The Kindness Remains

An orange furry form lies on the road. My throat clenches as I get out of the car. It is Doofus, my favorite cat. Someone has run over him during the night. Damn it. I go pick him up. The body is stiffening but still a little warm. It must have happened only a few hours ago. One of his eyes was popped out of its socket by the tire that must have run over his head. The tightness in my throat extends to my chest. Before it can reach my arms and legs I take the body to the garage, wrap it in an old raincoat and put it in the trunk of my car. I will take the body to the trash bin behind Uptown Bill’s. Doofus doesn’t need it anymore, looking at it depresses me and I am pretty sure that Rejeanne will only cry if she sees it.

On my way to town I get a call from Adam.

“Hey, how ya doin?”

“Okay. How about you?”

“Okay I guess. You coming into town?”

I flick my brights on to remind the oncoming car to dim his lights. “Yeah. Want to get some coffee?”

“Sure.”

“I’m about 10-15 minutes away. See you soon.”

“Cool.”

Adam lives above Gretchen’s Vintage Shoppe. His room is an eclectic collection of strange items from the Vintage Shoppe, art (his and a few others), guitars, espresso pots and bags of yerba mate. He is wearing his fringed cowboy coat and Redwing boots as he comes downstairs and gets into the car. We chat a bit and head downtown to the Plaza, a brick paved pedestrian mall occupying a few blocks of downtown Iowa City. We get our coffee at the Cottage Bakery and take it to the benches outside the Tobacco Bowl. November feels more like October than October did this year. We had a touch of snow one day in October, November has been in the 50s and 60s.

Adam lights a smoke.

“So, it’s a real bummer about Del.”

Del is one of the mainstays of Uptown Bill’s. He closes up shop on the weekends. He went to the hospital a few days ago – he has diabetes and his blood sugar levels were off the chart. I assume his condition has worsened.

“So is he in intensive care?”

“No man. He died yesterday morning.”

“No shit.” I was in the Mall yesterday morning, or at least I think I was in the Mall – I continue to have trouble telling what is real or not these days. Tom didn’t mention anything.

“Yeah he died at 4:40 a.m.”

“Wow. How is Tom dealing with it?”

“He seems okay.”

We chat for a while longer before Adam goes into the Tobacco Bowl and I go to the parking garage. I drive over to see Tom. When I arrive. I sit in the parking lot for a few moments. I had begun writing something about Del a few days ago. I wonder if it still applies. I open my computer and read.

A giant moves across the room. The giant gasps for breath before he reaches the table. Although he has not had a scale large enough to measure him for years, he must be nearing 500 lbs by now. It is hard not to be overwhelmed by the giant’s immense size, it’s easy to join those who see the giant as nothing but a freak – someone who belongs in a circus. When they do so they miss the largest part of the giant – the heart that beats beneath the folds of flesh, the sense of duty to the Mall, the one tiny piece of the earth that has shown him continued kindness. Delbert Atkins (Del to his friends) may be a giant in his frame but he is a mountain in his heart. Del shares his love for food with everyone at the Mall, every Thanksgiving and Christmas there are turkeys with all the fixings, on July 4 and Easter there are hams and on Halloween, Del’s favorite holiday, we can count on pounds and pounds of chocolate – not just the cheap stuff either, but handmade delicacies as tasty as any you can find at an expensive chocolatier. More than food, Del shares himself - always available to talk when you are feeling down. When you’re blue Del can raise your spirits with amazing stories of his adventures in the South Pacific or other exotic places he visited in his role as a CIA agent, Navy Seal or some sort of other ultra-secret special forces unit. Many times I’m not sure if Del’s stories were entirely true, but I am always sure that he thinks they are. Besides, even if they aren’t true they always are entertaining and take your mind off your sorrows. Del is a major part of what makes the Mall the Mall. His spirit and frame provide a large portion of the magic that is Uptown Bill’s.

Yes the words ring true. But now the passage is in the past tense. Delbert is dead.

These past few months have seemed more filled with death than most. Steven, Doofus and now Del. It makes me wonder about my own ending. Steven and Del were cremated – turned into ashes. Doofus was buried at the foot of a large Spruce tree – turned into fertilizer. Does anything remain other than memories, ashes and fertilizer? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Evidence suggests the universe may take little note of creatures like Steve, Del, Doofus and me. Maybe we are just tiny parts of a vast whole that spins and turns in ways beyond our comprehension. Maybe that is all there is – if so, it is enough for me. Regardless, it has not been given me to know the answer. But I do know one thing, at least based on personal experience -when I remain open to kindness it remains behind, no matter what happens to me or those with whom I share it. The kindness of Steve sharing time with Adam and me remains. Del’s kindness to his fellows at the Mall remains. And, Doofus’ kindness in letting me pet and hold him close remains. The kindness remains by being passed on to others. I can pass on the kindness shown me by Steve, Del and Doofus – well, at least some of the time. It is the kindness that lets me hope to face the vastness of the universe with joy rather than fear. May it always be so.

A Large Head

The head rises above all others in the restaurant except for mine. I am 6’2” and the one carrying the head is at least that. Like mine, it is a huge head – made more for modeling monstrously large hats or crushing boulders than sitting atop a human neck. My friend Barry Morrow says that such heads are preferred in the movie industry because they “photograph” better. Tom Walz, the keeper of the crazy crew at Uptown Bill’s Small Mall never comments on the head, but he is often amused at the antics and words of the body carrying it.

The head belongs to John Coolidge, scion of a long and noble lineage that includes literati and former President Calvin Coolidge. (Yes, the one who said, “After all, the chief business of the American people is business.”) In the eyes of a world that uses money and fame as the measures of success, John’s achievements have not been as illustrious as some of his forebears. Fate has not granted him the intellectual and social skills to make him one of the “beautiful people”. However, if kindness and devotion to duty were the rubric for our lives John would be among the giants of this world. Every morning (well at least most mornings) promptly (well very nearly promptly) at 8 a.m. John arrives for work at the Mall. Impresario Walz has labeled John the Manager of Mall Operations. Less grandiose souls might say John is janitor but they would be wrong. John definitely is the Manager. To be convinced of this fact, all one need do is to hear him shout “Manager!” before entering the toilets to clean them each day. Later, John will vacuum the rugs, take out the trash and if cajoled properly, may even wash some of the dishes. Throughout his tasks John’s stomach rumbles with Vesuvial intensity – brought on by his daily quota of two or more quarts of diet soda.

But today the head is at a Chinese restaurant, not at the Mall. John, like me, is engaged in one of his favorite pastimes – eating. Eating is a weak term for what John and I engage in when we are challenged by an “all you can eat” buffet. I generally can manage at least three heaping plates on such occasions. But even I stand in awe at John’s mastery of this environment. Plates and bowls of food are emptied as if by magic – one second they are several inches high with food and the next they stand empty except for a tiny residue of sauce. Adam Weinstein and I try to keep pace but we are no match for John’s years of training and his massive frame.

During the meal John shares his gratitude for the company several times.

“It is good to do things with friends.”

Adam replies, “Yes, John. I’m having a good time.”

Encouraged John continues. “I used to have a good friend in school but he went away. He had blond hair.”

I join in, “Where did he go John?”

“Somewhere west.”

“West?” says Adam, perhaps thinking of our recent journey to California.

John looks out the window, “Yes west of Mormon Trek somewhere. I used to know his address.”

Adam and I gradually tease out bits of John’s history. Peacefully joining in the flow of thoughts that reside in the big head. We turn with them when they take unexpected turns, neither judging, nor measuring them by any criteria other than John’s willingness to share; confident in the knowledge that we are on a journey without roads or destination – a journey of our choice, not undertaken to meet Society's standards but begun simply for the joy of journeying. Like the characters in Jerome’s Three Men In A Boat we pause for frequent side trips of unknown purpose and length, but on the whole the journey suits us well. Normal people never can take such a journey – normal sensibilities require roads and nuisances like beginnings, middles and ends to their journeys. But we three have established long ago that we are far from normal. Our journey may wander as needed and we follow John in fascination as he takes the lead.

When the check comes, my grandiosity takes over and I pay for all three of us. I would chalk my behavior up to simple goodwill but I have learned from years of therapy and AA that I am mistaken. My insistence on paying the check is a character defect of my wanting to control the situation and make other people like me, or worse in some people’s eyes, the flaw of allowing others to take advantage of me. John apparently is immune to such psychological ruminations. At first he is confused by my offer and thinks that I am asking him to pay for my meal.

He looks at me and speaks slowly as if to someone who is retarded, “We should go Dutch. We should each pay for our own.”

After a moment or two of discussion he finally allows me to pay for us all. I pay the waitress and she smiles broadly at the size of the tip. I generally over tip by most people’s standards. I cannot tell if this is another example of grandiosity or simply a nod to my past as a waiter while I was in college. Regardless, my paying the bill moves John to clarify that he does not accept charity.

“Okay then. I will give you a ride somewhere. The meal will pay for the gas. Where do you want to go?”

“I have my own car John.”

“Okay then. I will give Adam a ride.”

“That would be great John. Thanks.”

But John’s generosity apparently knows no bounds this day. He makes an even greater sacrifice than giving Adam a ride. He takes his coin purse from his pocket. It looks exactly like the little plastic one my grandfather used to carry. I drift off into ancient memories and almost miss John’s announcement of his next bit of charity.

“I will pay the tip.”

I explain that I have already included the tip in my payment. John is unmoved. He opens his purse, takes out a quarter and holds it up proudly.

“Okay. Then this will be an extra tip.”

Fearful of being embarrassed (for myself and John) I encourage him to leave his tip on the table. John will have none of it.

“I want to give it to her in person, because it is an honorable and noble gesture.”

Horrified, I watch as John calls the waitress over and makes a grand display of handing her the quarter (which I notice is covered in grease and grime).

“Here is an extra tip.”

The waitress smiles thinly and looks at me, and then back at John.

“Do you want change?”

John shakes his head and then announces. “No. It is a noble and honorable gesture.” I am grateful when the waitress leaves without laughing out loud. Once she is gone, John stands and makes an announcement in a voice that would be suitable for an award ceremony.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

Adam and I go outside to wait. Adam lights a cigarette and exhales a stream of smoke. “You know that quarter John gave the waitress?”

“Yes.”

“He found it on the ground at a gas station. I’ve never seen anyone so excited about a quarter.”

I laugh. “Yeah. He has a cup for tips at the Mall. He checks it every day for pennies and records the amount in his little notebook.”

We both laugh. Any embarrassment I felt earlier is gone. In John’s economics a quarter is a fortune. And, in this instance who else’s standards matter? Adam and I continue talking; finally realizing that John undoubtedly has decided to take in one last plate of food – perhaps as payment for his generous tip. He finally joins us.

The large head bows slightly in my direction. “Thank you Dale. Thank you for buying my meal.”

“You’re welcome John.”

“Yes, and my extra tip was a noble gesture.”

I say nothing but in my heart I know. Yes it was, John. Yes it was.

On Adam's Pond

David lays on the grass next to me. He lifts his hands behind his head to make a pillow and stares up at the sky. Wisps of horsehair cloud float across the blue. An airplane made gnat-size by distance rushes silently toward the sun. I hear David sigh.

“Well, when you get older you learn to enjoy the simpler things in life.”

“Mmm…” Is all that I can manage.

Lately, selfishness and worry have robbed me of joy. I have been going through the motions of life while feeling little connection to it. In desperation I have asked Adam to take David and me fishing at his Grandfather’s pond. David tried his hand at fishing, but age and a stroke made his casts look like someone whipping a horse. As for me, no force – human or supernatural, could have made me wet a hook this day. Instead I lay on the bank. Finally tiring of inept casts and tangled lines David came to join me. Across the inlet both of us watched Adam as he gracefully tossed his line among the reed beds. Every now and then we hear a shout as he hooks another crappie or bluegill.

As usual, David is undeterred by my silence. He knows that it is nothing personal. He charges ahead determined to cheer me up.

“Yep. I wish I was eighteen again. I could have walked around this entire pond by now. Probably could even have walked halfway across the water.”

Another mmm from me.

David sighs. He sighs often.

“Well it sure is good to remember the simple things. Like friends, and this pond. Oh and yes - fishing without catching any fish.”

“Fishing without catching any fish” breaks through the darkness in my brain. I laugh.

David laughs.

“Golden Pond.” He says. “Somehow that phrase just comes to me right now.”

Content with making me laugh, David struggles to his feet and hobbles over to where Adam continues catching fish after fish. David smokes. Adam smokes. Adam catches another fish and puts it on his stringer. David smokes. Adam smokes. Adam catches another fish. Throughout the afternoon the pattern repeats. Smoke. Catch fish. Put fish on stringer. David continuously chatters on, about what I cannot hear, but I do hear Adam laugh – happy, warm notes across the pond.

The light fades into evening. Adam raises his stringer of fish. David takes a picture and Adam releases the fish. Forever captured – friends, fish and a warm November day; a day warmer than most, fish who’ll live to be caught another day, and friends who some would label as crazy but who only see each other as guys out fishing.

The journey back up the hill to the car is difficult for David. His legs are weak from the stroke, smoking and inactivity. (He will call me a liar for mentioning the smoking and inactivity, but we both know they weaken his legs in the same way that we both know that eating sugar has helped bring on the depressive shadows in my head). We pause frequently for him to catch his breath but he pushes on – sighing and wheezing all the way.

We finally reach the car. I open the doors. Adam gets in back – David always rides shotgun. David is catching his breath but is still wheezing when he looks over his glasses at me.

“Thanks Dale. That was a little bit of heaven.”

I turn the car around. As the front windshield faces west I am blinded by light bright enough to burn the shadows from my brain. I hear David’s camera click next to me.

“Wow.” He wheezes and puts down the camera. “Wow.”

Apology and Question

Hey

If you get this post it means that I have included you in the list of people who get my blog posts. I selected you without asking if you wanted to receive my ramblings or not. I am trying to correct that error now. This will be the last post you automatically receive unless you send me an email asking to receive the updates.

daleshankins@yahoo.com

Thanks

Have A Nice Day

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. And fuck, yet again. I have censored my blog and my thoughts by sharing them. It becomes harder and harder to write exactly what I feel and think. I feel constrained to write something happy or else risk re-hospitalization, divorce, or some other pleasant fate. But if I censor my writing I become a thing trying to sell an image of myself to other things. I have traveled that path. It was not pleasant.

My writing is, was and I believe always will be a selfish act. How could it be otherwise? My writing is selfish because the words I share all arise from within my brain and my SELF. Thus, they are SELFish. Perhaps there are other sources for the words. Perhaps there is some magical force or being that exists outside the laws of nature. I certainly hope not. Otherwise, I should have to reconsider the reality of the visit I received from Gaia in Japan, and such a maneuver likely would land me back in the hospital – not a happy fate. At least not from my perspective, although there are perhaps some who would prefer that I live out my days in some safe place. If I am honest, at times there is a part of me that yearns for this safety – a simple cell where I would not have to face the demands of others. Yet, I am fairly certain that soon I would chafe at the boundaries set for me. (I hear the thoughts of others as they judge and classify my words as being typical of the hysterics of a manic-depressive. So be it. I just don’t care anymore. Who is there that is not to some extent insane? I have yet to meet them.)

It will soon be time to howl at the moon and drive off into the distance for a time. Isn’t that what crazy people do? And, as I said in my book (with a line stolen from a friend): “I am crazy, and I have the papers to prove it.” My most recent evaluation and hospitalization have shown me that I do not have control over my mental state. Despite the years of the best efforts of medicine and at least some work on my part I am still classified as “very unstable”. Very well. Let it fly then. I have been very crazy before and it is virtually a statistical certainty that I will be so yet again. But, importantly to any sane person reading this, know that you need not fear me. Since becoming sober (and insane at 10 years sobriety) I can recall no instance when I was a physical threat to another person. I do not recall stealing from anyone. I do not recall lying (well, at least not to the point of being pathological or malicious about it). I know many sane people who have engaged in all of the above and yet I am the one hospitalized for being crazy. Is it any wonder that I find this situation confusing? Yes, a lengthy road trip is probably a good idea. I do love humanity (most of it anyway) but I find it easier to deal with people in small doses. A road trip is a good way to have solitude without being totally alone.

Many times I trust no one. I feel as if people expect things of me that I cannot give them or that I come to expect things of others that they cannot provide. Yes, I know that AA says an expectation is a resentment waiting to happen. This observation does not change the feelings – it only makes me ashamed of having them. During the periods when I distrust others I am difficult to be around. I try to be kind, but I am distant and cold without meaning to be so. Perhaps this is why I identify so closely with David. Institutions truncated his social skills, just as alcohol and drugs truncated mine. It takes great effort for him to fit in and be normal. Despite his best efforts others often critique his behavior. I sense that David is aware of this and that it causes him pain. He works hard to improve his skills and he is changing – but I imagine sometimes he feels as if the length of the road is just too great and the grade is too steep for him to manage. His frustration and shame at the situation can erupt into rage or despair. I feel that way often – even though I do not have David’s history of trauma to explain my actions.

Yet David and I did his laundry yesterday. I brought Rejeanne some roses yesterday. I drove Adam on some errands. Today I will have lunch with Oliver. I will walk. I have written at least this drivel. In a limbo of habit I move forward. Perhaps my emotions will catch up with the motions. Yes, once again, I know AA says “Fake it til you make it.” Today there is little comfort in that phrase – in fact it pisses me of for its triteness – like telling someone, “Have a nice day.” But enough whining. The sun shines out the window.

There. That’s good. Good to have a happy ending. Have a nice day!

Note Bene

Rejeanne in case you are reading this and are wondering if still love you – remember that I always have and never will not love you – it’s just that I AM CRAZY and I don't do a particularly good job of being the kind of husband you deserve. I accept full responsibility for my craziness. It is NO ONE’S FAULT. But a lot of times I feel like I have only one leg and I am being expected to run the marathon – I hobble as best I can but will never keep up with my two legged fellows. Rest easy my love and have a great trip to Florida.

200 mg Depakote

Not sure what else to say today.

You Look In The Mirror

You look in the mirror. You see beauty there – the joy that the face before you is a thing of wonder no greater nor less than the universe entire. You are the only one that can see it. Others may see you as beautiful, but they are looking in their own mirrors. The beauty you see is yours alone. Experience has shown you that it will not last, but it fills this moment completely.

The beauty you see today is different than yesterday. Is that another fold there? Has another hair turned gray? Are the eyes rimmed with a bit more red? Others may judge the changes harshly and label them ugly. You judge them beautiful and this is enough.

When you see beauty in the mirror your power is great. Many in the world are jealous and try to cloud your vision. You will not let them. Not now, not in this moment. You look more deeply into the eyes and see the truth that remains. The mirror reflects beauty. Transitory. Illusory. Wonderful. Beauty.

You know the religious and philosophical teachers who claim to have discovered the certain path to this beauty – calling it by limiting names like salvation, redemption, or enlightenment. You know of the neural pathways that create the sensation of beauty. You know of the salesmen who claim to sell beauty in little jars. Yet none of these can dim the vision before you or make it less complete. Perhaps a God who made man in his image will come from heaven to reveal the one true source of all beauty. Or perhaps a day will come when someone captures this beauty perfectly, pinning it to acid-free paper in a nitrogen-filled case for you to study. Most certainly, people will try to sell you their version of beauty – each claiming to have the most wonderful product or best understanding of what makes one beautiful.

Thankfully, as you look in the mirror, you know that none of this matters. Beauty regards beauty. Carbon, oxygen and trace elements regard silver behind a piece of glass. There may be more, but just now this alone is enough. Neither divine or profane, neither requiring nor accepting any adornment, free of human judgment or need for certainty. Free. Simple. Beauty.

This Breath

There is cause for joy in this breath or there is no joy. Letting go of the need for more than this breath is my greatest source of peace. Grasping and holding have never brought me happiness. Fighting for more and seeing the pain it causes others has only brought me pain. Even the meaning of these words I now write is something that I must let go – else I will find myself defending it against others who feel I am in error, or who believe they offer a clearer path. I laugh at myself for writing such silly thoughts. Why would I ever want to defend them?

Fighting to prove that my words are correct only blinds me to the beauty of this breath. I accept that every word I write or speak, that every action I take likely is “wrong” or “bad” from someone’s perspective. I accept that if I do not fight for myself some will take things from me. Yet, when I fight for myself, or to acquire and protect the things I think I need there is no joy – only a false happiness followed by despair. I must focus on my breath – only within it is there joy for me. May I find the courage to leave behind the need to seek more than the simple joy in this breath, this very one, right here, right now.

Should There Be A "Where's Steve?" Tour?

I step into the dark of early morning. I pause on the steps. Guilt has me in its grip. I should have made coffee for Rejeanne before going out to waste another day. I know that thoughts filled with should are nothing but illusions of how I think the world ought to operate – but they are persistent. I go back inside and check the coffee – there is almost a full pot from yesterday. I start to make a new pot because I should make fresh coffee for Rejeanne. Then I remember that Rejeanne actually prefers to be frugal and drink day old coffee. I leave my shoulds behind, make it to the car and head into town.

As I drive, I think of Adam Weinstein. Adam is on a roll just now. His art show went well and he is hearing encouraging buzz about his music from the west coast. There are rumors of a show and even a tour. Perhaps Adam will be able to live out his dream. That would be fantastic – at least part of me thinks so, the part that I want to reinforce and nurture, the part of me that knows that the only true joy in life comes from giving. But I would be less than honest if I were to say that there is not at least a small part of me that is jealous of Adam’s success. This part has been trying to help Adam “organize” things and give him “advice” as though he needs my help. He needs my friendship as all of us need friendship from each other, but as for “help” that is something for which only he can determine the need. Unasked for help is interference.

Yesterday I sent an email to help Adam organize things with a mutual friend. In the email I told the friend I would give him the copies of the tapes I made at Adam’s show. I did not ask for permission from Adam. I just assumed that it would be a good idea. I think part of me wanted to help but I think I may have wanted to insert myself between Adam and the mutual friend – to somehow take partial credit for Adam’s talent. Was I hoping that some of Adam’s luster would rub off on me? Did I have such a low opinion of myself that I thought I needed it? Perhaps. But I am better at catching this thinking than I used to be – better at minimizing the damage it can cause me and my relationships – at least some of the time.

I pull over and send Adam a text.

Have I upset you? Call me when you wake.

The phone rings minutes later. His voice is full of sleep.

“Hey. Want to go for breakfast?”

I laugh. “Sure. When?”

“I can be ready in a few minutes.”

We order breakfast at Perkins’. Way too much food filled with way too much fat and sugar. But it is what it is. We eat much of it in silence, both minds whirling, wondering what the future will bring if Adam does become famous. For a moment I envisage myself as a sober Hunter Thompson – following Adam’s band across the country, writing stories, blogs and reviews – finally rolling everything into a wonderful book that everyone will want to read. Another Rolling Stone in a country so obsessed with self-aggrandizement that it often loses all perspective. We are just naked apes after all. Why must we insist that our actions be seen as the most important, or the grandest creatures in the universe?

I smile at Adam. I don’t know what to say to be helpful. I don’t trust myself to be unselfish. Excitement is not my friend. But I must try. What other choice is there? Shall I give over entirely to my desire to play king of the hill, to become as Adam puts it, “The monkey with the most bananas?” I practice my breathing for a moment. The bill comes. Adam asks for permission as he reaches for it.

“Can I get this one?”

I smile. “Sure thing, buddy, sure thing.”

As I wait, I recall Steven – Steven Bock of Truth and Janey and Nowhere Fast. Steven was the only other famous and/or nearly famous musician I knew. He died this summer. He and Adam played together once, and Steven told me he was impressed. After the cancer took Steve, Adam and I went out west to leave a portion of his ashes in the Pacific. We met a friend of mine who knew a few people in the world of music. He and Adam hit it off very well…and as the movies put it, the rest was history.

Before his death, Steve and I had been working on a project that Steve called, The Where’s Steve Tour?- a dark bit of humor in the face of his impending death. Steve is gone now – any tour by Adam could certainly ask the question “Where’s Steve?” But perhaps, in some strange way, Steve’s dream is coming true posthumously. If Adam does ride a wave of success to fame and a national tour, I will imagine Steve watching and smiling, happy that the Where’s Steve Tour? came off at last. Steve will bear witness that the kindness Adam and I tried to do for him, yielded joy in world that is more about love and dreams than about guilt and should.

Grey Skies and Wandering Rocks

Grey skies of autumn cast pearl light on the slate window sill. Slow jazz wafts over the tables of people chatting over their morning coffee. The music is something French. Heavy orchestra with a harmonica and a sultry female. This morning’s coffee is dark roast. Less caffeine but a stronger flavor. Another day is beginning.

I wrote one piece – I did not like it. This is the second. It will be today’s. Writing for a blog is a little bit stifling. There are not many readers but just the fact of knowing that there are a few constrains what I write. I tend to over edit. I want to sound more polished than I feel. Therapy transitions into work very quickly unless I make sure I slow down and see and listen to each word as it appears on my screen. It is difficult to listen to the voice of the writer. The critic in my head works very hard to shout him down. Writer and critic wrestle in a Sisyphean struggle so ancient that sometimes I am drained. Yet I must write to live. Time has shown me this time and time again. And, may I be forgiven my pride and self-indulgence, I do love it when people tell me they like what I write. Thus, like Odysseus and his Wandering Rocks, I am trapped between two huge cliffs that may close on me at any moment. Odysseus’ stones threatened to smash his ship. My rocks threaten to crush my spirit. One rock says “write regardless of what people think, for in that way you achieve the most honest healing” and the other says “write and try to be loved for what you write”. The gap between the two rocks is made up of my desire not only to live but to be loved. It is a struggle at times but in the end I am grateful for it. Much of my life I was asleep, unable to see the beauty in life and the joy in writing about it. Better to live and face Wandering Rocks than sleep and be buried by them.

Home On The Street

I walk the streets of Vancouver. I am headed to a local Tim Horton’s coffee shop. A breeze blows a piece of paper to rest against my leg. Some poor soul has written an essay about families and holidays. He (or she?) clearly comes from an unhappy home. As I read, I am so grateful that my family is unlike the author’s family; so grateful that my holidays were spent in warmth and love. I reprint the letter here, as a reminder for those of us with healthy families to be grateful for them.

Heading into another season of “holidays” leads me to wondering about home again. Judgments from my past take me far from the image of home that is shown on television. But then did that home ever really exist? Was there ever a land of homes of Swiss Butterball turkeys, tables groaning under too many dishes to mention and families who spent weeks together smiling and telling amusing anecdotes about their childhood? Did anyone ever inhabit a home with no embarrassing secrets, free of dark jealousy about inheritances, and without grudges so poisonous that they often stifled conversation? Is it just me, or has home always included at least a few scenes not fit for prime time? Am I the only one who suffers from the cognitive dissonance of pretending reality is like television or a Hollywood script? Am I the only person on the planet who is tired of “faking” it till I make it? Am I simply being immature and self-centered? Perhaps so. Perhaps I am the only one who sees the white elephants in families and wants to point them out. After all, I have been hospitalized for “seeing things” and for being unable to “fit in” with normal society. Perhaps it is best that I simply accept my fate of being out of synch and to not discuss things that make others uncomfortable. I do love my family. I do not want to cause them harm. Yet, how can I say that I know them when we cannot trust each other with our secrets, when it is not polite to discuss hurtful things, not nice to want to clear the white elephants from the room – when it is insane to want brutal honesty rather than feigned love and caring?

So be it. I will go through the holidays yet again without bringing up anything uncomfortable. We will discuss the weather, football and how tasty Aunties chocolate pie was. That will be pretty much it. We don’t agree on politics or religion so those topics are off limits. None of us remember the past in the same way, so discussions of that end up in arguments. In the end, we will watch television until it is time to say goodbye. Duty has brought us together. Once that is fulfilled, we are grateful to part. We are not people who would spend time together in any other setting.

Yet I am too harsh. There are moments when the smell of the oak trees and the rustle of the wind in the leaves will bring back a memory of laughter, a recollection of a hug, or a time when as children we were unaware of the things that seemed to be upsetting the grown-ups; like the time when we snuck off to the pond to go skinny-dipping. True, we got a damn good spanking for doing it but it was worth it. Yes there were good times and I would love to celebrate those. It’s just that I don’t know how to celebrate the good times without honestly facing the bad ones. It seems false somehow. It cheapens the memories of the good times, makes them seem less real if we cannot also have the strength as a family to face the things that have brought all of us pain. It makes me feel like I should be ashamed of my family, like we have some things to hide that are so terrible that they are worse than the things faced by other families, like my family is the worst one ever, or that we lack the moral strength and courage to be real and honest with each other. How can I celebrate good times in a family of shame? How can I lie?

But this is ridiculous. My family is my family. I cannot change them. I will be polite. I will say the right things. I have learned the lesson of the perpetual silence. No sense making a fuss. The holidays will soon pass and we can return to the path of ignoring one another.

Thankfully, I have also learned that home is not a place or a particular group of people. I am at home wherever my feet happen to be. I can find friends at every turn. I can make friends by learning to be a friend; someone who is honest, someone who pretends as little as possible, someone who tries to share a little love and kindness with everyone.

I weep for the author of the note. How sad that he will spend the holidays in such a sad state of affairs. If I knew who he was I would invite him home to my family. We will have the turkey. We will have a table that groans from the weight of all the tasty dishes set before us. We will laugh at tales from our childhood. We will watch a football game and shout for the home team. Our family could pose for the ads you see on television. We might even do that someday, if they pay us enough. :-)

A Far Country

In a far country - far, far from here - a young man sat with his coffee thinking of ways to be a better human being. He thought, “Fix this. Fix that. When will I be done fixing myself?”

He had honed the art of self-examination and improvement to the point of insanity. Placing himself squarely at the center of the universe he assumed full responsibility for his fate in life, responsibility not only for his fate, but the fate of all those around them. His sense of duty came from beliefs so deeply ingrained that they flowed through him in his blood with every beating of his heart; the belief that there are no such things as accidents, that God is in control; that God has set up a rule of laws and that man has freewill to choose; and, thus the man’s fate is in his own hands – make the right choices and live a life of happiness, make the wrong ones and suffer eternal damnation. The man saw his life as a test in how to make the right choices. He was certain all of his pains were of his own making, that he is a case of “selfish, self-centeredness”, and that all his actions were “self-will run riot.” Buried in these thoughts, the black of his coffee looked darker and darker.

Meanwhile, deep in the limbic system of his brain his amygdala twitched sending a bit of hormone to the right temporal lobe. The hormone caused a tiny seizure, a seizure so small it could scarcely be detected by even the most sensitive instruments. But its impact was enormous. The young man saw a bright light. He heard a voice, “All is well with you. All of the universe is one with me and you are one with me for now and always.”

Trembling, the young man asked, “Who are you?”

“I am known by many names in many lands but you may call me God.”

The voice and the young man conversed for what seemed hours, yet when the light faded the young man saw that only a two minutes had passed.

The young man rushed home to write down all that he had heard. Next day, he made copies of his writings and shared them with all of his friends. After a few days of sharing and talking with others the young man was exhausted, hiding in his house and refusing to talk with anyone. During this dark times the young man worried that he was not being a true messenger of God, that he still was doing things for selfish reasons, that he did not deserve love from anyone. His friends brought him food but he would not eat. They sang him songs but he could not sleep. Eventually, the exhaustion passed and the young man returned to his life.

Periodically, the young man had further seizures and saw the white light. He continued to write and publish his conversations with the one he “chose to call God”. These periods of writing and sharing were followed by periods of exhaustion. People told him that his writing inspired them and they flocked to hear him read from his work. Their praise comforted the young man during his dark periods. But the young man still was obsessed with the idea of fixing himself to become a better messenger for God. He dreamed that somehow, someday he would find a way to be beautiful enough and good enough to deserve and experience love.

One day a psychiatrist traveled to the young man’s country. He went to several of the young man’s lectures. He nodded to himself and smiled secretly. Then one day he cornered the young man after a lecture, “Young man you are seriously ill. You are having temporal lobe seizures, the bright light is nothing more than a patch of neurons misfiring, and the revelations are nothing more than a severe case of hypergraphia. You must take these pills. They will make you stop worrying about fixing yourself. They will make you understand that you are worthy of being loved.”

Much relieved to find out that he simply was ill, not evil, the young man took the medications offered by the psychiatrist. Amazingly, the seizures stopped. The young man no longer saw the white light and no longer felt the need to write and share his writings. He took some classes at the local community college, became a phlebotomist, settled down, and started a family with his high school sweetheart who had stood by him faithfully for years. He thought he felt like most other people thought they felt most of the time. He even was pretty sure that he was worthy of being loved.

His former followers became very angry with him. They challenged him to debates about God. But with his mind clear for the first time in his life the young man could easily refute their arguments for the existence of magical white lights and a divine being. He carefully explained how the brain worked and the phenomenon of temporal lobe seizures to all who would listen. His explanation only upset them. They shouted at him.

“Hypocrite. Back slider. You think too much. You know you will go to hell.”

Over time, doubts began to re-enter the young man’s mind. His doubts were not about bright lights, magical beings or even temporal lobe seizures. Deep inside he still doubted that he was worthy of being loved. His friends and family tried to comfort him. They tried to tell him that they loved him. He tried to believe them. He tried very hard to believe, but trying was not enough. The dark times began to reappear. It was helpful to know that the dark times were not a sign of a character deficiency but the pain of them still was very real and powerful. It was if he knew that he had a broken leg. He was no longer ashamed of having a broken leg but the lack of shame did not heal the leg or relieve its pain.

On the darkest night in many years, the young man went to the highest bridge over the deepest river. He could not see the water. He only heard it rushing by far below. The young man climbed the railing and was just letting go when he heard a voice.

“That probably won’t help matters.”

“Who, who is that?”

The young man almost fell as a dark hooded figure spoke again, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

“But how can you be me? I am over here.”

“Come and I will show you.”

Intrigued the young man got down off the railing and followed the hooded one to a bench under a streetlight. The man pulled back his hood to reveal a beard and full head of the shiniest silver hair the young man had ever seen.

“So, do you recognize me now?”

“Santa Claus?”

The hooded man laughed. It was the most comforting sound the young man had ever heard.

“No. Not Santa Claus. Try again.”

The young man looked very closely at the one with the hood. Then it struck him. Something about the eyes and nose. Something so familiar…

“You are me! Me when I am a lot older.”

“Got it on the second try. Pretty good.”

“But how, how can you be here and in the future?”

The man in the hood held up his hand. “That would take more time than we have. Let’s get to it. You know how you saw a bright light once?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as you have figured out by now, you weren’t talking to God.”

“Well, yes, I guess so.”

The grey haired man laughed again. “Take my word for it. You weren’t. If you go around thinking you are talking to God you will end up talking to doctors in psych wards for a very long time. Trust me. I know.”

“Well, who was I talking to?”

“The only other person there dummy.”

“You mean myself? I was talking to myself?”

“Bingo. Got it in one this time.”

The young man’s shoulders slumped and he stared at the ground. “Guess I should have finished things off on the bridge.”

“And what exactly do you think that would have gotten you?”

“An end to this mess anyhow.”

“Quit being such an idiot.”

Anger flashed in the young man’s eyes as he looked back up. “Look who’s calling me an idiot. Some old fart, off his medication.”

The old man smiled. “What I mean is that you have no way of knowing that you are not exchanging one mess for an even bigger one.”

“You mean like, hell?”

Shaking his head the old man answered. “Not if you mean lakes of fire and things like that. I just mean that you do not know what happens after death. No one does. So why waste life? Why not enjoy each breath?”

The old man continued as the young man leaned back to listen.

“See, it’s like this as I see it. All we have or ever will have is right here right now. Anything else is a guess. What happened in the past is a matter of debate – ask any two people and you get two completely different recollections of what happened just yesterday. Try to project the future and you can get probabilities, but never certainties. The only true certain thing is what is right in front of us. We can try to see beauty or pain in this moment, that may be the only real choice we have.”

“But that’s just your opinion.”

“Yes. It is the only one I am entitled too. You must have your own opinion. You cannot have mine.” Again the laugh. Again the deep sense of comfort.

The old man began to fade. It started at the edges. The feet. The legs. The torso. The arms. Soon there was only the face and then it too began fading.

Panicked the young man shouted, “Wait! Wait! I have so much more to ask you.”

Another laugh was followed by a smile. “It’s okay. It really is okay. Just know this. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. And remember, the Walrus was Paul.” More laughter as night replaced the face entirely. “Seriously though…know that I am you and believe that I love you even when it seems like no one else does.”

Stunned, the young man sat down on the bench. He remained there as daylight replaced the streetlight. He rose and went home to his family. They were eating breakfast. The you man wished that he could be certain that his vision was true. He wished that he could be certain of anything. Then he looked at his wife and daughter. Right here. Right now. Nowhere else. No when else. He hugged them both and ate his eggs. From somewhere he heard laughter.

Even More Vancouver Photos

Sweetie

You have not slept since 3 pm yesterday. Your hair is blond (maybe) and you are ordering donuts at 5 am. Your blouse hangs off one shoulder, letting your partner know you are interested, definitely interested. Your partner’s hair is red and he keeps it cut short to hide the fact that there is less of it today than yesterday. You overlook the loss of hair for the sake of his biceps and buttocks. You talk loud and slur your words. The clerk is confused and you have to repeat your order several times. Donut holes. 8 of those, 6 of these, 4 glazed, 4 powdered. Oh and yes, one Strawberry and one Maple.

Your partner puts the back of his hand on his forehead and says in Scarlett O’Hara’s voice. “Maple? Maple? Why chil’ you must be mad!”

You laugh too loud.

Minutes from now you will be snuggled in the loft across the street, firing up the hookah or bong or whatever and eating donut holes faster than you ate pizza the night before. You and your boyfriend, yes please let him be your boyfriend, it has been so long since you had one of those, will wrestle and manage some form of love. You will loose consciousness in a rapture of sensation. Another day will pass as a taxi down below carries a businessman off to his cubicle.

You will wake sometime around noon. You will see your partner is nearly bald. The sunlight will have aged him at least a decade as you slept. He will lie on his back hiding the gorgeous butt and instead show you a belly that has not seen abs since high school. His prick will be a wilted cucumber above two small prunes. Your underwear will hang from the lampshade. The garbage can will overflow with beer cans. The pizza and donut boxes will be nearby – left there in a half-hearted attempt at cleaning before you passed out.

You’ll fire up the bong or hookah or whatever to get the strength to call your father. The phone will ring in his cubicle.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey darling, what’s up?” You’ll know he is pretending not to notice the stoned tone of your voice. You’ll know he knows you are simply calling for money. Money is the only reason you ever call him. You feel it is his duty to provide it. After all he was the one who brought you into this world. You did not have a say. You never got a vote. It is his fault that you are here, now he should accept the responsibility.

“Uh Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

You hate when he calls you sweetie. It is the same term he uses for your Mother. You are not your Mother. God no. No. No. No. Not your Mother. The one who hates you and who slices you up so bad with her dry insults that you can hardly stand to talk to her. But your Dad is unconscious most of the time. Sweetie is the only term of endearment that he can think of. So you accept it from him. Only from him though. Anyone else who calls you sweetie will be slapped silly.

“Dad, I can’t make rent this month.”

Silence. You really hate this part. The little waiting game. You have stated the problem. His job is to solve it. He so desperately wants you to ask him. You so desperately don’t want to.

He caves, as he always does. “How much?”

“A thousand or so ought to do it.”

“Western Union okay? Or should I wire it to your bank account?”

“Whichever is easiest for you Dad.”

“Your bank account then.”

“Oh, and Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“I love you Dad.”

“I love you too sweetie.”

The click of the phone in your ear will sound like the lid of a casket closing. You’ll know you have thrown away just a little bit more of the closeness you and he shared. The images of him bandaging the “boo boo” when you were six, buying you the car when you were sixteen and hugging you when your first true love left you will fade a bit more.

You will take another hit from the hookah or waterpipe or whatever and nestle against your new boyfriend (even if he doesn’t know it yet). You will fluff up the prunes and try to rouse the cucumber. Nothing. Just deeper snores.

Sighing, you will roll on your back and rub yourself. You may have to take another hit or two, and you may have to rub for quite a while, but eventually you will find sweet release - a moment when there are only donut holes, firm buttocks and laughter; a moment when you don’t have to feel so far from all you once loved; a moment so joyful that you don’t mind when your new boyfriend wakes and calls you sweetie. You will snuggle close to him. He will hold you close. Maybe not forever. But close enough for now.

Pictures from Vancouver

Some photos taken out of our hotel window.

The Beauty of Lizards

Night makes mirrors of the windows. I drink coffee sitting in Sandburg’s city of the “broad shoulders”. Random thoughts. Nothing in my head but mush. Struggling to write, I reach for my old familiar muses of sadness and despair. Nothing. Perhaps the rare burst of love and happiness are waiting. Again nothing. But I will write. Keeping the words in my skull leads to abscesses of the brain. Maybe the lines will come from a little gratitude…a little chance for wonder…maybe…

Beauty buys coffee and flashes a smile. Beauty sleeps in the bed where I slept. Beauty flows by in the traffic that is somehow choreographed to the beat of Marvin Gaye as What’s Goin’ On floats from the speakers. I stare at a sparkle of light in my cup until it dissolves into a prism of color. The prism expands, filling my vision. It is enough.

I find myself running in the backyard of our Nederland house. The grass is brown from the late summer drought that bakes everything. Soon the rains will come drenching the black gumbo clay, flooding streets, and bringing the occasional hurricane.

The yard is full of hazards – stones, cockleburs, and sometimes even a piece of glass. These are nothing to me. The soles of my feet are black, tanned leather from months and years of going barefoot across lawns, cement and gravel.

I am running to Jeff’s house. Jeff of the red hair and so many freckles it is hard to tell if his skin is white with red spots or red with white spots. His house is across the field from mine. We spend days together running in the sun, building forts in the empty lots, crying when we are forced to come in at night.

Today as I run, something catches my eye. There, on a firethorn bush, the kind with the orange-red waxy berries, is a tiny lizard. It writhes in agony. It was put there by a jaybird or a maybe a mockingbird. I have watched them do it. They will catch a lizard and then stick it on a thorn until it stops wriggling, making it easier to eat I guess.

As a child I found this horrible. But today’s journey through the scene is with eyes a half-century older. I see only harmony here. Nothing terrible. The birds chicks are waiting for the lizard to stop writhing. They will quickly eat it, growing strong to make more chicks. The lizard’s young will be fine, they are able to fend for themselves as soon as they hatch. Life has deep wisdom and beauty.

The same is true for we naked apes, or, if you insist, we pinnacles of creation. We will find ourselves writhing on our own thorn someday. The thorn may be cancer, simple old age, or something as spectacular as a hurricane or other natural disaster. Regardless, we will pass from this life. Our passage may be peaceful or in agony, but pass we will. Today I see my future passing as a thing of beauty. I am fortunate beyond measure to simply have glimpsed life, much less experience it for more than half a century. I may see the future end of my life as beauty or tragedy. I will seek to find it beautiful. Not a goal to be sought but a flower to be appreciated once it is offered. Until that time I pray to smell every flower, know that the world is filled with love not evil if I only choose to see it, and see the beauty…share the beauty…live in the beauty that is all around me.

The Beauty

Comfort of Old Men

We are the old men. We sag in inappropriate places. Liver spots have replaced the cuteness of freckles on our skin – skin that has begun to resemble tissue paper, tearing easily, leaving us wondering “now where did that cut come from?”. Our movements are accompanied by unconscious moans, grunts or wheezes. Flatulence has become an art form. Hair sprouts evermore profusely from our nose, ears and ass while it leaves our heads. We would take decisive actions for self-improvement if we could remember what they were. Yes, we are the old men; those who have lived far beyond the 30 to 40-year warranty originally granted out species.

Sometimes we are enraged and fearful of the decline. We buy ever more expensive cars and homes. We fluff up and pamper the little bits of beauty nature has left us. We scramble after women younger than our daughters. Unable to love ourselves as we age, we push away those who would love us. Fearful that they will not love us enough to care for us, we fight to pass laws that conserve our control over the world’s wealth and power. We dream that science may discover a way for us to be immortal. We claim ultimate knowledge of what is the “right” path for creation based on our religion, philosophy or science. We are willing to sacrifice anything for more life – our peace of mind, the planet’s resources, and our children’s future.

At other times we glimpse the beauty of the cycle of life and death. We welcome each day with wonder. Letting fear drop from us, we can see deeply into a butterfly’s wing with the same wonder and joy of a child. If we do not have grandchildren, we smile and wave at the children of others. We form new friendships over a cup of coffee. We get out and wander around – not worrying about how we look, knowing that even a toothless, hairless smile can dress up even the poorest suit of clothes. Embracing our frailty, we willingly hand over the power for decisions to our children. We know that they will make mistakes but we recognize their right to make them just as we made our own. We accept that we are not in charge of their future, just as our parents never were in charge of ours. We share our possessions with those who have nothing because we know living in a “dog eat dog world” creates dogs not human beings. We find peace.

If we are truly lucky we simply accept that we are old men growing ever older. We relax and enjoy each breath. We have nothing left to prove. We find peace knowing that the only lasting legacy is our circle of friends. Grand ideas, monuments, empires – and yes we old men, all fade into starlight in the end. May I be lucky enough to be the starlight seen years from now by another old man as he looks up into the night. May I begin shining today.

Morning Prayer

I think sometimes writing is a form of prayer for me. A prayer to understand others and be understood by them. This piece is a bit wordy and pedantic but it is what was there in my head. Sometimes I AM wordy and pedantic. I will send the piece on and I know at least one person will read it. To that person - thank you.

Fall's bite is in the air. A few early risers are on their way to work – coffee shops, restaurants and maybe a grocery story or two. I “camped” at the apartment last night. Grace and I are redefining who we are as a couple once more. Neither of us is certain of where the journey will take us. There is certainty of a deep and abiding love, all else seems to shift before us. Perhaps change and uncertainty are inevitable.

READER – SKIP TO ENDING UNLESS YOU ENJOY PSEUDO-PHILOSOPHICAL DRIVEL

Last night I visited with friends. Conversation ranged wide and far. At the end of the evening, the discussion shifted, as it inevitably must – to the topics of religion, spirituality and science. After all I live in a university town. Not much light was shed on the subject, but I did learn one thing. Unlike my younger days, I am able to discuss the subject without becoming too upset. I think it is because I have made at least some progress in accepting the idea that there very likely are no certain answers and that if there are, I for one, do not know them. Life is easier when I accept the certainty that I likely will remain uncertain about much of it. Unfortunately, some are not willing to allow me this simple luxury. When I say, “I’m not certain but based on what we know the probability is…” they use the gap in evidence and proof that my position is meaningless. Then they strive to convince me of the certainty of their position without providing any evidence other than faith or intuition. When I hold fast to my need for evidence, they can become frustrated and assert, “You know in your heart (or more grossly put – your gut) that what I am telling you is true, you simply are refusing to accept it.”

Nothing could be further from the truth. It is just that my life has led me not to be concerned about placing too much reliance on “my heart” or faith in some “certainty” as a guide for my actions. My first inclination is to look to the evidence – or as I define evidence, those phenomena that all of us can share and validate independently of one another. Then when I have exhausted the evidence, as I certainly will because our knowledge is incomplete, intuition may indeed be of help. When I trust my heartfelt “revelations” and the certainty they bring, I can I end up in places where I can no longer distinguish revelation from hallucination. In Japan, my gut once told me that I was speaking with the goddess Gaia. Luckily, I still had sufficient reason to check out the evidence before following her guidance. Gaia offered me the certainty of my gut feelings as a basis for my actions. Instead, I chose to base my decisions on probabilities rather than certainties. Was it more probable that I was speaking to a god or that I was in a hotel room withdrawing from some fairly potent psychotropic medications? I chose the probability that I was in a hotel room. I have little doubt that my life is better because chose probability over certainty.

I am confronted with the certainty versus probability dilemma every day. I accept that I can never gather full evidence for each and every decision. I cannot become a heart surgeon in order to decide whether or not to follow the direction of a heart surgeon. Does this mean that I must resort purely to my gut and base my life on emotional choices? I have made, and undoubtedly will make some choices this way and suffer the consequences. However, I also know that it is possible to examine my life through the lens of science and reason, weigh the probabilities and accept life’s uncertainty. When in this space I need not fight anyone or anything. I can accept myself and others. Rather than judging another I can simply reflect on the question – “I wonder why they think that way?” I need not fear them. I need not judge them.

ENDING

Will this winter be colder than normal? Will there be a deeper friendship and love between Grace and I? The tiny mammalian brain atop my limbic system wants definite answers to this question. It is fearful that without certainty its life will end. Thankfully, my brain is a human brain. This brain tells me that the answers to these questions are still uncertain – yet it also tells me that I can look to the almanac for probabilities about the weather and that “more will be revealed” in the course of time. Meanwhile, the probability is that life will continue for this day and that my “job” is to simply be alive and try to act with kindness.

Outside, fall continues to come on. Inside there is warmth and a parade of people at the coffee bar. Tall, short, fat, fit, perfumed, “au naturale”. Human. What a wonder and what silly little monkeys we are. We are tiny beyond insignificance on the cosmic scale, yet we are able to view and at least comprehend that very cosmos. Some Native Americans called themselves human beings, meaning it as source of wonder and humility – not as a statement of our certain position as rulers of the planet. Today I am a human. It IS wonderful of that I AM certain. Well, at least for the most part.

A Second Hill

The road is dark. Ahead in the tall grass of the ditch two red dots reflect light back to me. The dots scurry away. I come to the stop sign for the highway leading to town and take a right. Southward I can see the glow of the city. Another day has begun.

As I head to the bottom of the first hill a white t-shirt flashes in my headlights. I catch a brief glance of a young man – arm raised, black baseball cap, jeans – as I whiz past. I tap my brakes in anticipation of stopping but decide it is best to be safe. I speed back up for my journey into town.

At the bottom of the second hill I change my mind. I turn around at the next crossroad and head back up the hill. I drive further than I remember traveling and I begin to wonder if I imagined the man. Then I see him. He his carrying a paper bag. Too many hours of watching cable news makes me wonder if the bag contains drugs, or worse, a gun. He sees that I have returned and the look of hope in his face makes me commit. Drugs, gun or not – I stop the car. This could be seen as risky behavior – perhaps I am embarking on yet another episode of bipolar mania. Oh well, may as well relax and enjoy the ride.

I am relieved when I see a face that looks sober. The face smiles as the young man wearing it slides into the seat next to me.

“So, where do you need to go? Iowa City?”

“No. I’m going to Solon, is that okay?”

Solon is the exact opposite of where I was heading but I have some time to kill before the coffee shop opens.

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

I press the gas and we head north into the night. We ride for several moments in silence before the young man extends a hand.

“My name is John. And yours?”

I shake John’s hand. I can feel the calluses of carpentry or farming.

“I’m Dale. So, John what brings you out so early?”

“I got a DWI and they let me out of jail early.”

I laugh. “I’m familiar with DWIs.”

John tells the story of my life at his age – too much to drink, too little patience and a fear that life will never be what I expect and need it to be. Of course there is a woman and there is a fight and there is the heartbreak of separation. I resist the urge to give direct advice - difficult for someone of my immense wisdom. But I cannot resist a statement or two aimed at sharing personal experience.

“Yeah. I remember that I used to think, ‘I don’t get in trouble every time I drink.’ But then I came to realize that pretty much every time I got into trouble I had been drinking.”

John agrees and laughs obligingly but I can tell I have gone a bit too far. I retreat.

“But in the end I guess each of us has to find their own path…”

I hear a deeper note in John’s voice, “You got that right.”

Then we reach the end of our journey.

“Up here on the right. The brick house just past that car.”

I drive away. As usual I reflect on my actions. Dissect is more like it. Was it a good thing to help John? Was I engaging in risky behavior associated with being bipolar? Was I simply being self serving, trying to play out some role as a good Samaritan? Would it have been better for John to suffer the full consequences of his DWI by having to walk to Solon? Like it or not – this type of chatter follows me every day. I practice my breathing and by the time I reach the coffee shop, I am able to let go and leave it to life to sort out. I meant the act as one of kindness. That is the best I can do. The universe will have to determine the cosmological significance of me meeting John. I will settle for a good cup of coffee.

Anniversary

September 11, 2009

200 mg Depakote

Mood – 7 out of 10 (where 10 is God’s orgasm)

Today is the anniversary of the loss of my kidney and the death of my business career.

It is 4:30 a.m.

I grind the coffee. The coffee comes from Café del Sol a cooperative that supports people in need. The grinder looks as if it might be a transformer in disguise; red metal, two feet tall with a huge mouth of a lid to receive the beans. It makes short work of the pound or two of coffee that I put in.

Once more I am at Uptown Bill’s Small Mall, about which my brother said, “You would be lost without that place wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. I suppose. Or at least someplace like it,” was my reply.

I am grinding the coffee and doing a little clean up as payment for my parking space this morning. I would park near my apartment but the students are back at the University and there are no spaces. My off-street parking in the alley is filled by someone else’s car. Once again, the Mall is the place of easiest refuge.

I look around for another task. The water cooler is at the end of the table where I sit. The bottle is empty. Just a second while I change it. There. The bubbles rise to the top in a hypnotic pattern as the water fills the cooler.

Simple.

Help out a bit.

Grind coffee.

Watch bubbles.

Write.

Feel better.

Why is it such a challenge to remain focused on just helping out bit and then relaxing to enjoy the present moment?

As they say, if I knew the answer to that one I would write a book. Wait a moment. I did write a book. It didn’t have any answers for anyone but me, and that answer was simple – just be Dale. Do not take on any great causes. Do not feel that I have to fulfill anyone else’s desires for whom or what they expect me to be. Care and be kind to others but do not take on their pain and try to carry it as if it were my own. A tall order to be sure but one I must follow if I want to stay free of hospitals; if I want to be present enough to see a butterfly as it lands on my arm. Just now there are no butterflies. It is night outside. There is a fly under the neon. It lands on the table just outside my reach. Its wings reflect a prism of light when I look closely. It is enough. Did I rate my mood as 7 on a scale of 10? Make that a 7.5.

Broken Ones

September 10, 2009

Depakote 200 mg

Mood – 6 out of 10 (where 10 is equivalent to the Big Bang)

Tomorrow is 9/11. I remember what happened just before and after that date 8 years ago.

The urologist. “You have kidney cancer it must come out.”

The psychiatrist, “You have Major Depression, Bipolar Disorder, er…mental illness…er mood disorder.”

The employer, “You should go on long term disability.”

The insurer, “On your behalf, you must let us file for Social Security Disability Insurance.”

I still do not understand those times. They opened cracks in what I used to call a soul.

“What can I do with bipolar disorder?” Follow the doctor’s orders. But mental illness is an area that has little certainty. We can set a broken leg. We can put stints in arteries. We cannot cut or sew up the wounds of the mind that we label mental illness.

“What does long term disability mean?” I have a contract to receive payment, but don’t insurance companies decide to cancel benefits all the time? My trust of companies is pretty low based on my experiences with them. The phrase, “it’s just business” sends a chill to my core. I become fearful of losing the benefit.

“What does Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) mean?” It means that the insurer lowers their payments by the amount I am paid by SSDI. I become fearful of trying to get better and learn how to do job. If I do try to get better, if I do try to work again and go off of SSDI will the insurer become angry and find a way to cancel my long-term disability? If I don’t work again will I sink further into my illness like so many seem to do?

These are not unique questions. I am not alone. There are many of us. The broken ones, the ones that much of society does not want to look at too closely. I know. I was part of “successful” society once. I wore the suits. I flew first class. I made the deals. I looked with what I thought was great compassion on those less fortunate. Today, I wonder if my compassion was little more than condescending pity.

In my suit of the best Dormeuil money could buy I would think; “How sad are those poor souls. How sad they lack my talent, skill and enterprise. I suppose we must make allowances and give them something to live on, but we must be careful not to give them too much or we will destroy their motivation to improve themselves. We must make them want to improve their lot in life. We must motivate them to mend themselves.”

Now that I am bipolar and disabled my view is a bit different. I live in the world of broken ones, or at least those that are labeled as broken. We are the ones out of the mainstream. The ones that cannot (and yes sometimes will not) fit into the categories the world has given us. We sometimes spend countless hours hating ourselves and wondering if we should simply disappear and cease being a bother and source of pain. Each of us began life as a mother’s dream of having the perfect child, a bit of china so pure and rare that all the world would come to admire it and in their admiration stand in awe of the parents who created it. But it was not to be. For us, our mother’s dream of china turned into potshards, the broken bits left in the potter’s yard after the workers have gone home.

Yet even among the broken pottery there is beauty. Yesterday I spoke with Scott P., my oldest friend. I worried that I had upset him with my recent whining and rambling. But like every time when I call him, we soon were laughing as though no time had passed since we shared our radical days of the 70’s. His laugh and my response put a few shards back together that I had forgotten. I remembered that my cracks are of long standing. I have been a little bit “weird” from early on. As a result, I have a long history dealing with being cracked. I do well with it so long as I don’t forget to be loving and kind. And then the most important shard fell into place - with a friend weirdness is all right.

I pity the successful one I once was; the executive who often was afraid to take time for friends, especially those who could not directly further his business goals. Today he seems the broken one to me. He is the one whose life was segmented into pieces – work, play, family, friends, etc. He is the one that could do the most horrid things because each piece stood on its own and after all, “it’s only business”.

Since becoming broken, my life is much richer than before. This morning I met with Tom and watched as he ate waffles with the real maple syrup I brought to him from the Kalona coop. He told me about Dorothy and how it was going to be difficult to lose her. I spoke with Janet about her poetry and shared how I have learned to use writing to overcome darkness and despair; despair like that she feels when she hears the timer go off on the machine they have given her to dispense her medication. I listened to another friend speak of her longstanding loneliness and fears about the challenges of credit card debt. The dogs licked Tom’s plate clean of the few pieces of waffle he carefully leaves for them each morning. Behind the counter Tim served coffee. Through it all there was some pain, how could their not be? Yet, mostly there was simply a deep harmony as our laughter and warmth held the pieces together. This crazy glue, made of true compassion not pity for each other, allows we broken ones to make new pots from the broken china of our mother’s dreams. Many of our creations are odd and some are outright bizarre. This is okay with us. Broken or not we can be at peace and live life fully. In fact we have an advantage, we can relax and be ourselves, we no longer have to pretend that we are “normal”. In this state we are able to take whatever piece comes our way and piece it together higgledy-piggledy into our art.

I smile as I write this. Only yesterday I was sad that I would never be normal again. I was filled with pain about my illness and saw my life as a failure. Today I recall Scott’s words, “I’ve known you were nuts since the 70’s. I like you anyway. Did you think after all this time you were going to trick me into thinking you were sane or something?” We laughed until any strangeness between us faded into the warm fall air. Potshards need not remain broken. Friendship’s crazy glue can piece them back together stronger than ever before.

Kindness to Kindness

Fear and doubt. Fear and doubt. Oh, and add healthy doses of self-hatred and guilt. These emotions often dominate my life. There are days when the blackness they cast almost makes it impossible to move. Often the emotions have a face, the face of my mother as she sat for days on end in her housecoat watching the television, or the face of my brothers and father as they watched her illness and now mine – unable to talk openly about it. And yes, most especially my face in the mirror – a man whose sadness makes it look older than many who are his same age – a man who often begins his days writing drivel such as this. Even now, as I watch these words appear on the page the committee who live in my head shouts.

“Everyone else is fine. You simply are projecting your self-centered pain upon them.”

“What’s the point?”

“Why do you bother?”

“Stop this silliness at once. Cease bothering the world with your self-pity.”

“Sharing all your nonsense just brings others down and makes their day darker. How selfish of you.”

“Voicing your fears only makes them more real you know.”

The committee’s chatter is with me always. Even on the brightest of days I can feel them. They nestle in a dark corner of my brain in angry silence; waiting for the right moment to pounce on any sign of happiness or joy. I have spent years in church pews, 12-step rooms, psychiatric hospitals and with therapists trying to destroy the committee. Yet it remains. Some days, like today there is only one arrow left in my quiver, one last bolt to use in trying to silence the committee – it is the shaft of writing. Fuck the committee. Fuck each and every member. Let my words slay them for yet another day.

AND I share what I write. The committee finds this idea hilarious. It loves to pounce on the idea of sharing.

“You realize it is all just ego on your part don’t you?”

“Your grandiosity is showing.”

“You better spend more time editing and making sure it is the best you can possibly do before you share it.”

I share anyway. Damn the committee. I know of at least one or two people who say they like what I write and that they want to read more of it. Today that is enough. It will have to be. I feel as if writing honestly about what I experience in this moment, this very one, may be my only defense against the committee. Even if later I find my writing to be less than truthful or perfect it is the only thing I can think of to offer life at the moment. Trying to capture this tiny second of the eternal universe is the best I can manage just now. May it be enough for life. May it be enough to silence the committee. May it be done on a path of love and kindness.

The phone rings. It is a friend from Little Rock, Arkansas. Larry Atkinson. We have seen one another maybe a dozen times but have talked on the phone for hundreds of hours. He carries the ghost of addiction, as do I. We will talk until there is nothing left to talk about. Perhaps life meets kindness with kindness once again. I will act as if it is so.

August 31, 2009

The pouch from the mortuary is empty and my pocket is lighter. Not by much. A few grams maybe; the tiny bit of you that left me for the freedom of the Pacific. A few moments ago, Barry and I stood on the pier and watched as your ashes sparkled and then faded into the waves.

“Be free old buddy,” were the only words I could manage. You deserved something more eloquent; something to capture a bit more of the beauty, wonder and yes – suffering of your life. I was too numb to manage more than a few words. Hope you understand.

Today we start home to Iowa. You came home after all those years. We talked about why, often over the last few months. Your mother needed you, but it was more than that. Were you looking for the safety and comfort of childhood? Perhaps all of us do this as we grow older. Perhaps all of us wonder who will take care of us, love us and put us to bed. I know I do. There are times when the fear of being old and alone gnaws at me with sharp teeth in the night. I feel I am supposed to die like people in the movies die – peaceful, in bed, surrounded by adoring children and grandchildren. This did not happen for you. Your final companions were me – a friend of a year or two, a former fiancé and her husband. We were the ones who watched. Brenda was the one who cried and held your hand. Your son was far away in prison. Some will look at your deathbed scene and say it is God’s fair and just judgment for a life of sin – that if you had been a better person your death would have been more like the movie version. I am not one of those. I was there and watched as you adjusted from living a life high in the hills of West Hollywood to living in assisted housing in Iowa City. I saw you still struggling with drugs. But I also saw you help a young boy learn how to ride his bike. I listened as you shared hours of stories about your life. I heard nothing that would make me want to cause you suffering in your final hours. I heard nothing that would make me want to bring you pain. I heard the voice of a fellow human being.

As Barry and I stood on the pier watching the silvery web of your ashes, you gave me one final gift. Just as the final sparkle faded Barry said, “Dale, I love you for what you did today…”

Barry and I are closer friends because of you Steven. We bowled a game at the bowling alley in Pismo beach. We ate a bowl of the world’s second best clam chowder (the line at the home of the world’s best was too long). So today, like yesterday, I must say thank you Steven. Thank you for sharing a bit of your life with me. Thank you for letting me be your friend in the final days. Your death was not like a movie script. I doubt if my end will be like that either. But perhaps, just perhaps, if I’m not too much of an asshole, life will spare me a friend or two at the end. Maybe they will watch my ashes sail over the ocean. They might even bowl a few games in my honor. If they do, I hope they have the patience to wait in line for the world’s best clam chowder. The world’s second best clam chowder tasted suspiciously like Campbell’s.

Friendship. Of All Things

Breath is difficult. Not because I am thousands of feet above the level of the sea. Not because I am getting older. It is because my brain finds it difficult to spare the energy needed to tell my lungs to fill with air. I can feel the computer of my mind going into overdrive as it struggles to process the eternity of beauty before me. Stone upon stone, the wonder builds up into mountains. Mountain upon mountain, the grandeur forms canyons. Above it all, the blue sky unites the shouts of color below, bringing them together into a hymn of joy at wonder of life. Finally my brain can take it no longer and I stare dumbstruck, mouth gaping, drained of thought – a wanderer who can no longer find his way. Above me I hear a raven caw. Perhaps it cackles in anticipation of a meal. Ravens have seen this phenomenon before – a silly creature standing in the full sun as its skin roasts and the air sucks away every bit of moisture – nature’s jerky machine, predating Ron Popeil by several eons. But the ravens and I are not alone.

Before me on the ground Adam paints. Adam Weinstein. Musician. Painter. Schizophrenic. Alcoholic. Drug addict. Many terms have been used to describe Adam just as they have been used to describe me. Today both of us can add a new label – the label of friend.

Adam paints on a board in the dirt. His canvas is taped to the board, his tubes of paint are strewn all around him. He uses the plastic bottom from a recyclable grocery bag for a palette. Colors fly onto the canvas. He groans with frustration as the mountain air and sun dry the acrylic almost before it leaves his brush. He ends up painting with both fingers and brush. The painting reaches a point that many would call beauty.

“There. I probably should leave it. It is good as it is.”

Adam pushes beyond into a place that he finds upsetting.

“Damn.”

He waters down a brush and swathes the entire canvas. Brown and beige shades from the water fill the sky, mountain and canyon.

“So you’re going to use the canvas for another painting?”

“No. I have to fix it.”

I watch patiently. Filming him as he works.

Out of the chaos a new form takes shape. More color. More contrast. More passion - until a new image lifts Adam’s heart and mine as I watch his act of beauty and creation. From somewhere beyond us and yet right here within each of us creativity, nature – you chose a name – find a path of rebirth – a reshaping of something in our own image to find harmony.

Can I remake my life as Adam remakes the painting? Perhaps all of us labeled as mentally ill, handicapped, or simply misfit – perhaps all of us period – must occasionally find a way to restore our beauty. Thankfully, this day I need not do it alone. I travel to do a favor for a friend whose body is dead but whose memory lives on within me and in the hearts of his other friends. I travel with a new friend. Today I will call and talk to other friends. And even more. Raven, stone, canyon and sky – these also give me the strength of friendship – they may dry and tear my flesh but I do not fear this. I do not seek it, but I do not fear it. To fear death is to deny that I, the raven, and my friends are united by bonds that extend from the stars to the quantum particles that unite us all. Who am I to deny this unity? Others may call it by other names but I today I will call it the friendship of all things. Today I have enough hope from this friendship to fix my painting a little - to capture just a bit more of the wonder that surrounds me. Thank you my friends. Thank you.

I Miss You Steve

Your name is Steven. I always called you Steve. I never asked if it bothered you. If you minded you were too kind to say. I will call you Steven forever now – now that it doesn’t matter. It is just too hard to call you Steve anymore. Steve is alive forever. Today I start a journey to California and I will be taking Steven Bock with me one last time.

Your life was a full one. You actually were a rock star – not just an imaginary dream or a drunken tale – but an actual, honest to God Rock Star. If times had been different I might have written about your journey to the Iowa Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and your days in the California sun playing with most of the names people read about in Rolling Stone. But times were what they were and now I write this as you sit in Rock and Roll Heaven.

You made me laugh. We laughed as we shared stories about the 60’s and 70’s and what it was like for me to dream of being a rock star and for you to actually become one. We giggled like young girls as we gossiped about our friends and family - telling tales and exaggerating faults to create humor to hold back the darkness that waited just beyond our laughter.

You dyed your hair red. We were getting ready for one last tour, the Where’s Steve? tour. We spent hours at music stores talking about different types of guitars, amps and something you called heads. I tried to follow, but your decades of experience let you run through the terms too fast for me to keep up. It was okay. Watching your face while you talked was enough. I donated the amp and head we bought to Uptown Bill’s. New musicians will play it there. I will tell them your story, letting them know that the amp they play through once was played by Steven Bock of Truth and Janey, Steven Bock of Nowhere Fast, Steven Bock my friend.

You made a music video. You and Brenda recorded a song for David and me while Joe recorded it. I can watch it whenever I want to see you sing again. But I will have to wait a while. I will have to wait and see how I feel in a few months. Right now it is still too close to when I heard your voice and saw your smile. Your death still is too bitter.

You talked openly of death. I admired your bravery for choosing how your life would end. We weren’t sure of what exactly happens after death. We thought maybe it is just a change in vibration like changing keys on a guitar. I did make a promise. Wherever you go, if it is possible I will look you up. You can count on it.

Mary and Chocolate

Date: Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Medication: 2000 mg Depakote, 2.5 mg Zyprexa, .25 mg Klonipin
Mood: 8
Sleep: 6 hours solid sleep – 9pm-3am, brief nap this morning 4-5am.
Food: Still fighting craving for sugar – have regained 4 pounds since starting new medication. Will try to walk and swim more.

Spent 4 hours with Rejeanne, Caroline and the grandchildren yesterday.

The other day I was sitting with some friends in the plaza. Suddenly, the sun highlighted a red blossom across from where I sat. I stopped the conversation. We watched the flower for a moment. Some returned to conversation. I did not.

Scene remembered from day just prior to returning to the hospital:

I sit n the Bread Garden Restaurant and Store with Mark G. who says he is a Buddhist teacher. Buddha is said to be kind so I imagine that he does not mind that often Mark becomes angry and defensive when teaching or “making a point”. I am facing the buffet. I hear a voice speaking softly. “We will bring her to you. Just remain calm and watch the buffet."

A parade of women visit the buffet. Most of them seem to be looking at me as I sit ramrod straight. One woman in particular seems very insistent that I notice her. I vaguely recognize the line of her jaw and the color of her eyes – once again it is Mary, my first annulment/marriage. My mind refuses to let go of the illusion of “one true love” and the idea that we are meant to find the “one” best suited to us or die alone. When my mind is in this mode Mary appears. This incarnation is dressed in smart Martha Stewart with short flipped hair dyed a multitude of hues. She wears enough gold and diamonds to ransom a prince. I ignore her. I hear the crowd quietly sigh in sympathy as she walks away from the buffet and I do not so much as nod in her direction. She tries to gain my attention once more a bit later but life and I are no longer interested in the idea of specialness. We simply sit and wait to see what comes next. I hope it has something to do with chocolate.

Emily and Steve

Sunday, August 2, 2009
7:09 A.M.
Mood: 7 of 10
Sleep: Slept sporadically, but my guess is I got at least 7 or 8 hours total.
Meds: 150 mg Depakote, 5 mg Zyprexa, 1 mg Klonipin
Diet: Had major sugar binge last night – ate 2/3 box of peanut butter Captain Crunch

More Events

Wherein I continue my journey though the chasms in my mind to me after all these years. I travel to places seldom seen by me – stretching ahead and behind, leaving me breathless with the possibilities of this day.

The day before my last trip to the hospital I met a man outside George’s Gourmet in Iowa City, Iowa। The man was late middle age or lets face it - old. His hair was long and it stank, but so did mine I imagine. Georges is a restaurant and bar which I used to attend frequently during the 1970’s. It was where the most argumentative intellectuals in Iowa City tended to congregate. Although, Dorothy Parker will turn in her grave at the comparison, many at George’s consider themselves members of a Midwestern version of the Algonquin club – that early 20th century bastion of New England intellect. I never felt like I belonged at Georges. My comments were good but I lacked the tenacity and mental elbows to make them heard.

But that was 1970। Today it is July 2009. I am on my way to a brief stint in the hospital to adjust my medication for bipolar disorder, although I do not know this at the time. As I sit on the old church pew outside of George’s a man approaches me. He claims to be a descendant of Emily Dickinson, a great, grand nephew twice removed or some such. He recited one of her poems.

He ate and
drank the
precious Words –
His Spirit grew
robust –
He knew no more
that he was poor;
Nor that his
frame was
Dust –
He danced
along the dingy
Days
And this Bequest
of Wings
Was but a Book –
What Liberty
A loosened Spirit
brings –

I wept. It was a poem that I had written a paper on while I attended Clinton Community College the semester when lack of funds prevented my return to the University.

Weaving, the man paused in front of me to light up a cigarette।

“So, you’re a writer?” He nodded his head toward the notebook I was filling with words as quickly as possible।

“Some have called me so.” It was always best to appear enigmatic while at George’s.

He laughed.

“I’m the grand nephew of Emily Dickinson.”

My breath stopped. I was in the presence of greatness – someone who shared DNA with one of the most insightful writers of the English language. A writer who had inspired me years ago to write a paper that my professor suggested I submit for publication. I never did. Instead I locked away the words in the cabinet of my mind only to have them loosed and tossed free on the summer breeze by this old man.

While reciting, the old man stood a bit straighter and punctuated his performance by poking the sky with his cigarette. He finished with a bow.

“So what have you written?”

“Well, I wrote a fictionalized autobiography. It is call Just Dale.”

“Just Dale?”

“Yes, I am trying to lay down all the labels I have picked up over the years.”

Another laugh.

“Well, that’s a good goal. So this book of yours, is it on online?”

“Yes, you can order it on any of the popular sites.”

The old man, nodded, gave me a half salute then shuffled onward. The tears dried on my face. Emily became dust long ago. Soon I shall join her. But till then I’ll dance along the dingy days with a spirit her words helped free.

WHAT BLIND, SELF CENTERED DRIVEL THIS IS.
STEVEN BOCK IS DEAD! HOPEFULLY I CAN FIND SPACE IN THIS SELFISH HEART TO WRITE ABOUT HIM TOMORROW.

Mental Health July 30

5:00 AM, 7.28.2009
Slept 8-9 hours (8pm to 4am)
Mood - Stable 6-7 out of 10 (with 10 being orgasmic)
Location: College Park Plaza, Iowa City, Iowa 52240

For those who may be concerned, I will be posting daily updates on my blog. I will be check my phone for messages at 6AM, 10AM, Noon, 2 PM, 4 PM and 6 PM; unless I am in a meeting. Part of the reason I was hospitalized recently seems related to the fact that my doctor lacked detailed information about my condition, location, mood and activities. Hopefully, my new plan (assuming I carry it out) will remedy this.

There is a horrendous vibrating hum coming from the pillar in front of me. Mut be an electrical junction box.

Steven Bock, my friend the rock and roll star (Truth and Janey, Enoch Smokey, Nowhere Fast) will be passing on soon it seems. He had an accidental overdose of medication and was in a coma yesterday when I saw him in the hospital. I have not checked my phone for references this morning, so he may be dead as I write this. Why do I shy from using the word dead? Steve and I spent hours talking about life and death. We never found the word frightening. I think my fear of using the word death now comes from the simple fact that I am afraid that others will think me cold hearted or insensitive for using it. Ridiculous. Steve doesn't care. I don't care. Henceforth, dead and death will be used to replace deceased, passing on and similar euphemistic idiocies created to protect the sensibilities of those who are squeamish about life.

A number of odd evens have happened to me lately. I need to write about them. I have ample evidence that keeping them inside leads to poor mental health.

The following is a combination of actual record of events at Starbucks Coffee on the corner of Clinton and Burlington in Iowa City, Iowa this morning. It is interspersed with observations (in italics) about strange events that have occurred lately. The style is stream of consciousness.

I recently attended a performance of Midsummer's Nights Dream, by the Riverside Theatre Group. The air was cool and relatively free of insects - at least as I experienced it.

I had the distinct feeling that the audience with the exception of my friend, a Hilary Clinton look alike, was composed entirely of former Andersen Consulting and Arthur Andersen & Co. partners. They had been brought together to view a rewrite of Midsummer Night’s Dream that highlighted my beginnings and maturation at AA&Co. The purpose of the display was to enlighten them as to the pain that they had caused me and to let me watch them as they underwent their re-education about what they had lost in the name of personal greediness and how much pain they had allowed into the world for the same reason. I have learned that these types of feelings are nothing more than self-centered grandiousity.

My landlord appeared and told people that he was "my best friend" as though this was something special or worthy of note. Odd. I became irritated at this. I have only know him for a few weeks.

There was a Chelsea Clinton look alike who opened up the ticket booth. I felt as if we connected on a deep level when she smiled. Who can say?

There was a red-haired woman in the play. It seemed as if I was receiving and sending secret messages to the players (especially the red haired one) as the evening progressed.

My seating arrangements at the play had a special significance to me:


My Landlord
Dressed as I
Might have looked
When I returned from
Hawaii several years ago

A young man
who looked a lot
like I might have
looked as a young
man.

Me, Lounging in a
folding chair.


Before the play a woman and young girl came near. The woman put mosquito repellant on the girl's feet. The woman told me to use the word ODD whenever I saw someone or something out of the ordinary.

The Chelsea look-alike told me to stay "right where I was". The implication seemed to be that they would bring whatever I needed to me. I found this idea very relaxing.
I kept getting the feeling that she was referring to the Democratic party.

Recently I sent an offer of help to a Veteran's organization. A couple of days before attending the play I got a reply saying that the organization had enrolled me as a Dem-Vet. (Democratic Veteran?)

Prior to the play I lay on the hillside near City Park. Many of the cars slowed and looked at me. Some of the children waved at me. I waved back.

Just before the play a lot of people were putting on insect repellent. It was odd that I did not even get one mosquito bite that I can recall. One of the attendees looked a lot like David ?, an old friend from a project long ago. He is the one I got the phrase, "Living Life, Loving Large" from. It is interesting that when I use this phrase people smile and I seem to get along with them - even when I do not really feel it. David and I used to discuss Kant's concept of an a priori cause. Dave told me that Kant did not begin writing until age 50. Odd.

6:10 AM Starbucks – elderly gentleman enters, has mustache similar to the one worn by my old professor George Forell.

Guards, comprised of the children of former AA&Co. Board of Partner members were placed around me as the theatre filled. One in particular, reminded me of Manuel Soto, Chairmen of the member of AA&Co. board of partners who once said of my report, A Question of Balance, “This is some of the best writing that I have ever read.”

6:12 AM Mr. Hartwig enters. He bends over in front of me to pick up a coin or some item on the floor. He says good morning. I reply, “Good morning, How are you doing?” in a voice that is a little too loud.

6:13 Man in brown pants and brown plaid sport coat enters. I do not see his face as he gets his coffee and leaves. (Note: For several weeks I have had the feeling that people are coming into Starbucks to see me.) It seems that I should know them but when I am in my current state it is difficult to determine if what I see is real or simply an experience of synchronicity – a well known and documented psychological phenomenon. When I experience this feeling I get the distinct impression that everybody looks like someone I have known in the past.

6:16 Dark haired (Hispanic, no probably Asian?) man orders coffee. He reminds me of no one. He retreats to the middle of the shop and chews his fingernails while waiting for his coffee.

6:26 African-American Gentleman enters and buys coffee. Handsome face. Very compact build.

6:27 Man in cap, wearing Swiss Army insignia backpack enters and buys coffee.
He must be used to very cold weather. Wearing heavy coat.

African American gentleman enters and orders coffee. He wears black shirt and pants. Shaved head.

Joe (Starbuck's) comments. “Must be going to see everybody in here early today.”
I feel very happy for no apparent reason.

My brother Mike called me yesterday and talked at length about the fact that he was happy. He wanted to understand why so he could make sure that he could be happy all of the time. He said he was thinking of taking another dose of Lexapro. It was if he was so unused to the phenomena that he thinks he must be crazy for having it. I have had that feeling – mistrusting or feeling unworthy of being happy while at the same time wanting to find a way to make the happiness last forever.

6:31 Bob Dylan comes on the radio. I don’t recall hearing this before.

6:35 Lovely young woman enters. Orders pastry and coffee. Yellow top – squarish shoulders – letters say Nursing something or the other. Red leather wallet. Khaki pants.

Before and during the Shakespeare play I am protected by the sons of the former board members of the AA&Co. board of partners. The son of Manuel Soto stands proudly before all of the other sons of the Board of AA&Co. partners. His proud Spanish heritage worn on his face like a shield he stands ready to repel and destroy if necessary, any who would dare disturb my repose or do me harm.

6:38 Middle aged woman enters. Green coat. Band aid on lip. She looks over merchandise. Don’t see her order coffee.

6:40 Two younger women enter. One in jungle pattern, black and white top. Heavy.

6:42 Mother and daughter enter. Daughter has lovely face. Deep brown hair in pigtail.

6:43 Indian? Pakistani? Man enters. Lime green shirt – same color as my pillow covers. Wearing faded jeans.

6:45 Tall young man. Yellow shirt. Jeans, Sneakers.

Very heavy woman enters. Purple top – purple seems to have a deep significance to me these days – color of royalty, also color that mixes pink (feminine) and blue (masculine).

Business man. Striped shirt. Black dress pants. He says, “Coffee is better than sex man.”

Joe says, “It adds up.” Reference to rewards card?

6:49 Man in purple top orders coffee. Sandals. Orange hair. Blue eyes. Related?
Older gentleman in checked top and matching brown dress pants.

6:50 Seems like I could go on for days. Simply recording what comes by to use as future fodder for stories.

African American Gaia enters. Three highlighted blond strands lost in a sea of coal curls. Very heavy but the voice could create an erection from quicksand. She discusses coffee with Joe.

Joe says, “Ethiopian is like a dry red wine. It’s dirty but not in a bad way if you know what I mean.”

6:53 Man in brown enters. Medium brown top. Light brown pants. It looks like he is growing a beard – good idea it would help give definition to his chin and hide the growing roll of fat beneath his chin. His face reminds me of Ralph Virgo – an old friend from college days. One of Ralph’s favorite phrases was – General Malaise. A phrase he often used when describing his wife. I visited Ralph once in Minneapolis. I wonder if he still lives there. Was he gay? Was I in love with him without knowing it?

Was thinking of walking but maybe I will just record until Bob arrives.

Saxophone solo comes on just as I have the above thought.

6:58 Joe says, "Look at this guy."
Hagar has added another painted bananna to the one she already had put in the basket.

7:00 A.M. Bob arrives.

Ultimate

'Nuff said.

Penultimate

Once I was told that Penultimate meant the next to the last one. Let us hope this is not so.

Too Many Worms

A fine mist descends from the grey sky as I pull into the parking lot for the Bluebird Cafe, my favorite restaurant. I open the car door and almost step on a worm. It has been raining and the poor creature has had to leave its burrow to avoid drowning. I try to pick it up with my fingers. My victim writhes and shrinks trying to get away. After dropping her (him?...aren't worms hermaphrodites?) several times I slide my car key beneath her and lift her into my hand. I walk to an island of grass in the parking lot and carefully deposit my ward and head back toward the restaurant. I almost step on another worm. Once more I perform my key scrape rescue and free another annelid from almost certain death. Yet again I turn toward the restaurant and yet again I see another worm, actually two more. A scrape of key and a few steps saves the pair. And, yes, you guessed it...as I turn toward the restaurant a third time there are more worms. This process is repeated several more times before hunger overcomes my altruism and I make it to my favorite table...the one in the corner, framed with two huge windows. The sun glints on the table top and Laura comes over with a cup of coffee and a place setting. I order eggs and bacon and consider the fate of worms.

How many worms should I have saved? Should I have spent my morning saving every worm I could find? Should I have not even bothered to save one? Did I in fact save any? I noticed several robins watching my activities very closely. Did my efforts simply make a robin breakfast buffet?

The arrival of eggs and bacon interrupts my woolgathering. I dine on aborted chicks and slices of an animal said to taste the most like humans (some cannibal tribes once called humans "long pig" because we taste like pork). Where is my sense of morals now? Are chicks and pigs less noble than worms? I have no answer for my hypocrisy of saving worms while dining on pigs. I can offer no explanation or rationalization for my worm saving behavior. I realize that it is impossible to save all the worms and thus in one sense my efforts are futile and insignificant. However, even though my actions were a failure in the grand scheme of things...even though they were hypocritical in that I saved one creature while eating another...they still may have some importance and value. Just ask the worms I did save.

Dorothy

She sits in Uptown Bill's each morning dispensing words of wisdom.

"I'm here because I'm not all there."

I am glad that she is here. The warmth of her smile is beyond my knowledge and her laughter brushes the spiderwebs from my heart.

Thank you Dorothy.

Cirque de Dale

This picture has many dots. Some people call them stipples. I do not.

This picture started out to be many things to many people. Poor picture. It does not know that no one can be everything to everybody without ending up in the hospital. Wait. Perhaps that is its plan. In the hospital you eat three times a day and sleep in a clean bed. The way things are going with the economy perhaps the picture simply wants a bit of security. The hospital is not my cup of tea but who am I to judge others?

Sometimes my brain chases dots across a page. Sometimes dots are blue. Sometimes purple. Sometimes pink. Sometimes black. Other times the page is blank and so is my mind.

Keira and Caroline

This is a picture of my granddaughter Keira and my daughter Caroline. They are beautiful. I can't think of anything else to add.

Joe and Keira

Joe and Keira are looking at you. Well, actually it is just dots. Joe and Keira are in Florida. They probably do not even know you are looking at them.

This was supposed to be funnier. It is not.

JAX Beach Dunkin Donuts

I drew this while I was in Dunkin Donuts in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. Must have been something it the powdered sugar on the donuts.

Confused Cow

This cow is confused...unless it knows how to eat snow. But then, it had the good sense not to drive around taking pictures of confused cows.

Strange Image from My Point of View

This image is strange. I mean it no offense by calling it so. I also am strange. But then strangeness depends on one's point of view I guess. I once had a point of view. I cherished it deeply. Then one day my point of view poked me in the eye. We parted ways after that. I have not heard from it for some time. Rumor has it that my point of view migrated to Rio De Janeiro and learned Portuguese. I have no way of verifying that fact. If you happen to encounter my point of view someday, please let it know that I wish it well in its new life.

I Sing (Poorly)

A friend challenged me to sing the British national anthem, "God Save The Queen". Foolishly, I accepted the challenge. Apologies to music lovers around the world, and to all my British friends.

Bill's Fly

This fly is out of perspective for the size of the table. It is much too large. In order to match the perspective of the fly the table would have to be larger than a city block. My ego is much like the fly.

Blue Lamp

This is a picture of a lamp. Trust me.

Scenes From The Mall

I spend a lot of time at a place called Uptown Bill's Small Mall. Uptown Bill's is a place that helps people with disabilities. It helps them start and run their own businesses and it gives them a safe place to just "be". We even let "normal" people come in - as long as they buy something! ;-)

These are some of the people who hang out at the Mall with me. Apologies to long time viewers of my blog for the repetition.

Dr. Tom

Here is Dr. Tom Walz, former Dean and current Professor Emeritus of the University of Iowa School of Social Work. He is the founder of the Mall. Our lives would be very much poorer without him. All of us love him very much. He loves himself very much as well.

Miss Dorothy

This is Miss Dorothy. She keeps Dr. Tom in line. At least she tries too. Here she is holding up her keys. I know it is difficult to "see" the keys. Dorothy uses her key chain to store all the dozens of "momentos" and toys that she has collected over the years. Trust me, there are keys in there somewhere.

Close up of Dorothy's key chain.

Happy Lynn

This is Lynn Borders. She opens the Mall and runs it Monday through Friday from 7 - 10 a.m. She often plays a brain-teaser game. She says it helps her keep her mind agile and quick. Perhaps I should play the brain-teaser game. But then what would I do if my mind were agile and quick? The shock might be too much for my system.

Boppin' Bob

Here's my friend Bob. He works at the Mall many times throughout the week. He is kind, friendly, and has a great sense of humor. He's a good role model. I have a pretty good sense of humor but I am not always good at the kind and friendly part. Oh well. I will have to make up the gap with my good looks and great singing voice.

Dave's Chair

Chair At Dave's Restaurant

This is the seat of a chair outside of Dave's Restaurant at the corner of Linn St. and Iowa Avenue in Iowa City, Iowa, Zip Code 52333, United States of America, Planet Earth, Solar System, Milky Way Galaxy. It waits patiently for the bottom of a person interested in eating Ethiopian cuisine. It is very clean.

Blue Brains

Some people said they thought this was a self portrait. I was insulted. This fellow has no mouth. I have a mouth. Besides that his brains are blue.

A Jarring Picture

Someone said that this picture was "jarring". I suppose it is jarring. It also is very colorful. Children, let us focus on the colors. That way we can be saved.

IMG009

My scanner named this picture "IMG009". I cannot tell if this name stands for "Image Number 9", or if it stands for "I'm GOO 9". I do not understand the name. That is okay. I do not understand the image either.

Coffee Lid

This began as a lid on a cup that held a special coffee that I had never tasted before. The light bounced off the lid. It went through my eyes to my brain. My armed jiggled and this is the result. I am not sure that special coffee is healthy for me.

Secret of Love

Larry burst into flames when he found the secret of true love. This phenomena has happened to me many times. You would think that my skin would be very tan from all the fires rather than pasty white. Luckily I remembered to wear suntan lotion. I recommend something with a SPF rating of 20-30, depending on the intensity of the romance.

Iowa City Street

I am in Iowa City. These are pieces of Iowa City I saw from Tate's Coffee shop across from the Iowa City Library. It is not unusual for me to see things in pieces. Integration is difficult for me.

Parthenids

Parthenids inspired this picture. I do not know who the Parthenids are...but their taste in art is questionable. I shall do my best to resist their inspiration in the future.

Pieces of Starbucks

This image came from a triple venti no-whip Mocha (TVNWM). Too many TVNWMs can cause brain damage. I am planning a class action suit. Email me if you suffer from TVNWM-itis.

Too Much Coffee Again

When I created this picture it made sense to me.

Now it does not.

The picture will have to find its own meaning.

It will have to become an existentialist.

Strange Trees

These trees are facsimiles. It is a rare breed of trees. They are not very viable.

High Society

This lady does not look happy. I don't know why. All she has to do is to lay around all day. I mean after all, how hard a life is it to be a picture? She had better behave or else I will erase her.

Bored

I have no idea why I created this. Boredom is a source of strange creations. Perhaps you will be bored enough to click on image, view a larger version and read what I have written on the drawing. Perhaps not. In either case I am too bored to care. I will go take a nap now.

Man In Plaza

This picture appeared to me while sitting in a coffee shop. I did not ask for it. It just came. Sometimes pictures are very forward...pushy even.

On The Nature of Cats

This picture is about the nature of cats. The caption reads:

Soon the cats will come,
On their tiny little feet.
They will lick their bottoms.
It will not be pleasant.

At the top are three cats. The last one is saying, "Why am I always the last one?" The first one, on the peak of the line, is saying, "Meow."

Why these cats are saying these things I do not know. They did not ask for advice. They did not even ask for permission to speak. I think they are rude little beasties. Don't you?

My friend, Scott Parker has suggested an alternative version of the poem that I like much better:

Soon the cats will come,
On their tiny little feet.
They will lick their bottoms.
For tasty little treats.

Unfortunately, the cats have hidden the picture. I cannot change it. Pesky cats!

Unfinished

This picture is not finished. At least that is what I thought when I looked at it months ago when I put it aside. The other day when I saw it again...it was finished. It seems to have a mind of its own.

Domo Arigato Japan

I made this picture while thinking of my visit to Japan. I met some very kind people while I was there. I do not know why the Japanese lady is leaning to the left in my picture. Maybe she is confused by the purple sky behind her head.

Explosion

Maybe I had too much coffee. This morning I feel like bursting from my skin. I am fairly certain that this would be unpleasant. I will wait until tomorrow.

INDIA Day 1 Mumbai

Hey everybody. I am in India. Here is my first video. More to come.

This lady had a large bottom. Her friend did not have a large bottom. She is sitting in a blue chair. Her friend is floating in air.

I have it on good authority that this is how insanity begins.

December Morning

A video from my ride the morning after Christmas

Curtains and Things

Photographic odds and ends.

Dale Out West The Movie

September 2006. First trip to the West.

DOTS

Some of my art work.

Daily Intelligence Briefing???

PRESIDENT BUSH'S PERSONAL COPY OF DECLASSIFIED DAILY INTELLIGENCE BRIEFING FOR AUGUST 6th, 2001

Easter Sunday Statement by the President

THE PRESIDENT: Good morning, and Happy Magical Resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Day. Yesterday, after weeks and weeks of listening to nosey reporters whine while my approval ratings sank into the crapper, I made a decision – which despite the fact that I said I'd never do it should NOT be interpreted as a Kerryesque "flip-flop" – to release one of my super-secret Presidential Daily Briefings. Now this particular PDB, entitled "Bin Laden Determined to Strike in US," was read aloud to me by Condi Rice on August 6th, 2001 – the same exact day I was due to leave for my first of many well-deserved month-long vacations at my luxury ranch in Texas. Well today, I trust that the American people will agree I did the right thing, when after glancing over that ridiculously vague memo filled with specific references to a domestic al Qaeda attack, I promptly skipped town for thirty fun-filled days of golf, jogging, and naps. Thank you.

Wonder When It Will End?

The Faces of War

War only creates more war.

The Day King George Was Crowned...

God?

Richard Dawkins on BBC News

Excellent

George W on Jeff Foxworthy Roast

Torture In American Prisons Under Bush's Watch In Texas

Guess we know where Abu Ghraib started...Texas!

Dale Out West THE END

This is the Nebraska national forest. Many years ago there were many trees in Nebraska. Some of the trees (like the Nebraska mountains) migrated elsewhere out of boredom. The rest were eaten by Lumber Cows: a rare bovine species with a love of bark and twigs.

Well...actually the tree on the right is the forest. The tree on the left is one planted by Homeland Security. The plan is that the tree on the left will become large enough to hide the tree on the right (aka the Nebraska National Forest) from terrorists. Terrorists will not be able to see the forest for the tree.

Homeland Security has good intelligence that the Nebraska National Forest is one of the top targets on Al Qaeda's hit list. The forest is being targeted by WMDs that Al Qaeda got from Iraq?...or was that Iran?...or Pakistan?...or North Korea? It seems that the entire world has WMDs and they are angry at us. I am glad that Homeland Security has the presence of mind to proctect a treasure like the Nebraska National forest.


The Iowa sunrise...the best sunrise because it is home. And that's all I have to say about that.

Dale Out West Part 13

This is the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City. Many Mormons were there. I did not take their pictures. It is believed that taking a Mormon's picture steals their soul. Sorry Mormons...I apologize. I could not help myself. The devil made me do it.

This picture is of the Bonneville Salt Flats. Many world speed records have been set there. The only vehicles I saw there were the campers of rednecks who ignored the signs asking them not to drive on the Salt Flats. Sorry rednecks...I apologize. I could not help myself. A Mormon made me do it.

This mountain is in Utah near Salt Lake City. It migrated here from Nebraska. Sorry Nebraska...I apologize. I could not help myself. A redneck Mormon made me do it.

This Utah Mountain is an illegal immigrant from Nebraska. The mountain picks fruit and sends most of its money back to Nebraska. Sorry immigrants...I apologize. I could not help myself. A hillbilly from Arkansas (aka Dale Hankins) made me do it. He will be punished. He will not be allowed to eat purple hull peas (his favorite) for a month.

Dale Out West Part 12

This mountain is in Wyoming. I believe that it moved there from Nebraska. Nebraska is too flat and boring for mountains.

This Wyoming Mountain also moved from Nebraska. Real estate prices are soaring in Wyoming. Many mountains have migrated there.


This sunrise if from Nevada. Where did it come from? Can you guess? Correct...it migrated from Nebraska.

Dale Out West Part 10

These rocks are at the bottom of a stream. They are under six feet of water. The water is very clear. It is not clear why I took a picture of rocks.

This fallen redwood tree is at least 300 feet long. I think 300 feet is the length of a football field. I do not think that this redwood could play football. It is dead.

This is a mountain in Nevada. The white line in front of the mountain is a salt flat. The white thing in back of the mountain is a cloud.

Dale Out West Part 9

These trees are in the Stout Grove of the Redwood National Forest. This is about the top third of the trees. The lower two thirds were too shy to be photographed.

This is the grove of redwoods George Lucas used for the Ewoks scenes in Star Wars VI: Return of the Jedi.

This is another view of the Ewok (aka Stout) Grove. I waited for the Ewoks. I waited for Mr. Stout. They never showed up.

This is a rock and stream in front of the Stout Grove. The rock is over 30 feet high. It is about 150 yards in front of the trees. This gives you some idea of the height of the trees...and the rock.

Dale Out West Part 8

This is the Pacific Ocean in Washington or Oregon. I can't remember. Neither can the Pacific. It was very foggy making it difficult to be precise about our location.
This huge rock stands on the Oregon coast. It never gets tired.
People call this place the Devil's Churn. I do not know why. I saw neither Devil nor butter. People are silly. The rocks trees and water did not ask for new names.

Dale Out West Part 7

These flowers were outside my window in Crescent City. They bloomed there very quietly so I could get my rest before exploring the Red Wood Forest.
This fern was dying on a tree trunk near and Oregon Beach. As a last act of kindness it posed for my camera.
This bee is feeding on a flower near an Oregon Beach. The flower did not seem to mind.

Dale Out West Part 6

The Yellowstone River Canyon is awe inspiring. I cannot think of anything funny to say about it. There were many white haired old people looking at it. They were very funny - huffing and puffing up and down the trails. Wait a minute...I am a white haired old person!

Here we see a white haired old person enjoying the sun.

Pretty colored water. Pretty colored rocks. I got very tired of saying oooh! and aaah!

This water is falling down into the river below. Guess it got tired of being up so high. I know I did.

Dale Out West Part 5

Their are many hot springs in Yellowstone. Old Faithful is the largest. When I arrived to see it I was told that it would erupt again in 60 minutes. It actually erupted in 60 minutes and 15 seconds. I think its name should be changed to Old Fickle.

Dale Out West Part 4

I visited Wall Drug in South Dakota. Wall Drug was started by offering free "ice cold" water from their well. Judging from the size of this rabbit the well water evidently also contains growth hormones. I believe that this rabbit is from a subspecies called the Jack-a-lope.

Dale Out West Part 3

The first picture is of the mountains in northern Wyoming. They are majestic. The second picture is of me. I am not majestic. I am hairy.

Dale Out West Part 2

These pictures were taken in the Badlands National Park in South Dakota. I do not know why they are called "Bad". I did not see any misbehavior during my visit.

Dale Out West Part 1

Here I am in the Badlands. I am staring into the distance. What am I looking at? I cannot tell. It was too distant.

I am proud of this photo. I took it myself. I was going to ask some other tourists to do it for me but they ran away. Evidently the sight of me staring into the distance is frightening to other tourists. And small children. Also dogs. Perhaps even chickens. Oh well.

The Problem In Iraq

"The problem in Iraq is that people are being killed," said Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld in an interview on NPR this morning. Expressing anger that he had not been told of this development sooner, Rumsfeld said he will launch an investigation to find out who had been keeping the information from him.

"I had no idea...no idea at all that people were being killed," said Rumsfeld, "and believe me when I say 'heads will roll' when I find out who is responsible."

An anonymous Pentagon source revealed that Rumsfeld has suspected that people were being killed for some time. However, recent news reports of dozens of people dying caught the secretary by surprise. Evidently Rumsfeld thought that his new design for a "rapid response" military would allow war without death.

Rumsfeld says he is considering taking back all bullets from US troops. "I previously cut back on armor for humvees in order to lower the likelihood of US soldiers killing people. Clearly that was not successful. I am left with the unhappy choice of taking back all the bullets. Our troops will maintain their rifles. They can display them prominently. This show of force should be sufficient to deter the Iraqis. After all they are a cowardly people."

Richard Perle: Ugly Hair; Ugilier Ideas

Yesterday I saw a movie called, Why We Fight. It included an interview of Richard Perle, one of the key architects and supporters of the foreign policy that landed us in Iraq. His comments disturbed me. The gist of what he said was that the American character has changed; that most of us now support the Bush doctrine of preemptive wars. He said this is a good thing because it only makes common sense to kill those who would kill us before they have a chance to do so. The example he used to justify this thinking was that if someone was going to shoot you and you knew it in advance, you would shoot them.

Perhaps this is so. Perhaps we are doomed to believe that we “must do unto others before they do unto us”. For me the difficulty with this model is that it makes two false assumptions:

1. It assumes that I can, with certainty, predict the actions of another human or group of humans.
2. It assumes that killing those who would kill me will not harm innocent bystanders, and further, that this will not turn their friends and relatives into people who will want to kill me.

I lack Mr. Perle’s certainty on these matters.

With regard to the first point, I am not confident that I can know in advance that someone is going to harm me. Many times in my life I have been in conflict with someone only to find that we later become friends after talking through the cause of our conflict. How this might play out if I faced a potential killer on a dark street corner in a dangerous city I do not know. Perhaps there would be no opportunity to talk. Perhaps I would be dead. Nevertheless, my preference would be to try and talk even in this situation. Otherwise, I run the risk of what I consider a greater tragedy…taking a life unnecessarily. Perhaps, just perhaps there is a slim chance that I can talk to my potential killer and avoid death. Perhaps there is a bit of tenderness in him for how my death would affect my friends and family. Perhaps he would show me mercy. I hope he would. I hope I would show him mercy.

I am one of the fools who still chooses to believe that love and tolerance are always preferable to fear and vengeance. This is not because I believe all people are “good”. It is because I do not believe in my ability to judge such things as good or evil with certainty. For me life is not black and white; a binary system…at least not one I am capable of judging. Some of the most “evil” people I have met later turned out to have much “good” about them. My belief in love and tolerance is a practical matter. My life works better and I am happier when I practice love and tolerance rather than fear and vengeance. That is enough reason for me to practice love and tolerance. I prefer a short life filled by trying to act with love and tolerance to a lengthy one where I act on the principles of fear and vengeance.

This brings me to the second assumption underlying the Bush/Perle preemptive war doctrine – that we have the ability to kill the “evil doers” without harming innocent bystanders. Clearly this is not the case. Thousands of civilians die in all wars. Wars are not a precise business. Terms like “surgical strike” and “smart bombs”, “human shields” and “acceptable collateral damage” are lies. When I hear about a surgical strike on the enemy target and that there was acceptable collateral damage I can lull myself into believing that I am listening to reports of rationale humane activities. But if I am honest I must ask myself, “How humane is it to kill women and children?” and “How rational is it to mimic the actions of those who I call evil?” How rational is it to propose that the way to stop fear and vengeance is to engage in fear and vengeance? If I kill my potential killer on the street corner at night will not his injured children, friends and family seek vengeance on me? If I attack all who appear to threaten me will I not find myself alone, with only my fears to comfort me?

So, much as I respect Mr. Perle’s years of experience and vast knowledge, I must disagree with him. Not all American’s believe his idea that it is better to go to war with others before they go to war with us. I for one do not and I know there are others like me. The preemptive war doctrine sounds too much like the model used by other failed empires and the tyrants that ruled them. On a personal note, even if Mr. Perle and his kind decide to pursue lives based on fear and vengeance I cannot afford to do so. When I practiced this in the past it landed me in a mental institution. I have no desire to return.

Iris Eating Deer

Last summer I planted some Iris...transplants from some raised by my Grandmother Hankins. The deer ate them. I hated the deer. This spring the Iris grew and bloomed anyway. One of the blossoms is 8" tall and 7" wide. I no longer hate the deer.

I Don't Know What

This is a pix taken on a trip with my friend David. We went to the Coralville resevoir. As you can see, the photo has been heavily manipulated...just like my brain. I used software on the photo today and LSD on my brain back in the 1970's. Oh well. David said he enjoyed the trip.

Iowa City Tornado April 2006

Clearly Meaningful Fog

The other morning fog sat on the road. I drove through it anyway, not really sure where I was going. I ended up in Iowa City. There were friends there.

Mickey Mouse Remembered

This is the Mickey Mouse phone that lives at Uptown Bill's Small Mall.

Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. What ever became of you? Once you were king of the silver screen. Now children hardly know you. So much for fame. Then again you still have your looks.

Piggly Wiggly

This is a sign from a Piggly Wiggly store in Sikeston, Missouri. Piggly Wiggly was the first store to let (make?) customers pick out their own groceries. Before the "Pig" people waited while clerks picked out the things on their shopping lists. Now we can go get stuff ourselves without having someone wait on us hand and foot. Thank you Mr. Piggly Wiggly.

At Little Rock Zoo

This is me and Rejeanne at the Zoo in Little Rock this past February. The animals were glad to see us. Several of them "did their business" for us. We found the Fox particularly fragrant.

Ms Dorothy's Party

This is me and Ms. Dorothy at Uptown Bill's Small Mall in Iowa City. We often "party hearty" at Bills. Sometimes we even eat chocolate.

Buddha's Hippocampus

This Buddha was sitting in an Iowa City shop window. Why? Only Buddha knows. I once went to Japan to study about Buddha...I was not a very good student. When I was getting ready to return to Florida a priest quoted the Bible. I thought it was odd that a Buddhist would quote the Christian Bible but then I was not myself when I was in Japan. Maybe I have never been myself. I don't know, or really care anymore. Like I was saying...the priest quoted the bible passage about wine skins:

Luke 5:37,38 No one puts new wine into old wineskins, or else the new wine will burst the skins, and it will be spilled, and the skins will be destroyed. But new wine must be put into fresh wineskins, and both are preserved. No man having drunk old wine immediately desires new, for he says, ‘The old is better.’"

I don't understand what the priest was getting at, but as I said, I was not a very good student. I no longer worry about ideas like new and old, much less wine. It has been my experience that worrying about distinctions like old and new causes me pain. Whatever I have in front of me must be sufficienct or else I will be unhappy. If I am new and long to be old I will be unhappy. If I am old and long to be new I will be unhappy. If I want that which I do not have then I will always be unhappy. I wrote a poem about this idea when I got back from Japan. It was written in Iowa City, an old wineskin of mine, about what I felt that day, definitely new wine since I was in a manic fit (or at least so I am told).

Old and New Wine

The old wine can be made new.

Plum blossoms can become buds.

Shiva can learn to waltz to "Also Sprach Zarathustra"

Vasque hiking boots can be the key

For me

To set free

That which is in me

Finding A Place

Is this lamp trying to be a tree? I do not know. Does the tree wish it were a lamp? Don't know that either...being neither lamp or tree. Guess I did too much acid back in the 70's.

Southern Women

I was made from Southern Women.
Mattie Jean’s blood flows in my veins.
Aunt Maysel’s grit stiffens my spine.
The joy of Aunt Pat’s chocolate pie shines in my eyes.
Grandma Hankins gave me laughter.
And most of all Grandma Mac gave me my soul.
Their blood, grit and soul have long departed.
Motes in God’s - eye returned to the stars.
Yet their spirit remains.
Lifting me from darkness,
When I would fade to nothing.
Shaping my path when my feet lose their way.
Yes Southern Women made me;
from the red Arkansan clay.

Balloons

Thinking of balloons. Or is it balons? Or baloons? Or ballons? I bet the balunz don't care.

Chair Lottery

Who is going to sit in the chairs? Who lives in this purple and yellow room? Who? I ask you! Who?! Please send your responses to daleshankins@yahoo.com and win a chance at a magnificent prize.

Bluesman Jack

I met Bluesman Jack at Tony's Grill in Iowa City, Iowa. He is not there anymore. His face has finished sliding off the page.

Tree And A Poem

This tree lives in my memory. It's parent lives in Iowa City. Happy tree.

A poem for today. It is kind of happy.

A woman's tears open my deepest wounds

Resurrecting a child buried by his mother's pain

"Yes Mamma...I love you Mamma...Please no Mamma."

I fall into a timeless hell but do not die

Seeing no one to judge me I walk on

May women keep their tears

I have enough of my own

Liquid Glass

I have been told that glass is a liquid rather than a crystal. If it is a liquid then it does a pretty good impersonation of a crystal.

Daily Bread

In mute wholesomeness the bread sat upon my plate...

I ate it anyway.

Bush Hell

This Bush was outside in the Iowa winter bothering no one. Cruelly, I captured its image, twisted it with Photoshop and have now shamefully exposed it to the world. I am an investigative reporter, I surely shall go to Bush hell.

New Fiesta

We did not have enought plates for everyone so we bought two new sets of Fiestware. It is the new Fiesta. It is not the old, authentic Fiesta. The food tasted okay anyway.

Christmas Corner

Last year the materialism of the season was too much. The torment of presents was too much. This year, thanks to Rejeanne, there is room in the corner for a small tree. A corner is enough I think. It is big enough to be a reminder of the happy parts of the season yet small enough not to overwhelm me. Thank you Santa Rejeanne.

Stonehenge

Me at Stonehenge. Guess I thought I saw something meaningful. There were many rocks there. Merry Christmas.

Chicago Building

It is late in the day in Chicago. Only one person is still working in this building. Can you see the light? I once worked in such a building. I don't do that anymore. I have seen the light...and many other strange things.

Mysterious Curtains

This image orginally started as a picture of some curtains. I believe they are the ones we had in our house in Florida. But then I have been mistaken about what I believe many times in the past.

Tired Purple Flower

Looks like how I feel about now - dried out and a bit crispy around the edges. Late night.

State Flower of Iowa

Whatever

Green Heart Leaf

Fairytale Rose

Early Christmas

Artificial imagination. Photoshop manipulation. Visual masturbation.

Gingkos On Pavement

A friend once told me that you will live forever if you find a Ginko leaf growing in the shape of a funnel. These ginko leaves are not shaped like funnels. They will not live forever. They will have to settle for looking nice against the asphalt.

Fall Finale

What can be said about fall? Nothing that fall gives two hoots about I am sure.

First Snow - Nov. 2005

I will look back on this picture and wonder why I took it. But right now the flakes are beautiful. Some of them are the size of...of...of...well, large fluffy snowflakes.

Rejeanne's Chicken

RDA, my life partner and wife, made this chicken. The chicken is plain. RDA is not

Dr. Science - Stone People's Life Cycle

Stages of the Stone People’s Life Cycle
(© Dr. Science)

The chart above depicts the life cycle of the Stone People, creatures I first discovered while on a trip to Japan. Dr. Science is a person who lives in my head and thinks that he knows a lot. Email me if you have more interest in the Stone People, and Dr. Science. I have more of their adventures available to those who are interested in this sort of thing.

The following describes the contents of the pictures on Dr. Science's chart. You may want to print out a copy of the chart to look at as you read the text. It will make things clearer.

1. Vacancy: This stage in the cycle is not comprehensible by humans. Stone People themselves only grasp it dimly - they are conscious of themselves during the vacancy stage but are not cognizant of their surroundings. A black hole is the closest humans have come to understanding the state called vacancy.
2. Particles: Similar to Black Holes, the vacancy emits streams of radiation containing sub-atomic particles. Humans have begun to define these particles using super colliders. The Stone People enjoy being particles very much – while in this state they are able to freely disappear and reappear and change their composition at will. Also, the bounds of time do not apply to them while they are in this state.
3. Hydrogen: Some particles combine to form protons and electrons which are the basis for the hydrogen atom. Hydrogen is the basic building block of our universe. The Stone People do not like this state. While they are hydrogen, their consciousness is bound to the hydrogen atom and hydrogen has very little going on. Hydrogen is atomic monogamy - one proton and one electron. That is why it is so anxious to turn into something else.
4. Sun: The heat and gravity of the Sun (or suns) fuse the hydrogen atoms into progressively heavier and heavier elements. The Stone People like being in this stage. They say it is like visiting Florida after spending a cold winter in outer space.
5. Elements: The elements humans have defined in their periodic table are but a few of the total elements available for the Stone People to inhabit. Ever the jokester, Mr. Science draws cartoons to represent the elements that are not known to humans.
6. Our Universe/Life: This is the Stone People’s favorite stage. While here they can physically change their shape into any form of life currently hanging around. Further, they can migrate between our universe and the infinite other universes available. They inhabit a multi-verse. They have the freedom they had in the particle state plus the pleasure of interacting with an infinite variety of other conscious life. Additionally, while in this stage the Stone People get to play the role of gods with humans. They try to guide us with people like Zoroaster, Moses, Krishna, Jesus, Buddha and the like but we are stubborn and refuse to relax. We keep trying to figure things out. The Stone People are touched by our child-like insistence on placing ourselves at the center of everything and seeing ourselves as the most important beings in all dimensions for all time. The Stone People don’t understand us but they love us anyway.
7. Decomposition: Strictly speaking, decomposition begins for the Stone People (and us humans) as soon as they enter this universe and life. The Stone People (and some humans) do not fear this process. They simply see it as a natural transition to the next stage. The Stone People do not understand the tragedy of Hamlet, for them it is like a Monty Python skit. When they read the line, “Alas, poor Yorick!” in Hamlet, they crack up.
8. Atoms: In this stage, the form Stone People inhabited in this world returns to atoms and eventually to boring hydrogen once more.
9. Particles: In this stage, the Stone People get one last chance to party before returning to the mystery of vacancy (see stage one). It is sort of like New Year’s Eve for them.
   

Picture of Nothing

This was a picture of a leaf. Then I used the sharpen and bas-relief filters in Adobe Photoshop. Now it is a picture of nothing. Still, I find it pretty to look at.

Minnesotan Sleeper

I saw this man at a coffee shop in Minnesota. He tried and tried but he could not stay awake. It was around lunch time. I guess he should have had the expresso.

Purple Flower

This flower exists only on paper. I hope that it does not experience identity theft.

Eggs In Blue

Smelling eggs is not fun. Eating them is.

Self Portrait

A self portrait. Not very attractive I must say. I must have had gas that day.

Dancing Shoes

Long ago I danced. I seem to have forgotten how. The shoes appeared in my head as I was walking one morning. They seemed to want to dance. I put them on paper. Perhaps they will dance soon. Perhaps I will dance before they do.

RDA Rose

This rose decided to be pink. I do not know why. Because it made the choice for pink it is now immortalized on the internet.

RDA Leaves Part Deux

Leaves for RDA

REPOST from July 20 - Dream

My pictures are done with ink pens on archival paper. Most of the time, like with this picture, I simply start making dots and let them go where they will. I sometimes sketch out the image in pencil before beginning and then erase the pencil after I have captured the image in ink.

The originals generally are 8.5"x11". It takes anywhere from a few thousand to over 1 million dots (an average of 100 dots per minute) to fill a page.

If you like the image use it as you wish. I like hearing from people who use my pictures - mailto:daleshankins@yahoo.com

Toronto Lady

Another Iowa City day. I saw this lady in Toronto and brought her home. She has difficulty with cars.

Strange Leaves

Fall Weeds

These blond weeds knew they were posing for a picture. I told them several times. Despite this they allowed an ugly stick to jump in front of them.

Patches and Romeo

Something witty was supposed to be written here but it was not. Our cats, Patches and Romeo, looked very hard for the witty saying but they could not find it.

Grandmother Hankins loved Iris. She planted hundreds and often ordered rare varieties from overseas. For many years after she died the Iris stopped blooming. In the last year or so they started blooming again. No one knows why...

I often walk. I have walked hundreds of times, sometimes overseas. Last month I did not walk as much. But in the past few days I have started walking more. I don't know why. My walks are not as pretty as an Iris. Grandmother Hankins loved me anyway.

Bluebird (Repost from 7-19-05)

Last October, to help deal with changes in my life I began to make pictures. This is one of my more recent efforts. I will load more. Please use this image as you wish. If you like it please make a donation to my favorite non-profit - Uptown Bills Small Mall at uptownbills.org. They help handicap people create and run businesses.

Morning

Morning in Iowa. If you call 4 AM morning. Some people call it night.

When I was younger I used to want to sleep late. Now that I am older I like to wake up very early. I am excited to still be breathing I guess. I never expected to live this long. I did not ask for it. It is not my fault. But since I still am alive I guess I will make the best of this day. I will try to use all the parts of me - mental and physical - that are still working. It beats the alternative.

I took this picture of a yellow Iris at my Father's house in Arkansas. I do not know its name. It does not know its name either. I asked it but it did not reply. It is still a pretty flower. Guess names are not that important.

Tribes

This is a repeat of a post from my original blog which died and is now slowly being reborn.

I am a tribe, part of a tribe and someone who needs freedom from tribalism.

I am a tribe of one because I can only speak, or try to speak, what is true for me. When I try to speak for others or give them advice on how they should behave I cease to be who I am and try to become a leader, teacher or priest. This is dangerous for me. Several visits to institutions and countless vain arguments have taught me at long last that I have no particular talent for, or interest in shaping the lives of others. If I do influence others these days it is due to a remnant of ego that I cannot shake. I am trying to get better. Please excuse me when I relapse.

In a way, this blog site thing is a relapse. Ego certainly is involved in releasing my thoughts into the vastness of the electromagnetic sphere – sending out a virtual “message in a bottle”. My only excuse is that writing is one of the things that I must do every day as a prophylactic measure against my return to the hospital. I have chosen to put these writings (drawings, photographs, etc.) on the internet because some friends say they like them. I like writing. My friends like reading what I write. Perhaps we are codependent! Maybe we need therapy!

I am part of a tribe or many tribes depending on your point of view. I am member of the tribe of animate beings. I am warm blooded and have an endoskeleton. I am a mammal. I am a human being. I am an inhabitant of earth, in the Milky Way galaxy, etc. I am white. I was raised Southern Baptist. I have attended university. On and on, the number of tribes seems to be infinite. This should be a beautiful thing and it is except that each tribe seems to want me to hate or, at a minimum dislike, all the others.

I appreciate the value of tribal loyalty. If I had not had loyal tribe members in my past I would not be here. A solo human on the plains of the Serengeti would have had trouble staying out of reach of the lions. When my ancestors roamed the earth in little groups they formed tribes to stay alive. They killed members of other tribes in order to survive, and let’s face it - often for greed and the pure pleasure of exercising the power of life and death over another.

The system evidently worked fairly well for small groups. If we didn’t like our tribe or we ran into a tribe too powerful for our tribe there was always the option of running away. There was always another place where there were no other tribes – at least of the human variety.

I no longer have that option. If 9/11 taught me anything it was this – I am part of one global tribe whether I like it or not. I must learn to accept you and your differences. I must make some attempt at treating you with love and kindness or I will become extinct. When I drive my SUV at 70 on the interstate I must be aware that I am angering those who do not have SUVs or even highways. It used to be that the “have nots” were fairly powerless and far, far away. Now with the internet, airplanes and telecommunications the “have nots” are my next door neighbors. Also, as 9/11 showed, the “have nots” now have the capability to reach anywhere they wish. If I bomb them, they can bomb me right back. If I hit them in the face, I am in fact hitting myself.

At times I long for the good old days. Days like in the westerns where the good guys wore white hats, the evil doers wore black hats. In my dreams, life was simpler then. But it was also much harder. They had no SUVs.

What to do? Returning to the good old days is not possible without giving up many of the comforts I have grown used to - comforts that others eye jealously. When someone in a stone hut, without indoor plumbing, watches television they see the wide difference between my world and theirs. An ad for an air freshner does not play will to the stone hut crowd. Guess I will have to look for ways to help them get their own Fabreeze, or better yet learn how to get along without Frabreeze, drive at 55 rather than 70 and save a little more of the Earth’s resources for other members of my tribe. I hope that I am successful.

Right Path

I often wonder about finding the right path for my life. I have wondered and wondered. I have studied and studied.

I once tried to study Christianity - for 18 years. I once tried to study from a teach who said he taught True Buddhism.

I have concluded that I am not a skilled student and that I lack the discipline for serious study. I no longer try to study.

Much of my time today I spend making dots. This is my first dot picture. I made it at Tony's grill in Iowa City, Iowa. The people there said they liked it so I gave it to them. It hangs on their wall.

I like toast better than my attempts to study religion. Toast tastes better and it is crunchy. I guess I am a better student of toast than I am of religion. Not so bad really. In the end we are all toast anyway. I hope that the eternal essence, God, Dharma, whatever will give me a little butter every now and then.

ANTS Are Small

This was originally posted on 7-17-05 - I am gradually reposting items from my orginal blog that died.

Was thinking about the size of ants...very small.

Wondering if they ever think they are at the top of life's pyramid like humans do.

Then I decided this was a silly thought.

Of course they do - that is why we must kill them.


Things to do today:

1. Call Bill Ives about blog conference this fall - Bill has a great site - http://billives.typepad.com/portals_and_km/
2. Go to Lowe's and check up on status of new blinds.
3. Arrange Hawaii. - it is such a mess.
4. Call David about his blog and set up time with Steve.
5. Make new list...this one is too long.

Night Light

There is an artist named Shrigley who lives in Glasgow. I looked at his book this weekend. It made me laugh. It made me angry. Now I do not worry about Shrigley anymore.

This is Dorothy from Uptown Bill’s Small Mall. Each morning she cleans the alley behind the mall. No one asks her to do it. No one compliments her or pays her for doing it. Dorothy is a great teacher. Maybe someday we will figure out what she is teaching.

Dorothy is very brave – sometimes the alley is very smelly. I am not very brave. I walk through the alley quickly.

Hawaii Couple (Originally Posted 7-13-05)

THIS WAS POSTED ON MY OLD BLOG BEFORE IT CRASHED. FOR REGULARS - APOLOGIES FOR THE REPEAT.

REJEANNE AND I IN HAWAII

Aren't you thrilled for us? We did have a good time. We stayed at the Ohana Reef Lanai - a wonderful place. Hi Tim! I will go back to Hawaii someday soon.