The NEXT Method

One of the first courses I taught in university was “Theories of Learning.” The most common question among students whenever I taught this course, was “how can I learn better.” This question was not confined to the course material; the discussion showed that this was a general life question. So, I made a point of teaching to this question. The key was always to increase the degree of active learning. Many such strategies were easy to generalize from the learning theory the students were learning, and the students became more adept at becoming active learners not just in class, but in other ways reported by them.

One of my favorite ways of active learning I taught was what I called the Next Method. The basic idea is simple, but the range of application is unlimited. Suppose I give you the first sentence from an introduction I wrote on science and psychology for a book entitled Contemporary Readings in Psychology, edited by John Foley, Russell Lockhart, and David Messick, and published by Harper & Row, in 1970. This was a “reader” to accompany introductory psychology texts and the articles selected were ones on the cutting edge of the field at the time and were not yet incorporated into current psychology texts. For the three editors, it was our first book publication.

The first sentence I wrote was this:

Most introductory textbooks do not give much information

about what is happening at the frontiers of the field.

Now imagine you are the student and instead of just reading on, I ask you to write the next sentence. Students invariably balk at this assignment, claiming that how could they know what to write if this is something they are supposed to be learning? Fair enough. So, then I begin to raise questions. Did you understand that first sentence? Everyone says “yes.” Does the sentence seem beyond your capacity? Everyone says “no.” Can you imagine yourself writing a “next” sentence? Here the responses become uncertain. “How is this learning?” one student might ask. “I would be writing what I already know.” “Yes,” I answer and tell them about tacit knowledge, the knowledge they already have but likely do not know they have. And then I talk about how they can now compare their own second sentence with the author’s second sentence. What is the same or similar? What is different or unexpected? Do they actually learn something? What? At this point, the whole process becomes engaging in a way that is surprising in many ways.

I have used this method with analytic candidates in relation to dreams and dream work as well as in understanding texts. Imagine, for example, hearing the first sentence of a dream and being asked to supply the next. Or consider some book or essay of Jung’s and follow this procedure. Or with a novel you are reading. Or a poem. I have used this method in many ways and continue to do so even now. It is a powerful and rewarding method and I encourage you to give it a try. And, I find it endlessly entertaining!

Let’s start with an old quote (do quotes grow old? Do they suffer and die?) from a wise old owl (do owls grow old? How about grow wise? Or are they born that way?) Already I feel some slippage… Here ’s the quote:

this interpenetration of psyche and world verges on the very definition of madness: the incapacity to distinguish and keep separate inner and outer reality… how could we have any rational discourse if we start to break the [grammatical] rules?

Or ]grammatical[ rules?

Scene 7 gives us a clear answer: we can’t have any rational discourse if we break those rules! So what kind of narrative can Scene 7 be? A clue lies in the quote. Inner and outer reality begin to lose their separateness. It may still be possible to distinguish inner from outer. After all, the narrative names the characters and they talk among themselves in such a way that we can tell who is inner and who is outer, at least to some degree, sort of, well, maybe, and maybe not. Even the distinction begins to blur when we learn of the entanglements taking place. So how is such a breakdown between inner and outer—the very definition of madness—to be navigated? First of all this breakdown is a breakdown of the real, which up till now has utterly depended of the inner/outer separation. How does this breakdown of the real manifest? Well one compelling example lies in the growing tendency to collapse speech with concrete action. Posting “hate speech” is now the same as concretely engaging in a terrorist act, for example.

How to navigate the surging flood as the barrier between inner and outer collapses? Scene 7 shows that it’s no good hanging on to this or that orange crate, as Leonard Cohen warns us, in the hope of certainty or fixity. You have to go with the flow of words. I think maybe we have to regard the flow as somehow the new reality—the point of the breakdown of the old reality. Be a kayak perhaps. Categories are bursting their banks and cannot hold reality-as-flow any more.

I used to surf a lot as a young man. We all surf the net now. Perhaps these activities are a kind of preparation for what is to come!

WARNING!  WARNING!  WARNING!  WARNING!  WARNING!  WARNING!

The Coming of the Left Outs

When Paco and I decided to make Fex & Coo available, we knew we had to “choose” from the mass of material. So, we chose a way that had some semblance of a “linear” storyline. Of course, I use “semblance” in the sense of giving the appearance of something that it really isn’t. So, essentially, we “pretended” at order. This was the basis of leaving out much that had been written. What we have come to now is that this is not fully in the spirit of the Fex & Coo project. So, we aim to do something about this. And what we are going to do is now publish what we can call the “left outs,” that is, all the material that has been written but not so far been available. Please do not expect any linearity or any other “arity.” The only thing we aim for is that these coming left outs will provide you as much enjoyment as they have provided us in writing them.

Tully’s Hour of Joy, Every Friday, 5:00 to 6:00 PM

As a dyed-in-the-wool Scot, Tully disapproved of lowering prices for any reason, even just a Friday afternoon “Happy Hour.” But being a good businessman with a sharp eye for profit, it did not escape his notice that his monthly margins always increased dramatically whenever he did break down and lower the prices for that one, end-of-the-week hour.

So he gritted his teeth and made the Friday Happy Hour, from 5:00 to 6:00 PM, a regular feature of his business. He refused to go so far, however, as to call it “Happy Hour.” That was too common. Instead, he called it “Tully’s Hour of Joy.”

Despite his grumbling, it was a big hit—crowds swarmed in every Friday after work, creating enough warmth and commotion to de-fang the cold-blooded, reptilian Seattle climate. Nor did the abundance of high-quality Scotch that was Tully’s specialty, hurt at all.

For those readers with a personal or professional interest in Tully’s personal quirks—and who doesn’t have at least a few?—we could say that his stony Highland frugality was joined with other peculiarities, by which we mean that “happy” wasn’t exactly a word that one would normally apply to Tully. Hence, no “Happy Hour.” There was always an underlying edge of dourness that emanated from Tully, no matter how much he joked around. Was he boisterous? Definitely. Volatile? To be sure. He was even joyous, especially when it came to boasting about the beauty of Gaelic poetry, or demonstrating the superior lyrics and melodies of pipes and pipers. But happy? Not so much.

Owl Man’s theory was that this dour quality derived from the ancient roots of Celtic culture—the prevalence of swampy moors, cold winds and a virtually eternal overcast. When Owl Man read that the old Celts went naked into battle against the invading Roman armies—freezing weather or not—Tully began to make more sense to him. In fact, Owl Man began to make more sense to himself! No wonder! he thought.

Nevertheless, and despite these caveats, Tully’s heart swelled with gladness when he saw his old friend Owl Man walk through the door at 5:00 PM sharp—for, happy or dour, no one could accuse Tully of not having a big heart. When Heron Man arrived two minutes later, Tully’s greeting was only slightly more subdued. First Owl Man, then Heron Man—those were the priorities. Owl Man was a full-blooded Scot, with a pedigreed lineage, whereas Heron Man was just a Scotch-Irish-Welsh mixture—Celtic yes, but no family crest, no famous ancestors—a rung or two down the cultural ladder. But Tully warmly welcomed both of them.

“Welcome, Mr. Owl, my old friend! And a good, good evenin’ to you, Mr. Heron! Come in, come in. I’ve got some new specials if you’re hankerin’ for something in the thirty-year range.”

“Now what castle did ye have to storm to lay your hands on that cask, Tulls?”

“Oh, nothing like that, Owl, nothing like that. No, I just got a personal contact in Glasgow. New supplier. Knows all the heads of the clans. He can get me anything I want, and ye wouldn’t believe the special prices he quotes me. It’s like robbin’ a bank, I’ll tell ye!”

Owl Man knew full well that Jasmine, who was on duty tonight, would be swamped with customers yelling for more rounds of Macallan or Glenfiddich and what have you—trying to impress their secretaries or bosses by ordering the most expensive single malts—so he wasn’t about to interrupt her. Nor was Tully about to bring up her name, because Jasmine was Tully’s version of a “cash cow,” so he couldn’t afford to lessen his profits by drawing her to Owl Man’s attention. Plenty of time for the lovebirds later on, he calculated, with a tinge of regret.

Heron Man found a quiet table in the back, away from the noisy crowd. He and Owl Man settled in for a talk, although their topics were not exactly laid out in advance. They never were, in fact. What ever needed to be discussed would come up.

When their Scotch came, it was brought by “Mitsy,” who was about 4’11” and in several respects resembled Dolly Parton.

“There you go, gents, can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you, Mitsy, we’re fine. Thanks so much,” said Heron Man. Then, as she bustled away, he turned to Owl Man and said, “Is it me, or does she resemble Dolly Parton?”

“No. Dolly. Definitely,” said Owl Man.

Two simultaneous sips of the aged spirits sent clouds of bliss swirling through the brains and bodies of the two writers.

“Mmmm. It’s like “clouds of glory,” opined Owl Man.

“I definitely concur,” said Heron Man.

A few sips and minutes passed, then a cloud passed briefly over Owl Man’s face. Not a cumulo-nimbus, exactly, more like a high-altitude horsetail, a streak overhead, but foretelling more pending weather.

“Heron Man, I’d like to thank you for meeting me here tonight.”

“Well, you know it’s my pleasure, Owl Man. We haven’t spoken in quite a while.”

“Yes, I’ve been—preoccupied.”

“Oh? That’s new,” said Heron Man, joking.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard about my recent conversation with Helen.”

“No, I haven’t. Did she call you?”

“Well, not exactly. I called her.”

“Oh, really? That’s a switch. May I ask what your conversation was about?”

“That’s why I wanted to meet you tonight. And what better way than with some of Tully’s 30-year-old Scotch?”

“Ambrosia, certainly,” said Heron Man. “Why did you contact Helen? Not that there’s any reason why you couldn’t, of course.”

“Well, there have been recent developments with Fex, who has taken it upon himself to teach me how to write at a ‘lower, more common’ level, or so he says.”

“That sounds interesting. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is … the problem is … that despite Fex’s active imagination, and Helen’s exquisite “musing” assistance, I still can’t write.”

“What does Jasmine say?” said Heron Man.

“She says that ‘it’ will come when “it’s” ready.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yes, it does, except that ‘it’ doesn’t seem to want to come.”

“Excuse me, Owl Man, but is this perhaps your old dour Scottish nature showing its gnarly face? Do you really think that you will never be able to write again?”

“No, no, of course not, no, no, no. Well, actually, I’m starting to wonder.”

“Have another sip of this 30-year Macallan, Owl Man,” said Heron Man.

“Good idea,” said Owl Man, and he took a long, slow sip of the aromatic, vaporous liquid. “Mmmm. Bless Tully’s big Celtic heart.”

“Cheers,” said Heron Man, and they toasted again and again, several more times — to Tully, to Jasmine, even to Fex.

As the magic Macallan worked its wonders, Owl Man’s dilemma began to subside, and the two old friends began telling jokes. Soon enough they were laughing out loud.

Mitzy glanced their way at one point, and smiled.

We are able to explore the quantum world because of one amazing technological development—the refinement of physical matter. The famous double-slit experiment only works with widths of the the order of a millionth of a meter and with lasers capable of outputting one wavelength of light. We could create matter fine enough to be responsive to mathematical functions (diodes). Now we can refine our material instruments to measure gravity waves. At this scale of technological refinement, matter behaves oddly as both immaterial/material aspects of matter show up in experiment. Fex and Coo, along with this Scene 5, is bringing us the news that there is a level or as I say, a threshold, where we human beings become a new kind of refined matter, having qualities both immaterial/material, like light, and we thus behave in a quantum manner. Technology has simulated this soul phenomenon of the threshold. The experienced reality of such quantum goings-on at the threshold is weird enough, can even make you go mad at times. Here is a dream of this “madness”:

We were getting terrorized by something. Slowly I began to see flickers in the black night, shapes. There were aliens in the sky above us. I saw a stealth spaceship, black as the night itself, hovering above our house. It seems these aliens are people from our own future, quite close future. Having discovered how to dissociate people they were experimenting with how to put them together again, this of course would solve the problem of space travel. However, they were experimenting by somehow sending the results of their trials back to our time as our children and watching as they grew up to see how they turned out. A lot of present day children with missing organs, catastrophic ailments, monstrous shapes etc., are the results of this experiment of the future.

Can you feel the twisting, turning inside-out nature of this dream? We have been born in a time where temporal cause-effect rules our identity—we are who we are today due to past causes. And here is a dream turning that notion inside-out. We are who we are today because of experiments taking place in the near future. After that dream I was turned inside-out. It takes years to get comfortable with such thinking and to change one’s perceptions of the Real. But I know now with a certainty that certain diseases (in my case skin disease) are the result of of a yet-to-be future expressing itself now on the outside in present reality. In other words my “catastrophic ailment” was a result of an experiment "in" our imminent future, just as my dream says. 

I remember giving a warning waaaay back in Jul 2021 re: Fex and Coo.

Perhaps a breadcrumb or two that may be of interest to readers, as the plot “thickens”. Pay attention to verb tenses like this one: “I’ve never met Fex before in my life. At least not before later today.” Let it gently twist your mind in preparation for what is to come. You will need a gently twisted mind…

This temporal turning inside-out is exactly what Owl Man does in scene 5 in this dialogue with Heron Man:

OM: Why is it Heron, that you dream of Helen tonight?

HM: Long ago, you mean?

OM:No. Tonight, Heron. Tonight. You dreamed of Helen tonight.

HM: But, Owl, it's not even night yet. What are you talking about? You're not making any sense. 

OM: Well, it must be night and it is your dream somewhere because I know it, here, and now. It's your dream Heron and it pictures Helen waving with her hand for you to come to her. 

HM: But how can you be knowing my dream when I haven't even had it yet?

Owl Man NOW reports a dream that Heron man WILL have that night: “But how can you be knowing my dream when I haven't even had it yet?” says Heron Man. Yes, twisting the mind!

Now we are close to the mystery of fiction as truth, as the best medium for conveying truth! There are many science-fiction books that, in their syntax (the logic of their language), maintain the fiction/reality dichotomy. But now all that is breaking down and seeds of a new genre are sprouting. You can catch wind of it in Fex and Coo or Not In My Nightmare. Such is Owl Man’s lecture on the Quantum Scribe:

I'm thinking about what I want to call the quantum scribe. This is not something to be reduced to the personal dimension whether in dream mode, authoring mode, or any other mode. It is not the so-called "inner author." No, this is something of another order, similar to how quantum reality is of a different order than what we call ordinary reality. And when we are entangled with one another, then what gets written can alter the other as well. And like contextualization in the quantum world, what gets written in this way alters us, so this in turn alters the impact on others. We must not forget that readers will be entangled as well and they too will be altered by contextualization. What a muddled muddle this becomes! 

This may be the best way to describe now the coming reality. 

Hi Daniel,

Thanks for your contribution of the neologism, “nausoleum.” Like Estela’s, I like yours too. I can already see that, little by little, if we keep at this, we might be able to string these “entangled” neologisms together, perhaps to see a bit more clearly what is only dimly visible at present. Who knows what they will reveal in the longer run?

For now we can practice greeting the sparks that presage the Coming Guest, by saying:

“The ecotastrophic psychotrauma of this nausoleum that we are rapidly bringing about on earth, as we flail about in our liebestraüme (plural), does not appear to be something that we can correct with any of the antiquacious ways of doing things. We need more novelinguini, aka linguino-novellae, in a word, more neologisms.”

When I think of "zombies" or the "undead," frankly, I think of ghoulish politicians shambling across the public scene today, mugging for the cameras — their teeth bloody and fang-like, their faces half-rotted, etc. You know: zombies!

Many thanks, Daniel.

Paco

Hi Estela,

My apologies for having taken so long to reply.

As if there were any need to advance proof of my “brain-shutdown,” I offer the fact that I did not see your reply, Estela, or Daniel’s, in response to my “call for neologisms” — not until today, that is. ¿Por qué? Why? ¿Quién sabe, kimo sabe? Who knows?

At any rate, thank you both for responding.

Estela, I like your neologism: “psychotrauma.” It readily encompasses the global situation, and fits so many different contemporary dilemmas. And when I look at your "new word," I do see the clinical aspect you mention. But I also see something poetic, buried in or behind both word-elements: Psyche, as you know, from the Greek for “butterfly” and “soul”; and Trauma, from the German for “dream.” It reminds me of Franz Lizst’s “Liebesträume” for piano. The German translation of liebestraum (singular), of course, is “dream-love,” or “dream of love.” Which further reminds me of the "sturm und drang" motifs in Romantic stories such as Wagner's opera, "Tristan und Isolde." The dual motifs of love and death practically define Romantic poetry. The black sail on the approaching ship, the mistaken signal, Tristan's death in mistaken despair, Isolde's tragic death next to him. The two trees that grow out of the grave, forever interwoven in love and death. Getting pretty Romantic, it seems. Love and death. Love in death. Love after death. Lots of room for poetry, for angling toward the “root level” as you felicitously put it.

I also like your notion of “secondary PTSD.” Secondary afflictions are no joke. Increasingly, I’m even wondering if there might be a “tertiary” PTSD, as in “Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder.” In other words, more and more we’re suffering stress over things before they’ve happened — I certainly am. I take it as perhaps some aspect of Russ’s “quantum scribe” ruminations.

I certainly agree with your description of the Duende experience found in the “shadow play of the light and the dark.” That necessary inclusion of darkness in our deepest formulations is implicit in what García Lorca said in his essay, “Play and Function of the Duende”:

“The duende only approaches when death is near.”

Thanks again, Estela.

Paco

And now for a change of pace.  Here is a post from Merrilee that offers some astrological reflections on Fex & Coo and what has unfolded since October 11, 2010. Over the next while, I will follow this up with further astrological observations. Comments and questions are most welcomed! (ral)

Dear Paco and Russ,

Paco, I don’t really read charts, but consulting with my nephew and his wife (who were just here) gave me this rather free-flowing take on the chart you sent:

Pluto is in the 1st House along with Sag & Jupiter.  Sag & Jupiter bring inspiration to FEX & COO!  Catch people’s attention right away?!

And with Pluto in Capricorn in this house —  along with the North Node (what we’re here for; the lesson we’re here to learn) —  the reader is destined to make a descent and undergo a deep transformation.  So in FEX & COO, while Capricorn keeps us grounded, Pluto removes Cap's earthly bounds and lifts the veil on other realms.

In the 3rd House of the book we find Pisces, Jupiter, Uranus, and Neptune all in AQUARIUS!!  An extremely life-changing combo!!  Aquarius being the humanitarian with a perspective of the collective ... or the big picture.  Aquarius/Pisces takes Jupiter, Uranus, & Neptune — and the readers! — deep.

3rd House = not just family & home, but our inner life, mind & intellect.  This gathering in F & Coo’s chart has the power to transform the way we think.  It makes us answer anew the question: Who Are We?  Jupiter & Uranus aid the reader in bringing in the Age of Aquarius!

The Moon in Sag is on the Ascendent.  Does this mean emotions are stirred by the book?   Sag is the seeker, philosopher, artist, etc.   Again this book will take people deeper than they realize.

Do Libra & Virgo at the top bring balance to the intellect?

In the 11th House (our relationship to the collective?) the Sun, Mercury, & Saturn are conjunct in Libra.  Is the Sun the book itself?  And Mercury how it comes across to the audience?  Does Saturn hold the fears we face when we read it?  And is Libra our need to find balance in all this?  Balance between Fex & Coo?  Between Russ & Paco, and their deeper personas as Owl & Heron man?  Between the Unconscious characters of our musings and dreams — and our waking selves?

Mars & Venus are conjunct in Scorpio in the 12th House (unconscious).  In the book does Scorpio take us on ever deeper dives into the unconscious?

Bumbles Crosses the Line

Bumbles felt himself calm down a bit after his beer bath courtesy of CedrosCM. Jinney’s ministrations didn’t hurt either.  A few hours of celebration later he got up. “I’m going to call it a night blokes” he yelled as he stumbled towards the pub’s front door. “I’ll see’s you later, ta”. Bumbles made it to the door, opened it and froze. It was like something strange had passed through his body. He couldn’t tell if it was the beer, his supper of Buffalo chicken wings or a ghost. Maybe it was the cold night air he thought self soothingly. Confused by this conundrum, pondering “what” as deeply as he could, he began to step over the cill. This being an old English pub the cill had energy unto itself. It was if the cill reached up and gleefully tripped him. He tried to grab the door handle but it swung with him. With his immense girth underway a gentle recovery was not in the cards. Bumbles fell sideways in a gentle unrelenting pirouette landing face down in a thicket of brambles growing on the sidewall of the pub.

“Ow, shite. I’m going to kill you, you damn bushes” he screamed. The brambles were unperturbed. Thrashing in his attempts to free himself only made his pain worse so he stopped. Facedown in the thicket Bumbles realized he had well and truly bumbled this time. Any attempt to lift his head caused the thorns hooked in the skin of his face to cut deeper. “My face, it’s on fire” he sobbed.  “I’m going to die, bled to death by a bush”. Pull yourself together Garth (his true name) came the voice of his mother. Lying still he began to sort out a plan to get free, to LIVE. Wriggling his arms he found they were only lightly hooked. Moving eel like, he broke free of the thorns, slowly moving his hands up to his face.  Feeling around with his fingers Bumbles was able to unhook his skin from the crown of thorns ringing his face.

Lifting his head away from the thorns Bumbles noticed an odd disc like thing mixed in with the dirt and blood. Wrenching free he hauled his bulk up grabbing a handful of dirt and hopefully the disc with his left hand.  Finally released from his thorny prison he staggered to his feet only to hear Jinney say “Bumbles what an arse, you’ve destroyed my dessert bush”. Bleeding profusely from multiple lacerations he didn’t have the energy to bellow some profanity at her. Shaking his head Garth staggered down the street toward home, #10 Drowning Street. A block down the street he remembered the odd object he had tried to grab. Looking down he opened his hand. Mixed in with the dirt and clotted blood was an oddly shaped cobalt blue disc. Stuffing it all in his pocket he began to whistle. “Things might be looking up”, he thought. Little did he know…

Bumbles Interrupted

Bumbles put the blue-chip back in his pants pocket as he arrived at his front door. Pulling out his house keys he unlocked the apartment door. Something twigged in the back of his mind to “stay still”. Having had a bad experience with a threshold earlier, he instinctively waited. The interior of his apartment was dark. Listening for something bad Bumbles leaned into the house with his head. Nothing. Then, faintly, a clock ticking, and… a tap dripping- dripticking he mumbled. Laughing to himself he relaxed and stepped inside. Bumbles instantly regretted his decision when a deep monotone voice in the darkness, said, “legends are made from this”. Something clobbered him in the head. The last thing he saw were beautiful colored stars, then everything went black.

The first thing he remembered was a sensation of being kissed. He liked it and puckered his lips to kiss back. Instead of a better feeling something bit his lips and he snapped into full awareness. He could see that he was on his bed and his “pet” honey badger, Mike, was sitting on his chest. Mike snarled at Bumbles. Bumbles knew this was Mike’s signal for being fed or else. Attempting to get up was another matter though. Here goes Bumbles said as he pushed snarling Mike off his chest. Rolling on to one side he sat up on the side of the bed. His head was pounding. Remembering the monotone voice and his pain, he suddenly felt frightened. Who’s there he yelled? All he got back was another low snarl from Mike. Bumbles stumbled out of the bedroom to the kitchen with Mike snarling and nipping at his heels. Mike liked meat, meat, and more meat. Opening the fridge door he saw a raw chicken leg on a plate. Okay, that’ll do. He set it down on the floor. Mike jumped on the chicken leg, tearing at it and snarling.

Freed from his “pet”, Bumbles decided he needed to check the rest of the apartment. Maybe a kitchen knife from the butchers block for protection first. Feeling a bit safer Garth wandered slowly from room to room. Everything was as it was before his sojourn to the pub. Maybe Mike learned to speak human-nah, impossible. Sitting down on a kitchen chair, Bumbles watched the honey badger finish his messy meal. With two quick twitches of his tail in Bumbles direction Mike left the room.

Bumbles fingered the blue-chip in his pocket. What the hell was going on he wondered? Bumbles knew he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the block, but he could feel things, deep things. But not like a Nazi or fascist, like they thought he would become at the pub.

It was getting late he realized-time for bed. Although outwardly he looked a mess most of the time Garth was meticulous about his bedtime rituals-deep breathing exercises and meditation for one half hour, then his bathroom routine. He spent some time cleaning the cuts on his face and hands. Brambles he muttered.

Sighing, he lay down on the bed. Still apprehensive about the origin of the voice and the blow to his head, Bumbles listened for any audible twitch in his surround. Gradually, he drifted off to sleep. In the morning he woke to Mike licking his face. Off Mike he said, breakfast shortly. Mike rumbled off the bed and out. Bumbles lay still for a bit attempting to remember any dreams he had in the night. He always thought about Owl Man’s advice that dreams are about the future. All he could remember was a dark skinned man handing him a whole raw leg from an animal. The man said, “I hope you enjoy this.” It was beautiful looking meat with hints of white, scarlet and yellow. He’d mull the dream image over during the day. Bumbles got up, put on his tattered bathrobe and shambled out to the kitchen. Mike was sitting in front of the fridge. No meat, meat today Mike he said. Good old Purina vegetarian meat is on the menu this morning. Mike looked sad he thought. Bumbles poured out a ration of dog chow into Mike’s dog dish and added a bit of water then put it down for Mike who dove into it with relish. Well, maybe he was wrong, Bumbles thought.

After his own breakfast Garth did his morning ablutions, then his exercises while holding the images from his dream in his mind’s eye. Something came in a mere flicker- a dance, an indigenous dance around the fire, and then the words “back lit”.

Suddenly Bumbles froze. Where was the blue disc? He began to panic. In the bedroom he searched frantically through his clothes from the day before, nope. He tore the bed apart. Where is it he yelled? Lurching into the kitchen he noticed something by Mike’s dish. Yes, there it was. He felt overcome with relief. Stooping down, he picked it up and put it in his robe pocket. Garth felt calmer feeling its cold surface on his fingertips. Mike growled at the back door. Awakened from his trance Bumbles let the honey badger out after first checking to make sure Mike couldn’t get out of the yard, which he had done many times. Honey badgers are smart and a pain in the arse he chuckled to himself.

Garth decided to spend the rest of the day in the woods near his home doing forest bathing which he loved. Mike accompanied him on a leash which he didn’t like at all. Garth also made sure that his lucky blue disc was with him in his jacket pocket. Periodically he would touch the disc with his fingertips just for reassurance he said to himself. At one point Mike almost slipped out of his hated collar but Bumbles caught him in the act. Mike snarled and made biting feints as Bumbles tightened the collar. At the end of the day Garth felt more centered and grounded. Back home he fed Mike, let him out in the back yard and then cleaned up from his own supper.

After exercises and prepping for bed Bumbles fell asleep clutching the disc in his hand. If he had been awake Garth would have felt the disc heat up.

Bumbles snapped awake, what the hell? A bedroom wall was lit up with words like a poem or something. But it was the blasting music that freaked him out the most. He had heard this song in his youth but couldn’t place it. Here are the words:

Finished with my woman
'Cause she couldn't help me with my mind
People think I'm insane
Because I am frowning all the time (come on out)

All day long I think of things
But nothing seems to satisfy
Think I'll lose my mind
If I don't find something to pacify

Can you help me?
Occupy my brain
Oh, yeah (let me see your hands)

I need someone to show me
The things in life that I can't find
I can't see the things that make true happiness
I must be blind

Alright, let me hear you, come on
Alright, show it then, come on
Louder, come on
You ain't fucking loud enough, come on
Come on
Now I've heard

Louder, come on, put your fucking balls into it

Alright

Make a joke and I will sigh
And you will laugh and I will cry
Happiness I cannot feel
And love to me is so unreal

And so as you hear these words
Telling you now of my state
I tell you to enjoy life
I wish I could, but it's too late

Thank you, good night
You are the fuckin' coolest, man
I love you all
We love you, good night, God bless you*

The music ended abruptly and Bumbles passed out from the shock. He had a fitful sleep and dreamt about a door, a black door with markings all over it. When he awakened Garth peeped through one eye expecting the words on the wall to be burned into the paint but nothing. Remembering his dream he pulled out his daily diary which he hadn’t written in for weeks.  Laying back on his pillow Bumbles, pen in hand, opened himself to the dream door. It looked like the one below. Words came:

How does the door experience?

Water lapping

Geese grassing

Sailors boating

Mountains eroding

For years the door

Sees

More

Hears

Holding out time

Changing

Ringing

Soft metallic

Heart

*If you want the full effect of Bumbles experience go to

Where is the blue disc he asked aloud? Fumbling around in the bed he found it down by his feet-cold.

Dear Russ, Paco, and John,