Fight the Inertia

Today’s battle for me is like every day’s battle. The clash is over which will prevail in my life the inspired or the mundane. As I sit before the computer screen and type I am listening to music from thirty years ago. The music is really just aural wallpaper. What I am actually listening to is the washing machine in the next room. When will it make the click that marks the end of its last cycle? At that signal I can start the current load drying. I wasn’t planning on doing laundry today, but when I saw the dirty clothes basket half full the act of dropping a load in and then adding detergent was almost second nature. Almost an automaton with me as the machine, my acts were simply following the prime directive of the household protocols. This falling into the routine of day to day life, vaguely comforted by the musical joys of the past, is the mundane.

While the aged songs sooth me as I go about my robotic tasks, the music tells me nothing new. It isn’t invigorating. As I await the next part of the laundry cycle I have been searching arcane spots on the internet for wisdom. I am specifically searching for quotes to jog me out of complacency and into some higher plain of thought.

The first quote I have come upon is from an author I read in college, Annie Dillard. Ms. Dillard, the daughter of a well to do middle class family, unexpectedly found her mental focus aimed inward in deep spiritual contemplation. Living alone for four years in an isolated sylvan cottage she contemplated the meaning of all existence. I kind of believe that there must be at least one catalytic event to drive such introspection. The moment when Ms. Dillard’s soul, if that is what we want to call it became open to this exploration occurred after a near fatal bout of pneumonia.
While on first blush the Dillard quote seems a bit cutesy, as I sit listening to the thunk, whappa, whappa, thunk, whappa, whappa rhythm of the washing machine (drowning out Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon,) upon deeper reflection it seems like it really means something.

Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you. ~Annie Dillard

There have been a few afternoons in my life that have been spent well. They are precious currency in the mental purse holding the most dear of my valued treasures. In addition there have been a few days of my life that have been spent well from start to finish. These days, marked in the passing arc of sun from my waking moment to my taking leave of conscious as I laid down in darkness, stand out as beacons of the exquisite pageant of life. An afternoon spent trying to steer a luge with my feet in subzero weather down more than a mile of Norwegian countryside is one prime example. Why haven’t there been so many more?

I think I have let the mundane deter me from a mental focus on the questions that matter, and most particularly from those inquiries as to life, love and meaning. Each day I think of the things to get done before I can enjoy myself. The list starts out short but grows. And grows and grows. Eventually the list overcomes the day, the weekend and the week. Somewhere I have the lost the few hours I mentally allocated to myself to be me and to think and focus. This leads me to the second quote.

For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin - real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way. Something to be got through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. ~Fr. Alfred D'Souza

On each of these quotes I tried to find out something about the author. Annie Dillard was easy. Americans are navel gazers when it comes to their writers. Do a Google search and you will find an infinite amount of biography and commentary on Ms. Dillard. Mr. D’Souza proved much more difficult.

Everywhere I went I found fragments of e-mails between what seemed to be members of some kind of “community” posted to each other. What mentions made of the man were mere fragments of facts, things akin to a note between colleagues that D’Souza had spoken a conference or had been talked to when someone had met him traveling. But there was no real detail that came out as to his life. The closest I came was the following letter/eulogy. Funny thing about this search, it seems that the transcendent quote offered above came from a real person who lived life as we all do.
A TRIBUTE TO ALFRED VINCENT D'SOUZA

BORN 09-07-1959
DIED 04-04-2006

ALFRED VINCENT D'SOUZA, son of Joan and Late Eddie D'Souza, loving
husband of Lynette, Darling father of Shawna, Conroy and Annika, B/BIL
of Late Eric, Clare/Blaise.
When I think of Alfie today, oddly enough, I don't think of him as an acquaintance but a very dear friend who loved his family, friends, reading, singing, food and drink, to sum it all, he loved Life.
I have known Alfred since 1970, when we both studied at St. Britto's High School in Mapuca, Goa. In school, he was brilliant, very good in elocution and singing. I especially remember him for reciting 'Mark Anthony's speech at Ceaser's funeral'.

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

He along with Alex Braganza and others started the 9th Dimension band when in school and went on to win a second place at the then famous Simla Beat Contest. He also represented the school in Hockey. During my school days, I would cycle all the way from Ucassaim to Saligao to meet Alfie and other friends.
Both of us passed out from School in June 1975. We were the first batch of the newly introduced 10 + 2 system. While most others continued to pursue their higher studies in Goa, we came to Bombay to study the famous Radio Officers' course. Ever since then, we have lived together away from our families and that is how we grew up together till the time we got married ( I was the Best Man at his wedding) when each went his way to begin our new lives. However, we always kept in touch and our families grew fond of each other.
We were known as 'Three Musketeers', Alfred, Maxwell & I. We would often meet and party till the wee hours of the morning. Alfred also ensured we kept in touch with our school mates. Alfred, Sisino, Alex, Savio, Maxwell, Dr. George and the rest would regularly get together proudly calling ourselves the "Class of 75" with our teacher Sir Gomes (Bonjour) joining in at times. A few months back Alfred, Sisino, Alex & I sat by the riverside of the Ucassaim Mansher and sipped beer remembering our good old school days.
Alfred joined ONGC and me, Airport Authority. Since he had to fly when ever he joined duty or when he went home after a 15 day schedule on the rigs, he made it a point to visit me. If time permitted we would sit with all our friends especially Augustine, Robert, Altino and Carl at the Wellingdon Gymkhana, Santacruz.
Alfred was very well read and could discuss any topic under the sun. He put to shame many a learned academician with his vast knowledge. During his spare time he would complete the Times of India crossword. He loved to read P. G. Woodhouse and has a collection at home. He was also a good musician who would sing and play the guitar. He never strummed but plucked while playing the guitar with his favorite 'Simon & Garfunkle numbers. He religiously exercised; many in Saligao will remember him jogging miles together.
Alfred and I have played all sorts of pranks together, pranks that we are proud of and keep narrating these to our families who burst out with laughter. There were times we undertook a motor bike journey from Bombay to Goa with a sense of adventure. One can't forget those ship journeys back home also.
On Wednesday March 29, 2006 Alfred and I had lunch together in my office. I went to see him off on his flight to Goa, that's when he mentioned he was experiencing a peculiar pain when exercising and said, would go for a check during his stay in Goa. I too, knowing Alfred's excellent health took it lightly only to be shocked when Blaise called to inform me that Alfred suffered a massive heart attack and passed away.
Today, when I think of Alfred, I think of all the good times we had together. He was very meticulous in what ever he did. If what I am today, I owe part of it to Alfred. I believe he is not dead but has only gone to a better place where he is watching over us. I don't think we should mourn, but continue life the way he liked it. He was God's gift to all of us, and now God has decided to take him back.
We all must rally round his family and give Lynette, Shawna, Conroy and Annika all the encouragement to continue the good work that Alfred had begun.
Fernando Couto


Clearly D’Souza was just a person. Clearly he goofed around. But he also read and immersed himself into his life. And from those things he came up with this insightful comment. I have no context for the comment however, whether it was presented in a speech or a paper or whether it arose in conversation. Was it a throw away comment made at dinner one night in a restaurant in London or was it meant to convey the gravity of existence to graduating students? I don’t know and I probably will never know, but I do know that as I stop to move the laundry it seems quite real and very meaningful.

The implication I draw from D’Souza is that the mundane must not be allowed to stand in the way of life. Each day must be taken in balance knowing the run of the mill is always ready to mire us, to ensnare us and take us away from the loftier things we should be focused on. A clear mind must make time for free and active thought not tied to the next trip to Megamart or when the next soccer practice is. But living is also not in the abstract, clear thought should direct what we do each and every day in the choices we make.

I will have more to write the next quote, but right now I must stop writing for the evening. But the next quote just seems perfect for my life. I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read and all the friends I want to see. ~John Burroughs, an American naturalist and philosopher.

This Being More Fully A Short Discourse on How it Was That I Came to Replace the Family Spaniel as the Sole Occupant of the Front Passenger's Seat and

A e-buddy asked me why I don't drive. Here is my response.



I could start this whole tale where it began, in the details of the act of passion between two forty-something year olds on a hot Fourth of July holiday night at the Jersey Shore. However the graphic images of that union are frightening beyond words to even me, the beloved son and resultant outcome of said act. Additionally I could start this with a study of genetic mutation and the locations on the human genome which mandated the passing on of two rather deficient and defect laden traits to a poor unsuspecting zygote, once more we are talking about me. Or yet again I could start with the point of discovery (for me) of the failings and frailties of this vessel I call my body. Lacking any real scientific background in genetics other than what I picked up in Nat. Sci. 131, and lacking the stomach to attempt to describe Eisenhower era foreplay between my just pre-geezer parents I will opt for the third route.

There are two reasons why I do not drive. First, my vision is deficient. I have at best 20/50 vision with glasses. Without glasses (and I just tested this to make sure the claim was not exaggerated) I cannot see detail on an illuminated computer screen from ten inches away. Lines of 12 point text are blurry worms that stretch across an electronically refreshing cream colored field. Surprisingly this was not discovered by those charged with my care until I was 6 years old. And who was I to know at that age that I was blind as a bat?

In New Jersey at the time I was growing up you entered kindergarten at age 6 and no earlier. While my siblings and parents must have had some idea before my first day of school that I had an issue with sight, I mean I was real clumsy and sat real close to the television, apparently that had no idea of the actual scope of the problem.

It was only when the school nurse during that first week of class did vision exams that the issue came to be defined by my unsatisfactory attempts to decipher the black and white outline of a large fuzzy, unreadable E. I remember it well. All of us flannel dressed, bed wetting "Howdy Doody" watching cowboys stood in a line and waited to look at the eye chart. At the end of the exams notes were jotted and entered into our permanent records. Somewhere I think my note is still in a box of childhood scraps here. My name is at the top and where the 20/ is left open on the form for hopefully an annotation of 20/20, i.e., the boy is normal all-American kind of lad; mine had a series of squiggles, sort of circular in nature with a note that "He can't see. Take him to a doctor."

John and Dorothy the dutiful, and actually caring parents, complied. First there were trips to the local doctor. He didn't know what to make of it or me. He was the first and definitely not the last. Then the journey was to the leather chaired waiting room that smelled vaguely of antiseptic and roses. This place that looked like a sitting room from Town and Country belonged to a high priced ophthalmologist in the city. Ultimately after a number of visits it was distilled that I had congenital nystagmus. This troublesome disease happens relatively rarely. Its cause is not certain. We sufferers have a support group. I found that out last year web surfing. From what I have seen in the literature most people with it never qualify for driving privileges.

Throughout my childhood I was taunted, ridiculed and picked last for sports (which those damn sadistic teachers made us play whether we were physically capable or not). It was not until I was a junior in high school and the gym teacher was assigning me to the black all jock team and I knew I was going be beat black and blue before the day was out that the sports participation issue got resolved. I told my gym teacher at that time politely that I would not participate in this group event and asked to work out on the universal gym. When he insisted on me being a team player, I called him a cocksucker and left the gym turning myself into the principal before they came looking for me. Lucky for me my family doctor bitched out the principal when he called him up to see if I was faking. Yup, nothing quite brings back warm childhood memories like going to that special place where I store the dozens of incidents of getting beat up for missing a catch when I couldn't even see the goddamn ball.

When I went to take the vision test for my license at age 17, because in New Jersey you could not even get driving permits before that age, my father took me. Apparently it was part of plan that was worked out in advance between he and my mother. They both fully expected me to fail the test and it was thought that he would have the better skills to deal with the crushing disappointment I was bound to feel. He managed a large number of employees you see and I am sure he had to fire them and reassign them and the like, so he was tough enough to deal with the likes of me.

It probably floored him when I passed the eye exam. Passing floored me also. The fact that the kindly old clerk handed me a learner's permit probably scared him as well. I know for sure if it didn't scare him at the time we were standing at the NJDOT counter it did within ten minutes thereafter. You see my father allowed me to drive home and I blew a stop sign.

We did not die and as time progressed my driving did improve. Although I did eventually pass the driving test, it took two tries, I never felt comfortable on the wheel. Actually I would have passed the road test on the first try if I wasn't trying to be slick. In New Jersey you it takes two demerits on the road test before you fail. I had done alright until it came time to parallel parking. Like many and I mean many other young New Jerseyians, I hit a cone that was mean to represent a parked car's front bumper. Hit is a euphemism; I crushed that geometric Jayne Mansfield looking thing by rolling back over it. Such an act of cruelty to an orange road cone would not in and of itself have failed me. The problem comes in with my overall reaction to the situation. My response to the road tester's question "What happened with the cone there?" was the evasive, "What cone?" Demerit two, inattention.

For ten or fifteen years I did drive. Although you were involved in other things at the time, you might remember that I did drive to your wedding in 19 whatever that year was. Previously, I had even driven down to visit you when you lived in God Knows where (because my memory is gone I am guessing Elizabeth City perhaps) and you were dating the assistant prosecutor.

Surprisingly now, just as it was then, I still technically have adequate vision to possess an operator's license. However driving always caused me stress. At age 28 stress became a big issue for me.

In 1983 (that is the year you got married isn't it?) my father died. I was at that time operating a law office out of a bedroom in the house where I was renting. I had a couple of clients and had even been paid once or twice. However, whenever I would go to court I would feel like I was high. As time went on whenever I got stressed I felt like I was three tokes into a joint. Time and time again I would explain this feeling to people but they would just look at me. Went to a doctor, and then as now, the first response was to give me a happy pill. Come on, I was 28. This was not a time when I was unfamiliar with pharmacology, at least on an amateur basis. I knew pretty well that what was happening was not stress and I knew it wouldn't be cured by Valium.

Cutting through the stress of my father's death that year, my escape from a very scary relationship by sneaking out and abandoning my apartment one night while my significant other was at work, and the subsequent move back to the east coast, it was around this time I really found out what stress could do. While sitting for the Delaware bar exam, I had tenderness in my upper torso. Most likely it was from weight lifting. I was trying exercise to try and reduce stress. Thinking that maybe I could get something for the pain, I went to see my cousin's husband. Mike was a D.O. and he agreed to see me after hours. After he twisted me and prodded me he did an EKG. Then he disappeared.

After about 10 minutes I decided to check out what was going on. As I crept out of the examination room I saw he was on the phone. Not unduly nosy I just decided to wait until he got off with whatever important patient call this was to see where to go to get the script that he would be writing me filled, or maybe and this would have been better, he had samples. Now understand that this was between day two and day three of the bar exam. Now understand also that as I listened I finally figured out that he was calling for an ambulance with a cardiac support team. As I looked around the room I noticed there were no other patients. Additionally I noticed that there were no other staff members. That left only the two of us and I had specifically noted the ambulance was requested for Mike's office address. Mike was looking okay, so that left only me.

I freaked.

I mean, I really freaked.

When I asked what was going on, Mike began, "I would like to tell that you aren't having a heart attack, but ….." HOLYMUHAOF GAWD. I'M ONLY 28.

The EKG Mike had seen was scary and it remains scary, but it was not a heart attack. It is Wolff-Parkinson-White disease Type II. It is a conduction problem. When stressed my heart goes into tachycardia. By the time the EMTs got me to the hospital my heart rate was over 200 beats per minute. At that rate your brain doesn't function. The heart becomes inefficient and while twitching it doesn't move the blood. Thus the genesis of the feelings I had of being high. My brain was simply not getting enough blood in those fight or flight situations like being in court.

I could go on with my battles to sort out how to treat this disease but that is another e-mail. What happened next is that my body began combining its maladies. As time went on I grew more nervous about driving. The more nervous I became the more often I would drop into tachycardia. The less clear thinking I got behind the wheel the more frightened, do you see where this is leading? Twice over the years I had to pull my car over because I couldn't think clearly enough to continue driving. Eventually, I just decided not to drive anymore.

While many people assume I am an alcoholic due to the fact that I don't usually explain why I don't drive (and they think I have lost my license for it), I am sure my choice was the right one for me. There are surgical options to remedy the heart condition, but they have serious risk. However the vision thing will always be what it is. It cannot be corrected. I will forever live in a Monet painting. Thus unless death or incapacity of a family member is involved I will not drive.

Am I sad I cannot drive, yes. Is it for the better? Yes. When I look at my life my two health issues have been both a blessing and a curse. The heart condition stopped me from doing a wide array of drugs. Because of two trips to the ERs due to overindulgence of alcohol, (drinking makes my heart race even at relatively low amounts of consumption), I have an iron clad two to three beer limit. In other words I stopped stupid drinking. My heart probably stopped me from becoming an alcoholic like both my brothers. However it has limited contact with a number of people because I can't just get up and go see them on my own, in my own car.

On the plus side again, my vision and heart have probably kept me in this marriage; one that everyone including my own wife assumed was doomed to failure. She took two years in the pool on how long we would last! It is hard to have an affair when your paramour would have to drive to pick you up all the time. Yup, not driving has kept me moderately relatively faithful.

I do regret that I have probably been kept from certain job tracks and activities that would require a much stronger constitution. Obviously, I can't sky dive or draw pictures on a grain of rice. But I have coped. I have a couple of cabbies and a couple of friends that have been willing to help me. In my private practice career I had negotiated cab fares to all the local courthouses. The fares included round trip travel, one stop for coffee and one half hour of waiting time.

As it stands Francie drives, I clean the house, do the dishes, and keep the yard. She puts the kids to bed; I get them up and feed them breakfast. For each task we try and balance. If she can't take me, or won't, I can't go. However, I do have a great bicycle and we do have good bus routes here.

I know this is probably so much more than you wanted to know on this, but I wanted to write.

When in Doubt Blame the Aliens

Every single day offers us at least one lesson. In the space of a moment we may be learning the real grammar of life in an immense world. On other occasions an intimate conversation could take a turn and suddenly we are absorbing a master class in the nuances of emotional subtext. These lessons are there and we have to choice to listen or not.

In was in the fall of 1973 that I learned one of my life's great lessons. Living takes pluck, stones if you would, and a sense of the absurd. Sometimes when faced with an inevitable judgment in which you will be found wanting, sheer audacity can save the day. If necessity that great mother had not taught me well, my life might have followed a much more serene and stable course.

The 1973 day in question was a school day, and a wet one at that. Rain was falling steady and sometimes it was blowing. Usually wet days put me in a good mood. I don't know why but I have always loved a day with nice rain. Maybe it is the smell. Maybe it is because I am allergic to anything that is green and grows and the cleansing of the atmosphere left my body in a healthier and inherently more upbeat state. Or maybe a wet school day was when the playing field was mine. I wasn't athletic and there would be no outdoor PE. In a classroom I was competitive although my grades didn't show it. Grades really didn't mean that much to me.

While the day in question was a wet school day, it was far from perfect. It fell during my senior year of high school and in that year I had drawn Ms. Powell as my English teacher. Ms. Powell was southern, sixty-ish, austere and demanding. She wore thick rimmed glasses popular a full decade before. The only saving grace of her spectacles was that at least they weren't black hornrims. Her standards were rigorous. Attendance was taken and reported and papers were due when they were due. A day late was a dollar short for Mrs. Powell.

On the day of insight I was caught in a conflict between three competing forces. In addition to the three page paper Mrs. Powell had assigned on a hoary old section of a Dickens's novel, 'Oh Pip, Oh Ms. Haversham….oh etc', I had a history paper due on some Russian Japanese conflict in the early part of the twentieth century. That paper was to be 10 pages long and required footnotes and a bibliography. I am not making this stuff up; it was 10 hard pages on the relatively obscure Russo-Japanese War (1904-05). This for the uniformed was a military conflict wherein a victorious Japan forced Russia to abandon its expansionist policy in the Far East. The war was important because Japan was the first Asian power in modern times to defeat a European power. It was a key element in setting the political mood in Japan that eventually led to its role in the Second World War.

Understand this the history paper was hard, hard, hard. In 1973 and THERE WAS NO GOOGLE!!! I had to work to find stuff on something this obscure and it ate up my time. Balanced against the rest of my life then, something had to give. If I was to do a good job on both papers I would have to give up on the third time demand then facing me. How could I complete both papers and still slip out in the evening to drink beer, smoke dope and sit on the street corner and engage in all the what if-ing all of life's questions with the local gang? I needed this social interaction to make me a well rounded human being. In my little town if you weren't on the street corner, then there wasn't going to be any fun. Hard, hard, hard I tell you and my paper on Dicken's (the creator of our modern image of Christmas) lost out. On that rainy day there was no doubt my miserable allocation of time would be discovered. I had no uncertainty as to how this how scenario would play out. Going into the third period I would be measured in the balance and found wanting. I had no plan. Nothing. Nada. Judgment was coming and despite my slightly askew values that had led to this situation I didn't want to face what was bound to be unpleasantness.

Ms. Powell had a special way of collecting papers. When she gathered those pearls of prose created by the best and brightest of the dazed and confused generation she would walk up one row of desks and down another until all the papers were in her control. Her hand would extend out as she reached our desks and she would in a clear voice state our names.
The first desk would be reached, the hand palm up and open would extend and in a demanding, not questioning way. She would then state to the occupant of that seat, "Kathy." A diminutive pale feminine hand would place on Ms. Powell's palm five pages in micro fine handwriting of insightful literary analysis. Kathy was good writer and knew how to effectively suck up. A few more steps and then came the calling of the name. "Gary." Soiled crumpled sheets of lined paper were offered up, but the process continued. And then came two more steps and "Jay."

Seconds can take on the feel of hours when you have nothing to fill them with. Thus when the palm pressed a little more forward toward me and the voice again repeated my name but this time with an air of a perturbed question/demand, "Jay?" I had been running through every possible response I had ever used. Vomiting and feigning illness, while an emotionally attractive option, was really not going to work. I didn't look ill and I hadn't vomited on cue since I was a tyke. When the inevitable "Where is you paper" in all its iciness came I had nothing.

Claiming a work conflict with Mrs. Powell did not cut it, this was the 1970s and almost none of use had after school obligations or jobs, especially during fall semester. Two papers for a senior in the college preparatory track should have not been a problem given proper planning and appropriate applications of one's self to the work at hand. Saying that the paper was at home on the kitchen table was not going to work either. Tiping my head back and drawing myself up I starred head onto into those cold, irked gray eyes. It was then I just decided to go for it.

The conversation went something like this….

Me. "Mrs. Powell I don't have your paper with me, but I did it. There is a story behind why it is not here and I can explain what happened. As you may remember due to some of my recent peccadilloes Mr. Feldman our fine disciplinary Vice Principal has urged me to show more personal responsibility and school spirit.
Really, he has been quite forceful in communicating those points to me in our many recent meetings."

Mrs. P. "Jay, where is this going?"

Me. "Mrs. Powell I have taken Mr. Feldman's words to heart. I want to be a valued member of our Penns Grove Red Devils community. So as I was walking to class today I tried to act like I had pride in our school. As I was turning into the hallway that leads to your class I noticed one of the four doors to the outside was open. Mrs. Powell rain was blowing in onto the recently cleaned floor. It was making slippery and was going to wreck the recent wax job our fine janitorial staff had recently put down. I knew that other students were in serious danger of personal injury and knew also it would be forever before the janitors got back to waxing the hall again. Thus I decided to take responsibility and do something productive, something right. I put my paper which is, if I might say so myself, one of the better ones I have ever written, did I ever tell you that I really love Dickens, on top of the trash can there near the door. You see I had decided to close the door and I didn't want to make your review of my paper any more difficult than it had to be. I was concerned the ink smearing if my paper got got wet might cause you to have trouble deciphering it. I care for you comfort Mrs. Powell for I see that you like me wear glasses."

Mrs. P. "Again Jay, while I appreciate your concern for my visual health where is this going?"

Me. "Okay, I know what I am going to tell you next is going to be a little hard to believe but you have got to believe me because it is all true. All of it. I swear it. Okay, okay, so when I got to discover what was actually going on with the door I was absolutely flabbergasted. First off when I went over to the door I reached out not looking at the door because I didn't really want to get wet and gave a tug on the door handle. It didn't budge. I had to turn to see what was going on and there he was as real as sin.. Mrs. Powell I know this will be hard to believe but there was an honest to God alien holding the door open. He was short and covered with phosphorescent orange fur but he was strong as a Moose. However thinking only of the safety of others I began to pull harder and actually got a little ground on him. But then he yanked on the door again and pulled it ever wider open. And all of a sudden a whole bunch of these soaking wet orange critters came running through the door. There fur was wet and they were shaking like dogs do when they come in from the rain. Clearly the hallway condition was getting worse for the safety of my student comrades. I was beside myself. The one goofy orange goober at the door smiled a huge toothless grin. His mouth must have been two feet wide but it had no teeth. I didn't know what to do, but I did have to do something."

Mrs. P. "So what did you do?"

Me. "Well Mrs. Powell I watched for my opportunity and as fate would have it most of the orange furry dudes had slick soled feet. Having shaken their fur they were slipping and sliding on the wet floor they had created. Quickly I began to grab them by their coarse fur and one by one I forced them backside. Here is where it all ties together for you. I had thought I had gotten them all, I mean it was confusion but I was sure I had got them. Well, turth be told I had gotten all of them but one, and as fate would have it the sole remaining alien was the big toothless guy that had pulled the door open in the first place. As I pushed what I though was the last one outside I heard a noise behind me I turned around to see the toothless bugger who had caused this commotion running by me toward the door, but and I swear this is the truth he had my paper in his weird tentacle like hands. I yelled for him to stop as he ran for the exit. But I slipped and skidded and as I was looking like Wiley Coyote, he hit the crash bar and headed on out. I yelled I needed the paper and he shouted back to me, and believe this if you can, he knew English. He in a voice that was part howl, part torn bass speaker yelled he was getting even with me because Mrs. Powell was one mean woman and his revenge for having been dispossessed of entry into the school would be forciing me to face what he asserted was an unmerciful you without my paper.

Me. "Mrs. Powell I stood up for you. I said you were kind and merciful, that you cared for your students and that you would never punish me for the evil acts of a bunch of day-glo aliens."

By this point the class had been stone silent for five minutes. No gum was being popped. The usual tap tap tap of the pencil tappers was still. Nobody was moving or adjusting their desks. It was the silence that precedes a car hurtling into the unknown off a cliff. It was the silence heard perhaps in the moments before the floor drops and the doomed man falls victim to hemp and gravity. It was a clarifying silence, cool and astringent, and I swear my testicles were so far into my chest at this point that it is amazing they ever came back down from that defensive move of evolution.

Me. "Mrs. Powell, I swear this is all true. You don't want to prove those evil aliens right do you? I promise the paper, 'cause I am going to have to rewrite it all, will be in your hands tomorrow."

Mrs. Powell by this point had the first couple of papers she had collected clutched to her breasts. For the longest time it was impossible to tell if she was pissed off to the point that me and Mr. Feldman were going to have a much longer bonding period than usual or if I was about to be referred for some serious pysch counseling. It was then I saw her smile ever so slightly and I knew it was going to be okay.

Mrs. Powell. "Fine, tomorrow it is."

When Mrs. Powell moved on to the next desk the routine she followed was repeated, hand outstretched, her voice inquired "Don?" Don looking down at his desk so as not to break up in laughter began, "Mrs. Powell, I was following Jay down the hall and you know he did put them out but no sooner had he left but they ran back in and I was faced with the same situation….." At this point Mrs. Powell just rocked her head back and said "Okay, okay I give up the paper is due tomorrow." She then proceeded to hand back the papers she had collected so far.

So what did I learn? Well I guess it comes down to this, when faced with no hope, no excuse, no shot well you just have to go long, go in your face with confidence and go weird.
Shock and humor may save your hide when all the legal arguments in the world will do nothing but hang your ass out to dry. People love to be amused. So when in doubt, don't doubt, just drive on like Hunter S. Thompson and make the reality that dominates your reality and not theirs. And sometimes it just might work.

Too Long in the Wasteland

Most mornings I set out with good intentions. I will be honorable. I will be polite. More importantly I will hold my voracious appetite for junk food in check. Inwardly I have the desire for meaningless calories that far outstrips that of Deputy Chief Brenda Johnson of The Closer.

It never takes long before all systems have suffered in that hackneyed term of art “a major malfunction.” My usually pristine language swerves into the vulgar over some minor excitement or irritant. My patience wears thin and I am urging someone on in less than cordial tones. Finally, someone has brought in a plate of cookies and I am face down in the trough. Oft times I wonder do any of the other people I know have these issues of self control or do they even worry about it? Oh well, I guess each day I will try and live a better life and hopefully one day I will succeed. As Paul Simon said “there is all that weight to be lost”.

If you like travel porn I would recommend Under the Tuscan Sun. The book has nothing to do with the movie. From it I have learned Italian food is more that wonderful it is virtually, the Etruscans were mysterious and to some extent a macabre fixation on death and that mid-afternoon is a good time to have sex in Tuscany. The last is primarily because everyone is locked up in houses because of the heat (siesta) and well there is not much else to do during that couple of hours. Makes sense to me. Also the book has lots of recipes and I plan to make a number of them. There was this one ragu that just sounded like it would be a wonderful meal.

I don’t have that link but here is a link to another ragu recipe and now I am hungry again and where is that plate of cookies?

http://www.foodnetwork.com/food/recipes/recipe/0,1977,FOOD_9936_22275,00.html

Phone Calls

One of the many artists I have liked through the years is a Canadian named Jann Arden. She had some minor US hits from an album called Living Under June. I really liked Unolved a duet with Jackson Browne, but I digress. This morning I wanted to find out if she would be touring this summer. My hope would be that she might be playing at small hall where you could hear her voice and see her face. Nothing posted for the summer so it goes. However she had an online journal.

I only read yesterday’s entry but it was wonderful (5-15-08). God how much of that story sounds like the way I communicated with my parents before they died. One parent talked about the mundane but talked on for a goodly while. One parent yelled, Your Son is on the Phone and that was the sum of the contact. I wonder how many people have that kind of relationship with their parents post high school or college? In my case the phone calls were the way of contact because letters took too long to write and I couldn’t stop in often because I have moved 600 miles away. Uh yeah the 600 mile move was mostly to get out of the intrusive sphere of my folks and my large extended family.

So much of contact with people becomes routine clichés over time. It is just a fact and I don’t mean this to be a criticism of such contact. Just saying hello and cracking the same lame jokes again can be soothing, comforting and part of making a person feel in place in the world. But sometimes you are just left wanted more.

Here is the link to Arden’s journal. Check the entry from yesterday out. http://www.jannarden.com/journal.php

Accidental Shrine II

Another example of the shrine effect is shown in this photo. The crayons in the multicolored box were at this location for about a year and a half following a 3rd grade art project. The boat was there closer to two years on a cake stand that hadn’t been used in even longer. This is another example of a tableau inadvertent.

If You Like it Go Buy It

I am congnizant of the fact that copyright issues are troublesome on the web. In that in an earlier post I referenced a poem by Philip Larkin I post it here. I do not mean to steal from Mr. Larkin. If you like this go buy one of his books. Or send his estate some cash. Or go buy some other poetry to support that vein of artistic endeavor that provided him his outlet.

This poem seemed very moving to me

The Explosion

On the day of the explosion
Shadows pointed towards the pithead:
In the sun the slagheap slept.
Down the lane came men in pit boots
Coughing oath-edged talk and pipe-smoke
Shouldering off the freshened silence.
One chased after rabbits; lost them;
Came back with a nest of lark's eggs;
Showed them; lodged them in the grasses.
So they passed in beards and moleskins
Fathers brothers nicknames laughter
Through the tall gates standing open.
At noon there came a tremor; cows
Stopped chewing for a second; sun
Scarfed as in a heat-haze dimmed.
The dead go on before us they
Are sitting in God's house in comfort
We shall see them face to face--
Plain as lettering in the chapels
It was said and for a second
Wives saw men of the explosion
Larger than in life they managed--
Gold as on a coin or walking
Somehow from the sun towards them
One showing the eggs unbroken.

Philip Larkin

The Ribbons of the Aurora

Are you out there?
Can you hear me?
Can you see me in the dark?

I don't believe it's all for nothing.
It's not just written in the sand.
Sometimes I thought you felt too much,
And you crossed into the shadowland.

And the river was overflowing,
And the sky was fiery red,
You gotta play the hand that's dealt ya,
That's what the old man always said.

Fallen Angel
Casts a shadow up against the sun
If my eyes could see
The spirit of the chosen one.

Fallen Angel, by J.R.Robertson

This is not a urban legend. It is my story, my experience. I had written down some years ago and communicated it in an e-mail to a friend. It has a political bent but that is not the gist of the post. What the post is about is that I believe there is something that lies beyond our plain of experience.

In 1983 I was 28 years old and living in a dive of a house. The place was something out of most late 1970s student’s college days; big, cold in the winter, hot in the summer and cheap. I was already an attorney but not much was happening for me. Seems I really didn't have the work ethic thing down just at that moment.

At the time I was actually living with a punk rock band named Free Cheese.
This moniker had to do with how Regan was dealing with the surplus of dairy goods then prevalent in our nation. As a side note the band members were all bi-sexual and routinely took group showers. It was awkward/interesting on those mornings I decided I had to shave. These mornings were not that frequent just then.

At the same time I was living in this odd Bohemian milieu, I was climbing the ranks of the Michigan Young Republicans. I was quasi living with a woman named hmmh, let’s call her Sara, just in case someday she decides to Google me.. Her dream was to groom me to be a good GOP soldier and to live the June and Ward Cleaver lifestyle. Ms. Sara’s aim was to move me up the political rungs and then she could stay at home and manage my political career. She actually got me as far as being the counsel to the Young Republicans for this state. I don’t know if my name ever went into the books because the arc of time involved was short.

I know it is hard to believe, me, a young Republican. The best way to describe it is probably in the terms my dear beloved wife Francie phrases it. This particularly odd chapter in my life can be ascribed to the politics of pussy. I was a Republican because it was getting me laid on a regular basis. Also Republican hospitality suites and fundraisers are much, much more decadent that Democratic ones. In this very odd time I even ended up a delegate to the state Republican convention one year.

Surely you wonder what has this got to do with the above piece of lyric, or perhaps why this is a response to you last note. Well, it is like this. At the time I was in this ardor (lust)-induced lapse of political reason I was spending a great deal of time at Sara’s farm house. It was a horse farm a distance away from the commune/band practice zone/law office. Well, while I was out there at her home one afternoon the telephone rang and it was one of my housemates telling me that my brother had called me.

For no particular reason, except maybe because the call had come midday, and this was in the days before unlimited minutes, I assumed something drastic had happened. My sole and unquestioned assumption was that my father had died. It took me forever to try and track my brother down because the nimrod I lived with hadn't got the number right. All this time my eyes were tearing up and I was choking up because I knew my Dad was dead. Finally, not ever getting my brother on the line I broke down and called home, something I didn't want to do.

When my father answered the phone I tried to put my best face on the call. We talked for a while about this and that. The conversation was on mostly nonsense kind of things. He had just come back from a trip to visit his mother. Understand my Dad was seventy-two then and his mother still lived alone in rural South Carolina and carried a rifle when she went out walking. She was a tough old broad at her 96 year old age. Finally my father asked me why I had called. Remember this is midday and talk wasn't cheap at the time. I laughed and said that this is going to seem kind of silly but I thought you had died.
He got a good chuckle out of that. Eventually he gave me my brother's phone number. Before I got off the phone I told him that I loved him and he told me he loved me back. Really, that is about the only time I remember him saying that to me. I am sure he must have said it before, but I don't have any real memory of it.

Called my brother and it was some nonsense that he wanted. I don't even remember any of the gist of it but it was really trivial. We talked a little while and hung up.

The next day I got another call at about the same time at the same place telling me to call my brother. Got a hold of him real easy this time. This time the call was much, much different. He was in tears and was losing it. As I am sure you have guessed long ago he called to tell me my father had died that morning.

Do I believe there is something that occurs after we die or near the time we die that is different from the fabric of everyday life? Yes. The above incident does not stand alone for me in this regard as to my reaching a yes on that question, but it sure went a long way toward it. Yes I believe there is something more, something mystical going on when we pass and thereafter. Like in the old Mike and Mechanics song, In the Living Years, or in the Larkin poem, there is some rent in the fabric of time and if we are at the right place or in the right mental space something happens. Maybe we sense something has changed. Maybe well feel compelled to make a phone call out of the ordinary. Maybe at that moment we see somebody now dead carrying the eggs they found on their way into the mine.

Do I have deeply held religious beliefs, absolutely. Do I proselytize, not really. Only by living do I communicate my belief structure. My mother has also died. Her death was different and not the sudden unexpected death of my father. Hers was a long, lingering decline. I am an orphan now but I am connected with a much broader universe than I ever thought possible.

Gotta go. Hope this isn't too strange.

Accidental Shrines

In past posts I have slammed the warthog who now occupies the White House. I have talked about music. On occasion I have drifted toward the philosophical. What is left to talk about you say? Well here it is; inadvertent shrines.

What am I talking about I hear you musing. Well it is really simple and while it may sound a little odd it is a common occurrence. I have found this happens more often than not. Mostly my research has been anecdotal, that is I have asked my e-friends about whether they too have created accidental shrines and by golly yes they have.

An inadvertent shrine is something you put somewhere because you meant to put it somewhere else but never got around to moving it. With time it becomes a fixture at that locale and eventually the original item is joined by other items. En masse they become an unplanned tableau. These random occurring icons don't get moved because they have been there so long.

I have a shelf where an old Christmas wreath (not organic) a teddy bear and a M.S.U pom-pom have all come to rest. I was moving them about three years ago to a box to go away in the recesses of the attic. However, I got distracted and now they are an established icon. The admixture of these items is odd but it is now part of the environment. I used to think it was just me, but I have been to other peoples homes and notices similar groupings of odd stuff. The above is a sample. I bet you my dear readers have your own accidental idols.

You will note my shrine contains an aluminum plate circa 1960 that says Canada and a couple of Deep South license plates mid 60s vintage along with a bunch of other crap. Yes, the little wood things are representations of my old hometown in the swamps of Jersey.

And Clement I Thought What We had was Special

So apparently my friend Clement has given my name to another of his buddies. See below....







Dear Friend,



I am Leroy Gopal by name, married with two daughters. I was a businessman in Monrovia Liberia who was into the sales of medical equipments for 25yrs. I am 53yrs of age and owned a company of my own until the present Government seized my freedom and company due to their political reforms.I would need your utmost confidentiality and complete honesty in the transfer of this funds. I would need to tell you that all required arrangements have been made for the transfer of this funds through a bank transfer. The said funds is total $US7.7Million all in stocks/bonds, I would be willing to give you 20% while the rest would be invested till I can travel to meet with you. Can you handle this fund? Can you be trusted? I would be waiting for your details so that we can proceed.Regards,


Leroy Gopal

Static in the Attic

Whenever I post an e-mail or a blog entry I wonder if what I am doing makes any sense. Through the years I have been drawn most strongly to the words of the contemplatives like Thomas Merton. Often I find their insights far more valuable that anything that has been kicked about and hashed out in public forums.

To that end I noted a paragraph from an interesting article in the Times today. The article does not lead to a point I am comfortable with but the question tucked inside the article is profound. What about the noise?

“The question from our standpoint is, how you find signal in the noise?” said Peter Fenton, a partner at Benchmark Capital, which recently invested in FriendFeed. “If you assume the volume of information continues to grow exponentially, it is going to keep getting harder and harder to figure out where you want to spend 30 minutes to two hours online.”

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/04/technology/04essay.html?em&ex=1210219200&en=59f706075de18e15&ei=5087%0A#

Daily Stressor

Evaluating people regarding their failings in life is a tough thing to do. The whole nature of what is appropriate and what is of worth is very slippery. Making decisions every day as to whether someone is behaving appropriately requires great moral sureness and certitude. Philosophy aims for truth. I think that is why it has such appeal to me.

Ethics and Motives

Ethical behavior, if you do not posit a deity (or some external superior life force that sets out hard and fast rules for the world we live in), is very tricky to define. One troubling question that comes into play is whether motive comes into play in calling a behavior ethical. A parent who steers a child away from an R rated film when the child is eleven or twelve may have several different motives. Can the parent whose sole motivation is avoiding the intensive inspection of his or her life should the protective services of the state be made aware that the child has gone into a soft porn movie (or in other examples is regularly smoking cigarettes or being given beer at home) be considered as ethical as the parent who wishes the child not to pick up the misogynistic values that are often portrayed in such films (or from getting COPD or starting on the path to alcoholism)? If you think about it we seem to consider a parent who is diverting the child from ill advised behaviors based on the child’s welfare as better than a parent who does the same thing simply to avoid personal sanction, or simply because he or she is just rule compliant and wishes to follow society’s rules. Is that right?

Yup, this is what I was thinking about on the bus on the ride in today. It is the kind of thing that goes through my mind on a regular basis these days. In the old days a white linen dress would derail my thoughts but not now, ah the joys of later life’s focus.

Bush League

I am so sick of this adminstration. Even if you accept the premise that we are in a war that must be won, you have to ask at what costs? Do we give up our humanity? Do we give up the values and ideals we hold most dear? George Bush is an accomplice to the undermining of our democracy and should be held accountable for it. Shadow President "Dick" should be sent to Gitmo. With his ticker he wouldn't last a week.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/02/opinion/02fri1.html?_r=1&ref=opinion&oref=slogin