Another direct hit, Ann.  That GPS is unerringly finding its target. (-:

---In, <awoelflebater@...> wrote :

 Delta Dawn, Dr Dumbass, Fleetwood; whatever the handle, the infinite reality 
of consciousness remains the same. The outside might reflect one thing but the 
inside is unmoving and is untouched by whether the mortal coil wears stilettos 
or a stethoscope. This is a being who doesn’t let gender, age, hair color or 
chosen profession overshadow the profound nature of what lies beneath or 
within. This is a (wo)man for all seasons, someone undeterred by doubters; a 
being in trousers or skirt who is just as willing to peruse the lingerie aisle 
as the check out the drills and band saws in aisle 6. But with diversity amid 
the unchanging lies the sad fact that others will seek to undermine, to mock 
and yet, what does our hero(ine) do? We will see shortly…

 A day in the life:
 The coyotes have run amuck. Deer tracks trace their cloven way this way and 
that over the sand and coarse grasses indicating general confusion amid the 
fear. Mac is anxious to check the photos from the night before. Surely there 
will be some worthwhile images of startled eyes, graceful limbs and perhaps a 
coyote and deer together in one lucky image. But first, there is a song to 
finish recording, the sixth this week then a download and voila, a full shelf 
of recorded music to access when the mood takes him. Whether composing or 
listening to the fruits of his labors, it all works. 

 Oh wait, there’s an impulse to check out the niggling feeling to log onto FFL. 
One must never ignore the finer impulses, they are often the important ones so 
Mac glides over to his work station which houses his paints, recording 
equipment and computer (dodging the laden mantel piece overflowing with 
trophies and ducking under the myriad gold stars hanging from an artistic 
installation from his ceiling) and types the magic letters that will allow him 
access to FFL. But first he is overcome with waves of anticipation, with 
pervasive awareness of all that has been, all that is and all that is yet to 
come. It all blends together in a kind of simultaneous timelessness infused 
with a richness that he is faintly aware he wished Barry could experience. 
Shaking his head gently, he proceeds to move his attention to the screen. And 
there it is - the shadows of characters barely formed. Like struggling newborns 
or underdeveloped fetuses the energy of those participating on FFL reach out 
their tentacles of ignorance toward his intelligence which takes it all in with 
wonder and with a certain empathy. But take it in he does and with the skill 
inherent in those with access to the finer impulses of life he molds and 
deflects - sometimes with humor and sometimes with a kind of divine wrath. All 
the while this is happening he is getting an idea for his next painting, his 
next garden layout, his next musical creation. 

 Wandering away from the computer and the clamoring “noise" that wants to 
follow him like a swarm of grumpy wasps Mac finds himself drawn to the sunset 
just settling over the rocks, the sage, the tall grasses. As he breathes it all 
in, through his nose, his eyes, his very skin he thinks of Leiden, of Victoria, 
of Fairfield, the deep south (including Texas), San Francisco and even England 
and he imagines who he might be next time in his next reincarnation at FFL and 
who it will piss off and who will welcome it and why it might be so.


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