My old man falls asleep various times during the day. It's a profound sleep that lasts only a few minutes, but sometimes half hour or more. He is still out there, in Hollywood, trying to make his next million dollars. He made it twice before, and now, at 73 years of age, he feels he can do it once more. Twice made a million dollars, twice lost it. His apartment is a mess of guitars, books, magazines, and gizmos. He is buried in his own wealth. A weird experience to pass with him, because he is intelligent enough to see the dilemma but unwilling to cede it to loosing his property. Too many things and too small a space. And those things are all "essential" to him. His materialistic armor, defending him from poverty?
And me? Am I a pack rat? Probably. I like my things, and I like to keep them even when it's not practical. All I really need is ash and cow shit to be happy?
Cow shit.
Bull shit.
It's what makes most sense in all the world. Mushrooms grow on it, and you can burn it, and you can use it to plant fun things like marihuana and salvia and ayahuasca.
I should be writting some "pontificados", but what do I have to say really?
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