Sunday, November 29, 2015

Break-Up in Dreamland

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A mysterious woman deserted me last night.
But not before I had chased her
Through a fanciful city -
Part modern urban metropolis,
Part post-war, Vienna, Austria,
Hazy hometown for a couple years 
During my impressionable youth.
I often find myself there
Tracking down some imagined 
Or remembered waif of my dreams.

She rises as our streetcar slows to a stop.
Definitely Vienna now.
"You will be back won't you?" I ask.
"Maybe," she replies,
Her face still averted,
Identity familiar, yet
Still maddeningly vague.
"In the spring, 
Or perhaps the following year."

I might have kept her from leaving,
But somehow I got trapped
There, in that tiny landing,
Where the stairs meet the door - 
Past the line upon the floor
Beyond which you are not supposed to stand.

A stack of coats had appeared in my arms.
And for some quite important, 
But now forgotten, reason
I had to put them all on before 
Pushing past the collapsing doors.
Finally free upon the pavement, 
I looked around and saw she was
Well and truly gone.

As was the streetcar,
And the street, for that matter.
My breath slowed,
And I turned my pillow,
Seeking that cool side
Which always, somehow, slips away.
I smiled, listening to
My wife breathing quietly
Across the landscape of 
sheets and comforters.

"There!" I thought, looking for a spot
To place the final period.
A few more rounds of shadow boxing,
Here just beyond dreamland,
And it may make a decent poem.

It owes me that
Considering the slumber
It has cost me.
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Tuesday, November 17, 2015

We'll Always Have Paris


The opposite of love is not hate. It is fear.  

Millennia ago our ancestors saw the darkness of winter devour the sun's time in the sky. As each day grew shorter, their fear increased; a fear that one day the sun would descend into darkness and fail to rise again. 

Against this fear they brought light. The warmth of the hearth. The joyfulness of song. Faith that the sun would return again. Faith that light would always drive away darkness. Faith that love would ultimately conquer fear. And it was from this faith, that the world's great Faiths evolved, and we came to understand our varied faiths through prayer and philosophy. 

As we sought to deepen that understanding, we turned our intellect and our curiosity the the waxing and waning of the light, and Faith's studious twin, Science, affirmed the permanence of the return of the sun, affirmed the resilience of light, and life, and love.  

Alas, we have not yet found the ultimate antidote to fear. There are still those who fear that they will awake one day to final darkness. And from the foul soil of that fear, springs hatred. Such hatred is self-affirming. To live in hatred is to live in darkness. By hating, one chains oneself to the darkness that spawns the fear. Such is the incestuous intertwining between fear and its child, hatred. 

Terrorism, by definition, seeks to instill fear. The recent attacks in Paris affirm that terror stems from those chained in darkness. In Paris it was the tool of those who would cloak themselves in language of Islam, one of the great faiths of light in order to terrorize the innocent and bring once more the darkness of their own fear into the world. Terrorism is the language of fear and hatred. Its use is cowardice. 

The four tenets of Distilled Harmony are: Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, Distill Complexity and Oppose Harm. By assaulting harmony and actively destroying beauty, terrorism calls forth the fourth tenet. The first three tenets allow for disagreement, discussion, debate. Those activities move wisdom forward. But they are internalized. Interactions that allow for the meeting of minds. 

The cowardly murders wrought by terrorism are the ultimate public, external expressions of fear, devolved into hated - and that must be opposed.  At its core, an individual violent attack on an anonymous, innocent stranger is often the result of the panic brought on by unreasoning fear of “the other,” and as such is the result of an individual pathology. However, what we witnessed in Paris, the religious/political motivations asserted by the perpetrators notwithstanding, was the manifestation of a societal pathology, not unlike that that presaged the rise of Nazi Germany. The leaders of global terror hijack a twisted version of a religion, in the case of ISIS, Islam - Hitler chose a strange occult interpretation of Christianity - and weaponize it. Germany at least, to its eventual shame and disastrous result, owned its hatred, paraded its fear in the streets, and led a nation to disaster. The terrorist leaders of weaponized Islam, hide in the shadows of the Internet, or erupt like a cancer in the midst of a host nation, and claim ownership of a portion thereof. 

And that touches on a central issue, and, perhaps an eventual solution. Let us call it "painting the bullseye."  Traditional warfare pits individual nation states, or competing alliances of the same, against each other. In the past that has allowed warring parties to say "the bad guys live there." We "paint the bullseye" on that piece of real estate, and we can "win" the war by destroying the territory that is synonymous with "the enemy."  

When a group weaponizes an ideology that cannot be geographically defined, it becomes impossible to "paint a bullseye on the enemy," and no matter how sophisticated one's weapons, you cannot hit a bullseye that is not there. That does not keep us from trying, from raining devastation upon the places where we believe the enemy to be, or where the enemy claims to be.  But the tortured history of the Middle East, from the Renaissance to the present, seems a continual affirmation that the “solution” to the problems of the Middle East must be home grown. Despite the allure of the treasures of that region, all attempts to militarily impose an external logic on its deep-seated antagonisms have ended in frustration and failure. So we should stop trying. 

In the wake of the attacks in Paris, we are already hearing calls for “boots on the ground,” for banning Syrian immigrants - or only Muslim Syrian immigrants - depending on the source.  So, in effect, we are painting a bullseye where the wielders of weaponized Islam are telling us we should. No doubt they are delighted. Our hasty reactions will allow them to claim “Look! We have been right all along. The Americans and their lackeys are not fighting a war on terror. They are fighting a war on Islam!” That dynamic should be obvious, yet still, we seem poised to blunder in again where the Crusaders, the British, the French, the Russians, and our own military have bogged down in the swirling sands and vendettas of tribal cultures.  I would ask again, is this really our job? 

The arena in which a larger “victory" is possible is defined by the first two tenets of Distilled Harmony: Foster Harmony and Enable Beauty.  Those who fear us, who have come to hate us, who would destroy us, assert that we are “infidels” estranged from all that is good and beautiful in life.  In the long run we can best frustrate the fear-strickened weaponized terrorist by demonstrating the falsehood in that claim.  We can turn inward, not in a rejection of our global identity, but in a re-evaluation of that identity. In the face of external claims that we are a coarse and violent people, we must demonstrate with a new vitality that we hold true to the establishing document of our nation, The Declaration of Independence, in which we assert that: 
  
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness, [and further that we] institute a new Government, laying at its foundation such principles .  .  . [that] seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.” [My text in the parenthesis to smooth transitions.] 

The point is that we already have a government founded on the principles best suited to allow for the fostering of harmony and the enabling of beauty.  And we have grown ever better as Americans, native and foreign-born who accept and advocate those principles, knit together a culture more complex and engaging than the ones that we, or our ancestors, left behind in search of a better life.  Perhaps it is time that we exerted a more public and unified effort to manifest those unique principles. I often rail against the idea of a “hyphenated American.” African-American, Irish-American, Swiss-German-American, Japanese-Italian-Columbian-American. I find it irritating that, no doubt observing some arcane rule of grammar, American gets tacked on at the end.  The reality is that without the establishment of those uniquely American principles I cited above, no one would have left those other countries to come here - for a life better than the one they left behind. 

Only a fool would argue that we have completed the creation the state envisioned by the signers of the Declaration of Independence. We have myriad issues that still vex us.  The central notion of equality, a more unfettered route to the pursuit of happiness, safety - all provide ample challenges. But, like the challenges that face the Middle East, these are our internal challenges. Ones that we can address by placing them at the forefront of our national agenda. There is much domestic work to be done in order to complete the challenges set forth in the Declaration of Independence. Our schools are in desperate need of direction and resources, children still go to bed hungry - most likely in your own city, pockets of our great cities remain shopping centers for drugs and violence, our police and those they are sworn to protect appear to speak completely different languages, our highways and bridges crumble, the Great Lakes are threatened by invasive species. Pick your own pressing concern - the one you encounter as you look out the window or drive to work. 

This is where we need to paint the bullseye. And it should designate a target of construction not destruction. 

No doubt, in light of the recent Paris attacks, the media will continue to subject us to a great wringing of hands as politicians and pundits paint bullseyes all across the globe and propose strategies to smite them with our might and righteous indignation.  And yet again, is that our job? We have plenty to do here to Foster Harmony and Enable Beauty, to actualize the dreams of all those who have come here, in this generation or in generations past, seeking a better life. Perhaps if the continual development of that better American life becomes patiently obvious to the world beyond our borders, the words of those who fear us, who then come to hate us, who would do us harm, will fall on increasingly deaf ears. 




Wednesday, November 11, 2015

A Cautious Welcome to an Old Friend

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An illness steals a lot. What was reality yesterday is no longer. You change. And learning to deal with those losses and changes is a big part of moving on. "I can't do that anymore? OK, let me find something else to fill that niche in my identity." You learn not to look back, or at least not very often or for very long. You learn to see old aspects of yourself as trappings that have had their day. You remain thankful for those experiences, but you move on - finding new paths to joy and harmony. It is not terribly different from simply growing older.  Watch a baby crawl around, casually sucking on its toes, bending its body into knots that would make a yoga instructor blanch. When was the last time anyone over 3 or 4 months old could do that? A teenager collapses on the floor to check her phone, unconsciously executing a full lotus with a half-twist, and then pops up again to check the fridge for Greek yogurt. Ouch. Can we party til the wee hours and hop up and go to work at 7 AM? Would we even want to? Those moments pass us by. We grow older and life changes.

But the plundering that illness brings is different. It often steals precious things with which we are not ready to part. This is not the normal transition of youth into maturity, the gentle pace of lush summer into russet autumn.  It is often harsh, and always feels unfair. But it is what it is; so you seek that new path to harmony, putting the past aside. Which is why it is all the more disorienting when one of those dear old former friends unexpectedly shows up at your door. When a loss, to which you have adjusted, seems to return, you have a hard time trusting that reunion - it's like the lyrics of an old "hurtin' country love song," 

"Hey there, darlin', If I let you in the door,
Will you turn around, and walk back out,
And break my heart once more?"

You see, my illness stole my voice. Oh, no, I could still talk just fine. Maybe my voice would be a bit tired after a long lecture. But it was still my voice, I still sounded like me. But I couldn't sing anymore. I used to sing all the time. Well, usually not where others could hear me. But in the house, in the shower, in the car. All through high school and as an undergraduate I was going to be god's gift to the American musical theater - and I was pretty good, just not that good. Still, the people to whom, and for whom, I sang seemed to enjoy it. Or they faked it well. 

Point is, I loved it. There is something truly magical about hearing a note in your head, and when you open your mouth, out it comes. You can actually taste the sound, it rolls around in your mouth like honey. So, long after I disappointed Broadway with my career choice, I kept singing. All the time, and in all those places. And then I got sick, and it stopped. I say "it stopped" because even though the voice stopped, for a while, I didn't. I would hear a note in my head and open my mouth, but what came out bore little resemblance to the note in my head. It rolled around in my mouth like vinegar. Harsh and disappointing. So eventually I stopped trying to bring back the voice. I have been without that part of my voice for years now. I moved on and became a more attentive listener to the voices of others. I listen to all kinds of voices. Professional voices. Lovely and enchanting voices. And that has been OK. Sort of.

Then a few weeks ago an envelope arrived in the office mail; a big one, 8 X 12. The return address was a media production company, and I was about to toss it when I noticed that the address was handwritten. So I opened it.  Inside was a letter from a former student and a CD. It was a demo for a radio show. More than a demo really. It was a whole program - about ten and a half hours of "the 150 best selling country music singles of all time." The student, who had taken the nom de radio of Winston Hall - the campus building in which our department is located - has really done a delightful job. The various songs are separated by fascinating bits of history about the country music industry, the genre, and the performers. There are slight pauses where the commercials would go, but, delightfully for me, those elements had been omitted from my copy. It was wall-to-wall music and commentary.  I popped the disk into the CD player in my car, and the tunes have been following me around ever since.  I am amazed at how many of them I know; lyrics, tunes, the whole Megillah.

And then, one day somewhere in the midst of the "countdown" the strangest thing happened. I don't even remember what the song was, but suddenly a solo became a duet. I knew the second voice, but it took me a moment to place it - it was mine, filling the car, rolling around again, honey in my mouth. I tried not to think about it and just let it glide along, terrified that if I thought about it, it would "turn around, and walk back out, and break my heart once more." I pulled into the driveway. And just sat there quietly for a bit, more than a little shaky. I am not used to the illness giving anything back.

I'm still testing it, but the voice seems to be sticking around, at least for the time being. I don't let it out of the car yet, let alone try trotting it out in public. Strangely, it seems shaded more towards tenor than my former baritone, and flows more smoothly on the drive home, when I am tired. But all those little details can wait.  Right now I'm just cautiously welcoming it back; shyly exploring where it might lead. It's sort of like a first date. We'll see what develops. 
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