In the Pressed Sweet Grass

When I looked for you In the pressed sweet grass, The outline of your body was all I found; In a circle that formed on the ground Where we wrote our history Using heaping mounds of Faith. How did I expect this to end? What did I think would happen? Can I refute what faith whispers to my heart, What science inscribes into DNA? Did I believe that I would be spared, That God loved me - His most favorite of all - so much That I should not drink from this cup? I always imagined starkness without you, In the luxury of your touch, But it was never as bare as the truth. Now the value of one more moment With you, rises like breath: My love, You are the heat my body produces, You are the tempo of my beating pulse, You are my very own desire for what is good. Gone – before the promise is kept; Gone – before the map of our world could be explored; Gone – leaving just pressed sweet grass To tell me you are not here, That you have moved on, Gone ahead, without me – To someplace we’d always known, Leaving me with this limp: Forever friendless, Forever moonless, Forever alone. M C Biegner 3/2005

Islam's Flower

The Taliban has beaten me and left me for dead But I am stronger then they know, There is no burka that can cover me so Or hide what I think or un-say what I’ve said, Allah be praised for He made the bed From which I give these men life to grow, to Live, to breathe, and blaspheme God so – They've killed my husband, now send me off to strangers to wed. The Taliban has beaten me and left me for dead But I have more power than they know. This burka of fear will be shed From God's true mercy, I am Islam's true flower still to grow! M C Biegner

When

When When twilight When twilight stretches out like a yawn Through clouds The ones that separate heaven and earth When twilight reaches down from sky, Like the arm of Michael the Archangel – Willing Willing to Willing to pull me up – Willing to do battle When Twilight kisses me – When Twilight transfigures – When Twilight tickles me – I am I am made I am made weak When When I am When I am made weak I know I know neither up nor down as up or down But I know boundless possibilities. When When I know When I know I am made weak When I know I am made weak, Then freedom’s grasp is what I seek, When I know I am made weak, Freedom lies spilled white like milk that’s leaked, I know it puddles at the feet of the meek. M C Biegner 2/23/2005

The Pen

Ink drips downward, And obeys a muscular gravity, Races to the point Like it has time to spare, With no place to go; Like a stretched B.B. King note. This point, this needle, this focus of ink scratches at paper With snake-like sexiness As curly-cue round as a Rubens. Then, strings of the heart start to unroll, Pressed flat like a buffet, for you to absorb. And Through eyes like straws You suck up the meaning of ink; You suck up what it means to be lonely; You suck up being shut away from joy; And yes, you even suck up death. Burdened with the plenum of what it is to be human Filling the tube of inky wash that is you All the while Emptying the tube of inky wash that is me. M C Biegner 2/2005

Levantate

In December of 2004, Judge Juan Guzman nudged the collective Chilean conscience a step closer to what some might see as closure, but what I interpret as the nature of justice. With the statement: “Pinochet has been declared mentally fit to undergo criminal investigation” it seems that karma is as slow as New York traffic during the holidays, has finally started to come around on that wheel. It was thirty-one years ago, September 11th , when the democratically elected government of Salvadore Allende was overthrown by forces led by General Augusto Pinochet with CIA backing. Chileans have long memories and the clock is running out on seeking justice for a nation against the man who has come to represent the suffering and horror of that time. They are hoping to catch him on tax evasion, the same crime they locked up Al Capone on. Still, the country’s leaders exercise due process, not like in 1973 when it was believed the Chilean judiciary was complicit in illegal detentions, torture and disappearances. One would think there would consensus about this man in Chile. One would think the issue of national psychic healing would be a monolithic fait accompli, but this is not the case. When I was there visiting in 1986, I started an argument, trying to evade some very difficult political questions some locals were asking me. It was in a social setting, and I was visiting the poblacion (barrio) of La Victoria. One thing I will say is that even among the poorest of the poor in Chile, everyone seems to have an interest and a knack for global international politics. No discussions were off base. I found the Chilean people more knowledgeable about U.S. foreign policy than most Americans. I derailed the discussion by asking one of my guests what he thought of the Pinochet government, still in direct power at that time, before the plebescite in 1989 that ostensibly removed him from power. That started vigorous discussion among my guests. My point being, that even here, in La Victoria, a plot of land that was originally created by what the locals called a “toma!” - a land take by the poor of government property - there was no consensus. Why should there be now? To its credit, the current military has acknowledged its part in the suffering. An average compensation of $190 per victim claim is the suggested financial remuneration. Yes, it’s laughable by U.S. standards, but that is not the point. “Justice is the principal method of reparation,” Pedro Matta, a survivor of the Villa Grimaldi torture camp insists. But how justice? When justice? Commander in Chief Gen. Juan Emilio Cheyre has taken the difficult and almost unheard of task of forging through the guilt and complicity of his military during this dark period of Chilean history. When I was there, I went by the National Stadium. I was driven by friends, speeding through the streets of Santiago in open-air jeeps, probably in the same the same manner that many of the victims who were taken by the police; in the dark of night, the frenetic speed and blackness ahead, I saw it all lit up. The light cast cavernous shadows and its history made it seem sinister, even some 15 years after the events. After the detention and torture of 5,000 men; after the madness that turned this place from a sporting area, to some collective neurons of pain for a whole nation, this place seemed nightmarish dressed in its shadowy face. Folk singer Victor Jara was one of the 5,000 brought here, tortured and then executed. My brother who lived in Santiago for years, later bought me a “genuine Chilean guitar” and the chords and lyrics and a tape so I could listen to his songs and learn them. “Plegaria a Un Labrador” – was the only song I attempted. Levantate, y mira la Montana – Rise up, and look at the mountain! and then finally he sings: Levantate, y mirate las manos – rise and look at your hands. The first supplication asks us to look at the power of the mountains, the land, nature as a force and then he asks us as farmers, workers, as tenders of the land, and makers of things to look at our hands which unlock the power of objects around us, of the land and ultimately of our own destiny. The first line was as far as I got. Somehow, I didn’t feel worthy of singing these songs, or playing this guitar, or even sharing in any way in the misery or hope of these people. It was sort of like white guys singing the blues, or rap. I didn’t seem to have the “props” to pull off such humanity. Still, there is denial by some segments of Chilean society. And even among those like Cheyre who want to make some sort of accounting and begin the healing process, no one is talking about accountability. Everyone involved is waiting for that other shoe to drop, and the thoughts of human rights trials, years after the events has everyone nervous. But can there be justice if some of those who committed these abuses are still in office? Pinochet is 89 and is approaching the end of his life. They say for the last few years he has been a pariah within his own country and even abroad. Still, that is hardly consolation for the suffering this man – and others – has caused. Not that I would like to see anyone executed, but it seems to me, if you are a nation of laws, and if a law has been broken, there should be some consequence beyond the civil restitution of a few pesos in some poor victim’s pocket. If Pinochet only spends one day in jail, and then dies, it will have sent a message to tyrants everywhere (are you listening George W.?) that no matter how much time passes, there is no statute of limitations for human rights. But the accountability issue – who will be punished after all these years – is likely to stir up some debate. As much as I want accountability, what is the likelihood that the evidence to ensure fair trials is preserved and can be unbiased after all this time? Can witness’s testimony be trusted after all this time? How do we keep this from becoming a witch hunt and does this, in the final analysis, create healing? Still, these goons perpetrated enough of the abuses on such a wide cross section of the population surely some of the testimony can be corroborated. And here’s the thing: if justice implies necessary accountability, are the victims of this regime comfortable knowing that some will never be held accountable? If they can imprison a percentage of those responsible, using due process and rules of evidence that are tried and true in democracies everywhere, will that be enough? Ironically, we share September 11th with Chile as a date of infamy. This was the same date it seems that democracy here was pitched over the side for the security of a Patriot Act in this country. And also ironically this country, has been engaging in all sorts of revisionist thinking, (think, “we never lost Vietnam, we were just never really in it all the way and oh by the way, here is Iraq, which we will do right”). There are some here who are reconsidering the CIA’s role in the September 11th overthrow of Chile’s democratically elected president. I refer you to Kenneth Maxwell, Senior fellow at Harvard University’s David Rockefeller Center for Latin Studies, now well documented dispute with the editors of a December issue of Foreign Affairs, who says that his claims about Kissinger’s role in the overthrow inflamed some statesman close him. He says that Kissinger himself exerted pressure on the editors of Foreign Affairs not to publish Maxwell's studies. The editors of course denies this. Kissinger, true to form, says nothing. Here are the links for specifics. http://drclas.fas.harvard.edu/uploads/images/104/maxwell_working_paper.pdf http://hnn.us/roundup/comments/8919.html Clearly, the intellectual ground is fertile enough in this country now to start planting those seeds, what with terrorism and Iraq occupying the greater portion of most people’s frontal lobes. But while we in this country struggle with moral amnesia and a case of seeing a naked emperor who we swear wears the most expensive Armani hand tailored suits, those in Chile hold on to memories of loved ones. Photographs and the hope of justice, whatever that means, are all that sustain them. That, and that if Pinochet dies, we hope there will some sort of cosmic justice for him. Sometimes that’s all we have to go on. M C Biegner Jan 2005

The Lady In the Boat

The Lady in the Boat I glanced over my shoulder. At first, it looked like a dark spot hovering over the murky riverbed in fog as dense as a burial shroud, a curtain that quieted the landscape, even the crickets and loons, and left my footfall alone to accompany the tune that keep circling around in my head, something from Mozart I think. I had the feeling that something important was about to happen, a feeling I have often experienced, sometimes for reason but more often, not. Perhaps it was the eerie feel of it all and I was late. I placed my rucksack a little higher on my back and continued my journey along the river bank, no time to linger here thinking about impossible impressions, and focused my attention on the smell of smoke from someone’s fire as it mixed with the fog. Apple wood? Yellow birch? No time to dwell on silly thoughts. As the day closed, I had many miles of my journey ahead. I tried to shake off the feeling and continue. It’s narrow bow poked at me like an arrow as it pierced the dense cloud. Brilliant lacquered red and deepest ebony, its slick approach was silent and startling. Overpowered, I hesitated. Slowly, like the drops of mist that floated around us, it consumed my gaze, and though I wanted to look away, I was mesmerized by the site of the glistening paint, the sleekness of the vessel, as an eel gliding through the water without sound, ready to strike. And then, as I looked up, the figure appeared, sitting in the middle, eyes straight ahead, guiding the boat. I turned away, not wanting to be rude, not wanting to stare, and wishing only to continue my journey, light growing short after all, and this, no business of mine. But my gaze returned to the traveler. At first, I couldn’t tell, but soon realized it was a woman who, with delicate hands, held her oar high in the water and looked almost like a conductor ready to guide a symphony. The long braid of her hair curled up at the end and was fastened with a golden clip, like a musical clef at the beginning of a staff, and I laughed to myself that in one sheltered glance I would see music in her very being, since music had been playing in my head from the start of my journey, though I don’t know why, not being particularly inclined myself. She too carried a pack on her back, and I wondered what was inside. Notes to a song, perhaps, I thought, laughing again to myself, but maybe, more likely, notes to a lover, and then her eyes caught mine . I lowered my gaze and hurried along, muttering a quick “Good evening.” “A beautiful night for a journey,” she said, her voice lilting and engaging, one who could sing like an angel, I’m sure. “Yes,” I said. “although you cannot see far ahead.” The boat bobbed up and down gently, as the water splashed in rhythm against the rocks on the bank. I found that comforting, although the fog continued to give me distress and I needed to continue on. “No, not far ahead, but as far as you need,” she said, almost in song. She turned her head and smiled, and for the first time I saw the face of a young woman, one who looked familiar, although I could not place her. Perhaps a distant relative, I thought. Her eyes were clear, bright, intense in their gaze, and her hair glowed with streaks of light as it streamed down her slender back. He skin was as translucent as the mist, and I found myself wondering if I had ever seen a more beautiful woman. Her dress was a vivid red silk with purple and gold trim, and her feet were bare. “You would like to travel with me, yes?” How strange a question, I thought, but she seemed foreign, and perhaps this language was not her own. “I am confident with my journey here on land. I have places to go. But thank you for your offer,” I turned away, made my step a little faster along the path, but then tripped on the moss. “So silly, I am forgetting the new darkness it seems.” I silently cursed my own lack of agility, and blamed my age for taking away some of my sharpness. “The darkness is not to be forgotten, it is to be embraced,” she said, waving the oar over her head and placing it silently in the water again. “We move with so much effort, but the water continues with ease on its own deliberate course, do you see that?” “I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said, not wishing to startle this stranger, but needing to explain my own annoyance. “I tripped. That is all. But I am fine and must continue on my way.” I righted my sack, and my stance, took a deep breath and started out. But barely had I moved when she sang again, calling me back. “What do you carry?” The boat now stopped, her oar in the water planted firmly in the thick mud of the river bottom while her body swayed gently from side to side, embracing the oar as it moved, keeping time with the challenge of the water, like a pendulum. She is hypnotizing me, I thought; I watched her rhythmic movement, side to side, feeling both intrigued and also tired of this encounter. What did I carry? I carried much, but was not sure I wanted to get into the minor details of my life with one I did not know. I decided I needed to go on, and leave her with her questions. I forced myself to blink and look away. “I carry nothing of substance,” I said and excused myself, turning about, checking my footing on the moss-covered path. “That is good, and your journey?” she asked. I hesitated, looking from her to the path ahead. “I am not sure where I am going, but I’m searching, a wanderer I guess,” I said, wondering at the sudden ease of my tongue with this stranger. I was annoyed at myself for letting her engage me, and yet speaking to her was comfortable. “But time being what it is, I would like to continue on, it is already dark and I know I have far to go. And it grows cold.” I shivered, then looked into her eyes again unable to break our communion. “By the way, what is it you carry?” “All my earthly loves,” she said, without hesitation, “All my earthly claims.” “That sounds like quite a large burden,” I said, noticing the fog was clearing a bit and the crickets were starting to sing, everything was swirling around me again, and I had hope of moving about. “Oh no! The load is light,” she said. She looked at me, smiled with what I can only describe as enchantment, then cast her eyes downward and started to hum, so softly at first that I didn’t realize what I heard was her voice, more a vibration like a violin that is touched in the gentle way of a master producing a sound so low it seems to come from the ground or the air or the sky. She seemed in a trance, her sounds, guttural, primal, with the rhythm of the waves as it grew louder. Her voice released a captivating melody in time with the loons and with everything around us, even the silent mist, and the rolling fog, and the clouds and the river moving by us, and I realized it was a lullaby, my first and only lullaby and it pulled me and it tormented me and it coaxed me and it left me stunned. I could not move. “You will come with me now.” She crooned, both arms open. “No, I wish to continue.” I said, but even as the words spilled from my mouth, I dropped my rucksack and turned toward her, empty of hand. She nodded, continued to hum and I absorbed the sound of her delicate, floating notes and the sound of the crickets and the sound of a leaf falling hard against a tree stump and the sound of my lazy heartbeat vibrating in my chest. I watched my foot move in slow motion toward her, and then my unsure hand grab the side of the boat as I slipped in beside her, feeling light as the night air, lighter than I’d felt since a child running in the fields by my home, as light as a silver beam from the moon as it hands itself to the magic of night. The silk slap of the waves swirled around the boat and then grew quiet, and the smell of the earth and the leaves and the trees and the smoke and the moss filled my nostrils, and I inhaled the glorious perfume, let it overpower me, let it go; the sweet taste of the mist, and the salt of my tears, more flavorful than any wine placed on my lips, and it too was done. I glanced back at the riverbank as the world dissolved into the luscious velvet of the fog and mist, its scents and tastes and sounds and textures, all left to settle on the deep water, as she and the loons and the crickets sang me to delicious sleep. Dot Read

Arise My Love

Arise My Love Sometimes his whole day was spent walking by the river, his one strong leg leading the way for its weaker counterpart. His limping way was measured and slow on the stones of the path – strong foot planted firmly – weak foot moving in a sudden burst to catch up. The weak foot never passed the strong foot. It needed it there, always in its sight, always ahead as a guide and never behind. With each step, the strong foot showed the weak foot what to do so that the weak foot didn’t need to remember. It could put all of its bit of strength into each movement, always in the present moment, always living in the struggle of now. The man lived in a hut set back from the river path. He woke each morning to the sunlight pouring over the distant hills and dancing across the river until it reached his shore and finally his door. Once he had risen for the day the man never yawned. He was busy every moment from the sun’s bright hello to the calming blue of the evening sky. First he had to dress himself. He wore slacks and a tunic made of linen that seemed to hang about him without actually touching his body. When he walked, it was as if he were moving through the clothes and the clothes just happened to be moving in the same direction at the same time. After dressing, the man ate a simple breakfast. Next he combed any errant crumbs from his beard as he peered into the small mirror that hung above his little table. The sight of the mirror hanging on the yellowing wall always brought a smile to the man’s weathered face. It was all he had of her. It was delicate like she had been, with graceful lines – pretty but not showy – and like her, it spent its life as an offering for others. Before stepping outside into the day the man would take his peaked cap from the hook by the door and place it precisely on his head. On this day the man’s hat was lying on the floor just inside the door. The man did not think twice before steadying himself on his strong leg and bending it slowly, bit by bit, letting his weak leg slide out to the side. Once he was down - strong leg bent - weak leg extended – he reached slowly for the hat and placed it on his head before attempting to rise. The act of picking up his hat meant that he might not reach the village today. Each day it seemed that he had just enough in him to make his way down the river and just enough time to sit and rest in the village square before making the journey home. Any extra expense of strength, any moments spent on an irregular task, and he might not have enough strength or time to complete his daily journey and that journey was his life. What was he if not the man who limped and sat in the village square and limped home again? Each moment lived knowing what he was to do and doing it. The man set out this day a little later than usual and a little more spent. He made his way down the river path – strong foot planted firmly – weak foot following behind. He could not try to go faster. He always moved in the fullness of his present capabilities. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. Something did not feel right in the man’s back and he bent his arms behind him, palms resting on either side of his spine, as if to push himself along. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. A light breeze blew off of the river and wrapped the man in the scent of sweet white blossoms that stirred over his head. He was usually acutely aware of his surroundings, only they were always just what they were, nothing else… but today, this smell, this softness, the sweetness… it had to be her perfume carried to him by an obliging wind. The man stopped on the path. He had never thought of her on his walks before. He always left her safe with his reflection in the mirror. Now he had brought her out into the world and the world was not her friend. He had not gone far. Perhaps he would return home. Strong foot – weak foot. As the man turned, the weak foot gave way beneath him and he crumpled to the ground. As he lay on the path, dust in his eyelashes - a stone beneath his cheek, he heard a bird burst in joyful song and it reminded him of her voice. His eyes fluttered, spilling dust, and the bird song grew stronger. The bird must be coming his way. The man managed to raise his head from the path. Just coming into sight on the river was the pointed bow of a boat hovering over the water. It moved swiftly, softly, until the boat’s passenger came into view. The man felt no surprise. He was not shocked to see her gliding on the water dressed in purple and holding a dove in her lap. Somewhere in the quiet corners of his heart he had expected her. This must be why he walked along the river every day. He had known that she would come for him, of course he did. She used no paddle or rudder to steer the boat. It slid like a sliver of the moon over the water and right to the shore. As she rose, the folds of her purple velvet fell like water down her body and she stood straight and tall. The dove flew easily to her shoulder where it perched and continued to sing. She walked along the boat and stepped softly to the shore. She was everything he remembered and everything he knew she had become. She moved like the boat, seeming to skim the surface of the land. She knelt before him and he lay his weary head in the velvet nest of her lap. She began to sing with the bird and it seemed to the man that their voices were one and different at the same time. He could not understand her words, but he knew what she said. “Arise my love and walk with me on silver water and frosted seas. Arise above the stones of earth, be born of light and give it birth. Arise my dear one, come now arise.” Then lightly, gently they stood together – the woman – the man – on the path by the riverside. She took his hand and led him to the doorway of his hut. The man lay on his bed, the woman seated at his side. She smoothed his brow with her delicate hand and the man watched her steadily. There was no disbelief in his gaze, rather his eyes showed contentment and his mouth peace. As he drifted off to sleep she brought her lips close to his ear and whispered “It will not be much longer. Soon we shall be together my love….” When he awoke with the dawn she had gone. That next day the man did not rise from his bed. On the second day he did. Once he had dressed himself in linen he moved towards a long undisturbed corner of his hut. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. He bent himself to open the wooden chest that was hidden in the shadows. Reaching in, the man drew out a roll of heavy fabric and a bundle that was wrapped in paper and tied up with string. He closed the chest and brought his treasures to the table. First he unrolled the fabric and turned it so that it curved over the edges of the table. He set his bowl on one end and his cup on the other to keep it flat. Next he untied the package with the string. Out spilled an assortment of brushes and blocks of pigment that were dry and cracking in some places. The man glanced up at the mirror on his wall and smiled. He stood and, taking the wooden bowl in his hand, he made his way to the river. After drawing water, the man moved slowly back to his table. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. Once he was seated again the man began to paint. It had been years, but he was an old friend of the way the colors moved through the water on the canvas. Just as with any task, the man painted with economy, purpose and skill. On the third day a small crowd from the village arrived looking for the man. They had missed him in the village square and they came to see if all was well. Once the bravest among them had peeked in through the window and assured the others that the man was alive and seated at his table, the crowd pushed through the doorway and then craned their necks around each other to see the painting with which the man was occupied. The crowd praised the man’s talent. The canvas showed a series of pictures flowing in and out of each other. In each picture there was a woman dressed in purple. Along her journey she was joined by a man in a peaked cap. The last bit, that the man was still finishing, showed the woman in purple holding a dove on her lap. She was seated in the middle of a delicate and ancient boat that seemed to hover over the water of a river. Just from looking at the painting the crowd felt that they knew this woman and her history intimately. The man knew that before long he would be with his loved one but that first he had a job to do. When he had lost her, he locked her memory up inside himself and in the mirror on his wall and in the chest in the corner. The world had taken her away and so the world could not be trusted with her. But now that he had seen her, he understood. She was beyond the pain of this world and they could do her no harm. The floodgates he had so carefully constructed were now flung wide. There was so much to say. There were stories to be told, paintings to be made, tears to be cried and smiles to be shared. Bit by bit the man opened himself and shared the story of the woman he loved with all who would listen. And all who chose to listen were blessed. -Alia Williams

Why I Miss George

I finally watched the Concert for George on DVD last night, having received it for Christmas and it jogged my memory that he died on November 29th. My wife reminded me that Carey Grant also died on that date. She also reminded me this was her mother’s birthday. I wondered if there are there zodiac signs for the deceased? I mean we attribute personality characteristics to the living predicated on what month they are born. Are there characteristics of the dead, predicated on what month they died? Do the dead exchange clichéd lines at post mortem bars, “Hey, what’s your after life sign?” And what of those who are one sign during life, but a contradictory sign after life? What if you are an Aries or Leo in life (fire signs) but say a Cancer or Scorpio in death (clearly, water signs). Do we need to make any adjustments to such a change? After watching the DVD I am awash in a grave sense of loss, years after the event. His music reminds me of what we have lost. I miss George Harrison. Terribly. And the funny thing is, I am not entirely certain that I can put into words why. As I listened to his music and watched these people who clearly loved him singing his words I was comforted. Certainly, seeing his son Dhani onstage looking like his very clone was both comforting and spooky at the same time. You could still see the grief in the back of Eric Clapton’s eyes – even on the DVD. He was the musical coordinator of this concert, and as he wrote in the liner notes for the DVD, this was something he needed to do to facilitate the grieving process. Clapton knows grief. George as the “quiet” Beatle, was anything but, it turns out. He had a lot to say, and by God, much of it had depth, girth and weight. Where John Lennon spent years running away from the pressures of being a Beatle, George embraced a view of the world that at once removed him from these pressures and also engaged him in the world. Where McCartney ran to wealth and a comfortable country family life (himself, struggling with the loss of his wife Linda to cancer), George made music extolling the spiritual life. Before benefit concerts were chic, does anyone recall that George raised money for those struggling in Bangladesh as they were dealing with the worst imaginable drought? But this was not out of a sense of “responding from privilege” as we get from many rock stars today. George did this, I surmise, because it rose from his sense of the spiritual. I listen to Ringo sing “Photograph” – a song he co-wrote with George – and am frozen by the eerie prophetic lyrics. Ev'ry time i see your face It reminds me of the places we used to go. But all i got is a photograph And i realise you're not coming back anymore. I can't get used to living here, While my heart is broke, my tears i cried for you. I want you here to have and hold, As the years go by and we grow old and grey. Now you're expecting me to live without you, But that's not something that i'm looking forward to. I can't get used to living here, While my heart is broke, my tears i cried for you. I want you here to have and hold, As the years go by and we grow old and grey. Ev'ry time i see your face, It reminds me of the places we used to go. But all i got is a photograph And i realise you're not coming back anymore. Sad and creepy. I was impressed when Ringo announced to the crowd, "I loved George and George loved me." It was that type of bold imperative statement that seems unshakeable. It doesn't equivocate. It was the statement a brother and only a brother could make. That sort of certainty put me at ease. Remember when George went off to study with the Maharishi, how we’d all thought he’d flipped? And that was in the sixties when things like this were normally considered cool. Seems he was right all along, doesn’t it? Seek spiritual growth, and the rest will follow I guess. I remember watching a Beatle tribute not too long ago on TV and Paul made the comment about all of their songs in some way being about love. How much did George’s world view about love influence Paul and John to write about this subject? How much of George’s peaceful and spiritual demeanor was the oil that lubricated the friction between John and Paul during those tumultuous years? It’s speculative at best. But it is conceivable that in his “quiet” way, in his humble way, he brought the kind of energy the “Beatles” as a group needed to write such life affirming songs. You won’t see his name on the songs but I believe his influence was there anyway, in typical George style, underplayed, undervalued, and unseen. I suppose it is somewhat telling that his favorite chords on the guitar, and ones he loved to use most in his music, were diminished chords. George’s sense of the diminished self, of seeking truth over ego permeated the man wherever he went, and you can see that in the friends that showed up at this concert. You could even feel that in the audience, yes, even through the DVD. Yet George wrote lyrics like: “Beware of sadness, it can hit you, it can hurt you, Make you sore and what is more, That is not what you are here for.” These lines illustrate that he knew what it was to be in the world but he puts it into context: you are meant for greater things. It’s this sense of the transcendent in the guise of this seemingly diminished soul that I think resonates with me, and perhaps, this is why I miss him and his music so much. We need this today, more than ever. In an industry that exalts the self, and wealth, and faux artistry, this man joined art and spirit with the gentle passion of his own spirituality. He didn’t force anyone to listen; he didn’t push his ideas down. They bubbled up from his integration of spirit with body, in humility. This intensity may not have translated into many top 10 songs during his solo career (though he did have quite a few) and many in my time felt his “Indian” slant to music was hard to listen to, he did what all the greats do and he ran to himself. He honored his own vision of his art, and people saw this and flocked to his message. Thank God, is all I can say! They felt his gentleness. They felt his commitment to peace. Like me, years after his death listening to his music, these feelings reverberate in all of us, affirming what it is we all really want. George embodied this in his living and in his art. This is what makes him genuine. Maybe this is why I feel like I am missing a friend for in a real sense, though we have never met, I am. His songs were uplifting in the most subtle sort of way, and that is what friends do for each other. This is how we take in the most critical information that we assimilate to our very core. This is how we learn to become spiritual.

Prostrate Before the Holy Virgin

“God works in mysterious ways. You think you have a plan, but God has His own plan.” It was the weekend and time for my theology lesson from my mother, the patron saint of finding something good out of the deepest, darkest pile of shit life has a way of throwing at you. After a million years as her son I was used to it. Still, I could tell something was different in her voice that made her proselytizing different, more urgent than before. “Want to tell God a good joke?” she said over the phone. “Tell him you have plans.” “Yeah, ma, yeah.” I was barely listening still there was something in her voice that was different. I could not put my finger on it – it was just a feeling. I was having a hard time of it lately, and she knew it, though I don’t know how she knew it. “Ma, I really do believe everything works out in the end. I know I need to keep believing, but can’t you let me keep faith in my own way?” I could hear her deflate over the phone. “He knows what’s best for you,” she said, “even if you don’t. Oh I know you and your brother laugh at me and how you used to laugh whenever your Father and I took you to church.” This was somewhat true. My mother was a Catholic witch, and we did laugh at her adherence to the rituals, spells, incantations and the patriarchy, but I could not tell her this. “Your Father is turning over in his grave,” she said. “When did we make fun of you?” I complained. I heard the defensiveness in my own voice going into the handset of the phone. “Oh you know, laughing at the priests and the people who attended mass, you always laughed at the readings. Then as you got older you brought all that godless literature into the house, Nietzsche and Marx. Would it have killed you to read some Thomas Aquinas? Some St. Augustine? How about some Papal Encyclicals?” In point of fact, I had read some Aquinas and some Augustine and the all Vatican Council II documents but I was in no mood to argue. I thought of my Dad. “Well, I’m sorry, Ma. Kids should never treat their parents that way – especially mothers. You know how you held us together. You know, especially after Dad died.” “Oh, I know,” she consoled “You were just kids. What did you know?” But I could still feel the sting in her voice. It never occurred to me until just then how painful parenting could be. I knew it was fraught with perils and dilemmas and all sorts of trade offs, but no one ever talks about the pain of parenting. “You’ll come back to God, just you wait. You are still young.” “Yeah, I know, there are no atheists in foxholes and on deathbeds.” “That’s right, dear, and even if you never go back to Him, I had you baptized you are His whether you like it or not.” I felt like I was part of a cult; like I was part of some X-files episode where the alien ships would return and claim what was theirs and I would be among them. I heard the loon clock go off in the background over the phone. I always hated that clock, but my Dad had bought it for my Mom. “Still got that Loon clock, huh?” I asked her. “Isn’t it wonderful? You father bought that for me the year before he died.” I interrupted her. “Yeah Mom, I know, you’ve told me before.” “It’s such a sad sound, don’t you think?” she said after a slight pause. “I know how much you boys hated it – still your Father and…” I stopped her there. I didn’t want her to finish the thought. “I know, Ma, I know.” “Still”, her voice rebounded as though she had been asleep and was suddenly awakened, “that reminds me – it’s almost time for Mass. Do you want to make an old lady happy and come take me to Mass? There is a Mass over at Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt and Father Donally is saying the Mass. You remember him, don’t you? If we get there early we can get a good seat and be the first to receive communion.” I stifled a chuckle. She didn’t realize what she had said. “Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt?” I asked. “No, I meant Peace – what did I say?” “You said ‘Guilt’ – you said ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt.” I was laughing now and I felt the same way as when my brother and I would make fun of people in Church, and the priests and even the statues. Like the time someone broke off Jesus’ first finger while cleaning the statue. His right hand was held up to his heart with the first two fingers extended, only with the broken pointer finger it looked like Jesus was flipping us the bird. This kept my brother and me laughing for months until they fixed it. “You know what I meant,” she said, “Don’t be a weisenheimer!” Weisenheimer? That was something my Dad used to call us. I never understood where he got that expression. My Dad was a strict German Lutheran with family from upstate New York. How did words like “weisenheimer” creep into his vocabulary? “Did Dad really believe in all this, Ma? I mean the religion and all,” I asked her out of the blue. It caught her square and unready and she flailed for a response. “Oh, why, I suppose – you know he converted to Catholicism, don’t you?” “Yeah, I knew that,” I responded. This always made me think of my Father in a different way – sort of a romantic way – a man willing to forgo his own Lutheran faith for the love of a woman. Still, this was not a great leap of faith, was it? I mean he converted from being a Lutheran to becoming a Catholic. It was not quite like him needing to get circumcised or anything. I had to change the subject. All this talk about “Our Lady of whatever” made me think of our trip down to Santiago de Chile, years ago, when I took my mother to visit my brother. My brother had been living in one of the worst barrios in Santiago with Maryknoll Missioners and I went with her to visit him. “Remember the time we were in Santiago, and we went to visit the Lady of Santiago?” The Lady of Santiago was this huge statue in the center of Santiago that tourists flocked to from all over. It was not quite as large as the famous statue of Jesus that overlooked Rio de Janerio, but it was still pretty big and just as imposing. “You know, if you ask Mary to bring things to Jesus she will. She will intercede for you.” My mother was still teaching. “Yes, Ma, I know that. Do you remember when we went there and you were so busy looking up at the statue, you fell over in a small ditch?” She started to laugh and it made me feel it was okay to start laughing as well. “Yes, yes, I was laid prostrate before the Holy Virgin,” she tried to get out between huffs of laughter. That is what we told people. We were made prostrate before the Holy Virgin. It was our own personal, private miracle though it was less of a miracle and more of just an act of clumsiness. Still we thought it was pretty funny. I thought of how she raised eight children, and supported five of them alone without her husband after my Dad died with no income. I thought of those Christmas evenings, the house decorated as best as she could, and how we never went without during that whole time growing up –I remember those times when she sat there with the lights out in the dark, crying and me, playing Christmas carols on my guitar as a teenager, incapable of even reckoning such grief and loneliness let alone being able to do anything about it. It was at this moment that my faith crystallized. I don’t know if Mary was a Virgin or if God was one person in three. I don’t know if I believed in a first coming or a second coming. But I did believe in the strength of the woman on the other end of this line. I did believe in that sort of resiliency and bounce to life’s misery. I did believe that this is the power that moves the world, no matter what the cynics say and if this is faith, then yes, I believe. And it didn’t matter how I expressed it, but, as in my Mother’s case, all that mattered is that I lived it. We talked some more about that trip to Santiago, and I glanced up at the clock. “Ma, let me hang,” I said. “Let me come over and pick you up and we can go to Mass together.” I heard an audible gasp on the other end of the phone, then silence. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect she was crying. “God does work in mysterious ways,” she said. “Just think of it as just another soul made prostrate before the Holy Virgin,” I said to her. I heard her giggle, and for the very first time that I can ever recall, she sounded like a little girl.

Resolution

The day has an edge like a ruler and is as inviting As an open clearing in the woods. I have resolved to walk among these shy hills New Year’s Day; I seek resolution in the roads that push and pull me . There is order and beauty in everything - Even in the litter that lines the roads – Orphaned cigarette packs, flattened juice boxes Beer pack rings, all the dullness of road salt. I follow the Sacred Silence into the New Year. Winter’s voice is a series of wind chimes When I am greeted by disembodied voices Carried on the wind like insects – “It’s so nice out!” and without seeing anyone I make human contact. A pair of ponies and chestnut brown mare Turn their heads and want to know what I am about. How do I answer them? Still, I follow the rock path, Upward, like Ezekiel in his chariot of fire, Into the hills. Into the Sacred Silence of the New Year. The jays have marked their territory With darting, nervous eyes – They flit just above the brown grasses feathered by the Wind. Ashen cedar bat boxes line the barbed wire That protects a local reclamation project – These are the legacy of an ex-brother-in-law Who loved the environment of earth But could not reclaim the environment of his own heart And soon, left his wife and the area. But I am not here to judge today. Today, I march upward over lazy, slothful oaks; I count rings in trunks that seem like open faces and try to relive the life of a Tree. Can anyone do that? Speckled green and white lichen decorate mortally wounded trees, Resting with ears pressed against the soft Brown autumn carpet. I see bare blueberry bushes, Denuded and frozen in hardened sunlight Purple in the quiet and stillness, They suggest a New Years Eve Celebration – When the ball has dropped And the champagne is popped And confetti flies – Limbs flagrant and spontaneous, Locked into positions, Calling me; Waiting for me to pass by and take notice. The thickness of wrinkled tree bark, Bent and splintered, twisted and gray Is like some Civil War battlefield, Evoking ghosts of something wild, Some bravado of nature at her very worst; “Something courageous has happened here,” I think. There, up ahead, an Irish Setter the size of a small bear chases a tennis ball tumbles down the path to greet me – the dog’s owners descend As I ascend, and we meet To discuss the plight of wounded deer in the woods And trapped, injured animals And writing and poetry – They tell me to be on the look out for an owl With a heart shaped face – So I watch My breathing stills So that I may see such a creature – My heart is lifted When we part, And a newer, larger nearly yellow dog approaches - I am his brother. I do not stare at him directly, For I do not want to challenge him – This land is his and I am the stranger; I intrude with every breath. Still, I look for the owl With the heart shaped face, But do not see her. There is now a boastful wind among the Pines That stand so erect, With no idea of correction; The dull waving of evergreen Announces the wind like royalty. For the wind, too, is my brother And I do not want to look into its eyes either; I stand by broken pine and the wood Mourns soulfully; The wind coaxes sad songs From the pine: “I am broken and used”. And the sad melody moves me With the compassion of a mystic. Crows as dark as pitch Wrap cold air around themselves And slide down among the shadows, Expanding the distance of the demur rolling hills. Apple trees with rickety twisted arms Sneer and make fun of me As if holding their hands to their ears And taunting me the way children do. Playful streams Full of meandering spirit, Are stopped dead On their backs, flat and serpentine Willy-nilly, like kids playing freeze tag – Like Lot’s wife, turned to salt – These are turned to Ice With a single glare of Winter’s stare. Suddenly, there is the embrace of stillness. The flaxen grasses unfold before Mt. Tom’s head held upright Aloof and does not care a whit what goes on below. I pass the tired Oldsmobile hubcap And wonder if it will be missed – Does anyone know it sits here at all? Even the trash seems so sad now. The downhill road now spills me out Like a giant black tongue Back down to where I started. As I pass an angry red “POSTED” sign Which warns: “Keep out!” “You don’t belong” “No Hunting” I hunt only Beauty. Surely I do not need my hunter’s orange cap for this. But I hunt beauty in reverse. I let Beauty stalk me quietly, I let her kill me And make me into a holiday dinner – A feast for everyone, The way I am changed when I walk among these hills The bragging wind shrieks around a telephone wire – And asks me what is it I seek in all this emptiness And I respond, “Yes! That is it! That is it!” I have made a New Year’s Resolution That I should walk these shy hills On the first day of each New Year. I have not asked you to walk with me, But perhaps you will. For though we are men, Today we are gods. There is much yet to suffer, I will be courageous; There is much yet to build, I will be industrious; There is much to forgive, I will be gracious; For it would be a shameful thing to pass another year Without making something new for my children. It would be shameful to die Without leaving something behind. Jan 2005

Miraculous

The music in the car on the way to the hospital was interesting. First, Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds”: “don’t worry/about a thing/cuz every little thing/ gonna be alright”. That was followed by Warren Zevon’s “Poor Poor Pitiful Me”. I have to admit I was feeling it, if just a little. But when we got to the O.R. prep room, they piped in music and Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” wafted through the quasi private beds in the prep room. This was my Dad’s favorite song. I was only a week away from the 30th anniversary of his death. There are no coincidences. I was not alone and I really wasn’t nervous, just anxious to get it done with, get it over. In the prep room the nurse asked me questions and had me get into a paper flimsy Johnny. “Can I leave the skivvies on?” wincing at the word “skivvies” – no one calls underwear skivvies these days. Bonehead. “Nice try!” the nurse responds, and I go commando tightening the Johnny around as tight as I could for some sort of privacy. Steve and Chris came after that and kept me company. It was great having them there, especially Steve. I know how much he hates hospitals but I also know how much it meant to Chris to have him there. Soon after that, Chris’ sister, Judy arrived and yes, we were now officially a “scene”. Can you imagine if my out of state family had driven up as they warned they might? I’d have been blacklisted from the hospital for sure. Across from me was a frail looking elderly woman, with blue-white hair. Her bony body was covered up beneath the blanket but I could see how the Johnny hung off her making her arms look like the clapper of a bell, flailing with all the space and the large roominess the Johnny provides. I think about the things we are taught as kids about modesty and propriety, and how this all disappears in a hospital. The old woman is chatting nervously but causally with an older middle aged man, presumably her son. I could almost see her trying to sell me chances to the next St. Anthony’s festival for her local church parish. She wore an oversized blue cap which clashed with her wrinkled alabaster skin. Next to her was a larger man who was being prepped for open heart surgery. He was extraordinarily hairy and since they were cracking his chest, they had to shave him. They pulled the privacy curtain around him and began. The droning continued for what had to be 15 minutes. Steve looked over to me and muffled a laugh. I knew what he was thinking. After a while, after we had all grown immune to the bee-like hum of the surgical razor, I heard the man being shaved exclaim in a dark, mocha baritone, “I think we’re starting a small brush fire here!” The whole O.R. prep room broke up with laughter. Steve almost lost it and I laughed out loud. My nurse also shook her head with a grin that scooped across her face. At least there would be laughter going into this. It occurred to me then how the lot that was assembled in this room were the beneficiaries of today’s magic. These men and women – doctors and nurses – were going to be lopping off organs, cracking open ribs, dipping their hands into the deepest innermost regions of human beings. I wondered if any of my soul would be lost, allowed to escape into the ether as I lay there inside out to the airborne world. I thought about how years ago, these same men and women would be tried for witchcraft, and magic and all sorts of savagery. Gathered in this room was the pinnacle of human medical need and medical technology and know how. Flying was once an interface of the unknown: it took a special sort of courage to fly across the continent. We now board flights hourly across the world with little more concern than whether or not our luggage will reach our planned destination. Likewise, these surgeons require a different sort of courage, but again, so much has been made mundane: it is the routine that belies the “hardness” of it. Maybe, I think, it is just another form of ritual that glides our way in the modern world. Soon the anesthesiologist stops by: he is a square man with a round shiny head, and seems incapable of wearing a smile. His job was to administer the epidural which took him two attempts after lots of pricking and having my shoulders and upper body held back by a smaller more pleasing appearing black man named Josh. I didn’t mind the square smile-less doctor missing the mark, though I have to say, he reached new levels of pain with each prick of the needles. I did mind that the guy never cracked a smile. Maybe he was new. Maybe he was nervous. I’d heard most anesthesiologists were hoots! Comes from the fact that maybe they’d partaken of some of the nitrous they seemed to be able to get their licensed hands on. No, a sense of humor makes us better at what we do, I believe and even if it doesn’t? it helps us fake it until we make it much smoother. It was smart, however, to get the epidural in correctly right from the start. This was my instinct, as I figured this was going to control the pain – along with every other bodily function below my waist for the next few days – it had to be right. The prep room was a flurry of activity. I saw Dr.”C” only once, dressed smartly in a black turtleneck and black pea coat. I remember his outfit because the dark colored outfit contrasted brilliantly with his sliver hair and white, taut trim beard. He came in to crack a few jokes (“The left kidney right?” – it was the right he was too remove – to which I responded, “okay, is that MY right or YOUR right?” He autographed my RIGHT flank, to indicate where he would cut, and then he disappeared to get dressed for surgery. Soon they wheeled me in. I gave Chris and Judy and Steve hugs and kisses and I just saw hands moving all around me. No one even acknowledged my presence in the room. Then, out of nowhere, a clear mask came over my nose and mouth and I was gone. I slept a dreamless sleep. It was like a moonless, starless night. Nothing. I was hoping for some good dreams. My first vision was the clock and I was trying to do the math in my head. I knew I had gone in sometime after noon and I was trying to read the clock, then compute the math. Was it done? Or did I horribly and accidentally wake up in the middle of the operation? Dr. “C” was standing in front of me shouting, “IT WAS CANCER! WE GOT IT” and me feebly giving him the thumbs up, then in my typically idiosyncratically way, thinking, “Do you suppose he thought I meant the “thumbs up” as though I was saying, ‘Yay, Cancer!’?” Even with allthat anesthesia, my mind just wouldn’t cut me any slack. I swear, I’m hopeless. I stopped worrying what Dr. “C” might think about my “political stance on cancer”, and fell back to sleep but not before asking for my family. I was at least conscious enough to ask that correctly. The procedure took a little longer than anticipated, but only because they had misplaced the film (which I had actually brought with me to prevent this very thing from happening). Also, the cancer was deeper than he had estimated from the film. He went back twice to scoop out more and more kidney until he could be sure he was dealing with clean tissue. He did frozen sections on each scoop until he had what he felt was a clean section – about 1/3 of my right kidney altogether. The cancer was gone and I felt like packed cotton: tight, bound, and really no pain. There was an IV in my right arm. All that kept playing through my head was: “The cancer is gone! The Cancer is gone!” But for how long? I am reminded of that Lakota Sioux line: “Sometimes I go about pitying myself, and all the while I am being carried on great wings across the sky.” That’s what I feel like right now. At this moment, I am just one small idiot not blessed, but acutely aware that I am at one point of a cycle that can sometimes be not so forgiving, and not seem so “spiritual”. Will I feel as grateful and humble when the other side of that wheel comes around? I have done nothing to either deserve getting this cancer, nor have I done a thing that warranted its random finding and eventual cure. I am a fool if I think otherwise. I grip the ropes tighter, enjoy the now, and am aware of the wheel making its way around. Give me the grace to bear with that, when it comes, as abundantly as I have been given this grace, here today. That is all I ask. Einstein once said: “There are two ways to view the world: as if everything in it is a miracle, or as if everything is not a miracle.” I have chosen the former. And even if this cancer comes back, and I am fighting again, won’t that be miraculous? And when I am asked to face the struggle that is the condition of mankind, won’t that be wonderous? God, please just give me the strength to remember this. And if you are my friends, I expect nothing else but for you to remind me of this.

Dear Writing It Up In the Garden Castaways

We sit here on the cusp of a holiday respite and it is December. Despite what Eliot wrote, April cannot even begin to hold a candle to December in the type of cruelty months can dole out. I am a week away from major surgery and while I am aware this is only a bit riskier than, say, driving without my seat belt - well, okay, maybe it is a bit higher risk than this – my superstitions still get the best of me sometimes. Thirty years ago, nearly to the day, my father died in December, at age 48 – my age. Two years ago – again, very nearly to the day, I suffered a heart attack. And then of course, there is the anniversary of John Lennon’s death, which I am still struggling to come to terms with. I am remembering my father tonight and there are strange spirits moving in the air. I don’t mean to give in to hyperbole or melodrama, but tonight, I just want to say something to the group – something that should be said, because none of us knows what tomorrow may bring. Yes, I called us the “castaways” because it occurred to me how much like castaways we really are. We all started this journey on a 3-hour tour seeking God-only-knows-what and we find ourselves here, deposited on the shores of this airy and warm Victorian home in Northampton, Massachusetts. Driving home from work tonight my mind raced making connections it had no business making. Elizabeth, of course, would be all Mary Ann – she is as sweet as any country Kansas farm girl – real or fictional. But then so would Gail and Nerissa, who also have some decidedly “Professor-like” qualities, being so smart and steadfast. There is no question that we would have Daniel as our “Skipper”. His writing voice commands respect; it demonstrates knowledge of where to go and what to do. Merideth and Tommy are like those cannibals that came from neighboring islands from time to time, banging coconut shell drums to make music and offer to whisk us away, only to have their plans foiled at the last minute when the evening ends and the group must retire for the evening to the “other world”. John, of course, would have to be “Lovey” – not for any real reason except the thought of it is so surreal, it just fits with his writing style. Charette – or as I prefer to think of her, the “Monet of Narrative” – would have to be the glamorous “Ginger”, though I have serious doubts that Ginger could ever push a noun against a verb the way Charette does. And I would dearly like to proclaim Tom Duffy as sweet as any “Marry Ann” though I suspect he might move away from me slightly in the circle. Beside, he has some definite “Professor” tendencies also, Then of course, there is me. I am the hapless “Gilligan”, sitting here week after week in my goofy red cons, hatching plans in my head which believe me, really do make sense in my head, until I verbalize the ideas, and I get these sideways looks, the way the RCA Victor’s dog’s head is tilted listening to his master's voice from an old victrola. No doubt about it, we are Castaways. We are purposefully marooned here each week to feed whatever it is that makes us need to write. Sometimes, when K-Fucked radio is turned up loud in my head, I hate my writing. I think how to the untrained eye we must seem like just a bunch of crazies sitting in a circle, sucking on tea and cookies, engaging in a self delusional form of mass masturbation of the most indulgent nature. This of course, makes me think of that Woody Allen line “don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with the person I love the most.” But it’s not really like that. Not really. That’s just the K-Fucked radio talking. Look at Cody, the dog. You know how he barks when you enter the room? He just wants to be noticed and I find that so honest I have to lean over and just pet him. I mean, he barks just to get attention. Maybe I should start that practice. It’s much simpler than all the Machiavellian plots I devise to accomplish the same goal. And in the end, that’s all writing is about too, isn’t it? We are all born in isolation and living is that expression outward to making contact. We are all here, barking like Cody, to be noticed. And somehow, this is a comforting thought. Good old Cody. When I go back to the “real world”, I realize what a haven we have created here and the partly it’s because none of us really knows how it was done. Oh yes, there are lots of reasons, but like the best things in life, I am finding, these things just are, and we discover them, like stumbling over our shoes under our bed in the night. We don't create them. Just as when the “Gilligan’s Island” castaways found themselves out of place in the real world when they finally did get rescued (do you remember watching that special episode?) I suspect each of us finds ourselves just a bit out of sorts Friday mornings. So what I mean to say is that none of us knows what the tide will wash up on our shores tomorrow, so this is why we keep at it. Tonight I am thinking of my dad, thinking of how much worse it could be, counting my blessings like a farmer counts his harvest in the fall. Still, I find myself sticking my one foot in that door of “but why me?” just a little. Some things just aren’t right, and this is one of them. I’m not afraid of dying, not that I believe I will die (pain is a whole other question however!) I am tyrannically afraid of not telling those around me how important they are in my life It’s something I’ve had to work at, this overwhelming force which prevents what is inside me from filling the four corners of the night sky. So here, with utter abandon, and complete foolishness I want you all to know – those here now and those who have built their little palm huts in the past and have moved on - how privileged I am to share this island with each of you. How your writing and sparkle have made my days pass with less sturm und drang; how, in the words of Peter to Jesus in one of the Gospels during the transfiguration, “it is good to be here.” Verily, I say. And while maybe our writing has not been catalogued with ISBN numbers, nor reviewed by any scholarly rag, and no one has asked me for that book tour quite yet, what we do is important. What we have found is the very thing we all seek in everything we do: we have found family. So how about we give up a hug and split a cocoanut? Authors Note:Thanks to everyone in this group and any others. Happy Season to all! Fah who foraze! Dah who doraze! Welcome, Christmas! Fah who rahmus! Welcome, Christmas! Dah who dahmus Christmas Day, Will always be Just as long, As we have we - Dr. Suess

Loose Ends

There are the loose ends That are the details of a life Frayed in chaos They are tears that are Really just promises; You watch bewildered one garment Start to unravel. Until You learn how It’s these tattered loose ends Which make the new garment: The sound of a baby, New constellations, Revitalized courage And the strongest kind of love. Dec 2004 For Charrette and her family (To Infinity and Beyond!)

unclean

It’s been three months since he was there-- Since anyone was there, And the smell of my own body still nauseates me. The fingerprints Fading from purple to yellow Were gone after a few weeks, But it’s still here: Filth through my pores Screams in my blood. I’ve tried Load after load, bed sheets and underwear Scalding water My skin.

The Coolness of the Moon

The moon is pissed. I know because he stopped me outside my house tonight. He hung there like a smile, slung back, low, relaxed and so cool. He wore dark rimmed spectacles, burly mutton chop sideburns, poured low rise, hip hugging black pleather pants, while balancing a cigarette with a tremble on his lips. The smoke swirled past his torn RANCID t-shirt and circled Orion’s belt. “Yo, dude. ‘Sup?” he says to me. Dude? He is cool, there’s no denying that. He is low in the eastern sky, a crescent on his way to a new moon. He would barely get up off the horizon tonight and he was just feeling like a raw scab. He stretches back, draws a few puffs on the cigarette and waits for me to answer. Then he tells me why he’s pissed. He’s tired of the sun being so everything. It rises, it sets. It’s the sun, no changes, no “phases”. He verbally creates air quotes by emphasizing the word “phases”. He’s sick of the sun being the center of everything. Maybe he would just spin off and start his own solar system. When I explain this is not possible, that there are laws of physics, there is inertia to consider, he just spits. He doesn’t care. He knows people. He has friends. Take Saturn, for instance. Some traveling asteroid comes swinging along, knocks her up and before you know it, it’s wham-bam-thankee-maam there are a dozen moons. “She’s such a slut,” he says. “Saturn?” I ask. “Yeah, and she’s always has to show off the bling-bling.” “The rings?” I ask. “Yeah. Still those guys are my buddies. They would so totally follow me.” I try to leave, but the moon will have none of that. He’s so pissed, his color even looks odd. More yellow than white tonight. He rants about the clouds, how they just cover for that slacker sun; how he’s often off chasing rainbows or things, and no one even knows. And all he does is give people cancer and start forest fires, destroy crops and create droughts. Still, everyone “ooohs” and “aahhhhs” whenever the sun enters or leaves the day. If the moon had arms, I am certain he would be waving them about now. He’s tired of depending on sunlight for his presence. On some days of the month, he hides to show up that big show off, but it’s hard to hide, so he has to show his face again. “And look at this face!” the moon says exasperated. “Tell me if I don’t look like a thirteen year old in a chocolate factory!” It is the marks. It’s not easy getting dates with a face like this, he tells me. I know. I can relate. I tell him some things that I hate about the sun: how you can never really look at it. How it's always too bright and it always gets in the way when driving – especially east and west. The moon takes a deep breath and seems at ease. He tells me to stay cool and have fun at the party. He is heading to a bodacious game of cranium with the Seven Sisters who really know how to party. He tells me about how when they drink too much they always try to start up a round of “strip-twister”. He tells me to get moving, I’ll be late. I thank him and leave. The moon is coolness personified. The sun is a pretentious metrosexual always flaunting his knowledge of wines and the most gauche places to shop. But the moon drinks his beer with no glass and no twist off top either. The moon would never be caught drinking a Lite beer. The sun gets all the press, but the moon is where everything happens; where the hidden comes out, only to be chased away again by the sun’s daylight brashness. The moon is pissed tonight. Better stay clear if you see him. I’m off to my party, but man, is he ever cool. M C Biegner 2004

Group Card

dear josh

dear josh, your absence has outlasted your presence in my life. what i remember now is only the space, the silence. love is a memory i re-enact because there's nothing else to say anymore, and i have to account somehow for the marks the love left behind. i wonder where you are sometimes, even though i like to think i've stopped being interested in the answer, i guess because some long-silent part of me still expects the knowledge to rise up from somewhere secret. i wonder where you are even though i can't really imagine it--i only ever see you in the places that you've been before, even though it's been years since you've seen them. i wonder what there is to miss anymore, since you faded so gradually that it took a while to notice you were leaving, since there was enough left to put my heart into--your writing on the back of a photo, that hat you used to wear, those letters that never told me anything but meant everything. i wonder when these things stopped being you. i wonder what you'd be like if you'd stayed. i wonder what i'd be like if you'd never left, what i am like since you have. what i miss doesn't even exist anymore, probably couldn't, but the absence stays with me, like a scar my body grew into, like a line carved into a doorframe at the height i used to be. i wonder what would happen if we started to say your name again, if we stood for a while in the absence instead of turning from it, a door no one meant to open, a feeling no one meant to have. i wonder what would happen if i let go of the regret. i wonder if it's even possible, if it's even mine. i wonder if the regret is really yours, something you left behind for me to find and carry around in case you ever wanted it back. i wonder if i will be faithful when there's no faith left. i wonder if the hope is for you or for me, if the grief is for what i might have been without this pain, rather than for its source. i wonder if you miss me. i wonder if you will. i wonder if i love you, i wonder if goodbye.

things i've done in churches

i. inside it is nothing like new york in august. the sounds of traffic are turned away at the vestibule like false penitents, the heat and air and light made chaste with a sprinkling of holy water. the pews are filled with people who want to be there and people who just walked by, people with nowhere else to go and somewhere else to be. without noticing they shed their skins when they walk through the door, letting the pain out to breathe. they will be healed here. at the altar stand the supplicants, turned to face all the closed and open hearts, dwarfed by the room's ascent to ward heaven. the space is too vast, too vacant with god to be filled by their dreaming. the task is impossible, essential. but soon the air begins to swell with the chord change, the heartbreak. it quickens and stirs like a tide just woken. urgent, the strengthening cadence pushes against the limits of the vacancy it's filled, bursts through like a heart broken by too much joy, makes everything that's still come to life, wakens every pain from its secret home. the brokenness and the humanness are what sanctify the sanctuary. when the music stops, so does the silence. ii. the church is open until ten o clock at night and so she goes there looking for an answer, moving alone through the darkness, anointed with cool night air. the church is dark and probably empty, and she tests the knob before pulling the heavy outer door and slipping inside. the space seems still, and in it, her heart loosens, unfolds. she will pray in the darkness, where no one but god will see. but inside the sanctuary, someone is already frozen in grief or in sorrow, kneeling in the godlight that falls on the altar. her face is unfamiliar, but her desperation is not. the small sound of the door falling closed is enough to break the silence, and the girl on the altar wakes up then, turns from the light into the darkness, is gone before she can cover her eyes to keep from seeing her private pain, to apologize for interrupting. she can't pray either, now that the solitude is gone, isn't sure she knew how in the first place. she leaves the demons at the altar and turns toward home. iii. what might also be sacred: the knife seaming the flesh of the mango, its teeth drawing the sticky sweetness toward the wound the foam rising to the top of the coffee brewed in silent early darkness the tremor of the hand in the moment between striking the match and lighting the flame waking up to rest in the space between sleep and consciousness the space between each heartbeat filled with blood and love

13 corners

13 corners we live in a culture where 13 is an unlucky number but it's always been my grandmother's lucky one and i've always believed more of her superstitions anyway i may not call this luck but i am fortunate and blessed here in this house brimming with the prosperity of this fall harvest with voices giving and receiving with water and life in every room i've rediscovered that 16-year-old poet at home in that palo alto alley watched over by saint michael and all the old souls who had heard and read so much more but never what she brought to that corner there are many more corners more alleys more springs more old and young souls to give and receive by teresa wong, 11.7.04

Downtown by Michael Biegner

Downtown His hands were like broken concrete yet they wrapped the pole of the subway car tightly. It was almost a year ago that the towers fell; when the plume shuttled uptown and the dust tossed itself willy-nilly over lower Manhattan. It was almost a year ago, when shards of paper representing lives flew like souls across the Hudson into Brooklyn, signifying all that was left. McNab took the “F” train downtown every day to get to his job. He got on at Kew Gardens and he always wore his construction helmet backwards. After the collapse, they slapped one of those American flags on the backs of all the guys’ helmets. McNab wore his so the flag faced forward. McNab was a rigger and had been for years. He’d been working downtown since the collapse. He was a slight man, but wore his work belt, heavy boots and thick gloves which gave him monstrous girth. At Jackson Heights the crowds in the train pushed out against the bodies lined up waiting to board; there was a panicked effort to catch the number 7 train to Flushing. McNab pulled back in the car. He never sat. He always preferred to give up his seat. At the Roosevelt Avenue station the train performed its purge and binge of riders. Marisol always stepped on here. Same spot on the platform. Same car. McNab always instinctively turned his head discreetly toward his outstretched arm, trying to catch his own body odor. Marisol was a slight pretty Puerto Rican woman with thick red lips who wore too much makeup. She rode until Rockefeller Center where she always smoothed her pants or skirt, gathered her things, just before she would rise and stand by the train door. As Marisol went by she always brushed against McNab’s gruff toil smeared body. He breathed in her perfume, and marveled at her rich black hair. Marisol always read; her dark almond eyes peered over her newspaper appeared like question marks to McNab. If she ever suspected that McNab watched her, she never let on. These were two dancers among many on all the cars that hurtled through the tunnels under New York. When the train descended under the East River, McNab felt his ears “pop”. The lights would go out momentarily and he could only see the shadow of Marisol’s head against the tunnel lights through the car window. Together they rocked and lurched, evident for that half hour that they were subject to the same laws of physics. When Marisol’s stop arrived, McNab made a deal with himself to follow her out, to talk to her and strike up a conversation. He planned it from Roosevelt Island. When the door opened, he saw himself follow her. He felt his body want to move. As the doors closed, the chimes seemed to berate his lack of initiative. “Tomorrow”, he would mutter and then begin the negotiations all over again. The doors closed, as the great beast dumped McNab off at West 4th Street where he would walk the rest of the way. There was still rubble to clear.