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Outside, the mist is blanketing everything and the clouds are so heavy I can hear them scrape against the dull concrete of this place. I love the so-called ‘dreary’ mornings.

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Outside, the mist is blanketing everything and the clouds are so heavy I can hear them scrape against the dull concrete of this place. I love the so-called ‘dreary’ mornings.

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Church can be one of the most majestic and intensely personal connections to life a person can experience. What is strange to me is that we all individually know that many of our most intensely spiritual moments rest with music – and more truth is discovered in quiet moments laughing, hugging, and mutual experience with people who ‘get’ us. Yet so many churches wedge our ability to connect by insisting that one type of music is going to free us to connect with God. If the music is alien to you, you are not going to be truly comfortable. “One-size-fits-all” music is as strangely unappealing as universal theology; it pushes us out and away or, if we lucky, only distracts us from a constant connection. God can be recognized inside some unusual people and any music which connects us deeply to the ‘other’ or those intensely human experiences we share in common is by definition ‘heavenly.’
In the right ears, “Nothing Else Matters” by Metallica is religious. My cousin Jimmy taught me this, even though I didn’t initially believe him. Listen to the words and feel them as if someone is asking us to open up and be receptive to a new truth. It’s not for everyone, of course! But it is for some. All genres of music have songs which defy classification and seem to open our hearts.
Expecting an ancient hymn to resonate equally to such a diverse group of humanity reaching out for God is not realistic. Even if people seem similar on the exterior, we can recognize the breadth of difference in how people’s minds work. “Il Mundo” by Il Volo sits on the opposite end of the spectrum – but to the discerning ear, it seems as if angels have grabbed us under each arm and are elevating us to heaven musically. Luckily for me, I find a connection in a huge variety of music and both Metallica and Il Volo transport me to a place which allows me to forget that I’m not necessarily just a corporeal object.
You have a preference in the type of music you enjoy in church. The guy sitting next to you, the one with yellow shoelaces, he probably has another. It’s not logical to expect the same music to resonate in the same way to everyone.
Music is by nature fluid and inconstant. None of the music we call religious would have been recognized as spiritual centuries ago. The way we connect evolves, too. Insisting that music be static is another way to get relegated to the past.
I have done a couple of demonstrations in the past where I’ve taken a non-religious song and told a story with it, explaining a different context and a personal connection to it. This storytelling allows people listening to not only expand, but to realize that another crazy world of preferences exists in parallel to their own. They also see the person sharing the story in a new way. Increasing human connections in this way seems like a fundamental way to connect with our spiritual nature.
Just a thought…

In my feverish, whirling dervish state of mind, I jokingly started to make a visual representation of my day yesterday and this morning. Instead, in my opinion, I made something quite striking. Given my increasingly evident tendency to be spectacularly wrong about things, I can’t be certain. (As always, there are a few hidden elements, one of them being my elusive grasp of reality.)
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Below is a simple story. My friend Anita painted another treat for me. As always, I accept the responsibility of trying to describe what I saw when I first looked at the painting. This is what seemed to be the story…
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Their accidental love was just blossoming when they bought their first house; one so small that they once joked that their elbows rubbing together so often might reduce it to cinders. On their first anniversary, they planted a maple sapling in the back yard. They would sit on their small porch, quietly swinging, looking west, and observing the majesty of nature and their contribution to it. As the sapling grew, they used it to measure their shared time. In year three, lightning struck it and made it a pile of smoldering splinters. They replanted, laughing, hands thick with dirt. In year seventeen, a surprising and brief tornado ripped the replacement and took it to parts unknown. As he walked among the saplings in his neighbor’s nearby field to choose another, he felt the sharp pains again. This time, they stubbornly persisted. The doctor confirmed what he feared and as they planted the third maple, he gave her the devastating news and comforted her in the quiet way that only he knew. As his disease progressed, he lost his job and then she lost hers to care for the only man she had ever loved. They frowned and then giggled as the bank came to let them know that their small house of big love was theirs no longer. The day he died, she returned and hesitantly walked around and behind the now lifeless empty house, nervously holding her breath as the October sun beckoned her, even as the chilly breeze tugged at her. Even though their special tree was again no more than a small vertical challenge to the sky, she could picture what might have been. She could feel the warmth of the autumn sun and the lingering presence of him. She smiled, knowing that everything was just as it should be.
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2-3 months ago, I wrote a short piece and uploaded a draft version of my digital picture “Coram Deo.” (Meaning: “…in the presence of god…) I will put a link in the comments if you want to read past the superficial intention of this picture.
I had another brushed aluminum 16 X 20 painting made with the version I decided to qualify as finished. I can close my eyes and picture the muse that inspires me to make awkward attempts to capture whatever it is in my head that struggles to get out. In my finished version, you can imagine Aslan the lion growling for us to come forward, to pass through the infinite doors that are literally all around us; those same doors we ignore or fail to see. “The Narnia Chronicles” beguiled me as a youngster and although I do not follow the path the allegory asks of me, I do infrequently follow the creativity that it spawned.
Despite being a simple minimalist at heart, I’d rather walk around in a world resembling a landscape of spilled paint cans, each conveying the million words that careen around in our minds but for whatever reason, seldom escape it. ‘Normal’ has its demands, as does the tempest of hurried time, each second allotted to things that we would never choose for ourselves even in two lifetimes.
Here is what I wrote a couple of months ago as I worked on the picture:
The Land Of Coram Deo
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One day soon, we will discover another world, one inhabited by beings who resemble us in appearance, but who treasure the invisible as reverently as we pay homage to the things that suffocate our daily lives. If we don’t find them, perhaps we can move along a path to become them. Our kingdom lies within, no matter how frequently we search outwardly.
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They will draw inspiration from infinite colors, ideas, and creativity. Every aspect of life will serve the dual masters of helping everyone live better lives & finding their better selves. Work, education, and leisure will merge seamlessly into a continuum without alpha or omega.
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In Coram Deo, it is impossible to ask “Are you hungry?” as each person’s needs are addressed by others without prompt or consideration. A neighbor, no matter how different or far, is simply a family member resting under a separate roof.
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PS: “Coram Deo” literally means “in the presence of god.” Each of us has our own idea of life’s purpose and how best to spend the million moments granted to us. We distract ourselves by focusing on that which differs instead of that which binds.
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“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…”
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I made this picture of Coram Deo, layer by layer. In it, I hope you find something to consider.

Just as you shouldn’t use a fork to adjust a toaster, it is inadvisable to attempt to relax and meditate using music from the “Rocky” training montages as background music.
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It occurred to me yesterday that weather forecasts could be immensely improved if they were delivered in poetic prose – and especially so if viewers could call in an read it that way. The weather, unlike the news, doesn’t really need explanation or editorialized: let’s stop being so unimaginative with it.
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It’s still surprising that when your mind is bent or troubled, you see things in plain sight you’ve never noticed. I had that out-of-body visual sensation this morning, driving down Butterfield Coach Road and saw an interesting tree house. It’s always been there, year after year, waiting for me to see it, much less admire it. Today, though, it clicked and my first thought was that I was hallucinating it.
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As devoted you might be to reason and logic, trust me; there is always an idiot behind you making rabbit-ear fingers or a face that could best be characterized as “Steve Buscemi.”
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Among the reasons that the accusation of prejudice stings is that it is subjective to the viewer – and definitely to the accused. It’s a hat no one willingly sees themselves wearing.
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One of the most delicious sensations in life is that feeling you get when you shout a warning repeatedly, only to be ignored – and then the stuff hits the fan and everyone is running around in pandemonium asking, “Why didn’t we see this coming?” And you, of course, think, “Why didn’t you listen to me when I told you it was coming?”
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When someone tells you have no common sense, the real message is that they alone possess it.
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A friend of mine, Jorge, was going through some battles with anxiety. He swallowed his pride and signed up for emergency counseling, only to find out when he called that it would be a minimum of 2-3 weeks before he could see anyone. He then went to his doctor’s office and explained his situation. They told him, “Oh, you can’t see any doctor for anxiety, stress, or depression, you have to wait for a regular appointment with YOUR doctor.” Jorge, without hesitation replied, “It’s a good thing I’m not at the literal end of my rope or in danger or anything.” True story, too.
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Many secularists aren’t necessarily nervous about just a blurred line between church and state, it is just that they wish they could put it to a vote as to which religion gets to the be the one calling the shots. There’s a huge difference in being Catholic and the belief systems which enjoy handling live snakes and living without electricity. Everyone is convinced their religion, denomination or faithview is the singular answer for everyone, if they would only just listen. It is precisely the breadth and wealth of differing views that makes overlap of society and faith almost impossible.
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I think every phone system should have a “Bingo” option. When you press # for “Bingo,” all the possible extensions get randomized and your calls goes to literally anyone at the company, even the startled janitor who didn’t even know he had a phone in the broom closet. On the other hand, I think that there should be an option to send a shock directly to the CEO’s ear if the phone system is difficult to use.
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Of the 100 + ancestry family trees I’ve done, few of those requesting investigation had American Indian ancestors I could verify. Investigating the tendency to believe one has Indian heritage uncovered an entire sociological backdrop which many have written about. I’ve had several people insist they have such ancestry and I feel bad for them because usually, I know that before I even start researching that the road will probably dead-end. To be clear, it is not necessarily because their family stories might not be true, but because it is nigh on impossible to prove, even with DNA, if you don’t already have a decent trail to prove it.
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PS: for those who have trusted me to do their family trees, I have learned much and been greatly rewarded in so many unexpected ways as I discovered a vast interconnection between all of us. It’s been an honor to find hidden family members, write stories that literally define our cultural history, and connect people to forgotten pieces in their pasts. For most of us, we are much closer than we know, even down to our chromosomes.
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I think the world can be generally categorized based on the likelihood of whether you agree or disagree with this statement: “My instruction manual for life is always subject to change, based on complicated yet logical criteria.” -x
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If ever elected to be President, on my first day I will make good on my pledge to hire a cadre of people smarter than me – and then listen to them. While social issues will always take precedence, the best ideas will always get the most attention. Politics comes last. And we will have a great lunch, because people feel more human when they are sitting around a table or couch, eating, laughing, and thinking. In fact, that’s what we need: a national lunch hour.
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I wish I had a billion dollars, because you can be certain that I would do the craziest, most fun things to the people I know. A friend of mine mentioned she had twice entered the wrong vehicle and that all red vans were subject to her inadvertently entering them. If I had crazy money, I would secretly place about 50 vehicles similar to hers at her work and film her reaction as she exited. Likewise, I’d wait until she was driving somewhere and upon my signal, 50 of them would surround her and follow her everywhere she went.
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As an aging middle-aged white man, I can’t tell you how ecstatic it makes me feel to know that I have not followed the worn steps of my contemporaries by rejecting new and different music. Thinking that music declined at a certain point is the surest indicator that life is shrinking away from you.
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I knew that the civilization was bad because they didn’t provide A-1 Sauce when they burned people at the stake. Get some class, people.
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The weird thing I’ve learned again: if I write something that amuses me, it is going to be amusing to a certain % of other people, too. Unlike normal people, I don’t ever get writer’s block, either, which may or may not be a good thing. You can’t trust either the criticism or the applause, not in a pure motivational sense – and you should never underestimate how many are watchers, never joining the conversation.
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(The rest is one observational chain of thought…)
People tend to say that you can’t step into the same river twice. Each step I take, each forward motion reinforces this idea of the indefatigable progress of ‘me.’ But I do sometimes look into this river and realize that currents have pulled me backwards, away from whoever I think I am.
I believe one powerful draw of great literature, television or cinema is that it can create a new universe in our heads. The imaginary people inhabiting those worlds effortlessly teach us new things and hold an infinite variety of mirrors for us. When those characters rejoice or suffer, we feel their pain. We can’t help but to relate to them as though they are people we might meet if we open the door suddenly, finding them on our doorsteps. We hope we find them there. It’s not only a testament to the skill and creativity of the people who’ve created those worlds, but also to the gift of our own imaginations.
As we see them behave stupidly or with malice, we call them hypocrites. It is only later that it occurs to us that we might be recognizing our own ignorance in their actions.
As I age, I of course succumb to the temptation to read a cherished book again or to watch television or movies with an older eye. At times, the surprise I feel steals my breath, and with such unexpected vigor that I can only shake my head. That surprise when revisiting old characters is proof that I have also changed, one imperceptible bit at a time, relentlessly. The characters seem deeper and more connected to me because I have also underwent deviations, hopefully due to a rich, full life.

When some of us were younger, we watched a TV commercial hawking Time-Life books. In the ad, it would say, “John Wesley Hardin, so mean he once shot a man for snoring.” In my context, I want you to renew your memory of that ad and consider it a consummate and fair assessment of what could have easily been said about my mother. In any comparison involving her, the other person would be just a novice in the game of unexpected words of reprimand. If my mom’s words could have been loaded into a pistol, Monroe County would have looked like a Wild West shootout. She didn’t need a concealed carry permit because the proclivity to give verbal lashes negated the want or necessity of a firearm.
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A smart man once said that part of getting old consists of recognizing the influence of your parents that drove you bonkers coming to roost in your own mirror. My mom of course would have told that man to “Sit down and shut up with your highfalutin nonsense,” but I think it’s true that some of our legacy is to be startled by the overlap between the essential “me” in the mirror and our parents.
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Today would have been my mom’s 70th birthday. As hard as she lived, all of us are still in collective and mutual wonder that she survived as long as she did. I’m not one to revel in these milestone dates. I fight the tendency to succumb to some of her personality proclivities often – and often fail. But I should have channeled her more fully today because one thing she unabashedly did without reflection was to tell a SOB that he was an SOB – even if said SOB was standing on the pulpit for Sunday service. If she was in the mood, she might even throw her beer at him, after using a hurled cigarette to gauge wind trajectory. (Because wasting beer was one of the few Southern sins that everyone joked about – but seemed to be very serious when they repeated it.)
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My mom had flaws. Looking back, I now romanticize some of those moments where she witnessed an SOB in action and without warning served him a walloping dose of universal surprised justice. It made for great comedy and/or horrific drama at the time, and it served as a safety valve for the rest of us as we both laughed and recoiled, all the while promising to NEVER do or say the things she did. Bearing witness to her creative use of shocking reprisal allowed us to forego the weakness in our own lives. We might fantasize about it, but giving those loony ideas life would usually be unimaginable. I have an arsenal of stories about her ferocity.
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The majesty of the past so often develops more fully as we age because we can forget the intense immediate pain that once joined with memories. It is almost a beckoning call, soothing.
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The events of recent weeks have exposed my mortal flaw to want to dish out a heaping pile of burning crow with greater frequency. Usually, I might note ahead or behind her birthday that it is approaching or receding from me for another year. In this year of apparent great tribulation, each day that I laugh and remember my mom’s example, it allows me to walk away without flicking a cigarette, followed by a beer, into the tumultuous melee of unmitigated plates of crow, faces unwillingly smashed into large avian chunks of unwanted deliciousness. If I am not diligent and careful, I will be the old man on the porch with a satchel of small rocks ready to be hurled at uncooperative and misfit kids in my yard.
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Were mom alive, she would roll her eyes and say “Use shorter words, you ain’t impressing anyone.” She might cuss at me a bit, but in time, she would laugh and repeat the very things she had previously sworn weren’t true.
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PS: I am not sure there is a moral to this story. But it certainly gets supplanted by the admission of my shortcoming.

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“His cup truly runs over and yet, unabashedly, he notes with dismay that his cup is one size smaller than he would wish it to be.” – Me
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Perhaps this quote originated in the aftermath of throwing up a can of tomatoes through my nose? Could it be the projectile velocity of acidic vegetables to which we owe so much of our genius?
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If only those fingers pointing toward the perceived wrongdoer would spontaneously emit a bright and searing flame, much to the horror of the owner and to the delight of the intended target.
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We’ve all seen “Shawshank Redemption.” Andy Defresne locks himself in the warden’s office with a lone record player and plays a song so intensely majestic than even a confined world like the prison he’s trapped in must stop and listen as homage. This is the same feeling I’ve sometime experienced when listening to Juan Gabriel singing one of his iterations of “Querida,” especially versions with Juanes or Raul di Blasio.
As a fan of music regardless of language, learning Spanish opened a new world to me. Several artists taught me that others languages could convey sublime reminders of life rather than just dull ways to say ‘chair.’ While not a huge fan of all the genres in Spanish, I’ve never failed to find artists or songs who strike me deeply. Juan Gabriel was one of those artists who would come from left field and sing over my shoulder. He sang in multiple genres successfully; even when I wasn’t thrilled with a particular song, I knew he would follow up soon enough with something spectacular.
He became the first living artist to have all 3 #1 Latin album spots on the charts simultaneously at the beginning of this year. His career was long and ended on a brilliant high note. Most English-speaking people probably are unfamiliar with Juan Gabriel, his musical legacy, or the immense sea of fans he left behind.
He died yesterday in Santa Monica.
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(While I was writing this, I looked on CNN Español to discover that Gene Wilder, a comedy genius in his own right, has died. These kinds of coincidences always throw me a curve ball. It is surreal to be writing one eulogy and read in another language that another icon has left the stage.)

My friend John and I went to watch a BMX and skateboarding exhibition, the first Springdale has hosted in years. It’s not normally my thing (because a good outing always involves copious food in my book) but John once daringly participated in both sports and insisted that I accompany him to relive old memories. It was much more fun than I had anticipated, in part due to John knowing several of the professionals participating. After the main event, John and I were invited to a private riding park outside of Tontitown.
I sat and drank lemonade while John experimented with a couple of his old moves, doing reverses and flips. With reluctance, John did small moves. As his confidence returned, he moved faster and with more agility. After a few minutes of tomfoolery, a younger rider unexpectedly fell in front of John as he was about to exit a ramp. John attempted to avoid crushing him by yanking his bike to the right, jumping away from it and the fallen rider. Unfortunately for him, he went across the barrier fence, tumbled and fell. He didn’t move. As always, my first thought was that he was milking the situation as a prank. After several seconds, however, I knew that something terrible had happened.
I climbed over the fence and kneeled next to John. When he landed, his helmet partially protected him but a long, narrow bolt used to anchor posts pierced John’s right temple. Blood was everywhere. I couldn’t gauge how much of the anchor bolt protruded from the concrete and into John’s head. I heard mumbled shouts of “Call 9-1-1” and disorganized shouts of disbelief. The paramedics arrived in less than 10 minutes and expertly got him out. The bolt had penetrated at least 3 inches into John’s brain. I feared the worst, as the blood dried on my arms.
I spent half the night waiting in the hospital as doctors and nurses came and went, machines were wheeled in and out, and hurried, nervous people whirled around me. About 6:45 the next morning, a nurse broke the rules and let me enter John’s room. As I walked up to the bed, counting the numerous cables, tubes and paraphernalia coming out of John’s body, I opened the blinds to allow the coming sunrise to illuminate the room. I pulled up the usual uncomfortable hospital chair designed for no one to sit in for long. Just as I was about to sit down, John’s eyes opened.
I could tell he was about to speak, so I hit the nurse’s button. About 15 times, as from experience I knew the room would have to be on fire to get immediate help.
Hours later, John was sitting up in his bed, alert and joking about the accident. One of the paramedics who had helped him came in to see if he was okay, after hearing the incredible news he had survived and was awake. John’s eyes grew wide as the paramedic took a moment to show John how deeply the bolt had entered his brain. John reached up to lightly touch his temple where it had entered.
John, like most typical guys, wanted to know when he could get out of the hospital. Even though he had survived being impaled through the head, the only thing that interested him was a pizza and some television watching. He spent the day asking everyone when he could go home.
The primary doctor returned around 8:30 p.m. He told John how lucky he was to be alive, much less awake and aware of his surroundings.
The doctor took out his computer tablet and dragged some images around, turning it so that both John and I could see it. It was an image of John’s pierced skull, with a dark tunnel angling in from the skull and into John’s brain.
“You don’t know how lucky you are, John,” Dr. Marcos said. “It could have been much, much worse.” I could tell he meant it.
“How bad?” John timidly asked.
After a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Marcos pointed to another image on the tablet and said with great solemnity, “One millimeter in either direction, and you would have been voting for Donald Trump.”
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(It seemed worthwhile to not limit myself to the same tired joke, so I wrote the story just for the punchline. Imaginary John is safe, sleeping on his imaginary couch in my mind…. PS: You can change the last line of my joke to pick on Hillary, if you want…)