JPG Magazine: MsB

Thursday, May 31, 2007

between the wall and the cactus

I go to the Dr tomorrow. I was supposed to see him 2 weeks ago but he took the day off. His office neglected to call me. I drove 2 hours and found out. So today I decided to be sure he would be there. As I didn't have the Payson # I called Phoenix to get it. The Phoenix people said yes indeed I had a 9am appointment. Funny, I wrote down 9:45. So I called the Payson office whos # I now have and they said 9:45. I wonder what will happen if a liver does arrive and my name comes up? Well I'm really just grateful I've been given the opportunity to go through all this. Geez my live would be sooo boring other wise.;+}

I guess I'm between the wall and a cactus.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Monday, May 28, 2007

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Tucson tear

I went to a workshop and a woman spoke of her brush with death. As she talked about the ordeal and the many feelings she had about her situation and relationships with the people around her, I found tears running down my face. At that moment I knew something had given inside and I would not be the same after that.

Maybe it was compassion for her because I knew, or maybe it was just identification and an understanding of what was coming down the pike. All I know is it was ok. I am not alone as my fractured thinking has led me to believe. Theres power in that.

Saturday, May 26, 2007


Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Friday, May 18, 2007

I wish I hope

From Mandala Messenger

Although we seem to be living in a "hurry up" time, Jetsunma Ahkon Lhamo pointed out in last Sunday's teaching that we tend to spend a lot of our energy waiting. "I wish I wish I wish I wish. I hope I hope I hope I hope," is what she called that tendency.

Not the "waiting for the plumber/waiting for the phone repair guy" kind of waiting, rather, the kind of waiting that involves us in passive expectation, miring us ever deeper and deeper in desire, holding us suspended in ignorance--and in anger-- when our expectations aren't met. Waiting for more love to happen to us, waiting for more money to come our way. Jetsunma said, "If we're waiting for more love, waiting for more money, what we learn is waiting."

She urged us, "Try to remember above all that as Buddhists we learn about karma: cause and result." The lack we experience today arises from the causes we previously set in motion, and waiting simply creates the causes for more waiting. We must, through practice and meritorious activity, create the causes in order to experience the future result we would like to experience. That is how to handle life: create the causes!

True love is Bodhichitta, the Great Compassion. Jetsunma said, "If we wait for love to come from outside, we will never experience the Bodhichitta. We will experience waiting." Yet, she said, "You can change this moment and every future one," for "the point of power, cause and result, is in this moment."

In this moment, we have the opportunity to generate the meditational deity, the focus of any Vajrayana practice. "If we take the opportunity we are given to generate the deity, we've really accomplished something: the qualities the deity represents." Using Guru Rinpoche as an example, she cited the qualities: "Kindness, dignity, regard. The certainty that he would always appear for the sake of sentient beings."

The demands of modern life make us think we can't really commit to practicing deeply. She referred to the example of the Indian princess Mandarava, already, at 16, ensconced in a cave, ready to dedicate her life to spiritual practice. She laughed and said in today's world, the truant officer would be after her! But, she pointed out. what really makes that kind of commitment hard for us to accept is our "thirty-minute sit-com attitude." We want everything to be resolved in one "episode."

Jetsunma said her greatest joy is the chance "to practice quietly in my own time and place. It is my opportunity to be with the one I love: the Samboghakaya Lama," that is, the meditational deity, generated in a focused, committed way. Jetsunma pointed out, "If we practice in a certain way, we attain the result of practice. Give rise to the cause; the result is interdependent."

That doesn't have to mean formal sit-down practice. We can practice on our feet, she said, when we're out and about: "Offer whatever you see as a great mandala to the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas and the Samboghakaya Lama." We can, she told us, "Enjoy--and gather merit."

Why should we do this? Because, she said, "The ability to build a storehouse of merit is what makes this a precious human rebirth. Only in this form do you have the freedom and opportunity to change this moment, and every future one!"

In one way, she said, "It's simple. It's in the palm of your hand." In another way, it's hard. You can't just say, "I wish I wish I wish I wish I hope I hope I hope." The point of power is this moment: Generate the deity. Give rise to the Bodhichitta. Gather merit. Continue to practice, moment by moment, until you achieve recognition of the primordial wisdom state. Do this, she said, "So that you too can return for the sake of beings."

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Pete does pilates

Feed back on C-F

I cut this post as it was this morning because I didn't feel like it came from the right place. To all who responded with there wise words of wisdom, thank you. Maybe tomorrow I can come up with something politically charged and stir up some other aspect of my inflated ego. maybe I'll go back to visuals.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Mothers Day

Gotta check out Two Dogs blog and witness the miracle of Mother Hood. and a wild and crazy guy although a bit squirrelly. Yuk Yuk


This is just a crapfuck day. Nothing I can lay my finger on and squash, no reason I can find to thrash and thwart. Just inky dinky stuff to annoy me. Federal and State paperwork...They need to talk and they want me to interpret. All much to grueling to discuss... I just sent them each others paper work. Let them find there own rendition. That's why I'm making the little bucks. Cause I can't think anymore. I'm certified,bonafied and adentified as dead in the water. At least in regards to being employable.

I sure didn't think about all of this sort of thing back in the day. More like I'd live forever frozen in fun. Fame was minutes away and life was a piece o' cake, no problem. In spite of the evidence building to nigate my dillusion, I fed my novella life the magic potion of "sex, drugs, and rock & roll"-- The glory song of the sixty's. And what seems like just minutes ago has turned a new cheek. I'm old before I should be old. My lament is often not so sweet.

Some days its just all dead rot in my brain. Nothing to give and no receiver in working order. Things are changing fast for me and I can't seem to absorb the changes at full throttle. Some recollection of how it used to be continues to act as if but I keep realizing I'm really not capable of computing all the crap. Like the invasion of the body snatchers I've been snatched. Spooky. My best game today is: Pardon? I missed that. :+) And hope I don't take off screaming banshee style that I am inclined towards when I get confused. but even that is beginning to be only a memory.

The Doctors say its the ammonia in my brain from the cirrhosis(via Hep-C). I have medicine for it but its gruelling medicine. ME NO LIKE. so I didn't take it yesterday and I'm surprised by my condition??? But of course. Typical, keep thinking the results will be different. Just like that cup of coffee I drank this morning. IrRItatED me as I shake, rattle, and roll without a plan. Just got to laugh at it all. I may be the only one laughing. Screw um if they can't take a joke. Don't see anyone wanting to walk a mile in my moccasin's. But it does give me so much compassion for all the others whose life is no longer optimum. It just IS well... Life on life's terms. Oh ya, I do remember that.

So back to the sunny side. who would ever have thought I would live through all beyond 30 anyway. And have a fabulous bunch of friends to buoy me up when I'm down. Sure didn't have that back in the day. And an opportunity for a new liver. That is truly amazing. Life's great when I can just laugh at my funny self. And ever so interesting beyond anything I've ever done. From a medical perspective it sure beats the blackout blodoo I used to so indulge. Now, if I can just remember this.... :+}

Thursday, May 10, 2007

the light of my life

Girlfriend the dog was truly the light of my life for many years. When I was blue I knew that she cared. And because she was a one person dog I new I couldn't abandon this life and leave her. She died sadly a while back and I still can not think about at event for very long. Some day I will get another black Chow.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

Thursday, May 03, 2007

long, long ago

Long, long ago, in a city were time never stopped, a young girl wandered the streets of w. hollywood. Her boyfriends mother had givin her the boot, the bumbs rush, asked her to leave, NOW. the boyfriend didn't say boo. His lips never moved as they had been frozen by the reefer stuck in them. To high to inhale and talk or walk or really much of anything.

But this blue shift is about the girl as she hoofs it done Santa Monia to a familar place, the park, were a cheap bottle of wine could be consumed to take the edge off the large amount of go fast that just minutes ago had been swept away in one hearty bang. As the cool brew kerplunked into the pit of her tummy, the girl started making plans for her future. Not like the future when she retired but the future of a girl livinn in the here and now. Like were would she find a place to live as in a few more months the park would be a drag.... Rain, you know.

The sun was beginning to sneak its first rays into the predernatual sky of Los Angelees in the 70's before pullution standards. (God was the sky beautiful.) and a number of places came to mind. maybe on Vine in the place above the Japanese reasurant. Or over on Gower, there was a pool there if they had cleaned it this year. Probably still green with envey of richer pools. Then a tiny wimper from the Camillia bushes jolted the girl out of her slighty woobly thinking to see what was up in the bushes.

Jeez Louise, ITs Mary Ruby passed out again. Probably all those Gorilla biscuits she was inclined to overindulge in. Mary, MARY!!! wake up you can't sleep there. The girl knew what could, would, had, happened to girls that passed out in the park and by god she wasn't gonna let that happen to Mary on her watch. She finally got her vaguely to a standing position, one arm in tight embrace around the girls neck. Tight. The other rigorously flailing about like some preacher at the pulpit.

Slowly they made there way out of the park. The girl polished off the last of the MD2020. couldn't leave that parked behind as the place has lustful eyes for the likes of a half empty bottle of rot gut. Good thing about the go fast or it would be go slow and sleep for the both of them.
Finally they got to the bus bench. And the bus arrived and the bus left. Know room for derilect chicks on his bus. What a *$X)##@ he was. No sense of humour. Whats the world coming to. Jerk!

Eventually one of LA's finest bus drivers saw the two girls plight and said no charge; even gave them a a few kind jesus saves words. Godda love those Christians. And whisked them off to Gower Gulch. When at the apartments du jour, the girl half dragged, half carried, a snoring Mary. Like drunken sailors they made their way to the lobby where the girl propped up Mary Ruby with some of the couch cushions so she wouldn't look so.... fucked up. But the snoring was a dead giveaway. Hence it was no surprise to the girl that the Vacancy sign turned to a no vacancy. At least not for trouble these two seemed to have lurking about them like their shadows.

Yikes thinks the girl, can't save Mary and Myself at the same time. What to do... What to do. A faint mewing leaks from the couch cushions. Something like Warrens something... What? What are you saying Mary. Speak up. Take you where? I was thinking maybe the nearest dumpster for a while. But know. Mary wants to go to Warrens. The other side of town. And will she remember the apartment??? in her condition. or rather the condition she was in the last time she was there? oi vay.

So this brings me to my blog of yesterday. And Warren. And dropping off Mary in a pinch...with very few options. I say that day," what a nice guy" as he took dear Mary in, in her condition, calmed her down as she was squeezing out of her stupor and into the raging wild woman she usually became when the reds wore off. I noticed he had alot of books and filed him away for another day. Now that I could return to my own melodrama at hand. As the go fast was slowing down and the hangover was arriving right on time. The LA sun was high in the sky and burning with such a vengeance and I had become the reciprocator of its wrath.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Dirty life and times

It Ain’t That Pretty, That Life of Zevon’s
The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon.
By Crystal Zevon.
Illustrated. 452 pp. Ecco. $26.95.
One self-imposed epitaph Warren Zevon delivered after learning he had terminal cancer was this: “It’s a damned hard way to make a living, having to die to get ’em to know you’re alive.” Like so much of what he said, wrote and sang, it was quotable, savagely funny and true.
Near the end of his life (he died at 56 on Sept. 7, 2003), doing some of his best work in the face of adversity, Mr. Zevon remained stuck in a commercial vacuum. The great promise of his sensational early albums had never brought him the wide following he deserved. So he decided to make the most of a terrible situation, advising his manager to exploit his illness in any way that might advance a soon-to-be-over career. (The manager refused. Still, there were posthumous Grammys.) And he called upon his estranged wife, Crystal Zevon, to take care of him. He also wanted her to take notes.
Ms. Zevon fulfills his wishes with “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead,” a no-holds-barred oral history that captures a lovable but wildly aberrant personality, draws upon a fascinatingly diverse cast of characters and peers into the heart of the Los Angeles singer-songwriter community in its prime. The widow’s role is awkward, given her ex-husband’s gun-toting rages, heavy substance abuse, iffy parenting and unflagging ability to chase new women. She also uses an awkward format that has her writing in both the first person (as speaker) and third (as editor). And she takes for granted readers’ familiarity with the music of her lifelong companion. (This book has no index or discography.)
But her affection, candor and dogged pursuit of information make this book an unforgettable journey into the depths of Mr. Zevon’s mad genius. There is much for Ms. Zevon to balk at, but she has the temerity for this tough job. The rare thing for which she apologizes is not having tried to interview Bob Dylan, one of many stellar musicians who had a way of turning up at Zevon recording sessions, given the high regard in which fellow artists held him. “I guess I was just scared,” she says.
“I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead” uses Zevon song titles like “Werewolves of London,” “Detox Mansion,” “Mr. Bad Example” and “My Dirty Life and Times” as chapter headings. It doesn’t use the one that best sums up this story: “Ain’t That Pretty at All.” The Mr. Zevon on these pages is surprisingly image-conscious, abusive, petty, jealous, sordid, vain, shopaholic and even banal; among his obsessive-compulsive tics was buying the same kind of gray T-shirt over and over again. His diary entries often focus on such things, so they are less scintillating than the literary lyrics for which he is known. Among the livelier entries is this one: “Went over to Ryan’s. Later in the evening I got stuck in the elevator — Fire Dept. had to come. Not as much fun as it sounds.”
But this lack of show-business artifice is precisely what makes the Zevon story so telling. What was even more unusual than his dark thoughts — like resenting the fact that Jackson Browne and Neil Young had lost people close to them and written beautiful, much-admired songs about those deaths — was his willingness to admit to those thoughts. On his deathbed, discussing the merits of having a funeral, he said, “I just don’t want to have to spend my last days wondering whether Henley” — Don Henley of the Eagles, who did not attend — “will show up.”
Mr. Browne is one of many mentors who tried to help Mr. Zevon, knowing that their wild-man compatriot was his own worst enemy. “My role as benefactor took its toll on our friendship,” Mr. Browne says astutely, but it was a friendship that endured to the end of Mr. Zevon’s days. Mr. Browne also points out that when he introduced Mr. Zevon to an audience as “the Ernest Hemingway of the twelve-string guitar,” Mr. Zevon said he was more like Charles Bronson. “Warren didn’t have literary pretensions,” Mr. Browne says. “He had literary muscle.”
He also had literary tastes (he was the rare rock musician who went looking for bookstores while on the road) and literary antecedents (he is aptly compared here to Dorothy Parker and, by Bruce Springsteen, to Nathanael West). And he had literary cronies, some of whom he met by showing up at their book signings. “He was more self-deprecating about his talent than we were about ours, and we genuinely stink,” Dave Barry says about the Rock Bottom Remainders, the all-author band with which Mr. Zevon sometimes played.
“I don’t think his fires were out, but I think he’d banked his fires,” says another band member, Stephen King, who knew Mr. Zevon during the singer’s middle and later years.
Most of his friends from this period had no idea of the wreckage caused by Mr. Zevon’s early alcoholism. After years of hair-raising benders (many of them described in the book), he became sober for 17 years, only to be thrown off the wagon by a diagnosis of certain death. These last megabinges shamed Mr. Zevon and angered some of his new friends. “I said the one thing this guy should not do is die a cliché,” says the writer Carl Hiaasen, who worried that Mr. Zevon’s two children would have to read about their father’s fatal drug overdose in a newspaper. But they didn’t. And he had three months to get acquainted with twin grandsons.
The Zevon legacy, which will be greatly bolstered by this intimate portrait despite the warts it reveals, also carries on in other ways. In his diary, Mr. Zevon reported meeting a yuppie family who called their dog Zevon. With classic Zevon acerbity, he told them, “I don’t think this is what grandfather had in mind.”