The Three Legged Dog and The One-Eyed Undertaker Whistling Dixie

You need to find your favorite cemetery and dance under the full moon delight. You are alive, filled with health and wealth and a second chance, an umpteenth chance to curl up your toes and dance on the dead, to remember them, to go down to small towns in Mexico, the day after Halloween in the States (they call it The Day of The Dead) and dance.  Watch all the luminaries on the graves, the decorations—it’s a way south celebration.

For if you celebrate the dead, it gives such a magnificent contrast to enjoy and realize that you are not them; you can still walk down the street to the local sushi bar and swill Saki, and eat their very best white fish (varieties unknown) and dip it in ponzu sauce…remembering the gates around the cemetery may keep them in, but you can walk right out, dancing like a pheromone flying through a fiesta on a Negro Modella night.

Today it is absolutely vital to take the last train out, to sit quietly and listen to every single word of the jabberwocky that just turned into a six year old who is continually frantic with life, oozes out of her pores, singing and dancing in and out of everywhere.

Pick a single adventure today: Save a dog; rescue yourself from boredom; plan your next vacation to Carlsbad, NM.  Hey, it is only hours away from most parts of the United States and you always get a bonus: Hanging out in Roswell to listen to the old stories, after you get by the fake aliens and hype of the fifties where the locals were wearing poodle dresses and watching Donna Reed on TV when the real crash came and changed humanity for decades.

Or you can look up into the heavens, preferably on the outskirts of town, way up high, say above 9,000 feet in Colorado, and you will see billions of stars.  Stand there in the completeness of pitch dark silence—like down under in Carlsbad when they shut off the streaming lights—and see the Milky Way smash the ordinary out of your brain.

I listened once to the publisher of Success Magazine on his monthly CD…his goal was to watch and photo 50 sunsets this year…he did 80.  Nature is the key to hyperbole, to peace within that can and will and enjoys dancing in cemeteries, that revels the energy of children and country music and Coors on some downtown Golden, CO bar where, not far away, Buffalo Bill is buried. 

 Go dance on his tombstone. Watch Tombstone and remember one of the best lines out of the whole movie: “Live Wyatt, live,” said Doc Holiday with his nearly last gasping breath in a Glenwood Springs sanatorium.

And Wyatt says, “Doc, I just want a normal life.”

Doc replies as he coughs and tries to sit up, “There ain’t no normal life Wyatt, there’s just life.”

Now you and me and Doc and Dr. Seuss and Kalamazoo…go live life today with a vengeance, with a slight of hand, with the vim and vigor and excitement of an army of school kids on recess.

Be the bliss you were born to be…and dance under the old oak trees and around the ancient fences of the cemeteries that are littered with men and women who many, I bet, took this wonderful life for granted.

But not you, not today, not ever…for you were gifted from your ancestors this perfect day to watch another sunset, to play with children and to create the fun and lifestyle that most merely talk about.

Go out and dance and care and love and take a chance on doing something spectacular, remarkable…something that would do justice to a line, a short remembrance on your someday tombstone…that will inspire your ancestors placing flowers on your legendary life.