Another direct hit, Ann. That GPS is unerringly finding its target. (-: ---In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, <awoelflebater@...> wrote :
Intro: 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.