Springfield Opera Gala Rehearsal

Getting to Know You

This is a note to a friend. We've just recently met on the internet. I paused for a noticeable span of time after I wrote that. So I'll repeat it...recently met on the internet. Now another pause and I'm checking my breath. Believe me, when I came to this box right now to answer her, it wasn't my intention to spend time on that one thought. But now it is taking over. Just that thought. Meeting on the internet. The little vertical line that marks the end of the typed word here--you know the one. It blinks on and off, like Hal from 2001, waiting for Dave's response. What else did you want to say Dave?



I watch it blink as I pause at the awesome thought of meeting someone and getting to know them through this odd meeting place. Boxes really. Little boxes and our voices fit into neat typed words. And we hear each other, or I should say we have the capacity to hear. Like James Cameron's ingenius theme of Avatar, I see you, with the broader meaning. So we can hear each other, feel each other. The vertical line blinks as I pause again and the phenomena of that. Watching my breath. Where will this take us? I wonder. We're onto something here. World. The world is on to something. Like Truffaut's character in Close Encounters, "This is im.por.taunt. Theez meanz zomething." Wow. Wow.



But time to reply. Before addressing specific points let me just check in for a moment. Check within. What do I feel? What is the feeling of meeting again? What am I feeling as I anticipate talking again, to my friend Jan...



Words have unimaginable power. We sling them around like they're one of those sponge balls which couldn't possibly hurt a soul. We spit them out or we hold them in. We form them in our minds or we collect them off a page. We turn feelings in to them so we can express whatever it was or is about the feeling. We also use them to paint with. We search for just the right one or groups of them, hoping the person they're meant for can get a feeling they may get from a painting. We crowd them in to our music, as if the music needs help. Oh but they're not harmless sponge balls are they? They have lead to wars. Hey, here's a thought, on Valentine's Day, they have lead to love. As I sit bouncing this power of my sponge ball, I'm reminded of the great responsibility to use my words well...



My friend Jan is a pyschoanalyst, among other things. In fact, why would I list that title first? She's a music lover with a lot of listening hours logged, from a long list of artists. She's a thinker of many things, including shamanic tradition. She's studied the classics and she's a fan of Harry Potter. She's traveled widely and besides her fondness for music, she studies the tones of voices in the same way that Henry Higgins studied phoenetics.



What moved me to reply to Jan in this particular spot, here on the Home, Home on the All Strings Attached, is because she mentioned the "in between" and I flash to Deepak Chopra's fairly recent analysis of the gap between breaths. I mention Deepak just because he's so prodigious right now. No different though than the chapters in the Tao te Ching which talk about the "not there" as that which is important, like where the spokes on the wheel meet (the hole) or the bellows for the fire, the door in to a room. Somewhere on these virtual pages I write about potential. I still wonder exactly what I was trying to say, but some vague connection to quanta in the physics realm. But a better way for me to think about it is to just handle it gently as the mystery.



Interested in music? Jan asked me. Vertical line blinks while I smile at it. Yes. Breath. Yes. I think of the Beatles, consumed as I am with everything about them. I love Mozart too and many many new things I hear, even these days of meeting so many fresh voices which take me to suites and sounds unfamiliar. A long time ago it struck me that our tendency to attach words to music is sort of a confusion. The music seems more primal and raw and pure without the complication of all that linear thought. Vertical line blinks. Where to from here? My mind pauses and I seek that "in between." What did you want to say Dave? Kubric was a genius wasn't he?



I don't know about Chiron but I'm thrilled Jan that you've lead me to him and to Aesclepius. Just now my Google search quickly confirmed what I suspected I would find. The snake entwined staff and how it differs from the caduceus. For you voyeurs looking in on this conversation between Jan and I, we were talking about being in caves and this conversation has links to the allegory of Plato but also to the gifts which come from solitude. But the reason I mention the snakes is because as his staff or as a caduceus, I don't think it removes the significance of Kundalini. I'm grateful of my connection to Gopi Krishna and to his spiritual son Gene Kiefer. All of that for another conversation.



I too love poetry, when I take the time to get the "in between" of it. But I also love the thought of a looser definition of poet as Emerson or Whitman would have used it. Emerson's poetry (to my unrefined ear) doesn't ring with the rhythm or harmony of Poe or Shakespeare and in fact seems downright clunky most of the time. So he wasn't probably a good dancer either, but he gave a broader definition for poets which I'm thankful for, and in that way, more of us qualify.



My brink of insanity about shaking hands is the frantic rushing in to this medium, so thrilled to find friends and have a chance to talk. I'm just a fountain of streaming nonsense most of the time and so anxious to find a listener. That's what I meant. So that's where you, my dearest Jan, with all your skills and intuition can take notes from. I know you'll have just the right prescription after listening to me, here on your couch in your office. I'm tempted to put the colon and close parenthesis symbol, but now you know what I mean. Where I could have taken up only the space of two of these flashing vertical lines, I've sprawled another two sentences. But you have more insight and I have more opportunity to paint this way.



The last thing, or I should say the last symbol I'll leave you with, in this land of the in between is a picture. Close your eyes and think about one of those little candy hearts with words on them. After you've had a few that say Happy Valentine's Day and Be Mine or those other messages NECCO brilliantly emblazoned with colored sugar on their tiny sweet billboards, pop this one in your mouth. It says "Nice to Know You."

Our Island of the Sun

Our Island of the Sun

by Winston Riley

Legend

A king whose ship was lost at sea pleaded a course of sanity.

Dependent on each other, the crew on deck should have sought esprit.

To such a ship came King O'bom.

Instead the crew, intent on blame ruled by anger, they sought to shame each other

on this land, whose name

was Island of the Sun

Two sides were formed, the red and blue. Which sword of these, they knew not whose

was tempered best. For strength be true, the test was hope for all--not few.

All eyes were focused on O'bom.

From far enough above, the ball seemed motionless and could not fall if tribes connected,

one for all on Island of the Sun.

What was the goal, they should have asked. For things designed to toss, not last?

To find the games which pleased them best? Would such an end provide them rest?

This voyage would define O'bom.

No easy job for any man. Invisible, they say, the hand which moves the trading of the land

on tiny Island of the Sun.

So much bloodshed traced back to oil with cousin coal their sky did boil.

Their rivers stunk and species failed, as with their values lost, their soil.

For these crimes they blamed O'bom.

Sixteen thousand kids died each day from hunger, instead of laughed or played. (I pray that your child, like mine, may

flourish on Island of the Sun).

Much of the pain, they believed by scriptures read could be relieved

and would comfort them in their grief. Would God guide Commander in Chief

to save a hungry child, O'bom?

"My Lord is best," one side would say. Others claimed theirs would save the day.

For tint of skin and love of faith, they waged a war

under the sun.

On what few things could they agree? What sacred views could both they see?

From pain all children should be free and healthy land on which to be

Petitioned thus to King O'bom:

Books and shoes, enough to eat. Not mines but grass under their feet. Unspoiled air

to breath and meet

on Island of the Sun!

Now

On these two battles we depend. A safe haven for all children and toxic free

systems have always been the guiding rule of nature's blend.

All eyes are focused on O'bom.

Perhaps it's us--our blue and red. Can we these two colors shed? So that all children

can be fed on Island of the Sun?

What's the difference between us two? So many bad habits to lose. If some of mine are lost,

will you? Purple is made by red and blue. Do not mistake the hue

O'bom!

Preservation of life requires that we take lessons from the fire, the care of which we should never tire

is Our Island of the Sun

A Quantum Christmas

As I layed in bed this morning, I thought about this blog. Originally this was started to make comments about the connection between physics and mysticism and it has morphed (dwarfed?) to/into prose, the reflections of a midlife rambler. Then when I came to facebook today, I learned my niece Deirdre, who I haven't seen since she was a little girl, 20 years ago (has it really been that long?), had been reading my blog. For sure she read some of the poems from Every Man's Life. I'm uncertain if she's been here, but guessing so because I had posted the link to the story about Darby's scary night here.

When I wrote the entry, I said Dear Diary, kind of tongue in cheek, meaning "no one reads this." Naturally, thanks to Facebook-- a writer, even with as little talent as mine, can cobble together a few readers.

But the reflection for me in that waking state was about the meaning of life. I really wasn't "working on" anything. I was working THRU stuff. The philosophy of anti-matter and quantum physics continues to pull on me. And yet, with about one week before Christmas, the nature of being, as we find ourself in the circumstance of life, seems to be so much more of the real thing. And there is the catch.

Buddha pegged it for sure. Illusion. The trappings of life, such as possessions, such as position, such as all the emotions, both negative and even joyful--are all tied to our skin. Would I trade being in my skin for all the enlightenment of Lao, Jesus, or Jerry Maguire? Nah. But will this little exercise lead back to matter divided by energy equals magic--in the words of whoever coined the phrase--Go For It!

It just occurred to me that I saw a quote yesterday by Arthur C. Clarke, who said, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." I want to postulate that magic is the real thing and that technology is what we name it later. This mystic, (moi), honestly believes that the more we advance as a species, the more we need to disguise the magic. In the same way that SPIRIT only moves in one direction (it always expands and never goes backwards), humans as a culture, evolve further and further away from reality. So much so that our skin actually gets thicker, allowing less and less of the real stuff inside us, to escape.

Last night I knocked on our neighbor's door to find out if she had the baby yet. Sure enough, her one week old daughter had just finised nursing and the grandparents were there, who seemed to be visiting the manger. My enthusiasm was muffled somewhat, but still, I must have seemed like a fireball bombing their household, compared to the gentle cloud which pervaded the inside of their house before my arrival.

When returning home, or I should say later in the evening, the memory of our first week or two with Darby reminded me of my realization. Babies come to us from the side of God. They enter this world with full knowledge of the unknown. All they have is magic. None of the inherited weakness of our confusion. They're new in their skin and with each passing day start to identify with the wrapping, but being in the presence of the sacred child, you know you're linked to the infinite. You understand that all the space around you and that fills the whole household is magical and mysterious.

You're reading this now and our connection can never be reversed. We're inexplicably linked. We own everything. Nothing is missing. Nothing could be any different than it is.

Merry Christmas.

The Boogy Man

Dear Diary. Darby still sleeps after a scary night. Her mom lays next to her and even though it is already 8 am, they're both asleep. A sign that they (at least Anne) was awake in much of the night.

Darby came home from school feeling terrible. She had a slight fever and complained that her throat hurt really, really bad. She was fine when she left for school that morning. As the evening progressed, she got worse and eventually was crying because her throat hurt so bad. The scary part though became reports about her neck which hurt. I say scary because Anne is a whiz at beating the doctors to the prognosis by going to the computer. She diagnosed meningitis, and together with the story she heard a few days ago about a young girl, friend of a friend, who got sick and died in 24 hours from meningitis, had us contemplating the emergency room.

So there were calls to the urgent care doctor on call, with instructions of pills and watching for symptoms. There was debate between us and conversation about Darby's tendency to "soak up" sympathy.

I crawled away to her bed upstairs to sleep. This morning, the two of them rest peacefully, like a picture, in our bed. When I look at them, as an incognito spy, and also knowing they don't know I'm watching, the serenity of the scene, from soft cotton sheets and kitty cats at the foot, bump in the blankets where our Yorky is warm and cozy under them, it is hard to imagine that more drama will ensue, when the light finally violates their lush comfort.

Alas, we're engaged already. The doctor's office doesn't open until 12:45 on Wednesday! The alternative is traditional hospital medicine, with our limited health care insurance and our high deductible, and the ridiculous routine of tests and prodding related to liability and corporations.

Naturally, we'll do whatever, because we won't risk any true danger, but why oh why can't we stay in that peaceful Currier and Ives collection, all cozy and safe, blissfully resting in perfect beauty?

Women are from Venus, Men are Pigs

Yesterday on my Facebook page, I posted an ad from Peta with a naked model. Her nipples and pubic area were covered by a large, sword like cross. At her feet were a bunch of puppies and the message was don't buy dogs, always adopt. The model was voluptuous, and I'll venture to suggest that all fully functioning men couldn't help but notice she is attractive.

Reasonably and understandably, two female friends didn't appreciate the ad and were outspoken and several guy friends joked back and forth with me about the cute puppies and petting them and holding them, etc, alluding to some of the attractive parts of the model.

The discussion seemed to continue to divide the two groups and I saw the tendency which usually happens, that women don't appreciate being objectified and men continuing to be the crude pigs which we often admit to. The women are right to object and the men are wrong to laugh in the face of their discomfort. One of the girls pointed out that it is rare for a man to be a feminist. She was also right about this. I need to adopt a more appropriate attitude. I have a strong feminine side actually. Or I should say am in touch with a voice which is the voice of MOTHER. The Mother God voice, Earth, which is all about nurturing. But what I want to discuss in this post is something else--about polarity.

To go back to what I said earlier about the guys noticing the woman was attractive. This is instinct. I propose it has to do with a drive of reproduction. As I consider it now, I notice the sensation in my lower abdomen, above my testicles, near the base of my penis. As crude and rude as this may seem, I'm trying to discuss something which needs to be explored. Usually at this point, any girl friends in the conversation may say, "OK, I'm out of here." I really don't understand why we can't get to the bottom of these issues.

For instance, the women let us know that it is rude for the category of womanhood to be reduced to sexual objects, and they are quite correct. And men should respect that. If we want to laugh and be silly in private, merely laughing at ourselves really, that we have these tendencies, I think it is harmless. But we shouldn't rub salt in the wound and do it in front of girls, especially if we love them.

But as an intellectual pursuit, to try to understand the basis for men's behavior, when will we become that civilized? In another hundred years?

I agree that it takes an evolved and fully mature man to embrace feminist philosophy, but I'm really curious about this strong drive, which I insist is at the basis of much of our culture and also very harmful. I think beyond the extreme degradation to women and even violence against women that the behavior has lead to, it is responsible for our exploitation of the planet. I think this masculine drive is what leads to all wars, to all corporate crimes, to imperialism, and even to the basis of a MAN god centric religion. In fact, I think this MAN god centric religious culture of the world is what is keeping us from evolving to the next, more appropriate stage of human development.

So you see, I'm interested in getting to the bottom of my own frailty and weakness, caused by this polarity which is real and is inside me, but more importantly I think as a culture we should be open to exploring it, as research, as science. When we understand it, we'll better know how to deal with it.

And there is a counter pole at play. I don't have as direct access to it, but I can witness it. There is a voice which has been calling me, strongly over these last few years. I think the voice is the counter pole. If the male pole leads to reproduction and the counter pole leads to nourishing and care of offspring--I think I just got my own answer.

The feminine should be the leadership because the male pole leads to violence and crimes. If the feminine were the ruling body, it could be in a better position to manage the male pole. This doesn't have to physically be women in charge, although it should be in many cases. What I'm suggesting is about the polarity and management.

This is enough for now. Ciao.

Grandparents, cab drivers, palm readers

I just love Emerson. He's also great to just jump in anywhere to any of the essays, randomly. It's not like you had to see the previous show.

This morning I was returning to the Conduct of Life essays and was rereading Fate. He said a line that got me thinking about the palm of our hands. What he said was this:

"The gross lines are legible to the dull; the cabman is phrenologist so far, he looks in your face to see if his shilling is sure. A dome of brow denotes one thing, a pot-belly another; a squint, a pugnose, mats of hair, the pigment of the epidermis, betray character."

Let me elaborate, and in case his meaning aludes, let me throw in my ten-cents worth.

So here is the picture. The cabman--the carraige driver, who stops to give you a lift--checks you out to make sure you've got the money. The reason is because he's going to drive you somewhere and be paid at the end. If you run, it is difficult for him to collect because he has his horse and carraige. Same with taxi drivers now in the cities. I've seen them look at me this way too. Is the dome of my brow such that I don't look trust worthy? My pot-belly or my squint...do they tell the driver that I'll run? Does the pigment of my epidermis spell trouble?

So he calls the "cabman" a phrenologist.

Years ago on the plane an Indian (a mystic from India) read my palm. I wasn't quite a mystic myself yet. I was only 21 but I had already engaged in some shamanistic experiences. But no teacher had come to me yet, except a very, very subtle voice inside. Later I got a book on palmistry because he told me that the palm is just one small part, that there are signs on every part of our body and in our eyes. He said our whole story from many generations past and the whole universe story is there in each body, but that the palms are one place to look.

In Emerson's essay, he develops the story of qualities of character being passed down from family. He says, "It often appears in a family as if all the qualities of the progenitors were potted in several jars, --some ruling quality in each son or daughter of the house."

It struck me as I read further that each person is the most direct decendant of four individuals, the two grandparents on each side. So we're four people in one and then our own person. I looked at my hand with that thought and divided my two sets of fingers to make a vulcan salute. You know how Spock did it. So the two sets are each grandparent couple and then the thumb is you. They say it is our thumbs which make us human.

Anyway, just thought I'd share.