Thursday, April 19, 2012
Biggest acheivements...
Kissing the wind, worshiping the sunshine as it streams through the pine forest sticky, heavy with the scent of dropped needles. Being open, my heart continues to beat in my chest and I'm aware of the magnitude, the potential, the mystery. Achievement numero uno buscando Rief. Falling into destiny. Standing on my head. No fear. Flowing like water, hungering for connection and learning day by day how to be. Be authentic. Be true. Don't be phony. Fighting the jaded-ness, fighting for happiness. Celebrating, being free. Wanting what I have. Being grateful. Trying to be a good daughter, working/pushing/pulling figuring out how to communicate be a part of my sisters' life. Drawing hearts in the sand. Achievement implies hard work, arriving at the destination. I strive to journey. just that. Learn to become. Achieve utter unachievement. What career? What responsibility? What cynicism/displeasure/grown-up-ness? I have, up to this point, achieved NOT being a real person. I've traveled Central America, fallen in love, watched someone take their last breath. I've listened, really listened. I haven't listened, haven't cared much of late-that's no achievement if you ask me, I'm the only one here asking. I've swam all day. Climbed white rocks glistening in the moonlight and become one with my inner child. I've ridden miles and miles across the greenery, head lagging against the window, never quite comfortable, the metal bar digging into my forehead, dale dale dale! I have achieved the perfect nap on the back patio, the old orange comforter draped up to my sternum, sun peaking through clouds a cool breeze ticking the tip of my nose, my ears, my lips. No tension, loosey goosey. I have laughed. That's an achievement to throw one's head back int he face of exams, presentations, shitty hours no sleep, throw it back amidst convulsions of laughter racking the ribs, the diaphragm. Letting go=achievement.
I remember...
Clinging to my mother's waist like my life depended on it. She was my rock, my constant-my only priority to not be left behind. I remember feeling so heartbroken after that last kiss, the final embrace that I'd give an arm, maybe even a leg, for just another couple minutes nuzzled in her warmth. The smell of her perfume was unmistakable. I didn't grasp the concept of perfume back then, it seemed such a natural part of her essence. Sweat mixed with a slight hint of perspiration. Every smell is an experience, we learn to judge them, assign them meaning as we go along. Her sweat & perfume mingled, was more pungent, it felt real, left me grounded and gave me comfort. So we established a routine: I'd cry and beg her not to go. She'd wiggle herself free of my clenched, desperate little hands, peeling off finger by finger. And she'd placate me with a scarf, a jacket, a sweater that I'd bury my face in and close my eyes, taking deep breaths. The tears would dry, my heartbeat eventually softening to a low thud in my ears. I'd sniffle the snot back in and learn how to calm myself, how to be alone.
In pediatrics we learn separation anxiety is normal behavior, evolutionarily sound up until a certain age at least. But what interests me more is the fear of being alone, do we ever really grow out of that? Master it and go without our safety scarf? I remember the day when my mother was ill prepared; no scarf, no jacket, no sweater. She gave me her earring, tried to get away before I could notice the hard, cold metal. The utter lack of the sweet smell that could soothe me. For all its beauty, an earring cannot compare.
In pediatrics we learn separation anxiety is normal behavior, evolutionarily sound up until a certain age at least. But what interests me more is the fear of being alone, do we ever really grow out of that? Master it and go without our safety scarf? I remember the day when my mother was ill prepared; no scarf, no jacket, no sweater. She gave me her earring, tried to get away before I could notice the hard, cold metal. The utter lack of the sweet smell that could soothe me. For all its beauty, an earring cannot compare.
Monday, April 16, 2012
words
I am thinking of the common words like 'and' or 'the' and the words 'never' and 'not today'
'maybe' is fraught with instability
'yes' gives rise to happiness
'no' is full of the night terrors
I am thinking of the force of common words
their link to our hope and desire
how one word can change a life
the common everyday words that I use
'maybe' is fraught with instability
'yes' gives rise to happiness
'no' is full of the night terrors
I am thinking of the force of common words
their link to our hope and desire
how one word can change a life
the common everyday words that I use
to write
with winter's breath
we followed relentlessly
wandering and questioning
(the answer blanks left empty)
and after prying the church keys
from their gaunt knuckled hands
(the finality of it all
the intimacy yet the yawning distance)
the keys like icicles
searing our ice-water hands
Thundering loose the lock
we lurched through the door
into the cathedral of writing
we followed relentlessly
wandering and questioning
(the answer blanks left empty)
and after prying the church keys
from their gaunt knuckled hands
(the finality of it all
the intimacy yet the yawning distance)
the keys like icicles
searing our ice-water hands
Thundering loose the lock
we lurched through the door
into the cathedral of writing
Friday, April 13, 2012
Everything I Know About My Cat
She makes you sometimes want to be her
to balance so exquisitely
to purr
to be able to purr would be magnificent
to express contentment with
such visceral elegance.
She is soft and tidy and sinuous
she is perfect attention
and indifference.
Here is what I love most:
she sees a toy just so far away
she cocks her head to the side
crouches a little
her ears flatten out like the motion
of wings
the diamond pupils of her eyes grow large and black
the iris is gone, gone
and she pounces
all this in an instant.
She paws the purple mouse with a delicate touch
and backs away.
I crave this like a baby's laugh
will do anything to make it happen.
She is tensile warmth
next to me on the bed.
I know she doesn't sleep as I do
unconscious to all around me.
She is awake to my least stirring
offers the gift of her belly to rub
precious trust I think
but she will still nip
if it suits her
because trust is not her thing
and she is the chooser
never the chosen.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
My Moment of Fierce Grace
Ignorance was bliss?
On February 27, 2011 I lay in a hospital bed unsure of what was to come next. My weight had dropped over the past month from 155 pounds down to 140 pounds. I had a mounting temperature rising, at the highest, to 105.1 degrees. The last time I talked to my primary care physician a few days prior, the last thing he said was, “There’s something seriously wrong with your blood.”
I had gone to the hospital on the 27th at the willing of my parents, whom I was visiting. An hour or so after being admitted to the hospital, it was confirmed. I was HIV positive, by definition I had AIDS. My determination sky-rocketed with this confirmation. I would not go down without a fight and I was determined more than ever to rise above my situation and become a healthy individual once again.
What I didn’t know on the 27th that I found out on March 5th or so was that my virus count was at an incredible 5 million, while my CD4/T-Cell count was at an extremely low six. I was on the edge of death. When my mom told me this after I got out of the hospital a week later, I could hear the pain in her voice, but I did not crack. I accepted my mistakes and poor decisions that had brought me to this point and vowed to get back to my full potential as quickly as possible. By the end of March 2011 I had gained 40 pounds. A month after I left the hospital, I began a daily workout regiment. By the third month knowing I was positive, my CD4count had jumped to 43, while my various count was down to 100 or so. Now, a year later I am at a healthy place, in a healthy state of being and my CD4 count has risen to 229.
If it were not for my faith in myself and my future and the spiritual and logical values that I embrace for myself and live by, I would not have been able to rise above my situation, accept responsibility and grow into a more complete individual filled with understanding.
This past year has been the most challenging year of my life and I do not expect the challenges to end anytime soon. However, I know that it is in my power to choose how I react to a situation when it is presented to me.
Ignorance has never been bliss.
So sad that it took so long and such a serious course of action for me to realize that ignorance is so god damn ignorant.
No more days to waste living in the unknown when it comes to my health. But it seems so damn silly to me that the gay community as a whole? as I know it is so god damn ignorant to this disease, this virus. It's all about control... Burrough's great philosophical argument... "How do you short-circuit control?" It's quite impossible without educated knowledge.
Children in Africa know more and have more control over proper courses of action than the common American. We must fight! for a cure! It is small possible. That which is made in a lab can be destroyed in a lab. Right?
I will not succumb to this virus. I am in CONTROL. I understand how it attacks my cells, weakening my immune system, making me prone to die of the common cold. I understand how sick I was. Keyword: WAS! No I am not cured. I never will be, America. But, for as sick as I was to now be as healthy as I am- I am hope incarnate, as are so many others. I am the voice in the night for the young person, newly infected, scared to even survive or be undetectable.
Side effects? What side effects? I am free. Have no fear. I live. Don't be afraid of the shame and what people will say or not say. Love exists. It's all about control. So sad though--this really tears me apart--the vast ignorance of this community.
"My T-cell count is up to 78 now," I say joyfully.
"What are you talking about? I don't know what that means..."
" You need 800+. I had 6."
"Oh nice," you reply sheepishly.
"And my virus count is undetectable. From 5 million copies per milliliter to undetectable in only 4.5 months!"
"That's good right?"
Fool! That is glorious. HAART...ARVs... may not save lives or cure bodies, but they are a gift from god, so much as this virus is a curse from men with evil intentions and small cocks equivalent to their massive egos rotting their karma so as their children die as I die, just with shame. This is no curse of love. Most that I know that have become infected, did not do so because of ignorance, but mistakes.
To those that chase the bug, to those that have bug parties, to those that think it's a blessing, to all of you I say:
You are wrong. Look at pictures of our dying brothers and sisters. Read the horror stories. Look at the number-- so many go without access to proper medications here, at home. Feel the pain I and so many others feel in our hearts, our minds and bodies. This is not a pain cause by shame or guilt or fear. This is a pain that without access to our ARVs the timeline on this plane of existence becomes quite real. These bodies are not immortal. When you face that realization, I hope that you WAKE UP. Acknowledging your eventual death is the first step in living forever at every moment.
We can beat this virus, so long as we are the ones to control it and the spreading of knowledge about it.
All to often the face of HIV/AIDs is lost in forgotten, stereotypical imagery.
We will NOT go quietly into the void.
Together we rise into the public's collected eye.
I am Alexander William Schuster & I am the face of HIV/AIDs in the 21st Century.
Hear my battle cry. I will not be forgotten.
This is my Moment of Fierce Grace:
“I find this disease to be quite embarrassing
a constant penance for my heartache and loss of love
I rely on my life as a lesson to not forget that Love IS my saving grace
This disease reminds me with each pill
each night that I failed
my body and soul in one life
and not this nor the next evermore
I am love and I love
I love myself from here forth
and all of you that exist in my love
all exist in my love- your love--one love
This is pure active acknowledgement of love evermore
This is my moment of Fierce Grace
I embrace it and destroy all hate Evermore.”
On February 27, 2011 I lay in a hospital bed unsure of what was to come next. My weight had dropped over the past month from 155 pounds down to 140 pounds. I had a mounting temperature rising, at the highest, to 105.1 degrees. The last time I talked to my primary care physician a few days prior, the last thing he said was, “There’s something seriously wrong with your blood.”
I had gone to the hospital on the 27th at the willing of my parents, whom I was visiting. An hour or so after being admitted to the hospital, it was confirmed. I was HIV positive, by definition I had AIDS. My determination sky-rocketed with this confirmation. I would not go down without a fight and I was determined more than ever to rise above my situation and become a healthy individual once again.
What I didn’t know on the 27th that I found out on March 5th or so was that my virus count was at an incredible 5 million, while my CD4/T-Cell count was at an extremely low six. I was on the edge of death. When my mom told me this after I got out of the hospital a week later, I could hear the pain in her voice, but I did not crack. I accepted my mistakes and poor decisions that had brought me to this point and vowed to get back to my full potential as quickly as possible. By the end of March 2011 I had gained 40 pounds. A month after I left the hospital, I began a daily workout regiment. By the third month knowing I was positive, my CD4count had jumped to 43, while my various count was down to 100 or so. Now, a year later I am at a healthy place, in a healthy state of being and my CD4 count has risen to 229.
If it were not for my faith in myself and my future and the spiritual and logical values that I embrace for myself and live by, I would not have been able to rise above my situation, accept responsibility and grow into a more complete individual filled with understanding.
This past year has been the most challenging year of my life and I do not expect the challenges to end anytime soon. However, I know that it is in my power to choose how I react to a situation when it is presented to me.
Ignorance has never been bliss.
So sad that it took so long and such a serious course of action for me to realize that ignorance is so god damn ignorant.
No more days to waste living in the unknown when it comes to my health. But it seems so damn silly to me that the gay community as a whole? as I know it is so god damn ignorant to this disease, this virus. It's all about control... Burrough's great philosophical argument... "How do you short-circuit control?" It's quite impossible without educated knowledge.
Children in Africa know more and have more control over proper courses of action than the common American. We must fight! for a cure! It is small possible. That which is made in a lab can be destroyed in a lab. Right?
I will not succumb to this virus. I am in CONTROL. I understand how it attacks my cells, weakening my immune system, making me prone to die of the common cold. I understand how sick I was. Keyword: WAS! No I am not cured. I never will be, America. But, for as sick as I was to now be as healthy as I am- I am hope incarnate, as are so many others. I am the voice in the night for the young person, newly infected, scared to even survive or be undetectable.
Side effects? What side effects? I am free. Have no fear. I live. Don't be afraid of the shame and what people will say or not say. Love exists. It's all about control. So sad though--this really tears me apart--the vast ignorance of this community.
"My T-cell count is up to 78 now," I say joyfully.
"What are you talking about? I don't know what that means..."
" You need 800+. I had 6."
"Oh nice," you reply sheepishly.
"And my virus count is undetectable. From 5 million copies per milliliter to undetectable in only 4.5 months!"
"That's good right?"
Fool! That is glorious. HAART...ARVs... may not save lives or cure bodies, but they are a gift from god, so much as this virus is a curse from men with evil intentions and small cocks equivalent to their massive egos rotting their karma so as their children die as I die, just with shame. This is no curse of love. Most that I know that have become infected, did not do so because of ignorance, but mistakes.
To those that chase the bug, to those that have bug parties, to those that think it's a blessing, to all of you I say:
You are wrong. Look at pictures of our dying brothers and sisters. Read the horror stories. Look at the number-- so many go without access to proper medications here, at home. Feel the pain I and so many others feel in our hearts, our minds and bodies. This is not a pain cause by shame or guilt or fear. This is a pain that without access to our ARVs the timeline on this plane of existence becomes quite real. These bodies are not immortal. When you face that realization, I hope that you WAKE UP. Acknowledging your eventual death is the first step in living forever at every moment.
We can beat this virus, so long as we are the ones to control it and the spreading of knowledge about it.
All to often the face of HIV/AIDs is lost in forgotten, stereotypical imagery.
We will NOT go quietly into the void.
Together we rise into the public's collected eye.
I am Alexander William Schuster & I am the face of HIV/AIDs in the 21st Century.
Hear my battle cry. I will not be forgotten.
This is my Moment of Fierce Grace:
“I find this disease to be quite embarrassing
a constant penance for my heartache and loss of love
I rely on my life as a lesson to not forget that Love IS my saving grace
This disease reminds me with each pill
each night that I failed
my body and soul in one life
and not this nor the next evermore
I am love and I love
I love myself from here forth
and all of you that exist in my love
all exist in my love- your love--one love
This is pure active acknowledgement of love evermore
This is my moment of Fierce Grace
I embrace it and destroy all hate Evermore.”
Monday, April 9, 2012
How is it Possible?
How is it possible that the moon can bloom in the middle of the night? Her light ephemeral jumping like a grasshopper over the edge, the edge of the world. She glows in the wheat filled prairie down through the canyon land and it is impossible to catch her or to trip her up - cascading at the speed of light as she does and yet not missing a millimeter of coverage. Even the tiniest jumping mouse basks in her light.
How is it possible that the sun, so far from us, howling against the summer heavens can burn us? Even as he balloons up and up more and more brilliant, painting earth her gaudy colors, burning the desert sand, exhausting the fox and hens alike, still he gives us life and without him we cannot live.
How is it possible that the air is sweet with the many odors of life? How is it possible to smell the rain, a bundle of dancing wildflowers sweeping round my feet, the remains of the cooking charcoal cooking fire. Can you smell the snow coming? Can you feel the air drifting over houses circling through barns and lungs.
How is it possible for water to cascade, to creep along the foggy earth. Falling and falling she rises again of her own volition streaming in thunder headed clouds, dashing us with her lightening. If we hadn’t been watching her, we would never have known the soft caress, gentle hands fondling our naked being with their quiet liquid touch.
How is it possible for the woman to open her heart to receive a child - bloody and pasty from the womb crying for nourishment, demanding its life at the expense of what it does not know, devouring all within its infant sweet grasp. How is it possible for them to co-exist, milk flowing between them, warmth and words tumbling from one to the other.
How is it possible that there is or is not a god ( and where might this god be) disinterested as it is in the rain (set in motion) the moon and sun (swung by gravity’s tentacles) the windy atmosphere of life (swarming round the corridors of the earth). Singing the light of life into motion - how is it possible.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Shivers
I have come to identify the shiver that begins somewhere in my chest and moves first through the sinews of my bone and flesh and then rushes along my skin like ripples, as a symbolic gesture from my body, saying,
“Thank you for this.”
A hug enveloping me from either sunlight, or a blanket, or a close friend. Or the warmth of a story, or a powerful poem. Seeing the center panel of Monet’s “Water Lilies”. Seeing a movie where different poetic moments caught me and fixed me in place with raptured attention.
I know, when I shiver, that something is moving and shifting deep in my consciousness – I will not be the same for that incremental change which only adds to what I can only imagine to be this colorful roiling, growing, beating mesh of experiences in my mind. Even now I am shivering, because I just articulated a difficult feeling that I have not been able to put to words, a feeling I have had for a long time.
I looked at that center panel for ten solid minutes. I’m resolved to go back, and look at it even more.
I want to describe it to you, but I feel that I would be dishonoring the point of visual art. You are just going to have to experience it for yourself.
Experience it – not see it. That is a wholly different concept. Experiencing something means that you begin somewhere, you take a physical, or intellectual, or emotional, or spiritual journey. Many elements are involved – time, active participation, some level of immersion and absorption.
If I experience a painting, it means all of these things. I don’t simply look at it or see it. That is what I am doing 24 hours of every day. I am allowing it, instead, to fill my range of vision – to feel the colors splash into a thousand, pieced and layered brush strokes. I try to see the pond through Monet’s eyes, how he was able to see so much more in that water, that pond which he diverted a river to create for his artistic endeavors. I admit, I couldn’t see it. I don’t have the artist’s eye – or maybe I do. I have what he saw right in front of me. He was able to show me his world, gift to me his incredible sensitivity to color, how it can be provocative and utterly beautiful. I lingered on this revelation and discovery of beauty, immersed just as those water lilies were in the depths of the pond.
I shivered. Thank you for this.
I experience words. I don’t just hear them. Hearing is the process by which sound waves bounce off highly specialized bone and tissue structures in the ear, some of the smallest bones and tissues in the body, to reach an essential “drum,” which is then brought to the mind.
We are also doing this 24 hours of every day.
But I experience words. One should listen to words. Because words out loud are beautiful. Poetry is the art of experiencing words as sounds which have the magical ability to carry meaning.
Start somewhere. Take time, let the meanings and images change you, fill your range of vision, add to that roiling, growing, beating mesh of experiences in your mind. Ask questions – can I see things as the poet sees? Or am I being gifted with that ability? To what portal of beauty am I being taken?
Linger on your revelations. Maybe your body will shiver, a gesture that may come to symbolize gratitude.
“Thank you for this.”
Experiences do not simply accumulate over time. Neither are they simply life lessons learned. They are growing-happenings, which may have beginnings but no end.
Take this class, for example. I have met you, all you wonderful people. But I am reminded of something C.S. Lewis once said (paraphrased here). We will not understand this meeting now. It will change in meaning over time, and we must nurture and keep pace with the changes these memories undergo. You would do as much for a planted seedling. And until it is a tree, we may never fully understand this meeting, between you and I. It may be tomorrow, it may be months.
I want to remember one thing. The really important meetings, the memories – the experiences – may not stop changing in meaning, in shaping me.
Maybe not even until the end of all my days.
Thank you for this.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Tommie Eidelman by Jerry King
Tommie Eidelman was a boy I never really liked. His Mom and Dad were overbearing about his baseball skills, and the fact that he played ahead of our son Thomas didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Tommie himself always seemed cocky and a little snarky, unpleasant in a mild but slightly offensive way.
And then I ran into Tommie and his Dad at Steak & Shake. I saw his Dad at a booth as we entered, and he and I both nodded our heads at each other in that manner that we use when we recognize someone, but we’re not sure exactly who it is. As I sat there thinking about who it was, I realized that it was Mr. Eidelman, and that the young man with him was probably Tommie.
So, as they stood up and approached the counter to pay, I called out “Tom”, and the young man turned. I would not have recognized him if he had not been with his father, but sure enough, it was Tommie. Except that the smile he gave me in response to my greeting didn’t seem like the Tommie I remembered. “Hi, I’m Tom King’s Dad, how are you doing?” And so we began a short conversation, which his Dad shortly joined. “How’s Thomas doing?” Tommie asked, and we talked for a bit. He volunteered that he was married, had a daughter, and then it came out that the little one was only 8 weeks old. So, I congratulated the father, and then I asked the question that turned the conversation on its ear.
“Is this your first grandchild?” I asked David (he had reminded me of his first name), and he hesitated, which alerted me immediately that the moment had changed. The next thing he said was “Well, it’s a little complicated”, and Tommie inserted “Dad, yes, it’s your first grandchild”, but David was too far into the situation to let it go. He said “Tom’s first grandchild (he was nervous, and of course meant to say first child) was a boy who died at 15 months”. Wow. Tom (no longer Tommie now that I knew he had suffered the worst thing that a man could suffer) still maintained the smile, and it wasn’t forced. This young man had changed in ways that I couldn’t imagine, and somehow it came clear to me that he had grown through that death and suffering. How could I know all that from such a short conversation at a fast-food restaurant?
As soon as they were out the door, I texted our Tom and asked if he knew about Tom Eidelman losing a child. He responded immediately that he did, and he would call me later to talk about it. Later that day, I ran into a neighbor who knows the Eidelman family. It was as bad as I could imagine. The boy died of SIDS. The mother is a physician. How could that happen? How could he put one foot in front of another, much less smile at relative strangers and really care about how their son was doing, with a smile, a real smile, on his face? I want to know more. I want to write Tommie (I can’t help it; he’s still Tommie to me) and tell him how much I admire him for bearing that pain and moving on, but do I have that right? Do I really believe that anything I say can be of any comfort, and am I being presumptuous to think that I have anything to say to someone in that situation? Enough to say that meeting Tommie Eidelman and his father David at Steak & Shake altered my world for at least a day.
When Dr. and Mrs. King Came to Holy Cross by Jerry King
I have told this story so many times that I can't tell you anymore how much is fact and what is conjured. However, the one thing I'm sure of is that, while Steve was in the front seat with Dr. King, I was in the back seat (along with a third student whom I can't remember) with Mrs. King. And my impression of Dr. King was that he was exhausted and that he slept much of the way to and from Logan Airport, whereas I was captivated by Coretta. It is hard to imagine for someone who didn't live through those days, but to be sitting in such close proximity to such a beautiful, vibrant, and yes, sexy black woman was almost an overwhelming experience for this "whitebread" kid from one of the most segregated American cities, St. Louis.
To be sure, that memory has stuck with me over these almost 50 years. And, truly, as my place on the political spectrum has moved from pretty far right at that time to pretty far left at present, I have come to regret not only my lack of attentiveness to the great man in the front seat and to his speech that evening, but also that fact that it took me so many years to understand the powerful message that he delivered just by his presence at a northern, all-white campus in those days when he was exhausted from the marches, the arrests, and the grueling schedule of speeches he needed to make to keep the funds flowing into the movement.
One other thing. Please don't leave out the role of Rev. Casey, the moderator of The Cross and Scroll Society. How far ahead of this time Fr. Casey was, including this man, who many of our parents were calling a Commie or a pinko, to join the Robert Frosts and Harrison Salisburys on that year's lecture roster.
I just wish I had Steve's memory of the speech, but I wouldn't trade my boyish infatuation with the beautiful woman in the back seat.
To be sure, that memory has stuck with me over these almost 50 years. And, truly, as my place on the political spectrum has moved from pretty far right at that time to pretty far left at present, I have come to regret not only my lack of attentiveness to the great man in the front seat and to his speech that evening, but also that fact that it took me so many years to understand the powerful message that he delivered just by his presence at a northern, all-white campus in those days when he was exhausted from the marches, the arrests, and the grueling schedule of speeches he needed to make to keep the funds flowing into the movement.
One other thing. Please don't leave out the role of Rev. Casey, the moderator of The Cross and Scroll Society. How far ahead of this time Fr. Casey was, including this man, who many of our parents were calling a Commie or a pinko, to join the Robert Frosts and Harrison Salisburys on that year's lecture roster.
I just wish I had Steve's memory of the speech, but I wouldn't trade my boyish infatuation with the beautiful woman in the back seat.
His Name Was Leif Sverdrup by Jerry King
His name was Leif Sverdrup, but apparently his friends called him Jack. At least my politician Dad called him that, and somehow he managed to wangle me a seat on the big man’s corporate plane on my way back to Holy Cross after semester break in 1962.
Jack Sverdrup was now the CEO of Sverdrup & Parcel, a civil engineering company that ranked among St. Louis’ largest firms. In addition, he was a member, in fact the most powerful member, of Civic Progress, the group of local business leaders who “ran the City” in that era. But even more significantly, he was General Sverdrup, a two-star Brigadier General and Director of Engineering in the Pacific in WWII, serving under Douglas McArthur, a “genuine” American hero.
So, here I was, a 20-year-old, on the Sverdrup corporate plane on a trip from St. Louis to New York. The plane was a converted DC3, a propeller job with a top air speed of 200 MPH, and thus the trip was a long one, almost 6 hours as I recall. The reason for the trip was that General Jack was taking a group of his colleagues—several other two-stars and at least one three-star—to the annual Birthday Party celebration for General McArthur which Jack hosted every year at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City. And what a ride it was!
Two stories illustrate the kind of man Jack Sverdrup was. The first, pretty much accepted as true because so many important men of the era confirmed it, was the tale of the gathering of Civic Progress where the fate of the “new” baseball stadium was being decided. According to those who were there, the General chaired the meeting, and once it was determined how much money was needed as equity to fund what became Busch Stadium, he declared that they would not leave the room until the money was raised. He first declared his own intentions and amount, and then, one by one, he called upon the men around the table (they were all men) and “told” each one how much he or his company would pledge. No one dared to disagree, and sure enough, by the end of the meeting, they had pledges in hand for the entire amount.
The second story was one from earlier in the day of my fateful flight. It was tradition that a plane carrying a U.S. General would bear an insignia on the side with the number of stars of the general, and of course the higher the ranking, the higher the number of stars. Since there was a three-star general scheduled to make the flight, someone dared to suggest to General Sverdrup that the plane should bear a three-star insignia that day. Sverdrup huffed, “This is my goddamn plane, and it’ll bear my insignia.” I don’t know what happened to that poor man who made the suggestion, but certainly his stock dropped on Sverdrup’s exchange. And our plane bore two stars.
The passenger list wasn’t limited to generals. For instance, the publisher of the Globe Democrat, Duncan Baumann and his wife were on board. And I’m sure there were others. But the agenda and the conversation were dominated by the military men. And there was no doubt about the tone of the dialogue. After all, these were Mac’s Boys. They loved Mac, and so they hated Harry Truman, the civilian who fired their hero over a policy disagreement during the Korean War. While Douglas MacArthur was not the model for the maniacal General Jack Ripper in Stanley Kubrick’s brilliant anti-war movie Dr. Strangelove (that was the incredibly hawkish lunatic, Curtis LeMay), nonetheless given his way he would have launched our country into a land war against Communist China that could easily have escalated into WWIII and a nuclear holocaust. And some historians believe that a number of high-ranking military men (including undoubtedly some of my flight-mates that day) came as close to launching a military coup as has ever happened in our history when Truman overruled and then fired General Mac.
Listening to the conversation on the DC3 that day, I not only bought into those historians’ belief, but I was wondering whether they still might do it, 10 years after the event. Wow, I never heard such vitriol about an American President. I was raised in a conservative pro-military family, was a child of the ‘50’s, not the ‘60’s and hadn’t begun my political conversion yet, but even at that I was getting a bit uncomfortable.
Until it happened that General Jack and the Baumanns started looking for a fourth to play bridge. Now I was in my element. After all, I practically majored in the game at Holy Cross. So, quietly but confidently I offered to play. And consequently I was across the table from the mighty General when he began telling stories of the Pacific.
He told a few, but only one that sticks in my memory in any detail, and it was a beauty. It seems that there was a particular island that the Americans had held, and Sverdrup had been responsible for designing and constructing the airfield. But now, the Japanese were counterattacking, and it was clear that they were going to re-occupy the island. Except for the airfield, the loss of the island was not critical. However, if the U.S. could not destroy the airfield, the Japanese could use it as crucial supply link. So, General Sverdrup was given the task—destroy the airport after the Americans had used it to get all of our people and equipment out, but before the Japanese arrived. That left almost no time, and the big problem—how to escape from the island by plane when you’ve destroyed the runway?
By this time, most of the people on the plane surrounded the bridge table, waiting for the climax of the story. And Sverdrup did not disappoint. “We left just a short stretch of runway, not enough for the Japanese to use for aircraft of any size. And then we found this native who had a big bolo knife. We tied the small plane to a tree with heavy rope; instructed the native to cut the rope when we signalled, and then we revved the plane to the maximum level, straining against the rope, and gave the signal. The native wielded the bolo; and the plane lifted off just before the end of the runway and just as the Japanese landing craft arrived on the opposite beach.” You could hear the collective sigh. “Two hearts”, he said, and we continued on our way.
Nice Work If You Can Get It by Jerry King
I’ve had two encounters with old acquaintances these past few days that have set me to thinking about old habits dying hard, and how we are often defined by such habits. In both cases, I could have predicted the responses of the other parties involved, even down to the language they used. In both cases, I judge that the behavior is not in the best interest of the other parties, but in neither case have I been surprised by the positions that they’ve taken.
OK, I suppose I could tell the stories, and they might elicit a modicum of interest. What really interests me, though, is the question of what habits are so ingrained in me as to pre-ordain my behavior, even in ways contrary to my own and others’ best interests. Not so simple to see, reminiscent of the New Testament quote about spotting the splinter in the other’s eye and missing the log in one’s own.
Do I really want to know? Can I make any headway toward eliminating the destructive behaviors without really understanding the deeply-ingrained habits? Can I stand the pain and humiliation of that sort of self-knowledge? Surely I can. Certainly I am a “big enough boy” to handle this. Of course I can do it.
OK, let’s get started. How should I begin? Should I conduct a scientific survey among the people who know me really well? Or is that really necessary? After all, I spotted this type of behavior in people who I haven’t seen or spoken with in several years. So, maybe I can expand the scope of my survey to include people who don’t have as much to lose by pointing out my destructive tendencies.
That doesn’t have much appeal, frankly, but here’s an idea. Maybe this is what meditation and reflection are all about. Gee, you think? Maybe I could get to know myself better without putting other people on the spot or risking friendships or love relationships. You think? Hard work. Nice work if you can get it, as they say. Oh, well…..
Monday, April 2, 2012
Testify to the Moment, a Prayer
I.
What’s the word?
Tell me something Eye can clearly perceive.
Eye need to understand where Eye am.
What’s the word?
Tell me something to ignite me.
Eye need something to believe in Now.
Eyebelieve in NO-things.
This isn’t self-destruction.
This is something different.
This is Strange Disintegration.
II.
Re-Copy aspects of Past Selves.
Recreate Self anew.
Temporary insanity.
Unstable emotional cycles.
Recurring nightmares- lack of sleep.
Uncontrollable emotions-lack of inner dialogue.
Problems with self-control.
Problems or reversal of self identity.
An easy way out?
Never in reality.
Existential acceptance.
III.
Faith.
The sun will rise tomorrow.
My family will always love me.
My friends love me too.
Everything works itself out in the end from the beginning.
The sun will Always rise tomorrow.
Eye will seA and Believe again.
Eye will rise to life.
That Eye will Always have my Faith.
IV.
Amen.
What’s the word?
Tell me something Eye can clearly perceive.
Eye need to understand where Eye am.
What’s the word?
Tell me something to ignite me.
Eye need something to believe in Now.
Eyebelieve in NO-things.
This isn’t self-destruction.
This is something different.
This is Strange Disintegration.
II.
Re-Copy aspects of Past Selves.
Recreate Self anew.
Temporary insanity.
Unstable emotional cycles.
Recurring nightmares- lack of sleep.
Uncontrollable emotions-lack of inner dialogue.
Problems with self-control.
Problems or reversal of self identity.
An easy way out?
Never in reality.
Existential acceptance.
III.
Faith.
The sun will rise tomorrow.
My family will always love me.
My friends love me too.
Everything works itself out in the end from the beginning.
The sun will Always rise tomorrow.
Eye will seA and Believe again.
Eye will rise to life.
That Eye will Always have my Faith.
IV.
Amen.
Charles Manson, My Grandma and the Good Book
My family would excommunicate me for saying this, but my grandma and Charles Manson both love the same Good Book.
Charles Manson convinced a group of hippies in the desert that the "Book of Revelations," along with the Beatles' "White Album" were transmitting a message to him that a revolution was coming. Manson called the revolution "Helter Skelter". "The blacks" were going to rise.
Drugs were supposed to bring enlightenment and love. Murders were supposed to be a catalyst for the blacks. Prison time was required.
But there was no Helter Skelter revolution. There is no connection between the Good Book and the Album. Manson is never going to be granted parole. His family still waits for Helter Skelter.
Every summer was the same in my youth. And I loved it. Every morning I would rise from my dreamworld, dress myself in my official Ghostbusters jumpsuit, and jump into the front seat of Aunt Frankie's sky-blue Ford Tempo. I'd strap on my seat belt (the two piece kind), then lean over and plug hers in. We weren't going anywhere special, just to my grandparents' to play with the kids. My grandma Barb was a baby-sitter, while my grandpa Maurice worked in a factory. She brought Jesus into our lives. Everyday.
Bless us, oh Lord, and these gifts which we are about to receive.
Lunch was the same everyday. At least, that's how I remember it. Tropical Punch Kool-Aid, Campbell's chicken noodle soup, Kraft grilled cheese, and a scoop or two of Schnuck's vanilla ice cream with Hershey’s chocolate syrup. We kids loved it. The Kool-Aid, the soup, the sandwich, the ice cream. Everything.
After scarfing our food down, we would play. The younger kids would take an afternoon nap. Neither Tim, a boy my age, nor I napped. Instead, we would romp around the cemetery across the way from the house.
There was this one spot on the far side of the cemetery where it looked like a HUGE chunk of the earth has been stolen, for no good reason. (I was told a meteorite hit there once long ago.) On the opposite was a paved path with a chain-link fence crossing it. There was a sign that said "Do Not Drive.” The driveway led to the white mansion on top of the hill, overlooking the murky lake to the side of the driveway, at the bottom of the hill. Ducks would wade close to the edge. We always brought crackers to throw to and at them. Sometimes, the ducks would fight. We loved watching ducks fight over crumbs of saltines.
Between the lake and the chunk of missing earth there was a forest green bush sitting on bright kelly green grass next to a soft, white-and-gray stone buried in the ground. My grandparents’ tombstone. This is now, though, not then. And, my grandpa is the one who had died. The stone wasn't there when I fed the crackers to the ducks or found the chunk of earth that was missing. It was only a good spot to sit amongst the dead.
Later, Aunt Frankie would called for me. And I would say “bye” to Tim, my Grandma Barb, and the kids. And Aunt Frankie and I drove home in the sky-blue Tempo.
Once on a typical summer day my grandma was bringing Jesus into our lives, again, through the gospels of John and the Holy Psalms. I actually took notice, but my eyes centered on a magazine on the floor. It was one of the countless non-denominational Christian magazines that the mailman folded and stuffed into the mailbox everyday. This particular edition informed me that someday, some person, some organization, some government was going to want to surgically implant a microchip into my hand. Or, my head. (This is all according to the "Book of Revelations," of course.)
This microchip will contain my medical history, my location(at all times), my blood type and count; and, maybe, even a strand of my DNA- all mapped out perfectly! Each microchip is, of course as the Good Book says, scannable by anyone with the correct clearance. Those with the correct clearance are the corporations, governments, the Powers That Be.
"Here, scan my hand. Learn everything about me in an instant. Destroy my privacy. My selfhood." The perfect campaign slogan for any campaign.
Since this is all according to Revelations, it must be true. We are just in the pre-Christ returning phase. The microchip, 666. The mark of the beast! This microchip, knower of all things, seals Your Doom. States had only minimal time to request an extension to the deadline for the Real ID Act. I may have been one of the only people who noticed the connection. I'm still watching, waiting and scared. The magazine told me about all this dark commerce on a typical summer day in my youth, while the kids were singing songs to bring Jesus into their lives.
Charles Manson convinced a gaggle of hippies on a movie ranch in the desert of a revolution from the "White Album" and the Book of Revelations, gave them LSD and weed, and delivered his "family" into incarceration.
My grandma Barb brought Jesus into my life every summer day in her living room, filled me with grilled cheese, and prophesied my reality with a green cemetery and black fears with a magazine. Who knows, maybe Helter Skelter is coming. (Just not yet?) Who knows, maybe the microchip is coming next. Who knows, maybe "revelations" speaks to everyone if they're listening. Charles Manson and my grandma apparently believed it, so it must be true.
Charles Manson convinced a group of hippies in the desert that the "Book of Revelations," along with the Beatles' "White Album" were transmitting a message to him that a revolution was coming. Manson called the revolution "Helter Skelter". "The blacks" were going to rise.
Drugs were supposed to bring enlightenment and love. Murders were supposed to be a catalyst for the blacks. Prison time was required.
But there was no Helter Skelter revolution. There is no connection between the Good Book and the Album. Manson is never going to be granted parole. His family still waits for Helter Skelter.
Every summer was the same in my youth. And I loved it. Every morning I would rise from my dreamworld, dress myself in my official Ghostbusters jumpsuit, and jump into the front seat of Aunt Frankie's sky-blue Ford Tempo. I'd strap on my seat belt (the two piece kind), then lean over and plug hers in. We weren't going anywhere special, just to my grandparents' to play with the kids. My grandma Barb was a baby-sitter, while my grandpa Maurice worked in a factory. She brought Jesus into our lives. Everyday.
Bless us, oh Lord, and these gifts which we are about to receive.
Lunch was the same everyday. At least, that's how I remember it. Tropical Punch Kool-Aid, Campbell's chicken noodle soup, Kraft grilled cheese, and a scoop or two of Schnuck's vanilla ice cream with Hershey’s chocolate syrup. We kids loved it. The Kool-Aid, the soup, the sandwich, the ice cream. Everything.
After scarfing our food down, we would play. The younger kids would take an afternoon nap. Neither Tim, a boy my age, nor I napped. Instead, we would romp around the cemetery across the way from the house.
There was this one spot on the far side of the cemetery where it looked like a HUGE chunk of the earth has been stolen, for no good reason. (I was told a meteorite hit there once long ago.) On the opposite was a paved path with a chain-link fence crossing it. There was a sign that said "Do Not Drive.” The driveway led to the white mansion on top of the hill, overlooking the murky lake to the side of the driveway, at the bottom of the hill. Ducks would wade close to the edge. We always brought crackers to throw to and at them. Sometimes, the ducks would fight. We loved watching ducks fight over crumbs of saltines.
Between the lake and the chunk of missing earth there was a forest green bush sitting on bright kelly green grass next to a soft, white-and-gray stone buried in the ground. My grandparents’ tombstone. This is now, though, not then. And, my grandpa is the one who had died. The stone wasn't there when I fed the crackers to the ducks or found the chunk of earth that was missing. It was only a good spot to sit amongst the dead.
Later, Aunt Frankie would called for me. And I would say “bye” to Tim, my Grandma Barb, and the kids. And Aunt Frankie and I drove home in the sky-blue Tempo.
Once on a typical summer day my grandma was bringing Jesus into our lives, again, through the gospels of John and the Holy Psalms. I actually took notice, but my eyes centered on a magazine on the floor. It was one of the countless non-denominational Christian magazines that the mailman folded and stuffed into the mailbox everyday. This particular edition informed me that someday, some person, some organization, some government was going to want to surgically implant a microchip into my hand. Or, my head. (This is all according to the "Book of Revelations," of course.)
This microchip will contain my medical history, my location(at all times), my blood type and count; and, maybe, even a strand of my DNA- all mapped out perfectly! Each microchip is, of course as the Good Book says, scannable by anyone with the correct clearance. Those with the correct clearance are the corporations, governments, the Powers That Be.
"Here, scan my hand. Learn everything about me in an instant. Destroy my privacy. My selfhood." The perfect campaign slogan for any campaign.
Since this is all according to Revelations, it must be true. We are just in the pre-Christ returning phase. The microchip, 666. The mark of the beast! This microchip, knower of all things, seals Your Doom. States had only minimal time to request an extension to the deadline for the Real ID Act. I may have been one of the only people who noticed the connection. I'm still watching, waiting and scared. The magazine told me about all this dark commerce on a typical summer day in my youth, while the kids were singing songs to bring Jesus into their lives.
Charles Manson convinced a gaggle of hippies on a movie ranch in the desert of a revolution from the "White Album" and the Book of Revelations, gave them LSD and weed, and delivered his "family" into incarceration.
My grandma Barb brought Jesus into my life every summer day in her living room, filled me with grilled cheese, and prophesied my reality with a green cemetery and black fears with a magazine. Who knows, maybe Helter Skelter is coming. (Just not yet?) Who knows, maybe the microchip is coming next. Who knows, maybe "revelations" speaks to everyone if they're listening. Charles Manson and my grandma apparently believed it, so it must be true.
Courage
First, a lump appears. This time under her front right armpit. It does not seem to effect her mobility, or lifestyle. You both live on.
The tumor increases in size. Then, she starts having hearing problems. You discover another fatty tumor. This time in her left ear of all places. It must be blocking her from hearing. She's not following orders. She runs into walls, walks into and falls down stairs. Her vision must be going. She begins walking with a limp on her rear left leg. One day she develops a cough. A deep raspy morning cough of all things. You're surprised. How strange, you think.
Akahugh. Akahugh.Akahughakakakaahahaughahaaa. And her front legs go out from under her. She's down on her chin, hind legs in the air, front legs spread flat. She must have arthritis now. Makes sense, now, why she's been having trouble with stairs, chairs, and movement, in general. Now you know. You have a sick best friend. You love the old bitch. You should have noticed. A sad friend. A fading friend. A sick friend. A dying friend.
“Are you okay, little sister?” The answer is obvious by the thick tears coating the rear of her muzzle. You lift her with one hand. She shakes a little and regains her step. You gaze into her deep black eyes and see a light sparkle. Another tear forming.
So, the day is here. Tasha's last day of suffering. There's an eerie mood lurking about on a day of imminent death, especially when it comes to animals. Animals know. They have a sixth sense of sorts. . . watch their eyes, watch their moods. Fred and Buddy the Elf, the other two dogs, know. There is no running, playing, or barking. There are no perked up ears or wagging tails. Fred and Buddy just mope around. There’s no charm in their stride. Tasha strolls by and stumbles into a hand with a sedative. The sedative is to make the car ride easier on her. She never liked riding in cars.
In the waiting room, dogs yelping, cats prowling, veterinary assistants typing and explaining forms. Tasha sits in your lap. Her ears are down. Now, you know. Her name is called. You walk her into the room. Together, one last time, you both wait.
Of course, then she perks up some.
Shame? No shame. Who could ever know that euthanizing a pet could be such an agonizing decision?
Then the veterinary assistant comes for Tasha. It's time to prepare her for the big sleep.
Tasha is taken from you to an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. She knows something is happening, you can see it in her eyes. She whimpers. The assistant brings her back through the door and places her on the table. They've shaved her left hind leg to locate the right vein for the IV. And, now you know.
The assistant explained beforehand that this was the right decision. Why let her suffer any longer? She cannot make the decision herself. Look at all her ailments. She's sad. She's sick. She's dying. She's trembling on the table as the solution slithers through her body. Euthanizing man's best friend merely requires injecting enough of an intravenous anesthetic to cause an overdose. It's a slow painless death for Tasha.
Her last moments of life begin. You comfort Tasha. Being certain to let her know that she is not alone. Her eyes get heavy, her breathing slows, her eyes blink slower. She is falling asleep. You cry together as Tasha succumbs to the big sleep. She begins to tremor. Her eyes dilate. The IV bag is still half full. This must be miserable for her, lying there staring at you, her human, her best friend, her killer, her saint. Ahakugh! Tasha relieves her bowels. She urinates on herself. Her breathing slows, deepens, moves at an uneasy beat. Her eyes remain open. The bag is empty. The big sleep has begun.
You gaze into her still open eyes. You see something different than normal, the darkness of the animal.
The tumor increases in size. Then, she starts having hearing problems. You discover another fatty tumor. This time in her left ear of all places. It must be blocking her from hearing. She's not following orders. She runs into walls, walks into and falls down stairs. Her vision must be going. She begins walking with a limp on her rear left leg. One day she develops a cough. A deep raspy morning cough of all things. You're surprised. How strange, you think.
Akahugh. Akahugh.Akahughakakakaahahaughahaaa. And her front legs go out from under her. She's down on her chin, hind legs in the air, front legs spread flat. She must have arthritis now. Makes sense, now, why she's been having trouble with stairs, chairs, and movement, in general. Now you know. You have a sick best friend. You love the old bitch. You should have noticed. A sad friend. A fading friend. A sick friend. A dying friend.
“Are you okay, little sister?” The answer is obvious by the thick tears coating the rear of her muzzle. You lift her with one hand. She shakes a little and regains her step. You gaze into her deep black eyes and see a light sparkle. Another tear forming.
So, the day is here. Tasha's last day of suffering. There's an eerie mood lurking about on a day of imminent death, especially when it comes to animals. Animals know. They have a sixth sense of sorts. . . watch their eyes, watch their moods. Fred and Buddy the Elf, the other two dogs, know. There is no running, playing, or barking. There are no perked up ears or wagging tails. Fred and Buddy just mope around. There’s no charm in their stride. Tasha strolls by and stumbles into a hand with a sedative. The sedative is to make the car ride easier on her. She never liked riding in cars.
In the waiting room, dogs yelping, cats prowling, veterinary assistants typing and explaining forms. Tasha sits in your lap. Her ears are down. Now, you know. Her name is called. You walk her into the room. Together, one last time, you both wait.
Of course, then she perks up some.
Shame? No shame. Who could ever know that euthanizing a pet could be such an agonizing decision?
Then the veterinary assistant comes for Tasha. It's time to prepare her for the big sleep.
Tasha is taken from you to an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. She knows something is happening, you can see it in her eyes. She whimpers. The assistant brings her back through the door and places her on the table. They've shaved her left hind leg to locate the right vein for the IV. And, now you know.
The assistant explained beforehand that this was the right decision. Why let her suffer any longer? She cannot make the decision herself. Look at all her ailments. She's sad. She's sick. She's dying. She's trembling on the table as the solution slithers through her body. Euthanizing man's best friend merely requires injecting enough of an intravenous anesthetic to cause an overdose. It's a slow painless death for Tasha.
Her last moments of life begin. You comfort Tasha. Being certain to let her know that she is not alone. Her eyes get heavy, her breathing slows, her eyes blink slower. She is falling asleep. You cry together as Tasha succumbs to the big sleep. She begins to tremor. Her eyes dilate. The IV bag is still half full. This must be miserable for her, lying there staring at you, her human, her best friend, her killer, her saint. Ahakugh! Tasha relieves her bowels. She urinates on herself. Her breathing slows, deepens, moves at an uneasy beat. Her eyes remain open. The bag is empty. The big sleep has begun.
You gaze into her still open eyes. You see something different than normal, the darkness of the animal.
Boo on Cigarettes
First, you hear a sound; almost a light chduu chduu chduu. The sound has a nice rhythm to it; A-A-A. You recognize the rhythm. Maybe you start salivating. You are stuffed, after all, from that bacon-cheeseburger, fries, and large orange soda. You search for the source of the sound reverberating in your ear. You notice some movement near your hand. Your hand seems to be moving with the beat of the chduu chduu chduu. Chduu chduu chduu-- cigarettes! You are already packing them and did not notice. Take the cellophane seal off. Open the box. Tear out the front carbon paper. Flip your lucky. Take your cigarette from the pack, like a savior. A cure all. Raise the cigarette to your lips; the filter made of 95 percent cellulose acetate, the paper around the filter, the rolling paper, and the tobacco blend. It's pristine white brings a smirk to your face.
Click the Bic. Light the cigarette. Satisfaction.
Breath in. Breath it all in. Ammonia. Carbon Dioxide. Glycerol; a chemical used to create nitroglycerin. Feel the smoky concoction inflate your lungs like a virus overtaking a healthy cell. Sodium chloride. Heptanoic acid. Geraniol; a mosquito repellent for plants. Now, the smoke seeps into your blood stream. This is an invasion! Magnesium carbonate. Vinegar. Farnesol; a natural pesticide. Taste the black tar roll across your tongue with the chemical cloud. Breath in. Breath it all in. Feel the nicotine and the other 590 chemical vermin stain your pearly whites.
Exhale. Ahhhhh! Satisfaction.
Oh, don't forget to cough! COUGH! ( Maybe a lung will come up soon enough!)
Smile. You love it. You want another.
So, now you want to quit cigarettes. You think it is a nasty habit. Maybe, you would like to run the stairs like Rocky and not keel over at the top. Whichever reason it may be, the choice is a grand one. Quitting cigarette smoking is a lifestyle choice. You must learn to live again in a cigarette free reality. And, yes it is very difficult. Depending on the amount of time you have treated yourself to a marvelous after dinner puff, the harder the challenge. It can be done, though!
Breath in. Relax. Allow yourself time to think about life in a cigarette free reality. Let's begin. It's best to go through a regular daily routine. Change your head. You must relearn everything you do with a cigarette and do it without.
The first time I took the plunge into this new shaky reality, I thought it would be a breeze. Cold turkey. I'm a real man. Will power is all I need. I woke up and began my day. I had no sudden urge for that calming toxin. I made it through the day fairly easily. If the urge showed itself, I took 4 deep breaths in, held for 8 seconds, and released through my mouth for 7. It worked. I made it to day sixteen this way. Breath in. Relax. Let go.
The trouble began during a train trip to Madison last fall. If you are a reformed smoker, you know the trouble in smoke free travel. The train was late. The train was crowded. The train was loud. The train was slow. I grew agitated. Two of my travelling companions stepped off the train for a smoke at one stop. I went along thinking the sight of someone else enjoying the smooth flavor of nicotine calming their nerves would ease my mind. I was wrong.
I stepped back on the train. It grew louder. The quick drive to Chicago became an eleven hour slow ride. The space I was in was shrinking around me. I could not calm myself. I could not center myself. My breathing exercise was overwhelmed by the obnoxious children screaming into my ear. Drip drip drip. Water from the bathroom sink directly in front of me was leaking from the sink. Flush. Every noise from the bathroom for all eleven hours reverberated in my ears. Flush. Rinse. Slam. Flush. Rinse. Slam.
The bug hits hard to the head. At first it is a light warming sensation behind the eyes. As it progresses, your entire head seems to swell, then heat up. You grow agitated, twitchy, and irritable. You need it. You think you need it. This is a lifestyle change after all. Ammonia, glycerol, carbon monoxide, I want it all! My fingers begin rolling. I can't bear to stop moving. I pick up on everything going on around me; my senses are amplified. I hear the conductors whispering behind closed doors, a mother asking her child to stop the screaming, an elderly man snoring with a whistle in his nose. I see the trees, fields, cows rush by in a blur. I smell a rank odor fuming from the slightly open bathroom door and grease from the snack car. I feel gum and sweat molding to my shoes and germs crawling across my skin from this unkempt environment. I taste a cigarette in my mouth. Oh, the sweet sensation of tobacco bringing a smile to my life. Breath in. Relax. Let go. This is a lifestyle change. But, I'm going to die anyway, I reason.
Stop. No. Don't.
I take a cigarette into my fingers. Not to smoke, no, just to hold. I figure, if I spin it, I can trick myself into thinking I have smoked one. It's been almost seventeen days. I don't need nicotine. I wish I could just relax. This trip should not take this long. I spin the cigarette faster between my fingers. The train seems to move ahead quicker.
I don't need a cigarette. That kid needs to STOP screaming. That old man needs a nose plug. My head throbs with the bug and the blur. My feet are stuck now! My blood is boiling. Are we there yet?! I hope we get there soon enough. I can taste the cigarette on my lips. Magnesium carbonate, sodium chloride, menthol! I taste the menthol. The train is slowing. My teeth are grinding. I'm shaking with anticipation. My traveling companions must think I'm a nut or a dope fiend. This is only nicotine.
The train stops. I scurry for my bag, a lighter, and the nearest exit. Ahhhh! Fresh air. Click. Breath in. Breath it all in. Satisfaction. Shame. I shouldn't be smoking. I love it. I want another.
“Boo on cigarettes.”
Click the Bic. Light the cigarette. Satisfaction.
Breath in. Breath it all in. Ammonia. Carbon Dioxide. Glycerol; a chemical used to create nitroglycerin. Feel the smoky concoction inflate your lungs like a virus overtaking a healthy cell. Sodium chloride. Heptanoic acid. Geraniol; a mosquito repellent for plants. Now, the smoke seeps into your blood stream. This is an invasion! Magnesium carbonate. Vinegar. Farnesol; a natural pesticide. Taste the black tar roll across your tongue with the chemical cloud. Breath in. Breath it all in. Feel the nicotine and the other 590 chemical vermin stain your pearly whites.
Exhale. Ahhhhh! Satisfaction.
Oh, don't forget to cough! COUGH! ( Maybe a lung will come up soon enough!)
Smile. You love it. You want another.
So, now you want to quit cigarettes. You think it is a nasty habit. Maybe, you would like to run the stairs like Rocky and not keel over at the top. Whichever reason it may be, the choice is a grand one. Quitting cigarette smoking is a lifestyle choice. You must learn to live again in a cigarette free reality. And, yes it is very difficult. Depending on the amount of time you have treated yourself to a marvelous after dinner puff, the harder the challenge. It can be done, though!
Breath in. Relax. Allow yourself time to think about life in a cigarette free reality. Let's begin. It's best to go through a regular daily routine. Change your head. You must relearn everything you do with a cigarette and do it without.
The first time I took the plunge into this new shaky reality, I thought it would be a breeze. Cold turkey. I'm a real man. Will power is all I need. I woke up and began my day. I had no sudden urge for that calming toxin. I made it through the day fairly easily. If the urge showed itself, I took 4 deep breaths in, held for 8 seconds, and released through my mouth for 7. It worked. I made it to day sixteen this way. Breath in. Relax. Let go.
The trouble began during a train trip to Madison last fall. If you are a reformed smoker, you know the trouble in smoke free travel. The train was late. The train was crowded. The train was loud. The train was slow. I grew agitated. Two of my travelling companions stepped off the train for a smoke at one stop. I went along thinking the sight of someone else enjoying the smooth flavor of nicotine calming their nerves would ease my mind. I was wrong.
I stepped back on the train. It grew louder. The quick drive to Chicago became an eleven hour slow ride. The space I was in was shrinking around me. I could not calm myself. I could not center myself. My breathing exercise was overwhelmed by the obnoxious children screaming into my ear. Drip drip drip. Water from the bathroom sink directly in front of me was leaking from the sink. Flush. Every noise from the bathroom for all eleven hours reverberated in my ears. Flush. Rinse. Slam. Flush. Rinse. Slam.
The bug hits hard to the head. At first it is a light warming sensation behind the eyes. As it progresses, your entire head seems to swell, then heat up. You grow agitated, twitchy, and irritable. You need it. You think you need it. This is a lifestyle change after all. Ammonia, glycerol, carbon monoxide, I want it all! My fingers begin rolling. I can't bear to stop moving. I pick up on everything going on around me; my senses are amplified. I hear the conductors whispering behind closed doors, a mother asking her child to stop the screaming, an elderly man snoring with a whistle in his nose. I see the trees, fields, cows rush by in a blur. I smell a rank odor fuming from the slightly open bathroom door and grease from the snack car. I feel gum and sweat molding to my shoes and germs crawling across my skin from this unkempt environment. I taste a cigarette in my mouth. Oh, the sweet sensation of tobacco bringing a smile to my life. Breath in. Relax. Let go. This is a lifestyle change. But, I'm going to die anyway, I reason.
Stop. No. Don't.
I take a cigarette into my fingers. Not to smoke, no, just to hold. I figure, if I spin it, I can trick myself into thinking I have smoked one. It's been almost seventeen days. I don't need nicotine. I wish I could just relax. This trip should not take this long. I spin the cigarette faster between my fingers. The train seems to move ahead quicker.
I don't need a cigarette. That kid needs to STOP screaming. That old man needs a nose plug. My head throbs with the bug and the blur. My feet are stuck now! My blood is boiling. Are we there yet?! I hope we get there soon enough. I can taste the cigarette on my lips. Magnesium carbonate, sodium chloride, menthol! I taste the menthol. The train is slowing. My teeth are grinding. I'm shaking with anticipation. My traveling companions must think I'm a nut or a dope fiend. This is only nicotine.
The train stops. I scurry for my bag, a lighter, and the nearest exit. Ahhhh! Fresh air. Click. Breath in. Breath it all in. Satisfaction. Shame. I shouldn't be smoking. I love it. I want another.
“Boo on cigarettes.”
A Conversation in Madison, WI
“What do you think about time,” I ponder in my best faux philosopher tone. Four glass eyes stare back.
The smell of coffee and cigarettes invades my nostrils. I sit and wait. The bus has not arrived yet. So I wait. I have never experienced the MegaBus. The bus system is a scare these days. Maybe it always has been, I’m not certain. But ever since the Greyhound Canada incident, it has been.
You see, about midsummer, there was a slight incident on a Greyhound Canada bus involving a cannibal beheading a sleeping passenger at 3 in the morning. After the standoff, the police found a partially eaten ear in the cannibal’s shirt pocket. Wonderful. I had an incident myself once on a Greyhound. Not nearly as serious as a beheading. But an incident none the less.
The bus had just departed from the St. Louis station en route to Cincinnati. Barely a mile from the station, a scruffy, middle-aged man started screaming obscenities. His neurotic claim was that his seat was broken. He said he was falling all over the floor. He was in his seat the whole mile. The bus turned back and dropped him off. He was put on the second bus.
Later on that trip I was asked to baby sit, of all things. The bus had stopped at a gas station in Effingham, IL. A fellow passenger needed a smoke break, so she asked me, a total stranger, to look after her sleeping toddler. That is ridiculous. Maybe I should have taken the baby and ran? Ridiculous.
Anyway, I’m on a double-decker MegaBus en route to Madison, WI with an 11-hour layover in Chicago. This ride is not so bad compared to the Greyhound. It’s just about sunrise. I sit with my head in an early-morning daze. The vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges of the sun rise over the dull green and khaki fields of the great state of Illinois. It is beautiful: the barns in the distance. The cows in the distance-- a calf runs the length of its comfortable prison.
I breath in the journey ahead of me and exhale my worries of the unknown.
This is a special journey. My guru. My friend. My cosmic brother. Mr. Sun, himself . . . N. Otto. Five days. Four nights. Spiritual retreat from the monotonous days of summer in St. Louis. A getaway from the norm. A return to art and beauty and living again. There is a plan, you see. Only an unplanned plan.
The only set plan is Mr. Sun and Madison. Utopia. I have been waiting for this trip. Only the time has not been right until now. The sun is fully up now, and my mind scatters into a frenzy of boredom with these never-ending fields outside my window. I am going slightly crazy with anticipation of my destination. Ready, now. Remember: Be Here Now. So I tune my ip[od to a “Zencast” and breathe.
Two hours left in Chicago now. So I down a pitcher of beer and stumble outside the bus station for a smoke. Another hour of waiting lies ahead, so I down another pitcher, have another cigarette. And I wait. The bus arrives in no time.
By the time I step off the bus and into the world of Madison, my excitement reignites my exhausted mind and body. It never makes much sense to me the way time works. It’s all in how you gauge it, and travel wears you down. I’m here. Really, I’m here. Only, where is the university? I have never seen this Day’s Inn or Phillips 66. It’s just before dawn. I’m lost. And I have no clue where to go.
Nick says he’ll find a car and be here soon. You see, that’s the way Madison works. If you need help, you get it. This is a small Utopia. I trust in Mr. Sun, so I wait. I wait and contemplate what this trip may be and what it already has been. Welcome to another side of Eden, I know.
Ten minutes pass. Forty minutes. No worries, he’ll be here soon. An hour. A jet blue Dodge storms u p through the darkness of the Madison night. Nick, already obliterated from a night of jamming and philosophy, stumbles out of the passenger door. Arms spread, he pulls me in for a hug. Paradise. Do you feel it?
“What do you mean about time,” retorts a shaggy stoner after a long drag from his Ecstasy cigarette- the herbal brand they sell in the local head shop on State Street. It may still be smoke infiltrating your lungs and blackening them, only not from nicotine. Ecstasy offers a wonderful infusion of licorice root and other calming herbs.
“Yes, time. Time. Anything about time.” I adamantly reply. Time and travel are the same. It’s impossible to gauge in any certain way. It’s all in how you take to it. How you move with it. Move forward. Always. Embrace. Remember: Be Here Now. I open my oldest Moleskin notebook from my bag and read aloud:
“Life is a road to where?
made of concrete and gravel and dirt
arrested by bumps and ditches and
traveled with changing weather
salted with crystals of dried-up stars
passing fields and counties
of beauty ignored
running through ravaged
old lands unexplored
chasing rabbits through holes
darkened and cold.”
Through the glass door panes I can hear Mr. Sun in a stoned immaculate frenzy strum down soft on a G chord. Everyone at this impromptu jam session cheers. Half the people on the room do not even know each other. They stumbled through the doors after a remarkable 30-minute jam starring Nick and two buddies. One on drums. One on bass. Nick is the star, and everyone knows it. This is the way Madison works. This is the perfect journey.
And then I remember, he is Mr. Sun, and he makes you feel better when y ou’re shitty.
“Life is a road. . . where
freedom is found
not in a book but in control of bounds.
Take the wheel,
take the car, the passengers.
Pick up the boulders,
you see, are friends.
Take the wheel. It’s yours
and all.
Every turn is yours to decide.
Every hill is yours to climb.
Life is a road. . .
to where you want to go.
So, rule it.”
The smell of coffee and cigarettes invades my nostrils. I sit and wait. The bus has not arrived yet. So I wait. I have never experienced the MegaBus. The bus system is a scare these days. Maybe it always has been, I’m not certain. But ever since the Greyhound Canada incident, it has been.
You see, about midsummer, there was a slight incident on a Greyhound Canada bus involving a cannibal beheading a sleeping passenger at 3 in the morning. After the standoff, the police found a partially eaten ear in the cannibal’s shirt pocket. Wonderful. I had an incident myself once on a Greyhound. Not nearly as serious as a beheading. But an incident none the less.
The bus had just departed from the St. Louis station en route to Cincinnati. Barely a mile from the station, a scruffy, middle-aged man started screaming obscenities. His neurotic claim was that his seat was broken. He said he was falling all over the floor. He was in his seat the whole mile. The bus turned back and dropped him off. He was put on the second bus.
Later on that trip I was asked to baby sit, of all things. The bus had stopped at a gas station in Effingham, IL. A fellow passenger needed a smoke break, so she asked me, a total stranger, to look after her sleeping toddler. That is ridiculous. Maybe I should have taken the baby and ran? Ridiculous.
Anyway, I’m on a double-decker MegaBus en route to Madison, WI with an 11-hour layover in Chicago. This ride is not so bad compared to the Greyhound. It’s just about sunrise. I sit with my head in an early-morning daze. The vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges of the sun rise over the dull green and khaki fields of the great state of Illinois. It is beautiful: the barns in the distance. The cows in the distance-- a calf runs the length of its comfortable prison.
I breath in the journey ahead of me and exhale my worries of the unknown.
This is a special journey. My guru. My friend. My cosmic brother. Mr. Sun, himself . . . N. Otto. Five days. Four nights. Spiritual retreat from the monotonous days of summer in St. Louis. A getaway from the norm. A return to art and beauty and living again. There is a plan, you see. Only an unplanned plan.
The only set plan is Mr. Sun and Madison. Utopia. I have been waiting for this trip. Only the time has not been right until now. The sun is fully up now, and my mind scatters into a frenzy of boredom with these never-ending fields outside my window. I am going slightly crazy with anticipation of my destination. Ready, now. Remember: Be Here Now. So I tune my ip[od to a “Zencast” and breathe.
Two hours left in Chicago now. So I down a pitcher of beer and stumble outside the bus station for a smoke. Another hour of waiting lies ahead, so I down another pitcher, have another cigarette. And I wait. The bus arrives in no time.
By the time I step off the bus and into the world of Madison, my excitement reignites my exhausted mind and body. It never makes much sense to me the way time works. It’s all in how you gauge it, and travel wears you down. I’m here. Really, I’m here. Only, where is the university? I have never seen this Day’s Inn or Phillips 66. It’s just before dawn. I’m lost. And I have no clue where to go.
Nick says he’ll find a car and be here soon. You see, that’s the way Madison works. If you need help, you get it. This is a small Utopia. I trust in Mr. Sun, so I wait. I wait and contemplate what this trip may be and what it already has been. Welcome to another side of Eden, I know.
Ten minutes pass. Forty minutes. No worries, he’ll be here soon. An hour. A jet blue Dodge storms u p through the darkness of the Madison night. Nick, already obliterated from a night of jamming and philosophy, stumbles out of the passenger door. Arms spread, he pulls me in for a hug. Paradise. Do you feel it?
“What do you mean about time,” retorts a shaggy stoner after a long drag from his Ecstasy cigarette- the herbal brand they sell in the local head shop on State Street. It may still be smoke infiltrating your lungs and blackening them, only not from nicotine. Ecstasy offers a wonderful infusion of licorice root and other calming herbs.
“Yes, time. Time. Anything about time.” I adamantly reply. Time and travel are the same. It’s impossible to gauge in any certain way. It’s all in how you take to it. How you move with it. Move forward. Always. Embrace. Remember: Be Here Now. I open my oldest Moleskin notebook from my bag and read aloud:
“Life is a road to where?
made of concrete and gravel and dirt
arrested by bumps and ditches and
traveled with changing weather
salted with crystals of dried-up stars
passing fields and counties
of beauty ignored
running through ravaged
old lands unexplored
chasing rabbits through holes
darkened and cold.”
Through the glass door panes I can hear Mr. Sun in a stoned immaculate frenzy strum down soft on a G chord. Everyone at this impromptu jam session cheers. Half the people on the room do not even know each other. They stumbled through the doors after a remarkable 30-minute jam starring Nick and two buddies. One on drums. One on bass. Nick is the star, and everyone knows it. This is the way Madison works. This is the perfect journey.
And then I remember, he is Mr. Sun, and he makes you feel better when y ou’re shitty.
“Life is a road. . . where
freedom is found
not in a book but in control of bounds.
Take the wheel,
take the car, the passengers.
Pick up the boulders,
you see, are friends.
Take the wheel. It’s yours
and all.
Every turn is yours to decide.
Every hill is yours to climb.
Life is a road. . .
to where you want to go.
So, rule it.”
Last Saturday, I submitted four essays to be considered for a writing fellowship in the next year at the Kerouac House in Orlando, Florida. I will be posting each. Please let me know what you think.
1. "A Conversation in Madison, WI"
2. "Boo On Cigarettes"
3. "Courage"
4. "Charles Manson, My Grandma and the Good Book"
In addition to the essays I had to include a summary of what I would like to work on while in Orlando . . .
"If selected for the Kerouac House, I would like to work on a piece that I have been conceptualizing quite sometime. Though I have yet to take the dedicated time to build it into something larger. I would like to write loosely connected pieces on all the important people, places, and experiences of the past 7 years, in particular. I would like to write about the faces, places, experiences and even pets that have affected me over these years. I would like to keep the central focus around the development of my self, as particular poignant images and memories stand out as creating my present reality."
-Al
1. "A Conversation in Madison, WI"
2. "Boo On Cigarettes"
3. "Courage"
4. "Charles Manson, My Grandma and the Good Book"
In addition to the essays I had to include a summary of what I would like to work on while in Orlando . . .
"If selected for the Kerouac House, I would like to work on a piece that I have been conceptualizing quite sometime. Though I have yet to take the dedicated time to build it into something larger. I would like to write loosely connected pieces on all the important people, places, and experiences of the past 7 years, in particular. I would like to write about the faces, places, experiences and even pets that have affected me over these years. I would like to keep the central focus around the development of my self, as particular poignant images and memories stand out as creating my present reality."
-Al
Hope isn't . . .
We are a disgusting egotistical race of watchers and undoers
Hope isn't the way the world spins
Love isn't Electric Heart Glue
We are a race of not me you| not you me
What we want is what we get and what we get is
what we need [is Fear]
We are afraid of our selfs| We deny- our selfs
Hope isn't a soma state
We are a race of animals disguised as gods who can't
get by- whom must be right-
instantaneous imperfections push us from the seA
Knowledge is creator and destroyer, denier
We are the parasite
Hope isn't faith and faith won't get you by [is Fear]
We are the parasite- Can't you see?
Who eats the king of the jungle?
Who dies to learn to live? Death to the Ego.
We are the parasite- Can't you see?
"Whatever is, is wrong."
Our fate is death and all that brings
Our purpose can't be known
Our existence- never explained- We ignore the question.
We exist.
We Exist.
We Exist To Destroy
We live we die we eat we shit we kill we lie we deny-
the cosmos won't answer when we call
We are the parasite
Can't you see?
We came to destroy, we must survive
no matter
who dies or gets denied
The death of the Ego would be Revolution
Eye| denY
Hope isn't the way the world spins
Love isn't Electric Heart Glue
We are a race of not me you| not you me
What we want is what we get and what we get is
what we need [is Fear]
We are afraid of our selfs| We deny- our selfs
Hope isn't a soma state
We are a race of animals disguised as gods who can't
get by- whom must be right-
instantaneous imperfections push us from the seA
Knowledge is creator and destroyer, denier
We are the parasite
Hope isn't faith and faith won't get you by [is Fear]
We are the parasite- Can't you see?
Who eats the king of the jungle?
Who dies to learn to live? Death to the Ego.
We are the parasite- Can't you see?
"Whatever is, is wrong."
Our fate is death and all that brings
Our purpose can't be known
Our existence- never explained- We ignore the question.
We exist.
We Exist.
We Exist To Destroy
We live we die we eat we shit we kill we lie we deny-
the cosmos won't answer when we call
We are the parasite
Can't you see?
We came to destroy, we must survive
no matter
who dies or gets denied
The death of the Ego would be Revolution
Eye| denY
The Things I Did
The things I did, I counted in seconds and minutes
In the four seasons that go from death to life
In the length of Rose’s life and the curses of mine
In the bottom of the sea. In promises and dreams,
In the perfect lover, in perfect symmetry,
and if the truth be know, in the death of fantasies
He first read Nietzsche, and in the stretches of time
he found his god, himself, and the power of love.
In the four seasons that go from death to life
In the length of Rose’s life and the curses of mine
In the bottom of the sea. In promises and dreams,
In the perfect lover, in perfect symmetry,
and if the truth be know, in the death of fantasies
He first read Nietzsche, and in the stretches of time
he found his god, himself, and the power of love.
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