Gun Control: Another View

This comes from Brother Dave:

Jac —
While I have a different view regarding particulars, in general I agree. Having said that, I am not sure the problem of US citizens killing each other, all at once or one by one, would be reduced as much as many would hope should either of our prescriptions be adopted...

There is, I firmly think, such a thing as “national traits” or a “national character.” Those things are, in my view, simply extensions of that which defines a society; its traits and shared beliefs. As such, this country has certain very deeply entrenched, very dysfunctional national traits. Our national immersion in violence has fed on itself for many generations and it does not seem to me that those traits can be up-rooted by more rational training and qualification requirements for firearm ownership (obviously, it would seem, they have effectively mitigated against such requirements be adopted). Such measures would most likely greatly reduce accidental homicide with firearms – a non-trivial accomplishment, to be sure.

It seems to me all but certain that we will not be able to test my assertion as the chance that this event, any more than all the other headline-grabbing, sensationalized similar events in the very recent or even more distant past, will lead to any meaningful and rational changes in firearms ownership requirements.

---

I responded:

America may not have invented the gun, but we certainly have perfected it and use it more (per capita) than any other developed nation. You may be right about extreme violence, particularly of the gun, being a part of our national identity.

I read an editorial this morning which essentially argued that these violent events can be traced to our greater immersion in our screens (which separates us from our fellow humans), and "shooter games" in particular. As you probably know, some studies demonstrate that our mind makes no distinction between killing a virtual person and an actual person, with the result that we become as desensitized to killing humans as a recruit fresh from boot camp.

Does Pop Culture Inspire Murder? by Owen Glieberman

Brother Dave's response:
While I doubt the assertion that our minds do not make such a distinction, I am persuaded that interactive video games, most importantly that class referred to as “first shooter” games, do play a role in desensitizing the individual to acts of violence as the “victims” return to “life” with the next playing of the game. The game also can instill a reflexive “pulling of the trigger.” I was much influenced in my views on this particular matter by the academic work of a retired US Army Lt. Colonel named David Grossman. He published his academic work in a popularly-accessible book titled On Killing. His research centered on his discovery that, prior to the American War in Viet Nam, the rate at which combat troops actually took part in killing had been quite low. He began to inquiry with WW I where he found rates as low as 5-10%. The “non-killers” might not fire their weapons at all or might fain taking part by firing in the air or the general direction of the enemy. He then traced the incremental change through WW II, the Korea to Viet Nam by which time the rate of participation had increased to 85%. His analysis turned to the training methods employed across those decades and he found the increase in killing participation rates tracked very closely to the increasing use of operant conditioning techniques in military training. The final chapter of the book turns to the role of certain of the techniques used in that training in entertainment, with special concern for the the violent video game. One of his more compelling observations was that while in a military context those trained to kill (over coming the strong, deeply instilled taboo) were under “adult” supervision and that violence directed toward approved targets (no commentary on the morality of that target selection), no such supervision was available for those young folks, many of exactly the same age as the military recruit.

I am going to append the comments of a man I know in Austin, Alan Pogue.... whom I respect tremendously. Alan has been a professional photographer, living in Austin, since his return from Viet Nam where he served as a field medic. Like me, almost as soon as he got back home he signed on with VVAW. Unlike me, ever since he has committed his time, his energies and his considerable talent as a photographer in the fight for social and economic justice and against wars of aggression. He has produced a body of artistic documentation of the lives and trials of others around the world engaged in such struggles to survive, rather than as a matter of moral conviction. With that context, Alan's thoughts on the latest mass shooting:

The shooter picked the best media moment to commit his crime insuring the maximum media coverage. He could simply have placed bombs in the theater and escaped undetected. He wanted public recognition. He picked the most public media moment. He allowed himself to be arrested. He placed himself at the vortex of violence idolatry and he called his shot at public recognition with precision. Our violent culture gave him the recognition he wanted. Our President has a kill list. Romney will have an even more refined eugenics plan. Why should a freelancer pass up his chance at fame? If he were only a Blackwater mercenary nobody would know his name. Now he has a shot at joining Charles Manson ad a household word. All because we worship violence.

Drones kill people every day. If our outrage was real we would be calling for an end to drone murder....

He could have planted a bomb and walked away, never gotten caught, but he didn't want that. He carefully chose the best media moment and dressed for the part, still has his Joker orange hair for court appearances. He stepped into America's love affair with violence and obtained the recognition he craved. The AR15 is far from the crucial element. It jammed anyway. The 12 gauge shotgun loaded with 00 buckshot is the better close quarters weapon and it will never be banned. He was a Ph.D. student in neuroscience. He could have used nerve gas. The whole point for him was to be caught and achieve fame. Now the media is his servant as is the whole culture. When there is a call for a ban on drones let me know. Our president has a "kill list" in his pocket. Where is the outrage? I'm sure Mitt Romney has a eugenics plan for us. The guy in Aurora was channeling the moral tone of the country. Blackwater/Ze/Academi kills more people every day but not in middle class white neighborhoods. Nathan Van Wilkins shot 17 people in Tuscaloosa, Alabama on July 18th. Did anyone notice? Since he didn't manage to kill anyone, used an unexciting weapon (the AP story did not bother to mention the type or brand), and it was at a bar and not opening night for a Batman movie the media didn't care. Not a good production and no body count.

Meanwhile back in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia the Predators drone on. Will Obama and Romney call a halt to them? They are saner than the man in Aurora, right?

Gun Control

Here's my 2¢ on gun control: there should be an exam for gun ownership. We have exams and driver's tests to legally drive cars. And god knows, we love our cars almost as much as we love our guns. And one gun can kill a lot more people than the average car can.

A gun is an elegant machine made for one purpose: to kill. It is a machine that demands at least as much respect as a car.

Ideally, the exams would demonstrate a knowledge of gun care, and proficiency in their use; a psychological exam seems warranted, as well.

It's human to want to blame; it's related to our desire to prevent future tragedies. We want to blame the NRA. We want to blame violence in media. Some will blame it on our nation's loss of “Christian Values” (as defined by one Republican Senator & the Westboro Baptist Church). Some will say tragedies such as the one in Aurora, CO, is the price the nation pays to maintain the freedom to bear arms.

I believe the NRA's excessive influence, and radical position on gun ownership plays a part in gun-related tragedies. At one time, the NRA had the reputation as an organization that promoted responsible gun ownership. It now has the reputation as an organization that refuses to consider any restriction on gun ownership.

The most troubling element of this latest tragedy is the fact that all the weapons and ammo were bought legally.

I know my proposal will not end gun-related violence. I know dedicated people will still find ways to buy guns outside the legal system. I only hope we can reduce the incidence of gun-related violence by raising the bar to ownership a bit higher.

Poetry on the Radio

You may recall I told the story of how I sent a poem to The Story a month ago.  It seemed appropriate; a story had aired about a Chinese poet, Liu Xiaobo, and his translator, Jeffery Yang, which had really touched me.  I wrote about it here.

My poem has now broadcast nationally; it appears in the last five minutes of the program (the play button follows the text). I'm very honored, and quite thrilled, that they aired my poem.

Soar on the Wind, Part Two

If my words be true, they would swirl off the page and surround you. If my words be true, they would catch you up like a feather on the storm. If my words be true they would open the sky to reveal the stars dancing across the great dome; they would bring the clouds, and invoke the storm.

My words are only hints. They are almost false; they are at best well-intentioned lies.

My words try to catch the wind, but the wind blows them away.

When the whirlwind speaks, it is not gentle. It confronts. It challenges. It does not distinguish between good and bad, dark and light.

My words are only hints, and bad hints at that. Do not ask me directions; I am most times lost myself. The wirlwind blew the map away.

If my words be true, if the wind could be conjured within this rectangular confine, the letters would dance over the page. They would lose their meaning and change partners. The alpha and omega would do-se-do. The f & the s would do a grapevine step. The r & the y would bow to each other, and waltz.

When the whirlwind speaks, it requires no translation.

I can only make shadow puppets. Mere puppets, to be blown away by the wind.

How shall I catch the wind? It will not be caught. I may struggle with the wind; I may seek to harness it; or I may join it.

Breath in: I welcome the wind to my small walking home. Breath out: I join the wind in its travels.
Breath in: I invite the Spirit to renew me. Breath out: I release all that separates me from the divine.
Breath in: divine light breaks into the wounded places. Breath out: all fear departs.

This I pray in the name of the Eternal One: the Creator, the Companion, the Comforter.
So be it.

Soar on the Wings of the Wind

In the beginning, the wind moved upon the face of the water (Gen 1:2).  In the beginning, the Creator breathed the spirit of life into the clay. (Gen 2:7) In the beginning, the same spirit brooded upon creation as a hen gathers her chicks.  The psalmist says the Creator soars on the wings of the wind (Ps 18:10).

The Master taught, “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit” (Jn 3:8). In his last days, the Master breathed upon his disciples that they might receive the Holy Spirit (Jn 20:22).

The wind is a reminder that the Creator, though unseen, surrounds us.  Our breath is a cousin to the wind.  Our breath is a reminder of that first breath, when we were filled with the spirit of life. It is a reminder of how the Spirit continually renews us. Ideally, each breath should be a prayer of thanksgiving.

One day, a pilgrim heard the reading from Thessalonians: “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thes. 5:17).  He heard this as a personal message from the Creator.  He sought all over the country for one who could teach him this method of prayer.  Finally, he found a master who taught him a method to pray without ceasing, so his prayer would be as close and constant as his breath.

This method is called breath prayer.

I will now teach you a simple prayer form using your breath. Create a quiet space; that is, no TV, radio, or MP3 player. Sit with your back straight and both feet on the ground. Inhale through your nostrils, drawing the breath as deep into your gut as possible. Purse your lips as if to blow through a straw and exhale slowly. Do this three times. Be sure to focus on your breathing; ignore all fleeting thoughts.

This method is called “straw prayer”. Once you feel comfortable with it, you can also apply it when you're stuck in traffic, and even when you're waiting in line.

Breath deep, and soar on the wings of the wind.

---

Resources

• Cooperative Baptist Fellowship - on Breath Prayer
• The Way of a Pilgrim and A Pilgrim Continues His Way, trans. R.M. French, Hope Publishing, 1989
• The Breath of Life: Discovering Your Breath Prayer, Ron DelBene, Harper & Row, 1981
• The Breath of Life: A Simple Way to Pray in PDF format
• Dharma Road: A Short Cab Ride to Self Discovery, Brian Haycock, Hampton Roads Publishing Company, 2010
• Water, Wind, Earth & Fire: The Christian Practice of Praying with the Elements, Christine Valters Painter, Sorin Books, 2010.

---

The above was written for a presentation on the Four Elements.

Behind the Curtain: West TX, 4.June.2011

Here's the exciting news: My poem will be broadcast on The Story program probably sometime next week.  I emailed it to them, and a producer wanted to record me reading it over the phone. She asked me to talk about what inspired me to write the poem.

The following is based on some notes I wrote as prep.

I heard the promo for the episode either during my morning or evening work drive.  The story of dissident poet Liu Xiaobo caught my ear, and I thought it could prove a worthwhile listen.

I woke early Tue - sometime between 2:30 & 3 - unable to get back  to sleep, I listened to the podcast through the PRX Radio Ap on my iPod Touch.  The discipline of an elegy a year impressed me; the story of how the book came to Jeffrey Yang also impressed me.

Jeffrey Yang used the phrase 'In the middle of the desert', and it caught my ear. The phrase brought up associations - how the desert seems a barren & forbidding place, but it also can be a retreat (e.g., for the Desert Monastics), a way to enter deeply into your self, or to connect with the universe or the divine.  I had an intuition that Jeffrey Yang used it as a way to connect with Liu Xiabo.

I think of this type of poem as an "emotional photograph".  I'm thinking of  Ezra Pound's imagist poetry, or Jack Kerouac's American Haiku - where the goal is to inspire an emotion with as few words as possible.

As I now reread my poem, I wonder whether there's enough there to speak to someone who has not heard the story. I hope so. One advantage of the internet is one can link to a source, so I linked to the appropriate page on The Story's website when I posted the poem here. With any luck, my poem will stir enough curiousity to encourage the reader to research the inspiration.

After I listened to the podcast, I already had the first three lines in mind. I kept repeating "In the middle of the desert" over and over, like a mantra or breath prayer. When I got to the keyboard, all I knew for certain were the first three lines, and the fact that I wanted it to end in Tianamon Square. I hope that abrupt transition from the fires in West Texas to the smoke from China is haunting as well.

I think the lack of detail can be powerful in these emotional photographs. It can engage the reader, cause her to fill the spaces you've left open. S/he can bring her own desert associations with her/him.

Bad Biorhythm

When I was a teenager, there was a pseudoscience involving biorhythms. I bought a hand-held calculator which claimed to track one's rhythm for any given day. The calculator had a graphic display which showed flowing curves, which indicated whether you were in biorhythmic peak or valley.

Happily, the calculator did standard mathematical functions as well.

I rather wish I had that calculator this week. I somewhat suspect it would reflect a biorhythmic valley. Not Marianas Trench or Grand Canyon, but still.

It all started with the trunk of my car. I raised the garage door Monday morning to discover I had left the trunk lid open. Since about noon Sunday. I was prepared to have to plug the car battery to a charger and call in late. But I was lucky; the car started right away.

It's likely the car, a '98 Ford Escort, has a feature that automatically turns off the trunk light after a certain point. The dome light in the cab goes out within a few minutes.

But I wasn't sure. I chose to play it safe, and drive with the radio and lights off. It was about thirty minutes past dawn, so it was light enough to see and be seen.

But when I pulled into the parking structure, I felt the need for my car lights. I drove up the ramp to the second level and backed into my space, as I do every morning. I folded my glasses, and put them in their case, as I do every morning. I slung my satchel over my shoulder and clipped my keys onto the case, as I do every weekday morning. I strode confidently across the garage, with my head held high. Just like I do every weekday morning.

It wasn't until I was about half-way to my office that I began to wonder whether I had turned off the car lights.

I chose to walk on to the office, get the coffee started (I clearly needed it), and start the day. Then I walked back to the car. Turns out, I had turned off the lights just as automatically as I had performed all those other tasks.

The day pretty much continued in that vein. I hung up on customers when I intended to put them on hold. I ran into objects. Stuff like that. The remainder of the week hasn't been any better, or much worse.

It's just felt like I was a third-dimensional being trying to adapt to a fourth dimensional world.

West Texas, June 4, 2011

For Liu Xiaobo & Jeffrey Yang

In the middle of the desert
translating sorrow,
unwinding intricate ideograms.
Haunted mothers
collect tears
for their nameless children.
Fires in West Texas.
Smoke rolls from Tiananmen Square.

Joe and Mary

It's been over six months since I've been to the Traditional Music club. I remember Joe as a fine guitarist. I remember Mary as a competent, though insecure, banjo player.

I haven't been to the Traditional Music club for a couple of reasons. On the personal side, I struggle with entropy, or maybe depression, and it can be a challenge to leverage myself out of the recliner into the world of people. Also, the Traditional Music club is going through a transition that sometimes feels like death. There are active pockets of jammers — especially the celtic group and the guitar circle — but the one-time center of the organization, the Play Around (an open mike), is poorly attended.

So. I was walking down the hall to the Play Around room when my path intersected with Joe and Mary. Mary wore a white blouse and blue gingham dress and a straw hat. Under the hat, she had an earphone over one ear; she was holding a cassette player. "I can play the cassette now," she said, "Ray gave me batteries." I smiled and nodded, and wondered if something had gone wrong in her head.

We were early for the Play Around. There were six people in the room. There six mikes on the raised stage, as if waiting for all six people to perform at once. Joe commented that attendance at Play Around had been meager - only twelve had attended in April.

A few minutes later, Joe handed me a small photo album. "Mary wanted to share these with every body," he said, "She wanted people to remember what she was once like." Mary and Joe attended Al Goode's Big Band Halloween party every year, and the photo album was filled with pictures of their costumes. Mary as Charly Chaplin, Joe as a flapper. Joe and Mary as Napoleanic royalty. Joe and Mary as hillbillies.

The club president, Cliff, announced that since there were so few of us, we could sing two songs each.

John played "Nobody Loves You When You're Down & Out." Cliff played two poems by Rudyard Kipling set to music. Then it was Mary's turn.

By this point, there were about 14 people in the Play Around room.

The music for Mary's song was on the cassette player. Most of the time, only she could hear it. I don't mean she was having audio hallucinations; when her head was tilted so the earphone was close to the mike, we could hear the music as well. Occasionally, Joe would play a little guitar figure, but most of the time it was just Mary singing snippets of lyrics. Pretty much the same lyrics. Over and over again.

There came a point when there apparantly was an extended musical interlude. During this time, Mary told us about horse back riding. Her husband had decided to try this as a sort of therapy, and (at the least) Mary has enjoyed it. She spoke for several minutes about how gentle the old horse was. She described his mane and tail (though she couldn't remember the word "tail"). She demonstrated what it was like when the horse went at a trot.

This monologue lasted four or five minutes. Then she sang the same lyrical fragments she had been singing previously. I had never heard this song before; I don't if there were more lyrics to the song, or if these fragments were all she could remember.

I'm told this lasted 25 minutes. I have a low tolerance for repitition, and become frustrated when I'm only receiving a part of the information. At least five people left. Many people tried to gently talk Mary away from the stage. Joe tried. The sound man tried. The president tried. No one was willing to physically pull Mary away. I doubt that would have been safe in any case.

She was not hallucinating. The music was real. But Mary was not aware that no one could hear the music she heard.

I actually stayed a bit past the point my patience had run out. I had the sense the tape was on an endless loop. I felt sad for her, and embarrassed for her husband Joe.

I happened to see Joe as I was leaving. He thanked me for my patience: "I knew this was a kind group, and would be patient with her."

He told me Mary was suffering from dementia. Even when she was compos mentis, she did not trust medical doctors. She believed in natural medicine, took vitamins, and relied on herbal remedies. Now, if it's even suggested she should see a doctor, she becomes quite agitated. I suggested Joe find a doctor who would be willing to visit Mary at home. A house call is a very long shot, and there's a limit to how much a doctor can determine face to face, without running tests. But I saw it as worth a try.

Joe was grateful, a survivor reaching for a small bit of driftwood.

Joe and Mary have two daughters. One lives across the road from her parents. She and her father take turns watching and caring for Mary. The other lives in California, but is also involved in discussing options.

He recognizes he needs a support group, as well. I told him he was wise to seek help for himself, and recommended he call a local help line. They would be best equipped to refer him to such a group.

It was hard to leave. I had looked forward to performing. There just seemed to be no end in sight, until the tape or the batteries ran out. I hurt for Joe and Mary. I hurt that all of us were powerless in the face of this profoundly human suffering.

Before we parted, I held Joe in a hug for a moment. I held them both in prayer as I drove home.

I Miss Compassionate Conservatism

I wonder what ever happened to the concept of "compassionate conservative". Not that I suppose anyone (even the person who coined it) ever tried to live up to that title. But it was rather charming that the claim was made that compassion was a foundation for conservative ideals..

Today's conservative is more honest.  He does not have to pretend to be compassionate.  She can form policies based on belief rather than evidence. The modern conservative is sure each one of us is getting no more than what we deserve.

I get the sense there's an underlying Calvinism in the modern conservative's world view. Calvin was a Protestant reformer who believed strongly in the doctine of predestination. This held that an omnipotent God would know the name of each person who was "saved".  And one clear sign that you have God's favor, that you are among the predestined elect, was success in this world.

For the modern conservative, a person is out of work due to a flaw in his character.  Clearly, that person is a sinner predestined by the economic God for failure. It has nothing to do with market forces; you've been laid off or let go because you were not predestined for success.

As this suggests, there is an undercurrent of judgementalism present in the modern conservative. The poor are lazy, and deserve to be poor.   Anyone arrested by the police must be guilty. Any woman who is sexually active has implicitly accepted the responsibility of becoming a mother - even if she was raped.

This sort of judgmentalism frees one from compassionate action. If people are getting what they deserve, then I'm wasting my time if I help when they're down.  I might, in fact, offend God.

Think about it: most humans are programmed to be compassionate. People donate to Haiti relief regardless of political affiliation. In the aftermath of a disaster, charities are flooded with donations.

So there must be a narrative that conteracts this natural urge to help those in need. And that's the narrative embraced by the Tea Partiers, et al: each person gets what s/he deserves.  We've got ours, and we've earned it by the sweat of our righteous brow. Let them earn theirs.

I suppose the modern conservative considers himself among the economic elect simply because he is a Republican. She may not have reached the empryon of the 1% just yet, but she will. For her thoughts are God's thoughts, and God has marked her for salvation.

They are among those predestined for golden halls of the holy. And let the devil take the hindmost.

A Cold Friendship

Why does it send a chill down my bone every time Mitt Romney says "My friend"? Gotta say, it doesn't generally sound friendly. Former Gov. Romney generally sounds condescending when he says "My friend." He's really saying, "My rich pals and I know more than you do, so shut up and pay up, chump."

21.May.2012

Rolling thunderstorms
dreamed by meditating clouds
around a ring of fire

It Takes Time

A new & improved version of the song, with the most recent version of the lyrics. Just your standard-issue protest song, mouth harp included.

Kit Doodle

Your House Of Light

You possibly read the variorum version of the lyrics I posted on March 22nd. Here's what is likely to be the final version, words & music.

I'll have more to say about the writing process, but for now I'll mention that the song was inspired by a book discussion at my church of The Fragrance of God by Vigen Guroian. All the same, I hope the song is universal, and think of it as spiritual (rather than promoting a particular religion).

Your House of Light by James A. Collins is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Behind the Curtain: Your House of Light

Last fall, I co-facilitated a book study at my church on The Fragrance of God by Vigen Guroian. This book covered seasons, gardening, and the seasons of life. The church book store was unable to obtain copies, so we chose to practice a type of Lectio Devina with the book.

My co-facilitator and I would agree on a paragraph to focus on. We'd bring the paragraph to the group, and the group would have two opportunities to respond to it. We both took careful notes during the discussion. The group would then spend 10-15 minutes creating a prayer based on the themes that came out of the discussion.

The response was positive, and it's a process I think lends itself to community building.

So, at the end of the four week study, my co-facilitator said, “James will write a song based our discussion.” Which came as news to me; but for some reason, I felt oblidged to try.

A phrase that came up in that last session was “God's House of Light”, and I really liked the sound of it. Somehow I knew it would be the chorus of the song. Another phrase that stuck was someone who said they felt the God's nearness when walking down a lane of trees where the branches form a canopy.

By January, I had a verse and chorus, but no melody and no idea where to go from there.

Sometime in late February I found the discipline to sit down with the notes from the class and copy down all the themes and phrases that came up. I quickly discovered it would be a great challenge to shoe-horn all that into a song.

About the same time, just to promote forward momentum, I decided I'd use an existing tune as a skeleton for the lyrics, with the goal of writing a new tune later on. I remember Elton John once said, “When in doubt, write a hymn.” Well, this song wasn't a hymn; my fall-back is the ballad. So I decided to borrow the tune from Bob Dylan's “Forever Young”.

I was still stuck by the second week of March, when I heard of an opportunity for a songwriting workshop with Bing Futch, who was going to be in the region in late March. I wasn't familiar with Bing's work, but I respected the promoter. And I figured the workshop would provide a deadline to work toward.

The remaining verses came in a sort of rush in the next two weeks. I decided I wanted the seasons to come in order, so the first verse I wrote became the second verse. In the days leading up to the workshop, I kept tweaking & futching with the lyrics, as reflected by the variorum version I posted on March 22.

I played the song at the workshop, and got some positive feedback from Bing. He was concerned about the use of the existing tune - he said the challenge was forgetting that tune to make way for a new one without losing how the lyrics and melody interacted.

So, he offered me a process to work around that. I really couldn't grok the process, but stumbled on another alternative. Playing with a different chord progression at a different fret position led me to a new tune.

This is possibly the cheeriest song I've ever written. I've had very positive responses to it, even from people who had not attended the book study. So I feel reasonably proud of what I've done.

Weeds

A gardening friend once told me that a weed was simply a plant that was not wanted in a particular bed or plot. An extreme, if unlikely example: a rose would be a weed in a potato patch.

I am at a point where I accept most of the growth in my yard as equal — I have no emotional attachment to bermuda grass (it ain't naturnal to this region anyway). It's green stuff that grows, most of it gets mowed to be acceptable in this suburban environment. With any luck, that green stuff produces enough oxygen to balance out the damage done by the mower's internal combustion engine.

I'd like to think God looks at creation in the same way.

I like to believe there are no weeds in God's garden.

I Cor. 13

If I speak in human tongues
or the tongues of angels
but have no love,
I am a sounding gong
or clashing cymbal.
If I have the gift of prophecy
and knowledge of every hidden truth,
if I have faith enough to move mountains
but have not love,
I am nothing.
If I give everything I have to feed the poor
and hand over my body to be burned, 
but have not love,
I gain nothing.

Love is patient and kind.
Love envies no one,
it is not snobbish.
Love is never rude, never selfish,
never quick to take offense
neither does it brood over injuries.
Love keeps no score of wrongs,
takes no pleasure in the sins of others
but delights in the truth.
Lover bears all things
believes all things
endures all things.

Love never fails.
Prophecies will cease;
tongues will be silent;
knowledge will pass away.
For our knowledge & our prophecy alike 
are partial,
and the partial vanishes when wholeness comes.

When I was a child, 
I spoke like a child;
I thought like a child;
I reasoned like a child;
but when I grew up
I put away childish things.
For now we see but puzzling reflections
as in a fun-house mirror;
but one day we shall see face to face.
My knowledge now is partial;
then it will be complete
as God's knowledge of me  is complete.
There are three qualities that last forever:
faith, hope, and love:
the greatest of these is love.

---

I found this as I was going through some old notebooks last night; it was written circa 1987.

I sat down with the Bible translations in my library (KJV, RSV, NAB,& Jerusalem) and picked out the phrases that seemed the most meaningful and/or felicitous. I'll confess I changed a few phrases for this transcription.

NPR's Micropoetry Challenge

For the second year running, NPR is hosting a micropoetry competition during April. I wonder if I dare rise to that challenge.

If you watch the bottom of this page, you'll see my tweets - which are normally quite rare (my handle is @Jonah). However, for the season of Lent I have been observing a discipline of "Praying the Psalms". This has involved posting a 140 (or less) response to the psalm(s) appointed in the Revised Lectionary for the Morning Office. As much as possible, I try to include a phrase or an echo in my response.

The point being, I have maintained a discipline of daily tweeting. I've proved it's possible.

I greatly respect the work of Dave Bonta, who tweets a poetic impression of the world around his morning porch. He knows more nature than I do, and has more to observe than I do in my suburban environment. The standard Dave sets seems above my humble abilities.

Still, it's an interesting challenge. Would you take the challenge?

Your House of Light - Variorum

I can see the redbuds dancing
along the early misty streets
and I see the dogwood blossoms
gathered at my feet.
I can hear the young birds singing
with their youthful delight
At their place in your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

I can feel you walk beside me
under a canopy of leaves
your words are soft & subtle
as a gentle summer breeze.
Your breathvoice is sweet as honey;
your eyes are warm & bright:
that's how I see your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

When the farmers reap their harvest,
we hear the sermon of the loam;
and the barn is standing ready
for the horses coming home;
when the leaves explode in color
that gives my soulheart delight:
I know I live in your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

Now,Soon the sun will soon hang lower,
and the sharp crisp air draw us close.
My days will be build up like snow banks
and I hardly barely count the cost
for the turning of the seasons
have brought my soul 'round right:
within the halls of your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

House of Light by James A. Collins is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Strange Encounter

Josie started attending my church about two weeks ago. I met her this Wednesday — she made a point of introducing herself after Evening Prayer. She mentioned that she's very shy, but wanted to meet me because I made an impression on her. Turns out, she's been sitting one or two pews behind me at church.

Well of course, my ego enjoyed that. We continued on to the dinner after the service, and sat with mutual friends. During the meal, she said that I made an impression on her because I was tall & lanky.

Now, I'm pretty clueless about when a woman is flirting with me. But, you can imagine the assumptions I leapt to from that piece of information.

After the meal, she told me she wanted to share the real reason I made an impression on her: "I could tell you were a spiritual person."

I think she just mistook my bald spot for a halo.

The Land I Come From

I come from the land of self-righteousness & credulity.
I come from the land of the free to believe the air is made of molasses.
But - you know? I don't come from this land.
I mean, yes, I was born here.
I still live here.
The minerals swirling in my blood
were leeched from the soil,
sipped from its waters.

I live in the land of multiple wars & rumors of war.
I live in the land of fear & anger.
I live in the flickering scream
and the distant explosion.

I live here. I choose to be here.
But - you know? There's days,
special days like this
when purple weeds disgrace the yellowed grass;
when rain clouds haunt clear blue skies;
when the street is empty:
I see another land,
the land where I belong.

I dwell in light where the land is dark.
I dwell in sheltering trees where the land is barren.
I dwell in peace where all are fighting.

I want to live where the heart dances with the mind.
That's where I want to belong.

3 o'clock February

3 o'clock February morning:
awakened by the light
of a snow-laden sky

Idée d’jour

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark.
Wendell Berry

Prayer, 5.Feb.2012

Ever present God,
Let us live in your House of Light,
seeing with the vision of a child.
May we treasure our journey
and be mindful of your many fragrances.
Amen.

Late January Sun

Morning shines through buds —
such hungry memories —
bird shadow on window slats

Creator God

Creator God,
Cultivate gratefulness in us.
Guide us
as we cultivate the garden of our souls.
Guide our vision of beauty and be our final home.
This we ask in your Holy Name.
Amen.

Idée d’jour

To be capable of embarrassment is the beginning of moral consciousness. Honor grows from qualms.
— John Leonard, critic (1939-2008)

Master Gardner

God, you are our Master Gardner,
in everything and contained by nothing.
You are always available to us,
our first fragrance and our last:
We give thanks for our senses;
may we be mindful of our responsibility
to remain open to your Holy Spirit.
Amen.

Idée d’jour

There is no exception to the rule that every rule has an exception.
 — James Thurber, writer and cartoonist (1894-1961)

4:50, January 9

Morning so crisp
I hear a distant train
and dream of grandfather

Idée d’jour

Books have the same enemies as people: fire, humidity, animals, weather, and their own content. — Paul Valery (1871 - 1945)

Idée d’jour

Only those things are beautiful which are inspired by madness and written by reason.
— Andre Gide, author, Nobel laureate (1869-1951)

Idée d’jour

It is my belief that the writer, the free-lance author, should be and must be a critic of the society in which he lives. It is easy enough, and always profitable, to rail away at national enemies beyond the sea, at foreign powers beyond our borders who question the prevailing order. But the moral duty of the free writer is to begin his work at home; to be a critic of his own community, his own country, his own culture. If the writer is unwilling to fill this part, then the writer should abandon pretense and find another line of work: become a shoe repairman, a brain surgeon, a janitor, a cowboy, a nuclear physicist, a bus driver.
— Edward Abbey, naturalist and author (1927-1989)

Prayer & Commerce

Went to hear Miss Brown To You perform at Wings of Desire a combo salon, art gallery, and vintage furniture shop on Hudson, just south of NW 23rd. It's run by Patricia Lee Russell. Mireille Damicone, one of the artists was also there. Mireille creates large floral canvases, jewelry, and icons.

So, Patti and I were sitting in two salon chairs by the sink, and Mireille was sitting on a bench across from us. Patti asked Mireille, "Have you prayed today?" "Everyday."

"Would you pray for me?" Mireille nodded yes.

Patti joined Mireille on the bench and they clasped hands as they faced each other. I didn't know what to do. It felt like an intimate and private moment. The Spirit lead me to close my eyes and join my heart with their prayer. Mireille's words were soft, indistinct.

My heart burned as if on the road to Damascus. I felt blessed.

This was during the performance, so none of the patrons were aware of this private moment. No particular creed or belief system was imposed on anyone. Just a private moment of prayer, where two or three were gathered.

I was reminded of a similar incident years ago, when I lived in Norman. Tony's Top Drawer, a vintage & used clothing shop, was in downtown Norman. It was the best source of quality inexpensive duds. It was a frequent destination on Saturdays after payday, when I needed to supplement my wardrobe.

I was shopping there one Saturday when a group of people came in. The owners of the shop gathered around this group and prayed over them. Business stopped for this moment of prayer. Turned out, this group of people was going on a mission trip, and were friends of the owners.

As I paid for my selections, I let the owners know how much I admired them for that moment of prayer.

Idée d’jour

If they give you ruled paper, write the other way. — Juan Ramon Jimenez, poet, Nobel Prize in literature (1881-1958)

I am from ...

I am from red dirt & hard clay

I come from his whiskey breath
& her menthol teat

I am from Nat King Cole
& Johnny Mathis

I come from fire
Her backdraft roar
his dry ice burn

I am from the belt &
the slap

I am the twisted lip,
twisted at birth

I come from playground taunts
I was formed by the pack's wisdom

I come from Dickens & Holden Caufield
from Miller & Kerouac

I am from suburban dreams & nightmares
I am from mowed grass & yellowed lawns
I am from this city, this county, this state

It's where I'm coming from

---

Inspired by this

Idée d’jour

Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much of life. So aim above morality. Be not simply good; be good for something.
— Henry David Thoreau, naturalist and author (1817-1862)

Idée d’jour

All know that the drop merges into the ocean but few know that the ocean merges into the drop.
— Kabir, reformer, poet (late 15th century)

Sites To See

I've finally updated the "Sites to See" section in the left-hand column. The blogroll service I had subscribed to folded some time last year, and I lost all the links that used to be over there.

It seems to me that most of the folk I used to follow via their blogs have now migrated to Facebook. In fact, my own posting has dropped off dramatically, partially due to my energies being focused on Twitter and Facebook.

I'll add more sites to the list as I rediscover them.

Mrs. Lady

One of my electives in high school was Drama. I had taken Speech in junior high, and we staged a few dramas, which was my favorite part of the class.

Most people called our drama teacher Mrs. Lady. As I recall, she had earned that nickname when she had taught in a predomninantly African-American school in Arkansas. Padre told me that “Lady” was a title of respect - as in “Lady Day” (Billy Holiday).

One of Mrs. Lady's first assignments for us was to keep a journal. I used that journal to write poetry. I may have copied a few poems I'd already written just to fill out the journal.

I'd recently started writing poetry prior to enrolling in high school. You see, someone close to me attempted suicide the summer between junior and senior high. She slit her wrists — with the grain, so to speak — and I was the first to find her.

I dealt with this trauma in two ways — one healthy & acceptable, the other not so much. The healthy coping skill was writing poetry — fairly typical mediocre high school poetry, with the distiction of having blood-soaked imagery. The other was imitative in nature.

I was not sent to the guidance counselor. I was not sent to a therapist. I was going to school with my arms wrapped in blood-stained tissue, but only my fellow students asked what was going on. I lied, of course.

That journal for Mrs. Lady was my therapy.

I still remember the first time Mrs. Lady returned my journal. I had signed my poem "jac". She wrote “Are you ‘Jac’? This is very good!” I felt like I'd received a dozen gold stars.

Mrs. Lady was extremely supportive of my poetry. She sent me to a regional contest to read my own poetry (under the nom de plume Jacques Bijou). I did not place, but I treasured the fact that she believed that strongly in my writing.

Drama was in the early afternoon. Sometimes, if Mrs. Lady was having a bad day, a girl would say something like “I think Lady would really appreciate a poem written by you today.” I would dash something off, and get it delivered to her somehow.

I don't know if those poems made any difference to her. But thinking they did helped me feel pretty special.

It may seem overly dramatic to say Mrs. Lady saved my life. But I'm still here, almost 30 years later.

Idée d’jour

One of the great tragedies of mankind is that morality has been hijacked by religion. — Arthur C. Clarke, science fiction writer (1917-2008)

---

This quote was commended to me by Brother Dave.

The quote begs the question of what we mean by "morality". I suppose "morality" to be a set of commonly accepts principles a society agrees to live by. The best known is the Golden Rule “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”. Or to freely translate Hippocrates: “First do harm.”

And though we naturally mistrust "situational ethics", we have come to accept "situational morality". For example, it's immoral for an individual to lie or misrepresent his/her qualifications. It's not only moral for a corporation to lie, it's expected. It's expected business practice. It's also expected that politicians and their supporters exaggerate and lie. If a mailer goes out with the wrong date for an election, it's not immoral. It's not even gross incompetence. It's a typo.

Sir Arthur's quote also begs the question of what we mean by "religion". I suppose it to mean a set of codes, liturgies, rites, and rules intended to aid our relationship with the divine. Buddhism does not necessarily include divinity, but it is still a religion, with its very own variant on the Golden Rule. If we accept my definition of religion, it would of necessity include teachings about morality. I believe "religion" in this sense precedes humanist or existentialist morality.

What I suppose Sir Arthur meant is that religion has never fully lived up to the moral codes it promotes. An obvious example is the pederasty scandals in the RC church. The extreme wealth of most main-stream churches has been a scandal since at least the time of St. Francis. All I can say, is human organizations have human failings, often enlarged by the size of the organization. This is no excuse.

We all must have code we can live by, as Graham Nash said. If we're radically truthful with ourselves we know we will often fail to fulfill the highest aspirations of that code. Yet, we keep trying. With luck, we improve.

A basic application of the Golden Rule is that we forgive the failings of others as we would like to be forgiven.

Democracy's Response to Terrorism

Norway's prime minister [Stoltenberg] struck a defiant tone Wednesday, saying the response to twin attacks that have rocked his country will be "more democracy."...

Stoltenberg said that extremist views are legitimate in a democracy but implementing them violently is not.

Or, to quote the Sage of Baltimore (H.L. Mencken): "The cure for the evils of democracy is more democracy."
HT Brother Dave

By the way, it's terrorism regardless of who commits the act. Timothy McVeigh was a terrorist, as was the white nutjob who flew a plane into a Federal Center in Texas sometime last year.

Idée d'jour

We grow tyrannical fighting tyranny. The most alarming spectacle today is not the spectacle of the atomic bomb in an unfederated world, it is the spectacle of the Americans beginning to accept the device of loyalty oaths and witchhunts, beginning to call anybody they don't like a Communist.
- E.B. White, writer (1899-1985)
This would apply today to the label "liberal". When, exactly, did "liberal" become the new "Communist"?

On Zen

People think of Zen as mystical, inscrutable. Pretty strange. But the basic idea behind Zen is simple: We experience the world through a filter of expectations and preconceptions built up over the course of our lives. As a result, we fail to see the world as it really is. With the help of a program of morality, meditation, and mindfulness, we can overcome this veil of delusion and see through to our own true nature. We can learn to see the world directly and our own place in it.

Simple, isn’t it?
— Brian Haycock, Dharma Road: A Short Cab Ride to Self Discovery

Selections from a 30 year-old letter

25.XI.81
Vera -
I hear there's hard times coming. There's a bad moon on the rise. It's a hard rain that's going to fall. And it all boils down to weird scenes inside the gold mind.

Voici les temps des Assasins

With those words, the aspect of the complex is entirely altered. The walls have changed colors. The guard dogs in the pillars have been calmed. The eerie voices which once permeated our consciousness are no more. Yet the Black Empire persists. The Muzac Life never ended. In fact, we might say that it has just begun.

Already, the hints of the days to come are everywhere. The books are feverish. The windows wake up each morning with a soft moist film. It's not dew — it's morning halitosis. And thus we see the rumors of a meaningful universe persist.

But all this is beside the point. No matter where you look, everything is changing...

An handful are seeking the Ultimate, but fewer are studying the process. The pilgrim so rarely realizes that the study of the process can help him/her avoid past errors. So many pilgrims already know what they're looking for: it's that signpost labeled the "The Ultimate" or "Enlightenment" just over the horizon; but they don't know how to find it. A list of potential errors may be found in Everyman, Pilgrim's Progress, or the life of Timothy Leary....

I have been studying mysticism, the Gnostic Gospels, and the life of Wm Blake to discern the errors I must avoid, as well to seek which path might be applicable to my life. Once we uncover the proper path, we may break out of the Muzac Life and find Life Everlasting here in this Vale of Tears.

And so on.

It has been written: "Blessed is the man who has suffered & found life." (Gospel of Thomas, 43, VII-XI). It is such as these who have discovered the Holy Ghost within themselves & have found paradise on Earth... That's the story of the Muzac Life — how we can go beyond our sufferings.

Must be the sad love songs on the radio that make me ramble on so....

Because we're looking in the face of the mystery of a cold weather front.
Because Flood Street is one long detour from Main to Robinson.
Because every other day has been Indian Summer.
Because the grass has mono.

Maybe you're wondering where all this came from. This has been written under the influence of a low-grade fever while sitting in the complex's warehouse. This letter acknowledges the possibility of clear day warnings....

'Til then, have good times & beware lizards bearing gifts.
jac

Some of Dharma

Some of Dharma is true.
Well, Dharma is true, but he's in disguise.
Dharma wears a jester disguise.
Dharma is your kid brother
who wants to move into your spare room
just until he gets back on his feet.

Some of Dharma is faithful.
Well, Dharma is faithful, but she's flirtatious.
Dharma is your ex-wife
who you never did understand.
She's more than fresh coffee and rumbled sheets.
Her hands define wheat waves on the dance floor.

Some of Dharma is real;
the rest is fiction.
Dharma is a city with Kerouac dreams
and Cassady days.
Dharma is your new lover.
Dharma is a steward flying over the Pacific.
Dharma is ready to pounce.

Some of Dharma is true, but it's disguised.
Dharma likes to play the jester.

Idée d’jour

To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.
— Chinese Proverb

Idée d’jour

In a free country there is much clamor, with little suffering: in a despotic state there is little complaint but much suffering.
— Lazare Hippolyte Carnot, statesman (1801-1888)

Idée d’jour

I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is
discovering.
— Robert Frost, poet (1874-1963)

Idée d’jour

One will rarely err if extreme actions be ascribed to vanity, ordinary actions to habit, and mean actions to fear.
— Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher (1844-1900)

The Darkness

The Darkness

I will go where the darkness dwells
In highest heaven or blackest hell.
When I open the cup
When I close the book
When I drink it up
When I steal a look
I go to the darkness.

You studied love at the Thunderbird Ranch
What you do with the moonlight
Makes the night bird blanch
But you're holding your own
You've learned all the moves
You're already open
With nothing to prove
To the darkness.

They call it the darkness, baby,
Though it's bright as the day is long.
It makes a strong man humble,
And a weak man strong
For the darkness.

I think I see where you stand tonight
With your back pressed against the light.
It's no secret now
You won't sing my praise
When the glory comes
At the end of days
With the darkness.

They call it the darkness, baby,
But I don't know why:
It makes a beggar handsome,
Makes a rich man cry
In the darkness.

Now, tell me Lady,
What do you believe?
Is it shoots and ladders
Or smoke & leaves?
You've got your tale
But it's not for sale
It's sincerely broken
By a nine inch nail
In the darkness.

Stolen Breath

She was standing by the wall
texting on her Blackberry
I sipped her in
then recovered my breath

Idée d’jour

I don't hate my enemies. After all, I made 'em.
- Red Skelton, comedian (1913-1997)

Finding My Place

My former father in-law once told me that, based on his experience, one stumbles into what one is meant to do. This statement was based on his life-time career as an insurance adjustor. I think I may have stumbled into what I'm meant to do. And all it took was an ounce of initiative.

I am currently working with medical coding and billing. I have been doing this essentially since 2008.

I actually started working in my current department in 2000, as support staff to researchers submitting grant requests. At the time, it made sense to have a full-time "administrative assistant" fill this function because most grant requests were paper-based. By 2006, most grants became electronic submission only.

In 2006, I received my first warning that management did not think I had enough to do. My request for additional duties was basically fruitless. In 2007, I receive my second warning. At which point, I began applying for other positions.

At the same time, I noticed that our billing area needed help — they had hired someone part-time (at time and a half) to do additional work. This made no sense. Why not pay my regular salary rather than pay someone else time and a half?

About the time I had this insight, the business manager had accepted a position elsewhere. I had to wait two months to sell my idea to the new business manager.

The new business manager met individually with each member of the staff within her first month in our department. During my interview, I seized the opportunity to express an interest in working in the billing area.

The business manager decided to give me a chance, and neither of us have looked back in the subsequent two years.

A large part of what I did while helping with grant submission was proof-reading. This was vital, because two of our researchers were non-native speakers (they were Chinese nationals).

There's a sense in which what I do now is proofread. I read a op report to determine what CPT codes apply. The providing physician has already input CPT codes he or she believe apply. My role is to insure the report fully support the charged codes.

There's a legal term for submitting a claim that does not have adequate documentation for its charges: FRAUD.

I seem to have an eagle eye for errors (except, of course, in my own writing). When I flip through a hand out at the beginning of a meeting or seminar, my eye tends to fall on common errors without volition.

It would seem that I have stumbled into a fit occupation.

Frederick Buechner has said: “The place God calls you to is where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet.”

"Deep gladness" may be strong, but I rejoice in my competence. I give thanks for the business manager who gave me this chance.

The cardinal

The holy spirit appeared to me
in the form of a cardinal
perched on the windowsill
above my sink
His brilliant Pentecost red
filled my restless head
with sacred morning memories
of lying next to you
And the cardinal
plucked my heart
from its sleeve
before he rose to leave
Will he carry it over
the hill plains
to your kitchen window?
He won't need a map to find you
You draw the song lines
the multicolored labyrinth
that always unfolds unfolds
like the heart of the lotus
and dreams of the rose

Ideé d'jour

Nature is ever at work building and pulling down, creating and destroying, keeping everything whirling and flowing, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion, chasing everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another.
— John Muir, Naturalist and explorer (1838-1914)

Idée d’jour

The death of dogma is the birth of morality.
— Immanuel Kant, philosopher (1724-1804)

Two Crosses

There are two dominant types of crosses, which reflect two Christian interpretations of the meaning of Jesus' death & resurrection. One cross, normally called a crucifix, has a figure of Jesus on it. The other cross has no figure of Jesus on it.

With some exceptions, most people who wear a crucifix endorse a scapegoat theology, that Jesus' sacrifice was demanded by God to recompense for the sins of all humanity. Many people who wear a cross accept a resurrection theology — that ultimate good will overcome the worst evil.

I consider myself among the second group. I do wear a cross, a James Avery Celtic-inspired design, with no figure of Jesus. I find the notion that God demands any sacrifice, whether human or "lower" animal, to be repugnant.

We humans demand sacrifice, because we tend to see things in extreme polarities - e.g., good and evil - which must be balanced. If we are wounded in any fashion, our first impulse is to seek revenge. When slapped on the cheek, most people must resist the urge to slap back.

Our notion of God has traditionally been in human terms. So it's not surprising that we think God has the same need for revenge that humans do. We suppose our sins wound God in some fashion, and that God will seek to restore balance by punishing us.

Forms of sacrifice have been common to many different religions across many different cultures throughout history. At the time of Jesus' execution, animal sacrifice was the accepted ritual. We have inherited that model, and continue using that language.

Although being "washed in the blood of the Lamb" seems unwholesome, icky, and altogether treyf, whether one is Jew or goy.

My opinion is that God does not demand any sort of sacrifice. If one has sinned, let that one make amends in his or her own fashion - to do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with God, to paraphrase the prophet Micah. In the Gospel according to Mark - the earliest of the written canon - there are only two statements Jesus makes about his death which might be interpreted to indicate that he perceived it to be a sacrifice to benefit humanity (see Mk 14:22-25). The bulk of this Gospel is devoted to how humans treat each other, with how we may enter into relationship with God.

Idée d‘jour

An age is called Dark not because the light fails to shine, but because people refuse to see it. — James Albert Michener, novelist (1907-1997)

Hooray For Our Side

Dave Collins

March 23^rd I awoke to a deluge of reports and op-ed pieces proclaiming the “historic” victory for the forces of democracy and the well being of the 90% of men, women, and children in the United States that own less than 30% of its wealth. The passage by a vote of 219 to 212 of this glorious reform legislation has been seized on and is being celebrated by a great many of Democrats, “progressives,” “liberals,” “leftists,” and the majority of the pundits who purport to represent those political segments of this nation.

Makes me want to puke.

For me, what has just transpired at the hand of the President and the actions of Congress, and all the blather that has followed, is testimony to how pathetically distant this nation is from either a democratic republic or a humane society.

Please consider just a few of what, appears to me, to be obvious facts. First, and most obviously, this nation will continue to stand alone in the world of so-called developed nations (and most “developing” ones). We are the only one where the only way for the vast majority of the public under age 65 to seek financial protection from the ever rising costs of health care is by paying money to a private corporation required by law to put profit above all other concerns. But wait, “health care reform” goes one better; it makes it a federal crime to decline to purchase one of these “products.”

The revelers protest, “Well, our heroes made sure those health insurance corporations can’t turn you down for a pre-existing condition.” Whoopee! They forget to mention that there does not appear to be a single word that prevents those for-profit insurance companies from jacking the rates on all us poor slobs unfortunate enough not to make it all the way to the grave without some chronic illness. See, here in Texas , I get to buy insurance in spite of my “pre-existing condition.” No sweat. I get coverage, though with an astronomical deductible, severe limitation on how much reimbursed care I can get in one year and – drum roll, rim shot – by state law the corporation must charge me twice the prevailing market rate for that coverage, regardless of how much or little use I make of my “insurance.” Of course, all the taxpayers in Texas get the opportunity to kick in a few bucks for some hidden and mysterious subsidy paid by the state to the insurer as a bribe to “only” charge me that double rate. Sweet deal. Probably see more of that now.

“Yeah, but the President cut a deal with the health care industries and they are going to drive out a whole bunch of cost over the next 10 years,” protest the celebrating pundits and their acolytes. Oh. Was that deal recorded in the legislation with harsh fines and penalties if they fail to deliver? [Nope] But hey, we can trust those good profit hungry folks to keep their word. Wink, wink,

“Look, Rome wasn’t built in a day; this is a first step and soon we’ll be in the land of milk, honey and single-payer coverage,” protest the cheerleaders for the victorious team. Riiiiight. When we are offered examples of how this wonderful incremental approach has delivered the goods in the past, it seems the examples have all exceeded their “sell-by dates” by a few decades. News flash. The reason the only thing that could be squeezed out of Congress is a massive corporate give away cloaked by faux reform is that when incrementalism worked in the past, corporations did not own both political parties. They do now. Stay tuned; the mighty Supremes (not the ones from Motown) made it sooo much easier for Big Pharma and Big Insurance and Big Hospitals and Big Banks and all the rest of the Too Big to Fail Gang to simply buy their politicians outright without the bother of all the silly games. Games like the executives paying themselves bonuses they then use to fund their contributions to their corporate PACs; the cover story [currently] required to make the deal go down. Yeah, no sweat, it’s all gonna get better, don’t you know.

So, the for-profit insurance companies now have a federally enforced monopoly (very literally since in some areas one corporation controls as much as 80% of the market [e.g., Blue Cross in Oklahoma and California]). Repeal of the federal law allowing that literal monopoly was once a topic of reform promises and fevered discussion. Hear about that lately? Didn’t think so.

What about the underlying cost of health care? We never see much in the papers or on TV about how the US compares to the rest of the world in cost per person for health care. Once the watered down, likely DOA in the marketplace “public option” was stricken from the “debate,” so was any remaining discussion of the fact that a person here pays a whole lot more than a person in any of those other countries. You know, the ones with the demon socialized medicine. In some cases we pay twice as much. And, across the board, by every accepted measure, those folks in the other countries are healthier. So, what is the program to attack that little problem? Well, we have that promise from the corporations, the one with no teeth. And then we have…squat.

Just a couple more.

Are you on Medicare? Well, one slight-of-hand maneuver that is part of the historic reform is to find money in Medicare to offset the costs of subsidies to folks too damn poor to buy those for-profit products.

Congress and the President do not intend to cover all the cost of subsidies by stealing from Medicare. The industry must chip in also. Pharma, health delivery and health insurance corporations will be taxed. Now, how should we assume those corporations will cover the cost of these taxes? Well, they could cut into profits. None starter, huh? Or, they could cut into executive compensation. Sure, two days after hell freezes over. So, about the only remaining option is - jack the price of the product to cover the subsidies. Pretty nifty shell game, ain’t it?

There are other gems in this magnificent work of what the FT. Worth paper called the “Work of Decades” in its above the fold headline. For example, there is what happened to reproductive rights for women. The cheerleaders shout and the audience cheers. In the immortal words of Will Rogers, “The rich get richer, the poor get poorer and poor can always be counted on to help with the job.”

Those cheerleaders for the centrist wing of the Corporatist Party are tossing their pom-poms and shouting the cheers. Their team has scored a touchdown for the team owners. But, the owners know that if the players in our sports metaphor laden excuse for a political process ain’t pounding on one another, we might lose interest and maybe start demanding new bread and new circuses. So, the right wing of the Corporatist Party is busy designing new plays and the cheer squad is practicing new cheers and the game goes on. Meanwhile, us suckers just keep paying and dying, but we do neither quite so fast as the insurance companies would prefer.

Sorry. Gotta run, I feel the dry heaves coming on.

Everybody's a Jerk, Sometimes

I was visiting with Larry about two weeks ago. Larry had been talking about his experience serving on the board of a synagogue. I repeated my standard bon mot - that the quickest way to get a newcomer to leave a church is to put that person on the church board. Larry was a bit surprised by that comment, and asked why.

I replied that, in the Christian tradition, many naively believe people will always live up to the ideals we profess. That even a political structure like a church board will reflect the best of our ideals rather than the worst human traits. Disagreements will remain civil. There would be no infighting, no back room deals.

Now this is a challenge many find with Christianity. This is why people perceive that Christianity is filled with hypocrites: people do not live up to the ideals they profess. People barely live up to those ideals for the hour or so they spend in church, and generally don't live up to them in the work week. As if this failure were not enough, these people judge others based on the very ideals they fail to uphold. These hypocrites can, for example, condemn same-sex relationships at the same time they are lusting after someone else's spouse (see Mt 5:27 ff).

There is a popular shorthand term for this type of person: a jerk.

Once I realized this was a proper term for this sort of person, I had a surprisingly liberating thought: jerks aren't limited to Christianity. I've seen interviews with the Dalai Lama in which he seemed testier, at times, than one would think a "spiritual" person should be. Asymmetric tactics such as suicide bombs and airplanes used as missiles are just extreme examples of being a jerk. I have no doubt there were times Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus were jerks.

Everybody is a jerk, sometimes. There are times we intend to be a jerk. There are other times when we only recognize that we behaved like a jerk in retrospect. There are, of course, times when others think we have behaved like a jerk and we're completely clueless. These are no more than a few standard variations of the human condition.

Everybody has a bad day. There is, inevitably, going to be a day we get up on the wrong side of the bed. When we feel puckish, and say "Stop" when everybody else says "Go". Those who are jerks 24/7 are pretty much in the minority, when you think about it. But everybody has a moment when s/he behaves like a jerk.

Ideally, if I recognize that I've been a jerk, I do my best to make amends. I make a mental note, and strive to avoid repeating the error.

If I think someone else has behaved like a jerk, I strive to let it slide. As a general rule, it's not my place to correct them or to point out what a jerk they're being. I don't know their story. I don't know if their behavior is intentional. In this situation, I have a choice: I can nurse a resentment, or I can let it pass. The former is the healthy choice.

So: some Christians are hypocrites. Who cares? They're a bunch of jerks.

Idée d’jour

A living thought is like a seed. In the process of thinking, an answer without a question is devoid of life.
— Abraham Joshua Heschel

My Cursillo Weekend

There is a folk axiom to the effect that it takes three positives to outweigh one negative. For several years, I allowed three negative impressions to color my opinion of the Cursillo movement. Now, I have attended a Cursillo weekend. I've waited to write about it because the whole weekend could be colored by one large negative: a severe allergic reaction.

It is probable that I encountered the allergen early Sunday afternoon, in the wooded area of our camp grounds. The reaction occurred about 12 hours later: swollen eyes. Both eyelids swole - the left eyelid completely shut - and the left eyeball itself swole. Steroids were prescribed to reduce the swelling. One of the side-effects of steroids is sleep loss.

I was already sleep-deprived from the weekend — more on that in moment. But, I trust you understand why the allergic reaction would throw a pall over my impression of the overall weekend.

Background
Cursillo, which roughly translates as "short course", originated in the Roman Catholic Church in Spain, in 1944. It was partially inspired by the traditional pilgrimages to Santiago de Compestela. The intent was to train lay leaders in the church. See Wikipedia for more information.

Positives
The most positive experience I took from the weekend was confession, which may say a lot. I gained much from taking the time to do what AA calls a "painstaking inventory", as well as the process of sharing that inventory with a priest.

The inventory was facilitated by St. Augustine's Prayerbook, which lists the Seven Deadly Sins, and breaks down the many different ways those sins might be manifested. The psalmist says "protect me from my hidden faults"; this process helped me be more aware of hidden faults.

Although I was a stranger to the priest, she offered valuable "advise and counsel" as the Book of Common Prayer calls it. She did not give me formal penance, but I did take away two goals: spend time each day intentionally giving thanks, and seeking a spiritual director.

Another positive was being with people, and adapting to the crowd (20-30 in all). This is a challenge for me, being an introvert, so I am grateful for the opportunity to face that challenge. I met some old friends, and made a few new ones.

The next point is both positive and negative: the music. I was acquainted with the person leading the music, and was aware his style was less than ideal. Hindsight suggests the primary reason I was asked to attend this Cursillo is because the leaders are seeking new blood by way of music directors. One may not be on the Cursillo team (of which the music director is a member) if one has not attended Cursillo.

I approached George shortly after I arrived, and offered my assistance. I think I may have briefly listed my vitae - I've lead music for church services off & on for over 10 years. He kindly turned down my offer, saying this was a time for the attendees to be fed. As we were talking, someone joined us, and George talked about how nervous he was to be leading music in my presence.

The downside of this was the fact that the music often fell short, and was a frequent distraction. The most frequent problem was the community losing the beat of the music. This was likely due to the fact that the music director played his guitar behind us while he was sitting down. If he had asked for my advise, I would have told him it was best to lead music from in front of the community while standing up. That simple measure would have helped everyone stay on the same beat.

But he never asked my advice. I suppose this was part of the "care-taking" - so I wouldn't expend any energy worrying about the music.

The positive side of this was it gave me an opportunity to work on my humility. I strove, while there, not to judge George. I strove not to let the quality of music affect my appreciation of the other aspects of the weekend. Friday night, a few musicians jammed. This experience alerted me that I was out of practice. So, definitely in no position to judge George one way or the other. Again, an opportunity for humility.

There were five lectures each day, with opportunities to reflect and respond. These lectures did not offer much in the way of new information for me, but did offer new slants or new ways of seeing old ideas. Also, on the whole, a positive.

Negatives
There were really only two major negatives: one person who was a jerk, and lack of sleep. The latter was primarily due to a heating fan which ran constantly, and never shut off.

The person who was a jerk had impressed me as the type to be a jerk early on, so I was hardly surprised when it happened. His comment did sting, but I don't hold the Cursillo movement responsible for the fact that sometimes people can say insensitive or ill-advised things.

Conclussions
I think there are two bottom-line questions: 1)would I recommend Cursillo to another seeker; and (2) would I be willing to serve as music director in the future.

1. I think whether Cursillo is right for someone depends a great deal on where they are in their journey. If a person has been attending church regularly for more than 3-5 years, and is ready for an additional step, then they would probably gain from Cursillo. For someone like me, who is an information gatherer, I think it might help to know the titles of those lectures - that would have eased my anxiety. There's so much more to the weekend than those lectures. But keeping so much about the weekend secret makes the Cursillo experience look suspiciously like cultish indoctrination.


2. As for serving as music director, I don't have an answer right now. Given the caveats I mention above, I don't necessarily trust my immediate gut response to this question. I hope I'm not faced with the decision for at least three months — which I hope will be enough time for the positives to out-weigh the negatives.

Idée d’jour

In the presence of eternity, the mountains are as transient as the clouds.
— Robert Green Ingersoll, lawyer and orator (1833-1899)

Idée d’jour

If I must have a label, I'd rather it be 'a story'.
— author Heidi Durrow, born of an African American father and a white
Danish mother responding to whether she calls herself biracial, mixed
race, black or white

Ideé d'jour

For money you can have everything it is said. No, that is not true. You
can buy food, but not appetite; medicine, but not health; soft beds, but
not sleep; knowledge but not intelligence; glitter, but not comfort;
fun, but not pleasure; acquaintances, but not friendship; servants, but
not faithfulness; grey hair, but not honor; quiet days, but not peace.
The shell of all things you can get for money. But not the kernel. That
cannot be had for money.
— Arne Garborg, writer (1851-1924)

She's Got You

I discovered this Patsy Cline classic through Rosanne Cash's latest release, The List. I chose not to change the pronoun, but have made a minor alteration in the last verse.

Just to brag for a moment, this video represents the third time I've sung the song. Additionally, I'm transposing in my head as I read the lead sheet (in C) off the computer; I'm playing in A.

I've been playing with the lyrics since this recording, and am considering some further variation on the bridge and final verse:

I've got your memory — or has it got me?
I really don't know, I only know it's not meant to be.

I've got the ring back I gave to you
It still shines as bright as when you were true
The only thing different, the only thing new,
I've got these simple things, she's got you

The Aughts

It just struck me that 2009 is not the end of a decade, as some would
have it. For some reason, we are more entranced by the chronological
odometer rolling over from nine to zero than from zero to one. But the
reality is we don't really start counting until the year has been
experienced.

Unlike the Koreans, and some other Asian cultures, we do not say a child
is one year old when she is born. An infant's age is calculated,
initially, by the number of minutes and hours it survives. In short
order, the parents start counting days, then months. An infant is not
one year old until she has actually lived a year. Once a child is
verbal, he may insist on marking half way points - "I'm two and a half!"
- but he won't make this distinction until about half a year has passed.

So, this gives us one more year to consider what to call this passing
decade. I heard one commentator on Fresh Air suggest "the naughty
aughts", though he did not explain why the past nine years were so
"naughty". It seem to me less "naughty" than "the roaring 20s", when
most people in the US were breaking the law drinking illegal booze.

I think "the aughts" work just fine, although the word seems
anachronistic. I think it works because it is a homophone for "ought",
and we can consider what opportunities were missed, what things we as
individuals and as a nation would do differently.

In the words of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer, "we have left undone
those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things
which we ought not to have done".

For example, in hindsight? We ought not have invaded Iraq. Warrantless
wiretaps ought not have happened. Oil companies ought not have been
allowed to draw up energy policy. Rendition of terrorism suspects to be
tortured may carry a certain cromagnon vengeful satisfaction, but it is
contrary to our claimed moral code.

We ought to have pursued Osama and his cronies into the mountains. We
ought to have had stronger regulations on banks and the financial
markets. We ought to have stiven to resolve the conflict between
Palestinians and Israelis without showing favor for either side.

It may seem I am picking on a particular presidential administration,
but that is the administration that has held power since 2000. I can
list a few for Pres. Obama - drug companies ought not draft health care
policy behind closed doors. Small banks need money more than big
financial institutions or the big three car manufacturers. The District
of Columbia ought to be allowed to determine who can marry within its
borders. The government ought to be truly laize faire regarding a
woman's "right to choose" - neither promoting nor hindering her access
to abortion.

I have my own oughts and ought nots - but most are too private to share
in this public space. I invite you to consider your own. It is a proper
time to consider how we might yet accomplish those things we "ought to
have done" in the year to come.

Idée d'jour

Men become civilized, not in proportion to their willingness to believe, but in proportion to their readiness to doubt.
- H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

Alarm Clock

Pleased to report I have a fully functioning fur-bearing alarm clock.
Unfortunately, she does not recognize the difference between Friday and
Saturday.

Satan in Satin

Satan wears satin
while he stands at
his subOlympian heights
watching twilight
melt into morning

He's been walking
up and down suburban asphalt
He's been drinking
Starbucks espresso
He's a Walmart
secret shopper

He's been walking
up the valleys
down the mountains
past the prayer flags
of russett and gold

He's been going
to and fro in the earth
byways and causeways
boardwalks and boulevards
the inland coast
and the outer Hebrides

He prowls like a lion
and purrs like a dragon
He builds sky scraper banners

Satan wears his light
like a reflection
He wears his head high
He comforts the dog in the manger

Dalton Trumbo & the Abuse of Power

A documentary on Dalton Trumbo was on PBS last night. 90 minutes, and fantastic. Man, he could write! And apparently couldn't stop writing, no matter what. I hope you got a chance to see it; if not, definitely put it on your Netflix cue. I had put it on mine when I first heard the film was coming out; I plan to see it a 2nd time. If there's a book of selected letters by Trumbo, I want it.

The program put me in mind of an-going meditation on the abuses of power.

Some weeks back the radio program This American Life had an episode about how mildly slimy Egyptian business man was caught in the post-9/11 web anti-terror hysteria. He has been arrested for conspiring to sell arms to an undercover agent. The arms came from the govt, as had the money. According to the program, the Egyptian had not previously sold arms to anyone, and had no known connection to any terrorist groups. He was bested by his economic need and his vainglory; not by any desire to overthrow the govt. Now he sits in a Federal Prison in Jersey.

The program acted like this was something new. But I couldn't help but think of the stories Abbie Hoffman told about guys agitating for violence who turned out to be undercover agents. I vaguely remember a riff in Revolution for the Hell of It in which Abbie explained how easy it was to spot these guys.

The use of agent provocateurs is older than the term. Neither incident is unique in the annals of world govt.

I think it was Jefferson,or one of his heros, who said something like, "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." Another truism about power is that those who have it will typically strive to get more, and to hold on to that power for as long as possible.

I consider this a typical human flaw. I can be as easily tempted by power as Barack Obama or Dick Cheney.

The Founding Fathers sought to create checks and balances that would hold the temptation of power in check. Those checks and balances have been tested, sometimes to survive sometimes to be eroded. Their ideals, I think, were tempered by the fact that only landowners had the right to vote - so our Republic began as a sort of oligarchy. Perhaps not as bad as old King George, but still far from De Tocqueville's classless ideal.

---

Trumbo

This American Life: Arms Trader

Ode to my Silvertone

O guitar, I sold you,
first guitar I ever had.
I sold your string set too high,
higher than the valleys
in my left fingertips.
I sold the missing bridge knob,
and the broken strap peg.
I sold the mahogany.
I sold your faint sunburst.

You were the first guitar I ever had,
purchased by my dad
in the famous dreams of my youth
when my heart was an alternating bass
when I was an apostrophe
curled around your feminine curve.

I sold your f-holes and the bridge
warmed and patinaed by
my long slender fingers
and my young anxious hand.
I sold the dark blue felt gig bag
with "Harptone" scrolled in yellow
crackling at a 45° angle.

But o, guitar, I could not sell highschool nights
balancing you on my knee
with the song book spread on my bed.
I could not sell the hours practicing,
the songs played for friends,
the folk operas written,
the march of my right hand fingers
as I learned my first L Cohen song.

O, guitar, I could not sell
playing my first song for my father.
I could not sell
performing a talking blues
at senior year assembly.
I could not sell
your ancestors
and the poetry they sang.

O my well-mannered lover
o mistress of 3-fret by 6 string boxes
o mystery of F & B7 &
other wickedness
O mother of each guitar
yet to come.
I could not sell you,
I could only pass you on
to minister to a new troubadour.

Your Law Is My Delight

Psalm 119:77
I am very willful. I expect things to go my way, and pout when they don't. I suppose myself to be "smarter than the average bear", and expect to learn new things easily. If I don't pick it up in one sitting, I'm likely to drop it rather than persevere.

For example, I play the guitar, and would like to expand the picking patterns I use. Problem is, learning new patterns requires practice and patience.

I am more likely to question a rule than not. "Because" is not a sufficient reason. If it seems that I am surprisingly law-abiding, it's only because I dislike confrontation more than I dislike unreasonable rules. I obey, resentfully.

It's hard for me to imagine delighting in any law. So many people today strive so much for "self fulfillment", I don't suppose that I'm alone. Don't most people obey the law out of fear of punishment?

This verse comes from the longest poem in the Book of Psalms. It is a veritable love song to Torah Law. Not only the Big Ten, but over 600 more (collected in Leviticus and Deuteronomy). Another line in the same psalm exclaims, "Oh, how I love your law."

Jesus said, "I have come to fulfill the Law." When asked to summarize the Law, Jesus quoted two passages from Deuteronomy - to love God with your full being, and to love your neighbor as yourself. When you think about it, this can be more challenging than obeying hundreds of written laws.

After all, if you have a written law, you know exactly what's expected of you. But how, exactly do you love your neighbor as yourself? What does loving God with your full being look like?

However, in addition to this challenge, Jesus led by example. When it came time be obedient unto death, we can hardly say that Jesus' obedience was motivated by fear. What punishment could be worse than suffocating on a cross under the mideastern sun?

Jesus' obedience was motivated by love - love of God and love of humanity.

What would it look like if we were obedient as a loving response rather than from fear of punishment?

Can the love of the Law become the Law of Love?

I Wanna Be Your Blues

This poem was originally posted in this very space; now you can hear a performance with appropriately bluesy guitar. You may read the text at my poetry site.

Power of a song

Grant that the lip-sticked pig is gone for good. Nice of her to have SNL write her resignation speech, though.

Na Na Na

Just a song before I go, something to cheer you in case the heat has got you down.

NOLA immigre Theresa Andersson (originally from Sweeden) has the most talented feet in music.

I Can See For Miles

Petra Haden & the Sell Outs perform the classic Pete Townsend tune. Impressive acapella work.

My Last Poem

This video is for Natalie, who commented that she wished she could hear the poem. The text of the poem is available at my postcard site.

You Tube Premier

There's a couple of stumbles here - who knew I'd be so unsure in front of a camera? - but I think the point of the medley comes across. Shot with a Flip Ultra.