A Far Country

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That probably won’t help matters.”

“Who, who is that?”

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

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

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

“Come and I will show you.”

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

“So, do you recognize me now?”

“Santa Claus?”

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

“No. Not Santa Claus. Try again.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Well, yes, I guess so.”

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

“Well, who was I talking to?”

“The only other person there dummy.”

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

“Bingo. Got it in one this time.”

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

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

“An end to this mess anyhow.”

“Quit being such an idiot.”

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

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

“You mean like, hell?”

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

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

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

“But that’s just your opinion.”

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

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

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

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

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

Even More Vancouver Photos

Sweetie

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

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

You laugh too loud.

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

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

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

“Hey Dad.”

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

“Uh Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

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

“Dad, I can’t make rent this month.”

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

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

“A thousand or so ought to do it.”

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

“Whichever is easiest for you Dad.”

“Your bank account then.”

“Oh, and Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“I love you Dad.”

“I love you too sweetie.”

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

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

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

Pictures from Vancouver

Some photos taken out of our hotel window.

The Beauty of Lizards

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Beauty

Comfort of Old Men

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

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

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

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

Morning Prayer

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

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

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

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

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

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

ENDING

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

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

A Second Hill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

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

“My name is John. And yours?”

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

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

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

I laugh. “I’m familiar with DWIs.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then we reach the end of our journey.

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

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

Anniversary

September 11, 2009

200 mg Depakote

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

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

It is 4:30 a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

Simple.

Help out a bit.

Grind coffee.

Watch bubbles.

Write.

Feel better.

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

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

Broken Ones

September 10, 2009

Depakote 200 mg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kindness to Kindness

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

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

“What’s the point?”

“Why do you bother?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your grandiosity is showing.”

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

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

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

August 31, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

Friendship. Of All Things

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

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

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

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

Adam pushes beyond into a place that he finds upsetting.

“Damn.”

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

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

“No. I have to fix it.”

I watch patiently. Filming him as he works.

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

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

I Miss You Steve

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary and Chocolate

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emily and Steve

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

More Events

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed.

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

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

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

“So what have you written?”

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

“Just Dale?”

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

Another laugh.

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

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

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

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

Mental Health July 30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Me, Lounging in a
folding chair.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7:00 A.M. Bob arrives.

Ultimate

'Nuff said.

Penultimate

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

Too Many Worms

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

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

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

Dorothy

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

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

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

Thank you Dorothy.

Cirque de Dale

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

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

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

Keira and Caroline

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

Joe and Keira

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

This was supposed to be funnier. It is not.

JAX Beach Dunkin Donuts

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

Confused Cow

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

Strange Image from My Point of View

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

I Sing (Poorly)

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

Bill's Fly

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

Blue Lamp

This is a picture of a lamp. Trust me.

Scenes From The Mall

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

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

Dr. Tom

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

Miss Dorothy

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

Close up of Dorothy's key chain.

Happy Lynn

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

Boppin' Bob

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

Dave's Chair

Chair At Dave's Restaurant

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

Blue Brains

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