The Ampule - Episode Four - In which a friend visits

On the third night, my friend Jonathan came by. He let himself in and found me in my chair in the living room, surrounded by empty bottles of wine and take-out cartons.

We had spoken over the phone. (I finally answered the fifth time he had called.) He knew about the letter, the ampule and the incident at the diner. As he came in, I heard him stop by the fireplace, and then come join me in the living room, sitting across from me on the couch.

How's your hand?

It's fine, I said and held out my palm. The wound had scabbed over.

I want it out of my life, I said.

Give it to me, then.

It doesn’t belong to you.

What makes you think it belongs to you?

Someone knew that I understood it.

Understanding it implies having power over it, but it is controlling you.

I’m not superstitious.

But you think it has power.

Do you think I actually believe that if I open it, a genie will appear before me and grant me a wish?

You have been living under its spell for three days now.

Things, icons, aztec fetishes, crucifixes don’t have power per se, but they have meaning. And meaning has power.

So you don’t believe it is controlling you, but you are allowing yourself to be controlled by it?

It represents something. It represents potential. Hope. A belief that whether we deserve it or not, we can have one thing in life. Some one thing, that we don’t think we have the ability to get or to make happen on our own.

Why wouldn’t we deserve something we wish for?

Greed. Avarice. Guilt. It’s the Fisherman and His Wife. There are all kinds of reasons that make humans think they deserve something they don’t. We think life owes us. But it doesn’t. Even something that we have, life takes it away, and we feel it was unfair. We think life is unfair and that is why we think we deserve to even the score.

This is about her, isn’t it?

Nonsense.

You won’t get her back by wishing, you know.

Wishes are for the naive. This is about mankind. This is about all of history, all of human desire residing in this one small ampule. It’s about figuring out what that one question is. The one question that every genie waits for. The one question that will get to the core of his raison d’etre. That’s why genies, all throughout history, have been considered tricksters, jesters, cheaters, because they don’t give people the actual thing they wished for, but some twisted version.

Because they have been asking for the wrong thing?

Yes! Yes! They have been asking for more, better, prettier, richer, but never for the one thing the genie has no power to pervert, nor even any desire to pervert, but in fact has been waiting for some human to ask so that he can fulfill his mission to grant it. It’s the Faustian deal; it’s Pandora’s Box. It’s the same story, don’t you see? We are not supposed to open the genie bottle and ask, otherwise we will get all these evils instead of what we want.

But the last thing to come out of Pandora’s Box was hope.

Yes, yes, I know. Hope.

Then wish for hope.

Pfft! Hope is for the naive.

Then give it to me.

What do want with it?

I want to make a wish.

It doesn’t belong to you.

He sat there for a while. Then he opened the door to the patio, went outside and lit a cigarette. I sat in my chair and looked out into the dark night. Every now and then, like a harbor buoy that was flashing intermittent red, I saw his cigarette tip glow bright red.

When he returned he was holding a ragged page, almost torn at the fold lines.

Do you remember this? he asked.

What is this? This... this is a poem I wrote.

Right, read it.

I’m not going to read it. I’m not going to read my own poem.

Then I’ll read it.

Listen, I don’t need ...

Just be quiet and listen:

Before you blow

The power of wishes
comes with learning
they are not hopes
but acts of choice

The blessing of wishes
is awarded
when your acts
beget your choice

Yes? So? That's a poem.

You wrote it.

I write lots of things. Writing is to inspire. Do you think Moses never broke any of the commandments he was trying to enforce? My god, he killed a man! And I am sure he lied to his mother when she caught him with a sheep.

You don’t believe in your poem?

Nonsense. Of course I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have written it.

You know you can’t get her back, that’s what this is about.

Nonsense. You don’t understand that poem.

It’s about acting, instead of hoping.

Wrong! That’s exactly wrong!

What then?

It’s about choice. It’s about making the right choice.

Maybe, but that’s not what you said when we spoke about it the night you proposed to her. Do you remember? You and I went swimming afterwards at midnight in the South Branch of the Middlebury River.

Don’t confuse me with what I said yesterday. I’m no different than any other reader of my works. One day I think I understand it, and then another I’m able to dig deeper and figure out its real meaning.

Fine. The poem still stands, regardless of the interpretation. Nice thing about good poems. You are depressed because you have to make a choice.

What choice? A choice is between options. What are my options?

That’s your choice. Any option you want. And that’s why you are depressed, my dear Hamlet. Make a wish, or don’t. Embrace it or throw it out. Or just keep it on your mantel and move on. Ignore it.

I can’t very well keep it on my mantel and ignore it, now can I?

Then give it to me.

It doesn’t belong to you.

That may be, my friend. But it may not belong to you either.

The Ampule - Third installment

I set the ampule upon the mantel over the fire place in my dining room.

It should come as no surprise that I was unable to focus on anything else for the rest of that day. I must have eaten the American Goulash. I must have paid. I must have driven home without incident. It must have been in that same trance that I had placed the ampule on the mantel over the fireplace in the dining room.

Why did I feel as if I had gotten news of a death? It was through that kind of daze through which I moved. Without even removing my jacket, I lowered myself into my big chair in the living room. I sat there and it must have started unconsciously, but I found myself gently dabbing the edges of the wound in my palm with my thumb. I couldn't have gotten it from the ampule. I must have made that up in my mind afterward. Perhaps I cut it on the glass I tipped over? Could it have been from something under the table?

This ampule should have been a fun mystery. An intrigue. A riddle. Instead, it felt like a burden. An unwanted guest. Like a search and rescue crew who had come to deliver news. "We know there is hope but we have no details at the moment." And now he was still sitting in my house.

The letter would have provided details. "Herewith Venerable Antiques is sending you a piece you requested us to seek on your behalf. Please remit payment." Or perhaps, "As the closest relative of Mrs. Gertrude Geldhahn, you are inheriting this heirloom in accordance with her last will and testament." Or even a gift from an acquaintance whose handwriting I would not have instantly recognized. "Mathias, Saw this and thought you might like it, what with your fascination with such things and all."

But without the letter, the ampule was a silent sentinel. I did not need this taunting.

Was someone (who may or may not be associated with The Society) expecting a response? Was I beholden to someone for having and keeping this item? I couldn't return it even if I wanted. Where to? Was it a new version of a Nigerian bank account scam? "I am the son of a Nigerian prince who has been deposed and now is persecuted. Please keep this valuable family antique in your possession to protect it from being seized. To make it seem like a legitimate transaction, wire two million dollars to this account number, which of course I will return to you."

Yes, for all I knew the ampule was contraband! Which would put me in a peculiar bind. I could not have it assessed by a reputable antiquities dealer for fear that I might become entrapped in some theft ring of which I would have difficulty explaining my innocence since I was in possession of the item.

What might have been intended to be a simple gift had now become a Trojan horse. Within the confines of my home, the questions sprung out and barraged me, slaying my logic, reducing my confidence to ruins, poisoning the well of my contentment.

The trouble was, the real underlying trouble, the trouble that would give me bad dreams that night is that I knew the power of ampule. I had brushed it off in the diner with Sassy, but I knew it was true what she said: It was a genie bottle. There was no denying that. I don't know why I didn't recognize that as soon as I saw it in the envelope, but somehow in that moment, all my perceptual senses were distorted.

The Ampule - Yesterday's events continued

It was well past noon by the time I found myself alone with the envelope in front of me. And despite my growling stomach, I reached for the letter opener. I inserted the tip into the envelope's flap reveal. Just as I was about to enjoy the sound of the shredding fold, I stopped.

This anticipation had been driven to such heights, why do this on an empty stomach? Why allow impatience and hunger to detract from the other senses' enjoyment of this letter? I decided to take the letter with me to the diner next door and open it there, while I was eating lunch. In the private anonymity that is paradoxically granted in public.

Libby's Blue Line Diner in Colchester, Vermont is as classic a diner as you'll ever experience. And, as it is about 100 steps away from the back door of my building, it also has been my surrogate kitchen, complete with a staff of mamas, almost every lunch time for the better part of a decade. The compressed, rail car room has a curved ceiling and a full-length Formica counter with a stainless edge trim, narrowed at two symmetrical ends with glass compartments filled with muffins, mini cereal boxes and cellophane wrapped coffee cakes. In front of the counter are red swivel stools too closely spaced, and behind the counter, there's the long line of blenders, juicers, dispensers, steamers, warmers, coolers, coffee makers, shelves with tea bags, sugar bags, salt shakers, ketchup bottles, mustard squirters. All that is interrupted by a cut-out window to the back kitchen through which gravy smothered plates are served, extra 'slaw is reminded, and above which hangs a sign: "I am not deaf, I'm just ignoring you."

This day, instead of taking my usual spot at the counter, I asked Libby (yes, there is a Libby) for a booth. "Expectin' company," the surely-80-something year old, white-haired Libby asked, almost as an accusation that I should request a booth if I was by myself. "No, just need a little extra elbow room today," I apologized. "Alright, because I didn' wancha to be gettin any big ideas that I would join you," she said dryly.

She led me to one of the red Naugahyde booths across the black-and-white-tiled aisle from the counter, put the menu down with her shaky hand, and on her return to the front, she patted me on the shoulder. Or was she supporting herself on my shoulder to get to the next booth back?

I didn't need the menu. It was Tuesday. American Goulash. With no order taken, Sassy brought me my large water, no ice and some lemon. "Expecting company?" But from her, it was a genuine question, both professionally and perhaps personally.

I was beginning to wonder why I presumed I would have more privacy here than at my desk.

I put the letter on the advertisement-cluttered paper placemat before me. It was perfect to open it here, I decided. This letter represented to me all that was slow (though perhaps falsely so since I didn't even know its contents yet) and I was about to open it amid the hub-bub of order-taking, platters clattering, layered conversations, clinking eatery, table busing, and yet ... yet all this noise and commotion was of the old world.

With proud forethought back in the office, I had the presence of mind to stash my letter opener before leaving. A mailing of such traditional nature deserved to be opened commensurately. And now, once again, I inserted its tip into the flap crevice. With indecent pleasure, I relished the sound of the ripping paper. Then, holding the envelope in both hands and using my thumbs, I coaxed it open as I would two petals on a flower to get a peak at its anther and stigma.

I saw it, but couldn't quite trust my eyes, as if they were suffering from lack of focus, for the scale of the thing just wasn't coming clear. This thing could not fit into an envelope. But it was lying off to just one side. It was a capsule out of, what? some kind of metal. Pewter? But not cylindrical like a capsule; more bulbous at one end. A vile. No, a miniature amphore. No, in fact: an ampule.

An ampule. That's what it was. I tipped the envelope and the ampule rolled into the bowl of my cupped hand. But as soon as it lay there, it felt like a hot coal burning into my palm. My hand jerked and I dropped the ampule on the table; no time to react as it rolled a lop-sided arc toward the table edge. I reached with both hands one swooping down and the other cupping from below the table edge. But it evaded both, bouncing first onto my leg, then onto the red Naugahyde, and then, as if finally free, into the depths below the table.

I wiggled out of my seat and dropped to a crawling position in front of my booth. I winced at the thought of the dirty mop that swished leftover food around on these tiles, but for now that didn't matter. Sassy came to bend below the table with me.

Whatcha lookin for?
A thing. I, I dropped a thing. It was a ... it was a small thing; little thing about this size.
What was it?
Well, it was a... it was an ampule.
A what?
An ampule, you know, a ... a ... it looked like a miniature genie bottle.
A genie bottle? You dropped a genie bottle?
Well, it wasn't a genie bottle, it was much smaller.
Maybe it was a small genie bottle.
Well whatever, it has to be right here. It couldn't have gone far. It got away right here under the table. It's somewhere right here.
Got away?
Well, I mean, I dropped it.
Maybe someone kicked it somewhere else.
No, no! No one kicked it. It dropped and I bent down right away. It's got to be here. Right here under the table somewhere.
Maybe the genie wanted to get away. They do that, you know.
Sassy! You're not helping.
What do you think I am doing down here on my knees under the table with you?
I'm sorry. It's just that I know it's got to be ... Ah! Here it is! I got it. I found it.
You got your genie back.
Well, the ampule anyway.
Your first wish better be that he don't take off anymore.
Thanks for your help, Sassy.
And your second wish better be that you start believing in him cause otherwise there ain't going to be any third wish.

The ampule was not hot, and I wondered if it was possible that it never was. You know how sometimes you touch something cold and it feels like it is burning? Was it possible that my skin was simply confused? I don't know and it didn't matter. I put the ampule back on the table.

As I tried to slide back into the booth, I hit the table. The tall water cup wobbled and then ... my legs froze in mid-bent position ... and one sees it all in slow motion. I often think that if I were to be in a car crash or some other critical accident, it would be like this. The cup is wobbling. I see the lemon jiggling back and forth in its small pool of rippled water. The letter is lying, as yet dry, on the placemat. You still react, trying to be swift but fighting time, gravity and acceleration. Reacting, speculating and processing all simultaneously. Until it's done. The moment lost; the deed irrevocable; the die cast; the water spilled.

The water spilled on the ink-written and, as yet, unread, letter. I lifted the envelope but that just allowed the pool to gain access to the letter. I quickly turned the envelope to let the dribble drain out. Sassy rushed to the table with a hand towel. I held the letter as it began dripping black drops onto the floor. Black drops that once were forced onto paper in forms and patterns to convey words and meaning. Now free and returned in their liquid state, they escaped back into the universe, taking that meaning with them.

I blotted the letter with napkins against a fresh placemat, but I could already tell there was little hope.

There was little I could make out from the letter's blurry remains. Some kind of date in the upper right hand corner. Unimportant. An address. "Dear... ?" me personally? Yes, yes, that was my name-smear.

After that, just assumptions: must? mist? miss?... utmost... critical... procedure or prefers? (couldn't be "pedicure," could it?) ... sequence... charm or chant or can't?... impulse... terminally angered? ... and smaller words in between, but not enough to piece together full sentences. There was a section that was indented, as if a quote. Five lines, it appeared. And somewhat equal in length. A poem? Incantation? A chant? Yes, chant! Because then the above word would be chant. Chant? or Charm? Then a paragraph after that. Again, just vague guesses of vague imagery: must ... unexpected... sequence... oh, it was impossible! Lost. All was lost!

Who cared what blurred name was the signatory to this impressionist smear? It was useless! God damn it! Fucking bump of the table and a whole link in the cosmos is broken. No return address. No name. No nothing! Someone knows me. Sends me a metal plug, writes something and doesn't even have the presence of mind to post a return address! What kind of foresight is that?

I'm sorry I have to end now and go to bed. I wanted to write more. I wanted to tell you how yesterday ended. But it is too late now. I'm sorry that it is taking me this long to tell you all this. Unfortunately, the longer I put off being able to finish this story, the more it unfolds. I promise I will tell you tomorrow. But at least now you know how I ended up with a blister. Oh, well, not on my finger, but in the palm of my hand. I swear, I have a bandaid now in the palm of my hand! It's like stigmata or something. (And no, that is not some foreboding of how this story will unfold. I am good, -- well, mostly -- but no Christ here.) More tomorrow. I promise. Good night.

The Envelope

The fact that I am typing this with a burn blister on my finger is the only evidence that my story is true.

Today I was distracted. I awoke distracted. I awoke from frenzied dreams. Short snippets, some distorted memories of the day, some just weird like the one with me trying to fill my fountain pen by putting it in my mouth and twisting the fill knob, but it just sucked air instead.

It's often like this when I get back from traveling. The list of things to do is loud and urgent. The everyday tugs again. Work. Errands. Groceries. Follow up with friends. Don't forget to unpack. There are dishes in the sink from before you left. Throw in a load of laundry. Oh, and you're back now, so let's get back to morning exercises. And at least fifteen minutes with the crossword puzzle to stretch the mind and vocabulary.

Oh right, and sitting. Well, once again, the sitting will probably not happen. I'm too scattered to focus. To help myself. To lie quietly on my back here in the quicksand. Better to trample like a mad man to keep from sinking.

To make the air I breathe even thinner, much of the last few days has been consumed with the creative processes of others. Reading friends' blogs, checking out new ones, becoming interested in video blogs, talking with Joel about film projects, editing a friend's manuscript, reading a collection of interviews with another author.

And all the while wondering: How much of this is contributing to my creativity? Is all this focus on the creativity of others diverting attention from my work? Is it inspiring? Is it imposing that they are so prolific, and some rather successful? What does success mean when it comes to creativity? To what extent do I want creative output to be the measure of success in my life?

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about slowing down. By lately, I mean years now. Since the demise of the factory. That is what motivates my desire to sail away. It is a form of slowing down. Actually, my interest in slowness has always been a theme in my life.

I found an almost embarrassingly intimate connection with the portrayal of Sir John Franklin in the fictionalized biography of his life by Sten Nadolny in the book The Discovery of Slowness. I also enjoyed the novella Slowness by Milan Kundera. And my fascination with Nabokov's Lolita was, above all, with its lilting, languorous language that almost lullabies you into believing that HH is not the monster of his confession.

And so, when in the midst of all this busy, hectic, list-shouting morning, I entered my office which I carved out for myself in the former factory, and I saw a letter addressed to me in handwriting, my lungs sharply inhaled a sting of air through my nose. Handwriting, even beyond the slow, methodical and by now antiquated medium of typewriting, was the epitome of slowness. It was as if someone knew my secret and was publicly taunting me. Who could this be that was sending me something handwritten? And even though my lungs almost betrayed my longing for the letter's beckoning, my limbs did not. They did not break stride as I walked around my desk, leaving the letter exactly there. I forced my eyes to acknowledge my property manager at his desk. Yet my lungs stubbornly held on to that breath, reluctantly releasing only as much air as was needed for my lips' insistence on delivering a normal, even upward-swinging-sounding "Morning."

I sat and, in doing so, was granted an inconspicuous exhale only upon getting my heart, who had the most potential gain from this matter, to negotiate with my lungs to cooperate.

The letter, now upon closer inspection, was padded. The address was not only handwritten, but written in fountain pen. And as if that was not enough to tease my nostalgic blood, it was written in a particular tint called "Blue Black." To those who know of what I speak, I need say no more. To those of you who don't,

let me not to the color of true ink
admit impediments. Color is not color
which alters when it alternatives finds
or blends with white-out to be paler.
Oh no! It is an ever fixed mark
that looks upon rainbows and is never tempted.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever inked.

I reached for the letter opener, but in the process was interrupted by my property manager's questions of the week's priorities. And this was simply the first of duty's dominoes to fall over the next hour, cascading my attention from one task to the next; from question, to inspection, to phone call, to task upon detail upon matter at hand.

And yet what lay at hand, just inches away the entire time, was the letter.

I picked up the letter, while on the phone at one point. Mostly paying attention to the caller, I studied the envelope. An off-white, high-rag percentage. Hand canceled in red to my quickened sense of appreciation; though the post office of origin regrettably smudged. The stamp featured a most splendid black and white photograph of an old racing schooner from the 20s. Was this particular stamp chosen with knowledge of my susceptibility to such images? And now, paying less attention to the conversation, I noticed the absence of a return address. My left hand, which was holding the enveloped flipped it over. And there, centered on the closing flap, but crossed out with the same blue-black ink was, in embossed black type, "The Society."

So? Not from The Society? But obviously someone so comfortable with using The Society stationary as to use it for personal purposes. Or was the envelope perhaps recouped from some dumpster into which a defunct Society had purged itself from its quarters?

"Excuse me? Yes, of course, next week on Wednesday is fine. Yes, yes, I'm sorry, I was just distracted by my calendar. No, no that works just fine. No, really it does. Wednesday then. Ok, thanks for your time, yup, goodbye, yes, same to you, goodbye."

Finally. Finally it was just the letter and me. My property manager was somewhere in the building with an electrician who had come to install new lights. I could safely let all calls go to voice mail. My urgent projects were done. I rewarded my previously impatient lungs with several long breaths of slow anticipation as I leaned back in my chair and simply enjoyed looking at the pregnant envelope; swollen with something more than just a sheet with words.

Well, this story is taking much longer than I had expected. So, I will have to continue on with it tomorrow. By the way, the image of the letter at the top is not the actual letter which I received, but since I don't have a camera or a scanner, I can't show you the actual letter. It looks similar to the one pictured.

Motoring the splendid Taconic Parkway

I'm going to sound like a Department of Transportation marketing intern now, but trust me, I did not so much as receive a free toll for writing this piece.

Decades ago, I heard someone call the Taconic State Parkway the Catatonic State Parkway. And ever since then, even though I had never been on the Taconic, that silly pun tainted my perception of that route.

The parkway runs straight south-north from NYC to almost Albany, about a dozen or so miles east of the Hudson.

I guess it wasn't so much the pun, but just the interstate options that forced the Taconic off my active mental map. When I'd travel south, I'd take I-87, which is the New York State Thruway (sic on that official God-Bless-America spelling) or as an option I-89 and I-91. But never the Taconic, which threads its way between the two options.

Today, heading back home to Vermont, on a lark -- with only visual exit distance as my deciding time -- I made the turn onto the Taconic State Parkway.

What a trip. Instead of traveling north, I suddenly was traveling backwards. Backwards in time. I left the busy suburban New York traffic and was transported back into a time when I and just a few other "automobiles" were "motoring" along this scenic parkway.

If you go to the official website (yes, this parkway has its own website) you will see that the Taconic was built, in installments, during the 30s, 40s and 50s. On the southern end are stone archways carrying the overpasses. And in the areas were the north- and south-bound lanes are contiguous, there is a "box-rail" divider, as opposed to concrete segments.

The road meanders in much tighter curves than modern interstates. Toward the northern Hudson Highlands, you are surprised with sudden wide views of the Hudson Valley. For most of the 70 miles I "motored" the Taconic, I was the only car. Nothing in front of me. No push-push, hurry-hurry from behind. And truck traffic is prohibited. (According to the wikipedia entry on the Taconic, it was as late as the year 2000 that pickup trucks could get a special license plate to legally travel the Taconic.)

If you choose to take the Taconic (and you should) be sure to use the modern advantage of cruise control. The speed limit is 55, and with those tight turns, you will never see the cops hiding in their pull-offs. I set mine at 66 and was ignored by two "patrol" cars, which I passed. I was actually half-expecting to see a motorcycle cop with a three-quarter helmet, Ray Bans and equestrian-type riding pants, but apparently some modernization has occurred on the Taconic.

The speed posting is appropriate because the Taconic is so old-fashioned that it still has crossroad intersections every now and then. No ramps, just perpendicular intersections, at which crossing or entering cars have to gun it. The only reason that works is because there is so little traffic on this 1950s antiquity.

Yet, despite that speed limit, I made just as good time back to Vermont by saving the trip further west to pick up the interstate.

The official website indicates that the highway is being considered for historic preservation status. In that case all upgrades, including the proposed conversion to ramps, will be done in keeping with the existing style.

The northern end of the Taconic terminates in a tollbooth entrance to the Mass Turnpike or I-90. It was fitting that this rolling, recherche a la road perdue would end in an empty tollbooth.

Empty tollbooth? Was this a scene from The Phantom Tollbooth?

No, wait: there's a sign: "If no one in booth, please be patient. Attendant is serving other lane."

I loved it. I waited something less than a minute while the "attendant" was apparently taking the toll from some lucky soul who was about to motor south on the Taconic. Then she appeared in the service window. "Have a great day," she said as she handed me my ticket.

I already did, I thought.

Thanksgiving

In no particular order of importance, I am thankful for the following in my life:

1) Zoe. Ok, I said no particular order of importance. So, I lied. What can I say? She's my daughter.

2) I got to do a cross-country motorcycle trip on the best bike God ever designed (and allowed BMW to build.) A K1200RS. I only wiped out once, had my bike vandalized once, and got a speeding ticket for doing an unmentionable speed, BUT no damage to any bone in my body.

2) I got be a deckhand on a schooner for summer in Maine. We'd take on a dozen or so passengers, leave for six days of harbor- and cove-hopping, then return for 24-hour shore leave and do it all over. I'm thankful that the worst part of that whole experience was losing the straw-pull with my fellow deckhand. The stakes: having to unbolt the head after a passenger had, uh, used it, and couldn't flush it down. I had to dump it overboard, clean it, and reassemble. Well, at least now I know how to do it if it ever happens on my boat.

3) Four high school friends and I piled in a VW van and tooled around Greece for five weeks, camping by rivers and on beaches. For three days I laid with a high fever at our camp on the beach. And when we got back, my mother said, "I told you before you left that there was a deadly virus going around that killed several young people!" Oh yeah, that's right; she did. We forgot. I am thankful I had such a good time and it wasn't spoiled by my death.

4) I am thankful that I got to play regularly on the Alice in Wonderland bronze sculpture in Central Park when it was still so big that it took both of my hands to hold onto Alice's extended finger. I have gone back and it appears that sculpture is still a favorite with kids, but it has shrunken significantly.

5) It took me ten years to achieve my dream of owning a weekly newspaper. I ran it for five years with my then-wife. I am thankful that I was at such a helm of tremendous community influence and responsibility and no one egged our house even once.

6) I have known true love. I am grateful that I have gotten beyond the period in my life in which I didn't think I ever would again. (Did a lot of damage in those years; to myself and to others.)

7) I got to grow up in Germany and get an international perspective on how arrogant and ignorant America is.

8) I got to live in America and get perspective on how pedantically bureaucratic and emotionally constipated Germany is.

9) I sailed straight east on the Atlantic ocean for nine days. We were so far out that we were completely dependent on ourselves. The part I am thankful for, is that the seasickness subsided after the first 48 hours. And that we had GPS to find Bermuda.

10) For seven years, I got to be a Captain of Industry when I took over my father's manufacturing company. I had the complete playset. The factory, 150 workers. International deals. Business trips all over the place. And then I got the accessory kit too: the sports car, the, um, lifestyle, (that means women.) But seriously, it was hugely satisfying to grow a company (which I -- perhaps unfairly -- had always criticized as purely capitalistic) in such a way that the employees enjoyed it, and the banks were impressed. But the part I am really thankful for: when it all tanked, I never missed any part of that. Not the money, not the fast and loose lifestyle. I am thankful my parents taught me that materialism is not what makes you happy.

11) Twenty years ago my partner at the time and I went over to new friends' house for a get-to-know-each-other dinner. The guy of the other couple and I ended the evening in a two-hour long argument over art and capitalism that ruined the couple dating thing before it even got off the ground. I am thankful that he and I haven't stopped arguing since. For the latest on what riles me, click on his link above my profile.

12) I am white. Financially secure. Live in America. That is to say, as much as anyone hates to admit it, I am thankful that I belong to the oppressor class. Oh yeah, I am male too. But I am not convinced that we are the superior gender. Just brute force that's kept us there until now. Two three generations from now? Beware, my sons.

13) I am not allergic to coffee, chocolate, stinky cheeses, Hungarian salami, olives, and wine. I am grateful for the last one in particular.

13a) I wanted to make a smart-ass remark and say that I am thankful that I am not addicted to any of the above either. But that is not true. In fact, it has just taken an enormous amount of self-discipline to step back from being an alcoholic. (I am hesitant to use that word, but what else can you call it when you used to get drunk every single day that God let the sun shine on this beautiful earth?)

14) I have lived so many lives in my time. Seen so many countries. Lived as a scholar among books and as a woodsman in a hunting camp. Rural and urban. So many jobs, divergent careers. Wealthy and poor. Drunk and sober. From school drop-out to best-in-class. With dogs. With cats. Didn't care for the reptiles. Volunteered for a battered woman shelter and yet enjoyed my share of fun spanking. Motorcycles, VW camper van, sports car, sailboats to comprise a fleet, skis, rollerblades, banana-seat bicycle.

15) Some people are born with musical ability. I am tone deaf. Some have incredible mathematical minds. I need a calculator to count my fingers. I am not the rifle, but the shotgun: scattered and unfocused at times. But there has been one thing that I have been able to rely on as something I was good at in life. And that thing has sustained me in life. Helped me through tough times, and provided me with opportunities during the best of times. And that is writing.

I know I am more at home than most in the landscape of language. And I enjoy this landscape. The other day I was writing about a lack of homeland. Maybe this is my homeland. Words. Towering novels off there in the distant horizon which I have been threatening to ascend some day. But for now, here in the rolling hills of letters and essays, I am enjoying these rivers of thoughts. Every now and then a sentence will take me by surprise and sprout up, quickly branching out into a poem. And there are some low hills here too of short stories on whose summits I gain surprising insight into my own psyche.

I am grateful for being gifted with writing.

My mother; High Priestess

When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily.

That sentence, as simple as it is stunning, opens Alice Siebold's new novel, The Almost Moon. I have not read the novel yet, but I am anxious to do so.

Anyone who has lived with, what I have come to call, "an emotionally dynamic" mother understands the spectrum of feelings about a relationship that myth and legend says should be simple and nurturing.

I have (and will again) written caustically about my mother, but today is a tribute to her. Well, mostly.

I was listening to the radio yesterday -- an interview with a gastronome -- and Lona came to mind.

Lona was an extraordinary cook. As well as Nabokov knew language (did you know that English was his third language?) Lona knew flavors. She knew how to create their taste and their texture. What she wanted your tongue to feel was downright erotic. (Incestuous, as her child?)

Recipes weren't instructions but inspirations. Cook books were sheet music with the notation: improvise. Just by tasting a sauce, she could recreate it the way some musicians can listen to a piece and, days later, reproduce it exactly.

With an annual exception, she never baked. This was almost a point of pride with her. And how befitting that was to this woman whose complexity rarely exhibited behavior that one would call traditionally sweet. In fact, she considered baking somehow beneath her. Baking was, in the same way she was a social snob, a lower class of cooking.

The fact of the matter was that baking leaves no room was inspiration or personalization. You have to follow a formula exactly. Just this amount of flour to exactly that quantity of baking powder. My mother, the authoritarian -- the lover of rules and rulers -- hated rules, rulers and having to follow rules.

But once a year she made cookies. Tons of them. From Thanksgiving on through Christmas eve. We were forbidden, upon pain of spankings, smackings with a wooden spoon and yelling of having any more than a rationed cookie here and there before Christmas. But on Christmas ... oh my god ... it was cookie heaven. We ate ourselves sick.

It just so happened that yesterday while I was listening to the radio interview with the gastronome, I was beginning the annual cookie bake with my daughter, using Lona's sacred recipes of course.

And so, she was on my mind. I was chopping walnuts and over at Zoe's station, the flour was flying and the mixer whirring. As we worked, I remembered a yellowed newsprint article. Something about her pulling one of her authority-defying stunts at an airport. There was a grainy photograph. Roy de Groot was involved. He was a well-known food writer at the time. I remember his towering height. And -- intriguingly for a gastronome -- he was a blind gentleman with a seeing-eye dog. Roy de Groot was a frequent visitor to our home in Manhattan (in which Lona had the kitchen custom redesigned for two ovens so she could cook for enough people at once.)

After the cookies were baked, the cyclone aftermath somewhat cleaned, Zoe driven home to her mother's house, I retreated back to my study that night and got on the internet. The New York Times. Archives. Search for Dubilier. Useless because of a distant relative who is in finance and dominates search results. Ahh, but Roy de Groot. Bingo.

December, 1966. Roy de Groot has a shipment of specialty foods from France held up at the customs office at JFK because of wild boar pate. The article about this event is a tribute to classic Lona at her best.

Mr. de Groot negotiates with the customs office at JFK to the degree of success that they grant him, apparently by written "communique" (I love the language in this 60s article) to enter the airport compound for

"the purpose of inspecting the seized merchandise, which inspection may include, if desired, a tasting of the merchandise."

Along with three others, Mr. de Groot invites Lona to be part of his tasting committee. She organizes the event, complete with a "hampery" including bread and "beautifully starched napery, sterling silver forks and an assortment of wines."

Upon arrival, it is clear who is in charge. The reporter writes, "Mrs. Lona Dubilier ... seemed to be the high priestess of the tasters." She is pouring out wine, slicing bread, serving up the various delicacies, and taking notes on committee's comments.

The article is so classic 1960s in that it also openly displays the class distinctions of the time. The reporter almost mocks the customs official. Though he allows that Chester Smith is hospitable, he also mentions that the shy and smiling Mr. Smith is "coatless."

Lona, meanwhile, ever the lady, knows that in high society (as she would frequently remind us) one treats "the help" with just as much class as one's peers. This obviously impressed the reporter who wrote:

Mrs. Dubilier turned to the coatless Mr. Smith, who had tasted nothing, and didn't look as if he wanted to. He was still smiling.

'Mr. Smith, would you like to clear your palate with something?'

'No, thank you,' Mr. Smith said with a smile.

And then Lona, having performed her duties as an organizer, a tasting stenographer, a lady attending to the working class, decides it's time to let the world know that while she is all that, she is also, after all, the high priestess. This title is not earned without asserting it. And one asserts it through challenge.

Here an exchange between Lona and Mr. de Groot (who was a baron) following their tasting of the wild boar pate, the piece de resistance:

'Yes I like the sanglier,' the Baron repeated.

'Baron,' said Mrs. Dubilier, the chief note-taker, 'I think you have so much snob in you, you think the sanglier is better than it is. Try it again, and try to forget it's boar.'

'No, I disagree with you, Lona,' the Baron said. 'There's a gamey flavor about it.'

Ah, beautiful. I like the patronizing phrasing, "try to forget" with its implication that she is not convinced he can accomplish such a feat.

I am attaching a picture of the article which you can click on to see larger, but it probably isn't large enough to read. If you could, you would notice that the reporter happens to be none other than Craig Claiborne.

Though there is no evidence for my final assumption, just knowing my mother, I am convinced that it was her idea to have this whole episode elevated to public spectacle by having it reported in the Times.

It is the signature of a High Priestess.

Declining radius of responsibility

There is this super schlocky book out now, called The Secret. Something about how we can create our own realities.

Yeah, yeah.

The problem I have with these books (which come out every few years under a new title) is that they are nothing that our mothers and grandmothers didn't tell us.

The Secret can be distilled into the six words my mother used to tell us four kids: "Fake it until you make it."

In other words, if you wanted to be happy, then smile. You know what? People will be smiling back at you. They will be friendlier to you. And you will fall into conversation easier. And guess what? You'll be happier.

If you want to be president of the United States, start acting like you want that. You can get something without acting like you want it.

Big secret? I don't think so. Good advice that needs to be repeated to every generation? Absolutely. Except, in my grandparents generation, it was expected to be part of the parental duties; not something for which you tried to get a book contract.

Nevertheless ... life is odd. Call it The Secret or call it plain ole faking it.

Joel and I decided to re-commit ourselves to writing with this blog project.

Because of that, I decided to read novels again, which I had neglected for a year or two. I read a book called "Sin" by Josephine Hart. She wrote "Damage" which was filmed with Jemery Irons.

Because of that, I found the framework for a story that has been lurking in my mind for some 20 years now.

Because of the blog, I connected with a blogger through Joel. Her name is Jennifer and writes a wonderfully witty, self-deprecating and literary journal-type blog called Quidite.

Because I read her blog, she reconnected me with a particular Raymond Carver story that is relevant to one of my short stories.

And now, a few odd, random things happened for which Horace Walpole coined the term serendipity:

My daughter spends the weekend with me and wants to go to the public library. We do. She wants to spend time in the young adult section. I spied a "For Sale" rack by the entrance and tell her that I will be down there. And there, low and behold, amid the 70s remains and paperback mystery surplus books, is a hardcover collection of Carver short stories. It's three dollars. (No, I shit you not. Three dollars. Even the librarian who gave me change for my five, was surprised at my find -- doubled checked the penciled price and reluctantly released the valued volume.)

Ok, ok, that particular story was not in the collection. But, as my mother used to say: Don't confuse me with facts. The upshot is that I WILL find the relevant Carver short story. I DO have the structure for a long overdue novel. And I AM writing more these days than I have in a few years.

So we get home, my twelve-year-old daughter and I, and she asks me if I have ever had the experience of knowing beforehand what is going to happen in my life. As in Deja-Vu, I ask? Well, no, not that. THAT she has frequently, she says. (Which is a whole other intriguing matter.) But knowing much more in advance. Like seeing things.

Hmm, now I am wondering about my entry from a couple of days ago. I don't want to burden her with a vision I had of myself when I was a teenager of being a loner and now worrying if it might become a self-fulfilled prophecy. Too much information for a twelve-year-old.

Is my experience of this writing blog and reconnecting with fictional inspiration the same thing that she means. Am I a poster child for The Secret? I recognize the serendipity of it all, but no, I don't think that is what she means.

What, exactly, does she mean by that question?

My daughter is an uncommonly evolved person for her age. (Has been at every age.) Precocious, some say. She is adept at evasion and though I probed (without wielding a two by four) she sticks with simply the statement that she was asking ME if *I* had that experience. She was not talking about herself, she says.

Hmm, let's see, I think to myself. I knew I wanted a newspaper when I left college, and ten years later, I had one. I knew I wanted to grow my father's manufacturing business when I took it over and, within a few years, I was entering international joint operating agreements. Does any of that count?

Fake it until you make it?

The Secret?

Create your own reality?

Serendipity?

Or am I just a lucky Sunday child who has a bit a brains, the fortune of being born white in an absurdly rich country, with enough means to make my dreams come true?

Any way I look at it, I have precious few excuses for not being responsible for my own happiness.

PS: How did I finally answer? I said that I know that I have had those kind of experiences but I couldn't remember specific examples. And that is God's honest truth. I also told her that sometimes the world works in ways we cannot fully explain or understand. It is best just to accept it. And trust it.

Fatherland, Motherland, Homeland

Natalie Merchant has a song called Motherland. It is an odd lullaby that I can't quite figure out.

Maybe it's simply because the singer can't figure out her feelings about her motherland. At times she calls her motherland "this wasteland, this terrible place." She turns her back on it and steels herself to show no emotion about leaving. And then, in the next breath, she begs her motherland to lullaby her to sleep.

"Motherland, cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep. Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me, don't go."

I have been listening to that song every time I get into my car. Over and over again. "Motherland, cradle me..."

It is not coincidence that this song has captured my attention. I have been spending a lot of time thinking about where my motherland is. Where is my home?

I like to think of myself as a nomad. A pirate. A lone cowboy. One who needs no home. Belongs nowhere and therefore roams everywhere.

I remember being a teenager and listening just as obsessively to the James Taylor song "Sweet Baby James." I envisioned myself as that lone cowboy with nothing but a rolled up blanket on my saddle and someway to make coffee. At times it seemed real to me; that it would actually happen. As if I was having a glimpse into my future.

Maybe I am that lone cowboy now. Maybe not quite yet. I do have some freedom in being able to choose where I want to roam these days. But as with everything else in life, there is a cost. My cost is feeling that empty space where most people have a rich album of their homeland.

I grew up in Manhattan until I was ten. I and my three siblings spent almost every day of our lives in Central Park, which was only four blocks away. I loved it. And I am glad we moved away from that "wasteland, that terrible place." That place where we were trained to constantly be on guard for our safety. That polluted stink hole. Sometimes I have romantic dreams about returning for a year or two. I envision myself in a fifth floor walk-up in Hell's Kitchen writing on a typewriter.

Then I lived in Germany until I was 18. In Germany, the primary reference is fatherland. (German citizenship is determined by the nationality of your father.) When I left Germany, at 18, to live in Vermont, the transition was not easy. I missed the culture. My teenage friends and I talked about life and god and politics and what constitutes friendship. When I came to Vermont, the only topics were sports, cars, girls. Oh, and sports. Okay, well, there was girls *in* cars; that too. And sports. I missed Germany.

Now, only my stomach misses Germany for its food. That wasteland, that horrible place, that stink hole where, as soon as you step off the plane, you are choked by cigarette smoke. And practically the only thing for which you do not need a permit in triplicate stamped by three different bureaucrats, is smoking.

At night, sometimes I will dream I am not in bed, but in a plane heading back to Germany. I finally get to speak a language again that makes sense and have friends who mean it when they ask "How are you doing?"

The minute I arrived in Vermont at the age of 18, I felt my organs inside relax. They must have dropped by about an inch or two, and finally my lungs could breath deeply. Not just because of the clean air, but because of the views. And quickly I learned that nothing needs to happen quickly. I was in a car behind a car whose driver got to talking to a friend passing by. I sat there in shock as they talked through an entire green light and there wasn't a single honk from the line behind me.

I have lived here for 30 years now. And there isn't a week that passes in which I don't, at some point, look around, take in mountains, turning leaves, grazing deer, snow-capped peaks, sunsets over Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks, I look at one of these scenes and breath deeply and think or say out loud to whomever I am with: "I love it here. I am so lucky to live here."

In Vermont we say that Burlington is not Vermont. Burlington has a lot of "flatlanders" who have moved here. The rest of Vermont towns have had extremely small population fluctuations and thus are inhabited by families who have lived there for a century or two. One of the main differences of mindsets between Burlington and Vermont is that, after 30 of living in Vermont, Burlingtonians consider me a Vermonter. In the small rural town where I lived for five years and my daughter is now growing up with her mother, you are not a Vermonter until you have a few generations of your family in a local cemetery.

And that is how I feel. I feel to say that I am a Vermonter would be putting myself on a false par with the farmers who are dedicated to this soil which they work, and on which I only walk. And besides, I would feel it would be somehow disloyal to Manhattan. And a snub to Germany.

Perhaps, with a nod to John F. Kennedy, I need to say, "Ich bin ein Globaler." (Not a word that exists in any language I know, but it seems like it should belong in Esperanto.)

Perhaps all the wastelands I have ever experienced are actually just one single, horrible place. And my desire to be suckled on the nipple of a home is just the desire for a brief rest from life itself, wherever I find myself. And a reminder that life has much beauty left in it to feed my dreams.

"Cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep."

Almost. I could almost fall asleep to that greater sense of home. But it is too much of a grand hall with too much of an echo for me to find rest.

Then, two days ago, an old friend (my first longterm relationship which ended 20 years ago) took me for a walk around a pond which I had never visited in all my years in Vermont. That walk solidified what had been simmering inside me for some time now.

We started on the pond's western edge in a field that was brown and firm from cold, but its wet spots were not quite frozen in this warm autumn. We could see a rise, Brigham Hill, on the far side of the half-mile-long pond. The low, shallow-mounded hill still wore a coat of muted colors, which was surprising for this time of year. We walked along board paths protecting the wetland from shoe-rutting. My friend saw a wild turkey retreat into the brush. And I half expected to be surprised at any moment by a pheasant exploding out from the underbrush and flying off.

From field we entered the woods onto a bare hiking path. Yellow brown poplar leaves carpeted the forest floor. As we curved the northern end of the pond, we hiked up through the inclined path between rock outcroppings forming the footings of Brigham Hill.

At odd turns in the path we would stop and point out to each other changes in landscape or vegetation. Look, now we are starting a gradual descent through firs on this east side of the pond. We rounded the southern belly of the pond, the end with the dam controlling its corpulence.

Back at the western edge, by the car, we looked back over the pond and surrounding woods. With pointed fingers along the landscape we traced the path we had taken. And then we both said, in so many words, the mantra I have been repeating for 30 years:

"I love it here. I am so lucky to live here."

I have to admit: I am not a "Globaler." I want a parochial, provincial, pastoral sense of belonging. I want a motherland. I want a very intimate, nipple sucking reassurance.

For many years now I felt this: I am a lost child. And Vermont is my adoptive mother who has taken me in.

I will leave Vermont again for periods of my life. I know that. I need that. I get too claustrophobic otherwise. But it feels good to have a motherland to come home to. If only adoptive.

"Close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep. Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me, don't go. Don't go."

The crucifixion of porn on my living room wall

If the statue of David were in my home instead of the Galleria dell'Accadamia in Florence, then ... well, then my house wouldn't be my house, but a museum.

And we will get to that point later. But first let me tell you what *is* in my home.

I have a large poster of "Woman in Sea" by Herb Ritts hanging in my study. It is a print of a black and white photograph, depicting a woman from behind standing in wind-rustled water. She is wearing a bikini bottom but no top. Her long hair hangs down her back, sleek and as one mass ending in a point.

It is certainly not pornographic. Some would say say it isn't even erotic. In fact, the only thing even suggestive about it is that we know her breasts are bare to the sea and that they could be to us if someday she would become three dimensional and turn around.

Never liking being defined or labeled, I sometime later decided to shake up the expectations (and sensibilities?) of visitors by acquiring a companion for her. I bought an equally large poster of "Fred with Tyres" by the same artist. Fred hangs on a perpendicular wall to the woman in the sea. Should she morph and turn while I am out of the house or sleeping, at least he will have the benefit.

Fred stands in a grimy, greasy garage and he is holding two tires, ready to sling them in a way that will remind us of Greek discus competitors. He is wearing baggy pants slung low on his waist and his naked upper torso is grimy to refract the garage, and it is muscled perfection to refract the Greek Olympians.

Again, not pornographic. Erotic only in its suggestion.

This essay is less about the age-old discussion about the difference between the two. (I find that discussion only intriguing between two people who are drinking wine and practiced in the art of flirtation by denial of acknowledgment.) Rather, this piece is about how much of either is appropriate to display in one's home.

Upstairs in my bathroom, I have a signed photograph by the photographer Trevor Watson. (Surprisingly enough I couldn't find an official website of his. But you can google his work.) Now here there is little debate. His art is erotic. His art is pornographic. The particular photograph I have is on the erotic end of his spectrum. It is taken from above a bubble-filled bathtub in which lies a woman whose arms lie crossed on the edge of the tub and her head is craned back to look into the camera. The only other body part revealing itself from the bubbles is her bubble but.

This discussion becomes apropo now because I am deciding what to do with three prints in which nudes are central to the content. My favorite is comprised only of nudes. It depicts a dreamy collage-type of many nudes, all intertwined. To me, it is as if they are a pod of intermingling mermaids. Then I look again and see they are individuals. No, the same woman in different instances of the same dream. They are various muses, why didn't I recognize that? Because you can't glorify splayed legs as anything else than base invitations to uninventive acts. This morphing vision of haunting, soothing images floods my mind whenever I look at the print. Which is why it attracts and inspires me.

Art should ask us questions.

And one of the questions this piece is asking right now is: Do I hang it in my house? Again, if this were a museum, then the answer is clear: Absolutely. It is okay to have what is arguably porn if not at least blatant erotica if your house is the Galleria dell'Accadamia. If I were an artist bachelor living in a loft in Tribeca, then why the hell not. It might even be the most tame among the more flamboyant works.

But I am not those. I am a man living in home in which I entertain (too rarely) a variety of friends who all have different values. From friends who wouldn't give two thoughts to this moral question and appreciate the print, to my second father who is old-school Italian. And though he might laugh, he would do so while shaking his head.

Does the work's provenance have any influence on this? Does it make a difference whether the artist is famous? How famous does the artist have to be for this question not to matter anymore? If the artist is Picasso, then there is no question. But what if I told you it was the product of my ever-stoned neighbor whose model was the junkie girlfriend he abused and then kicked out. Now we feel differently about the work.

Now we know the artist is a nobody; an abusive one at that. And we feel sorry for the model (or models.) The work's value is diminished. Regardless of its objective quality. We are ashamed to "tell its story."

The print is not the work of a drug addict. The print is a signed and numbered print (one of ten) by the artist Herbert Fink. A reproduction of the print appears in John Gardner's book The King's Indian.

And so now, its story is a good one to tell.

But the question is still being begged. Appropriate to hang this gaggle of naked girls?

What if I tell you that I have a twelve-year-old daughter who makes this house her abode every other weekend? Does that influence your opinion?

And perhaps this is, of all, the essential question. I have no problem explaining my tastes, both on a visceral level and on a philosophical one, to my peers. But how do I explain to a 12-year-old the differences between the values of this prude American society and my European appreciation of beauty?

I wish I had some answers with which to finish this entry. I don't.

I know what I am going to do. I am going to have the print framed and I will hang it. I think I will pick a less prominent spot, but I am not certain about that either.

And I am least certain about what I will say if my daughter asks about the picture. But I do know this: I feel to the depth of my being that there is nothing wrong with appreciating the body in the form it was created. And since that is at the core of my beliefs, I know I will come up with the right words to explain why I like it and why I hung it up.

Or maybe I will just direct her to this entry.

(PS: I don't have my camera with me, so I couldn't take a decent shot of the print. Click on the above pic and you will see a larger photo that I have from the print's appearance in Gardner's book.)

Actor cum writer cum ... what? Zen master?

My brother Daniel is an actor. After a formal finish carpentry apprenticeship in his late teens and then a short stint of studies in psychology, he finally found, well, his voice in acting.

He has been an actor for some 25 years now, but this past summer, he left his troupe to pursue an uncharted path. There are no specific plans for what is next. He lives extremely frugally, with some state assistance and some family support. He has made a lot of sacrifices in his standard of living to make this choice. (His beat-up scooter car may die by the time I finish this entry.) This step away from acting is also motivated by a desire (being a single and primary parent) to spend time with his daughter who lives with congenital rheumatoid arthritis, but that is another story.

This story is about something that started within him a number of years ago. But first, you have to understand that what served Daniel well as an actor was also one of his challenges. He always had an edge to his pace through life. His foot would twitch. His speech was rapid. And sometimes excitement would trip his tongue. His myopic, single-minded focus expressed itself as impatience.

Several years ago, without telling anyone, with no big fanfare, he started sitting. Just sitting. Not thinking, not fidgeting, not hoping, not regretting. Just sitting. Meditating, if you will, but that implies focusing on something, whereas the Zen work he was doing was aimed at mind clearing.

It is not an exaggeration to say that I have never seen a person change so much in their lives. He began listening. Asking questions. Instead of arguing, he was quiet. Our family is quite dynamic and so when someone becomes quiet, it is almost more threatening. But that was not his goal. He just did not allow himself to be caught up in the whitewater of family turmoil.

This "sitting" had such a profound effect on his persona, that I began asking him questions about it with the thoughts that he had some answer for me that I could acquire. He was hesitant to answer. He said something like, "As soon as you talk about it, it can sound cliche. It's really just sitting. And if you do it, it provides the answers itself."

I did start sitting. Not with the regularity that he is sitting. And I have seen a profound effect on my life. My ability to accept life. Just as it is, however it is. But that is irrelevant to this story.

This story is about a completely stunning development in Daniel's life that I just found out about today. Apparently, it has been happening for some time now, but just like with the sitting, he doesn't talk about it. He is not the public emotional masturbater that I am with this blog.

Recently he mentioned that he has been writing. Writing, I asked? I was interested since I have never seen anything written by Daniel. His preferred form of epistolary contact is a postcard with a single funny comment. Yes, writing. I asked him to write me what he was writing about.

And in this morning's email, was a 1,300 word letter in which he wrote about how he was struggling to commit to what every artist struggles with: finding the time and energy to dedicate yourself to something which you wonder is worthwhile in the first place.

The overall direction of his writings are musings on Zen. But he explains that each musing is a mosaic stone; indistinguishable as to his broad views on Zen. And therefore, he was hesitant to send me anything. Not yet. Not until he had more stones assembled.

But the most stunning aspect to his letter was this: He is a fantastic story teller. This man who has never written more than a grocery list or smart-ass birthday card, was suddenly a brilliant raconteur. His letter was about how he discovered why it is important to dedicate ourselves to even the slightest whiff of inspiration, and he was as eloquent as Rilke in his "Letters to a Young Poet." And in his recounting of his turning point, no novelist could have written the passage more vividly or succinctly.

In the first part of his letter, he talks about having ideas and insights during his daily sit. He would scribble the thoughts down to elaborate upon in writing later, but never got around to them. The writing and expansion of those ideas was always "last on the list." So, he began rearranging his life to make room. And finally, he began writing.

And then there is this beautiful story in his letter:

"I didn't start that way, but then I had an encounter that opened my eyes. At Nicky's birthday party in Hamburg, I met this Andonia. Remember? and she called at some point and asked if I wanted to come to Hamburg and watch her movie that she just finished producing. I agreed and drove up and watched the movie with her together in the livingroom on the TV. It was her first movie. Not my style, a little stilted, but considering it was her first movie, and written by herself, and directed by her, and she did all the editing, I was stunned. Considering all that, it was super! I asked her if it was a college thesis. She said no. But somehow for school, right, I asked? and in complete surprise, she said no. And why did you film it, I asked? She looked at me with big eyes and said: Cause I wanted to. She didn't say anything else. Cause she wanted to. That bowled me over. I was hit by a Mac truck. In the middle of the semester, between school assignments, lessons, working for a paycheck, cooking, cleaning, shopping, living, she just shoots out a movie on the side. Cause she wants to. On the drive home it consumed my thoughts and a few days later, during meditation, the realization came to me: there is no sometime, sometime is never, there is only now. I understood how, for years, I stood in my own way."

We read that and have to ask ourselves: Are we standing in our own way? What would we do, if we really wanted to?

The land of the free (free = vacuous)

Does environment determine literature?

I criticize myself that I find it difficult to be post anything bordering on creative while I am here in Florida. But when I think about, what kind of writers is Florida known for? Carl Hiaasen. A dynamic and fun writer, but geared toward mystery and action.

Not the kind of writer I am.

Am I product of my environment? Am I one of those dark, brooding New England writers. I also spent time in Germany and those writers are just as introvertedly psychotic.

So it is really no surprise to me that I find this place completely uninspiring. Everything is bought here in Florida. The tits and faces on women and the front yards of homes.

One day you drive by a construction site and the front yard is dirt. A few weeks later, there is an insta-yard, complete with palm trees, hedges, lawn, walk-way, faux-aged stuco walls.

And the site itself was bought and not natural. There are no natural building sites here. The recent tropical storm Noel eroded the foundations of condo-buildings and homes on the shore. Now millions are being spent on restoring them. Yes, even the sand is bought. Every few years a huge barge floats off shore here and pumps gazillion of pounds of sand back onto the shore.

For building sites inland, first a pond is created to drain the swamp land in order to be able to build on it.

The important feature on cars here is not four-wheel drive to perform in snow, but the rotating hub-caps, or cleaning the last water drop mark off your jaguar, mercedes, bentley, or rolls royce.

Tans are bought, ant and pest free homes are a paid-for luxury, dating and relationships are financial dances.

There is no bottle law, so all the trash has to be hauled to some other state that can accommodate natural landfills.

The mesquitoes and the alligators made this state uninhabitable until air conditioning. Flagler built a railroad in the late 1800s but still nothing much happened here until after WWII. It is a new state. And yet, by now, it is the fourth most populous state in the nation.

Populated by what? Newcomers. Easy-life believers.

In some ways, it is the quintessential American state. It is the new gold-rush state. Golden tans and real estate gold. Gigolos wooing rich widows. (Hmm, something to consider?) And young, busty blonds winking at old rich geezers.

How, amidst these shallow waters, am I supposed to feel inspired to write something of depth?

I know that sounds like whining. And I am sure to get a lashing for it.

Plagiarizing patience

I have been struggling to come up with something to write during my stay here in Florida. I wake up in the morning, remembering before all else, that I must write something for this blog in order to keep my promise to my blogging buddy Joel.

I hope coffee will bring, along with the first jolts of life to my body, some sparks of inspiration for a topic. But nothing. During the day, I keep my eye out, like a cop on a beat with an APB for a robber, for some event, some picture, some interaction that will provide me with the raw material to carve into a piece.

Nothing.

I am embarrassed because it was my idea to start this damn blog. And it was I who was so insistent with Joel to stick with it when he wanted to retreat just a while ago.

Today with doubled fervor, since I missed yesterday, I craned my imagination at every turn to spy some spark, spur or stimulation.

I contemplated for a brief moment calling Joel and capitulating on this project. It wouldn't be the first time we have enjoyed sprints of creativity and allowed them to crash on the shore of daily chores and jobs and family. It's okay, we take them up again and again. But I thought it was too early to give up on this exercise. It has only been a couple of weeks.

And then, the bastard said this in yesterday's post: "Learning to work through what challenges our patience and attention is the parent of all other skills."

Bastard.

So, this is a cheating entry. It is blatant plagiarism of commitment. (Hmm, didn't know that could be done, but that is exactly what is happening here.) In other words, I am just going to leave it right there, with Joel's words. They are good ones to remember in this day and age of multi-tasking and accelerated desires of instant gratification.

Falling glass

As a sailor of these emotional waters, I recognize the weather patterns.

It starts with a sensation that is similar to the day before you come down with a flu. Confusion about why everything seems confusing. Paying attention to traffic. Making decisions. There is a general pressure of distraction.

As I have gotten to know myself over my lifetime, I check my emotional barometer and can tell it is dropping rapidly. I have gotten used to checking the horizon. And there, indeed, are the clouds.

I understand the sources of these feelings. High pressure of dealing with my father's chemotherapy. Low pressure of heart ache. Ridges in between of shifting winds in my life. It is difficult to set a direction and hold it.

I can read these feelings as clearly as if they were outlined on a map. And yet, understanding doesn't change the weather.

I know what I have to do. I have to prepare ship. So, I shorten conversation. I close the hatches to myself. Those who know me, can make out my storm lights. Others become confused. I admit only to feeling a bit unwell; maybe it was something I ate. Maybe I am coming down with something. Maybe I just need a good night's sleep.

I am lucky in that I don't suffer the depression that requires drugs to dispel the clouds. Having the blues is what I prefer to call it. And I have lived long enough with myself to acknowledge these times and not try to fight them too much. Trying to plow through them with full sails is far more dangerous. One makes poor decisions and irrational comments when fatigued by foul weather.

Better to go below and sleep it out.