Benjamin Franklin Broke my Alarm Dog

Tomorrow morning at 6:03, the invisible hand of Benjamin Franklin will reach to my bedside and wake me from a sound sleep.

I am in my office, the floor littered with books. I call it research. Next to me, flowing over the recliner is a wild dog.

I had no idea she was a wild dog when, a year and a half ago, we strolled the aisles at the pound. All we knew was, of all the cages and all the pens, of all the dogs, this small fawn-coloured pup, at eight months old, bread unidentified, was the only creature that was silent. She watched us as we walked up and back, as we inspected the dogs for the one that pulled at our hearts. We passed her by. She was too old.

But my son kept returning to her, staring at her through the kennel chain link. At that time it had not occurred to me she was the only silent pup there, the only dog not making an unholy racket. We had walked once through, looking at Corgies, Beagles, far too many Pits, Catahoula after Catahoula after Catahoula, and there was this one dog I could not identify and, still, second time through, silent, to which my son lingered closer and closer. Of course she was still eight months old so we walked again, fully planning, at least I was, on coming back to the pound once a week or so until the right dog arrived.

It was my birthday week. Forty-three. We were finally settled in our new old home, in a new practice, retired from an old job and marketing my new book. I wanted a dog.

It is never a good idea to get a dog. Never the perfect time. Just like a child, that perfect time does not exist, never comes. But the opportunity did, the timing was, my son and I were and my wife was not. So all the stars aligned in as perfect as it gets and we went to the pound.

And he kept going back to the fawn-coloured eight-month-old unidentified pup.

We grabbed a leash and opened the door. She sat there. We put the leash around her neck and she sat looking up at us. Silent. It seemed she wanted to be carried. She, already a bit too big for that, I, bending at the knees because I do love the sound of creaking so, we walked out to the yard - a father carrying his too-large child. Once there, once down, she walked by my side. When I ran she trotted right with me until I found myself on my back, staring at the sky, my leash-arm behind me, head slightly ringing. Fawn-coloured eight-month-old unidentified walked over and stared into my face. Apparently, she had decided to stop and have a liedown. At the door in from the yard, she stopped to be carried again and looked with disdain at the other dogs. Never a sound.

“What kind is the mute one?”

“We don’t know.” This was the Pound-mistress talking.

“The paper on the kennel says lab question mark. She’s not a lab.”

“Nope. But we have to write down something and we have no idea.”

“The paper also says she is untrainable, incorrigible, does not know her name and is an escape artist. Can you tell me anything good about the dog?”

Poundmistress explained to us they must, by law, write what the owners say when the dog is dropped off. But, and she moved close to my left ear, this family kept the dog out all day and let her in only late at night, never trained her, never called her by name. It was her opinion she was a good dog with no training that got stuck with a bum family.

We left, knowing what was going to happen. We should have pulled her papers and plunked the cash but I wanted my wife to see her.

And we looked back at her as we walked from her line of sight.

I planned on softselling the dog, working my wife up to a trip toward Eau Gallie and the pound with promise of old pottery and fresh fish. Instead, my son got to her first, with the pound open but one more hour after she got home from the practice. He told her we were going to the pound because it was only fair, daddy says, for her to see the dog we’re getting. This resulted in the need of much more in the way of promises.

Fine. In the car. Grab a Philly steak sub knockoff. On the way we talked about the description on the kennel door and what Poundmistress said about fawn-coloured eight-month-old unidentified.

Get to the pound, walk in the second time that day, into the building and quickly past the cats at which my wife sneezes and itches, out to the dogs and to fawn-coloured eight-month-old unidentified.

The noise was awful. The barking, whining, howling. All but her. All but fawn-coloured eight-month-old unidentified. She sat at the kennel-front and looked at my wife.

“She is eight months old,” says Lee.

“Yup.”

“At least she’s a mutt.” My wife insists on mutts.

“No idea what she’s made of. Just random dog.”

We opened the gate and repeated the carry-out to the yard. She behaved perfectly, silently. When Lee noticed fawn-coloured eight-month-old unidentified never made a sound, that was all it took. Sixty dollars on the counter, come back in two days, a sad look back from my son and an even sadder look at him from fawn-coloured eight-month-old unidentified.

The sign on the door said her name was Dusty. A common, non-descript name. Alek called “Dusty” and fawn-coloured eight-month-old unidentified perked her ears straight, sat at attention with the widest eyes I had yet seen on a dog.

Two days later we picked her up, groggy from the morning’s spaying, and she was cuddled home.

Within a week she was housetrained. With the help of Robert at Petsmart, we got training to train us to train her. Within a few weeks she walked with us, ran with us, leash or none. She sat, stayed, came and laid down. And in this time, she still did not bark.

I remember the day she did start making noises. It was late afternoon. Someone in the house was laughing. It did not sound familiar. I peeked into Lee’s office and nothing on Stargate seemed the least funny. No surprise there. I asked Alek but he said he’d heard it too and was looking for the source. He, too, thought it was his mother laughing. Dusty followed us.

Giving up, we each went back to what we were doing, Dusty in Alek’s room this time and I again heard it. Alek, running from his room, looked up at me and said, “That was her,” pointing to our dog, “and that is the strangest sound I have ever heard.”

When she is satisfied after a meal, and she eats sparingly, never gorging, she’ll spread flat on the floor and a low, guttural sound, not a growl in any way but from someplace deeper, more bass-rumbly, will resonate the room. When she wants something, she will open her mouth and high-pitched whistle talk to us. If she could manage to make it any louder I am sure the few remaining bits of household crystal I have not already broken myself would shatter. If we forget to feed her, she will stand by her bowl and whistle. If there is low water, she will nose it and whistle. When we come home with bags, she will not jump us but will instead back off, sit at the couch and, when the bags are down, lay back over the couch arm, belly up, and whistle for us to pet her.

Once, on a morning walk, Dusty and I passed a student of mine. I had been out of teaching for some months then and my neighbourhood is full or ex and barely-ex students.

“Mr. Tritt. “ I can’t get them to stop calling me that. “Is that your dog?”

“Sure is.”

“You have a Dingo?”

“I do?”

Apparently she had been studying Australia and was more than a little surprised to see a dingo walking with last-year’s English teacher. More and more people asked us the same thing. A bit of research, a check with people who should know and, sure enough, we have ourselves a wild dog. Once upon a time I wanted a wolf. I’ll take my dingo dog any day.

Far from being a baby-eater, she is the most gentle of creatures. She will instinctively sit with the infirmed, laying her head on a lap, patiently allows little ones to pet or pull or poke. She seems to have no preference for any particular member of the household and will become mopey if any one of us is away for too long. If one of us is not feeling well, she is nearly impossible to move from the sick one’s feet. When Lee had a week-long flu, Dusty was in the bedroom doorway all day and slept next to her, half under her, under the bed, all night.

She will walk through a crowd with ease and not give other dogs the time of day no matter how much they bark. She has barked on occasion but rare enough that, when she does, we listen, we get up, we see what’s there.

Dusty the Dingo Doggy went from being a good dog to great dog to wonderful companion we look forward to coming home to, one that can stay in the house by herself, will walk out the back yard when the gate is left open only to sit on the front porch and wait for us to remember we had forgotten to let her in. She plays ball with herself, tossing it into the air and catching it again on the way down.

And there is one more thing she does - Dusty wakes us each morning. As the sun rises, as it starts to colour our south windows, she walks into our room, whistles, puts her front paws on the bed and jostles Lee’s hand with her nose.

Neither of us has ever been a fan of alarm clocks. This is perfect for us. Up with the sun, more day in each day, awake in plenty of time to eat, shower, dress, do what needs to be done and get what needs to be got. No jingles, jangles, bells or chimes. A whistle and a paw.

Each day, slipping slightly more than thirty seconds later toward the Summer Solstice and back as the Winter Solstice approaches.

And then came Benjamin Franklin and he screwed it up.

We are big fans of Franklin. My wife from Philly and I from his quotes, quips and scientific queries. There is more to Franklin than most know. Sure, he was a notorious womanizer but, as seen for the times and locations he lived, that seems to detract little from establishing libraries, the Postal Service and newspapers as cultural standards. It does not detract from the creation of bifocals, which I steadfastly refuse every time I get my eye checked (The ophthalmologist checks them both but I’m not sure why he bothers. I think just look to see the other one is still there.), the flexible catheter (which I also have no experience with) the lightning rod, the Franklin stove, odometer and more and more. He invented the Glass Harmonica, an instrument of ethereal aural beauty (which, in the early days gave off lead dust but I accept we all suffer for our art).

As people who would be happy if our televisions got only Discovery, History and the Science Channels, that means quite a bit. “Well done is better than well said.” Ben, I agree.

But one thing he did that is fully, forever unforgivable was the creation of daylight savings time.

To be fair to Franklin, he did not really invent it. He suggested though, while living in Paris, Parisians should be woken each morning by bells and cannonfire so the stay-ups would tire earlier in the evening and conserve candles. He published this suggestion anonymously.

But the idea was taken up again, later, by William Willett who started pushing the idea in London in 1905. While good for local business that feed from late-shoppers, the original idea of saving candlewax is no longer quite as valid as once was. Electrical savings are found to be nonexistent with usage simply shifted to the dark morning hours in summer and dark night hours in winter in an economy that does not work simply dawn to dusk. And international commerce certainly suffers though not as much as agrarian economies still tied to daylight.

In the past, clocks were simply adjusted through the year to divide the day into twenty-four equal parts. The hours got a little longer or a little shorter and things ran quite fine that way.

We think with all our technology we can’t run that way now, but with some areas on DST and others not, we still become fully fowled up. Even in areas that do use DST, there are pockets that do not and time zones that opt out which, this month, are an hour behind and next month are not. Some US counties even opt out.

I say make six am the time when the sun comes up. We can certainly make clocks that can handle that. If the day is a bit longer, we have a few extra inter-hour minutes between five and six am. If shorter, fewer, but six comes when does the sun.

That way my dog would not be broken.

She was waking us at 7:16, then 7:15, 7:15, 7:14 and, the next day, gently, whistly, at 6:13. Daylight savings time had ended. This morning, as the sun peaked in through the windows, it was 6:04. Next week it will be before 6:00. Come DST again our dog alarm will move ahead one hour and, try as we might, we can find no dial or button to adjust her.

Fifty Years Earlier

If I were born fifty years earlier

I would sit in a café in Paris,

Trade wit, find work writing copy

And critique, adventure in the arts and love,

Drink dark coffee and absinthe.

I would meet people in occluded rooms,

Crowded stations, and hush

Listen carefully, I will only say this once,

Pass small slips with single names,

Hide men in my attic,

Wonder about tomorrow.

If I were born fifty years earlier

I would say the proper brucha

Each morning, listen to my papa,

Go to yeshiva, study Talmud,

Marry whom I was told.

I would look toward the steppes

And one day see the horses,

My small town in smoke,

My footprints and cart tracks behind me,

Hope for a ticket of passage,

Wonder about tomorrow.

If I were born fifty years earlier

I would go to school

In the town with everyone else,

Shop in the markets,

Consider myself a citizen.

I would one day hear the crashing windows,

See the walls built, the paint flow,

The armbands and the army trucks,

Wonder what we had done,

Avoid the uniforms,

Wonder about tomorrow.

Remembrance

For Val, because, once she reads it, she'll swear it was written for her.

See? I'm always right. Just like Ivanova.

Remembrance

It was a chance meeting,

After ten years,

Four children,

And eight hundred

miles between them

The convergence of

Chance and induction

brought them together

In a flurry of electronica

And passionate remembrance.

Memories in fluid

passed between them,

Alternating currents of

certainty and doubt,

Gravel tossed in a pond

Posing ripples

with every surface struck

Names remembered,

events reviewed,

Who said what to whom

In ever broad

concentric bands of

Year after year.

And still,

one story looks

Nothing like the other,

Except, for now,

Building from this point on

A story in concert,

One stone dropped

to a still,

empty pond.

Fugue State: Fugue on a State Memo for Four Voices and Dog Barks

---

Long ago, in another lifetime, in a land called Gainesville, Florida, in a time called the mid to late nineties, I worked for HRS (Health and Rehabilitative Services, not the House Rabbit Society). During my tenure as a social worker (food stamps, AFDC, Medicaid), it became DCF (Department of Children and Families, which we called Decaf, same lousy service but half the caffeine), bosses came and bosses went. My caseload grew, diminished, morphed into other caseloads, but no matter what changes, the job remained the same. I swear, one of these days, I will write about it. Maybe a book. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll stop paying your taxes.

Once, my supervision (I was a Public Assistance Service Specialist, or PASS, and my supervisor was a Public Assistance Service Specialist Supervisor or PASS II) went from Susan Einman, a woman any of us in her “unit” would have killed for, to a fellow whose name I cannot remember and any of us would have killed. My boss went from a literate polyglot who manifested the very essence of understanding and compassion to an obsequious, smarmy, condescending chimpesque proto-human pencil pusher. There was little to do but retaliate. For the next five years that is exactly what we did, myself, W.D. and A.C., (no, you can't know their names yet) in prank after prank of falsity, forgery and fun.

Some day, I swear, I’ll write about it. Maybe a book. You’ll cry. You’ll laugh. You’ll be glad you paid my salary.

One day, a memo, one I did not forge (I really should check the statute of limitations on the falsifying of federal documents before I publish this) came across my desk. It was from my new boss, the obsequious, smarmy, condescending little proto-human pencil pusher we called Monkey Boy for his habit of hanging bright red Eisenhower jackets on his bony bod—a vestment that would have been more at home on an eighties dance floor under a flashing disco ball but still a bit over the edge even for Disco Duck. He looked like an organ grinder’s monkey. Monkey Boy.

Susan was always afraid I would call him that to his face. I think she almost did once. I hope so.

The memo was horrible in all the ways writing can be: awful, terrible, atrocious, worse. It was badly worded and those same badly worded bits were repeated again and again and again. It pressed a point Monkey Boy didn’t need to make to already disempowered, demoralized “workers” (that was what we were called) who didn’t need the point pressed.

I was, at the time, studying fugues. The musical kind. Not the kind where one realizes, after twenty years in St. Louis, raising a family and having a meaningful life, that one is really from Des Moines and has (or, to be fair, had) an entire other family, life, job and name. Not that kind. But, for longer fugues, one can see the relation.

The memo passed my desk. The pattern of repetition looked like a fugue to me. I was caught up with my work, as usual, and had nothing better to do. Even if I had, art called and it was time to write. The memo was deconstructed and reconstructed. Barely re-written.

A fugue is meant to be performed and this was no different. After a few readings, it was set. It was scheduled for the Gainesville Spring Arts Festival. Time to get cracking. We had a fugue to perform. But we was still me. I needed people. Four of them. I needed a clock. One of them. I needed a dog.

I had none of these things but I did have Moon Goddess Books, my own store. A book store with lots of unconventional arty types. A Pagan store with folks who would be delighted to do something to slam The Man. A café where people got buzzed on caffeine and, in their mania, could be convinced to take on nearly any manner of whacked-out project. A fugue of a government memo. A fugue of clocks and dogs. Yes, this fit.

We found our folk and set about arranging the vocals. We had a month to prepare and rehearsed as often as bi-weekly. Grueling.

Four voices. Some parts were done together and some parts separately. Some by two and some by four. How did we choose? The performers did so by how it felt. One German Shepherd, whose bark was downloaded from a sound effects recording, barking randomly, or so it seemed. I wanted the barks to stand out as jagged jolting. A recorded clock getting louder and louder as the fugue progressed, the voices getting softer as the fugue came to an end, the barks harder to hear through.

The performance time came and I am gratified, still, that it went without a hitch—or at least none that anyone but myself and our four performers, two guys and two gals, would have noticed. At the end the applause hesitated. Perhaps because the audience was stunned silent or perhaps they were confused. I was happy, and still am—either or both being a desired result of the piece.

Strangely, wonderfully, the person who wrote the memo, Monkey Boy himself, was there, and did not talk to me for quite a while. Those were a great few weeks. Eventually he had to speak to me though. But never was the fugue mentioned.

No recording exists. Not yet.

________________________________________________

Fugue on a State Memo for Four Voices and Dog Barks

Most of you already do this, and I thank you. Customer service is the key and one of our values is PEOPLE. Thank you for your assistance in this matter and see me if you have any questions.

Most of you do this. Customer service is the key. One of our values is PEOPLE. Thank you for your assistance in this question.

Most of you do customer service. One of our key values is PEOPLE. Thank you for this question.

Most of you do this key value. PEOPLE thank you for this.

Most of you do this.
Most of you do this.
Most of you do this customer service.
Customer service.
Customer service.
Most of you do this customer service.
Customer service
Customer service.
Customer service is the key.
Most of you do this.
Most of you do this.
Most of you do this.
Most of you matter.
Most of you matter.
Most of you matter.
Most of you question.
Most of you question customer service.
Customer service is the key.
Customer service is the key.
Customer service is the key.
This matters.
This matters.
Customer service is they key.
The value is the key.
They key matters.
PEOPLE matter.
PEOPLE matter.
PEOPLE are one of our values.
PEOPLE are one of our values.
The key is the value.
We value the question.
Value the question.
Value the question.
We value the key.
Value the key.
Value the key.
Value the key.
Value the key.
Question the key.
Question the key.
Question the key.
Question the key.
We value the question.
Value the question.
Value the question
Value the question.
Key question.
Key question.
Key question.
We question the value.
We question the value.
We question the value.
Question the value.
Question the value.
Question the value.
Question the PEOPLE.
Question the PEOPLE.
Question the PEOPLE.
Question PEOPLE.
Question PEOPLE.
Question PEOPLE.
Key PEOPLE.
Key PEOPLE.
Key PEOPLE.
Key.
Key.
Key.
Key.
Key.
Key.
Key.
Key.
Key.
Key.


Values







PEOPLE

---

Seven Questions for Craig Smith

Craig Smith is an author and web designer, a translator to and from dead languages, the well-respected and well-read author of the blog Notes from the Dreamtime, the translator of The Inclusive Bible and a shaman. Even better than that, he is my exceptionally good friend.

Craig has been interviewing interesting characters for some time now. But no one has interviewed him. While I could not believe such an oversight, I sought to correct it. The result is below.

Enjoy.

________________________

Late Monday night, Adam emailed me and asked, "So who's doing your interview?" I replied that he was the first to offer. On Tuesday morning, these questions appeared in my mailbox. I replied that he was the cruelest human on the face of the planet.

His questions both terrify and exhilarate me, which I guess means they're good ones.

1. You spend much of your time, it seems, as an editor. Thurber once wrote about editing, "Editing should be, especially in the case of old writers, a counseling rather than a collaborating task. The tendency of the writer-editor to collaborate is natural, but he should say to himself, "How can I help this writer to say it better in his own style?" and avoid "How can I show him how I would write it, if it were my piece?"

Do you prefer to be an editor or collaborator? Or do you play both roles or either role depending upon with whom you are working?

The latter. It depends entirely on the writer.

A good writer—that is, one who has a strong writing style and a good command of the language—needs minimal editing. Then the task is to find overt mistakes (which the writer in haste simply didn't notice), and occasionally smooth over rough passages where the writer's intent doesn't come through clearly. I am very careful not to change their style, and yes, it's very much the role of a counselor.

The vast majority of writers fall into a second class. They're not great writers, they're just writing as a means to an end. These I take a heavier hand with. For a while I got a reputation for being able to cut a piece in half without the writer even realizing he or she had been edited—"You make me sound so good!" is a comment I've heard more than once. For them, I honor the writing style they're trying to establish, but which they haven't quite succeeded in creating. For them, I am definitely more collaborative.

Occasionally I come across bad writers. Honestly, I want nothing to do with most of them. I don't want to read them, I don't want to correct them, I just want them to go away. A few are on the bubble, and if I like the individuals at all, I absolutely want to show them how I'd approach it if it were my piece.

2. You once traveled, though shortly, rather extensively across the U.S. Whether you were in search of something, drawn by something, or leaving something may be of debate, but travel you did, and you wrote about it rather extensively in your blog before stopping short. Many of your readers might think you stopped before a revelation or just at the point you found a portion of your travel unresolved.

A Zen monk once asked, "It is the same moon outside and the same person inside, so why not sit?" Does location really make a difference or is it the process of transition? What did you gain? What did you lose? What is stuck? Could you have done as well staying at home? Does changing location change the person?

"Many" of my readers? Really?

Did I stop just before some major revelation? I didn't think I did, but maybe you're right. I had gone all revisionist on it in my mind; I thought I had stopped writing about the trip shortly before I took that long break between last December and this April, but it turns out my last Big Trip post was in March of 2007. I was shocked when I realized that.

Let's see, when last I left the story, I had just visited Little Bighorn and was heading toward Bozeman. And I guess I do view Bozeman as the gateway to the most significant part of the journey. It doesn't feel like I'm afraid to dig deep and expose something important, but my behavior may be telling another story. I'll have to look at that.

That said, each trip post takes a long time to write. At the time I remember thinking I wanted to do some lighter, faster, easier posts, to take a little break. But you and Indigo have rattled my cage long enough; I'll have a new Big Trip post next week.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but that trip changed everything for me. You know how a lot of people personify Nature, talk blithely about the Web of All Being, and speak of divine immanence as being "the Goddess"? I knew all that, intellectually, but on the trip (somewhere in Washington, if I recall, but I haven't checked my notes in a while) I had a palpable experience of it.
Does location really make a difference? I have no doubt that it's possible to have any important growth experience in any number of ways. The same truth keeps knocking on our house until we let it in; sometimes it comes in by the door, sometimes through a window, sometimes down the chimney or up through the floorboards.

But for me, it was important to go out on my own, with two thousand bucks in my pocket (and no credit cards), in a car that really wasn't all that road-worthy, to follow a quiet but insistent tug in my heart—a "calling," if you will; to camp out in the national forests and wildernesses, searching for some essentially spiritual experience, rather than trying to go sightseeing; to be utterly alone with my thoughts and the world for an extended period of time. All of which I don't think I could have gotten sitting at home.

"What did you gain? What did you lose? What is stuck?" Tough questions. I gained an understanding of the living, nonphysical energy that interconnects everything in the material world. I gained a hunger for greater personal and physical freedom. I opened the door just a bit to becoming more authentically myself and less what others expect me to be. I lost a parochial worldview, a limited image of who or what God is. I guess I'm still stuck in Comfortville (I laughed as I typed that, because everything in my life seems the opposite of comfortable): I don't need to risk my life, physical or emotional, right now. I'm all initiation and no completion. As one of my favorite (and one of your least favorite) poets, T.S. Eliot, wrote:

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act . . .
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow.

3. It has been argued that cues for discrimination that are obvious, such as gender or color, are of greater import than those which are not, such as religion or gender preference.
Is this so? Has discrimination affected you and, if it has, has this been your choice to reveal what could be occult and accept the discrimination as burden?

I don't know that obvious cues for discrimination are of greater import as much as simply inevitable. When you can't hide, the bigots have a more obvious target.

I came out in 1982, at the age of 26, shortly after my father's death. I used to describe it as feeling a cloud of judgment over me had been lifted. In time I came to feel that my father had been a convenient excuse for my not being true to myself. On the other hand, when we decide it's time to make a change in our lives, I think we probably use whatever tool or trigger is at hand to aid us.

For me it was all tied up (as just about everything is in my life) with my spiritual journey. I was wrestling with the realization that the God I knew intimately and the God of conservative theology (and much of society) were in conflict with one another. I knew that my God valued truth in the inner being above all else, so I knew I had to speak the truth about my sexuality even if it meant being damned for eternity: to save God, as it were, I had to be willing to give up God. And the moment I did, I knew that love and acceptance and was the ultimate truth, and nothing else mattered.

I can't say I've faced a lot of discrimination. Some of it is because I'm not terribly fey (though I'm not terribly butch, either), so many people just assume that everyone is straight unless they announce otherwise. And I don't wear buttons or have gay bumper stickers, and I tend not to announce it unless or until it comes up naturally. On the other hand, I tend to correct people if they make invalid assumptions about me, because (a) it's nothing I need to keep quiet about, and (b) it's no big deal. The older I get, the less I care what anyone thinks. To quote that old philosopher, Popeye, I yam what I yam.

In the '80s, I lost dozens of gay friends or acquaintances—thirty-two to AIDS, one to a gay-bashing incident, two to drug or alcohol abuse. That was pretty awful. And I've seen lots of discrimination; I just haven't been on the receiving end, except for having a few bottles (and epithets) hurled at me. Annoying, but not that big a deal—just some drunken rednecks.

So I don't feel much of a burden, honestly. I once had a dream in which I was standing at the creation of the world, and God said, "This time, would you like to be straight instead?" I thought a minute then said, "No thanks, I'm quite happy the way I am." It was a very satisfying dream.

4. Your religious and spiritual experiences are not quite within what we might call the common American experience. How do you define your present spiritual life? How have you come to where you are? Do you find your spiritual life effective? If so, are you more a spiritual materialist than purist—in other words, do you practice to build ego or to gain something, regardless of what that might be, or for the practice itself? Where do you think you are going with it?

I am an animist because I see all natural phenomena as alive. I'm a pantheist because I see God as synonymous with the material universe. I'm a panentheist because I see God as interpenetrating every part of nature and extending timelessly beyond it as well. I'm a Christian because for me Jesus is God enfleshed, and teaches us how we too can become God enfleshed. I'm an adopted Jew, a God-fearer who learned Hebrew to read the Bible in its original language because I wanted to know what YHWH was really saying. I'm a Buddhist because of the life and teachings of Siddhārtha Gautama, and the silence, and the kōans, and the still point. I'm a Hindu because I revere Ganesha. I'm a Yoruba because I was visited one night by the orisha Shango, the sky father, the god of thunder and ligntning. I'm a pagan because I honor the natural rhythms of the earth, the sun, the moon.

But beyond all those classifications, I am a shaman, because shamanism, stripped of its cultural overlay, is simply a toolbox. It's how the human brain naturally accesses nonordinary reality. It's plugging into the way the body and the psyche can be balanced and healed. And it's what underlies all human religion and spirituality, the barebones of our Selves, if you will.
How have I come to be here? Wow. I guess it's just a straightforward process of following where my heart and spirit have led me. I would say it's a combination of the theological and psychic shattering that my coming out afforded, and working through decades of chronic depression until I came to understand myself and God (or spirit or the Universe or whatever terminology you want to use) and the world in a radically different way.

I'm not sure what an "effective" spiritual life would be. Does it give me comfort or meaning? Yes, definitely. Does it make my life work better? Yes and no. It doesn't make me more "successful," particularly as the world defines success, but it gives me tools to deal with many of the challenges I face, and gives me a context with which I can understand the world better. But I can't honestly say I practice it as a means to an end, as a tool to get something or become something.

It all comes back to that ineffable Call, the music from the Piper at the Gates of Dawn. I'm like a dog snuffling the air, forever following the scent, wherever it may lead.

5. We all have traits that are annoying. Some of those traits, when found in another, are deal-breakers and we simply cannot abide them. What traits can you simply not abide in others? Which traits mean “I’ll not deal with that person,” and why? Which traits send you running? Of those traits, how much of each is found in you?

When I was a good deal less self-confident (and those of you who know me well will be rolling on the floor by now, because you know that deep down I am a mouse afraid of his own shadow), I was in a relationship with someone I believe has Narcissistic Personality Disorder. One day he gave me a collection of Jane Kenyon's poetry, and told me to read a poem called "Biscuit":

The dog has cleaned his bowl
and his reward is a biscuit,
which I put in his mouth
like a priest offering the host.
I can't bear that trusting face!
He asks for bread, expects
bread, and I in my power
might have given him a stone.

He didn't need to say so, but I knew I was that dog to him. And more often than not, I was given a stone instead of bread. Much has changed in me since then, and such cruel treatment—toward me, or toward anyone, frankly—is intolerable, and provokes a fierce reaction from me.
I can't abide liars, though I understand the impulse all too well: the need to protect oneself at all cost, even when telling the truth might be so much easier in the long run.

And yes, the cruelty and the lying that I hate: both of these are parts of me. I don't know that I hate them because they are in me; I know that I have worked hard to overcome them in myself, and so perhaps I am like an intolerant ex-smoker. I don't know.

I am impatient and short-tempered with people who give poor customer service (I used to teach classes in how to go above and beyond expectations when dealing with the public). And I am intolerant of people I call "willfully ignorant," who seem defiant in their lack of education or gentility. Perhaps this intolerance is a form of intellectual snobbishness, but I hope it's because I love the language so much that when people abuse it, it's like spitting on something sacred.
Occasionally I'll run across people whose "vibe" makes me want to either run away or (more likely) do them bodily harm. I can't explain it. It's nothing they've done or said, really, or maybe it's everything they do and say. It's a reaction so visceral and so strong that I have to step outside myself and say, "What in the world is that about?" So far I haven't found an answer.

6. Tell me about poetry. You say you are not a poet. Why have you said this?

Payback is so unbecoming, Adam.

I am not a poet because I am clumsy at it. (And don't tell me that lots of people say they are poets who write perfectly wretched poems. Just because a mouse is in a cookie jar, it doesn't make him a cookie.) I can sometimes shape prose with enough felicity that it sings; poetry needs a much sparer touch, which I don't often have. Generally the best I can do is take a prose poem and break it into shorter lines.

What I think I do have is a poet's heart. I think Deloney is a natural poet, despite the fact that his poems always look like paragraphs. Indigo Bunting sometimes comes up with phrasings that are breathtaking. I can see poetry in words. I can even edit poetry pretty well. But I think my natural element is prose. Maybe I just need a larger canvas to say what a poet can express in a few brush strokes.

7. We each have ways we make others suffer. Most of the time this is inadvertent or, at least, not on purpose. How have you made others suffer? Was any of it purposeful? How have you made yourself suffer? Are you doing so now? How and why? To what end?

I have been cruel. I don't know if my cruelty made them suffer, or if they just shrugged it off. On the other hand, our actions have far-reaching consequences, and even acts of charity may have caused suffering, while acts of deliberate meanness may have brought someone to a new and better place.

I have certainly wanted to make a few people suffer, to make them feel what they put me (or others) through. I have wanted them to have a taste of their own medicine.
But me—ah, that's the person I have been the cruellest to, both deliberately and inadvertently. I have a running tape in my head (I guess we have to change that metaphor now, don't we? No one uses tape for recording things anymore!) that tells me what an enormous failure I am, how I always let everyone down, how I never live up to my potential, how stupid and petty and worthless I am. I think I am starting to hear it as old, worn-out programming, and I am trying to say "No, that's not true," and replace it with something that heals those old self-inflicted wounds.

Why is that programming there in the first place? Some of it stems from my childhood molestation. Most people who are abused spend their lives trying not to feel dirty and worthless. Some if it is habit—we keep repeating the things we've heard repeated over and over; we don't question, don't object. We're sheep at heart, especially when the critical voice in our head is our own. We just say, "Yes, you're right," without questioning it. One of the blessings of meditation is that you get to see your thoughts as just thoughts, without attaching any value to them. You get to look at them dispassionately, then decide if you want to keep them or not. So I'm trying to rewrite the old self-destructive script, and I'm making progress. But I don't know that I'll be finished anytime soon.

Six Absolutely Nonspectacular Things about Me.

I have been tagged by Indigo Bunting. So that means I’m It. This is, if I read correctly, a meme. I don’t know what a meme is, other than something cried again and again by a spoiled child. I could look it up but I won’t. – it is a seldom thing I do not know what a word is and I am rather enjoying the experience.

It appears the sort of game one plays on Facebook. Yes, I am on Facebook. What, I can’t have a virtual life? Like my social calendar is so full I can’t afford some quality pixel-time? It’s the sort of game one would play, as well, sitting in a campfire circle with nothing better to do, on a long car ride or crushed in a shuttered two-bedroom, one bath house with three families for four days while one waits for two hurricanes to decide what they are doing although I recall that game being six reasons not to bludgeon Adam.

Since these things have never been spectacular, saying they are now un seems a bit silly. So, in the interest of temporal and causal correctitude, here are six nonspectacular things about me:

1. I put the cap back on everything. Toothpaste, deodorant, spices. Everything. I close the lid on the toilet. (Always fun in the middle of the night to hear my wife curse about that. Especially when it’s cold out.) I’ll spend the afternoon looking for a missing cap.

2. My eyelashes are way too long. They make streaks on the inside of my glasses. Always have. Bloody pain in the ass.

3. I love the smell of the mold that grows on flagstones inside homes. The smell of musty books too.

4. If you walk on my left side or too far over on my right I don’t know you are there except for the sound you make as I repeatedly walk into you. I usually don’t hear that though because after the second time I’m laughing too hard.

5. My favorite bit of writing in the world is Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman, an appropriately named fellow as he is a physicist who studies light. He has a Ph.D in Literature and in Physics. The writing is elegant and clear, has a rhythm that transcends the beauty of most music, a cadence that dances in the air moments still after the words have passed. It is to be read aloud and, in my home, is again and again. It is romantic, it is grounded, it is warm and stark. It is to what I aspire and do not achieve. It is a worthy goal for which I thank Lightman.

6. A certain part of my body bends to the left. Only one percent of people have that. But the bend is small and, really, fully nonspectacular.

(Craig wrote this part. I feel incredibly lazy. I am not rewriting it.)Tagging, I understand, obligates those tagged to write a similar post in their own blogs. So I hereby tag Alane, Susan, The Mongolian Monk, Laura-Sue, The Amok Monk and Val unless they have already been tagged by others, in which case they need to tell me so I can find someone else to tag. (On second thought, don’t.)

Meme Terms and Conditions

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Mention the rules on your blog.
3. List six unspectacular things about you.
4. Tag six other bloggers by linking to them.

A Better Wife

I am posting this, originally a response to a post on Route 153, a blog by a woman I know only by the name Indigo Bunting. She lives in Vermont, several universes from here, and is an editor friend of an editor friend. That is a double editor. I’m not going to argue with that. So when Craig said try writing short form and Indigo suggested posting my reply, a bit long, to her blog entry “Girl” as an entry of my own, I complied. I know what’s best.


“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.” Audre Lorde


My wife claims I am a much better wife than she.

I am not sure she has worn anything but dungarees in over two decades with the exception of three occasions. I can recall each of them. One wedding, one bar mitzvah and one charity event. I wish to point out that wedding was not even our own. To that we each wore dungarees and t-shirts. If I count pagan festivals, over the course of the last twenty-five years I think I might actually have worn skirts and such more often than she. Makeup? Ha! Cooking? My territory.

Sewing the holes in the clothes? Mine (after she threads the needle for me).

Her shoes are as sensible as can be - Merrels made for standing. The blow drier is never used except by my son. She is a pick the clothes from the pile, wash’n’go, no frills cheap-date of a gal I adore more than the bright stars and the loamy Earth.

And I don’t dare take her into a lesbian bookstore or I need to fight to keep her. I do this as often as I can.

If there were continuum for gender-behaviour, with guyishness staff and girlishness distaff, my Lee would be a bit right of center. I would be a bit left. It all balances out to who the hell cares.

But she does like her purses. Stone Mountain, Dooney and Bourke, Coach. She looks and looks and looks but never bought. She tells her patients they need to ditch their purses and use backpacks. She follows her own advice on this.

Last birthday she decided to treat herself to a purse she had long wanted. A Stone Mountain bag. She spent nearly two hundred on it. She used it for two days and returned it. Not worth what she spent. She was cured.

Then, a few months ago, I found at a local auction a Prada bag. I grabbed it for $35.00. She is delighted. She has her girlie-bag. It is a back pack, of course.

As far as myself, well, I don’t build, I do garden a bit but I do not do lawn work. Fix the house? HA! My father and wife, many years ago, got together and sold all my powertools while I was on a trip. For my own good, they told me. I didn’t argue. Of course, that is the same way I ended up moving in with my wife. That is a different story.

I love opera, but I always retranslate the songs. They are all about cows and barnyard life.

I would rather have a migraine than watch football. Really. I find them less painful and more interesting. They also don’t last as long.

I’ll play soccer but watch sports? Like on a TV? No thank you.

I use the same Jansport backpack my wife complained I overpaid for, at $35 dollars, when my daughter was three. That was twenty-three years ago.

I don’t tinker with my car. I sold my truck a few weeks ago. The truck festooned with breast cancer awareness magnets and a sticker that said “Real men change diapers.” You know, a real guy truck.

Not fitting into a set role makes it easier to allow other people not to fit into roles either.

Ok, now to rebuild what feels to be my diminishing masculinity, I’m going to go tell my wife to cook something and have her get me a beer.

I’d better go buy some beer first. And make dinner reservations.

I Love Creosote

I love creosote. Not just the smell, which many people, if not most, find hard enough to believe, but the feel of it as well: the tacky frictional darkness under the fingertips. I love the smell of it as I roam the lumberyard, search out the scent, get closer and closer to a board with just enough of it to get my hands on, my nose close to sticky yellow.

The feel of creosote is harder and harder to find. The smell, though, is not so difficult to come by. On the occasions my wife will drag me to a big-box home improvement store, for it is she who likes the gadgets and tools, not me, I will wander to and stall in the lumber area casting for whiffs of it. If there is an exterior lumberyard, all the better because the outside temperatures tend to drive the creosote to the surface and, if not the creosote entirely, the scent, certainly.

This has been my habit as long as I know. I remember if from Sunday station wagon lumber drives with my father as he would choose boards, plywood, two by fours for whatever project was next on his list. Back then there was more creosote to smell as it was used much more than today, much less discriminately. It was everywhere, oozing from the wood, down the stacks, to the ground. The lumberyards stank of it if I could to, it was heavenly.

One might think these memories are why I love then scent so. Association of a smell with a pleasant memory. True, smell is our deepest, most primal sense, nestled far within the limbic system, the part of the brain we share with lizards. Scent will bring an emotional response more easily and to memories more distant, more faint, than any other sense and it can do so even if the memory itself is lost. The emotional content is still there and scent will bring it back.

But it cannot be so with creosote. These forays to the lumberyards would be followed by build-time where I would be conscripted to help measure, which I never did well, cut, where the sound of the saw would have me doing as I do today – picturing myself falling on a whirring blade, losing bits of my body. Later, as he worked through the night, I, tired, would never hold the light quite right, shine it in the right place. The hammer and power tools would have me holding my ears. Home projects often ended in violence. None of this comes back as pleasant. I never looked forward to trips to the lumberyard. Except, of course, for the creosote.

My brain likes the smell. I like it. Love it. Always did. And that attraction to the scent must, somehow, be separate from those experiences.

When I lived in Gainesville we had an apartment near a wood treatment plant. Koppers would take lumber and pressure treat for exterior use, in playgrounds, in buildings, for gardens. In Gainesville they made utility poles and marine pilings. This involved copper and arsenic. This involved creosote.

Never mind the ninety-four acres of Cabot/Koppers is one of the top superfund sites in the United States. Never mind one could grow a garden in the area but was strongly suggested to not eat the produce one grew there. I could smell the creosote so it was all fine.

Still, today, if there is a roof being tarred, I will linger. If there is a road being resurfaced, I will open the windows of the car or raise the visor of my helmet and breath deeply. Still.

I also like camphor.

An Open Letter to the Obama Campaign and the Republican National Committee upon My leaving the Republican Party

Senator Obama,

I don’t know if anyone in your campaign will see this. I am sure your staff gets so many letters and responses to the notes it sends out that I am sure many, if not most, must be summarily deleted. Regardless, I am writing because I wanted to state something.

I am (OOOPS! WAS) a registered Republican. I would tell the folks, during election cycles, the ones who called on the phone, those who emailed, those who knocked at my door or asked me for support at public events, that I supported the platform but, at this point, rarely the candidates. It has been about fifteen years since I could vote for a Republican candidate. Some Republicans I see eye to eye with but mostly, lately, I do not. I would tell those asking for contributions or support I would be happy to donate and put in the work when the party, MY party, stopped being hate-mongering hypocrites and became more honest and centrist, became as it was during the days of Lincoln, as it was supposed to be - became as it was during Eisenhower when, in his farewell speech in 1961, the general warned us against the military-industrial complex. He coined the term, as you know. He knew what he was talking about.

Not long ago Garrison Keillor made the point that, as a Republican, he was ashamed of the way the party was acting. He wanted the Republicanism of Eisenhower not the Republicanism of hate. He wanted the Republicanism he knew as a child and had come to trust. The one that worked to end segregation. Not the one that legislated division. The one that worked to increase our freedoms, not curtail them.

Well, I can’t stomach it anymore. After the second night of the Republican convention, I officially changed my party affiliation to Democrat. After hearing the hate and disrespect issue from the mouth of the governor of Alaska I felt I had no choice. Sarah Palin pulled the plug on what was, for me, the painful lingering death of my loyalty to a political party. I visited my government center the next day, changed party and I sent my old voter ID card to the Republican HQ with a note. With THIS note. I wanted it to arrive during the convention so I over-nighted it.

You had my vote from the start but now, you have me in the party as well. I just donated and I’ll carry a sign. Get me a yard sign, a phone list, whatever. We can’t let those hateful hypocrites in office.

Adam Byrn Tritt, M.Ed

This I Believe

About two weeks ago, riding in the car with my wife, we were listening to about the only station, locally, anyone is likely to find in our car – NPR. After the story about the upcoming political conventions the series “This I Believe” aired another in its weekly essays. I have written for the project, which can also be found in print, and while I cannot say I listen faithfully or find every one of the essays a treasure, a few stand out. I can remember hearing them and (this is the important part as a writer) they had an effect on me. As a writer, I could not ask for more praise or better praise. The sheer beauty of writing aside, if a work is forgotten, if a reader is not affected, then the sound and glory are nothing.

My favorite is by Penn Jillette and is called “There is no God.” As much a fan of Thoreau as I am, I cannot help but wish he had written this. It seems to be what he was trying to say through much of his time at Walden Pond. The essay is transcendentalism without the deism. It is a wonder of words and I am appreciative.

What we heard that afternoon in the car was by Sufiya Abdur-Rahman and is titled “Black is Beautiful.” It echoed so much of what I had written on the topic of the dark and lonely side of the headlong rush to assimilation and the expectation that we should all want to fit into a homogeneity so stark that we should have trouble telling each other apart. I am not a fan of Hyphenated-American-ism but what is wrong with have identities? I guess I am more a tossed salad American than a melting pot American.

I was moved to write Ms. Abdur-Rahman. It was rather hard to find contact information but I managed to do so by looking her up on MySpace. I sent a note to her from her MySpace profile.

Ms. Abdur-Rahman,.

I am writing to thank you for your essay on NPR.

As a second generation American, it has been my belief we need not be like everyone else to be an American. Indeed, it has been pointed out, and I feel truthfully, the differences among peoples are one of the things that have made this the amazing country it is. I applaud you essay for pointing out we can be, and should remain, who we are at our core.

I am Jewish. I was raised in the North and now live in the South. I have taken my children to see the Civil Rights Memorial in Montgomery to look upon the names of the heroes there and have pointed to the names of the six Jews next to the rest of those who fought for freedom. I have shown them the my parents took pictures of, when we moved to Miami, that said “No Niggers, Jews or Dogs Allowed.” I have explained that giving up our heritage means giving in. And we held on despite my daughter’s high school beatings for being a dirty Jew, the head start teachers command our son should learn to be a Christian so he can “pass” when he needs to, my own difficulties attaining academic posts because I did not attend the right kind of church.

We moved here during WWII. It was my feeling, after having lost two-thirds of my family, that it would be a slap in their faces to assimilate. My parents though, my grandparents, said “assimilate.” They spoke Yiddish. My parents understood it. I can do neither. Now my daughter, 23, and I are relearning what we lost. We have a long way to go.

Your essay brought the importance of that back to us. I applaud what you are doing and bless you for your struggle.

Adam

Adam Byrn Tritt

Did I get a response? You bet. It was quite a heartfelt note back and I shall not share it here. If you want a note from Sufiya, write her yourself.

Seven Questions for Adam: An Interview by Craig Smith

I’ve known Adam Tritt for a few years now, though it simultaneously feels like forever and no time at all. He's a kindred spirit with enough significant differences to keep things interesting. His blog, Adamus at Large, is where he publishes essays and poetry. He doesn't post as frequently as any of us would like, but when he does, it's an incomparable feast of words and ideas.

(Note from Adam: To make this as authentic as possible, I did no revision and answered all questions given without reservation and as the responses came to me. What you see is what was written the first time. I looked back at not one question. I wanted this to be as conversational as possible and not a prepared document.)

1. Why are you a poet?

I am not a poet. What a strange question. To call myself a poet would be terribly presumptuous and boorish. Not only that, but it would set up an unfair expectation and then I’d have to perform. Sit, Adam, sit. Show the folks how well you poe.

I am not a poet, I simply think metaphorically. I think in metaphors about everything. The contents of the world—whether we believe they originate from within one’s head, are a combination of that which is without and the experiences and expectations from within, or come wholly from within one’s head—always rumble around and find things to connect with. Everything is a metaphor. Since I don’t see terribly well and remember nothing of the visual world, I think in words. So I get a picture or a sound and I make them into words.

Well, enough of that and my head fills up, so I write. I can’t stand not being understood so I revise and revise and revise, cutting out everything that is not meaning because I’d hate for people to think something I didn’t want them to. My goal is to lead them to the same metaphoric feeling and understanding I experienced. By the throat, if need be. By the hand, if I can. Though truthfully, by the throat is much more fun.

The poetic model allows me to do this in a way that is deceptively short so people will read it. Otherwise I’d have twenty-six page essays.

I then put it out there for people to read, on the blog, in magazines, in anthologies, and in my own books, because part of me believes Descartes: I publish, therefore I exist. Besides, I like the fan mail and the undies that get thrown at me.

Of course, none of that explains why I also write twenty-six page essays.

Asking why I am a poet is very much like asking why I have two legs. I can’t help it. I’d have a prehensile tail if I could. My wife would love that. It would be like in Venus on the Half-Shell. But I don’t. So I have two legs. So I think metaphorically. So I put everything into words. It’s burden. It’s a pain. I’m simply built that way. It’s not my fault, I swear. I blame my temporal lobe. I once filled an entire sliding glass door with poetry. I write on my office walls. I write on people if they stand still long enough and give me enough exposed area.

2. Your first public reading was at a clothing-optional event, and you performed in the nude. And you've written about your visits to the local nude beach, and clearly have no problem with nakedness. On the other hand, you write about how you wrestle with body image, and seem to feel ashamed when you are battling weight. For me, being fat means I don't want anyone to see me naked, even though I thoroughly enjoyed my one and only visit to a nudist resort, and am a closet naturist (I've even been skinny-dipping in my neighbors' pool while they're away, when I go over to feed their cat).

So how do you reconcile that dichotomy? How do you find the freedom to be nude with others even during those times when you feel discomfiture over the way you look?

Because I’m ornery. Because, unlike dancing, which scares me silly and I force myself to do, or parties, which scare me sillier and I don’t force myself to do, reading poetry at a clothing-optional gathering flies in the face of so many conventions I have no choice but to do it. I teach myself my fears are meaningless and my self-judgments are baseless and thumb my nose at society at the same time? Hell, where do I sigh up? Can I do it twice?

You can walk all the fire pits you want, jump out of airplanes hoping the chute opens, bungee-jump from any bridge you choose, but for sheer fright, read your poetry in front of a crowd while wearing nothing but glasses.

I always reserve the right to not reconcile anything. No need. What makes sense anyway? I am about as dysmorphic as a fella can get. I just got over yo-yo binge and starvation. I no longer run three miles because I ate a piece of bread. That ended last Thursday. A friend who knows me better than well (bless you Joyce) will notice the look in my eye as we are out to eat and take away the menu and order for me. It’s insane. And so, through all this, while I thumb my nose at the culture I live in I simultaneously thumb my nose at that part of the culture that lives in me and is discordant with my world-view, or at least the view I would like to have of the world.

In my mind, the more I push this particular illusion, the thinner it gets and, sometimes, I can see clearly through it and know it is untrue.

There is another part to this as well. I want the walls, those illusory walls between self and other, to disappear. I want the illusions to go away. I am happiest when I cannot tell self from other. That is a theme in my writing. That is a theme in my spiritual practice. That is a theme in my massage practice and in hypnotherapy. That is a theme in my life. Maybe I know it is true and I am working to make it happen, to experience it as much as possible and bring that to other people as well. Maybe I am just trying to convince myself that it is so. Which depends on when you ask me.

And let’s be clear—I do not seem to feel ashamed when battling weight. I have, in this area, a self-disgust that is deep and abiding. It’s open 24/7 and never takes a vacation. I am not sure where it came from and I’m not sure when it’s going, but my job, since I can’t seem to shake it, is to be happy anyway. Happy with the world around me. Happy with myself. My job is to thumb my nose, even from within, at anything that keeps me from being happy, at anything that keeps the illusion of separateness alive.

Besides, I am awesomely cute.

3. In both “Funeral, Expurgated” and "My Grandmothers Came from the Ukraine," you talk about the quandary a writer faces over how much personal or familial information to reveal and how much to conceal or change to protect the innocent (or guilty). David Sedaris, when asked if his books should be filed in fiction or nonfiction, replied, “Nonfiction. I've always been a huge exaggerator, but when I write something, I put it on a scale. And if it's 97% true, I think that's true enough. I'm not going to call it fiction because 3% of it isn't true.” And I can’t remember which writer says that the first duty of a writer is to kill his family—that is, write as if there were no one to offend, no one who would be upset if secrets were revealed.

So how have you struggled with the issue of “truthiness” in your writing? And what kind of fallout has there been among friends or relatives when you’ve revealed something that they would rather keep quiet?

Some of what I write falls into the category of New Reporting or New Journalism. Some into creative non-fiction. But, regardless of what I write, I have never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

Many have made the mistake of thinking every piece I write is true just because most of it is non-fiction. So the poetry must be as well. Sure, some of it is but much of it is not. Poetry can be creative storytelling just as much as any other type of writing. My daughter never gathered angels in a field. My wife never complained about her life over coffee as I dreamed of moving west. But with few exceptions, what I write is based on the amazement of that which makes up everyday life. So I did almost hit a wall while she was changing in the passenger seat and the monk did make the spoon stick to his nose. But just because most of it is true does not mean it all is. I reserve the right to tell a story from time to time.

Given that, those who read me know if you see a name in the essay, the account is true. Percentage? If you see a name, it happened. If you see my name, I reserve the right to make my life what I choose it to be. If that is after the fact, then that is just fine with me. My memory is fluid.

That said, there are some things I just don’t write. I don’t write things I feel will hurt a person or compromise them in some way. I have made that judgment incorrectly from time to time but I never set out writing knowing what I am putting down will hurt. I can’t do that. It’s not in me. Even if the person has done me harm, I won’t.

There is so much out there to write. There is no need.

As far a narrative therapy goes, that is the truest account, the most full exposition I can manage. Your example of "Funeral, Expurgated" is narrative therapy. So is "The Shadow." I write them so fully, so completely there is nothing left inside and, in the end, the content is all without and not within.

Many fail at narrative therapy and are sure it does not work. But they just write it once and get it out in the immediacy of the moment. That is ineffective. To work it must be revised and revised and revised again, experienced over and over in the writing, pared down, blown up, filled and emptied until it is all truth as you see it, until it reads like drama and feels real to one and all. Then, and only then, is it out.

In the essay you mentioned I spoke about the potential fallout a writer can experience and the fear that can engender. My wife, I mentioned in the first paragraph or two, said she cannot grasp the bravery of writing in tha manner. Sometime, neither can I.

But I did not think I wrote anything that would hurt anyone. As my daughter had pointed out, if they thought what they did was wrong or embarrassing, then why did they do it? One would think they felt their actions just fine and so why not record them?

But I did hurt some feelings. After it was out for a while my mother calls with some confusing story about an email and a letter and whatnot. It took me quite a while to put the bits together and figure out it was about the essay. The feeling was, I gathered, that I had aired the family’s dirty laundry in giving the blow-by-blow account of the funeral days.

I have a very small family. Now, it is much much smaller.

4. A casual reader of your blog may be confused about your spiritual inclinations. Are you a Buddhist? A Jew? A Unitarian? A Pagan? How do you reconcile all your disparate beliefs? Or are they really disparate after all?

I am a Jewitarian Buddhaversalist Pagan. What could be more clear than that? I follow the shamanic elements in Judaism as well as in Buddhism but find Buddhism and Judaism are quite similar in their emphasis on tikkun and right action.

I am, of course, a panentheist. But I am also a solipsist and once attended a convention of solipsists where we spent the entire weekend trying to figure out which of us it was.

I spent ten years studying with the Center for Tao and Man. Master Ni told me I had the cosmic egg. What difference what I call it? OK, so I am a Taoist. I follow the watercourse way and sometimes that flows through Judaism and sometimes it washes me into the Thai Buddhist Temple where the abbot explains to me the deeper meaning of the Kol Nidre.

After many years of attempting to reconcile seemingly disparate paths, I have stopped any attempts at reconciliation. The result is that all things now seem much more similar and it becomes more and more difficult to see the space between them or recognize there are differences.

Besides, name one cantor who does not like to be accompanied by a rattle or drum.

5. Tell me about turtle shells.

[Note: I had a turtle shell that I brought out whenever I did any group shamanic work. Every time Adam was present, he clutched the shell as if it were a talisman or protective shield. And when I do energy work with him, particularly when I use quartz or amethyst crystals, he seems to find the shell soothing, since my energy feels "edgy," for lack of a better word. It became clear one evening that the shell wanted to go and live with Adam.]

The carapace is the dorsal, convex, magical part of the shell structure of a turtle, though a turtle would argue it is concave. It consist primarily of the ribcage which is a strange concept because there is never any chance of the ribs escaping. The spine and ribs are fused to bony plates beneath the skin which interlock to form a hard shell when blue and yellow make green, locking freshness in. Exterior to the skin, the shell is covered by scutes, horny plates that protect the shell from scrapes and bruises. Underneath they are made of backhoes.

They are alternately named Don, Horace, or Filbert.

They are not like crystals at all.

They go wonderfully with a cup of papaya juice and Northern Exposure.

One called to me for a year before it ended up coming home with me. It was playing hard to get.

If you lie one on your stomach, you might not have seizures.

Turtles don't mind.

6. A dear friend of mine named Geralyn said an old chum once told her, "You know what's so wonderful about you, Schulz? You can't sing worth a damn. But it never stops you!"

I know you love to listen to music—music of all genres, music that makes you think and feel, with a smattering of Broadway just for good measure—but I think you like making music even more. Singing for the joy of it.

I remember a workshop you conducted on chanting. It was something everyone could do even if they couldn’t carry a tune. And there’s that wonderful Yom Kippur piece you wrote where you imply that chant and prayer and incantation are different aspects of the same thing.

So what does singing give to you, or do for you, that other forms of creativity do not?

Everything sings. The Earth sings from beneath and around us. Everything on/in/apart of it sings. We come out of the Earth and go back into the Earth and, therefore are never apart from the Earth, and so we sing. Any part of a whole carries the nature of the whole. So I do a whole lot of singing.

I think everyone should. And, no, it does not matter if the person can carry a tune. Sing. We are made of an Earth that sings and it is a function of our bodies. We get caught in subjective notions of quality which we mistake for objective ones and which we then assign value to. People do not sing because they are not good at it. But we do many things we are not the best at. We don’t see people refusing to walk because so many other people do it so much better. So sing.

Music reconnects me to all that is around me. I can disappear as a separate entity—the illusion of disconnection evaporates—when I sing. When I am singing with others in harmony there is an experience that is ecstatic, in what I feel is the true sense of that state: I am outside of myself. The harmony creates a larger sound that is made of but is not simply the voices that create it. The harmonious vibration is larger than the sum of the voices. Larger and different. And that applies holographically from the macrocosm to the microcosm, and fractally from the microcosm to the macrocosm.

What is it that vibration does not do, is not made of? I remember someone wrote somewhere in some well-known book something about “In the beginning there was the word; the word was in God’s presence, and the word was God.”

Names, sounds, create things. And it is the naming that creates separation and, therefore, identity. It is my feeling that what wounds can also heal, and sound heals. Singing heals. Music heals. The cantor sings to the congregation the holy words. We chant holiness. Incantations create. All is sound.

Other forms of creativity are, for me, secondary. They are derivative. They pale. To learn to write I took music classes. My writing exists because I do not play an instrument well.

7. I actually went back and reread every single entry in your blog this evening. I teared up at a few, but mostly I smiled. Or sighed. I am honored to know you.

One of my favorites (though to pick even a Top Five would be next to impossible) is Day of the Manatees. There’s a quote by Henry Beston that we both like—in fact, we’ve emailed it to one another, forgetting that the other had already sent it to us—that goes:

We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.

If you’re a panentheist, then you believe that God (however you define the concept) interpenetrates every part of Nature. My friend Tim has a wood carving of a fish; on the side is painted the word COD, except that the bottom of the C curls in just a tad too much, making it halfway between a C and a G. It’s the God Cod. (Or, for the dyslexic, the Dog Doc.)

Speaking of dogs, here’s my second favorite zen kōan: A monk asked Zhàozhōu, "Does a dog have Buddha nature or not?" Zhaozhou answered, “Wú!” (Wú means “no” and “non-being,” and is also the sound of a dog’s bark.)

There doesn’t seem to be a question in there anywhere. Hmmm.

How’s this: Manatees. Dogs. Cod. Us. God. If all our separateness is maya—illusion—then do manatees bark, and does God swim in Turkey Creek?

Hafiz tells us:

Ever since Happiness heard your name
It has been running through the streets
Trying to find you.

And several times in the last week,
God Himself has even come to my door—
Asking me for your address!

If God can come to my door, I am sure God can swim in Turkey Creek.

The Ox Butcher

There is a Taoist story about an ox butcher. I heard Gary Snyder tell it not long ago. I won't repeat the story here, but I will retell it.

Cannelloni beans, about a cup,
Five or six diced garlic cloves
Chopped quickly with a knife so well fit,
So sharp it enjoys being picked up, used, cleaned
Then used again on a turkey wing
Too large for one meal, too much for flavoring.
The blade slips within the joint, between the bones,
Into the space,
Through and around
So the wing is divided
But what cutting has been done?
The beneficial is achieved by allowing things to do
what they do.
Force your blood to flow.
Force your heart to beat.
Force a wing apart.
What a mess.

Place it all into a clear pan, add some coarse salt.
Allow it to cook.

Graduation Speech

I graduated massage school this week. I was asked to give a speech at the graduation.

So here is what I said on Saturday, August 16th, 2008. Three minutes and fifty-two seconds.


*****

Good afternoon.

I have never attended one of my own graduations before. Primary, secondary, high school. None. College. None. Confirmation of neither graduate nor postgraduate degrees ever moved me to attend a graduation. Never have I desired to attend a graduation. Not until today.

Twenty-six years. That is how long I have waited to arrive at this point. While some of these students have seen the ink barely dry on their GEDs, some of us have had one, two or even three careers before coming to this point. For some, this has been a dream a long time coming.

In my case, I had spent a quarter century in public service as a social worker and, then professor and teacher. As an eighteen year old I sat with my wife dreaming about when we would have a practice together, a holistic center, not knowing what our roles would be, but knowing what we wanted to do there. Then came work and children. Actually, children first. I got degree after degree as they became useful or increased my income or opportunity. But none did I want for the sake of my soul.

And so, twenty-five years later, by a fortunate turn, by hard work, by the grace of my wife, who, without doubt or exception, is the single most incredible woman this Earth has ever been graced to see, I was able to enroll, finally, in a program that, in her words, made my heart sing. The thought of practicing massage therapy did make my heart sing. So I cast my die, said goodbye to teaching and picked up study instead. I set my sights to get through this program. That was it. The first day I was asked who I was and to tell a bit about myself. I answered thus. I am asocial, not terribly nice and I am here to learn. Leave me alone. My classmates may agree with me, depending on who you ask.

A year later. Twenty-six years total waiting, and I am a hair’s breadth from working with my wife in our own practice. A dream we have had for more than half our lives. I am of more use than I have ever felt, more settled in my body than I have ever been and, closer to realizing our dream than ever before.

Further, I have discovered an interest in and have been exploring indigenous and shamanic bodywork practices and plan to continue studying and using then in my practice. Why? Because it is healing for me. Because I believe it healing for my clients. Because it makes my heart sing.

Now, each day I wake I can look forward to a short ride down the street, to being with my wife in a practice we dreamed about for so long and so long ago. That is what the last year has brought. That is what this school has helped bring to me. It is now up to me to take this and do something grand. Something that makes my heart sing.

I suggest you all do the same.

*****

My wife referred to it, over and over, as the white trash show. Tears were flowing everywhere. There was hooting and hollering. I was congratulated, by Craig for the skillful way I kept my eyes from rolling. Lee and Craig kept each other company, and sane, during the proceedings.

I was called to speak. Before I could I had to remove the box of tissues from on top of the lectern as I could not be seen behind it. Jennifer was not there, which emptied part of the meaning of the graduation for me, but I would read the part written for her anyway. I owe her that much, at the very least.

I spoke. But so did anyone else who wanted to and at great length. One kept referring to palpation but defining palpitation. Still, I am not sure what either was doing as the topic of a graduations speech. The last speaker was autistic. I am not sure what she said but it involved quite a bit of breathing.

There was theme music. “Brother Can you Spare a Dime” and “I Got Plenty of Nothing.” That is still beyond my ken. The owner of the school gave us each an extended Christian tract.

Midway through I left the students and joined my wife. The entire affair took nearly two hours.

Afterwards, I had a beer.

Reaching Out

A friend, a proto-friend, friend with a small ‘f’ as opposed to a Friend (though there perhaps is that possibility over time) is having a difficulty. I won’t go in to it. It’s none of your business. The nature of it is irrelevant. I did not go into it with her either.

But, through the wonders of MySpace, I saw she was distressed. How? She had changed her mood smiley-icon to “distressed.” That’s a pretty clear and public indication.

So I decided to mind my own business. That lasted a bit under five minutes. I wrote her, not knowing why I did, not knowing why I wrote what I did. I wrote as follows.

You should know if there is any way I can assist, if there is any way to help, you need only say so and I'll do my best.

One may attempt to pull oneself up by one's bootstraps, but it is tiresome and ineffective. It is the eye looking at itself or a finger attempting to feel itself. For this there are other eyes, other fingers.

For help: that is why there are other people.

Her response was thus:

Thank you so much...reading that instantly pushed my pride over on its big head! And that is not an easy task.

I had doubted myself, of course. It is my hobby, after all and I, while I don’t get paid, I am, in all other respects, at full professional, champion status at it. But I have learned, recently, to bull my way through doubt and act anyway. Ninety-nine percent of the time my self-doubt will be wrong.

But I wonder, when it is right, if I am to understand most of my doubt are old recordings, how am I to know the one time from a hundred when the voice of doubt speaks the truth?

I guess that is the time I will get hurt. It is better, I suppose, than hurting myself.

In the meantime, I have taken this step. I have reached out. And not to someone with whom I felt an instant kinship to, not to someone whom I feel I know for a thousand years and have remet, not a soul whom I have the joy of recognizing after long absence and feel barely parted, but to someone I hope will, over time, become a friend.

I guess, in time, I might get hurt. But it is better than preemptively hurting myself and it is something I should do more often – tell self-doubt and deprecation to take a hike, reach out, and help.

Like Water

My friend and publisher Craig Smith asked of me a task.

This is not a strange task, given I am studying massage and working in the medical field. It was not an unreasonable request, given the same. That it came over a Fuller's ESB (Extra Special Bitter) at a local pub was a bit out of the ordinary but if I discounted that which came at uncommon moments and from non-ordinary directions, my life would be rather empty.

He asked me to work on his mom.

Without going into detail, his mom is old. Yes, that is rather a meaningless word. Old means something different at ten than it does at twenty. Vastly different at thirty than it does at fifty. I am forty-three and I consider her old. This is fully because she acts old. I have, in fact, no idea how many years she has been walking the Earth. I do know, however many years that is, discounting her infancy and the last few years, that number of would be minus a bit over three. She rarely ventures from bed and, then, with great difficulty.

He wants me to do massage for her. Her lower back is stiff and painful straight across. She has little flexibility and movement. Far too much time immobile has left her atrophied and less likely to become mobile each day.

She can’t get onto a massage table. A massage chair would be a difficulty. I suggested I was not the person for the job. Perhaps someone experienced in geriatric massage?

A few days later I asked a therapist who teaches at a local massage school. Ron is familiar with my work: I have given him massages in the past and we have had discussion on method, practice and philosophy.

I asked him about working on Craig’s mom. I suggested a few salient suggestions regarding technique or set-up. He did not disappoint me.

He suggested bringing in a straight-back chair and having her sit on that, the wrong way, with a pillow in front of her. Good idea. That would allow me to get to what I needed and still leave her feeling secure. It would be more familiar than a massage chair and easier to get into.

I went on to say I said I didn't think I was the right person for the job.

I was quite surprised at the answer. He countered me with what, to me, is a compliment.

"You are exactly the person for the job. You are gentle and the energy flows through you. You are perfect for it. You’re probably just what she needs."

Really? Gentle?

My touch is rather deep, but broad. It is slow and, I suppose, I can see that, though not light, being sensed as gentle.

But energy?

I said I never felt the energy flow and then, it occurred to me, what an idiotic thing that was to say. One only feels what one resists. A wire only notices the energy when there is resistance. A hose only notices the water when there is a block.

After all, if you notice your eye seeing, there is a problem. If you notice your breathing all the time, feel the air in and out, there is a problem. If you can feel your heart stomping in your chest, see a doctor. When things work right, they are invisible. When the country is run well, the emperor is never seen. So the Tao teaches us. So nature shows us. That which works as it should is not noticed, has no resistance. That which resists is worn.

I think that is why I never trusted the energy workers who shook and quaked and moaned when working. And I never figured the more hot the hands of a worker the better the work. In a way, that heat is a sign of resistance just like a cord with too much power for the gauge. It’s a sign of resistance.

So, I resisted the compliment, of course. But I was countered again, later, by another. Jennifer, my friend of marvelous intuitive power, trusted fully, implicitly and wholly, tells me the truth without hesitation or reservation. When she speaks, I believe. Jennifer agreed instantly. Agreed as though I should have known this all along.

So, I guess I'm the guy.

And why am I always the last to know? I guess I just never notice.

There is a Picture of Me in my Daughter's Bedroom

There is a picture of me in my daughter's bedroom.
On her night table, it would be the last thing she sees
Before turning off her light.

It is a photograph of me holding her in my arms.
In it, she is one year old and I am nearly twenty,
As she is now.
In the picture, I am holding her
As I am now.

Last night she swallowed a bottle of pills.

There is nothing unhealthy in my daughter's kitchen.
Processed foods and artificial colours would never
Find their way to her table.

She is a dancer for the ballet and vigilant with her body.
She regards it as sacred and believes
Others should as well.
She has done her best to keep everyone
Full of life.

Last night she swallowed a bottle of pills.

There are no prescription drugs in my daughter's medicine cabinet.
She questions doctors on the rare occasions
She feels the need to see one.

She must know why she needs the pills and what they will do.
She regards them as foreign substances
She should avoid
And would not take anything other than
An occasional aspirin.

Last night she swallowed a bottle of them.

I have a picture of me in my daughter's hospital room.
On my night table, it is the last thing I see
Before turning of my light.

It is a photograph of me holding her in my arms.
In it, she is twenty-one years old and I am nearly forty.
A nineteen year constant, growing wider, growing wider.
In the picture, I am holding her
As I am now.

The Massage-esque, Non-acu-anything Table of Ultimate Promise

If you don’t feel well, if you need to get your blood flowing and muscles moving, take a walk. If you need medical care, if you THINK you need medical care, see an Oriental Medical Doctor, an Acupuncturist or Herbalist, see a massage therapist or even a good, decent MD, if you can find one who still remembers how to treat a patient and not a just a condition, but, for goodness sakes, see a real person who will put their hands on you, listen to you, look at you and actually take the time to see what is wrong, see you as an individual, treat you as an individual.

Don’t see a table.

I received a coupon as part of a drawing at a health fair. The prize I had won was a free month of massage, once a week, at a place which shall remain nameless here. I thought this strange because it was the same coupon/gift certificate I had seen lying in piles at a chiropractor’s office a week before. “Some prize,” I thought. Giving as a prize what one normally offers for free doesn’t exactly boost ones’ karmic brownie points.

Thinking I would give it a try anyway, I called to make an appointment. None needed? How many therapists do they have there that one doesn’t even need an appointment? Fine. It seemed strange but I thought I’d try it anyway. I jumped on my bike on a Saturday afternoon and headed into Melbourne.

A storefront in a plaza. Wide open view to the inside. People milling about. A row of six angled massage tables, or so they seemed, to the left side of the store. Each had a person on it, fully clothed, no draping, no therapist. At the front counter, a short line and, across from that, seating for six with four chairs filled.

I enter.

An old woman is at the counter asking about her next appointment. She will be seeing her MD between now and then about her diabetes.

She is told not to worry about it. The massage bed, yes, they called it a bed, will take care of it. The magic jade fingers will provide acupressure that will alleviate the diabetes.

The table provides, they say, the equivalent of moxa, acupressure, reflexology and massage as well as energy therapy. Further, I was told, using the Migun table means no need to exercise. as it will bring all the muscle movement and blood flow a body needs. Really?

A roller with, I am told, heated jade knobs, runs up and down the back shu points. Simply, up and down next to the spine. This is not acupressure. It is not acu-anything. It is not accurate in any way at all, as a matter of fact. And, of course, no diagnosis is done what-so-ever and certainly nothing that applies to any specific patient.

This, I think, standing there, is worse even than the Western medicine, one size fits all, treat the symptom not the person method. The most they do here is adjust the spacing of the knobs, those magic jade fingers, for the general size of the person.

She asks about her weight.

Don’t worry about that. Enough treatments and the weight will start to fall off.

I keep my mouth closed which is quite difficult for me even under the best of circumstances.

She hands them a check for six more sessions.

My turn at the counter. I hand them the certificate. It is unsigned. They don’t know where it came from, despite my giving them the location, time and circumstances, and don’t know how to assign the credit for the certificate. Somehow it becomes my problem and I must wait while they figure it out. I do wait a few moments and ask questions of the attendant left at the counter.

“Oh, it’s a wonderful massage.”

How do you all know what parts to massage or how much pressure to use?

“The table has variable pressure. We can turn it up or down.”

Just in general for all over or does the pressure vary by part?

“No, just in general. And it works on the back only. And the back of the legs and neck.”

What if I don’t fit on it, just in the right place. My legs tend to fall to the side.

“We can strap you in to keep your legs straight. That problem can be fixed with enough sessions.”

Since moxa is used for tonifying in a person who had a deficiency, what would you do if you had a patient who had excess?

“What?”

I was told I could have my turn in about a half hour and I could have a seat and wait.

I opted for my bike.

A month later I was assisting at a table at a Palm Bay city health fair held at out local community center. We had a booth there and we were one spot away from the Migun table. Again, I am leaving out the name of the outfit that was purveying the massage-esq, non-acu-anything table of ultimate promise.

As our practice is concerned with Oriental Medicine, Acupucnture and Massage, the fella at the table felt sure we’d be interested in purchasing a Migun table in our office, for the benefit of our patients. I almost never try the cure of the month club’s newest entry. But, as this one was offered, it was ten feet away, and I wanted to sit down, I thought it a sterling opportunity to give it a whirl.

I laid down and it hurt. Hard, knobby, pokey.

“I’ll adjust it.”

Knobs turned and the magic jade fingers moved closer together toward the space between the outer and inner urinary bladder channel about four fingers away from each side of the spine.

He turned it on. Was it badly adjusted? He said no. It hurt. Magic jade fingers rolled up and down the back of my legs and backside. Just hitting the wrong places nearly every chance they got. My legs turned to the side and the fingers hit bone. A separate set of magic jade fingers rolled up and down my back. They hit my scapulae, against my skull. A timer was set for five minutes and I was set to endure it for a fair trial.

About three minutes in I gave it up. Yes, he agreed, it often hurt. The pain would go away with many treatments as my tissues softened. Softened? Pulverised? Ok. Would the magic jade fingers also learn where the correct anatomical points were and stop ‘massaging’ bone?

How about acupressure? Oh, he said, everyone gets the same points done. The same meridian (inner urinary bladder channel).

Why?

“That fixes all the problems.”

Since moxa is used for tonifying in a person who had a deficiency, what would you do if you had a patient who had excess?

“What?”

I went back to my table.

Healing happens when a person, learned and skilled, finds the way you became ill and works to correct it. It is not done by a machine.

Sure, a machine may help. Electrosimulation is something we use with acupuncture. We might use a heatlamp. We find MRIs helpful from time to time. Precision lasers are amazing tools in the hands of one who is learned and skilled.

But don’t look to a table to heal you. Magic Jade fingers or not.