In this house-of-cards world that seems to be collapsing inward upon us from every conceivable angle, everyday-people seem to lie supinely in apathy watching it all come down around them. We are an indolent, intellectually lazy, bunch who collectively respond to any form of oppression or trouble with an attitude of there ain't nothin' I can do about it . I can't tell you how many times I've heard those who I love and care about the most in all the world say those words. The situation is close to dire enough to bring me storming to the battle-front from my reclusive world. Why are we allowing this to happen? Our very existence as we've known it is being systematically swept right out from beneath our supine bodies as slick as a cloth from a table, leaving us exposed, unprotected and naked, to the nefarious winds of oppressive change. For 30 years and more, some of us have seen this coming and yet, knowing it in our hearts, feeling it intuitively in our guts, we'...

It's Christmas – a time when some of us do a lot of soul-searching and reflecting in a nostalgic sort of way. And it's not that I feel old; I really don't. I'm in excellent health, comfortable with my life except for obsessing over my Zahir, and I like to think I'm pretty much up to date as a techno-user in this new world of technology and gadgets. Yeah, I've got my computers, my BlackBerry, and I do quite a lot of semi-technical work. But the thing is I don't really enjoy all this hi-tech crap any more, and so much of it seems to me to be entirely unnecessary, or even counter-productive. I think it causes stress in humans, but maybe not in rats. Yesterday my BlackBerry mysteriously lost its Internet service, and between the time it went down and the time my service was restored, I was tense, irritated, sweaty under the arms, and upset with RIM – an outfit that prides itself in its technological expertise. When I finally got to talk to a real person about th...

My uncle, Albert Pendergraft, committed suicide in 1944, apparently from a longtime overdose of alcohol and depression. He blew his head off with an S&W .38 Special revolver. Born just three years before his death, I have no recall of the event, but Albert, no doubt unintentionally, left a life-long gift for me – or for anyone else who cared to partake of it for what it was. So far as I know I am the only one who did, though my older brother may have. The gift was what I believe was his suicide note – a poem of love for the land he roamed that depicted a key part of the philosophy of his lonesome life. For several years late in his life he was a ditch rider. For sure, he was a recluse: he had great love for Gaia, but little love for his fellow man or their gods. Albert was born on a remote ranch in Johnson County, Wyoming, in 1894, just four years after Wyoming became a part of the United States. The son of a Texas Trail cowboy, he spoke so seldom that he became known as Silent Al ...

In my September 30 essay, Muses About Muses , I touched on my new Muse – a woman who stole my heart and rekindled in me some of the confidence and zest for life that I'd lost while I was incarcerated. Prison existence destroys the ego, takes one's pride and confidence away, and leaves one with nothing but fear and self-loathing. The correctional system is designed to break one down to little more than a plasmatic puddle of subservient humility and self-pity. Perhaps this is what some public offenders need in order to re-enter society successfully, but in my own case the descent into useless oblivion was devastating to my sense of well-being and self-assurance. I trusted no one – not even myself – and I was angry and bitter toward any kind of authority or guidance. Shortly after my release from prison an employment counselor assigned to my case interviewed me briefly, looked over my impressive resume, and laughed derisively. "All I see here is all about you, you, you,"...