From Ubud, Penestanan Bali - cloudy, warm, humid on Monday, the 5th of January 2009

LARRY, MOE, AND CURLY

Just returned from a morning walk out into the rice fields, where once again I have met the man I’ve come to think of as Larry-Moe-And-Curly. A Balinese gentleman of middle age and middle size who lives in a middling house in the middle of his rice paddies. He often wears a white T-shirt with the names of the Three Stooges printed on it. He does not know what the names refer to. His wife gave him the shirt. She does not know either. So neither of them know the reason for my broad smile when I greet them. It’s hard to be somber with this reminder of goofy madness as a dimension of morning conversation.

Larry-Moe-And-Curly is not an unsophisticated uncivilized man - he wears a wristwatch, has a cell phone, a motor bike, and tractor, and electricity comes to his house. He speaks minimal English and knows all about Obama. But he has not lost touch with his roots. Daily he tends the altar of his ancestors, and, taking off his sandals, walks barefooted out into his land because he likes to feel the earth with his feet.

Larry-Moe-And-Curly is out early every morning taking his rooster for a walk. Like many Balinese men he keeps a fighting cock for a pet. Since cock-fighting is illegal, the roosters are kept by Balinese men for the same reasons an American man might have a bulldog or a fox terrier. Larry-Moe-And-Curly keeps his bird in a domed bamboo cage with a handle on the top. He does not walk out with the bird on a leash, but carries the cage to the edge of the forest or near a stream of water or on the bank of a paddy where ducks are at working chasing bugs and eels. He says these excursions keep his rooster happy. No, it is not a fighting rooster - he doesn’t like violence - and he doesn’t want his rooster to get hurt. He takes the rooster out, cradles it in his hands, and speaks to it like a mother hen calming chicks. In truth, in comparison with many of the magnificent cocks I have seen in Bali, the rooster of Larry-Moe-And-Curly is rather small and ordinary. To me, just a chicken. But to him, a living thing with a spirit within - and a mutually satisfying relationship. The chicken seems content. Larry-Moe-And-Curly seems content. The infinite green fields of Bali seem content. And even I, usually restless at sunrise, am also content.

That’s the New Year’s News from Bali.
For me, a loss of clarity about what day and what time it is.
A lassitude of calmly calmness, sitting quietly in silence in a rice field at dawn with Larry-And-Moe-And-Curly and his chicken.
A satisfying beginning to the year that already moves along too quickly.

Ubud, Bali - December 18, 2008
Hot, steamy, sunny day after heavy downpour during the night.

THE RHINOSCEROS AND THE WATER BUFFALO

In my hand is an aluminum soft drink can. It once contained something labeled “LARUTAN PENYEGAR” - subtitled “Kaki Tiga” - flavor is “Rasa Melon.” Two factors drew my eye to the can: It was on the same shelf as the well-known energy drink Red Bull. And on the can was a picture of a large, two-horned rhinosceros with a smile on its face. There were six flavors.

“Aha,” I thought, this must be the original Balinese version of an energy drink.
Makes you feel as strong and contented as the rhino on the label.”
Yes!

So I bought a couple of cans - one melon and one orange flavored. Put them in the fridge alongside the bottle of Absolut vodka - and in the heat of late afternoon I had a frosty cold Rhino Juice cocktail. Mmmmm. Smooth, mellow - like drinking the essence of a honeydew melon. I drank the whole can, and would have gone for the second one. But, fortunately, I first asked Wayan, a member of the staff, who was passing by my porch:
“What’s this stuff?”
“Did you drink the whole can?”
“Yes.”
His eyes widenend in surprise. “Wow!” he said.
“Is there something I should know,” I asked.
“They say it is good for your health,” he said.
“In exactly what way?”
“Well,” he said, slightly embarassed, “It is good in times of constipation and also if you want, how shall I say, a sexual thing.”
“You mean . . .?”
“Yes,” he said, pointing at his lower body fore and aft, with appropriate motions down and up. “Usually half a can is enough.”

Imagine. A melon-flavored soft drink that will simultaneously serve a man’s most basic desires - a good dump and an erection.

“Do these things happen at the same time?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “But that is what I have heard. I would never drink it. Especially not a whole can at once. With vodka? Never.”
So I spent the rest of the afternoon in nervous anticipation.

All I shall tell you is that the stuff works. You can imagine.
And now I understand the smile on the face of the rhinosceros on the label.
He is deeply contented.

Two days ago I was high up on the slopes of one of the volcanos - where the famous terraced rice paddys of the Balinese step down the steep ground like carefully unfolded green ribbons. It’s both the time of planting and harvesting rice. The equatorial sun is fierce at this altitude and people and animals take a break from the hard work and the sharp sun in the middle of the day.

I came across a water buffalo up to his neck in a soupy mud hole in the shade of a tree. Every once in a while he sloshed back and forth to stir up the cold mud, and then settled back with a deep-throated “harumpff” closed his eyes and was very still.
The look on the face of the buffalo matched the look on the rhinosceros on the can of “Kaki Tiga” - contented.

It is also the look on the face of Boppa Lobbert this morning sitting in the shade writing these words to you - contented.
In the next few days dear friends arrive from Greece and France to spend the end-of-year holidays here with me.
The goal is to sit together some lovely evening in candle-lit silence - the pleased silence that is the privilege of those who admire, respect, and love one another - when just being together is sufficient - when nothing need be said. Contented.

In this holiday season I wish for you the same, for whatever reasons, in whatever way you may find it.
That feeling of well being. Contented. If only for a moment.

(My friends and I are, by the way, keeping gift-giving to a minimum - only something small that brings amusement.
I’m thinking of a can of rhino juice for each one of them.
Should I tell them first?
Or, as it should always be with gifts, shall I count on surprise?
Or at least a clue: Be mindful of your crotch. Stay near a toilet or a bed. Wait for it . . . .Happy New Year!)

And, if you got this far, and if what I’ve written made you smile, then you have my gift to you:
The laughter that comes from simple-minded foolish joy.
Merry Christmas!

Stay Awake. Stay amazed. Stay amused.

Boppa Lobbert

Thirsty, December 11, 2008
Ubud, Bali, where there is sunshine after a 3-day tropical downpour

Before sharing a new journal I’m pleased to note that Amazon has posted what they call their A+ page regarding my novel, Third Wish. It contains excerpts from critical reader reviews, as well as information from me and details on ordering. Their pre-publication price is very low. And from back channels I hear that the books will be shipped early from Asia - soon after Jan. 1 - which should mean the February consumer delivery date is realistic. rlf

ANXITEMENT

A certain man I know is a frequent traveler. Often away in another country emersed in another culture. He claims it is because he is innately curious and wants to be a citizen of the world. Friends suspect he is intrinsically restless and easily bored. Perhaps both are true? Yes.

When he is packing to leave, he consults a translation of an ancient Chinese text - from the Ping-Pong Dynasty - the sage words of Master Weh-Tu-Gao:
“The Nine-Fold Instructions for Wise Travelers” are these:

Go away.
Go slow.
Go loose.

Stay amazed.
Stay amused.
Stay alert.

Be calm.
Be care-full.
Be there.”

My friend’s basic travel rule is: Pack Light.
By this he does not refer to what is in his suitcase, but what is in his mind and heart.
He tries to leave behind the cares and concerns and things-to-do that clutter his life - to put them down until he returns.
One of the freedoms of going away is not being able to do anything about what you cannot do anything about if you are away.
“But what if we need to get in touch with you?” he is asked.
“That would be very difficult,” he replies. “I will be too busy being in touch with me.”
“But what if there is an emergency?” they ask.
“What is an emergency? Fire, death, accident? What could I do from where I am?” he asks.
“In a real emergency, call 911. Otherwise, things will take care of themselves one way or another.”

This man I know uses a word about the condition he is in when arriving to live for awhile in another country.
Anxitement.
This is a combination of anxiety and excitement.
He is appropriately anxious because all of the comforts of sensory familiarity are not present. Everything looks, sounds, tastes, smells, and feels different. His sense are provoked. His entire system is on urgent alert. Good. This is part of why he came - to be stimulated and revived. To get the juices moving again.
This is why he is excited.

A talisman for this new environment is toothpaste. It is the first thing he buys on arrival in a new country - to be reminded the first thing every morning that he is now Here, not Back There. To be more specific: He has left the taste of Crest behind. Now, for his new pasta gigi - which is called Daun Sirih and is further described (in Indonesian) Merawat Kesehatan Gusi dan Gigi. Family size - 150 g. What comes out of the big tube looks and tastes like green mint jelly. Since he likes green mint jelly very much, morning teeth brushing with this pasta gigi gets the day off to a fine start.

As for bathing, locally made Jasmine fragranced coconut oil soap instead of 4711 gives the morning shower and his skin a new smell.

Since things will be different, one might as well seek out the difference. Eating rice instead of bread. Tea instead of coffee. Mangos and coconut instead of apples and popcorn.

The sounds of frogs, rain, chickens, geckos, doves, and gamelon replace rock-and-roll and bluegrass and tango.

As to actual luggage, my friend travels with only a carry on bag, half full, with enough basic clothes for 5 days. He does not need to bring much stuff with him. He is only going further into the world. If he needs anything, they have stuff where he is going. He will fill up the rest of the bag with new things for returning - memory material. Travel light.

It makes him sad to see the long lines in the airport of people struggling to move bullet-proof vaults of their stuff - so large and heavy they cannot lift them - full of all “the stuff they need” - plus cell phones and computers and i-pods. They are not going anywhere. They are taking everything with them. This is not the way of the adenturing traveler. It is the way of the refugee.

This man I know does not use guide books except as snapshots before he travels.
When he arrives he asks everybody and anybody - What shall I do? Where shall I go?
They know. And they tell him. And he does that.

Some think this certain man that I know is strange.
Perhaps. But being a good stranger in a strange land makes him feel at home, sooner or later, in this world, and in his skin.

It is the product of anxitement, which smells and tastes like green mint jelly toothpaste.

Penestanan Kelod, Sayan, Ubud, Bali
Saturday morning, the 6th day of December 2008

FIELD NOTES FROM BALI

Walking out in the rice paddy fields in the hour of dawn - between first light and sunrise - when the air is calm and cool, the background music is doves calling, roosters shouting, and water burbling its way through the small ditches between flooded fields. Very shortly the background sound will change to the gargly burble of 4-stroke Honda engines powering the ubiquitous motor bikes that are the main transportation system of Bali. But for the time being, between 5 and 6 a.m., there is only a green tranquility to absorb like a tonic for the spirit.

The farmers are already at work mucking about in the muck. Both men and women.Their greeting in English is always friendly, but limited. “Hello. Where are you going?” Since I know this is a first gesture of a ritual of civility and not the beginning of a conversationt, I reply: “Here.” or “Everywhere.” or “Anywhere.” They will not really understand the content of my reply, only the tone of reciprocal civility. The next question is “Where you stay?” And, for the same reasons, I reply: “The House of the Rising Sun” or “Somewhere over the rainbow” or “At the cutting edge.” Satisfied, they move on to the next enquiry: “Where you from?” The reply to this question must be literal, for it reliably leads to delight - for them and me. “I am from America.” To this they extend a thumbs up, smiling response: “America! Obama! Yes!” And to confirm their enthusiasm and mine, I reply: “Obama! Yes!”

Thus ends the encounter. They go back to their work. I wander on down the path between fields. These are ordinary Balinese farmers - many illiterate - certainly not sophisticated in the ways of the world. But they know Obama. He is their man. He is the face of America. He once lived in Indonesia. He is somehow one of them. His skin is brown like theirs. Obama, yes! And I admit that as I walk away from these morning moments with men and women of Bali, tears always come to my eyes.

Bali is not paradise. There is no paradise. It is an island formed by volcanos - which are still active. The last destructive eruption was in 1963. The island lies over the conjunction of two plates - the Indo-Australian and the Sunda. The remnant of Krakatoa is not far away. Violence of great magnitude underlies civilization that itself has known violence - civil wars, slavery, occupations, and the invasion of 20th century tourism. The cities are congested with fume-spewing traffic. The streams and canals are clotted with plastic garbage. And the government of a largely Muslim Indonesia is repressive to the culture of Hindu Bali. Though not impoverished, the people are poor and economically dependent now on tourism - 70%. And the civilization is corrupted with television, cell phones, computers, and processed food. The Bali of the banana plant, coconut palm, bamboo forest, and rice plant retreats from the invsion of plastic and electronics.

Still, the villagers wear flowers in their hair, make offerings to the spirits of house and field, seek some kind of balanced harmony with the spirits of creation, preservation, and destruction in the rituals of their lives. And speak gently to strangers. “Hello. Where you go?”

Some lines written by Auden come to mind - from his poem “As I Walked Out One Evening.”

“O look, look in the mirror
O look in your distress
Life remains a blessing
although you cannot bless.

O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start
You shall love your crooked neighbor
With your crooked heart.”


Boppa Lobert -
("Boppa" is a term of respect for a senior citizen. “Lobert” is the best Balinese can do with Robert.
And Fulghum is beyond

Jd’Omah House, Penestanan, Sanur, Ubud, Bali, Indonesia, The World, The Universe
Where it is warm, hazy, clear, calm and greenly green
Written Thirsty, December 4, 2008

THE HOUSE SPIRIT REPORTS

The Balinese, being Hindu-Animists, believe that everything contains a spirit, which is alive and aware, just not visible. If the spirit of the house in which Robert Fulghum is living could speak, it might give this report:

Boppa Lobert arrived a week ago to dwell in this place for a time.
All of him did not seem to come together. His body was present, but not his mind or spirit.
He slept. He sat staring at the water in the goldfish pond. He ate little. He slept some more.
Then slowly he seemed to assemble himself, rise up, and go about.
Now he is here.

He is alone. But he seems to have become friends with the ants. The ants say his karma is good.
He eats more, but he has strange tastes. Coconut ice cream for breakfast. Banana pancakes for lunch.
In the morning he walks out into the rice paddies, where he empties his mind.
In the afternoon, he writes words on paper.
In the evening he goes in search of music.

Once he went to the occasion of a cremation in a village. To see death consumed by fire.
Another time he went to the water temple to see the lotus bloom.
Now he has brought seven orchid plants to live with him in this space.
When he is sleepy, he sleeps.
When he is hungry, he eats.
When he is restless, he walks about.

When he came he seemed to be carrying the baggage of sorrow.
Now he has put down his baggage, swept out the rooms of himself, and is ready to be filled with Bali.
He is breathing deeply now, moving slowly, smiling.
The ants have cleaned his toothbrush for him.
He is welcome in this place.

That is that, and that is all.
Sekarang, the spirit of the house of Boppa Lobert

From Penestan Kelud, Sayan, Ubud, Bali, Indonesia
Saturday, November 29, 2008
80 degrees, early morning rain, condition green

SCALE

For Thanksgiving I had ants. Tiny tiny tiny ants. About the size of this asterisk - * - and far too many to keep a close count.
That’s an ambiguous statement, I know. To be more specific, I don’t mean that my feast was invaded by unwanted unsects. No.
Nor do I mean that I ate ants as a main course. No. I mean I had ants for Thanksgiving in the sense that they were my invited guests.

For the first time in memory I was not only far from home on this American Holiday, but there was nothing around to remind me of the event. No Pilgrims, no Indians, no relatives, and no expatriates wanting to cobble together a nostalgic imitation of Thanksgiving. Just me.
And the tiny ants.

The ants had suddenly appeared earlier in the week when I accidentally left a teaspoon coated with a slight film of honey on the counter where I had made afternoon tea. By nightfall the spoon was coated with ants. By morning, the ants were gone. How did they know about the spoon? Where did the sweetness go? Did they eat it or carry it back to their nest?

I washed the spoon carefully with hot soapy water. Then I put a tiny speck of honey in the middle the spoon. An hour later the ants showed up. When the honey was all gone, they were also gone. This went on for three days. The same thing happened with a few grains of sugar. But they did not go for flakes of coffee candy. I began to enjoy their daily visits and discriminating taste.

So I decided to invite them for Thanksgiving dinner. On Thursday, on one small white plate I put crumbs of Ritz Crackers; On another there were dabs of honey, grains of sugar, a mashed peanut, and a third plate held tiny chunks of chocolate. I put this meal out at noon and by three o’clock the plates were all covered with * * * * * * * * * * and so on. In two hours they were gone again. Well, most of them. A few were running around madly checking the area for any signs of more bounty. One was circling the inside of a cup like a velodrome bicycle racer. In an act of mercy I emptied him out at the place where the last of his companions had disappeared. And he went away.

On reflection, they were fine guests. They came on time, ate with enthusiasm, and went away at a decent hour. They were quiet but lively. They cleaned up after themselves. There seemed to be only cooperation among them - no unpleasant fights or passive aggression.
While they ate, I ate. Mangos and papayas for me - with a little celebrational vodka martini. The ants did not drink at all, so the dinner was not spoiled by ants getting sick or throwing up. The ants were polite, and listened well to my monologue about the meaning of life and the scale on which that meaning may be found.

There’s the thought for the day. Scale. If one finds life itself companionable, then the smallest living creatures are sometimes enough company. One is never alone if size is not important. For that I’m thankful.

I’ve invited the ants back for Christmas dinner. They may not come. If they find out that I ingested some of them. I swear it was an accident. A few had somehow got themselves into the electric kettle overnight. And when I poured the hot water into the instant coffee I did not notice the corpses. And only after the first sip did I realize I had consumed several ants. Since they were boiled, I suppose I will not suffer any negative consequences. And, if I was a true mystic, I suppose I could say I have become One with the Ants.
But if they find out that I ate some of them - and I’m amazed at what they seem to know - it may cast a pall over the Christmas meal. Perhaps I should provide cake as a palliative gesture.

Seattle, Washington - written Sunday, Nov. 23 - the 328th day of 2008
Clear, cold - the first snow in the mountains

THE GRACEFUL PAUSE

One of the small-but-important changes across the course of my life is the development of buttons. The kind you push to make something happen. Once upon a time we had levers. Then came switches. Now it’s buttons.

There’s a lot of touch-screen technology happening, too. And soon, everything will be voice-activated. That’s not really a new concept, though. When I was a kid much of my world was voice-activated. For example, when my father said, “Bobby Lee, get your skinny ass off the porch and mow the grass or you won’t get your allowance,” I was thereby activated. And my father was voice-activated when my mother said, “Lee, take out the garbage or I will dump it in your underwear drawer.”

My favorite button is the one on my CD player marked “Random.”
I also like the one marked “Normal” on the washing machine.
And the “Casual” button on the dryer.
Most of all I like the “Pause” button on several electronic devices.
If you push it, things are momentarily on hold - not stopped completely - just in suspended animation. Push it again and the action continues.

These would be nice buttons to have on the console of my life. “Random for surprise, “Normal” for secure predictability, “Casual” for relief on the uptight days, and “Pause” when the traffic of the day threatens sanity.

If I could give our new President-elect a power tool, I would provide him with these same buttons to use on a national and international scale - for the same purposes. Right now we need a big “Pause” button.

For Americans, our annual Thanksgiving holiday somewhat serves the purpose. Though historians disagree on the accuracy of the facts about the beginning of the custom, the present reality is clear. Thanksgiving means: Take a break. Close up shop. Spend time with friends and family. Eat. Sleep. Calm down. Pray. Or at least even think about the state of human affairs and your own. Get a grip on things. Breathe deep. Consider the long view.
The word “grace” applies in these circumstances. Grace is a prayer said at Thanksgiving. Grace is a matter of good will. Grace is an element of mercy.
Grace is generosity. Grace is gentleness in manner and movement. Grace is the spirit in which the Pause button is gently pushed. Slowly. Softly. Pause.

____________________________________

For Fulghum there will be a longer pause than usual. Tonight I’m off for a mid-winter break - to travel slowly in Indonesia, to enjoy the provocations of a culture other than my own, to think and write, and to gather my wits before the work required when my novel, Third Wish, enters the world in print in February. From time to time I’ll report to you from the road. But, for the time being, there is a pause.
___________________________________

Seattle, Washington - written Wed., Nov. 12, the 317th day of 2008
Sunrise at 6:38 - sunset at 4:25 - less than ten hours of daylight
Gloomy, cold and stormy - but there’s a full moon somewhere up there.

SMALL SCALE CONSIDERATIONS

If you had been in a certain suburban neighborhood this morning, you would seen an adult male emerge swiftly from a small office building, hurdle a metal guard rail and land lightly on his feet in a parking lot, while punching the air with his fist, and hissing YES! YES! YES!  He might have made even more of a spectacle of himself, but there was a fully-loaded school bus idling in the street right in front of him. Be cool.
(The man was me.)
And just what was going on with the man, you ask?
Been to the dentist. Got a free pass. No cavities. No repairs required. YES!
Blessed are the flossers for they shall have brief moments of great joy.
_______________________________

As I’m writing this, the radio has just announced the test of the Emergency Alert System. Followed by “eunghhhh. . . . ..eunghhhh . . . . eunghhh.”
(The sound that might be made by a constipated dragon.)
This sound gives me pause.
Under what circumstances would it apply to me?

I ran through a check-list of the possibilities - flood, famine, locusts, nuclear attack, fast-moving glaciers, a plague of toads, bloody rain, man-eating mad cows, an invasion of the Venezuelan army? The world supply of chocolate has dried up? A comet hit the earth? Rampant worm virus? What?

And then there’s the list of stuff the emergency alert system can’t warn of - local earthquakes, aliens from outer space, personal spontaneous combustion, or a sudden and complete reversal of the election results.

Check, check, check. Nothing. It’s comforting to know that the emergency alert system works. The constipated dragon is still on the job.

So it’s been a good day so far. No cavities. Nothing to be alert about.
Where was I?
____________________

Oh, yes. I was going to comment about what appears to be an existential distinction between vertical and horizontal graffiti. You’ve seen the rather bulbous tag art on walls and trains, inside tunnels, and even in places only a human fly could reach. Any flat surface is fair game. But have you ever seen it done? Or done it? Probably not. Me, neither. Mysterious.

But on my walk this afternoon I finally saw it being done. There were two men in hard hats, orange safety vests, carrying surveying gear and some kind of electronic equipment. At the end of a metal rod there was a spray can pointed downward. From time to time one of them pulled a trigger and wrote numbers on the street or painted an arrow or wrote a terse word I could not quite decipher. This is horizontal graffiti. Done during daylight, right out in the open. It seems to be all over the street in my neighborhood because there’s lots of construction going on.

This graffiti, of course, is serious business. The men are locating and marking water lines, electric conduit, high speed cable, sewer pipes, and whatever infrastructure that lies buried below the streets and sidewalks.

The juvenile delinquent still living in the back of my head began to wonder what would happen if he got a spray can and altered some of this stuff. It could cause a whole street to be dug up, don’t you think? Or . . . well the mind boggles with the possibilities.

So I asked the two men. “Does anybody ever mess around with what you’ve marked - like alter it or add to it?” Both men looked at me in surprise. Shook there heads. “Never.” “Not that I ever heard of.” “Some things are just too important to mess with - even whack-ado kids know that.”

Isn’t that amazing?
____________________

Here’s a public Service Announcement:
This would appear to be a sure cure for temporary relief from worry about the crises of the world: Go down to the nearest post office. Drive up to the curbside collection box. Holding a couple of letters and your wallet in your left hand. Drop the letters into the slot. And then your wallet.

To get the full effect of your act, it’s best to do this on a national holiday. At night. When the only people inside the nearest post office are armed security guards. Whatever else you were concerned about, this small act will take your mind off it for several hours, if not days.
I was a witness at the scene of this accident. The lady in the car in front of me was the dropper. She did not handle the situation gracefully. Not at all. In fact she got out of her car and started kicking the postal box while screaming at it. I won’t repeat her language, but it doesn’t really apply to an inert steel container incapable of sexual acts or whose mother was a female dog. And blaming the circumstance on George Bush’s management of the post office is not going to get her wallet back.
____________________

Early in the morning I’m off to Madison, Wisconsin, to participate in the re-dedication of a church designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. I will say to the congregation that neither the building nor the architect are really important, but only what their faith inspires them to do in the world.
That which is essential is invisible to the eye.
I suspect they know that.
But having a guy from out of town say it aloud might be useful.

Enough.

Seattle, Washington - written Saturday, Nov. 8, 2008
51 degrees, steady rain, wind from the south

Preview: This website has become a construction site. Before this time next week the content will have been reviewed, updated, and remodeled. If I’ll just get my work done, the tech wizards are standing by to turn raw material into recognizable images and information. It’s a hurry-up deal.
Why? On or by the 15th of November, Amazon will announce the availability of my novel, Third Wish, for download on their electronic reader, Kindle. And offer the printed version for pre-sale - for February delivery. Reader reviews, pictures, sound-bites, and music will also be posted. A week from now, between this site and theirs, you’ll have all the details.
But first, something much more important:

THE “C” WORD - a rant and a rave.

It’s not socially acceptable for an old geezer to walk up to a pretty young woman on a street corner and place his hands on her face. Especially if she and he are total strangers. This is over the line. The cops could be called. I know that. But I did that. And I want to tell you why. This is not an apology.

Scene: Thursday around noon. The day after the day after The Election. And like everybody else, I’m in a “Thank God it’s over” mood. And ready to get back to something resembling real life. If anybody uses the “C” word one more time I’m going to lose my composure and start shouting. Being in favor of change is like being in favor of oxygen and dirt and life. Duh. Put it down! Get real. Like fish in the sea, change is our element.

Scene continues: My dear friend Willy and I have had a workingman’s lunch at the Queen Anne Café - 1 corned beef sandwich and 1 pastrami sandwich, with extra pickles and fries. We did not have the lentil soup. The waitress said it looked like something she’d stepped in. And we trust her opinion.

Outside it’s raining buckets. The wind is blowing. It’s a nasty, gloomy day. But when Willy and I are together it’s always 70 degrees and sunshine. In great good humor we launch out into the weather on the way to Peet’s coffee a block away. So far so good.

Standing on the corner in the harsh weather is a young woman with a clipboard. “Oh, no,” I think. “Give me a break. Now what?” This corner always has people on it asking the passing stream of pedestrians to sign a petition or vote for somebody or something or enlist to protest something.
I’m thinking, “It’s over, it’s over - can’t this wait until maybe Monday?”

But, since I believe in free speech, and since I think it’s courageous of anybody to stand out there and reach out to people for any reason, and since I think that standing out there in this weather on this day puts one in the questionable intelligence category, and since I’m a sucker for sidewalk evangelists, I walk up to the clipboard carrier and ask, “So. What’s up?”

The face of a child looks up at me from under the hood of her sopping wet raincoat. Pretty. Soft. Sweet. Innocent.
“What on earth are you doing out here?” I ask.
A voice of mature commitment speaks back to me:
“We voted for change. Now we have to work for change to really happen.”
“Yes?”
“I’m with the ACLU - the American Civil Liberties Union - and we have a list of human rights that need to be addressed as soon as possible by the new administration. We’ve got a list to send to Washington. We need signatures and contributions.”
“And?”
It’s just not enough to vote for change. We have to make change.”

“How . . . old . . . are . . . you,” I ask, as I begin to loose my composure.
“I’m 19.”

I look into her eyes. I see hope. I see the future. I cannot speak.
All I can do is to reach up, take her face in my hands, and weep and think,
“Keep your eyes on the prize.”

It’s true what my generation says - the younger generation is going to hell. And when some of them get there, even hell may be . . . changed.
________________________________

I don’t know her name. But I know there are people connected to the ACLU
who read this column and who will know. Thursday, Nov. 6 - corner of Queen Anne and McGraw.  She may remember. Touch her cheek for me.
Tell her that . . . Tell her . . .  just tell her. . . “thanks.”

Seattle, Washington - the last Thursday in October, 2008
Foggy, 45 degrees, still, fall

A VOTE FOR OZZIE DAVIS
(with thanks to my mentor, Robert Kimball)

The setting:
The season is fall. The hour is seven a.m. First light of day. But thick fog will delay the appearance of the sun until mid-morning. The air is damp and chilly. The streets of the city are quilted with quiet. The dry fallen leaves are piled in crunchy heaps against sidewalk curbs.

The actor:
An older man stands on the sidewalk at an intersection.  Before him are two metal bins. One is for mail. One is for trash. In each hand the man is holding an envelope. One contains a letter to God, written in the dark hours of the previous night.

The letter:
“Dear God. I write in despair and anguish. With tears in my eyes. The theme of our time is Change. But I’ve been around long enough to know nothing will really change. Evil still rules this world. Disease, war, greed, cruelty, suffering, hate, stupidity, racism, violence. . . . . Do I need to go on? You know. You’re all-powerful, all-creative. You made this mess. Why?
You could clean up your own mess. You could do better. Even I could do better. What a waste of what might have been so good, so fine, so beautiful. I believe in you. But I don’t trust you. I just wanted to make that clear.”

The reflection:
The man smiles as he considers his letter to God. “Stupid, absurd idea.” he says to himself. When he demanded of his mother to tell him why God seemed so mean, she would retreat behind the answer that “Someday you’ll understand.” And he’s still waiting. Or, it occurs to him, that maybe he does understand. And his mother did, too. What he knows now is all the truth about God and the world he’ll ever get. A great big everlasting WHY?

It surprised him that he wrote the letter. It just seemed to fall out of his mind.
One more sample of the wiggy weirdness that runs around loose in his head.
What the hell?
Action:
The man crumples the letter into a ball. Lets it go. Watches it fall into the trash bin. If there really is a God, then He doesn’t need mail to know where the man stands. And if not, well, the trash bin is where the thoughts belong.

The other envelope:
This one contains the man’s absentee ballot. He wrote his letter to God this morning at the same time he was working through his voting decisions for the election of 2008. Now he holds the stamped envelope over the open slot of the mail box. “Maybe this should go in the trash, too,” he thinks.
He shakes his head as if to clear it of the fog of cynicism.

The memory:
The man’s mind takes him back 43 years to a morning in March of 1965 in the town of Selma, Alabama. He has slept wrapped in an old army blanket on a cot in an unheated two-room shack. He sees the face of Ozzie Davis in the dawn light. A Negro man - with very black, very wrinkled skin. Mr. Davis says, “Here’s a cup of hot water. I don’t have anything else.”

The man was offered shelter by Ozzie Davis - to protect him from any overnight violence that might come from the police, soldiers, dogs, and the white madmen surrounding the neighborhood. The man has never slept in the house of a Black person before. He ever imagined that his safety would depend on the kindness of this stranger.
He is still scared. Ozzie Davis is scared, too.
But in parting, Mr. Davis hugged him and said,
“Someday, someday, this will all work out. We will overcome.”

The action:
The man lets go of the envelope. His vote is cast. For Barak Obama.
It’s also a vote on behalf of Ozzie Davis, who did not live to see Someday.
But he believed. He hoped. He did what he could do.
And Someday has come.