Reset (to Space)

The clocks have been changed over but my body has yet to follow.  I have lists and goals and timelines but my mind hasn’t made the switch.   There are problems to be solved, issues to be sorted and a life to be recreated.  Seeking answers from the dream state has proven fruitless but only the bed has magnetic pull.  In seeking to be drawn through life rather than pushed, long meetings with agenda-less high-thread count sheets are the only thing that have appeal.

Creating a new schedule for building a new personal universe requires communing with those who have gone on the mission where no pedestrian mind has gone before. It requires inspiration beyond the tedium of duty and necessity. It needs robes of scarlet and gold. It has a language that befuddles search engines and televangelists alike. It sounds like be-bop raining down from the stars and up from the drainpipes. It needs reward of action NOW, before the checklist is completed. It requires the coaching of another traveler who didn’t differentiate, he created and he went. This coffee cup is my ticket to split. My ear will be my ride. I don’t need a passport.  Put your foot on the platform and unfasten that safety belt. 

 

Attainable Goals: No Puking and No Falling Down

My preferred location for boot camp is the Nordstrom shoe department in January. Since I have more fat cells than cash these days, I’m somewhat more likely to be at the one at my gym.  Somewhat is the operative term because consistency is not a hobgoblin of my small mind. Rather it is an elusive state that bothers my mind not at all, but plays havoc with the rest of me. How easily small gains in strength and wind unravel when left untended for a couple of weeks and how hard it is the climb out of mire of sloth and face the music yet again. Fortunately,  it is the type of music that is loud enough to cover most of my moans so as not to disturb the uber fit around me who don’t become winded and panicky during the warm-up.

“Take it at your own pace.” advises Christie or Kristi or Chrissie, as if I had a choice.  Nonetheless it’s comforting to be publicly allowed to shamble along and I think that some of them really mean it. They’re the ones who offer modifications for those of us trying to avoid arthroscopic surgery or just passing out. The others just say it because they have to as required by Aerobic Instructor Bylaws: Section 4- Care and Training of Class Members Unfit to Wear Bike Shorts in Public. Whatever.  My goal is not to not trip over my laces or vomit up the banana I just ate 30 minutes before coming to class.  If I ever work my way back into single digit pants, I will let you know.

Time Travel – Deja Two

I am re-posting my Feb 23rd blog entry that never made it to my beloved subscribers due to technical difficulties beyond my control. I apologize for the delay and the duplication and beg your gracious pardon as we deal with these irregularities. The Suburbohemian

Walking through Home Depot and hearing the Jefferson Starship played over the intercom would normally strike me as just sad, but when it happened to me last week, another sentiment took hold. Piped-in tunes usually sound worse under bad lighting, but before I could go down that trail, , I was overwhelmed by the scent of patchouli. It was full bore hippie patchouli mind you, and that scent, along with Marty Balin, launched me back into the past so far and so fast I got some sort of metaphysical whiplash. A quick glance at passersby didn’t reveal a single Jerry Garcia wannabe in tie-dye, only the most pedestrian of outfits that seem to be a requirement for shopping at the Great Store of Home Despair. The fragrant culprit could have been any number of anonymous types bundled up in the clothing of purpose and functionality. Unlike the Wal-Mart crowd, I never see pictures of any one at Home Depot in neon spandex with a parrot on their shoulder or thongs being worn outside pants. This disappoints me, but not enough for me to visit Wal-Mart at 2 am to see who’s bringin’ the crazy. (However if someone reading this blog wants to have a couple of Piňa Coladas with me and then launch an expedition, I’m game; but we need a designated wrangler to insure our safety. Jo Ann, I’m talking to you, but not for the wrangler part.)

But back to the subject at hand; this sort of random experience is kinda jarring in the best possible way. I mean, I expect to be teleported back to my days of youthful slenderness when we go see “Naked Lunch” ,the Steely Dan tribute band, at Lee Harvey’s (and what fun it is) but being jolted back to 1973 while shopping for those Al Gore approved light bulbs is surreal. And I love surreal. Just eat it up with a spoon. And why not? It makes shopping at Big Box Stores more palatable.

I’ve decided to keep track of when these random expeditions occur, sort of a travel diary for the accidental tourist. Whoever said that if you remember the 60’s (or 70’s) then you didn’t live through them, was a sad soul with no imagination and is probably stricken with a strictly linear thought process. There ought to be a charitable foundation for that, with special ribbons and a fun run. As for me, if Keith Richards can remember in gory detail his life and times, you can be damn sure I will. And now for some Fleetwood Mac; go hypnotize yourself.

 

This is Only a Test.

We techno geeks have taken over this blog to try and bend it to our will. Do not attempt to adjust your computer. We are controlling transmission. If we wish to make it louder, we will bring up the volume. If we wish to make it softer, we will tune it to a whisper. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We can roll the image; make it flutter. We can change the focus to a soft blur or sharpen it to crystal clarity.

Ultimately you will unlock this screen with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension – a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You’re moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You’ve just crossed over into the Suburbohemian Blog.

Come to where the flavor is.

The Gods of Technology

It would appear that emails announcing new blog posts are not going out from Word Press.  To that affect, a Team o’ Experts has made some adjustments and that is hopefully fixed.   This little post is to let you know that a previous post was released called “Time Travel” and you may read it at your leisure.  It is also an act of appeasement to the Gods of Technology who seem to like to humble The Suburbohemian before the Universe before working their magic.   If you are getting two emails from Word Press about the posting, we beg your pardon as we work out these unseemly difficulties.

Namaste,

The Suburbohemian