Last Night of the Earth

10.31.10

2010-11-01T06:40:00.000-07:00

Late October breeze dandles
the leaves of milk-white
Sassafras—

At first cool,gentle;
then at dusk, cold
and abetting of sleep

Q n' A

2010-10-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

Q: I still don't know what art means...

A: Art doesn't mean,
We mean
And We mean as
Art be's (or is)

Top 7 Things I Learned On My Roadtrip To The American Southwest

2010-08-29T20:31:00.000-07:00

1. Nebraskans love their milk.

2. BBQ tastes really good after hiking in the Colorado mountains for five hours.

3. Driving a hundred miles or so from Colorado to New Mexico, absorbing miles and miles of untouched land, the seemingly painted-on, watercolored mountains and hills covering the distant horizons, would make a man of firm belief all the more steadfast, and a man of unfirm belief all the more hopeful.

4. The Texan Panhandle smells like a thousand cows dipped in their own crapulence and then laid out in the hot sun to bake.

5. Georgia OKeefe is a goddess

6. A Nobel Prize-winning nuclear physicist makes a very good art dealer; or at least a very good lecturer on the topic.

7. Sometimes, for at least a little while, you really can go home again.

Top 5 Things I Learned At Lollapalooza 2010 (Friday)

2010-08-07T10:26:00.000-07:00

1. Lady Gaga is a combination of an old Madonna video, the Rocky Horror Picture Show, a bottle of Boonesfarm and a self-esteem video. My niece loved it, though.

2. It is the 21st century and some people still don't wear deodorant

3. "I learned what marijuana smells like" - quote from my 15 year old neice.

4. Being around drunk people is a lot less fun when you've not had a drop

5. Public acts of fornication are still alive and well

Day 2 starts soon...

Voluminous (spam poetry series)

2010-06-28T12:33:00.001-07:00

Make your stick

voluminous

You have been

awarde an

ultimate enhancer.

Spam Haiku #6

2010-06-17T13:19:00.000-07:00

Hi darling,
my photo
in
attached file

;)

Overwhelmingly
In
Love

Spam Haiku #5

2010-06-03T11:01:00.000-07:00

Hello my new Friend.

I beg you

to give me

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at home I could not find

with whom I want to spend my life.

& now I sit and write to you.

I hope you are just looking

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I will tell you not much

about yourself that

you understand what

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I'm 30,

I live in Russia

I work for a doctor,

living with my mother

when I was not married and

do not have

not

what

children,

I am very cheerful,

gentle and kind

man.

badly want to find

happiness, love and a family.

Now you have me.

I hope that my letter was

not tired you,

and hope very much that

I like you,

and you will answer me,

and we can make friends

( Sent Thu 6/3/2010 12:51 PM)

Spam Haiku #4 Sent Thu 3/4/2010 8:35 AM

2010-03-04T07:06:00.000-08:00

I'll like you?

Remember that night

in the hotel?

I can do for you is -

what can not

no girl!

In The Courtyard At Night

2010-03-03T09:11:00.000-08:00

In the courtyard at night
atop a blanket of snow
I saw a graybrown rabbit
playing (I

think) playing
In the courtyard at night
atop a blanket of snow

Why Girlfriend In A Coma Is All About Murder And Not At All About Romance

2010-02-21T19:15:00.000-08:00

[Track #4, Strangeways, Here We Come by The Smiths]

Reason #1. It's Morrissey we're talking about here.

Reason #2. The Lyrics...

"Girlfriend in a coma, I know it's really serious" (0:14)

Why does he feel the need to repeat the fact that a coma is serious, really serious? (0:14). Who is he talking to that he needs to reiterate his awareness of what would be an obviously serious situation?

Sounds like the lyrics to the song are answers to questions we as the audience cannot hear.

(0:28) "There were times when I could have murdered her..."

What??? Again, if this is an answer to a question, Morrissey is being defensive about something: 'Yeah I could've killed her but I didn't - give me credit for not doing it! I'd really hate for anything to happen to her...'

(0:49) "Do you really think she'll pull through?"

In the murder context, this line is not about being hopeful that she'll pull through, but rather being concerned that if she does pull through she might have the wherewithal to talk about how she got into a coma in the first place!

(0:43) "No I don't want to see her"

One of the excellent elements in Morrissey's songs are their binary flexibility - the ability to be read as two things at once. However, I choose to interpret his lyrics as having a meaning on the surface but, dig a little deeper, and you'll see a darker, more sinister meaning.

In that vein, does he not want to see her because he just can't bear it? Or because he is guilty and can't bear the sense of self-judgement?

(1:09) "My, my, my, my, my, my baby goodbye"

Something here has changed. Why is he wishing her goodbye? See below...

He again reiterates the opportunities he's had to kill girlfriend, and that despite those opportunities he let her live...Except this time he is more specific. There were times when he could have *strangled* her. Why so, specific all of a sudden, Morrissey?

All this right before he pleads to see her ("Would you please let me see her!"). Why does he now want to see her after wishing her goodbye?

After one last query about the chances of his Lady Lazarus rising from the dead (Do you really think she'll pull through?), he chooses to whisper his last goodbyes.

Does he realize at this point that his flippant behavior thus far is inappropriate and that he really needs to take this seriously? Or, is it something much more sinister:

* At 1:09 - one wonders why he would wish someone goodbye BEFORE asking if she is going to pull through (1:38) .

* He "whispers" his last goodbyes - which means that despite his earlier trepidation to see her, he is actually in the room, close enough where all he needs to do is whisper into her ear. Why is he all of a sudden so close when he didn't even want to enter the room before? What is at the root of his sudden courage?

* Think of the specific reference to strangulation at 1:18.

Reason #3. For a song about a loved one in a coma, it is very happy or whimsical sounding, isn't it?

Reason #4. See Reason #1

Spam haiku #3...From spam email Thu 2/18/2010 3:31 PM

2010-02-18T13:37:00.000-08:00

Hi sweety!

Remember me?

Enter

With no key

Out Of Time

2010-02-18T09:18:00.000-08:00

Z: Ever feel like you are living a few years out of time?

Y: How do you mean?

Z: Like things happen to you now that should have happened a few years ago...

Y: Okay -

Z: Or things happen to you now that you think should be happening a few years into the future...

Y: I understand...

Z: Do you ever feel that way?

Y: I haven't yet. But I probably will long after we've stopped knowing each other.

Spam haiku #2...From spam email recvd Tue 1/12/2010 6:53 AM

2010-01-12T07:15:00.000-08:00

You

have little joy

in life?

Lacks warmth &

affection?

Come to me.

Spam haiku #1...From spam email recvd Tue 1/12/10 1:21 AM

2010-01-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

Hi,

I'm from Russia

- a dream to live abroad -

my name is Mary,

can we get started?

I'm on this

dating site -

come in to me.

Obsidian Tablet 1.6.10 --- Click image

2010-01-06T22:25:00.000-08:00

2010-01-05T11:59:00.000-08:00

A man, aware

& rueful of the

chaos that

arises

from his physical

nature & yet

failing to act

upon it, is like

a thief who weeps

from guilt while

drinking

from the cup

that he stole

Eternal Sunshines & Spotless Minds

2009-12-14T18:24:00.001-08:00

I was surprised to read that the title from this great movie was taken from an Alexander Pope poem called "Eloisa to Abelard". The poem is about a woman who, after realizing that she cannot be with her lover, asks for forgetfulness. She says, "How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! / The world forgetting, by the world forgot. / Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! "

A great line from a good poem:

Eloisa to Abelard

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.

Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.

Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake — no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.

Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"

From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.

- Alexander Pope

We'll See...

2009-11-18T09:42:00.001-08:00

Saw the movie Charlie Wilson's War again. There is a great scene where Gust (CIA agent played by Phillip Seymore Hoffman) recounts a Zen parable designed to show how the quality of events and conditions are not immutable. Today's pain may be tomorrow's joy, today's great event is tomorrow's great challenge, etc.

This story is neither optimistic nor pessimistic. It's being injected into the film as a Zen parable is thus appropriate:

This little boy, on his 14th birthday is given a horse. Everyone in the village says, 'How wonderful the boy got a horse,' but the Zen master says, 'We'll see.' Two years later the boy falls off the horse and breaks his leg; everyone in the village says, 'How terrible.' The Zen master says, 'We'll see.' Then, war breaks out and all the young men have to go out and fight except the boy can't b/c his leg's all messed up and everybody in the village says, "How wonderful!" Zen master says, 'We'll see.' [from Charlie Wilson's War]

Man vs. Beast, Evanston IL, Halloween 2009

2009-11-01T19:44:00.000-08:00

On a spooky, rainy and balmy Halloween Eve, I was awoken by a rustling. The wind, I wonder to myself. Then a poking and a prodding at my windowsill. Not the wind, I admit. I get up and look at the clock: 4:44 AM. I walk over to the window, and wait. More rustling. More poking, more prodding. I pull the curtains apart. I lean forward, my belly pushing up against the window unit air condition that had yet to be removed. I stare outside, beyond the window glass, over the meaningless air conditioner, and I see what I feared I would see. While the wind was whipping and whistling through the courtyard here in sleepy Evanston, it was not the cause of the peculiar non-wind-driven rustling at the outer edge of my window. It was, in fact, it.

This was not my first encounter with it. That thing, that beast. Indeed, my first encounter with it was over a year ago. Under similar circumstances I was awakened to the same kind of raucous at my window. Always at night, and always while I was out cold in that dreamy nothingness we call sleep. Yes, it would appear during this inconvenient of moments in an effort, one might posit, to add frustration to any other reaction it hoped to illicit during its nocturnal suburban brand of emotional terrorism. And since then, leading up to this encounter on Halloween Eve 2009, I had had several encounters with the creature. Its modus operandi always having been the same, foul beast.

I should be glad that I have come out of the ordeal unharmed, and virtually unaffected by these nightly appearances by it. Perhaps others might not have been so lucky. Somewhere in this country there is another person, perhaps many, who have had the same kind of experience. These fellow experiencers understand what it is like to be awakened by these cacophonous intrusions and only pray that the glass barrier of a window (and in my case the additional obstacle of an air conditioner) is enough to keep back such horrific monsters. I thank the heavens I am unscathed by this, both physically, spiritually, psychologically, libidinously, etc.

And why should I not be? It was, after all, just a squirrel.

This pesky little monster had been tormenting me for two summers and two autumns. Initially, banging on the window would scare it away but with the passing of time it not only grew more and more courageous but I also perceived it to increase physically in size. Perhaps its increased girth gave it the confidence to stare me down this last time, impervious to my repeated, retaliatory banging of the glass, shaking of the window frame, cursing, etc.

No, this story does not end with some gory, bloody rodenticide. No, there is not a tiny squirrel head mounted above my headboard. I did remove the air conditioner, finally, from my window, and that seems to have eliminated the visitations. It appears that something about my window unit attracted it, compelled it to try and make out of it a snug wintry cove. But unfortunately for it, the sanctuary outside of unit 1J is no more. It will need to find some other little nook to juggle its nuts.

But I do know one thing. It will be back. My only recourse (since the association won't ever buy into modern HVAC) is to pick up and leave to less arboreal vicinities; to leave Evanston, calm little borough that it is, and head back to a place like Chicago, where the animals are fearful of the people (save for rats and pit bulls).

-----------------------------------------

Doubtless, this tale of viciousness and villainy will not go down in most annals of man vs. beast, since it does not involve a beast per se; and the role of man in this story is also, perhaps, questionable. I mean, who battles with a squirrel, really? Having lived the tale, and being a self-aware man, I am only the right person to pass such judgement upon the writer, that is, myself.

99 Luftballoons, None Of Which Are Carrying a Small Boy

2009-10-15T15:10:00.000-07:00

By now the world knows about 6-year-old Falcon Heene, the little boy who was not, in fact, floating across Colorado in a tinfoil-y weather balloon, 7,000 feet above ground, at 25 mph. The story poofs out like the balloon itself did as it crash-landed, corralled by men and women concerned about the child's wellbeing.

So the kid was in the garage, hiding, seemingly fearful of the repercussions of letting that silly looking UFO-like Aerozeppelin fly off into the sky.

Or worse, could it be a a hoax cleverly planned by his parents, who are reality-TV veterans (Appearing on "Wife Swap"....twice), as well as amateur storm-hunters and UFO watchers. Let's assume, since it may be the most likely, that it is the former and not the latter.

If we were to calculate the cost of this little hoax, we might start with:

1.) Wasted allocation of police manpower, helicopters, communication devices and other such hardware

2.) Not to mention all of the lost productivity across the nation as people - myself included - clicked every other second to refresh Google News, tweet, facebook, or watch live news streams

2a.) This all happening on a day when the Dow surpassed 10,000 points a second straight afternoon. What a way to celebrate our slow but steady rise from the ashes of recession than to waste a day staring at an empty piece of tin foil fly across the sky.

I am of course ecstatic that the kid is ok. This was the best of all possible scenarios.

Actually, second best. The best scenario would have entailed it never having happened. This whole situation would possibly/probably have been avoided if little Falcon Keene had been borne into a family not mired in Wife-Swapping reality television obsession, or the risky behavior we will see his parents subjected him and his brothers to.

A just result of all this would be for Falcon to learn a lesson about crying wolf,in his case, by hiding in the garage and allowing the world to mobilize on his behalf. Further, his parents might somehow be held responsible for setting a foundation for such silliness.

But it's not going to happen. Instead, they will gain ever more 'reality' TV exposure on the backs of their silver flying machine and the children whose life they are doing a great job of ruining already.

Congratulations, Heenes.

For I Showed Them A Sword: Columbus Day

2009-10-12T09:12:00.000-07:00

They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance...

They would make fine servants...

With 50 men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want."

- Christopher Columbus

It has taken a while but there appears to be some balancing of the waters on Columbus true significance to our country. While much of the historical events of the last several centuries hinge on Columbus' "discovery" of the Americas, we must also recognize the connection of that discovery to hegemony, slavery and holocaust.

True, many classrooms are arguably unbalanced in their treatment of Columbus Day...maybe.The explorer is demonized in classrooms whose teachers focus on the dark images of greed and vanity, and the dehumanization of a people. I have read about one instance where one half of a class was made to scream at the other half so that the scream-ees would know how the Tainos felt. Here are some examples:

www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2009/10/12/MNH31A47F7.DTL

www.gainesville.com/article/20091011/ARTICLES/910111012/1002?Title=Columbus-Day-is-far-from-settled-in-classroom

Children, say 12 and younger, may not be able to comprehend the complexities of our existence, may not comprehend that some things can at the same time be nightmarishly immoral and at the same time have a direct or indirect connection to other accomplishments that have positive associations. In such cases where a true historical balance cannot be effectively disseminated to youngsters, which of the following would we rather have:

* A historically unbalanced lesson plan in which we focus more on the enslavement of a people, replete with hangings, transfer of disease, and rape of natural resources

Or...

* A historically unbalanced lesson plan where we glorify a unidimensional figure, ignoring the more ignominious acts and thus ignoring the plight of many indigenous peoples whose blood still flows through many of our veins?

I choose the first. Some still choose the second, living in some prideful ignorance, too stubborn to recognize how foolish they sound. Rush Limbaugh, for example, has been quoted on the topic and does not disappoint both those who think he is an idiot and those who follow such idiocy. But then again, we expect such buffoonery of him.

It is possible for others who willfully continue to buy into the myth to look even more foolish. Take, for instance, this sad display of hero-worship.

http://www2.tbo.com/content/2009/oct/12/na-its-bravo-not-goodbye-columbus/news-opinion-commentary/

When it comes to social and historical awareness, there is some positivity to be had: We can only assume that since this year is better than the last year, and that year was better than the one that came before, and so on, that therefore next year will be better than this year, and the year after that will be better still...

John Lennon, Synchronicity And One Man's Recent Experience With the Number 9

2009-10-11T16:01:00.000-07:00

"On John Lennon’s 69th Birthday

Friday October 9th,

2009

at 9:00 pm

in room 9 of the Old Town School of Folk Music,

909 West Armitage Chicago

we played #9 Dream." - Mark.V.

:::Convergence of the 9s

And so it happened that on October 9th, 2009, I and a group of Lennon fans were led by Mark V. at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago, strumming and singing through #9 Dream at 9pm at 909 West Armitage Avenue , in Room #9. Did I mention that John Lennon was born on that day 69 years before?

I myself am a John Lennon fan, a good, humbly loyal one but not quite a fanatic. Yet, the numerical coincidence that seemed to converge all at once on this day I choose not to ignore. Numerologists would have a field day with the preponderance of 9s that occurred. Statisticians and psychologists would argue that we Lennon fans chose to recognize the plurality of 9s, at the same time ignoring a plethora of other numbers that might have been as meaningful in another context. Save the psychologist role, I am a bit of a numerologist and a practical statistician by trade, so my feelings on these coincidences are somewhat unresolved.

Having no applicable medical credentials does not prevent me from thinking about possible psychological interpretations: In particular, I think about Carl Jung's writings on Synchronicity. A synchronistic situation is one where two unrelated events occur in such a way as to appear meaningful. If I recall his work adequately, Jung would also say that the true nature of such a coincidence - whether it is truly a a random thing, or entirely something else - does not matter. What matters is what we can learn from such sychronicities. Just as in dream interpretation and other similar investigations into our own psyche, we are prompted to figure out what our subconscious (or the Universe, or God or Whomever) is trying to tell us. There is a knocking on the door - so, much as Edgar Allen Poe's speaker in The Raven, we (eventually) venture to open it and see who's there.

So what do all the 9s mean? At the numerological level, put very simply, the number 9 represents compassion, humanitarianism and social consciousness. Put in the context of a John Lennon "Six String Social" sing-a-long workshop, one cannot ignore the correlation with Lennon's political activism and the nature of his songwriting. We only need to scan through track titles to get a sense of this humanitarian focus: Give Peace a Chance, Working Class Hero, Power to the People. The lyrics to the ubiquitous Imagine hammer the point home. Some of Lennon's song titles reflect these nonet qualities - Revolution #9, One After 909, and #9 Dream.

Lennon also recognized how important the number 9 had been in his life. In addition to being born on October 9th, his second son was born on the same date. Lennon met his wife Yoko on November 9th. They both lived in an apartment on West 72nd street, New York, in unit #72: Numerologists here would use a device called faddic numeration, summing up the individual numbers in a string of numbers in order to reduce them to a more useful, singular figure. Thus, 7+2=9. A copy of Lennon's death certificate verifies some of 9s described above. See http://www.jfkmontreal.com/john_lennon/Death_Cert.htm

So, I decide to focus on #9 Dream, the song we played when all these number 9s converged on October 9th, 2009, 9:00 pm, etc.

:::#9 Dream

What is the song about? An initial investigation into the lyrics and background of the song did not generate many answers. The song was written by Lennon based on a dream in which two women called his name and uttered the foreign-sounding phrase "Ah! Bowakawa, pousse pousse." This phrase, it appears, has no basis in any known language. Lennon himself said it didn't mean anything.

And yet I feel compelled to delve into this mysterious and tantalizing preponderance of 9s. So much so that I counted the number of words sung by Lennon in the studio version of the song #9 Dream (there are 191).

And then comes the morning after the workshop when, as I was strumming my guitar, watching a Biography Channel show about famous Hollywood murders, John Lennon's visage appears on the screen. The narrator recounted the story of how Lennon was murdered by Mark David Chapman. I check the time on the cablebox: 11:34 (1+1+3+4=9). The time, by the way, 11:34, represents a number that has haunted me throughout my life. Several times each month, as I look at a clock, it is exactly 11:34. Before this weekend, I had not applied faddic summation to this figure, opting instead to chuckle at what this time appears to show on a digital clock when upside down (h-E-L-L).

:::Summing Up

So until I can fully decipher the meaning to this plethora of 9s that filled up my weekend, I will chalk it up to a simple Jungian synchronistic event. Perhaps I am to become a more ardent Lennonite, purchase more Lennon music, or join a Lennon cover band? Or do I start a search for a lifemate named Yoko?

Or, perhaps I am to focus on the numerological qualities of the number 9: sincere compassion for humanity; not getting lost in ego and individuality but instead understanding that, much like the convergence of these number 9s the last two days, billions of individuals have converged on this insignificant spacerock and, like it or not, must live together somehow, some way, preferably in Peace. Each of our individual roles amongst this mass of humanity is seldom (ever?) clearly defined. Until I myself achieve this clarity, I choose to interpret this recent shower of 9s as a gentle nudge by Some Thing as yet unknown to me, but nevertheless reminding me that my role in this lifetime is rooted in my own willfulness and intention.