It’s a bummer that the grand communal smoke-ins that typically characterize this particular date on the Gregorian calendar probably aren’t going to fly this year. I’ve been to quite a few of those in my day, and they were always a riotous good time. Mystical, otherworldly, and festive as all shit. Like a rock concert, or that huge pagan festival I went to in Toronto a number of years ago. We’ll experience that again soon, or something like it. Winter never lasts forever.
While we’re all twiddling our thumbs waiting to see the new world rising from the shambles of the old, I meditate this morning on the men and women in uniform who put their own sanity on the line every day to deal directly with all things insane. It should be pointed out that many of them keep journals. Writing things down feeds a human head the appropriate war medicine so it can poop out the bullshit and properly digest what’s truly important. Verily, it is fibre for the mind. Forgoing a regular voiding of this bullshit is the leading cause of a condition unofficially known as mental constipation, with symptoms that include frequent compulsions to run around like a chicken with its head cut off. Suffice it to say, there is no room for headless chickens in the armed forces. Generals and admirals don’t always publish their memoirs, but they will oft write those memoirs regardless, because they have to.
Five and ¾ Senses 