Roll up for the Mystery Tour

I took a quiz last week with some friends.  It was from a book, seemingly competent and researched.  It was believable.  But for the gullible, it’s finding things that aren’t believable that’s the problem.  Anyway, this book was about optimism and the movement towards optimism.  The quiz assured me that I’m a pessimist, and, well…it was right.  I was loathe to admit it, but I spend most of my time worrying about something that will never happen, being anxious about my safety and comfort when all is secure, always looking for something to fear.  According to this book, my brand of pessimism (and maybe all brands) is based on two key factors: When something ‘bad’ happens, I tend to internalize too much of that responsibility and when something ‘good’ happens, I tend to displace too much of that responsibility.  The dishwasher breaking is my fault, but me fixing it was luck.  See?

Now, I hate to admit this, that I was a pessimist, but I guess that’s the first step in getting over it, right?  Hollywood has taught me that there are many steps to recovery and the first of which is acceptance.  I get most of my day-to-day information from Hollywood, but I reckon that’s more common these days than before.  And maybe that’s where my pessimism comes from too–movies, sitcoms, the news are rarely based on beautiful things, and although they are usually resolved in the end (except for the news) I didn’t internalize that part and have lived in a state of low-level crisis for…well, for a long time.

Before acceptance, I would rationalize my pessimism as realism.  I mean, the world really is going to shit, right?  I guess that question is too big to be able to answer from our simple little human bodies and our limited personal perspectives.   I could rationalize my pessimisms, my bad moods, my gloomy future and say, that according to all known calculations, life sucks and it’s going to keep on sucking right up to the end.  In my family, it was common to say and to hear, ‘life’s a bitch and then you die.”  I was ready to go on believing this, ready to follow this phrase to the grave, but damnit!  THAT sucks.

In all my travels, and in my tribulations, in the trials and in the trees, I’ve learned that most of the time, reality is flexible, that it’s never as solid as we usually think it to be.  We have much more influence on the way things turn out, the way things are than we let ourselves know.  And how we interpret life around us, what we project out onto the future goes a long way to defining.  In my experience it’s been hard.  I’m so attached to my pessimism, to my worry and anxiety that I don’t want to let them go.  A voice in my head argues incessantly for the continuation of this really stupid way of going about life.  Wouldn’t it be great to wake up in the morning and just know that some beautiful things were going to happen?

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and complete my 32 rotation around the sun aboard Starship Earth and I’m going to have a wonderful day.  30 didn’t feel old, neither did 31, but that nag inside is trying to tell me that I should’ve done something by now, that I should’ve, I don’t know won the lottery?  Written the greatest American novel of all time?  Bought a house?  Had a kid?  Friends and family are settling and multiplying so I guess it’s normal to feel like I should be somewhere else than where I am.   Or is that just the pessimism?  Don’t get me wrong, I am making progress.  I am moving forward in lots of ways, just not nearly fast enough for this long-time adrenalin junky.

So for my birthday, I’m giving myself sunshine, bright hopes, and strong determined healthy action.  I am moving forward.  I am looking on the bright side.  I am smiling and laughing–I am going to be fucking ecstatic!

Who’s coming with me?

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Although it wasn’t a normal dinner, it wasn’t far off, only stretched out a bit by the presence of the port and wine. We sat down just before 8pm, which can be early for dinner in France. There were six of us there and the conversation was quick and light-hearted. I didn’t understand everything, but most of it. My father-in-law offered the port and we started the meal with this thick apertif.

Since being with Mrs. International, I have learned patience at the table, and that learning has only increased since I arrived in France. A normal lunch will see us at the table for at least an hour and a half and I’ve built up a tolerance for sitting in a rigid wooden chair for so long. During the 4 hour Christmas ordeal, I had cabin fever before the main dish was served.

The sweet liqour wet our lips and the words came out faster, to my dismay. Although I’ve learned loads since being here, my French is still not fluent. Along with the apertif, we munched on crackers and chips. When are glasses were empty and the plate along with it, there was a brief pause as the salad was brought out—beautiful greens with chunks of smoked salmon and a side of guacamole. Delicious.

As customary at the table, we sat with the full plates in front of us, nobody daring to attack theirs until someone moved first.  Mrs. International looked at the others, picked up a piece of bread in an effort to signal the others that it was time to eat.  When no one answered her call, she began to eat and the rest of us followed, happy that someone had broken the spell.  I usually finish my plate first, not only because I’m a fast eater, but also because I have the least to say.

When everyone was done, we let the food settle before the main course came out—Guinea fowl with succulent potatoes and salsifi. The plates went out around a couple of times, the hostess trying to convince us to finish it. Empty plates are much preferred to leftovers in France, more so for the compliments than the nutrition. The willing filled their glasses with wine, we took a few deep breaths and then the cheese came out. In France, cheese is a separate course—that night we had a sheep cheese, a goat cheese, and a camembere—with homemade bread. After another ‘coup de vin,’ the desert came out a berry tiramisu–crumble, chocolate, rasperrys, and cream.  Beautiful and delicious.

I think we were all relieved when we finished the desert, happy to have survived another stuffing.  For the last round some of us had coffee and some of us had tea…served, of course, with orange cake!!

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A black cat crossed my path.  I crossed the dark, wet street, plunged my gloved hands into poncho pockets in search of my keys. As usual, i was looking down and that’s how I saw the cat. If I had been looking anywhere else, I wouldn’t have seen him dart between my feet. I followed him, tried to get his attention. A name, somewhere deep in the past floated up and treatened to spill out of my lips. I kept it inside, realized the folly of such a consideration. This couldn’t be Puli; the last time I saw him was more than 6 years before and on a different continent. There was more than one black cat in the world.

I started to follow the cat, but a voice called to me and the trail was lost immediately. The cat was already gone under a car. I looked up to find a middle-aged french woman smiling at me, her head and torso leaning out of her window to inspect the going-ons of the street.

“Good evening.” I greeted her in formal french.

“Hi,” she replied, “did you see the cat?”

I approached, “yeah, I did see the cat. Did you se…” I noticed that she was pulling her own cat from behind the window, a yellow and white one. She was showing off her own cat and probably hadn’t even seen the black one.

Black cats were special. They had long been associated with witches and there was a reason for it. Black cats served to catalyse whatever latent magick was around. It brought out something unconscious and moved into into the light. Good things, bad things, it didn’t really matter. The black cat released the magick, woke it up and whatever its nature, there was always a flux of harvestable energy.  The cat created a doorway into another dimension.

“He’s the daddy,” the woman was telling me. Her eyes were bright and she smiled at me alot. She pushed a hand through greasy hair and wiped some of the dirt off of her shirt. A short coughing stint overtook her; she turned and spit the offending phlegm out onto the street next to me. When she had recovered, she returned to preening herself, seemingly for my benefit.

“It’s going to snow.” She pointed up to the sky and repeated herself.   It was hard to focus on her; she batted her eyes at me and winked. My eye kept wanting to wander out away from her and go focus on the background, but that shifted in an unnatural way, as if it wasn’t solid.  She pushed her animal to me.  I stepped forward, and was immediately beset by a strong sour odor. It seemed to be coming from her apartment, but I withheld judgement, but then i looked into her apartment and the judgment came.  When i was finally able to focus on teh background, I was looking into her kitchen and dozens of eyes, all the faint feline yellow or green, were staring back at me. Cats covered every surface, a carpet of cats that never was still, but always jostling for a better posion in the soft curious way of cats.  I stood in shock at the surreal sight before me; the odor became offensive now that I knew its source.

When I dared my way back to her face, she was beaming at me, her gresay black hair strung down on either side of her head. Her nose lacked the wart of a witch, but had the rather bumpy landscape of a hag. “I have 43 cats.” Upon uttering the words, she was overwhelmed with a pride that possessed her to such a fury that she scooped one of her minions from the pool about her, “kiss for mommy?”, and pecked him hard on the head before dropping him back into his pond with soft a meow that rippled out over the cats, stirring a sympathetic response from a few of them. Then she rested her head on her hand and tried to gaze lovingly into my eyes. Since it was a convenient moment to get wrapped up in novelty, I focused on the tongue-numbing number of cats inhabiting a 75sqft room.

“Mrs. International?”  I had to share this with my wife. I called her again.

I turned back to Madame Chatte, her head, along with 3 others poked out in search of my partner. “Your wife?” She smiled at me.

“Yes, that’s her, that’s Marta. My name is 10. What’s your name?” I hurried through the french, ran it together at the wrong points, but she still understood. She told me her name, but I forget it immediately, opting for the more appropriate Mme Chatte.

Marta, her own feline curiosity peaking, hurried over and gasped when she saw the cats.

Mme retold her acheivement, scooped a different cat from the swirling flow around her and kissed him hard on the head, then broke into another coughing fit and dropped the cat who sent a ripple throughout the room.   The cats behaved as a single organism; they ahd been fused together by their close quarters and common lineage. The Madame finished coughing, the deep, dying cough of the notorious French smoker. She spoke about the cats, reluctantly told about the woman who had more than 200 cats. Our neighbor seemed to determined to catch up.

While Marta was focused on a cat,the Madame turned quick to me, winked at me.  In an automatic response, I reflexed and winked back, she kissed the air between us and a shudder ran up my spine.  That was how I met Mme Chatte.

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I’m adapting to the life here in France.  It’s more than just baguettes and cheese, but these 2 staples of French life are everywhere.  I live in the small city/big town of Millau.  There’s about 30,000 people that live here, but it feels much smaller for some reason.  Mrs. International and I live on the edge of the center of town.  Google can easily find our address.  For those of you who are interested in writing letters or looking at us from space, you can find us at 44 BD Richard, 12100 Millau.  We love to get mail!!

I’ve been here about 3 weeks and it has been a great 3 weeks.  The journey was long to get here–5 planes and 7 days!  I passed 5 of them in a squat in London with a good friend, reconnecting and downloading more information.  I even got to upload some this time as well.  I arrived in Toulouse on the 20th of December, only hours from the winter solstice, when the darkness reaches its highest point and the light its lowest.  I felt it symbolic that the Mrs. and I reunite just as the light has been reborn.  Although the winter solstice marks the beginning of winter, it also heralds the birth of the light.  Every day after the 21st of December, there is more and more light in our world.

And so it has been in our lives and in our relationship.  We have found that bits of space in between our togetherness allows us each to grow as individuals and to reevalute where we are going with this thing called love.  And of course, we never know where we’re going; such is the nature of love.  It’s an evolution, a shedding of skins, a purification.

Although I’ve met her family before, this time in France is much better because I speak the language so much better.   This time I can really get to know her family and they can get to know me which is strange as well. These are all small town people from the Old world and I am an evolutionary process that lives off continual fluxuation.  There is a big water for each of us to cross in order to communicate.  France is old.  The buildings are old, the streets are old, the customs are old and sometimes the mentality is old.  This is not to say that the States is better or worse, just that it’s different.  Millau is very mideval, with long narrow streets where it is easy to get lost and stumble upon some ancient tower.  The door is open my friends, and adventure awaits…

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London is like no other place on Earth.  Sure, giant cities (and it is giant) have many things in common–efficient public transport, tons of concrete, crowds of people, and an unmatched diversity–but London is unique.  It’s London, capital of England, home to the Queen (who, rumor has it, is a real bitch) and to the mighty Thames.  My journey was long.  After a sleepless night with Resilient Rod-G and the lovable Gina and Bobby, I arrived at the airport on time, but barely.  

My bag weighed 61 pounds, 11 more than they were willing to carry for the now standard $20.  So hung-over, delirious and hurting, I rearranged my things.  To the dismay of the uniformed woman behind the counter, my carry-ons multiplied.  At first it was only my didgeridoo and my orange backpack filled with books that weighed 40lbs, then the sleeping bag, then the tent, then the thick yoga mat.  ”You’re only allowed to have one, you know,” she said to me.  I didn’t bother answering.  It was her stupid fault for charging me to take luggage to my destination, as if wanting to take some things when traveling is a fineable offence (that’s British for offense).

 I hurried to the security line and entered it, realized that the woman hadn’t given me my boarding passes.  I returned told her what happened and listened patiently while she complained.  Then she gave them to me and I returned to the longer line.  

Tick-tock, tick-tock.  My plane was leaving soon.  Just as it was my turn to hand over boarding pass and ID to the blue-shirted TSA agent, I realized that my sleeping bag had slipped out of its bag and now trailed behind me.  I handed the woman my documents and smiled as she looked over my armful of things.  Apparently it wasn’t her job to tell me I had too much because she smiled and told me to have a nice flight.  I did make it to the plane, MacGyvering my things together with my purple scarf.  I carried my didgeridoo over my shoulder and everything else was tied to that; the orange tent slid on the ground behind me like some hungry dog.  

I landed in Dallas and was ecstatic to hear that I had a 2 hour layover.  Time enough to take Rod’s two word advice as we said good-bye only a few hours before, Bloody Mary.  After my drink, relaxed and breathing, I settled down into a chair next to my gate to await my flight at 12:35.  I only had 40 minutes to wait.  I’m not sure how long I slept, but I did wake up at 12:36.  I ran to my gate and asked to board.  ”Oh, did you just get here?”  The woman asked.  I could tell that my crisis was exciting to her, that she was happy to have something to alleviate the boredom of her day.  ”Well, you’re a lucky man, there’s a maintenance issue with the plane.”  And she promptly allowed me to board.  I sat down and wondered if I was really lucky to be on a plane that had maintenance issues.  But I didn’t really care because I went back to sleep and woke up as we touched down in Boston.  

I lugged my things through Boston for a day and then boarded the plane for London.  If you’ve never been on a long-haul flight, consider yourself lucky.  They are massive ships that sound as if they could break apart with the slightest gust.  There are two aisles the length of the plane and 9 seats per aisle.  There are 5 grouped together and I was lucky enough to spend my time in the middlest of all seats.  With my knees touching the seat in front of me.  A long 7 hours and 7 minutes in a 777.   

I arrived in London and met my friend, a man named Peace.  I’ve stayed with him in his squat (a hijacked building runnign hijacked electricity) and surfed around the city, meeting old friends–the magical woman who planted the seeds of India in my head and a partner in crime from the Brighton days.  It’s been a quick few days in London, with a quick few more before I head out to Millau, France.  This shall be my new home for the next X months.  Hope to see you all there.  The door is open and you are welcome.  Much love to you all!!  

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I am watching the world around me.  I am being observent, soaking up the here and nows, pulling them apart, pushing new shapes.  The world moves as it did before.  It’s the sight that has changed, the eyes that are molding.  I’ve put the glasses back on again.  I’ve succumbed to teh desire for sight.  Life is so much easier when you can see it around you.  The TV flashes insane images and the world sinks deeper down into cartoonish.  Absurdity rising. 

It’s all gone Bizarro!

This way and that, up and then down, here not there. 

 Awake and Awareness is key

Just remain aware…just observe.

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Whoosh, whoosh.  The cars zoom by and I remember the space of Texas.  I konw what I’m doing here, but I don’t know either.  How did I end up back here?  I’ve had a long day of reflection, of hard looking at my self.  A lot of things moved into the light of consciousness.  I’ve seen things the way they are, at least a small glimpse.  I correct my course and sail on.

Man, do I miss Madame International.  I’ve been so crazy for money, so hungry to end this cycle of scarcity that I’ve inherited.  I’ve made stupid decisions and paid the consequences of those decisions.  I have put everything into jeopardy, put the Plan into jeopardy.  I’ve reached the limits of my known comfort zone and have been propelled out of it.  That may explain some of my recent anxiety.

Recent events in my life have overturned the soil of my soul and we have found it rotting with fear.  Exposed and open, my fear is everywhere; I see it all about me.   It’s riding shotgun as I skate my brother’s truck down the wet roads, it’s looming in the future, ready to destroy my goal.  And the more I fear, the more real the fears become until they reach a threshold, surpass it and manifest themselves into collective reality.

I sat next to an intelligent woman who was nearly finished with her doctorate in psychology.  She studies a particular form of narrative therapy.  She looks at the stories of the world, the stories that we all tell ourselves about ourselves and the world we live in.  She helps people to rewrite their stories, to change their own role in their lives.  She suggested noticing every positive change, no matter how miniscule, to acknowledge the transformation we want, to nurture it until it blossoms and washes away all the rest.

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I’m not sure what the hell happened to me, but I’m leaving California now.  I came here in search of great fortune and I am leaving nearly penniless.  Again and again, I come back to these lessons of being broke, of running out of money.  My perspective on money is still not healthy; if it was, I’d be able to manifest whatever money I need and want.  That’s how money works.  It’s an energy and it collects in places it finds amiable.  Obviously, I haven’t found what it takes to attract money because I am empty again.

Empty and full.  These are the great lessons of the Tao.  What is full shall be empty again and what is empty shall overflow.  I’ve gone through this cycle plenty of times in my life.  Having, not having, having, not having.  And I”m tired of it.  Sure, I learn a lot when I have nothing, or almost nothing, but I’m tired of it.  I want to learn the lessons that come with abundance, the lessons of sharing and providing for others.  Recently, there have been times where I have manifested exactly what I need to manifest and those moments have been powerful.  Those were the days of the summer solstice and beyond, the high moments of summer when the sun is strongest.  Being a person of the sun, I flourished.

I left ATX on the vernal equinox, when the increasing darkness begins to be noticed.  Rising yin.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was not a time to move outward into the world, it wasn’t a time for me to try and make a miracle happen.  If I had been with my partner, things would have been different.  A balanced team can move through all obstacles and challenges.  But facing the dark time of the year alone, my light soon winked out and I was chasing my tail, following whim after whim in a thick self-induced fog.  I would never admit it to myself, but I was scared.  I had no idea what to do, no idea what I should be doing, but I continued anyway.

Before I even left TX, I knew that it was a silly thing for me to do, that I would be better off staying at ‘home’ and waiting patiently to go to France.  Or even to go to France before I thought I would and just be there.  But I couldn’t face arriving in France with little money; I had done that before and I would be damned if I was going to do it again.  So I pushed myself, forced myself into a situation that I didn’t really want to be in.  I didn’t listen to that little voice inside of me, the one that I’ve neglected time and time again.  The only difference this time is that the consequences were more severe.

So I return to TX without much.  I’ve grown a lot, learned a lot about limits and letting go, about being responsible and about listening to myself.  I’m back to ATX tonight, then off to H-Town for an interview with the French consulate and then Thanksgiving dinner with the family.  I’ll be back in ATX soon after, manifesting something beautiful and abundant!

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La suite de mon voyage se fait en Aveyron. Cette semaine j’ai fait l’aller-retour entre Montaliès, mon petit village de  19 habitants et Millau. Le proviseur m’avait appelé mardi, j’ai commencé a donner des cours d’anglais le jeudi 8 Octobre sans même connaître les manuels. Je remplace une prof partie en congé maladie avant son congé maternel qui ira jusqu’à Mars. Je suis donc professeur d’anglais au collège public de Millau. Je travaille dur, je dois préparer mes cours rigoureusement. J’ai trois classes de 4ème et trois classes de 3ème. 

J’avais pas vraiment prévu de me mettre au travail si vite, surtout sans voiture. On se débrouille en attendant. Elle est reservée, mais pas prête. Ce sera une 106, je l’aime déja et c’est beaucoup dire pour moi qui n’aime pas particulièrement les voitures. 

C’est chouette d’être rentré. J’ai revu toute la famille du côte Aveyronnais, reste les Bretons. Ca fait du bien. Tout le monde a avancé, grandit, ils travaillent ou étudient, ils ont des promotions, le succès cours dans la famille et je m’en rejoui. Je me sens bien, je suis occupée, l’hiver arrive et on a le feu dans la maison. Dans environ un mois, juste avant que Dennis arrive, je nous prendrai un logement à Millau, je crois que la petite ville lui plaira. 

Quand arrivera Dennis?

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La canicule Austinienne a ete remplace par une semaine d’averses rafraichissantes. Il a fallu que Dennis et moi allions a Quebec chercher le frais et on dirait qu’on a ramene la pluie avec nous. On entends dire qu’il y a eu soixante dix jours consecutifs de temperature superieure a 100 degres F cet ete a Austin, 100F = 37,78C.

On a passe 10jours avec les nouveaux maries Anne et Hugo dans un chalet dans la foret pres d’un lac a environ deux heures au nord de Montreal. C’etait un mariage simple, dans l’amitie, la jeunesse, la joie de vivre. Il y avait la pluie et un grand feu pour nous tenir chaud dehors. La magie de Brighton 2005 etait la. Nous avons celebres le quatrieme mariage ne des rencontres de l’ete anglais, quel honneur d’etre temoin de ces moments.

A present, une nouvelle transition se prepare. Je prepare deja mes bagages et pense a mon retour a Montalies. Je vais revoir toute ma famille que je n’ai pas vu de trois ans. Je compte passer une annee en France, travailler, decouvrir mon pays d’un oeil neuf. A bientot.

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