Darwin Was Right

The citizens of Dover, Pennsylvania elected a new Board of Education on Tuesday. Dover, PA has been in the news lately because the former school board has made the teaching of "Intelligent Design" mandatory in high school science classes. Several parents brought suit against that school board, and the suit is currently being tried in court.

In the meantime, a bi-partisan group of eight people ran for the Board of Education solely on their opposition to the teaching of "Intelligent Design". Although the election was close, all eight people were elected to the board.

Clearly, the people of Dover have no desire to be the site of the 21st century's version of the "Scopes Trial". Most residents refused to answer reporters' questions following the election. But the vote makes clear that the majority of that town are too intelligent to allow creationism to be passed off as an alternate theory to evolution.

The proponents of "Intelligent Design" have claimed it should be taught as an alternate theory to evolution. After all, evolution is "only" a theory.

One of the things science class is supposed to teach a high school student is the scientific method. This method begins with observation; the scientist observes a phenomenon, an apple falling, for example. The scientist develops a theory that explains the phenomenon, then tests that theory. If the theory seems to explain the phenomenon, the scientist presents his or her work to a group of peers. These peers repeat his or her tests, and possibly develop alternate experiments to test the theory. If the theory, or hypothesis, survives these tests, it is considered "proven', to an extent.

Science is less concerned with what is "real" than with finding the best explanations using the best tools at human's disposal. Because our understanding and our tools are always progressing, it is possible that a theory which once found favor is overturned, or a superior theory is developed.

"Reality" and "truth" are concepts for philosopy class, or your favored religious institution.

The theory of evolution has itself evolved. What began with Darwin's Origin of Species has grown more complex and exacting with advances in archeology, DNA research, and so on. Few scientists would claim "evolution" as an absolute; many would agree there are questions that remain to be answered. But evolution remains the best scientific explanation available.

"Intelligent Design" posits two primary responses to the theory of evolution: 1) there are gaps in the theory; and 2) the design is so complex, there must have been a designer. In other words, they would throw out the whole of evolution because it does not address 100% of creation. They would throw out the whole theory, for example, because of inconsistencies in the fossil record.

Now, in order to be a scientific theory, "Intelligent Design" would need to be testable. How does one test for a designer? To say the design "proves" a designer is a circular argument that would not survive a high school debate contest. Since it is not testable, it is not a theory, and cannot be legitimately proposed as an "alternate theory" to evolution.

Intelligent Design may be a fit topic for a philosophy or logic class. But it is not science. The people of Dover, PA understood that, and voted accordingly.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Kansas, nor for an Oklahoma legislator who plans to propose "Intelligent Design" legislation early next year.

We can only hope that the majority of voters will select to oppose those who support these measures.

If You Haven't Already

Be sure to visit my temporary space at TypePad, Practicing Patience. As I mentioned a few days ago, that blog is devoted solely to my photographic and artistic endeavors. The past few days have featured photos of downtown OKC, which I took this past weekend.

Vital Stats, Part Two

Suggested by Dick

1. I drive…
   A white '98 Ford Escort
2. If I have time to myself…
   I'm watching the tube, reading a book, or doing computer stuff. "Computer stuff" includes, but is not limited to: e-mail, blogs, shopping
3. You wouldn't know it but I'm very good at…
   Seems like I've bragged about most of my major talents already. Pretty good singer, serviceable guitarist, writer/poet. You might not be aware of my dry wit, or my ability to mimic. I also have a wickedly good memory.
4. I'm no good at...
   Directions. I have a special talent for getting lost. Also, poor in mental calculations aside from addition and subtraction.
5. Book(s) that changed me…
   • On the Road by Jack Kerouac
   • Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller
   • Dylan, Anthony Scadato
   • Bound for Glory, Woody Guthrie
   • Works of William Blake
   • This Is It, Alan Watts (also Tao: the Watercourse Way)
   • The list goes on....
6. Movie heaven…
   • Casablanca
   • To Have and Have Not
   • Amelie
   • Young Frankenstein
   • Citizen Kane, Touch of Evil, Lady From Shanghai
7. Comfort eating…
   Asked and answered.
8. When I was a child, I wanted to be…
   A doctor.
9. All my (spare) money goes on…
   Books, DVDs, CDs
10. At night I dream of…
    See my entry from Monday morning.
11. My favourite building…
    Locally, the First National Bank. Also fond of the Chrysler Building in NYC. Big fan of art deco, as well.
12. My biggest regret…
    Not completing college. This may be resolved in the near future.
13. If I wasn't me I'd like to be…
    Somebody else? Me, only better?
14. My favorite artists
    Picasso, Chagal, some Dali, Ansel Adams, Georgia O'Keefe...
15. The soundtrack to my life…
    • Tangled Up in Blue, Dylan
    • Bach's Coffee Cantata
    • The Guests, Leonard Cohen
    • When I'm Gone, Phil Ochs
    • Goreki's 3rd Symphony (per yesterday's list)
    • This list could go on for a ways, too...
16. The best invention ever…
    Computers, the Internet, the blogosphere..!

That makes 50 (counting yesterday's list)! Get it? Fifty facts for my fiftieth birthday? Only 14 more shopping days (counting today)!

Idée d’jour

Not always so.
— Shunryu Suzuki, summing up the Buddha's teaching (Zen Calendar, © 2005, Workman Press)

34 Vital Statistics

From Meg, by way of Dick.

1. I was born Nov. 22, 1955.
2. President Kennedy was shot on my 8^th birthday.
3. My comfort food is fried chicken
4. My first car was a VW bug, bought from Brother Dave. I tried to change the oil myself, with predictable consequences.
5. I have only played team sports as part of a physical education class. Well, I did play in a sandlot game. Once.
6. I don't recall failing any courses in my academic career; however, I have incompletes in two (both English, ironically).
7. I am the youngest of two.
8. So far as I know, the only option for my birth name is its current incarnation. My first name was my paternal grandfather's middle name. I don't know the source of my own middle name.
9. Among my favourite poets are D.H. Lawrence, Emily Dickinson, W.B. Yeats, Diane Wakoski, Walt Whitman, T.S. Eliot, Woody Guthrie, and Dylan Thomas. Favourite authors include Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, Dorothy Sayers, C.S. Lewis, Philip K. Dick, and....(both these lists could go on for a while)
10. Bob Dylan is far and away the person I quote the most.
11. I don't follow any sports. I always think I will follow the Cubs, out of sheer perversity, but I never make it past the first couple of games.
12. I would love to visit Ireland.
13. My favourite piece of music is Goreki's Third Symphony. For today. Might be different next week.
14. I don't remember my first coffee. I became a serious coffee drinker when I worked the graveyard shift for a convenience store
15. My primary goal in life is to share love.
16. My secondary goal in life is to find more appropriate employment.
17. I have no sheepskin. Completed about three years of college.
18. I have been on local tv news segments several times. The potential audience, I'm told, was in the millions. I was a radio DJ for 7-8 years, with an audience in the hundreds.
19. I told Michael Feldman he looked like a Jewish fireman when he put on the toy fireman's helmet.
20. My life motto: Take it easy, but take it.
21. I don't fear death. I avoid pain like I avoid unprotected left turns.
22. Shoes... dress shoes, casual shoes (2 pr), faux Birkenstocks, hiking boots, flip-flops, faux mocassins
23. If I had to choose between marrying a woman who wrote well, a woman who sang well, and a woman of incredible fitness, I would choose the singer. Women of independent means are also welcome, if they love music.
24. I am 5'11.5".
25. No clue what my ring size is.
26. If I could buy one thing tomorrow, it would be a Canon SLR Digital Rebel.
27. I have a scar that divides my mustache and part of my upper lip.
28. My tonsils came out when I was 5 or 6. I think my father told me he and my mother were getting a divorce while I was in the hospital.
29. I've had my share of scrapes, but I don't recall seriously wounding anyone.
30. My favourite word is "bliss".
31. If I had an epitaph, I'd like it to say "He was a nice guy, and we kind of miss him"
32. My most prized possession is my grandfather's Epiphone guitar.
33. Given the chance, I would definitely be a decent poet.
34. Only fourteen more shopping days to my half century!

Sunday Morning's Dream

You have to understand that I don't normally remember my dreams. So, when I do, it seems worthy of note. Doesn't necessarily the dream is important — or that the forgotten ones are unimportant. When I do remember a dream though, I do try to honor it by turning it over and examining it and so on.

The house I entered was generic. That is, it was not a house I immediately recognized from my past. I habitually turned on the tv, then went to the kitchen and put a tv dinner in the microwave.

Went back to the living area to watch tv while the meal heated. The buzzer went off, so I returned to the kitchen to manually rotate the dinner. This means the dream microwave was older than my current real-life microwave (which has its own turntable).

The microwave was broken in some fashion - not clear how. Seems like the window on the front was broken or had a whole in it. I thought it would still work for part two of the zapping.

Then I noticed the phone on the kitchen wall. The place and style of the phone (Princess Slimline) meant I was back in the house I knew as home from 5th grade until I went to college.

A voice was coming from the phone, even though the receiver was still on the hook. Somehow, I knew this was some sort of voice mail. It was my ex-wife, Mary, saying she was stranded.

The exact location was garbled or indistinct, so I went to the bedroom to check the answering machine. As was typical of Mary (in real life), she left a lot of messages. I was quickly skimming them to get to the information I needed to pick her up.

As I was checking the messages, Padre came home. I immediately went to him so I could show him what happened to the microwave. Only now, instead of just a broken window in the front of the machine, the damage is much worse. A tree has crashed through the wall and microwave both.

I asked Padre to deal with that issue while I went to retrieve Mary. That's the point when I woke up.

I was very disoriented when I did wake up; I briefly thought it was Monday (rather than Sunday), that I had over-slept, and would be late to work. It took a few moments to shake that off, and fully enter my Sunday routine.

I did not see myself in the dream. I felt like my current-day self, rather than teenager or husband. But I don't think I was divorced in the dream, either. I certainly felt some responsibility to help Mary.

The house, as often happens in dreams, was an amalgram of my teenage home and the house Mary and I rented during our marriage.

I could generate some superficial, facile interpretations of the dream. For the moment though, I want to let it percolate. Perhaps you, who know me primarily through these pages, might have some insight?

Idée d’jour

If you never want to see the face of hell, when you come home from work every night, dance with your kitchen towel, and if you're worried about waking up your family, take off your shoes.
— Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav

Cat Friday

Stopping By Woods

The man in the buggy sat at the edge of the woods. It had just begun snowing. The reins lay draped across the horse's back.

These were Peterson's woods. Everyone knew Peterson lived in the village. No one knew why he kept these woods. He rarely came to inspect them, or get firewood.

The man watched the snow fall. It was a good snow, wet and full. Some snow fell in the horse's mane, and it shook its head.

The sky was snow-heavy and dark. It had been dark all day. The snow reflected light up into the trees.

There was a light breeze. The woods were quiet. On the other side of the woods, the lake was frozen.

The man was studying the woods. He listened to the snow crackle through the tree branches as it fell to the ground. He listened to his measured breath, slowly going in and out.

He was not thinking of her. He was watching the snow.

The horse shook its mane again. "All right, Nick," said the man, "We'll get going. It's a long way home, and we've got to get a good sleep tonight."

---

Several months ago, Jonathon Mayhew, who writes Bemsha Swing, made an off-hand comment about how hard it would be to translate a poem into a work of prose.

A few weeks after that, my friend George Wallace sent me a poem which featured Hemingway. I wrote a response, in the voice of D.H. Lawrence.

Somehow, these two ideas collided in my mental labyrinth, and I was inspired to re-write a poem in the voice of Hemingway.

Incidentally, Hemingway did try his hand at poetry. City Light Books published a selection as a chapbook. I remember flipping through it sometime in 1978. I was unimpressed.

On impulse, I chose a fairly well-known poem, Robert Frost's Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. I've been reading The Nick Adams Stories this past week, and now realize how accurate that impulse was.

I don't know whether I successfully captured Hemingway's voice. It's not too hard to write bad parodies of the Hemingway style. But I wanted to honor his style at the same time I honored the tone of Frost's poem.

What do you think?

A Tour of Me

As I have mentioned before, I am a fan of Natalie d'Arbeloff's series "Augustine Interviews God." We're now up to part 15 of this impressive series, and it is as thought-provoking as each preceding part.

At the end of part 14, God asks Augustine to take him for a walk. In a teaser for the series while it was in production, Augustine promises to take God someplace he has not been before.

Now, there's a logic problem if there ever was one.

There's a lot of theology we've inherited from the Greeks; terms like omniscient, omnipresent, and so on, come from Greek thought. If those concepts are true, there is no place God has not been, and nothing unknown to God.

It turns out that Augustine has chosen to take God on a tour of her inner world. But, while we might want to pretend otherwise, God is already well acquainted with our inner world. Thomas Cramner's prayer sums it up: "God unto whom all hearts are open and from whom no secrets are hid."

But God is polite. God acts as if Augustine's inner world is new to him. He's even playful: they begin their journey by entering Augustine's eye, and he says, "Entering the 'I' through the eye. That's good."

Augustine's image of her inner world looks pretty familiar to me, and I bet it resembles yours as well. The control center is in the head, which Augustine perceives to be a chaotic dump. "If you think this is chaos, you should see the real thing," says God.

The next room is filled with Augustine's future plans. "This is what I'll have," she says, "when I've done all that's necessary." The room is filled with grand schemes for world peace and the meaning of life. I'm very familiar with these ego dreams. God makes a very telling comment: "So this is what they call a virtual reality."

This is the second hint, after the I/eye pun, that there's something else going on with this journey.

The next room displays the objects that control Augustine's life. It looks very threatening, and God expresses gratitude that he's immune. As we saw yesterday, it doesn't take much for our possessions to posses us. And that's what we see in this dark picture.

The next room is the self that Augustine shares with her world, as represented by her blog page. That room is followed by her basement, "things remembered, forgotten, thrown away, hoarded, unfinished," she says, "I'll never get to the bottom of it."

"Tell me about it." says God. Another hint - for isn't she telling God about it already?

The tour ended, Augustine seeks God's approval. Rather than addressing the particulars of what he's been shown, God speaks to the process: "A very interesting fantasy. And you worked very hard on it."

The next sequence (9) is very interesting. The last two panels are silhouettes of their two heads. The comic strip norm in this situation would be for dialogue associated with one character to appear over that character's silhouette. Yet, in this sequence, the words appear over the hearer's silhouette. I think this is another clue.

In the final frame of that sequence God asks where their interviews take place. "I give up. Where?" "Elsewhere!" Not inner, not outer, not upstairs, not downstairs. In other words, exactly that place the Greeks tried to define with all their "omnis". That place which is beyond placeness, whereness, or time.

In seeking to show God her inner self, Augustine has indulged in a classic western dichotomy, that there is a distinction between the inner and outer self. The whole series, in a sense, assumes there is a distinction between us and God. But God does not make that distinction.

If "the possibilities are endless", as the last panel says, then Augustine participates in God's infinite possibilities. We are created in God's image, as the ancient myth has it, and participate in God's creativity. We already have the tools to do "what's necessary" to achieve our dreams of self-actualization and harmonious living.

---

[Up-dated, 6:55 am, Friday, Nov. 4]
In her comment below, Natalie points out I failed to note the panel on page 9 (linked above), in which God asks which room he lives in. Augustine reluctantly admits that God doesn't live in any of them.

Natalie suggests this means that Augustine hasn't made a space for God in her life. I agree, yet I think another reading is possible.

I think Augustine has been moving toward making a space for God from the first interview. Although God knows us intimately, even the secret fantasies we have about ourselves, he does not force himself into our lives. He waits to be invited.

From day one, when Augustine's primary motive was to generate hits for her blog-site, she has invited God into her life. And God has been the perfect guest. God meets Augustine right where she is. He tries, primarily in gentle ways, to help Augustine see existence as he does.

In the third interview, God says he's looking for collaboration to help actualize love in the world. "What would that involve," asks Augustine. "What have you got to offer," asks God.

Of course, God already knows what Augustine has to offer. But the offer is meaningless unless made freely, without coercion. In sharing these interviews, Augustine shares a rare and special gift, and begins her collaboration with God.

I love the comments for the series. One person said it seemed like God had bedroom eyes. Indeed, a case could be made that this whole series is God seducing Augustine. As she becomes more comfortable with him, she shares a little more of herself.

And this latest installment is the most intimate to date: sharing of her inner self (as she perceives it). God doesn't come out and say she needs to make room for him - he lets her realize it on her own. This is the only way she can begin to clear out the clutter.

Given time, she might clear a space in that command center ("You know me," says God, "I always want to be in charge"). This is where the most effective collaboration can begin.

Auxillery Blog

I have started a blog in TypePad, mostly as an experiment. TypePad is offering a free 30-day trial, so I thought "What the heck".

I started the blog primarily to try out their software. This was in order to provide some tech support to Alexandria. All this is explained, in somewhat more detail, in the Welcome message I posted on Tuesday.

I sincerely doubt that I will have the energy to maintain two blogs for any period of time. And I have no intention of paying for a service I currently enjoy without charge from Blogger. So "Practicing Patience" will only exist for the 30-day trial period.

And, on the theory that focus will make a difference, that blog will be solely devoted to my artistic efforts (there are three images posted there now). "Love During Wartime" will be focused on my remaining interests, primarily politics, poetry, and religion - though not necessarily in that order.

Speaking of Jonah....

My church recently completed its Stewardship Campaign. This is the time of year when people tell the church how much money they plan to give the church during the following year. Each year, the church’s finance committee tries something new. This year, the committee sent a little booklet with a story loosely based on the Jonah story. It was written and illustrated by Meredith, who is married to the Associate:

God said to Jonah, "Go this way"

But Jonah went that way, with all his stuff.

Jonah's stuff soon sunk his boat.
Jonah's soul sank. His life was stufficating.

Jonah found himself surrounded by Sell Fish.
They consumed his stuff faster
than he could pay it off.

Feeding on Jonah's stuff,
the Sell Fish grew so big
that one swallowed Jonah.

But God saved Jonah
and brought him to [our church].

And Jonah sailed God's way
with the Spirit.

God's Gifts Are Immense!
(they can't fit into this world)
[Long list of God's gifts, some particular to our community]

How glad I am not be stuck
inside my own little bowl
stufficating
among the Sell Fish.

I can't give God little pinches
of leftover stuff.

God said to Jonah
"Give this way."
[Chart showing percentiles of salary, from 10K - 200K, and from 2% - 14%, emphasizing the Biblical tithe of 10%]

Be a Stewardship PRO
and give in PROportion
to your blessings
in a real world
with a real GOD
on a real Steward Ship.

Now, since I use Jonah as my nom de blog, this naturally caught my eye. Additionally, it got me to thinking of my understanding of the original story.

I started calling myself Jonah because I often feel like I'm living in the "belly of the beast". The beast, in this instance, is American consumer culture. Which makes my usage very similar to Meredith's re-telling.

But the Biblical Jonah's time in the "great fish" is something different. I've told the story before, but I'm happy to re-tell it yet again.

The Book of Jonah is included with the minor prophets, but it begins much as the Book of Job does: "Now, there was a man..." Both books might as well begin "Once upon a time."

The Lord tells Jonah to prophesy to Nineveh, whose wickness is well known. Jonah agrees that the Ninevites are pretty bad folk, but he knows that if they repent, the Lord will spare them. The Lord is just kind-hearted that way.

And he doesn't want the Lord to spare Nineveh. He'd rather see it fry. So, he catches the first boat going the opposite direction.

The Lord isn't going to let him off that easy, and sends a mighty storm to delay the boats. Before long, the captain and crew make the connection between the dour prophet and the storm, and throw the prophet overboard.

In the normal course of things, Jonah would have drowned. But the Lord sends a "great fish", which swallows Jonah. Jonah sucks it up and prays to the Lord, and ultimately agrees to go prophesy to Nineveh.

He gives them the full fire and brimstone treatment, like Billy Graham in his glory days. And sure enough, we're told the ruler of the kingdom rends his robe, and puts on sack cloth and ashes. In those days, if the ruler did it, the remainder of the kingdom followed.

And sure enough, the Lord spares Ninevah - just as Jonah expected. Jonah pretty pissed, because he was really looking forward to witnessing some hard-core smiting. So, he goes off and sulks under a tamarask tree.

Initially, it's comfortable under that tree. It's nice and shady. But then the sun comes out and dries up the fruit that has been providing the shade. So now Jonah hot and sulking.

The Lord asks Jonah why he mourns for the tree. "After all, you didn't have anything to do with creating it. Yet, you chide me for sparing Nineveh, which I did create."

---

The great fish in the original story plays, at worst, a neutral role. It is far from negative, for if the fish had not swallowed Jonah, the prophet would have drowned. One could argue the fish plays a very positive role, in fact.

Maybe there's more to Stewardship, just like there was more to that fish. Maybe Stewardship is more than money.

Now, I understand some emphasis must be given to money. The gas and electric companies aren't going to donate their services to the church. Roofers won't fix the roof for free. Additionally, like many Episcopal Churches, our church currently has a deficit. So - as long as we live in an economy which uses money as a vehicle of trade, the church will need money.

But people have much more to give the church than just their money. They have time and talent, as well as treasure, to share. Most people in the church offer their time and talent without any hope of recognition. Yet, the church needs to know its potential volunteer base as much as it needs to know how much money will be available.

By asking people to make commitment of time and talent, as well as treasure, the church honors those gifts equally. The current system implies that the church honors our money alone.

Idée d'jour

Zen does not teach, it points.
— D.T. Suzuki (Zen Calendar, Workman Press, ©2005)

Hallowe'en Me'me

1. Favorite Halloween Candy
   Mmm...chocolate. Anything chocolate.


2. Least Favorite Halloween Candy
   Candy corn. However, since Peeps now has a Hallowe'en line, I may have to reassess that opinion.


3. Best Costume Ever
   "Cereal" killer. I used poster board to create a cereal box. The back of the box had a cartoon of cereal coming out of a bowl and killing someone — it even had a little homage to "Psycho".
   Surely a few of you remember when the back of cereal boxes had nine-panel cartoons on them?


4. Worst Costume Ever
   The idea was good, the execution not so much. I dressed as a "Lounge Lizard". I bought this makeup which was supposed to crack and make your skin look scaly, like a lizard's, but it didn't work. I looked more like a zombie, or someone who was sick.
   
   I wore a tux, and carried a microphone around. Now and again, I would do a variation on Bill Murray's lounge singer act. "Hey, babe! How's the steak?"


5. A Saint you treasure (please feel free to use the definition of "Saint" that is meaningful to you and to your faith tradition and life experience)

(a) Saint Francis; (b) Grandmother Kathleen, who was essentially my primary care giver in childhood.

Bonus: What am I dressed as this year?
My work-day costume is not likely to be recognized. I am dressed as Steven Keaton, the character played by Michael Gross on the 1980s sit-com "Family Ties". If I had a dollar for every time I was told I look like him, I could drive to California and audition to be his stand-in. My costume, aside from the supposed resemblance, consists of a sweater vest.

Autumn Scene

Moon's smile in the south-east
Cardinal stands in the ash pile
North wind mortar fire

Cat Friday

DJ silhouette

This shot was taken under available light. I've replaced the background with one of the colors from the Lady's eyes. I think it makes for a nice contrast.

Idée d’jour

That which has been successfully defined has been successfully killed.
— Christmas Huphreys (Zen Calendar, Workman Press, © 2005)

Idée d'jour

You cannot talk to a power politician
As if he were a wise man.
If he seeks to understand you,
If he looks inside himself
To find the truth you have told him,
He cannot find it there.
Not finding, he doubts.
When a man doubts,
He will kill.
— Chuang Tzu (c. 3 BCE) as rendered by Thomas Merton
[The Way of Chuang Tzu, New Directions, © 1965]

Lost October

Her heart like mercury on Oklahoma's barren shores
Her midnight hair clouds the forgotten morning
Her clay-foot cake walk across broken asphalt

Uncle John and Aunt Jo knew her youth
They tended her spider webs and
fed her intimate serpents

She has no opera sunglasses
She has no late tea cups
She has no patchwork dreams

Table cloth draped to the floor
Shadow fortress for afternoon tea
She hears the bees whisper

She finds her form in volcanic ash
She finds her voice in whirling winds
She finds her hands in the furnace

Her father is a giant, he drives the train
He carries her from station to station,
a talisman in his pocket

She tastes like vinegar
She haunts the feline alleys
Her shadow slithers from the past

---

Think there may be more to come. "Lost October" is a working title – a place holder, if you will.

Piles of Paper

I sit at this desk I have had since I was a teenager. I've jerry-rigged it for use as a computer desk by pulling out the main drawer and balancing the keyboard it, and setting the mouse on a manuscript book which is then atop an opened side drawer.

I'll never forget the day I panicked, thinking I had misplaced that manuscript book. I had forgotten that it was the foundation for my mouse pad.  

The desk is cluttered. It would take an evening to catalogue all the stuff collected here, and to tell the tale of why I keep it all.

Atop one pile at the right-hand corner is a "Christian Pocket Diary" for 2005 and a Moleskine mini-journal. The latter is empty, the former is mostly empty.  

There are islands of spiral-bound notebooks scattered through-out the room, some filled. Most not.  

What an amazing pile of paper.  

I do have one full “thesis” book, begun in my first year of college (1976-77). It really is a “common-place book”, as it has quotes and poems from a number of quarters, along with original writing and journal entries. For example, somewhere in the middle is a page of quotes ending with one from Elizabeth Hardwick (as memory serves): “Oh, yes!” Elsewhere is one of my darker short stories, titled “The Funeral”.  

In many ways, that thesis book was a precursor of this space, where I try out drafts of poems and vignettes. On dry days, I simply copy from my Zen Calendar or a quote “borrowed” from Word a Day.  

I have another “thesis” book which has 101 out of 124 pages filled. Almost a third of this book collects essays written for a church newsletter in the mid to late 80s.

This may seem excessive, or wasteful. Am I collecting notebooks (etc) as some collect coins or baseball cards?

Many of the spiral notebooks were remainders or strays obtained when I worked at the Infernal Bookstore ages ago. No out-of-pocket expense there. Other notebooks and blank books have been bought on a whim, or because I liked the cover.

Sometime back I read that one way to break writer's block was to buy yourself a new tool to honor the craft – primarily a writing instrument or something to write on. The Moleskine mini-journals (three 30-page journals to a pack for $6) were bought for that reason. I even thought, at the time, that I might use all three at once – for separate concerns/obsessions.

I bought my first Moleskine Journal after reading the Real Live Preacher's entry about his. There may have been a bit of magical thinking present here: in other words, the misty-eyed belief that buying the same tool that he uses would help me write as well as he does.

There's a certain satisfaction to typing my thoughts as I go along, rather than going from pen to page, from notebook to screen. More recent poems have been written this way than I care to admit. I'll confess that many poems that I think work the best started on the page. But some, even a long poem like “Grandmother's House”, have started on the screen and drafts get worked out on-screen as well. The recently published "Year of the Flood" was also written on-screen.

Don't know what marks that difference. No doubt would make an interesting neurological study. I would suppose there is a study, by now, which compares what parts of the brain are active when writing with pen in hand against what parts are used when composing at the keyboard.

The best I know to do is to “follow the muse”. Occasionally, I just feel a need to feel my fingers grip the pen. My experience with the Moleskine has taught me the pleasure of writing on high-quality paper, which adds a unique aesthetic to the process. Sometimes I even like the tactile sensation of spreading graphite on the page when I write with a pencil. Sometimes I like the feel of the keys and the subtle click-clack sound they make.

I've learned to trust my instincts in these matters.

How'm I doing so far?

Idée d'jour

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

The Iraqi Constitution

I've been doing some research on the status of the Iraqi Constitution. Considering the fact the election was essentially non-violent, and initial reports estimated that 76% of those voting had approved the constitution, I expected the Administration to be trumpeting a mighty success.

According to this Forbes article, two provinces have rejected the Constitution. According to election rules, if one more province rejects the Constitution, it will have failed.

According to the New York Times, the vote has been divided along sectarian lines. About 9.8 million voters, or 68% of those eligible, participated in the election, which is somewhat better than the 58% who participated in the January elections for the transitional government. I don't have our own election figures memorized, but I would guess this level of participation is better than the average American election participation.

All things considered, however, it may be too soon to claim the vote was successful. It's quite likely the Administration won't consider the election an unqualified success if the Constitution fails to pass.

So. Let's play a little game of "What IF?"

Will the passage of a constitution validate America's invasion of Iraq?

The passage of a constitution does not necessarily mean the resulting government will succeed. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice has said that it may take as long as 10 years for a stable government to be established.

So, beyond the ratification of a Constitution, it's simply too early to tell whether the B*sh experiment in nation re-creation will be successful.

But even if the Constitution is ratified, and Iraq becomes a Middle Eastern democracy to rival Israel, that still won't justify the invasion. The best one could say is that a good end came from a bad beginning.

Remember, the rational for invading Iraq was primarily to pre-emptively strike again Saddam before he struck us. Evidence was presented which claimed Saddam was rebuilding his chemical warfare program, and was seeking to build nuclear weapons as well.

Many charts and graphs, and aerial maps with circles and arrows were presented to prove these claims. Images of mushroom clouds over New York City and Washington, DC were described.

Recent, U.S. army inspectors made it official: Saddam had no chemical warfare program. There was not an iota of evidence which confirmed he was even seeking fissible material.

At best, the "evidence" we heard in late 2002 was highly inflated. At worst, it was a pack of carefully orchestrated lies.

Is it possible for a positive outcome to come from this negative beginning? Put another way: does a negative beginning necessarily lead to a negative end?

Keep in mind that the negative beginning involved more than faulty intelligence. It also involved poor military planning. Sure, Allied forces - such as they were - defeated Hussein's army quickly enough. But the borders were not secured. Munitions depots were left unguarded. Many basic services still have not been restored (especially in remote areas).

I suspect that, given all these bad beginnings, things are likely to have a bad end. Every month that American troops remain in Iraq adds to the feeling that Americans are an occupying army, which will fuel resentment and dissatisfaction. The sectarian differerences noted in the Times article could well be the seeds of a civil war.

Unfaithfully Yours

I married Katy
in the year of '01
She was a lady
and we had our fun
But my heart it wandered
on romantic detours
Still I remain
Unfaithfully Yours

I lived with Nancy
for three months or more
Our house wasn't fancy
we slept on the floor
But my eyes they wandered
like lustful voyeurs
Still I remain
Unfaithfully Yours.

I loved a waitress
who didn't love me
I loved a dancer
who soon set me free
For my heart is hungry
and always wants more
So I remain
Unfaithfully Yours

---

I finished this song lyric about three weeks ago. It began on Sept. 13^th, when I heard the titular phrase in a movie. I hasten to add that the song is not autobiographical, unless "lusting in the heart" counts. The tune hovers somewhere between "Satisfied Mind" and "Tramp on the Street".

I'm plotting a method to record some songs in MP3 format, so you guys can hear them. If I'm successful, this may be one of the first I record.

Publication Noted

As I mentioned a couple of days ago, Tom Montag accepted my poem "The Year of the Flood" for his "Saturday Poem" series. The theme of the series is "Poems of Place". I thought "Flood" qualified, and Mr. Montag happily agreed. You can see it in place here.

There's also an "illustrated" version of the poem here.

Cat Friday

The lady begins her minstrations. The shot was taken under natural light last Saturday afternoon. She doesn't mind modeling, so long as camera flashes are not involved.

The lady is apparantly living on Standard Time: she set herself on my bladder at about 4:30 this morning. She has learned, it seems, that propping herself at that specific space gets results. The fact that she's purring rather forcefully adds to the effect.

When she wakes me in this fashion, which is most mornings, she does receive attention. No, I don't throw her across the room. I pet her. Eventually, the bladder wins; but until it does, I enjoy petting her.

What Noise

What noise at the door?
A ghost only,
a shadow of the Hunter's Moon.

What did the cricket say?
Spoke only of wheat,
barley & grass.

How spoke the shadow?
With harvest of asphalt
and oil on the water.

Who remembers?
Fat Charley and his brother,
living by the river.

Who dances with Orion?
The owl, the mouse,
the barren rabbit warren.

What noise?
The wind, my love,
it's only the wind.

Soon to Be Published

One of my poems has been accepted for web-publication! This counts as my second publication on a web-site other than my own. Just got an e-mail from Tom saying he was going to publish one of my poems as part of his "Saturday Poems" series. It will be published this Saturday, Oct. 22.

My only previous publication was in the Winter 2004 issue of Poetry Bay. The fact that George Wallace, then Poet Laureate of Suffolk County, NY, would accept my poem for publication was quite a thrill, and got me to writing more poetry again.

Tom Montag is also a published poet. So his acceptance of "The Year of the Flood" is also quite thrilling. I think anytime your work is accepted for publication, whether paper or electronic, it says something about the quality of your work.

Not sure how I learned of Tom's series. Maybe through Natalie's Site, or maybe one of the dozen or so poetry sites I glide through in a month.

Of course, to paraphrase Jon, I may have just caught Tom on an off-day. A week from now, he might have e-mailed to say the poem wasn't suitable for the "Saturday Poem" feature at this time.

But he didn't say that. He's going to "publish" it.

Pats on the back gratefully acknowledged.

Idée d'jour

The fundamental delusion of reality is to suppose that I am here and you are out there.
— Yasutani

Idée d'jour

God, whose love and joy are everywhere, can't come to visit unless you aren't there.
— Angelus Silesius

Alter Angel

The leaden angel
descended from Mercury.
Her heart was an intimate furnace.

In one hand, silver arrows;
in the other,
withered olive branches.

Her words were writ
on cadmium tablets.
Each letter was acid etched.

Who spilled the blood
on desert sands?
Who swept the ocean
across the small city bowl?

Who dances and kills,
then smiles for the camera?
Who tears the bodies from their homes
and tears the limbs from the bodies?

Her face is set.
Her heart is a consuming fire.

Idée d'jour

Don't judge men's wealth or godliness by their Sunday appearance.
— Benjamin Franklin, statesman, author, and inventor (1706-1790)

Along similar lines, I recommend "Don't Go to Church", in which "Mr Preacher" makes a persuasive argument that our focus should not be GOING to church, but BEING the church.

Tenth Street Excercise

You with the four-square name
You with your hands in your pockets
and your head in the clouds
You with the empty promises
and the vile idle threats
You with the unfinished novel
You with the blank stare
in the evening
and the gaping mouth
in the dawn
Your heart is small as a black hole
Your black bird eyes are empty mirrors
Your oreo mania
Your hammered jello
Your seagull heartache
Your infinite inertia

You with the iron in your liver
and the mercury under your fingernails —
I don't recall your name

Questions

This entry was suggested by Reverend Mother. Apparantly, these questions are traditionally asked at the end of the program "Inside the Actor's Studio".

1. What is your favorite word?
   Dance
2. What is your least favorite word?
   Paradigm
3. What turns you on, creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
   1. New directions
   2. Silence
   3. Friends
4. What turns you off?
   Hypocrisy
5. What is your favorite curse word?
   F*ck. Rarely used, but frequently repeated when it is.
6. What sound or noise do you love?
   Music
7. What sound or noise do you hate?
   Alarm clock
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
   Teacher
9. What profession would you not like to do?
   Garbageman, or politician (And the difference is....?)
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
    Welcome home!

Dog Day Friday

Her ladyship was not interested in posing this week, and gave me permission to post a picture of an alternate species.

This handsome pooch is lounging at a store somewhere in southern Colorado. The picture comes by way of a co-worker who just returned from a visit.

Koan d'jour

A clearly enlightened person falls in the well. How is this so?
(from Workman Press' Zen Calendar, © 2005)

Idée d’jour

Jump into salvation while you are alive. What you call "salvation" belongs to the time before death.
— Kabir

Robertson Supports Miers Nomination

Pat Robertson, assasin for hire, has spoken out in favor of the nomination of Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court. Which is just one more reason, in an exceedingly lost list, to oppose the nomination.

However, I'll admit that I was among those whose first thought was, "Well, it could be a lot worse." And one positive thing about the nomination is how it has divided the ranks among conservatives and Republicans.

I'm in favor of anything that decreases their power.

But it's clear, from the number of Christian evangelicals who have supported Ms. Miers, that the sole reason she's been nominated to the court is to overturn Roe v. Wade. Which is a form of judicial activism I oppose.

I would join our conservative friends in asking for someone better. I just don't have any faith that the next person on the list will be any more palatable than Ms. Miers.

Yesterday

Yesterday was one of those rotten no-good days
when one darn thing follows another.
It began with a sinus headache.
I suppose the headache may have been a contributing factor
to all that followed.
But, it began with the sinus headache.
Of course, I took the drug cocktail that seems to help -
pseudoephedrine, (generic) claritin, ibuprofen -
that got the pain down to where I could walk straight.
As I was brushing my teeth, I noticed there was a stain on my shirt.
Right over the hollow of my right shoulder, a stain.
So I changed my shirt.
I was in a hurry, because I wanted to stop by the post office and then vote
before I went to work.
After I had rolled the car out of the garage,
I realized I'd forgotten my glasses.
I need those glasses to drive,
and need them even more to work.
I switched off the car, went inside, and got my glasses.
Post office and voting transpired without incident.
But then I had to wait for a train.
The train that runs north and south
a block east of Broadway,
and about three blocks west
of the parking garage.
Aside from wishing I could unscrew the top of my skull
(like Steve Martin in that movie),
the morning proceeded without incident
until about 10:00
when I realized
I had forgotten my watch.
Which is only an issue at lunch,
because there are no clocks
at the cafeteria where I eat.
The day was busy, which was good,
because it encouraged me to focus
on the tasks at hand
rather than my physical discomfort.
Got home.
I thought the meeting was at 7,
which meant I only had about an hour
to do everything I wanted to do.
Naturally, my elderly neighbor called
and needed help with his fancy phone.
That took about 20 minutes.
And I chose to write bills
and balance the check book
and print out the prayer I would say at the meeting.
I scarfed down a Healthy Choice entree for dinner.
Then I chose to stop by the post office (again!)
on the way to the meeting.
Rushing, rushing, rushing.
The meeting actually started at 7:30.
Happily, the meeting ended around 9:30.
I got home safely.
My headache is better today,
thanks for asking.

Tao d’jour

I have just three things to teach:
Simplicity, patience, compassion.
These three are your greatest treasures.
Simple in actions and in thoughts,
you return to the source of being.
Patient with both friends and enemies,
you accord with the way things are.
Compassionate toward yourself,
you reconcile all beings in the world.
— Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

Prayer Before Vestry

Those of you with long memories may remember that I am a member of the church board (called a vestry in the Episcopal Church). Different lay members are asked to say a prior before each meeting. Tonight is my turn. Naturally, I had to write a draft in advance.

---

Blessed are you, Lord God, Ruler of the Universe.
Blessed are you, Giver of Light and Life.
We give thanks for the opportunity to gather in Your Name.
Grant your indwelling Spirit so inspire our hands, hearts, and minds
that we may be focused on achieving your will in all things.
We especially seek your direction
as we consider the finances of this community.
We also ask that each of us gathered at this table,
as well as each member of our community,
honestly consider Your gifts freely given,
and how we may best employ those gifts
for the growth and strengthening of your Kingdom.
This we ask in your Holy Name.
Amen.

Haiku d’jour

An autumn evening;
It is no light thing
To be born [human].
— Issa

Idée d’jour

You can't do anything about the length of your life, but you can do something about its width and depth.
— H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

Cat Friday

We were unsuccessful in capturing the ideal shot last night. Happily, the lady obliged by climbing into the linen closet this morning and striking the poses recorded herein.

By the way, those are my towels the lady has appointed as her special bed.

DJ is doing her part to help me keep depression at bay by persistently meowing until I get out of my chair and start playing with her. Mighty thoughty of her, don't you agree?

We've got a new game similar to bowling. It involves paper sacks and one of two balls. We're still working out the rules.

The Canoe

The water is rising.
The tide raises the boats.
The levees weep.

The water is walking -
a pillar by day,
a column by night.

The pillar grows stronger,
feeds on the water.
It moves the pleasure palace.

The levees weep. The bird
flies over the flood.
Listen to the mockingbird.

Lines in the water,
voices floating on the water.
The water is walking.

The tide raises the boats,
but not the canoe.
The flood overwhelms the canoe.

The water is rising. The
bird flies above the water.
Listen to the mockingbird.

Idée d’jour

I don't necessarily agree with everything I say.
— Marshall McLuhan

---

McLuhan also famously said, "The medium is the massage." Meaning, as I recall, that different types of media massage human intelligence in different ways.

Holy the Quotidian

You have to go right into life and find your spirituality on a cross-town bus at rush hour, when it's raining and you have a stomachache.
— Peter Himmelman, quoted in the November 2005 issue of Acoustic Guitarist Magazine [(16)5; 155: 38]

---

There's something about mountaintops. Those of us in the "Judeo-Christian" tradition are familiar with Mt Ararat, where the ark landed, and the mountain where Moses received the commandments, and the mountain where Jesus stood with Moses and Elijah. From these and other similar events, we have coined the term "mountain-top experience". Plains Indians, much like the desert dwellers of ancient Palestine, also revered high geographical places.

There is also something about valleys. The psalmist speaks of the "Valley of Death", of course. Ezekiel has a vision of the rebirth of Israel in the valley of dry bones.

The Celtic tradition speaks of Thin Places, in which one may be aware of the meeting of heaven and earth. One well-known thin place, the isle of Iona, is a craggy high place. It is "beyond the beyond", as they say. It's not a warm fuzzy Disneyland experience one will find at a Thin Place. Indeed, it may be profoundly UNcomfortable. Confronting the eternal often is.

Nietsche said that when you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you. I think this is another way of saying that Thin Places not only put you in touch with the eternal; Thin Places also cause you to confront your real self, without any masks or self-deception. That's what can make a Thin Place so uncomfortable.

Mountains and valleys are also terms we often use for high and low experiences in our lives. At one extreme is the mountain-top experience of a new birth; at the other, the valley experience of the death of someone you love. These are times when one is more vulnerable to the eternal, or divine.

When we go on pilgrimage, when we go to the Thin Place, or the lonely place apart, we also make ourselves vulnerable. In one instance, we choose to become vulnerable; in the other, we may become vulnerable due to external circumstance.

But what about the in-between times? The normal times? The quotidian dailyness of "Ordinary Time"?

In a sense, finding the eternal at the margins, the extremes of life, is easy. The challenge is finding the divine in the every day.

There are a few people venerated for finding the divine in the ordinary. Teresa of Lisieux, the "Little Flower", is one. Brother Lawrence, who wrote The Practice of the Presence of God, is another.

This is the time of year the Roman Catholic Church calls "Ordinary Time". There are the High Holy times, of course, of Christmas and Easter. By designating this period between those great mountain tops as "Ordinary Time", the church recognizes that Ordinary Time is also Holy.

That's the challenge, then. Find the holy in this Ordinary Time. Find the holy in rushing for the bus, or when you have a sinus headache, or when you're feeling tetchy with your spouse (or significant other). Find the holy when you're angry. Find the holy when your job is a drag, and it's a challenge to start the car to drive to the commuter lot.

Seeking the holy in the Thin Places is easy. But you can become vulnerable to the divine right now. You can seek the holy even in the computer screen or the keys at your fingers. Indeeed, you can find the holy even at your very fingertips.

Idée d’jour

Can we wash each cup or bowl as if we were bathing a newborn baby Buddha?
— Thich Nhat Hanh

Idée d’jour

Eternity is not something that begins after you are dead. It is going on all the time. We are in it now.
— Charlotte Perkins Gilman (author of The Yellow Wallpaper)

Idée d’jour

Try as much as possible to be wholly alive, with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell and when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.
— William Saroyan

Michaelmas

I'm wearing black today. Black shirt, black pants. I may even wear my famous black hat. If it were a tad cooler, I would wear my black leather vest.

I often wear black on Friday because the day is a reminder of Good Friday, when Christians commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth.

Why do I chose to bring this to your notice? And what does it have to do with Michaelmas (the feast of St Michael and All Angels)? By the way, Michaelmas was Thursday, Sept. 29.

Because I am also wearing my bow-tie. As you see, it is based on a design by M.C. Escher. It's white fish on a black background. The fish seem to be in groups of three (at least in the section I scanned for this entry).

I'm also wearing my seer-sucker coat, which is a pattern of thin black stripes on a white background.

This is my way to acknowledge The Light in the Darkness. The yin in the yang, and visa versa.

In the original illustrated version of Man and His Symbols, Carl Jung reproduced a piece of art of the Archangel Michael with that ancient dragon (Satan). The circularity of the two principles looked eerily like yin/yang.

In Talmudic tradition, Michael's name is held to mean "he who is like God." Satan is also known as Lucifer, a name that means "Light Bringer". Milton holds that Lucifer's folly was seeking to be like God. So, we see the figures mirror each other.

It's a good time, in other words, to acknowledge the light in my own darkness. Since I get a case of the blues around this time of year, seasonal affect disorder would seem likely. What I must guard against is despair.

Despair led me to write that I was bored with my self and with my life. I knew it seemed melodramatic when I wrote that a little over a week ago. I also knew the only chance I had to overcome the darkness was by naming it, describing it, confronting it.

Depression is one thing. The next rung down is despair. Despair is an affliction of those who have a poor sense of history. That is to say, it seizes one who has come to believe his or her present darkness will never end.

Allowed to continue unchecked, despair will pull the trigger, pop the pills, or secure the rope.

It's important for me to name it. It's important for me to remind myself that I've been here before, and I've always come out the other side.

It's important to honor the light in the darkness. That's why I wore black AND white today.

Cat Friday

Here we see the lady in the midst of her yoga exercises. She wisely looks away from the flash.

Since we missed a Friday a couple of weeks ago, I thought I'd post a make-up shot. This is really more of your correspondent than the lady. It's not the best angle, but I did smile (just for you, Sam).

Quote of the Week

More and more, the Bush Era is beginning to resemble the Harding Era, without the humanizing features of sex and liquor.

---

This is a quote from an extended comment by Ed Kilgore on Tom DeLay's recent indictment.

Here's my thought on the indictment: couldn't happen to a more deserving fellow. He was first in line to bring impeachment charges against President Clinton. With the Texas indictment, the chickens have come home to roost.

DeLay has skated ethical guidelines, and has tried to convince his fellow representatives to broaden those guidelines practically from the time he came to office.

If I were in a cheerier mood, I might be inclined to believe this is one more domino that will lead to the de facto end of the B*sh regime. One can pray that from this point forward his imperial handsomeness will be a toothless lame duck.

The only thing that might make that hope a reality is if the Satanic Majesty (KR) at his right hand is indicted in the Plame matter. Then perhaps we can breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Winfield, Part Two: Wednesday Evening & Thursday

After dinner Wednesday evening, I decided to catch the end of the Taylor Concert. This is a concert sponsored by Taylor Guitars, and features professional finger-style guitarists. I got there toward the end of Stephen King’s set. Not to be confused with the novelist, this guitarist played primarily popular tunes – especially from the Beatles’ catalogue.

While he was playing, volunteers were handing out tickets for a drawing that would be held at the end of the concert. I’m not sure that the next performer, Chris Proctor, received the audience’s full attention. People were anxious for the drawing, each person hoping he or she would win that Taylor Guitar. Incidentally, the Taylor brand is the "Cadillac" of guitars.

Chris played primarily original material, which I didn’t think was very melodic. He also tried to be humorous, and failed. He seemed to hold the crowd’s attention best with his arrangement of “Nights in White Satin”, on which he used some electronic gadget which altered the sound of his guitar. It sounded like a melatron.

Since storms were still threatening, the concert was being held in a barn. By the time I got there, the crowd was standing room only, and people were packed in the doorway to listen. I had borrowed a small lawn chair from camp, which set only a few inches from the ground. This was less than ideal for a guy close to 6 ft tall, but it was better than standing in place on hard concrete for more than an hour.

I didn’t win the Taylor.

I returned to the camp after wards, and got ready for bed. It was only 11 o’clock or so, which was early by Winfield time, but I was tired. Unfortunately, I had forgotten where I had packed my earplugs, so I slept fitfully as people in neighboring camps jammed. Then the torrent hit around 3 a.m.

I later heard that Winfield received two to three inches of rain that night.

Walked to the showers at 7 Thursday morning. The showers are an interesting set-up. They cost $3 each. There’s 20 showers; two long roofless mobile trailers with 10 showers each. You turn the shower on by pulling a chain; there is no way to keep the shower on constantly, as you would at home. It’s an obviously necessary measure to save water.

One of the trailers has a mirror on the side, so folk can fix their hair. The mirror is relatively sheltered, as it is not visible from the street. There is about a yard and a half of space between the trailers, where this mirror hangs. I went to this space to comb my hair, and who should be blow-drying her long tresses but Sarah!

We had a nice long conversation, of the catching up how’s your job variety. By unspoken agreement, we have not discussed our former romance since it ended two years ago. I believe this unspoken agreement has helped us rebuild our friendship. We probably won’t be able to perform together again. But at least we can be friends.

John was already on the festival grounds, waiting for Sarah to join him for breakfast. I walked her back to her camp, then most of the way to the festival grounds. It’s the longest conversation we’ve had in a year, and I felt very much at ease.

I hope Sarah did, as well.

Went back to camp, had some granola and yogurt for breakfast. Drank camp coffee, and hung out.

Decided it was time to hear some music, so I went to the Grand Stand on the festival grounds. This is one of two places one can go that have guaranteed shade. I knew I had to be extra cautious about dehydration because of the antibiotic. An additional caution, for the same reason, was to stay out of direct sunlight.

I heard Stephen Bennett and Friends, The Waybacks, The Greencards, and No Strings Attached. All in one location, in succession.

Stephen Bennett is a very good finger-style guitarist. His “friends” were a fiddle player, and Stephen’s son. The son is a song writer, and he’s not bad for a 19 year-old (or so).

The Waybacks are a blue grass band. Their lead guitarist can often get overly enthusiastic about his lead playing, but otherwise they’re a very tight group.

The Greencards were one of the few new groups playing at Winfield this year. The four members are quite international: fiddler from Great Britain, bassist from Ireland, rhythm guitarist from Chicago, Illinois. There was also a drummer – maybe from New Zealand or Australia. Very tight blue grass style group.

No Strings Attached plays a wide variety of acoustic music. They never fail to entertain.

After all this, I went to Bill’s camp and joined their jam circle. We played music until 11:00.

Happily, I had found my earplugs earlier. I slept relatively well. At least as well as one can hope for at Winfield.

RIP: M. Scott Peck

M. Scott Peck died yesterday at the age of 69, from complications due to pancreatic cancer. He is best known for the self-help book The Road Less Traveled. This book spoke to a certain generation at a certain time — the tail-end of the "Me Generation" and the beginning of "Greed is Good."

A number of things are unique about this book. Most self-help books are written in the second person; the tone is kind but imperious: you must change. This book is written primarily in the first person plural. The opening paragraph is a good example:

Life is difficult.

This is a great truth, one of the greatest truths [nb: One of Buddha's Four Noble Truths is "Life is Suffering"]. It is a great truth because once we truly see this truth, we transcend it. Once we truly know that life is difficult — once we truly understand and accept it — then life is no longer difficult. Because once it is accepted, the fact
that life is difficult no longer matters.
[© 1978, Simon & Schuster, New York]

This is no imperious author telling you what you must do. This is a fellow human being, also in the trenches, working with you and me.

"Road" is also unique because it is a synthesis of a number of psychological theories, and intergrates spirituality. The etymological root of the word "psychology", after all, is "psyche" – which may be translated as "soul."

I believe the reason the book was so popular in its time was because people hungered for a spiritual dimension in their lives, as opposed to the narcissism of the "Me Generation" or the self-serving opportunism of the "Greed Era".

I read the book twice. The second time was as part of a book study led by Fr. Spaine at St. James' church; I think that was the early to mid '80s. Many passages in my copy of the book are underlined; a few notes are written in the margins as well. Exactly when I made these "annotations" isn't important; the fact that I did reflects the impact the book made on me.

I read only one other book by Scott Peck, which I believe was his second book: People of the Lie. I was so disappointed with this book, that I was not motivated to read his later books.

The thesis of the book was that some people lie to themselves to the point that they become pure evil. On the face of it, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with this thesis. The risk comes in the temptation to label any number of one's adversaries or enemies as "people of the lie". It can be a way to dismiss and dehumanize another person.

I was aware of this temptation within myself as I read the book. My immediate impulse was to study the text for "proof" that my mother was a "person of the lie". Scott Peck makes clear that there are some people are so evil that we should avoid them for our own mental health. Therefore, this "proof" would have been the justification for avoiding my mother.

I was sufficiently self-aware to recognize that this conclusion was awfully self-serving. However, I don't recall a consistent caution within the text that warned the reader against such temptations.

Full disclosure: I did eventually distance myself from my mother, for reasons similar to the ones I detail above. Basically, her memory of her mothering skills was different from my brother's and mine. There is some written and photographic evidence that our memories were more accurate than hers. I have come to believe that mother needed her "lie" as a survival tool. Even with this charitable view, I could no longer tolerate the dissonance between our different narratives. As I have noted before, it's awfully hard to forgive someone when they deny the action ever took place.

Back to Peck's book: he acknowledges that he was motivated to write this book due to an interaction with a female patient. The patient was being very flirtatious, and would not cease. As a layperson, it seems to me the appropriate way to deal with this is to end the therapeutic relationship and send the woman to another (preferably female) therapist.

I don't remember the details of the transaction, and Peck may have in fact done this after a time. Yet, the fact that he maintained the relationship even after he asked the woman to cease being flirtatious is suggestive. It suggests that he was at least subconsciously involved in the flirtation. My memory is that Peck did not confront this possibilty in the book.

Since the theme of the book was being honest with oneself, this oversight called the whole book into question.

The last chapter dealt with demonic possession and exorcism, and drew heavily on the work of Malachi Martin. I skimmed one of Martin's titles listed in the references, and came to the conclusion that Martin had a considerable ultra-fundamental ax to grind.

Peck maintained an interest in exorcism til the end of his life, and actually performed at least two, as related in this Beliefnet interview.

People who have read his subsequent books (e.g., Different Drum and In Search of Stones) assure me they are worth the time. My disappointment with his second book, and my skepticism about exorcism and demonic possesion, do not lessen the value of The Road Less Traveled. I would still recommend it to anyone seeking a path to holistic maturity.

Pictures from Winfield, 2005

I'm slowly creating a prose narrative of my visit to Winfield. While you are patiently waiting (tapping your foot, arms akimbo), you may want to see some actual pictures taken on the camp grounds this year. They're now available at my Flickr account!

What's the Matter, Hatter?

Winfield Mad Hatter

I am tired of the sound of my own voice. That can be a problem. That can be a problem when you are maintaining an on-line journal such as this one. That can be a problem when you intend to tell the story, but every sentence lacks life. Every word lies flat, and stares at me with dead eyes.

I can't even work up much energy about talking about why I'm tired of my own voice. It's word after word after word. They just sound too much like me. And I bore myself.

Once upon a time, I sought out life experiences as some sort of writing school. I smoked pot. I snorted coke, and speed. I drank to excess.

I quickly realized that these experiences were not leading to great writing, but to certain self-destruction.

I muddle through my days. I watch the sun chase the moon, morning after morning. I put one foot in front of the other, and sometimes wish for some alternative.

But this is why I'm finding it so hard to tell you about the details of my time at the Walnut Valley Festival in Winfield, KS this year. My life bores me. My words about my life bore me.

I'm so tempted to sum it up quickly. "It was ok." Or, "It was the same old same old." Then I'd be done with it.

In the end, what does it matter?

It's only life. It's only words.

I've been here before. We know it passes. If only I can persist in putting one foot in front of t'other.

And I am dedicated to finishing. It may take a little longer, even longer than it did last year. But I believe I'll get there.

Cat Friday

It was a challenge getting the lady to pose, but we eventually agreed on this shot at 6:40 this morning.

Idée d’jour

There is nothing more difficult for a truly creative painter than to paint a rose, because before he can do so he must forget all the roses that were ever painted.
— Henri Matisse

Winfield Day One: Arrival

I left Oklahoma City at 7:00 Wednesday morning. Storms were forecast for both north-eastern Oklahoma and south-eastern Kansas, and I had some hope of getting to Winfield before it got especially bad.

Most of the drive to Winfield is on I-35. The drawback to this is the fact that I-35 becomes a toll road shortly after one crosses the Kansas border. The toll is a little over $1 to drive just a few miles. The past couple of years, I’ve taken an alternate route in order to avoid the toll. This year, I took Highway 60, near Perry, to Highway 77, and drove all the way north on 77.

The road zig-zags much more than I-35 does, and one has to slow down in the small towns. But the drive is scenic, and has much more character than the I-35 route. The trip normally takes a little over two hours. This time, it took almost three — primarily because of the zig-zagging, and the slower speed limits in the small towns.

Additionally, I had to make frequent stops to use the restroom.

This may count as "TMI", but my bladder seemed to be working overtime. I assume this was caused by the antibiotics I was taking.

You may wonder why I was taking antibiotics. If you’ll recall, my left index finger was infected. I saw the doc on Tuesday before leaving, and she gave me enough samples for a full course of antibiotics.

If you’ve ever taken antibiotics, you know that they can cause dehydration. So, I was intentionally drinking a little more than usual. Ergo, the frequent bladder breaks.

I got to Winfield at 10:00. Before I left, I had made arrangements to meet Paulapalooza, who happens to be on the staff of one of the town’s churches. Coincidentally, this same church was a location for workshops, similar to the one I attended last year.

Unfortunately, Paulapalooza wasn’t in yet. I was told she expected to be in by 11. I left my name, and drove on into the festival grounds.

I had driven through some rain after I got on Hwy 77. Some of it quite heavy. But nothing severe. The sky dome, as I often call it, was grey in every direction. Had been since I left the house. But it was not raining when I got to the grounds.

When you get to the gate, you’re supposed to either give them your ticket, or pay $85. My ticket had been (apparently) lost in the mail, so I had to tell the volunteer my hard-luck story. You may recall I called ahead regarding this; I told the story early last week. It required a wait, but I got in after about 15-20 minutes.

I got to the Granola Camp, where I’ve stayed for the past three years, and had stayed the first year I went to Winfield. It took me about 30 minutes to set up my tent. After which, I went to the camp’s kitchen, which was protected by a large awning, and I took a break. Then the rain hit.

It lasted about 45 minutes or so. Once it seemed clear, I grabbed my umbrella and walked back to Paulapalooza’s church. I had clocked it earlier, and it was only a little over a mile. I knew I could walk that, easy.

Ms. P still wasn’t there. Turned out her son was sick. However, her husband was there and we exchanged pleasantries (he was in the middle of a job – not much chat time to chat). The workshops were breaking for lunch, and a van was waiting to take people back to the campgrounds. I visited with the driver, and when it was clear there were no other passengers, he offered to drive me back. That was a no-brainer. I was prepared to walk back, of course. But why not ride?

I got back to camp and hung out. Before long, it was dinner time. As we were eating, I told my story about the lost tickets, and the arrangements we had made.

Mary said the same thing had happened to her several years ago. Like me, she brought an extra check. They cashed it not long after the festival was over. They never provided proof the check was delivered. They just verbally told her that it had been delivered.

"Well, I’ll just put a stop-payment on my check."

"Oh Jonah, they’ve already cashed it."

"So, they lie to me thinking that I lied to them?"

"Yep."

Well, I felt pretty foolish. After all, I should have known (as a former shipping and receiving person) that there isn’t a way to trace first class mail. And once they have my check, they can cash it and claim they have proof without necessarily being required to show that proof to me.

My trusting nature, or naiveté, had betrayed me.

My feelings of foolishness and betrayal filled me with anger. That anger made the whole weekend as grey as the sky had been en route.

That anger almost spoiled the weekend.

Abstract 05Sept22

Abstract 05Sept22

Another experiment in Photoshop, using the shape tool.

By the way, for those of you waiting on this year's edition of "the Winfield series", it is slowly in progress. Your patience is appreciated.

Winfield — Music & Memories

Every year, the Walnut Valley Festival in Winfield, Kansas has a theme. This year, the theme was "Music and Memories". The festival organizers publish a one-page daily paper (on a legal-size sheet) which prints the performance schedule for that day, winners of the previous day's contests, and human interest articles. This year, the reporter visited a variety of people - primarily in the campsites - and asked them to share their favorite memories of Winfield. He never got to me, so I'll share my story here.

You may recall I was worried about the impending storms. The night before I left, Brother Dave called and suggested that since I missed Woodstock, I should go to Winfield to have a similar experience. What he didn't know was that I had already experienced a deluge in Winfield. That was 1999, the second festival I attended.

The first time I went to Winfield was in 1998. I went with Shannon. We spent a lot of time together at the festival, and were romantically involved within three months. In 1999, I filed for divorce then moved from Norman to Oklahoma City, both at Shannon's urging. Both were the right choice, but the kicker is that after I accomplished both things, Shannon broke up with me. So, I did not want to be near Shannon when I went to Winfield in '99.

Keeping that distance required that I find a different area to camp.

I had already begun singing with Sarah by this point. She is a big fan of the Walnut Valley Festival, and invited me to join her camp – which consisted mostly of members of her church.

Sarah and I are both early risers. We started every morning singing. Playing with harmonies, choosing new songs. We had been asked to sing for an up-coming Peace Fest, and were wood shedding our play list. Some people in a near-by camp enjoyed this unique alarm clock so much, they invited us to join them for dinner.

When I find someone whose company I enjoy, I tend to stick with them as much as possible. So, Sarah and I attended just about every concert together. We visited as we waited for each concert to begin. We shared favorite moments during the concerts. We grew very close.

In fact, we fell in love over that long weekend.

The rain started sometime after dark Saturday evening. A cool front was close behind. Sarah and I huddled under the awning of her tent and visited even more - there wasn't room to hold and play instruments. We were camped several yards from the river, and were well above water level, but were on a down-hill slope. The tent I had borrowed wasn't well sealed, and there was some question about my remaining sufficiently warm and dry.

Sarah suggested that I sleep in her tent. She made it clear that she had more than sleep in mind; in fact, she had a very enjoyable way of keeping warm in mind.

Problem was, she was pledged to John. And I felt honor-bound to respect that commitment.

So, I stayed in my tent and slept in about a half-inch of cold water.

Rain reverberates on a tent’s sides, and a small storm can sound like a major torrent. A really hard rain can sound like Noah’s Flood.

Sometime during the day Friday or Saturday, a person in the camp to the south of us had bought a beat-up up-right piano at a near-by yard sale. He said his intent was to see how much damage he could do to the thing through the weekend. It hadn't cost much, was beyond repair so far as he knew, and so he saw it as potential firewood. When the rain began, he started playing that old piano. Pounding chords when the rain was heavy. Soft arpeggios when the rain slacked off.

My memory is that he played that he played that piano until some time after dawn. So, I didn’t sleep very well.

Sunday morning was still cold and wet. Sarah and I went to the fairgrounds for John McCutcheon’s last set of the weekend. It had been scheduled for an outdoor stage, but rain still seemed probable, so they moved it into a barn. Sarah and I sat just a couple of yards away from John, huddled together under a blanket.

Holding hands under the blanket.

We caravanned back to Oklahoma City late Sunday afternoon. Sometimes Sarah drove, sometimes I did. We were still linked.

I was nostalgic about those magic four days by the following year. Each succeeding Winfield has been measured against that time, and few have come close.

Haiku: 19.Sept.05

The cat in the moon
falls through the blue corn window.
Summer folds into fall.

Out the Door...

Loading the car, hitting the road, praying to beat the storm system to Winfield, KS. I'll be back sometime late Sunday afternoon, so no "Friday Cat" this week.

Be assured I'll share a full report of the experience when I get back.

Question d’jour

Truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.
- Flannery O'Connor, writer (1925-1964)

Which brings us, in a round about way, to the fundamental question that has plagued American society since January 2001:

Is President B*sh stupid, evil, or so stupid his actions merely make him look evil?

There's a lot of theories out there: Dick Cheney's puppet. Karl Rove's puppet. Trying to show up daddy. The worst dry drunk in recorded history. Related to the last is my favorite theory, in my more charitable moods: the man is emotionally stunted. The latest proof, to my mind, came on Thursday, Sept. 1, when he did his fly-over of the affected region, and he was unable to express his feelings. He hemmed and hawed and kept saying "devastation". He might have felt devastated, and I would have given him credit if he had said so. But nobody feels "devastation".

Now, anyone who has read my entries over the past two years knows by now that I have a blind spot when it comes to our fearless leader. The mere sound of his voice raises my blood pressure. It's as hard for me to be reasonable about El Presidente as it is for Andrew Donaldson to be reasonable about Lance Armstrong or anonymous sources.

Things like the inept response to Katrina fill me with rage. Sure, state officials made their share of mistakes. More mistakes were made on the federal side. Whether Georgie himself personally made the decisions to dither about exact protocol (even after he had been asked to declare Louisiana a disaster area) or not is immaterial. He hired the twits who dithered.

To paraphrase Harry Truman, the buck stops at the president's desk. You hired your friends and cronies, your campaign flunkies, the loyalists you believed you could trust - so long as they never disagreed with you - you have the ultimate responsibility.

In the spirit of Flannery O'Connor, let's face some truth:

Just because you think tax cuts for the wealthiest top 10% will benefit the entire country doesn't make it so. It didn't work in the Reagan era, and it's not working now.

Just because you think invading Iraq will magically create democracy, or whatever reason you're pedalling this week, doesn't make it so. Oh yeah, I forgot: we're sending more people to die to honor the people who have already died. A high school student could discern the logical falacy in that statement.

Unlike Mr. B*sh, I can express my feelings:

I'm filled with rage because we're stuck with this guy for another three years. I'm angry because the Republican Congress has gone along with 90% of what he has requested. I feel powerless because that same Congress, and Republican state legislatures, have effectively gerrymandered key states like Texas in a way to insure Republicans will stay in power for years to come. I feel powerless because the Democrats seem, with a few notable exceptions, to be toothless yappy little dogs more interested in casting blame than producing effective alternatives.

Is there any hope?

The President's polling numbers remain low. Last I noticed, around 38%. Many people agree the federal government botched the response to the Katrina disaster, and most appropriately place the blame on the president. "Brownie" has resigned, and one can only hope that Chertoff and Rumsfeld will be the next to fall on their swords.

I suspect, however, we're stuck with both El Presidente and Rummy for the duration. One can only hope that the public will have such a sour taste in its mouth two years from now that they will vote for the other party.

One can only hope and pray that the entire nation has not become a wholly owned subsidiary of Halliburton, or its affiliates, by then. If that happens, Dick Cheney will be named CEO of the United States, Inc, and God have mercy on us all.

Goin’ to Winfield

Sometime tomorrow morning, I'll be making my annual journey to Winfield, KS, to experience the Walnut Valley Festival. This will be my eighth trip. I've had mixed feelings about the trip. For one thing, there's only 2-3 performers I'm really looking forward to seeing again. For another, it will be another time I'll be hearing all this good music alone.

Winfield can be a lonely place, especially if you're already feeling low. I don't know how well I'll handle it. Don't suppose I will know, until I get there.

A series of disheartening coincidences have led to even more ambiguous feelings.

First, there's the matter of the ticket. I waited until the week of the deadline (8/24) to mail my check. I mailed it on the 20th, it cleared the bank on the 24th. According to the folk in the ticket office, the ticket was mailed on the 22nd. I still haven't received it.

So, here's the arrangement: when I get to the gate, I tell the folk that my ticket was lost in the mail. I tell them that I've spoken to the ticket office, and someone in there will know what to do (I'll be taking folks' names with me). I give them a check for $75 (pre-deadline cost for the show), which they have assured me they will not cash. After the concert, they'll trace the original ticket; I assume that if there's proof I received the ticket mailed on the 22nd, they'll cash the second check. If they can't proof I received the first ticket, they'll return the second check. If the original ticket is waiting for me when I get home, I mail it to them and they return the second check.

All this is a hassle, and it seems counterintuitive to begin your vacation with this much of a hassle. Add to that the distinct possibility that I may very well be out $150 for the excursion. That's not counting gas (currently ~$2.60/gal in Okla.), camping ($7/day), showers ($3/day), and food (estimated at $10/day). My inner miser is seriously stressed out.

But wait, there's more.

I had a blowout when I went to Watonga this July. I got the tire patched and have been running on it since. I decided I better have all the tires checked before I drove all the way to Winfield, KS. It was recommended that I have all four replaced, and it seemed a wise thing to do. While they had it on the rack, they discovered the right front CV joint was broken, and was strongly recommended that I have it replaced as soon as possible.

This also seemed a wise thing to take care of before my trip.

While they were taking care of this, the repair folk noticed that the front brakes were just about worn down to the metal.

That's the point at which the miser said "Enough!"

Oh, yeah: I almost forgot the PCV valve and airhose. The hose was completely burned through. I replaced it for a little less than $25.

You can understand why a part of me is wondering whether the universe is trying to warn me away from this trip. When I'm anxious, and doubting, is when I'm most susceptible to this sort of magical thinking.

Then, there's my left index finger. About two months ago, I got a thorn or some other foreign object stuck right at the first joint. It was too small to nab with fingernails, or even tweezers, so I figured it would either work itself out or the white blood cells would do their duty and destroy the thing. They're doing their job alright: the finger is probably infected - it's certainly swollen, especially in the area where the object entered. It hurts to bend that joint - which makes playing the guitar a challenge. Sometimes it hurts to put any kind of pressure on the finger - even typing, sometimes.

Pam thinks it's traditional for me to wound one of my fretting fingers shortly before Winfield. Last year, I "pruned" either my ring finger or middle finger.

I'm seeing the doctor this morning - in about an hour and a half, in fact. I'm praying the cure is no worse than the ailment.

Again, I wonder whether the universe is jumping up and down, waving its hands, and screaming at me not to drive to Winfield this year.

There's the more reasonable side saying this fear is magical thinking. Sure, I could stay home the rest of the week, but I'm more likely to have a real vacation if I leave town. Sure, I might feel lonely; but I have some choices about that. I can seek out friends, and be open to making new friends. Most often, the person sitting next to you at a Winfield concert is inclined to be friendly.

The stuff with my car and my finger could be seen as consequences of certain choices I've made, rather than any sort of universal messenger service. I've done real well keeping the car oil & lubed, but little else (i.e., tire rotation, and regular brake check-up). I could have made an appointment to see the doc a long time ago about my finger, I put it off as long as possible hoping my body would take care of it.

OK, that last hope may have been reasonable for a month. But I maybe should have called the doc after a month and a half.

Maybe I prefer the magical thinking option because it helps me avoid any personal responsibilty for my choices.

Hmmmm....

---

LATE ADDITION: Just checked the weather forecast for the Winfield area, and there's an 80% chance of showers for tomorrow. Severe weather possible. Do I really want to pitch a tent in this?

Could be part of the fun.

On the other hand, it could be another example of the "Powers That Be" jumping up & down, waving hands, etc., to get my attention.

Idée d’jour

The mind creates the chasm which only the heart can cross.
— Stephen Levine

Idée d’jour

The important point of spiritual practice is not to try to escape your life, but to face it – exactly and completely.
— Dainin Katagiri

Cat Friday

Idée d’jour

He who can take no great interest in what is small will take false interest in what is great.
— John Ruskin

Idée d’jour

An old Hasidic rabbi asked his pupils how to tell when night ended and
the morning began, which is the time for certain holy prayers.

"Is it when you see an animal in the distance and know whether it's a
sheep or a dog?"

"No," the rabbi answered.

"Is it when you can look at a tree and tell whether it's a fig tree or a pear tree?"

"No," the rabbi answered again.

After a few more tries, the pupils said, "Then tell us, what is it?"

"It is when you can look on the face of any man or woman and know that they are your sister or brother. Until then, it is still night."