**Random query: Take a guess as to what the fine is for possession of a platypus?????
I only sprouted upon this interesting fact after flipping on SXM to catch up on unbiased POTUS news developments with Julie Mason. Turns out some moron, in some podunk town Down Under was parading around a mall with a baby platypus.
I consider the platypus to be my “spirit animal”. 
At the age of eight years old, Mother Mary Cleo (Mom) stitched together a stuffed platypus for me made of chocolate brown fur, a faded orange sock for the beak, and cut up comb claws on the back feet – still my favorite Christmas present ever! His name was Charlie and today he resides in Wisconsin with my favorite nephew. Sidenote: I think everyone should hand down their favorite stuffed animal to a beloved recipient even if to a shelter for a discarded pet or person.
Rolling up on my day of birth this month, my favorite birthday gift stares back at me every time I look at my reflection (thank you again Chef Deb Scott & Kree Brown). For those of you that don’t know, yes, it is a Tarot card tattoo. If you squint closely you’ll see a platypus in place of the white dog. The card is The Fool, of course. Who/what else would I ink?
Reading through some of my aging journals through aging hazel irises, I am enriched from the knowledge that the path I am on is one well worn … hell it isn’t a path, it’s a trench. You might think, why is Scotty feeling enriched when in fact his dumb ass hasn’t stuck to the trench, and he has a repetitive habit of running across the minefield barefoot, with a fuchsia-painted paisley blindfold strapped over one eye, a boombox in one calloused hand bumping to the rip tide rapping of Outkast’s ATLiens, and the other hand holding neither armament nor mace but a lit cigarette?
You might consider me reckless, and indeed, you would be more than tidbit correct. But in my case, I don’t consider “reckless” a negative adjective. Contempt for conforming to society or some idea of who or what I am has fully been stripped from my ego. The last few cheffing gigs did a superfluous job of breaking any vestiges of self-consciousness I may have had: I’m bare ass naked, my vulnerability entirely coated in platinum love. I am whistling, pondering, pursuing, becoming who-knows-what, and I’m more than ok with that.
To all in search of the true you, as they say in Avatar, “I See You”. Not sure if never falling was an option, but if these two damn storks can build a nest on the peak of a turret I sure as hell can build my home anywhere where upon I have 360 degree view, rise with the sun and set off into the sunset when I am feeling the call to soar, gliding rather than flapping against the universal pull towards center.
Steering for center, staying the course.
