Voting

I’m voting today! My mail-in ballot is about the size of a regular paperback. Say, Water For Elephants or The Power of Now. It’s filled with ideas, choices, and possibilities. Some are obvious and some require a closer reading. The choices presented seem to cover every aspect of life, no matter how mundane or personal. My say is counted along with everyone else’s. The result will determine the direction of the next four years. Laws will be made and taxes imposed. Everyone will be affected. That’s scary.

This brings to mind the close ties (or proximity) between Halloween and Election Day. Deliberate symbolism or non-partisan coincidence? Hard to say. Some candidates do resemble familiar frightening figures. Think back over the commercials you’ve recently seen. The ones that haunt you. Frankenstein? Dracula? The Mummy? That bumbler in the 4th or was it the 6th District? Hmm… how like Uncle Fester. Would you rather the elite Gomez Addams or the more middle-class Herman Munster?

The weather is turning, the shadows are falling, and goblins seem to be everywhere. Halloween, at its purest, is not exclusively about candy and the hoarding thereof or even about scaring the pants off us. Originally, it was a harvest festival. To countries around the world, it is a celebration of abundance. Or, not. Reaping what you sow?

We practice trick or treating. This choice is sometimes confusing. That’s why we have ballots. So we can keep it all straight. Vying with each other are devils, witches, skeletons, and those who would do Eeevil. Just glance down the list of candidates. I’m sure you can identify them.

Politicians are not necessarily evil. Perhaps, it’s just the system. Or, might it be something else? Something entangled in symbols of pagan hoopla? Is bobbing for apples as innocent as it appears? Could it be a euphemism for voting? What is it about masks? Why does so much in Washington take place in the dark? Would you trade your vote for a Butterfinger?

It may seem childish, but these guys are serious. Vote for Me! Or, else. That’s frightening.

To be or not to be

There are a lot of people in the world. They are all over the place. Six and a half billion. China, all by itself, has 1.3 billion. The world’s population will double in 61 years. Is that a long time? 61 years ago, it was 1947. U.S. population was 144 million and now it is more than 301 million. 61 years from now it will be 2069. Wow. To me, that seems like a lot. A lot of numbers and a lot of people. What are we all doing here?

It’s all how you look at it. On one hand, in the grand scheme of things, we’re insignificant. On the other, we’re an important part of everything. At any one moment, lots of things are taking place. Large and small. Dinosaurs are squabbling near the foothills. Org is making dinner, over a fire, for his wife. The Renaissance is moving forward and Guiseppe is trying to park his gondola. The slaves are freed and Bob is working his back forty. The Beatles are on Ed Sullivan and the family down the street is having TV dinners. Bill Gates is figuring something out in science class and Bill Smith is falling in love.

As Mighty Mouse said, Are we mice or are we mice? It’s a matter of perspective. Am I a grain of sand on the beach, a speck of dust in the universe, one Cheerio in a 14 oz. box? Or, am I a part of the whole, an essential element in the cosmic mix, a determining factor in evolution?

There are a lot of things going on right now that affect us all. Climate change, financial chaos, and the election. What effect can I have? Do my actions have meaning? Is this speculation juvenile? Most of the time, I am amazed at how lucky I am to be here, in this particular place, at this particular moment. I try my best to enjoy my family, my friends, and the music in the background – Little Richard, Beethoven, and Monk.

This is true for a lot of people. This idea of perspective is crucial. Because of this luck, we get to have a choice. We can decide that we have a part in life and everyone is important. There are artists and paint makers. There are politicians and voters. Some are parents and some are children. Or, we can allow ourselves (choose) to feel hopeless, marginal, insignificant.

There are a lot of choices, especially for an extremist, like myself. There is good and bad, light and dark, honesty and lying, action and inaction, faith and despair, soccer and futbol. Wait a minute… You get the picture. At moments of existential angst, like tonight, I take comfort and direction from the words and wisdom of James Brown – Get up offa that thing. Dance and you’ll feel better.

This always points me in the right direction.

Say What?!

I haven’t written lately, because I have wanted to stay away from politics. There are several good reasons for this. However, it’s everywhere. It’s in the air. Heck, it’s on the air. And, it’s on everyone’s mind. You can’t turn around without seeing that look that says, I don’t want to, really, but we better talk about the situation. One can’t avoid the ads, the conventions, the speeches, the conversations, or the media.

From seeing and hearing all this, it seems that most Americans can’t read, can’t distinguish fact from fiction, can’t tell the difference between oratory and rabble rousing, won’t discuss anything in a rational manner, and just about everyone is scared to death. Who can we trust? It seems we can’t trust ourselves or each other. This makes things difficult.

Old ideals are perverted. Hard work, education, and the belief that anyone can grow up to be President is now elitist and, definitely, out of touch. Truth, Justice, and the American Way, have become what works, I’m sorry, and I can’t help you. Not to mention, I don’t know you, I’m busy, and I’m on vacation.

Many of us are opportunistic, racist (though that’s hard to admit), and guided by the justifications of religion. Definitions are fluid. Facts are subject to change and revision. Effort, hope, and responsibility are suspect. Fear gathers momentum.

It seems that there could not be a clearer contrast than this election and its parties and their aspirations, directions, and methods. And yet, at the moment, the obvious is obscured. The candidates are neck and neck. That really is frightening.

We can try to understand each other. We can vote. We can cross our fingers. We can hope. And, despite everything, I know we can change.

The Convention

Politics, with all of its talk of bills and laws and foreign relations and domestic policies, seems to take place in Washington, far away, and is something out of our hands and inevitable, like taxes. The Democratic convention, which just ended, reminded me that it can also be about things more tangible, real, personal, and emotional.

Watching on TV is no substitute for being there, but even that medium, so artificial and distancing, couldn’t dilute the power of this one. Not that it didn’t try. We watched it each night on PBS, the supposed station of the people. It took until the last night and repeated yelling and cursing for us to realize that their commentary, any commentary, trivialized and insulted what was taking place. With C-span and its picture-only style, we finally were able to have an uninterrupted experience.

The convention, though planned and scripted as to who and when, seemed to develop in an organic and natural way. A bit scattered at the beginning, it began to coalesce. The Clintons gave their endorsements (despite the backstory) and testimony from regular Joes began to tie this process to the reality that this was the way we govern ourselves and who we elect to do it. As it progressed, it no longer seemed that our lives are controlled by an alien species we refer to as politicians. We saw real guys with real lives. They weren’t so different from us. They have their path and it is to serve in government.

Although I admit to optimism, to responding to Sousa, and to red, white, and blue, the longer I watched, the more patriotic and motivated I became. In contrast to the cynicism and helplessness I usually feel, I was reminded that we have a history and it goes back more than eight years. The United States is not without blame for many things, but we do have ideals and they are just that – something we keep aiming for.

Given the nudge by all this hoopla and discussion, by the speeches and stories, I can look around and see the melting pot they talk about. I see the examples of possibility and opportunity that exist in this country. It’s not just a nice story. In the world we live in now, no one and nothing can remain hidden. Reality, though sometimes filtered, is always before us and demands action.

Part of that action was unfolding at the convention. The ideas and ideals of hope, determination, and goodness were given voice. Even television and its chattering personalities, could not blunt the feeling shown in the words and the faces that were lighting up the evening.

America is a different kind of place and this gathering presented the wish of countless hearts to evolve and embrace and include whoever aspires to similar ideals. Obama was right when he said that it wasn’t about him, but about us. This election no longer feels like a mechanical abstraction that takes place in November, but a real decision that involves us all. A process that can move us forward, closer and closer to those ideals.

Exercise your right to vote. You’ll feel stronger.

Questions, Questions, Questions

They’re everywhere. When they get together, they multiply. Once put into motion, they take on a life of their own and it appears there is no end in sight. How big can a question get? Is a profound question more demanding than one that is casually dressed? And, who is to say which is which? Isn’t everything relative, anyway? And, won’t an excess of questions drive us crazy?

How can we possibly sort them all out? There seems to be no stopping them. Just when you think you’ve answered plenty for one guy, or have finally set them aside for good and gone about your business, here comes another one.

First, from birth, there’s, when’s lunch? A bit later, it’s why am I going to school? Sure, there’s learning and everything, but then you wonder about issues of control and conformity, not to mention the rationale for authority. Why can’t I say that? Why can’t I go outside? And, perhaps more importantly, what’s her name?

Dion said it best, why must I be a teenager in love? It’s a bittersweet moment for these teenagers and will lead to other questions that lay the groundwork for a process they call maturation. This maturation has its own set of questions, such as, who am I? Why am/are I/we here? (What!?), and who are you? This is the beginning of a personal philosophy.

This process of maturation and the development of a personal philosophy can take a while. I guess it all depends on when you want to stop or when you’ve had enough and you just can’t take it any longer.

After you’ve settled the serious question of How am I going to make any money, you tackle ones like, Is marriage possible? Or, even desirable? That maturity issue keeps poking its head into things and asks, am I really ready or responsible enough for that kind of thing? And then, what about kids?

A bit later, while looking in the mirror, you turn to your wife and ask, am I getting older? She looks at you, with sympathy. You begin to notice things that bring up questions of their own: What happened? Where are those hairs disappearing? Do I really look like my Dad? And then, the David Byrne question, how did I get here?

My own maturation process tells me that all these questions are Male-specific. And, it’s true. I have no idea what questions women are asking themselves. Which brings up another question, why are they so different? Not that I mind. I’m glad they are, but they’re a mystery.

Some questions just won’t go away, no matter how many times you think you’ve answered them. Who do I think I am? Or, rather, who am I? What is this world all about? Why are things the way they are? What should I do? What’s the best use of my time? Sometimes it’s, are you kidding me? The number and scope of questions is limitless. Which begs the question, why me?

I’ve found that it’s a good plan to pay attention, but to always go with the flow. My favorite question is the one that asks, what exciting thing is going to happen next?
Answers are hard to come by, but there’s always another question.

A big, warm hug?

The Olympics begin in China today. Who says money doesn’t make the world go round?

There is a lot of talk about the civilizing influence of the Games, the accomplishment and dedication of the athletes, the extension of world records, and the indomitable human spirit.

The other side to it is the tyranny and ruthlessness of the Chinese government, the unmistakable and pervasive pollution, the doping scandals, and the contrast of the opulent presentation of the Games with the struggles of so many of China’s billions. Certainly, we’re not blameless, either.

This situation resembles the stark difference in the upcoming election here. There is a choice between two very different candidates – young versus old, hopeful vision versus a defensive posture, clear thinking versus a desperate confusion, a new kind of candidate and the old, predictable guard, an attempt at a realistic and practical assessment of the problems and challenges that demand action and an unimaginative continuation of the dated and destructive policies that have brought us to the lowest point in our history.

George Bush makes feeble statements about human rights, but won’t really risk offending our biggest trading partner and the main investor/owner of the dollar. China rushes to present a clean, smiling face to the world, while he accepts his box seat and has a hot dog or the Chinese equivalent.

The Games and the competition there are inspiring, but behind the scenes the environment takes its last gasps, while politicians and businessmen are only interested in power and profit.

The state of information made possible by the Internet makes it impossible to hide the facts that result from our actions. Now, that’s true progress. This gives everyone an opportunity to recognize what is actually occurring and make the decision to dedicate ourselves to more basic and necessary matters.

A truly exciting competition would be one where all of the participating countries try to outdo each other in saving the environment, guaranteeing human rights to individuals, creating peace, and extending the brotherhood represented by the Games to a world that desperately needs it.

Pass the torch. Let it begin.

The Wall

Our little town is one of the stops on the tour of the Vietnam Wall. This is a three-quarter-size replica of the memorial that is in Washington, DC. Despite its reduced size, it is big. All 58,000 and more names are there in dark granite.

It travels around the country in a big semi-trailer and is put up and staffed by volunteers. Maybe you’ve seen it. In our town, at least, the wall is set up in a wide, open cemetery near the highway.

The names on the wall and what they represent quiet everyone who visits, even children. The long columns of names and the meaning of it all are hard to comprehend. It is so final.

Each name represents a real person. Not just letters, but a living being whose death affected and still affects so many other lives. This is an ongoing tragedy, even so long after the event. And now, we have another pointless war and will have yet another memorial.

I’m glad the wall is traveling around America. Everyone will have an opportunity to experience and, for a moment, at least, contemplate its meaning. It is our duty to all of the victims of war, and to each other, to take our thoughts, as we stand before this endless list of names, and imagine and dedicate ourselves to a much different and more humane future.

My English Teacher

I fell in love with my English teacher
For reasons intellectual and aesthetic
She was a lodestone of learning
And also of love
She was, in fact, magnetic

She introduced herself to one and all
“Miss Swan,” I echoed softly
She was a goddess, well, like a goddess
I loved her instantly and awfully

She had a look, a manner, a way
There were many great qualities about her
She said, Make friends with grammar today
Not for a moment did I doubt her

Her vowels drove me crazy
Of each sentence, she was the subject
And after that first day
Her definition was my ubject

Her consonants were endearing
And her syllables most alluring
And when she alluded to her participles
It was torture worth enduring

She was a walking dictionary
With a little slang thrown in
Each day eager, with pencil sharpened
I’d wait for class to begin

Her nouns were always proper
Her tense was unconditional
But when she got excited
She was certainly untraditional

Conjunctions were all I thought about
Both in and out of class
To study, together, our great language
Was a pleasure unsurpassed

Her adjectives were so affecting
That I felt like rushing to her
To declare my love, then and there
And, with verbs transitive, try to woo her

I memorized each complex phrase
And pondered about gender
I wrote a thousand poems of love
I was too shy to send her

Her articles drove me wild
As did her tone (so parenthetical)
Her pronouns were so personal
But our positions antithetical

Our stars were crossed
Our fates confused
Our classroom time
So much misused
I loved her singular
I loved her plural
Indented, in brackets
As woman, as girl
As teacher, as guide
As exclamation
As simile, as metaphor
As inspiration

The parallel construction of our love
That I hoped would now surround me
Turned out to be just single-spaced
For she never thought about me

I could fashion a paragraph with the best
But my love remained unrequited
For only in my imagination
Were we to be united

What sort of life could we make together
Simply, one so sadly imprudent
Equals we could never be
For she, the teacher
And I, the student

Geezer Rock

Keep on rockin’ me, baby, and take it to the limit, you witchy woman, because I get around and, Roxanne, there’s a man downstairs, and he just might be Jimmy Buffett, I don’t know.

They’re back. They only look like they’re on loan from the other side. It’s no one’s fault. We all get older. Even, rockers. Maybe, especially rockers. Just look at their lifestyle – traveling, late hours, sex, and drugs. Come on.

These poor guys were young once. Hey, so were we. They made music, much of it great. But now, they’re back, touring, being featured on Public Television for fund-raising, on covers of magazines, whose reporters are astonished by their continued existence, and in business sections, where their bottom lines are making guys in suits jealous.

Everything changes. That’s what they all say, but, whether because of our refusal to let go or our need to revisit those thrilling days of yesteryear, or because of their need for money, it seems like every old Rock and Roller is out on tour this summer and nothing has changed. You can see everyone from The Allman Brothers to ZZ Top. From Barry Manilow to Neil Diamond. Just like 1979. Iam;I cried. I can't go for that. No can do.

Last week, on my way to see Steven Colbert, I passed Channel 6, our public TV station, and the words, Never my love, came softly toward the couch I was on. The Association!? No! Please! Please let them sink beneath the waves of memory! Their hair was perfect, but the rest of them had fallen and filled out. The lights were not helping. A close-up revealed their undiminished sincerity, but they were still cheesy. I would rather forget.

Some guys are always going to be worth seeing – Dylan, Santana, Aretha, Stevie. But, most of the others should leave our memories alone. I love the Beach Boys, but, besides half of them being dead, Hot Rods and Surfing just don’t hold the same interest they once did.

Oldies has a new definition. Antique. Even Old School is old. But it doesn’t change the music. There’s power there. There’s beauty. I love to hear it. The music has never stopped in my house. And, never will, but, please, everything in its place. There’s something disturbing about seeing Leon Russell hobbling, with a cane, across the stage or Stevie Nicks, shuffling up to the mike.

In other genres, age works. In jazz, Doc Cheatham, Count Basie, and Dizzy were all doing it, until they keeled over. Lee Konitz is still out playing and playing better than ever. In Bluegrass, Bill Monroe and the Stanley Brothers were/are revered masters. In Blues, you aren’t legitimate, unless you are seasoned by several decades, and classical players age well, just like their instruments.

But, for Rock and Rollers, the sound of rebellion, or Motown, the Voice of Young America, it just seems creepy when white-haired, wrinkled guys perform these songs. I hate it when the audience and I are praying that one of the original remaining Temptations will hit that ecstatic high note.

Hey, it’s only rock and roll, but I like it and I like it as it is: a moment in time, a sound that inspires memory and imagination, and a feeling that will never grow old, even if we do. The good guys will always be good, but, if you are reaching for a height that was never very high to begin with, please stay home and don’t tempt me to revisit those past moments of triumph, humiliation, and Three Dog Night.

Let the good times roll, keep on dancin’, and let’s twist again, like we did last summer.

I Love A Parade

Americans used to be big on parades. Every holiday had one. The Fourth spoke to everyone. Columbus Day for the Italians. St. Patrick’s Day for the Irish. The Rose Parade for rose growers and football players. Thanksgiving Day for Macy’s. Memorial Day for remembering, and Labor Day to allow everyone to make a personal statement about work.

There have been parades for special events – protest, pride, and some for plain old exhibitionism. That exhibitionism is a big part of the military. They march in formation to show that there are a lot of guys defending us. Once individuals, they now, after extensive training, have been forged into an impressive single body, ready to turn left at a moment’s notice or sling their guns around, as one. They have become a force to be reckoned with.

Back at the dawn of time, a bunch of guys from one cave wanted to visit some other guys at a cave across the valley. One of them, we’ll call him, Ugh, was kind of bossy and wanted to impress the other cave’s inhabitants. As they began their walk across the valley, it became apparent that this was just a bunch of guys in skins, and not uniform skins, a motley group shuffling in a general direction. Some had stopped to investigate an unknown flower and some were chasing each other and squealing like animals.

This wasn’t going to impress anyone. Ugh was upset. This would not do. He cried out, he gestured, he bullied, he threatened. No one understood, but it seemed to mean a lot to Ugh, so they lined up, matched Ugh’s stern expression, and moved forward as one, all the time chuckling and nudging each other behind Ugh’s back. Let Ugh have his fantasy. The funny thing was that it did impress the other group. They cheered Ugh and his buddies as they came by. It’s funny how things can affect you. Everyone had a good time and they decided to do it again, later. Next year, whenever that was.

To accompany groups such as this and groups with a more basic and combative purpose, a form of inspirational music was composed – Marches. Germans were especially good at this. In Sweden, it was more like a group of florists humming to themselves as they marched along. In America, which was founded on an odd mix of principles and violence, John Phillip Sousa wrote the soundtrack that moved the country forward.

His marches resonate deep in our psyches, whether we know it as Sousa or as that catchy tune from the movies. It gives our steps a lift. If you have ever been in a parade, you know that after marching a couple of blocks, your step could definitely use a lift.

I know, from personal experience, that introverts are just not right for parading. It’s crowded, everyone is looking at you, and it’s hard to keep your feet straight. I prefer parades with a much looser agenda. Ones that don’t take themselves too seriously.

In our town, we have the world’s shortest St. Patrick’s Day parade. It’s half a block long. I remember when this grand tradition started. We were celebrating inside. Toasting, singing, and laughing. Some one had one of those ideas that seem so appealing at certain moments of weakness and we spilled out of the bar. We only made it half a block. In later years, there was a real leprechaun – green, short, and bearded – and then little girls step-dancing and, eventually, guys performing syncopated maneuvers with lawn chairs. My friends and I cheer them on. Tradition revered and respected.

You have to hand it to the Shriner’s. Yes, they are a throwback to a more populated parade era, but they are another group that knows how to have fun. I mean, those hats. Come on. They are big, middle-aged men, wearing little hats, riding in circles, in miniature convertibles and tiny motorcycles. They may look silly, but it is well known that the expertise they have with these vehicles is unrivaled and takes much practice.

Another of the many parades in this town is in honor of Fairies and Spirits. These are represented by children, dressed by their parents. The little ones waddle down the street, looking alternately quite pleased with themselves or puzzled.

I’m not sure which town is the top parade spot in the nation. At times, it seems everyone is vying for the title and, at others, as if everyone has forgotten what day it is and simply want to sit quietly on the porch.

Once, in Minneapolis, I saw a parade of 5,000 tap dancers in costume, tapping three blocks to the tune of “I’ve Got Rhythm”. They were attempting a world record and their tapping was heard over the traffic, all the way to St. Paul.

I’m looking forward to the day when all parades are like that – just a bunch of people with a good idea, getting together to walk around and have fun. To the traditionally patriotic, this might seem the height of ungodly humanism, but it might just signify an evolution of collective behavior, higher purpose, and the celebration of a most human step forward. No more marching to war, but one happy, light-hearted step after another. Let the parade begin.

27%

I know that statistics can be interpreted in many ways. They may be wildly inaccurate and, possibly, even downright lies! This distrust is what has happened in the last few years, however, let’s talk about that another time. But, being a writer, it’s disturbing to read that only 27% of Americans read a book last year. This seems to be a function of both interest and ability.

Many writers, myself among them, sometimes wonder, if anyone ever reads what they write. Are we crazy? Are we talking (writing) to ourselves? That would be kind of a Zen thing. The sound of one hand writing.

Writers, don’t go there. Some one is out there, reading.

Aren’t you?

Okay, enough of that. How about this? In an essay, in The New Yorker, called, The Twilight of Books, it said that, “According to the Department of Education, between 1992 and 2003 the average adult’s reading skills declined.” No real surprise there. But, “The proportion who were proficient, that is, capable of such tasks as comparing viewpoints in two different editorials, declined from 15% to 13%.”

What?!!? The fact that it was 15% in 1992 is frightening, but it has declined to 13%! That blew my naïve mind. I thought of this during the primaries, which are STILL GOING ON and have, so far, failed to focus on stuff that seems to be important – like, climate crisis, people dying, misspent taxpayer money in Iraq, etc.

But back to the statistics. Are these guys voting? In our democracy, all votes are equal. Well, except for superdelegates. But, 87% (!!) who can’t compare viewpoints in two editorials? It’s like letting your dog drive. Or, like having the TSA guys at the airport determine who should pilot the planes.

According to exit polls at the primaries, Hilary has been doing well with un- and under-educated voters and Obama is doing well with those who are college-educated. Shouldn’t that tell us something?

I don’t want to sound elitist, but I would feel better if voters were somewhat competent. It makes me wonder how anything gets done. And, it makes the case that those guys already in Washington are of a special group (elitists?), who have taken control of the country.

I don’t know where this leaves us. I would normally urge everyone to get out there and vote and make sure it counts, but, maybe first, we should all go home and read a book.

In Sickness and In Health

I’m getting better. My health is returning. I know it. I feel it in my bones. In my sinews. In my toes. It’s been a long haul, but sometimes it takes something bigger than you, something armed with an aluminum bat, to get you to stay put long enough to reflect on the reflectables. No more driving obsession with plots and schemes. No more endless noodling at the computer. No indefinite fantasies of future actions.

This cold or whatever it is, has brought about a complete halt to my machinations. My attention is demanded by fundamentals – sneezing, coughing, breathing. Bed, and the surrounding surfaces, have become my new habitat. I begin consulting the ceiling. I start to notice feelings. I spend so much time in bed that I rediscover my past. Being brought low and closer to the fundamentals, I find I have gathered some of my oldest friends around me – provocative books, both spiritual and weird (but true), my guitar (all but neglected recently), a pen, some paper.

Ideas occur. Forgotten birthdates arise. My restless leg is quiet. Thoughts and no-thoughts occupy the spaces between fits of coughing. My focus expands from my well-defined personal space to a wider and clearer view. It’s as if the lenses are flashing before me - This one? Or, this one? – and, as the hours go by, I find I’m reading the tiny letters on the bottom of a chart that I couldn’t even see before. They are spelling out, m-o-r-t-a-l-i-t-y.

Mortality! Suddenly, my petty concerns are shown for what they are. Thinning hair, declining bank account, passing years are put into perspective. I realize my worries are someone else’s dreams. I begin to see that we are all here together. I feel the connection we share. I understand that there is no separation. Awareness radiates from without and within. The neighborhood disappears and the Universe, both dark and light, surrounds me.

I swear this is not the medication talking. All it takes is a bit of peace and quiet to awaken that consciousness that everyone is talking about. Once recognized as such, noise can’t stop it, busyness can’t replace it, that old idea of self may try to reassert itself as a big deal, but it can read the writing on the wall, even if it doesn’t like what it says.

Being sick is good for my health. Those crafty little viruses and bacteria have popped me in the nose, so to speak, and laid me out. Waaaa! I realize that this isn’t the big one, but it gets my attention, all the same, and attention seems to be what it’s all about. Seeing beyond my idea of self. Not taking important actions, like breathing, for granted. Sensing something much bigger than little old me. Understanding that there’s more to all this than me, you, and a billion other mes. More to it than protecting my needy self.

Now that I am almost back on my feet, I find that I feel better and not just because I’m no longer as sick, but because I’m, well, how can I put it? I’m not the same. I’m changing, evolving, growing. Awakening. And, not just to my wife’s purpose.

The life that goes on, is going on, that will go on without us, is big. It’s beautiful. I’m a part of it. I’m a part of you. You’re a part of me. We’re a part of it. It’s a part of us. It’s all one big deal. I’m not going to forget this when the coughing stops. I swear, this is not the medication talking.

Earth Day

It’s a quantum thing. That’s what we say around our house. I’m not really sure what it means, but that might be the point. It might even be the definition.

As far as I can tell, it means that observation of an object affects its condition. Observation affects or changes its reality. That means that, just by reading this, you are changing the very nature of these words.

Let me try to make that clearer. As a result of what your beliefs are, in combination with your intention and the intensity of both, you can affect the reality of an object or a person or a situation.

At first, I thought, sure. Little old me. How can this be? My wife, whose curiosity knows no bounds, has been reading about this, searching the literature, and has gone to great lengths to find out about this stuff and to acquaint me with enough of it that, in conversation, I can do more than just look at her like a dumbbell.

It must be her belief, and her intention, that I can learn something and be able to understand her, at least in this context. What I have learned, with her help, is that, through rigorous experimentation, this quantum kind of activity has been proven true. In fact, it revolutionizes our scientific understanding of reality.

Scientists know this stuff, and have for a while, but it is just now making itself known to the public. Guys, like myself, who had an understanding of physics based on shooting pool or trying to fix things around the house, are finally becoming acquainted with these ideas. And, about time, my wife says.

It’s wonderful. Just when things were beginning to seem incredibly bleak, dark, and despairing, we find out that each one of us has the power to affect whatever we turn our thoughts to. Saints and sages have told us this from the start, but I always thought it was wishful thinking, a matter of faith, more than a little beyond my reach. Now, with this scientific corroboration, a wider, more brilliantly lit set of possibilities is revealed.

I’m not going to use this knowledge for trivial things, like toasting bagels or making my television larger. I’m not even going to use it for personal gain, although I am going to use it for personal loss. As in, the pounds I have to carry around and the inches that mark a small and recent expansion around my waist.

No, I want to use it for the big stuff. The things that affect all of us. The things I have, up to this time, felt were out of my hands. War, peace, disease, poverty, ignorance, and disastrous climate change. It has now been proven, by hard-working people in white coats, toiling in cramped office space at our great universities and in garages everywhere, that optimism and a directed intense visualization of a desired outcome can actually make things change.

The past 300 years of scientific assumption is incorrect. We, each of us, have a part to play in this life. A part that has meaning and actual effects. That is an amazing thing and, understanding it, creates an opportunity and responsibility we never knew we had.

There are many areas and issues that are in need of our attention. To me, the most timely and most crucial seems to be the state of the Environment. The health of our planet, this wonderful world we all inhabit. It is generally recognized now that we are in a dire situation. To mention just a few areas of concern, we have melting ice caps, pollution, radical changes in weather patterns, a declining supply of fresh water, and the disappearance of bees. I don’t want to look up at the sky and feel afraid. I want us to have the peace of mind to think about other things like how beautiful the flowers are or how we might help someone not as lucky as we are or how we can assist our kids’ imagination, compassion, and forward momentum.

What I wanted to say, at the beginning of all this, was that we can use this quantum stuff as one way to affect our world with our hearts and minds, applying our intention and energy and emotion to make things better for all of us.

This Earth, this big old ball of blue, this beautiful whirling dervish that we live on, needs our help. We’re smarter now. We understand the situation. And, we’re not powerless. That’s the lesson of Earth Day. We can realize a consciousness we didn’t have before and resolve the shortsightedness that has been causing us so much pain.

I’m going to try it out. And, keep trying until I get it right. Happy Earth Day! Go outside. Take a deep breath. Celebrate. It’s difficult to deny reality, but we can change it.

Take A Number

I wouldn’t have believed it, but I read it in the newspaper: one of every hundred Americans is in jail. That’s a lot. That’s about a third of the audience of American Idol. Many diseases aren’t even that common.

Prison. The big house. The hoosegow. The tank. The clink. The pokey. The slammer. It’s always figured large in our thinking. This is just taking it to the next level.

Prisons are big business. They are private, profit-making companies. They have lobbyists. Lobbyists saying, "The laws are too lenient. It’s scary out there, just look at CSI. Not only terrorists, but everyone. Let’s put more guys in prison."

Hey, it’s their business. And, we respect business.

Have you ever been in jail? It’s not a nice place.

Everyone, as babies, starts out okay. But then poverty, lack of education, neglect and abuse as kids, begin to take their toll and, one way or another, a lot of guys end up in prison. We may not take very good care of each other, but we are really good at putting people in jail.

What if someone like Donald Trump decided to forgo condos in favor of prisons? He really understands real estate, construction, and trends. We could see new developments springing up everywhere. It would be great for the economy. And, no sub-prime for Donald.

Why not enact more laws that will feed this development? Everyone, over a certain age and with insufficient funds, could be deemed an outlaw of society and be sent to the Lawrence Welk Memorial facility in Northern Minnesota. Or, why wait? Let’s put all the kids in jail, too.

We’ve already got the Patriot Act. Why not enforce it? Anyone who disagrees with what’s what goes straight to jail. Do away with the courts and save all that time and money. Just think of it. Tax offenders, demonstrators, dreamers, artists, surfers, those with insufficient imagination to pull off really big crimes, all of them, off to jail.

The economy will pick up. There will be more opportunity for the rest of us. And, who knows? Someday, it will just be us. The good guys. Everyone else will be safely behind bars.

Gas Up and Go

I don’t want to be a wet blanket, but NASCAR? How did this happen? All of a sudden, it’s everywhere. On TV. Commercials. Guys in suits with a bunch of tags and patches and bright colors, selling stuff. Walking advertisements. Their cars are the same way: every inch of surface is covered with some brand name. No stickers saying anything about their middle schoolers. No peace signs. No fish symbols. No Jerry bears. It’s all business, all the time.

These guys are roaring around in a circle and thousands of people are following them, watching them go around and around, risking the health and mobility of their necks. The word is that this is the most popular sport in America. What about March Madness?! What about Wrestle Mania?!

Okay. They’re going around in circles. They’re really loud. They’re using gas at an unimaginable rate, at a time when we’ve got kids dying in Iraq and we’re paying $3.20 a gallon. They are putting out a lot of exhaust and pursuing exactly the habits – driving around, wasting gas, and polluting – that we’re trying so hard to change.

There are kids who look up to these guys. There are even racing dynasties. That could be wonderful: sons and daughters following the path blazed by their parents and grandparents, but it seems so Twentieth Century. Kind of primitive and limited.

I know there is considerable skill involved in going that fast and keeping the car on the track, but I worry about these guys. They may become lop-sided or unable to go in a clock-wise direction ever again. What about those people in the stands? How can they hear themselves think? And, I certainly don’t want to be around when they’re driving home after a race.

I’m sorry, but this seems like a dinosaur activity. Are they kidding? Sure, it’s something we all can relate to and even fantasize about from time to time. Speed and waste and danger are in our blood, but that doesn’t mean they're our destiny.

Now, I have to say that Talledega Nights is one of my favorite movies, but that just shows how easy it is to laugh at someone else’s sincerity. But, what about progress? What about Earth Day? What about Exxon’s $40 billion profit?

It’s not that I don’t get it. Every now and then, while I’m racing through the channels on TV, I’ll pause and watch a few laps. It’s similar, in some ways, to hypnosis. But, ultimately, I find I have to slap myself and try to do the right thing: something else.

I mean, NASCAR? America’s Sport? I thought it was fishing.

Say What?

There’s something important I want to say about memory. Wait a minute. Oh yeah, memory is no joke. Or, joking about its deterioration and loss is not funny and, it may well be that joking might actually pave the way for this downhill slide.

Okay, I’m getting older. I bet you are, too. They say our memories begin to decline around age thirty. They are talking about our ability to remember, not about the quality of those memories. But, somehow, everything was fine until recently. Who cared? I never was good with names. It was when I started to react to my image in the mirror, with shock and despair, and began to notice all the old guys around me, that I began to wonder if there had been something I had forgotten.

I’ve never been particularly organized and misplacing something, like my keys, or having to look for something, like my checkbook, just seemed like a normal thing. And, it still may be, but these occurrences, coupled with what I know about aging and memory, are beginning to make me wonder.

Our world is, without doubt, a busier, more crowded place than ever before. The world population doubles every 35 years. How can I possibly remember all those names? The internet has made all information available all the time. This is a wonderful thing in many ways, but how am I supposed to know all of it?

As a young man, with a good education, I felt that I knew, or if I applied myself, could learn almost everything important about everything. Now, I see how wrong I was. How naïve. It may have been possible, at one time, maybe, in the 1790s, but no more. That’s fine, but I’m getting a complex about it. Perhaps, it’s wrong to see it like this, but I feel it’s a failing of some sort. It makes me question what I do know. And, what is it I do know? I can’t remember, but I’m confident that when a situation and context comes up and calls for this knowledge, I will be able to respond.

I like to think I’m living in the moment. That, with my years of experience, I have acquired wisdom and self-reliance and confidence, but, maybe, it’s really increasing ignorance. A bliss disguised as a moment of enlightenment. A void, instead of restraint.

After all, every one of us gets older. We decline. We enter our dotage. We are not as nimble as we once were. We find ourselves outside of the important activities of the world and in a more observational role. We are commenting on things from that mountaintop of our accumulated knowledge, experience, and wisdom. We now focus more on inner, than outer events and nuances. Nuances like, where are those keys? And, did I leave my checkbook somewhere? Who is that in the mirror? And, what was I watching before this commercial?

I like to think that it is all a matter of attention. You remember things that are important to you. You pick and choose where you place that attention, based on your tried and trusted judgment. Many of the things that I was consumed with before, no longer seem important. No longer merit my interest. Like, love handles or scrutinizing every word that leaves my mouth.

Things that concerned me before, now fall away and I have a more philosophical view of things. If I can’t recall the name of my wife’s cousin, it’s not a sign of dementia; it’s just that I am interested in something else. When I can’t remember my wife’s name, then I’ll get concerned.

After all, I don’t want to spend my life worrying about what I do and do not remember. I want to spend it in this moment. With what’s her name.

Get On The Good Foot

For those of you who don’t know, I am, among other things, a trained and certified Life Coach. That means that, for a fee, I will be your sounding board, partner in brainstorming, and advocate. A guy, confidential and objective, who will nudge you in the right direction. I will applaud your efforts, champion your best self, and hold you accountable to your commitments, as you work toward living your best life.

To become a coach, I trained in groups and individually, for many months, by phone and in person, learning about people in individual, relationship, and corporate contexts. It was a lot of work and considerable expense. But I could have avoided all that, because, for years, though I didn’t know it, I had been studying at the feet of the master. The ultimate coaching machine. The hardest working man in interpersonal relations. The Godfather of Soul and Transformation – Mister James Brown.

Though, sadly, he is gone, he left behind records of his sessions. In these, his worldly experience, his perceptive and wise, not to mention funky, understanding of human relations is there for all time to help us negotiate the rapids of relationships and the intricacies of individual human development.

Many of his teachings have entered the mainstream and taken their righteous place in the collective unconscious. Get Up Offa That Thing, Dance and You’ll Feel Better. Now, that is an essential exhortation and understanding from which everyone can benefit.

The legacy he left us is virtually inexhaustible. And, it will always be relevant and immediate. For example, put on I Got The Feeling and turn up the volume. It is not just an intellectual lesson; it is a somatic one. Just try sitting still clutching the beliefs and self-concepts that no longer match the person you are today. Say the words, I Feel Good. Affirmation is not just some woo woo idea; it’s a cathartic explosion. A reprogramming of your internal computer. Embrace the concept. Hold to that vision of what is and what can be.

Mr. James Brown did not find all this in a book. He found it on the road. In small towns and smoky dives and incorporated the lessons learned there until eventually he could consult with auditoriums and arenas full of people who had sought out and intuitively designed a working relationship with this sage from Augusta, GA.

Throughout his career, James Brown championed and challenged the souls of people who were discouraged, confused, who suffered from low self-esteem, and who were at a point in their lives where they were ready for change. James Brown supplied the words that echoed their deepest feelings. His own journey was one of constant questioning and a determination to move forward.

He shared his own struggle in such great songs as: I’ll Go Crazy, Think, Get It Together, and Talking Loud and Saying Nothing. His moments of desperation come through in: Please, Please, Please, Bewildered, I Can’t Stand Myself, and I’ve Got Ants In My Pants.

As he began to find his way, he shared his inner dialogue of affirmation and encouragement: Pump Up The Volume, Don’t Be A Drop0ut, You’ve Got To Change Your Mind, and Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved. He celebrated personal triumph and expressed real joy, when he sang: You’ve Got The Power, Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag, It’s a Brand New Day, So Let A Man Come In And Do The Popcorn, and Say It Loud, I’m_____ (you fill in the blank) and I’m Proud.

There’s no denying the influence of James Brown. He, in his way, coached a nation at a critical point in its struggle for equality for all its citizens. He provided the keys for self-development. He challenged us to get up offa our things and get it together. As a coach, he provided inspiration and an energy that may never be equaled. Personally, I am indebted to him for his wise counsel and encouragement at important moments of my life and am forever grateful for his example and his determination to never give up or settle for anything less than the best.

Thank you, Mr. Dynamite! As he said, so often, Get On Up And Get On The Good Foot.

Rocket Number Nine, take off for the planet, Venus.

I am under attack by an alien being! Everything in the kitchen is turning green. I’m getting desperate. There’s no beer, no milk, no chips. The blender screams through the night. The oven is producing things at a frightening rate and I don’t understand any of them. You’ve heard of things growing in the refrigerator. Well, it’s worse than that.

My wife wasn’t always an alien and I have the pictures to prove it. But she has recently revealed herself to me as a Vegan. She tells me this will be a good thing for both of us, but that usually means that I’m going to suffer. My wife loves food and I love her, but my eating habits developed in Minnesota, where, in my formative years, we considered ketchup too spicy and the most ethnic food available was spaghetti, out of a can. My staples were meatloaf, potato chips, and Velveeta. Canned hash, fish sticks, and, if we were really good, some pudding or Jello. Meals, at our house, didn’t involve too much thought. In fact, we spent most of them in front of the television. We were a family who appreciated the basics. I even prepared some of the meals, though I can’t say that I learned to cook much. My mother could only make orange juice and angel food cake. I loved those cakes. If we were bad, she would threaten us with devil’s food.

My wife, Mary Liz, as I call her, is a great cook. A master in the kitchen. An adventuress of unquestioned taste. A gourmet and gourmand of the highest order. Give that girl a couple of tomatoes and some leftovers and be prepared to call it divine intervention. Your taste buds will shoot straight to Heaven. People come over to our house and wash dishes, just to be in the same kitchen with her. We have to throw our friends out.

But, here, I must confess something. I have been a trial to her. A burden of under-appreciation. A philistine set beside such sophistication might be criminal. Her finest creations pass by unnoticed. Desserts that have made other men cry, merely fill me up. I can hear her working in the kitchen at this very moment. Preparing a evening feast that I know I can’t do justice to.

Why she stays with me is a mystery. Sure, I feel guilty. You would too, if your palate were as limited as mine. I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried to expand my idea of what constitutes a good meal, but now this. This Veganism. This organically correct, this life-affirming, this good for your body and soul way of eating somehow sits there on the plate in opposition to everything that has sustained me thus far. No fats. No dairy. No alcohol.

She loves me and is trying to save me from my history and that is something that pierces my heart and I gaze at her gratefully, with a tear in my eye. But that tear, though a sign of the infinite love I have for her, is also a tear for the end of my youth. A tear for the elements that have made up my foundation and have created the cute roll of fat that hangs over the sides of that foundation. A tear that is a sign that, as a great British philosopher once said, all things must pass. All things must pass away.

But, because of my love and my confidence in her ability to transform even the meanest crumbs, well, not crumbs, unfortunately there is no bread involved in this, but, as I was saying, my love and faith in her ability to transform the greenest, the meanest, the most unlikely organic matter into something fit for a king, because of this I follow in the wake of her wisdom. I take the path that she has embraced and can know, with a certainty not unlike the guarantee that comes with a Honda, that all will be well. Me belly full. She satisfy my soul.

Too young? Or, older than you think.

I read in the paper, yesterday, that a kid – 8 years old – was denied admission to Law School. What is happening in this world? I thought lawyers welcomed any support whatsoever. But, maybe it is a bit threatening to think an 8 year old might be able to do your job. And, with the job market as it is…

Admission officials said he must first graduate from high school and college. But why? No can remember those lessons and what’s wrong with moving straight into the profession that is your calling? At least, that’s how I see it.

This conflict escalated to litigation because the applicant’s father, considerably older than eight, and, himself, a lawyer, filed a suit on behalf of his son. There are wheels within wheels involved here and meanings and labels seem to shift every time I try to get a handle on this.

The kid is an obvious prodigy. Or, something. It’s inarguable that he is young. At least, he wanted to pursue something as reasonable as the law. What if he had wanted to go into a less exacting field ? Like literature or therapy?

Imagine, you arrive at your weekly session and the receptionist, Johnny’s mother, asks you to take a seat. This could be reassuring or really disturbing. Instead of Newsweek or Good Housekeeping, the side tables are piled with Highlights for Children and People, Jr.? There is a faint music in the background. It is a medley of the songs of Hannah Montana. Only the truly erudite recognize this.

The door opens and the young, and I mean young, therapist invites you in. He gathers his Batman cape about himself, as you precede him into the room. There are two piles of pillows and he gestures toward one.

After settling on the floor, you face each other and you notice, not only the deep seriousness of his expression, but also the brightly colored toys scattered about his office. He waits for you to begin.

When he notices your puzzled look, he suggests, “Perhaps, we should start with what you are feeling at this moment?

You blink and mutter, “You wouldn’t understand.”

When he answers, you realize that you weren’t aware of speaking out loud.

“Is that a kind of projection?” he asks.

There are still thirty-five minutes left. A therapeutic lifetime. You frantically search for an excuse that might get you out of there without appearing desperate.

Finally, you jump up and, to those calm, knowing eyes, you say, “ I completely forgot.” You lunge toward the door, while at the same time, trying to maintain some semblance of a grownup façade. “I have to pick up the kids! Next week, okay?”

The door slams behind you and you smile and nod to his mother, as you head for the relief of the hallway.

Junior emerges from his office. He instructs his mother, "Get my lawyer! I mean, get Dad on the phone. I've got an idea."

Just a Second.

Time is a dimension, but it’s a lot weirder than that. It’s relative, too. And, from our human perspective, really confusing. It doesn’t matter whether one considers it in a grand geologic sense, as in, was it the Big Bang that made the dinosaurs deaf, or in a more immediate context, like, is the toast burning.

They’re always telling us that time is elusive. I mention this, not just because last week it was my birthday, though that doesn’t help, but, because every time you try to pin it down, it has moved ahead.

Memory doesn’t help. Remember that time you fell in love and everything got complicated? That may seem like only yesterday, but it was twenty years ago. No, twenty-three! Those prescriptive drugs in the cabinet aren’t from last summer, they’re four and a half years old. Your kids really don’t live with you any more. And, you really are more mature, more responsible, and older than you think.

When middle age occurs, it’s easy to lose track. There are so many memories, so much experience, so many important things you have to do, that living in the moment seems not just a spiritual imperative, but a huge relief.

At my house, time and its mechanical representatives are everywhere. The DVD player is always blinking 12:00 am. The cable box. The oven. Up in the corner of the computer. My alarm clock. Even, the phone! I have to say, upon consideration, there’s another, deeper meaning to that alarm clock, than I once thought.

The real problem is that each of these timepieces tells a different story. My bedside clock is ten minutes fast. The one in the bathroom, twenty minutes. The oven clock runs slow. The DVD never changes and, without making a phone call, the only one I can really trust is in the car. There are reasons for these variations, but, right now, I can’t remember what they are. I don’t wear a watch, because they make me nervous. It would probably be inaccurate, anyway.

It seems as if all these clocks are trying to tell me something. As if, Time had a message. But it’s a lot more impersonal that that. It’s a force we must reckon with. It moves in only one direction. The great sages of the ages have always advocated living in the present and only the present. That’s good enough for me. I’m going to join them, before it’s too late.

Roses Are Red

Oh, Sweetheart, be mine.

It’s hard to argue with that. Each February, in the midst of the desolate, the cold, the long wait for spring, I start thinking about Valentine’s Day. Or, as it used to be known, St. Valentine’s Day.

St. Valentine. What a guy. He was a martyr for love. That’s about the limit for a romantic. Valentine’s Day is celebrated around the world.

One billion cards are sent each year, with all kinds of messages. Some are eloquent, some plainspoken. Many simply say, ‘I love you.’ Or, as we say it in Danish, ‘Jeg elsker dig?’

I also like the way these guys say it:

Hawaiians – “Aloha wau ia oi”
Italians – “Ti amo.”
Portuguese – “Eu amo te.” (Pronounced, eiu amu chee.)
And Zulus – “Mena tanda wena.”

However you say it, the meaning is clear, direct, and simple. As a great philosopher, Wayne Fontana, once told his buddies, The Mindbenders, It started long ago In the Garden of Eden When Adam said to Eve Baby, you’re for me!

For the sake of fairness, I will mention that there exists an anti-Valentine movement. Antivalentinism. That’s harsh. It’s populated by a bunch of curmudgeons who, because of all sorts of misunderstandings, have closed themselves off from love and, in an effort to fend off loneliness (and, perhaps, madness), have banded together and are thoroughly grouchy.

In yesterday’s news, I read that the Saudi’s Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice (CPVPV) had forbidden the color red throughout the country. Those guys don’t get it. A rose in any other color would be as sweet and all they’ve done is to create a black market for red roses.

It’s a measure of our true inclinations that we have a holiday that celebrates love. No matter how many cards there are or how many flowers are sent, it’s impossible to commercialize love.

The beloved poet, Willie Bryant, once said,

Love is beautiful
So gorgeous and divine
Feels like a thousand Mickey Mouses
Running up and down your spine

So, Baby, my Sweetie, my Dear, my One and Only Love, let it be me.

Tonight, We Caucus.

Tonight, we caucus. That doesn’t sound very romantic, but if, by romantic, we mean striving against the odds, acting on love, and taking a chance, I think it will be a fine romance.

Things are a bit bleak. You know what I mean. I don’t need to make a list and I don’t want to, because I know it would be longer than I want to imagine and it would just be depressing.

I can’t even vote at this gathering. Being a slow, unorganized, uninformed citizen has its costs. This is a minor one, but I regret that I didn’t declare a party affiliation. I flattered myself by assigning Independent to my name, as if declaring one way or another would seal my fate.

In school auditoriums and in meeting places of all sorts, those of us living in caucus states get to exercise our rights and discuss and, ultimately, endorse a potential candidate for President. It isn’t voting in November, but it could be just as important. And, most importantly, this is something we do as a community.

Yes, it’s politics and that word and activity has connotations that make us crazy, but, by actually participating in this process, we can begin to change all that and combine our energies to move it beyond where it is at the moment.

That’s what I think is romantic about it – we’ll be together and each citizen will have a voice. We won’t be muttering to ourselves as we exit the voting booth; we’ll be talking to each other. Our involvement will make us part of something bigger than we are as individuals. Each of us will be hoping that maybe this someone we endorse will bring us closer to who we want to be as a country. It doesn’t hurt to have a leader, as long as he is someone who supports your freedoms.

Even though I can’t vote tonight (my fault), I can be there, take part, and feel proud and grateful for a process that should never be abandoned. So, let’s get out there and let the caucuses begin!