Just Dale

I Am Bisexual

2011-12-15T10:06:00.000-08:00

I am confused, but I am pretty sure I am bisexual, if not fully gay. Maybe most of you already knew this, but in case there has been doubt, I must be clear about my feelings. I feel guilty for sharing, but I have no choice if I want to survive. I have kept my sexuality hidden for a very long time, so long that and I often feel as if I am dying, or that I am already dead. There has been a part of me that I have hated my entire life, that has been poisoned, that has in turn destroyed every attempt I have made at having an intimate relationship.

I cannot continue refusing to be open about who I am, at least as far as I am able. It saddens me that my sharing will hurt so many of you, but I simply do not know what else to do. Please forgive me for the pain my words may bring, but I want to live, and to do that, I must be honest.

At several times in my life, I have wondered about my sexuality and considered being open about my feelings. Each time I would freeze up. Each time the same questions would come: Was I just saying that I was bisexual for effect? Was I simply rebelling for the sake of rebellion? Was I just trying to be trendy? Was I trying to please someone, lure them into liking me? Being willing to do whatever sexual act so that someone would love me?

I cannot answer these questions. Perhaps the answer to all of them is yes. At this moment, I feel like I am somewhere else writing about someone else. Maybe I am not far from another hospitalization. I don't know. I hope not.

I have loved and do love women but having sex has always been a challenge, a challenge that I most often overcame through the use of drugs. I do know that there are several men that I would like to kiss; not just a brush of the lips, but a passion-filled, open-mouthed, romantic kiss. Would there ever be more than that? That, I do not know.

For some reason, the world of relaxed and loving sex has been closed to me for my entire life. How and when the lock was put on the gate to sexual pleasure I do not know. I hope that someday it will be opened. I pray that it will be. But I am pretty sure that it cannot open unless I am as honest as possible. If I cannot find a path to the warmth of intimacy, I can live a life of celibacy. I have a lot of practice. But even if I am celibate, I must admit my feelings and desires openly. Otherwise, I will live a life of lies and darkness.

Somewhere in my mind a voice screams at me to not post this letter. It says, “How can you be so selfish? Why do you want to hurt those that love you? You should be ashamed of yourself.” I am ashamed. I do feel selfish. I do not want to hurt those that love me. That is at the root of my problem. I feel as if all of my life I have been asked to kill a part of myself in order to avoid hurting those I love. When I think on this dilemma, my despair can become so great that I consider ending things.

Today, I will use the strength I learned from my Father to push myself away from that precipice. I use his strength and courage to share the truth, even though sharing it must hurt him and the rest of my family. Sharing in order to survive is better than the alternative. I am your son, Holland Hankins, and I love both men and women. I am your brother, Keith Hankins, and I am bisexual. I am your brother, Michael Hankins, and I love who I love.

Where things go from here I do not know. Maybe I will find it easier to be who I am. Perhaps some of you will read my note and spare me the pain of having to tell each of you individually. If you do read it, let me know. And, if you can find it in your heart to love me as I am, let me know that too.

Antony and the Johnsons

2011-11-07T10:14:00.000-08:00

The following was written while listening to Antony and the Johnsons. It is not their fault.

You sing to me of fading light and weeping. A Jewish ghetto clarinet weaves through your words, transforming persecution's pain into tragic beauty that beats out a dance of joyous love. Quavering voice of ecstasy, you dream transcendentally of times that never are before you descend to earthy desire.

If you want me. If you need me. If you love me. Grip my heart with romance's voice incarnate - carry me where you want me to go. I can be what you wish me to be. I can be what I barely see from the grave of leaves fallen from that hated oak whose shade has kept me from the sun. Together, we will march into the day. Chanticleers drinking dubonnet, in a duet of desire.

Pounding rhythm. Staccato words. Pause for drama to enter. Follow this with booming orchestra. Repeat. And repeat yet again. The sense of your words overcome by the magic of your sound. Brave singer. My love. My love. Please be the one to reach within and release that which lives behind copses none have ever breached.

Sea sounds flow from your crystalline piano. You weep at the window. Somewhere in the distance I hear low thunder. Rising over it your Gothic voice rends the castle's curtains with its polished black nails to let in the blue light between day and night. Below, the ocean's waves crash on beaches of slate. Your tears fluoresce and fade, leaving me to wonder if they ever were there.

Waltz over a black river, but not the Styx. Find me a path past this sadness by diving deeper into it. Dive in and taste the bitter wave, savoring each bilious gulp. Then. Then. Oh yes, then soaring up with an angels' joy transform anthracite into diamond. Make the blackness gleam so brightly that it pushes all darkness away.

Enough of tears. Enough of romance. So much emotion, so much self absorbtion, so much dreaming and longing. Silliness. Rapture is a lie. Hope but a mermaid waiting to die on reality's rocky shore. How dare you sing and play such a dangerous game.

Now there's something different. Violin and growls. Your heart is broken. Good. Damn you. Break it again. Weak willed, you must be the pansy to the roughneck's anger. You are but a flower crushed beneath a heavy heeled boot. Your false promise of glory revealed in all its plainness – a bog not a boon. Still, much as I try I cannot shake the haunting wail you leave behind.

Very well then. Goodbye to manliness. You do hold my heart in your hands. Let the rapture in. Let us begin again, passion's dance. Life holds up. Love bears up our souls, even though they do not exist. The feelings rouse us. Amazement breaks forth to live again.

Letters To My Heart - You Cannot Love Me For Who I Am

2011-11-06T08:58:00.000-08:00

You cannot love me for who I am. It is not your fault. Your faith will not allow it. The type of love that lives within me and the beliefs I hold are abhorred in your world. Your Bible says that you can “love me” but must hate the “sin” of what I am and what I do. I do not feel loved when someone hates what I am and what I do.

I do not believe you can love me fully without being hypocritical to your religion. I know that you are not a hypocrite. Therefore, when I am with you I feel as if your fundamentalism is passing judgment on me.

I love both men and women. Yes, in “that way”. I love them. I desire them. I want to be “with” them both physically and mentally. Love, and yes desire, rises in me when I am with certain people. I cannot control it. I do not believe it is unnatural. As a friend once put it, “I love who I love.”

I do not believe in a “divine” being or trinity. I see no reason to believe in anything supernatural. Nature itself is wonderful enough for me. There is much about nature that I (and mankind) do not know, but being part of nature is enough for me. When I encounter limits to what we know from the evidence, I prefer the using the phrase “I don't know”, rather than relying on the Bible or other ancient texts for an explanation.

I have a mental illness. Many fundamentalists believe this is a lack of character on my part, or even that it is a sign that the devil has possessed me. It is a scientific fact that my brain processes information differently than many other people, that it very likely has structural differences than many others. These differences are just as real as the cancer that was in my kidney. They are not a sign of a character defect, anymore than someone having one leg is a sign that they are a “weak” person. I do have a choice as to how I deal with the illness. I did not get to choose whether or not I would have it.

Being bisexual, relying on science rather than the supernatural, and accepting that mental illness is a real disease make me an alien or worse, a source of evil, in your world. I know this, because you raised me in the world of fundamentalism. I know very well the Bible passages and doctrine that condemn people like me. It is only now, at the tender age of 60, that I have at last found the strength to stand and be counted for who and what I am.

How can I explain my world to you? What could you compare it to? How can you understand what it is like to hug and kiss another man and want to be with them? How can you know what it feels like to stare at the night sky, look at it in wonder without having to say “God did it”? How can you grasp my need to stay grounded in a factual, evidenced based reality or face long term hospitalization?

I feel that if you tried to love me without the veil of religious judgment it would tear you apart. Sometimes, when I think of this pain, I wish that I did not exist. How tortuous for you to have a son who is a person who cannot be accepted by a faith that you hold so dear? What disappointment and pain you must feel. I sometimes hate myself for being the source of such disappointment and pain.

I do not blame you. You cannot give me something you may never have gotten yourself – acceptance and respect for your own sake, a love that was free of religion. When you were growing up, you must have seen disgust in your parents faces when you violated their fundamentalist beliefs. There must have been times when you were beaten for not measuring up to the law of the Bible. There must have been times when you lay alone in your bed at night wondering why you were such an evil child. Eventually, you must have accepted that the only way to get the full measure of your parents love was to be “born again” into fundamentalist Christianity. That was the only view of life that you could offer me as a child.

Even today, you have asked me if my friends are Christian, as if it would be wrong for me to have friends who are not. I have many friends who accept that it is healthy for me to love men and women, that it is possible to live a good life - a moral life, without a supernatural God, that mental illness is a fact, not a character defect. I am so thankful to have people accept me for who I am without religious judgment.

Even though you are far from me, I can sense your discomfort, and perhaps horror at reading this. You may be feeling disgust and a sense of failure. I do not know how to spare you this pain. I could lie or continue the charade. Some will think this would be the kinder path. It isn't. Lying is disrespectful and dishonest. There is no love where there are lies. You and I both know we do not share common views about the basics of life. I love you and respect your freedom to believe as you will, so long as your belief does not involve judging and condemning me for being who I am. I hope that you can do the same.

You may not voice your judgment, but I have only to look to the tenets of your faith to know your views. I feel your judgment when I hear you console people by saying, “Worry is a sin”, or you tell them “you are just wandering in the wilderness” when they do not behave as your faith demands. When I am with you, I feel I must chose fundamentalist Christianity or risk losing your love, for as Matthew 10:34-37, teaches “...anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.” I feel I must deny who I am, or face your judgment and the potential loss of your love.

I love you. How can I not? I remember many happy times in my life with you. Times that I will never forget. Times that would not have been possible without you. I remember my “cowboy” birthday when you rented a pony for me to ride. I remember you trying to teach me to hunt – deer, ducks and pheasant. I remember you being proud of me when I played football. But, I also felt out of place. I did not like hunting. I did not like football. I felt uncomfortable and was ashamed for not being ”more manly”. I felt like I was a quitter for not being tougher, that I was disappointing you. It was as if there was something within me that wanted to be expressed - something that could not be free in our home.

If I did not love you, the judgment of fundamentalist Christianity would not hurt me - but, because it is so much a part of your life, it is difficult to dismiss it. Often I have felt that rejecting Christianity means I must reject you. I do reject the views of fundamentalist Christianity: their hatred of gays; their insistence that science is wrong when it says the world is billions of years old; their belief that mental illness is caused by a lack of character or faith – that it is something that can be cured by prayer rather than psychiatry. But I do love you. I will keep on loving you even if you and your Church continue to judge me.

I think your faith is pretty whacked and often nutty, but I love you anyway. I am happy that you are my father. I am happy to love you just the way you are, but I do not accept your judgment of me. I wish it felt like you loved me the same way. It doesn't.

I feel as if you are sad that I am not a Christian – that the only way for you to be happy about loving me is for me to return to your Church and deny who I am. I feel sadness and guilt when I am around you, not love and acceptance. I do not know how to change this. Perhaps it will change over time. Regardless of whether it does or doesn't, I must move past the guilt and self-hatred. Here I am, Dale, your son, who loves you. But, I do not accept anyone's judgment of whether or not I deserve to be loved.

Christians In Foxholes

2011-10-31T06:26:00.000-07:00

I wrote a Facebook post about the Christian Embassy, and their influence on the US Military. I received a fairly strong response from a devout Christian who made the case that the horrrow or war, made the use of religion and spirituality inevitable - the old "there are no atheists in foxholes" argument. This is my reply.

I cannot speak about what it is like to be in a foxhole. If you served, and were in one, please accept my thanks for fighting for my right to rant and jabber on as I please. I apologize if I have said anything that offends you, or that you feel shows disrespect for the military in any way. My ancestors have fought in every war since the Revolution, I can never repay the debt I owe them and their fellows.

I have never been to war, but I can speak about what it is like to face death (from cancer and other illnesses). I made it through those times not because of my faith in Christ, Buddha, or any other spiritual teacher. I made it through by the simple love and kindness of my friends and family (some of whom are either strong agnostics or "weak" atheists). I could not tell any difference in the love shown to me based on what the giver believed. If anything, those with slightly less religious fervor were more understanding of me and my needs and less likely to annoy me with questions about my "prayer life".

Maybe it is like that in a foxhole. I don't know. Maybe it is the love we share with each other that gives life its meaning, regardless of what we believe about where that love or life comes from. My Vietnam Vet buddies tell me that when "the shit hit the fan" their real purpose in life, the thing that gave life meaning, was to make sure their buddies got home to their families. If they had to die for that, it was reason enough.

You mention chaplains. We are not talking about chaplains here. Chaplains listen, the Christian Embassy members proselytize and try to "convert" others through coercion. Ultimately, their view is the United States is on a "mission from God".

The thing that most disturbs me, is that the Christian Embassy seems to believe the only "true" Americans are Christians. They believe this so strongly that they seem willing to government force to make sure others believe as they do. I agree with your statement that our founding Fathers, (especially Jefferson) would be horrified at what we have done with the Republic he and others founded. They never envisioned the government's mission to include converting the nation, much less the world, to Christianity. If they had they would have put this in the Constitution. After all, that document was written by some of the most brilliant minds of any age. They would have been eloquent and clear about their intent.

In a Republic, unlike a Democracy, the individual is safe in believing what he wants to believe (or do not believe), even if, and perhaps especially if, it is different from what the majority believe. The Christian Embassy is doing everything it can to make sure this is no longer the case. They seemingly classify all non-Christian views as as un-American. The founding fathers purposely left the word God out of the Constitution precisely to avoid this situation. As I said, if they had meant us to be a Christian Nation they would have included scripture in the Constitution, or even titled the document - The Constitution of the Christian States of America.

Evidently, the Christian Embassy wants to return to the good old days when the Bible and the government were fully integrated (i.e. remember King George?). The Christian Embassy argues that because most Americans at least claim to be Christian (76%), the government should be aligned with the Christian faith. They say majority rules. Our Republic was founded with safeguards to make sure a majority does not become a mob. In a Republic, the lone individual be they Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu or yes, even agnostic or atheist, is free to believe as he wishes - there is no law or test of citizenship based on religious views. In a Republic, the individual is the master of his own thoughts (or "soul" if you prefer).

The Christian Embassy does not believe this should be true. Otherwise, why would its members have persecuted Jewish members of the Air Force Academy? This is particularly ironic since many of the headstones at Arlington bear the Star of David.

The Christian Embassy, and religious right, seem determined to ensure their dominance is maintained even if they must "fight" to do so with coercion and force. I think this is very sad. Their position not only violates the Constitution but also cheapens their faith. How weak must their faith be to think that its best weapon is political and military force?

I have many Christian friends and I grew up in a Christian household. Although I do not believe in any divine or supernatural beings, and I find much of the Bible totally abhorrent as a guide for life, there are some passages of great beauty. Teachings that, like those of Socrates and others, offer sound guidance for life. One of my favorites is, "Do to others as you would have them do to you." Maybe all of us can unite on that idea. After all, I doubt the Christian Embassy or religious right would want to be persecuted if they were in the minority. Why do they wish to persecute or castigate those who actually are in the minority?

Come to think of it, perhaps it is fear of persecution that drives them. How ironic if this is the case - to live in fear even though they are the dominant majority. Doesn't say much for the comfort they get from their faith. The Christians I know who are comfortable with their faith tend to be generous and caring. They would never wish to tie their faith to government, much less the military. They know that doing so would destroy their religion and turn it into nothing more than a tool of the state.

Disco Jibber Jabber

2011-10-27T05:17:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I write jibberish to clear my head. Today's entry was written while listening to the group LMFAO. It is not the group's fault if none of this makes sense or is offensive. I accept full responsibility. Peace

Written While Listening to LFMAO's Album: Sorry For Party Rocking

Can't beat the thought out of your mind into mine. Wonder where you sitting on this back-beat rhythm we talking 'bout today? Would say I'm sorry, but that would only make you worry. Leading off to singing. Can you hear my song a ring ding dinging? What the funk? You can't be drunk again, can you? Yes. You be one of them kind. Left so far behind, they can't find a way to the here in now anyhow. So what? So fucking what? Never left and never will. You sing the song and I dance the beat.

Light shines in, tearing a hole within. You lose your mind, even though you never had one to find. So leave it then. Let the hand guide you to the soft within. You're hard without no doubt. Suck. Lick. Bounce. Bite. Swing low and rise up again. Shake that head and leave it beside the bed. Drive it in. Find out then, how deep it takes to make you weep. And yeah, oh yeah. Go on and smile for a mile on that road we never been on before.

I smell the slick on your skin. Who can say what might begin? Scenes in my head toss me into your bed. I slide in the dark. Lookin' for a place to park. This heart. Silly jibber jabber, I reach out and grab ya'. The red on your lip, the nip of your tit - bounce and grip me in swivel ass disco. I slide to the slit and drive to the hilt. Then we feel it. Undulation situation. Sweaty butterfly, you stutter to your flutter the moment I drain away. Lightening wired we move past tired. The beat inside will not be denied. We grind the sheets with a disco beat till the DJ has nothing left to say.

Science And God In AA

2011-10-05T10:07:00.000-07:00

One of the main problems I have with many AA members' insistence on God or some other supernatural force or being as the source of their recovery, is that they are often vehemently opposed to science and the scientific method of learning. Put God ahead of science in any AA discussion of recovery, and you're likely to encounter kindergarten sophistry something like: “Science does not fully understand alcoholism. God is the source of all things, so he must understand it. Therefore, when it comes to AA, it is best to stick with God rather than science.”

Very often such wisdom is dispensed by a retired barfly like myself, who confuses length of sobriety with evidence of intelligence. Having 20 years, I have been amazed by how wise I have become in fields as diverse as philosophy, neuroscience and physics. Thankfully, I have close friends who rein me in, when I wax too verbose and am too free with my brilliant insights on those and similar topics.

I bear no hatred of God, he may be a nice dude for all I know. After all, I love science fiction, fantasy and stories about the supernatural as much as the next fellow, but, I've never found them to be particularly useful tools for solving real world problems. Calling on Yahweh, Jesus or Thor for help when I was drunk and desperate never did me any good. Why should I think that it would be different now that I am sober? Did they ignore me when I was drunk because they were angry with me? If Jesus could get lift me from the bondage of alcohol why did he wait over 20 years to do it? More to the point, why did he allow me to become alcoholic in the first place? What kind of heavenly Father would allow his child to undergo suffering if he truly had the power to prevent it? I know I would never do such a thing to my daughter.

With science banished from the rooms, the AA text can begin to resemble a holy bible. People begin to see it as immutable, modern day tablets of stone personally delivered to Bill Wilson. In the supernatural realm, Bill and Dr. Bob become saints - a ridiculous idea, they were men, drunks. Yes, they (along with many, many others) helped to found a movement that has helped millions to recover from alcoholism. But, there is no record of their curing cancer by laying on hands. I don't remember any articles about them being bodily taken up into heaven. If we treat them as holy seers rather than men, we risk promoting dogma and fantasy rather than a “practical guide” for living.

With a vague God or spirit on center stage, any questions of the AA text or methods are quickly pushed aside. It's as if we are asked to suspend reason or else risk driving the source of recovery from the rooms of AA. Don't believe me? Try asking questions like this at your next meeting or a group conscience: Why haven't we updated the Dr's Opinion to include the most recent medical research? How valid would Dr. Silkworth's opinion have been if he had insisted on using science that was over 70 years old? What happens if I refuse to pray to a supernatural God? What happens if I refuse to turn my life and my will over to Him? Why is he a HE anyway?

I have been treated for bipolar disorder for 13 of my 20 years of sobriety. I have had extended periods of strong delusions and hallucinations. Using an imaginary God or spirit as the basis of my recovery was very damaging, raising questions like: If an unseen God is exists, then what about the conversation I had with Gaia in my hotel room in Kyoto? If “spirituality” is a tangible, independently verifiable force, what about the time I watched my right hand turn into a tiger's paw?

I doubt you will find a credible psychiatrist or psychologist who believes that Gaia and tiger paws are useful in a person's recovery program. Why then, do a fair number insist that belief in God and spirituality are key? Gaia, God, spirits and my tiger paw hand have precisely the same amount of evidence to support them – nil, nada, nothing. The only difference I can see is that God and spirits would win in an opinion poll. Not too impressive really, when you consider I also live in a country where the majority of people's belief in God, includes thinking that he invented dinosaurs as a trick and that the Flinstone's cartoon is a documentary.

For years in AA, I was physically sober but emotionally drunk on the need for a supernatural God. I was deluded into thinking that I would only be safe in the arms of a sky daddy, with a soft white beard and long flowing hair. I pretended to believe, but I never felt comfortable praying to something other people claimed to see but whose presence was denied to me. I faked it as best I could, but I never felt truly honest, and honesty is perhaps the single biggest cornerstone of my sobriety. I sacrificed it to fit in, and not “make waves”. This conflict did not help me in my challenge with bipolar disorder.

Finally, I wrote a book about my journey, where I spilled the beans about all my crazy actions and delusions. I put them down in black and white and ran them through the skeptical filter of the scientific method. The result was that I did find something I could “believe” in – a law of kindness to others, a scientifically based version of the “Golden Rule”.

This kindness I speak of is not about being good. It is about being healthy. It's like obeying gravity. Evidently, my ancestors evolved something called “mirror neurons” to allow them to feel what others were feeling, in short to have empathy for how their actions affect others. This new trait is still being researched, it may be that empathy was central to our ability to form groups and fend on roaming Saber Tooth Tigers. Regardless, of why it evolved, the empathy and kindness factor did evolve. It exists.

I try to act with kindness because when I do, my life is better and more enjoyable. No magic required. In fact, a supernatural being would get in the way, causing me to be kind out of fear, or, for the sake of some bizarre people-pleasing, co-dependent relationship with an intergalactic partner. I don't think that type of kindness would be nearly as effective or long lasting as one based on my self awareness and physiological make-up.

Today, I am largely free of the desire to have a big Father manage my life. Not bad. It only took me about 60 years to get here.

I take great comfort in using the scientific method to constructively analyze the path for my life rather than relying on God's often suspect views of what is good or bad. I doubt if any psychiatrist would tell a father to kill his son, as God told Abraham to do with Isaac. Hardly a resounding recommendation for the big guy upstairs.

Now, one of the most “spiritual”, or emotionally comforting, things I do is to study science. Often I only understand every tenth word or so, but the effort is worth those electrifying moments when something clicks and I have a new, clear and explicit understanding about how another piece of nature works. Those are happy days. I eat chocolate.

I can hear the God squads railing already, “What about all those nasty bean counting scientists who sit around and just make crap up?” True, there are crackpot scientists and scientists who lie, but they are the exception rather than the rule, and they don't last long. Science demands ideas be questioned, dogma demands that questions be stifled. I think it's clear which approach has the greatest potential for helping me understand how to live in the real world.

Sometimes the “spiritually-minded” (I would call them feeble-minded if I weren't practicing kindness) demand, “But what if believing in God helps us feel good about the our future?” I accept people's desire and even their right to feel good by whatever means, so long as it does not require that I follow their path. I hang out with friends who still drink. I have many friends who believe in a variety of untested, and untestable hypotheses about supernatural beings (e.g., prove there is no purple dragon living in your neighbor's garage).

Some of these people are really nice and sometimes, in a weak moment, I am tempted to follow them. But there is always that one fact: I have spent my fair share of time following gurus and priests who led me on flowery paths, paths whose signposts and features were only “truly” known only by the guru or priest. The end result of such journeys have always been disappointing, and usually very expensive. Why do gods, spirits and their priests always need money? Why don't they just manifest it for themselves from out of the magical ether? Wouldn't that be nicer than taking it from the pockets of the elderly and the gullible?

No, no more expensive spiritual quests for me. I think I'll save my money for pizza, thank you. I always find pepperoni more filling than spirituality. Besides, it's delivered to my door without me even having to get off my ass to get it. Hmm, wait a second. I guess there is one similarity between pepperoni and religious – any Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses coming my way? If you do, I'll pay you to pick up a large pepperoni on your way over. Get one for yourself on me as well. I'm a kind dude after all.

Letters To My Heart - Cancer In My Head

2011-10-01T07:26:00.000-07:00

To The Cancer In My Head

Yes, you are a cancer. You devour my sanity - quietly, inexorably , unceasingly. By what other name should I call you?

Others may call you by different names – mental illness, bipolar disorder, or manic depression. But I know better. Those names are too bland for you. They do not convey even half of the persistent, insidious heart of you; that dark essence that can suck all joy from my life. Your emptiness waits patiently in the hidden recesses of my mind. At a moments notice, you can expand from a tiny speck to an all consuming void that fills my mind with fearful screams. Challenging me, you shout:

“Who are you to enjoy life? You are worthless and full of self-centered evil. How dare you think you deserve happiness?”

You went unnamed for decades. There were signs of you when I was younger - like the times I went for days with little or no sleep, obsessing about grand dreams of a life better than perfect. There were warnings like my persistent fears of speaking to anyone, when I hid in out-of-the-way places to avoid being noticed, hoping against hope that I could be invisible. And yes, there were those darkest of times - days when I was sure that I was the most evil of all creatures, filled with sin and worthy only of eternal damnation.

Your powers were amplified with the discovery of drugs and alcohol when I went to college. Your intensity was magnified a hundredfold by LSD, pot, alcohol, uppers and downers. Your power over my imagination and psyche were cemented by the drugs. Under their influence, you quietly settled in, taking up permanent residence.

When I sobered up, I thought I had vanquished you, that you were gone from my life. I was sure I had freed myself of all feelings of “craziness”, but I was wrong. You chuckled quietly as I sat through endless recovery meetings and became a permanent source of income for multiple doctors and pharmacies. You knew that no matter how “sober” I became, or how many coping strategies I mastered, you would grow in strength as well. You waited in quiet certitude that your strength would increase with age. You would grow stronger as time weakened my abilities.

Our formal introduction would take place a decade into my “sobriety”, several years after what I hoped was a happy marriage. On 9/11/2001, I was weakened by the removal of my left kidney as a result of your cousin, renal cancer's, efforts. Afterward, I lost my career as well. I faced the real prospect of losing everything I had worked for, including my marriage.

At that moment, you revealed the full extent of your power. I went from board rooms of walnut paneling to rooms of flat gray paint; rooms where I sat drooling, as Doctors tried to tame you with an ever changing cocktail of psychoactive drugs. You were too wily for them. As soon as one pharmacopeia began to have some effect, you adapted and changed your method of attack, leading me through many new types of illusion. You isolated me from many of my friends in twelve step programs – friends who saw you as a sign that I was “backsliding” - friends who admonished, “Work the steps harder,” or “Open your heart to God and pray more often.” Steps and prayer did nothing to slow your progress.

Hallucination, delusion and paranoia became my constant companions. Multiple experts were consulted. They shook their heads in despair, and eventually decided that electric current applied to my brain was my only hope for a renewed “grip” on life. At first, the “grip” was truly feeble. I often found myself standing in the kitchen holding and staring at a silvery object before asking my wife, “Is this a fork?” Thankfully, due to her patience and kindness, the rejuvenating power of electricity, and, the healing hand of time, I gained a new hold on life. Overjoyed, I decided I should embark on a spiritual quest. I was certain that I could find the spiritual basis for my recovery and that I could share that joy with others.

Sadly, my hope was was false. My dream of finding spiritual truth was simply you wearing a new cloak. I thought I was sailing to a new shore of serenity. I even flew to Japan to study Zen. In the end all my sailing, flying and searching landed me in yet another dark cove, where you held sway. Yet again, I found myself in a land of gray walls, drugs and drool. I recovered once more. But, this time, the joy of the recovery was a bit more subdued, a little less certain.

Through it all, I could sense you hovering there, at the edges of what I hope is sanity. It seems you will never leave me, or miss an opportunity to suck joy from me. Even as I write this, I hear your whispers.

“You are simply whining. Poor, poor, pitiful, you. How sad that you should have suffered so – boo hoo, boo hoo. You make me sick, you selfish, self-centered little shit. Think of all the people who have so much more pain to deal with than you. Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up, you whimpering maggot.”

I shake my head and refuse to listen. You, and some who think like you, may believe that I am a self-centered asshole, that I do nothing more than whine. So be it. I may be an asshole, a selfish maggot, but I am not in the land of gray walls.

I bear you and those who judge and hate me no lasting ill will. You are nothing more than an accident of my DNA and life's circumstances; an accident whose effects likely were exacerbated by my drug use and life choices. Why should I take your actions personally? As for those who judge me harshly, at times I rage against them, but I cannot afford to harbor permanent anger and judgment. Doing so, damages what little mental strength I have left. I need every bit of my reason and kindness to deal with your continued assault on my sanity.

Thankfully, I've found at least a partial antidote for your painful nibbling at my brain. Each word that appears, each line that manifests, every essay that is read by others, is evidence that you, dark one, have not fully destroyed me and my ability to connect to life.

Some days you still hold court in my mind with a cacaphonic chorus of jeerers and leerers. Your courtiers try to convince me that I am not worthy of the gift of life. Sometimes they almost succeed and I can do nothing but hide in movie theaters or behind curtains at home. But those times are less lengthy and filled with less despair when I write. Using my pen or my keyboard, I stack my words one by one. Like bricks in an ever thickening wall, they stand against the despair you send my way.

I know that you continue to munch at my reason somewhere upstairs. Sometimes, I can almost hear you crunching at my thoughts, weakening the foundation that holds me in the here and now. There may come a time when I am unable to fend you off, when I will be placed in the land of gray walls permanently, but, that day is not today. Today I offer this writing as further evidence that your final victory has not come. May that day be far off. May I stand once more – seeing the sun, feeling the wind and dreaming my dreams.

Letters To My Heart - Once Loved Company

2011-09-25T07:34:00.000-07:00

This is another installment in my new book, Letters To My Heart.

To The Once Loved Company

How can anyone say they loved a company? Don't companies suck their employees dry, leaving the husks propped up in front of televisions watching ads for Fabreze? Aren't all government agencies stooges for their corporate masters? Don't corporate lobbyists no bother hiding their succubus relations with politicians? Surely only a fool or a madman could claim they ever “loved” a corporation in such a time.

I am both a fool and a madman. I can unashamedly say I did, in fact, once love a company. I loved it in the same way a son loves his father, with respect and longing for that father's pride in his accomplishments. You know who you are beloved one, or rather you know who you were. I do not need to write your name. You were one of eight major accounting firms that gave opinions on the financial well being of all the world's major organizations around the globe. You were the only one of these to be founded in the USA. You were created from the integrity of AA, a Norwegian immigrant proud to be a US citizen, a man who drank buttermilk, who was noted for saying, “Think straight, talk straight”; a man who was famous for turning away business when he did not feel it met his standards for honesty. His word became the gold standard for a company's financial well being. If AA said it was so, you could take it to the bank, and many did.

I loved you for what you stood for, for the way you acted, for the way you both challenged and nurtured those lucky enough to work for you. You were a company that placed honesty, trust, customer service and the public good ahead of short term profit. Your management team seemed to be made up of mentors, not preying mantises – men interested in building for the long term rather than voraciously devouring everything; their self respect, the respect of those who loved them, their very souls, for short term profit. At least, that is how I once saw it. Today that the company I once loved is no more. Like Patroclus at Achilles' funeral pyre, I weep for the passing of a giant.

You were my home as I traveled the world for decades. Under your not-always-kind but ever-challenging tutelage, an Iowa hayseed gained the courage and confidence to speak as an equal with the men in dark blue suits – those shadowy figures who always seem to lurk behind the figureheads who pretend to lead the world's governments. You gave me an opportunity to speak with the senior ministers of the Queen, the ancestral leader of a faded but once glorious empire – an empire upon which “the sun never set.”

It was heady stuff for someone born in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. I came to you in a corduroy suit and you showed me how to wear Dormeuil as casually as if it were the coveralls my Grandfather wore while pinching the suckers off tomato plants in the dusty fields of his farm in Glendale. I came to you loving fried chicken livers, and became an expert in the varieties of pate with a special affection for foie gras. I came to consider it my right to dine and wear the finest the world had to offer. After all, I was engaged in projects that would change the world, making it a better place for all mankind. Perhaps I was one of the chosen, those blessed with skills that allowed me to do things others could not, but once luxury turned into a right rather than a gift, a seed of discontent was sown in my new garden of delights.

I knew how to drink and party before I came to you. The money you gave me allowed me to upgrade. Black Velvet and Old Grandad were replaced by Johnny Walker and Laphroaig. I traded the teeth grinding buzz of white cross, the trucker's speed, to the buffered high of pink hearts and black beauties. I tried to save my heaviest drinking and drugging for the weekend, but surely you must have noticed my bleary eyes and dragon breath on more than one occasion. There were numerous times I, and my some of my co-workers, should have stayed at home; but, driven by the madness of a work-hard-play-hard philosophy we drove ourselves ever harder. We thought we lived in a world where “up or out” meritocracy was the only reality, and we were determined not to be one of those tossed aside.

My manic drive for success worked, for a time. I found myself on the fast track. I made manager in three years, when it normally took five. When you notified me of my accomplishment, I tried to act grateful, but inside I thought, “It's about time you realized the true talent of the one before you.”

As if sensing my thoughts you sent me on a tour of the world, with CR, a former director of personnel, who had known AA personally. We traveled the world studying the Firm's culture – the shared values – the glue that held all your offices together across nations and people spanning every continent. I led interview sessions with all levels from country managing partners to new staff. I wrote a report grandly entitled, A Question Of Balance. I don't know if anyone caught the reference to the Moody Blues, but I enjoyed making it. The report described the challenges facing you – challenges that were threatening to tear you apart – mostly competition for power and control among different countries, practice areas and “leaders” of the different areas.

We presented the report to your Board of Partners, the ones charged with preserving AA's legacy and ensuring your long term health. The report suggested ways to address the cracks that were appearing your foundation. It made an impassioned plea for balance and a return to first principles, the integrity and honesty embodied in AA's simple edict, “Think straight. Talk straight.” MS, the Chairman of the Board of Partners, and Head of the European, Middle East and African practice areas said, “This is one of the finest reports, I have ever read.”

It seemed that I was poised for the ultimate dream – entry into the hallowed fellowship of the Partners of AA. I was very proud that I might become a peer of the men who helped create the world's premier Firm in it's field. I came to believe that I deserved it, that it was my due, that the partnership was owed to me as a result of my immense talent. Any humility or gratitude in my heart was crowded out by a sense of pride and self-righteousness. Cracks were widening in my psyche just as they were in your cultural foundation.

The fractures in your foundation did not heal. Those responsible for carrying your dream forward were unable to keep the gaps from widening. Your bedrock, the part of you founded on AA's principles met an ignoble end. Mavericks, masquerading as members of your Partnership, “cooked the books” for E, a huge energy conglomerate in Houston, to make a buck. They lied and said E's stock was worth much more that it was. Thousands of innocent people, including my father and brother, lost their pensions. You, dear company; you, whose word was once the gold standard for honesty, perpetuated a fraud that scammed the public of billions. Those who once trusted your word lost faith in it, your opinion was no longer worth the ink used to print the glowing lies about E's financial health.

As for me, I was not even aware of the chasms opening in my heart and mind. I used my position to dominate others, within and outside of your walls. More drugs and power made it easy to overlook the fact that treating others as objects, meant that I was becoming an object myself. But the effort was exhausting, and each affair left me feeling more empty than the one before. Every time I forced others to do as I wanted, I was left feeling a little bit emptier.

I got a respite when I met MB, beautiful, wonderful MB, the one who showed me how to laugh and love after years of being alone. We opened our hearts to each other. As we grew in intimacy, my career was really taking off as well. I was asked to write the methodology for a new practice area. It was praised around the world, and I was sent to train offices across the globe in the new practice area. For a time, it felt like I had it all – golden boy with a career filled with promise and a beautiful woman at my side.

The promise was a false one. In what was one of the greatest ironies of my life MB was taken from me, or perhaps she just chose to leave. Who can say?

JL, your CFO, took an interest in MB and she took an interest in him. She ricocheted back and forth between us for two years. JL was married or she likely would have married him. Perhaps it would have been kinder to all of us if she had.

Driven mad by frustrated love, alcohol and drugs, I escaped to Dallas. I helped start a new practice area and was doing well even though my heart was dark as a moonless night. Then, after several months, MB called.

“I miss you,” she said.

I coughed. “Yeah, I miss you too.”

I heard her sniff. “You still love me?”

I froze, but heard myself say, “Of course, how could I not?”

“I want to come to Dallas,” she said.

“You know you are welcome to stay with me,” I mumbled.

There was a pause and then I heard, “There's just one thing.”

“Yes?”

“We have to get married.”

I was so lonely that I would have done anything to get MB back into my life. I quickly agreed. MB and her son AJB moved down and for three months we were married.

It was not to last. JL found reasons to come to Dallas. He and MB renewed their love, and likely made love in the same bed MB and I shared. JL divorced his wife and three months after we were married, MB left me. Words like devastated, crushed, and suicidal are too small for the grief I felt. I spent hours each night, staring into the dark, hoping that some miracle would cause me to stop breathing and end a misery so sharp that each inhalation felt like knives stabbing my soul.

You, beloved company, soon offered me a distraction. You said, “Pull yourself together. Go abroad. Work on the DHSS project in the UK.” JC, my managing partner, promised me partnership if things went well. I went. Things went well. I did not make partner.

Enraged, I left you, and buried my pain in banks of snowy cocaine. I was filled with a sense of being wronged and could not see how my reliance on external things kept me from any sense of internal peace. Internal peace was the far from my mind. I was more concerned with filling my bank account finding the best drugs money could buy.

I worked as an independent consultant. I did ever larger amounts of drugs. I wrecked havoc for those foolish enough to hire me, like JS and her company M. I stayed high on cocaine whether I was working or not. Often I was high in meetings with JS, M employees and their clients – state officials.

“Why not?” I thought. I had been betrayed by you, dear company, the one whom I once held in the greatest esteem. Now, I was nothing but a money grubbing consultant, like all the rest. I could not see how drugs and self pity had transformed my life into a world of black and white, and good versus evil.

I felt evil, but myself pity allowed me to see myself as a victim in a tragic play. Like Faust, I had made a deal with the devil, who tempted me with wealth and power. I had succumbed to the temptation, now I would die. I deserved to die. I wanted to die. I welcomed the end.

I would have died, but JS made a panicked call to SP, a lifelong friend. SP flew down and took me home to his house. He saved my life and placed me in treatment.

That was 20 years ago. This year I celebrated two decades of freedom from recreational use of drugs or alcohol. I also celebrated 10 years of freedom from kidney cancer, following the removal of my left kidney on 9/11/2001. Sadly, this year my marriage of 16 years ended. The pain from that often overshadows the happiness I should feel about the other anniversaries.

This year also marks the 10 year anniversary of the end of my second career with you. I went back to you after I got sober. That renewed career ended on 9/11/2001 when mental illness and your inability to accommodate it, meant that we had to part ways. The persistence of my dream of winning your favor astonishes me. Like gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe, I don't seem to be able to free myself from you.

My employment with you and your policies about what I am allowed to do after I left you define me and my future even now. Today, I would like to find out if I can do some part time work of the kind I used to do for you. You have a non-compete clause that may prevent this. Your staff do not seem to know the answer. Additionally, your LTD policies, may seek to take away my LTD benefit if I do any work that is remotely similar to that I once performed for you. Since my former work included all kinds of writing, visualizing, presentations, etc. I can scarcely think of anything that does not seem similar to the work I used to perform. Does my novel trangress the boundary of illegal work? How about my screenplay? Would doing a research paper for school or another company violate the LTD or non-compete clauses? When I think of these questions, and the fact that your agents seem unable, (or are being coached not to?) to answer them, I despair.

I want and need to do some part time work if I can do it without medical risk. Divorces are expensive, and my mental illness has not improved my money management skills. My cognitive skills still seem relatively sound – so long as I stay close to my doctors and avoid excessive stress. When we last parted ways in 2001, I offered to return to work as a manager rather than as an Associate Partner. I offered to accept less money and lower responsibilities so that I could keep healthcare benefits and keep an income stream. Instead, the only option offered seemed that I accept LTD. I accepted it. Now I want to live my life and be as productive as possible while doing so. I hope that you and your agents will help me do this. I do not want to be a burden to you or society, but at times it seems that you are more concerned about reducing your medical overhead. I accept this, but I hope that we can find a way forward that helps us both, I truly do. Next week, I will meet with yet another lawyer to try and figure out the best way forward. I do not know how things will turn out. Perhaps I am simply being stubborn and bull headed. Perhaps once again my self-righteous nature is overriding any gratitude and humility. I hope this is not the case. I truly do.

I have found creative outlets to help address the stress of dealing with these issues. I believe I still have a lot to offer my chosen profession – for example, I am working on a model of hypomania that could be used as a focal point for discussions among sociologists, psychologists and psychiatrists. I have shared it with a former research fellow at a major university. He said it is very interesting, and that it is worth pursuing further. Does my creating this model violate one of your policies or a provision of your LTD policy? Must I fear that thinking of such things or writing them down puts me at financial risk?

Please let me know if you can help. Also, let me know what I can do to make amends to you and any of your employees or clients that I have harmed. Often I am tempted to believe you are conspiring against me or that you do not have my best interests at heart. I cannot afford this kind of thinking. If I want to continue living, I cannot harbor hatred or anger toward you – it kills all joy in my life. The joy of life is very precious to me these days. In truth, it is all I have that is of any real value. Please help me to preserve it.

Red Poppy Boogy

2011-09-14T21:37:00.000-07:00

The Red Poppy Boogy

The Serenity Mint leaves just a hint,

Of a time both near and far.

When this gray Granddaddy,

Knew how to be happy

Chasing fireflies with a jar.

So, smoke the smoke and write the line.

Please, Mother Nature, just a little more time.

The Red Poppy Boogy makes me sway and dance.

Makes me toss these blues for one last chance,

For a freedom that's all mine.

So I asked Jake to breakfast,

To see how time's passed;

Between me and place long gone,

A something I lost that seventies September,

A shadow of a place called home.

So, smoke the smoke and write the line.

Please, Mother Nature, just a little more time.

The Red Poppy Boogy makes me sway and dance.

Makes me toss these blues for one last chance,

For a freedom that's all mine.

Do these lights really shine?

Or are they just moonbeams?

Do they lead to a new time?

Or just yesterday's dreams?

So, smoke the smoke and write the line.

Please, Mother Nature, just a little more time.

The Red Poppy Boogy makes me sway and dance.

Makes me toss these blues for one last chance,

For a freedom that's all mine.

Letters To My Heart - 9-22-2011

2011-09-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

Letter To One Who Left

Where to begin? Shall I write of the times we drank, laughed and drove miles as the moon coated your skin with its silver light? Shall I share about our tumbling into bed, ripping off our clothes to taste and feel each other, mad with desire for the sensation of flesh on flesh; thrusting and heaving until we collapsed in each other's arms - our sweat coating us and leaving the bed damp? Can you still remember the thrust of me within you? The ecstasy of the release? The feeling of calm that came over us after we lay spent in each others arms?

Or, should I share of less happy times? Like when I stood on your doorstep in the dark? Banging on the screen for hours, as I heard you move about inside? Shall I help you remember how we lay silently, hoping that JL's jeep would drive away, taking the sound of it's country music and leave us to the whisper of your beloved Commodores? Can you possibly remember, how many days I drove past your house and looked for his car in your drive on my way to work? Can you feel the pain of my heart, as I saw it there? Can I possibly know the pain I left in your heart by being so fickle and irresponsible, a large man-child, misanthrope trying to fake being human in a land of suits, silk ties and wingtips? For me it was a time of innocent love cast against my greed for money and power. It felt like the money and power won. Was it the same for you?

Often, I felt like a stalker, a thief, trying to take love from you, even though you did or would not give it. Perhaps I was both thief and stalker. I do not know the story from your point of view. Only we two are able to make a true judgment of those times. All others views are simply hearsay, reflections of their own fear and judgment.

Shall I ask the dreaded question, the one that haunts me with untold guilt to this day. Did I father a child by you? Did my insistence that we make unprotected love lead to a pregnancy you were afraid to tell me about? Are you the mother of a child unknown to me, a child whom I never knew, that I never had the opportunity to love?

I can understand your reluctance of telling me about any child, all those years ago. We were both children in many ways, I certainly must not have seemed like a good candidate for a father – an irresponsible, power hungry druggie, and alcoholic. I spend a lot of time worrying about money, and still do at times. I yelled and became distant as I sensed that I was failing at providing the lifestyle you had with JL. He made 5 or 6 times as much as me. I had no way to compete. I became more and more of a workaholic in a vain attempt to achieve in years what JL had built through decades of hard labor.

After you left me for JL that last time, I went to the UK to lead the largest change management project the Firm had ever done – transitioning the DHSS from “quill and pen” technology to full automation. I was promised a shot at partner when I returned. This did not happen. Disheartened, and like a pitiful child, I asked for a leave of absence, to go and get my PhD at the University of Texas in Austin. JC, my supervising partner begged me to stay, but I was too selfish and filled with rage to listen. I blurted out something like, “Screw this. I don't want to be partner with someone like JL, a man who came into my home and destroyed my marriage. Who would want to be a partner with someone like that?” How could I trust someone who was willing to help destroy my marriage? I don't know how things looked from your or JL's side of things. Perhaps you were just protecting yourself from my craziness.

After failing to make partner, I once again fell into a deep well of self-pity and I left the Firm. Life no longer seemed to make any sense. What purpose was there to pursing a career in a Firm that promoted people like JL to positions of great power? I was no prize either. Both of us, at least it seemed to me, played the silly game of dog eat dog. Today, I have a new friend who once said, “The problem with eating dog, is that when you come home at night, it's difficult to get the taste out of your mouth.”

Today, none of that is important. I only mentioned it to let it go, and in the hope that if you read this you will know it is me, Dale, writing to you after all these years. To paraphrase CSN, “I am stronger now than then.” I would like to think that if you read this you would feel comfortable about sharing the truth from your view. I hope someday we can meet so that I can find out your thoughts. I will hug you, if you let me.

After I left the Firm, life threw me many curves: addiction and recovery, a failed marriage in which I repeated the pattern of distancing myself once things got difficult, kidney cancer surgery on 9/11/01, ten years of surviving cancer, rediscovery of my love of writing and a potential new career – many things; some of them sweet and some of them as bitter as wormwood. Yet through it all, I find that I remember much joy between us as well as the pain.

Please call me if you read this. Let us be friends, and know that love can survive even the worst life has to offer when we remain thankful for the little things. At least that is how I see it.

Love,

Dale

Dale S. Hankins

308 E Burlington St. #104

Iowa City, Iowa 52240

319-325-6374

daleshankins@yahoo.com

justdale777@gmail.com

FIRST TYPED DRAFT, OLD CAPITOL MALL, IOWA CITY, IOWA 9-13-11, 10:23 AM

Letters To My Heart - Revised Intro - 9-13-2011

2011-09-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

Letters To My Heart

Introduction

(Begun at around 11:14 PM, on 9-8-2011, at the Red Poppy, drinking Yerba Mate and Smoking Flavored Tobacco in a Hookah)

As we near the anniversary of 9/11/01 and a time of great change in my life as well as my country I find that I want to be more open to intimacy and love. Somewhere, along my life's path, I have lost this ability. After listening to friends, doctors and meditating on writing's power to heal my thinking and emotional wounds I have decided to write letters to the people and places that linger in my thoughts. I will write the letters in ink on paper first, then enter them into my blog with links to Facebook, the new, 500 million member, electronic nation that spans the globe. My, perhaps selfish, reason for doing this is that I want to get healthier. At times this means that I may hurt others. I will try to limit the damage I do but I feel a need to reach those whose location I do not know, in the hope they will contact me if I owe them amends or if we can renew old friendships. I will write as I remember things. I will only use initials to provide some anonymity, but I must delve into some of the specifics if those involved are to know how to contact me. I mean no one any harm. I truly do not. I simply wish to find a way to reach those I owe amends and to heal the emptiness inside of me, that haunts me, that keeps me from intimacy with my fellows. My writing of these letters gives me concrete evidence that I am making an effort to heal. I have learned that I cannot heal by myself, and that it is best to share my experience – some will benefit, some will feel pain, likely most will not give a hoot. But based on my limited knowledge of the human brain and psychology it would appear that the type of sharing I am talking about can be a healing process for me and those I have harmed, if we have the courage to be both kind and honest.

Peace to all who read these lines. Love to all I have harmed. I beg forgiveness of any whom I have hurt along my path. I invite others to use writing honestly about their lives as a tool if they find it useful. If you know of something about me that will reveal more of my character and its many flaws please share it openly that I may work to address it.

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Revised and Reposted to Blogger and Facebook, from Old Capitol Mall, Iowa City, Iowa 9-13-2011, approximately 9 am CST.

Letter To My Heart - Letter To Left Behind Child

2011-09-10T16:20:00.001-07:00

Letterto Left Behind Child

Youknow who you are, AJB. The last time I saw you, you were ten or so.You stood with your face pressed against the screen of a second storyapartment in north Dallas. Your hand was raised in farewell as Idrove out of your life. Inside your mother lay crying. She and I hadmade love for the last time. I had risen early and tried to sneak outthe door, as I had so many times in the past. You heard me though,and rose to watch me leave. For over two decades now, your image inthat window and your mother's tears have haunted me – at times withgreat pain and at times with the memory of the exquisite beauty ofthe love the three of us shared.

Rememberthe days we spent playing pinball and video games? I remember how yousang in that tiny Dallas apartment and how you introduced me to Rapmusic. I remember how much your mother loved the Commodores. It toremy heart apart when your mother decided to return to JL. The cowboyexecutive who made four or five times what I made and who I workedfor at the firm. He was a decent sort of man. Not my type maybe, alittle bit more rough than I liked but he seemed like an okay guy. Inever really got to know him well. Back then, to me, he was the manwho took you and your mother away from me. Today, I don't even have aclear picture of him at all.e

Iknow it was a struggle to live with me. It probably seemed like all Idid was work and smoke pot. But I do remember reading Lord of theRings to you. Sometimes I was so tired all I could do was to fallasleep. I wanted to protect you and your mother from all the pain youhad been through. I sensed that you were not happy with JL and thatyou wanted to stay with me in Dallas. Sadly, I was not strong enoughto protect our little family from the forces tearing it apart. I feltlike I was in a tornado with no shelter to lead us to.

Today,I am stronger. It has been over 20 years since I had a drink ofalcohol or used drugs other than tobacco or coffee as recreation. Ihave no choice. All the drugs and drinking back in the 70s and 80sleft me with a brain filled with holes and delusions. Others maysafely use non-prescription, recreational drugs, I am not among them.I do work with a psychiatrist and a psychologist to help me deal withissues affecting my mental health and I go to a fellowship of othersworking to remain sober. Writing this letter is part of that effort.I hope it does not upset you too much if you read it.

Ifollowed your career in basketball. You played semi-pro in Europe. Iam so proud of you. I would have given most anything to see one ofyour games, I'll bet you were a joy to watch.

Iwonder, do you have children? Are you living in the USA or abroad?Where have you traveled? What are your favorite movies? Do you stilllike Rap music?

Ithought of contacting you many times. I even tried to look up yourmother's number on the internet, but I could not find it. Also, I wasafraid that calling you would open old wounds and hurt all of us. Iam stronger now. Please call me so that I can make amends for theharm if that is possible, and just to get together and see if we canbe friends.

Love,

Dale

Dale S. Hankins

308 E Burlington St.#104

Iowa City, Iowa52240

319-325-6374

daleshankins@yahoo.com

justdale777@gmail.com

Letters to My Heart 9-10-2011

2011-09-10T06:49:00.000-07:00

Letters To My Heart

Introduction

(Written at around 11:14 PM, on 9-8-2011, at the Red Poppy, drinking Yerba Mate and Smoking Flavored Tobacco in a Hookah)

As we near the anniversary of 9/11/01, a time of great change in my life as well as my country, I find that I want to be more open to intimacy and love. Somewhere, along my life's path, I have lost this ability. On the advice of friends, Doctors, and from my own knowledge of writing's power to heal my thinking and emotional wounds I have decided to write letters to the people and places that linger in my thoughts. I will write the letters in ink on paper first, then enter them into my blog with links to Facebook, the new, 500 million member, electronic nation that spans the globe. The reason for this is that there are people I would like to reach whose location I do not know, and I hope they will contact me if I owe them amends or if we can renew old friendships. I will write as I remember things. I will only use initials to provide some anonymity, but I must delve into some of the specifics if those involved are to know how to contact me. I mean no one any harm. I truly do not. I simply wish to find a way to reach those I owe amends and to heal the emptiness inside of me, that haunts me, that keeps me from intimacy with my fellows. My writing of these letters gives me and my Doctors concrete evidence that I am making an effort to heal. I have learned that I cannot heal by myself, and that it is best to give weight to expert opinion when dealing with matters of the human brain and psychology.

Peace to all who read these lines. Love to all I have harmed. I beg forgiveness of any whom I have hurt along my path. I invite others to use the tool of writing honestly about their lives as a tool if they find it useful. If you know of something about me that will reveal more of my character and its many flaws please share it openly that I may work to address it.

Letter to My Unkown Child

It pains me not to know whether or not you exist. For countless days, I have searched the crowds for sight of you, thinking to myself; “Is that your nose that looks similar to mine? Does that ear come from your Mother or does it hail back to my Grandfather's lineage?” I cannot answer these questions at the moment.

There was a time when I abused drugs and alcohol to the point of oblivion. They helped me deal with the loneliness and pain I felt. During this period, my relationships with women, and everyone else for that matter, were confusing and hurtful – filled with delusion, or so it seems to me now. At the time, I felt I was a true Sir Galahad or perhaps a Lochinvar on a quest for true love; which I often “found” while under the influence of stimulants, depressants or simply filled with guilt and rage.

You, blessed child, are not responsible for my failed quest. Wherever you are, whomever you may be, I hope that life brings us together. I would be grateful if life granted me that kindness. If you are brought to me, if we can come to know one another, I will do my best to share my life honestly with you, from this point forward. I owe you much more than that, but honesty these days is perhaps my most precious commodity. I hope that you understand.

You have a sister, Caroline, a niece Keira – age 4, a nephew Mathew – age 2, as well as many cousins, aunts and uncles. I do not always travel the same path as others in my family, or share the same beliefs and at times we must remain apart for our own safety. However, we do love each other and forgive each other in our own way. Perhaps you already know the truth that loving does not mean freedom from heartache. At least it has been so for me.

I hope your life thus far has been a happy one. I will do my best to help you keep it so. Please forgive me my reckless past and accept the hug that I send, and the hug that is waiting should we ever happen to meet.

I will close for now. I am here if you want to contact me. Please call I would be grateful if you did. Please leave a message if I don't answer at first. I am forgetful and often lose my phone.

Love,

Dale

Dale S. Hankins

308 E Burlington St. #104

Iowa City, Iowa 52240

319-325-6374

daleshankins@yahoo.com

justdale777@gmail.com

END OF FIRST LETTER – 8:30 AM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME – VILLAGE INN ON RIVERSIDE DRIVE, IOWA CITY, IOWA

More Pomposity

2011-08-13T02:58:00.000-07:00

Si, Se Puede

I had a wonderful day with my daughter yesterday. I have hurt her many times by referring to her as my “adopted” daughter. She offered to change her name to mine at one point. I did not respond to her. It is only now that I see how much this must have hurt her. Such is the way of Fatherhood I guess. Such is the way of being human. At least that is how it has been for me.

I think part of the problem has to do with the idea of “ownership” (a concept wonderfully explored in the movie Rise of the Planet of the Apes by the way). Whenever I refer to someone as “my” this, or “my” that I can easily fall prey to the belief that I have some special title or right over them. When carried to the extreme, I can quickly see myself as having a right to tell them what they “should” or “should not” do. When I think like this, I must be careful, I risk hurting those I claim to love. As I reflect on it, I have often been about as careful as a tap dancing elephant.

MY daughter, MY wife, MY country, MY life; in each case, the word MY both comforts and frightens me. I am comforted by the security of ownership, the idea that I can claim to special care and comfort via legal property rights. On the other hand, I am driven to the brink of insanity by the thought that I must somehow control and direct the person or thing owned, or that I, I alone, am responsible for their care and well being. Clearly, I do not own the one called my daughter, or the one I once called my wife and I certainly do not own the ground upon which I walk. This last is a particularly ridiculous idea to me, since the ground is billions of years old, and I will only be here a few seconds by comparison.

Sometimes I am not plagued by this dilemma of “ownership”. I sense that none of us “own” anything, that all of us are part of one incredibly complex and beautiful whole, and that I have been granted the gift of being here but for a short time to enjoy life and all that it has ofter. I remember to show gratitude and respect, ever seeking to understand my life as being be a part of, rather than apart from the nature's wonders. I rejoice in the gift of life and know that nature neither understands nor obeys humans' claim of dominion. I can wryly point to a hurricane's refusal to respect property lines as but one example of nature's blindness to our laws.

At other times, I am blind to any adverse consequences of believing that I own something or someone. I am not speaking of the issue of slavery, that dark stain and its insidious stepchildren - racism and bigotry are no longer welcome in my mind (although they have lived there in the past, and still beg for guest appearances on the stage of my thoughts). No matter how hard I try, I have and often still do fall prey to those little everyday dreams of ownership: my father “owes” me perpetual financial support; my daughter owes me perpetual respect no matter what I do; my wife or loved one, “owes” me love despite my refusal, or inability to act in a lovable fashion; on, and on, and on.

I experience great relief when I am able to lay down the weight of ownership, if only for a short time. I do love my toys. I do love to travel. But these can become burdensome and wearing to the point of destroying me if I turn them into an expectation about what I am “owed” or what is “owed” by me. Sometimes I despair...ah, hell, let me be honest, I often despair at the greed and chains of ownership I have picked up over the years. I despair at the expectations (I imagine?) others sometimes have of me, before they will grant me their friendship and love. There are days when the world seems to scream at me, telling me it owns me, that it owns my very life and how I must live it - “care for me and prevent me from harm or you are a failure”, “do not be bisexual – you are evil”, “believe in my god or go to hell”, “give me sex and money or 'dance'/do these things for me or I will not love you” and then, there is the most hurtful and difficult ownership demand of all, “hate these people and kill them or, I will hate and kill you.”

Yesterday, at lunch, around 2 pm in Chili's I wept like a child from the pain of all this fear and hatred, at what it is doing to me, at what it had done to my daughter, at what it will do to my granddaughter and grandson. I remembered that I was supposed to “be a man” and not weep and the tears came faster still. I reflected on the fact that my daughter and I likely were sexually abused as children. This came about in no small part, because of the idea that parents own their children, that they have a right to treat them however they see fit even if this means telling the child they are born “evil”, that they have no right to their own sexuality, that they are, in fact, nothing more than the extension of their parent's dreams – be a football player, be a ballerina, be this, be that...be what I could not be so that I may live on in you after I die. Immortality, that is what in the end I seek with my ownership obsession. Immortality through my children, my legacy, my namesakes. I give more thought to my lineage than I do my children. How sad.

I share about child abuse, not to harm anyone. I do not blame anyone. What was done was done out of ignorance. But, I must face and admit to myself that it was done, or else I will never be able to move past it. I must say it publicly for the sake of those who do not dare speak of it. I must say it for the sake of my grandchildren, even if speaking of these things hurts many people whom I love dearly.

There are moments, like the one I feel as I write this, that I do not know if I can go on, that I am torn between too many choices. That the world insists that I hate and judge others (and myself) in order to even deserve to exist, do I: Hurt one group of people I love deeply in order to perhaps stop future pain on the part of my grandchildren?, Hurt my straight friends by supporting myself and my gay friends?, Hurt friends of a particular faith by not participating in it with them?, Hurt people in general by using too many resources?, Hurt atheists, and be denied membership for not being a “true” atheist and attacking my religious friends?, Sully the clarity of science by clinging to my love of poetic expression? Hurt the world by not making maximum use of the talent given to me?

I do not have the answer. I swear I do not. If someone tells me I must have the faith that one will come, that there is an unseen being taking care of me, I believe the end will surely come very quickly. I have been down that path many, many times. It leads to the hospital more surely than any other. But I should not be so hasty, perhaps, just perhaps, that is where I belong. Maybe with enough Thorazine, Melaril and Haldol the questions will disappear. Perhaps, I will meet a kind nurse there. Someone who will give me a book and pencil to write and draw with. Someone who will... But screw that, I will do all in my power to stay out of the hospital, I will not give those who hate me, or simply cannot follow me on my writing and talking tirades, any more satisfaction. May the haters and greedy ones be hospitalized, it is their turn. Whoops. There I go, being hateful and judgmental again.

As I said, I do not have the answer. Perhaps, with kindness, one will come. If a network, or group of people is coordinating and trying to help, perhaps they will have the decency to say so. Perhaps, if there is a supreme being, he will have the courtesy to undertake a press tour to introduce himself, and not hide like some wizard behind a curtain. I will play the Tin Man, if the curtain may be pulled.

For now, I will breathe. For now, I will sit and watch the patterns on my wall, television (even the cartoons), is too annoying these days. For now, in the words of Cesar Chavez, a real native American, “Si. Si, se puede.”

The Gay Tiger

2011-07-20T02:12:00.000-07:00

The Gay Tiger

by Dale S. Hankins

I am gay. I am bi. I am hetero. I am me. I claim the right to use my sex as I see fit. I claim the right to be kind in the face of anyone's hatred of me. I claim the right to consider others feelings without being ruled by them. I claim the right to be free.

Others may restrict my actions, may take from me my freedom, may take from me the breath I now breathe. They cannot take my passion. They cannot take away my thoughts. They cannot take my imagination without killing the mind where it lives. And then what? They will be staring at my death. I will be here no longer. I will be free while they remain waiting for their wolves to tear the flesh from their bones.

Some say my hopes are but illusion. Perhaps that is true. Very well, then. I will elucidate the illusion. I will inhabit the dream. Follow me. Step outside. I am the girl, and the boy. I am the original dance between the two.

Always it has been so. Always. Always. I was caught between in the to and fro of sex before I was born, before I could see. I have no choice but to accept it. I must also accept the gift of talent given to me. To refuse the cups offered me is to die. I will sip and become both man and woman. I will believe what some have said – that I write with great beauty, that my art is inspiring, that it can be wonderful to be near me. I have turned away from these thoughts in the past, turned away from them, not wanting to harm or hurt anyone with the light some said they saw in my eyes, not wanting to see either jealousy or competition arise.

But what if the wings themselves are ilusion? Doubt within doubt surrounds me.

Some friends will hate me for making the changes I need to make. Many who are not friends already hate me simply for being who I am. I fear their hatred, but what am I to do? Shall I continue trying to be who they would have me be? Or, will I stand away from them as I grow new wings?

Why is there this pulling in my heart? Why is there this longing for being something I have never been? Silly questions these. These are the times when I must choose. I live and try something new, or I die.

I try to put the bi-sexual nature of me out of my mind. I put it on a shelf and stop thinking about it, just as I did for years, ever since I was teased for singing and for liking the color purple. But it will not stay put anymore.

At times I hate myself for even thinking of having sex. I am horribly embarrassed to bring it up in conversation, hiding my shyness with false bravado. Please save me from this. Please. Please.

I would pray, but there is no one there. And, if the God of the people of the book is there, he hates me for being who I am. I hope that life will find a path for me through this vale of tears. But, if it cannot, I will kiss the final breath that gives me release from the pain of feeling hated and ashamed for existing. Life is precious. Life is beautiful. I would keep it if I am able. But I cannot keep it unless I find a way to live honestly as who I am.

Others already are angry and upset with my behavior. I am feeling and being scandalous in their eyes. In mine, I simply am trying to survive. Take all of my money. Take all of my possessions. Take my life, if you must, but recognize I am just trying to find a way to live.

A year or more ago I wrote of a dream that I would find a people who accepted me and took me in. I wrote it looking out at the sun, coming up over the meadow that I no longer have the right to see. The sun filled me with hope that my dream, my dream, of writing for my life and finding beauty there would come true; that I would find a people that fully accepted me and loved me. The writing frightened me. I put it away and I can no longer find it. It saddens me that this is so.

Never mind. Never, never mind. I will stand again. I stand and sing these pages this morning.

When I share this with someone, they will caution me to moderate the heart that beats wildly within me. I will try to oblidge. I will fail. The tiger is unleashed. He will be caged no longer. His stripes will be seen, or he will tear apart me and my world.

The Train Of I Don't Know

2011-07-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

Felt blue. So I wrote.

The Train Of I Don't Know

“Help me. I don't know if I can last much longer,” Branson said.

Susan looked at him cautiously. “Help you with what babe?”

He lay back on the bed. “I don't know. I really don't.”

“What is it?” She said.

“I just can't find...”

She moved closer and took his hand in hers. “Find what?”

“Find a way to make love without being high.”

“So,” she laughed, “Get high, who cares? Who's watching?”

“I am,” he said. “I'm always watching.”

They were in a tiny room on the sixth floor of the Hotel Lennox, in Paris. The aroma of fresh bagets floated up from the street, up past curtains fluttering in the summer breeze. Sweat dripped from a nipple to her thigh. It ran in a river down his chest. There was little about the scene to indicate the trauma inside Branson's head.

She pushed him back on the bed. He closed his eyes, an automaton. Not wanting to be here, he thought back to when he had read the symptoms of child abuse.

Difficulty with becoming aroused and feeling sensations – Check.
Sex feels like an obligation – Check.
Sexual thoughts and images that are disturbing – Check.
Inappropriate sexual behaviors or sexual compulsivness – Check.
Vaginal pain – a big NA on that one.
Inability to achieve orgasm or other orgasmic difficulties – Check, often.
Erections problems or ejaculatory difficulty – Check, sometimes.
Feeling dissociated while having sex – Check.
Detachment or emotional distance while having sex – Check.
Being afraid of sex or avoiding sex – Check.
Guilt, fear, anger, disgust or other negative feelings when being touched – a big double check on that one.

Sarah slid over with a spliff the size of a carrot. He took a big hit, held it in.

Little puffs of smoke rose up as he said, “That's better. Thanks babe.”

He held the smoke in until his lungs felt raw. He exhaled and looked at his face in the mirrored doors by the bed. Blood red eyes, pudgy, cellulite dimples on his ass, pretty disgusting all right. But he was hard as iron once again.

Sarah smiled as he entered her. The heat of him melted her plans of playing coy. She raised her legs as high as possible, while he rocked back and forth. After a few moments, he stood on his knees. He turned her over and lifted her ass, exposing the peach slit between the cheeks. He rubbed hs penis against the warm moistness of her before thrusting deep.

She pushed back against him. “Faster, faster. Oh yes, fuck me babe. Fuck me.”

The slap of his thighs against her ass drove him to madness. He thrust ever faster until he collapsed on top of her, pushing her down into the sheets. She came moments after he released himself between her legs.

“That didn't seem like someone who has a problem with sex,” she said.

“But, that wasn't me. It was the smoke.”

“So, you sayin' that wasn't your dick inside of me?”

He slapped her ass and fell forward next to her. He laughed.

“Yes, it was my dick. But it was a pothead dick.”

“I like your pothead dick.”

“But, you know I'm not supposed to smoke pot.”

She rolled over and put her arm over her eyes.

“Not that shit again. You know, you really must like being miserable. You do it so well.”

He bit off a fingernail. “I just don't want to go back to the hospital. I think I might have to if can't get past this sex thing. And it looks like the only way past the sex thing is to smoke pot. Maybe it would be best if I went back in. At least in there, I won't hurt anyone any more.”

“Fuck.” She said and leaped off the bed.

She was dressed by the time he got out of the other side of the bed. She had her sandals in her hand. They were the one's with the plastic pink roses. The one's they had bought last year at Corpus Christi. A little taco vendor had set up a booth next to the hotel. His wife sold the shoes. She cut plastic bags into roses and stapled them to sandals she wove out of palmetto.

“There you go again,” she said. “Drifting off to wherever it is that you go. How do you do it? Just three minutes ago, we were fucking like rabbits. Now you're where? Saturn? Pluto? Somewhere else anyway. Somewhere, where I can't reach you.”

He sat slack jawed. A bit of drool rolled from the corner of his mouth.

She set her lips into a thin line. “Okay. That's it. That's it. I've had it.”

The door startled him awake from his stupor. He was devastated. At least somewhere within himself he felt something that knew it should be devastated.

He got up and went to the bathroom. In the mirror, he saw the murderer. The one who had killed every chance at happiness he had ever had. How the murderer came to be. What created this Moosbrugger of joy that lived in his mind, what caused it to evolve and become evermore powerful, he could not tell. It was an ancient beast. Placed there before he had words to name it.

He no longer wanted to blame anyone for its existence. He no longer wanted to chastise himself about it. He simply wanted to be free of it. As the reality of Sarah's departure settled in, death was the only freedom he could imagine. He could hear people's assessment of his farewell performance.

“What a coward.”

“What a selfish bastard.”

He did not care. They did not have to find their way past the mine field inside his brain – a place hiding so many unseen dangers that he did not dare take a step beyond where he now stood. Frozen, he could hear a train coming. He felt it's approach. The train of fate, that would carry him to a land of eternal winter. It was a land of his own making perhaps. He accepted that. Still, knowing he might be the self-named Yahweh of his empty world did nothing to alter his despair. The train cared nothing for despair, or joy. It was not merciless, it was not filled with mercy. It was simply a train. Set on its journey by forces that he could not name. It was the train of “I Don't Know” driven by the engineer of where the fuck are we? He might seek guidance on how to avoid the train. He might learn the secrets of its wisdom. He could practice train dodging, train racing and train detection to prevent being struck by it, but it would hit him nonetheless. He heard the certainty of its approach in every scream from its damnable whistle.

“How could it not hit me?”, he thought. “Why can't people see that the train isn't something I chose? Who are they to say I must continue a life that is nothing but suffering, while I wait for the train? Why do they continue to blame me? If they think I am a coward, if they seem me as selfish and self-centered, then why don't they help me to die? Why not save themselves the trouble of continually arguing with a shit like me?”

Outside the door, down the hallway so he would not hear, Sarah bent over and cried silently. She felt as if she was going to throw up. What was she going to do? She hated this. Hated, hated, hated it. She almost made it her car, before the string linking her soul to his pulled her back up the stairs. She banged on the door. Nothing. Banged harder. Still nothing. She stood back and kicked near the handle. The door jab brook.

He lay on the couch. The joint was still in his hand. Motionless. He seemed dead, but she could see his breath lifting his ribs.

“Thank God, baby,” she said. “I felt so bad. I thought you were going to kill yourself.”

He took another hit. He blew the smoke in her direction and sighed.

She snuggled next to him, seeking warmth. She felt the coldness within him still. But she couldn't leave. She just couldn't.

“I am so glad you didn't die honey,” she said. “So, so, glad you didn't hurt yourself or kill yourself.”

Another hit, and he coughed. “No need to worry baby. I'm okay. The killing was done a long time ago. So long ago I don't even remember when it was.”

Photographs Not Taken

2011-07-10T03:38:00.000-07:00

Photographs Not Taken

The same old fears and prejudices threaten to overwhelm my brain. Their grooves in my thoughts are well worn, and their pain is all to familiar. Let me lay them down for a moment and see if I can find a new thought...

Hopefully, I made a new friend tonight. A woman. A young woman.

I was nervous about going to meet her. The day before, I was filled with anxiety and felt a host of familiar questions. Questions that I have felt from the very first time I ever went to meet a woman outside of work. How should I act? What should I feel? How can I be honest about sexual attraction yet sensitive to her feelings? How do I not “miss” an opportunity for sharing pleasure, without being crude?

These thoughts are not helpful, if I want to retain my self respect, if I want to continue a path of being kind and being a “gentle” man. I tend to hide these thoughts. I push them aside, bury them. Once, I did so out of shame. Much of that is gone now, but my old shyness and fear of rejection remain. And, there still is the persistent desire to make love to the beauty of youth all men seem to carry with them to their graves.

I know I come by this desire honestly. I do not create them within myself. I can, with help and practice, moderate them a bit. As it turns out, I was able to do so this afternoon with my young friend.

I had prepared for the meeting as if it were a “date” rather than getting together for me to take photographs of her. We first met through my photography and I had asked to take more photos. My mind translated the word, photographs, into much more than images of light on paper. I carefully showered and dressed in one of my few non t-shirt shirts and a pair of slacks.

I am embarassed to confess this, but I even stopped by Hy-Vee, the local grocery store, to pick up some condoms. I got the fire and ice brand that I have seen advertised on TV. You know the ad, the one where the young couple, fresh from lovemaking, run in and buy before madly rushing out again, presumably to have yet more exciting and unrestrained sex.

Earlier that day, I had stopped by the local camera store to buy film for my adventure. I bought 14 rolls, maybe a little excessive for a single session but I felt it best to be prepared. I bought both black and white and color. I imagined myself taking pictures of “body” scapes, the name I used back in the 70's for photographs of the curves and lines of the nude human body. Such sessions more than once ended in hot sex. Dishonest of me perhaps, but my “partners in crime” seemed to enjoy the session as much as I did.

Well primped, equipped for sexual safety, and armed with enough film for a photo session with a female soccer team I arrived at my destination -- at precisely two minutes after the appointed time. My friend stood at the counter ordering tea. She was as radiant as I remembered. I also, ordered tea, peppermint. I ordered peppermint mostly because another young woman had suggested it to me earlier in the day.

As we waited for the tea next to my friend (let's call her Laura), I made my opening gambit.

“Laura, have you heard of Yerba Mate?”

Her brow furrowed. “No, I haven't. What is it?”

I launched into an explanation of Yerba Mate, something that I had seen a friend of mine Adam Weinstein, use as pickup line. I thought my lecture was enthralling. I ended with a half hearted invitation to go to the Red Poppy and sample one of their blends after we finished our photo “shoot”. She replied that later, she had to go cut her friend's hair.

I took a breath and relaxed. The pressure was off. There was no need to continue the pursuit of fantasies. I would have to make do with what stood in front of me, for however long it might be there.

Laura is short but has added thirty pounds of lean muscle in the past year. She is a sight for these tired old eyes, and, I dare say anyone else with an eye for the atheletic female form. Her eyes, are vibrant as I mentioned earlier, her breasts are firm, and her arms and legs have the look of a ju-jitsu artist ready to throw you to the ground. All of this is covered with creamy skin dotted with freckles of cinnamon. Sigh...

I suggested we sit and get to know one another better, shuffling the idea of photo shoot aside for another day. I had totally forgotten to bring my cameras inside anyway. (Now, that I reflect on it, she probably thinks the whole thing was a set up since I came in without them, oh well.)

We ended up sitting outside making our tea last as long as possible. We spoke of many topics. I waxed eloquent on some of my latest theories of how to depict the process of hypomania via mathematical formulas. She shared about her art and art studio.

I suggested that taking pictures at her studio would be better than just taking posed photographs. Several times I became confused, I felt I was getting mixed messages about Laura's feelings. I am sure that I was being confusing as well. My sexual feelings continued to arise and I imagined that she felt some attraction to me. I brushed these thoughts aside. I tried to remain focused on her words, but again and again, my eyes were drawn to hers with an intensity that I could not shake.

“Down that path lies madness,” I said to myself.

“Even if it were true, you need to consider the fact that she is just getting out of a difficult relationship. Think of her feelings rather than your lust.”

We talked for longer than she had planned, or at least that is what she announced as we finally rose to leave. I told her that I would wait for her to contact me and that she was safe. Stupid. Who tells a young woman that she is safe, other than someone who has anything other than “non-safe” sexual desires for a young woman? I waxed on about the fact that even though I might be interested in her, I was too shy to be a serious risk.

Finally, my imagined date, my evening of tea, my photo shoot without photos, ended. I followed Laur for a few steps even though my car was in the opposite direction. I stopped in at the Motley Cow (where I had a great meal by the way). Laura walked on to see her friend. The one in urgent need of a hair cut.

I analyzed and reanalyzed the evening in my mind. I became certain that I ruined any potential for future contact by my repeated reference to nude photographs. Only time will tell. If she reads this I hope she will know that I truly enjoyed the evening even if we never see one another again (how sad for me if that is true). After all, it allowed me to create this little piece and get outside of the darkness that often inhabits my mind. For that, I thank her and that which created her.

Listening to The Teddy Bears

2011-07-08T11:42:00.000-07:00

Listening to Devil's Music by Teddybears

The following was written while listening to the album, “Devil's Music” by the Teddybears. It was the first time I had heard this group. The album has a lot to offer: wordplay, unusual and exciting instrument combinations. I particularly like the moog syntehsizer that scampers through some of the songs. Highly recommended – 4 out of 5 stars. Give it a listen. Of course, the group is in no way responsible for their effect on me or the words it produced.

Gravel. Metal voice without the spark.

Kicking it in though. Kicking it in. The drumbeat is enough to carry me. Enough for now. Little sisters dancing in a row. Come to sing at the evening show. Can you dig it? Can you be it?

Who knows what there is to see inside of me. Let it all fall out into the street. Pretty neat at your stomping feet. Don't give a shit. Don't give a damn. Me be the man. The man in me is enough for rolling this rock. Sisyphus dances. Rolling it up and watching it fall down, and rolling it up again. Prometheus cries as his liver is torn, punished for bringing fire to man, he leaves himself open to the pain yet again. No matter.

And then there is the children's laughter.

The moog soars behind the band. I hear the haters tell me to keep my mouth shut. Who knows how to do that? If you cannot take it, then don't shake the tree. Let the tree stand away from the crowd. Let the tree be.

Mamma hasn't heard. Mamma is in the dirt. Her ears are maggots worming their way through my brain. Let her buy her own house. Let her find it out, that in the end she is alone as she was alone with me.

No real anger on this score anymore, but no denial either. No place for silly fears and wishes. Not nihilist, but somewhere past that, to a place where even the effort of determining if nihilist is the place to exist. I find a room where I cannot see how dark it is in the dark.

More moogy in the music. Let's get down to the boogy. Woogying. Noogeying. Rub the head until it is raw. If they want it in the street then put it there. If they want it in the window, show it free from care. An ecstasy so far beyond fucking that they will never feel it. They can never know the electricity of it. The buggering they call elite is in the end just booty groovin'. Their disco lights are flashing to silly little tunes in the hashish of their minds.

Bottom flashing. Slapping that ass. In harmony. Booty. Silly rabbit. Silly girl. Trix are to be hid.

Drums be doin' the saggy. Baggy. Maggy. Waggy. No censor, only sensor. Let us dance the schizo-walz. Make the peace with the old man who selling burgers at the perpetual wake for a dream long gone.

He still asks for what he doesn't even know. If I am terminally unique. I don't give a damn. Terminate me. Take it and bite it, go ahead ignite it. Eat my bones, tear my flesh. I will enjoy it. I will relish the loss of the self pride you accuse me of silly, silly, and sillier still. Can you understand me? Can you even hear?

Marching. Marching. Religion. Superstition. Look it in the eye. Look beyond the patient recitation of obfuscation in the hope of redemption. Redemption of what? Redemption from what? Tell the tales of fairies. I do not deny you the privilege any more than I deny a child the freedom to believe in St. Nicholas.

S'okay. S'okay. I am not superior to any. I am not less than any. I do think and I do live. You are the one who thinks my thinking weird. You write the songs accusing me of anger and fear, so how is it that you become the thing you claim not to be?

At least let us be honest. At least let us start there. Neither of us know. Do not claim the holiness of a book. Do not claim the deity of a story. Do not claim it, unless you wish to hold it to the same scrutiny that you push upon me. Unless you are willing to challenge yourself what are you offering? I can easily castigate myself into the grave. Guilt and shame are easy commodities to purchase. They cost nothing. They are firmly wedged in my brain. I do not need the free helping you want to give.

Perhaps you have evidence of your majestic entity, that is unknowable and of universal power. Very well, please share. Do not leave me hanging here wishing for something you claim to have.

How cruel of you to turn away when I laugh, or claim you boast to be more than you can evidence within yourself? How hard hearted of you to say I am evil, without bothering to show me how. You quote words written so far in the past that you cannot even point to the dust from whence they came?

Heard the cat. This is the that of that. Cats do not get herded. They will not allow themselves to belong to a tribe. A dominant male is needed to calm the kitties. They may then follow at their own pace, but a herd they will never be.

Do my words anger? Do they cause dismay? How silly if this is so. They are but words, after all. Any fear or anger they cause as you read them was within you before they arrived. Hear them or not. Ignore them or not. I am not the words. The words are not me. My words and ideas are naught but leaves falling down to be burned in the kalpa fire. As soon as they form an idea, burn it. Burn it away so that making my words a reality does not become a prison for me.

Riffing away. Rigging a new sail. Please. Please. Let's see if we can sail to a new island. Cardiac arrest or no. Pitiful at best, we can perhaps remain afloat until new land is sighted. Let other toss grenades our way. Let them fire the cannon of hatred and prejudice. We will laugh at the emptiness they have drawn around themselves. It is the same emptiness we imagine for ourselves, we must admit to that possibility or become the thing from which we would be free.

Step and dance. Stay in the head today. Save the bottom for another time. Take it down. Be ready for moving to a new town. Leave behind all the things that hide in the storage bin. Hit the broad highway. Austrailia, Nigeria, London, Paris, LA and the big Apple. All await another bite.

I fear though. How often I fear. How long I fear. I want to hurt not. I want not to be hurt. Lost to dancing. Lost to feeling. Will it tear me apart as it has before? Can I risk the light behind the Green Door? The world seems harder than ever. The desire seems more empty than ever. Ever must it be. Let me hope it may not be so for me, once before the final shade let me lie in soft arms. Let me feel the tender kiss on my brow. Let me know as I have never known that the one bestowing the love is not inside my head trying to beat me and leave me alone in the dark as always. Always it has been so. At least it seems as if this is the place I find myself, and I do not know how to leave the seeming behind.

Temptation surrounds me. Groin ignites with dreams. Toes wiggle. Lips of pomengranate. Boy hair and earth mother breasts she sits across from me. At least I can look. I need not go further than that for now. I dream. I dream. It hurts to dream, but it hurts even more not to do it. Push, push, push to be honest. Be the gene, that drives the whole scene. We wriggle and writhe claiming to be more than the biology. We are not the authors. We did not create the lips, the eyes, the breasts. We did no create the desire to touch. How awful then to be denied the freedom and power to access the joy that seems allowed to others. Let me end this crying. Let me end this self pity. Play the organ one last chord. Find a lost chord or a new one, I will carry it with me.

Listening to Adele "21"

2011-07-05T07:13:00.000-07:00

Wrote this today at the Bluebird. Completed it at 9:14 AM, 7-5-2011 It was written while listening to the album "21" by the singer Adele. I did not edit it. Sometimes I write just to let my feelings flow.

Listening to Adele “21”

Faded rumors lost in the deep. Never minding. No one else's soul mine to keep. No one to own. None to be owned by. All good. All good. All is had by those who will have it. No more secrets. No more silly games. In the light of the sun, the sun's day.

Fly on the window. The window on the world. Head in the clouds? Maybe. Maybe so. How to move it elsewhere? It is my head. I would find a place for it to rest. I would find a place that is the best for the one who rests and the one who provides the sanctuary. How to see it, after so many years of being blind? Might it be in front of me? Just beyond my sight? Might it be lost in the silkiness of the night? The duskiness of your voice makes me wish it were you. But I have fooled and been fooled enough to be filled with so much doubt that I have learned to take my peace among the leaves of trees and lines upon the page.

Must it always be a battle? Can I move past the challenge of controlling to be controlled? Let the hair go free. Comb it now in front of me. Walk slowly that I can see the beauty that flows from you. I will let that be enough. I will no longer try to wrest from someone that which they will not freely give. Who needs to steal beauty? Who can do it? The flowers share it freely. I am not a flower, but I can see the wonder within them. I can drink this glass of water and know that it unites me with all that has been or ever will be. Will you join me, can you, will you, join me in the dance?

This morning colors flowed onto the page. I loved them. I love every woman I have ever been with. Truly I do. I did not know how to stay with them. I did not know how to be what they wanted me to be. But still I loved them, even though some were kinder to my touch than others. Some caused passion to rise within me more readily than others. Some were sad at my leaving. Some were glad to see me go. I cannot judge this. I cannot read their minds. They cannot read mine. I have to trust that most of the time I have tried to be kind. At least now, at long last, when I feel awake most of the time.

Today I walked under a tree and brushed its leaves. I breathed the air as if for the first time. But, I know that all this can quickly turn to darkness, as soon as I become greedy for it. As soon as I try to crush it with the lie of ownership, it will wilt and fade. Best to enjoy the love in front of me. Even if it's only the fly that brushes my arm. In that brush I can feel the majesty of life itself come down to me.

Now, I look at the water glass and the bottom shines more brightly than the sun itself. Somehow the water takes the light and transforms it to make it into another element. Water, glass and sun. Me, air and the one. The one that lives within me. The one that has no name. The one that cannot be named. Let others try to name it. Let them waste their breath. Let them make the knowing into a test. Silly minds. Silly like mine can be at times. But not now. Right now. The bliss lives here. It cannot be touched by anyone else's darkness. The gates of others' hell have no power here. Mine are the fingers that reach out and bring the joy to me.

Listening to your voice, my dear singer. The voice of an angel come to me. Thank you. Thank you.

Seems like a dream as I hear the warmth in your song. If I find the love that lives in your song, I pray that I am strong enough to feel it bravely and without shame. Someone will have to help. Even thought the joy flows in me and is a private place there, I know that it is stronger with another. At least I hope that it is so. I have thought to find it. Let it go. Let it go. I will no longer drink, smoke, or chase it away. Still there is something broken within me. I seek the help of Doctors, I seek the help of the Earth Mother, let the sun shine. Let the clouds flow. Someday I hope to know that which moves them.

I have left as a fool, and been left as one too. There seems no answer to this dance. Each of us seems twisted in a rope of fate. I once thought I could give everything to another. I once thought someone could give me everything. Yet another veil, hiding the life and causing pain where none was needed. How to let this go?

I see many moving in the reflection of this window. Cars, people, moving, moving to their own rhythm. Do they want freedom from their sin? Who am I to judge it for them? Who can forgive them for doing something that they don't even know they have done? Better to look at the flowers.

Clear out of the window is the color purple. Many blossoms. Purple and more purple still. There is a faded daisy, but most of them are purple. Please hold to this and do not worry about sin, forgiveness, and pain. Time to dance. The birds know it. The flowers know it. Let us follow them. Someday they will fade. But today they bloom still.

Your voice dear singer has the power of life within it. Please let it celebrate and not mourn for something that may not exist. You need not own someone. You need not belong to someone. You have the power of the Mother within you. Share it. Lift us up. Lift us higher. Teach us to sing. Not to mourn.

If not my arms, the arms of someone who makes you laugh and can show you love will find you. Like me you must let go of the faded colors of old drapes. Let in the light. Cast out the night. But do not settle. Wait until the gift rises up to meet you. It may not come, but better to wait, better to risk flying like Icarus, too close to the sun, than to descend into Hades in perpetual search for Persephone. Life shor and live bright rather than in the shadow of eternal gray. Be the happy child. Be the one who leads us home. A voice such as yours has the power to create a path clear and shining.

A final moment of dreaming before I go. I feel my fingertips ignite, as they brush against your skin. They slide down your spine to find the crease between butt and thigh. Rising up again they tickle along your side, over your ribs to find a nipple and trace its tiny circle, caressing each tiny bump and silky bit of you. My lips follow the path blazed by fingertips. Finally, tongue finds its way to the place of honey and joy.

There was a time when I could act out my dream of love. It was a time of a little fear, a time, a brief time, when I was able to soar with smoke and not be consumed by it. I think that I can find it without the smoke today. I will continue looking. I will remember the feeling of loving, even if the remembering hurts, sometimes more than I can bear. Memory of love. Memory of lovemaking. Memory of pain and parting. Turn to love before me. Turn again, and again if necessary. How else to find the color purple and live again within the flower?

Hole In The Head

2011-06-28T11:45:00.001-07:00

Capana, Iowa City, 6-28-2011 12:31, Listening to Selena Gomez

Must write. Let them kill me. Let them put me in prison. It is prison to be without it. It is like being inside a drum when the noise gets so loud that it destroys what little sense is left in my head. I breathe in the perfume of a thousand women that have moved in out of these doors. My fingers quiver. Missed my beta blocker. Truly am insane. Let that go as well. Let it go. Let it all be gone but leave me the words.

Silly talking not needed. Let's go. Let's dance. Skin to skin. Lips on hips. Tongue caressing with searing heat.

Join it. Do it. Feel it. Can you turn back again to a place you once lived it? Can you find where you lost it in the cold and turn back up the heat? I hope it can happen. Perhaps, I can kindle it here and now and it will reach the places that need it.

Who cares if there is a response? In the end, aren't most of us caught in the whiplash of the shadows that once were our love. They will have to do it seems. They will not be one I want, but they will warm me for a time in the night. In the morning, the words will come again. I will not lose them. How could I? Without them, I cannot feel anything at all.

I will learn the blues. I will learn the art. I can do these things. They are easy. They are all things that once I knew. Things that became more alive because of you. They will be poorer if you cannot be here, but, I do know how to breathe. You are inside me. With me forever. How many times must I weep for you to know this? You have a dilemma. I have a broken heart. Yours may be analyzed. Mine cannot heal.

End of me? Maybe. End of my life, perhaps.

Once a zombie. Now awake. But where are you?

Massages with tender touch, chocolate daisies and, remembered birthdays, are they ever enough? Does love that lives on these ever last? I truly do not know.

I would run to romantic love if I could find it. Its comfort and peace. But there is a hole in my head, a literal physical fracture, that has lost the ability to respond to ideas of heart, love and loyalty that seem to be accessible to most other people. A modern day mutation of Phineas Gage, this horse is so tired, it can barely walk. But it does that much at least, in the hope that it may find a stall somewhere.

Listening to these songs brings no physical healing to the brain. Emotions run where they will. It seems I cannot find a way to move my feeling to a place that is helpful to anyone. So. Rest from the music for now.

The Preacher's Lament

2011-06-26T14:32:00.000-07:00

The Preacher's Lament

Dale S. Hankins

And then the preacher approached the stage and started to sing:

“The senses cannot see, cannot find the place between the sheets of the mind, when there is so little space for time and peace of mind. Let us stand then. Let us scream against the fear. Let us burn it down. Not to the ground but below where the ground has been before, below where it has ever been. Desperation of a declaration. Let our love stand, to be seen. Naked, in full sight, cloaked only light. Free. Free. Flag waving in the wind even though there is no need for flag or wind.”

The crowd remains after the burst and then, then we see the little ones. See the neighbor ones the ones so long in fear; the ones who can now walk freely in the breeze. They are freed because the preacher has felt the last of the binding, the last of the whipping for being himself. He does in truth sing a song of himself, to himself for himself. What other song would he sing? Singing someone else's song means his death.

Later, the preacher stands in the coffee shop, drinking pot after pot, of ruby tea. Outside the window, he sees a beauty of red above and red below. A tasty peach that IS beyond his reach. But peaches no longer bind the one who has entered the land of the preachers. They can be tasted, but are not needed.

And then another comes--the one in the paisley dress comes to stand behind the blue and orange madras shirt leaving the dog tied to the tree standing in the sun. The dog does not care. It pants and is free. The madras dances, bends, flexes and finds itself back inside. People swarm along the pavement, in front of the maddest preacher the world has seen in this land or any other.

The dog lies in the circle of a lake at the foot of the tree. Resting finally, not worrying about the passers by. The dog of all the preacher's past and bits of his future. Wrapped in a golden cloak, wearing a purple leash that binds it to the tree.

Can the preacher untie the dog? Does he even know of dogs and dog like things today?

He has truly touche the sky of the mind finding places. Empty places and places full of pain and places where pain is a meaningless word. He did not choose the pain, the dream or the dog. They were just there.

Once the preacher feared what the others would think. He wished them no harm. He wanted to help. He could not find them. He could not touch them. All was seen through the glass of the window. A window he has not put in place. A window that he could perhaps shatter, but in so doing would he not bring down himself and those he treasures most?

Let it stand then. Let it stand for now. The window that keeps his feet in this world, the only world he knows. He can still find breezes here. He can still find friends. At least he hopes.

2011-06-04T05:09:00.001-07:00

I've been visiting my father, who is recovering from the removal of his spleen. I thought he was near death. Thankfully, this turned out not to be the case. I know that he will die someday, just as I will. No sense spending each day worrying about death, and what might happen if I do.

Life is beautiful for me today. I will enjoy the gift. Who am I to deny it? One of the greatest gifts to me is the joy I get from writing. I used the gift this morning. Here's what came out.

We Are The All

I've been the abuser. I've been the abused, the double time looser—the one none would choose. I've been the greater, and the lesser one too. I've been the slave and the slave maker too.

Oh, I've been the all, and all, and all, and all. I've been the all.

Whatever I was, it looked a lot like you. I once was a king and the king maker's tool. We've carried the murder, deep in my soul. We've seen through the gunpowder's haze. We're children of the instant, the ancients of days.

Yes, we're the all, and all, and all and all. We are all.

We can lock ourselves up in a prison of fear. We can make ourselves worry the world's end is near. We can judge one another, finding fault after fault. Or, we can stand up for kindness and walk the walk.

Yes, we're the all, and all, and all and all. We are the all.

Blog Post Recipients

2011-05-28T03:16:00.000-07:00

For now, I am going to stop sending my posts via email. I can't shake the fact that doing so, makes me feel like I am proselytizing or selling something. It's not that I am ashamed of what I write, or that I do not want anyone to read it. I have never bought the idea of writing without ever hoping that someone, at least one other person, would read what I write. I'm not sure I trust anyone who makes that claim. However, it is clearer and clearer to me, that I do not like trying to convince anyone, that my writing should be taken seriously. I hope people enjoy my stuff. I am thrilled when they do. But, it should be by their own choice. I love all of you, you brave few, you caring souls.

Please stop by http://just-dale.blogspot.com/ whenever you want to find out what is rambling around inside my skull. I hope you come often. It feels like rusty steel wool up there sometimes, and it can get a little lonely.

2011-05-10T08:05:00.000-07:00

I got a letter from a friend who has doubts about whether to continue writing and sharing her thoughts. The following is my response.

Letter To A Fellow Writer

Hey,

Sorry to hear you are in that dark place. You are not alone, but as has often been said, we ARE all unique, and we are ALL the same. I think it's a yes/and, not an either/or proposition.

When I first started writing again, after years of being afraid to do so, I found that it gave me my only relief, from the voices in my head. It was, and remains, an act of survival, my way of spitting in death's eye. No one benefits if I return to a world of insanity the realm of secret shame. At least a few people may benefit, if I manage to hang around. If I want to be alive, writing is not an option, anymore than breathing is an option.

I think Alice Walker, (The Color Purple), said it best:
"Some people say, they live to write. I write to live."

Who knows what others think of my writing? Some folks hate it, a few like it, and, sadly (boo-hoo), most people don't know about my writing, and would not even care if they did. So be it. I will write anyhow. I will write to live, and for those who love me.

When I write with other people in mind, I don't like what I write. When I write to clear the dirty little shelves, in the back of my mind, it feels like I am taking dictation--floating free of space and time. I am awake. I am alive. The experience is the perfect counterbalance, to the stifling fear that can come, when I lose focus, when I mistake others' opinions as reality.

In one sense, I think writing is the most selfish, prideful thing I do. Yet, I know that honest writing touches people deeply. Several people have told me, they loved my book. One, would have been enough.

I find that it helps, if I detach from how I think people will react to what I write. I wrote the following, in the introduction to my book, to help clarify my dilemma to myself others:

"This book is true, yet it is fiction. It is an honest account of my perception of events. However, my perception is colored by my bipolar illness. I have had many instances of auditory and visual hallucinations. At times, these are so strong that they are just as tangible as the so-called real world.

This conflict between my hallucinatory (or so I am told) world and the real world is at the heart of my dilemma or illness. It raises a fundamental question. Should I share my life as I perceive it, or should I only share the version that fits others’ perceptions? If I share what I perceive, my book is fiction in the “real” world. If I share only what others perceive, then my sharing is a fiction to me. I have chosen to be true to my perceptions. Therefore, my book is fictional for all readers other than me and I have classified it as fiction rather than autobiography."

Please DO continue writing. I, and your other friends, want to hear your story. Screw the voices in your head, tell them to shut the fuck up, and let the rest of us hear what you have to say. Who gave the voices license to deny us? Write to us, your friends. Imagine our faces before you as you stare at the page, or screen. We are more real, much more connected to reality, than the negative chatter in your head.

So, to paraphrase the old 60's phrase: “Power to the people (you), power to the people (you), right (write) on.”

AMAZING Formatting Djinn

2011-05-06T01:30:00.000-07:00

For some strange reason the formatting has gone haywire on my site. In my last post, "Letter To An Old Friend" the system highlighted several paragraphs with particularly large type. I do not know how or why that happened. Perhaps more will be revealed...

Letter To An Old Friend

2011-05-06T01:12:00.000-07:00

Today, I was on an online chat site, ranting about politics, with an old friend from high school. The argument got a bit heated. My friend sent me a message, saying that he sometimes wondered, if it was a good thing, that we had reconnected, after so many years. He said, he felt like it we had changed too much and that maybe we never really were close friends and that he felt like our old dreams of peace and love from the '70's were lies. I apologized. He apologized. The exchange left me unsettled: I was struck by how easy it is to hurt others via little black dots on a screen. I wrote one last time...

I did not find any of your comments offensive - they may have raised my blood pressure a notch or two - but that simply because you could not see the wondrous light of my wisdom and wit. But I will remove them since you asked.

I fully understand your feelings about the lack of love and understanding today. I have times when I feel as if there simply is no kindness left in anyone, that I truly live in a "dog eat dog" world. Those are dark times for me.

Then, I see someone do an act of kindness, sometimes a very small one. Like my friend who sings even though he has cerebral palsy. That is enough for me to try to act with a bit of kindness of my own. Enough to stop "eating dog", at least for a little while. LOL

I have been near death several times; drugs, alcohol, cancer and mental illness have given me an "interesting", if not always merry, ride through life. I have seen your site, and it's clear you like the west and have found yourself there. I like the name you gave your gun, "The Thumper". You are quite the poet. You look like you stepped out of the old west in a lot of your photos. I am happy to see you enjoying your life.

I am growing my hair long again, just because I can, and because I like seeing people's reactions. I an fascinated by how a few inches of hair can make people think you have changed into something different. Sometimes people point and laugh at the “old long hair”. Sometimes they curse under their breath as they walk by. Tomorrow, I may shave it all off for the same reason - just to see the shock on people's faces, to hear them mutter "damn skinhead" when they walk by. I like having the confidence to try out new things today, without fear, just for the heck of it.

I don't know what I would do if things "went south". I don't know if I would end up as a prisoner, or dead. I hope I don't have to find out any time soon. Until then, I will do what I can, to spread a bit of that peace and love, we used to hope for, all those years ago. I have found many others eager to share my hope. Some days, we have a veritable peace and love fest, back here in good old, Iowa City.

This may sound terribly naive. Perhaps it is, but, like you, I feel stronger than I ever have. I feel strong enough today, that I will gladly die rather than return to a diet of dog. I chose not to live in that world, when I chose to continue living. I will not return.

I work very hard to have kindness be my goal each morning. Today, at least some of the time, I have enough strength to avoid picking up other people's hatred. I am seldom successful at sustaining my quest, for more than a few hours at a time - as you can easily tell from my cantankerousness on FB. However, I do make time to listen to a friend's troubles, give someone a ride, buy someone a cup of coffee, or something like that - at least once every (well, almost every) day. It is enough. My tiny acts are my personal evidence that love and kindness have not "perished from the earth."

Gaggggggg! What a load of Hallmark BS! LOL

Yet, strange as it sounds, focusing on kindness is the only way I survive each day. I tried living a life based on fear and judgment, (the dog eat dog world) rather than love and kindness - it nearly killed me. I may someday die because of my "naivete" , who can say? People have tricked me, stolen from me, lied to me, injured me, blah de blah de blah, blah, blah. I guess that is what people do sometimes, but not all the time.

I will stand in front of any bullet aimed at my grandchildren, I know that much; but I don't know if I could take another life, and live with that. I have a lot of friends who were in Vietnam, none of them can get the faces of those they killed out of their minds. They sleep with them every night. I do not know how they do that.

I may have fewer days if I try to live with a goal of love and kindness, but I am pretty sure that I would have even fewer days, if I lived in the dark world of fear and judgment.

I am not a saint, far from it. Who wants to be a f&*king saint anyway? Still, I know which direction I need to point my life, if I am to have any hope of happiness. Kindness is my north pole. Not the magical kindness I read about in fairy tales, not the type that I once idealized as an amateur philosopher, but the gritty "in your face" kindness that is rooted in the DNA of me, that lets me know I can have the strength to try and be kind even in the worst of times.

You know by now, that I am not religious, that I do not believe in supernatural beings or powers, but sometimes I wonder if the human who wrote the lines "love your enemies" and "judge not, lest ye be judged" was simply describing a natural law, not admonishing people to be good in order to get into “heaven”. If, I meet hatred with hatred, do I not “die” inside? If, I judge others, do I not take my “judging skills” home with me? Do I not use those skills in the dark and end up judging myself? When I live a life of hatred and judgment am I even truly alive? I dunno. To me, it seems such laws are a part of my DNA, not something I do to be a "good person" but something I must do if I want to “feel alive” (e.g., feel the sun, smell a flower, give and get a hug, etc.) and have any pleasure in life.

I too, have grown cynical, as I have aged, but the smiles of my loved ones, the laughter of my children and grand children, the hugs of my friends: all of these things, remind me that love exists, just as strongly, and probably more deeply, than ever, in these trying times.

When I see you, with your family and friends, you still seem like the man I knew so long ago. The smile is still there, the deep compassion in your eyes is still there. Know that I am smiling back, when I look at those pictures. At least one person, still sees the love within you.

Love life, and live it large...

(Remember, if you're vertical, and taking nourishment, you're okay.)

Dale

JEB BUSH TO HEAD REPUBLICAN TICKET IN 2012

2011-04-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

Here's how...

Trump, Bachman, Huckabee rush out as early spoilers. They incite the base of the Republican party with anti-Obama rhetoric and the birther issue. Palin, Huckabee and Trump may not run leaving the Tea Party plank wide open for Bachman. PALIN WILL NOT RUN - Unions and Democratic base will show up at every rally, as they did in Wisconsin this week, and boo her off the stage. Her one time supporters will move to Bachman and/or Huckabee. The Republican establishment and the Karl Rove machine become increasingly frantic.

IOWA goes to Bachman or Huckabee. They play up religious themes (gay marriage, abortion) and birtherism. Trump does surprisingly well for a well known libertine. His "star" appeal and his newfound admiration for "birthers" will play well in Iowa. Romney and Pawlenty are ghosts. Paul gets his standard showing, nabbing any young Republicans who vote in the primaries.

NEVADA goes to Trump if he runs - he sucks all the air out of Las Vegas and plays well with Hispanics due to his fairly liberal past on immigration. If Trump doesn't run, Romney and Pawlenty have a shot. Romney will win if Trump doesn't run. Even Mormons like to gamble sometimes, and Nevada has a lot of Mormons living there.

NEW HAMPSHIRE is Romney's last hope of a candidacy. Look for him to put all his money here and do well or even win. Bachman (or Huckabee) begin to fade. Trump once again is the wild card - if he stays in - he will place or show ahead of Bachman/Huckabee in the horse race but not likely win. Pawlenty comes in a distant third or fourth and commits seppuku for the sake of the GOP.

SOUTH CAROLINA likely goes to Romney by default. Bachman/Huckabee finally lose steam asthe Tea Party plank finally takes a hard look at their polling against Obama. Paul could stage a surprising showing here as the last hope of the most desperate Tea Party groups.

Result of January primaries - FIASCO! Romney cannot convincingly argue against Obamacare and he will have to say some harsh things against the Tea Party folk in order to gain ground with independents. Bruised and battered from a three ring circus of January primaries - Romney looks like he may just be able to win the nomination.

Rove tells Republican power brokers that he cannot come up with a winning scenario for Romney no matter how the polls are sliced and diced. Romney will do better than Obama with religious conservatives, creationists, right wing white groups and Wall Street. But he will take only a tiny percentage of Blacks, Hispanics, and independents. Of course he will not get ANY support from unions and the liberal base who will flee from the "nasty milliionaire businessman" to Obama's welcoming arms.

The alarm will be raised (phones probably already are ringing) among the the Republican big donor community. Blue Blood Republicans will hold secret meetings at Point Vesuvius (aka Walker's Point, aka the Bush Compound in Maine). Koch brothers have a seat at the table as does Wall Street led by a contingent of Goldman Sachs alumni. The goal - launch a volcanic barrage to reinstate the Bush royalty.

While it is true that George II tarnished the Bush family image, Bush remains a gold standard Coat of Arms among Republican oligarchs. Remember that Obama awarded the Freedom Medal to George I in February. This will help Rove, backed by Koch and Sachs money among others, to remind the public that George I is still KING of the Bush clan. George I will help take back the crown from his wayward son George II and pass it on to Jeb, thus assuring the continued hegemony of the Reagan-Bush trickle down/supply side wing of the Republican Party.

Jeb and Romney will be called to a "come to Jesus" summit. Romney will be told that Jeb represents the better hope for defeating Obama because:

- He has an amiable style, that wears well with independents. It is hard not to like him as a person.

- He is VERY Catholic, Fourth Degree Knight of Columbus, which will keep the Christian Right more firmly in line than someone who is a Mormon.

- He is married to a Hispanic, and has very good numbers with them (being Catholic doesn't hurt).

- He OWNS FLORIDA, especially the Cuban population which OWNS Miami Dade, a key democratic stronghold. Jeb has worked for a multimillionaire Cuban real estate firm.

- He has always been a strong supporter of Israel and is well liked in the Jewish community.

- His father and the Rove machine have enough dirt on every member of the Republican leadership (including new Tea Party leaders) to keep them firmly in line.

Romney will be asked to continue in the primaries to make sure Bachman/Huckabee/Trump remain dead and that no one else like Rand Paul is taken too seriously. Jeb will begin to be casually mentioned by the media as an alternative. Jeb's "stealth campaign" may start as early as late summer or fall of 2011. He will refuse comment and remain out of the public eye at least until the really big primaries in Texas and Florida. It's interesting that no primary date has been set for Florida and that many states are still discussing the dates. Perhaps it is normal to be 8 months away from the first primary without knowing the timing of all caucuses. Or perhaps Republicans are leaving themselves some wiggle room for a last minute candidacy by Jeb or someone like him. Here's the current schedule:

http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MUtPxY-z3YY/TanOoXCVltI/AAAAAAAADfs/cWQchZcsXsQ/s1600/2012.primaries.17.gif

Rumors will be started (perhaps even using clips from the Oliver Stone movie "W") that Jeb was the first pick for the successor to the Reagan-Bush crown. They will say things like, "George II jumped the gun. Now it is time to put things right. The nation is in great peril - time to return to the first draft pick."

The pitch will be simple.

"Don't you want to return to the good old days of the Regan-Bush years? A time when Republicans were truly Republicans? George I was right there with Ronald. True, George II may have been a little bit of a disappointment, but look at has happened since he left. Didn't things get even worse? Isn't it time to return leadership to a True Republican like Jeb Bush? Socially conservative but not a fanatic, and fiscally conservative - his friends own the companies that can "drill baby drill" and he is comes from a financially elite family of "job creators" who were there when "trickle down" economics first began to drip.

I think Jeb could give Obama fits. Sooner or later Rove and company will figure this out as well. They probably already have. Rove has already begun trashing Trump. Rove, and the power brokers of the Grand Old Party, support none of the current contenders. Yet they have not offered alternative. Why?

Is it because it is too early to bring Jeb in? That they have to wait until rank and file Republicans get sick of the current Tea Party darlings? Are they waiting to launch a late campaign for Jeb or even have him emerge as a last minute superman at the convention?

Who knows the answer? Certainly not me. After all, I am a nut case. I have the papers to prove it.

AIN'T I A HUMAN?

2011-04-17T08:42:00.000-07:00

I have been reading the Tell-Tale Brain by V.S. Ramachandran. The experience is like having someone open up my skull and stir a spoon through my previous notions of what it means to be me, to be a human. I think the introduction, A Brief Tour of Your Brain, should be required reading for all psychiatric patients and their families. The knowledge it contains could help eliminate a lot of the guilt and self castigation that accompanies diagnoses of “mental illness”.

As always with science, we must say that what we “know” is based on current evidence. Our ideas will change as we discover more. However, if our current observations hold true, the impact will be mind blowing (pun intended). Philosophy, art and religion will have a lot of catching up to do. Many of our most cherished concepts of things like mind, soul, God and our moral compass will be changed forever. Unless, of course, we ignore science if favor of things like “creationism”.

For example, several regions of the brain appear to be critical to the “human” view of who we are and how we relate to the world. Damage to these areas results in the loss of what it means to be human, at least in any real sense of the word. Without these functions our external bodies might appear the same but our thoughts, behavior and culture would not exist.

Here are a few of the areas most critical to being what is typically defined as “human”. Quotations are from Ramachandran.

WERNICKE'S AREA (upper left temporal lobe) – A uniquely human area (seven times larger than a chimp) provides comprehension of meaning and semantic aspects of language. Damage can result in the loss of ability to process language – no Wernicke's area, no Shakespeare.

PARIETAL LOBES – The left uses sensory input (including muscles and touch) to provide “multimedia” sense of corporeal self. The right provides a “mental model of the spatial layout of the outside world: your immediate environs, plus the location (but not identity) of objects, hazards and people within it”. Damage to the right lobe can cause the phenomenon of hemispatial neglect (loss of awareness of what occurs in the left field of vision) or somatoparaphrenia (belief that left arm belongs to someone else). If you zap the right parietal lobe with an electrode you will have an “out of body” experience.

INFERIOR PARIETAL LOBES (IPL) – Is much larger in humans than any other species and is divided into two regions (angular gyrus and supramarginal gyrus). The left angular gyrus provides functions “such as arithmetic, abstraction, and aspects of language such as word finding and metaphor”. The left supramarginal gyrus provides “images of intended skill actions (e.g. sewing, hammering a nail, waving goodbye) and executes them”. Damage to left IPL eliminate abstract skills like reading, writing, arithmetic, etc. and hinders ability to complete skilled movement. No IPL means no Kobe Bryant and no extravagant metaphors for sports writers to use in describing his talent. Damage here may even mean the end of “free will” - the ability to imagine and execute complex actions.

PREFRONTAL CORTEX – Often called the “seat of humanity”. Can sustain massive damage with no obvious signs of neurological or cognitive deficits, but can cause major personality changes including withdrawal from social world and marked reluctance to do anything at all. This is sometimes called pseudodepression because it looks a bit like depression but is not accompanied by bleakness and chronic negative thoughts. In fact, the person will seem euphoric. Damage also results in loss of: interest in his own future; moral compunctions – may laugh at a funeral or urinate in public; ambition; empathy; dignity as a human being. No prefrontal cortex means no society or culture – at least as we humans describe it.

So what? What does this mean for me? How can I use this information?

First, I can let go of a lot of guilt. I am not ready to completely let go of the idea of free will and my personal accountability, but I can accept that I have a lot less control over my actions than I once thought. Many of the mistakes I have made are not my “fault” anymore than a friend of mine is at fault for the fact that cerebral palsy has robbed him of the ability to control his arms and legs. This information lets me directly refute the thoughts in my head that tell me that I am a “bad” person for making mistakes. With work I can gain some control over my emotions and behavior, but I will never be “fully” in charge. No one has complete control of their thoughts and behavior, and it doesn't appear they ever will. Knowing this gives me evidence that I am not broken. I am human.

Second, I can have a more solid foundation of compassion for the failings of others. When I look at someone who was traumatized or injured at an early age I can better understand and accept their "character defects". I can see that I struggle to grow emotionally, that another of my friends struggles at least in part (perhaps in a very large part) to malfunctions in the Prefrontal Cortex. I can see peoples problems with social awareness and “humanness” the same way I see problems with motor control of a person's arms and legs.

Reducing my sense of guilt and increasing my compassion for others are things that I have heard before – mostly couched in “spiritual” or religious terms. Knowing they are linked to something tangible in my brain makes them more real.

Others may choose to dismiss the scientific study of the brain and body as reductionist nonsense. I do not. To use a metaphors straight from the Weirnecke's Region and IPL of my brain, neuroscience has been a greater source of freedom and “salvation” for my “soul” than literature, philosophy and art combined. To me, science does not reduce or diminish my love of life's beauty any more than knowing that sunlight comes from a ball of gas diminishes my ability to enjoy its warmth on my skin.

David's New Beginning

2011-04-15T08:06:00.000-07:00

David Young is at the edge of a new landscape - a new life in California. He is intelligence personified, working its way through a completely new set of possibilities. I have been given the rare gift of watching the process first hand.

At least that is how I feel most of the time. Sometimes I get frustrated. Frustrated that I cannot relieve the suffering that began for David when he was seven years old. At times I see beyond the fifty something body to the heart of a seven year old taken from his adopted parents and I want to cry out. What pain he must have felt. Its sharpness still stabs him when he is frustrated or frightened or just tired. What a joy it is to see him find new ways to put the suffering aside.

David and I are moving past old hurts today. We are waiting for the curtain to rise on the final act of a miracle. His life in Iowa, capped by a 26 year imprisonment in a tiny apartment, is over. He is Columbus in a new world. Something many said could never happen is in fact materializing from the mist of what once was but a dream, David's Dream. Two years ago he could scarcely imagine seeing the Pacific Ocean and the Castro District of his beloved “SanFra”. Now he is preparing for a new beginning at Acorn Apartments in Oakland.

We had doubts, doubts that were encouraged my some, thankfully, they were not reality. Acorn has approved the application for David's new apartment. Oakland Housing Authority will come to inspect it on April 25. After that we sign the lease. Ten days from now, David should be moving into his new home.

I sip my coffee and remember the journey. If you think only of David's living arrangements (the same tiny apartment for 26 years) or allow yourself to be distracted by his clothes (hand me downs and Goodwill) you might conclude that he is “challenged” in some way. You would be wrong. Since meeting him seven years ago I have been constantly entertained by his surprising wit. We'll be driving along the highway or I'll be listening to him growl his way through a meal and suddenly he will spout out an observation worthy of a poet, stand up comedian or philosopher. Some of my favorites...

The hills of California - “These hills are fuzzy. Soft. Made of velvet.”

California's wild array of vegetation - “Those plants are whimsical. Some of them look like tribbles.”

Passing through Pottawatmie county in Iowa - “This is the home of the Pottawatmies. They are 99.9% fur. They are very sought after because they don't exist.”

After buying a new map - “You know, if you turn it sideways,Iowa looks a lot like a hot water bottle. The east is the top and the west is the bottom. Nevada looks like one of the cases a new microscope comes in. California is a wine flask.”

Crossing the Missouri and leaving Iowa - “Iowa is like an old mattress – comfy, but tired and worn out.”

Driving across the high plains he noticed sedimentary layers of the cliffs - “We are driving across an ocean without getting wet.”

One of the greatest sources of amazement for David is California's flora and fauna. “I will have to get an entire new 'degree' in biology. There are so many new creatures in my new lake (his name for the Pacific) that I cannot name them all.”

David also has a temper. Honed by years of frustration and fear he can burst out in rage. Yesterday we stopped for an emergency piss break. David charged into a restaurant and was turned away. He was hopping mad when he returned to the car.

“That damn lady let me walk all the way to back into her restaurant before she told me, 'Only customers can use the bathroom.' I really had to pee damn it!”

But David's anger never lasts. He is soon overcome with remorse and fear that he has offended or hurt someone. Beneath the crustiness, baked into him by fear, lies an ocean of compassion.

Two days ago, he came to the door of my room, sobbing so hard I thought he would suffocate. He had just heard that Linda, a friend of many decades, has cancer. I heard a lifetime of pain in his crying. I was struck dumb. I could only sit silently as he poured out grief beyond measure. I finally spoke.

“Maybe Linda would be happy for you today. Remember, you are starting a new life.”

I felt like I worked for Hallmark, but David seemed to appreciate the offer of consolation.

“Thank you,” he said. “You know Dale, a few years ago, after my stroke, I felt like giving up. Then you took me to California and Barry showed me the Pacific.”

Embarrassed, I said, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

We laughed.

“Thank you, Dale.” he said again as he left for his room.

I stared out the door at the broken fountain gurgling in the courtyard of our mouldering motel.

“No David,” I said. “Thank you.”

2011-03-20T01:20:00.000-07:00

Watch live streaming video from libya17feb at livestream.com

Perfect Lies

2011-03-19T08:09:00.000-07:00

They creep in when I am tired. They never come in through the front door. Always one will scratch at a screen on one side of my mind while its mate scampers in the open window opposite. Pesky little creatures, they will run about my mental house turning over furniture, breaking mirrors and creating havoc. Sometimes they leave quickly. Sometimes they remain for days on end. Sometimes they settle in and take up permanent residence.

There are many types of lies, but the most numerous for me are those based on that master lie of lies - perfection. For example, the chairs in the living room of my thoughts are sturdy, covered with many different textures and colors, and are shaped for the contours of a wide range of bottoms. Some of them rock a bit due to irregularities in the length of their legs, but on the whole they provide comfortable seating for me and any guests who happen to drop by. I have come to cherish them as much as, if not more than, longtime friends and family.

This happy state of affairs is disrupted as soon as perfection enters. Perfection invariably casts a harsh, judgmental eye over my collection. It claims to hold the one true measure and standard of “chair-ness” and uses this tool to assess the qualities of any chair on which it happens to sit. In smug, self assurance, perfection pronounces the endless ways my mental furniture fails to measure up; turning every characteristic into flaws and shortcomings. Under its baleful gaze, all my chairs are broken down and scarcely worthy keeping about the place.

“This chair is too mushy. How is a body supposed to find support in this pile of oatmeal?” says perfection when it sits on my dreams of love and kindness.

Moving to my hopes about my writing, perfection will say, “This chair is truly pitiful and narcissistic. Its paint is sloppy. It shows little promise of becoming anything other than a plant stand for cacti – tiny cacti, the variety that never grows but merely sits there in endless contemplation of its insignificant thorniness.”

“Why is this chair even here at all?” perfection says about my joy in science and reason. “This chair isn’t really even a chair. It’s more like an iron bench, a rusty one. How you ever hope to use it as anything other than an instrument of torture is beyond me. Can you not see it is too cold, rigid and ugly for use by anyone who values beauty and inspiration?”

On and on, perfection will rant; removing any and all joy I might take in my furnishings. By the end of a visit by perfection I am ready to burn down the entire house, or at a minimum, commit myself to a hospital for refurbishing. Lately however, I have begun to see that thoughts based on perfection are lies and illusion.

I know of no place in nature where perfection exists. It relies on my believing in some supernatural place of residence – a perfect land containing the true essences of all things; a land from which I and my “pitiful” life have “fallen” to become but pale shadows of the true beauty in their former home. Where this perfect land exists, who requires it to exist and how it is maintained are questions that seem open to considerable debate. Many people claim to know the location of the land of perfection, and are willing, even insistent, on showing me the path for getting there.

Unfortunately, there seems to be considerable disagreement on the matter of perfection’s location and the path to achieving it. To me this illustrates “perfectly” why perfection is more a matter of opinion than a tangible fact. The most “perfect” diamond, a crystal of “pure” carbon, contains at least a few molecules of other elements. A perfect one or a perfect zero has never been measured – each attempt landing somewhere slightly above or below the mark. In computers, this “imperfection” is one of the major causes of program errors. The platinum/iridium bar used as the standard for measuring meters changes over time as molecules are oxidized. No substance is perfectly pure. No action generates perfectly good or perfectly bad outcomes. I may “imagine” or “dream” of descending from a perfect world but doing so is no more fruitful than imagining I have come from a planet inhabited entirely by unicorns.

Knowing this simple fact gives me great comfort. It helps me be gentle with myself and others. It allows me to recognize that none, “not no one, not no how” to quote the guard at the gate of Oz, can claim perfection. My agnosticism about the matter has allowed me to realize that pursuing perfection as a path of happiness makes as much sense as pursuing leprechauns to find their pot of gold. I recognize that it is “possible” that there is a land of perfection. There may be leprechauns. There may even be a pot of gold. There is no way to “perfectly” prove the non-existence of anything. However, based on the evidence and experience I have seen to date I see that the probability of perfection and leprechauns is vanishingly small.

With this knowledge, I can return to my mental home and rest in relative ease. My chairs are not broken. I may choose to refurnish or repaint them from time to time, but I do so as an accommodation and kindness to my guests and the society in which I live. I do not find it helpful to arrange and alter my mental furnishings in pursuit of abstractions such as perfect mental health, perfect emotional sobriety, perfect kindness, perfect enlightenment or any other form of perfect. It is far better for me to appreciate the beauty of my chairs and be grateful for the comfort they provide. I leave perfection to those who can only achieve happiness by constantly striving for ever greater enlightenment, truth, or (insert favorite goal here). Once I was among their number, dreaming of a day when I finally would achieve perfection of some kind or another (even if it was only to be the perfect me). Today I find that pursuing perfection can be an entertaining hobby but that it is a poor career choice. Perfection is a lousy houseguest. I intend to show it the door with ever increasing frequency.

Evidence and Lost Innocence

2011-03-06T03:53:00.000-08:00

Further evidence of insanity...

Danny said, “Couldn't help wonderin' if besides lovin' women didn't I love men a little too? Didn't hardly know what to do. So I wrote.”

Once again the night has woken me without a sound. Unless you count the voices in my head. There is that within them that cannot be named; beauty, beauty, beauty, and pain beyond all measure. The night hides wonders of razor edged joy so sublimely ravaged by fear and anger that they throw me from bed wide eyed in wonder so awesome and profound that sleep must be left to times of a duller mind.

What to be said? What to be seen? What to be sung in this place of dreams?

Buried deep in this old man's brain, a young child's heart sees scenes cast away against it's will: a lazy afternoon of sunshine; a grassy hill edged with a blackberry's thorny sweetness; a lover's arms, pale and flecked with red from ancestors who sailed wooden ships from seas to the north. He lies next to me, his creamy skin glows against green almost deep enough to be blue. I stare into his eyes. There is mystery there and longing for the love I was told never to express. I can call him Billy but his names are many and his love is sweet. From a deep grave of forbidden earth it calls to me. How can I reach it? How can it be freed? How can I know if it is imagined? Is it a reality or just a disease?

No. It is not sickness. This love is whole not broken. It is profound not profane. It is a sacred celebration separated by eternity from the lies of disease and sin.

Billy let me kiss you. I will slide my tongue along your lips. My nose will nuzzle your ear, finding that little spot perfectly shaped for safe harbor. Let me gaze into turquoise eyes rimmed with copper lashes. I will feel your breath, warm with the smell of fruit. Your hand will brush my cheek, rousing my blood with joy freed from eons of guilt. Your smile will show me that life indeed lives in this chest, that what fills my lungs is pure not diseased, that happiness comes even if others call it evil. I will open my mouth to your tongue's embrace. My fingers will trace a path from your nipples - down, down, to caress your softness and feel it harden in my hand. Lips will follow the trail blazed by touch, opening to enfold the musty and vibrant wonder, taking it deep and deeper still. Mouth and member will move in rhythm to a pulse ancient and profound taking us beyond self, catapulting us into brilliance. I shall rise and slide into you, feel your warmth caress me, welcome me, hold me tight as if saying, “Never leave. Never leave. Stay within forever.” Pulsing quickly we will soar to a timeless place where love explodes into the all within all. We will sleep in each others arms and wake to evening's cool breeze. I will kiss the top of your head, feeling the feathery softness of your hair. You will wake from your nest in the crook of my arm knowing it will always be there to protect you. You will swear to eternally stand against those who would do me harm. Boy to boy. Hand to hand. We will send our love to an old man typing in the night. We will give him a smile to prop open the door in the dark, leaving a crack for the light of our hillside love – the innocence of innocents, hugging him when he fears the night.

“Don't make no sense to me,” said Danny, “but I guess if that's what it was, then that's what it was.

Less Than Kind

2011-03-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

Caution: The following is yet another of the apparently endless ramblings that clatter around in my head. It likely has no relevance or entertainment value to anyone not living between my ears. Read on at your peril. Perhaps you are masochistic. Or you may be a fan of watching the suffering of others, a kind of “schadenfreudinista”. Who am I to judge? If you are sane, you will go on about your day and ignore the following entirely.

I was discussing cabbages and kings, the meaning of life and other things with a friend. I mentioned that I sometimes over commit the level of support I can provide to others, or rush in to “solve” others problems before they ask for help. When this occurs I can exhaust myself and end up resenting the person whom I am trying to “help” or “save”. He suggested that I write about the issue. He knows me well. Long ago I learned that writing out my thoughts often helps clarify my thinking. Even when no clarity arises, I derive comfort from the simple pleasure of seeing my thoughts materialize before me. Something about the appearance of letters on the page feels magical, as if the white emptiness creates the letters on its own...talking to me in a voice that is at once familiar and alien.

So, why do I carry the desire to be “nice” or “kind” to extremes? What do I get from it? Tough questions. It is easy to come up with facile replies like, “You do it because it makes you feel important”; “By 'helping' others you are able to ignore your own issues”; or “By 'helping' others you fill an emptiness in your life, fighting off the fear of being unloved and alone.” Perhaps all of these are true to some extent. Perhaps they are completely true. Maybe there is nothing more. I suppose, I can accept that these answers paint an accurate picture of my character, even though the the image is fairly depressing.

However, as is always the case with my magnificent magnifying mind, I must ask if there is more. All of my typical answers to my problem are linked to moral views that arise from years of fundamentalist programming. They start with the assumption that I am born in “original” sin, that I am flawed, broken, and in need of divine intervention to improve my character (if not my chances of living in eternal bliss after I die). Are there reasons for my behavior that are not rooted in a “grandiose” sense of self? I think there may very well be.

I do feel good about myself when I feel I am helping others. There is fairly sound neurological evidence for why this may be so. The mirror neurons in my brain respond to the reactions of those around me. They are what allow me to feel the pain and pleasure of others, the empathy for their point of view. Thus, if I act in a manner that creates happiness in those around me, I am more likely to feel happy myself. This view of things is less judgmental and I believe more accurate than a fundamentalist view of life. Certainly, it has more evidence to support it than the idea that my acts of kindness are derived from supernatural orgins.

I think the issue may be that like any other neurological process, the pathways that drive me to be “kind” can become overloaded. There are times when they go into overdrive. Perhaps my mirror neurons become “addicted” to the endorphins generated by seeing others become happy as a result of my efforts. Maybe this in turn drives me to try and be evermore “kind”, eventually bringing me to the point of mental and physical exhaustion. I have not yet run across the research that would allow me to verify this hypothesis. But, it offers an intriguing alternative to supernatural answers. It is a point of view that is far more helpful to me. A path that allows me to deal with my “issue” without judging myself or others as being evil or hateful. I may be confused at times, but I no longer accept the proposition that I am evil or flawed. Often I do not see things clearly. I have even felt hatred toward others and acted to harm them in many ways, and, I have received hatred and harm from others. The choice is whether I see hatred and kindness as purely metaphysical, religious or philosophical issues or whether I see them as also having a very strong physiological and neurological component. But I digress.

Regardless of the cause, the fact remains that I sometimes find myself in situations where I have multiple people expecting, (or at least I feel they are expecting), more “kindness” from me than I am capable of delivering. What to do?

First and foremost for me is to avoid judging or condemning the other person or myself. It is far better for me to recognize that a large part of the experience is perfectly natural, unpleasant perhaps, but just a natural consequence human evolution. Some people's mirror neurons likely function better than other people's, just as some people's synapses fire more quickly than the rest of the population. Perhaps my mirror neurons are more suited to long distance running with emotional issues than they are to sprinting past them, or hurdling over them. Who can say? The point is that I am not at “fault” or “sinning”. I sometimes am ill equipped to handle the level or type of “kindness” stress in which I find myself. If there is fault on my part it is for over estimating my capacity for kindness in a given situation. I am no more evil than a marathoner who runs one league too far.

Second I must be wary of situations and people that invite me to promise or try to provide more “kindness” than I can provide. This is particularly difficult for me. My long history of trying to be like “Jesus” or some other imagined level of perfectly kind being was come by honestly. Yet it can be deadly. Often I see people or situations that look risky to me and think, “that may be more than I can handle”, yet I charge ahead anyway. The pathway for reason is overridden by the programming of perfection I received early in life. I see the risk, I acknowledge that it likely will not turn out well, yet I am driven to accept the “challenge” because I want to be “more like Jesus” or I believe it is my “duty” to sacrifice myself for the good of another. Whenever I stop short, pull back, or run away from such situations I generally feel guilty, like I have failed. I have to continually inventory the facts of the situation with a trusted friend. Sometimes with several.

Third I must accept the truth of the phrase “to thine own self be true”. Sometimes when I inventory a situation with my friends I find no relief – most if not all of them disapprove of my actions. Sometimes when I talk things over with friends I hear only that I have been a bad person, that I have been evil. This can set me off on the path of self hatred that leads nowhere and benefits no one. I must accept that no matter what I do, sometimes people will think I have not performed the way I should have. At these times I have to return to the facts. Was I trying to be kind or was I intentionally trying to hurt someone? If I was intentionally trying to hurt someone then I try to make amends. If I wasn't then I must accept that sometimes many if not most of my closest friends will think poorly of me.

Finally, I have to be careful with the idea of perfection. I have come to believe that the Platonic ideal of perfection is one of the greatest lies ever created by philosophy and religion. There is no evidence for “perfection” that I know of. Everything and everyone will seem less than “perfect” depending on the measure used and the one doing the measuring. Many people standing on a riverbank watching a man trying to save a drowning child will be forever haunted by the feeling that they are less “perfect” than the man. Many, like me, will carry the image the rest of their lives, feeling guilty whenever it comes to mind. They will be unable to see the simple fact, that the man in the river represented nothing more than the confluence of a particular set of events and decisions at a given point in time. They will not understand that many of them have done, or will do similar acts of kindness (sometimes without even being aware of them).

As near as I can tell, there is no hierarchy of kindness. All acts of kindness, no matter how “small” or “large” seem to add to the general health of myself and those around me. Often the things I see as very small have the “largest” effect, and often my greatest “sacrifices” go unnoticed (which can really piss me off). The idea of perfect kindness requires me to compare myself to a lie, the lie that somehow, someone “better” than me could be kind under all conditions with all people. I know of no evidence that such a creature or being ever has or ever will exist. All the models of perfection I am aware of have “feet of clay” somewhere along the line. Jesus got pissed at moneylenders. God got so angry at humanity that he drowned his own creation in a flood. Gandhi had a self-aggrandizing and political side according to some who were closest to him. Martin Luther King apparently had lovers. Given the failings of such august company, who am I to aspire to perfect kindness?

I can try to make changes. I will make some. But I recognize that even in addressing such a minor issue as creating pain for myself by trying to be “too kind”, I will be less than perfect. Oh well. The coffee tastes good and the sun is shining.

Unconditional Happiness

2011-02-15T11:04:00.000-08:00

Preface – All of the following, as is true of anything I write, is only my opinion. I share it with no intention of having it viewed as universally true. In fact as you will see as you read, I do not believe in universal truth or certainty. To be completely honest each sentence should begin with something like, “In my opinion...” or “In my experience...” Feel free to add such word salad if you like. If you do it will take you longer to read my text, but who am I to deny anyone the pleasure of prolonging the agony of my words?

Many days it looks like the world is hopeless and that I am powerless to do anything about it. Worse, there are even moments when I feel that it is my fault that things are the way they are, and that my inability to change them is due to a lack of moral courage and faith. Thankfully, I know that these feelings are based on false assumptions. They are lies.

It's true that today millions of people will starve, be abused, maimed and killed. Many more will suffer silently from despair, hopelessness, guilt, anxiety or any number of other conditions that will sap their strength and in some cases, their willingness to continue with life. It is true that much of what surrounds me is driven by fear and anger; that many people (including me) focus on immediate pleasures rather than long term health; that we often feel trapped in an inescapable prison with bars made of DNA, environment, religious laws, cultural history and “scientific” confusion.

It's true that today I probably will eat some things that damage my heart, body and brain. It's true that I will not exercise as much my body needs to achieve maximum health. It's true that I will not be kind to everyone I meet. It's even true that I likely will intentionally hurt others and that they will return the favor.

All of these truths, all of these facts can lead me to see little but darkness ahead. This matrix of “reality” can cause unending pain and despair. But there is happiness as well.

Once I found solace in believing that somewhere there was a magical God, book or teacher; some being or knowledge that could suspend the laws of nature for my benefit; a path to be free from suffering and even death itself. I spent decades searching for such a person. I read and discussed hundreds of books, I attended thousands of religious and “spiritual” meetings and workshops. I prayed. I begged. I struggled. I “failed”.

I did find some relief. I did find some hope. But eventually, always, these practices gave me no lasting peace. Suffering returned as soon as I asked questions. I was told not to question, many times. But telling me not to question is like telling a bird not to fly. Asking questions is the core of who I am. If I stopped asking questions I don't know what I would be. I might even be “truly happy” as many people define it. But, I would not be Dale. Perhaps this desire or insistence on questioning things is at the heart of my suffering. I don't know. For whatever reason, unquestioning faith or belief is not my path. Either through choice, destiny, or as some might have it – from being possessed by Beelzebub himself, I neither wish to nor know how to cease questioning.

I am especially driven to question anyone who says they know for certain how to attain happiness. Usually such gurus require acceptance on “faith” without questions or evidence. When I encounter these “dudes” and “dudettes” you may as well slam the door shut and call me late for supper. My questions mean the land of certainty far from my reach. One by one each religious or spiritual path has faded from my life, obscured by its resolute certainty and dogma. Each religious or spiritual path I've encountered has a set of steps, laws, beliefs or practices that they claimed will result in happiness for “anyone” who chooses to follow them. The only condition is that I followers accept the beliefs without question. If this condition is met, the paths and teachers claim the followers will receive happiness and joy, if not in this life, then at some future time and place where the “faitful” will experience joys that cannot be imagined by those trapped on this material plane.

I have been told numerous times that the reason I question things is that I am egotistical and have narcissistic tendencies. This likely is true. Frequently these criticisms are delivered by people wearing funny robes and hats, who believe the world is 6,000 years old, or who have memorized ancient texts and yell out verses whether I ask for them or not. There are those too who have been “overcome” by deep feelings of enlightenment, who speak in tongues and who dance filled with “rapture”. I have a hard time accepting the criticism that I am egotistical from these people. When someone wearing multicolored robes in a 21^st century city or who claims Noah's Flood caused the Grand Canyon calls me narcissistic it is difficult not to laugh out loud.

To be fair, I have felt holy and happy when practicing some religions or following spiritual or transcendental paths. I also felt pity for those who did not see the light of my wise practice. Some of those I pitied, took issue with my sanctimonious certainty and called me a tight assed little shit. I blessed them. I prayed for them to be freed from the “hardening of their hearts”, that prevented them from accepting the “love” I was so freely offering.

Each religion and spiritual path I have encountered places absolute, unchanging and unquestionable conditions on happiness.

They say,“Follow us and you will be happy, or at least happier, if you follow our path. It is after all the ONLY one true path for ALL people, for ALL time.”

They cannot all be correct. Yet certainty is never in short supply among religious and spiritual leaders. I have experienced this certainty and it was comforting. Eventually, however I found myself wondering, “Why do the leaders have such prejudice against those who do no follow the path?”; “Why is there such a resistance to changing our views when we find out new information?”; “Why isn't it okay to say 'we don't know the answer to that'?”; “Why am I asked to reject any opposing points of view without investigating them?”

Once I realized the metaphysical paths were closed to me, I felt condemned. I was doomed to live in this awful material world to live under the rule of fang and claw. Clearly there could be no happiness in this dog eat dog world. But, wait a moment, perhaps I was being too hasty. What if one were to become top dog, or at least a member of the ruling pack?

I dove into the business world with a vengeance. I worked hard and partied harder. Much to my surprise I had a knack for selling air. As a consultant, I won't say that I never delivered value to my clients. I did help bring about some positive changes in my client's organizations, but I soon realized that much of the time I was gathering information from those doing the work and repackaging it for digestion by upper management. If executives had the humility and openness to listen to their employees, if they took the time to look honestly at themselves, if they carefully observed their customers and competition, using consultants would be like selling coal in Newcastle. Instead, many executives spend more time on the politics of becoming and remaining top dog than they do listening to the “ignoramuses” that work for them. Not every executive fits this bill, but there are enough of them to guarantee a good living for consultants. I've met more than my share, and have even tried to become one. My fangs were too dull and my bite was too weak for me to achieve the highest levels of management, but I did get close enough to get a taste of the red meat.

Eventually, I found myself sitting in a house the size of a small hotel within walking distance of one of the Florida's premier beaches. Professional golfers lived down the road. My suits were tailored from Dormeuil. The leather for my shoes and belts came from exotic, nearly extinct species. I spent more on meals and single nights in hotel rooms than I paid for a semester of tuition at university. If material success was the condition for happiness I should at least have been mildly buoyant on most days. For a time I was. Then the questions returned.

How could I justify having so much when others had so little? Why was it alright for me to live as I lived while millions died from lack of a vaccine costing less than 50¢? Shouldn't I feel guilty? Was life in the end just dogs eating dogs? What would happen if a bigger dog decided to eat me?

My travels took me to places in the world where I had tread carefully to avoid having my shoes soiled by human excrement. I once worked in an office where every morning I walked past a homeless mother with a baby on each hip. She sold packets of plantains fried in a hubcap over a fire made of dung. I bought a packet every day and pretended to eat them until I got inside and tossed them into the trash. I told myself that such situations were an unavoidable part of the human condition, that in fact by “doing business” in the mother's country I was improving the chances that her children would have a better future. I was bringing civilization to them. I was helping them. Somehow, at night when I went home to a compound guard by men with machine guns it was hard to convince myself that my motives were “pure” and that I was in fact making things better.

Life, by means of cancer and mental illness, removed the career that gave me a sense of purpose. I woke one day to find myself cast out of the pack. I still had some money, but it was clear for the first time in a long time that I was not in control of my fate. Fear and depression set in. I was still surrounded by material comfort, but the tangible certainty it once provided was gone.

I dove headfirst in to the program that helped me give up recreational drug use in 1990-91. I worked hard to “help” others to realize and practice its spiritual principles. Once again, I found myself looking for the right conditions for happiness in a “spiritual path”. Once again, it proved useful. Once again, the questions undermined its effectiveness. As soon as I began viewing the program as a source of happiness. Some told me this was because I gave the program more importance than the spiritual power that was the programs inspiration. In their view if I only would give myself more fully to the program and its spiritual power, if only I met those conditions I would be happy.

Religious conditions, material conditions, psychiatric conditions, program conditions – which conditions will yield the greatest happiness for me? How long will they last? But wait. I am mentally ill. Should I try to find a medication that eliminates my questioning? Should I undergo more ECT treatments? Is there a stronger pill?

I began driving, a source of great comfort to me. On one trip I found blackness darker than any I had ever encountered. I gave up. I went into a gas station bathroom firmly convinced that it would be best to end things. As I stood before the mirror, looking at my reflection I was slowly overcome with a sense of great peace. Maybe there were no conditions. Maybe I was forcing conditions on my happiness. Maybe I was just tricking myself into believing my happiness required conditions.

I stopped staring. I looked around at the bathroom. What a mess. Why do gas station restrooms always look like the scene of an interrupted circle jerk or a turd flinging festival?

“Oh, well”, I thought, “...may as well clean it up a little for the next guy. May as well be kind.”

As I cleaned, the old familiar questioning began. Did I want my happiness to be based on conditions so that I could control it? Did I simply want the certainty of telling myself - “I'll be happy when I find someone to forgive me for my sins?”, “I'll be happy when I 'work the program' well enough?”, “I'll be happy when I am mentally, spiritually and physically fit?”, “I'll be happy when I find the perfect mate, have the perfect child and become the perfect old fart with grand kids on my knee?”,”I'll be happy and fulfilled when everyone in the world is happy and fulfilled?”

I only had a sliver of soap and paper towels to work with, so my cleaning took quite a while. As I worked I imagined how I would have enjoyed finding a clean restroom, rather than the mess I was cleaning. I began to hum. I was happy. Evidently, the “condition” of trying to be kind helped me to be happy.

Perhaps there is a set of spiritual or religious conditions that will bring the world to happiness. Perhaps there is a magical text to be studied. Perhaps we will learn enough through science to create a “heaven” on earth. I don't know. I likely never will know. But I do know that I will keep questioning. I know that I kindness does not require me to accept anything blindly. I know that acting with kindness greatly improves my chances of happiness. I have evidence. A whole string of evidence that began may have begun the day I was born but that came to focus in a gas station bathroom.

When friends take time out of their day to speak with me I see kindness. When I send an email to my friend in Uganda and we discuss how he might sell coffee with a friend from Uptown Bill's I see kindness. When I recall my friends in Egypt taking in a stranger, treating him as if he were royalty, calling him friend and “brother” I see kindness. I am happy.

For me, there is no magic. There is no mystery. There is no path. There are no conditions other than kindness. I knew kindness before I could speak. I know it now and I practice it (at least some of the time), not to be good, not to be saved and not to be admired although I like feeling good, holy and famous. Kindness for the sake of these things these things may be useful, but they are the enemies of the kindness I value most. If my kindness depends on conditions, if you have to earn it, if you have to get a degree in it, or if it is linked to recognition it becomes something else – it starts to smell like dogs eating dogs to become the “kindest” dog. The kindness that brings me happiness comes in moments I cannot anticipate, and is best done when and where no one else can see it. The happiness I receive from this kindness has no conditions that are controlled by me. Like gravity it simply is. At long last, I can accept that. Any questions I have about the power of kindness are easily tested by simple practice – the opportunity to gather and create evidence is all around me.

There is much suffering in the world. I did not cause ALL of it. I cannot cure ALL of it, perhaps none of it. But my kindness can relieve a little of it. With kindness I can be happy, if only for a little while. (And I can still ask questions!)

Noam and Renad react to Egypt and the changing Middle East

2011-02-10T23:59:00.000-08:00

Looks like it's time for old farts like me to step aside. :-) A little more listening and a little less lecturing?

EGYPT: IT'S THE ECONOMY STUPID

2011-02-04T02:35:00.001-08:00

The Egyptian men in this picture are waiting and hoping for some construction work. The photo was taken about two weeks prior to the current period of unrest. These workers likely earn no more than 100 Egyptian Pounds per month, probably less. This is about $20.00 for an entire month of back breaking labor.

As I watch the coverage of Egypt it sounds like many pundits and politicians are saying that the demonstrations in Egypt are a result of religion or religious extremism. When I was there, I did not see any evidence of this. Most Egyptians I met are proud to be Egyptian, proud of their heritage, and accepting of religious differences. For example, a bomb killed many people attending New Years eve Mass at al-Qiddisin Coptic Church in Alexandria, Egypt. The Egyptian Government reported that the bomb was set by external Muslim terrorists. Perhaps it was external terrorists but equally and arguably more important was the fact that the next day, thousands of Muslims (many of them members of the Islamic Brotherhood) demonstrated support of the Coptic Christian Community.

The Egyptians I met are more concerned about feeding their families than they are about religious differences. One friend earns about 600 Egyptian Pounds (EGP) per month, or around $100. He and his wife, his two sons and his daughter live in an apartment not much bigger than the hotel room where I sit writing this note.

Most Egyptians love America and Americans. But they don't understand why the US and other Western democracies have supported the dictatorship of Mubarak. They wonder why we support a man who would be reviled if he lived in the US simply because it suits our national interests. They are envious of our freedom and prosperity and they want a chance to achieve the same. They are hungry for the chance to build a modern, multiracial, multicultural, religiously tolerant nation.

While it is true that extremists of all kinds exploit poverty and social unrest, it is important to remember that hunger and a lack of hope open the door to radical ideas and beliefs. I am worried that many in the news and on Capitol Hill are screaming that Egypt's troubles are a result of terrorist groups like Al Qaeda. Some say the Islamic Brotherhood is a terrorist group despite the fact that Al Qaeda hates the Islamic Brotherhood for its push for democracy - something that Al Qaeda and many other terrorists believe is anti-Muslim. Blaming Egypt's problems on religious differences is a lie. The unrest is not about an effort to spread Sharia law, it is about not having enough to eat and not having the right of self-governance without outside interference. I hope we keep our eyes on the facts and are not swayed by those who want to exploit our fears for their own personal power and gain.

I hope we keep our focus on the Egyptian people and how we can help them, rather than dwelling on our own political motives and fears. If we help the Egyptian people achieve freedom we will establish a solid foundation for a long term relationship. If we continue backing Mubarak against the will of the people, or attempt to cloud the issue with our own fears of terrorism, Al Qaeda and other groups like it will win. They will win without lifting a finger as we run away from a people seeking the same liberties that we run the risk of sacrificing due to our fear of terrorists.

Letter To Tony

2011-01-30T21:29:00.000-08:00

My friend Tony and I have been discussing Sam Harris' new book, The Moral Landscape. Tony is a very spiritual and loving man. I am not very spiritual, but I think I can at times be loving. I wrote the following during one of our discussions on Facebook.

I understand what you are saying Tony. But I cannot follow you (or Gandhi, or Christ, or Muhammed, Buddha, Thor, Krishna or any of the other thousands of gods or god like teachers) into the world of spiritual and religious dualism. Seeing the world as divided into the spiritual and the physical leads me to unhealthy places. Sit back, have a cup of coffee, and relax while I try to explain what probably appears as my obstinate "refusal" to see the spiritual truths of life.

After you have been locked up a few times for mental illness (even though you have done your damnedest to find and follow religious and spiritual paths), it is nice to know that someone is trying to find out the neuroscience behind how the brain works. Whenever I have been to the hospital, I have had strong feelings that I was worthless - that I was choosing to be sick - that I had failed to follow the right spiritual practice, or yes...that I had SINNED. Trying to use religion and spirituality to overcome this syndrome was like pouring gasoline on a fire. The more I sought contact with some unseen spiritual entity or force the worse things got. Every time I managed a "recovery" from hospitalization it has been logic and science that helped me - NEVER religion or prayer. Meditation was and is useful to me - as long as I see it simply as giving my jangling neurons some down time and reconnecting with nature/the universe, not as some means of finding the perfection of "enlightenment" or connecting with some metaphysical higher power. Looking for "magical" or "spiritual" solutions increases rather than decreases the level of my hallucinations and paranoia.

If I wander off into the dualistic world of spirituality and religion my emotional and mental health suffers. I feel I am a great person when I "sense" that I am following "God's" path, and like shit when I feel like some invisible God is angry at me or that I have improperly aligned my chakras. Sometimes, as you well know, I even get to thinking that I am God or that God has some great purpose for me. This thinking leads to very bizarre and often dangerous behavior. None of the God centered, or spirituality centered paths have worked for me. They have consistently led to deteriorating mental health. People like Sam, Damasio, Ramachandran, etc. have done more for my mental health than my long time study of philosophical "hermeneutics" and religion. I try to practice kindness because it helps my mental health. Neuroscience (at least what I have studied) does not have the complete answer as to why kindness works for me, but it has offered me much clearer, consistent answers (e.g. the phenomenon of mirror neurons) than spirituality.

This does not mean I have lost or given up my sense of wonder and joy at being alive. Far from it. Studying science has greatly increased my love of life. Knowing the "scientific" odds against my being here, the chances against my having friends like you, or being able to type these words makes the experience very precious to me. Knowing that the sun is a ball of burning gas increases rather than decreases my pleasure in feeling its warmth on my skin. Seeing myself as a part of it all, seeing it all as ONE thing, not two separate worlds (i.e. spiritual vs physical) increases rather than decreases my joy. Why? Because I do not have to rely on permission from God, or understanding of some mystical spirituality, to simply be and enjoy my life. I can be like a child before it knows anything about religion or spirits - when it simply enjoys breathing and exploring the wonders around it.

BTW Thomas Jefferson used to deal with his depression in a similar fashion - he drew architectural plans and studied mathematics when he was feeling low. He found that this was more helpful than spirituality.

I AM not saying that I am like Thomas Jefferson (although he also had a magnificent head of hair). I am saying that seeing the world as a unified whole, that I can study, learn and love is much more helpful than seeing myself as living on some, impure, lower level physical plane, in search of, and always less than, some lofty spiritual plane that is "perfect". (Plato was one of the key instigators of this shit (dualism) with his cave analogy. What a dick head.)

Love you Tony

Khufu's Prayer

2011-01-29T18:08:00.000-08:00

I sit at the computer in Atlanta at a Hampton Inn. I have just showered after a series of international flights. My hair is brittle from the shampoo and hard water from a hotel in Amman, Jordan. It is not the fault of the hotel. It is not the fault of the shampoo. It is not the fault of the water. It is not fault. It is fact.

I put on deodorant from Amman. Later I will brush my teeth with toothpaste from Amman. I bought the toothpaste and deodorant from the Golden Tulip Hotel where I stayed as the guest of Royal Jordanian Airlines. I bought the deodorant and toothpaste because my bag was lost the day before on Royal Jordanian Airline, Flight 308 from Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt. The lost bag is not the fault of the airline, it is not my fault for being in Sharm El Sheikh. It is not the fault of anyone or anything. It is simply a fact.

This is the second time I lost a bag on this trip. The first time, was when I fly in to Cairo to begin a month long stay at an apartment I had rented. The bag was lost by Delta or KLM or some other multinational airline company. The bag was found three days later; the day I first met Alaa Ibrahim, the owner of the apartment. Alaa took me and my lost bag to the apartment. When I entered I thought I was standing in a palace. The apartment was bigger than the small house I rent at home in Iowa City. Marble floors, sumptuous living room furniture, an ultra modern kitchen, and bedrooms with intricately carved furniture made me feel as if I were in the home of a dignitary or prince.

From the balcony, I could see the necropolis of Giza. The great pyramid of Khufu (Cheops) rose from the smog, quiet witness to the ageless wonder that is Egypt. Over the next weeks I visited all the right spots and took hundreds of photos that I dutifully edited and posted to Facebook for my friends to see. I was a sightseeing machine. I was so busy seeing the required things that I almost overlooked the greatest sight of all – Alaa and his family.

Alaa, his sister and her husband two daughters and son; his brother Mahmdoah (sp?) his wife and the lovely little Sarah, his father, his mother – all, all of them embraced me and welcomed into their homes as if I were family. Mamdoah invited me to dinner – a huge feast with every delicacy imaginable. Mahmdoah navigated us through Cairo’s insane traffic whenever and wherever I wanted to go. Now that I am “out of Egypt” I miss them.

Some days, when I was tired, I became paranoid and wanted to leave early. But the apartment was a good refuge and Alaa and Mahmdoahs smiling faces soon lifted my spirits. The Egyptian people, at least the ones I met, seemed to love Americans. True, as in any tourist destination, there were numerous efforts to sell me things I did not want for prices that bordered on the ridiculous. In the tourist sections Egypt resembles Disneyland in it endless displays of “authentic” and “genuine” souvenirs. The salesmen take the act of barter as a challenge, prices dropping to half, to a quarter to one tenth of the original quote as they walk away.

One morning after a typically long day of sightseeing and being nagged to buy unwanted trinkets I reached a new level of despair. Who were these Egyptians? Was I nothing but an ATM to them? Was I just the fat cat American, a target, to be taken advantage of in revenge for Western exploitation of the Middle East? I walked to the balcony. There was very little of the typical smog and Khufu’s monument rose above the choc-a-block sprawl of Cairo. The sun turned one side to gold while the other was tinged blue from the lingering night. The vision lifted my spirits with pharaonic power; or perhaps it was paranoia in a new form? I sat at a table and wrote.

May the sun rise up to greet me. May I meet anger and fear with love and kindness. May I see wonder where once I saw filth. May I feel the breath of freedom in places where I have been imprisoned by doubt. My love of this world is not found in ancient books. It does not rise up from the ghosts of wise men from times long past. It does not wait for me “beyond this vale of tears”. I find it in the face of a friend and sense it in the hearts of friends I have not yet met. I carve this love stone by stone from acts of kindness that none can see, with the vastness of the power that maintains the universe, a power without a name. Right here. Right now. This power is with me. It lives within me and surrounds me. It is not magic. It is not religion. It simply is. Studying ancient texts, worshipping, praying, pleading only confuses me, distracting me from the love of life that I was born knowing. For evidence of the power of this love I need only awaken and act with kindness. This is a fact; a fact that frees me from having to find fault with anyone for anything.

Later…more Eygpt lives within and will soon come out.

Things I Hated At 25 That I Like Now…

2010-12-30T03:10:00.001-08:00

A friend asked me to write down a list of things I like now that I hated when I was 25. Here they are.

Science – When I was 25 I saw science as a soulless, reductionist view of the world. To me science robbed the world of its "magic" and joy. Now science is a doorway to wonder. The more I learn, the more I clearly see how things work, the more beautiful they become. Understanding the mechanics of things does not take away their emotional content. My appreciation of life is more profound in the land of science that it ever was in the kingdom of magic.

Calm Discussion – At 25 I loved having heated debates. I still engage in them now at times, but they no longer the same appeal for me. I once heard Professor George Forell assert what he called Forell's Law: "The amount of heat generated in a discussion is inversely proportional to the amount of light shed on the subject." I was certain he was suffering from the early onset of Alzheimer's. How could one reach the truth without a passion for truth? Today, experience has taught me the wisdom of Professor Forell's words. The more emotional I become about a topic the more I reduce my level of understanding.
Being Free of Drugs and Alcohol – At 25 I needed drugs and alcohol to deal with the unpleasantness of life. I even thought and argued that hallucinogens and psychedelics would free my mind. Perhaps moderate use was possible, but at some point I crossed the invisible line into addiction. I remained addicted until age 40. Today I cherish the clarity of thought that I have found without drugs and alcohol. I do not think others need to give up drugs and alcohol. Far from it. If I were in charge I would legalize all illicit drugs, tax them and use the revenues to help people who wanted help. I am neutral on the use of drugs. Some people use them safely and well. I am not one of those, and thankfully I no longer feel the desire to "use drugs like normal people". Life is wonderful enough without enhancements.

Reality – As stated, at 25 I was abusing drugs heavily. In retrospect I think I simply substituted drugs for religion. I was raised in a very religious household. I think in many ways I was "addicted" to the certainty and dualistic thinking of religion. The answer to all questions could be found in the Bible which came directly from God Almighty. This certainty gave me great peace and comfort, but it was built on brittle dogma. Once the dogma cracked under the reality of life in an uncertain world I filled the void with drugs. Today, without drugs or religion I feel lighter and the sun shines more brightly.

Embarrassment – At 25 I constantly worried about what others thought of me, that they would not like me. I still feel this at times, but far less often. I may not be wiser but I am not fearful about showing my ignorance or even my ass when the occasion warrants. At the risk of sharing too much information, I will say that (for reasons to lengthy to cover here) I once stood nude at my hotel window, peed into a cup and then drank it. Some have and continue to see this act as a sign of insanity. I do not. No one was hurt, offended perhaps, but no physical harm was done. I sometimes wonder if our puritanical belief that the body and its functions are "nasty" is not a greater sign of insanity than peeing into a cup and drinking it. Not to worry. Such actions are not a regular activity on my part. Most of the time I even wear a T-shirt when I swim, so that people are not subjected to the "nasty" flab of the old white dude. I know the rules and obey them at least most of the time.

Uncertainty – At 25 I was still on the hunt for "the" truth. I thought my prey could best be pursued through metaphysics, philosophy and spiritual means. If I could only find the right teacher, the right book, the right meditative practice I was sure that I would achieve enlightenment. Enlightenment. Oh how I longed for that blessed land of the "truth" where I would once more feel the safe haven of certainty. Today I welcome uncertainty. How boring life would be if all questions truly were answered? I prefer the angst and uncertainty of skepticism and science to the smugness I had when I was on a spiritual path. When someone engages me in evidence free discussions of "truth" I am like the little old lady in the Wendy's commercial. I can't resist thinking, "Where's the beef?"

Periods of Celibacy – At 25 my gonads drove my life. Now, in part due to age and in part due to temperament I enjoy periods. Oh all right, I do engage in self-gratification and so I am not a true celibate. But I often find good friendships are destroyed once the Rubicon of sexual intimacy is crossed. People's self-image seems to be more tightly linked to sex than just about anything else I can think of, except religion. After sex with a friend one of us invariably seems to feel a need to for a "stronger" more committed relationship. Once this happens the friendship tends to be replaced by role playing. Instead of sharing from joy, I find myself sharing from duty. So, many times, celibacy is the best course for me. Besides, given my sexual ineptitude, a good conversation generally lasts longer and is more enjoyable.

Being Alone – At 25 I was desperately afraid of being alone. I spent much of my time thinking about how to make people like and love me. As I have aged, I feel less and less of a need to prove myself to anyone. I sometimes worry I am becoming the old codger who steals kid's soccer balls when they trespass on his lawn. Thankfully, I have evidence to the contrary. I often travel and have found myself starting up conversations with most everyone who will pause to pass the time of day. Coffee shops, grocery stores and book stores have replaced bars as places to meet people. Yes, I am the garrulous old fart who wanders over sticks out his hand and asks, "Hi, I'm Dale. What's your name?" Many people turn away but whenever I find myself in a new city I soon have at least two or three people who smile when they see me and who welcome a conversation. So, I guess in one sense I am not afraid of being alone because at long last I feel I am part of the human race a family of over 6 billion. With a family that large I will never be truly alone. I just hope they don't all show up for Christmas dinner.

Freedom From Causes – When younger I was very concerned about the fate of the world and solving its problems. I constantly looked around for the right cause to join. Once I found "IT" I pushed IT to the limit (at least mentally) and discounted anything or anyone who had nothing to add to the IT. I viewed everyone through IT colored lenses. Today, I have no causes. I do visit a few to argue my point of view, but I hardly ever meetings or participate in hierarchies. In fact, I am pretty much an "anti-causist", with one exception. Kindness. I have a goal of acting with kindness at all times. I am not successful but for me the goal remains valid. I could wax on about this, but I have done that in other videos. I will leave it with the simple idea that if I have a cause it is to act with kindness. I do this not for philosophical or religious reasons, but because kindness is like gravity for me, ever present, inscrutable and mandatory.
Myself – One of my least favorite things at 25 was myself. I felt I was broken, flawed and filled with sin. I spent the next 30 years or so trying to find a way to fix myself or be deserving of forgiveness and love. This was a path of great misery. Today, I have not achieved "enlightenment" and frankly I hope I never do. I might get the idea that I should start a church or something. Now I often have peace with being Dale, just Dale – unadorned, unequivocal and free from the need to prove anything to anyone anymore. I get annoyed with people tell me how much better life would be if I understood this book, this philosophy, this teacher, etc. They seem determined to invite me to think of myself as broken and in need of "help", or alternatively as a source of wisdom who should "help" others. This broken and healing or sinning and forgiving model of life has not been useful to me, at least in the long term. It places me on a path filled with illusions. Far better for me (and probably for others) if I live my life as just plain Dale – the weird old dude who likes to write, play with his grandkids, hug his friends and sometimes make videos – the kind of fellow that you might sit and share a cup of coffee with. I like this old dude. I think he is a fine fellow. He needs no fixing as far as I can tell, and definitely is not interested in "fixing" anyone else.

Li’l Bit

2010-12-28T09:32:00.001-08:00

Li'l Bit scratched her hip. Her dress rose up above her knee. She put a finger in her mouth. The finger was chewed to the quick, but Bill didn't mind. He stared at the tan line on her thigh.

"So what you doin' today?" he said.

Li'l Bit slid a flip flop forward. She looked down at the sidewalk, tilted her head to one side and looked at up at him. Her hair was the color of winter honey.

"Just pickin' up a few things for Mamma," she said.

Bill was a senior at Robert E. Lee. Li'l Bit was in her last year at Jackson Junior High. Bill was a halfback for the Rebels. Li'l Bit played clarinet in Mr. Stoskopf's concert band. Bill had gone to hear her last week. Her performance made his penis burn and his stomach twitch; the same burning and twitching he felt right now.

Li'l Bit chewed her lower lip until it turned red. She tossed her hair back, put both hands on her hips, and thrust them forward. Bill was going commando again. Pearl, the Judge's maid, had told him a thousand times that it would give him an infection.

"You just keep on doing that Mr. Bill," she would say, "And you'll get a rash or a blister or somethin'. Just see if you don't."

Bill shifted his stance causing his jeans to rub against his pecker. The rough stimulation and Li'l Bit's flirting almost brought him to climax. To calm himself, he inhaled deeply and blew out an airy whistle.

Li'l Bit leaned forward to within an inch of his face. "So you just gonna stand there huffin' and blowin' like a furnace, or you gonna offer a girl a soda?"

Bill slouched, stuck his hands in his pockets and squinted. He hoped he looked like James Dean or at least Montgomery Clift.

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't. What's it to ya?"

Li'l Bit threw her head back and laughed. Bill stared at her throat. The skin shouted for a hand to caress it.

"It's just me Bill. Who you tryin' to kid? You look like you got gas."

She grabbed Bill's arm and began pulling him toward Hinckley's Creamery. "Let's go. Mamma will worry if I'm too late."

The sun shone through her cheap cotton dress. The straps of her training bra peeped from beneath the collar. Bill heard that she let some boys play with those straps; maybe even more than play.

She said, "Come on slowpoke. They close in a half hour, and like I said Mamma will be worried."

***

Sitting across from her inside Hinckley's, Bill watched her take the straw from her vanilla shake, lick it clean and suck the malt from it before laying it on the table. She took a huge gulp of malt leaving a cream moustache. Her eyes closed and tears formed.

"Damn. Ice cream headache," she said. She banged her forehead with the heel of her hand.

Bill leaned over, took her hand and put it on her throat. She pulled back; her eyes round, her mouth open. Bill jerked his hand away.

He said, "Judge told me it helps if you put your hand on your throat. Says it warms the blood."

"Oh," said Li'l Bit, "My blood is warm all right. I thought you was…"

"You know I would never do nothin' to hurt you Li'l Bit."

Li'l Bit leaned forward, her voice a whisper. "Course I know that. That's wasn't it. It was how you touched me. Like you thought you and me was…"

The smell of vanilla malt made Bill's face warm. He felt like he was wearing an oven instead of pants. He could not look at her.

They stared at the table top and drank in silence.

Li'l Bit said, "Aww… Look at you. You embarrassed? Think you did somethin' wrong or somethin'? Don't worry, you silly willy. It was nice. Real nice."

She reached out a tiny hand and raised Bill's head. He looked into eyes that he was sure could hold the universe with room to spare. They held his gaze then crinkled into a smile. She punched his shoulder.

"Silly willy", she said.

He said, "I ain't no silly willy."

She giggled. "Yes you are. You're my little silly willy."

"No you're the silly willy."

"I bet you remember this one," she said. "Silly willy, bo billy, bonana fanna fo Filly…"

She stood and began shimmying as she sang. She raised her arms and snapped her fingers for the chorus.

"Come on everybody! I say now let's play a game. I betcha I can make a rhyme outta anybody's name…"

She grabbed Bill's hands and tried to pull him up. He refused, but began to clap in time to her dance. Li'l Bit increased her tempo. Mr. Hinckley came over and stood behind her.

Ignoring Bill's pointing finger, Li'l Bit grinned, winked and sang on. "Chuck, Chuck, bo buck, bonana fanna fo…"

A meaty hand spun her around.

"Now just see here Missy, there'll be none of that in here," said Mr. Hinckley.

Robert Hinckley was a tall man. Like Bill, he had played for the Rebels – an all conference tackle, but years of "tasting" new flavors and "cleaning up" leftover ice cream had given him a gut that would frighten a Chinese Buffet. He was a Deacon in the local church and taught a Bible Study about the Old Testament prophets. He was not known for his sense of humor.

Li'l Bit pushed Mr. Hinckley's hand off her shoulder and sat down. The universe's eyes narrowed to lasers and beamed red fire in Mr. Hinckley's direction.

Mr. Hinckley loomed over the table - arms crossed, his tiny mouth frowning atop its triple row of chins. "Just what the heck is going on here?"

Li'l Bit said, "Just folks tryin' to live a little fun you old coot."

"I've had just about enough out of you missy," said Mr. Hinckley. He pulled back a hand to slap her, paused, and slapped the table instead. He turned his ox like head to Bill.

"You're from a respectable family son. Your Father's a Judge and your Mamma's President of the Eastern Star."

He jerked his thumb toward Li'l Bit. "What the hell are you doing with this tramp?"

Bill looked at Li'l Bit. The eyes of the universe rounded into the eyes of the deer he had shot last month. It was on Warren's Ridge; his first time with a rifle. The Judge had decided it was time for Bill to take up "a civilized man's weapon" and put down the scatter gun, a tool of poor white trash, colored folk, and others of low birth and questionable means. Bill winced when he missed the kill shot and hit a lung. When Bill and the Judge finally caught up, the dogs lay gasping outside the thicket where they had run the deer to ground. Bill and the Judge pushed through the brush. The deer lay with its legs sprawled but its head held high. Its breath was hoarse and watery. Its eyes begged for help, but seemed to know none was to be had. The Judge carefully placed the barrel of his revolver over its heart and fired. The eyes faded.

Like the deer, Li'l Bit's eyes begged for help. Like the deer, she knew none would be coming.

Bill said nothing. Every word Mr. Hinckley had said might just as well have come from the Judge's own mouth. The Judge would skin Bill alive if he heard of him hanging out with one of the Tuckers. Everybody knew the Tuckers were trash. They lived in trailers. Tucker women had babies from so many different fathers that keeping track would have required an army of accountants. Tucker men drank, fought and gambled; never holding a job for more than a few days.

"None of you Tuckers will ever own so much as a pot to piss in," the Judge once said to Eustus Tucker, Li'l Bit's Uncle. Eustus wanted to join Shady Grove Baptist Church, where the Judge was head deacon.

"My answer is no of course," said the Judge. "Frankly, I'm surprised a drunk and no account like you even has the nerve to ask."

No, Bill knew he could never be with Li'l Bit, but Li'l bit had a special power. Boys and men she had never met offered to carry her books or brought her flowers. Last Christmas, her Uncle Eustus spied on her while she was in the shower. Afterward he went to her Mamma and his sister, Ms. Ora.

"Watch that one Ora," he said. "She has body that will put her in Hollywood or Hell 'afore she finishes high school."

"Probably," said Ms. Ora "But I'm tellin' her to get it while the gettin's good. She needs to catch a rich man, a respectable man, while she still has your looks. Otherwise she'll end up just like me, with a trailer full of kids with no last names."

Bill wasn't sure if Li'l Bit had ever slept with anyone. He hadn't. He lied about it to avoid getting teased in the locker room. He was afraid of how he felt about Li'l Bit. She made him laugh. He felt truly alive when he was with her, but he knew he could never face the Judge.

The Judge was clear about his plans for Bill's future. He would study the law, like the Judge, like his grandfather and his grandfather; on and on back to Judge Watkins Jenkins, head of the first white family to settle in Silsbee. His family honor and responsibility ran deep, much deeper than his feelings for Li'l Bit. No. It was clear. Bill must go along with Mr. Hinckley.

Li'l Bit knew it before Bill. She looked down at the table top and ran her hand over it, wiping away some unseen speck of dirt.

Bill said, "Sorry Mr. Hinckley. We didn' mean no harm nor nothin'. Did we Li'l Bit?"

Li'l Bit continued polishing the table. "No. We didn' mean no harm. We was just gettin' ready to go anyways. I gotta get home to Mamma."

Bill said, "Yeah. That's right. I expect you're ready to close up anyhow Rob, uh I mean, Mr. Hinckley."

"Yes," said Mr. Hinckley. "Yes I was. Can I call the Judge and tell'im you're on your way home?"

"No need. I'll be home soon enough," said Bill.

Outside he tried to take Li'l Bit's hand. She yanked it free.

"Don't. You best not touch me. I'm a 'tramp'." She crossed her arms and glared at him.

"You might catch somethin'. Worse, somebody might see you. Might get the wrong idea. Ruin your reputation, your family, your…"

Bill held her shoulders. "Li'l Bit please… You know it ain't that way. I'll make it right. You know I will…"

Li'l Bit shook herself free. "All I know is you'll shit and fall back in it,"

She started crying. "How could you Bill? What was you thinkin'? I thought you liked me. Don't you like me? Don't you like me even a little?"

The deer eyes returned. Bill stood mute. Li'l Bit turned and ran picking up speed with every step. Bill ached to follow but remained rooted where he stood. He was an oak, from a long line of oaks that sheltered and supported the little town of Silsbee. Li'l Bit disappeared around a bend in the road.

"She's a deer - born yesterday and likely dead before tomorrow," said Bill. "Trees stay put. Deer run wild."

***

Bill came home to Silsbee during breaks from Rice. He visited Hinckley's Creamery every time. No one was there to sip a vanilla shake. He went to High School reunions despite his hatred for them. No one was there to shimmy or play the Name Game song. He even visited Ms. Ora.

"She just high-tailed it out of here after graduation," said Ms. Ora. "Ain't nobody seen hide nor hair of her since then. Say, ain't you that Jenkins boy she was seeing?"

"Well, we never really 'saw' one another formally. I mean we never…"

Ms. Ora laughed. "Yeah, I know you never. I taught her good. I may not know where she went, but I do know how she went."

"How she went?"

"Yessir. That girl was pure when she left. And I know that for a fact."

"Uh, if you don't mind my asking, how could you possibly know a thing like that? I mean daughters tell their mothers most anything they want to hear. Don't they?"

"Maybe some do. Not Li'l Bit. I know 'cause Doc Weber tol' me when he treated her for cancer down there," said Ms Ora pointing to her groin.

"Oh my God. She had cancer? How?"

"Doc says it was from them pills I took while I was pregnant."

"Jesus. Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Oh don't worry honey. They caught it early and just cut it right out. She was up and around in a week. Good as new in a couple of months."

"Thank God for that much. So Doc said she was a virgin?"

"That's what he said. She stayed that way as far as I know. Doc had to check her every month during her senior year."

"I'll be tied…"

"You look as shocked as Doc was," said Ms. Ora.

"Why would he be shocked?"

Ms. Ora cackled. "Lordy, lordy, you fancy folk sure do lie a lot. Mostly to yourselves. Child, he was shocked because of what you 'n everybody else in this shithole been sayin' and thinkin' 'bout her since she was twelve."

***

Bill returned briefly to Silsbee after getting a law degree from Virginia. He rented offices over the bank and tried starting up the Judge's old practice. He married Helen McGregor. She didn't shimmy but she made a nice home for Bill and gave the Judge two grandchildren, Sandy and Bruce.

After a few years of chasing ambulances and writing wills Bill decided Houston offered better opportunities.

"I wish you would stay here son," said the Judge. "You know you don't really need to work. I can…"

"I can't live that way, Judge. Sorry. I just can't," said Bill.

"I know son. I guess you wouldn't be my son if you could."

Bill joined Brevers, Drew and Wilkins, and settled three multimillion damage suits against Aramco. He became one of the Firm's youngest partners. He bought a small ranch outside of the city and hired a private tutor for the children and sent them to academies. He took an apartment in the city to cut down on the commute. One evening he was eating linguini at Da Marco's and there she was.

Li'l Bit wasn't little anymore. The packaging was marvelous –understated hair and makeup, a black dress and heels spiked high enough let her change light bulbs without a ladder. Bill put down his fork and watched in fascination.

She sat with two other women Bill was sure he recognized from an ad somewhere. The women were chatting with each other but they stopped immediately whenever Li'l Bit spoke, nodding at everything she said.

Bill rose when Li'l Bit went to the restroom and positioned himself at the end of the bar near her table. When she returned she saw him and stopped for a moment before walking over. Bill thought he saw a tremble in her step, but he decided he was mistaken. A woman as beautiful as the one before him must have the self confidence of Cleopatra.

"Bill? Is that you?"

"One and the same," said Bill.

Once more eyes that held the universe with room left over swallowed Bill. She said, "Oh my lord. It is you."

"I am indeed Bill Jenkins. Bill the barrister at your service. Would you like a business card?"

The scent of vanilla beans washed over him; vanilla, and something else. Something exotic. Sandalwood? Cinnabar? No. Not exotic. It was something familiar, a scent made exotic by his distance from it. Vanilla ice cream melting in Silsbee sunshine? Yes that was it. He had left that scent somewhere in years of dusty libraries and numbing domesticity. He realized Li'l Bit had been talking for several minutes. He had no idea of what she had said.

"…and then I met Jared," said Li'l Bit.

"Jared Harris? The hedge fund manager?"

"That's him."

Li'l Bit put her left hand on Bill's arm. The ring finger bore a diamond big enough to be fake.

"Looks like somebody's doing well," said Bill.

She said, "You should talk. Are those slacks Dormeuil?"

Bill laughed. "Yeah. A long way from the jeans I wore the last time we were together. The ones I wore when I cured your ice cream headache."

"I remember. We were singing that song. What was it? Silly willy, bo billy, bonana fanna fo Filly…?"

"Actually, I believe it was more like – Chuck, Chuck, bo buck…"

She joined him for the finish. "…bonana fanna, fo FUCK…"

"I'm pretty sure that's the one," said Bill.

The head tilted back and the neck cried for his touch just as it had all those years ago. Li'l Bit let out a laugh straight from Silsbee. Diners at nearby tables stopped and looked around to see if someone had been injured.

Bill felt happier than he had in years. He wanted to keep the laughter going forever.

He said "Careful Li'l Bit. You don't want to get us thrown out of here like you got us thrown out of Hinckleys."

The eyes of the universe turned black.

"The name is Florence. Florence Tucker. Soon to be Florence Harris."

"I guess I never knew your real name."

"Your kind never does."

"Christ. You know that I didn't mean any offense L'il, er Florence."

"You did not offend me Mr. Jenkins. You simply reminded me of my place. A place and a time I have long ago excised from my memory. Please excuse me. I must return to my friends."

"But I'm your friend. I've always been your friend."

"I'm afraid that word is not in your lexicon, at least not in its traditional meaning."

"Come on. Li'l, er, Florence. I'll make it up to you. I'll…"

She turned on a single stiletto to face him once more. "You'll what Mr. Jenkins? You'll be my friend?" Scarlet lips parted in the smile of a Great White.

"I can think of no better rejoinder than the one I gave the last time you sputtered your kind intentions toward me – 'You will shit and fall back in it Mr. Jenkins.' That is precisely what you will do. That is the full extent of your kind's ability to care about others."

"But…"

"It is impolite to begin a sentence with a conjunction Mr. Jenkins. Surely even lawyers know this simple rule."

As she walked away, Bill could see that the perfection of her neck continued down her back. The line of the black dress dipped to the top of her ass. It was the finest ass Bill had ever seen. It's hemispheres danced in unison and Bill felt the burning he had felt when pretending to be James Dean for a girl in Junior High.

Bill gave up the apartment in the city. He told Helen he needed to spend more time with the family. Delighted, she made sure he had a hot meal to come home to, no matter how late he arrived.

***

Bill's life settled into the routine dream of suburban life. Work, softball, soccer, graduations, and beige colored love with Helen. On holidays, he would take the children to hear the Judge tell stories of the Jenkins clan. They especially liked the one about Wilhelm Jenkins fighting with Sam Houston. Bill pretended to listen while sipping century old Scotch. The Judge sensed his boredom.

"Let's go get us a deer son. We'll head on up to Warren's Ridge and get us a big old buck. That'll lift your mood. I still have your old rifle around here somewhere."

"No Judge. I'm sorry," said Bill.

"What's the matter son? Are you sick? Should I call Doc Warren?"

"No, I'm not sick", said Bill.

"Well what then?"

"Truth is I don't like hunting deer. Never have really."

The Judge snorted like an old tired bull. He said, "Now that's just crazy talk. We Jenkins have hunted deer before God named grass. Are you gonna' stand there and tell me, after all this time, that you never liked hunting deer?"

"No sir. I never have. Not one little bit."

Be Cause

2010-12-23T07:15:00.001-08:00

The titles scream at me everywhere, in my email, in conversations with friends, on the television, on the radio, even on my eyelids when I try to rest at night -Amnesty International, Save the Children, ACLU, Human Rights Council, Americans for Freedom, Jews for Jesus, APAC, AVAZ, AA, NA, Christianity, Buddhism, Islam, even my local favorite - Uptown Bill's Small Mall. They shout, "Adopt our cause and change the world, or at least your neighborhood." It's enough to make a body consider renting the Unabomber's cabin and starting an Anthrax mail campaign.

Today, I sit across from a professed Buddhist. He asks, "Who is your sangha?" My sangha? I'm supposed to have a sangha?

I reply, "I don't have one."

He says, "It gets awful lonely out there."

Out where? In the world? I should feel lonely if I cannot recite a list of organizations and groups I belong to and support? At such times I feel as if I am from some other planet. I hardly ever feel lonelier than when I sit among a particular group of people who profess a common belief or cause. Inevitably, I feel trapped, as if the members will soon tie me to a chair (or at least stare at me pointedly) and insist that I pledge allegiance to their beliefs. Those around me start to look like Chatty Cathy dolls. Pull their string and they will recite the approved phrases. Eventually, something deep inside me resists. "Shut up." it says, "Just shut the fuck up." This practice does not lead to popularity.

In my more grandiose moments, I feel a wondrous connectivity as I walk down the street or sit in a local coffee shop. It's a much deeper connection than I feel when I am in a "special" group. I see all of life as my sangha. My membership card is my DNA. I start up conversations with almost everyone I meet. How could they not want to stop and chat with someone like me? When I am filled with such enlightenment I insist that others realize it. I smile and nod sagely as I listen to their whining. I puff out my chest and congratulate myself for being one of the few that is truly open to and understanding of the world's wonder. The universe becomes my sangha, my church, my political party. I begin to consider setting up a non-profit organization or a church to collect dues and carry my legacy forth unto future generations.

I have learned that such states likely are caused by small seizures in my temporal lobe. They are great fun nonetheless. In the sangha of Dale there is no need for priests, teachers, policemen, or politicians. My sangha is open to anyone who acts with kindness. If they want to tell me about how dangerous it is not to follow their spiritual teachings, if they want to carp about the ignorance of other groups, or if they want me to hate and judge non-members they are not welcome. Filled with hormonal wisdom and joy I try to "teach" others to find their own path to "kindness" as I define it. I do it for the "purest" of motives. After all, it's painful to know I'm the only possessor of universal truth. It would be uncivilized of me not to share it.

In calmer times, I'm less prone to evangelizing, but my discomfort with groups remains. Their "fellowship" seems as imaginary, if not more so, than the sangha of Dale. Their "causes" or "rules" for membership feel like cellular membranes designed to keep out the "undesirables" or those who are "toxic" to the group. Clearly group "membranes" are natural. Perhaps we could not exist without them. Perhaps without membership in groups we would simply dissolve into a morass of formless goo. I don't know. I do know that when I force myself to align with the expectations of a group or its teacher I feel like a patch of goo. The stronger or more passionate the group's "cause", the gooier I become.

I think I'll avoid special groups for a while. Causes blind me. The more I focus on a cause the dimmer my life becomes. Everything I see, taste, touch or feel is filtered; its value determined by how well or how poorly it supports the cause. Eventually, I lose contact with the wonder of my brief time in this world. So let me be free of groups today. Let me experience my connection to the universe even if it is just a figment of my imagination stemming from some strange spark inside my skull. I sometimes worry about choosing this path. I wonder if my life will be meaningless without a recognized cause or purpose, that I will be lonely and filled with pain, that I may even be hated by those pursuing causes. Oh well. I prefer to risk pain for the sake of joy than to sacrifice joy to avoid pain. If I must have a group or sangha, let it be like an amoeba whose only membrane is kindness; an amoeba moving and flowing past more rigid groups and their important causes. Anyhow, amoebae have more DNA than humans (231 times more) and they can survive by eating most anything (even poop). They just don't feel the need to brag about it.

Mind Killing Slippers

2010-12-17T23:08:00.001-08:00

I awoke in fear this morning. I do not have a name for this fear. It is fuzzy, not like the sharp fear that causes me to leap back from the edge of a rooftop. It is strangely comfortable, like an old pair of slippers that pinch my feet but that I wear anyway because they are near the bed when I get up. When I take off them off and try to shake out whatever it is that is pinching me nothing comes out. I look inside. It's dark and stinky but I see nothing. So I put them back on again and my "magic" slippers pinch my feet once more. Again and again, I take them off, shake them and look inside. Again and again, I put them back on and the pinching returns.

I sigh and go make some coffee. Then I sit and write. At least for a while, but then the pinching begins again and I find myself thinking about it rather than the words on the page. Damn slippers. Damn pinching. Damn fear. I stomp my feet. No use. The pinching grows stronger, commanding my entire attention. Abandoning my writing, I stomp and hop around the room like a dancing like a fool. The pinching increases until I fall to the ground, curl into a ball and curse myself for continuing to wear the same old slippers, day after day, year after year.

I wonder sometimes why I continue to wear them. They are familiar but that's not the only reason. I have borrowed slippers from other people, but they pinch even worse than mine. I have bought new slippers, and for a time their shiny newness can distract me, hiding the fact that their pinch is far harsher than my old familiar pair. Resigned to my fate I return to my own pair even though wearing them often feels like mental death.

I think the only solution is to learn how to walk barefoot. But I fear this most of all. There are so many things that can hurt feet made tender by a lifetime spent in slippers. Stones can bruise. Bottle caps carelessly tossed aside by partiers can cut and wound. Glass from broken picture frames can slice. And those are just the inanimate threats. What about all the creepy crawly things that purposefully seek to poke and sting? What about the insensitive people who may ignore my barefoot state and stomp on my toes? What of the truly evil ones who wear hobnailed boots and hunt down those who foolishly expose their feet to the open sky? Yes. There is much to fear in the world of naked tootsies, but if the alternative is a mind killing life in slippers, then let me wander the world with my feet "au naturel".

I am no stranger to the barefoot life. I remember a time without slippers; a time when I refused to wear any shoes at all. In the hot, damp summers of Southeast Texas I spent endless hours running across cement, hot tar, sticker grass and gravel with nothing between me and the sweet earth. My feet developed deep calluses, natural slippers to protect themselves. Stones bruised my feet. Sometimes I got cut by glass. Sometimes my calluses peeled, leaving me exposed to pain. Sometimes I peeled away the calluses by myself, a dangerous enterprise that often resulted in bleeding. My feet showed me the nub and texture of life, engaging with gritty sand, rough concrete and hot tar; being caressed by the soft grass, tickled by rainwater and cooled by tile floors. They endured fire ant stings and stickers the size of knitting needles. Unquestioning, they stuck their toes in cow pies just to "see what it would feel like". With no need for lacing or shining, they climbed the crusty bark of trees to let me see the highway leading out of my neighborhood. Through it all they kept me awake to the wonder of the world by keeping me fully engaged with it.

So, let me toss these pinching slippers aside. Let me avoid borrowing someone else's shoes, or heaven forbid, thinking that the solution is to "buy" a new pair. I will grow calluses based on what really is rather than wear slippers as protection against what I imagine. I will be bruised, cut and probably need stitches sometimes. I may step in a few cow pies again, either by accident, or just for the hell of it. But don't worry, I promise to rinse off before I visit.

Florida

2010-12-14T06:46:00.001-08:00

A few photos from Florida.

Another Secret

2010-12-13T08:28:00.001-08:00

(Blame it on Fran Lebowitz and Christopher Hitchens – May God Bless Them)

Absolute honesty? No secrets? Is that any way to live? Or rather, is there any other way to live? As in all things I can only speak for a party of three – moi, myself and I. And, as usual, I am not sure of the answer. Secrets can easily become a poison in my brain; seeping into my heart to destroy all hope of happiness. Does that mean I would never keep any secrets? Never is a pretty big word. I hope that I would have avoided telling the Nazis that Anne Frank was hiding upstairs in her house. But most secrets in my life are not of the Anne Frank variety. They are about things that would embarrass me or others. While embarrassment can sometimes feel like death, its consequences are far less permanent and it's a lot less expensive since it requires no priest or ceremony.

Should I reveal secrets about the details of my personal life as I often do on this blog? Obviously, I have decided to do so. My justification is survival. I try to avoid hurting people, but not to the extent that I present a false picture of my thoughts and actions. It is very important that I try to live a life as free from illusions as possible. Illusions and hallucinations have kept me locked up in mental institutions – a reluctant denizen in the land of "mental illness". Every recovery from a mental crisis has been due to a willingness to be completely honest, to let go of all my delusions and face the realities of my life. Focusing on concrete thinking and actions has been vital to recovery, and maintaining the little "sanity" I have found.

Unfortunately, I often hurt others when I try to be honest about myself. I regret this, but I am not sure what to do about it. I try to balance my need to be honest with the practice of kindness and consideration of other's feelings. Often I fail, and reveal or say things that hurt others. I don't like hurting other people, but to be frank and very politically incorrect, I like hurting myself even less. I selfishly want to live and to be free of mental institutions – both states of being require me to have as few secrets as possible, especially secrets that include lying to myself about who I am and what I believe. In the past, I told people that I believed in the divinity of Jesus Christ and the Holy Trinity. I worked very hard to act as if I believed the party line in the hope that one day I would be graced with true belief. It didn't take.

Now, at this late stage of life, I am tired of the charade. I didn't truly believe that Mary gave virgin birth, that Jesus arose from the dead or that all of us would be able to sing in heaven. I only believed this a tiny bit as a child, about the same way I believed in the tooth fairy. I knew the tooth fairy probably wasn't real, but if somebody was going to give me a quarter, I was all for it. I knew that Jesus probably wasn't real, but if I got lots of presents on his birthday, who was I to quibble? No, I never fully believed the Jesus story then and I don't have a shred of belief in it now. I have been and remain agnostic, or perhaps even atheistic on the matter. I choose to say agnostic most of the time because that tends to upset people less. If I really want to be safe, I just call myself a non-believer. People will hang an atheist given half a chance. A non-believer generally can skate by with a good talking to.

Before I continue, let me say I am not one of those dogmatic atheists or agnostics. To me the difference between atheist and agnostic is not worth quibbling over. In my opinion atheists and agnostics arguing over who has the right kind of disbelief is like Catholics arguing with Lutherans about transubstantiation or some such. The participants may find it entertaining but the rest of us will be better served if we just go have a snack, take a nap and come back when they are finished.

I was very sheltered as a child. I didn't know what an agnostic was. I needed to fit in. I lacked the strength and courage to say what I truly believed. I wish now that I had said, "I don't know" when someone asked me if I believed in the Bible and Jesus. That would have been honest. That would have been real. But it wouldn't have been prudent. Many people would have hated and judged me for expressing my uncertainty. So, I took a deep breath and shouted along with the rest that I did believe; that I truly, truly, truly did believe. In fact, I often thought of Jesus as the loser of the Christmas duo – Santa got milk and cookies, Jesus got whips and nails. As a reward for belief, give me milk and cookies any day.

I worked very hard at being a "model" believer. I smiled at church. I spoke up frequently; clarifying other's points of confusion about the Bible's meaning; steering them on the correct path to salvation. Being a natural born liar, it was easy for me to make up meanings and rationalizations on the spur of the moment. When others nodded at the wisdom of my fabrications I came to believe them myself. I slept well. I was confident in my ability to answer any and all questions. I knew that when challenged by a "heathen" I could easily grab a Bible verse, and with a little elaboration, fit it to the question at hand. Once, I was even asked to deliver a sermon. But it was no use. In my heart I knew my "answers" came from inside the brain of Mr. Dale Hankins, no matter how often others told me I was inspired, or that the Holy Spirit was speaking through me.

Over the years, the internal conflict from this deception became increasingly excruciating. It is very hard to live as if you believe something when in your heart you know you're lying, even if you truly love your work. I considered going into the ministry and was telling others of the joys of salvation, but inside things were unraveling as I had more and more questions. As instructed I went to the church elders.

I asked, "Why do we serve grape juice at communion rather than wine? Why don't we follow Jesus' example from the Last Supper?"

The answer came. "Because we don't want to tempt alcoholics; Jesus hates alcohol."

I continued, "But it doesn't say that anywhere in the Bible does it?"

The answer, "Paul tells us not drink much wine."

"But much wine isn't no wine," I said.

They answered, "Well, they had to drink wine; the water is bad over there."

Like a deer hound on the scent I asked, "But many cities in Israel were situated near artesian wells. Besides, if Jesus didn't want people to drink wine he would have just purified the water at the wedding rather than turn it into wine."

"Well young man. Clearly you are having a crisis of faith. Please pray on this. Continuing to question only hurts your faith and the faith of those around you. You don't want to hurt others do you?"

Dejected, I took my questions as evidence of my hatred of Jesus, or of the Devil's influence on my life. I have no direct proof, but I am relatively certain that deluding myself and others about my true thoughts was and remains, the chief conflict at the root of my "mental illness" - a secret lie that can cause me to mistrust everything I say and do. Well, it could have had something to do with all the drugs I did back in the day as well, but let's not quibble.

I blame no one. I am able to make an ass of myself without any assistance. I've had years of practice. All of us face challenges in life. All of us make choices. All of us face consequences. Sometimes the choices we make as children have disastrous consequences later in life. When that happens, we have yet another choice – change, adapt and move on, or build ourselves a little cage of prejudice and dogma. We must chose a life of growth or become rigid and inflexible. I cannot say for others, but rigidity and I are not happy campers. You might even say that I am inflexible about my desire to remain open rather than rigid in my beliefs.

Does this mean that I might come to believe in something like the divinity of Jesus? Yes. I suppose that if he were to appear before me in the flesh, if I were granted Thomas' experience, I might reconsider. However, barring that eventuality, I believe that a divine Jesus is just as likely as a divine Gaia. I have equal amounts of concrete evidence for the divinity of Jesus and Gaia, which is to say none, or at least none that I have been able to decipher. Gaia at least, did me the honor of sending an apparition of herself to me while I was withdrawing from psychotropic medications in a Japanese hotel room. Rather than face an extended period in a mental institution, I declined Gaia's kind offer of a commission as the world's newest savior and ascension to the ranks of godhead. Thus far, the triune Christian God of Jesus, Yahweh, and the Holy Ghost, has left me with a somewhat darker alternative – accept their existence on blind faith or burn in hell.

Some will say that I am just being stubborn, that I am refusing to believe even though there is ample evidence for belief contained in the natural world. "Look at how wonderfully it is designed," some will say. "Isn't that enough evidence for you to believe in Jesus, his virgin birth and his resurrection from the dead?"

No. I do not see nature as proof of Jesus' and Yahweh's existence much less their divinity. To me, the beauty and wonder of nature are just as much evidence for Rama, Shiva, Zeus or Thor as they are for Jesus or Yahweh. Come to think of it, Yahweh's portrait on the Sistine chapel bears a striking resemblance to Zeus and Thor. Are they related?

The scientific method has been far more useful to me than religion in understanding and appreciating the beauty and wonder of nature. To me, when I do not understand something it makes more sense to say "I don't know" or "Let's see what we can find out about that" than it does to claim that there is no need for further study, that we can find the answer to all things worth knowing in an ancient holy text. I like not knowing. I like uncertainty. I like continuing to learn from many, many books – some of them with no pictures. What wonder is there in a world whose full meaning can be contained within a single holy book like the Bible?

I speak of Christians because I am most familiar with their faith, having been taught it as a child. But all religions seem to have one or more holy books that they claim to be the fountainhead of all knowledge and wisdom worth having. This level of certainty frightens me. If every religion is certain of the accuracy of their book above all others, then what hope is there of peaceful coexistence? If every religion acts as a barrier to change how can we deal with the challenges facing us? How can we survive? What sort of programming can we expect on television in the future? Who wants to watch 3D reruns of David and Goliath forever?

This is why the scientific method of knowledge is more helpful to me. I resist using it to the fullest possible extent but eventually I come around. The scientific method requires me to make predictions based on my "belief", idea or hypothesis, to test it and then adjust it based on the outcome. The scientific method requires me to listen to and address questions from my peers. The scientific method requires me to admit the possibility that new evidence will require me to change my ideas especially the ones I hold most dear. There is nothing like watching a long held belief twist slowly in the flames of new knowledge before vanishing in a whiff of smoke. It's almost as good as sex. Wait a moment, I overstate the matter. It's almost as good as sex with myself.

I've never encountered a religion that encourages the same level of questioning, examination and revision as science. All religions evidently require, or at a minimum encourage, their followers to accept with minimal or no question that theirs is the true or preferred path. All of them seem about as open to change as a practicing alcoholic. This is only natural. If you've had the main stage for millennia you likely will retire only with the greatest reluctance, cursing the new actor as you do so.

I know there is no reason for me to hold a grudge. I know my limits and tendency toward grandiosity far too well to assume I have a right to judge others (I'll leave that to nature herself). I've even mastered a modicum of kindness during this life. For a time I was angry at church members. Today I bear them no ill will. They are doing as they believe, and many are among the kindest most generous people I know, especially if you agree with their faith. I ask only that they grant me the courtesy of letting me believe or not believe as I see fit.

If you practice religion remember that it is a practice and that none have mastered it. Please do not judge me too harshly for my moments of fun at your expense. You are welcome to share and poke fun at any aspect of my life as you see fit. Believe me when I say I have been there before you and have beaten you to the punch. I have jabbed at my faults to the point of bleeding many times before. You may raise a twinge or two if you are particularly violent, but you are unlikely to do any permanent harm.

So there it is, yet another little secret revealed. Another fig leaf removed from the enterprise known as Dale Hankins. I mean no one any harm (Please pardon my little jabs, it is difficult being so clever and having so little opportunity to express it). I have found, and continue to find, many powerful teachings in religions. I don't know if Jesus existed, but his existence is not required for me to appreciate the wisdom of, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Similarly, I do not know if Socrates really existed. Yet his teaching that "The unexamined life is not worth living," has proven true time and time again in my life. I will continue to question and explore life. Asking questions and continuing to learn are the most human things I know how to do. I'm content to leave the religious practice of "blind faith" in the hands of those with stronger constitutions. When I have tried it I ended up in the hospital eating mashed potatoes with a plastic spoon.

A Few Photos

2010-11-30T08:55:00.001-08:00

You Hurt

2010-11-26T09:10:00.001-08:00

You hurt when you imagine him saying, "I am so disappointed in you that I could cry."

You do not know what to say, so you don't. You see the hurt in his eyes. Dark brown, they tear up a little, but not enough to let you truly see how deep the agony goes. Emotions are not easy for him. You would rip off an arm if it would ease his pain, but his torment is beyond the reach of such feeble gestures. You feel his writhing sadness within you. It has no place to go. It cannot be expressed so you bury it deep. You must not let it escape or else you will hurt him even more. A hurting machine, you turn to leave. He stops you.

"Why have you done this? How can you do this to me, to our family?"

He who was your God has become mere man. Shocked by the transformation, you halt; ready to receive whatever else he delivers, willing to be tortured for your sin, longing for the punishment you deserve.

You say, "I am just trying to be honest. I never meant to hurt anyone. I never meant to hurt you."

His jaw clenches. He watches a murder of crows land in the yard. It is a large yard, big enough for a homestead in many lands. The soil smells of your ancestor's sweat. Ancient oaks rise from earth made bare by timeless mounds of leaves that have devoured every hope of grass. Acorns roll among tiny islands of moss. You long to join the crows and moss; to be free of the guilt and judgment blazing from the eyes of the one who stands before you.

He is right of course. How can you turn away from all that you have been taught to cherish? What perverseness of spirit led you to this place? Certain that you are willful, selfish and sinful beyond redemption; your shame steals your breath. You beg the dirt to cover you, to shield you from the stare that once more turns your way. The dirt ignores your plea. You stand naked as his rages rises.

"That's hard to believe," he says. "You are deliberately choosing this. You want to do this. You have a choice. We always have a choice."

Once upon a time you also believed life was a clear choice between the right and wrong of things. Certainty about good and evil was a cornerstone of the rosy Never, Never Land of childhood. Now, the true north of the good has been dulled. You have seen "the good" sew evil and confusion. You have heard "teachers" twist words of love into hate and judgment. The once certain happiness of Never, Never Land has faded. There is no Peter Pan to whisk you away from it all if you are a "good" boy. Captain Hook is alive and well. He smiles as you hear the tick tock of the alligator's clock. Not content with a hand or arm, the toothy salamander is here to take your heart. You cling to kindness not to be "good", but simply to live.

He that was God, who now is man, speaks again.

"You know the difference between good and evil. You are consciously choosing to serve evil."

There it is; the ultimate condemnation. You are excommunicated, without any hope of salvation - unless of course you repent. Repent for saying the unpardonable. Repent from being the unimaginable. Repent from contemplating the heretical love of both women and men. Return to the fold or burn in the lake of eternal flame.

He stares, waiting for a response. There is none. He walks away.

You watch him leave. Your legs long to run after him. You want to grab his shoulders, turn him around and convince him of your love. Your heart screams.

"I love you. Don't leave me. Please don't turn away from me."

The words of your heart do not pass your lips so he cannot hear. His steps are cast in the path of the prophets. He is certain he knows the immutable truth of God's heart. He can no longer see you. He can no longer hear you. Even if he turned and spoke, he would speak to a ghost, a wraith already in its grave.

His form shrinks into the distance. You sit on a rock and breathe deeply. You exhale love into the vacancy that the God man has left behind. The sun still shines. The wind yet caresses your skin. The trees have no judgment in them; they wave and sing as they have since before there was anyone like you to hear them. You stand. You sing. You dance. Mother earth meets your feet with perpetual peace. You do not hurt. Others may pick up the hurt, but it is no longer yours. It is well. It is. And you are.

I AM GAY

2010-11-23T05:43:00.000-08:00

I may be gay, or I may not be. Mostly I am confused.

When I reflect on it, I can recall numerous instances of being attracted to men; young, beautiful men, older rugged men; men with definite character and the courage to display it fully. Yet, when I have thought of expressing my attraction physically the best I can manage is a hug. When I was younger, sexual acts with men were not one of my fantasies. True I did on occasion envision a soft skinned bottom to be penetrated, but I did not know if it was male or female. When I had such fantasies, the butt typically was disembodied, floating free from any face or distinguishable other body parts. I did see women attached to the bottom sometimes, and when I found out that women had vaginas as well as anuses I was shocked. Having only learned of female anatomy from my cousin’s Barbie doll I thought women only had one hole down “there”. When I first began having sex, I found the female vagina alternatively beautiful and disgusting. In fact I found all sex alternatively beautiful and disgusting. I still do much of the time.

I explained to a friend recently that when I engage in sex it is as if I am an observer. I have virtually no sensations of arousal. I am able to successfully masturbate but when confronted by the real thing my body shuts down; most of the time. When I used to smoke pot sex felt wonderful. I had trouble with premature ejaculation at times but the feeling was there. Unfortunately, hallucinations and paranoia also accompanied my use of pot and alcohol. Once I got sober, sex lost its appeal. I found myself performing because it was expected of me; except for one time. I recall that when I returned from Japan after a failed attempt to become a Zen priest sex was very exciting, every bit as exciting as when I used to be high. I felt free of guilt and fear for one of the first times in my life. I wanted to continue on my sexual high and travel the world forever. Unfortunately, as diagnosed by very knowledgeable physicians, my exuberance was mania. I could scarcely argue since during my entire “episode” of sexual “liberation” I was certain that I was being filmed for a movie. Once my mania subsided, so did my sexual desire.

Today, I have returned to the land where sex is unimportant, or at least much less important than friendship and kindness. I would use the word “love” rather than kindness, but the term is so overused it has ceased to have much meaning for me. Kindness, gentleness, compassion; these seem more real and concrete than love and romance. And, they are much more precious to me than sex. If it were possible to have both kindness and sex I might reconsider things. But, I have not mastered this art. When I engage in sex it inevitably feels as if I am “performing”, trying to make sure my partner is pleased and that I am pleased in turn. The goal of climaxing overrides all else. Kindness seems to be replaced by lust and desire. The result is that I feel very sad afterwards. The same way I feel when I am selfish with money or other material things.

I am not saying that I no longer masturbate. I do. But it is primarily for relief of stress or to counteract boredom. I enjoy it. I truly do. When I masturbate I do not feel like I have to perform or be successful. I can take care of things and go on about my day.

Also, I am not saying I do not feel sexual attraction during the day. The beauty of the human form does not escape me as I engage in my pastime of people watching. I daydream about sexual encounters with both men and women, sometimes both together. Then I return to the reality of my experience. I am open to change. I truly am, but I will not waste anymore precious moments of life “wishing” and “desiring” change or trying to twist myself into changing. I will not hold my happiness hostage. I will not play the “I will be happy when” game. If change comes simply by being open, then it will come. If it requires endless fighting and struggling then I prefer to enjoy the day.

Thankfully, most of the guilt about sex has left me; at least the guilt that can be accessed by an honest attempt to face my fears and review my past behaviors. A friend has told me that I act as if I “were emotionally castrated at some point at life.” I do not know. There may very well be deep seated, repressed unconscious sexual feelings that I simply cannot access. To paraphrase Robert DeNiro’s character in the movie Awakenings, “I cannot tell anyone about the things of which I am not conscious.” I write. I draw. I share. Thanks to these efforts I can confront and discount guilt put upon me by other’s religious and political views. I am very thankful for this freedom. It allows me to candidly ask myself, “Am I gay, heterosexual or both?” I kind of like the idea that I may be both. At least that it is interesting.

Regardless of the fate of my genitalia, of one thing I am certain - whatever sexual activities or fantasies I engage in (or choose not to engage in) my first motive must be kindness. I can celebrate. I can fantasize and play roles. I can even be a little bit “kinky” in my dreaming – sometimes this is the most fun. But I must never force anyone to do things they are not comfortable doing. And equally important, I must not force myself or allow myself to be forced into doing something sexually that is uncomfortable to me. When I do this I give up all hope of seeing sex as a cause of celebration, and turn it into nothing more than a duty. I do not know how to enjoy sex, and perhaps I never shall. But I am fairly certain that any hopes of sexual enjoyment must begin with honesty.

So, I guess I AM GAY if the definition of gay is that I can think of men who are sexually attractive to me. Some of them are very attractive. But I can think of women who I find very attractive as well; many of them. So I guess the real truth is that I AM GAY, I AM HETERO, I AM BISEXUAL, I AM A REPROBATE – A CELIBATE BISEXUAL REPROBATE. I may be celibate for the rest of my life, but I still am Dale even if my sexual status is ambiguous. Perhaps this is why my Grandmother Hankins wanted me to have an ambiguous name, a name that could be male or female, pink or blue, but in the end mostly just purple. Today I am content with this thought; very content, because I am speaking from my heart as clearly as I know how to speak. I know there are family and friends who will not be comfortable with my words, if they ever happen to read them. I do not know what to do about that. My words would be true even if I had never written them. I hope that anyone who is offended will forgive me for any pain I may cause them. I certainly mean them no harm and I wish them well. Perhaps they can do the same for me.

I Will Fight No More Forever

2010-11-21T06:39:00.001-08:00

I woke this morning with a stuffy head. I blew my nose. My nose cleared but my head remained stuffed. I had made the mistake of turning on the TV and listening to the 24 hour chatter about politics, the fate of our nation and the state of the world. The calm of sleep was quickly replaced by the turmoil of fear and anxiety. One well coifed pundit claimed that all the evils of the world are due to governments and regulation; that unless we return to unconstrained free enterprise all of us face a future of perpetual poverty. Another claimed that large greedy corporations are the root of all evil; that unless we constrain greedy businessmen we will soon find ourselves in chaos. Neither side seemed willing to claim any accountability for the world's condition. Each claimed to be the victim of the other; loudly proclaiming how others were making their lives miserable. I barely managed to pull on my clothes and stumble out the door without losing consciousness.

The rhythm of my strides and breathing restored a little serenity. As usual questions came. Why did such things disturb me? Why was the world the way it was? Why do people scream at each other? Why does each side believe their path alone is best for the world? The only answer I could find was that people are afraid and that I am easily infected by their fear. I have been infected by fear so long that sometimes I believe my natural condition is to constantly fight to survive in a dog eat dog world. When in this state, I can easily justify seeing myself as a victim, a prisoner in a cruel and heartless world – a world that requires me to hate and even kill others before they have a chance to kill me. In such a world I can easily justify hating and fearing those that look and behave differently. In such a world I can easily justify preemptive wars. In such a world I can easily hate myself for not thinking the way that I am "supposed" to think. In such a world I can soon find myself wondering if life is worth living.

Thankfully I know that my "dog eat dog" model of life is based on false assumptions. While it is true that I can easily find "dogs" to fear in life. It is equally true that I can face these "dogs" without being ruled by fear. I know this is true because I have done it and I have seen others do it. Most people are terrified of the "dogs" of poverty, loneliness, illness and death. These things cause me fear as well. I take action to avoid them, but I try not to be ruled by them. I have lived alone and still been surrounded by many friends. Before I die I may be very poor but I have lived on very little. I certainly will face the pain of illness and death, but I do not need to let this fear poison every moment of my life.

Some people claim that we may soon be able to eliminate virtually all illness and that we may even be able to "live" forever. Perhaps they are right, but I see little evidence that we would know how to live free from fear even if we lived forever. Others claim that there is no need to worry; that a supernatural being watches over all creation and will save the "worthy" ones, taking them to a special place of eternal and joy. Perhaps they are right. I see little evidence of supernatural beings who place man's wants and needs above all else in the universe, but I acknowledge the limits of my understanding. I do not have the answers to such weighty questions. What I do have is some experience facing my fears, and the witness of others who have faced theirs.

My most fundamental fear seems to be that I am separate and alone in a vast uncaring universe. In this view, my fellows seek to embarrass me and harm me because they hate me. When engaged in such thinking, I imagine that the world is against me. I imagine that I am but a tiny and insignificant fragment that by itself is worthless and powerless. To counteract this fear I act out in anger. I puff myself up, claiming to know more than I do, claiming to represent the "right" way of living so that I can rationalize my attempts to control and convert others. I become addicted to being "right". I erase my doubts by coercing you to agree with me. Often the best way for me to "convert" you is to incite fear within you, and then to offer you my "right" way of thinking as the answer. I become an evangelist of fear. When you accept my solution to the fear you have caught from me, you reinforce the correctness of my views. Your reinforcement gives me comfort for then I have company - there are two of us. Together we can incite more fear, helping to expand the circle of people who accept "our" true path. I have been caught up in this cycle so many times it is difficult for me to remember them all.

How can I fight against becoming part of such a cycle? My experience has been that fighting is not the answer. If I become fearful, angry and fight then I simply continue the cycle. The only peace I have had from this pattern is to do my best to act with kindness, even in the face of anger and fear, or perhaps especially when faced with anger and fear. If I "fight" the world's fear and anger then I become its victim. I must follow what seems to be the kindest course of action or face a life of unrest and unhappiness; a life where I despair; a life where I question the value of life itself.

Do I believe I have found the true, correct path? Of course not. Believing I have found "the truth" would encourage me to simply repeat the cycle. I likely would end up trying to make the world follow my particular view of kindness - repeating the very pattern I am trying to avoid. What others do is their business. I will not fight them. I will not ask them to pick up my fears and my way of dealing with it. And the good news is that no one can make me pick up their fear and anger unless I let them.

True, I often find myself filled with fear and anger. I often fight vainly against the world and those who hold the "wrong" point of view. As Dylan Thomas said I "rage, rage against the dying of the light", the fight for what I believe is right, fight for my life at any cost. This is only natural I suppose. Yet, when I have followed this path it has given me a "sickness unto death".

What about fighting for the life of others? Surely I must fight for social justice and world freedom. Perhaps, but I know of no case where fighting brought lasting justice and freedom. Even in societies claiming to be just and free, there is ample evidence of inequality and suffering. I have always found the idea of fighting for peace and equality something of an oxymoron. What happens to the fighters when they win? In seems the winners in any "fight" inevitably victimize or at a minimum demonize those they were fighting against. I only need to look at the political cycles in my own country to see evidence of this. Thankfully, we have not yet turned to violence; but there are those who advocate it.

What about fighting for the life of my family and loved ones? Surely I must fight those who would harm them. Surely I would kill someone who was trying to kill my grandchildren. I cannot answer such a question. I might very well kill such a person. Doing so would solve nothing. My grandchildren might live, but the grandchildren of the one I killed likely would seek revenge. Who can say when that cycle would end? I hope that I would place myself between my grandchildren and harm. I hope that the one seeking to harm them would be satisfied with my death and cease fighting. I hope that my friends and relatives would not seek revenge.

I am not saying that I chose to die. Far from it. I love life. The wonder of leaves rustling beneath my feet, the smile of my grandchildren, and the feel of air as it fills my lungs, all of it, all of the million and one little things of life fill me with great joy. I plan to enjoy them as long as possible; as long as holding on to them does not require a life of perpetual fear and anger. Why? Simply because when I live in fear and anger I cannot taste life, so in effect I am already dead. So I will hope to avoid raging and grasping life by the throat, practicing the dogmatic principle that the "ends justify the means". I hope to practice not fighting those who are different or who threaten me. I hope to enjoy the turning of the universe as it wheels on its unknowable path, and not waste time trying to control and manipulate it. I hope to cease looking for reasons to fear the thoughts and actions of others; looking instead for the kindness within them. In the words of the great Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce I hope that I will learn to "…fight no more forever."

Who Is Trash?

2010-11-16T03:22:00.001-08:00

"It's like taking out the trash," he said.

I said, "Taking out the trash?"

"Yes. Like paying someone to do something I don't want to."

"Killing someone is like taking out the trash?"

"If they're evil, yes. Yes it is."

I could not respond. I sat across from an old and dear friend at a table in one of the finest restaurants of a large city. We had just finished a wonderful meal of sushi. As often happens when we meet, we were discussing the world and its troubles, solving each and every dilemma with the wise sagacity that comes with a full stomach. We agree on many things yet on this topic my friend's words sent a chill through me. Did he truly believe that taking a human life, regardless of the reason; was nothing more than removing garbage? To me there is a qualitative difference between taking a human life and taking rotting food, old newspapers and other refuse to a landfill.

The death penalty is a very controversial issue, but in the U.S. most states have death penalties and have used them since the Supreme Court restored the constitutionality of the death penalty in 1976. Texas leads with 464 executions. Virginia has executed 108. Combined, these two states "disposed" of over half the "trash" (572 of 1015 people) in the USA. Countries like China, Saudia Arabia and Iran execute more people per year than the U.S., but we tend to look down on them as less civilized.

I understand that we must protect innocent people from harm. However, I worry about our decision to kill people, particularly when it is done in a cold antiseptic fashion like "taking out the garbage". I say give the accused a fair trial. If they are convicted, and a death penalty is handed down, then those who support the death penalty should view the proceedings. Otherwise, we may simply equate taking life with removing garbage.

When I hide from the impact of my decisions I fail to take responsibility for them. I come to view life like reality television with an opportunity to relax and get a snack during commercials. I am not saying I would never want to kill someone if they harmed someone near and dear to me, but I am certain that doing so would make me miserable for the rest of my life. Thus I am very uncomfortable with the idea of hiring someone else to do the killing for me.

Some say that the death penalty deters murder, some say it doesn't. I don't know. Intuitively and in the minds of many, fear of death should make people pause before they commit a crime, yet in 2009, the seven states with the highest murder rates all had the death penalty. Regardless of the effectiveness of the death penalty, viewing executions as taking out the trash sickens me. I don't want to treat or see anyone as my death "trash man".

A potentially horrible outcome of the death penalty is the possibility (some say fact) of occasionally killing innocent people. The U.S. has released 15 prisoners since 1992 when DNA mapping was allowed as evidence. What if one of these had been executed? There are reports of innocent people who actually were executed. What if I was the trash man who executed one of these people? As I said, I may get angry enough to kill someday, but I am uncomfortable with hiring someone to kill for me. What right do I have to ask them to endure the suffering that must come from killing someone, especially if the someone is innocent?

Wait a second; don't I hire people to kill for me every day? Don't my taxes pay for policemen and soldiers to protect me? Don't these people have to kill others sometimes? What of them? How must they feel if they end up killing someone innocent of any crime other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I don't know the answers to these questions. To me it seems that killing ends up fostering more killing – if I kill you, your friends and relatives will want to kill me; if they kill me, my friends and relatives will want to kill them; on and on and on – a perpetual motion machine of death. But maybe everyone must have their own answers. If you catch me on the wrong day maybe I will view you as trash. Now that's something to think about; something to guard against. But right now it's time for green tea, oatmeal and a walk. Maybe when I am finished I will have the answer to who is trash and who isn't.

Adore Me

2010-11-08T05:30:00.001-08:00

Please. Pretty please. Pretty please with sugar on top. Adore me. By the way, I'll adore you if you adore me. If I adore you, will you adore me?

Sometimes it astounds me how much of my life has been dominated by this kind of thinking. How many hours have I spent contriving ways to get attention? How many hours have I spent feeling depressed when I was ignored? Still, when I look around it seems that I am not alone in this perpetual desire for attention. Apparently, I live in a world that is driven to be adored and to practice adoration of others – preferably engaging in both activities simultaneously. My recognition of this fact is neither new nor profound. Oh how I wish it were. If I were the first to stumble on such a fundamental truth then I truly would be adored.

As usual, I was surfing the internet this morning. I ran across a video of someone who was lecturing on a new model for personal success. I also found a page for a consultant claims to help organizations become more courageous. I almost choked on my coffee. Both individuals clearly were at great pains to represent the proper models for adoration – money, fame, power and influence.

The model for personal success revolved around the proposition that, "You can be whoever you chose to be." I have yet to see evidence for such a remarkable claim. Quite the contrary, I see many people bravely living within the real world constraints life places on us. Ed is a friend of mine who has cerebral palsy and this places limits on his "success". He can "choose" to be free of cerebral palsy until the "cows come home" as we say in Arkansas. It will have little effect. He can, and indeed has, chosen to be a warm and caring person despite his difficulty. Unfortunately, this type of victory often is overlooked by those selling books or programs that claim, "You can be whoever you want," or "The only limits to your success are your lack of will and proper planning." Ed does not model the wealth, power and beauty required for recognition much less adoration in the world of personal success consultants. His is a world they (and most of society) would rather ignore.

The "courage" consultant claimed cliff diving as evidence of his braveness. His site says that he has dived many times from a cliff over 100 feet high. I am sure the experience was exhilarating but for me this is evidence of foolishness not courage. The courage I admire is shown by people like my friends David, Tom, Tony and Barry. David is fighting for his dream of a new life in a strange city, despite the challenges of being abandoned at birth and spending years in state institutions. Tom, Tony and Barry have often put their personal lives on hold to reach out and help others. They have given freely of their time and money to help others. I don't think David, Tom, Tony and Barry have jumped off any cliffs lately, but their courage is the lasting kind, the kind that truly reshapes the world.

I can fall into the adoration trap when I discuss people Ed, David, Tom, Tony and Barry. Sometimes I try to help myself feel better about myself by idolizing those close to me – the old, "Look at me, I must be cool because I have such cool friends" phenomenon. Following this path can lead to problems when one or more of my friends fails to act like an idol; when they fail to act like the object of adoration I want them to be. It is healthier when I see them as they are with all their strengths and weaknesses loving them not as imaginary monuments of perfection like Michelangelo's David, but as jabbering little naked apes like me. Making them into objects of adoration leads to blindness and fosters the illusion that I cannot be happy unless I also am adored.

If I adore anything these days, it is life itself. When asked how I am doing I often say, "Loving life and living large." I also tell friends "there are worse things than death". The seeming contradiction of these two statements confuses some people. To me they are in perfect harmony. I love life because there are worse things than death. Often I look around and see people living in constant fear of death; to me this state is worse than death itself. I try to focus instead on the simple joys in life: the leaf I found on my walk this morning, the feel of cold air on my skin, feeling my legs carry me quickly toward my morning cup of coffee, the hug I got yesterday from one of the best friends I have ever had, the joyful anticipation of writing these words. I adore these things. Not because they will return my adoration. Not because they require adoration from me. I adore them simply because they exist. I adore them because I am lucky enough to share an instant of eternity with them.

Stars and Carbon Forever

2010-11-04T06:43:00.001-07:00

"I'll be with you when the stars start falling…" Eric Clapton, The Cream

I hurt others sometimes by simply existing. I help others sometimes by simply breathing in and out. As I walked this morning, an almost countless number of carbon atoms bombarded me. Some of them were shed yesterday by friends and family around the planet. I inhaled some. Some became part of me in a process that has been going on since before the beginning of the idea of "time" as it exists in my carbon based brain. Sometimes I forget this simple fact and feel very, very alone. I can treat others as objects in an attempt to overcome this sense of loneliness. When I do this I become an object.

Recently, I mistreated someone I love deeply. I would travel back and undo the act if this were possible. Unfortunately, I cannot. Hope springs eternal, but I must accept that for now I am locked in the eternal present. I must feel the pain of having caused pain in another, accept it, and try to be more conscious in the future.

Perhaps someday I will be free of my brain's notion of time. Perhaps I will experience the freedom of a carbon atom; no longer seeing myself as separate from life but always as an integral part of it. I will not ask my fellow atoms about their politics. I will not ask them about their sexual preferences. I will not ask them about their god. I will pass from form to form; perhaps be buried for eons as part of a limestone cliff; perhaps fly into space to become part of a star; perhaps to become part of some creature or place I have never yet imagined. Regardless of the destination, and whether or not I will be conscious of it, I will be one with all the other atoms on a timeless journey. What an exciting adventure that will be.

Ancient Ants

2010-10-19T07:34:00.001-07:00

In the 60's and 70's I knew nothing of ants. In the 60's and 70's the Beatles and the Spencer Davis Group were pounding in my brain. In the 60's I saw a man land on the moon. In the 60's I saw half a million people dance in the mud to music our parents were sure would turn us into raving lunatics. In 1970 I heard that Jimi and Janis were dead; a year later Morrison took the final trip on his Crystal Ship. Jesus may not have wept. I did. In 1970 I attended a memorial service for students killed by the National Guard at Kent State. Police attacked the peaceful rally and many students ran wild in the streets. I was one of them. I dreamed that I could force the world to change, make it to conform to my dream, persuade it to fulfill the destiny I had in mind. My dream was in the sky. Ants crawled about my feet. I ignored them as I operated on a "higher" plane. Unfazed, the ants moved the earth one grain at a time.

In 1970, miles south of my university dreamland, a young man was suffering in a mental institution. Abandoned at birth and then ripped from his foster parents at age seven, David Young had no time for dreams of making a better world. Like the ants, he navigated his world one grain at a time. His dream was to survive each day. Making slow, steady progress he taught himself to read and studied the world of ants. His passion for the very small kept him safe in the land of the very painful. "Freed" in the 80's he found a nest and built a new world, a world much larger than his bed at the institution but still small in the minds of many. He began to dream. Many of his dreams were frightening. But some took him to lands he had only read about in books.

Like an ant navigating pebbles and leaves of grass, David traveled west, finally coming to stand in "the Mother of Waters". I was blessed to travel with David as he explored the California "land of fuzzy hills" seeking a new nesting site. He found it in the Bay Area in the spring of '09. Soon we will rise, a swarm of two, and head west where David will build a fresh nest. Our dream buddy Barry will help, but David is the navigator - following the compass of his passion. Once trapped in an institution cell, now he flies toward his true self. Who has not had this dream? I lost it by dreaming of what others thought I should be. David held true to his course like the ant; patiently moving past each obstacle; persistently navigating challenges as his heart guided him onward. He has shown me that each of us carries our own unique dream; a path that often reveals itself only one grain at a time. No one can say how the dream journey will end but my money is on David. I will fly to many places as David creates his new nest. Sometimes I fear my journey, but thanks to David, I know that ants place no limits on success. Perhaps by moving the grains of my dream I will help change the world. I know that David, Barry, Tom and many others have changed mine.

Not Broken

2010-10-09T08:43:00.001-07:00

I ask for help. You place your hand in mine. I get better. You will not let go of my hand. Stop. I am not broken. No further help is required. Please pass your way and let me be.

I get sick. You give me treatment. I get well. You tell me I am not well. Stop. I am not broken. I know the facts and figures. Please heal yourself and let me live.

I seek guidance. You show me a path. I learn and find my own path. You tell me I am still lost. Stop. I am not broken. I am no longer confused. Please open your eyes - I can see.

Broken? Not broken? Please help when I ask. Please stop when the need is past. Do not break that which is not broken.

You ask for help. I tell you what I would do. You get better. You keep asking. Stop. You are not broken. You can help yourself. Please know I care even though I must travel on.

You get sick. I share what made me well. You heal. You imagine you are still sick. Stop. You are not broken. Think of what made you well. Please let me see the joy of your healing.

You seek guidance. I show you my path and tell you there are many more. You find your path. You tell yourself you are still lost. Stop. You are not broken. Walk your path. Please know I hope our paths will cross again.

Broken? Not broken? I will help if you ask. But I will stop when the need is past. I will not break that which is not broken.

My Friend?

2010-08-29T07:13:00.001-07:00

A friend said to me, "You are not praying so you do not belong to our group." I felt sad. I have shared much of my life's story with this friend, even the bits I am not proud of. I wanted to be part of the group. They have been part of my life for many years. Ageless feelings of loneliness and inadequacy surfaced and I was overwhelmed with guilt and shame. Why didn't I pray with the group? Was I just trying to be different for the sake of being different? Was I simply a willful child refusing to grow up and accept my responsibilities in the society I had chosen? What was wrong with me?

I suffered about this for several days. My friend may have had a role in the initial pain, but the continued suffering was largely due to factors that had nothing to do with my friend. Old and imagined hurts kept me imprisoned. My expectations of myself and others kept the prison locked tight. I felt angry. Who was my friend to question me? Why was what I believed so much more important than what I did? My internal musings took me away from interacting with others and being of use to my friends. Eventually, I returned to my daily routine of giving people rides, sharing conversations, buying a meal or two, just being there to participate in life with kindness. Eventually I realized that there was no suffering. Pain may come and it will go, but the suffering is optional – at least in part.

I don't know if I will return to the group. The group strongly insists on a particular pattern of belief. Lately, I have had more and more trouble buying into the idea that I honor one practice above all others. There are some beliefs that I find truly admirable, like the idea of being kind regardless of the personal consequences. There are some that I find truly detestable, like the idea that some people have more legal rights because of their creed, sexual preference, color, ability or economic status. Other than that, there is a huge middle ground of beliefs that I can pick and choose from. The more effort any group spends in trying to convince me of the rightness or exclusiveness of their view, the more nervous I become. Why all the insistence of conformity of belief? Why the fear of different beliefs? Who truly can judge the beliefs of another? Actions yes. We have rules and laws to limit damaging or hurtful actions. But beliefs?

I probably will return to the group. Without being egotistical, it probably needs at least a few weirdos like me if for no other reason than to inspire others to greater fervor. I would like the group to succeed. I know that its success will require balancing the competing practices of being open to new ideas while honoring traditions. I think in the end, like all groups I know of, it will succeed or fail based on its actions not its beliefs. Some claim prayer can only be given with a bowed head and beautiful words. I think even more wonderfully it can be lived as an act of kindness to others.

Last night, the moon was large and bright. It has watched over the rise and fall of all of mankind's beliefs. It has not been moved. It has gone about its business of passing through phases, raising and lowering tides since before there was a man to have beliefs. May I be like the moon. May my shining be free of fear. May I act consistent with my beliefs without having to justify them or seek approval of them from others. May I seek to protect the rights of others to do the same. May I resist anger without being a "sunshine patriot" to the goal of acting with love and compassion regardless of how others view me. If the only way I can be your friend is to share your fear and judgment of others then I may not be your friend. But even then I will strive to treat you with kindness and respect. I can stand and be myself even if others think I am broken or wrong. I can be free. I am. Free.

Now it is time to go call David and eat at the Chinese Buffet one more time. I hope they have octopi for him. God how tired I am of eating at that place. J

Me Against The World

2010-08-27T06:31:00.001-07:00

I spoke with a friend yesterday. I was upset about the rampant idiocy I see in this world. I felt I was very persuasive with my arguments and facts.

"Did you know?," I began, "Nearly 40% of Americans are on an anti-intellectual crusade? When we learn something new in physics, astronomy, meteorology, geology or biology that does not agree with their religious views they cast it aside or try to co-opt it as evidence for clinging to the existence of a supernatural sky father."

My friend smiled at me as I paused for breath. I continued, "They claim that religious practices yield a better society. With the possible exception of Ireland, America has the highest level of belief in God and Jesus of any industrialized nation, but the United States has far higher homicide, poverty, obesity, and homelessness rates than any of its more secular peer nations."

I am sure that my eyes were bulging and that my face was red by this point. "The fact is that extremely secular nations such as Japan and Sweden are much safer, cleaner, healthier, better educated, and more humane." (Reference 1)

Spent, I waited for my friend's response.

"Well, what do you think?"

"Not much," he said.

"What? Aren't you afraid of what will happen if the religious wing nuts gain control of the world?"

"Not really," he said.

"How can you know that?"

"I don't know that. It's just that I don't see any evidence of anyone or anything being in control."

I took a breath. "I guess I was speaking politically."

He laughed. "Politicians have the least control. They are so busy chasing the illusion of power that they cannot even control their personal lives. Seems to me, most of them live in misery."

"But what about Hitler, Stalin, Caesar…people like that?"

"Where are they now?"

"But while they were alive they had great power."

"Only over those who feared them, those who forgot how to think for themselves."

"What about freedom of speech?"

"Freedom of thought is more important. Without that I have nothing to say anyhow."

"Guess you're right."

"Why?"

"But you just said…"

"I know what I said, why did you agree with me?"

"It sounded persuasive."

"Why?"

"I guess it felt right."

"So if it feels right then it is right?"

"I see where you're headed."

"Where exactly is that?"

"Let me see if I can put it together…Accepting something as true just because it agrees with how I feel is not a good reason for believing it. I should ask for more."

"Got it in one."

"Maybe I should ask for even more proof if it an idea agrees with something I truly, truly believe in."

"Absolument, mon cherie."

"So the real threat to me is my hatred of what I call idiocy."

"Yes, in part. There may be a real threat to freedom there, but the first step to fighting it is to apply critical thinking to your own prejudice."

"Like why do I think it's idiotic to believe in a sky father?"

"Or more to the point, why are you angry at those who do?"

"I'm afraid of what they may do to me and the future of the country."

"What is the best way

The Sun Never Sets

2010-08-10T06:01:00.001-07:00

The sun never sets. The earth may turn but the sun never sets. The moon never rises or changes phases. Tides may rise but the moon never does, moon and earth merely dance together. Every sunset, every new moon is an illusion; fig newtons of my imagination, mere artifacts of how I see the world from where I sit. My ancestors took this evidence as proof certain that the sun does in fact rise and that the moon does change phases. Often, they killed or cast out those who tried to say otherwise. They acted on incomplete information. Clearly the truth requires more than the evidence that is readily available to me. Clearly my perception of things is limited. Clearly, if I am to see beyond the illusion of sunsets and moon phases I must begin by accepting nothing on face value.

I think life is like that. I assume that I can tell living (sentient) from dead (non-sentient) things in the world. I see a rock and say, "That is not sentient, it is a dead thing," so I feel no remorse when I kick it down the road, forever separating it from the place it has occupied for days, weeks, years or even longer. Based on current evidence, the probability is that the rock is in fact not sentient. It has none of the basic requirements necessary for it to be classified as a feeling being. But stating a probability is the best I can do. I am still learning. Someday, I could look back on my act of kicking the rock as a thoughtless crime against a sentient being. Looking at things in today's view, it seems very unlikely that this is the case but I must remain open.

The same goes for the question of when life begins and when it ends. I see a baby and rejoice at the beginning of new life. I see a corpse and I mourn the death of a loved one. But I'll bet that is simply my take, my point of view once more. The real phenomena of life and death likely are well beyond my poor ability to perceive them. I can watch a baby being born, or if I am lucky be there to participate in its conception. But this experience is not proof certain that the beginning did not come earlier still. I can watch a "dead" body decay into its component parts, smaller and smaller pieces breaking down into yet smaller ones until eventually only atoms are left. Even these at some great distant day will become sub atomic particles. My perception of this broad play is limited to tiny sliver of time. And my perception of time itself is only partial.

My ancestors were certain that the sun set and that the moon went through phases. They were right, and they were wrong. They were right to take action using the best information they had at the time. Their information was wrong. This is natural, but some of them refused to accept new information when it became available. Some of them fought against learning more about life. I have done this. I have held onto old beliefs and actions long past the time when they were useful to me and those around me. When I did so I became more and more closed in, more and more afraid of change, less and less tolerant and able to show compassion. For me, being human, being alive, requires me to question, verify and question again. Some tell me that I should accept things without questioning them. I do not understand this point of view. It seems guaranteed to keep me in ignorance. Perhaps that is a state of bliss for some, but it is not helpful to me. Ignorance did not cure my cancer. Ignorance did not give me the cup of coffee I drank this morning. Ignorance will not allow me to reach out and embrace the wonder and diversity of life.

Monkey Dancing

2010-08-07T06:18:00.001-07:00

In any absolute sense of the words I have stolen, I have lied, I have cheated. In any absolute sense of the words I will steal again, I will lie, I will cheat again. I once believed the only path to peace was to find some way to totally free myself from stealing, lying and cheating. Like a little monkey, I danced from religion to religion from faith to faith from philosophy to philosophy, from cause to cause hoping for relief. I hopped and leaped about, hard to catch, impossible to pin down. Each time a religion, faith, philosophy or cause "failed me" I became depressed and angry at those who offered their path as the only "right" dance.

Lately, I am enjoying all dances. Each "dance" has merit, if only that created by those who find it valuable. I am not a Christian, yet I saw my Grandmother MacDaniel dance what she saw as Christ's waltz and display the finest grace and charity I have ever seen. I am not a Buddhist, but I have watched a Zen master glide through the chasms of mind to light up corners of consciousness hidden to others. I am not a Muslim yet I have twirled like a Sufi in my mind as I read the words of Rumi, "Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." I am not a Hindu but I have visited India and stood in awe at the power of Shiva's dance of simultaneous creation and destruction.

I am not a Social worker, yet I have seen their compassion and clapped my hands as one played country and folk music (even though country and folk music normally makes me want to pull out my hair). I am not a Scientist but I love science's dance of eternal questioning and learning about the wonderful world in which we live. I am not an Addict or Alcoholic, but there was a time when drugs led me to ecstasy, burning a hole through some old prejudices. I am not a Businessman, but there was a time when I boogied to the rumba of enterprise and fame; creating wealth - sometimes wisely, sometimes not.

To be a happy monkey and create my own dance, I have had to learn a few steps of all dances. The trick is not to be trapped by memories of past dances; to be honest about how they have helped or caused me to stumble, but to avoid viewing them with pride, regret, or guilt. They were just dances using the music available to me at the time. I can use what I learned from them to make a new dance. Now that I am an old monkey, I sometimes manage to jump and leap for the pure joy of life. I dance an ever changing dance. Each day reveals new steps, but my dance is always complete while I dance it. How can it be complete and still benefit from change? Even the Monkey doesn't know that. Rock on Monkey.

Homecoming

2010-07-22T07:34:00.000-07:00

I am home. I opened the door for someone, they passed through and said, “Thank you.” Yes. This is Iowa City. I am back from a trip to the South, but it might have been pretty much anywhere where people do not know me. In the outside world, diversity seems much more of an issue than it is here. I have let my hair grow long, something that evidently is not as well accepted in parts of the outside world.

As I walked down the street of a "foreign" town an African American gentleman whispered, “Can’t tell him from a goddamn girl.” It was uttered indistinctly, more like a spit or hiss than a sentence. But the message was very clear. “You are not welcome here. We do not like people like you. We do not really know you, but we know enough about people who look like you to say that we do not like you. Accept our ways and be like us or leave.

Later, I was getting a cup of coffee at a gas station. I offered an elderly white man, a lid for his cup of coffee. He pushed my lid aside and took another. As I was leaving, I held the door open for another older white gentleman. He would not meet my eyes and went in a different door.

It felt like this was due to the fact that I have long hair and a beard. I feel like I am back in the 1960’s. Yet as I read this I see that I am guilty of the same prejudice I see in others. Why was it important for me to mention the race and age of those I felt were discriminating against me? Clearly, I am not free of prejudice. Perhaps no one is totally free. Perhaps it is unreasonable to expect to live in such a world.

Luckily, saving the world is not my job. I need only try to be kind. This works for me. Even when I notice the differences between us I can try to overlook those that disturb me. I can make an effort to treat you as I would be treated; to treat you with respect. Why is this so difficult? It may be because we evolved to use discrimination for our survival. Determining tribal membership was vital when we were still wandering the plains of the Serengeti. Make a mistake and you could be dinner. Perhaps we still live in such a world. The rage between our racial, political, social, economic and religious tribes seems stronger than it has in a very long time.

Hopefully, we will tire of this soon and realize that in the end there is but one tribe. It is called the Earth. Our land is this “tiny blue dot” we live on and share with all the other life we know. Even more broadly, there may be but one tribe within all the universes that now exist or that ever have existed. I can add to the kindness and joy of this tribe or detract from it. The choice is mine.

Maybe I will shave my head and cut off my beard the next time I travel out of Iowa City. I can do this much to reduce the chances of creating unease in others and encountering their prejudice. But what of those who encounter prejudice because of their skin color, size, intelligence, abilities or other more permanent features? They cannot change their color, suddenly grow a new limb or become more intelligent. I cannot imagine the challenges they face. In fact, I cannot say I truly understand the challenges and prejudice anyone else faces. Thankfully, I don’t need to. I can continue the practice of kindness without such knowledge. This is enough.

On second thought, I think I will let my hair grow so long that I can sit on it. Then when I travel outside of my town, I can wear long robes and carry a staff (and of course wear my sunglasses). Perhaps those who bear prejudice will think twice when presented with such an image. Or perhaps they will beat me silly. In either case it will simply be yet another chapter in what has already been an interesting and wonderful life. Whatever is left after the beating will either continue the wonder of this life or release its resources to be used by others. Regardless, life and its wonder will continue. At least that is how it seems to me. Other’s views may be different. In the end, differing views are not important. What is important is that I not be distracted by differences, no matter how long my hair, the color of my skin or my lack of wisdom and “common sense”.