(Kenny monetizes his madness and does a much more efficient job of it than I am.)

With each cooler passing day the bitterness grows, not higher or hotter, but deeper, settling in my bones. I revisit old wounds, and old spit-out proverbs that went nowhere and then died as cliches, struggling with what strength I have to pull-up pull-up and avoid the same fate for myself.

I walked some, in the same way I used to drive around, casting my mind out over this historically accidental town and the world beyond in an attempt to start the master list all over again with first things first. It used to be easy–the place up the hill was where I showed up at certain times of the week, and because I did so lots of money flowed in to my accounts magically.

Now it’s both harder and easier. I don’t have to show up or keep anyone happy, and a fraction of the money still magically flows, just enough to cover the bare essentials; not enough to fund any substantial projects. Overall I like this way much better.

I nag myself, about devising ways toward More Cash, the generation of dinero, to fund the pull-up bootstrap projects, but ideally without sacrificing any or many of the hours of pure freedom …

Or whatever tries to pass for freedom within the confines of an overdeveloped world without buffalo for food and shelter, or free running unpoisoned water to drink.

The avant-garde composer John Cage studied the birds in his New York City park and commented ruefully on another cliche, the one about ‘free as a bird’. “They’re not free,” he concluded. “They’re fighting over bits of food”.

So say we all.

Walking up the familiar alley, I noticed something. Most all of the other people I encounter there are men. Most all of them are native. Most all of them are obviously addicted to something destructive.

I too am a sort of man, and a sort of dispossessed native, and I too am addicted to various flavors of ruin.

Today though, there was one man out there that was whiter than me. He was walking his dog, and although I am used to perceiving myself as the oldest inhabitant of these alleys, he was obviously much older. Old enough to call me son.

“Bless you son,” he told me, because in response to his comment about the sunny weather I replied, “It’s the kind of day I pray for”, before I started muttering something vague about PhotoTherapy.

But he just fixated on the word ‘pray’, and convinced himself that I was a Christian, and blessed me.

No, father. I don’t believe in your christ or your nameless God, and that’s not who I pray to for the Light, nor for shade when the seasons turn.

I’m only a prophet and a mere one indeed, in some broken-glass variation on the Lurlinist tradition.

Variegated.

VairTerred.

Self-scolding, self-healing when I’m at my best. Blessed.