29 Degree Beer…18 Year Old Bikini Girls from Ipanema…and The Number 42.

29 Degree Beer…18 Year Old Bikini Girls from Ipanema…and The Number 42.

There is a buzz in this world: Snow falling on the tiny heads of robins—and it is supposed to be spring.

There are lackluster drifters with a passion for March Madness.  Farm boys in Levis.  Stalwart, finicky schoolmarms who dress cool, with squared black heels and still leave red all over white papers, still live in libraries and read tall tales of Roy and Dale who still salutes and sing Happy Trails To You.

Where are you on this scale of human evolution, within the cosmic milieu…beyond and beneath and before the great storm in the Colorado Rockies of 2020? 

Hindsight is seeing back past the future.  Low priorities are sipping wine in a beer bar as the snow falls all over this cryogenic night.

Today is your day to taste all the flavors, from cinnamon/strawberry blends, to lemon smash tea just a bit more sour than the White Monkey Paw tea you usually order at the teahouse in Boulder, Colorado, that was, piecemeal, sent from a nearby Russian province that went rogue.

Experience all of life: The stars popping out at 11,000 feet in the long part of a super clear night.  Breathe in eternity.  Feel the love of 100 billion ancestors who gave something up for lent, who live in the dreams and yellowed and dog-eared covers of manuscripts yet to be found near the Red Sea, along the deserts near Kabul, before there was even a Katmandu smog problem.

What places have you yet to visit?  Maybe Istanbul on Christmas Eve is always nice; well not sure the word is nice, but filled with baths and Turkish coffee and yachts lined up in the sunrise of your misplaced imagination.

What is the point?  Well, this world is filled with the 10,000 things, with jimmy-rigged realities, wholesome pubs in Ireland, shards of truth running parallel to contrary notions, paradox confusion, to complicated plots where the heroine meets heroine and dies in a bunkhouse, where the narrator is Pooh, and the real meat is found in a little book by some dead Anglo Saxon named James Allen, As A Man Thinketh.

Point 2: Be in utter love with this day, with its perplexities, its roundabout opportunities, the dreams from rubbing up against Aladdin’s lamp.  Jump for joy.  Build an ice palace in Leadville, Colorado in the late 1800’s…then pine and pore over red/teal alcoholic drinks in the oldest bar (at least they have the oldest liquor license) west of the Mississippi, in Breckenridge where gunfights were the norm and poker was played in the most unusual ways, right Doc.?

Point 3: Is there really any point but to play, to have fun, to use your stupendous higher energy to give yourself a chance, a new romance, a day in the sun, a shot at national TV, a better, geared-up focus of what you want, and the yellow-brick-road map that gets you to the wizard’s doorstep?

Be of good cheer. Be of a profound confluence.  Be a source of humor and fun and love for all you meet, then go write some salient poetry.  Go put your best shot up on YouTube and text and twitter and do a dance for the whole world to see…even at 10,200 feet in Leadville where Doc Holiday shot his last man—on dead man’s corner—where they say the Elks club was started, where the hell are you going?  Get back here, and read until you get revved up: Start your engines.

Believe in this cosmic dance, the mystery pervading down the streets in the parade of your highest aspirations.

Do this and you can still save face.