god talk God Talk God Talk“We are the leopards. Those who follow will be Jackals and Sheep and each shall think themselves the salt of the earth”Guiseppe di Lampedusa ‘The Leopard’Each night before I sleep I turn to Jesus. I say, I’ve failed again. Then I turn to Buddha, I wink. Dennis McBrideGod groaned, shifted uneasily, pulled the cover up and turned slightly onto his left side back into a shallow sleep. Labored breathing preceded a small cough. He turned to his back and a weak smile turned into a grimace, which only partially faded. After a while he inched over to his right side, the corners of his mouth struggling, and then in the middle of a deep sigh, he coughed, sputtered, and abruptly rose to his elbows, his hazel eyes flying open. “Huh! What!” he muttered. He stared blankly for a minute, then relaxed as he realized he was in his familiar futon bed under his favorite quilt with the picture of Bambi and the great Stag. He lay back down and leisurely glanced over at the cosmic digital. It said l99l. He felt an annoyed confusion rise up to threaten his usually limitless calm. He knew he’d set the alarm for 2875. “What the hell’s going on?” he said, louder than he’d intended. Then it hit him sharply. “They’ve been praying again,” he said suddenly to the empty room, “God damn it, they’re all praying again! The damn fools have started another necessary war in my name. Where the hell...” The door opened slowly. Biman Chan, the century clerk, entered quietly, “So sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to see if you, too, had been disturbed.” “The others, too?” God inquired pointedly. “Not all,” said Biman, “Just Allah so far. I haven’t been able to check on Buddha, but I didn’t hear any sound passing his room.” “Well, you needn’t bother,” said God, “He never gets inconvenienced. There’s a lesson in there about choosing your words carefully when it comes to job descriptions. All that emphasis on Karma and the Void worked out just ducky for his sleep. Well, where is it this time?” “I’m afraid it’s in the Middle East, “ Biman said quietly. “It seems there was a dispute about land and oil and… “Christ,” God interrupted, “I just don’t understand it. I left more than enough of everything for everyone. All they had to do was limit their numbers, wait for the next harvest, and divide things up. Instead, they’re strangling the soil, turning my blue air brown and reproducing like lemmings hungry for the sea. Be fruitful and multiply does not mean screw your way to mass suicide. And this abortion thing is becoming a luxury dilemma. They’ve got to get a handle on this, this... what do they call it?...” “Fucking,” said Biman softly. “”Yes, fucking,” said God. He started to continue, but Allah appeared at the door, dark, stern, aloof, then bowed perfunctorily and entered. “I, too, was awakened for the same reason you were and could not help overhearing your voices. Personally, and though I mean no disrespect, I have always felt that Jesus committed a few significant errors with his slight-of-spirit performances. I mean, what could the poor multitudes think, being fed with next to nothing, the lame and blind cured by command, even the very dead raised. What could they think but that there was no real need to conserve, abundance was behind every bush, within eventual reach of all. No! They need to be told they’re in the hard place, and they need to be controlled severely to survive in it.” “Excuse me, did you say ‘Lord’s place?” inquired God happily. “No. Hard place. I said hard place,” Allah replied sternly. “Oh,” said God sadly. “Anyway, I just don’t understand why they’re so afraid of running out all the time.” God rose from the bed, went to the closet and picked out a dark brown bathrobe with green trees on it (the closet revealed a fondness for earth colors, extending even to brown underwear) and started back to the bed, then hesitated, took the robe back to the closet and picked out a rare blue one with polka dot stars on it, then returned to the bed. “I mean, I told Jesus to tell them there was nothing to fear, you know, to take heart, so to speak.” Allah eagerly interrupted, “But even Jesus despaired when he was there, and again, I mean no offense, but you may remember we discussed this at that first department meeting before the beginning, the one where Buddha came up with that idea about desire causing suffering. I recall him saying that he had reservations about just how much the mind should be allowed to...” “...know of a future without seeing it,” said Buddha, entering softly. “The mind is a dangerous place for a tree house, especially when the vision is impaired,’ is what I believe l said, and in all honesty, I’ve yet to be convinced otherwise. And, incidentally, I was misquoted on that ‘desire causing suffering’ thing. I said it’s not getting what you desire that causes suffering. You can see how sloppy quoting can put a whole wrong spin on things, and if you doubt that you can talk to Jesus.” His wonderful eyes searched the room and lighted upon a soft wide satin sofa which he eased himself into. “And incidentally, Allah, you’re wrong. I believe the messy fact of the matter is, they’re not going to survive, and they desperately need to be shown how to do that.” He turned to God. ‘You put them in time and kill them with random abandon, and you wonder why their main suit is scarcity. I try to teach them to relax, to steer them inward toward abundance.” “Oh, is that what you call it?” God interjected, his voice rising. “I go to all the trouble and no small expense to come up with a stellar sparkling creation, and you teach them to ignore it. What’s the point in a parade if no one bothers to look? Meditation, hogwash!” “You’re taking this much too personally,” said Buddha. “I was merely trying to teach them to cope with your creation.” “Cope,” interjected God angrily. “Life is a gift, not a chore.” “Evidently you haven’t read the latest Stanford studies showing rather conclusively that mildly depressed people see reality most accurately. It turns out that your dubious gift of thought is used mostly to sustain positive, self enhancing illusions about the self and its fate. And then there are the one hundred thousand suicides a year, by conservative estimate, I might add, since you refuse to release the books. Evidently the mind is a dangerous thing to take for a walk.”“Which simply shows,” interjected God, “That they’re not seeing reality at all.” “Exactly my point.” said Buddha. “You’ll remember I was in favor of full enlightenment at the start. None of your frantic evolving schemes. But no, you had to give your little soul things a mind of gradually increasing awareness, which is a recipe for a mess at best. And, as if evidence was needed, the twentieth century is exhibit A. One hundred million of them killed by their own hand.” “All right,” said God. “I admit their faith seems to have faltered a bit, but...” “Faith,” said Buddha, frowning. “You forget how little your little people are. They can’t see that far. Do you thing it’s a coincidence that your impetuous little land mass America puts ‘In God We Trust’ on their money? There’s your faith, and as for your sacred world and nifty Nature, they’ve turned it into a dollar and they are spending it. You’ve been sleeping through much of this century-- when the gods are away, the people do not play, they destroy. It’s what your attachment to them blinds you to. It’s the suck and pull of the want. They can’t handle it.” “That’s really quiet nearsighted of you,” said God. “You forget they’re still in infancy, learning to walk, so to speak. The brain is still a planted seed, mind is just starting to sprout mind, they don’t even know what it’s for yet, still using phrases like heart and head, thought and feeling.” He shook his head back and forth sadly, then picked up a tray on his nightstand full of macaroons and daisies and ate one of each, then offered it to Allah, who politely declined. “I’m fasting this week. I’m afraid the war took more out of me than I’d realized, so many losses.” “They were just being obedient to your will,” God gently prodded, reaching for another macaroon before offering the tray to Buddha, “Which, if you don’t mind my pointing out, is a bit humorless.” “A bit too uniform and severe is the point, I believe,” interjected Buddha, refusing the tray of macaroons and daisies. “In fact, you might want to look into the connection between the severity of your image and the magnitude of the losses that have so grieved you.” “I see nothing improper in my image. After all, I’m merely trying to keep up with God,” responded Allah, his aloofness unraveling slightly. “I refer only to some of the more extreme measures you’ve taken,” replied Buddha.“The cutting off of hands for stealing, killing for adultery, applied only to women, not to mention the general enslavement of the female half of the species. My heavens, that’s Middle Ages psychosis. What part of sick is it that seems to escape you? Want and need, food and sex, that’s the very fuel of your cherished magic show. You punish people for being obedient to the deepest vital impulses of your manifest will. I fail to see even a hint of heart or a trace of understanding in your attitude...” “That’s just because,” interrupted Allah, “you are so cavalier about the gravity of existence. On closer examination your celebrated compassion turns out to be a thinly veiled stoic indifference. It is because the conditions of their existence contain such strong and terrifying forces that severe regulation and control is called for.. And besides, God started it all with that Old Testament rhetoric, ‘plucking out eyes that offend’ and such. And then I heard about those Commandments, a whole list of things they must and mustn’t do. Well, I could feel a morality and fear gap developing. All of his people were scared straight and I was falling behind. What else could I do?” “Don’t throw the blame back to me,” yelled God, putting down a half-eaten macaroon. “I was merely trying to set examples, a kind of guideline for good behavior.” Buddha cleared his throat suddenly, did a small swift clockwise swivel of his stomach, then deftly lifted his majestic weight off the satin sofa and ambled over to the tray of macaroons and daisies. “On second thought, those daises look irresistible, I mean almost irresistible. Now, as far as this talk about proper behavior, I’m partial to the poet who said, ‘Those who worry about morality ought to.’ What was his name, Hugh, Hewitt, something like that?” “Hugo, Richard Hugo,” said God. “Frankly, I’ve never entirely understood poets; silly alchemists always trying to turn gold into Gold. Hugo was often subject to dark spells of irreverence. Still has them, refuses counseling.” “Good,” replied Buddha. “Squirrels and poets should stay away from counselors. Their urgent ways are attendant to their needs. They require support, not correction, which is the problem with much of your ethical hygiene, too antiseptic. Remember that fellow, the Christian missionary and ornithologist, I forget his name, tried to publish a book entitled “Good and Bad Birds of North America.’ Well, you get my point.” “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” said God, slightly irritated. “I think you’re treating a serious matter rather lightly.” “On the contrary,” responded Buddha, “You’re the one who has made a relatively light matter deadly serious.” “Life is deadly serious,” said God, his voice rising, “I made it that way. Life is a masterpiece, a great painting that...” A voice from the hallway interrupted him: “...That was painted by a blind man in a wind tunnel with Alzheimer’s.” It was Janis Joplin. “Pardon my intruding, but I can’t resist souls in heat or anything else for that matter, which by the way is why I so loved the Big Bang, the whole universe in heat. Radical theater, a bit pretentious, but delicious fun. Incidentally, Buddha, I quite agree with you about the counselors and I would add gurus and prophets to the list. Like I used to say, never listen to people who tell you what you are doing on the physical plane, they are not on it.” Janis sauntered in, -small, olive dark and cat-electric in a blue aqua low cut with brilliant rainbow-colored pearls. She walked quickly over to Buddha with a puppy-like incessance and brushed his soft white cheek with her red lips. “Hi, hon, was passing this way and just decided to stop off and spend some of this interminable time with you.” Buddha’s soft cheeks glowed with the color of red blood coursing through live veins, his serene eyes sparkling with the joy of seeing what one wants to see. “What a dear, dear surprise,” he said, elated. “Come sit here by me. You’re a jewel in the void.” Pleased, she sat next to him. He continued, “I was just discussing the demerits of artificial decency. It’s always deadly in prescribed doses.” “Yes, I overheard you in the hall and rather agree with you,” said Janis. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that you don’t believe in morals?” said God accusingly. “Precisely. I can only stand bad taste when I’m in love, and at present I’m not.” Janis replied tartly. “The ones who cause most of the trouble down there are the ones who never go off the block, whose souls never go to the deep, frightening, wonderful, unnamable places, never let themselves have any experience unless it can be talked about in public, to approval. The cowards in the dirty white hats who made it all the way to death without having a near-life experience. I recall Jesus saying after he returned that there were people down there who should never have been people.” Buddha continued, “It is true that he was just not himself for a long time when he came back, taking that bottle of Jack Daniels to his room and not coming out for a week. Never really has returned to form. Still wanders the halls at night muttering something about ‘hopeless damn fools’ under his breath. He took the whole thing too seriously, too personally.” “Frankly,” said God, “It wouldn’t do you any harm to take things with some personal investment. Your airy indifference is annoying to more than a few. ‘Cosmic cop-out’ is how you’re referred to behind your back. I ran into Abbie Hoffman in the mess hall a while back, and when your name came up he said something about ‘the sensitivity of a dead Republican.’ You should be more concerned about your image.” “Abbie is like so many heavenly activists,” said Buddha, “Still bitter because their cause died before they did. Anyway, I think you confuse indifference with detachment. They’re not at all the same.” “Frankly,” said Janis, jumping in, “I think you’re both kind of stingy with your sandbox, all your ‘do’s and ‘don’ts and taboos. At least Brahma and Vishnu throw in a little novelty and spice things up, though I admit, Shiva gets carried away sometimes.” She stood swiftly and performed a crisp twirl, then went hurriedly into a one-two-three, one-two, two-one variation resembling a fused fox-trot- jitterbug-waltz, stopped suddenly and bowed from the waist. “Reality is a filthy tyrant in tight pants, and now I’m late for my nails appointment. See you around campus, ta-ta” She did a hop-skip through the door, down the hall, humming a baroque blues version of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ Allah arose with a ceremonious disgust, “I find such displays disrespectful and disruptive. She should remember her station, which reminds me, I have a department head meeting with Mohammed. Seems he’s worried this women’s movement is getting out of hand, and I quite agree. Good day.” He straightened his dark tunic, turned stiffly and left. After allowing the silence to linger a while, Buddha remarked, “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but he’s always had a problem. He’s so...so...” his hazel eyes turned green and scanned the ceiling, “I don’t know, so religiously joyless. Must have been something in his childhood. “ Buddha shook his head and sighed as Biman Chan entered hastily through the door. “Pardon again, please. I was asked to convey a message from Talowa; could lower your voice, they’re having a meeting in conference room C, down the hall.” “Talowa.” Who the hell is Talowa, and who are ‘They” said God. Biman blushed slightly, “Talowa, Tanka, Kithcie Manitou and Waken. They are American Indian Deities--the Lakota, Iroquois, and Ojibway tribes. More are due to arrive shortly.” God looked suddenly disturbed, like a janitor who’s just had his mop bucket overturned on work already done. “Well, tell them to keep their door closed if they’re so fussy.” “Very good,” said Biman, turning to leave. “What are they meeting about?” said God in a matter of fact voice, trying to mask his curiosity. “It’s concerning Reclamation, sir,” said Biman. “Reclamation?” said God abruptly. “What’s that?” “Well,” said Biman hesitantly, “it seems they feel that you have received preferential prominence of late, and they want a fairer representation. ‘Affirmative Action’ is what they call it these days. It seems they feel things were in better shape down there before the white man brought in (Biman’s voice trailed off as he mumbled) your presence.” “Pure ridiculous insolence,” bellowed God. “It’s just that something more controlled and responsible was needed than that ‘Great Spirit’ stuff. They’re just being adolescent. They can caucus all they want as far as I’m concerned.”Biman heard him mutter ‘pesty savages’ under his breath as his voice trailed off. “Very good,” said Biman, bowing. He turned to leave, then remembered something, paused and turned back. “There is one other thing. The Archangel Michael is requesting a leave of absence. He’d like to return to earth.” “What, again? He was just there. I distinctly recall...” “Uh, that’s just it, sir,” interrupted Biman. “It seems he’s, well, sort of fallen in love.” “Love! Love!” said God indignantly. “My archangel? What ridiculous nonsense ? He’s supposed to be there on divine missions, not playing around in their tragic romantic mud puddles.” “All I know,” said Biman, “is that he said something about finally finding genuine innocence, an absence of, I believe he said, toxic sophistication. A woman he met in a bar, something about having rabbit ears on her TV and fake paneling on the walls; knotty pine, I believe he said.” “Well you tell him I want to see him up here first thing in the morning,” said God firmly. “He’s become as attached to the world as a drunken Buddhist. No offense to you,” he said, turning to Buddha, “it’s just an expression.” “Very good,” said Biman. He turned to leave and bumped into Janis, who was absent-mindedly inspecting the backs of her nails as she entered the room. “Excuse me,” said Biman, embarrassed. “Oh, don’t be silly,” Janis exclaimed, smiling, “especially in front of Buddha. ‘No accidents,’ you know.” She winked at Biman as he hurriedly left. “He’s really very cute. Wherever did you find him? By the way, I heard Lucifer is in the house and may stop by,” she said, beaming mischievously. “That’s enough” said God exasperated, “I do not have to put up with him. He is not welcome here. We have to retain our standards, our professionalism.” God rose and began pacing nervously back and forth in front of the picture window, fidgeting with his bathrobe belt. His right eyelid began twitching spasmodically. “He can go somewhere else. There’s plenty of nice...” A solid clear transcendent voice halted his. “I believe you’ve confused the kingdom of Heaven with Alabama l955.” It was Lucifer. He appeared suddenly at the door and stood firmly under the transom, tall, slender, and serenely self-assured in a smooth maroon suit with a purple silk shirt and lavender vest. He moved in with a casual authority toward the most seductive soft chair. An old unending smile teased around his lips, revealing a kinky tenderness, a religious, sensual, tranquil greed. He owned his will, and he relished the possession. He sat down. “How are the good old Gods this delicious day, everything under control?” God felt a painful hate rise up inside like molten lava, but managed to subdue it into a feigned curtness. “I’m quite well, thank you, I always am.” “Good, good,” said Lucifer loudly, “I wouldn’t want it otherwise. I just stopped by to pay my respects.” “Well, I’m thoroughly delighted,” said Janis, her face flushed with excitement. “”You’ve always been a kind of psycho-spiritual Zorro to me.” “Thank you,” said Lucifer growing taller. “Well, I’m not interested in your respects,” said God adamantly. “Frankly, “I’m not interested in your company, or in having anything to do with you,”“Oh come now, don’t be so modest,” Lucifer responded casually. ‘Light and darkness, goodness and evil; I, the Lord God, do all these things.’ Isaiah! Ring a bell?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied God awkwardly. “Dear Buddha,” Lucifer continued, switching his attention, “forgive my delayed acknowledgment. How very good to see you.” “Likewise, I’m sure,” said Buddha graciously. “You always add to the festivities.” Lucifer gave an appreciative nod and continued, “Now where were we? Oh yes, perhaps God would assist me in shedding some light on the dark subject of Shadow.” “What Shadow? What are you talking about?” said God, still annoyed. “Well,” said Lucifer, “let’s start with the fact that I can never seem to find a room here at the Royal Parnassus. I was told by an inside source that it is a result of your instructions. If that is the case, I don’t know what to think. It’s either pious posturing or very bad manners. In either case, you should be ashamed.” “Ashamed!” exploded God. “I don’t have to listen to this blasphemy, and I would add, since that sort of brings up the subject of bad manners, you were not invited here. I would not want to be where I was not wanted.” “Oh, it doesn’t bother me,” said Lucifer happily. “I’m used to serial denial and rejection; it’s my favorite invitation, though it usually centers around sex and money.” “Sex is sacred, and you’re right for once, you’ve done enough damage in that area.” said God accusingly. “Sacred! Damage!” said Lucifer, amused, “I’m just adding balance to your sloppy sanctimonious creation. While placing yourself at the center for top billing gives you excessive prominence it also creates confusion. They take their cars to a mechanic, their pipes to a plumber, their clothes to a tailor, their shoes to a cobbler, pets to a veterinarian, money to bankers, hair to a beautician, teeth to a dentist, bodies to doctors, their minds to psychiatrists, their souls to priests, but they’re shamed into hiding their sexual needs from commerce. That’s not merely irrational, it’s controlled hysteria. “That’s disgusting,” said God indignantly. “Well, you’re entitled to your opinion,” said Lucifer, “Which, by the way, is more than you gave to your poor little humans.” “What do you mean,?” asked God sharply. “I mean Freedom” said Lucifer. “Your Christian thing has made most of them emotionally and spiritually frozen. I know a woman in St.Louis who has spent most of her adult life at home. Won’t leave it. Thinks she’s escaping your omniscience. ‘Santa Claus God’ she calls you to her therapist: making your list and checking it twice. But we’re getting back to shadow again. What I mean to say is that most of the lives down there have all the risk, adventure and dull excitement of a Christian taffy pull.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about with this incoherent babble,” said God, his voice starting to rise. “Furthermore, I don’t have to be ashamed of my treatment of you. There is no delicate way of putting this, but as things worked out, I’m Good and you’re Bad.” God stiffened abruptly, straightened the collar of his bathrobe and looked out the picture window. “I do not have to have anything to do with you, nor do I....” “Excuse me,” said Biman, entering sheepishly. “Begging your pardon again, but the Muse is outside and would like a moment of your time.” “Now?” said God, annoyed. “You mean she just showed up unannounced? Have her come back in the morning, and next time see that she calls for an appointment.” “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Buddha. “If you’ll recall, that is part of her job description. She has an inherent aversion to schedules appointments and reservations. I humbly advise, if you want to know what she has to say, you’d better receive her when she comes. ‘Now’ is all she understands.” “Oh, very well,” said God dejectedly. ‘Ask her to come in, but just for a few...” Before he could finish, she simply appeared, barely visible in a long quiet dress of white silk and soft blond woven straw, her amber eyes glowing from out of short brown hair and fair skin. She spoke with a calm assured firmness. “I won’t detain you long, as my business is brief. I just want to turn in my resignation, effective immediately. Things have not lived up to my expectations, and I’ve decided to move on to larger pastures.” “Larger pastures! Resign!” said God, incredulous. “What’s the meaning of this? It’s...why, that’s absurd, irrational. I insist you see one of our therapists before we have any further discussion,” “I’m sorry,” said the Muse in a soft sure voice, “but my mind is made up. I have no need of a therapist. Psychology is to experience as diagramming sentences is to poetry, not without application, but essentially irrelevant at the deeper levels. You see, one day I just stopped and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw my soul’s scar tissue in the sagging skin and sunken eyes. I knew I just couldn’t go on any more on anti-depressants and dying hope, its simply no way to live. The worst poverty I’ve found is of the imagination. I mean no disrespect, but you’ve either made a tragic oversight or there is a significant problem in your quality control. I’ve only been able to get through to one-tenth of one percent. For the rest it’s all a frosting Hallmark hustle. You should see the dreadful picture of Jesus that hangs in sixty three percent of the homes. He looks like a cross between a chairman of the board with a perm halo and a well-behaved hippie.” She moved wearily over to the ornate dining room table, sat down sadly in a straight-back chair and continued. “One typical evening last week, before I made my decision, I was in Des Moines, Iowa, and made a random stop at a home in the suburbs. I found the father sitting in the living room with the children. I went up to him on the couch and whispered slightly behind and below his right ear where the tunnel bone to the mind is. I said, “You’re alive,” pause-nothing. I raised my voice, “You live now, you breathe in and out this minute and the time is coming when you won’t.” Pause--nothing. ‘The woman next to you with the small small child who anchors you to this world; loosened, all loosened and lost.’ Then I waited and watched, watched for a sign, just a hint of awareness, a flicker, a small twitch in the ear, anything. Slowly something began to happen inside him. He opened his mouth and said, ‘Honey, would you switch the channel, Jeopardy is on channel eight!’ “From there I went to a college dorm and found a sophomore in his room alone. I whispered in his ear, ‘When the wind blows the trees argue.’ I went around to see the front of his face -- nothing. I lost my temper and yelled, ‘You idiot! There is summer on earth, be amazed!’ Still nothing. His mind returns to his last basketball game. I realized he was as good as hopeless. It was hopeless! I could make it snow gold and they would just worry about driving in it. It seems everything has gone from bad to desperately bad. And after this last war, a ‘desert storm’ mentality took hold in the popular culture, creating a kind of widespread pathetic sub-species. It was shortly after that when I made my decision.” “I just don’t understand,” she continued. “Their little clay-baked reality is so much shorter and homelier than fantasy’s alternative twirl. I’m beginning to think you may have made a mistake in not setting them free from the knowledge, I mean the rumor of you. I think the imagination’s poverty is tied to not being able to get to their own experiences, to find their own truth about their own experience. They are instructed, urged, and threatened how to think, feel, and behave from the beginning, so that in the deep layers of the mind they mistrust and fear the self. Their authentic heart is stillborn. What could be a vital alive radiance becomes a cold gray unsure ness. They end up trying to take cues for existence from others. Culture finally overwhelms them. The price they pay for staying huddled around the campfire’s group safety is not to know the wonderful unexplored forests of the self. When they wander away from the warm fires and the insecurity rises up, they feel the fear as a weakness rather than a call to deeper strength, and they scurry back.” Slowly the Muse rose from the table and walked over to God, who was sitting on the side of the futon, his head between his knees. She tossed an envelope next to him. “I hope you will not take this personally. I know things take time, but I can’t wait any longer. My self esteem is at minus two-hundred and falling, and I need to attend to that before the damage is beyond repair. I’ve written an acceptable cover story for press release, so you needn’t worry about the publicity, and I’m sending you one of my new grad students to take over. Mira. She’s my favorite understudy, long dark hair and eyes that flash bright sparks.” She looked out the window at the constellation Orion. “Well, I see that I’m late for an interview. I have to run. I’ll keep in touch. Good-bye.” With a flurry she vanished. Biman had remained motionless in a corner of the room while she spoke, trying to be invisible, but now began to feel a self-consciousness as silence filled the room following her departure. He made his way to the entrance, stepped out, closed the door quietly and stood in the hall shaking his head in a slow back-and-forth motion. “It is no wonder there is such confusion and sadness down there,” he thought. “They have been parented by dysfunctional Gods. But then, they, too, haven’t had it easy, to have to do it all from nothing, no role models. It’s really a miracle that it works as well as it does. Still, it is sad. Perhaps if he hadn’t made them in his image, or at least waited until it was improved. But then, they are still evolving down there. I suppose you have to start somewhere. I guess you just have to have faith that it will work out eventually. Faith is trickier here, though, when you’re face to face. It’s not good to see too closely. That’s a blessing I think they’ve overlooked down there. True mercy is not knowing. Oh well, it’s not my worry,” he thought gratefully. “Two thousand more years and I’ll be retiring. Get a little cottage over on Alpha Centauri, out near the edge, quiet and peaceful.” He looked at his watch. “Almost time for the late movie,” he thought. “ ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ tonight--been looking forward to that, always lifts my spirits; Atticus, that good lawyer and father, on the porch with Jem and Scout, shedding gentle wisdom.” Then he thought of Clarence Thomas on the Supreme Court. “Life should learn to imitate art better,” he said softly, out loud, shaking his head sadly. He continued walking quietly down the hall talking to himself in a low voice. “I think I’ll get a dog for the cottage, an Irish sheep dog or one of those little brown and white terriers. And maybe a cat. Yes, I’ll get a cat too.” Posted by Dennis G. McBride at 4:25 PM 0 comments if (window['tickAboveFold']) {window['tickAboveFold'](document.getElementById("latency-8337808677688900035")); } Saturday, February 26, 2011 essays 1-Predicting the Present in America--2. An American Suicide Predicting The Present In America Notes from a Non-Participant in The Front Lines of Ignorance Introduction I didn’t actually learn about the events of 9/11 till nearly three months after the event. Through a combination of circumstances of both accident and design I found myself with an opportunity to conduct an experiment—namely how to be a modern day ‘information’ Robinson Crusoe’ without an island, in fact in a rather large metropolitan city. All I knew was that something somewhere had happened and I decided under the urging of some perverse inner imp, to see how long I could maintain that virginity. I would eliminate radio and television, avoid the newspaper headlines in stores, wear earplugs in public and deliver stern warnings to friends to say nothing to me about ‘IT.’ I woke up slowly around noon on the day of ‘9/11’ and still lying in bed called the mail order Co. to see what had happened to something I had ordered more than two weeks ago. They put me on hold to check my order and had me listen to the broadcast of their choice. It happened to be news. Before I could protect my mind the searing image of something about terrorists and people jumping out of the windows of burning buildings was engraved into my memory. A sudden force of emotion rushed through me. I threw the phone down in rage and kept it at a fairly inaudible distance till the lady returned and I finished my business. Next, I called the phone Co. to check on my last bill and heard a recording saying that they were closed due to the National emergency. I resisted the impulse to turn on the radio or television. I did not know who had committed the act or what the act was, or what their motivations were for doing it, but it suddenly seemed to me that they had released something that had been silently residing and growing both within me and the world, a loud scream of frustration, anger, and rage, that had finally become articulated into visible tragedy. The first uncensored feeling to rise up in me was, ‘Maybe, at last, everyone’s in the same boat. Maybe we can finally get America’s attention off the ‘business as usual’ stock market (that Frankenstein creation which doesn’t cope with ‘uncertainty’ any better than its creator) and onto human agendas? Maybe a thunder and lightening voice has parted the clouds and yelled down angrily, “nobody needs health insurance, all they need is health care”! While I was lying there wrestling with curiosity and the urge to turn on the TV and contend with the spin cycle of emotions I knew that would generate I found myself suddenly interested in the space I was occupying, its feeling. It began to feel like the vitality of my awareness was being enhanced or sharpened in some way, imagination given access to new possibilities, a cocoon containing a kind of infinite permission that had formerly been hidden. There was a kind of giddy lightness in this novel ignorance, an almost illicit sweetness that seemed to carry within it new aspects of reality ordinarily denied to us. I decided to continue my quarantine of ‘current events.’ What I didn’t know suddenly seemed as important as what I did know, just as negative numbers have a function in math. It felt as though I had discovered a secret form of occult happiness that hovered in those dim borders at the far edge of imagination’s yearning, teasing me like a ghost wind. I began to feel like a spy in reverse, carrying an important secret without content. On the third day, while I was taking my daily walk, someone stopped me in his car for directions, asking me if he was heading west. It surprised me somewhat when I had to tell him that I didn’t know. After he drove off, it occurred to me that the only west I knew was what was west of me, where my west was, and as I turned, so did it. I felt suddenly thrilled that the universe had placed a private little subversion inside of me, my own unique unnatural center in the natural order of things. I began to see how tissue thin the mind’s autonomy really is: how often we were pushed, pulled, and directed by remote control, reducing the intellectual freedom over many parts of our lives to that of a Wells Fargo security guard, a plastic, inflatable, all purpose human being. Our mind is continuously being subtly raped, involuntarily violated, seeded by other people’s thoughts, ideas, events, music, or random conversations. I remembered back to my childhood years as a church acolyte when they told me things about a God and a Jesus I could not know they could not know. What a rare and precious thing it is, and how hard won, just to know ‘what happened when you left your room and how it really felt.’ The powerful pressures which surround us, both intentionally and unintentionally, tell us which way to go and what to do when we get there. They would rather ‘your’ life not be the focus of your life. They want you to substitute appropriate response for authentic response, to get on with your life’ by leaving it behind, to simply fit into the world as it is, like a carrot or head of lettuce or a chair. we all have our own private map of what makes us feel sad or happy, nervous or relaxed, excited or bored, along with our own private ‘treasure chest’ of fantasies. They are our ‘true north’ and if we lose touch with them it is not a small loss which is why the continual struggle to be the author of our own experience is so vital. ‘Author’ means authority, authorizing your own response to your own experience, becoming your own Pope, Judge, Mailman, News-anchor, and President. For example, I have been patiently waiting through the interminable dreariness of sports to see one real miracle, just once. I wasn’t waiting for the last place team to upset the first place one, the weak hitter to hit the home run with bases loaded, I was waiting for that player who would suddenly turn with the ball in his hand and put it in the opponent’s basket, someone who would say, ‘what the hell we’re forty points ahead,” or just “why not!” I went through the library’s entire history of sports journals, newspapers, and biographies, even Ripley’s ‘Believe it Or Not’ and there wasn’t a mention of anything even remotely suggestive of such a miracle. I haven’t seen this miracle for the same reason you don’t see people in the bowling alley trying to leave as many pins standing as possible. In many ways it would be a more challenging game, requiring more refined dexterity, but they aren’t aware that tradition and unconscious competition have programmed them. It’s literally ‘unthinkable’ not to compete, partly because you never feel the chain collar around your neck till you move away from the stake and you won’t move away from it because ‘the most skillful manipulation always appears as choice to those who are targeted.’ The only way you’re taught to play the game is to win or lose. No wayward, spontaneous, playful impulse ever whispers in your soul’s ear. Still, there is no future in giving up so I’m still waiting patiently for the miracle and as long as imagination is part of us, there is hope, because that’s its job. The imagination is always running a concurrent, alternate history to what is going on around it, like that girl who lived up in a tree to protest logging. The best part of us is often up in a tree somewhere refusing to come down. I realized I’ve never felt proud or possessive about my country, that I do not live in a ‘Country’ I want to be mine, but in a fiercely competitive urban landscape that generates tension, conflict, and anxiety as efficiently as if it had been designed for it. Personally I am sick of our serious Gods and serious Devils, our serious Democrats and serious Republican sitting in their serious Roman Senate refusing health care or housing to their citizens, who are unable to see, acknowledge, or care about realities that others live in. I’m sick of people assuming they have the right to conscript me because it’s the place on the planet I happen to find myself trying to survive in. I am sick of our obsession with ‘guilt’ and ‘innocence,’ of always needing to ‘blame’ or ‘excuse’ and of the surplus of contemporary hazards surrounding living and loving and needing in a society preoccupied with an overly sanitized version of emotional- psychological hygiene and fears of co-dependence, sick of a culture that can’t seem to do anything well aside from weapons, microwave ovens, and surveillance technology, whose taste and offerings in nearly everything from the erotic to politics is mostly unfriendly, hostile, alienating, or just plain bad, and I’m sick that I’ve had the misfortune to live into another period in our country when the ‘scoundrels refuge’ of Flag waving has become the political equivalent of the Hula-Hoop. America is a ‘business warrior.’ It is in a hurry and its power is real and thoughtless and frightening. Its response to those who can’t keep up is the small, inconspicuous plastic containers for donations at supermarket checkout counters. The inadequate always seems to be sufficient here. Three times as many children are committing suicide now as compared to thirty years ago. They see people living in shopping carts and tents, executions challenging football as the national pastime and only competing for our attention with the race to seduce and manipulate consumers, or build more and bigger prisons. These children see a medical system that is not organized to simply deliver health care, but rather a confused nervous system that can’t decide if it wants to check the blood pressure in bed 5 or the day’s receipts. This is the fact and the evidence, what America wants them to swear allegiance to!? wants God to ‘Bless – an America that is handed back and forth between family dynasties, from ‘Roosevelt’s’ to ‘Kennedy’s’ to the ‘Bush’s’ like it was some kind of ‘Bonanza’ ranch that Ben Cartwright was going to pass on to ‘Hoss’ and then ‘Little Joe;’ an America where elections are sudden death business transactions, business ‘Gunfights at an O.K. Corral,’ It is not Okay. I recently organized an event for children who were reading poetry that they had written, and a nine year old boy named Wes Bently read his two line poem, ‘The Empire,’ ‘Ask the repetitive Empire for food. It will answer “no.” What had really happened on 9/11? Literally not knowing I decided to compound my ignorance by hazarding a guess. The famous attorney Clarence Darrow said his job was to ‘comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.’ Well, apparently the comfortable have been afflicted. We have been attacked I presumed by some members from a neighboring tribe, whose serious God did not like our serious God partially because out God was richer, stronger, and more powerful. Someone said accurately that, “we can only be as savage as we are absolutely serious.” As I walked about I saw flags flowing in profusion decorating sorrow’s random parade of anger and fear. The anger and fear are not new but now they have taken shape like a newly formed team with bright uniforms that has just found a worthy and needed challenge. But all this begs the question- Was everything OK the day before this happened? Where was our attention directed the day before, besides Wall Street? What was our anger directed to, besides the few remaining ‘Welfare’ recipients? It seems somehow important to separate people who die in any country from that country, to eliminate connections that are not deeply central to the powerful event of death, or at least make them peripheral. A songwriter recently wrote, “someone’s dying in Canada, and the leaves are drenched with rain.” What’s important is the dying and its echo of leaves drenched in rain’ not the accidents of geography. Shouldn’t flags everywhere be flown at half mast everyday for those everywhere who perish from less overtly violent, less deliberate, acts of commission or omission that range from exposure, homelessness, malnutrition and hunger, uncovered illness, to the infinite, invisible effects of poverty, which are an undeniable product of our ‘Democracy in action.’ I happened to learn later that the President said, “You are either for us or against us.” The President needs a lens adjustment. If, between wars, any young soldier were to go to a nearby phone booth and call this Veterans Dept. and inquire if he and his ‘sacred’ family would be guaranteed health care in the future, following his service years, he would be told ‘No, it’s not part of the plan.’ The soldier is really just defending a large corporation that doesn’t offer benefits. Such a country with its obsessive ‘narcissus’ anthem chanting ‘mirror, mirror, on the wall, whose the greatest nation of them all’ is not really a homeland at all, it is just another land mass where those without stock options or adequate income are trying to survive amid flag waving that is the political equivalent of the hula-hoop. To ask only ‘what you can do for your country’ and not what it does for its citizens is an idiots quiz. My deep feelings about any country with such a ‘plan,’ a country that wants it citizens to serve it but refuses to serve them is anger, as it would be in any uncaring abusive relationship. Unfortunately ‘anger’ has become suspect in our ‘therapy age.’ There is much counseling on how to dampen anger, how to disarm it, detour it, ignore it, talk it away, reason it away, educate it away, meditate it away, pray it away, love it away, and gene-therapy it away, anything but how to listen to it. And terrorism, where does it live? Terror arises when we are exposed to either subtle or stark threats to vital areas of our well being we can’t respond to adequately or prevent, the mind and body’s absence of shelter and privacy, repeated frustration or blocked access to needed health care. It is not only what happens to us but what seems likely to happen. - the recurring cancer of worry around problems without solution,’--- “ I can’t pay the rent,” “The letter says they’re going to shut the heat and water off,” “They said we aren’t covered,” “Regret to inform you that you don’t qualify,”... Are not all the mental and emotional states of pressure, stress, and hopelessness which those conditions produce a drip torture form of terror?! Then what about ‘rage?’ Can’t most rage be ultimately traced back to a deep sense of powerlessness, loss, or humiliation in some form or another, of having eaten Alice’s mushroom that makes one smaller. Anger, violence, rage -- aren’t they all loud, searing messages of pain or wounds that have gone unacknowledged, damaged lives that have not been seen or cared about? Violence is nearly always a response to an intolerable situation, to love that has been denied in some material or spiritual form. While violence and rage and anger is not the face of love that we have been taught to recognize, it is, nevertheless, love speaking, loudly, from its other face of profound, intolerable disappointment.