Boulder Tutors Presents: 3 Objects (w/ Teacher C)

Here! I teach Book, Pen and Ball, and introduce myself, in under two minutes. You need me to teach online, be it basic English, grammar, composition, or literature, from first words to laureate speeches, I'm here at Follow Boulder Tutors on WordPress. I need to get us on Instagram too.

An unnamed play based on service industry lives, hard at work. Hey: Hard At Work. Title.

Prologue: I am welcome to go get my last BackCountry Traphouse and Pizza pay check, today. I don’t know if the next check will come from Tandoori Grill, or even if it will be front or back of the house, for sure. I’m waiting to see if that’s the place, because they are Indian food from homemade recipes, the owner’s in there working, too, and they’re directly across the street! But one thing I am looking for, regardless- for at least some of the hours- is the pleasure of working by my best friend, Angie, again.

I’m not bitter, but I sometimes grow to feel that way, if I’m not keeping enough of my usual good juju flowing. I don’t just work for money. I have done what I think is my finest work without asking a penny for much of that. I can’t sleep- to be fair, I did sleep rather a lot, while reading Hamlet, petting cats, and eating simple meals with Angie, yesterday. I didn’t get outside, and my body needs both exercise and the outdoors. I was just having the fundamental needs discussion about the natural desire to be outdoors- the messages that seem to wait there in the uncluttering of one’s head.
Often times, sex springs me full-awake to stay, rather than shutting the beast down. That may be the case, tonight.
What it made me think though- and now that I’m not so dead-beat, I’ve much to write, even about Work- was, how often did I lie awake, too excited to sleep, anticipating getting back to a job I was determined to master and enjoy greatly? If anything, I was troubled not to have a sense of an end time to the endeavor, because I knew I’d want to do something else. But for a time I told myself I belong.

Granted, I was lying awake before that, remembering how pissed I was with James, who would just find something to make a hard-headed and wrong argument about- a fact I didn’t report, while charismatically training him. Someone must’ve told James: that guy’s only been here six weeks what does he know? Or maybe he was jealous. But I’m both vindictive and small enough to get a bump off him flaming out in a week, and generous enough to think it might be a place he might be thankful to work. If it asks the best he can give, that’s the best he can do. A point of pride in one is mockery of another.

It’s really no affair what someone at a job I left behind thinks, except, I intended to leave him with that job and move on later rather than sooner, with a reduction in hours that fit my needs and theirs. I came in to a situation the kitchen manager described with much cursing and worry. I felt compelled to be the stability, but I really just started very reluctantly as someone on his way back from realizing he’d failed to save his flyer in a proper extension.

I told the chef, Jim, who they pay as their prep cook, how I really see Life as Stories. If I'd only done it all for the money, I'd shove my experiences there into a pile, the way students cram for an exam with little apparent long-term retention or use for the knowing. But I clearly have to come to terms with how I was moved to risk really understanding, which I didn't know would get me yelled at eventually. I knew it would be a place of characters, lives walked differently than my own, with little appreciation yet of the violence that broils beneath certain work places. I have to come to terms with the memories, and I'd rather do it now that drag it out. I may not have went home inspired with new material for any other creative endeavor. But I did listen to a head full of voices that regard themselves, largely unheard. I don't think my drama is on level with the rot of Denmark, but there's a store's story there. I was seriously staying on, foremost, to be a positive force beside, and in the life of, a guy called Bubba.

There’s too many lines remaining, even as I feel the same sense of struggle not to get involved too much, as I did after shaking Daniel’s hand on the job.
End Prologue I'm going to probably try drafting this, primarily, the next few days. I may get another chance at hearing some of the stories, so I can adopt them with rich detail. Five Act breakdown.
If there's one thing my post-pandemic work experience has given me, it's an engagement period brief enough to posit a proper arc. The nature of survival suggests deadlines along the way, which is great, as other projects were allowed to drag on to some date not yet foreseen.

Hard At Work. A working title if ever there was one. Update: I got 3000 words down, with a lot of real life-inspired quotes, and decided I had to get some energy out of my system so I could move on. But if the itch strikes, I think it's a cool play idea. Be Chill, Cease ill

Another World, Resounding

As the veil, they say, becomes thinnest between worlds, I sit with my loving wife, my five cats, and my departed baseball fans.

I feel the circulation humming through my muscles; only an evening of yoga stretches restores any desire to move, whatsover. This was my father’s world: working to exhaustion, turning on the Braves in his favorite chair, sleeping through middle innings. When else was the World Series going to fall during Halloween? And with Dad’s favorite team? My Aunt Linda and Grandpa’s Atlanta Braves?

Our tribe held together most strongly at its bonds: birthdays, holidays, working at the family hardware store together, the garden, our proximity...and this sport. America’s Past Time, no longer of such monoculture interest, to a generation that’s moved away from team sports.
Is it simply nostalgia- and part of the deeper desire, that those who sacrificed for me, not be forgotten?
Or do I open myself to communication? Are they anywhere at all- or do my memories deliver words and impressions so convincingly, I might believe ghosts commune at our side?
Is more than a familiar feeling, necessary? Or even desirable? In such a time, when irrational beliefs have led us to danger, can one afford a precious spiritual world, accepting whatever illogic might then follow?
Once, my aunt, her teaching position finished at Trinity Academy, lived off whatever money remained from the sale of the store, and then, decided to tutor students. My own academy job, and my wife's, are now gone. Now, it's me looking at tutoring. It's me, following a Braves game, an echo of what an institution it was to my Aunt Linda. Stats, plays, injury charts- I never knew anyone more devoted. She subscribed to the Baseball Digest, which I would sit and read in the dining room. After Grandmother became mentally ill, that dining room almost never hosted a gathering- those could be handled around the kitchen table. Aunt Linda never moved out on her own again.
Charlie Morton's fibia broke in the first game, struck by a hit. The bullpen's done a terrific job filling in the innings, but today it's catching up with them. The Astros came back from a 5-4 lead, to lead 9-5. Now it's the ninth inning. I considered moving on, but I left the game playing in my own living room.
What a difference a missing person makes.

I think of my departed friend, David Anthony Kraft: I hear songs he loved, and stories of visiting shows, from Jim- but those stories of New York, his Marvel Comics Group stories- his wit. You can’t compare and not miss him. He awaits in other stories: my talks with his wife, his son, and his inspiration to the Demon Skull stories begun with my first new online game, Give Up Your Earthly Possessions.https://gamescreate.com/games/show/5024

I think of my Uncle Roger, who died the day my job of the past three years also died. He’d be happy to enjoy some Bravos, too. Like me, I think he loved rock and roll music more.
I listen to Korean artists appropriating Black Culture in a way that reminds me of rock and roll, but they haven’t really come about it with the original gospel and country inspirations of early rock. So that can be done. By us. Along with other plans.The Korean will be the outlier ingredient for a while.
My wife’s brother Chris seems faintly reincarnated all around us these days: the cooking jobs we took to make ends meet are like an homage to his years in the restaurant business. He was Chris, her Bubba. I was my sister’s Bubba, until I turned the name away one day, after pumping gas for my aunt at the old highway 53 station. I didn’t want to be a ‘bubba.’ I was a Junior, but I went now by my father’s name. Now, at work, we’re surrounded by a Bubba, a Chris, and a Junior. I had a chance to tell his son Nicholas this- in exchanged messages, at least.
We talk often of her mother. That lady never showed me anything other than love and acceptance.
My wife comments at times on her approval, on the endorsement by these mentioned, of the life we presently live. It is good to have peace with the dead. Many stories begin with the idea of struggling with the memory of a spirit. It would be quite dramatic, to have a poltergeist, to have a guilty conscience gnaw at its bound captive. If I see the Braves make the World Series, and remember when I talked once with Chris about the sacrifices of the new stadium- and here, the true sports fan, he is correct, it’s five years later and they are World Series-worthy- is that insight a memory brought to light by Truth, a word of companionship from Beyond, and is there anything between, or any need for further definition?

I remembered today, while loosening my sore back and tightened calves and hamstrings, what it is, to feel one’s intelligence might dispose a person to take part in the serious business of running some part of the world- to wonder why the path has instead led back to the world of my father, my aunt. My father and mother once stood side-by-side working the hours away in their own restaurant- that’s what they did after the hardware store sold. Now, my wife’s spent four days, as her online job plays out to its end, training by my side, working the same fry and grill job with me. Time with her is always something I claimed as my most treasured reward.

I didn’t have any cornbread with the pintos she made me, tonight. It’s too bad I didn’t take home some Jim had made. Around my home- around my grandfather, my aunt? A pone of cornbread could be found any time, on the marble shelves of that country kitchen.

They gave me peace. I never appreciated how much opportunity I had to study, or even stick with a sport (I never caught on fast enough to play games). I look back now and see that peace was the one difference that ever gave me a chance to change my life. Even if I presently am letting my ‘caste’ have me. Now, the peace I find, I must earn on my own.

One aspect is, now the hours of my life are tied to tasks to bring me money. I may find myself washing dishes, but I do not think then I am not a writer. I may wash my own dishes, before allowing myself to sit with the newly-arrived banquet of ideas. I may think I am not a writer, then, but a washer and dryer of dishes. (We’re out of dish pods, and I keep liquid on hand because Why Not Do It By Hand Some.)

I had recently seen a dingy, greasy opportunity, to fill my hands with breaded vegetables and cheese to deep-fry, to wash my hands and build Philly Cheesesteaks and Nediterranean Burgers (named after a Ned- the place is filled with history that no one explains to me). To sit under the sunny sky on days with nice weather, with my best friend here in Colorado, Savage Beast of Love, who shares a naughty and expansive flow of ideas with my distant best friend Johann in Australia, toke, breathe, laugh, share thoughts, share silence. Massive crows, one so great as to spread like a wraith as it flaps over the back fence, instilling some primal feeling of visitation by our Elders. An opportunity to hear new stories of other lives. Let sixty-one year old Jim tell me how his mother and grandmother inspired him to cook, as mine did not, and hear about drunken nights at concerts by the hundreds, while the music of his youth and mine plays over Bubba’s karaoke speaker. A place to share a beer shot with the man I stayed to help. I helped and waited out seven or eight others who shared that line cook position, until Bubba and I were It. I’ll tell you sometime how he kept his word to me so I could work out a notice that we quietly canceled. Then I brought in Angie, who needed a job now herself for the same reason I had. First four days, we spent most of the time exploring how we think things are done around there-I was hired two days before the first Buffs home game- and quickly, we’re becoming as solid a team as the store can presently need.

No, it’s not my store, to have or lose as business goes. My parents only went in it to have their own place in the communities of Shannon and Johnson, be their own bosses (like Angie and I, in our three years of ESL online), and earn a living, which meant, make profit, from delicious short order food. They simply didn’t have a chef on hand like Jim, nor a pizza oven, and therefore, nothing like Tannis, Bubba’s brother by another mother (but brother by the same father, I think). So, no Anime enthusiast blaring heavy metal, “Come On, Eilene,” or the marriage of Figaro, between rap songs and screamo, with such a serious demeanor as to make me think I must cast him as a martial arts master, speaking his instruction to the half-clued-in pilgrim.

It’s not my store, to run at a loss for tax write-offs, or renovate and promote and imbue with love. It’s a place I keep clean and keep open, in a time so many are only now finding Life under the layers of work, as I did once. I keep it open for the people who work there, and warm the stomachs of people I only glimpse in passing. I have all the anonymity any star ever craves. I stretch and rest and bide my time: the creative self will return with Peace, and is always this close.
Before I fill out applications where I must shine in presenting who I am, there is something about being on this underdog BackCountry Pizza and Tap House kitchen crew- it’s really just seven of us now, with Chris the waiter pitching in, even with his scooter-wrecked shoulder, working five days a week- being critical to this thing that will – fall apart without us? I know again what it was to be on the ships, in a life found near a thousand solar turns in the past.

We watched “Rocky Horror Picture Show”- to be clear, we’re waiting on my last tutoring payment to clear to even spend another dollar, so at home, yes, since I didn’t cancel even more subscriptions than I thought I had, but you can still yell “You’ve got no fuckin’ Neck!” and “I wanna screw!” and all the callbacks you might find online if you’ve never seen “Rocky” in a theatre screening, which you must.
I cleaned up my home, dumped the cat box, and asked her to join me, finding sprigs of evergreen for our ritual. For, as years go, Halloween is New Year’s Eve, for Samhein is Summer’s End, and in the descent into darkness, harvest done, a year ends, and all endings contain beginnings, it’s said. Even if said ending is the absence of some being, now, when the body has reunited with the Earth.


I slept.
More than I thought I wanted, but it was a Gothic day, floating damply above freezing. She danced to BTS, as I let my private illness- resistance, born of the need to recuperate, continue conditioning- and when I rose, I went through any Yoga postures for which I could feel a need. It is the only way to release the mind for new things, even to resume the activities before one labored. Slept more, again.

A few minutes more. Again. The sort of sleep I’d been taking, sometimes all I could get, as I agreed to a couple of different start times for Backcountry. Now we’re 9 to 5. What a way to make a living.
I don’t have actual cable, nor a dime to spend on this unexpected Braves World Series, which will now the first November Fall Classic game ever. I put together the game between real time check-ups with the radio broadcast merged with a streaming YouTube stat sheet with pitching tracker and timely batter updates, and recorded innings I selected. It is not the same when you already know what you’re looking for, but Dad would’ve enjoyed having the highlights at his finger tips.
I wrote, as the Astros climbed to victory, because the sound droning beneath my attention was the place where Dad, Aunt Linda, Paw Paw, Roger, her brother- so many- really spent the games. Her Dad had turned away from pro baseball in favor of checking out the Little League World Series each August and that was that. High game day attendance prices, you know. I like to remember who he was when he seemed happy to be in a family- his own, complete with his kids’ friends and spouses-and the early days when he’d been reading science fiction classics while working as a jailer. He always aspired to be a patrol man. I discovered I couldn’t be in my level of debt and ever take the job.
I arose, and gathered the altar.
The cloth has every color we ever need, but this time, a few beautiful Martin Acres leaves would’ve been nice. No way was I leaving our property today, though- the fall palette pleased me where it was, where it will mostly still be when the sun returns its smile to my neighborhood. Let the leaves hang and fall when they may. I was pleased to have evergreen sprigs, including the vibrancy of low-growing cedar, outside our apartment complex sometimes shadowed by the Flatirons.
Eight minutes to midnight, I sat and read from the Druid Handbook, a meditation I could’ve easily committed to memory, except I love the new life I find in it when I sit and read it. The Father Sun goes down into darkness, while Mother Earth garbs herself in brown mourning robes. Endings, begin anew. The breath is violet.

Our friend Notes was gravely troubled by the accidental and tragic death of an early and true love. I found her self-loathing unbearable, despite the sympathy engendered on ‘Meta.’ I IM’d her to say, while they say the veil is thinnest now, take up that one spirit’s story, but do not let that be the only one, for there is much support- loved ones who’ve passed, ancestors waiting to be seen.
Clear as I could desire, as midnight approached, all these deceased super-imposed themselves in our kitchen, the newest Roger especially clear to make me believe, make me invest. Rockin’ |Roger. I realized, there’s only so much space in which to envision full-grown people standing spectrally. But every name intoned here, could I see, in non-corporeal form, those whose private anguish have I envisioned, whose life and loves and struggles I had honored with thought in my recent years of solitude.

And then, an epiphany.
In a moment of discursive meditation, I sit and understand, as we continue to the opening of this Samhain grove, not only the full apartment of visions, but every ancestor, also, was there, because we are here, as is true for you, and your ancestors. As I imagined the recurrent features among my ancestors, and tasks that beset these progenitors’ bodies, I went as far back instantly as possible when I told Angie, “it’s the dead who best know Peace, and Peace we need for this striving of ours in living (to balance). So here we are, much as we were, probably together, taking that first step out of the water onto land, right from the start.” And that was an ending of something, too. What if we’d gone the dolphin direction? In telling her this, I returned with a smile to my silence, and then, asked quietude of my thoughts, so a slender hint of Silence might be achieved. We opened the grove. I saw a picture of her late brother on our changing-photo-frame, as I proclaimed peace there to the North- for without peace, the work of the grove cannot proceed. We wound our way around the altar with each of four elements taken in hand, in turn. We then invoked the witnesses of words from before Time, with words imagined to be bond among Druids across all time.

Grant, o holy ones, thy strength and in strength, knowledge; and in knowledge, the love of justice

We completed the chant. From our throats, through our entire being, we chanted the name Awen, in its three syllables: Ah-oh-wen. Our voices together feel like a chorus of many each time.
With that touch with the creative power of the Universe, however, my clam was irritated to conceive a pearl, and set aside to rejoin with vocational intensity was this thought, underpinning this vision:

That nomadic dweller may have earned survival another day, alongside at least one partner, for this was no way to live alone, you see. Then, the rise to some particular hillside, or, if so gifted, mountainside, or if so gifted, ocean side, or riverside, or canyon butte- some vista. A place where striving ceases, though how different might be striving and strife, so long as Peace prevails? The rest.

The finished task of climbing, the wonder at what one has achieved by strength and fortuitous circumstance, in the height of one’s pause, in the breadth of one’s earned horizon.

My present inspiration of a rewarding climb was a cliff side, like the place I stopped while freehand hiking up the side of a chickenhead beside NCAR on Bear Creek Canyon Trail. The feeling I should stop, and take it all in a while, as a storm cloud- a thunder storm, something usually so far away in the skies of my youth- rolled across the mountain tops, following me all the way back down the mountain, along the path back to the bridge, where I took a photo, and to my car, where it dotted my windshield as I closed my door. I'd rested by the bosom of the clouds themselves.

I realized we were invoking the goddess of wisdom, Ceridjwen, on a day when I had identified, correctly, the need for wisdom above all other needs. If I had been waiting for the way forward, it was a wait to accomplish the peace needed to perceive the correct order of efforts (for this is no farmer’s tasks, but more akin to those of nomads). I realized, for no reason other than to promote my meditative state of mind, I could open and work in and close the grove, much, much more often than the eight stations of the year.
On my altar sat the orange glittering skull, my playful tribute to the season. A skull is seen as a sign of death, decay, and sometimes, fear of those; a skull can be seen as a study point. It can be rendered basically with two circles and a rectangle to indicate the jawline. It is a place where even the most learned among us still do not completely know what is going on, much less those of us not generally committed to figuring out that space. What I mean is, the organic brain’s still mysterious, in its ability to house consciousness. If that’s indeed the seat of Experience.



The moments of the ritual pass so swiftly. They engage all possible attention, an act which is rewarded by requiring but a few, really; we can set up in seven minutes, from stripping down the table to assembly of the seven candles, the flora offering, the ‘Hirlas horn’ (in this case, her coffee thermos), the four elements (a lit stick of incense often signals Air, a burning piece of sage might say Fire), the invocation of our core principles, and the giving and receiving of blessings.


Tonight, I included our home guard, personally requested aloud, because Dixie had asked ‘send a blessing for us, too’ and here we were with Ceridjwen. If I say too much about the feathered cloak, I might limit you in seeing its colors and plumage as you will.
We held the coffee thermos aloft and then quaffed a choice of awakening, rather than sleepy wine. We set it down, and then offered our sprigs of evergreen. The new year began. I considered this time as a turning of the year- not the calendar of the Romans, nor the Gregorian calendar, but the true year, which dies with harvest, then awaits in emptiness while drifting most distantly with the sun.

Angie was most eager to remember to return the energy of the working to the Earth, so much so as to rush ahead in search of it, desirous not to miss this part that she forgot, momentarily, was about the first thing you do when closing the grove- perhaps it was so intense, but radiant in importance. It was good to move on.

From the rising sun, three rays of light from the living earth, three stones of witness, from the eye and mind and hand of wisdom, three rowan staves of all knowledge from the fire of the sun, the forge...

and a pledge by Excalibur then, to uphold our condition: Truth, Against the world. Like light before darkness, and hearing amid chaos. The name ‘Awen’ three times had the ancient feeling, the multiplicity of voices. There was once more now to walk around the circle. She prevented me from putting out the candles too soon, so still they shone brightly as we made our way.

What if that moment of absolute Peace and stillness, of harmony with the Earth and the Universe, was the real purpose of all those who walked and slept and maintained a domicile, before me? Like Bradbury’s Mercury-based short story, “Fire and Ice,” what is this place each quickly-receding generation of Mes seeks, with every brief lifetime? What if the entire purpose of civilization, and communication, had been to raise the consciousness back to that highest peak- to touch where from we descended?

If I am the last of my line- there’s simply nothing for sure but the depth of Love- then is my task to be only one specialist kind of Man, or to endure the stunning desire to communicate in every art possible, with no hope or fear of being master of any one? And beneath that…

Beneath that…

When we reach that point of absolute quiet- even if our Witness Self and Ego must respond as one, that is Life- is that consciousness then one we share with those who were human (or more) before us? Did they all achieve that point in their lifetimes, especially before technology intervened in the last seconds on the clock of human time? And is this, at very least, then, a connection with peace, and silence, and the formative power of the Universe manifesting, I share timelessly with all those- and not only those who donated to my lineage, but yes, they- who ever dwelt in that glimpse of sweetest serenity?

And in these words, to you...though from other worlds, do we resound?

-Cecil Disharoon, Jr. in the dead of four o’clock in the morning, 11/1/21

Leo Tech Harvest Preview

Leo tech (Pilot intro, outro 8/29/21)

Here's a quick intro I made for the interactive class I designed, and will teach in about five and a half hours. I call it LeoTech- cultural exchange and natural science, rolled into one English-speaking class. Program script: Air Quality Index

Talk: 2:00
Intro: :25 great outdoors- cut in some hiking videos. :35Air pollution: show sky, show clear sky photo 2:00 I give AQI: definition 2:00 discussion: what do you love outdoors? 5:00 Terms:

Infrastructure NOUN 1. the basic physical and organizational structures and facilities (e.g. buildings, roads, power supplies) needed for the operation of a society or enterprise.
Contemplated VERB 1. look thoughtfully for a long time at. 2.Think profoundly and at length; meditate. To have in mind as a probable though not certain intention.
Expedient[ikˈspēdēənt] ADJECTIVE 1. (of an action) convenient and practical although possibly improper or immoral.
consider [kənˈsidər] VERB 1. think carefully about (something), typically before making a decision.
Synonyms! AQI Air Quality Index The Air Quality Index (AQI) is a simple, color-coded, unitless index that is an effective way to communicate air pollution concentrations to the general public 
mt CO2e, Metric Tons of Carbon Dioxide

Metric tons of carbon dioxide equivalent or MTCO2e is the unit of measurement in this tool. The unit "CO2e" represents an amount of a GHG whose atmospheric impact has been standardized to that of one unit mass of carbon dioxide (CO2), based on the global warming potential (GWP) of the gas
Bonus: immiseration A making or becoming miserable, as through impoverishment. The act of making miserable, especially of a population as a whole; impoverishment. From im- +‎ miser (y) +‎ -ation.

Middle 3:00 Here’s where demonstrations and interviews go
A new United Nations–led report from hundreds of climate scientists around the world makes it clear: The human-driven climate crisis is now well under way. Earth is likely hotter now than it has been at any moment since the beginning of the last Ice Age, 125,000 years ago, and the world has warmed 1.1 degrees Celsius, or nearly 2 degrees Fahrenheit, since the Industrial Revolution began—an “unprecedented” and “rapid” change with no parallel in the Common Era. So, we must transition as fast as possible from fossil fuel use! These are the conclusions of the newest assessment report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, a UN-sponsored body that has periodically released a synthesis of current climate science since its founding in 1988.
The group’s reports tend to punctuate the otherwise slow immiseration of climate change; its previous synthesis report, released in 2013, helped inform international climate policy, including the writing of the Paris Agreement.
Some of the worst impacts of climate change can still be avoided. “There are still emissions pathways that would lead us to limiting warming to 1.5 degrees, but they require deep, rapid cuts in greenhouse-gas emissions,” Flato said. “That leaves a glimmer of optimism that we could limit warming to levels like that.” But it would require much more expedient action from the United States than is contemplated in, say, the bipartisan infrastructure bill that Congress is currently considering.
As the new report notes: “Each of the last four decades has been successively warmer than any decade that preceded it since 1850.” Yet in the past few years, global warming has moved from a statistical property to an ambient condition of modern life. A mega-drought seems to grip the American West without end. A series of wildfires have passed, like a baton, from one part of the world to another, going from California to the Amazon to Australia to Greece to California again. And then there was the morning, a few weeks ago, when Americans on the East Coast and in the Midwest woke up, thousands of miles away from any wildfire, and smelled smoke in the air.

In Boulder, Colorado, the city has set goals to curb emissions.
Community GHG emissions from electricity generation, natural gas combustion and vehicle emissions are measured in mt CO2e, which stands for metric tons of carbon dioxide equivalent. This unit helps measure how much we are contributing to climate change through emissions. Fifteen percent reduction by 2020, 80 percent reduction by 2050, using 2005 as the baseline. Current climate science tells us that an 80 percent reduction in greenhouse gases is necessary to protect our environment from further climate damage; the City of Boulder desires to meet or exceed that target by 2050 using 2005 as the baseline. The city’s shorter-term target is a 15 percent reduction by 2020, compared to the same 2005 baseline.
3:00 Discussion
2:00 Sentences “unequivocally” immiseration optimism emissions Consider contemplate
1 In its strongest statement of culpability ever, the IPCC declared that humanity is ____________ responsible for climate change.
2 The group’s reports tend to punctuate the otherwise slow __________ of climate change.
3 I had to _____ my next move, or the soldiers would find me.
4 “That leaves a glimmer of ______ that we could limit warming to levels like that. ______ how many people for whom to serve vegetables.
5 “There are still __________pathways that would lead us to limiting warming to 1.5 degrees, but they require deep, rapid cuts in greenhouse-gas __________,” Flato said. 20 minute point: break
5 minutes----
Second half! 27 minutes’ material 3 min.
VOCABULARY 2
Particles Emissions combustion Optimism Unprecedented greenhouse gas
3 min. Programs to reduce carbon emissions: Tips: Reduce Your Carbon-Based Travel One-third of all our GHG emissions countywide come from the transportation sector. Consider walking, biking, or using public transportation to get around. Combining trips and carpooling can also save time. If you have to purchase a vehicle, consider an electric vehicle. Minimize Your Waste<br/>
Did you know that food waste is the number one material in the landfill? America wastes 40% of its food, wastes huge amounts of water, and costs billions of dollars each year. Do your part by planning meals, storing food correctly, minimizing food waste, and composting whenever possible. Make a larger impact by considering
all the materials you purchase – reduce, reuse, recycle. Eat a More Plant-Based Diet The meat industry is one of the largest contributors to climate change worldwide. Livestock animals can produce large amounts of methane. Eat less meat and a more plant-based diet to significantly reduce your environmental impact.
Become Fossil Fuel Free Rooftop solar or a subscription to a solar garden is a great way to power your home with clean energy. Solar financing options are available from the Clean Energy Credit Union or through local solar companies. Make sure your home is well insulated and buy energy and water efficient appliances as well.
1 min Turn down the heat. (free talk)
13 min. Take my garbage out- what can I recycle? Recycling (recycling center: 8 minute walk-through already on YouTube; 15’ PSA for kids)
3 min bike sharing show bike sharing station 2 min bus show (discuss how we want to keep down temperatures and sea levels)
2 min. Grammar exercises: (Past Tense) I ___ to kindergarten when I was five years old.
I ____ ____ or ______ (swim) in my friend’s pool today.

I ____(give) the hungry man my biscuit.
You ___ (travel) to Lantau every summer.
She (feed) _____ the gorilla, so he let her cross the bridge.
I (wake) _____ at 7:30 a.m. I (ride) _____ the bus to the museum, but Mom (give) ____ me a ride home. 27 min. (52-55 min. mark) Something pure fun
Videos for project: 0 :25 hiking videos. The Marc channel. Plus: Boulder Recycling Center videos 1. :35 Air pollution: show sky, 2. 3 min bike sharing show bike sharing station 3. 2 min bus show

LeoTech is in Effect

Sunday morning marks our pilot episode of LeoTech.

'Air Quality' is our lesson topic, with some reading, vocabulary, video clips for discussion, and practice exercises to keep our grammar, sharp.

Interactive web-based programs/lessons are surely a novelty, an extension of ESL online methods. I loved tutoring children so much, and all that while, I longed for a lifestyle where I could spend more time, learning about and admiring my new Colorado home. It's a worthy curriculum topic in itself- and now, with a dual focus on Earth Science and Cultural Exchange, LeoTech will be available for people right here in Boulder, too.

Here is one way I'm working on this local network. You can also book me from any time zone, here.


If you have more specific learning needs, write me at luelyron@gmail.com or text me at (303) 243-4693. Teacher Angela and I are both trained pros with a talent for lively engagement and a curriculum for learning English already on file. She is talented with math through Algebra II, as well as an excellent English instructor; History and a hobby interest in Science are my additional skills.
Have a great school year!
be chill, Cease ill

If Anyone's Going To Heaven, These Days (In Memory of Tom T. Hall)

“If Anyone’s Going to Heaven These Days”

If anyone’s going to heaven, these days,
I guess it’s basic, to even care.
If it’s here already, we hide it well
but friend, if you’re heading over there

Tell Tom hey, I wonder if he’s figured out how to write a country song
in a place, no sorrow or pain, but if you can, he won’t need long
I don’t know what you write on the back of, on those streets of gold
Thank you, God, for sending us the good packed in that soul


Now these tears welling in my eyes
fall not, dry, my cheeks, my smile.

Ruby leaves a rose, remembers with me, for a while

Who taught me to talk with little baby goats,
and we don’t call ‘em beer joints, and don’t strain for notes

and who let me know, if they throw you in a
cell, oh, well?
Who met the cowboy, and gave up poetry
And who marked the grave of Clayton DeLaney?


I know that homecoming’s fine
Jesus, make watermelon wine
and pick tomatoes off the vine
while cherubs kiss their Valentine


Tell Tom hey, I wonder if he’s figured out how to write a country song
in a place, no sorrow or pain, but if you can, he won’t need long
I don’t know what you write on the back of, on those streets of gold
Thank you, Lord, for sending us the good packed in that soul
Thank you, Lord, for sending us the good packed in each, our soul Thank you, for not simply leaving us, each in a black hole and Thank God for country gold.
-in memory of |The Storyteller -Be Chill, Cease ill

The art of Perfomance

It might be a dream to put one's self out there- you, right where everyone can see, setting the mood with your own creation, audience-ready, deft, natural.

A dream, to some. A nightmare to others! - Merlin, Excalibur (1981)

So, take a great scribe of poems, a mighty shower singer, and the daydream, above. How do you get there from here?

Well, if we are talking Performing, there is a cornucopia of performing arts, and many roles within them that bring deep satisfaction. But we're talking about any situation, where, presumably, the room is yours.
And what do you do, in that powerful moment?
Is it any wonder, applause before entry is our cultural signifier of our receptiveness to a given focal person?

Trained musicians can begin, do begin, from silence. The symphony deserves your undivided opportunity to fill the air with sounds.


Here's my notes on, well, the other kind. I'm a trained instrumentalist, but, alas, not in any of the instruments I use, today. I'll tell you about my first performance, solo, in front of hundreds of people, my community, actually. I gave a five-minute stand up comedy routine. Everything was rehearsed. It was necessary for the director to understand I intended to begin, posed as John Travolta did with that ever-loving finger shooting his dance energy to the disco ball-dappled ceiling. Facing the wrong way.

The first thing I had to do was not face them, but make them laugh.
The laugh welcomed me to talk. See?

So, any kind of performance will help you. Naked wedding speech, what have you.
Oh, if you thought that was funny, you need to hear our circle's Todd Jasko- and I will learn the shortcuts for special letters- who wrote that scenario into the lyrics of "Introverts, Unite." We will get that to you in a blog soon.


Todd wonders about going from writer to performer, and I thought it's good to talk about.


Now that's somewhere I can support anyone in the circle who feels that way, and you can in your circle, too. Get one of the Circle to give you, oh, a beat, some auxillary instr. Maayybe ask someone to play along on rhythm guitar.


Then it will feel body-wise like you are joining a happening, rather than, i.e. 'it feels like I'm busting in on everyone's senses for my own self-aggrandizing purpose.' I mean, you wouldn't want your fellows feeling that way.


So, certainly not Todd, the fellow who we are all more than willing to hear out, as he stiched together this round table, anyway! And he isn't coasting on that.

Though if you have $25/hr to pay for an interactive audience, lol...I kid, but Todd, it's crazy. That is a service for which people might pay. Similar to Music Instructor.
That's how hard it is to get the kind of audience you've assembled out of the goodness of all our hearts!


But yeah, invite yourself to the Circle and you'll feel right at home playing.
I mean, if you have Bernie Taupin stay on the farm while Elton sings, you're set, but if you're talking about being a singer-songwriter...knowing there's always another one a stone's throw away, we're like churches, down South, one every where you go....
Be Chill, Cease ill


Lue Lyron on Performing

I started using mirrors to get me to look up off my fretboard and thinking of connecting with my audience. The performance kinda flies out of you, and there's this 'oh shit I am a passenger on a roller coaster!' feeling, you know what I mean?
I think everything about addiction- to fame, pills, groupies, etc.- for performers, stems from dealing with that power, and its place in the rest of one's life.

I think I had to remove a lot of undue anger at myself over my playing miscues. I'd have had a heart attack by now!


Some choose to sing in imitation of a given voice. Some singer I've never bothered much with named Anthony Newly inspired a persona-voice David Bowie used to great effect, over and over!


And I had to overcome that 'I'm not worthy of playing this thing, and the bills are gonna come crashing in and I'll never make it' Dealie-O, to rejoin my engagement with the Muses each time. It was hard once, but now I love the sound of that first chord when I pick up Pretty Baby or Luck.
If you haven't named your guitar, and it's presumptious of me to even suggest, sorry, but if you have a name for 'her' you will feel like you are going through this stuff with a dear friend. It's the emotional settlement- the sense of deep serentity- which makes performing and creating possible.

Finally, you might get sudden urges to veer off and try a new chord at some point in a progression, or a notes-riff. Go for it. Everyone in the Circle has the potential to show us all how you 'go for it' - and if something doesn't work, we all recognize that, and we will laugh and laud the nuts it takes to go out on a limb. I predict. I know you want to promote experimentation, as well as the Process.

Continue Playing,
Lue

A life of love, a love of life: Roger Homer Disharoon, (1960-2021)

I had a very special privilege in this life. When we lived in Lindale, GA, I learned our home would have its first overnight visitor. My father had a brother- a younger brother.

Granny and Paw Paw would be our guest eventually, too, and I’ve got to stop and tell Mom’s favorite story about Paw Paw. He wanted to show how tough he was, so he took on some peppers, because you know he loooved spicy food. Now that was the most laid-back man I think I ever knew, and he loved us all, too. Paw Paw had some jalapenos first, and bragged about how, that was nothing to him.
So Brenda got him some habaneros to go with a second plate of homemade cornbread and beans, and Mama’s food had flavor back then, so even a skinny guy like Paw Paw went for plate two. At least it went over better than that time we went down to Atlanta and Maw Maw or Leah one, must’ve been one of the twin girls, because which ever one of you it was, you didn’t thaw the chicken first, and it came out of the oven cold and raw!


Well, Paw Paw sat there with tears welling up in his yes. He’d poured the juice on his cornbread, too- I don’t recall if they had greens but that goes well so let’s throw them in. He keeps on eating and eating and tears stream down his cheeks as he keeps putting it away.


“You like it?” Mama asked. “It’s goooood,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead.


I honestly can’t remember anyone Paw Paw didn’t love. So that story’s my gift to Roger. I’m sure his soul found his Mom and Dad first thing. He knows so much more now, and y’all, he’s not in pain, and that was his profound wish to God, to not hurt all the time anymore. It amplifies loneliness and depression. Your life becomes about finding a way out of that pain.


So if you have tears to shed, think not of what was meant to be as some wrong done to the world. Roger was Love, and Love never dies, and he will always be with you.
My first impression was how nice he was to us, how happy and carefree he was. His fourteen was half my parents’ ages, and he was bursting with teen energy. He couldn’t wait for a walk every day. He also showed us how to stay fit! Any conditioning I did as a boy, which wasn’t enough, was inspired by Roger. He also liked to say things that were wise and give advice, didn’t he? I mean, more than anyone else I knew. I guess he watched a lot of Kung Fu, the tv series.




But what I learned from him includes, not having kids, but being very good with children. He was truly gifted at interacting with kids. He kept the spirit of Fun alive until he couldn’t find the heartbeats to do it anymore. If that made you feel a skip yourself, just dedicate a few heartbeats of fun to our Uncle Roger.


I never knew anyone who loved citrus more, but God especially lemons. It sucks that salt is no good in high regular doses, but he could eat a lemon like an orange.


He probably wasn’t cut out for drinking, which I did try to get through to him, ages ago, but he was always on the search for something cool and fun. I knew him when the world was his oyster, working for Bonnell, making good money down in Franklin, GA. See, there was a time, when life was kicking Cecil around a bit, and Roger invited his big brother to come stay with him long enough to get settled into a new place. He had the first beaded curtain I ever saw, between the kitchen and living room. There was this big ass velvet painting of the Devil. I LOVED it! He had a board game, not Monopoly but something about money, and Deb and I had a grand time playing it together. I think we roped some of the others into it. Dad was not yet adjusted to his family man potential- he was a very brooding fellow at the time, when Bekaert played out and we were bankrupt- but Roger showed me that it is OK for a man to show warm regard and love and be open with his feelings. That may well be the single greatest gift Roger Homer Disharoon had.


The summer I spent in Newnan seemed to come so quickly. I was super-sad we were leaving Roger’s after only a couple or days or so, because of course I wanted to live with him, forever. He was probably eager to resume dating at full swing, so things worked out for us all. Newnan was only one summer, but it was one to remember, and Roger even came to visit. That’s the one where we hit the peach stand, and he gave me three lifelong loves: long walks, good talks, and yellow peaches.


Years later, he gave me my first karate lessons, going over the basics and the code of honor and everything. He tried to be the very coolest, because he was fed by the power of your belief and mine. We believed Roger was awesome, and he cultivated it. He was the freest human being I knew, growing up, you see, so I couldn’t be the same without him then.


I don’t think anyone could know what would happen when a free spirit became head of a household of his recently-orphaned niece and nephews, but he was great at cooking and cleaning his place, always was. Do you think I’d have wanted to live with him always if it was a dump? He always cared for his homes. He lived for the fairer sex, his family, and his own very unique walk with God.


I hope they’re having a peach, as we speak. Amen.


You better believe, he and Toby had a big surprise for me by the side of the house when I was 18. He laughed a year later and told me of the motivation behind those long walks, which explained why they took so long- to get to a place where no one would see him- and that’s why he always had cologne, and probably now I understand how a kid got to have such mind-blowing talks with Uncle.


Let’s just say it ain’t any wonder I ended up in Boulder! For the values roger had in the years he most formed me, I can say my new city is a kind of Shangri La of many people who have those same far-out ideals and Peace and Love. Now how I stay here after finding out Unc and the company I worked for died at the same time is still an unfolding mystery. But I’m not miserable.



Moving from city to city like Roger used to? Moving even once every eight years, like Anj and I manage? Such things are actually very hard to do well, ‘cause you know how impossible it’s become to just pick up and live somewhere else nowadays. Some people stay in their same community a very long time, and I see some stability in that. Lora used it to knock a home run with her own child-rearing. I know our family’s been through tough years, but there’s been a lot of love and honest efforts made. Don’t ever give up hope. We’ve been taken far away and high up a mountain side. We were born to keep climbing, but never forget the many people whose love took us so far across the wilderness to this point.


Roger’s playground of the 1970s and 80s is just memories now, but I picture his Heaven being a bit like that. He’s got his hair back, and his mustache, he’s ready to go like it’s Saturday afternoon.


It’s just, now, our ever-restless Roger is at peace. And no more toothaches. Man, those just killed him when he’d get’em.


It’s funny, because I formed my heroism of Roger in the days he was most footloose and fancy -free, and some of you, when he was a stable part of your household, doing his part to keep the commune happy. But he’s gone because there was nowhere left to belong, and no more distractions from the pain and loneliness, and even a guy who always tried to stay in good shape has to have a reason to Live. He wasn’t really made for the reflections of old age, but don’t think he hadn’t lived a full internal life here. He never meant to get old, but rather to live life to the fullest.


The pain of our family is an old one. Cousin Fred died recently, but he lived in California and Georgia both, Georgia in the fall. Fred asked me about Roger, wanted to know his story. It’s the last conversation he and I ever had. Who was he?


All Fred knew was, when Paw Paw was a teenager, he and his two brothers and dad went over to his uncle’s drunk as skunks for not the first, but last, time. If they couldn’t get sober, Paw Paw's uncle told them, don’t bother coming back. And those sides of the family never spoke again that I know of in this life.


You might
think no one will remember you or no one appreciates you, as if you were never a thought to anyone. But someone’s asking about you. Someone wants to know your story. You’re part of a family.


Families are a way to endure, and families are a way we go on.


Young me took in a lot of vocabulary from Uncle Roger. “That’s a trip!” Classic. “Not today, heh-heh!” The guy who stole cassettes out of cars at work at Magic Wand for Christmas gifts one year also had a sneaky side, but so many of his scam ideas were so bad. The problem was, I thought, people dumb enough to fall for that didn’t have money, but I have really revised myself on that proposition.


Money and brains don’t always have the relationship you’d assume, does it? Anj and I used to listen to his proposals on ways we could all get rich pretty quickly, and I still had no idea how much you can get away with, especially these days if you do it online. But we’d laugh and say, ‘with Roger, you can see the man moving behind the curtain.” But what he knew from experience was, people are a lot dumber than I think. What I know from experience now is, Uncle Roger kinda was right about that at the time.


He made sure I loved classic rock, played 96 Rock and Z-93 down at the gas station where he worked for Maw Maw and Paw Paw. He loved that whole album by Boston. I sat reading Iron Man comics I’d bought for a dime each, from 1973, ‘74, yellowing junk that inspired me to make bad drawings. I’d read and write and draw down at the gas station while John Bigham worked on tillers and Roger changed tires, or, nothing at all, just sitting there with two fans going. For lunch, we’d get ham and cheeses from Brenda’s Place, Mom and Dad’s short order joint down the street. Look around the world, and you see I had it really good.


I could even go play my crazy pretend behind the service station, where no one could see me, bringing to life what I hadn’t enough skill to draw, thinking carefully how to make my ripoffs of Marvel characters, original. I was a real loner until late in high school, but those were the years some of us shared out in Shannon, on Todd Road by the old Model school, where Mama and my aunt Linda attended about ten years and graduated.


The smell of cigarettes and velvet paintings and pro wrestling and hot dogs on white sandwich bread. It’s all this time for me. It was the beginning of the Atlanta clan migrating to Rome, Shannon, Summerville.



I don’t have a lot of money, especially not after last Thursday, heh, but I have made a lifetime of memories. I hope today I’ve brought a sense to some of you, that Home is a place you carry inside. Maybe you set it up in other places, but while you seem to leave it, it never leaves you.
That whole class of people who never leave their hometown? I don’t quite know why, but for some reason, that is not the Disharoon Way. Most of us decide to pick up and ramble elsewhere. How do you think Fred ended up in San Diego, California? And how did I meet him? Well, not the way you would figure, but that begins a story of another funeral. And this one is about Roger Disharoon. Not what he needs, for the Universe has seen to that.


This is about our need for him. But I hope you see, in God’s plan, however diabolical it sometimes seems, he served our need. He served God to make a heart that moved throughout the whole of Irene and Cecil’s family. He was probably the most universally-beloved of us all, by us all. He connected us all.
We’re like Roger, can’t sit still without biting our nails if we aren’t stimulated by where we are. We’ve never been interested in just fitting in with everyone else, even though we all try to make our own sanctuaries. If no one else comes, there’s always Jesus. But we all believe, we love, and deserve love, and we are people passionate about Life. You have to understand. If you have no passion for tomorrow, then the Disharoon inside you has already died.

Let me tell you something, and if you knew Roger back when, you know just what I mean. When he lived out in West Rome, I used to visit him often. He’d take me over to visit Obie sometimes, but usually we’d hang there at the house. I think one of the first times Angela ever came over with me, and we were engaged six weeks so it was a narrow window of time, Roger gave us his martial arts demonstration.


He didn’t have a workout partner most of the time, but he had perfected his system of fast, high kicks and chops. Roger whirled around that little bitty living room without touching a thing, swift like the wind, light as a feather. It was the most graceful thing I ever saw in a living room.

Roger Homer Disharoon. Not one time I saw you did you fail to tell me “I love you, lil C.” You were the most charming and charismatic person I had encountered in my sheltered existence, but you were so much more, too, the Baby Sitter for Life that went with your whole Teenager for Life motif.
Well, congratulations. The way you wanted me to always think of you, has come true. To me, this is who you’ll be.
Let me tell y’all, I woke up Friday too early and it was afternoon so good luck just shutting my eyes to rest up. I was finally feeling shitty about the sad story of Roger’s end and my career teaching kids from my home and anything, but his part really troubled me, thinking of his unhappiness. I drove back from the grocery store, unhappy with the world now that we’d all fished with and ate with and walked with and hugged and watched tv with Roger all we ever would.

And I didn’t want to cry, because that would mess up my head inside and be all snotty. Besides, he’s in golden lands, and free of pain, and the only sorrow is for those who believe they can no longer be with him.


But I talked to Angie about it a minute, and thought of this time he was troubled, sitting by me on the couch. I recalled putting my hand on his shoulder, to say: “It’s gonna be allright, man.” And as I told her and put out my hand, I had the vivid sensation of touching his troubled shoulder, as though he were indeed at my side. And she helped me realize, if yes, there he was, then if he is sad, it is because he wants to be remembered. He wants to be felt. He wants still to be a part of love never-ending.

So would you do that? Would you take his example of cheer and optimism with you, and feel him with you when you most think of his absence? He would never have wanted you to be so sad, you know. If God can give Roger anything he wants, right now, he only wants to be remembered. Remember, he did stand for something, even if he was forever in conflict between wisdom and foolishness. That is what makes the human race sometimes great. He’s forever part of your life and mine. God bless Roger Homer Disharoon, born the day after Christmas in 1960, died August 6th. What a very good job you did at spreading your spirit. It is with us always. -Little Cecil

When new ideas are hard: the Backfire Effect

First, here's The Oatmeal, a cartoon source you could totally support: It's worth your time, and nicely colored. Think of this: do you realize your brain puts together a house of cards, and if an idea would knock it down more than it would fit, the Amygdala will create a defensive reaction! It's why, when you hear something horrible about someone you respected, your mind screams "No way!" This is why, when you connect a practice- like say, mask-wearing during the pandemic- to someone's Cherished Beliefs, you get strong reactions. If I have to violate my core beliefs- as I see them - to believe this new thing, I reject it.

My own response over time has been to leap across the Void. My convictions as a person, and my action upon them, are life-tested. I have been trying to find new practices, habits, whatever fits my interest, because there are so many ways I think I can live and grow and even help more than I could before. I've had to challenge so many fundamental assumptions, I cannot hope to cover it here in timely fashion. But I know it's terrifying, if you're honest with yourself. Sometimes, two sides of opinions are based on half a world of distance in world experience. Maybe we never can know too much, but there's a biological basis- an ordeal- that means, many, many people will not add new information, regardless of the consequences, and we don't know what to do about it.

If you understand those sorts of obstructions lying out in the world, though, your peace can re-emerge, regardless, because you acknowledge the truest form of reality available to your senses. We may all be One beneath Identities, yet, educating adults about difficult topics is such a marshland on which to try to build, because we're biologically disposed, it seems, to take a few sources attached to a thing and make it Gospel if it suits us, but quite hesitant, if not revolted, when confronted with legitimate sources of information which leads to a result, whose acceptance is a bitter pill.

We're talking about this and related matters. I am curious about the path of my Cherished Values. I think some difficulty arose in the areas where I had never been introduced to further ideas, but my combination of those new frontiers and the values of my childhood make my unique adult identity, which is pretty decent at weighing new information ( climate change etc). In a way I consider the values I found via conviction ( Peter David wrote an essay that became my language on this) more My Own. But it is important to recognize your roots and try to be fair and honest about them.

I don't think I lived those values- I know, that's the Christian struggle - but I put so little effort into them back then. I could recite stories and verses and theories, but I needed to Live something. To do that, the ol Amygdala went through some terrifying times. But I got Me. Hey, I'll take it.

Survival Strategies: Taken With You (1st Text Story)

So, I found a fun way to write and share short stories. YouTube Gamers demoed some Text Stories- they'd read along and react. The quality of those didn't matter so much as the chance to see our first opening, to connect Integr8d Soul to game culture, too. Who will be our early programming partners? I'm very interested in this way of getting our characters and stories out to the world. It's part of a creative survival strategy. It's funny, but letting go of my old Marvel Comics Group friend- to death, last month- seems a part of my changing concentration. I feel like the earlier generations gave us some wonderful storytelling principles. Now it's time to put up or shut up. Like I taught my student Kevin, when we lost wi fi: I reappeared with a hot spot. "My strategy," I told him, "is to use this device. This is 'adapt.'" (He asked me the word for it- they have one, as well. "Mobile...wireless..." I stammered slowly. Then I recalled 'hot spot.') So, here, this story is our first simple new game. (If you were around for Ciara's Haunting in 2016, that was, for a time, our first computer game.) I got good feedback from a couple of friends You can pay to add pictures and videos. You can also change the typing aspect: 2x, 3 x speed, or instant typing for either side. Versatile format. I happened to want to play it as though these are two people texting in real time over the course of an hour.

If you like it, Thumb Me! Click Subscribe, too, if <3 Aliens. be chill, Cease ill

Royal Blood- Trouble's Coming- Mariah, Y&R (Camryn Grimes)

Do look at the GoFundMe for her sister, OK?
Enjoy. Music by Royal Blood, featuring Camryn Grimes, famous for her Emmy-winning turns as Mariah Copeland (and Cassie Newman) on The Young and The Restless. Here we see here in NCIS and Animal Kingdom, also.

Stanning Young and the Restless Star Camryn Grimes-Go

I got in the mood to set my photo reference for my favorite actress, Camryn Grimes, to music. I didn't need anything heavier than that, here between work times. I tried to download Tessa Violet, "I Like The Idea Of You"- I will click through and buy a copy, to save for when we 'unbox' this new video editing suite. Maybe "Be Sweet"- Japanese Breakfast has remade her single for a Sims 4 extension, Cottage Life. Whoa! Meanwhile, here's what I could do with the suite I had handy. After this weekend, I hope to start a whole new level of- wow, I just hope everything going on in my life will just continue on. But I am saddened for the star of our music video. Would you take a moment to read about her family?
Thanks! You ever find this, Camryn, I hope you like your depiction. Love Lue

Focus on Some Fun

The thing about depression is, seems on the surface like, at its core, Depression is identified with Complaining (like a mo fo). There is one other aspect of the set-up for that problem. You might feel perfectly inspired and confident for your next pursuit.
Then, you might awaken and find yourself unable to think clearly enough to operate a ham and cheese sandwich! The feelings as one gets through that lack of clarity and emotional detritus might delay or even derail the objective you’ve begun. Then, you have the fallout from not keep any continuity, when you desired to develop your prospect, further. If you only have easily achievable objectives for animal comfort, you might be fine- until you confront any actual aspirations. Aspirations can be the double-edged sword of Desires. Any time you start to feel short of energy and sad, you might find you are actually trying to achieve something that is Futile. The trick is, to disengage from this feeling when another approach might take you where you are going.

Before you can handle any of that, however, you should focus on some Fun. Utilize any happiness you have to assure that your immediate responsibilities are in order. Let Fun heal your disposition. Even if you feel like you’re sitting above a cold ditch of cloudy water, the time you keep your focus on something to enjoy builds your personal reserves.
Sometimes, the goal we've set is based in illusion- it just isn't going to turn out well. It's wise to know when the primary intention you hold is not where you're meant to go- and not to confuse that with turning back off your path when you did have a correct primary intention. Even you do get frustrated with going in what is, in fact, the right direction, again, it just might be a matter of methods. But what you'll need is to fundamentally enjoy the process, and accepting that hey, you will have to try different strategies. Meanwhile, be patient with yourself. Maybe some people are geared towards a high from creating misery for others, but basically speaking, there is probably a version of what makes you happy that will also really harm no one. Allow many many things, then, to make you happy.

Letting go of thoughts, period, is a very fruitful self-discipline to build, as you will be rewarded with strength in the quietude. You don’t need to be dead to enjoy something akin to the peace of the grave, so don’t be afraid to let your agendas clear, and come back to the present moment on the back of a thought of contentment.
Even if it’s a long period of repair, think of it as building the foundation, first for contentment. Your inner self must be a sanctuary, or you will seek all manner of distractions to deal with how crowded things are inside your life events and mind.

Spiritual Warrior, Ltd.

“Faded Einstein,” (a short story I worked on in February, finally, sort of had an ending tonight, when I put the t-shirt back on- I have a sky blue t-shirt we ordered online, with a barely-recognizable star-dust-based Albert Einstein- and exercised, even danced, in the living room. I put on Lando Burch’s “Summerfruit” and cut loose!

Things are freeing themselves from hibernation, even as the mid-April snows sequester us. But I had delight in taking the remote app photos, even if the Canon’s battery was quickly spent. I’d not checked if it was ‘bettery’ but I have all the beauty I can seek to capture, really, just dorking around my apartment complex. Nice to know things are safe here at Ashley- at Park Mesa, I said to the young man who said: “Good evening.” He recognized my hoodie: “Spider-Man!” Glad to see that smile. So “Oh! Yeah.” As though I’d been caught pretending to be Spider-Man, and in a way, am I not just middle-aged Spider-Man, standing there taking a selfie? Glad no one came up during that, though my pose was standard Silver Age cornerbox. I remembered being exhilarated, enchanted by the lights outside on the snow. I caught just a few really beautiful pictures while experimenting further with my phone camera. The Canon’s superior. But, I’d yet to explore the b & w setting, though my figure vanished in the darkness. Fun, to set up the tripod on the apartment outside stairwell. I took it over to the snowy table, which showed a depth of maybe, four, five inches? That’s when I discovered the battery, dead. I shot a greyscale picture that made our apartment building look like a mock crime setting in a documentary, or perhaps, the site of a haunting. I made do with the phone, though catching in a frame the essence of the great feeling I see when I look upon our present home- well, a photo conveys great beauty, sometimes, and exposes some of its essence, even translates it. I hope I do not feel down too often looking upon this place: I think, keeping my heart rate up, crunches, push-ups, I can work through the soreness, but the mood-lifting! See, that’s what I had to realize in “Einstein”

I was unhappy about the degree of loneliness and minimal opportunity I had, that made me sad enough to admit it, to the technically non-family member friend to stop by just to visit, my spiritual fellow traveler, Sabrina Cooper. I wanted the truth to be something better than that, but maybe I was not fully integrated to the Truth at that point, myself, or was at least aggrieved of the divisions that kept me apart from friends and family regardless of politics. That sorrow- the feeling I had , about lack of day-to-day personal contact with friends, most of my years living again in my hometown- was accruing reasons that may or may not have been fair. The feeling beneath was getting worse, because I needed to keep my mind sharp. The online music performances did, at least, provide something of note. The stories? Great! I hope there’s more of ‘em coming post-haste. But “Einstein” ends with me taking responsibility to change how my life’s going, how I’m feeling in my body, how incredibly fortunate I am to have even an average body. Yet some people have shown greater character while differently abled, by doing what I must do: make the most of what I’ve got. (And try not to injure any joints.) So, the judgment didn’t matter. The better life I was not having, I meant to unlock every day, but I thought I was straining in part from lack of further social contact. There has been an openness here already which I should continue to explore in passing. The weed has always, dear Lord, been helpful with generally productive, normal Me, but there’s an exciting variety and inspirational impression this Boulder kindly conveys. I recognized everything rightly when I was 21: this was the place, she was the woman to bring here. So one opportunity slips away, the other remains, and now, we have them both. I didn’t realize the plan I’d blown by not attempting to come back here, sooner. I got in trouble being afraid I couldn’t manage a way to be myself in society. I took the gracefully-given scholarship advantage, only to really get willingly into too much debt. The job worth getting the degree was still painfully years away, and in managing, I’d embrace my art to a heart-breakingly sincere degree, but always become compromised in mounting the evidence my skills called for a big break. Meanwhile, there’s much more suffering in the world by some others, and I’ve only made it even with them by the swing of my moods and fortunes, for it’s been a life with some good vantage points earned, taken, discovered. But when we’re ready to impose a new narrative onto Anywhere- a 2nd edition with a new ending- we don’t go through the years in lengthy detail. We don’t crawl along at the same passage of time through the intervening years, making a very long novel. Yet, we did find ways to make things romantic and inspiring, along the way. The willingness to be in Boulder, the earnest effort to try, after at least driving here had seemed once so simple, and just- try for a job, they’re everywhere in 1995 boulder. My fear that took us back there like her Dad’s before, changed the trajectory of our lives, which are easy to see being much better if we’d stuck it out in Boulder. I didn’t know how to take care of her, and I felt too bad and had stayed out my welcome, I felt, in Denver, having only went to boulder once, and then, too late. A serious effort to get a job there- here- and we would’ve come up here to hang on. Damn, we could’ve made it. But I didn’t realize how good my plan was. And now I’m consigned to come back 26 years older, the time in my life when I should’ve flourished into a career, passed. Now the challenge is to make a new one. I paid a great price for my fear along the way- not going out in San Diego anymore, not staying out there and coming back to Georgia. We have lost enough to my cowardice and nerves. I want to radiate beauty, strength, understanding, and kindness. I still have the dream. That is so important! But the time in my life when it was acceptable for me to become anything, I admit, sometimes seems gone. I threw away so many opportunities, did not know how to get around, had some poverty-based limitation. I might consider it insane to keep trying. If I feel self-loathing, it might be because I denied myself becoming what I envisioned, before. I still believe it will never happen for me. And in those non-fun moments, to say the least, I am so sad, disappointed in myself. I must forgive myself for the 26 years I threw away, how I threw away the dreams of that young man because I didn’t know what I was doing.
Nothing quite makes amends. It’s all been a bunch of unrealized hopes, except for my love with Angela. I can’t expect her to really join me- and she might be too old and settled, too, which seems to be my own problem, why I am still so lazy here, and so, not use to getting up and doing those things I say I want to do, why I give in to denying myself and continuing my torment- until I stop menacing the proceedings. Plus we’re honestly at a point where I am the sole one working on the music, for example, so, just get it ready and she’ll be ready to try to sing, hopefully, by summer. Two months. Not that long to wait.
It’s that prejudice I share that a 47 year old man trying to be a musical performer, after no professional success whatsoever, is embarrassing. I am tempted to give in and say, yeah, that’s right. But, if I can get rid of the physical evidence of sloth- if I can remove the unhealthiness- then, I can see in me, just anyone, like anyone else, and not someone over the hill. I thought 47 was over the hill when I was a kid. I am actually playing and exploring the guitar better, and I need to buckle down on recording it in some form. I have drawing tablets to use, too. I am sometimes too tired and old and sick to really care about things anymore: I am on my way towards death and only want not to be a burden. I can layer it over all I want with exuberance, happiness, energy, but I make contact with my self-consciousness every day. I could still have my songs to live in, and save myself the embarrassment of finding out, no one really wants me to be the beautiful angel.
I am too fat, old, decadent, white, old-fashioned. That’s my limited spiritual warrior. I want to save myself the horrors of feeling rejected. But I lay around grumpy and disappointed, then. But that’s why he’s limited. He’s not a vivacious redhead, and he can’t understand why one would want to mess with him outside of a porn plot. He’s just a vain, dirty old man, with a good side that brightens up, leaves all that aside, and teaches children, and is sweet to his wife. An embarrassing denial of Death. So, is that the worst I have to offer myself? Probably! I am too lazy in my limited spiritual warrior, tired from doing nothing too much. Content to lie around dreaming the best and the worst, no longer sharpening the intellect, just taking in more information at the same level, seeking the pleasures of laughter and some emotional release from the feeling that: I’m just too tired. And so sometimes, I wish I could get my mind to stop, for the fog to pass, and it seems a bit like I’d just like to die, and start over with life ahead of me, and the failures of potential ended. Never mind how the potential for that sort of life remains limited around the world, nor that the daydream of its fame or even of its activity is enough to content a man as lazy as I. As full of expectations as I. As entitled, as privileged, as I. No wonder she wants to put on Laurenzside and just listen to a woman be funny, creative, and uninhibited. It’s great when I am like that, too, though it’d be ridiculous to be ‘on’ ALL the time, and unbalanced. So full of Anglo-Saxon snobbery about being Right about things that don’t amount to pragmatic help, only lording over some communications style information, meant to be used by rulers to put others in their places. I see in myself some things that do not deserve me feeling sorry for myself. My shadowside desires, which are only shadow because I’ve done so little to fulfill them. Easier to lie around on my bed, than do anything to hurt Angela, or fail.
But that’s why she warns me, the Anger is the part I do not need. It’s one thing to feel injustice on a social level, or to see others done harshly. But the baby-like me, me, me, always down about some injustice done to me in a world I’ve heard is not fair, anyway. If there’s something I don’t need, right? I have to understand the Limited Spiritual Warrior, who is too weary of doing what I can until I again become too scared or am rejected. Weariness and entitlement, together, make the sort of agedness I wish to acknowledge in the form of the Limited Spiritual Warrior. Now, I want to take that fearful self and set him down…it’s good to try to work out what might be the most perfect experiences and sensations people will appreciate in my songs or stories or speech, but it’s morally weak to fear invalidation and to contort myself as to be somewhere I’m not wanted or appreciated There’s the paradox: How can you be afraid what people think, and yet be arrogant and entitled?

And what is it people see in me, where they see me Aspire and believe I should? They see an unlimited spiritual warrior. They see a talented communicator with pleasant values and just words. I am petty, injust, racist, chauvinist, classicist, and a dupe of the system according material things, supposedly always on merit. I was surprised to see that in myself, and it seemed to get worse from living in Rome! But if I write about people with those traits, it will either make them stronger in me for lack of balance and empathy and understanding, or expose them to myself, or even help me, help others understand better the beast in others which frustrates them so. I think this morning, I’ve outlined what thoughts and impressions I have, in my self-centered world made that much worse by Covid isolation, perhaps, that part of me small enough to betray others over my jealousy for control of them, the way I lie around fantasizing about the other person as a compliant part of my life that I imagine seeing, but rarely hearing. It could be, the aspirational self I’ve always wanted to project was too idealized, and would require adherence to some kind of spiritual system to guide me away from the quixotic dreams and aspirations. I strove to told the truth, but was it, and that, by itself, a lie, that would be exposed up close and personal? I think I have a pretty good grasp of what I’m doing, while trying to figure out if I have it in me to make music that’s popular, fiction others want to read, and so on. Yet, the love of the activity, without concern for all those after-effects, nor how it will make me more relevant and help me fill the hole I’ve continued to carry that makes the mechanism work, is the humbling truth I seek. Turning outside to others isn’t the way to live, energetically I make and generate what I need. It was weak of me to admit I was seeing it like I could’ve been so much more if I had some active support and companionship from others. It got so bad I let David live with us, lying to us from the start. But I had to set that weakness aside. And possibly, figure out how to keep myself open and growing, because I had a strong hunch I’d be socializing in Boulder.

If I admit how much power those things have had over me- how much I’ve let my self be ruled by the limited spiritual warrior- then the creative stasis will break. It’s like asking Christ to come back into my heart, because I need a higher spiritual presence to deal with the self I’ve encountered. And what many people feel is a loathing reaction to the media that is telling them they may not be all-wonderful, too, and so they really hate that crowd, see them as re-programmers. They do not want to join in on the sort of self-loathing they perceive in white liberals. They would rather loath them in passing. Trump making fun of those people allowed them to give him a pass no matter who he was said to have upset. So, I really do seek visions of the future, and while as Angela said, that same faction wants unbridled hedonism without caring, I look forward to a bit of hedonism, as well, but also, I hope there’s beautiful energy and not only drunkenness and lust. There is still part of me that still wants to be proven meritous as a mate, and by extension, as a sex-partner. Is that still part of my personal self worth? Is that some of the gloominess, that I wanted to enjoy the sensual attention of more women? Like I wanted them for anything else? I am glad there is a part of me that is visionary, filled with ideas (such as poking under this gloom for motivations behind my ‘tiredness’ and impatience), and kind, and fair, and cool, and able to speak justly with the Marc Kane. There’s a limited spiritual warrior because that’s what it is, an embodiment of the lazy part of me that wants to avoid challenges but also wants to whine about not succeeding or being properly motivated The question is, how honestly healthy is your motivation in each thing? You work that out, and you’ve done the work of a therapist. The opportunities to surround myself with peaceful, creative, wise and playful people are coming. There was a time when I grew to enjoy my time in my own company. It was because I found a way to be less selfish in my thinking, and it’s all there in my book. Now, I can only cruelly conjecture I would’ve hung on here to play with others and become a successful songwriter/ performer and healthy individual living here. It is the scarcity of opportunities to avail myself of other experiences that should nudge me to open my mind here at home, as I have with the songs (so filled with lust and an earnest desire to preen for acceptance), as I can with my writing, if I will say, “I’m no longer going to live in fear. I’m going to spend the time looking for opportunity and learning and honing my craft, and continue to look for ways to be kind, but also, not to worry myself over much about how to distract myself in the name of either nobility nor arrested development. The grocery card this month, and the Refugees next month. I needn’t feel I am scum and hate myself in order to do good things and be helpful. It is true, my unpredictable schedule has been one excuse for not offering myself for distance learning help these past couple of months, but I kept feeling that weariness. I think I have found the limited attitudes and ideas that I both reject and indulge and therefore, should depict, and circumscribed them. I can spend more time learning, if I get in the regular habit of trying to learn a bit more. That’s why I’m glad I finally messed with the cameras a bit.. Can the Nanoloop pedal be far behind? I keep believing in myself, despite the presence of those lower, baser self tendencies. Hearing about the America First Caucus paper did tell me how my region helped shape my attitude, and I thought what many a smart person from there might have thought. I am enamored of figuring out how to form a more or less complete rejection of the self I have worked to build, because that’s what happened with Ronald and many many people. Identifying the conflict outside in society as the conflict existing inside me- from the fed-up shooter to the cynical Trumpite versus the most selfless and talented person I can be- will make my writing great, not just those magnificent statements I use to strive for. I used to sit down to write, and find in my ability to regenerate self-confidence, forever found in my writing, the words I needed within just a few sentences. It was as though I didn’t want to think about why I’d have those other attitudes, just, leave’em behind. But dealing with those fragments will help me as a unified whole. I turned off a lot of FB commentators because in a way, I could easily just agree with them. It is part of my laziness and entitledness. So, if I can accept that is part of me, despite all the wisdom I display, and the life-shining talent of amusing myself, at any rate0 that might be all my powers are good for-

There’s a chance the exercise, the meditation, the quiet stillness that does not moan of sad things nor push me to try to compensate for what never happened from my meager efforts and understanding- Will heal me. But I realize it’s nothing to take for granted. I simply can’t be sad over not being perfect, of being so limited. But that is not all of who I am, either. Perhaps, with those things settled, and available to tap for understanding, I can write again, as I have in these journals, with great excitement and anticipation. Maybe that is all I want, a good daydream to love, and a bare minimal of help to lend, while I pick apart some of Angela’s peace whenever I need more energy I was too lazy to self-generate.

But if I can look upon my tendencies to do all this, and forgive myself, while opening myself to change, rather than trying to keep things here at the beck-and-call of my angrily-influenced daydreaming and occasional, but insufficient, activity, then, out of that same mess, the best person I could be emerges, rather than a defense I am presenting lawyerly, but without genuine conviction of its truth (wow, I can be harsh in my disdainfulness!), that what I settled for deserves to be treated better. But if I really want to treat myself better, I have not been here primarily as an actvisit, but mostly as a teacher, a fucker, a budding hiker and tennis player, and any of a number of things I am too lazy to learn much about, as I want to see how I can do from my natural ability to understand and manipulate. Oh, and an Artist, but one daydreaming of being an artist. There is a fine line, because an Artist must also have a time and place for their dream. Here’s a good law: And it harm none, do as thou will. And that’s what I need to do.