Queen Anne Hill - Seattle, Washington
The first Sunday in September 2010

MORE THAN DANCING

Eva Lucero and Patricio Touceda are part of Seattle’s tango community.
They came from Argentina to live here, but they are world-class.
That’s an understatement, but I’d rather show you what I mean than tell you.

Go online to youtube, and watch the “Eva and Patricio video promo.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cd6EbWELhns
This is show tango at the top end, much of it being performed when the couple danced with Cirque du Soleil in Macau for the last two years. (There are some don’t-try-this-at-home moves that nobody else does.)

Next, view their video “Home water birth of Anuk” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBqMPq2Rxus
This is another remarkable performance on the part of Eva and Patricio, with the appearance of Anuk as the finale.

Finally, watch “Eva Lucero, Patricio Touceda, and Anuk - First tango.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StmzLrjp-K4 This footage was taken two weeks ago in Seattle, at La Garua, the regular Sunday afternoon milonga where the most traditional Argentinian tango protocols are observed. You will recognize the music.
Watch that.
And look beyond the featured dancers at the white-haired man in vest and bow-tie sitting in the front row of spectator seats. You can’t see it in the film, but he has tears in his eyes because what he is watching is enchanting.
Oh, and be sure to wait for the moment when the dancers are exiting - the way Patricio touches his wife is more than dancing . . .

When I told Eva how impressed I was that Anuk didn’t cry or throw up, Eva said, “Of course not. She was performing. Crying and throwing up have to wait until you are offstage.”

If you watch these three videos, you will know why I am honored to be part of the tango community for reasons beyond dancing. If you want to know more about Eva and Patricio there are many videos, bios, and all the rest of the usual stuff available at the usual places on the web.

JOURNAL / ESSAYS / NEW STORIES – No. 2036
Queen Anne Hill - Seattle, Washington
The last Sunday in August 2010

END OF SUMMER NOATS . . .

Even though it’s still August, when friends open casual conversation with, “Feels like fall . . .” summer is over. Word is out. That’s it. Done. Crossing the border into autumn is not a calendar event. It’s a state of being, a night on a slow moving train. You go to sleep in Spain and wake up in Scotland.
___________________

Last Saturday’s edition of The Seattle Times featured a photograph of a European Cross spider on its front page. Orange and tan and black, with white spots on its back in the shape of a cross. Huge. I could barely cover the image with my hand. (I wonder if this affected newspaper sales.)

“Oh, No, not spiders again.” Yes. But I’ll get this over with quickly.
It’s a matter of being faithful to facts and truth. There’s important news. Get this: “Almost everything you know and think about spiders is false.” That’s the message from Rod Crawford, curator of arachnids at the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture at the University of Washington in Seattle.

The article in the Times referred the reader to Crawford’s web site: http://www.washington.edu/burkemuseum/spidermyth
I looked it up. Read it. I thought I knew a lot, but I was dumb-founded about how wrong or at least misinformed I’ve been about spiders.

I’ll stop there. But will add that when you read the site and report an amazing fact to a member of your family they will say they don’t believe you and you can insist they can go read the website themselves. Don’t be surprised if they still don’t believe it. Myths are still stronger than facts.
_________________

Interim report: The Marathon is underway - so far I’ve run the length of one city block - 110 yards - five days in a row. 550 yards - more than a quarter of a mile. So what? Well, it’s a beginning. I’m running in circles in my own neighborhood - like starting at the center of a labyrinth and moving in an ever-widening path. I have the course marked out on a Google Map. Wearing the rabbit suit while running proved to be a hassle, so I’ll save it for crossing the finish line. How’s my time? Slow. But I have a year and a day to go - or actually 360 days . . .
_____________________

My search for Players is ongoing.
Definition of a Player, as it appeared in my last book of essays: Persons with enough nimbleness of mind to accept a surprise invitation to jump into a quick game of imagination. People with a loosey-goosey sense of mischief. Players are also Laughers. You can’t tell the Players by the way they appear on the outside.

Example: A construction crew is working their way through my neighborhood remodeling street corners to accommodate the disabled or aged or lazy. The crew demolishes the existing high curb and replaces it with a sloping ramp. The work involves nine men, three trucks, and a large back hoe equipped as a jackhammer. It also involves two shovels manned by two Hispanics who do the more delicate digging.

While out on my marathon quest I have crossed their worksites several times and got a friendly response to my passing “Good morning.” Two days ago I stopped and asked the shovelers if the rumor was true - that they were really digging for gold?

Big smile. “Yes, it is true,” one replied. He laughed. A Player.
“Have you found any?”
“Yes, but I can’t talk about it.”
He gestured with his eyes toward the nearby supervisor.

Yesterday I saw shovelers again - just the two of them at work a block away from the main big action, where the backhoe was tearing up concrete and the peaceful silence of a Saturday morning at the same time.

“Still digging for gold?”
“Yes, a lot. But we don’t want them to know.” He laughed. Still a Player.
He gestured with his head at the seven men working down the street.
“We are going to keep it all ourselves,” said his companion. Another Player.
“What are you going to do with it,” I asked.

(Pause a moment - what did they answer? You’ll never guess. I didn’t.)
“We’ve been talking about it.”
“We want to buy an elephant.”
“What? An elephant?”
“Just for fun - to take to parties and give rides to our friends.”
“If you’ve got as much gold as we have you can do anything.”
“And we thought it would be great when our friends asked where the hell did you get an elephant and we told them we had found gold digging around street corners . . . it’s America!”
They laughed and laughed.

Well, why not?
I told them I lived just down the street and when they got the elephant to come by and give me a ride and they said they would and that, I believe.
________________

Walking down Queen Anne Avenue this morning, I passed two women sitting on a bench waiting for a bus. This bit of conversation floated up as I walked by: “I wonder if Jesus ever had dreams and what they were.”
Players? Maybe, maybe not. By the time I decided to go back and invite myself into their conversation there bus had come.
________________

I’ll leave you with that. It’s time for me to get dressed and go to La Garua, the weekly tango milonga at the Polish Hall on Capitol Hill.
It’s cloudy and cool - a suit and tie evening.
It feels like fall . . .

Next week I will get back to serious writing.
Promise.

Queen Anne Hill - Seattle, Washington
23 August 2010

NOTES
I know what follows is long, wandering, and minimally edited.
But I’ve been lazy, trying to stay outside in the summer and not inside in front of a computer screen. But my mind runs on, and what follows is like a conversation with my friend, Willy, when we go walking, but he’s been away tending to failing parents in North Carolina, so I’m talking to you instead.

__________________

Notice what you notice.
It’s not what you look at that matters - it’s what you see.
And how you think about that . . .
__________________

EARLY MORNING: As I begin writing this the right arm of my black fleece jacket is draped with what looks at first glance like a fine lace doily about the size of my hand. It is in fact most of a very small spider’s delicate web - a souvenir of a dawn excursion out into the yard to cut flowers.

August is the buggy stretch of summer. And battalions of spiders large and small are out in force constructing webs to take advantage of the explosion in the insect population. I’m in synch with the spiders. August means sweet corn is now in season and plentiful, and I take my string bag to the outdoor market with the same enthusiasm spiders have for catching bugs.

Though I try to be careful, it’s almost impossible to move around in the garden in the early morning without blundering into a web or two and acquiring an eight-legged passenger on your person.
Somewhere . . . on your person . . .

Actually, I’m not much afraid of spiders. I respect and admire and envy their ability. Wrecking their work troubles me. The tiny creature whose web I wear must now be hustling to replace what I carried away - or else it will miss lunch and dinner. But she can do it - in about thirty minutes.

I remain forever amazed that these creatures, especially the tiny ones, can make such complex structures using only juice they draw from their butts.
As many as six different kinds of silk, each for a different purpose.

There are more than 40,000 known species and maybe twice that either not yet identified or coming into existence as evolution moves on. Experts once estimated there were as many as 5 million spiders at work in 2.5 acres of English meadow. How many in my yard? Thousands and thousands and thousands. And an uncountable number inside my house, as well. I did check the yard and found 22 distinctly different spiders and their webs. And my housekeeper puts yellow sticky pads in the corners of the basement. We looked at a pad this morning through a magnifying lens. There were seventeen different spiders of several sizes stuck to its deadly surface.
I read that you are never more than six feet from a spider.

I could go on. I have a collection of books about spiders and can tell you a great deal more about them than most people want to know. But I know arachnophobia is a serious matter, and if what I’ve been writing gives you the creeping willies, take heart - it’s almost over. I just want to add one more thought that might appeal to arachnophobics - a fix for the spider problem.

Put me in charge of the Arachnid Development Division of Evolution for a week. I would install the same stuff in spiders that lightning bugs and fire flies have - an enzyme called luciferase - so that each spider would have a tiny blinking light in its stern. The butt light would warn people, attract edible insects, and preserve webs.
___________

THIS QUESTION was posed on a recent radio program: “Suppose you could have one Super Hero power. Just one. Given a choice of being able to fly or being able to make yourself invisible, which would you choose? And what would you do with the power?”
Think about it. It’s a more complicated decision than it seems at first.

Neither one for me. Spider Man is my Super Hero. I wish I had his capabilities. It’s never been clear to me where his silk comes from or what happens to it after he’s used it. I would want to know about these things before I would accept the power. Would I have to clean up my own webs? What recycling container should they go in on garbage collection days?
____________

BY THE WAY, if you could not access the 1-800 number mentioned in my last posting - the one about calling American Express - what you get is connection to America’s largest phone sex network, with full menu.
And no, American Express Card reward points do not apply.
___________

MY SATURDAY MORNING adventure to walk on the beach at low tide was thwarted by the Hemp Festival, annually held at Myrtle Edwards Park along Seattle’s waterfront. It’s estimated that more than 150,000 people will convene this weekend to consider marijuana, listen to music and speakers, and contribute to the cause of legalization. And perhaps have a toke or two. .

I did not attend, though, out of curiosity, I did walk through the event a couple of years ago. But I’ve got enough causes on my plate, and don’t do well in crowds, even mellow ones. Still, I’d rather be in the company of 150,000 pot smokers than 150,000 drunks.

I admired the answer given by our President when he was asked if he had ever smoked marijuana. Yes. Did he inhale? Yes, that was the idea, he said.

Have I? Yes. And inhaled, too. It was a great success in coping with pain during the month when I had a nasty case of shingles. But that’s about it.
____________

MANY PEOPLE HAVE a bucket list - things they want to do before they kick the bucket - die. When I ask about their list a surprising number of people have “Run a marathon” on it. Considering the physical condition of some of the list-makers, it’s not likely they will cross that item off their list.
But then, one must have hopes and dreams and aspirations.

So this morning I decided to add “Run a Marathon” to my list.

Considerations:

1. Is time an issue?  No, not really. I walk an average of 3 miles an hour, and do that at least 10 times a month for an hour. That’s thirty miles right there.
So every month I accumulate more than the equivalent of a marathon.
A marathon is within my frame of reference and capability.
But that’s not running, you say - it’s walking.

2. How far can I run without stopping? At least one full city block for certain. I did that this morning, just to have a reference.
On measuring, I found I had run about 110 yards - 330 feet.
How fast? I’m not sure. I don’t care. Just say slowly. It wasn’t a race and I was in no hurry - but still, if you had seen me you would have said I was definitely running, not walking. 
On reflection, I figure I could reasonably run four blocks at one go.
And that’s a quarter mile.
Over four days I could run a mile, four blocks at a time.
(63,360 inches is a more impressive number).
In 108 days I could cover the marathon distance - by Christmas, let’s say.
(That’s 1,710,720 inches.)
And establish a new personal record for my age and condition. Woo-ha!

3. Where would I run? Certainly not the real route in Greece from Marathon to Athens. I’ve driven that in a car. Not much to see except ratty suburban stores and a trashy roadside. Besides, I wouldn’t want to live nearby for 108 days. It’s not certain that Pheidippedes really ran that route or distance, so why be obsessive about it?

But then, do I really want to run the same blocks in my own neighborhood over and over? Moreover, when I checked out where I would be if I ran 417 blocks from my house in any direction, the prospect wasn’t very attractive.
I wouldn’t be anywhere I would want to be. So what to do?

4. Call in The Imagination. Think of 27 or so miles anywhere in the world I would like to run. Get a map. Mark it off as I imagine I ran there. Where, then? Across Paris? Into the Ngorogoro Crater in Kenya? Across England along the site of Hadrian’s Wall? Along part of the road to Compostela in Spain? Along the site of Christo’s running Fence in northern California? Along one of the ancient Roman Roads in Italy? The Wine Route through Alsace in the Fall? All those have appeal.
Can’t decide. This will take further thought.

(The problem does bring to mind the old joke about the old guy who went to see his doctor and was told to walk five miles a day for his health. The old guy’s son went to see the doctor ten days later to ask when his father was supposed to stop. “Why?” asked the doctor. “Well, my father has been gone 10 days and he just called from Lodi. That’s 150 miles away.")

5. Then there’s the problem of dressing for a marathon run. That, too, will take some thought. Somehow I don’t see me in a baseball cap, wife-beater undershirt, boxer shorts, and zippo running shoes, with a belt of water bottles around my waist and a number on my chest. My wife says I could wear my white rabbit suit - how many people have run a marathon dressed as a bunny? True. There are only two of us in the Friends of the White Rabbit and the suit could use some airing out since we haven’t gone on an affirmative public raid for awhile.

Am I really going to go through with this marathon, you ask?
Maybe. It’s a Possible. And, after all, I did make a start this morning.

I like the thought of taking a fairy tale approach - give myself a year and a day to accomplish the task. I’d like being able to say I did a marathon and when asked my time be able to say, “A year and a day . . . in a rabbit suit.”

I’m operating on the same principle I’ve used to organize the Queen Anne Hill Polo Club. I already have a polo shirt. And a genuine polo ball I bought in Argentina. And I know how to ride a horse. Add imagination to that, and who knows what might happen? It’s a Possible.
So far there’s only one of us on the team. Me. The Captain.

Large adventures all have a beginning in the first small step taken.
Or the first block taken at a run. (3,960 inches.)
The seeds of change are always small.
_________________

THE HEMP FEST and its purpose stuck in my mental workshop.

Will pot ever be legalized and controlled? Maybe. Another Possible.
Will it make for a better world? Maybe. Ah, well . . .
Is it a good thing to keep the conversation alive. Yes.
Seeds of change . . .

This is another one of those social conflicts that keep an essential aspect of democracy in play. Achieving a balance between the rights of the individual and the structure of the society is the proper business of a democracy. And, taking the long view, we have ever so slowly managed to make progress in these vexing areas of deep disagreement.

The American cultural and constitutional conflict over marijuana has historic parallels in contention over slavery, women’s suffrage, prohibition, civil rights, homosexuality, abortion, censorship, marriage, and contraception.

We push on, in our clumsy, optimistic, combative way, under the banner of “Sooner or later we’ll think of something . . .”
And when we do, the Law of Unintended Consequences always kicks in.
One guy started the marathon thing.
He just didn’t know it at the time.
_____________

MY MARATHON PROJECT and the polo team endeavor are just light-hearted metaphors pointing at larger goals for myself that I don’t write about or talk about. Despite having some success in my life, I aspire to further accomplishments that sometimes seem as far out of the question as a polo team - for myself and for my world. But that’s a story for another time . . .

I ran across a quotation from the American playwright, Eugene O’Neill,
that repeats the idea that one’s reaching should always exceed one’s grasp:

“The people who succeed and do not push on to a greater failure are the spiritual middle-classers. Those who pursue the mere attainable should be sentenced to get it - and keep it. Let them rest on their laurels and enthrone them in Morris chairs in which laurels and hero may wither together.
Only through the unattainable do we achieve a hope worth both living and dying for - and so attain ourselves.”
___________________

Notice what you notice.
It’s not what you look at that matters - it’s what you see.
And how you think about that . . .

Queen Anne Hill - Seattle, Washington
The middle of August, 2010

SUMMER LETTER

As a child I had the misconception that June, July, and August were the longest months of the year - and that summer was somehow a larger season than fall, winter, or spring. Summer promised time free of the demands of teachers and the restrictions of parents, when the daily agenda was mine, and the possibilities limited only by my own energy and imagination. Summer stretched away toward an infinite horizon.

It was always a shock when the first “Back To School” signs suddenly appeared in stores offering school supplies and clothes and lunch buckets.
What? We only got out of school last week.

That misconception has lingered in the back of my brain.
The early warning sign that summer has leaked swiftly away again is in the farmer’s markets: local sweet corn and peaches mean mid-August. And I’m already filling in the September pages of my appointments calendar.
What? Only last week it was June.

There’s no time left now to sort out the garage, as planned. Or to finish the revision of a novel and a new book of essays. Or get in the long walks in areas in Seattle where I’ve never been. The trip to the boondocks to cut and split firewood that would then have time to dry in the summer heat and be ready for winter - that’s still way down on my Things To Do list, and it looks like a presto-logs winter. Again.

It may be the weather, which remained cold and rainy into May, and then segued into a summer marked by cool-cloudy evenings, foggy-misty mornings, with sun only in the afternoons. Not conducive to energetic activity. I, who gladly rise up with the sun at five a.m. in high summer, have just as gladly looked out the window into the fog, rolled over, and drifted back into the dreamy sleep. Rare is the morning when I’ve charged up and out into the day ready for extravagant bursts of activity.

It’s not that summer has passed quickly, just slowly, lazily. That’s not a complaint, just a description. Meteorologists say that the jet stream has stayed significantly south this summer, producing weather in the Pacific Northwest more like summers in northern California and the coast of Oregon. It’s weather that calls for reading books, eating soup at home, and a fire in the fireplace almost every evening. Weather that brings on nostalgia, reflection, and, at times, for no reason, grumpy moodiness.

This is inner weather. Odd how, no matter how good life is from a rational point of view, one’s inner weather becomes negative and moldy.  It’s not the blues or depression or the flu. It’s the grays. Nothing serious. And, usually, something can be done about it.

For example, when I’ve had a lumpy weekend, and it’s cold and grainy, and I don’t want to go to bed in a bad mood, I seek out the mind-changing environment of the Little Red Hen in Seattle’s Greenlake neighborhood. It’s the local legendary home of country western music.

Saturday night featured Jo Miller’s Burly Roughnecks onstage, long-necked Budweiser from the bar, professional bull riding on the TV, and a truly random collection of regular inmates who have two things in common - dancing - and topping off the weekend with companionable joy.

It’s like stepping into a documentary film about west Texas in the seventies. Maybe not everybody’s dish of tea, but it’s what I grew up in, and when I walk in the door, I’m one of Them, my mind is back there, and I’m content.

A lady, who asked me dance, said coming to The Hen set her mind up for going to work on Monday - and couple of hours at The Hen, a couple of beers, a few rounds of dancing, and some laughs was the best anti-depressant she’d tried, and it beat hell out of yoga and bottled water.

(Google Little Red Hen and check it out - and come sometime. Even if you don’t dance or drink beer, I defy you to leave in a bad mood.)

When I came home, I opened all the windows to let the night air in, read a few pages from a book of jokes before turning out the light, pulled the blanket over my head and dreamed I was a stand-up comedian whose act included ventriloquism using a dummy who looked like Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. I kid you not. And I woke up in a fine mood, but unable to remember the jokes from my routine.
_____________

This morning I called American Express to authorize them to allow my travel agent to access my pile of accumulated points for a plane ticket. Elizabeth had given me the number to call. When the connection was made, something quite amazing happened. But I won’t tell you.
Call the number yourself 1-800-296-3276.
Over twenty years of working with my travel agent I have found that her efficient competency masks a wicked sense of humor.
Go ahead. Call. And listen all the way through.
(For those who read this from way outside the U.S.A., I’ll tell you later.)
Elizabeth claims I wrote down the wrong number. Maybe. Maybe not.
But it’s for certain that we both began Monday’s workday with laughter.
________________

While I’m writing this I’m listening to a Mexican radio station. In Spanish.
The announcers have the Juice - energy, vitality, and a little touch of madness. There’s a dose of Ai, ai, ai thrown in for injunctive excitement.
The music features accordion, trumpets, bass, sometimes tuba, and is mostly in dance time - waltz, polka, and two-step. There is news of the world from time to time, but it’s easier to take in Spanish.

For the same reasons I go from time to time to have Mexican breakfast at Senor Moose in Ballard. I sit at the counter so I can enjoy the action in the kitchen. Young, energetic Mexicans whipping the food out in a social atmosphere one step short of a piñata party. Laughing, teasing, singing.
My huevos rancheros come seasoned with Hispanic salsa.

Sitting at bars in restaurants is my preference. Strangers will talk to you, and so will the waiters, cooks, even the scullery crew. And if you ask, they will tell you about specials that are not on the menu - what they like to eat - what’s really good, but doesn’t have a name.

__________________

If you’re beginning to wonder where this is going, I don’t know.
I just started in, as if writing a letter to family and friends, and I have no idea where or when it will end. It’s part of my summer state of mind.

There is a file in my Journal folder labeled “Working Fodder Strings.”
Almost every day I transfer thoughts from my head to my notebook and on into that file. Later, when I pull on a string and it’s attached to enough thought to tie into a bow, then it winds up here.

Some strings are very short and get tied onto an ever-growing ball of string. In school days one could anticipate having to write an essay the first week of class on the subject of What I Did With My Summer.”
What I’m doing now is in that spirit - checking the notes and thinking
I should throw this or that in - it’s not required reading, after all.
I may not even edit this when I’m through - just pass it on.
I won’t say you’ve been warned - just advised and notified.
Quit when you’ve had enough - I’m plunging on . . .

____________________

A couple of times a month I go for grooming. First to my barber, Christine, and then behind the lines into enemy territory to get my toes and fingers tidied by the Vietnamese Nail Squad. Women call this “going for manies and peddies.”

This is a women’s world - customers and technicians. I’m usually the only guy, ushered into a booth on the back wall, more of less out of sight. It’s an opportunity to look through the pile of magazines that are in the category of “Women’s Interests"- about beauty and fashion and sex and weight-loss and yoga and movie stars. And a chance to listen in on conversations to which I am not usually privy. Conversations men do not ever have.
It’s always an educational experience.

This morning three women were talking about where to go in Seattle to buy bras if one breast was significantly larger than the other, and whether the new stick-on, strapless, flesh-colored bras were worth the money, since they tended to lose their stickability after a few washes. I had no idea . . .

Then there was another conversation about dermal filler"- a new technique offered by the spa up the street to deal with facial pits and scars. It’s like putting Bondo on dents and scrapes on a car fender, but not as radical as Botox. I had no idea . . .

I was not included or consulted. And would not have been much help.
But it was amusing. Not for what they said. But because they were all seated in whoopy-do high-tech electronic chairs that gave them back massages and rub-a-dub-dubs that made them all shake as they talked, and from time to time jiggled their shoulders around like go-go dancers, making their breasts shimmy and shake in unison, whether they matched in size or not.

Informed and entertained, I felt like applauding the show - as I slipped out the door, walking a ways barefoot in my tidy toes.
____________________

Spent four days at a tango festival.
How’s my dancing? It’s getting better. Tango takes a lifetime.
I’ve stopped talking about it or writing about it.
The deal is to just keep doing it until you don’t think, just dance.
_____________________

One weekend I attended the horse races at Emerald Downs in Auburn.
Such an anachronistic thing to see crowds of people going as mad as ever as ten big horses come thundering down the track, being lashed along by tiny men with quick whips. People jump up and down and shout and scream and let it all hang out. Something you really can’t do on the sidewalk downtown without getting arrested.

It’s about risk-taking, a nice term for gambling. Imploring Fate and Luck to reward you for your profound intuition about the speed of something that eats hay and oats for a living, and runs like hell when whipped.

The track is built on land owned by the Muckleshoot Indian Tribe, and they get a big share of the income. That’s a good thing. They also own a very successful casino and entertainment/shopping complex. That’s also a good thing. They are in the money these days. And money means power. And power means authority. And money and power add up to finally running their own affairs in their own way - making jobs, improving housing and health care, and sending their kids to college. They can hire the best attorneys and accountants and doctors and teachers, too.

So I think of my gambling losses as a small pay back for what my people owe their people. I only bet on grey horses who evacuate their bowels on the way to the starting gate. They’re different and they’re running light.
They all lost.

The same weekend I attended the United Indian Tribes Pow-Wow.
Hundreds of Indians, 25 big drums, booths selling salmon and fry bread and jewelry. And when it came time to dance, the center of the arena was filled with Native Americans of all ages in magnificent costumes of leather, silver, feathers, beads, bells, and blankets. The face paintings alone were enough to make me want to get rigged out and get out in the ring and dance to the heart-throb beat of the big drums being pounded by six to nine men - Whum whumwhum, whum whumwhum, whum whumwhum . . .

But that’s never going to happen. Thinking I’d like to give that a try has got me into some amazing enterprises - tango, for example - but I will never be an Indian. You have to own too much history, too much suffering, too much tradition - and the ownership has to be woven into your heart and mind and body. It’s not how you look, but what you are - way, way down deep.
Just call me White-Man-Wants-To-Paint-Up-And-Dance-But-Better-Not.

My tribe, the pale faces, the Peoples of the Beige Bodies, do have a tribal costume. Look around. Flip-flops, cargo pants, T-shirts, baseball caps. That’s what the women wear. But men and children, too. We’ve become the Wash-and-Dry-and-Wear People. No bows and arrows - just cell phones and credit cards. The Cargo Cult. My tribe.
____________________

Death has been on my mind this summer, educationally speaking.
I was invited to speak at the annual meeting of the Funeral Consumer’s Alliance, a consortium of organizations that promote and protect people’s rights to meaningful, dignified, and affordable funerals. They exist as a response to the abuses and excesses of the commercial funeral industry.

As a matter of disclosure I should say that I’ve long been a member of the People’s Memorial Society of Washington, which has 185,000 members and has been in existence since 1937. (You can Google for more information.)

Some current trends are Green burials - with urns and coffins made of recycled materials or bamboo - placed in cemeteries that are parks without markers. The right to do-it-yourself is another matter that’s becoming acceptable. I picked up a book on do-it-yourself tombstones and grave markers, and another book on do-it-yourself coffins - for pets and people.
And there’s a book how to prepare a body for burial - something more commonly done than you might think.

One topic of discussion was the line of thinking that says I don’t want to live into feeble old age, maintained in a vegetable state at huge expense by heroic measures. There’s too many of us. We’re living way to long.”

OK, that’s my sentiment, too. Ah, then comes the difficulty.  So what do you do, how do you do it, and when? How will you decide it’s time to go? And how will your friends and family feel?

Such a difficult question. I wonder, given the power of the life force within us, if we will ever find some legal and socially acceptable accommodation of this quandary.

I appreciated being with the delegates to the Funeral Consumers Alliance where the matters of death and burial can be addressed openly. As well they should be. Life is a terminal disease. A fact that should not be ignored. In my years as a parish minister I encountered much pain and sorrow that came as a result of a denial of the reality of death and the refusal to plan for it in such a way that eased the way for those left behind.
________________

Enquiry:
Have you ever run for office?
For what position?
By nomination or on your own initiative?
Did you win or lose?
How did the results affect your life?”

Voting is on my mind. It’s primary election season.
And you can’t vote without the other side of the equation: candidates.
So, being a candidate is also on my mind, and I’ve been asking those five questions of friends and acquaintances.

It’s less than a week until Washington State holds its primary and special elections. On the ballot are candidates for U.S. Senator, U.S. Representative, State Senator and Representative, and various court Justices at several levels of the legal system. Because we vote by mail, I have just voted - marked my ballot; signed, sealed, and stamped it, and gave it to my postman.

Whenever you can vote on anything, vote.”
That’s axiomatic on my personal list of rules and regulations.
And I hold in contempt anybody who can vote who does not.

Whenever you can run for office, run.”
That’s not on my list.
I do admire those who do, but I’m not and never will be one of them.

In this I am not alone.
About half of those I’ve asked have not ever run for any office, allowed themselves to be nominated, or been elected to serve in any capacity.
It’s not for their lack of willingness to be useful in the commonwealth.
They’re involved - doing their part in one way or another.
It’s not for their lack of ability to serve.
They’re as qualified for office as most of those who run.
They’re just not wired to participate in the competitive side of politics.

As one expressed it, I don’t know which would make me feel worse - to win or to lose - to beat other candidates or be beaten. Just give me a job to do, and I’ll get it done, but don’t make me compete to get it.”

That’s about where I am, too.

When pressed, some people admitted they ran for office once but only once.
And they lost. And never ran again. Here’s one typical example:

She once ran for a place on the student body council in high school.
She participated in student affairs. She was a member of the debate team, led an active social life, played tennis, and had good grades. Her boyfriend was attractive - but not too attractive. She was pretty - but not too pretty. She had never been nominated for Homecoming Queen. She had good skin, nice clothes, and her own car.  She came from a good family - and went to church and Sunday School. No scandal or innuendo was attached to her name.
The other candidates seemed less qualified or worthy than she.
How could she not win a place on the student body council?

She lost.
Not only did she lose.
She didn’t even come in second.
She finished third.

“I was utterly humiliated,"she said.
Not even close. Third place. THIRD! Out of a field of three. It was the only time I cried in high school. I stayed at home in bed for two days. And I’ve never run for any office since. I never got over being third place. Fear of being third has kept me out of politics ever since high school.”
_____________________

It’s late now. I’m out of gas. The clouds of evening have moved in. In the distance I can hear the first fog horn saying that fog has already moved in on Elliot Bay.

For no reason I can think of I wish I could go down to the station and catch a southbound train headed for Barcelona.

I did that once. And put the trip into my novel, Third Wish.
And though it’s a memory, I realize that the station I left from in Paris is still there. The train is still running on the same tracks. Barcelona is still there, going on without me. It’s 6 a.m. The dining car is open. Inside there is fresh coffee and croissants. Outside the first light of dawn is revealing that I am in Spain. The train is slowing as it enters the station . . .
_____________________

Enough.
Unedited, there it is. A letter to you in summer, wherever, whoever you are.
Good night.
And good morning . . .

Fulghum

Queen Anne Hill - Seattle, Washington
The beginning of August, 2010

First of all, a large Thank You! to those who responded to my recent request to buy a copy of Third Wish. The novel had quite a sales bounce at Amazon.
(Here’s an easy link to Third Wish on Amazon.) The first word is a clue to how to approach it. “Slowly . . .”

Someone asked me if I had any idea how many people might have seen my request. I didn’t know or even know how to know. But you can know - if you are web-savvy. So I asked a web-master to check. Answer: 54,253 visits - representing 36,844 unique visitors - from different 97 countries, including one visit each from places like Iran, Burma, and Pakistan.

Surprised and dismayed am I.

Now, some blogs, I am told, get hundreds of thousands of hits a day, and some sites have unique visitors in the millions. But it’s not a competition.
And I would have been satisfied just to know that several hundred people read what’s posted here from time to time. But 36,844? That’s still a lot.

To know what I know now makes me nervous, but also pleased. And I will use what I know to remind myself to keep writing at those times when I wonder if anybody notices.
So, then, 36,844 thanks.
____________________________

My mind is like a trusty old horse - one I’ve ridden long and far and wide. Sometimes I drop the reins for awhile and let the horse wander where it will, especially in the company of friends who also let go of the reins.
Here’s an example:

LEAK WEEK

Leakage has dominated the world village conversation this past week.
Gazillions of gallons of oil have leaked from the failed BP well down at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. The well is capped, but the area still leaks.
90,000 pages of classified battlefield intelligence have been leaked from Afghanistan through Wikileak.
The Mexican border is leaking drugs and guns and illegal immigrants.
These are the big ones - the mega-leaks.

The rear shock absorbers on my car are leaking.
The water hose connection in my yard is leaking.
The faucet in my shower leaks, also.
My nose is leaking from chronic allergic reaction to grass pollen.
And I am leaking energy every afternoon around four o’clock.
These are the little ones - the mini-leaks.

But there’s even more startling news.
The headline on the July issue of the magazine, Scientific American, says:
THE UNIVERSE IS LEAKING.
Oh, No!
A cosmic leak.
Yes!
This is just way too much leaking.

Astronomers have noticed that light seems to lose energy as it crosses the cosmos, apparently breaking the laws of physics. The rule is that total energy must be conserved - neither created nor destroyed.
But there is some evidence that this may not be true after all.
Energy may be leaking out of our universe.

Speculation from science and religion has suggested that the world may come to an end through fire . . . or ice . . . or flood . . . or comet collision.
And now? Leakage?
Everything will be slowly sucked down the drain of infinity into oblivion.

Actually, this possibility is nothing new. Fear not. It is the Way of the Tao.
The Ding-Dong Dynasty Chinese sage, Whoo-Ha, addressed this long ago.

Intuiting the Second Law of Thermodynamics and the concept of entropy, he said, “The universe and all its entities is made of the same substance, called goo, which is always in motion, and seeks to be at rest.”

“What is filled wants to be empty, what is there wants to be here, what is wants as it is. Restlessness is the nature of all things. Rest is its desire. The wise man responds by resting, thus creating harmony in his mind and body, and contributing to the ultimate state of the world.”

Woo-ha may have been a whack-a-doodle, but he lived a long time.
It is said that he did not die, but only concentrated on leaking away into ultimate transformative nothing-ness.
And succeeded.
Which explains why nobody every heard of him.
Now you know.
_____________

Blame this on the un-reined horse.
Though what can be imagined can come true. It’s happened.
And every time a loony thought happens, an evil thought is displaced.