Come this spring

A windowless wooden door
with hand-hewn lintel, stone,
a window as wide and half as tall,
above, ivy curtained,

the silent portal framed,
a seldom entry
at the end of a gravel path
scrunching each approaching step,

neither discloses nor invites
one to knock or inquire;

the door and window and foliage
impose such as to hide
building or dwelling
of which they are all one.

And I to Italy
to see if 'round the back
a garden needs a tender,
or an olive needs cicadae

to sing it's present there,
or sit-admire fruit awaiting.

Un-i-sex

She stopped by the other day and told me the latest. I have become the listener now in our relationship. It was different before, but now it is this way. And I don't mind. In fact I like it. Listening is a way of relaxing in a conversation, isn't it? And even one's silence and patience have an effect. Or if it is just acknowledgement that you have understood, if you understand that way of listening, that can help too. I mean understand the other person. So I am fine with it. But this is not about me.

She said that Brad had stopped by her desk at the office and shuffled about. She didn't get--until he had to come right out with it that he wanted to buy her a coffee--that he was really doing that, trying to invite her. She said that she was so dense. I didn't agree. But maybe she is. Anyway, she met Brad, maybe it was Starbuck's. She was all out of sorts. It had been raining by then and she had forgotten her umbrella. She was all wet with her briefcase from the office and some packages she had picked up from Lacey's. They were holding them for her. And she wanted to take them home. New things she said she needed. Some even sexy, although I know she wasn't going to show them to anyone. There was no one in mind, no one current. In fact, there had never been to my knowledge. We have known each other for a long time, and I think I would know. No, there is no one. But this Brad. She said he was nice. They talked about work. And then she left. Just like that. I asked if there was anything else. Something he did or said. She said no, nothing. I asked about whether they would be meeting again, and she said that was a curious question. Of course they would see each other at the office. It was like that with her. She never seemed to wonder about things. I mean men and how they might be interested. She didn't even talk about being attractive for guys, although I know she takes care of herself. She really does. She always looks great. But who am I to talk like this? It's really none of my business. But in a sense I guess it is. I am listening. She tells me these things. Sort of makes it my business. But I don't think it is my place to ask questions. Not questions like that.

So Brad came and went, I guess. Just like so many others. And no word from her about anything more, anything juicy. Anything romantic. Maybe she just doesn't have it in her. No, that is not it. I think she just doesn't pay attention.

I remember John. He was a looker. I saw him once. They shook hands when they parted, although to me he looked a bit awkward about it. She extended her hand first, and he hesitated a moment then took her hand. They shook as business people do. I guessed that that was how she wanted it. I didn't think all these things at the time, just an impression. But now that I am telling you, that is how it seems. When we talked about him, and I said he seemed nice, she said he was, and that was that. Off she went on some other subject. I think it was about a weekend she was planning, a spa weekend, to get away from work "and everything." I never knew what "everything" was. Her life seemed to be work, a bit of shopping, exercising at an aerobics center. Her social life was a kind of mystery. I only heard about stuff when she wanted to talk. And her need to talk--can I call it that?--came and went. So I don't know about everything.

I tried to put together when she needed an ear and when she didn't. My life, after all, was not all that exciting. But hers, well, hers could be, or could have been. Sometimes she was stunningly beautiful in a natural sort of way. She dressed very well. You'd expect that of a businesswoman today. Well, she is not so much a businesswoman as a career girl. Administrative assistant, I think they call it. But she dressed the part and more. Perhaps it was the firm she was with. I mean a dress code, maybe unspoken. I don't know. Anyway she didn't even have to dress that way to look fabulous. So she got lots of attention just because, because she looked the way she does. Her beauty is physical, yes. But there is something else. I guess it is what people mean when they say it comes from the inside. She is definitely beautiful from the inside, and out.

She smiles a lot. She is friendly. She is talkative, but also a listener. And the way she listens, she draws you right in. You become special. But when you act, I mean men, they act on that special feeling they get when they are around her, off she goes, literally. Or changes the subject, about the weather or sports or, you know, she avoids getting personal. It is conscious. But I think sometimes it is not. More like something she's learned, from her childhood or something. She just isn't interested in getting personal, except with me, I guess, and I am sure with members of her family, especially her brother. Her brother seems to be important in this way. Anyway, she is beautiful. And if she feels she has flaws or is in any way less than what she is, she doesn't talk about it, not with me.

Thom was someone she talked a lot about for a while. Then one day she stopped. We were having lunch, and I asked about him. I joked that a Thom could sound like a T or a Th. I preferred the latter, and I asked her which she preferred. We laughed a bit, said the Th sounded better. She said he was interesting but that she would not be seeing him again soon. I asked if he was married. She said no, but that he would be out of town a lot, and "he said he was very busy." This way of saying it caught my attention, but I let it go, for at that point she looked out the window and commented on the approaching clouds. She said she thought it would rain, although the weather-cast had not said so. There was a brief silence. I tried to prolong it by not saying anything. Like making a space for her to say something more, something she really wanted to say. And then she began talking about her brother.

He seems to be in the picture, but I know he lives quite far away. I guess they talk on the phone. No, they do talk now that I remember. I haven't paid much attention, but come to think of it, she mentions him a lot. He is younger and apparently has had some terrible experiences with women. They seem to have dumped him, always dumping him. She never went into details, but it seemed that frequently she was counseling him by phone on how to cope, how to understand what happened, what women were like, all that sort of stuff. I guess he pretty much relies on her and she, from her distance, takes care of him.

One time I asked her what she said to him. What was the advice and stuff. She began by saying you know how women are. And I said I didn't. No one is allowed to generalize in my world, and I think whether man or woman, neither can say how it is with the general other. So I won't venture a comment or opinion even where my own sex is concerned. She said that was interesting, "very intriguing," she put it. And then she gave a couple of examples of what she said to her brother. She said that women were people too and that because one did not choose to continue in a relationship with him did not mean that he caused it, a break that is. Each person has her own issues, like expectations. I liked that. Each person has her own issues. And then she said something like maybe you were doing something that somehow turned the girl off. I thought this interesting also, because it is this awareness of what she does that I don't think she has, I mean in relation particularly with men. But I could be wrong. Obviously I must be, if she is giving that advice to others. Especially to a man, if a brother counts as a man, which I think he must, right?

Well, all this is for nothing. She is a wonderful person with a lot going for her. She is kind of old not to have had a serious relationship, particularly for a person as attractive as she is. Twenty-nine and never been kissed. I don't actually know that, but about the virginity I'm pretty sure.

One time the subject came up. Our conversations are not as freewheeling as I would like, otherwise we would have been clear on this subject long ago. She certainly knows my story on that score, for sure. I guess she holds herself back with me, too. Anyway, she said she just didn't feel like other women she knew. She felt kind of a-sexual, or that she didn't really didn't know what sexy was. She said she had felt something funny, and scary, once with someone she liked a lot. I asked it this person was male or female. She gave me a strange look and didn't answer but continued talking about how she thought she did not fit in that world. When it came to parties, she said she found herself by herself or talking to different people. Sometimes a man would come up and say something cute, but she always brushed it off. She said these lines, she called them "lines," were curious but basically not credible. That was it, she focused on the line as if from another planet and not in any way related to what the other person really was trying to say. I said that was very interesting, what did she think they wanted to say. She said they were probably not going to say, whatever it was. And because of that, she didn't need to respond, except politely and briefly. She said they were hiding themselves, and if that is what they wanted to do, she would respect that. I said that was also interesting, but maybe a man and a woman did not have to spell it all out to each other. At that she said that if the whole business of flirting and sex and anything more was based on this deception, she would prefer not to play. At that I asked her whether or not she had ever kissed a man. She said she hadn't and fell silent. So I put it another way. Had a man ever kissed her? She said yes, and fell silent again. I said "Well?" She said, "That's it. That's all there is to say. I have never had sex with a man."

I take her at her word. And I feel I got pretty close to the truth then. I am no threat to her, and so disclosing to me is pretty safe. She has said as much. And so I don't go off and speculate about what really happened. I think if she wants me to know, she will tell me. And I don't need to know. It is she not me who is, like, leading this relationship, our friendship.

My next question was about other women, because she sometimes talked of people she knew who were, she said, pretty or attractive. I think she used the word pretty. So often did she use this word to describe someone that I had a small voice inside me that said that there was something there. Why would she say someone was pretty and then go on to describe what she looked like, what she was wearing, and so forth. It was like that with Melanie. She talked about Melanie several times over the course of several months. I think it was last year. By Christmas, however, the name disappeared. I asked about her once or twice, like with Thom, but she said something like Melanie no longer had the time of day for her. Same story, I guess. I wondered what that meant, especially when she said that Melanie had a different life and friends and was always busy when she called. Well, I just thought that explained enough. But there was one thing. I think Melanie held a special if temporary place in her life. There was a kind of sadness or bittersweet quality to how she said she no longer had time for her. It was the faintest suggestion, but I thought I saw it in her eyes before they averted mine. Sometimes I stare while listening. I think I must appear pretty intense, or interested. Maybe I unnerved her.

From time to time she would comment ever so briefly about some woman passing by or sitting over there in the coffee shop. We often met there, the one near my work, not hers. She seemed to notice. Not so much clothes as the face, the lips, or her figure. I don't know. It is just a feeling. Don't women talk more about what other women are wearing, not so much about how fit they are or how sensuous their lips are? You tell me.

Anyway, I have nothing much to go on in this department. But my point is that there is a singular lack of any relationship she talks about. It is all about surfaces and he is nice, or pleasant. It never seems to go deeper. She does not seem to be hiding but then again it seems she is. And why would she from me?

From time to time, especially lately, I have thought I should just stop being the listener. Maybe I should talk about me and my sexual fantasies and such. Maybe my problems. But I have yet to change the way we meet and enjoy each other's company. I guess it is more about her, but I enjoy being with her and hearing about how things are going.

Often it is about some thing. Something she is currently interested in. And she has a wide range of interests that have nothing to do with relationships, men and all of that. For example, lions. She went through a lion stage. She researched them, downloaded documentaries, borrowed books from the library about African predators and such. She went on and on sometimes about those lions. The mating also. Sometimes when she talked about that and the role of the lioness, it was like she got some kind of energy. Pent up sexual frustration, my shrink would say. I don't know. But what she had to say was interesting. Then she went off on how big our galaxy is. She sounded like some kind of star-struck kid, one that just could not get enough of how damn big the universe is. She measured stuff in millions and millions of light years and all of that. It was like she was in a constant state of wonder. Sometimes she would catch herself and stop and ask if she was being too adolescent or something. I would say she was, and she would stop. It was like these worlds of things, or animals, were a kind of strong attractor drawing her in by some force greater than herself, maybe outside herself. I don't know. It just seems like a big thing for her sometimes. And I guess she goes off on these subjects with men who strike up conversations with her. I wonder what effect that has. Maybe they would rather have the conversation center around the nothingness of getting eventually into each other's pants or something.

Is she frustrated? Not at all, I guess. Me? That's another story. I hope I haven't said something here I shouldn't have.

untitled

Sometimes something is so beautiful it brings tears you can't stop, so good it makes a smile you can't wipe away, so full of something that makes you understand so clearly, so comprehensively--it is so elegant--that all is right with the world for that moment, and you forget every worry, every wrong, every misdeed, and all regret . . . something such as the smallest you can focus on in the sunshine while the music of your heart provides the perfect background, or such as the largest like the Golden Gate Bridge seen from the Marin Headlands, or the Grand Canyon from the bottom up. Or take a Paris evening in late spring after consuming all the exquisities and you come to reside in an aperitif, some cheese, coffee, and a Gauloise while watching lovers successively pass by and cross to infinitely singular points on the Pont Neuf to kiss. Ah, life sometimes, some things, some moments catapult us out of ourselves and into eternity. It is no wonder we hunger for such moments now and everlastingly.

Spirit's sweet peace*

Feeling spirit 's not spirit, no such rot.
Awareness is of these, yes, and the not.
Your feelings and thoughts both to float free by,
awareness as clouds in an empty sky.

Conflate empty with feelings, spirit's done--
then the regressive slide's your first born son,
then unending worlds of clones your small self,
subject's fascination right off the shelf.

Spirit is transcending beyond just me.
(This is a bit of a mess, can't you see?)
Witness the witness here and deep inside.
There pure being 's where our spirits reside.

Declarations aside, we would be where
our view would be stuck in an outside stare.
Externals are not where true spirit's at,
nor is a label-name to fix the that.

Spirit is being, not something about
by those that make noise and ceaselessly tout.
(Yet they too are part and whole manifest
that comprise and permeate this our nest.)

Would that being our essence our practice
and not such stuff we invite and entice.
Thus we'd realize as is our bequest.
We'd come to sweet peace as such is our rest.

__________
* Inspired by Shambhala Publication's Interview with Ken Wilber,
http://wilber.shambhala.com/html/interviews/Shambhala_interview.cfm/wsdindex.html

Meme in a Kosmos

[A short gloss. Memes are _structures_ we can perceive of recurrent _mutual understandings_ along side of _science_ and _art_. The quartet is a Kosmic description, which is also not the whole but part. Our participation is required. But this piece will be the last of merely naming, therefore claiming. It does not do what it says it should.]

Strophe

Have you seen a meme?
It is like a theme.

_Seen one I've never.
I'm not so clever._

It's like what we do,
needs one, maybe two.

_Can you eat it, yumm?
Something cooked by Mum?_

More like over time,
things we eat, or rhyme.

_Made then they are.
Memes are not so far._

Close at hand we see.
Out of sight they be.

_Are they fixed on land,
timeless as the sand?_

No, they sometimes shift.
We must through them sift.

_So to say they're there,
memes are when we stare._

Yes, and more with some,
before you say, "Done!"

_Why we themes do sew,
if memes come and go?_

Occupy our time--
till we wax sublime.

_Trees are one with ground,
if Truth is never found._

Antistrophe

That may be for you.
Some massage the goo.

_Thus they form a pense
to avert the rends?_

Yes, tears and more, say,
to effect what may.

_Some things we create
science cannot sate._

Ideas finely posed,
are our history's prose.

_Without good and new,
little would be true._

A poor life we'd lead
without ideas' good steed.

_That along with text
we can forge what's next._

Nature, time and space
include thoughts apace.

_Silly rhyme is this.
Beauty's part we miss._

Let not us deceive.
Kosmos can conceive.

_Truth is science 'main.
Structure not disdain . . ._

Words our meanings make.
No poems forsake.

_Thank you gentle god.
We'd be more than clod._

Theresienstadt visitor*

Part I

CARLOS: No one, not the guards or the commandant can take that from me.

INTERLOCUTOR: But they can torture you, make you do things you would never dream of doing, like killing. With stones, with your own hands. Or raping your own daughter.

CARLOS: They try to break me by doing nothing. By letting me rot here. By neglect, not giving me food. By not seeing my sores or hearing the sounds of my sickness.

INTERLOCUTOR: Yes. And still you say they cannot take your freedom. You have no freedom here. In any sense.

CARLOS: They cannot take my words.

INTERLOCUTOR: They can rip your tongue out. Have you thought of that?

CARLOS: Yes, they can hurt me, deprive me, command me. But they can't take my choice, my own words from me. They can't even take what I have said to you. You will go out of here with my words engraved in your heart, if you have one.

INTERLOCUTOR: Whether I do or not, you will be here. A prisoner in your incommunicable words. Your choices, which I dare say place you in the most horrible of states. Look at yourself.

CARLOS: Is communicating so important? There are worse prisons than living confined in one's own words. Even those words that do not travel from these lips.

INTERLOCUTOR: This place then.

CARLOS: Yes, this place. And others. There are other jails with invisible bars and guards with keys they keep out of reach. They will never give them up, let you just borrow them for a moment to set yourself, shall I say it, free. Oh, there are guards and bars. And despair. Hopelessness.

INTERLOCUTOR: A prisoner then of words, and longing for what others have and you don't.

CARLOS: There is nothing that others have that I can't do without. Look at me. I am proof of that. I am still here. I am talking with you.

INTERLOCUTOR: And when visiting hours are over?

CARLOS: I have these silent words, the ones in here. The ones no one hears or can hear. In them there is no prison but total freedom. No one takes that from me, as long as I am sane enough to utter them, to manage with them, to imagine with them. As long as I am alive, my body not so dead that I cannot any longer.

INTERLOCUTOR: Grim. Very grim.

CARLOS: Ultimate salvation. The only one from here.

INTERLOCUTOR: Would your God could hear that.

CARLOS: I suspect he does.

INTERLOCUTOR: Then it is prayer, these words, this corner of your dim, residual life that is this freedom. You communicate with your God.

CARLOS: No. I just communicate. It is not important that anyone is there to listen, to hear me.

INTERLOCUTOR: And what do you say? Other than what you have said here today to me.

CARLOS: I am still here. I am me. Separate from you. Separate from all that is that I can see and feel in this place. Even the hopelessness. In that simple declaration, there is immense comfort and power. No one can touch or tamper with that.

INTERLOCUTOR: Except if you die, or they break your body. Is that what you call spirit?

CARLOS: A word. There are others.

INTERLOCUTOR: Have you confessed?

CARLOS: I have told them what they wanted to hear.

INTERLOCUTOR: Was it the truth?

CARLOS: Truth is what they wanted to hear.

INTERLOCUTOR: You are equivocating.

CARLOS: I need at least some amusement.

INTERLOCUTOR: At my expense. I don't understand this freedom of yours. I am wasting my time. There is nothing to tell those on the outside who are waiting for word from you.

CARLOS: I have told you what you can say. I have told you the essence. Freedom is precious. And nothing except total, thoroughgoing incapacity can snuff it out.

INTERLOCUTOR: I wonder if they will take hope from that.

CARLOS: They have their own prisons, their own jailers. They just need to recognize them for what they are. Tell them to look for the the guards, the commandants, the interlocutors. They are all around. And once you see them, declare for yourself and, through that, against them.

INTERLOCUTOR: People like me. I am one of them. A keeper. Someone who would take freedom from you.

CARLOS: Yes. You see that now.

INTERLOCUTOR: The one who questions would have you as he wants you. As without your freedom but submission to me, my words.

CARLOS: There are worse prisons than your words.

INTERLOCUTOR: I suspect there are.

[CARLOS is silent.]

INTERLOCUTOR: You are a different sort. Good bye. I suppose it is useless to say I hope to see you in better spirits.

CARLOS: Yes, but I could use some clean water and warm food.

INTERLOCUTOR: I am afraid I have no influence over such things.

CARLOS: My points exactly. Think positive thoughts. For me, if you like.

(Interlocutor falls silent.)

Part II

(Two armed guards in the yard ordered the inmates standing nearby to kill the two who had failed in their escape attempt. Carlos was one of those given a direct order to begin the execution. He refused and just stood there. Others took up stones and the horror ensued. The guards walked away when the two were dead and when those who had participated had hung their heads.)

INTERLOCUTOR: You could have been killed on the spot.

CARLOS: I know that. I wasn't. It was just chance.

INTERLOCUTOR: What made you refuse?

CARLOS: Killing is not in me, even for self preservation.

INTERLOCUTOR: But you knew what the alternatives were. Kill or be killed.

CARLOS: You forget. Chance saved me, gave me a reprieve. Till I don't know when, but a reprieve still.

INTERLOCUTOR: You know you will not leave here alive. No one does.

CARLOS: I know.

INTERLOCUTOR: You can be certain. And?

CARLOS: And knowing that, it was going to be then or anytime. Maybe even today. That certainty gave me a choice. I chose by not throwing a stone that the cause of my death might come right then from someone's heart, or some impulse in that moment of chaos and shock. But it didn't. I don't have control over others.

INTERLOCUTOR: So that's what your freedom is about. About knowledge that you accept about a fate now or later and choosing to accept that fate now or when it will be.

CARLOS: Yes, death's certainty. There is also no escape from here, where I know it will take place. I just don't know when. And if I accept that knowledge and that one unknown, my own unavoidable death every minute here, I gain a kind of dispassion, can I call it? I think of it as freedom.

Killing those inmates would have been horror for me. Choosing not to kill them and not suffer every minute since was the only possibility for me. And now that it turned out this way for however long it will, there is no change in my essential condition. I am here. I am alive, still. Death awaits me--still. I have a small range of choices, but the one about killing someone else, or killing myself, that is not one of them.

INTERLOCUTOR: But by refusing you might as well have asked them to kill you.

CARLOS: They didn't. They didn't maybe because they know I know. Waiting to die, anticipation and fear, is harder than dying. They think my waiting is worse than death itself. The guards are not so stupid. Or if they are, they didn't know what to do in the moment, and on that one day, they did what they did, spared me. The irony is no one is spared, ever. Maybe they knew that deep down somewhere. Or maybe they are so evil that my living under a death sentence that can be carried out by anyone at any time is a greater cruelty that they can inflict.

INTERLOCUTOR: So that leaves you where?

CARLOS: Here, of course. They put me here, now isolated from the others.

INTERLOCUTOR: Maybe they think this will increase your fear about what they will do to you.

CARLOS: I know there is no escape. We all wait till the end. And in that condition, I am free not to wait. Death will find me, or I will find death when the time comes. I have a freedom from the imprisonment of my own soul, or spirit if you prefer.

INTERLOCUTOR: Yes. You are a different sort.

CARLOS: You said that before.

INTERLOCUTOR: Did I?

CARLOS: You are wrong. I am no different. I have weak moments. But I've merely seen and accepted. I understand. And where there is understanding, or death, there is liberation from whatever is. And most days I can attend to other matters. You see, they cannot really control everything, appearances not to the contrary.

INTERLOCUTOR: This is my last visit.

CARLOS: Every moment is the last.

INTERLOCUTOR: Spare me your philosophy. Save yourself. At least try to.

CARLOS: Spare me your illusions. I prefer your questions.

(Carlos gets up from the corner and stands by the door as if he had just entered the cell. He takes a deep breath, and this time silently begins mouthing words no one can hear.)

__________
* Inspired by a visit to Terezín in the fall of 2009 and reading the novel, _The Shadow of the Wind_, by C. R. Zafon.

Finished or not

Nights race round and pass faster than they used.
So many daylight dreams and projects had. . . .
Now they're past nothings, or memories fused.
No time left for half and more to feel glad.
I would the past the brilliant building be.
But it is not so; final payment's nigh.
Quick nights tell the darkness to make me see:
not much time nor enough, as I would lie.
Anticipate and race toward all your life
then find you your self that cold ember's glow.
Future's consolation is now less strife,
but the race we would have, it is not so.
Things learned and practiced have a life their own.
Terms' endings close the interest only loan.

A sonnet this

A sonnet is a little love lyric,
just to pass the time, or punctuate it,
or both of these, if we are much adept.
Thus this not-what-may-seem is the subject.
As with miracles, it is also so,
an expression of and a call to sow.
The everyday hides or hails love bespoke,
yea, not just miracles the naught does cloak.
The moments so sure and simple gifted,
up to action from the mud we're lifted.
Compare the opposite, I would have you.
Isn't that a song that still sings how true?
Love or longing for it, a call not low:
This sonnet does punctuate, don't you know.

You got what you (will) pay for

Public transport transports you, say, a bus;
private means you conveniently port--
difference being whisked away with no fuss,
versus sending self via umbilical pre-sort.
Where one makes room for possibilities,
(although the case could be another way)
the other gives predictablities.
Neither/none's preferable, who can say?
Except passenger intent and fare charged.
Although hidden forces often us move,
where we would go may only be revealed
in fullness' end--we hope the way is smooth.
Appearances not to the contrary,
we all arrive else, and pay plus unwary.

Clinical trial failure

GIRL: No, that was nice, really.

BOY: I am so sorry.

GIRL: It's OK. Some guys just can't.

BOY: Oh?

GIRL: Yeah, sometimes it's like that.

BOY: How do you know?

GIRL: Well, I just know.

BOY: You just know? This is something you just know?

GIRL: Yeah. And we talk.

BOY: Who's we?

GIRL: You know, girls.

BOY: You mean girls talk about this stuff? between each other?

GIRL: Yes. It's OK. We can try again sometime. Soon.

BOY: [silence]

GIRL: So?

BOY: So what?

GIRL: So what do you think? about trying again, I mean.

BOY: Seems a bit clinical to me.

GIRL: What do you mean?

BOY: Well, you seem to know all about it. And you even know people and talk with your girlfriends and . . .

GIRL: Yes, we need to know. I mean we need to be prepared.

BOY: Prepared for what?

GIRL: For . . . for aborted attempts.

BOY: Now it really sounds clinical. Pretty cold.

GIRL: We could try again right now.

BOY: Jeese. I don't like talking about this. It is like school or going over the steps before bungee jumping or something. You--I really got to get up the nerve for something like this.

[prolonged silence]

GIRL: I think it's time to cut you off.

BOY: Cut me off? Off what?

GIRL: All this. I don't think you are mature enough to handle it.

BOY: Handle it? I can handle anything. I can prove it.

GIRL: Well, not just, er, recently . . .

BOY: I don't want to talk about it.

GIRL: OK. See you later then.

BOY: Just like that?

GIRL: Yep. You're not up to it, or can't . . .

BOY: That's a bit harsh.

GIRL: OK. If you say so.

BOY: I do. I do say so.

GIRL: Well, see ya.

BOY: Doubt it.

GIRL: Don't be a spoiled sport.

BOY: I'm not. I just . . . I just thought . . .

GIRL: Thought what?

BOY: That it would be more . . . soft or romantic or something.

GIRL: Maybe I didn't use the right words.

BOY: Yeah, maybe.

GIRL: See ya!

BOY: Hmm. Charlie said it would be like this with you. I didn't believe him, but now I do.

GIRL: Charlie? Charlie! What did he say?

BOY: I think it's time to cut you off. I'll spread the word.

GIRL: What did you say?

Advice to a young student upon entering college

Set aside your feelings and realize that a world exists that is purely, or almost purely, in your head in the form of immaterial ideas, ideas like pure concepts and thoughts, such as those _about_ things. Yes, they can be in the form of images, and yes, they can be more or less clear. And they can be accepted or rejected or shaped in different ways--by thinking and considering, often with the help of others living and dead.

Fellow students and teachers will discuss with you what you are trying to understand or learn _about_. And writers will talk to you about these things also, because all is not in the repertoire of each student or teacher. The world of knowledge is greater than any one person.

So, there are these things--ideas--which are the stuff, the major amount of stuff, in college. Yes, college is about other things, but in the main teachers and students entertain and work with ideas, and they do so regardless of how they feel about them. Set your feelings also aside so that you too can see clearly what they are. Don't feel that you have mastered something because you have had the introduction. There is always more to know of the things themselves and about them.

Next, realize that all the cognitive content (the ideas) of what you and your fellow students and the teachers work with is not you. An idea is not yours until you decide to embrace it, that is you make it yours and with some level of feeling you own it and you represent it as how you as a unique and individual person think and will act. But because the content is not yours at the beginning, or not yet yours, you do not need to defend or justify it except on its own terms, using your head not your heart. It is separate and apart. It does not have to be about you.

Beware when answering questions such as, "What do you think about that?" This question is often answered by likes and dislikes and feelings. Which is not the answer to the question! Pay attention to the exact, specific questions before stepping into the quicksand.

When you write something or present something to a teacher or a class, you are giving evidence of your understanding of a _what_--an idea or set of ideas. What you have written or presented can thus stand outside of you as an understanding. That understanding and the way in which it is presented can be judged as good, better, best, or not good or relevant--and these according to faithfulness to the original idea or ideas and according to the correctness and effectiveness of presentation, because in this area too, there are ideas and practices (acts) for which there are accepted ways. So once you have externalized what you think in a way that can be good, better, and so forth, in communicating, all these things take on that immaterial character of ideas also and can be talked about without much if any emotion.

College is about learning the ideas and how to communicate them in ways that are understandable and actionable. Failure to be able to show evidence of your understanding by either expression or the content of expression is failure to learn one of the most important skills college has to offer.

Be aware that many if not most students do not truly learn these things in three or more years of college study. It takes a lifetime of practice to separate ideas from feelings and to combine them when the situation properly calls for an integrated response. Some people never get it. Imagine an idea half-baked, or eloquence without substance.

Next, try and then find your preferred approaches to studying and taking exams. This too is a content area with information, knowledge, and practice that have worked for others. Survey what others have said to do and experiment until you are comfortable with your approaches, and employ them if they work. Do not lose time at the beginning by ignoring this. Half or more of a term can pass by floundering around before you settle in. The earlier you settle in, the better. With practice you will refine your study and preparation skills.

Not lastly, listen carefully. Read carefully. Reflect without regret. Respond not too carefully. There is much to gain from others in college, and you are someone who can learn from others as well as from how you yourself perform.

Without unexpected challenges

[The distinction between narration and description blurs. In the succession of events recounted we see what the other says, almost as if we were also perpetrators.]

The trip from Mexico to Brussels went without unexpected challenges. The biggest was getting out of Mexico, what with both Pavla and I being "illegal tourists" and Maco requiring a piece of paper at the airport, which was difficult for the authorities to produce because of computer problems and bureaucracy and security. It took a full three hours to sort out all of the above, and my fine for overstaying my welcome was 230 pesos.

As to the trip. We took a ferry to Playa del Carmen, a taxi to Cancun. We checked into our hotel with dog. They got my e-mail and were expecting all three of us. I was surprised. Then with dog, off to the shopping center to have him fitted with a travel crate. The sales clerk quoted a price 500 pesos more than what Pavla was originally quoted. We had him call the owner and verify. We got our price. Then he sold us a water-feeder-container thing probably meant for hamsters to strap to the crate. It was overpriced and when we tried it back at the hotel, it didn't work. Who won in the end?

With crate en route back to the hotel, the first taxi driver we encountered tried the same trick--gouge the gringos. We got out of the taxi once he quoted a price of 150 pesos for a ride that not a half hour earlier cost us 20.

The entry into the European Union was slick. Maco even wanted to get back into his crate after he got out. I guess he had some nice adventures down in cargo from Cancun. He had no accidents nor was he psychologically damaged by the experience, I guess. But it would have been different had I been the only one to handle him and all the papers, my ticket, visa, etc. Except for the psychological damage. That would have been mine. I really needed Pavla's help, and she mine.

We stayed in Brussels just down the street from NATO headquarters in the cheapest hotel we could find. It was easy. The info desk at the airport helped with complete and accurate details including how to leave stuff (e.g., dog travel crate) at the airport for our flight to the CZ the following day.

Whew, what a noticeable difference from Mexico. Not just the efficiency, but this neighborhood in Brussels was clean as a whistle, everything in working order, apparently--no stray dogs, trash, loose electrical wires . . . there were even sidewalks meant for pedestrians and runners and bicyclists. Plus rabbit or deer poop lying about as occasional snacks for the dog. Not the regular Mexican fare, street food menu included. But there is a price. It is cold and wet and gray here. And there is no music or colors. The Belgians are pretty conservative compared with the local scenes in Cozumel. Everyone dressed in grays and black. Can you imagine!?

All in all, a good and easy trip, once on the plane and out of Mexico. Oh, the air conditioning in the plane in Mexico did not work. Most passengers thought that hell's end was near, until we were airborne. Then everything worked, very smooth flight, and we landed in Brussels on time. The cost all the way to the CZ without the overnight was about $500 each including Maco. Everyone loved the dog, except, of course, the Mexican authorities and airport check-in people.

No one checked Maco's ID chip. And his other papers? I don't know if anyone ever looked at them. It cost us less than 100 Euro to get him here.

While in Brussels, we ate in two restaurants. Both welcomed Maco, and he was well behaved. He is a magnet for attention in some places, each kind of attention being different. For example, several people in Brussels patted him once on the head as they walked by without stopping, and neither said anything to nor acknowledged his owner(s) as they did so.

Maco landed in Prague and got hold of the bag with the few bits of dog food in it that we had used to keep his attention, get him into his crate, etc. He was so happy to be carrying something and off the plane that he shook it playfully and it spilled all over the all-too-slick Prague airport floor. Czechs looked on without expression, as usual, as the dog scrambled and slid all over the place to gobble up the bits and greet us with abandon at the same time.

My conclusion for Maco is that he is a go-anywhere dog. We were on trains and busses, in taxis and private cars, on planes, escalators, elevators . . . all of it and no fuss. If we were just standing waiting for some reason, he lay down and just waited. The passers-by petted him and he only humped one baggage handler, female, who said she loved dogs until the humping con noticeable erection. She said, "Oh, he's a male." I think I said something like "Yes, very much so." She quickly became serious and ignored him.

As for me, my first morning in the CZ was in snow up beyond your-you-know-what, and as a courtesy and grateful houseguest, I shoveled for an hour in sandals, three shirts and a borrowed windbreaker. Welcome back to winter, one here which has not seen the sun, I am told, since Christmas. Maco is delighted with the snow. Pavla is definitely not amused.

That is the report for now. Now what? as we scratch our heads and Maco licks himself--guess where--why the hell did we leave paradise?

12.03.09

Middle Child, Middle Way

I am the second of three, stationed between an older brother who channels my father, repeating advice suitable for his baby brother, and a younger sister who behaves like a grammar school nun, threatening to strike my knuckles with a ruler because I broke one, rule that is. Being in the middle is not really the problem. It is that my brother and sister do not get along. But I have solved this problem. Here is how I did it.

The first step was I got ill. On my almost deathbed in a moment of surrender I declared, "I can't help you two get along. I have to think of myself from now on."

The next step in solving the problem involved a bit of psychology, my own first of all. Incapacitation forced me to see the getting-along problem as mine, too much caretaking. A little more psychology brought me even closer to the solution where "they" were concerned. Alfred Adler's theory of birth order reveals that my brother is disposed to certain personality traits. Wehr (2008) provides this sketch.

"The first-born child is given a great deal of attention and is expected to be the "ego ideal" for his or her parents. High expectations for achievement are placed on the namesake child. As first born, the child is given a lot of responsibility and being the oldest, wields power among siblings by using aggression and the power of authority."

Adler's traits of the first born describe my namesake brother, who quotes and cites our father, for example when he was teaching us to drive: "Remember to use your rearview mirror." Nowadays, my brother laughs when I remind him about his mirror as he gets in the car.

Nyman (1995) conducted a study where participants described self and others according to birth order, but the study did not highlight my rule-keeping sister. The third born is not seen as an "enforcer". Although birth order theory and its application in the Nyman study may not help explain my sister's behavior, my own observations are valid enough. Consider as I did, for example, the judge in my sister who to this day travels extensively for a major competitive sport to enforce what is allowed and not.

Adlerian psychology might identify me as a peacemaker (Isaacson), and that is what I tried to be before I stopped caretaking. Fate forced me into seeing the problem I now accepted I had with my brother and sister's relationship. In addition, greater understanding, perhaps through psychology, can help us come to terms with the seemingly unsolvable. In my case, the problem out there of the relationship of my brother and sister was really one in here.

Is that it then? Is this the process I used to surmount the occasional blips in my particular family relations? To find equilibrium, the middle way? No.

My paternalistic rule-maker brother and matter-of-fact rule-keeper sister will likely be unable to behave towards each other with untainted care because each would have others behave just so. My siblings are kin in fact and conduct. Where one makes rules for others to obey, the other makes sure that rules are kept. So rule one is: You need to make sure they keep the rules. Retort: You are not keeping the rules yourself! I give you my brother and sister.

Thus, the final step in the process of solving my problem was to use my own resources, to think for myself. This together with a clear identification of the problem, acceptance of it, and knowledge, both from conventional wisdom and more carefully argued cases, make for better solutions to personal challenges I have faced. Oh, yes, I have not forgotten the two other considerations.

One, we can all acknowledge that solutions, changes really, sometimes come in whole or in part from fate or coercion, or both of these. This is well understood if lifestyle corrections must be made because of an unanticipated, unavoidable illness.

The second consideration is more serious. Please help me find a way to make my sister laugh when she gets in the car and I am the driver.

References

Isaacson, Cliff. "The Personalities: Second Born." Birth Order Plus. 20 Nov. 2008

Nyman, Lawrence. "The identification of birth order personality attributes." The Journal of Psychology 129.1 (1995): 51. 18 Nov. 2008

Wehr, Marcia. "Forum and Debate on Birth Order: Does Birth Order Affect Personality?" Psychology Online. 20 Nov. 2008

Behold the lamb of God**

Father Rumi hung up the phone after having promised to stop by the farm and have a look late that afternoon. He promised, after Colin told him of the eerie way all except one eye looked at him. Father Rumi readily admitted to himself that he was more curious to see the abnormal lamb for himself than to minister to Conlin's apprehensions about how they--the other six eyes--stared at him. Father Rumi thought he should reassure his parishioner that at least and in this case a most unusual creature also bore the stamp of God's flock. And after all, Colin was one of Rumi's flock too, who called in need. It was Father Rumi's _raison d'etre_, to respond compassionately and unreservedly to any call for help.

_Seven eyes. There's a curiosity. And one on top of its head that stared just up in a vacant or knowing gaze. That image brings new meaning to adoration and contemplating the divine. Silly thought. But what did that eye see?_

To be stared at with six eyes, six pairs, that was almost normal, Father Rumi thought.

_But for animal or human to have seven eyes, well that was a wonder, not to mention that six gave Colin the creeps. Colin was probably just unnerved or amazed that they were staring at him, following his every move about the barn. Maybe the lamb was just hungry and Colin held the promise of salvation from hunger? Or was it just the fact of a lamb born on Christmas eve with seven eyes?_

Superstitions abound still in this land, he dismissed.

_No awe or omen need necessarily be our response. Colin was probably just a bit taken aback by one of nature's mistakes. I'll go and visit him and bless his lamb. The church's complicity averts duplicity._

Father Rumi, proud again for his clever rationalizations, went about tidying up after this special day's rituals and celebration, and he settled into his reading chair and was soon in a kind of waking dream reminiscent of images conjured up by Coleridges' Xanadu and its gardens sprinkled with colorful koans.

Colin was not easily agitated, but this event and that being in his barn were enough to stir up and hold valid Jungian archetypes made manifest and then some. Colin was odd but not a fool and not unschooled. His offbeat readings as well as his interest in the esoteric practices of the ancients who once lived on his land made perfect sense to him as a modern if modest small farmer, and bachelor with not too much time on his hands. The seven-eyed lamb born coincidentally(?) last night on Christmas eve took on an auspiciousness and importance beyond the mere vicissitudes of nature that one sees, or hears about after five beers in the pub, or reads about in the sensationalist press. One eye in the position of the seventh chakra contemplating the heavens--well, that was just too much to ignore, that is if one could ignore the silent other eyes that just watched his every move.

Colin wondered whether he had done the right thing, calling Father Rumi. Well, at least he could give witness, especially since he didn't know if there would be any more surprises involving the lamb, or anything else. Village folk, once they got hold of this news, would be asking to see it or would just show up, like from last Christmas until after Twelfth Night when that light, UFO they said, had appeared in his horse pasture that bordered the state highway to the north.

__________
** Page 181: A shepherd calls the local priest when one of his sheep gives birth to a lamb with seven eyes. _The Writer's Book of Matches_.

Recommended reading***

Manager: Let me get this straight. You recommend to every customer the same book? We can't keep it in stock.
Clerk: Yes, that's right.
Manager: Let's see. _The Satanic Verses_. To everyone?
Clerk: Yes.
Manager: Why, for God's sake?
Clerk: It's a good book.
Manager: Have you read it yourself?
Clerk: No.
Manager: How can you possibly recommend it if you haven't read it? Not to mention that it is sort of politically incorrect for me to even stock it.
Clerk: It says it all.
Manager: But you haven't read it.
Clerk: Don't have to. It is all in there.
Manager: How do you know?
Clerk: Well, if you must know, here is the deal. If you read anything, anything of some substantial minimum length, doesn't matter, fiction or non-fiction, in there you will find the answers to all life's mysteries.
Manager: Interesting thesis. But I doubt _The Satanic Verses_ is going to help you bake a cake or prevent a souffle from deflating. Otherwise we could put it with the other cookbooks. What am I talking about? This is crazy. You have got to stop it.
Clerk: Well, think of all the sales and no complaints ever lodged against me, or dissatisfaction with my recommendations, what I have said, I mean . . .
Manager: You don't make recommendations. You make only one.
Clerk: You seem to be the only one complaining. Have you read the book?
Manager: Well, no. But that's beside the point. We can't be recommending just one book. We have others to sell.
Clerk: People buy other books. I don't prevent that.
Manager: But they go out with their book and either a copy of that damn book or they have reserved a copy for when the backorders arrive. And I only order and re-order _The Satanic Verses_. Nothing else.
Clerk: I guess our customers' experience reading this book stands as a testament to what I have said. I mean my opinion that one book is as good as another, if you read it carefully.
Manager: I don't think that follows. But why this book?
Clerk: There is enough there, they tell me, to keep them entertained and enlightened for a lifetime. When they come back to get a copy as a gift, that is. Seems like pretty often.
Manager: Pretty strong recommendation.
Clerk: Yes.
Manager: What do you say to customers? Do you reveal your opinion about reading or this philosophy of yours?
Clerk: It depends.
Manager: On what?
Clerk: On the customer.
Manager: Now you are a psychoanalyst. I don't believe this.
Clerk: Is there anything else?
Manager: Hmm. Could you just recommend something else once in a while or something.
Clerk: Sales'll drop.
Manager: I'll take that . . .
Clerk: Chance?
Manager: Yes. I mean, no.
Clerk: I think you will find the right answer to your questions after you read _The Satanic Verses_ and consider this chance business of yours. At least it might help you with your indecisiveness.
Manager: Don't start with me. I am not the one on trial here.
Clerk: I'm on trial?
Manager: Go back to work.
Clerk: Yes, sir.
Manager: I suggest you read that book before recommending it to another customer. You might change your mind, or your philosophy or whatever.
Clerk: I have another one to recommend if _The Satanic Verses_ ceases to please and instruct.
Manager: And what is that?
Clerk: Oh, it will come to me. The dust jackets and any illustrations figure into an important decision like that.
Manager: For Christ's sake!
Clerk: Sounds like a lesson from _The Satanic Verses_.
Manager: I haven't read it. And besides, half the world hates him for writing it. There is, or was, a contract out on his life for writing it and defaming the prophet.
Clerk: Which prophet?
Manager: See, you should read the book.
Clerk: Why?
Manager: To see what it says and why all these people are so up in arms.
Clerk: Brilliant. I can use that with some our customers--like you--teetering on the edge. Thanks.

__________
*** Page 126: A bookstore clerk decides to recommend the same book to all customers, regardless of what they ask her. _The Writer's Book of Matches_.

Unimagined life worth living?****

Gary sat on his bed and thought about retiring. He decided to just have a brief nap and get up later and take care of toilet, teeth, and tea, a ritual before falling deeply asleep for the day.

Gary had a night job, so it was his routine to get to bed about nine or nine thirty in the morning, get a good eight to twelve hours sleep, eat, do house chores and return to work, six days, that is nights, per week. Sometimes he lost track of the day and date, but this didn't much matter. The guys at work always told him during the last shift before the seventh night off.

Gary's naps were filled, as was his sleep, with vivid and colorful adventures. Naps often brought blonds and panoramic parts, like giant breasts gently hovering above him, begging to be touched and tasted. It was when he could bury his whole head in the soft fleshy parts around the imaginably large and tumescent nipples that he enjoyed the most. Yes, naps were short, wet and pleasurable.

Longer periods of sleep had him doing the daily things most people do. Shopping for food, going to the cinema, meeting friends for beer. These dreams were mostly predictable, not particularly exciting, comfortable. Gary had all he needed, including reading material, philosophy mostly. And he read, or reviewed word for word what he had read, while asleep sometimes, if that isn't too strange, or too much of a stretch for the imagination. Gary felt content and fulfilled in most parts of his life.

Work was not much different from his immaterial imaginings during sleep. There he had set duties that he did and did well. There were colleagues to chat with and girls to watch and fantasize about. Life was good. No nightmares waking or sleeping, and no dramatic turns or challenges to contend with, until this.

As he lay back and put his head on the pillow this morning, Gary felt something he had never felt before. Or rather, he didn't feel it and didn't remember having felt it before. Although his head lay cradled in something soft, there was no pillow, no bed, no shades to draw, no sound of morning traffic outside his window. In fact, if it is not stretching the truth too much, there was no apparent window where during his nights and days there had been one before. Gary looked down towards where the foot of his bed should be. He saw nothing. There was nothing there.

"Now, what the?"

Gary immediately recognized it. He had fallen asleep and this was one of his lucid dreams, but definitely a dream. He relaxed and waited for what would happen next. He thought about a particular pair of recurrent big breasts, but not one materialized. He considered having beer with some friends, but could not remember or visualize where the sports bar was, or who his friends were.

"Funny."

He decided to stop this non-starter nap, get up and have a snack or bit more. Now, was it to be breakfast or dinner? He couldn't remember the last time he ate, or what he ate. He wasn't particularly hungry, but eating sometimes helped him doze off when he had a difficult time getting to sleep.

"I have no body!"

Gary was slipping away, from himself. No nap, no dreams, no breasts or shopping, no sleep, not even his own body.

"Time to get up."

Gary sensed that he was now awake. But nothing was any different except the suspicion that it was all in his mind, his imagination. That existed but nothing else.

"Now, who was it who wrote about everything is mind, that we construct our realities?"

Gary couldn't remember, and he couldn't find his bookshelves where he thought the answer was, some writers whose last name began with H? It would surely be there, but where, if it is not stretching the truth too much.

"Ah, I get it. It must be my night off, my day, er, night of rest. I don't have to work or sleep. So, what can I conjure up now to do?"

__________
**** Page 192: A philosopher comes to the realization that all known existence is a product of his imagination. _The Writer's Book of Matches_.

Implementing the penetrating-culture model

American Studies Course, the Context

Aim: The aim of the course is to familiarize students with basic information about the geography, people, and history of the United States of America in the twentieth century. These areas will be studied through relevant observations and artifacts of American culture and Culture, including but not limited to literature and the arts, other writings and contributions, physical objects, and social and human sciences themes.

Topics:

* 20th Century historical sketch of the US
* Major American authors and other contributors
* Identifying and researching cultural studies topics
* Understanding America and Americans

Objectives: As a result of taking this course, students should be able to:

* sketch a history of twentieth century America including at least three or four significant events, people, or characteristics for each decade;
* give a conventional book report of a work written in English by an American author or thinker of the twentieth century;
* properly cite and accurately summarize three American Studies secondary sources from approved online sources; and
* use a simple "culture inquiry protocol" to showcase an insight into Americans or America from readings and research.

Unit: Identifying and researching cultural studies topics

Background Learning:

1. Go to [link no longer available].
2. Read the article (popular press secondary source).
3. Now ask yourself this question: What does this article tell me about America or Americans?
4. With answers to this question, you have at least one research hypothesis (cultural insight to test). You can now look for other examples of it to illustrate what the above article told you, or didn't tell you!

Assignment 6: Describe, explain, and/or discuss the meaning of an observation of America or Americans. Use primary and secondary sources to support your insights. Submit a detailed outline and list of references for your research.

An observation is a cultural studies topic (from the previous assignment). It is specific and small. Be careful if you choose a history topic, because it will only be a very tiny observation of America or Americans about that.

Get these points clearly in mind before proceeding with identifying and researching cultural studies topics.

1. What is DESCRIPTION. At the surface level, you or someone observes a phenomenon that is possibly unique or characteristic of a culture. There is always a source--you or other.

2. What is EXPLANATION. Once that is described, one asks the question, "How is that so?" What is an explanation for that phenomenon? Usually cultural informants help with this. With an answer that is defensible, we have begun to penetrate.

3. What is UNDERSTANDING. Once we have an explanation, the ultimate question is to ask what it (the phenomenon) means to those who do it, or are in it, etc. "Why do you do that?" The only way to get to this level is to ask those who actually or should know. Sometimes even the natives can't tell you very well or easily. At this level, you or someone needs insight.

Finally an INSIGHT, especially if it stands up to rational and empirical critique, can be a little something that we can say we understand. Whew!

DON'T WORRY. An example of this assignment will be provided in class with documentation online.

How to Proceed

So, how do you do Assignment 6? Well, the easiest way is to try to follow the outline (above).

1. What is your observation? This you have yourself, or you get from your source. You should already have an idea for an observation, if not the actual observation or phenomenon, from Assignment 5!

2. Try to find out how or why it is--an explanation for your observation. Look at what you have observed and ask why is that? or how is that? where does it come from? etc.! (Remember, asking questions is important for this course and is the key for success.)

3. Try to find out what Americans say or think about this thing you have observed. Talk to one. But if you cannot find one live here in Liberec, go to the trusty Internet. Find a forum related to the subject and post your questions and watch for answers. Or, find news articles about the observation, or where people have been quoted on the subject. Or, find a book about it, or a secondary source (e.g., an article). In other words, go deeper with your observations. Maybe you have an answer (insight) right in front of you! Gather data and look at and think about them!

Ghost(written) to conjure physical realities

A Special Invitation

[artist's name] creates unique and imaginative sculptures and interactive objects that bring life and color to traditional places and new spaces. With innovative art, design, and professional installation, [artist's name] has captured the attention of [city] and other cities and towns in this country and beyond. With a project in Holland nearing completion and a project being planned for Madrid, [artist's name] invites you to discuss a custom public art piece or a comprehensive project for your citizens.

Art and innovative functional elements in parks and public places invite people of all ages to explore, to discover, and to enjoy. Some installations match the quality and character of a particular location or its history. Others engage and delight the young and young at heart. Examples of completed works are at [Web site]. Please take a look.

For over ten years [artist's name] and associates have specialized in creating and installing art and innovative functional elements in parks and public places. The first step we take is to cultivate partnerships with visionary civic leaders and officials who want to realize creative planning and development for their communities.

[artist's name] is ready to commit to a limited number of works for the period 2010 to 2015.

"I would be happy to discuss ideas for improved public spaces in your community. I can help you delight young and old and at the same time build civic pride in something that people can see and interact with for years to come. Contact me."

Paradoxy's trial

Love increases in pure simplicity,
then dreams of murder and complicity.
Jung explains my guilt as balanced psychcal--
thoughts, violations but archetypal.
And so this fool experiment I tried.
To me myself I kind of . . . no, I lied.
Stop night wakings and marish-driven screams.
Cease they did by thinking ill, so it seems.
Does love then manifest from harm or good?
We such stuff as dreams are made of, or should.
So behold I evil in my waking;
I thus manage this day's deeds, though quaking.
If dreams are countered in my daylight state,
Goodness still the burden is 'gainst this weight.

Big waiting room

What do you do when you must sit and wait?

Is it boring? and do you look about?

I see it as an opening, a gate

through which I go and choose a carefree route

to imagined or remembered places,

or to events in offing--to prepare.

I never see exactly, or faces,

just vaguely images and thoughts quite spare.

But I believe I'm truly there, not here,

and occupy as much or little time

as I am allowed until it is clear

I must break off and leave what is sublime.

But I prefer my non-waits also zoom,

to freely soar to heights beyond this room.

Till the next revelation

[This prior to reading Heidegger's "What is Metaphysics." If one looks around and experiences, physical and immaterial, and considers, not even contemplates, one can come up with paradoxes philosophical. I celebrate the capacity of ordinary people to speak of extraordinary things and have others ponder life's greatest questions. Thus also, not that I am in any way special. Each is and is worthy of embrace.]

There is _is_,
then everything else.
The latter colonizes fully
such that we forget,


or we are confused
thinking _what is not_
also _is_ and a what.
But that is not so.


The opposite of _is_ is
_is not_, or _is-not_, _non-is_,
an inconceivable no-thing,
paradoxically a named void.


Everything else seems clear
or practically so,
but also without _is_ itself--
that's so hard to imagine.


In fact we can't.
The _non-is_ isn't,
without even a word
as name or to point with.


How can you capture
this whatever _non-is_?
_It_ is not even an _is_,
not abstraction nor subtraction.


Now _it_ points to it,
but this it is no-thing,
related to but not the _it_
that does not exist.


How can all this be?
Just this: There is _is_
then everything else,
and that seems enough.


So we forget,
or in confusion give up.
Or posit a silence
so big that it bangs.


Was there no _is_ before bang?
Must have been, we say,
'cause silence that was so
was so deafening we hear it!


But this the same trap--
silence is a non-experienceable
and it to answer the questions
some void asks us to know.


God then to the rescue,
for those so inclined,
but s/he talks biblical bipolar,
or from our own bicameral mind.


Thus no salvation or knowing.
There is _is_ and everything else
and no-is or ising
or anything of the sort


till the next revelation.

Socratic calling

I quite acknowledge allegories nice,

but envy not those who do invent them.

Too much labor and ingenuity

to create a Hippocentaur and more--

chimeras dire, gorgons and wing'd steeds

and imagined personifications.

And if I am skeptical about them,

and then would fain reduce each one by one

to the rules of strict probability,

this sort of crude philosophy takes time.

I have no leisure for such enquiries.

Shall I tell you why? I must first know me,

my self, as the Delphian inscription says.

To be about that which concerns me not

is fruitless nonsense. I bid farewell to

mere talkers their common opinions made.

I want to know if I am a monster

with passion swollen like serpent Typho,

or a gentler and simpler creature that

Nature gave a divine and lower calling.

What it is like to write, Part 1

1 A moment just so

". . . most of us take for granted [what] can be abolished with an incomprehensible rapidity."*

This about memory calls to mind the news I got yesterday, on June 17, 2009. But it is not the memory now of the substance of yesterday's news or memory per se of which I write, but the now fact that H- faces the greatest challenges in his life, not the least and first of which is staying alive. His condition must be, in spite of my limited knowledge of the facts, other worldly, painful, and deeply disturbing--for him and his closest.

My hope as I write is that there are angels present in whatever guise bearing comfort and gifts to help him and those who love him and those he loves, now and forever.

A life without what it once had "also poses the problem of how anything that permeates our lives so deeply can be lost so irrevocably."

H's accident marks the beginning of something for him and us that we cannot know in fullness and cannot change--that his accident happened. Although each moment is just so--each cannot be taken back, and some we cannot forget.

May angels attend us as we proceed, and God embrace us all with an understanding that so often eludes us when some things happen with incomprehensible rapidity and change everything forever.

2 It came to pass

An e-mail informed me that H dove into shallow water. He now cannot move or speak. He is 18 years old.

3 No other excuse

Such are my thoughts and prayers today, and I realize again in an other worldly, painful, and always deeply disturbing way that I cannot share with anyone even the news or the memories of my life, in this case about H. (Explanations irrelevant.) Nor can I help.

I do not make this mistake: _H's accident is not about me_. However, the fact of my knowledge of what has happened is, and pushes me selfishly onward to release the angst and anguish.

I know again that I am alone, distant in time and space from those I love, and those I have loved in different and special ways. In the face of what so wonderfully was and sometimes tragically or regrettably came to be, judgments I openly own, the silence of writing (for no audience) is best and my only hope, my only consolation.

I need to express and discover me, my humanity, my compassion, my limitations, and to open myself to that ineffable other I know silently attends. Writing is one road I take. Get it out. I have no choice or other excuse.

(I am no pettifogger. I won't pontificate about _we_, or try to be the teacher of others' lessons. I will hold secret the otherwise readily accessible and the ironies and I-told-you-so's I sense in what I observe around me. I will not speculate about intentions or assume machinations. I have no need to talk more, or recall for anyone the lessons I tried to teach my students and would have tried to teach those closest now gone. In the beginning as in the end, I alone. I control and affect nothing--if truth be told again, to re-mind me.)

"Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love."

This is the only answer, the only matter.

4 Anti-thesis

The synthesis of these understandings--the externalizations that have been this project called noematics--is in the making. Memory figures largely in the enterprise and in each piece, either directly if written in the first person or indirectly if written in the third.

Except for op-ed scratchings, there has been a curious absence, with minor exceptions, of the second person. It is not surprising in that the first piece I decided to include was for no audience. The blog nee "depository" was not even open for comment or Web-search result at the outset.

There has been no overarching theme of "This is for intersubjective understanding, have at it." That would be the second person. And yet, that "Read me!" is at the heart of writing as speech, isn't it? Isn't a text's presence an invitation to consume and comprehend? Or it just is, presencing if not inviting. An is at hand.

If it is not, then the sound I could in your ear or in your head is just for me, self expression and expression of self. But where does either of these get me? Get you? Why? Why take up these spaces?

It is not to dabble in a pseudo- or would-be discipline of noematics. Great thinkers and writers deserve that space and our attention and have amply attempted to explicate.

It is not for truth, beauty, goodness. These do not come from soul journeys of the support cast. What is required always is ascent to what is true, beautiful, good that we need to make them so, right?

I told myself that the only matter was love, understanding, consolation--compassion. And that is and can only be one person's expression-in-action. If it is only expression that can materially and non-materially be as in a spoken word, then so be it. If a different kind of expression, then so be that.

Compassion offered resides then in silence, perhaps for eternity, the eternity in the moment and in the succession of moments that we recall as we proceed down the years. These eternal moments are sacred in our lives. Rapid changes to the everyday remind us of this. And memories serve us also in this way.

And so it has come to pass that the synthesis continues on its paths, and nothing changes. We are lovers and teachers and parents and associates still, in hope, in love, in understanding, and in the apparent absence of these things.

Let me hear your voice. Hear mine. We have nothing else. We have no excuse. Let nothing and everything permeate our lives in sound and silence, deeply and loud so that we cannot be lost irrevocably.

5 Denouement

I received another e-mail saying it was a mistake that I was among those informed about H.

Which memory shall I now forget? Which noema externa shall I attend to? Which truth be told?

Precisely! A noema need not have any correlate in physical reality. Echo Husserl. Echo Heidigger: care brings into awareness our dasein, a being conscious of and concerned about its beingness.

6 The re-minding of this

A feeling and an idea bothered me. I sat at the computer not knowing what to do about these. Soon I was writing what you see here above, and about two hours of so-called work produced an almost final copy. I had little self-consciousness of the tools I was using in making the text--a book, an electronic dictionary, a text processor.

[Writing was an all-absorbing labor of love and I was aware of the time and my surroundings most of the time. I held in my mind the feelings and idea and started out by chance reading a book on memory. Within the first pages of my reading I had my opening with which to structure and approach what I said. What I wanted to say was not clear or specific. I knew that there were things around each, the emotion and the idea, but how it should come out or what the point was or was to be, I did not know. I have been wrestling with some other ideas lately, and these too began to come out as I began to write. So the piece was not all about one or two things that first brought me to the act of writing, although the act could be seen as beginning before my fingers put letters together. Organization suggested itself almost from the beginning and got its current form during and after the text had been drafted the first time. And because I wanted to precisely convey what I really thought and felt, the writing was challenging. I used the dictionary to make sure I was getting it right, sometimes to find the right word. Editing and writing went hand in hand versus one after the other. A kind of self-editing writing process. I knew in the background that someone might be (future) reading the text and so was somewhat cautious about being too direct or too vague. Although honest, I took some care not to offend by what I wrote. The text led to some admissions of personal values and "wisdom" that I had a hard time justifying including, since in the main the text was about and for another. But the text worked its way toward something about my larger themes and so saved me from personal admissions or possibly hurtful expressions, although this was not a hard struggle. I felt honest and positive and not uncharitable. I recalled reactions I included specific to the inciting events and then I generalized as a philosopher-teacher, but I was uncomfortable with that perspective, and so the text had to take up that additional theme. I did consider many things to express, but the writing was a combination of directed-by-me and intention and a kind of frcnvey [sic] flowing or rambling just to let out what was inside. So the piece had a mixture of first and third. I avoided a you [second person] except where the text content addressed that matter. Energy and no fatigue characterized how I completed the task, but it was not felt as a task. But I also checked the number of words, by section and totally to see if I was saying enough, enough being measured by the number of words, which to me now sounds strange. This description of what happened is being written by touch typing with my eyes closed. The piece above was done wholly awake, eyes open, no meditative or contemplative attitude. Allusions enriched the text, although I am not sure anyone is able to see where they are. They were not intended to be recognized and were mostly for my own fullness of description. This piece was mostly for me, although in a strange and academic way it started out as a post to this blog where H's mother could read it. I am afraid that aspect of the text is now in question. I am not sure any of this is good for reading other than as a part of the noematics project. Some sentences and short paragraphs got written and upon careful examination were deleted because they did not seem to be in the main of what I as writer think I wanted to say or that the directions the piece was taking. I was very conscious of me/I throughout. And I wanted to separate the first from the third person. I wanted to describe, but in doing so I could not avoid the _I_ because what I was describing was inside of me. I also tried to avoid the third person; I wasn't feeling like an author or teacher as much as. . . . The process of writing was a kind of alternating between two or three questions, although they did not echo as such in my head as words. I just went from one to the next and back as a kind of process. 1. What do I want to say? My answer was writing, writing, writing. 2. Have I said it? My answer was keeping my place in the flow of things, reading above and sometimes below what I had just written. 3. What's next? And then I would think about what I wanted to talk about next. Writing is kind of like slow talking, although sometimes it comes so fast it is hard to capture it all. Most often I do catch it all. The pace is felt as slow and methodical and deliberate. But gobs of time pass, and often I have little to show; other times a lot. It is hard to say except it feels like progress always. Very few breaks--I take really no breaks once I start. Writer's block never happens when I am in it. And seldom do I have nothing to write about. The difficulty is choosing among the many ways of expressing, and which ideas are the best to marshal in support or in illustration of what I am trying to say. There is always a consciousness of what I want to say, if not always stated in a thesis or point. Often the full reasons for the writing come towards the end, when things get wrapped up. But this piece seems to be without wrap-up. It is more of reverent care and a question or questions in the face of what to say. I am also trying to nail down how best to respond to an other or others and to settle my own disturbed equilibrium about some people I once was close to. I guess if I had to summarize what it is like for me when I write, I can say that it is fully engaging and deeply satisfying, most of the time, and it is a deeply conscious state without very much reflection of what it is I am doing, like now. I just do it and employ all my faculties of feeling and thinking to get it, whatever it is, just right. And then it comes to a stopping point, a sense of completion of what to say if not how it is said. Often I fiddle and edit with a text till I can let it go. This piece got fiddled with for five days before its end-point. All my faculties . . . ]

6 Grasping for that sense of an ending

Sometimes the strangest holds a partial truth. A fact. A sentiment. A reflection. An offshoot, or bracketed item not an integral part of the whole, or an idea stimulated by what was said or not said.

. . . To restate the beginning, realizing that we are still there: We take for granted what we overlook or misjudge, and thus all of that is abolished with incomprehensible rapidity. Lost treasures, or perhaps gold dust in some sand we cannot pick out but we see clearly, brilliantly there. Our loss, unless we take the time to look carefully, consider, try to express even the inexpressible. Such projects are never clean, never entirely coherent. Sometimes all we find is pyrite. But why take the chance? We do overlook important things. It is the condition of finitude.

An accident, memory, moments, writing, compassion, realities suddenly taken away--among other themes--haunt me. May they cease to cause recurrent dilemmas, occasional nightmares, and all-too-frequent waking moments full of fear of what does happen, and dread in the face of what could.

No, not clean at all.

Part 2

Lest you, dear reader, think these clumps but scattered detris of little moment or logic, let me recap.

First there is a subject which touched me and brought me to write--the motive and energy behind calling up words and ordering them. The degree to which that subject should concern me was tempered, and thus what began as respectful, thoughtful, heart-felt concern turned into reflections on the necessity of writing vis a vis expression for sanity's sake--and for discovery--and the nature of the writing processes themselves that produced this seemingly incoherent stream. The justification of including all of this in this noematics project became clear, either to preserve whatever small part may be of value that had been said, or to figure as an early sketch of what might be called the phenomenology of writing, or the experience of writing.

And if I cannot find that someone else has done it, better than my first attempt above, I will give it a serious shot.

To be continued.

_____

* Casey, E. Remembering: A Phenomenological Study. 1987. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

Diana in the woods

A new mown meadow--was wet lime green--framed
there an archer, posed as I stopped the path.
Her bow set on stand, she the last round aimed,
and put the target thus, precise as math.
Weapon in hand and arrow now ready,
next to draw, then release in measured grace.
Silent we held each our gazes steady.
She met mine, the Other set in its place.
She was tall in black, all with black bobbed hair,
she exposed just her bare white face and neck.
I thought then I was prey in that cold stare.
She herself would me, could some wanton wreck.
So to this Beauty I white surrender sent.
Marked me with "Just so"--so I and message went.

The greatest sin

Omission is a sin still,
mid inevitables,
twixt choices,
because of what we can
and what we can't.
It is grievous.
It'll send you to hell.
There is no redemption.
The lost opportunity can never,
gone ever to present itself again.
Consolation may be.
In what? a present, a word?
Not that either.
Because of ends.
Because of death.
Penance is knowing
that you have sinned,
that you live with it,
that people keep living,
or dying,
knowing and missing what you,
had you but.
Remorse there is none.
Not a pain--a luxury one could feel.
Guilt indeed in deed.
You know, and others, too.
Shame it all.
And I talk not
of just Darfur.

Protocol*

PARTICIPANTS

Guide, the one who gives verbal cues to the Mediator, the one who wishes to travel a path toward his or her true Self.

Meditator, the one who freely and in a relaxed and safe state undertakes a practice--a series of steps--to experience Buddha mind (or whatever name s/he wants to call it).

INTRODUCTION

I'm going to ask to speak to some various aspects of your self, some different voices you have inside you. Everything is already there, within you. It's all there. You are not lacking any of the wisdom, any of the compassion, or anything that has ever been discovered or revealed. It's all there. That's why your true Self can be revealed. We're all born with this unborn Buddha mind. This exists within all of us, and I am here to accompany you on a way, a path to experiencing your true Self.

I know this to be true. I know you can realize your true Self, to make this shift. There's no reason not to. The only thing that might keep you from making this shift would be that you don't want to, or we might not proceed at the same pace along the path. Communicate with me if it happens. Let me know if you start to feel lost, or sidetracked, or you need more time at one or another point. Give me a signal so that I know when we are not in sync. That way we can have 100 percent success, and you can experience your higher being.

You can feel safe to just talk as yourself, like an observer. You are not to re-experience anything negative. Just report, don't re-live. Assume a "been there, done that" perspective, and just step back and observe as though you're watching a home movie. If I see you getting agitated, I'm going to remind you of this by simply asking you to "step back," and you will automatically know that you are safe, are not re-experiencing anything, simply reporting past events or reasons for your being. You arose out of circumstance, and although you are still here and now, those circumstances are not.

Make a physical shift in your posture to help make the mental shift when talking to each new voice. We're going to learn about each voice in you in order to drop your self, to set aside your ego. Keep your answers, your insights, very simple. Start with the most obvious. This will make more sense as we progress. Are you ready to begin?

STEP: Relaxation

[If the Meditator wants help to get into a relaxed state, use a suitable procedure.]

When you are completely relaxed, you can tell me by moving your finger. Take as much time as you need. I will check with you in a few minutes.

Are you relaxed?

[If yes . . . ]

STEP: Induction (addressing the voices)

[When the person is relaxed . . . ]

I am now going to help guide you down a path. With their permission, I'm going to speak to the various voices who hold the keys to the gates along this path. Some of these voices want to be heard; others may be reluctant to come forth, but I want to assure you that it is with the intent of bringing you towards peace and joy and fulfillment that we are doing this exercise. Each voice is important, and so each voice that needs to be heard will be.

It is completely safe for these voices to separate and speak out on their own behalf and yours. They play a vital role in your being and play a vital role in your journey to enlightenment. There is no need for censorship; just let the aspects of yourself speak freely and openly. There is no judgement here, only understanding and awareness. These voices have manifested themselves to serve you in this human existence. After listening to them, I'm going to ask for their permission to step aside for a while to help reveal your true Self, of all time, all worlds, of everything and of nothing. This is our goal on the path we follow. With the help of your voices willingly surrendering the keys they hold, you will unlock the gates along the way to your Self.

Ready? Signal with your finger.

[If yes . . . ]

May I now speak to the controller?

[Proceed based on answers given and intuition.]

What do you do?/What is your job?/What is your role?/What is your function?/What are your duties?
What do you want?
How big are you?
Where are your boundaries?
Will you ever stop doing what you do?
Why are you important?
What are the benefits of your presence?
What are the disadvantages/dangers of your presence?
What are the disadvantages/dangers of your presence?
Are you appreciated? Needed? If you weren't around, what would it be like? You have a very important function and need to be appreciated.

[At a point of completeness or surrender, ask . . . ]

Will you do me a favor? Would you allow other voices to speak so that your true Self can have complete and total access to what is? [alternatively, to be with the non-seeking, non-striving mind?]

[If yes . . . ]

OK, thank you for giving access to a clear channel.

[At the conclusion of talking with the controller, ask permission to speak to other voices. Let the person name the voice that rises in consciousness for him or her.

The following are possible other voices.

The Skeptic
The Vulnerable Child
The Protector
The Damaged Self
The Fixer
Seeking Mind
Non-Seeking Mind
Academic
Wounded Animal
Fear
Anger
Competition]

Whom am I speaking to?

[Proceed based on answers given and intuition.]

What do you do?/What is your job?/What is your role?/What is your function?/What are your duties?
What do you want?
How big are you?
Where are your boundaries?
Will you ever stop doing what you do?
Why are you important?
What are the benefits of your presence?
What are the disadvantages/dangers of your presence?
Are you appreciated? Needed? If you weren't around, what would it be like? You have a very important function and need to be appreciated.

[After exploration of each voice . . . ]

Would it be possible to step aside for a while?

[Yes/No]

Are you ready to step aside now?

[If yes . . . ]

Thank you.

Is there another voice who would like to speak?

[If yes . . . ]

Whom am I speaking to? etc.

[In the event of some apparent blockage or disruption . . . ]

Who am I talking with now?
Is there anything else I can help you with? that you need to say?
Everything is all right. Everyone is safe. Would it be possible for me to speak with [previous voice] again now?

[If yes . . . ]

Thank you.

STEP: Are all voices set aside?

You have set aside the different voices that compete for attention. You can experience your true Self. Reside here. I will be quiet now. Move your finger if this is OK. If you have another voice that needs to speak, please speak.

[Allow 15 minutes of silence.]

Are you ready to come back? Move your finger if you are. Otherwise I will remain silent.

[Allow more silence then repeat.]

[If yes . . . ]

STEP: Reintegration

I am going to slowly help you return from where you are. You can remember this space or place and return anytime you want.

The voices I have spoken with may now take their proper places.

[Slowly name several of the voices the Meditator mentioned.]

STEP: Awakening

When you're ready to return, come back into your body and this current life on the slow count of three, remembering what you have just experienced and knowing it's always there any time you wish.

One. Your eyes slowly open.

Two. Refreshed and radiant with vitality, wiggle your toes and fingers.

Three, begin moving and raise your head, fully awake.

Proceed from this moment forward, thanking yourself and the universe for the shift that has occurred within you by opening your mind and heart to its power.

__________
* Special thanks to Colleen Grimard for substantive contributions to this protocol and her interest in and willingness to be a guide.

Cozumel

[Before I arrived, I was obsessed with a kind of human geography. What was it like? Thus the first released some of this energy. Then the music and colors of the everyday caught me. The second part. I realized I could not finish either to the extent I wanted to, and that they deserved. Thus each part is unfinished. An exercise in the end, I guess.]

1

San Miguel, a town of about 80,000 residents, sits on the leeward side of Cozumel Island, and swells to 100 or more thousand when tourists come to stay, or multiple cruise ships disgorge shoppers. Known as Cozumel, the town is laid out in a grid with streets running north and south and east and west, many one way.

From the sea in the west moving eastwards, there is first the main tourist shopping street, Rafael Melgar. It runs north and south of the center where ferries from the mainland arrive and depart. The east-west street dividing the town roughly in half is Benito Juarez. Melgar is lined with shops for about ten long blocks, and beyond this, luxury hotels and condominium projects are scattered north and south. They mostly avoid the foot and taxi traffic that make Cozumel's, if you can call it this, downtown bustle. The shopping and tourist area continues from the center eastwards two blocks till 10th Avenue, a main thoroughfare running south to north. Thus forms a rectangle about ten blocks by two blocks for English and Spanish speakers, pedestrian friendly and colorful, where the tourists police in khaki shorts safeguard the economy.

Continuing east, another section of town begins on 10th. This is mostly a locals shopping area, dotted with small hotels and houses with room-for-rent signs. This area includes a locals market for daily food, necessities and sundries. This section runs to 30th Avenue, making another rectangle about ten by four blocks.

North and south of the center from the sea eastwards, bordering both the tourist and locals shopping areas are posher neighborhoods where the wealthy absentee, expatriate, or sunbird hides behind high walls and imposing facades. These neighborhoods mostly shed their foreigners around 30th Avenue.

Extending six blocks from 30th eastwards and bordered by the outskirts of town north and south, there is a mixture single family and small apartment houses, small businesses, and all manner of eateries and miscellaneous services, many situated in the front or as a part of private homes. There are several large stores for building materials and such along 65th, another main thoroughfare.

From 65th north and south and east to 100th or more, there are neighborhoods and parks and mom-and-pops and bars with cement floors and plastic chairs and tables, a landscape of unfinished dwellings, and some that look as if they have been constructed using the last hurricane's debris.

A short canopied jungle borders or surrounds all developed areas and encroaches onto vacant lots and wherever it can. To the north of town, there is a military base and the international airport. Further, opposite luxury condominium and high rise hotels, there is a golf course with several resident reptiles on about the tenth T.

The town will grow into the jungle areas as the population grows. A public-minded housing project of 1,000 very small and modest homes begins to rise beyond the current southeast outskirts near a state university branch campus.

Running through town in roughly a north-south line is high ground, from one or two meters above sea level to about eight, less than a town block wide. Although logically a desired location to avoid overflowing streets when it rains, this raised spine of limestone hosts structures as diverse as the non-tourist areas of town itself.

Local sources and incident records show Cozumel to be a safe place, but there are neighborhoods where caution is wise. The tourist areas are carefully monitored by different police forces. However, as safe as these areas are, everyone local is being paid by someone or some business to hook any foreign looking person into a place of business to spend money. Dollars exchange hands more often than pesos, and competition reigns. Prospective customers hear the offers of another adman as the pitch from the previous has hardly settled into the distance of a few steps away. It is a feeding frenzy when the streets are crowded.

The central Plaza, Benito Juarez, draws tourists and locals alike each week for concerts, extravaganzas, fiestas. One block from the Plaza the, Church of San Miguel rings its bells daily and nightly for services for locals and shy or curious others who listen from the sidewalk and pedestrian areas.

2

Pastel skies greet the early riser while a tree iguana big as a tomcat watches and waits in a tree.

Shacks and shanties outnumbered by other dwellings not much better, unfurnished, concrete and block, graying in the sun, washed by warm rains, dark holes with dirt or wood floors, hammock limited in sway for the moped that serves also as necessary furniture just inside the doorway.

Adult-sized tricycles, two wheels front, carrying silent Mayan women, slowly peddled through neighborhoods, morning and evening by older men. Or carrying wares announced by a monosyllabic clap or bell or horn or whistle. As if to say, "I have this today. Don't hurry into the sun. I am not going anywhere very fast. I can wait for you."

The rains down pour as if from the bottom of a bucket with peso-sized holes. Streets flood and deep waters carry waste flushed up from shallow sewers incapable of taking it all away for hours or a day and a night. Or the waters drain into underground caverns which take it somewhere, some say out to sea.

Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep. A truck broadcasts bottled water or cooking gas for sale, up, down and around the corner and into the distance, now and then interrupted by the silence of an unseen purchase.

Boom boxes and street speakers stationery or mounted on beater cars or the semblance of trucks. They tell the world of promotions, a salsa band, candidates, or they just infiltrate the days with rap and base. The many heartbeats evidencing life in a something other clime.

Front porches and entries of private homes morph into eateries. Up to five ride on scooters meant for one or at most two. Penniless and barefoot, they ask for money and are offered food. Swarms of mosquitoes chase editable you if a jungle explorer you dare to be.

Musical horns and drums and groups of marchers practicing for imperfect exhibitions celebrating what? Each after dark or early in the morning for hours getting ready for or having events that have all in uniform but not quite in step.

Gringos and romantics walk, bike and drive to the western shore for an unobstructed sunset that along with steep, tall clouds turn the edge of the world into a single-performance-only spectacle.

Behemoth boats belch forth shoppers and hedonists for daylight diversions. Some only reach the mall at the foot of the pier. Others venture up and down the main seaside street. A few penetrate interior avenues till the local scene intimidates, or their vessel beckons them back blaring hoarse horns not to miss the scheduled departure.

Dogs lie lifeless in scrapes of shade. If not homeless, they sit atop roofs and fences in the evening protecting property when it is cooler. Some do not survive the night for another listless day, slain from neglect or taken by exacerbated natural causes.

Tourists and locals come and go and discover money is either easy to spend or hard to come by. Best make the best of things while there's work to be done or things left to see and do before the glitter and magic fade and it is there you are and life's like that again another day.