October 30th, 2005

That’s an easy title to start with. The question is, where do we go from here? We could go back or forward or left or right. Other possibilities? Not sure. There’s some pretty weird places we could go which don’t exactly fit into one of those categories.

I’d say it’s easier to start off on the ground. Sunshine, warm, folks about, trees turning, Wilma warming. Tons of thoughts roaming about. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, how they do determine where we go. Rather like strings on a puppet or tracks on a rail road. They guide, push, pull, brake, steer. What are we without them? At times they seem to be the center of the universe. At times they just flow alongside.

Yet another possibility - they stop and we move on. Sitting on a flat pillow in a silent room, legs crossed Indian style, back straight, eyes half shut. Thought limited to a spot on the floor. Brown, set apart from a sea of spots. This point is it, nothing else is really there. There’s no yesterday, no tomorrow, no up, no down. The world is that spot. Not good or bad, ugly or beautiful, not boring or fascinating, just all-encompassing.

Though void of value, that moment is refreshing and energetic.

As mentioned above, the ground is but a taking off point. From there we can jump and move on out. A child’s push off the wall of the pool, gliding a bit through the dense substance. It’s not far but it’s momentous. Empowering for the player, of tremendous impact to the pool of water. The millions of water molecules pushed unwillingly into new directions, themselves changing the surface of the pool walls. The waves created by this innocent child also completely changing the movements of air in the surrounding area. A butterfly in China, a wave of water in an indoor pool in Southern Germany. It happens, the world is no longer what it was.

What then does Wilma have to do with this sunny, warm day in late October? Moving from the East Coast of the US towards Scandinavia, this weather front is sucking warm Mediterranean air up into Central Europe. Glad to hear about that. Hope those Hurricanes keep on comin’. Ooops, what about the butterfly? Maybe it wasn’t in China, rather in Florida. That butterfly didn’t even get to flap it’s wings ‘cus it got smashed up against the concrete wall of a K-Mart. Think of that. That concrete wall will never be the same.

Okay, got the point dude. It’s like the foot bone is connected to the leg bone, right. Well, ya, right. It’s all interconnected. We live in a global village, man. Love thy neighbor. Do unto another and all that. Just think about it. Go dump a glass of some chemical compound in the Adriatic Sea and shortly afterwards a group of some nerds with fancy equipment in the Santa Monica Bay can detect it.

So what are the consequences, brother? Should I just sit around and make sure I don’t make any wrong moves or the air waves moving off my arm are gonna change the salmon runs in Alaska?

Man, don’t get so freaked out about it. It’s just an analogy. We all sure as hell do, though, need to think about the consequences of what we’re doing.

October 31st

Now that we got that figured out it’s time to move on. How ‘bout just waiting for green and we can cross the two-lane street to the pharmacy now occupying the old post office. The post office moved one door down to that newly constructed building with the blue-glass façade. Guess they didn’t like being on the corner where the homeless punks hang out. The pharmacy managed to get rid of ‘em though. They simply tore down the steps and put in a ramp for the handicapped. Now the punks and homeless gather in front of the market back on the other side of the street. They’ve got tons of them there. Must be about 50, steps that is. They come from the left and the right and meet right down at the automatic glass door leading into the store. I haven’t asked them but I’d bet a bottle of whiskey they like it there better than on the no longer existing steps at the no longer existing post office.

If I were a homeless punk I sure as heck would prefer the new steps. There’s even a tunnel under the train tracks just a stone’s throw from the market’s steps. A perfect place for them to go about their daily business of begging for coins from annoyed passers by. [Hey I just looked that word up in my Mac’s dictionary and it said “No Entry for passers by”, but my text editor didn’t mark it as incorrectly written. Can someone please explain this mystery to me?] Ya know, back when I was a punk (non-homeless though it may be) we didn’t have any tunnel under the train tracks next to the steps that we hung out on. In fact, there weren’t even any train tracks within miles. I guess the nearest ones must have been running north-south through Torrance, Compton and Wilmington along through the San Pedro Harbor area. That is getting a bit off track, sorry. The point is - um - it’s that the pharmacy on the corner, ya the pharmacy, it’s in a new building, no I mean it’s that when we got in there.... Oh never mind. Forget it!

It’s not the pharmacy, not the building, the steps or the punks, it’s the whole thing, ya know, the big cheese, the whole turkey with stuffing and all. Once you get across that two lane street there’s absolutely no way back. You can’t just turn around and do it over again, or pretend like you never did it. Finito. Done is done. Time goes on. Your foot steps are marked in the asphalt, indelible. You left space and entered into new space. You were accompanied by units of time. You made your opinions about steps, stones and music. Your daughter holding your hand felt you tense as you avoided eye contact with the girl with the stupid looking haircut. She won’t let you forget. She’s your witness, your living proof.

For her it wasn’t just any old street corner on any old autumn afternoon in any old German town. It was a momentous moment, painted in her memory to stay for decades. The crowds, the green light, the loud, rude kids on the steps. The trigger was the faint change in pressure. First the trusted, relaxed hand, then the sense of fear radiating from you like an oven. For you it was but a glance to the side, a miniscule acceleration. For her a revolution, an unimaginable thought. You’re weak, you’re afraid, you’re imperfect. This can not be. Or can it. We will have to think about this.
We have seen slip ups before. She has noticed cracks in your armor. An argument, rage, yelling. Strange, frightening. Why are you doing this? What is wrong? You’re different, irrational, loud, ugly. How should I process this? Of course, you know not what goes on in that little mind. But, but you see that it’s not such a little mind. A telling glance - “you’re being ridiculous” - gives you a hint. It’s not so grave, it’s actually wonderful. A young child is participating, thinking, processing, feeling, receiving, giving. Who would have expected that!

November 2nd

Tragedy strikes when you least expect it. Better said - it strikes without forewarning. Unlike a thunderstorm that builds up pressure and creates a silence in wake of it’s power, personal tragedy arrives from it’s own universe, slamming into your face like a locomotive.

You feel so immune to pain, suffering and sadness when it doesn’t affect you personally.
Not going anywhere. Don’t exactly know what I want to say. Who’s responsible for this. Why Mary? What are the consequences? How is her family going to deal? Does this have any ramifications for my health?
LEt me remember this, realizing how precious life is. It could happen to any of us at any moment. The children, the children - let them remain immune.

The story continues where we left off. Does anyone know where that was? If so please raise your hand. Or rather don’t. Someone may think you’re a bit peculiar if you start raising your hand whilst lying on the coach reading this story. That would be most undesirable. Social conformity, the number one credo. Look at the 11 year old sitting in the school lunch area. Day in day out he’s looking to mold in to the divine framework. The cool guys at lunch table number 1 - Jeffry, Jon, Steve and Chris. They know what’s happening, they’re hip, unburdened by the woes of folk like me. Table number 2 is also full, perhaps not the coolest dudes but a nice lot. Phil, Bill and Peter - have know them for long. Have even been to Phil’s house before. The debate continues. Trying one day to wedge into to table one, rejection pouring down around me but don’t wanna give up yet. The next day I find an edge of the bench at table two free. No future here. They’re all already pals, no need to take on a newcomer who doesn’t really want us anyways.

This continued almost two years til meeting Eric at soccer practice. Friendly guy, introduced me to his buddies (again they’d already know each other for years). Found acceptance anyways with what turned out to be a group of suburban punks. Beggars can’t be choosers as they say.

25 years later. Lonely kid x looking on to clique y. Father z observing. Kid fretting about joining clique. Father’s mind racing back and realizing x will do almost anything to join y.