Good Morning Reindeers,
Most every person on this planet will at some point in their life experience the powerful emotion, the powerful condition of romantic love - sexual love - desire. I have, many times, and I genuinely feel sorry for anyone who is denied this seemingly simple benefit of being human. When the object of my affection is near my heart rate quickens, my face goes flush, and when they are away from me I obsess over them - they are all I can think about. I am in Love.
I am in love and being in love is quite like being insane. I have been and I am right now, both. My body is full of natural, free drugs called love.
When i fall in love chemicals such as adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin and the so called “love hormone” oxytocin all go on alert and flood your brain with powerful sensations. Most of the time, especially when the object of your crush or infatuation reciprocates your advances, returns your love, nourishes your love, the feelings these chemicals induce are pleasant. But when your love is unrequited, unreturned, spurned and rejected the roller coaster of emotion experienced can take on a more sinister overtone. They can even cause you to become temporarily depressed. It’s called “love sick”.
People reading this who know me, who know my family, might say “Why is he writing that? He’s in love? What will his wife Kahaleen think? That cad, that bastard - she deserves better.” I reply, of course she deserves better, but that’s beside the point. She will not be upset, angry or worried when reading this because the person responsible for all these sublime chemicals on Safari in my brain is her. She knows it because I tell her so, I tell her so because it is true.
After 31 years of marriage I am still head over heels in love with Kathaleen. She is an exceptionally powerful force in my life. With one piercing glance she can build for me a marvelous sandcastle, a perfect fortress made from dust of the ages - the best one on the beach, and with another tear it down to where it looks like it never existed, a Tibetans Monk’s sand painting - a work of art for none to see. Some say that makes her my soulmate, and I would say they are right, if I believed in such a thing.
She may be my soulmate, the love of my life, my everything, and I may be her, till death do us part, forsaking all others, prince charming on a white horse. But the word soulmate, when used in this context, infers to most people that there is but one person in the world who I am designed to be with. One love - one heart - I say - no way. Just as I find it impossible to believe there is only one path to enlightenment, one path to salvation, one path to God. I cannot accept the premise that in this whole misunderstood world - during my whole misunderstood time on it there is but one person I am destined to love - cherish - and obey. If that were the case there would’t be 7.125 billion of us poor misunderstood critters aboard.
We are creatures deigned to fall in love - fall out of love - designed to hold each other close and to push each other away. To love, honor and obey, and to ignore, shame and defy. Marriage is not the default arrangement in my life. I must constantly... Kathaleen and I must both constantly, upgrade our applications and operating systems. Marriage is a dynamic construct, an aging wooden roller coaster that must be carefully maintained and treated with tender loving care. Also, the carney workers responsible must be aware, enlightened, well trained, well paid and well supervised.
We can’t control who or what we will be attracted too, who we fall in love with. I fall in love almost as often as I change the name of this blogFISH - I just don’t purchase my natural, powerfulI, and legal drugs from these passing fancies. (I assume they are legal / this is Florida after all). l was the total opposite, in physical attributes, of what Kathaleen considered "Her Type”. Her first husband was painfully handsome - tall - well built with long golden locks of thick hair - like a Germanic Ideal - Uber Dude, her soul mate some might say. I, on the other hand, was a sloppy, jobless (by choice) short, fat , and bald musician. Not a fsh you would keep in the boat. Her friends would say “What is an ANDREW?” She was with him only a few years, she has stayed with me of nearly half of her life. Silly Girl. I have always wondered why she chose me when half of the eligible “her type” bachelors in Riverside were camping in tents like Bedouin Gigolos on her front lawn.
I shouldn’t think about it too hard, because maybe I do have soul mate, maybe marriage is my default position. Or, maybe I'm just lucky. Either way I’m still addicted to Katheleen’s love and always will be - The sun is waking up and so is she, time to make her oatmeal receieve, a warm embrace, a good morning sweetheart kiss, and get my morning baggie full of love drugs. Love drugs from my soul mate, my favorite and my only drug dealer.
Better living through chemistry
I Good Morning Cow Girls and Cow Boys
I had a wonderfully - carefree - fancy free - see right though me - experience Friday morning. You should go with me next time, you’d love it. I went to the Baptist Heath Warehouse and had a Modified Barium Swallow Test done. This is were where I had one of the incredibly professional, well groomed, and articulate healing responsibilitators and life savulators has me drink a RADIOACTIVE chemical called Barium, It was presented to me with various degrees of viscociy in what must be it’s most unpalatable form. It does what the name says it tests the efficiency of my ability to swallow.
This is a test that all parkinsons patients will eventually have. One of the major causes of death for PWP (persons with parkinsons) is Pneumonia. The human throat was designed so that when you swallow, food or drink, a little flap of cartilage closes access to your trachea, routing this addition of nutrition to your esophagus and down to your your stomach where it belongs. The muscles on your throat are responsible for this and they usually they do a bang up job, but when you have parkinsons your throat muscles can brome slackers, dropping out of school and sleeping until 3 pm. Causing this flap to take a vacation from which it rarely returns. You aspirate - you get fluid into you lungs - you get Pneumonia - you die. Pneumonia is often called the old persons best friend because it ends your life quickly before your insurance runs out, saving you the hassle of picking out which hospice to use. With friends like that...
Notice I said - Old persons friend - I consider any one under the age of 80 to still be young. I am well within that self derived oldness parameter. I AM NOT OLD. I might not be a young man any more - BUT I AM NOT OLD. Todays test is one of the reasons that I can still make that statement . I passed with fyiing colors. The really nice and thoroughly talented person who gave me the exam said I had some penetration with very little, if any, aspiration. I am also able to easily cough up any thin liquid - syrupy nectar - or soft food (like applesauce) well before it gets a chance to enter my lungs. This is because I am in good shape - I don’t smoke, and ( I’ll say it again - I AM NOT OLD). I also use a little device daily that helps me to exercise my throat muscles. I passed this test because I studied very hard, there is no way to cheat when you are being evaluated by a thoroughly trained a swallow test administer. I passed because I get up every morning ready and wiling to kick mr parkinsons ass. Sometimes I do., I do kick his sorry good for nothing ass - sometimes I don’t. On those days I don’t pound his stupid face back to19th century England or wherever he is from, on those days when I feel like I'm in the middle if a tornado made from my perpetually sore muscles, on those days I may lose, however, he does not win. In order for mr p to win I would have gave up - quit fighting - and let him take my life - a schoolyard bully taking my lunch money.
Ain’t nobody, bully or otherwise, taking this man’s lunch money. I worked too hard to get it and I am hungry as hell. Nobody is going to take my lunch away from me as long as I remain a fighter, as long as I remain a lover of all the good things God has given me, As long as never think or act like I am old. Of course, we all have to graduate and move on to the next phase of our education the next phase of immortal existence. I too will turn in my books and make way for the next class of students, someday, when its my turn. I refuse to leave before graduation day, as a mater of fact I’m gonna work even harder and pass every test that it given to me and then some I want the extra credit. That is not what an old student who is tired of school would say because... I AM NOT OLD. I AM NOT OLD.
It was the Summer of Rachael - welcome to the Winter of Chris
Rachael has moved on, our arrangement was temporary. I new this day would come, I miss my little buddy, but I am not sad. She has landed a great job and moved into a cute little garage apartment walking distance from my house. We became the best of friends during her short stay here at the Garden and I will miss her. Next up is Chris Musker, a friend of my son Donovan who has worked as part of my support crew for several years. Chris hails from Atlanta GA. but we won’t hold that against him. I have more to say about Chris in the weeks to come, I will say that with out his help as a facilitator of my ever expanding hydrogen bomb imagination the GARDEN OF COLORS would never open on time. .
The other day Chris read on the wall of my triangulated studio of serendipity overlooking the GARDEN OF COLOR “I will not act my age” I explained to him (as I have to do with everyone) this does not mean that I will not act in a manner that is considered appropriate for my sightly advanced age and instead act like a person much younger - staying up all night - jumping up and down on the bed - making prank phone calls. No, it means I will not act like the age that I feel, which changes constantly. Somedays I feel like I am eight years old, riding my bike too fast, playing in the rain, carrying frogs in my pocket and somedays I feel like I’m a college student again drinking until I can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys and somedays I’m back in high school doing donuts with my car in an empty parking lot. But the most destructive behavior of this chronologically impaired PWP is when I think I can work as hard doing physical labor as a man half my age. I must realize - I can’t. No one can. I have to constantly remind myself of this fact, that is what I mean by “I will not act my age.”
Chris who has seen the same amount of birthdays as Donovqn (30) thought about that for a moment an responded with this profundity."So that means the older you get the amount ages that you can act and feel like like increases. I’m not saying that you should act like them but it’s nice to know our options increase with age”
So true - I at 57 know what it’s like to be 19 but a 19 year old has no idea what it’s like to be 57. Yes Chris, our options do increase as we get older as does our opportunity to make mistakes. But mistakes aren’t nessesarily a bad thing as long as you know when they happen and you have a plan to keep them from reoccurring. Welcome aboard Chris.
That’s all I have for now, see you in a dark alley late some night in the near future .
Good Morning Nature Lovers,
I have missed writing the blogFISH. It is a way for me to explain, validate, create and recreate the weird (cool weird, not weird weird) aspects of my imagination. All I have to do is say “it’s gonna be in the blogFISH" ( I still have no idea why I call it that - what it means - or where it's at ) by saying this I can bring up random items of whimsey right in the middle of a serious conversation about local politics - Peter Pan patterns of thought that match nothing else in the room like “I’m afraid to wear clothes made from the cloth of bamboo, this is due to an unreasonable fear of being attacked by Killer Pandas, which could be every where / just because we don’t see Killer Pandas doesn’t mean they are not there.”
I am lots of fun at parties - especially if you are drunk and don’t like to talk politics and are afraid of Panda Bears, which I have since found out are not really bears at all, which is all the more reason to be afraid. Over the past year or so the blogFISH has been a vehicle for me to fill up with wonders and drive with great speed and agility through everyone’s mind space. I am a responsible person though, I always go the speed limit your brain has posted and I never throw trash out of the window. I even try to leave your brain a little bit cleaner than I found it.
See, it’s such strange imagery and metaphorical calisthenics that normally a person couldn’t say. The blogFISH lets me say ‘em. Even though my FaceBook posts probably reach more people, I have discovered that I prefer the comfortable old shoe appeal of this site, I feel like you are visiting me at my home - whereas FB feels like I’m standing on a box in Duck Pond Park yelling at those who pass by. It’s this feel at home attitude that has enabled me to write about such valuable minutia as my disdain for pocket change and how we should do away with coins altogether and round to the nearest dollar, I devised a way of telling time that uses colors instead of numbers, it has enabled me to fabricate stories like the one about a scientist who escapes from evil government agents by leaving the earth in one of his inventions. Most of my stories could be true, some of them actually are like the time my army buddy peed on a live electric fence and was thrown back 20 feet by the manmade blue lightning. Some are total fiction as you will see if you read on, I tell below a . I’ve also told you, in a weeklong series, all the jobs I’ve ever had - all the bands I’ve ever played in, and all the bands I have broken up.. There have been stories of my childhood - musical anecdotes - true tales and brazen lies, and they only belong here on the blogFISH.
While making FB posts is fun and I will still use FB to announce a new blog entry and promote my music and artwork, do remote location posts and make quick statements most of my writing will be found here at blogFISH. I began to be more interested with who is liking what and who is leaving a comment, who washed their hair with Tide and motor Oil and who eats the food from my refrigerator (if that is indeed my refrigerator) than I should be. I feel that that my use of random, ironic, obtuse non-sequiters such as the ones in that last sentence are wasted on FB. SO, I’m back and I will try to be more consistent in my delivery of these gems from my mind’s foot, because this foot is crammed into a shoe two siizes too small, crammed in there for a reason, crammed in there so as to guarantee this soldier at least one blissful moment each day - the moment I take those bastards off.
Of Course I will stay on message which is how I use creativity to cope with the gift that my secret satanic santa left me - parkinson’s (notice I never capitalize the word parkinson’s - it hasn’t earned the right). But there is a lot more to life than some old musician talking about how bad he feels, a whole lot more. You don’t have to wear a lampshade on your head to be the life of the party. And now I can again say the unsayable - if any one challenges me all I have to do is reply... “It’s from my nex blogFISH.” My weird has a home again.
Why does Urbanite play such an important role at the GARDEN OF COLORS?
You have learned what Urbanite is, how it is common but rare, how it is intelligent, and speaks a language that is very similar to Dolphin. Yes, Urbanite can speak but it cannot listen, it hears you and it ignores you. You found out it plays a supporting role in my peoples celebration of Being Earnest Day, you have heard the past and how it came to be, now you will learn the rest of this beautiful love story.
Urbanite usually keeps to itself and does not fraternize with flesh beings except for Being Earnest Day. But when this clan (who are decedents of an old Gypsy band of rocks) found out I was building a GARDEN OF COLORS it became quite interested. It wanted a part of the action. This clan of morbidly exotic sentient rocks came up from its home underground, a home that it has occupied since it was no longer needed as a tire store parking lot. It burst out of the ground on a hot day last September and now lives in my back yard where it has a partnered with me helping with the building of an arena for all my thoughts, dreams, talents and schemes also giving this band of sacred rock a place to live above ground. For one of the reasons Urbanite is so commonly rare is that the only place it can live above ground after it’s original purpose is no longer valid is a GARDEN OF COLOR. And since GARDENS OF COLOR are rarely common the inverse logically must apply.
I was in my backyard the hot late summer day when I heard a loud growl come from deep within the earth - like God’s stomach was complaining about missing lunch. I then saw a great flash of multihued light, followed by his light were hundreds of marching Urbanite workers coming up from the darkness into the light. This filled my little yard with all the joys of the rainbow. The first thing these workers did was throw together a fountain which is the Urbanites main source of recreation, socialization and manipulation. When they live underground, out of site, they form elaborate, ornate fountains, with each clan trying to out fountain the other. But this was a simple fountain made of found materials. This was their path into the world of human, their wardrobe door into my life. They finished fast and then while totally ignoring me they played in the water for the rest of the afternoon.
Their next creation was a Labyrinth of Slowness. Only through daily use of this supernatural spiral by the human owner of the Garden can the Urbanite and the owner have a two way conversation. The Urbanite will talk and talk and talk like Silicone Dolphins, but they will not listen. They are forever eighth graders waiting for an assembly concerning school safety to start. The hear you, they even see you, but they do not listen they do not care they only look right past you with an aggregate stare.
GARDENS OF COLOR cannot be owned by Urbanite, they are not recognized by any powers that be, and thy detest the idea of money. That is why my new Gypsy friends had one of their lawyers contact a human lawyer, one that walked the daily path of slowness,who contacted my lawyer and together we came to a business agreement. If I walked the spiral of slowness every day and granted free and unrestricted use of Mr. King’s Practically Famous GARDEN OF COLORS to the Clan of Goodyear Gypsy Urbanite, they would, in turn promise continued involvement, assistance and support in building and maintaining said Garden. The next day they hired a human helper - a helper who also walks the spiral path - a helper who showed up at my front door blowing the bicycle horn of friendship and hard work. I couldn't be more pleased. It has been a match made in heaven by the Great Giraffes themselves and I look forward to a fruitful, long and winding, relationship with my new Rock Gypsy friends and you can too.
Starting this Saturday December 13th we open our back gate door to any and all who wish to visit -
we only ask that you call 904-210-4399 first.
GARDEN OF COLORS
2537 Fofbes ST.
A private exhibition of Art - Practical Whimsy - Music and Gratuitous Serendipity
What You Will See
Take care fellow Nap Takers see you next time
right hear at the blogFISH Mr. Kings Wonderful Life.
Next Time “ The summer of Rachael has become the Winter of Chris"
The customs and rituals surrounding Christmas and the holiday season are a varied as the people that celebrate them, and it’s safe to say that this tendency towards difference can cause disagreements and plant obstacles in the way of true observance. There is no right or wrong way to celebrate Christmas or any of the other long winters night holidays. Just like there is no wrong or right way to worship God - I believe it’s like Tuesday night dinner here at the GARDEN OF COLORS “Every man for his (or her) self.”
I was raised in a loving household that followed the wisdom of the Great Giraffe, a very obscure and ancient belief that up until this century was not even recognized as a religion by any government on Earth. Some say it wasn’t even started on this planet at all, but we will leave that for comparative ridiculousness class. I’m here to talk about the holidays and how just because someone has alternative methods and motives doesn’t mean they are wrong - if you look hard enough you will find that there aren’t as many differences as you might think.
To avoid persecution followers along the path of the Great Giraffe, who is said to dress like Oscar Wilde, smoke clove cigarettes, and climb trees naked to play the flute, adopted the Christian holiday of Christmas to replace their Winter Solstice celebration of Being Earnest Day. This is what my family did many calendars ago. This is what we still do today. Many of the traditions practiced by Students of the Great Giraffe were replaced by Christian ones, but some remain the same as they were 150 thousand years ago. Time changes nothing but the hands on the clock.
My Father loved Being Earnest Day, or Christmas as we were forced to call it. When I was a little boy growing up in Canadania he would get up early on that cold day in December and march all of us kids down to the "Town Quarry" where the member of the family who had accumulated the most dots of deportment during the year would have the honor of picking out the finest piece of Urbanite they could find - one with lots of color - one a truely dense voice - one with a lot of POP! Then my brothers and I (only boys were allowed to work on Being Earnest Day) would take turns rolling the Christmas Rock down Exclusion Road - through the Valley of Pain and Persecution - up to our house on Reconcile Mountain. It was a glorious time. I can still smell the 90 weight grease my father would spread all over us boys causing us to slip and fall giving the trip across the valley of Pain and Persecution real meaning. My sisters would taunt us and call us names, we got back at them however when it came time to play the reindeer games, games that when I was young used live reindeer. The girls never won, they never had the gumption it takes to eat the heart. We would then fill ourselves drunk on Watermelon Pancakes, GardenSlug pie and Sunburnt Cheese, washing it all down with homemade Hot Green KoolAid. This was leading up to that golden moment when the Great Giraffe would fly over our house in a huge, winged, eggplant colored handbag and throw down fresh velour that our seven mothers would use to make school clothes for the upcoming year. Those memories stay with me today 346 years later; it was the best time of my long life.
I’ve tried to keep those traditions alive for me my 18 wives and 42 children. It has not been easy. There are no more “Town Quarries” they've been replaced by Rokea or RockMart. Real Wild Urbanite (the kind that talks but does not listen) is impossible to find, which is too bad - there is nothing like the sound of a well read, well dressed, erudite piece of Urbanite reciting from memory a "Ripley’s Believe it Or Not" brochure like it was Shakespeare. - nothing at all.
But this year will be different, this year will be spatial - I pulled some strings and because of my recent encounter and subsequent living arrangement / business partnership with a band of Urbanite Gypsies my children will get to experience the joy of a “Real Wild Urbanite Christmas”. We have been studying their dolphin like language.The kids are almost fluent. So on that special night they will sit on their sticky, slug stained hands and listen spellbound to the Urbanite that form our Christmas Rock Tree as they tell them a parable concerning each of the towns in the U.S. where a congressman was born. They’ll then get to ask questions about the Great Giraffe - only to be completely ignored. They will experience the joy and wonder of this wonderful season just as I did so long ago.
It’s going to be a Being Earnest Day miracle!
I have to go now, my Christmas Urbanite has been delivered. I am going to break it up into individual rock personalities,form a tree, tie it to the floor, and polish it with Murphees Rock Soap so the kids can decorate it in the traditional manner with candy and the smallest coin of the realm (in this case a penny which is useless anyway) while I pour myself some Hot Lime KoolAid and sing a carol or two, just to myself.
Oh Urbanite (sung to the tune of Oh Tanenbaum)
How beautiful your voice is
We’re glad you made our choices.
You talk and talk - our ears are sore
and all of us you will ignore
How wonderful your voice is
Pease remember this holiday season to accept those around you who might celebrate Christmas in a different way than you - who might sound or look different than you - who might worship and believe in a different way than you.- who actually might be different than you. It takes many streams to make a river - many rivers to make an ocean, but only one drop to make a tear.
Please remember this, and the words of someone uttered somewhere at sometime.
None of that matters, only the message is important -
PEACE ON EARTH AND GOODWILL TOWARDS EVERYBODY!!!!
FROM THE MR. KING’S PRACTICALLY WORLD FAMOUS GARDEN OF COLORS
People ask me what type of stone is being used in the construction of MKPWFGOC. I have received permission from the estate of M.C. Mescher to now reveal that once classified information. The predominate building material at MKPWFGOC is a rare but common mineral called “Urbanite", found mainly in areas of dense human habitation it is a sedimentary rock with numerous origins. One cubic foot could contain particles from more than 50 countries. It is highly sentient with the intelligence of a eighth grader. It seeks out humans who can understand it's strange dolphin like language. It enjoys playing in fountains and listens to no one; it only speaks. — at Garden of Colors.
I love the woods, I love everything about them - even the bad stuff. For the last 200,000 years my DNA had been adapting to natures ebb and flow, yin and yang, fast and slow, good and bad. When I walk through what I believe to be sacred ground like seen in this pic I took, when I walk amongst the voices of my ancestors, I am humbled. I am in awe. I also am sacred.
Having the privilege of staying a few days with my Mom and my Sister at their home behind GoldHead State Park has recharged my batteries, but I needed to crawl inside those woods to get a slow charge that would keep my batteries able to start my spirit. I couldn’t just view then from afar. I took a short walk through the Ten acres of beauty this morning even though all the women in my family asked me not to walk by myself. I am probably going to get in trouble for this but that is a price I am wiling to pay. I walked out the door and into the woods alone. Out of respect for my sister I never went out of sight of the house, I had good shoes on, a walking stick, the weather was perfect, the trail wide and well marked, and I had a phone with a full charge in my pocket. I told her I was to be gone only 10 min and I was. Also, most importantly - my medication was doing it’s job. After all, I walk around Riverside alone every day of my life, an area that is many times more hazardous than this quaint Oak forest.
I have given up so much since I developed the blessed curse of parkinsons, Most of it has been of my own fruition, some has been at the request of my wife and family. I don’t climb ladders - I don’t use a skill saw/chain saw/chop saw/sawzall/grinder etc. I wear a hard hat and I am trying not to work remodeling, home repair or building the GARDEN at all unless there is someone nearby. I don’t drive. I don’t climb stairs with anything in my hands. I always carry a purse so I always have a phone and ID. The list goes on and on. But, there are some things I will fight to keep doing until I make the decision to stop myself. I am a smart man, but parkinsons can affect your decision making process, so I will come up with some rules now so as to enable myself to maintain control over what i can and what I cannot do later. Remember, you are not being a control freak when you are fighting for the right to control your own life.
Andy’s Rules of Acquiescence
No body wants to control me, they are just concerned and do not want me to hurt myself. I can’t blame them for his, but they must realize that right now I am well aware of my limitations, most of the activities curtailed that I have listed above were my idea. I hope my family can accept these rules. If not then we need to sit down with my doctor and work it out. If I am extremely careful and follow all the safety rules to the letter there is no reason that I can maintain a certain amount of control over my life.
I love the woods, I love everything about them - even the bad stuff.
Until next time -
just say yes!
meet Andy Ward King, a professional musician and artist until a diagnosis of parkinons dsease at age 49 forced him into an early retirement., he now uses his music, his art along with the whimsical world he has created in this blog as therapy to ( as he puts it ) outsmart his brain and make the daily battles with parkinson’s a little bit easier, to give him that all important reason to get up on the morning, to make his life worth living. Andy has learned how to say NO to gving up \ NO to depression and apathy \ NO to following willingly the road of decline that stretches before him. he learned that to say no to all of these things all one has to do is say yes. Andy has learned to just say YES to life/\\