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A Wander Luster Dwells in the 100 Acre Woods and finds the Yin and the Yang a bit too Difficult to Balance
Opening my laptop, I go to a blank new electronic page and tell myself what on earth am I possibly gonna write? Or think about what to write about that hasn’t already been written about? There’s nothing new I can type or hype; then I realize I couldn’t even think about writing about things already written about. The whole thing’s a nightmare and the news on TV about Iraq doesn’t help either, rather reinforcing my writing blocks and other assorted and distorted depressions. What’s the point in writing, people are dying and I have a musing issue? What’s all the freaking fuss I wonder, as I pause to catch something I can think about...? Anyhow better save the gem I just wrote, can’t forget proverbs like the one about a thick line between genius and insanity. Or was that a thin line? Now I’m getting a vanity attack here!
Another day and another glorious morning unfolds itself as I am dragged out of my slumberous bed of soft pillows laden with fantastic fantasies of money, name, fame and master of my own destiny and its games. Being awakened by my three year old son is a somber earthly reminder of where I lay and what I’ve become. He just wants me to unfreeze the frozen scene on the telly; it’s a scene from one of ‘Winnie the Pooh’s’ many adventures in the “Hundred Acre Woods”. There’s Pooh stuck with his head in Rabbit’s hole, his furry butt sticking out. These DVDs are cool but in the hands of a toddler, not very durable, scratchy at best. VHS, I wonder where they’re and turn into a mellow fellow, early morning disorientation, nostalgia and melancholy all canopying me.
These cartoons cute stuff for the kids and grown ups who don’t wanna grow up, I think, and find myself more or less in such a classic Pooh dilemma; it doesn’t really qualify as a dilemma as much as a non-dilemma-dilemma, if you gather your wits about and know what I mean. Just as Pooh, here I am, my head stuck down a hole in the dark underground, like a scarecrow, my shy shrunken butt sticking out with its horrendous display for the world to behold and never uphold. Didn’t really matter, long as my head was down below, I would not give a kola-nut about what happens to my butt, and I don’t mean Pooh’s bassy poker buddy ‘Donkey’. Well, mostly, nothing happens, but as evidenced by a lifetime of experiences reaffirming now and again the wrongly misconceived notions of an exclusively patented suffering and mistreatment meted out on me by a so called ‘external force’.
There goes my conspitorial mind spinning webs where there’s none! Mostly the world is as it is, at peace with itself and its timeless rhythmic order of nature, and of the natural procession of its cycles. Unless a natural calamity should strike to push on the necessary buttons of evolutionary processes and pop off a few wheels in the middle of a spin, like the Tsunamis, Hurricanes and Quakes, all’s well. This sounds like I’ve been hearing too much of Mr. Owl’s observations. The sun never failing to light up the days, have a heart, this solar dude’s been one disciplined chap, been rising earlier than anyone ever has and for the passage of time that he’s done so! That’s evidence enough of his faith and loyalty, not to underscore efficient job execution, for the preservation and continuum of the order of things. The early rising sun’s been a shower of enlightening ray through millennia and millennia, keeping the earth warm and free, devoid of harm and brimming with life. Before the rooster became a rooster crowing in glory and tribute at the sun’s dawning, and long before “We” became “Us”, the solar dude was there; before the world separated into continents and countries, he was providing light and life. If the universe began with a bang, he was right there shining on the eternal light of life.
With a thankful sigh to Winnie the Pooh and my son the early raider, I sit on a tropical verandah appreciating the sunshine with a lot of love, humility, gratitude and respect, with a bit of apology thrown in for being a complete nocturnal the last ten and a five, that makes fifteen I think, or a decade and a half as they say, of apologies, regret and remorse for being a solar phobic son of a moon! Years and years of avoiding the glorious sunlight have had their radiating non-radiation effects, and I hope now to redeem some of the warmth I missed without sounding like a hot potato to my friend in those sunless years, the mellow moon and her own brand of moon lightening crazy wisdom. Being a lunatic or a loony is probably the closest you’ll ever get to understanding the sun and his sonnies. Opposites do attract, like poles repel and unlike poles embrace, my rudimentary high school basic physics and chemistry were right. Newton was a neurotic yet understood the gravity and calmness of things.
All the wisdom of the world was born right in the middle of nowhere, somewhere betwixt the stone and the moss, the rock and wherever the Rolling Stones concerted. Buddha too paved and taught the walk of the middle path albeit finding the left too much of a leftover and the right too righteous. Thus he took neither, discovering and sowing seeds of spontaneous lotus blooms and cushions of awakened flowers on the path he unearthed and walked so compassionately.
I reckon you’d wanna know why? Or maybe you don’t, either way; I’m telling you because I got nothing else to write about! Its lengthy, so keep the distractions distracted; I avoided sunlight because it represented light, visibility, vibrancy, healthy breakfasts, fresh breezes, joggers, and the life that follows such a course; going to work, which meant having a job, which meant living an okay conventional life, day to day, ending the day, being back home, feeling the satisfaction of a day gone by, with a healthy appetizer for suppers, evening strolls in dusky breezes and carefree cafes: Meaningful domesticity dissolving into slumbers of good karmas as the sun finally sets and our man the sonny’s long gone slumbering as his sister the moon cometh and bringth forth her own unique brand of lunatic wisdom and it’s Floyds of followers.
What’s that line? Early to rise, early to bed makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise! That was a line by a sonny, no doubts there! So’s the one about eating habits; eat, your breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper. Very neat and healthy indeed! Reverse all of the above and you get the mercurial mystical loony!
That sonny method was hard for me to follow, no easy walk in the woods for a loony on a diet of prescription drugs, late night binges and talk show hosts and hallucinated ghosts; waking up in strange environs with alien bedfellows and queer samsaric hangovers.
When fully immersed into a routine such as that for long as I’ve been, like a lifetime or so, you’d now have an idea why I feared, loathed, avoided and actually even pitied the sun worshiping suckers! Now I realize (and confess?) I envied them for being what I wasn’t; a sonny! Not for the bad tans, but to give myself and my tribe the impression that our loony ways were just as good, if not cooler or superior. We loaded the dice and turned the tables. Reversing our envy-ness into their pitiful-ness; yet what was obvious couldn’t be hidden long, not even in the private darkness of the night. We realized our fears were the fears of the wayward, the cries of a lost bleating sheep, the outsider wanting in, the trapped ones with allusions of freedom and liberation.
We loathed not their boring conventional life but that we had none; avoided not their proximity but our inability to be just as normal, boring and as conventional as they were. Don’t get me wrong though, I enjoyed whatever loony times I have had, and am not about to become a whistleblower or some dirt rat snitch. I wouldn’t do that to the loonies, out of some sheer mutual comradeship and lunatic decency. That’s one of the gifts a loony has and a sonny desires and envies, or feels that way but cannot accept it, or doesn’t want to. The loony’s gentle gift of sensitivity hidden within that air of carefree gravity, a reminder of what once the sonny used to be. The sonny’s envy and denial’s not due to lack of anything, rather it’s the lives they now live; seemingly full and filled to the brim with everything.
Life’s a bitch, but being a lunar fan and a moon man has its own insights, humor, laughter, pain, suffering, deliverance and incredibly good music too. Just listen to the ‘Dark side of the Moon’, even the sonnies do, perhaps they realize that, and that’s where the confrontations began. Did they do well never treading the loony path? Did they make a mistake jumping the ship of lunatic fools to go aboard the solar cruise?
The loony’s lifestyle in a nutshell; we get up when you don’t. Or when you go put out the lights or don’t put out the lights and go to or pretend to go to sleep. I’ll not numerate or spot these remarks, not because I can’t, because this here's no master’s thesis or some yak shit academic research. That’s a classic Sunman symptom, and now lemme continue without being distracted, ahem! Where was I? Okay, the lifestyle gulf between what I have now baptized the ‘Sunman and the Moonman’, or the so called ‘Sonnies and Loonies’.
Here’s more of the gaps; when you do get up you know where you are, what you ought to do and go about doing it, all refreshed and revived I might add, endure through yet another day of routinized agenda; a note of reminder; the sonnies gonna get the sunny pictures, no matter how deranged some sunmen might be, or how many lunatic nights they’ve had, just as the loonies are gonna come out as the Donnie Darkos, no matter how many solar impulses they’ve gorged. This is a classic conventional stereo type sterilization of the two tribes. My apologies and regrets for being such a crass ass. To carry on, the sonny has a relatively good breakfast, is a good son, brother, father, husband, friend and etc; generally married, is a good parent, and bidding goodbyes to his loved ones, gets in a car he saved, bought and now proudly and deservedly owns. He drives off to work, that’s right; he’s employed and happens to be a socially productive citizen. This is no sarcasm, it’s a begrudging admiration, and I’m sure the loony there will agree.
In a nut, I already used that, okay, here’s another coinage; in a crab-shell, sonnies are the big, bold and beautiful sunflowers reminding the world of the rewards of positiveness, patience, optimism, strength, determination, discipline and commitment. My god! That sounds incredible, I can’t believe I am polishing those golden sunny leathers so feverishly I am gonna need a cold shower to come down be myself again. That’s a loony in case of a reminder. Now there’s the other balance, and there they come, the loonies. First figuring out how they got into bed, what happened before they hit the sacks, wondering who’re all these strangers lying around with their shoes and clothes on? And puzzling over issues such as whose freakin' bed and house it is? Time to break the fast, breakfast times time for some hashed and mashed dinner, a bit of jog to the commune, some water splashed around, dried with whatever’s dry and, well dry, and figure out what’s gonna be lunatic this early night of the owls. Delving on subjects such as life and career plans a bit too spaced out, so lets just get by tonight's just fine. That’s the loony line.
I can write no more, its getting to me, maybe it’s the friggin’ sun and the early morning blues, a sip of some caffeine, a lungful of nicotine exhausts, and I give you my word, sorry, I’ll give you those infamous words outta Mr. Terminator that made Ahnold Mr.Governator of Kalifoornia. I’LL BE BACK! He’s gotta be a sonny, just as I’ve a feeling Roger Water’s a deadbeat loony, so was Jerry Garcia, god bless his soul! Till the next musing, adios!
West Africa 2004