Dolly Parton joins the Yakuza

I was sitting in the waiting area of the dentist's office yesterday reading a very well-written article about the battle of Bunker Hill, one of the flag-waving events of the Revolutionary War. Though frequently trotted out as an example of colonial grit, the battle in fact was a significant defeat for the scrappy colonials. I'm lousy at history, so I was interested and it filled the time as I waited and waited and waited.

I was sitting about four feet from a reception counter that was roughly shaped like a circle behind which there were two computer-imprisoned women who both said good morning to newcomers and made future appointments with those whose procedures for the day had been completed.

Another optical illusion

I was hip-deep in Bunker Hill when, on the far side of the counter, I became aware of a checkout customer with shoulder-length blond hair and a formidable set of boobs. Boobs are a guy thing and I'm a guy, so I left my 18th century focal point for something more up-to-date.

At first, being a guy, it was the boobs. But as I looked further north, I realized the face above this impressive rack was quite masculine, And as my focus sharpened, I realized that the voice making a future appointment was as deep as toe-nails. And into the bargain, the short-sleeved, low-cut blouse encasing my initial point of interest revealed a couple of quite muscular arms, both of which were heavily tattooed. The total effect was as if Dolly Parton had joined the Yakuza. It was big and brassy and sassy and I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think. I began to like this person for entirely different reasons.

First and foremost, I really enjoy having my deeply-ingrained assumptions challenged. And on the deeply-ingrained front, sex is a biggie, probably a primordial urge to sustain and extend the species, but my hunch is that the average heterosexual guy doesn't think in such studied and serene ways. Guys want to get laid ... end of story. Boobs suggest getting laid. Boobs ... woman ... get laid -- something like that, all in a nanosecond of assumption and habit. All the politically-correct and caring stuff kicks in later.

But suddenly, sitting in the dentist's office, my assumptions about men and women, boobs or the lack thereof, were challenged. Was there really anything sacrosanct about "women" and "men?" I wasn't asking for some long, heart-felt analysis or explanation of transgendered people. I was interested in what I could actually know and what I could actually know was that my assumptions seemed to be too presumptuous. Masculine and feminine ... sure, it's true ... but is it really true? Man as woman, woman as man -- do the brightly-etched lines of assumption and distinction really compute?

The bottom line was that I found myself both delighting in and delighted by this biker babe behind the receptionists' counter. Eeeehaw! -- shake my tree! And beyond that, the line rose up unbidden:

You go, girl!

I never did see the dentist. I'd had enough excitement for the morning and got sick of waiting, so I went home ... pleased as punch.

a little mental drool

Like a single raindrop drooling down the mental window pane ...

Maybe it's like this...

In the beginning, everything is seen but nothing is clear.

Later, nothing is seen but everything is clear.

And later still, clear and unclear lose their excitement:

It's just raining after all.
                                                 ******

Some people use spiritual life as a means of escaping the world.

Some people use spiritual endeavor as a means of engaging the world.

But I don't think spiritual life works like that.

Saying I don't think spiritual life works like that does not mean I know how it does.

medicine on your iPhone

I wonder if "revolutionary" is too strong a word. I kind of doubt it.

bits of news

-- Teachers in Mexico are rioting over proposed reforms that seem to resonate here in the United States.

The reforms impose centralised teacher assessment and seek to end corrupt practices in the education system.
Those practices include the buying and selling of teaching positions.
But unions say the reforms could lead to big lay-offs, and critics also suggest they may be paving the way for the privatisation of Mexico's education system.

As stated, the argument seems to be that keeping your job relies on upholding a yardstick of mediocrity and corruption. Privatization, which is happening incrementally here in the United States and seems to threaten any guarantee of universal education, has been the subject of similar outcries, though no rioting as yet.

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev

-- The hospitalized suspect in last week's Boston Marathon bombing has been read his constitutional rights and has stopped answering interrogators' questions. I, for one, breathed a sigh of relief: There was some discussion about the possibility that his constitutional right to silence might be overridden in the anguished frenzy that followed the bombings ... that he would, as the American citizen he is, be one of the exceptions allowed under the statute; that something called "terrorism" and the visceral fear that is so carefully nurtured under its banner would be allowed to rule the roost ... and thus visit a more insidious terrorism on the rest of us.



-- In Dallas,  four former U.S. presidents and the current one are scheduled to gather to schmooze and delight in the opening of the George W. Bush Presidential Center. George H.W. Bush, Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter and current president Barack Obama will make nice with George W. Bush, the man who brought us the demolition of the World Trade Center towers, a war in Iraq and a war in Afghanistan. He may also have done much to enshrine the word "nucular" in the war lexicon of American English. At least Margaret Thatcher was graced by a command of the language.

-- The Roman Catholic pope, Francis, an Argentinian, has met with Argentine activists begging him to open Vatican archives as they search for information about loved ones who disappeared during the Dirty War.

The group's leader Estela de Carlotto said the Church must know where some of the children were taken.
She met the Pope during a general audience at the Vatican, and handed him a letter asking for the archives to be open.
"Every detail can help to identify those who were taken from our families," the letter read.
She said the Pope had told her: "You can count on me. You can count on us."
Vatican archives are generally not opened for many decades.

Maybe the pope was telling the truth. I don't know. But, based on the Vatican's batting average in the matter of priest sexual abuse, it is hard to imagine that the "holy father" will be instrumental in releasing information that would in any way suggest that the Vatican knew of such atrocities ... and by knowing, was implicitly or explicitly complicit. Transparency, if history is any guide, is rarely transparent.

youth, age and George Bernard Shaw

It was George Bernard Shaw, the Irish playwright and determined socialist, who once observed, "Youth is wasted on the young." Given his intelligence and wit, it is hard to know if Shaw intended with his bon

mot to skewer the inattentive galloping of youth or mock the knee-jerk, ache-plagued whining of the aged. Either way, I figure GBS was smarter than your average kumquat.

Taking the most obvious point of entry, youth stands accused of frittering away its time in idle pleasure and uninformed delight. Put bluntly, youth is after a good time and sometimes achieves its goals. Youth is the puppy that races unheeding around the house, hits the linoleum floor in the kitchen, finds no purchase, skids and slips and goes ass over appetite ... and then gets up and does it all again. It may have bumps and bruises, but goddamn! it's fun.

The eye seasoned by experience observes all this and then, perhaps, retreats into Shaw's wit. It is a place leavened by truth, but it is also -- secretly and not so secretly -- a bit jaundiced:

If youth is wasted on the young, maybe it's worth asking if age is not likewise wasted on the elderly. Is there some reason that the wide-eyed joy of youth should not be found in less rambunctious times? Life is spendthrift and profligate in its gifts (look at the grass in summer, the fallen leaves in autumn, the snowflakes in winter), so what makes those slowed by age or infirmity imagine that the joy goes missing when they can no longer lift potato sacks or party until dawn?

Youth is sometimes accused of a wanton, if energetic, stupidity. But I wonder if the same accusation might not be laid at the doorstep of those less agile: When has joy ever been limited by agility ... or the lack thereof? Doesn't anyone use what they've got in order to get what they deserve? If you don't know what you've got, whose wasteful problem is that?

Wikileaks wins one

Worth noting: 

Iceland's Supreme Court upholds ruling against Valitor, a local processor of Visa and MasterCard payments that declined to credit donated funds to DataCell client Wikileaks.

The frenzied presumption of guilt both in so-called 'terror' cases like the recent bombing of the Boston Marathon and among big companies unwilling to see their income stream compromised by government pressures ... well, it may not hit your 'scary' button, but it sure hits mine.

evocative photo

        A house in the middle of the Drina River near the town of Bajina Basta, Serbia
                                               Photograph by Irene Becker

Britain's "depression"

In Britain, policy makers in well-pressed suits are on tenterhooks as they await an economic growth report due out Thursday. The slightest statistical downward trend could lead to declaring a "depression" instead of an ever-so-much-nicer-sounding "recession."

As elsewhere in the world, these policy makers are desperate to have consumers spend. Spending drives economic prosperity. But the wish, while economically sound, is riven by a factual insanity: What planet are these people living on? Precisely what are consumers supposed to spend when they are out of work or on the financial edge or suspect that policy makers are doing little more than whistling Dixie.

Take the cases of Kevin Bishenden, 50, and his wife, Nicola, 40. He's an upholsterer who says that no one wants to hire someone his age. She says she just can't find work. The only reason they aren't homeless is that Britain's welfare state manages to keep a roof over their heads.
But they've slowly been shedding all their possessions, together with memories of a past life. First a bike, then stuff from the kitchen. All the DVDs are going, though even Star Trek only gets you a few pennies. They've already sold their wedding rings.

Bank lending rates are historically low and the hope of policy makers is that businesses will borrow, expand and create jobs. But why should businesses want to expand when consumers have little or nothing to spend or no stomach for spending it? Businesses sit on mountains of cash and the Bishendens sell their wedding rings.

The stock market is back to levels last seen before the economic meltdown in 2008 and the structural reforms that might head off any similar, derivatives-driven collapse have been watered down or demolished. The stock market is doing well. Business as usual.

Anyone might rant and rave about all this and I'm not much different. The searing exasperation is everywhere: If they're so smart, how come they're so bloody stupid? Even leaving common decency aside, if the peasants don't eat, eventually, the lords won't either.

Of course, the well-heeled can make a lot of money in the window marked "eventually."

story time

My hunch is that religion or spiritual adventure would fall flat on its face without a good story to prop it up.

Who would listen without catastrophes and warm lights, without promises and perfections? Heaven and hell, virgins with grapes, brilliant lights and surprises, unfathomable realms, miracles and magic, snakes in the garden, gods and demons, relief and release, the scary part and the good part, metaphors and similes ... and not getting left behind.

Seriously, doesn't there have to be a good story, one that is woven and rewoven as the need to patch up its shortcomings becomes apparent? It is intricate, it is delicate, it is far-flung and marvelous.

And it would be churlish to dismiss one tale just because some other tale seemed better appointed. People make stories; it's no big deal. Some stories are incredibly delicious. Good news! Look Ma! I'm a believer or intelligent or right or powerful or rich!

Story time. OK.

But the question that whispers to me this morning is: What if the good spiritual news were true not because of the story, but despite it? What if, despite the good news, there really were good news? Could anyone tell that story? Would anyone want to?

I doubt it, but I'm a story teller, like my brethren, so hold on a sec while come up with a new one.

Brad Warner's promos

I was just reading another one of Brad Warner's gleeful promotions of a book he had written and being, as usual, mildly irritated. I was not irritated by yet another author doing his best to sell-sell-sell because he had worked-worked-worked and if he had worked so hard, well, it must be worth promoting ... an often-dubious if completely understandable mind-set.

I was irritated because, although I have never read one of Brad's books and have no intention of doing so, still, what I have read on blogs here and there makes me like him quite a lot. In the world of Zen, if such a thing exists, Brad has balls, and I get tired of mealy-mouthed oratorios that encourage a great deal of daring while exhibiting almost none of their own.

Brad pushes an envelope that very badly needs pushing. He goes to the edges of things and puts his ass on the line. I don't always agree with the positions he takes, but I would rather disagree with a man of substance than agree with a bunch of murmuring sissies.

Brad is not a comely Buddhist. He may be literate, thoughtful and have a series of other well-thought-of attributes, but he is not comely. He is willing to piss in the punch bowl and take responsibility for it. That he has made a reputation out of this does not bother me. Why? Because he has done it. Full frontal nudity. Brad is not a Zen pussy.

Why then be irritated by his latest promotion?

Because I always enter some piece of his writing thinking that he will, in one form or another, piss in a punch bowl that is badly in need of some spice. He will unveil what everyone is secretly thinking about some hot-button topic ... and won't flinch.

So I was mildly disappointed to see it was just another promotion -- a promotion I forgave him, but still wished it were something other than a promotion.

And also, I was mildly irritated at myself. Why had I not been more splashy-noisy when I wrote my book back in 2007? I suppose part of it was a kind of diffident hubris. That and an unwillingness to push my own envelope ... what the hell, if you're going to be an author and a goof, go ahead and be an author and a goof. My style is not Brad's style, but that doesn't mean I can't wish I had been a bit more like him ... and maybe put a chesty young woman on the cover.

Oh well, too late now.

I'm not sorry but I am also a little sorry.

off the rails

Looking things over, it is hard not to reflect on the effort expended to lay the rails ... the hopes and uncertainties, the literal and metaphorical blood, sweat and tears expended, the sacrifices and false starts that led to an industrial or religious or philosophical system that redefined and improved what had gone before.

Straight and true and perfectly aligned, guaranteeing a swift, successful bit of travel.

God! What an accomplishment!

What an accomplishment that, bit by bit, becomes the norm.

The trans-Siberian railroad. The Orient Express. The Emancipation Proclamation. Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism. E=mc2. A house to call home.

Laying the rails.

And having laid the rails, sometimes through unimaginable effort ... what is left but to go off the rails?

sneak peek at "Downton Abbey"

It's just a musical parody trailer for those afflicted by "Downton Abbey," the laboriously-lush public television series set in post-Edwardian England, but it's got some fun to it:

times to come?

Signs of times to come?

-- In New Mexico, the air force is ramping up its drone pilot capabilities.

"Every combatant commander in the world is asking for these things. Down in Southcom, Africom, Pacom, they're all asking for these assets, so it is in very high demand," said Lt. Col. Mike Weaver ....

Drones ... the remotely activated surveillance and killing machines that have inspired delight and despair. Everyone would like to enforce his way. No one likes blood on his hands. Accidents will happen, but hey, everything's got a price, right?

-- In civil-war-torn Syria, someone has kidnapped two top-gun Christians:

Yohanna Ibrahim is head of the Syriac Orthodox Church in Aleppo and Boulos Yaziji leads the Greek Orthodox Church in the city.
They are the most senior Christian clerics caught up directly in the war.

No one knows who did the kidnapping or why, but it is hard not to imagine that cash-strapped fighters would see a potential treasure trove in church coffers. Kidnapping has long been a source of income for those who want or need income, but perhaps the industry has been too narrow-minded in the past. Willie Sutton robbed banks, allegedly, "because that's where the money is." Religions, too, tend to stockpile money.

endless arrows

Moms and dads and friends and enemies and bumps and bruises ... life provides a hundred arrows for a quiver of living.

But moms and dads and friends and enemies and bumps and bruises cannot and do not provide the bow.

That's your business and mine.

falling out of bed

Once, when discussing shikantaza, the Zen Buddhist meditation practice that is sometimes translated as "just sitting," an instructor observed, "There is a difference between just sitting and just sitting."

Anyone who has tried this practice knows exactly what he meant.

I don't think Zen Buddhism has somehow cornered the market on such an understanding or that the understanding would somehow go missing if someone were a Christian or Jew or Muslim or stock broker or doctor or auto mechanic or artist or drug dealer.

There is a difference between just a kiss and just a kiss.


There is a difference between just a grain of sand and just a grain of sand.

There is a difference between just a sunset and just a sunset.

The understanding is clean and clear and no amount of verbiage can box it and put it up for sale as Zen Buddhist or atheist or humanist or ... or any other chosen format. There is a difference between what you just know and what you just know.

Clear as a bell. No problem. Instantaneous. Nothing special and yet quite compelling -- there is a difference between just a kiss and just a kiss.

But today I think that if there is a difference between just a kiss and just a kiss, just sitting and just sitting, then, no matter how clear the understanding...

You have missed the point.

Is there more than one way to fall out of bed?

altruism or something ... revised

Since I was sloppy before I will try to be neater ...



I'm not entirely sure what I'm on about, but I seem to be on about it:

Not with a million crucifixions

Nor a million tear-drenched nights

Nor a mountain of incense

Nor a prayer that never ceases

Will you ever save or free the world

Unless you free yourself.

This is a guarantee.

You have to cut the crap, now matter how sweet the songs;

'Why?' is the wrong question.

Walk past the precincts of praise and blame,

And free yourself.

Saving the world is not a matter of politics or politesse.

Forswear the dolors of the night,

Burn the book-marked pages,

Raise up the head that burrows in convenient sorrow.

Look things in the eye at last

And free yourself.

This is the price of saving the world, the burning brand.

Standing here, so far from home,

Where loneliness and crucifixion implore,

Learn the dance steps one by one,

The kindest leap or clearest breath,

And then, where all else fails at last, step off the cliff and know

That dancing has no partner and never, ever, was alone.

mixed messages

There was a time when I felt pretty guilty about even considering the idea that all of the much-ballyhooed cults that could leave public perception aghast ... every one of them evolved from a genteel and hopeful and sanctified environment.

A perfectly good religion or spiritual path -- something that succored and supported so many; something that was kind in the face of cruelty; something that attempted to answer the hard questions of death or deep uncertainty; something that offered to heal and bind up -- was the Miracle-Gro territory of mass suicides or self-serving scams or crass manipulations that could leave anyone gasping at the unkindness of it all.

I didn't want to think such thoughts at the time because, well, spiritual life was new and fruitful and good in my mind. It was a lifeline in whatever sea of confusion afflicted me. I felt somehow apostate that I even entertained the thought and I did what I could to preserve the good and turn my back on the wicked.

I worked pretty hard, but of course it did not work.

Out of the good springs the no-good. Out of the truth springs the lies. I wrestled and thrashed, but in the end, I could not escape.

Of course those who find spiritual persuasion a delusion from the get-go will pounce with glee at this juncture, forming their own cult of understanding: "See, I toldja so! A crock of shit!" They aren't lying, but that's not the same as saying they are telling the truth.

In Hindu mythology, there is a wondrous swan that is said to be able to sip a single drop of milk from an ocean of water. As a practical matter, this story is a koan: How could such a thing be possible -- to extract nothing but nourishment from a universe full of mixed messages? Where praise can't cut it and blame fares no better; where belief and hope and explanation soar and are profoundly crippled simultaneously ... what works?

I guess only a swan could answer that question.

human rights violations

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black ....

Oh well, I guess it's good to remember that both pot and kettle are, in fact, black.

In response to a Washington report about human rights violations around the world, China has come down hard on the United States, accusing the sometimes self-righteous arbiter of human decency of its own corruptions, "saying that U.S. military operations have infringed on rights abroad and that political donations at home have thwarted the country's democracy."

The report released Sunday in China - which defines human rights primarily in terms of improving living conditions for its 1.3 billion people- also cited gun violence in the U.S. among its examples of human rights violations, saying it was a serious threat to the lives and safety of America's citizens.

'Improving living conditions for its citizens'... talk about a sticky wicket fraught with vast potential for corruption and cruelty in either East or West.

a fortress without walls

This morning, like some grandmother awaiting a visit from kids and grandkids, my mind bakes blueberry muffins in preparation. The grandmother knows that not everyone likes blueberry muffins, but it is what she knows how to do and she enjoys it and so she putters around, concocting the offerings that her life can provide. Even if no one likes blueberry muffins, still they smell good and offering is about all anyone can do.

Today, a woman I have never met is planning to come to the zendo. In email, she has indicated an interest in Buddhism. I would like to make her feel welcome but ... who knows if she will like the blueberry muffins that are offered ... or whether I will. Offering is about all that anyone can do.

One of the muffins toasting in the cupcake pan is the old spiritual-life suggestion, "Understanding is knowing to get out of the way of an on-coming bus. Practice is for the bus you didn't see coming."

In one sense, the saying is as simple and toasty and un-weird as a blueberry muffin; its homey straightforwardness is devoid of censer/thurible solemnity ... it's a simple if-then promise: If you practice, then the thorny adventures that life can dish up will not be so painful. That sounds, muffin-fashion, like a pretty good deal.

"Practice is for the bus you didn't see coming."

On the one hand it is true. On the other hand, like so many spiritual lollipops, it is utter claptrap.

It is claptrap in a sense that any sane person can recognize in an instant: No one can perfectly know the future. (If they could, there would probably be a huge uptick in boredom and suicide.) A quick glance at anyone's past proves this time and time again. It's part of why "practice is for the bus you didn't see coming" is so alluring, so yummy: Wouldn't it be kool to be able to sidestep the buses you didn't see coming, the ones that knocked you silly in the past? Gimme some of that! What I wouldn't give for some relief from the bruises life serves up because "you didn't see it coming." To be prescient and serene and not get knocked on my ass ... what an invitation! what a promise! Yessir, practice is for something and it is a something I want.

Very kool. I want it ... and ... no one can know the future outside of confecting some oooooeeeeoooo magical-mystery-tour mythology.

Claptrap ... but so delicious, I think I'll take a bite ... and practice because the buses I didn't see coming can be pretty ferocious. I am tired of the wounds. I want relief. I will practice.

Practice is for the bus you didn't see coming: It's a sucker punch and a red herring on the one hand and perfectly true on the other.

The truth takes a bit of practice, a practice that gets beyond the claptrap or relief or prescience or wondrous salvation. No one can know the future ... that's obvious ... and I wonder what it would be like to be 'no one' and hence know the future.

At the moment of mustering the determination to practice, there is someone in action, someone who seeks relief, someone to save from the bus you didn't see coming. There is nothing wrong with it -- what nitwit wouldn't avoid an oncoming bus? -- but the question is, does it work? And if it doesn't work, who is it I am seeking to save from the slings and arrows or outrageous fortune?

At first, practice may seem to be building a fortress in which to be safe and sound and unpummeled. A sensible and warming and protective home. A relief.

But perhaps what practice teaches is more like ... well, maybe it is truly an excellent fortress ... but it is a fortress without walls. The winds of past, present and future meander across the plain unobstructed by the claptrap of relief and wonder and a longing for safety.

Who would cry out for safety when they were already safe?

It's just another muffin emerging from the oven.

angus courts success

And today, so many years later, as if to mark the day, Angus came in first at a track meet at nearby Springfield College, throwing the discus a personal best of 147 feet.

after the bombs

Was there ever a police state that did not anoint itself with the best intentions?

Was there ever a police state that did not owe much of its verisimilitude to the reports of an alarmist press that claimed to have the citizenry's best interests at heart, but evinced few and flimsy facts surrounded by a drumbeat of frenzied chatter?

Monday's bombings at the Boston Marathon were really very frightening. Three died and more than 180 were injured. But any honest fear I felt has been compounded by the agencies and outlook of those tasked with the investigation. Fear heaped on fear.

There is relieved jubilation today that the second suspect in the case has been caught. 


It's over.

Ahhhhh.

But the tendrils of implication nag.

I have no intention of moving to Idaho and taking up residence in some well-provisioned bunker. I have no intention of joining some nitwit fringe group that sees conspiracies in every corner. But that does not mean I cannot be honestly afraid of what multi-billion-dollar agencies like the Department of Homeland Security imply for the United States of America. It does not mean that I cannot be deeply disgusted by the frenzied and self-serving coverage offered by the media.

I guess it's nothing new, but that doesn't make it any more attractive or decent or honest -- the willingness to employ fear while claiming the high ground of stamping fear out. Companies, religious institutions, countries ... any number of social organizations use similar tactics. Shame and courage go begging. Fear works better.

Well ... it seems to have worked.

I am afraid of the salvation that's being offered and of the salvors who offer it.

surprise! surprise!

I was thinking of saying that nice surprises were really nifty. Finding a $20 bill on the sidewalk, running into a good friend you haven't seen in ages, or hearing a few words that utterly reshape an outlook that had been soggy as wet cardboard ... it's as if something or someone hit a "refresh" button within and in less than the blink of an eye ... what a nice surprise! how wonderful! how nifty!

I was thinking of saying that of course the same thing is true of nasty surprises: Sure enough, the "refresh" button gets hit, but, well, it's not as nifty. It may be refreshed, all right, but it's nasty.

I was thinking of saying that it's fun-er to stick with the nifty surprises.

And I was thinking of saying that in spiritual endeavor there are no surprises. Or, if there are, then it is a clear indicator that more effort is required ... that surprises are a good warning signal. When things are naturally fresh, hitting the "refresh" button is obviously a fool's errand.

I was thinking of saying all that.

But I guess I won't.

yes, but

Aside from ....

Except for ....

Does anyone else marvel at the human capacity for yes-but-ing life?

It sounds so sensible. It is often based in hard-won experience. Languidly lounging in the greys between black and white....

YES, BUT ...

It doesn't seem to be genetic and it hardly deserves to be burdened with "good" or "bad." It's just one of those facts of life, I guess.

How does anyone get over the yes-but's attending on one situation or another?

What is the penalty for maintaining a yes-but fortress ... perhaps for an entire lifetime?

Life says "yes."

I say, "yes-but."

How does this compute?

how to wreck a perfectly good photo

meeting a celebrity

Fridays are the days on which the local newspaper, the Hampshire Gazette, runs a column I always read. It is called "ID" and it is a Q & A with one individual ... where does s/he live, what does s/he do, what mistakes has s/he made, what books or music does s/he like, etc.

The columns are not uniformly interesting, but they are uniformly about one individual and I like individuals, however imperfectly they may describe themselves. I feel as if I am getting the "meat" of "meat and potatoes." No generalizations or conclusions or humanity blithely skipped over as in news stories or wise analyses. This is people. This is, somehow, real blood.

One of the questions reads: "If your could spend the day with a celebrity from any time in history, who would it be?"

The question seems to get to me every time -- to leave me somehow sputtering and searching in my mind.

In general, I agree with former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins who once observed in a radio interview that "Meeting your favorite author is one of life's most reliable disappointments." It is better to leave the bright lights of the mind to their own devices -- to enjoy their brightness but not venture too close. Up-close is a recipe for disappointment, for a dimming of the brightness. What has fame got to do with substance or kinship, after all?

But for all that, I can't help myself. There are a couple of people I wouldn't mind meeting. Charles Monroe was a mail clerk in New Marlborough, Mass., when he was interviewed in 1939. And there was once a radio program I could never find again ... about a pig farmer and his wife in Louisiana or Mississippi or somewhere down south. He came across as a plain-spoken man who worked his ass off and positively glowed with love and common sense and ... just being who he was... the kind of man who made me happy to be part of the human race.

It's probably just as well that these men are probably dead and I could never meet them. That way, the light and delight remain undimmed. It may not make a lot of sense, but "celebrities" are kind of fun.

no 15 minutes of fame

This morning, before opening this page, I had a note from a very old friend, an economics professor at the University of Hawaii. He and I were stationed in Berlin in the early 1960's as German linguists and somehow our friendship has lasted despite infrequent meetings and great distances. He asked for news and I told him the thing that was uppermost in my mind. I am too confounded to reprise it in some more coherent way, so here is the first paragraph of the note I sent in return:

Barney -- As always, I am glad to hear you survived ... birthdays, condos, whatever. At this end of the world, less and less is new or news. Today, my younger son, Ives, graduates from basic training with the Army National Guard. He's at Ft. Benning. On Monday, he starts advanced infantry training. In the midst of a swirl of gnawing reactions within, I talked with him on the phone last night and he told me that during the 12-mile hike that was some sort of apex exercise, he stayed back beginning at mile 4 to help another guy who was weeping in pain from his blistered feet ... stayed with him the whole way ... and they made it together. And that is the son I know -- kind-hearted in ways that are unlikely to be easy as he moves forward in life, whether inside the army or out. It made me think how little decency and kindness -- just ordinary, day-to-day stuff -- makes the social headlines and yet that unremarkable world is really quite remarkable and noteworthy... and worth nourishing despite the fact that there are no 15 minutes of fame.

In a matrix of destruction and cruelty, there are always bright lights of warmth and kindness.

I find it infuriatingly saccharine and smarmy and demeaning when wondrous bits of common decency and kindness are elevated and praised. They are worth noting, but will always remain impossibly secret when they are any good. The light is not lighter because of the darkness. The darkness is not darker because of the light. The light is the light. The darkness is the darkness. They dance ... but there is no "they."

Cut the Gandhi or Jesus or Gautama sales pitch!

Don't speak to me of heroes when there are heroes all around me!

But here I am ... another smarm-meister and purveyor of drizzle and ick.

"This too shall pass"

kindness

Posted elsewhere, but I think I will put it here as well:

You are not kind because of Buddhism.
Buddhism is kind because of you.

a bias towards beauty

-- A shameful bias I will have to confess to sits on a small index card in the back of my mind. It is not loud or raucous ... it is just a biased reminder: Beware of people who keep horses: They are often rich and frequently careless of others who are less fortunate.

But that bias does not extend to horses themselves. No horse I have known was ever self-centered.

And so there is something sad about thinking that a beautiful breed -- the "Pura Raza Espanola" - Pure Spanish Breed -- may be headed for the slaughterhouse because of the economic downturn in Spain.

What wealth once raised up, wealth can likewise put to death.

It's just a bias: I love what I find beautiful. 

-- And, in another show of wealth, as many as 30 migrant workers were injured when a supervisor apparently opened fire on some 200 who had gathered on a strawberry farm in Greece to discuss unpaid salaries. No one was critically injured and the supervisor was arrested, but the waxing principle seems to be the same: Be thankful for the work you have ... or I may have to shoot you ... literally or metaphorically.

another salvation beckons

Wracked by uncertainty?

Scared of death?

Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.

Passed along in email this morning was an article suggesting that acetaminophen -- stuff like Tylenol -- may cure more than minor aches and pains and have a side effect of easing existential dread.

The findings suggest anxiety about finding meaning in life and feeling physical pain may be rooted in the same part of the brain.

As usual, the findings SUGGEST.

And the mind leaps to PROVE.