Black Friday! Yikes!

I keep hearing about this. Is it plague? An economic crash or its aftershocks? A Mayan Day of Reckoning? It seems to be scheduled for the day after Thanksgiving, so, perhaps it signals nationwide indigestion.

I’m not sure, but I think it’s some kind of shopping extravaganza. This seems so unlike that world. So against the principles (principles?) and public relations of our consumer economy. Shouldn’t it be something like, The First Day of Christmas? Or, Viernes Gigante!? Or, The First Day of the Rest of Your Shopping Life?

Have I grown up? Have I grown old? Have I lost my wallet?

I have purposefully averted my eyes and ears, when the topic is raised. Ignorance of some things can be more than bliss; it may actually be a legitimate defense.

I’ll continue to speculate on the possible meaning of Black Friday. That sounds like a lot more fun than going shopping at the same time as a majority of the population.

For me, Black Friday can be a peaceful day at home. It can be the absence of all shopping. It may sound scary, but it is right in line with that long-held belief – TGIF!

Sarah Palin’s Book Tour Begins!

I was at the gym, where I get in most of my TV watching. Screens, on either side of me, hung from the ceiling. One showed a fantasy workout in Hawaii, with unnatural women lifting weights. On the other side, was SportsCenter. The one directly in front of me was reporting serious entertainment. It was the kind of show we once imagined was the news.

An attractive reporter made it hard to completely focus on exactly what she was saying. Also, I was reading subtitles. She was at a mall in Michigan. There was an endless line of people behind her. They were in line to buy Sarah Palin’s book, Going Rogue, and to have her sign their copies.

The line snaked off into the distance, through the deserted boulevards of the mall. It was nine in the morning. She wasn’t to appear until six o’clock tonight. They had been in line a long time already.

The reporter was amazed at the number of people and praised their determination. She spoke of their diversity, although I didn’t see anyone of color behind her. She said Sarah Palin was giving a voice to the people in line and to a great number of citizens around the country.

Sarah Palin is someone we have watched now for more than a year. In detail. Through many situations. I don’t know why, but giving her voice, one that is simplistic, narrow-minded, and shortsighted, manipulative and self-serving, to all these people shocked me. Could this really be the voice of these patient, peaceful people in line?

It was reported that she is a force that the Republican Party would have to take into account in the next election. The pundits, back at the station, said Sarah Palin is a skilled and influential politician. You can’t ever count her out. They, for one, or two, would never underestimate her. Plus, they said, she is on the cover of this week’s Newsweek, in running shorts!

Everyone took a deep breath. Then, they broke for a commercial.

Dog Flu

Today, I read a headline (that’s where I get all my news) that warned against Dog Flu! It’s one thing to get the flu from a pig or even a bird, but now I have to worry about Man’s Best Friend?

Why, Buster? Why? We walk. There are regular treats and snacks. I even let you lie on the couch during the ballgames. All that and, now, this?

Flu, all by itself, is bad enough. There’s fever and the attendant aches that not only make you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck, but the flu fogs your mind so you can’t think straight. Did I turn off the burner after making that tea? Should I be worried about work? And, to the woman with the ring on her finger, who is taking care of you, Do I know you?

And, often, there is the part of the flu that I do not want to mention. Having had both the plain, old, achy flu and the eruptive flu, I can assure you that the latter does not expel the germs or bring about the end of the illness any faster. Once you’ve got it, you’ve got it.

There is no benefit to continuing on as usual. You can’t fool the flu, no matter where you got it. And, you might as well give up that fantasy that your mind protects you from this stuff. Go to bed. Drink plenty of liquids. Take aspirin. Sleep.

There’s no way around it. You are not imagining this. You feel awful. Take a load off.

As we enter this season, I recommend you avoid farms, forget bird watching, and do not kiss or shake hands with your dog or with anyone else’s.

And, dogs, wash those paws often, turn your head when you bark, refrain from going out (unless you absolutely have to), and have some compassion for your best friend. He’s not weird. He’s sick.

Into The Future!

Meet George Jetson. Jane, his wife. Everyone is smiling. We’re levitating. Or, our food is. Robots are everywhere and they’re smiling. I can’t wait to get there.

Back in the Twentieth Century, we adolescent boomers had not only the world before us, but the future, too. There were no limits to what would be accomplished and everyday would be better than the one before.

The future would hold no end of surprises and improvements. The future would open out limitlessly and, at the end of it, somewhere, was a rainbow or the largest ice cream cone in the universe or something way beyond what we could even begin to imagine. No matter what, it was going to be good. It was exciting.

I’m not so sure, anymore. Have I just gotten older or did something else happen that changed that view?

At my core, I still feel that way – there are no limits to what can be accomplished and there are people, just like me, who are discovering, developing, and creating a future that is exciting and good for everyone.

But something feels different. I used the phrase – in the future - in a letter yesterday and could feel that change. The words are the same, but my idea of the future has been tempered by gray hair, traffic, and weather.

Time passes and, though relative, it’s also, for each of us, finite. As the possibility, the probability, and finally, the inevitability of an end becomes a reality, my idea of the future undergoes radical change.

But, there’s more to it than just my mortality. The population has increased and all those initial realizations and forecasts that had recently begun to surface, when I was young, have become fact. Statistics, though open to interpretation, signal overload. Resources, employment, and psychological stability are under tremendous pressure.

Systems of all sorts and the biggest one of them all – the ecological system – are failing and not moving toward that brighter future. War, political conflict, the decline of natural resources, an outdated educational process, and attacks on reason cast a pall over many things.

This is not the exciting future I was expecting. Where are all the smiling robots? I am able to see now that the older model of the future I had was a passive one. Inaccurate. Unrealistic. I thought the future would stop at the corner and pick me up, as it went by. It may be the passing of time or because of all the information that’s available, but I know now that things don’t work that way.

The future is, and always has been, a function of choice. A function of our individual efforts and imagination. We actually get to choose what that future will be. What each of us does with our time here matters. Our actions determine that future. We can learn from the past and imagine what we want to happen next. We can put our energy behind that. We can see it in whatever way we want.

We can feel what makes us uncomfortable and what makes us hopeful. That’s a choice that shouldn’t be that complicated. Stop or go? Give up or try? Despair or hope? What feels good or what feels bad? Forget about what is possible or not. We won’t know until we try.

The future I want to participate in, exist in, walk into, move into, claim as my own, is one that sparkles. The one that starts again each day. The one I/we get to make. Not the one I’m afraid is going to happen, but the one I want to happen.

In the future, everything will still be a surprise and beyond my imagination, but it will be one that I have a hand in creating. That’s my choice. How this future comes together will always be a mystery, a conundrum, a paradox. It’s the micro and the macro. Individual and inclusive. Here today and here tomorrow. I can’t worry about that.

I’m letting go of that old future. I’ve got a choice and I’m making it. I’m making the future right now. Come on over and we can create it together.

Writing the Twitter Novel

Concerning Twitter, brevity is the soul of everything. Each Tweet (cyber message) is limited to 140 characters. Each character is a letter, a mark of punctuation, or a space. That’s not a lot of leeway to introduce a protagonist. Or, to create an atmosphere. Or, even, to provide meals of any length.

Twitter encourages the author to cut to the chase. I’m not sure I ever really understood that phrase until now. Hmm… It also encourages good memory on the part of the reader.

What follows (so to speak) are some of the lessons I am learning about this new (and great) artform:

The Twitter structure is not a limitation. For most writers (and readers) it is a blessing. By the way (BTW), parentheses count as two characters.

Each Tweet must not only be 140 characters or less, but also be entertaining, moving, and engaging, by itself, AND move the story forward.
(That’s 140 characters.)

Hitting the target of 140 characters or less is a talent one develops, like eating or sleeping and, after a while, you barely have to think about it. (149)

Keeping to 140 characters or less, is a developed talent, like eating or sleeping. After a while, you barely think about it. (127)

If the Tweet exceeds the limit, the author is forced to find another, shorter, and, often, better way to phrase things. (121) Invention awakes. (139)

As author, you begin to appreciate the true value of every word. (Enough!)

You are saved, in spite of yourself, from your heretofore well-developed inclination to continue on and on, in love with your vocabulary and the exquisite quality of your observational skills, not to mention the signature flair with which you make use of the language. (268. I couldn’t stop it.)

Yes, and those skills, certainly bestowed upon you by the Gods, that you have developed and nurtured through years of heartache, experience, and an accumulating wisdom that won’t stop growing, no matter what form your writing takes, are challenged at their very root. (?)

As I said, brevity and power become your greatest attributes.

There is no need to outline the chapters and plot of your novel. In this format, you are able to turn on a dime. It is the length and content of each installment that is of ultimate importance and significance.

After hurting myself with the math, I find that, at my current rate of up to three tweets per day, to finish my novel will require 2.8 years of the reader’s time. With attention spans what they are, this is unacceptable.

My novel, Fit To Love, has been moving forward for a month and my character has barely made it through the first scene. I must revise my plan. And, speaking of revision, this kind of novel cannot be revised at a future date. It is published with each installment. This kind of writing favors the gut, the gusto, not to say, the glib.

In summary, be brief, be real, be yourself. Just not too much.

Deeper Than My Navel

Have you ever had one of those moments where the curtains draw back, the light is blinding, and you are filled with a revelation that you’ve had before, but it’s amazing all the same?

I’m not talking about waking up this morning. I mean a moment of epiphany when, all of a sudden, you are struck dumb by the immensity of it all. The whole thing. The doughnut and the hole. Kind of like your twenty-first birthday, but even bigger. Even bigger than fifty.

It can happen at any time. One moment, you’re going about your day and the next, you look at something and it’s as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Like King Kong on top of the Empire State Building. Like a satellite moving across the sky. Like a cannonball from the high dive.

I’m talking about the moment you find yourself looking at your hand or arm or something and you are completely floored, because it is actually holding a glass. That it works. That it obeys your will. You raise the glass to your lips, just to be sure. That taste! Those tastebuds! The blood in your veins. The connections in your mind. It all works! Cells reproducing, communicating, your stomach digesting. These very thoughts! What a miracle!

You don’t know what to think. You look away and gaze into the backyard. You see flowers, bushes, the grass. How do they do it?! And, then, even more profound, Why?!

It is truly a moment of revelation and wonderment. You’re suddenly on philosophical overload and everything begins to take on a kind of glow. You lift your eyes to the heavens and begin to contemplate the mysteries of the universe. How is this possible? Who figured all this stuff out? Why are we here?

You turn to your wife. A wonderful innocence shines out of you, as you say, “Have you ever wondered why we’re here?” And, she says, ‘Honey, what about lunch?”

In that moment, you drop back to everyday reality like a stone. These thoughts are so huge; you can’t entertain them for long. Not only that, but, put into words, they sound either naïve and pretentious or like it’s time you took your medication. It seems only people with special training can deal with these questions – monks, astronauts, and fifth grade teachers.

And, yet, it is a miracle. And, an ongoing one. In every moment of forever, this has been happening.

• Dinosaurs? Yes.
• The Renaissance? Yes.
• 1987, when the Twins won the series? Yes.

It has never stopped. Don’t even start wondering about the beginning and why, in the first place, all this stuff happened.

Seeing the world in a grain of sand or the miracle of life in the most mundane of occurrences is the kind of thinking that slows you down and warms you, but like the sun, you don’t want to look directly at it, for more than a moment.

Special training is really not required, but it’s better to start out with this as a passing thought, that you can contemplate, whenever you like, just not for too long. One that will warm your heart, make you think, and keep things growing.

Happy Birthday!

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I’m outside, watering the newly planted lilac, when I hear a slight buzzing sound that immediately turns into a giant, threatening, buzzing sound. I look up and, before me, is a dark cloud of bees, like some kind of dark static in my vision. There are thousands of them rocketing, somewhere, covering the sky, blocking out the sun, scaring the stuffing out of me, with their bee-ing.

For an instant, I realize the vulnerability of this moment. One bee, no problem. Thousands, I’m toast. Fortunately, they buzz past, their destination a rival hive, a new home, or someone else, like me, enjoying the beautiful morning.

That’s Nature for you. One moment, a soft, idyllic pasture. The next, your last moment on Earth. You would think that me, the lilac, and the fresh air would be enough Nature for anyone. Was I taking it for granted? Is that why it’s so dramatic out there? No! I wasn’t.

We’ve been having a lot of rain, lately. Big, fast storms with lightning, thunder, and rain, in really large drops, as if someone up there is wringing every last bit out of the oversized cloud above us. This dry climate has been transformed into something more like Ireland, than Colorado.

We are not taking it for granted; we can’t stop talking about it. If we could eat it up, we would. We sing its praises, plant even more stuff, and during each stretch of sunshine, we are toasting and admiring it.

The more time we have to spend inside, supposedly working, the more we need to be outside. Monitors, keyboards, and wires may be drawing us ever closer to one another, but our need for dirt, wind, and rain is something more elemental than staying in touch with each other and all that essential information.

I’ve been in hailstorms, tornadoes, blizzards, and places so hot my shoes were melting, but I’d wish I hadn’t. I don’t need extreme situations – killer bees or hurricanes – to get my attention or respect, to remind me of the natural world I’m walking around on. I like it here!

I’d rather stroll through gardens or hike in the hills or float around on the waves than be threatened by something so incorrectly labeled as, Mother Nature. That just seems wrong. Mommie Dearest. That’s not how I want to see it.

This is like so many things. I’ll deal with it, when it goes crazy, but I’d rather think of it as beautiful, nurturing, and peaceful. An illusion, perhaps, but those flowers are so sweet, those hills so green, and those bees so lazy, as they drone between the blossoms, going about their business.

Common Sense

I’m concerned about the Right Wing in this country. Many say that they’ve had their day. Reagan, Breakfast in America or whatever it was, Newt, Cheney, and, The King of Pain, W. However, Cheney has been on all the shows, Newt has been mentioned as the leader of the Republicans, and they even have an entire TV network – Fox – which has risen to new heights of drama, flights of fancy, and inspired improvisation, not to mention sheer entertainment value.

They lost the election. Their membership has been decimated by exposure, death, irrelevance, and well-delivered humor. And, their positions have been seen to have a tenuous connection to reality. All this conforms to what seems reasonable, natural, and about time.

That’s all well and good. A relief. It inspires a belief that change for the better is possible and that all the bumper sticker damage from the recent election was worth it. We can now actually get closer to those tantalizing hopes and goals of our founding fathers.

But what worries me is Amazon.com – the world’s largest bookstore. They cater to everyone and they do it online. By extension, they serve the technologically savvy.

The Amazon bestseller list, today, features Glenn Beck’s book, Common Sense, at the top of, not only the regular bestseller list, but also the Kindle bestseller list.

Yes, that’s the same Glenn Beck who said, ‘I hope Obama fails.’ “We’re not on LSD anymore, we need to make sense.” “If you’re an ugly woman, you’re probably a progressive.” And, recently, “The most used phrase in my administration if I were to be President would be, ‘What the Hell you mean we’re out of missiles?’”

Stephen Colbert has shown us that Glenn Beck is not only an idiot, on the order of Rush Limbaugh, but also that he is channeling messages from the planet, Zorkon. That’s good enough for me.

I knew that America’s educational system was in trouble. I had heard the whispering about the decline of our prominence in world affairs. I had seen the news about the state of our national literacy and readership. But, even taking Harry Potter into account, this really scares me.

Right now, I am on page 203 of a (terrific) book, written for young adults, like myself, called, The Mysterious Benedict Society, and have the latest copy of Mad Magazine by the side of the bed, but these, at least, deal with important issues in a way that, invites serious discussion, ethical participation, and hope for the future.

I admire Mr. Beck’s sales figures, but it is more than disheartening to imagine what this may represent. As much as I like science fiction, I don’t want to go there.

Boys Will Be

I just had a shower and it felt good. I know some guys don’t like it. And, really, they never have. As kids, they would run around all day and their moms might suggest a shower before dinner and Dad might sniff the air and make a comment, but to them it just didn’t make sense. They weren’t that dirty and, besides, they were just going to get dirty again. They weren’t sure that that smell didn’t smell good. That it didn’t mean something. Something important.

The sheets on their beds might be a bit dingy, but wasn’t that a statement, of some kind, about their existence? Their jeans hadn’t been washed in weeks and they had been hid beneath the bed, just so Mom couldn’t grab them and throw them in the wash. This kind of personal grooming was what their sisters were so concerned with; it had nothing to do with them. They weren’t girls and they were determined not to be.

All this assumes that they even thought about it. It is more likely that this aspect of boyness is genetic. Inherent. Dad was probably the same way, before he was domesticated.

The young male mind is a primitive instrument. Guys are some of Nature’s own creatures, running around in the weeds or in the swamp or sorting through garbage, if they are urban males. Or, racing around on bikes and hitting each other, if they are of suburban origin.

They have a mission. One preordained by ancestors. This mission is to move evolution forward, through exploration and incessant experimentation. They are developing physically. They are perfecting their aim. They are testing limits. They are not big on communication. Or, hygiene. They know, instinctively, that it is going to take more than a little dirt to hurt them. It is going to take something like a T Rex or an attack by aliens to begin to thwart their progress.

Education? Their priorities differ from those of their parents and teachers. The concept of behavior is antithetical to their inner sense of independence and creativity. Sitting inside, in rows, no less, would be laughable, if the consequences for not attending were not so overwhelming. Ire, anger, disappointment, guilt and shame are powerful lessons and, even with their fierce forward momentum, society has somehow decided to impose its own habitual and arbitrary boundaries on them, rather than allow young boys, men, males, to discover them on their own and develop and use their innate powers of judgment.

No cars. No guns. No mind-altering experiences. Not even a minimum of tribal wildness. It makes no sense, but, sadly, they learn that they have no power. This lesson, this discovery, of the effects and limits, and the often violent acquisition of power, turns out to be very important, and, ultimately, tragic. The exercise of parental and societal power insures that each succeeding generation of guys are changed from playful cubs, setting small fires and incessantly jumping and shouting, to calculating, grasping, and, sometimes, devious adolescents and fraternity brothers, who worry about their status and about just how they are going to control the world and its inhabitants, so that they, alone, will be King of the Hill.

It’s frightening.

Time marches on, while evolution moves slowly. The Age of Aquarius has dawned. The age of Oprah is underway. 2012 is on the horizon, and a cosmic consciousness is beginning to pervade the population. Change is inevitable, as is the end of childhood. Soap will always be available and, with age, comes wisdom. Not only that, but a guy’s senses develop and understanding begins to sink in.

To wit: those sheets, actually, are dirty and may be the cause of several unpleasant side effects. Those jeans just won’t crumple to the floor. They stand there in the corner and are, for some reason, a little disturbing. And, without a shower, it’s not just Mom, who is keeping her distance, it’s that girl with the red hair.

Boys will be boys, but what about those girls? I mean, what about them?

Lately ...

Lately… whatever that means. It could mean, for the past several months, or for the last week or so, or for the last couple of days. If one factors in the Information Revolution, aging, and the possible onset of that disease whose name I can never remember, it could be this morning or just a minute ago.

However it may be, lately…, I’ve been experiencing myself in a new way. I mean ‘experiencing myself’ not in the biblical sense, but that my actions, thoughts, and feelings are all in alignment and working together. There is an identifiable sense of self.

This sense of self may strike you as something that should be obvious, or something to be worked out in the second year of college, or something completely incomprehensible. To me, it is something willfully created, struggled for, hoped for, but which can only come about in its own time. I have been looking for the switch, with determination, through the years and have never found it.

I always tried to be whoever they wanted me to be – good son, well-behaved student, businessman, employee, but I could never really get the hang of it. I spoke inappropriately, my biorhythms were out of sync, I worked too much or not enough. I knew I was not fulfilling my potential. I was not buckling down to the job at hand. I was not taking the whole thing seriously.

I tried but, inevitably, each time, I would fail. I was like an incurable alcoholic. I had, with shame, hidden some facet of myself in the bottom desk drawer. I had a couple of those small airplane bottles of longing, stuffed behind my socks. I kept saying I would quit, but never could. The voices in my head were too insistent, too distracting.

I had to face the truth: I was an imposter. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. An Emperor with no clothes. A guy who hadn’t done the laundry. Metaphors popped up unbidden. Bad puns disturbed perfectly reasonable sentences. My visions were not remotely similar to the Strategic Marketing Plan. I was a cause of disappointment to my parents. An object of worry to my sisters. A failure in the eyes of my friends. And, I was unemployable.

This left me with few options. There would be no title – Captain of Industry – for me. I would not figure in the Alumni News column. I could never become a CPA. Somewhere, back there, I had my Occupational Aptitude tested and, though it was exciting to contemplate, I knew, even then, that I would never become a television repairman or an astronaut. I’m afraid of heights.

Now what?! This is a question I have repeatedly asked myself. And, that was exactly the problem. Me and myself were on different sides of the fence. I could not figure it out and, myself, try, as it might, couldn’t make me hear the answer. Time, in general, age, in particular, the state of the world, and the economy, in many ways, wore me down. I gave up all of my ambiguous ambitions. It seemed, as if every possibility had been exhausted or wasn’t interested. To continue the metaphor from before, I gave up and said, dejectedly, “Make it a double. And keep ‘em coming.”

But metaphors are only that. They break down, at some point, and it’s hard to keep things straight. Are we talking about philosophy, psychology, or psychosis? Does drink represent desire or de-opposite?

What has happened is one of those ironies, upon which many major religions have been founded: Surrender to what is and peace will follow. Stop looking and you will find it. Wherever you go, there you are.

The only thing to do has been to take the advice of the masters – Turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream. Go with the flow. Turn, turn, turn. Keep on truckin’. It seems those guys in the 60s were onto something.

Lately… I’ve just been trying to do my best.

The Blossoming

Overnight, the cherry tree has blossomed.  Next year, I would like to, somehow, know the night that this will happen and set out the Adirondack chairs, with their accompanying table, near the tree.  The sun will be setting and ML and I will take our places and await the grand opening. 

The light will be changing, deepening, and all the birds will be saying goodnight to each other.  The shapes of the trees and the houses nearby, and the mountains to the west, will be taking on new meaning and character.  My car, outside the garage, will begin dreaming of long, curving stretches of blacktop, with the radio fulfilling its purpose and the air rushing by, as it exercises all cylinders.

ML and I will toast each other and quietly discuss the day’s events and thoughts.  We will review the conditions of the children and our friends.  We will count our blessings, as the moon rises behind us, and this new light will allow a different type of observation to begin.

The first star will introduce itself and give us a minute to compose our wishes.  For a while, we will both be lost in our own thoughts, a quiet review, and an anticipation of things to come, a silent thank you, radiating outwards from our soft hearts.

Down by the road, a coyote will warble or call or howl or however you want to characterize it.  In fact, it isn’t any of those, but simply his sound, his expression, just like our conversation, but his is intended for a more widespread audience.  The owls in the neighborhood will exchange the who-whos that signal the beginning of their day.

Like a tide, immeasurable and inevitable, the light will change, the night progress, and all the rushing around, the activity, the competing thoughts of the day will settle, slowly, and a calm will come over everything.  This calm will feel like an almost tangible addition to the darkened, quieted, yet incredibly alive moment, near the tree.  Our patient hearts will begin to fill with anticipation.

As the moon finishes its glide, to a point almost directly overhead, an overture, like the buzz before a show, will begin.  There will be a slight breeze through the warm night.   And, then, all of us – ML, myself, the flowers at our feet, the stars shining down, from above, on all of us, animal, vegetable, and mineral – will be able to feel the moment when it begins: that first blossom.  There, on the left, about halfway up.  Or, no, near the bottom, over there.   Before we can decide which was actually first, it ‘s happening all over. 

A song, part lullaby, part hymn, part love song, is being sung.  The blossoms swell the chorus.  This is a performance, but also an experience of exultation for each blossom and, ultimately, for the entire tree.  It is a living, breathing expression, a celebration of its own being, its history, its future and its innermost existence.

Everything is hushed and attentive.  The blossoming continues until completion and, then, in a rush of emotion and appreciation, ML and I rise out of our chairs, applauding.  I hear the coyotes and the owls adding their praise.  A noise bursts out of my mouth that takes me by surprise, an inarticulate sound of connection.  ML begins to whistle and stamp her feet.  It’s a beautiful moment.

First, one and, then, two windows light up in the neighbor’s house.  I look across the street and see one there.  ML and I hug, beam at the tree and its individual decorations, alive with purpose, out and about for the season, and turn toward the house and our beds.

Invisible Tibet

It’s a time of give and take. A time of growing pains. (Always true. Always.)

One of the great things about the present moment is that we can be aware of what happens on the other side of the globe. And, instantly. News travels fast. And, not just the headlines.

We now have the ability to become aware of a new development, the creation of an idea, a poem, a melody, and we can instantly comment on, add to, and/or be inspired by these. There is a cyber-democracy that is settling, like a light spring rain, on all of us, the participants of life.

In today’s New York Times, there is an article about a woman, Tsering Woeser, living in China, who is half-Chinese and half-Tibetan. She is blogging her views of the situation between her two countries. The headline is, A Tibetan Blogger, Always Under Close Watch, Struggles For Visibility.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html?_r=1&ref=world

As has always been true, the visibility (and availability) of truth has always been its best defense.

It is becoming much more difficult for someone to silence the opposition. Now, both sides, and everything in between, can be heard.

We can support this by placing our attention on those who are threatened, allowing for the safety of individuals, the education of others, and a chance for democratic change, rather than control by those in power, or those with the larger stick, or those, through their control of the media, who twist the dialogue of the moment to their own ends.

Ms. Woeser and countless others like her, are out there, shining a light on actions that may pass unnoticed by a busy, chaotic, and often resigned and overwhelmed world. They are inviting us to pay attention to and become aware of what is happening around and to us. They are bravely speaking out and hoping we will listen.

Exercise your independence by your act of attention. Each computer hit moves Ms. Woeser and our future closer to real communication and responsible movement forward in time.

The Times article - http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html?_r=1&ref=world

Ms. Woeser’s blog, Invisible Tibet - http://woeser.middle-way.net/

How I feel about Y2K.

I apologize about the title. There are so many things going on. I’m reading a book called The Overwhelming Brain or The Overwhelmed Brain or The Overflowing Brain or something and it talks about just how much multi-tasking and thinking is actually, physiologically possible. There is so much to do and there is so much information available now and not only available, but unavoidable, that our brains are short-circuiting. We forget. We can’t prioritize. We can’t keep up.

I won’t say I’ve flipped my lid, but it does feel a bit unstable. Y2K, West Nile Virus, terrorists, salmonella, the economy. And those are just a few of the huge, abstract fears that are out there roaming around, breaking into my reverie with thoughts of death, sickness, and destitution. I won’t even begin about the many thoughts that go through my head when I look into the mirror or my checkbook.

Just to rant on a little longer – there’s stuff like getting a haircut, my lunch with Kit next week, getting the oil changed, Cait’s graduation, did I answer that email to Dan, and March Madness! As I write this, it brings to mind a hundred other things that have been waiting patiently, though tapping their feet, on notes scattered about on my desk. I have piles of lists and lists of lists. When am I going to get to all this?

And, it’s not just me; it’s all of us. You’re on my list and I’m on yours and we are all connected in ways that may never become clear and in events that may never take place. Or, they will take place, but without us, because we misplaced the list it was on or we transferred it to our calendars incorrectly.

I keep thinking I will take care of this or that important thing on the weekend, when I can slow down and think about it. But, weekends go by and it’s almost April! 2009! There’s part of me that is still back in the ‘60s. And, some of me in those other years. Is that memory or neurosis?

My mind is trying to catch its breath, which is a weird thing if you know anything about science. I don’t, but I’ve always wanted to. I used to buy books explaining things like biology, physics, Time, UFOs, even history, but I never had the time or the breath in my mind to read them. I once thought osmosis (whose definition I looked up) was a possibility and, as an experiment, kept these books scattered around the house. Now, having the advantage and privilege of hindsight, not to mention the advice of my more orderly wife, I see I was wrong. There is so much I don’t know. I don’t even know how much I don’t know.

Anyway. So many books, so little time. So little time, so little time.

I have got to calm down. This is not helping the situation. Neither is the coffee I am abusing to help me stay up to date. This is not a pleasurable, social cup in the morning; it is a necessary supplement, just like vitamin C or anti-depressants. The proliferation of coffee shops, spots, or whatever they’re called is like gas stations. They’re everywhere. They’ve become essential to society’s well being. They provide the fuel to keep things running.

Is it the coffee or is it us? Everyone seems a little jittery. I wish I had the time to pursue this philosophical question. It’s kind of like the chicken and the egg. I like both, but I’ve got stuff to do.

What will actually happen when my brain short-circuits or becomes overwhelmed? Will I find myself momentarily stunned and then return to a pace I can handle? Or, will my eyes go large and my hair start on fire, while I shake uncontrollably? And what will things be like if many people are affected like this? A pandemic of guys spontaneously combusting because they and their Blackberries have freaked out. That would be hideous and would accomplish nothing. And there is so much to accomplish. At the moment, I can’t even think about it. I’ve got to go.

To a T.

What is casual, can stretch to fit all sizes, and is appropriate for any occasion, from fashionable to that of the most humble sort? What item of clothing can make a statement so clearly that it’s impossible to miss? Here’s a hint. At one time, it was considered underwear, but now it’s no big deal if you wear it to the grocery store. Forget Madonna. I’m talking about T-shirts.

It’s funny. In the catalogs, both off and online, the T is always capitalized. Many think this has something to do with its shape. But no, the initial design of this invaluable garment originated with a guy named, Tom. Tom knew a good thing when he saw it and sent off one of his first prototypes to the Patent Office in 1897, with the words “Patent # What?” scrawled by hand on the front. Because of his foresight and business acumen, generations of Tom’s descendants have lived the good life of those whose ancestors were either brilliant, as in this case, or ruthless, as in the case of countless others.

The T-shirt became the first line of defense in the war on perspiration. It also provided a layer of warmth in colder climates. It combined practicality and versatility.

Although the T-shirt did not live in fear and secrecy, it remained something of an unmentionable until Clark Gable established it as a fundamental garment of masculinity. After his historic portrayal as Clark Gable, visibly at ease, in a T-shirt, men all over America were soon posing for their sweethearts and just about every other woman they could corner. They even posed in front of mirrors, enjoying the confluence of form and function. In this case, their own form. They contemplated the bulges that were highlighted. For some, this was an endlessly fascinating biceptual moment of rapture. For others, it was a not altogether romantic revelation of love handles.

The rise of the Japanese economy and workforce, as the source of everything cheap and essential, propelled the worldwide adoption of the T-shirt. Inexpensive colorfast dyes didn’t hurt either. Suddenly, the T-shirt was seen everywhere. From the crowded streets of India to the leisurely boulevards of Indiana. From the sand dunes of Timbuktu to the street lights of Times Square. From the beaches of Sao Paulo to the wheatfields of South Dakota.

Small children, big children, male and female, young and old, people of all philosophies, political persuasions, and those petite or even more than portly were wearing them. This trend in fashion was quickly followed by jeans and athletic shoes. In dress, if not in ideology, the world came together for the first time in history.

This humble item soon found its voice. At first, it identified with a team or a garage on South Street, but it soon developed to carry messages from sources as varied as Einstein and Mickey Mouse.

Here are just a couple of examples:

Make Love, Not War
I’m with Stupid.
I’m not as Dumb as you look.
Where there’s a will, I want to be in it.
I say no to drugs, but they won’t listen.
A day without sunshine is, you know, night.

Once I saw a teen-aged girl, walking with her parents. Her shirt read, ‘I Bring The Pain.’ As a parent, I can’t seem to shake that image.

With the right T-shirt, I feel ready for anything. I am able to draw from my drawers a shirt appropriate for any occasion. There is no limit to what I can say or what my walking canvas can convey. Without it, I am at a loss. Voiceless, unsure, and half-naked. Not exhibiting, not highlighting, not protesting. Not cool, not hip, and not hot. Just a guy. Just another lumpy torso. Just me.

But, damn, just look at those biceps.

Spend and Tax Spend and Tax Spend and Tax

I will never again complain when I see six guys standing around watching one guy fix a hole in the street. At least, you can see them. They’re not hiding anything. But, hey, what about those bankers? Those financial titans?

Just like the guys in the street, they are now receiving taxpayer dollars, but the amounts we have given them, in the ongoing bailout, is more than shameful; it should be illegal. What’s shameful are politicians, who write bailout bills that don’t mandate, require, and legally limit the money the bankers are able to put in their pockets.

I won’t go into the incredibly obscene amounts they’ve made off with in the last twenty years. Then, it was clients and shareholders who were willing to pay them. But now, it’s our money. Taxpayers, well off and near-destitute. People who have lost their jobs and, perhaps, their houses.

Business practices, non-existent ethics, and greed are the precipitating factors in this financial meltdown. These emperors of Wall Street still had clothes, until the house of cards they were playing with finally collapsed. A house that had been held up by a belief and faith in the system and their professionalism.

Now, we are desperate and want someone to fix it. It is thought that only these financial wizards have the knowledge to do this. Naively, we believe that their sense of responsibility and the obvious reality of their failure will cause them to work hard to bring this about.

Unfortunately, they have traveled far beyond responsibility and any concern other than their own interest. They see only the next step in their journey. The step that has them directing their abilities to seize the opportunities these billions of tax dollars create. To them, this is an unexpected dividend.

To be fair, these guys have families. They are not inhuman. They simply don’t care about anyone else. They have shed the skins of shame, compassion, and responsibility. It seems our government representatives have also. Obama has given us hope, but who will help him act?