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Dorothy Parker

Thank you for your post Scott Parker-Anderson

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Telling them I’m fucking busy — or vice versa.

~ Dorothy Parker

I’ve always loved that quote with or vice versa. Beyond priceless and full-on expressive of Dorothy Parker’s Beyond Mad Men Ad-men (person) level of wit to not just cut through, but to liberate the truth with her wonderfully scary mad observational abilities and playing tennis at the net right back BAM, Winner.

Her wit. Her wisdom wise in time in the moment that didn’t seethe under the surface, or rarely did.. was belted out directly and was not parsed or diluted. She expressed herself… She expressed herself wise in time in the moment. Heck, why wait for the short fuse when you can just BLOW Straightaway?!! Especially, the way she responded.

Pensive takes time. Dorothy took life by the horns and rode it in style and if you engaged her, you might as well have been the bull rider to her 2,000 pound Brahma Bull constitution of direct and full-on Nature. Maybe I’ll nickname her Brahmana. She was certainly strong enough and wise in time enough to run a Temple.

She Feels

Dorothy Parker feels like the kind of person that got more and more of her high octane self as she progressed through life, and she started with much out of the gate… the full-on of no debt with HERSELF… Feels like she paid off that mortgage before she started… Not by keeping it simple or real. By expressing the heart of the matter congruent with the heart of the matter. Without spin or diluting it with the propaganda falsely-tentative Betty Boop figure-eight Angler Fish foot baiting out loops of alleged weakness in the form of Schussss, We’re in the Library kinds of discretion. Dorothy dealt it. Period. Engage her, and you would be engaged… or ignored. Love it!

Bam! Kapow!

BAM, is a word. KAPOW is a word. BAM and KAPOW, are mostly of course used as onomatopoeias in cartoons, Batman, etc, though I ascribe them to Dorothy’s Way.. BAM. KAPOW. Those two words are complete sentences in Dorothy’s vocabulary.

An old Malay Proverb expresses, Trees with strong roots laugh at storms. Maybe even after being a silent and empathic and undisturbed mirror through each storm, the tree softly and compassionately reaches to the subsided storm and, Did your bluster have a message? That sounds like classic Dorothy. I feel From my perspective that that proverb is full-on Dorothy Parker worthy. She’d checkmate you in one move, and then assist to figure out a better way moving forward. Well, of course after patiently waiting for you to lick your wounds.

Dorothy Led

Dorothy led by example, by the example of what it means to be unapologetic for Your Life, Your Way. To me, Dorothy Parker is the Poster Child for Be Yourself, What Other Way Is There? Or, my Mystereum and ImaginAction mantra of. Your Life, Your Way, Actionably. Without fail, she was that. Herself. Indefatigably. Indomitably. She is my Keumgang Jitae, my Diamond Mountain 6th Dan form. I will forever have the asset of being in her debt. She lives with Jung, Morgan, Nietzsche, Blake, Watts, Rumi, Rilke, Van Gogh, Picasso, Cassatt, and The Temple of Luxor at Karnak (R.A.Schwaller de Lubicz — yes, dispense with his politics… he formed The Temple in Man and The Temple Of Man which were primary form-giving influences in my formative years) as my primary Historical Friends.

Dorothy Parker, You wen from this world 6 months before I came in in 1967. I do not say R.I.P.

Dorothy Parker. My memories of you, the lot of them from what I’ve mined, are blessings. I cherish them all. Thank you. We need more of you.

Dorothy, Thank you for giving form to the formless in your every utterance to keep things brought to square… and continue to evolve the things you valued without them being diminished by the trash-talk of Reason(s).

We Need

We need more women and more people who are like Dorothy Parker and Julia Morgan to step up into who they are with their native talents and develop those talents into consummate abilities. That stuff is a priceless treasure.That stuff, the stuff of Dorothy Parker and Julia Morgan, makes the world a better place from my perspective.

Hemingway Comes To Mind

Hemingway comes to mind in regards to Dorothy Parker in regards to writing. He expressed, Writing (read in: creating) is not difficult. All you have to do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed. Dorothy Reminds me of Hemingway’s expression. She sat down in her life somewhere, at some point, and bled. And, after that, she never stopped pouring her life into her work. Thank you for leading by example Dorothy Parker!

Just Sayin’. What’s YOUR Sayin’?

*********************

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LIbrary of Esoterica by Jessica Hundley. Taschen Books, 2020

Trace the hidden history of Tarot in the first volume from TASCHEN’s Library of Esoterica, a series documenting the creative ways we strive to connect to the divine. Artfully arranged according to the sequencing of the Major and Minor Arcana, this visual compendium gathers more than 500 cards and works of original art from around the world in the ultimate exploration of a centuries-old art form.

(C) 2020 Jessica Hundley, Taschen Books

 
 

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The 5th Ace: Death & My Greatest Crux

I found at the crux of the greatest challenge of my life . . .
I haven’t spoken of this story in years, and I carried the equilateral, triangular piece of basalt that I found back at the top, that had personality, would stand up on one side, in my pocket daily for 5 years. . .

I was waiting for the rest of the group to come back down off of the summit, and slipped backwards off of a cornice rock ledge into the scree field on the backside of a 14’r (14,000 foot mountain) in October of 2000 years back on a hiking trip and slid standing perfectly upright about 100 feet down, no resistance, just gliding with feet under the sand, submerged feet-surfing mostly.  Then I breathed and that movement made for another 100 feet, and another 100 feet, and then down over the 1st pitch from the top out of the view of my climbing buddies as I yelled “DON’T FOLLOW ME, ONLY ONE OF US WILL DIE, AND I CAN’T TAKE CARE OF YOU HERE, GO NOTIFY. . .”  . . .and eventually almost 2,000 vertical feet later at a 45-50 degree pitch found solace on a boulder bigger than my car that moved when I touched it, sand sliding out from in front of it.  I flowingly climbed on to it thinking that if it went I’d feel no pain. . .and might as well go out on a sports car of a fast-accelerating boulder ya know?!   Then after an hour of wonderful end-game tears and no way out at 4p in the afternoon when you were supposed to be off the pile of rocks by 2p. . .the temp dropped from 65 to 25 as the sun dropped below the rim of the summit, and I was day-dressed, long shorts and one sweatshirt.  Then, after smiling that “well, if I’m gonna go, I’m going out in my style. . .kickin’-and screamin’ in a long-form cosmic YAWP!”  Turning to look back up the steep pitch towards the top I couldn’t see, “And, if I’m going to go, I am going THAT way!!” I recited a poem I had written in 1991 on the hood of my car by headlights moving to Denver in 1991 in the middle of a blizzard snowstorm:

A Prayer

There comes one,

whom we know like wind,

like rain upon the water.

And, as winter comes

and our memories freeze together,

together may we sleep and dream.

So, that come the springtime,

as we embrace with open eyes,

may we melt

back together

in each others’ arms.

Amen.
And, I slid-flowed off of the boulder as more sand made its way down to the 2+ second drop-off, thousand one thousand two, CLICK the rock I tossed over sounded. Can’t survive a 2+ second fall that I had by the grace of all higher powers defiantly stopped short of. . .and I knew search and rescue couldn’t help with a helicopter until morning ’cause the storms were coming in, and even then the turbulence from the blades would avalanche the dry and frozen sands I was standing on in the scree field and they consequently wouldn’t try. . .I began slowly churning my feet chanting a word at each step “discipline   of   the  ritual     discipline    of    the    ritual” as I aimed up toward the next larger-than-my-car boulders knowing two things. . .1 the sand would be subtly more stable for upward movement, and 2 that if they went, again I would feel no pain. . . for 6 hours straight veering towards and then off from one to the next as the sand mini-avalanche cascaded up towards them in that flow of undermining the hill on its way uphill to the boulder . . .until at 10pm in the pitch black of night I was back at some snow patches near that 1st top pitch.  Except I remembered from the daylight when I slowly slid past them that the snow patches had tons of pink in them as I passed them earlier.  Ghiardia?, Pseudomollus?.  Not so good to touch or ingest. Can be fatal, and I had enough of that entree on my plate already.
So, I churned sideways traversing around them, and at midnight I was back at the summit.  Dead tired, looked up at the stars. . . BEAUTIFUL.  EXQUISITE.  And, dragged my right hand through the scree field at my feet to get a sand band-aid to stop bleeding that came from??, and something felt to stay in my hand.  I lifted my hand flat-palm up as a sand tea ceremony into the light of the stars and the sand cascaded off to reveal a stone, a triangular piece of basalt.  It would be my memory of this trip, and now, ALL I had to do was downclimb a mountain I had been on for the first time that day, in the dark, with sharp-edged rocks that would end up slicing through the thick soles of my hiking boots by the time I got down to near the top trailhead, and a 500 foot drop-off somewhere off over to the left, somewhere, somewhere over to the left. . . somewhere, too dark to tell. . . just don’t go left, I muttered as my lips cracked. More sand, at least some relief to keep focused as much as I could.  Clamping the triangle talisman memory-rock in my hand. . .moving down and to the right, at least right-ish.
At 3 am I, dragging my left leg as my left knee was totally blown and banged up and bloody as was my right temple from a rock somewhere, who knows where, sand probably too foot-trafficked dirty here to use, and the water had been in someone else’s pack ’cause I carried it up the climb, I saw campfires. . .base camps.
 I tried to shout and nothin’ but more cracking lips, the aphasia of dehydration anesthetizing my voice. No voice, no sound.  I kept creature-from-the-black-lagoonin’ limp-dragging my leg, the thought of which had kept a subtle grin but not so big as to crack my lips more through the last half of the down-climb — my Norwegian defiance of a joke on my lips kinda thing.  A woman walking at the edge of their campfire light shouts from way over “HEY EVERYONE. . .LOOK!!!”  and , runs towards me.  Search and rescue and my buddies had spread the word around the campsites. . .”Jordan? Are you, Jordan?” she said with her hand on my shoulder. . .and when I heard my name, I looked at her and my legs disappeared, collapsed. Unconscious k.o. by mountain.  Woke at after 4am to paramedics laughing that “Man, his vitals are VITAL!, 120 over 80 the whole time, and he’s waking up.”  I looked to my buddies and chuckling, lips salved or something, weird taste, said “Who’s gonna punch me, 1st?!!!”   One of my good friends shook his head and said “I’ve never been SO pissed off in my life!” ???  “HOW were we gonna tell your parents that you were the only one who didn’t do shrooms, and DIED?  We didn’t offer ’em to you ’cause you’re so damn vivid anyway we knew you’d laugh a no thanks.”  And, then put a gallon of water and a cold burger and fries in front of me they had gone into town to get for me waayyy earlier when they got to base camp.
I still love that story . . .NOW!  😉
BIG OLE :-)’s from here!  BIG OLE :-)’s  It was Mt. Democrat near Breckenridge, Colorado.  Guess I put in MY vote, huh.  😉

There comes one,

whom we know like wind,

like rain upon the water.

And, as winter comes

and our memories freeze together,

together may we sleep and dream.

So, that come the springtime,

as we embrace with open eyes,

may we melt

back together

in each others’ arms.

 

That was the best burger and fries I have ever had.  Thank You Mike Allison.

Jupiter’s Blessings,
Jordan
All images and text (c) 2010, 2011 Jordan Hoggard. Please be responsible and simply not an ass. When you utilize any of this information, cite your source.  Thanks in advance. When you do, expect a rockin’ smile.  If you don’t, watch out for trebuchets, the adult wrist rocket.
 
 

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