Wendell Berry, poet, farmer, and environmentalist, has passed away.
I saw this piece on how he prepares to write

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Tuesday.
A woman on an elevator with a white Walt Disney World purse.
I asked her if she knew about a building in Los Feliz.
A PO Box/tchotchki/photocopy/notary public shop — was Walt’s first office.
Before I got out, “…Los Feliz…” she already knew.
Between the 2nd floor and the lobby, she told me she was very stressed, and her love of Disney helped manage that.

Cold Mountain
by Han Shan (c. 800), legendary hermit.
The preface says:

“No one knows where Han Shan came from.”

Gary Snyder, poet, mountain man, and environmentalist, translated it. Here’s one I can’t shake:

And finally, in a huge pivot:

Adults on Hulu. I’m not sure why I like it so much. Nowhere close to their ideal demographic. But, I could binge-watch it for days. Warning: 20-somethings experiencing adulthood and trying to be ‘good’ people. My god! So irritating, so crude, but so funny.

Peace to all.

One of the lovely surprises of this Substack has been watching people get to know each other. But I realize as that happens some basic, explicit, guardrails would be helpful.

A couple weeks ago, when we were going to try Zoom, some online safety concerns were raised that I don’t feel I adequately addressed.

So here goes:

Please be thoughtful about sharing personal information—addresses, phone numbers, private emails, etc.—and never feel obligated to continue a private conversation or relationship with another subscriber simply because you met here.

And while I care very much about this community, I'm its host. If someone makes you feel unsafe or is behaving inappropriately here, absolutely let me know. But personal relationships and conversations that develop between subscribers are ultimately theirs to navigate.

Be kind. Respect boundaries. Take care of yourselves and each other.

That's probably enough rules for one day.

No need to respond to this one—I just wanted to put some basic boundaries in place as our little community grows.

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I’m excited about tomorrow’s Ask Me Anything.

I sent the Live Video link to everyone, but here it is again in case you didn’t get it. Link

When: Saturday, Aug. 22
Time: 8am PT/11am ET

I’m open to talk about most things, though let’s leave politics off the table. It always works best when we’re just riffing, so let it rip! And along the way b…

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Oh. Fuck.
That was my first, highly spiritual thought upon reading Stella Green’s review/insights of the play Cleansed, for the Exeunt Substack. A piece of theatre which seems so rife with violence and assault that a Buddha can scarcely count their breaths.

And this is only the review.

Dear god.

I want to see it.
I never want to see it.
I’m horrified. I’m intrigued.
I can’t imagine sitting through it.

Also? I can’t believe that perhaps I’ve become ‘that’ person.

A person who goes to the theatre seemingly open-minded, forms—or confirms—an opinion within seconds, and then dares the production to pry it from my bloody hands.

This review stopped me in my tracks. It swapped out some old wiring and, psychically, filled me with fresh information while reminding me of what I intuitively knew about theatre.

It’s the kind of insightful, jump-into-your-gut writing, that Natasha Tripney and a couple of others on that side of the pond are so good at.

They remind me, tangibly, that the transformative nature of theatre and creativity comes with a cost. And it’s a biggie: the collapse of the ego.

The best of art knocks me off any position, off my cushion, off my feet and onto my ass.

In the moment, it pushes thoughts and ideas around with such velocity that I haven’t any time to recollect them. I scratch and scrape in my seat, looking furtively about and wondering - are we all seeing this? Is there more?

Yes, there is.

And it’s thundering in its assault on the little me. The ego. The whatever. Until that is smashed, and I’ve no clue how to piece anything back together again.

To survive that stripping away of pretense when presented with a ‘strange world’, I go into survival mode. I board up the windows.

I judge.

I call it taste. I call it too this or too that.

Stella’s article reminds me to breathe. Stay in my seat. Let it lead me. Let it get ahead of me. Let something else sort it all out.

And I love it.

The whole thing. The sitting, judging, recognizing the judging, and settling in for the long haul—come what may.

Hell, yeah.
Blow me apart.
Let it all lie there in a heap of wonder.

And read Stella Green’s article.

Sometimes it’s just right there. Arm’s reach. No strain.

Prompt

Right now - look up and notice 5 to 10 words or numbers.

Write a story. However long. In whatever genre you like, or allow the genre to emerge from the words and how they piece together.

I see

N38.2500
Louisville
Shunryu
Actor
Cherry
Corn
Gathering
Scatter

My Take

Now we, the children, gathering in front of the announcing board. Our good Founders bringing yet another actor to entertain us - Shunryu, the Flax-Headed Monologist. There would be blue-corn at the asking, comedic and fantastical scenes, some incantations, and a ghost. Always a ghost.

They will do anything to keep us occupied. To not scatter away in the night like N38.2500 the year before or G16.0975 the year before that.

Missing what we don’t know we are missing. Craving what we can never get.

Louisville.

I’ve heard this word many times. Louisville. It is in our dreams. My dreams. Not for Them. My cherry language - turning the acceptable L’s and is’s, oui and le’s into escape fuel.

Had our friends made it there? If there was a there? Would I, if I had the braveness to go?

Violà! It took on a dystopian children’s colony vibe.

Make it your own. Enjoy! Post what you write!

I’ll send the Zoom link to paid subscribers Friday evening.

We can chat about anything.

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Bring me a question, and I’ll have a response—if not an answer!

If I can’t come up with something, I’m sure someone else will.

Writing, acting, directing, Homicide, non-dual stuff, or anything else that comes up.

When: Saturday, August 22
Time: 8am PT / 11am ET

Come for ten minutes. Stay for the chaos.

Look for your Writers Wednesday prompt tomorrow!

Cheers.

Colors, Narcissus, Law & Disorder, Prison Riot.

Those were the last four episodes I watched on Sunday evening.
Narcissus being the rare one I couldn’t get through.

Which I find interesting. Having watched myself over and over…

I’ll say this—Homicide was quite the show.

It often felt like I was watching these episodes for the first time, with only shadowy memories of the stories, people, and places.

I was often blown away by the performances and the stylistic choices. Surprised by some of the memories that were unlocked.

My wife watched a few with me, and I got a sprinkle of love every episode. Even my daughter and some of her friends joined us on the couch and watched a few minutes, taking quick looks back and forth between 1990s Kyle and 2026 Kyle.

They were shocked by some of the racial under- and overtones, and cracked up at the off-the-cuff dark humor.

I felt a bit of that glow that comes with being rediscovered (by your own family!). Very much a Late Fame weekend.

Here’s my grouse. Not really a grouse, but close enough:

Watching all of these back to back to back was more than I bargained for. Not that I didn’t appreciate the viewing experience.

They were very much of their time in one particular way: they were made for weekly release.

Seeing me or Andre yelling and carrying on for hours on end made me a little dizzy.

I started this Substack two years ago, just a few months before Homicide found its way back onto television. I had no idea then how much of this space would become about the show—or what would grow out of writing about it.

I’m glad I did this. I’m glad all of you who joined in were out there watching your favorite episodes and rediscovering ones you’d forgotten.

I have a feeling I’ll always write about Homicide when something calls me back to it.

But I also have a feeling I’ve said most of what I needed to say about the show for now.

Which feels pretty good.

There’s other stuff rattling around in there .

Now, give me your HLOTS Top 5. And the one or two you can’t bear to watch!

On Tuesday, August 18, 2026, the HLOTS licensing agreement with Peacock expires.

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So far, with no new home to light upon.

End times are nigh.

Remember being able to say to friends and acquaintances, “Wait! You’ve never seen Homicide??!! Oh man, how lucky are you, head over to Peacock.”

I started this Substack back in 2024. I was already eager to write and publish without hesitation or constraints. But I didn’t quite know what to write about.

Then, rumors of Homicide’s return began to circulate. That inspired me to rattle my brain and see what fell out.

Since then:

Nearly 300 articles
Interviews
Short stories
Haiku
Bayliss Journals
Prompts
Promos
Subscriber Stories
AMAs and Live Writers Circles.
All the incredible and brave work that many of you have shared.
A community of interesting, creative, caring people who have offered freely of themselves.

That’s what happened. All that.

Subscribers have come and gone. It’s the nature of anything like this, I imagine. But many of you who showed up at the beginning are still here.

Still kicking.

So, what are we gonna do about this? I’m almost certain there’s no way to convince Peacock to keep it going.

But I’m certainly not going to let this pass by unnoticed—at least for all of you.

Dire times require a bold response! (strikes a pose)

For the next five days, I’m going full ridiculous:

I’m gonna press play on as many Homicide episodes as humanly possible.
My mind’ll be like a wild mustang, or… a Cavalier.
Memories, BTS stories, whatever comes up—I’ll let it gush.

Not merely to watch it before it disappears again. Oh no! But to subject myself to five days of staring at my younger self, my old work, old friends, old choices, old hair, bad suits…and God knows what else.

I’ll take photos, shoot videos, and post stories until I can't post any more. (I won’t double up on episodes I’ve already written or podcasted about. That would just be silly)

What will it look like?
The hell if I know. A mess, for sure.
But a righteous mess!

Consider this me raising a ruckus.

Join in if you want. Let me know what you’re watching or rewatching for the 10th time.

It’ll will be berserkers, bunk.

Yesterday, before a long walk. I couldn’t find my headphones.
Damn.
No music? No audiobook? Just…walking?
Ugh.

I pound an espresso.

The last thing I read before leaving home is, “…insentient beings expounding the dharma”. One of those inscrutable lines, which, when pulled out of context, is made more inscrutable.

But it sticks.

First thing I notice - stay with me - is the air.
A slight breeze. Body moving through this invisible life-giving whatchamacallit.
Cool air that belies the forecast of stifling heat.

The walk itself isn’t a stand-alone.
But an extension of what came before.
Not coffee. Dress. Meditate. Write. Walk.
But coffeedressmeditatwritewalk.

Something else I noticed which began the day before.

At the gym.

I was standing on one foot, eyes closed, for 30 seconds.
“Maintain balance,” my mind advised.
Yet it became clear that the body didn’t need instructions.
All the little foot hydraulics were engaged in ‘balance’.
My mind only showed up when I started to actually fall.
During an ‘oh, shit’ moment.
Then, both feet hit the ground.
Damn.
I was still alive.

And on the walk, I noticed again I’m not doing anything.
I even tried to find some motivation, ambition, focus.
Nothing.
I wasn’t purposefully walking a straight line, or obeying pedestrian rules of the road, or attempting to stay upright.

It just was as it was.

For Caffeinated Buddha, this is pretty damn cool.

My feet are numb. Peripheral neuropathy.
It’s a horror show for a once-proud semi-action hero to admit.
I find myself dismayed by the lack of connection to the earth and its effect on the simple act of walking. I imagine it worsening. All sorts of things.

And I still catch myself trying to walk the way I remember walking.

However, on this day, after a home-brewed almond milk latte, no headphones, and those delicious few words on insentient beings expounding the dharma—there’s no issue.

The body does the body.
Pebbles, grass, cars, and stop signs sing their sermons.
Life is just this.

It was another hot day in LA…100°+.

After a satisfying meditation (was it though? Can’t remember), I decided to take myself on a movie date.

The first thing that caught my eye was Mary Oliver: Saved By The Beauty of the World

A mere fifteen minutes away, perfect show-time, great indie theatre.

Then—one hour, eight online previews later, and a container …

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Note: I’ve decided to kick AI Caffeinated Buddha to the curb.

What started as a bit of creative fun gradually became an unexpected creative crutch. So, I’m setting him free.

Now begins the hunt for a new face for the series. Maybe I’ll find a wonderful illustrator. Maybe I’ll cobble together my own Buddhas. Maybe the right one will show up when I stop loo…

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These two episodes were a strange watch for me.

Not because of the stories.

Because I can see things that no one else probably notices.
Little signs that remind me where I was.
Season Four was the beginning of the end for a certain part of my life.

I can see the bottom without squinting.

I initially picked these episodes because David Eigenberg (recently o…

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Tomorrow morning our Writers Circle meets again. One of my favorite parts of this community is watching all of you encourage one another and discover stories you didn't know you had. If you're a paid subscriber, I'll see you there.

If you haven't touched this week's prompts, don't let that stop you. Come anyway. Bring your coffee and a notebook, and let …

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.
Caffeinated Buddha doesn’t really review movies.

He reviews consciousness…with a bag of popcorn.

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Based on seeing Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey this week, today’s prompt is inspired by that wonderfully human habit of forgetting.

Or...

That lesson I needed to learn over and over and over to get where I am today.

And may need to learn again.

Prompt

What was—or is—that lesson?

Maybe it didn’t seem like a lesson the first…

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I don’t know anyone who hasn’t been here.

You see someone you know.
Someone from years ago.

An old friend. An old lover.
A family member.
Someone who hurt you.
Someone you hurt.

You see each other.

And...you don’t say hello.

Maybe they don’t recognize you.
Maybe they do.
Maybe you both silently agree to pretend.

Something isn’t going to be said.

Prompt

Your protagoni…

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For my Paid Subscribers:

It’s almost time for another Writers Circle Live Video hullabaloo!

This monthly gathering is one of my favorite parts of this community. If you're a paid subscriber, all the details are below.

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