MRs. O'Keefe's Window

We played baseball in Dougie Brewster’s backyard because it was big enough for a diamond and outfield. If there weren’t enough of us for two teams, we played Rotation  Runner-Up. It worked like this. If you made it back to home plate, you were in the line-up for batting. If you didn’t make it back to home plate, struck out or got tagged on one of the bases, you went to the outfield and it rotated thusly until you were back in the line-up.

I wasn’t a great hitter and was lucky to bunt my way to first base. There was that one time I was up at bat that is seared into my memory like it happened yesterday. Two strikes and I was about to strike out when the perfect pitch connected with the sweet spot on my bat. Stunned, I watched the ball soar high in the air, my eyes on it as I jogged to 1^st base. It was a homer! And as the ball arced towards and over the hedge in the outfield, I stopped to hear the beautiful sound of the ball bounce off Kelly O’Keefe’s only concrete paved driveway in the neighborhood.

All the kids ran. I was left standing alone as the ball’s trajectory targeted the center of Mrs. O’Keefe’s living room window. The next sound was a horrific one of breaking glass. Memory doesn’t serve me as to what happened after Mrs. O’Keefe came out yelling. I know that I confessed right away because I was so proud of the hit. Other than that, I know my mom was probably equally pissed because Mrs. O’Keefe likely demanded we pay for the window. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I rounded the rest of the bases alone and scored home base.

Our best hitter was Dougie Brewster, and I could have run off with the others and the blame would’ve likely been tagged on him.

The point of this little tale has been a lesson learned. Even the hardest earned success has its consequences. No matter how hard I try, no matter how my luck goes my way, there is no shame even if I am left alone on first base, and Mrs. O’Keefe is pissed as hell, I can stand proud. But standing proud when everyone else runs has its price.

Walking through Fire

 I have walked through fire. I'm not speaking of a ritualistic fire... it is a real fire that burns the flesh off the bones. 

So many artists consider themselves to be shaman without walking through fire. Their aim is to please their superiors, the critics... the lastest trend. If it's smearing shit on a wall and calling it art, that is where they go.

Hell is not for tourists. Art isn't for sissies. Life is Art, but until I walked through fire, I didn't know what that meant. 

I wander on the Via De La Rosa, and when I wonder, I wander. There is a craft to wandering into wonder, dear faux-shaman. You can't hire an Uber to get there. You can't submit to or go along with a guru either.

Go naked in the woods.

Lesson one: The Critic - there are two kinds of critics. One is to enhance the ego of the critic tearing down others to assert authority... establish superiority.

Lesson two - The teacher is an angel weilding a sword of mercy and mercy can be as devastating as the first sort

Criticism is to be helful in improving the craft. I am my most merciful critic and true mercy isn't always kind. It requires that I set aside ego to be able to see that critcism devastates and destroys. A critic that has walked through the fire and forged to the other side, is qualified to be a mentor.

This reminds me of the story of the Shami achieving enlightenment and gleefully presented himself before the Shaman because he had finally "Got It!" after years of meditation practice.

The Shaman says, "Where is your sandals?"

And in that instant, the Shami became enlightened.

All that the inner critic asks is, where is my sandal?