Delta, Dawn, Dune



Talking Sister Rosetta Tharpe with one friend, capacitors with another, and how to properly brew Piper & Leaf branded tea with a third.

All within the greater community connection that is dancing.

Yes, dancing has connected me to the following, at the least:

  • Cosplay/Dragon*Con
  • Oil change discounts
  • Barcode readers
  • Weekly social gatherings
  • Outdoor photography with friends
  • LGBT rights
  • Rocket/missile engineering/engineering in general
  • Juggling multiple jobs
  • Local Maker movements
  • Online roleplaying/multiplayer gaming
  • Massage/physical therapy
  • Haunted buildings/locations
  • Multiple emotional/mental conditions (depression/bipolar/dissociative/schizophrenic, etc.)
  • Traveling for weekend dance competitions (not unlike car racing, gymnastics, tennis, etc.)
  • Recruiting
  • Promoting/marketing
  • Local art communities
  • Municipal growth planning
  • Extraterrestrial exploration/colonisation
  • Greater exposure to different music genres
  • Polyamorous relationship management skills
  • Watching young people expand their talents into other fields
  • Watching people 40 and older rediscover the simple joys of living
  • The international language of dance overcoming all socioeconomic sub/cultural barriers
  • Myself

In times past, I spent Sunday mornings meditating on a subject or two, often asking more questions than reaching conclusions, setting up thought trails to explore the rest of the artificial seven-day block we call a week (trying living without a watch or calendar and see if you recognise a week; you might tune yourself into periods of a day and a lunar month but will you feel a week go by if there are no specific days you need to do anything?).

My latest electronic project has turned into the next evolution of the personal care chair, a seating device that senses your posture, wrapping itself around your torso and gently correcting your posture, working pressure points to ease muscle/ligament/tendon pain, keeping you alert when you need it and reminding you to relax occasionally, as well as push you up to exercise your body, tied as it is to your fitness tracking device (smartwatch, phone, wristworn activity tracker, etc.).

I started physical therapy recently to work my upper body, hoping to build muscle and bone mass in an effort to stop the bouts of vertigo my general practitioner/primary care physician believes is caused by pinched nerves in my neck/spinal column.

One of the physical therapists I also met through dancing.

Is there anything anymore in my life that isn’t related to dancing?

We live on a small planet, third cooling molten rock mass from the Sun, so I know better than to feel or act shocked that we humans connect through common interests.

Yet the child in me enjoys amazement and awe.

The teenage boy in me enjoys his own amazement and awe that is kept at bay for no other reason than I am what I am, an awkward nerd whose looks, age and ability to deflect people away from the real me through the art of conversation gets tiring after a while.

Sometimes I wonder why I carry an eclectic set of social data in my thoughts from which I can parse sentence structure and make sense in general conversation whether I know what I’m talking about or just am interesting enough that people ignore my ignorance, inferring from the few words I blurt/write that I know more than I do.

The wisdom of aging has its advantages.

Time was when I wished I was wise enough to seek wealth.

Then the training of my youth kicked in, driving me back to the monkhood for which I was destined.

I don’t know how to live in two worlds and the confusion has clouded my weekly meditative writing.

Two worlds, one which is the monkhood with my marriage that I gladly enjoyed for ten years, the second is the sexual attraction infused in dancing that counteracts my celibate marriage and draws me to see human bodies in a way that constantly confuses me since the nerd in me has no experience seeking out sexual relationships with others.

The denial of sex with others has fueled my creativity for decades, including writing and electronic gadget construction.

Dancing fuels my writing but takes away from my laboratory time.

At my age, 55+ years, and in semi-retirement, working for a local nonprofit, what or who am I?

Does anything matter anymore — labels, symbols, philosophical stances, subcultural beliefs?

The child in me and the future geriatric self wait for an answer that may not exist.

I return to the mantra that I do not exist, therefore I am not important.

I am at peace in my thoughts.

That much I know.

At my age, that’s all that matters.

I spend the day with my wife, give her the attention she seeks from her life partner, a person who lets me be me as long as she feels important (the primary person in my life), a person who feeds me and clothes me, for the most part taking care of me and my health.

What else am I to do because I don’t know how to care for myself?

I sit here and write, that much I know about feeling peaceful.

Everything else is just random interaction in the connectedness of the dance world.

I need not find patterns where they don’t exist.

I need not project the future in hopes of saving our species from global destruction.

I will die soon enough, might as well remain as peaceful as I have in the past, enjoy the ride and not question the beneficial/detrimental effects of the transportation device.

I no longer struggle with who I am.

My actions speak louder than words.

No need to be confused.

Breathe, eat, sleep.

A set of states of energy in motion which needs no overlay of symbols to justify its existence; i.e., the secret to happiness.

Live and let others live/die as they please, interference from me unnecessary.

[On a side note, I wonder if the Meclizine and ondansetron, combined with physical therapy easing decades of pain, have led to this new calmness in my thoughts…certainly, uncertainty about my vertigo and the piercing pain in my neck for 40 years have made me feel like I’ve always been running away from something; now that I have a solution, I don’t need to run away anymore, no need to pretend to be someone else in order to hide the real physical pain that has defined me since high school, from which I used to think there was no escape.]

Me, myself, and I…sigh…

‘Tis sad to see that my wish — to have some dreadful disease that would end my life — has never been fulfilled.

Instead, my general practitioner tells me I am getting healthier as I get older because I have taken good care of my body.

What the hell?

You mean I won’t die of natural causes any time soon?

I wander the wilderness of this planet that we pretend is tamed with concrete sidewalks, asphalt driveways and paved parkways, never able to do more with the sets of states of energy than what they are, never able to get outside of this universe.

I shake my fist at the sky, shouting that my subculture is just not enough to make me happy — I have killed with my bare hands, I have tasted infinity, there is no love for the comfortable confines of a subculture which never truly contained me.

During the month or so of much-needed/wanted/desired self-reflection upon the threshold of self-actualisation, I assimilate my alliterative allegories and wander aimlessly.

Twixt which tweets, texts or twigs do I twist?

Having held death in my hands, there is little more to call my own.

Having stood on the edge of the abyss, there is little in the normal world that surprises me.

Yet, I want more.

I,I,I wantwantwant moremoremore.

I give the members of my childhood subculture their happy connections to our shared symbol sets, telling them I’ll perpetuate their beliefs for them and make them believe I believe them, too, if that makes them happy.

I have padded about in this comfort zone, lining the nest financially so much that I almost can’t get out of the nest or at least have raised the walls high enough to give me pause.

If only I had the impetus to generate enough income to construct a ladder or a means to helicopter myself out of this nest…

But for what purpose?

What is the core self, if there is one, the core burning desire to achieve something I am not achieving or do not see myself achieving, from this base of operations, this dilapidated modified ranch house with cathedral ceiling propped on a hillside over a crawlspace?

I am an amateur philosopher/maker/poet/writer who has been able to live below his means long enough and live in relative peace with a partner, his fellow 12-year old summer church camp attendee turned penpal turned wife of 27+ years, so that I’m closer to being stuck at home with both of us in our retirement years wondering what we’re going to do with the rest of our lives.

In other words, everything well within the normal range of people belonging to our subculture.

That, my fellow chickadees, is a revelation that hits me again and again about once a year, from when I was five, wondering how many more of the clueless adults around me I had to keep putting up with (and still wondering why!) to when I stood at the front of the church as my bride walked up the aisle to me and knowing that committing to marriage was the worst betrayal of myself that would ever happen (because I do not believe in marriage) and so on.

What I want out of life is to eliminate the self, not MYself, but the concept of the individual as more important than as just another set of states of energy generated by that burning ball of cosmic dust we call the Sun.

Then and only then will we see what the universe is, will we be able to move beyond our Earthcentric thoughts and onto the Next Great Thing that has nothing to do with the popular image of gadgets and gizmos to sell on the open market under protective cover of undercover government agents and privacy-intruding marketing departments.

Yet, how do we move a species to build spaceships for Martian settlement without peddling a lot of stuff on and through paypal?

How do we promote the concept of conspicuous consumption in order to siphon off thousandths of a penny per sale for space exploration without overselling the concept of the individual?

Perhaps I shouldn’t care.  Perhaps allowing the religious concept of the soul in society is equivalent to allowing the economic concept of the consumer in society?

What, then, of the rise of the atheist consumer?  How do I address the issue of the atheist in the future where we need pooled resources to seed celestial bodies?

Euphemisms and symbology, that’s how!


In the subculture I was raised, children were expected to behave and think like ladies and gentlemen — be kind to others, do not curse/swear or act vulgar, treat elders with respect by listening to their advice, stand/sit up straight, get good grades in school and be mindful of your neighbours’ expectations of you and yours of them — for any vice you choose to exhibit, do so in moderation and you will be forgiven for minor character flaws.

Parents were expected to instill a sense of social allegiance in their kids, smoothing the rough edges, redirecting psychological anomalies toward the greater good of the subculture — those who rejected the subculture were welcome to leave and visit for the holidays or other brief encounters.

By having the pressure relief valve of a clear exit plan for those who rejected or were rejected by the subculture, internalised anger issues were kept to a minimum.

Even within the subculture, tolerance was a variable that allowed for acceptance of some whose initially rejected character flaws were deemed redeemable.

For years, I’ve lived in a kind of purgatory, wanting to make people in that subculture feel as if I, too, desire nothing more than to perpetuate the unwritten rules and relationships of the subculture, while at the same time holding beliefs that run counter to the subculture or don’t bother to recognise human culture as more significant than the role of any Earth-based lifeforms in the universe.

Simply by reading the posts in social media of the friends/acquaintances from my childhood can I quickly ascertain how well I have maintained my pushme-pullya life in purgatorial self-exile.

There is something to be said about the happiness I feel when I hear that people still consider me loving, compassionate and a ham (having a sense of humour).

In no way do I want to deter that feeling in myself or the thoughts of others in that regard.

At the same time, I want more than what that subculture has provided me in the general sense of the WASP life.

Because I want nothing more or less than to ensure we devote sufficient resources to [re]establish Earth-based lifeforms on other celestial bodies, I know what I want does not directly conflict with what my childhood subculture desired for me.

A strong pull within me aches for the safe, secure life of a parent with happy children whose spouse also wanted offspring and looks forward to [great[great]]grandchildren, if we should live so long to see them.

Statistically, safety and security is not guaranteed but can be financially prepared for if less than safe, secure conditions interfere with planned happiness.

What if my dreams and aspirations interfere with the safe, secure life I have right now?

How important is an imaginary comfort zone compared to that last sentence?

Tomorrow is one more day of rest before, on the sixth sol of this marsyear, I prepare plans for my next creations, whatever they may be, to put life on Mars, on the Moon and elsewhere in the inner solar system.

Of course, we have a simple question to answer once again: what is life?

No one can break the cycle but me

So, I have been able to hide from myself under the guise of my subculture for most of my life, the true self revealed in quiet, out-of-the-way moments, in foreign lands, under the influence of being under the influence.

It’s easy to sit in a cabin in the woods, free to let my true thoughts wander, find their way here, rather than have to face truth-or-consequences in society at large with my actions.

When I jumped back on Facebook for a day, reading the posts of people from my past — childhood friends, classmates, neighbours, workmates, etc. — I can only guess they are who they say they are.

I was never quite myself with them.  I was the people pleaser, seeking to perpetuate the image I was raised to project — a white, middle-class, monogamous Protestant American man/boy.

In my thoughts, though, that’s not who I am.

“Actions speak louder than words.”

True, I derive some comfort from seeing the subculture in which I was raised is still loved and cared for.

I admit affirmation of my external self is a form of comfort food.

But it only lasts so long until the internal selves are torn by the conflict.

There are only a few reactions between sets of states of energy that I expect to be shared on this planet and then only in the context of my safe, sheltered subculture — equal treatment of members of our species whilst recognising that competition for resources is inherently unequal (for many reasons, geography chief amongst them); that is, life is unfair.

Otherwise, I don’t personally practice any particular religious rituals except when needed to motivate people to accomplish tasks for the sake of populating the inner solar system; I don’t personally work for a military organisation that needs to demonise people in order to build market share but I benefit from those who do; I don’t personally have a stake in political officeholders but I once financially contributed to the campaign of one political party while at the same time was paid to deliver pamphlets for the opponent’s political party.

I am a people pleaser and I am an opportunist.  I am neither psychopath nor sociopath but can study their behaviours and act like one if it means we get a permanent Martian colony in return.

There are days when pretending to care about my subculture is a real drag, but I realise the alternatives can be much worse.

I often wonder why I stay married except I fear that if I, an Eagle Boy Scout who once received a U.S. Navy ROTC four-year scholarship to Georgia Tech, don’t believe in marriage, who will and if nobody does, what’s going to happen to the moral/ethical/religious fiber that we have said historically binds our subcultures together?

But then I look at our American society, which is supposedly composed of 46% of the population that is not married, and it’s doing all right.

Of course, it’s not the same as it once was.

Historically, the American Century was a geographical miracle of wars devastating foreign governments, creating global business competition which gave the impression that the American people (“give us your tired, your hungry, your poor”) were extra-special.

Having a monoculture that dominates the mass media (creating/perpetuating mass hypnosis) will give the impression that the monoculture’s unique traits are the ingredients that make people who they are; thus, premises can lead one to conclude that the American people were extra-special because the dominant monoculture was extra-special and the impression many had was the dominant monoculture was related to Judeo-Christian principles (and some would say it was 98% Christian and 2% Jewish (in fact, a few down here in the Deep South would shout it was 100% Christian but let’s not shout too loud just yet without the facts)).

I can only speak from experience and, in my five+ decades of living, I have observed that many who enjoy a relatively troublefree life of conformity to the Judeo-Christian subculture(s) are happy when they fully believe in and want to stay within the boundaries of those belief sets, regardless of small differences that have arisen over the years due to interpretation of the major religious texts and its various translations.

By extension, in larger subcultural subtextual context, we have belief sets associated with musical tastes; e.g., are you are Garth Brooks or Beyonce fan?  Is there any reason you can’t be both?

Can you be both a Christian and an atheist?

Does the way Miley Cyrus or Beyonce shakes her booty on stage teach feminist values better than a lifelong politician like Margaret Thatcher or Hillary Clinton?

In other words, our associative comparisons make us who we are.

By hiding here in the cabin in the woods, I can compare myself to the rest of the world and see I’m happy by comparison because I don’t have to do much to prove myself day after day.

In the 27+ years I have been married, there have only been two women who virtually held a mirror up to my face, asking me if being married to my childhood friend who has stood by me in my best and worst moments is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with: Brenda and Abi.  In both of them, there was never a request to divorce my wife and marry one of them, instead, so I have been able to safely and happily use their unspoken question about my relationship to my wife as not personally motivated by them.

Their lifestyles not associated with a church, free from many expectations of social conformity, were the mirrors.

Both have been married and are divorced.  One told me she loves women.  The other told me she recently discovered she’s polyamorous.

I, too, love women.  I, too, recently [re]discovered I am polyamorous.

Therefore, it behooves me to ask myself the question, if my marriage bed has grown cold, if monogamy has lost its meaning to me, why, except for perpetuating my subculture and its current/historical ties to society at large, except for the comfortable financial conveniences that marriage still affords, except for the fact that my wife and I have known each other since we’re 12 and are generally compatible, am I still married?

My wife wants me doing something that brings more income into our household.  The last time I was in that situation, I saw how much I could afford to separate myself from her and put my childhood community behind me…permanently.

I admit it scared me at the time, traveling and working internationally, how much I desired to cut [some but not all] ties with a subculture I no longer believed in but was willing to keep up appearances for friends and family of old because it really isn’t all that bad but I might disappoint a few people if I acted upon my beliefs and not theirs.

When I jumped back on Facebook, I realised that with the hundreds of people there, I was accepting of whatever changes they had made from when I lived in the same community with them — married, divorced, childless, grandparents, nonheterosexual, godless, etc.

In other words, what am I worried about?  Why this unfounded fear of one particular change in my life?

I can talk until I’m blue in the face or, as encouraged by a woman who whispered in my ear this week, I can act on the belief it’s time for me to step up and be a man.

Ultimately, all I want is for our species to expand into the universe.  The rest of this is forgotten jibberjabber.

If I spend time worrying about hurt feelings, I’ll never get anywhere fast.

Go Criticize Your Own Subculture, S’il Vous Plait!

From an anthropological standpoint, every subculture is important to me because, as we know, it takes a group of dissimilar subcultures to perform more genius activities than a single genius or group of subculturally-similar genies (of course, not every genius is a genie but is every genie a genius?).

Therefore, it behooves me to celebrate the diversity of subcultures of our species on this planet rather than put down or try to tear down subcultures that are not like mine.

Subcultures, like languages, will languish if not nourished or nurtured.

I add value to my belief in a positive place for my subculture in the future by showing rather than telling.

On to the future!!!