"it's a big life, but Texas might be bigger…" 

and know

we are bits of dust in rays of light


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Show Number 82/click link below to go to Mixcloud audio

All of the chapters now...just scroll down to where you last read...  click script  for script


 script for chapter 11



Script chapter 10


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Show #78 Dec. 21, 2016

Script Harlequin Chapter 8





A very thought provoking conversation with ANDY BUCKLEY BRAMBLE.


Radio show #76 Dec. 7, 2016

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Radio show # 75 Nov. 30, 2016

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Nov. 25. 2016- 6 to 9 PM I subbed for Rebar's SOLID MUD SHOW

November 23 Show # 74...thanksgiving...




November 2, 2016 show talking about grASSROOTS RADIO COALITION AND HOST A GUEST SHOW FROM RADIO 4 hOUSTON  (TEXAS) AND cHAPTER 1 , the harlequin moon series

The first show Streaming

This is the first broadcast I made streaming March 2, 2016. It is also the Techno Sadhu Theater of the Absurd, at Chapter 5 of of The Crows Fly, a story of the Mylai Massacre and a fictional character who is on e of the members of Charlie Company haunted by memories of mass assassination...



The Techno Sadhu Roadshow

 above  is interview about grassroots radio conference


Beginning with Show #56 to # 67 are 12 chapters of Life on The Perimeter, a psycho-drama of a member of Charlie Company who was one of the assassins of My Lai, who killed over 500 men, women and Children in Vietnam, March 16, 1968...

The Techno Sadhu Theater of the Absurd begins at about the half way point of the recording... THE ABILITY TO BE DUPLICTOUS

Techno Sadhu Show 61 August 17, 201 WOLF ON THE RUN

Show 60 August 13, 2016  ERRANT DEATH MESSENGERS

the-techno-sadhu-show-59-august-3-2016 INDIAN WARS

the-techno-sadhu-show-58-july-27-2016 HOLES IN MY MIND

the-techno-sadhu-show-57-july-20-2016 THE OTHER LOVES

the-techno-sadhu-show-56-july-13-2016  - THE WAITING ROOM






the-techno-sadhu-show-1652-june-15, 2016


the-techno-sadhu-show-15/50  June-8-2016

the-techno-sadhu-show#14/49 June-1-2016

the-techno-sadhu-show-13/48 May-25-2016


the-techno-sadhu-show#10/46 May 4, 2016

The techno Sadhu show #9 / 45, April 27, 2016

the-techno-sadhu-show-# 8 / April 20, 2016

the-techno-sadhu-show-7- April 7, 2016

the-techno-sadhu-show#6 / April13 2016

the-techno-sadhu-show-5-March 30, 2016

the-techno-sadhu-show-4, March 23, 2016

the-techno-sadhu-show-3/ March 18, 2016

the-techno-sadhu-show-2/March 11, 2016

techno-sadhu-show-1/March 4, 2016

This is KMRD LP madrid

New Mexico 96.9 FM on your dial

I’ll be playing a few world and local artists today between the words…


MUSIC / Chris Whitley:5:32



Lemon Parade/3:40

/open up your eyes/


kmrd lp 96.9 fm radio log   for Wednesday, June 17, 2015

/music today/Lemon Parade/Jimi Hendrix pirated/Glen Neff/Santiago McBoil/and localjjh   musicians recorded at local Studios


Question: who are you?

Hello folks, I’m a kind of an electric-techno-cyberspace-Zorba. what am I doing here? I’m not the only one who asks that question. The answer is pretty complex but I’ll try to explain.


Back in 1974 I went to Scotland on holiday. I fell in love with the place, or maybe, I felt like I was a born-again backwards colonial.  I do not know, but I got involved with a group of Community Arts activists and the concept of Alternative Education Through The Arts.


Back in the states, community art and community radio was already a thriving entity, whereas in Scotland, they were only just catching on to the idea.


For the next ten years in Scotland, I worked as an community artist and during that time I had this particular revelation about my work and it was this:


to be an artist alone, is not enough to accomplish a result in public arts, or community arts situations. My experience has revealed the necessity of communicating ideas and actions to as many people as possible, to be an animateur, a provocateur, a catalyst of social change and organizer of action through shared pride…”


shared pride.


Shared Pride, I repeat.


As an individual artist I have felt glory when I created things in the studio I considered as good as I could do – but it didn’t make me feel half as good as when I have worked with a bunch a rag tag street kids in a very stratified community, where we created something together – and everyone owned it – it was shared pride in what was great, and beyond our individual ability.


My HOPE is we will have SHARED PRIDE in the creation of this


KMRD LP 96.9 Madrid, New Mexico

Shared Pride

At the heart of the COMMUNITY ARTS philosophy is SHARED PRIDE


But back in 1974 is easy sit around throwing bird big words on the wall like graffiti marshmallows.


I even had the gall to write them down, thinking to myself as I did, “Oh yeah, that makes sense!”


I said things like, “To reiterate the importance and significance of the term artist/organizer.”


That was a new catchphrase I had picked up.


It was filed in my ever-increasing chamber of meaningful words and phrases along with other words like interaction and involvement, education and development – all of which were prefixed with the magic word of the time, Community Arts, that encompassed such things as Community Radio,


At the time, only Pirate Radio off the coast of legal borders in Great Britain, was the only thing that came close to Community Radio.


Us activists of the time, we used the word COMMUNITY like we had invented it, and it became even more sacred when we got around to the grand invention called, community arts.


I even converted the concept into the British upper-class jargon of Prince Charles proclaiming,


There it is a question of scale when one works in one’s own studio, on personal projects, the scale is relatively small, but when one is put into a context of community involvement and public art works, the scale becomes almost colossal in proportion. It not only takes a tremendous amount of time and energy, to make all the working arts come together, but there is also the problem of understanding all the information, ideas, contributions and criticisms of the people within the community.”


I don’t know it’s just mind-boggling! How did a nice guy like me ever get around to babbling and such utter wonderment’s?


Maybe somewhere there’s another person with a dream like mine. If there is, this is the story, this is the station for you!



In reference to the recent broadcast on KUNM, last Saturday, June 13, of the WOMEN’S FOCUS program, Carol boss spoke about public radio, community radio and in particular regarding to low powered community radio stations, because of the recent Community Radio Conference held in Santa Fe.


Throughout the discussion all kinds of profound words and phrases of the radio networks were thrown about but one I thought was particularly powerful was public powered community radio.


I would like to add one word.  Art. That is, public powered community art radio.


To dissect community radio a little bit involves three essential things:


1. feeling. people feel radio. we don’t see it. we hear it. we hear the ambience. we hear the sensitivity. we hear the anger, frustration or joy of words.


2. Activism. It involves an activism in the mechanism of the volunteers who created this radio station, but also involves the activism of the public in general. When populations are activated they have community power.


3. Power Distribution –  a dream of community radio is to empower the community for the better.


My desire, in what I do within  KMRD LP madrid, New Mexico, is that we, that means you and me and a whole lot more like us,  empower our community for the better.


Another phrase that came out of Carol boss’s show was a Community Radio Broadcasters  

Mantra, a memo to themselves:

 if you’re not at the table

 you are on the menu


That’s all about power distribution. If you not part of the power distribution and you’re not taking any parts that enable you,  then you are on the menu, and someone in power is going to gobble you up.


Other things said within the WOMENS’ FOCUS  program was:


break down stereotypes… which is a big problem all throughout American


marginalized/communities… or marginalized community arts 


There are many opportunities for creative individuals within our valley to be involved with the COMMUNITY of Madrid.


PARTICIATORY creative projects involves feeling AND  activism


Community empowerment


social justice…there are many views of the bottom 99% of our military/industrial feudal corporate empire, which makes almost  all of us, indentured servants…


the haves and the have-nots


the homeless… have practically no way to justice.


But there are also social refugees, the iconoclast of the odd step, the disowned and


The ownerless…most of us 99% don’t own anything worth more than a few measly bucks and  if we had to sell our things to survive on today’s market, it  would only keep us alive for days, or weeks or maybe even months…but years?   


so between homeless and being ownerless is what I would call economic racism and that is a sad state of the entire world we know today.


another thing that came up in Women’s Focus  was the comment by one of the broadcasters about their work…like wow!  I have two hours to fill on COMMUNITY RADIO.




I have two hours on my virgin broadcast on the



KMRD LP 96.9 Madrid, New, Mexico



In the Galesteo Basin, Everyone here, walks to a different drummer.


because of that, there are stereotypes and people who are marginalized in a way that probably is socially unfair, but nevertheless, it’s activism and performance arts for many people who have been attracted to Community Radio.


The people that have made this station, KMRD LP, are makers, and volunteers, that have made it possible for all of us, to be actively involved in a community arts media , a public powered community arts world media, in digital space,  


That digital space today,

is KMRD LP 96.9 Madrid, New Mexico


One thing was brought up on WOMEN’S FOCUS was sustainability.


All of the public radio stations have to basically fund for themselves, but it’s amazing because $98 million was raised by 100 stations nationwide, one hundred stations, nationwide…


That is to say Radio has the power to change.


 …and community arts radio offers the creative power to change…


radio is hardly dying


one of the other statistics that  came out in the mentioned show, was 90% of Americans over 12 years old listen to radio!


That’s social media as good as it gets!



To go on with the idea of community arts in what I would like to contribute, if it’s possible  here at KMRD LP Madrid New Mexico 96.9

is Community arts is what makes Madrid particularly different from so many other places.


Community Arts is the anchor that we all have and radio KMRD LP is the connection.


KMRD LP is like the public radio couch and it’s a place where everyone comes in.


In Carol Boss’s WOMEN’S FOCUS on KUNM was one of the people who has been involved with community radio for 40 years, and she said this about community radio,  It’s the human swamp of communication,” (vulnerability) and she was meaning I think in the ecological sense, not a derogatory sense, but in fact a swamp is full of the complete unknown and every sort of living creature possible from snakes to poisonous bugs to beautiful flowers to absolute graceful delicate birds and butterflies, which is perhaps a cross section of any community.


As in one of our programs this morning, the topic of Vulnerability was brought up, and I think that is one of the issues within the phrase, THE HUMAN SWAMP OF COMMUNICATION. We are all vulnerable in one way or the other, and opening the air waves to the general public is always vulnerable…we can open wounds or topics that can be a can of worms…


KMRD LP is a  community media,  but here again, I would like to insert community arts media.


Being a visual or performance artist is a prerequisite to be part of the fabric of social media which is really community media.  Everyone has creative ambitions and everyone has a thing to say.


Radio, since its beginning has been the first social media,  where communities were marginalized, little communities in the middle of nowhere, as some people may think about Madrid.


So, within community radio and the corps of community arts activism are people who think in a creative way, and usually don’t walk the walk, of the major corporate drummers!


That is certainly true for the community of Madrid, New Mexico.


Right… with that said, some music by one of our local Provocateurs of Public Airwaves, Glen Neff hovering in the background to introduce



The techno Sadhu Express


join me in this radio theater,

where your imagination can take you there,

even though,

you cant’t get here from there…

…so expect a few bumps and turns,

 because, we are all new to this road….




the beast of 1967


There is a Beast that lives in everybody, but no Beast likes to know about other Beasts. They think they are the only Beast. The Beast in the other person would say, my Beast was crazy and dangerous. That person would stop talking to me. Very well I won’t bring up my Beast, or will I?


There is not enough time to ask such foolish questions. There is barely enough time to strike out, to fight, kick or kiss your way into this cosmic arena and proclaim your assumptions. We are all evaporating yet we know we will continue by some measure of a miracle, by some flexible rod of rule or what ever wise men would like to say about continuation. We go on and on and it worries us. More to the truth, it worries me because I have had the power of existence!

 July  22, 2015  Part 6

My Lord, still here and kicking! Do you know how much time has gone by since I first set at my desk with this heap of documents and propaganda? No of course you don’t know, but I will tell you. Nearly 2 months have gone by – and many times have I nearly fallen to the seduction of this world – this lovely world I call home.


Many times, and it was only the night before last and I walked into a pub for a bit of refreshment and to my surprise another woman’s face beckoned me to assured disaster. Ha! I fooled her by taking her telephone number and telling her I would call her later. That was a good tactic on my part.


Who knows what might have taken place if I had stayed within grasp of her charming arms? I must say she was by far the most dazzling creature I have met recently and to tell you the truth,  I have been accosted at every occasion by some female temptation. I know some men would be envious of my situation but I? tell you now, woman are nothing but distractions.


…Distractions upon distraction!... What is this?  It is an envelope brought to my desk freshly this morning. I can see by the stamps it comes from America. Now what memory is trying to resurrect itself? From a lady no doubt. Ha! I was right! It is from a lady – wait a minute. I remember now. I wrote to her several weeks ago in a fit of melancholy.


Actually I wrote to several women, seven to be exact. That’s what sentimentality does to you. It makes you write to memories. So what does she have to say? Probably the same old rubbish – wishing that we weren’t so many miles apart and her life is nothing but shambles. The grass is always greener and these women are always trying to confuse me. They want to get me! I will be aloof. Ha!


That’s what I get for paying attention to dreams. I suppose that’s why I wrote to her in the first place. I had a lovely dream about her so I thought maybe somehow there was a poetic connection to reality. Now look what has happened. No doubt a letter of full of sob stories. I think I want even bother to read it. I read them so many times before. A pox! Women and dreams are nothing but calamity!

So what am I to do? Let me see. Her handwriting appears to be rational and calm. Very well I shall read it.


“Mon Ami”


Oh dear, see what I mean? Barely an introduction and she is already trying to butter me up for some unbearable heartbreak. Women are such snakes. I might as well throw the letter away – still it was a lovely dream I had of her – and her handwriting is quite gentle. I shall go on.


“There are a few people in my life that always make me sentimental and make me want to sit down and write the minute I get a letter from them. Strangely enough I received news from…”


See? There she goes! Just like a woman to immediately bring up old times… But I guess she’s right – I mean about getting sentimental. It makes me feel backwards – to the time I used to be – to the days I was another person – to…


Oh my God! I just realized something. It was that year – or one of those years that are really just numbers. It was 1966 or 1967 I first got to know…wait a minute…what’s her name? I’ll have to go the signature…oh yes… Babette... I was looking out the window – that’s right – looking out the window of a fashion store display, yes!


I was a decorator for a woman’s fashion store – now the memory is coming back. I was placing a woman’s shoe in a commercial but artistic slant when I glanced through the glass. There was a grinning young lady looking directly at me. I thought it was one of the usual street watchers that got some kind of perverted pleasure in watching a grown man making a fool of himself fondling women shoes – then at once, recognition.


My God the very irony of life! It was lovely Babette. Who else would smile at me while I was prostrating myself over women shoes but a girl named Babette. Yes. It was late 1966 – maybe November or December. I went out on the sidewalk and talked to her. We decided to meet again when I got off work. Where did we meet?



Where else could we have met? It must have been the Spatenhaus. Good old Bud Clark’s Spatenhaus. We talked I suppose of what we were destined to say. She told me she had always liked me in high school. I told her I had always noticed her but was afraid to make a meeting. We got drunk together and made a mad plan. We would run away to Mexico. Mexico! What happened? No, we didn’t go to Mexico. I sobered up.


There was complication. It was the woman I lived with. In reality she was a 44 years old Tassle Twirling Go-Go Girl but in her heart she wanted to be a striptease dancer. But I didn’t go to Mexico with Babette. It wasn’t Babette that changed ideas, it was me. I got afraid – no not afraid, but a gut feeling something was not right – that little thing inside that tells you when the time is right. So I said good night to Babette and goodbye to Romance and Adventure in Mexico.


I went back to the aging Go-Go Girl. She was almost 30. So at least now I have a real life memory and rational vision of those numbers…but was it 1966 or 1967? Is it the Beast who has made me think those numbers are a government plot? Surely there must be other evidence one can trace existence in reality – this letter from Babette is proof because I know she smiled at me on the sidewalk and we rendezvoused  that evening in the Spatenhaus.


But just a minute, the Portland city planners tore down the Spatenhaus in 1967! If the Spatenhaus were still standing, I could question this flood of memory fueled hallucination.. That year really existed in the thoughts and experience in the form of a letter from an old love. Babette has pulled me out of the grave of thought I was digging. Thank you Babette for saving me from the Beast!  You have set me free!



To be free what does it mean?  I was free for a moment – or was it a lifetime ago, a place time does not roll through numbers? I saw waves breaking under the embryo sky like painted crystal lace opal fire bright and fragile brass gold. I was an innocent child for that instant – I was pure without memories that time brings. I was free for a point in space and now – if I can hold faith in timelessness I am still free. But the clock ticks in this room. There are pleasant sounds of quiet conversations and sniffs and mumbles of child-like people playing. A fire smolders amber heat but my mind burns with memories.


Am I alive somewhere in the Universe? If it is true, today is the first day of a New Year.  If so, then half the world suffers the nightmare of alcohol saturated brains while other half wish for food in their belly. A few of us are blessed, because for a small moment we are simply alive, to have eyes and ears and fingers and toes and breathing air is a gift beyond words – to know for a tiny speck of infinity, God Almighty rules the Universe and men such as myself can have a good long laugh, because we understand that we are only pimples on the ass of existence.


Yes, there are a few people on this New Year day,  quite happy because life is exactly as it is – because we can stand on a hill that is kissed by the wind, lighted by the eternal eye of God, open our arms to the sky and sing out as loud as we can, thank you.


There is a flickering fire in the hearth and needles are falling off the 10th day Christmas tree. The Rolling Stones first album plays old electric rock ‘n roll. I sit next to the fire sipping my second whiskey, finished the second cigar, looking forward to the end of complication and then on the second thought realize there is no immunization from complications.  Thoreau was crazy saying, “Simplify, simplify, simplify.”  He should have said, “Complicate, complicate, complicate.”


If there is simplicity it doesn’t seem obvious. That’s what happens to me when I feel at ease – that is, a lack of concern whether I am making the eternal contribution of what artistic humans are supposed to contribute. At this hour I feel very rational in a careless way.  Why should I bother to think about years, lovers, cockroaches, Salvador Dali or anything of this quicksand of reality? It is all incidental and all predetermined. So what if life is only a collage of up and down repeated plots? That is the heart of my existentialist conclusion.


So what! I say a lot of things that never make a bit of logical sense. I don’t have to deal in logical sense – that’s not my attempt. To me there is no logical sense except the unexplainable meanderings of a very mysterious God – that is, directly referring to the power substance that controls the electricity bill of this cosmos and the power that pushes the spin. If that is God so be it…


I also have mentioned more than once the Beast. I should be honest at say that more than once I have suspected God and the Beast are one in the same. I realize I was saying the Beast was a government plot devised to snoop and subvert the human character, but it is obvious to me  now  I was utterly insane to suggest such a thing.


It is true that some people would think I am being heretical or even attempting to confuse God with the Devil. Well let me clear that up immediately by proclaiming it is no attempt or polite sidestep on my part but a blatant and honest accusation that God, the Devil and the Beast are in fact one confusion in itself.


As I see it, God Almighty is making an all out attack on humanity by trying to disguise itself and me sitting at this desk with its history of confusion is only making matters worse. I must escape.


Now it is a week later than it was just a moment ago. I’m sitting in a big rough wooden table in a barn like room, by a big black metal fireplace deep in the countryside of Fife. I have taken sanctuary from the thoughts and ties of the city and meditate silently in the wind and distant dogs barking at the  quietness of this solitude. The fire snaps secret little messages across the room. Snow is ivory and violet on the ground. I think back over the words I have said and wonder if it is a stark comedy or sad truth of my mental condition. I will put on  a Colonel Custer costume to think from another perspective.


But then again why should I even hesitate over what is known as a mental condition? It is just an insidious game the darkness of torment tortures every cosmic traveler. Everything that comes and goes in experience is a story whether it is the truth or fantasy. It is a story for me and the story for you.


I wonder about the puzzle pieces of it all still. I mean as to what the Spatenhaus represents in my life, a girl named Barbara, or another girl with beautiful eyes, and the one with the beautiful nose, and now blasted all, to even complicate matters worse, I  met a girl that appears to be beautiful all over – even her name appeals to me. I simply should refrain from bars and pubs and refused to drink alcohol. I suspect I’m an alcoholic except that I seem to have delirious tremors whether I'm sober or drunk.


I realize this must be entirely confusing to understand what I’m going on about but believe me, I am just as confused. It all comes back to the Beast that I started out with. The Beast pops in and out of situations and has a new proposition at every hand. For example right now the Beast has taken the form of peace and quiet in the countryside  and the act of me scribbling words on a piece of paper and the fire crackling. Perhaps the Beast is the only proportion of life that it is a completely rational and it is me that is the wrong sized vessel – but what is the use? Nothing will change by my meditations of these unavailable answers.


I have come to a conclusion I shall predict the future!


In 20 years I will be 3 feet shorter. Land and water will be hard to tell apart. Baby food companies will be going bankrupt. Bah!

It is no good! I’m miserable as a predictor and prophet of the future. I lack faith in my proclamations. What I need is Adventure and Romance to spice up this dwindling spirit spiral of events.


There is someone knocking on the door. Three soft raps – as if the hands are softened by thick gloves. I lay my pipe down the table and noticed that I have slobbered on the end of the stem again. Perhaps drool will come out on the table I worry as I walk down the steps to the front door. As I’m about to open the front door I have an excited feeling about who is standing on the other side of the door.


The door handle is hard to turn but the door swings open easily. To my surprise it is not one person but four people. I can’t make out their faces because of the darkness. Then very suddenly a voice says something about being glad to see me. I stand in the door as one by one the figures walk into the hallway. My God! It is the beautiful nose, the beautiful eyes, Babette and the girl that is beautiful all over.


I have forgotten her appealing name. I say something like, “Hi, what a surprise to see all of you – at one time!”

They all laughed and agreed with me that it is a surprise to them too. Then I help them off with their coats and hang them up but when I look back at them they are still taking their clothes off.


“I don’t think it’s very warm up stairs, maybe you should keep your pullovers on,” I said.


They all laugh like tape recorders and continue taking their clothes off. I try to be polite by saying, “Sure is cold weather – beautiful country around here – my heavens, I can’t get over what a surprise it is to see you here – I mean all of you.”


They all giggle. It sounds like they have built-in echo chambers, but continued to pull off blouses, trousers, dresses, socks, underwear, brassieres and at last I am left with my mouth hanging loosely looking at four bare naked ladies. They are completely natural about it as if they are always go to a mutual friend’s house and pull off their clothes. However for me it is an unusual experience.


I try to make conversation by saying, “Well, you sure got your clothes off quickly didn’t you?”


Once again the echoed laugh comes back to me. They all have huge smiles on their faces and their eyes reflect devilish looks. For an instant they look around communicating secret messages then step lightly to four sides of me. We walk up the staircase to the big room. I have a mixture of unbelievable joy and absolute terror about the situation. I think things to myself  like, wow, this can’t be true, how embarrassing, what am I supposed to do and what the heck!


At the top of the stairs the thoughts that are left funnel out the holes in my ears and nose like they were dislocated brain cells. Then there are no thoughts but just a vision and sensation of being in ancient great room colored amber and reds with smells of pine smoke and musk perfumes. The ladies are fuzzy looking as if they were in romantic movies with a soundtrack that is the cracking and snapping of the fireplace and a toilet running somewhere. Very far away I hear cowbells and Swiss mountain horns reverberating down through a valley. I keep thinking, good heavens this certainly is unusual.


A hand reaches up to my neck and fingers gently trace down and rest on my shoulder. I see Babette looking at me questioningly. Her face is masculine, smooth and clear. Her eyes put me in a melancholy state of comfort. I think, why should this be happening. I look at her body. She has one just like they write about in novels, I look at her stomach. She is an athlete with boyish hips and muscled legs. I think, she always looked like a boy, but there is a woman’s velvet about her.


Another hand touches the small of my back. I see the girl with the beautiful nose. She has enormous rolls of fat that hangs like potato sacks. Her belly hangs as if it is practicing for the day when it will drop to her knees. Her nose is still beautiful. By way of answering she gives me a solo giggle. She always giggles.


To my right  is the girl with beautiful eyes. It looks like she has just had her hair done at the parlor. I’m embarrassed  because she looks so proper. I look at her being astounded because she has more hair on her chest than me. I looked down at her ankles. They are very thick.


I turn around and the girl who is beautiful-all-over is behind me. I look at her eyes. She has heavy make up and her long blonde hair hangs down covering like a robe. At the moment I have a strange feeling. I must be like a meat inspector at a butcher house. The girl that is beautiful-all-over should be in a Playboy center fold but maybe it is just the long blonde hair. I am lost in this vision running through my mind. I have a multitude of ideas.


One those ideas are that this is all a bloody lie and I’m still sitting at my desk that is full of rumors and trash. Of course that’s where I am. How insane to think that I could run away to the country and how crazy I am to think that four women came for a visit and took off their clothes. No – none of this has happened.


All that has happened is a few more worthless paintings and the manuscript that I can never get typed. My mind is boggled with the games of life. If I could pull my self away from this table…No,  I shall put my head on the desk and sleep. I shall close my eyes and pretend I’m asleep and then perhaps the world will go on its own. I think towards sleep.



July 30 2015 radio log 7


What is sleep? The body floats into bright summer flowers. A waterfall of the mind sprays down my eyes and darkness fills this hollow room. Rain pats a dance upon the roof. I am dry and drifting to an enveloping warm bed of peace. Ivy grows out of my eyes and covers my body in a jungle of matted vines. An androgynous being is running by carrying a torch with an orange red bird flying at his side. A crescent sun beams violet light into the jungle. The AC/DC being  whispers, "Rest – sigh – breath – sleep."


I am sitting on a dirt road. I feel depressed, desperate, bored. A girl approaches on a bicycle. She has dark eyebrows but all I notice are her eyes. I get on the bicycle with her and she pedals down the road. We come to a soccer field with boys wearing red and white striped shirts. I realize I must go to a castle on the other side of the field to kill the Beast.


At the castle the Beast approaches. I take a long sword and cut off it’s arms and legs. People gather and put a blanket over the Beast and place it on children’s school desk. It is still alive but they want me to set it on fire. A small child asks why should I do that and I wonder why myself. I pick up the Beast who has shrunk in the blanket and decide to carry it to the sea to set it free. Before I get to the sea I tell it will grow new arms and legs. I pulled back the blanket and discover that it is the girl that was riding the bicycle. I fall in love with her instantly. I’m glad we’re together.


I pull my head off the desk.  I look at piles of paper, an orange peel, empty beer cans, cigarette butts, fingernail clippings. The desk represents my life. My life is a desk that is stacked with rubbish. Why have I failed? Why have I lost the thread that connected me to magic? I see a needle on the corner of the desk. Perhaps the thread is connected to it. No it’s not on the needle – but I do have the needle – all I need is the thread. Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before? All I need is the THREAD. But where can I find the thread?


Let’s see – probably a yarn store.


I go to a Buttons Needles and Clothe shop on the High Street, very close to Edinburgh Castle.


Hello do you have the thread?

“What kind of thread Sir?”

The thread that connects the magic back to me – the magic thread.

“Oh no Sir, we don’t have any of that. Perhaps a novelty store would carry magic thread.

A novelty store?

"Three shops down the street is just such a merchant."


Hello, do you have Magic Thread?

“What? What thread?”

The magic thread. Do you have the Magic Thread?

“Magic thread? No we don’t have any magic thread but we do have magicians rope.”

Magicians rope?

“Yes, no magic thread just magicians rope.”

Will it fit through this needle?

“No, the needle is far too small – but you don’t really need needles for magicians rope.”

You don’t?

“No, you use magicians wire with magicians rope.”

Magicians wire?

“ Yes, magician’s wire.

Well I need something to fit through this needle.

“Maybe you should go to a yarn store.”

But I just came from one.

“All I have is the magicians rope.”

Okay I’ll take the magicians rope. But is it magic?

“Not without the wire.”

Okay I’ll take the wire too.


Now I have magician’s rope and magician’s wire. I have to find out how I can get my magic back. The cobble stone streets are shining  with Scottish rain. In front of me the long coil of wire bumps into a stranger I have seen before. He sits in the corner of the Grass market every day. It is the old crazy man that walks around town in three raincoats, a sea man’s  rain hat, and Wellington boots with the toes cut out. He has plastic bags with him as usual. He is nothing but a crazy old fool! Why does he walk around town looking like that? He’s probably trying to hide out from the Beast.


Maybe he knows about losing magic. I remember looking closely at him one day. His eyes were clear and he had a strange smile on his face, almost as if he was content. Maybe he knows about magic rope. Maybe he knows how to put the magic back on with magician’s rope.


Hello I say and he looks up and says, “Hello there slick.” You know anything about magic? I say.


He is eating cold butter beans out of a gravy spattered tin can. His hands and face have the same dead flesh grey of his toes sticking out of the Wellington boots. I notice he is clean and even shaved. He shakes his sea man’s rain hat rain and says, “No.” I say do you know anything about magical rope? He stops chewing the beans and with gravy on the corners chin.


Yeah magician’s rope

“How much rope?”

Just a this little piece.

“I need a little piece about that size,” says he spitting chewed butter beans on my shoes.

Well this is special rope.  It’s magician’s rope and I want to know something about it.

“I need a piece of rope,”

But it’s magicians rope.

“I’ll tell you my Theory of the Universe if you give me that rope’.

Is it about magic?

“Could be.”

Okay it’s a deal.


“I call it my Theory of the Universe. Once there was this Big Black Ball that had two tiny spots on it. One spot was on one side and other was on the other side of the Big Black Ball. The spots looked like glowing embers because they light up except when you look closer at these two spots they happen to be planets. Both of these spots individually thought they were the only spot on the Big Black Ball – that is the people that lived on the spots.  They were right clever people except they was too many of them because nobody died because they were so smart they had done away with sickness and germs of all kinds. No one died from nothing. No bad colds, no wars and no old age. Everybody just kept living on except they got to be too many for the spot and ate up all the trees and cabbages and insects and there was getting to be a shortage of air. So one day they think maybe they should try to find a new place to live because none of them is dying, and the spot they live on is dying. It is so happens they got a real smart scientist that says there is a fine place to live in the middle of the Big Black Ball. Both of these spots on the Big Black Ball have the same problem and the same kind of smart fellows. In a way they are like mirrors to each other, so it happens both spots send a spaceship out into the middle of the Big Black Ball to find a new spot. The smart fellows told them they should send a man and woman so the race of people could keep on going – that is, the type of people they were – so they pick out the best of their kind – put them on a spaceship and sent them out into the middle of the Big Black Ball. Both of these mirror-like spots do the same thing at the same time just like they were doing a dance. Well, while they are out there searching for the spot in the middle of the Big Black Ball they both get in the same time warp where they give birth to a young species of their kind. But the mommies and poppies of this new crop suddenly get very old when the babies are born and even more sadly crash at the same time on an expected spot in the middle of the Big Black Ball. The parents are so fragile and old as soon as they take a sniff of air in this new spot, they disintegrate. It so happens that both the spaceships crashed close together except that the young ones don’t see each other for quite a while but then both happen to meet some friendly inhabitants that are mostly animals, snakes and insects of different kinds. They are right clever little babies and get along fine with the creatures because they can communicate only by thinking. Then one day after years they happen to meet each other. It so happens they have grown up into a big new kind of super race and one a man and one is a woman. They are a bit frightened of each other at first because they can’t seem to talk together – that is think together, but as time goes on they think they think they are thinking to each other but really they are just thinking to themselves they are thinking together. As time goes on, one day they accidentally touch each other and a whole series of thinking gets even more confused. Well, to make a long story short, they mate and have a bunch of brand new super race brats but because they don’t know what they’re thinking so they just keep mating with each other and their babies grow up and meet with each other and the super race species keeps getting uglier and stupider all the time but they just keep on meeting and thinking stupid thoughts until there are millions of them all over the spot in the middle of the Big Black Ball. That’s about the time they looked all like cavemen who were so stupid that they stopped thinking all together. Well, some several million years passed and then one day one of these ugly and stupid cavemen had a thought in his head, and since then they got a whole lot prettier and everybody started thinking again except now there’s getting to be too many of us on this spot we’re standing on and it’s dying. That’s my Theory of the Universe. Now can I have the rope?”


Okay, I said and the crazy old man my took magician’s rope.


Bless my luck! Not only have I given way my magical rope for a completely ridiculous story from a silly old fool but now I have gone and lost the needle that was on my desk. There is no hope now that I can put the magic back on. I know it seems peculiar to think about sewing magic back onto my life but I have tried to do it so many other ways – all of them have failed. I might as well try to sew it back on.


What have I got to lose? But crap! I have lost the needle and the magician’s rope. I got the wire but what’s the use of the wire without the rope? The fates are against me. There has been only one time when magic stayed with me. That was when it was hanging on me. There were no threads tying it to me, nor was I holding onto it. Magic was around my life holding me in its feather and sand fingers. Then one day magic let go of me. I tried to pull it back but it became smoke leaving only its smell in my hair and clothes, vanishing by its own terms. Magic.


I suppose you wonder when the magic was in my life. Very well, it was one moment, an instant that lasted for a fraction of a second. My mind was a kaleidoscope sky filled with snow crystals like the hand of creation. In that instant my flesh was the blood and bone string that tied the earth to the stars. I was the sucking pissing living connection between matter and time. I was God looking at God, breathing in God and moaning out God.. It was a time that’s hard for me to remember because in bringing back that memory I am all too aware I am without the experience now.


It was a moment I was in love, making love, taking love. It was an instant I was holding a Gypsy that was holding me knowing we were part of something infinitely majestic. I looked at her face between clicks of my eyelids and understood I was God that found God and together we were breathing in and out God’s love. Yes, love.


Love, the beginning of breath, that smells life, tastes life, yet when the lungs are filled all one can do is exhale wondering if the lungs will collapse, praying for another breathe in the thousand dreams from the kiss of life – but once the lungs are full there is no choice but to feel it for only a moment, always a moment, and faith lets us breathe in and out as if we deserve air. We breathe in and out to feel magic and wonder.


It was for me a nana-second of time I was given the gift of faith to believe in miracles and see the face of the invisible. God was everything and everything was held in the warm embrace of love. It was freedom in the prison of Magic’s rapture. But I had it.


So who am I kidding talking about the kiss of life and magic? I don’t know Jack Bo Diddly shit about anything!


I'm just sitting in a chair in a room thinking I am somebody and then you Beast! What do you do but invade my life again and make me think I’m sitting in another room and another chair feeling like I ain’t nobody had all but a reproduction done a zillion times before!


You Beast, you try to fool me but I am on to your tricks! At last, I know there is no such thing as time. It’s just as Zorro said before he left this morning with my manuscript tucked under his arm, “Man passes through time – Time passes through God!” But Ha! I’m one up on Zorro now because I know that God is the Beast that tried to convince me that time is an actual living thing. Yes, that damned number 1967! 


But…I hesitate as a violin plays a melancholy phrase across the memory of another age, another dance... a strange sense of doom overtakes me even though I tell the engineer of my body to put more coal in the fire. I’m having such queer and fretful anxiety. Pardon me I must go for a dream.


Country music is playing on a highfalutin stereo system high up on a shelf but down near my feet a 1920s woman is singing opera on a little bitty television except a bluegrass band is doing the music that is coming out of her mouth. A fellow gets up and walks across the room and kills the bluegrass band, one by one with a bow and arrow. There is a furious discussion between two Space Martians in the room who decide it is best to kill the 1920s woman opera singer and resurrect the bluegrass band. I think it’s a good idea because I like bluegrass better than opera. It has something to do with my past. There is a smoky sadness in my heart because it makes me angry to see people kill bluegrass bands instead of opera singers.


On my knee there is a huge Coors beer bottle that means something to me and the fellow who killed the blue grass band. We both think we came from the same country. He is wrong about that, because he just smelled it, but I walked knee deep in shit through it. That’s a whole different thing in dream.


There is a woman here who is weird but I can’t help but like her. She has the same smoky sadness as me but she falls to sleep and I can’t wake her up. She said the time isn’t right. I’m only hearing the sounds of goodbye. I have a pen in my hand that squiggles little black marks in a book that is supposed to be sacred. It has something to do with the past. Somewhere in the background voices sing out, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, Coming For To Carry Me Home. I have a notion I am supposed to remember this – there is guitar music – then a violin plays a bluesy rendition of House Of The Rising Sun – a slide guitar slips across the melody.


Over and over I hear a distant voice. It screams, “Danger! Remember Ulysses and the Sirens!” I am beginning to see a secret about magic and myths. I know deep down I don’t really believe in such things – the violin wavers and loses itself in its own circles. I hear another voice. It says, “Closure arrives.” I know it isn’t me talking but some other being. I get the feeling even though I am sitting with a bunch of people, I’m still alone. It is the solitude of freedom.


Slaving ships ride the high seas looking for new cargo. I have a distinct memory Ulysses had one slave on his boat who wrote this story. I am the descendent of that slave. What irony this story should be remembered by me, descended from a slave and now I'm the next captain of this imagined cruise ship on a Siren plagued journey. Oh the quiet joys of Brotherhood. Yes, love is all.


A Headless Horsemen in the sky appears with a love letter carried in a bone aged hand. Now it occurs to me what I’m supposed to remember! I am such a fool. Faithless love like a river flow. Yes, that’s what it is. It is my lack of faith! I lost love in the light and now in darkness I have been trying to hide. I have left my flowers of sadness strung behind me like the Great Wall of China. I have lost the only love I will ever know. Oh Lord where is that crystal moment she gave me? Freedom was lost at the flick of a cold heart. My Love Gypsy has gone to shadow on the other side of the moon.


What? I wake up from this dream. There is a sound, a knock at the door. I come to the door with a latch I turn to look out and see…what? Nobody. I walk into the hallway to see no one. Then at my feet I hear a tiny roar and look in unbelievable shock. I see the mouse drinking a beer with a guitar strapped on his back and a motorcycle gang behind him! Blast! It is the mouse with the long white scarf like Isadora Duncan around his neck. He is not hard to recognize. Not only that, he’s got a whole bunch of chopper riding mice with him. They are all wearing little Nazi helmets and little black leather jackets. The sleeves are cut off and their hairy little arms stick out flexing their mousey muscles.


By heavens this is absurd. I have never seen such hooligan looking mice. I stand horrified as they gun their tiny little engines and roar over the top of my feet, right into the flat. The mouse that has the Isadora Duncan scarf starts squeaking a laugh through the rumble of the machines. I am shocked. That little Isadora Duncan turns and gets off his bike and walks right up to me and spits on my foot. Why, that little monster! Blast! He reaches out with his mousy muscled arm and slams the flat door. I am locked out. I hear a laughing roar. I know they will raise hell.




January 26, 2015




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Welcome, and thank you very much for listening.…

I want to say hello to several old buddies out there in the world who have picked us up on the internet…hello to all the spirits of space wherever they are,  and hello all my pals here in the Galesteo Basin and the Tijeras ridgeline …