scripted, sweetened, and addictive elements; imaginative, stirring, riveting, and made only because an executive in a hi-rise on the west coast knew you'd buy a ticket or rent the video. Movies *have* changed the world, in exactly the way they'd hoped to. They're exciting to keep you coming back, without much care about what you do between now and the next time you send money to their accounting office. The markets have had their hand at co-creating us.

My interest now is in media that truly nourishes: that helps me become an agent of healing and compassion and sharing in the world. Stories and music and images that contribute to the construction of Paradise for Life on Planet Earth.

See ya at the movies.

Wednesdays Off...

For several years now, I've worked my day job as a media librarian at Sprint just 4 days a week, taking Wednesdays off to take care of all the little things you can't do on weekends: banking, meeting with contractors and professionals, doctors appointments. I've recently secured financing to get some long-awaited work done on my property, so Wednesdays will be a crucial day for me to manage that project.

I also get to imagine myself semi-leisure class. Hang out at the coffeehouse. Read and draw. Work out. Watch the world spin. Right now, I'm enjoying a big bowl of oatmeal with sliced bananas, walnuts, almonds, and maple syrup. I am putting off yoga until a little later, after I've digested a bit.

I'm reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It's one of those intense, exciting, drama-filled books that keeps me riveted, but that I know is perpetuating a "good vs. evil" dynamic that I'd like my co-inhabitants of Planet Earth to move past. I'm simultaneously re-reading Robert Anton Wilson's Historic Chronicals of the Illuminati Trilogy. I've finished Book 1: The Earth Will Shake, and am just a few pages into Book 2: The Widow's Son. It is astonishingly good. I learn something new on practically every page. And Wilson's book is set up so you think you know what is good and what is evil, but then reminds you we're all just people trying to stay on top of things.

The way to stand up to those who would lie, cheat, and steal to stay on top is to tell the truth, play fair, and share. The missing piece seems to be what to do about those who take advantage of those who do this in order to stay on top. How do we get them to recognize they are being obstacles to the goal of life? The excuse our culture keeps using to lie, cheat, and steal is that if we don't, someone else will, and then we will go without. This is the same for individuals living their lives, businesses and organizations, all the way up to multinational corporations and governments.

The lie: (e.g.) You can be anything you want.

What's interesting is that's also the truth. The liars turn it into a lie by telling you the fact, and then throwing obstacles to it's manifestation in your way.

The truth: I am what I make myself.

The cheat: (e.g.) Using power to help some while keeping help from others.

Playing fair: There is enough for everyone. Relax and be nice.

The steal: Property is an illusion. The best I can figure out is that we are taking care of everything we "own" until such time as it leaves our care and returns to the world. Anything we claim to own is stolen from the rest of the world.

The Sharing: We are given the world by being born in it. We are sharing it every moment of every day.

Urban Wildlife - Bluetailed Skink Sighting!

Before I moved into my present neighborhood in 1995, I had not seen a wild lizard in Missouri. Odd, then, now that I live blocks from downtown to the north, the industrial West Bottoms and Southwest Trafficway to the west and South, and the commercial Crossroads to the east, that I spot one to seven 5-stripe skinks every year in my own yard. Today, for the first time, I found a young bluetail (5-stripe skinks' tails are vivid blue-lavender when young) on my second floor porch. He spied me and made way somewhat casually to a nearby piece of furniture under which he could hide. He poked his snake-like head out, and tested the air with his tongue a few times, even getting brave enough to come out and lounge in the sun for a few seconds before realizing I was still watching. I came inside to get my camera phone, but I just couldn't get the skink to pose while getting close enough to capture his beautiful tail, so I swiped the photo illustrating this entry off someone else's blog (thanks, dogsandjen).

Other creatures I've seen in my neighborhood, of the wild variety, include o'possum, racoon, squirrels, mice, toads, ring-neck snakes, and lots of birds. I saw a gorgeous golden finch on my sunflowers about a week ago! We regularly get the fantastic cardinals and bluejays for color. Then there are the sparrows, robins, mosquito hawks, doves, and partial flocks of starlings that burgeon in the autumn to form enourmous rolling dragons in the sky above the interstate every evening.

Closer to the ground, and on the smaller scale, we've got plenty of worms, slugs, and snails, plus spiders (big, beautiful gold and black garden spiders, and many others I haven't identified), butterflies (monarchs, cabbage whites, and others), katydids, ladybugs, cicadas, fireflies, and of course, many flies, ants, mosquitoes, sowbugs, fruitflies, bees, wasps, and termites.

Termites actually entered my building recently, and did some damage to window frames and hardwood floors. I was especially glad to see 2 skinks in the last week after being concerned about their welfare due to the treatment I applied for the termites earlier this spring. The skinks are back and I'm happy as heck.

waxing nostalgic

Please excuse me while I enjoy a selection of my favorite songs from the decade I shall always remember fondly, no apologies...

Special AKA - "Nelson Mandela"


Split Enz - "I Got You"


The Polecats - "Make a Circuit with Me"


The Smiths - "How Soon is Now?"


Strawberry Swithcblade - "Since Yesterday"


The Specials - "Message to Rudy"


The Cult - "She Sells Sanctuary"

I am Bush Village!

I am riding a train bound for Pakchong, after spending several hours waiting at the station in Bangkok. For the first few minutes of the journey, I have my own seating section, but at the next stop, I am joined by a group of students, one of whom speaks a little Eglish, and is anxious to practice. After a couple of minutes of introductions, Tree, my new friend, hands me a cup of beer on ice. I thank him and enjoy the cup, handing it back so the cup can be enjoyed by the next thirsty member of the group. After a couple of rounds, I politely bow out, but the students continue, getting steadily plastered. Each time the train stops, the largest and youngest rider sticks his head out to see if a beer vendor is nearby, going out to purchase more bottles and ice if it's handy.

About an hour into the ride, Tree looks at me and says, "Bush Village!" and points at me, smiling happily. I am confused. I'm pretty sure I had not told him my last name was Bushman. Was he making a reference to the President somehow?

"Bush Village?" I repeat, making sure I heard him correctly. Tree smiles and nods. "Bush village!" he says, conferring with his friends, who smile and nod too. "Bush village! Bush Village!" Now Tree is gesturing at his chin and nodding at me, referring, I think, to my goatee. I rub my own chin, and say it again: "Bush Village? I don't understand."

Tree looks at me incredulous. "You don't know Bush Village? Die Hard? Die Hard 2? Die Hard 3? Big star international!"

Suddenly, I understand. "Bruce Willis?" Tree smiles wide in acknowledgement. "Bush Village!" I look at them all. "You think I look like Bruce Willis?" They nod and smile with glee. I gratefully accept their interesting compliment as they slowly get smashed and the night comes on.

Tree looks at me in earnest. "Good memory in diary for you." He makes a vague gesture with his hand. I nod and smile, assuming he wants me to remember this night. He is unsatisfied. "Good memory I make." He gestures again, a little sloppily, but I think he is pantomiming a pen and writing. I dig in my pocket for a pen, thinking he wants to write something in some unrevealed diary. He takes the pen, nodding, then looks at me searchingly. I look back at him, and he says "paper." I pull my backpack down from the rack and fetch him an envelope for him to write on. He smiles and gratefully writes me the following message:

"I am Tree. I love Stephen Bushman. See you again for ever."

I am touched by the sentiment, and I thank him in Thai: "Kawp Kun Krahp."

See you again for ever, Tree. Good night and good luck.

Holiday in Cambodia...

... in which I inadvertantly gas the lobby lounge of a Siem Reap hotel.

I am waiting for our group to gather for the evening's outing to dinner. I wander to a small private bathroom in the business center just off the lobby to apply citronella. It repels the mosquitoes which thicken considerably when the sun goes down. I walk past the Cambodian lounge singer at his keyboard crooning John Denver's "Country Road". The business center, where one can use the hotel's internet connection or telephones, is just behind the lounge act, and I close the bathroom door and lock it, and pull out my trusty spray bottle.

I have become known in my group for my use of citronella. Our Thai guide, Uan, had led me to it just before we left Thailand a week-and-a-half before, and I seemed to be the only one in our group who preferred it to the DEET-containing applications used by my tourmates, which were perhaps not so noticable in terms of odor. No one seemed to mind it; I was given friendly jabs about my evening scent, and sometimes I am proposed a sitting partner if someone forgets their own mosquito repellent. Bob, my roommate on the tour, even likes the scent. He says it's fresh and herby, but he has asked me to practice restraint when I apply it in the hotel room, as I tend to get enthusiastic with my spraybottle, and in close quarters it can get a little overpowering. Which leads me back to the night in question.

Feeling like I can let loose, since I am not in the hotel room, I give my exposed skin and clothing a good spritzing. I soon find, however, that the confined space of the bathroom is an even worse place to spray, so I pocket my bottle and leave before I am overcome by the fumes.

I am sitting again in the lounge with a few of my gathered tourmates. As we await the rest of our group, I notice that the citronella smell is a little extra strong tonight, and I am a little self-conscious, but Carol, who is sitting next to me puts me at ease and tells me it's no stronger than usual.

Then I notice the Lounge singer.

He's doing Neil Diamond, now, "Song, Song, Blue". But his singing is quickly interrupted by a small cough away from the microphone, then a few choked lyrics and some more violent coughing. He is looking around and sniffing the air, and choking a bit, but keeps playing music without singing.

Next, I notice a couple sitting between the singer and myself flag down a waitress, who helps them move to another table, a little furthar away. The lounge singer is now coughing even more fitfully, and turning off his equipment and running toward the bar, as a pair of waitresses with napkins and scarves covering their mouths and noses move in to find the source of the offense. No one is moving towards me, and I check again with Carol, who says it's all in my mind, but I'm convinced now the business center bathroom is leaking citronella gas into the lobby and I am to blame. I'm unsure how to fix the situation, and the final members of our dinner party are waving at us from the hotel lobby doors to come join them, which I thankfully do, stepping into the humid night air and praying for the fumes to dissipate. Behind me, I hear quick footsteps and the hurried words "Sir! Sir!"

Cheezit. I am found.

"Your drink, sir," says the innocent-eyed bartender. "What room number should I charge?"
"Room 314, please." I respond, cool and mosquito-free. "Thank you very much."

More on Thailand, but from Laos...

Okay, I'm in Luang Prabang, Laos, now, but I need to go back a bit and fill in some blanks. Chiang Mai is a wonderful city, pretty laid back, plenty of comforts but also lots for the do-it-yourselfer.

I met my friend Jeremy's cousin Josh, who has been living there for 2 1/2 years, and speaks excellent Thai, a strange and difficult language. Joshua is a vegetarian, and took me to a great restaurant that serves fresh, healthy foods. Then he took me to the mountain overlooking the city on his motorbike, where we hiked along a trail to a lovely waterfall. Then back into town for more food and a casual tennis practice. I haven't played in years, but my serve is still pretty good. My aim, however, has much to account for. That evening, we went to a Thai club which I have sworn to keep secret, because Josh doesn't want it becoming touristy, and we know how much influence this blog has.

Thanks, Josh, for your excellent hospitality, warmth, and generosity.

The next evening, I met my tour group: Rich and Carol from California; John from Colorado; Lori, a friend of John's in Colorado, but now living in Sudan working for the US government; Jonathan from Seattle; and Bob, my roommate, from New York. We have a lovely Thai dinner, then gather in the morning for a busride north, to Chiang Khong, on the bank of the Mekong, across the river from Laos.

We stayed at a beautiful guesthouse, The Boathouse, overlooking the river, and in the morning, we boarded a longboat and crossed into the Lao People's Democratic Republic.

Lots of bumpy, dusty, highway-still-under-construction later, we arrive in Luang Nam Tha, where we get just enough food and rest to prepare us for a 7 hour trek (!) through rather intense hills, and dinner, sleep, and a 58 km bike ride (!) of which I completed about 45. There was one section of about 13 km that was almost constant ascent, for which Lori and I gratefully made use of our vehicle support. At the top of the climb, we got back on the bikes for a lovely downhill and flat approach into our next city, (which I'll have to get the name of at a later time, since my memory is unable to grasp at the moment.)

Next day, another hard trek, this one about 9 km, through the hills and 5 Akha villages. The Akha are the native hill dwellers of this land, and have managed to maintain much of their village lifestyle, despite many changes in the country and economy over the years. We stayed overnight in one village, in an ecolodge built in the Lao style, on stilts and rattan roofed. We were fed dinner and entertained by villagers with music, dance, and laolao, the homemade rice whiskey they brew. Not bad, but man was I sick the next day of travel.

Now I am in Luang Prabang, the "Jewel of Indochina", basking in the comforts of our swanky hotel, in a former Royal Palace. It is named for a statue of the buddha which was presented to the city as a gift. It is said to have been cast in Sri Lanka in the 1st century AD. Today, we saw the Prabang when we visited the National Museum, and climbed to a beautiful stupa built high on a rock in the center of the city with astounding views of the mountains and rivers which surround us. My appetite has returned, and my sense of humor, too.

Thank you, Luang Prabang.

ThaiThaiLandLand

I've spent the last 24+ hours in constant air-travel or airport confinement. I'm finally in Chiang Mai, Thailand, but not much to report yet. I pretty much slept all day. I've made my first purchase (water and batteries, mostly to get smaller bills) at a 7-11. Took a long walk around the moat that surrounds the old city. Many smells to consider. Buddhist temples and spirit houses adorn the city streets. I look forward to more earnest exploration. Also, I need to learn how to use my new digital camera. Is there some reason the alkaline AA batteries that came with it ran out of juice within minutes of me turning it on for the first time to check out the features? Here's hoping they were bum batteries, and not that I will only get 4 minutes and 37 seconds of use out of each pair I buy.

Second Life Explorations...

A few weeks ago, I got an email from my ex-bf Matt, who moved to Japan to teach english 6 years ago. I had shown him some drawings I'd finished and he told me I should try to sell some art in Second Life. I had not heard of Second Life. Was it a gallery? Some hep Tokyo Pop Art store? I Googled it, went to the website, and discovered what thousands of curious World Citizens are discovering.

I downloaded the software, opened it up, clicked "connect" and I was born. Again. But with a lot more control this time.

It looks like a game. I'm sort of a cartoony looking character, called an avatar, that represents me in the world. I have a name: Ko Kalok. I can walk around with the arrow keys on my keyboard. I can see other people's avatars, whose names float over their heads. I can chat with them by typing and reading messages. When I type on my computer, my avatar types in the air, signaling that I am about to say something to anyone watching.

I was led through a series of sign-led tutorials on how to edit my avatar's appearance, my profile, how to move around, interact with objects in world, and how to fly. I can fly! As I explore, using a search window, a map, and the power to teleport, I discover that everything in Second Life is built by users. Premium members have the ability to own land and can build on it, using Second Life's own tools and scripting language, conduct business, create spectacles. It is presently about the size of the city of Boston, with over 250,000 active profiles, and 10-15,000 users online at any given time.

Since those first tentative hours, I have climbed a pyramid, on whose summit I met a man with a '69 Mustang. He offered me a ride and when I climbed in, he flew that car into the virtual sky and I was strangely exhilerated. It lasted but a few minutes, but it was my most romantic date in years. And I'm pretty sure the guy was straight. I have visited a secret underwater labratory, being constructed by some guy who seems to enjoy inviting me to see his latest creation any time he sees me online. I have attended classes on Hero Mythology and Wicca 101.

I have found an art gallery (3rd floor, Kiva Island Art Gallery and Library, y'all) whose curator liked my work and gave me wall space to hang as much as I care to for free! He even took the time to show me how to create a canvas on a wall, import my art as a texture, and set a price and limit what a buyer can do with it. I sold a drawing for $150! (er, that's Linden dollars, the currency in Second Life. The present exchange rate is around $257 Linden dollars/per $1 US.)

I'm not recommending Second Life to people with a full and gratifying first life. I realize every minute I'm in there, I'm not here, feeding or clothing destitute humanity, re-planting rainforests, or spaying a pet. But somehow, I find myself in the privileged position of living in a relatively safe sector of the planet with a computer, a cable internet connection, and occassional free time. I'm having a wonderful time watching what we do when we are offered the opportunity to build a new world.

The House on the Corner

This house doesn't live here anymore.

It was built in the late 1800s, and sat on the corner next to my apartment building (which you can see to the right) in the early part of the twentieth century. It burned to the ground, by arson, sometime in the 1960s.

Not visible in this photo, directly behind my apartment building, is this home's carriage house, which still exists and is now owned by me. I've been told by the city that it shouldn't exist. According to building codes, when a structure is destroyed or demolished, its outbuildings must also be removed. I'm not sure exactly why that didn't happen in this case, but I'm glad it didn't.

I got this photo from city hall, while doing some research on my building's history. I'm glad someone was paying attention. I've lived here 10 years, and this is the first time I've seen an image of the home that used to live on the corner.

gorgeous synchronicity....

I've read recently that synchronicity is the world asking you to pay attention. Or some aspect of yourself asking you to pay attention. I've looked for meanings in them, but there don't seem to be any, beyond "isn't it cool what life can do?"

So last month, my checkbook didn't balance. It was exactly $292 different than my bank statement. I had an odd sense of familiarity with the number, as if it were a number that had popped up more than once in my bookkeeping over the years, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I went through all the numbers again, and couldn't locate the culprit. I was getting frustrated, so I put it away, hoping I'd figure it out this month.

This month, of course, the glitch was still there, but I had an idea. I divided $292 by 2 and got $146. AHA! $146 is the monthly amount I pay on a long-term debt, and that explained the familiarity, as I have made an occassional double payment over the years. I scoured the previous month's register, and sure enough, there was an extra entry in my checkbook for the payment, and I'd accidentally checked them both without noticing.

But there was only 1 extra payment. How was this possible? I was still $146 off! I went over it and over it in my head and decided I had to re-do all the math for the month and see where it went awry. I found it almost by chance. It wasn't an addition problem so much as a copying error. There, near the end of the month, I had a line item that was $16.22, but in the totals column, where I do the math, I had misprinted it as 162.22.

The difference is $146.00!

I'm not sure why, but this weird little coincidence makes my heart beat quickly and excites me. If it is the world: "Hello!" If it is my subconscious: "Hello!" If it is some gorgeous choreography, conspired by the two of you: "Hello! Hello!"

In any case:

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Lamont Speaks:

So, way back in the 20th Century, I was laid up for about a year with a serious case of bicepital tendonitis in which I felt like doing very little. I wouldn't work, I rarely played. I went to the doctor, I went to therapy (physical and psychological), I went to movies, and I started drawing.

Luckily, the tendonitis was in my right arm, and I am left-handed, so drawing was something I found I could do fairly comfortably. I had drawn a lot as a kid, especially in jr. high and high school, but it hadn't been a priority for me for some time. At first, I was daunted by the size and space of a blank page. It seemed too big. Too much potential. My drawings in school had mainly been in the margins of textbooks during lectures. I had recently seen a painting by a friend of a Mayan stelae, with it's glyphs laid out in an organic grid, and the answer seemed clear.

I drew a tiny frame in the lower right hand corner of a blank page in a notebook. I think I might have drawn a little circle in it. There was room for little else. Then I drew 3 more boxes around the edges of the first and I filled them in. It took me a few days, but I filled the page with little squares, a tiny illustration inhabiting each one. Oh yeah. Lamont. Basically, on just about every page I drew, there'd be moments when a spontaneous drawing wasn't happening, so I had a few stock images: a circle, a cube, a UFO, a little alien guy, that I'd draw to sort of get the juices flowing. The little alien guy was almost a little puppet: a tube with a head on top with a couple of eyes, like a stick figure with a little meat on it's bone. Every time I drew this little guy, the name "Lamont" would pop into my head. Like from out of nowhere. I told a friend this story and she just stated the obvious: "Oh, yeah. That's that little guy's name. That's Lamont."

As I continued drawing, a story emerged: Lamont was a Transdimensional Systems Analyst, a meme-being from out-of-time-and-space. The squares i was drawing were a graphic datastream he recieved and sort of channeled out through my hand for observation, analysis, and system enhancement. A couple of years later, I had filled my first sketchbook, sold my first drawings, published a couple of zines, and was wined and dines by the rich and famous.

So that's the origin of Lamont. His story is ongoing, and the drawings keep coming. More on this, I'm sure.

Hedwing Stirs the Passions - Recommitment to Self/in/World

I saw Hedwig and the Angry Inch live recently here in Kansas City, performed by a local group, and though it was rough, (and I am certain it almost always is), it touched me deeper than any live theater I've seen in many years.

Now, just to start off, I am queer. And really, I mention that to set you up with an "oh, he's gay and loves theater" assumption which I will now quash by saying I generally despise live theater. I loved it as a closeted youth, I must say. My family attended live musical theater all during my younger days. Our parents took us to see The King and I, the Sound of Music, Chicago (this in New York on Broadway in 1976), Finigan's Rainbow, Oliver, Guys and Dolls (these last two I also played oboe in the orchestra for when my high school performed them). We saw many plays, too, and I loved to be transported into the stories, forget myself for a while, stare at others performing.

Then in 1984 / 85, while I was attending my freshman year of college in England at Richmond College in Surrey, my mother took me to a string of theater which ended the magic it had cast for me earlier. Mousetrap, and Little Shop of Horrors, were probably the last two theater experiences I actually enjoyed, but Pump Boys and Dinettes, and finally Cats put the lid on the coffin. I was disillussioned, somehow. Suddenly, everything I saw was revealed as trite, manipulative, overplayed, and annoying.

I'll go see an occassional show, if my curiosity is piqued, mainly out of hope that I'll see something good or great or entertaining. And I am occassionally granted the experience.

"Thanatos", at least one of the original productions, I remember seeing it in a groundfloor loft-type room, not a theater at all, back in 1992 or 93 maybe. I enjoyed the story, the writing. The acting was pretty good. The environment was cool.

"Valley of the Dolls". I have a thing for Late Night Theater here in Kansas City. I love the idea. I love the deconstructionist, chaotic, fun-loving attitude that they fill their shows with. But I'm almost always left wishing they'd get a little more serious about it, push it, make it great. I shouldn't complain. We're blessed to have them in our city. The original run of Valley of the Dolls, I think I saw it at the Unicorn back in the late nineties, was, in my opinion, their finest hour. I keep going to see them hoping for that moment again.

So, a few years ago, when Hedwig and the Angry Inch came to town, I saw it and thought it was interesting. I have a memory of Jon Piggy Cupit doing bits from the show as Hedwig after the regular performance, but I'm not really clear how it played out. Anyway, a little later, the film came out, and I noticed the actor who played Hedwig was also the director and writer and had started the whole phenomenon and this was his directorial debut. And it was VERY GOOD. A GREAT film, with great structure, great writing, great music. A few moments that are confusing, but I was very touched.

So, I made a plan to see it live again, just to see. And I did, a couple of years ago, at the Off Broadway Theater, where it seemed to have originated, being perfectly aligned with the old Spirit Festival grounds where Tommy Gnosis might have played when Hedwig opens the rear exit of the theater to blinding light and deafening rock. It was a moment of theater that brought it all back, the idea that theater could be transporting, could rise above it's own theatricality and move something deep inside me. I was thrilled. And this kid, this wonder of a boy who played Hedwig, a kid with a face and a body and a voice and timing, and Holy Shit! Hedwig Lives!

So I bought the DVD, and it's got a great documentary about the building of the show, from Drag Club experiments to Off-Off-Broadway phenomenon to Sundance Film Festival. It filled in all the blanks and left me happy to know the process, the long hard road it took to move my spirit after years of feeling manipulated but unmoved by the theater.

So thank you Hedwig. For reminding me what it feels like.

Ray LaMontagne in my heart...

I've been listening to kexp.org, a Seattle, WA public radio station that gets me through my workday and has rekindled a passion for music I thought I'd lost. Over the last few years, since I discovered their stream, they have introduced me to bands like The Shins, Grandaddy, A. C. Newman, Muse, The Fiery Furnaces, Modest Mouse, the Decembrists, Neko Case, and The Postal Service.

Last week, I bought Trouble, the debut cd by Ray Lamontagne, who I've been hearing for several months on the kexp stream. It's nothing like the indie poprock I've been happily munching on lately. The first time I heard Ray, I thought "what's this doing on KEXP?" It sounded like Tracy Chapman, Jimmy Scott, Joan Armatrading; some mid-sixties folk blues artist with a smoky, androgynous voice, a simple song structure, and some archetypal, unspeakable quality that hit me in the heart. Of course I answered the question immediately: KEXP isn't married to anything but finding great music and sharing it with us!

Listening to Ray's album several times through in my Chrysler Town & Country Minivan this weekend, I have fallen in love and had my heart broken with some regularity. An experiment I try sometimes works particularly well with Ray's music: pretend God is singing this song to me.

Chills, tears, awe, and empathy. Ray LaMontagne, and the inspiring tale of his introduction to his talent, has brought me a range of wonder that doesn't regularly register on my emotional scale. I am grateful. Standout tracks: Trouble. Shelter. Hold You in my Arms. Jolene. Hannah.

A few years ago, I think I might have thought this music was boring. But right here, right now, it seems to be just what I need.

Points or Reference OIKOS

I have some property. A three-story brick Kansas City six-pack, built in 1911, and presently consisting of 4 single-bedroom apartments and one 2-bed/2-bath penthouse. There is a basement with storage units for each apartment and a coin-operated laundry washer and dryer. Behind the building, and the real reason I bought the place, is a late 19th century carriage barn, built for a home which no longer exists, it is now part of my property. The carriage barn is 2-story brick construction, with a steep roof that was originally slate, and which I'd like to replace with slate. It's expensive stuff, but I think it is the right material.

I moved into the apartment building as a tenant in 1995, wishing to live closer to the location where I was hoping JAVAGAIA would re-open. Well, of course the coffeehouse didn't re-open, but I found a good apartment, which led to my job at City Garden and The Bluebird Cafe. In 1996, I was endowed with the balance of the trust my grandparents, Bess and Joe, set up for my education. There was enough for a down payment on the building when my landlord decided to move with his family to Arizona in 1997. I saw it as a good investment, and I haven't paid rent since I bought the place.

I bought the property for $93,000, and I have put close to $125K into the property since I bought it. It keeps paying for itself, through rental income, and I keep moving toward my vision of a holistic preservation of affordable rental housing in urban Kansas City. I have great tenants who play along admirably. Thanks to everyone helping make this possible.

This year has been great for the carriage barn. Last summer, several codes violations inspired my bank to make funds available for much needed exterior work: the whole face of the building was re-tuckpointed, doorways and windows were reframed, the roofline was repaired, and the old slate roof was removed for repairs and given a layer of ice and rain shield, which has given me a season of protection until I can get the next phase financed. Next up: new slate roof, gutter, doors, and windows. Then interior work can begin: plumbing, electrical, insulation of exterior walls and ceiling, surfaces. Roughing in a kitchen and bath. HVAC. As soon as this work is done I can move into the carriage barn and recieve rent on the penthouse where I am presently living. If all goes as planned, I should have a new house to live in (albeit an ongoing construction project) paid for by the rental units before me.

This is sort of a boring entry, but it is a piece of the puzzle.

Welcome to the World

Greetings World Citizen!

Thank you for trying bushbabybushbaby.

It is Saturday morning, which means: Mexican Breakfast at YJ's.

Eggs: Your way. I tend to have them over medium most of the time. Black beans, a little spicy. Fresh Pico de Gallo (chopped onion, tomato, and cilantro) a corncake, avocado, farmers' cheese and sour cream, some tortillas.

I make little burritos, making certain that all ingredients can be savored in each bite. Anyone watching me make my little burrito would consider me a mad genius or an anal obsessive compulsive. I doubt the two are mutually exclusive. Before rolling, I like to liberally sprinkle some salsa on there, maybe Cholula, Tabasco, or some savory equivelent.

YJ's is located near downtown Kansas City, MO, USA, on 17th Street in the crossroads between Baltimore and Wyandotte. It is one of the finest 3rd World Snack Bars in the 1st World.

Mexican Breakfast is only offered on Saturdays between 9 am and 1:30 pm. YJ's menu is a calendar, with set lunches and dinners 7 days a week. (For instance, I also enjoy the Mayan Tostadas on Monday nights, and the Vegetarian Lasagna on Wednesday nights. I recently tried the Saturday Catfish feast dinner, and it is great too, but not quite as vegetarian as I like to eat.)

More on YJ's in upcoming entries, I'm sure. For now: BREAKFAST!