The Ideal Reader Talks Back

We are at a crowded dance on FB. Blogging is a solo ballet routine practiced in front of a misted mirror..

Excellence coach, Tim Ferriss, says he wants to hire someone with a sledge hammer to whack him upside the head when he goes to FACEBOOK..

I couldn’t agree more – nor comply less with that sentiment.  FACEBOOK is the answer to every teen’s ….and granny’s dream of an open phone line… FB is a playspace like no other.  Danger may lurk in the bushes, but …….who cares?  Same goes for government spying..and other inconvenient snoopervisors.  Business gets done, connections get made and the variety of interactive distraction beats a TV nap.

But when I put on my Blogging Hat I wave my banner in a vacuum ….  It is a post into the void because there is no Squawking Back, real time.  It is an untethered spacewalk.   In FB, all manner of conversation is sparked instantly without the bother of a formality, no salutations etc.   Repartee at the speed of a ping is indeed “priceless.”
While we dance with many partners on FB, blogging without feedback is as solo as a ballet routine — practiced in front of a misted mirror..The writer is struggling to BRAND..seeking to put out a pure move from a consistent place… By contrast my dashed FB stuff feels “important” because someone else has made the effort. My “liking” a  position or reaffirming, retweeting that #BlackLivesMatter is no more than applause… hardly a preformance.  Even the most inspired banter on FB is unwrapping baloney rather than roasting a pig. It seems out here in the Blogishere we are telling yet another tall tale and  pouring yet another tall one for Moximon. NOTE:  Moximon is the armless Mayan folk hero of Santiago, Atitlan.. His precious likeness moves from house to house like a floating Crap game.  He  is given the best cigars and whiskey available but stays utterly mum…like Blog Readers

No. Not having a bad lair day.

The blog is an experiment..
So, from now until the end of January 2015 I am doing an online class with WordPress..
This MOOC provides assignments unlike those I would generate.

So, be not confused.
Travel tales, NGO snooping, Fund Raising, Mayans,Sports/Arts, Worrydolls and things Asian are still the meat and potatoes, here..

In fact we are readying for the Mah Jhong Journey to San Miguel d’Allende Mexico..compining traveling, ruins and things Asian in one..But that’s February…

Let’s go.

Why a Dragon?

Yellow spikes marched from her tapered tail, up red velvet vertebrae to the crown that tiny head. Oh, she had the whitest felt fangs and black beady eyes. Her long heck was ergonomically perfect for gripping and, yes, her tiny feet were beyond cute. She was the plump, plush familiar of this Iroquois paleontologist, who incidentally farmed starfish in the basement.

The Dragon, herself, seems to have come from someone other than my maternal Grandmother — otherwise, SHE would have forcefully named the little beast like she did each Easter bunny every Spring. I am , however, certain of where her name –which means “Little Dragon”– came from. My German speaking nanny, Appolonia Kugler, Christened her and me “Drachinimi” the same day.

Ultimately, “Drach” became like Kane’s “Rosebud” – lost in transition. She became the irrational symbol of paradise interrupted — a denizen of a golden wilderness on the far side of my parent’s divorce.

Feeling myself again in some golden wilderness I assume the name and the attitude..
because I still hope to breathe fire
although not for provocation or protection
but to sparkle and flash

A Room of My Own

I am one scary Virginia Woolf in my room
&Although it is reckoned in Quetzals and not British Pounds it is luver-ly.

From my hard little chair I pound away on the iPad. It is rainy season and the waterfall applauds the last batch of clouds and words. Green on top of luscious, milpas rows are intent on wiggling straight up the volcano.

More than any other time, I have found the sanctity of my walls soothing. I am living in this body almost a score more than half a century. Now, in my half round studio, I am pounding on the flat keys.

Sometimes I crave the brick horizons of New York tenements, sometimes I remember the feel of upright typewriters.  What I am here is as different and as familiar as morning.

In this room, I have learned to listen for stillness and wait for answers. More than any other time or place in my life I flow and wave inspiration in. In the morning my brush is shakey but the colors are surprising enough to keep me watching …Sure I can put on my high white waders and go out in the rain…but sometimes I just close the door and listen in solitude.