An African Angel Arrives

As we are frequently asked about our adoption, I revive an old journal entry to convey early impressions. Write to me if you or your friends have interest.

In October 2002, my wife and I traveled to the airport at Newark, New Jersey, to meet and bring home a little girl from Ethiopia who would become our adopted daughter.

Orphaned a few years ago by the AIDS epidemic in her country, Sasahulesh Tadele (age approximately 6 years) lived with family relatives and in various orphanages around Addis Ababa before finally coming to live at the foster home of Americans for African Adoptions (AFAA) -- the adoption agency we worked with.

For over 20 years, this extraordinary organization, based in Indianapolis and run by Cheryl Carter-Schotts, has placed hundreds of orphaned "African Angels" with families in the U.S. and abroad. While the agency's process is thorough and scrupulous, its fees are lower than most international adoption groups; and the need is urgent, as you may well imagine.

This diary entry describes the little girl's arrival in America.

11/2/02: First days on the job. . .

I've been trying to write up some extraordinary memories of the past few days for family safekeeping while our child has been sleeping.

We are immensely grateful to Randy and Bob for all their work in bringing the children over. After getting to the airport terminal at 5:00 a.m. and waiting five hours for the group to land and pass through Immigration, it was quite a sight to see two American men approaching with five energetic African angels in tow, all dressed in red jackets and traditional garb. The children were the most gorgeous little peanuts, scampering around delighted with each other's company, which they've apparently enjoyed over the past weeks and months.

That is why what happened next was so difficult and painful for our daughter Sasahulesh. We had to separate her from her little soulmates who were traveling on to other cities. She comprehended what was going to happen and became distraught, then full-blown hysterical. With every muscle in her body she strained to get away from us and back with her little friends. My brother had driven in from NYC and brought a little teddy bear for her, but she wanted nothing to do with it. She cried and implored Randy to take her with them. Rebecca couldn't restrain her and it was just awful as I had to go through contortions to hold her back (which made for an aerobic workout, not to mention a spectacle in the airport for the next hour).

Despite the pressure of the situation, I could understand Sasahulesh's position and I felt the force of her grief very clearly. The only thing I could do was summon compassion toward her state and hold on for dear life. When her hysteria peaked, I had to wrap my arms and legs around the little girl and sit us down on the sidewalk for fear she would get away and run into the street traffic. There was no way we could keep her in the car with Rebecca in the back seat trying to contain her in that condition; it would have caused an accident.

A few people tried to help us through this harrowing first encounter. Friendly Ethiopians consoled her in Amharic, to no avail. One English-speaking woman even came over and prayed over me and the the child.

Finally an idea clicked in my mind. I took Sasahulesh by the hand and allowed her to lead me for a long walk all over the airport so she could look high and low for her friends. We walked and walked through the long terminal, inside and outside. By degrees she became calmer, though her tears flowed the whole time. Then by stroke of fortune, we met an Ethiopian traveler who calls himself Gigi -- he was waiting to catch a shuttle to Philadelphia. Recognizing our plight, he was very kind and joined us on our walk.

Gigi ended up spending more than an hour with me and the little girl, nearly missing his shuttle in the process. (I found out later that my brother paid off the irritable van driver to stay put while we attended to the child!)

With Gigi serving as an interpreter and ad hoc guidance counselor, I entered into a three-way conversation with him and Sasahulesh. We covered some serious ground and addressed the issues on her mind. Sasahulesh said she understood that I was her new father, but why had I not come out to Ethiopia with Randy and Bob to be with her? That seemed to be *very* important to her. She spoke with clear conviction in Amharic to Gigi and me, and I also watched her listening attentively as Gigi translated everything I had to say.

In those moments I came to see that in some ways, our child is an adult in a little person's body. She is very intelligent, and definitely knows the score about what's taken place with this adoption.

It would be difficult now to recount our conversation but I can tell you it was remarkable. I spoke candidly with Sasahulesh, telling her what kind of household she was joining and what she could expect from us as parents. I told her that in our family we will never, ever hit a child; and I asked her to please not hit me. I told her how deeply sorry I was to take her away from her friends; that I had wanted so much to meet her in Africa; and that we would not leave for home until she said it was okay to go.

Little by little something melted within her and she let go of her pain and accepted what is to be. My brother said he noticed that her change of heart began when I let go of her hand and sat down on the floor while she stood over me listening to my account. He watched her looking me over then, particularly at the top of my head; and to him it seemed she could see how I was affected by her pain and turmoil.

A few hours after the storm had begun, all was resolved and we were ready to leave. My brother offered Sasahulesh the teddy bear again and she accepted it to everyone's relief; then she even smiled and posed for a few photographs. She climbed into the car clutching the bear, and as we drove off she fell into a deep sleep -- which lasted for the five hours driving upstate and many hours into the night at home. The overseas flight and intense expenditure of this episode had wiped her out. When we carried her into the house and put her into bed, her clothes were soaked in sweat.

I said to Rebecca, "I guess this is the closest I'll ever come to experiencing childbirth."

It was great to be home but we were worried, because during the many hours since we first met Sasahulesh at the airport, she never once went to the bathroom or took even a sip of water. Then I awakened around 3:00 a.m. to the sound of her crying and whimpering softly in her bed. I invited her to come out for a walk around the house, and she took my hand. The first room we found was the bathroom, which she immediately used (much to my relief as well as hers). Then we went exploring her new environs; we said hello to the cat, and eventually settled downstairs to watch late-night cartoons on various cable kid channels. Rebecca brought down a tray with some oatmeal, bananas and juice which she ate heartily. By then, I was fading fast and had to go upstairs and pass out for a while -- we had gotten very little sleep over the past two days.

Around 8:30 a.m. I awakened to various sounds: the piano being pounded, followed by gales of laughter from Rebecca and a bunch of thumping out in the living room. I came out to find our daughter giving a proud and impressive demonstration of her jump-rope skills.

Now during these "first days on the job," all traces of the initial ordeal have vanished. We have been graced with a happy, agreeable and affectionate child. She loves to dance, sing Ethiopian songs, play with balls and balloons; she's incredibly agile and creative with her body. We have been strumming on guitars together, kicking a soccer ball around in the park, watching Sesame Street and Disney Channel cartoons -- all the stuff I could hardly dare to dream we would do. She's an ace marbles player and has been teaching me to play in the living room every morning. What amazes me most is that she is incredibly glad to have new parents and has been finding ways to convey it to us. Today she has been saying things like "Hi Dad," "There's Mom!" "thank you," and "sleepy kitty." I also did a double take when I heard her start reciting the English alphabet and numbers.

We have been calling her "Sasha" and she responds to the name with no problem. The other morning we went to the family doctor for a checkup and she took two inocculation shots in each arm without even blinking. Then we surprised her with a visit to the local Ethiopian restaurant owned by friends who speak Amharic. This amused Sasahulesh immensely.

With our child finally coming home, Rebecca and I are at the conclusion of one ten-month process which many others have gone through (or will go through); and now we are at the start of something entirely new which is more profound in micro-detail than I could have imagined. I don't doubt there will be challenges and difficulties ahead, but for now all we can do is be present to the experiences each day brings one at a time.

Best wishes to all, and thanks again to Randy and Bob for the wonderful job they did as escorts. Since their last glimpse of Sasahulesh was traumatic as they ran to catch their planes, I wanted especially to share this account for them. We'll be glad to hear how the other children are faring -- and we promised our daughter she would be able to talk to her little friends on the phone soon.

Visit the Americans for African Adoptions website at www.africanadoptions.org for more information about their adoption programs in Ethiopia and Liberia.

* * *

2/25/03: Four months later, Sasha has bonded closely with us and adapted to her new life quite seamlessly. We had chosen Valentine's Day to be her birthday and thus we celebrated together on the 14th -- an event she relished for days before and after. She speaks a whole lot of English now and we're able to converse easily. It's been amazing to watch her language skills develop so rapidly. Of course it helps that she has two kindergarten classes a day at the local elementary school, one of which centers on English for international kids. She's starting to make friends, gets on well with the other children, and is a lot of fun to be around.

It is my belief that she had nice parents and a good upbringing for several brief years -- because she is a nice child carrying a measure of courtesy and consideration for others. We get into very active conversations, but avoid prying into her background other than to strike up occasional dialogue about Ethiopia and keep it in the picture. One day a few weeks ago, we were talking together at dinner. A relative of the family had just died, and we told her about it. Very matter of factly, almost casually, she recounted the stories of her own mother and father dying. Within a year or two of each other, they took to their beds and wasted away slowly; they got so tired, they couldn't get up and finally the doctors came and then they were just gone. Sasha doesn't know what the word "AIDS" means; but she knows more about the disease than most of us will ever know.

Brian Orner: Health Care Is a Human Right

Brian Orner: Health Care Is a Human Right

Joy of Man's Desiring

Here is something that makes my heart sing and maybe yours will too.


I'm so glad there are guys like Steve Morse around to remind us that guitar heroes can really PLAY.... and even capture the music of J.S. Bach still scintillating in our atmosphere.

Flowers Before Showers

I've been working so intensively these past months that there was scant time to put up a blog entry. Then I remembered that pictures can say something too.

End of April, I was walking out the front door in a hurry to get to the office. At that moment, a butterfly came by to explore the azalea explosion in front of our little townhouse. I've never seen one of these creatures so early in the year. Back into the house I ran to get my banged-up Panasonic Lumix camera, and caught him striking a pose.

This year we had intense April flowers before profuse May showers -- a week or more of cold wetness that has finally given way to warm spring. The color explosion has toned down some, and I haven't seen another butterfly since then; they usually show up in June and onward.

Nature's display here in northern Virginia begins with fireworks of daffodils, cherry blossoms and dogwoods, and it climaxes in late April/early May. Butterfly creatures match up to the panorama with ease. A small lilac tree in my front garden is blooming now and emanating sweet fragrance. This whole thing is a mystery as we people stand on the sidelines, applauding a sensual ballet that seems to have little to do with us.

Master Class

Take a little guitar lesson with PB:



This is probably the simplest bit in his repertoire.

First time I met him, we were in a little guitar shop in Cambridge, Massachussetts in 1993. He sat down and played this Irish tune for me: The Return From Fingal. Then he played it again -- differently. Then again -- differently. And so on many times more, each repetition improvised ingeniously new in the moment. His fretboard variations were so playful, all I could do was smile. Bach and Mozart used to do the same thing, it is said.

L'Alchemiste

Synchronicities of the heart are no doubt familiar to you as they are occasionally to me.

There was a day years ago when I traveled to Boston to meet my friend, guitarist Pierre Bensusan. He was touring the U.S. and performing at Johnny D's in Somerville. We agreed to have dinner at the club before the show.

I had to take several trains to get there and was hurrying through the late rush hour crowds, determined to be on time. Plodding through the doors of the last subway car, I plopped into an empty seat and rubbed my aching neck.

As the train began to move, I looked up and faced a young man sitting in the seat directly across from me. He was reading a paperback book -- The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho.

Something about this sight touched me and I didn't know why. I just felt happy over the chance to visit with Pierre again and hear his music played fingerstyle on acoustic guitar -- it has been such an inspiration and a gift in my life.

I got to the venue on time, listened to Pierre's sound check, enjoyed dinner with him and friends and then settled into my seat for the concert.

Somewhere in the first set my ears opened wider as Pierre began to play a richly harmonic tune I had not heard before that he had newly composed. Afterwards, he told the audience it was called The Alchemist and was inspired by Paulo Coelho's book.

You can hear this lovely tune at Pierre's MySpace page, if you like. You'll also find there information about his latest U.S. tour -- International Guitar Night -- starting this month, which I can tell you will be a bonanza for lovers of all things musical.

Painting by the Equatorian artist, Jaime Zappata.

Marvin

I was informed today that Marvin Braxton, a student of Mr. Nyland and long-time member of our group in Warwick, passed away last night after suffering a heart attack on December 19th.

Marvin was a lovely man I got to know while attending Friday group meetings at the Barn. His wife Beverly was my daughter's third grade teacher; his son Symeon is in the group in Philadelphia. In these recent years my family has somehow felt affinity to his from a distance.

Many folks were inspired by Marvin's quiet and warm demeanor, gentle spirit, and wonderfully detailed stories about personal Work in life, which he sometimes shared in meetings with simplicity, humor and humility that touched everyone present. I found a few photos of him in the assortment I took during our fall 2007 Intensive. Farewell good brother, and blessings to your kin who walk this earth in the radiance of your smile.

A lovely story by my co-worker at the Orphan Foundation of America, who visited Saint Lucia earlier this year.

Black Bird in Paradise

by Laura Adkins

It is the last full day of my vacation in St. Lucia. It is August near the equator, and I make my way in the 100% heat to the tiny crescent shaped beach just beneath the breakfast veranda. The white beach is cupped south and north by the lush, stunning juts of mountains, called the Grand Pitons.

I find the same small almond tree in the sand, overlooking the turquoise water. A breeze blows and captures me for the afternoon. It is the third day under “my” tree, where I watch animal commerce and stealth. A black bird cases leftovers for booty and tugs hard to pick up more than one French fry at a time. He jumps to escape perceived danger, and starts again. He drops one fry while trying to pick up the next, and repeats the effort 3 more times. He does not succeed at eating. What I learn from him is that greed doesn’t work, and doesn’t feed you in the long run.

As I throw my blue work shirt over the back of the lounge chair, an old man with a large green coconut approaches my tree. He is smiling, tan, lean, shirtless, and missing many teeth. He explains that he needs to go to the doctor and must make money.

“Would you like a coconut?” he asks. I ask the price. He says, “$3.00?”

I say, “Yes, I would like a coconut, please.” He lays down a cloth wrapped set of machetes and uses one to lop off the top of the coconut. He makes a nifty drink bowl with the smaller knife in a matter of seconds and inserts a straw for drinking. “It’s a cherry coconut,” he explains proudly, as if they are rare. Perhaps they are.

While cleaning his machete, he continues to tell me about his right ear. “I cannot hear. I need to see the doctor on Monday. It is $350.” I tell him I only have a $20 for the coconut drink, and ask if he can get change? Apparently, a familiar request, he walks to the restaurant bar perhaps 100 ft. from my tree. He returns explaining that the restaurant is not open yet. He hands me back my $20. I tell him to go sell more coconuts and come back with the change when he has it. I closed my eyes, leaning back on the lounge. The water laps, the bird makes war on the plastic dish of French fries, and I wonder how close I am to the equator.

The man returns in 15 minutes, grinning as he pulls two $5.00 bills out of his pants pocket. “A lady over there gave me $10.00 for my operation on Monday.” He hands them to me, outshining the sun in his honor and pristine character. I look him in the eye and hand them back to him. I am thinking that I cannot fly away with that many French fries, and push them back into his hand. Even if there is no ear operation, I must survive the moment with something more valuable than the $20. I now know that every moment is the most important one.

This paradise of aqua water, poverty, hunger, honesty, greed, and animal commerce, crowds under my tree and into my soul, as my physical eyes shut out the brightness. Chiaroscuro pushes these competing forces of nature into the open, letting light fall on our dance together. All elements and intention converge tail to head, yin to yang. Can one be charitable or honorable, unless these words become verbs? There is no use for my charity without his poverty; and he cannot be honorable without the opportunity.

I sit up and face the water with my realization. “Who is helping whom?” I ponder. The man turns around and walks back toward me. He is noble in his voice and carriage as he asks, “Are you alright?”

And the Real Virginia Roared

Early evening, 10/22/08: a massive flood-river was surging down the main thoroughfare of Leesburg, Virginia. . . sweeping this blogger, his family, and everyone in its path toward a singular destination.


Toward what sea or lake could this river be flowing? It was obviously High Tide, the likes of which had not been seen in that small town for generations.


Ahh. . . it was Barack Obama who had come to Leesburg, and 40,000 change-seekers had traveled from near and far, prevailing through gargantuan traffic jams they themselves had caused, just to greet him. My trusty little Panasonic Lumix camera stretched its lens eye as far as possible to capture a glimpse of him at the podium -- we were so far away we could barely see him.


"Well hello Virginia!" Senator Obama exclaimed. "Gee, this looks like the REAL Virginia to me! And y'all look like REAL Virginians!!!" *

And the mighty crowd roared with thunderous approval up into the dimming Virginia sky. It was a wonderous evening, imbued with an atmosphere of History. Although the event had all the thrills of a megarock concert, the throngs of people were remarkably peaceful and considerate in behavior toward one another (and toward the few McCain-Palin supporters on Leesburg streets who stood out in front of their homes watching in awe). We were glad our young daughter could witness it.


A kind gentleman with three cameras around his neck was standing on the hood of a Jeep and photographing the spectacle. At my request he took an on-the-spot portrait of us "Real Virginians," and emailed it to me later that night.

Of course, the Real Virginia includes all kinds of people, of all kinds of persuasions and signage preferences.

The man standing on the jeep hood and taking photographs turned out to be a locally well known stalwart conservative Republican -- a Member of the Virginia House of Delegates. He made sure to enclose the photo above along with our family portrait, as if to remind me that the gigantic cascading Obama crowds sweeping for change across the nation have 'company' that won't be going away any time soon.

* Barack's "Real Virginians" quip came on the heels of Alaska Governor Sarah Palin's statement from the previous evening, in which she espoused her view of the "Real America" represented by small towns.

Upward Facing Dog

This little creature is my friend and teaches me so much about life.

She is very kind and loving, always hopeful and positive (except when napping or being given a bath). She awakens my wish to connect with life in all forms up and down the scale -- especially when I'm a little groggy in the early morning and have to plunge outdoors and walk with her in the woods -- rain, ice or shine.

Little Rose is part Shi-tzu, part Yorkshire & poodle; a "Shitzipoo" they call her. "Oh!! The perfect dog," exclaimed someone who purportedly knows canines way better than most. "She would be just perfect for the Obamas," another lady commented. "She doesn't shed and is 'hypoallergenic.'"

Since we only live about 16 miles away from the Obamas' new residence, maybe Rose and I will stop by next year to knock on the door and say hello. Rose wouldn't think twice about it -- she's a "people dog."

Not to mention "lap dog" too.

LOOPER'S DELIGHT

Give your ears and eyes a taste of the great Phil Keaggy, who delivers joy via guitar and voice, with a little help from JamMan-enabled sonic streams . . .

Rolling Thunder

In 1983, Mrs. March took a few of us to Ithaca NY, to meet the native American medicine man, Rolling Thunder. At that time he was giving workshops and talks around the country, offering an unprecedented glimpse into his life and work to the public. On this day, he was to give what was billed as an intensive half-day seminar, in an old stone chapel situated at Cornell University.


Years before, I had read the book Rolling Thunder by Doug Boyd, and so I jumped at the opportunity to meet this remarkable shaman, healer and teacher. The lovely painting above by Hank Grebe shows him as he was in my recollection.

Take note of this weather detail: It was a sunny-brisk day in mid-March; the blue sky was flecked with white spring clouds. The small chapel was packed to capacity with about 150 people. When Rolling Thunder entered, we felt an immediate powerful presence, belied by his rail-thin frame and humorous, casual manner. There was certainly something other-worldly about him, and his jet-black eyes glittered like stars when he wanted to make a point.

Following are rough-hewn notes on his statements that have stayed with me all these years.

"All prophecy is subject to change."
Rolling Thunder introduced his native American friend Ron Williams to the podium, saying he is "about 90 percent accurate" when predicting the future. Williams in turn told us that Rolling Thunder "never misses."

RT's uncanny capacity for divination and clairvoyance is documented in Boyd's book; but the point RT stressed in this discussion was that "All prophecy is subject to change." He said, "I can tell you with certainty that your car will break down next week, but it doesn't mean you can't alter that outcome by going to a mechanic and getting the problem fixed."

"Get in touch with the Great Spirit, and take steps on the physical plane."

On how to be happy:
"Do something for somebody." (This makes him feel joy.)

"I stand on my own feet. I was taught to be original."

"It is good to be alive. In the old days, the men lived rightly." Some of his ancestors lived to be over 130 years old.

"Only the Indian knows the laws of this land. Our job is to take care of this Mother Earth. Others can help."

About 'evil spirits':
"You know something is not you; that's when the evil powers can get stronger. At that point, you must work your mind like a muscle to put the evil spirits out. Look at some clouds, a tree, or grass, something with life that can reflect back at you."

On dealing with bad thoughts:
"I know how to put my mind back in order." When he smokes the pipe: "First puff, good thoughts."

"Be careful how you look at a little child."

"Modern man makes things which pollute; they are not made from goodness. Ego is behind all of the deterioration of the world."

On being a medicine man:
"There are seven ceremonies/tests for a medicine man." (Seven is a magic, sacred number.)

"We don't HAVE to do anything. A medicine man could walk out of the Council or off the field of battle. There is no malpractice insurance for us. Don't pass for what you are not."

He goes into the sweat lodge and cleans up his mind & body before he helps someone. "The spiritual comes first. Everything is intensified."

He goes into the sweat lodge or ceremony with a clean mind. It's the same for one who wants to be healed. "You gotta earn the right to get well."

"There's no such thing as no cure."

"If conditions persist, see your local physician."

"I'm not anxious to die. Christ was a great healer; he was not anxious to die."

He said it took him 20 - 30 years to become a medicine man. "I had to spend a lot of time looking into things."

"Picture in your mind when you meditate. . .look for a way of healing within yourself. . . no blank mind."

When healing, never take the bad thing into yourself from the sick person.

On spirits and devils, heaven and hell in the western world:
"We're not afraid of the white man's devil. Me in hell? They don't EVER want me there! I'd do a rain dance. It's good sometimes to be not wanted."

On children:
"Our kids make their own games, but are opposed to force. They have a vote and voice; they speak in council. Answers can come from the child."

"Pray over the kids while they sleep."

Herbs and foods as medicine:
"Food with no taste will lay in the body. There is live water and dead water, live food and dead food."

"Who'd want to date a girl who doesn't eat garlic?"

A questioner asked: "How can I release my creative energies?"

RT answered about prayer and fasting. "Don't make it a contest."

"Wake up praying."

Another questioner: "Can you tell me how I can find a teacher?"

RT talked about the 'Want factor.' "The Great Spirit doesn't care what you or I want; only what's best for us. When you're ready, he will come."

Questioner: "What's keeping this girl from realizing her purpose?"

"You should have a good opinion of yourself, because the Great Spirit put us all here. We must all be here for a reason."

"If you want. . .give first so as to receive."

* * *

Something occurred during the the seminar that took my breath away. Rolling Thunder was talking about how a Catholic priest had launched an initiative with the Canadian government. I can't remember if it was a research activity or something educational for the public, but this priest and Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau had approached Rolling Thunder with an "offer," proposing that he guide their undertaking.

While recounting the story of this "Canadian offer," Rolling Thunder began to heat up in criticism of the white man, in particular people with high-minded ideas that cloak mixed motives, some of which are misguided and exploitative of the Indian. His voice began to rise, and when his anger reached its peak, he pounded his fist on the podium.

A split second later there was a loud thunder burst outside, as if the weather and elements were joining in agreement with him. Many in the room gave an audible gasp -- but Rolling Thunder just laughed -- "Ha!" and looked out at us with glittering eyes, as if an old friend had said hello to him from outside the door. That was the only thunder we heard that day -- it was ridiculous. I swear to God this is true.

Things That Shouldn't Go Together But Do

"Keep in mind, the news media are not independent; they are a sort of bulletin board and public relations firm for the ruling class -- the people who run things. Those who decide what news you will or will not hear are paid by, and tolerated purely at the whim of, those who hold economic power. If the parent corporation doesn't want you to know something, it won't be on the news. Period. Or, at the very least, it will be slanted to suit them, and then rarely followed up. Enjoy the snooze."

- George Carlin

"I think that we have created a new kind of person in a way. We have created a child who will be so exposed to the media that he will be lost to his parents by the time he is 12."

- David Bowie

Put Up or Shut Up

Back around 1995, there was a heated exchange on a "progressive music" newsgroup in which a herd of backseat-driving King Crimson fans "debated" on a theme one of them had posted:

"Is Adrian Belew any good for Crimson or what?"

At some point during this mind-numbing discussion among "armchair virtuosos," Adrian got wind of it and posted a reply, which I printed and saved in a file for inspiration all these years:


"If you can write songs which are good enough for the approval of KING CRIMSON;
songs like ELEPHANT TALK
or MATTE KUDASAI,
NEUROTICA or HEARTBEAT,
THELA HUNGINJEET or THREE OF A PERFECT PAIR,
ONE TIME, or DINOSAUR,
and when I say write I don't just mean write some chord changes,
but ALL the melodies,
and ALL the words. . .
and if you can then perform those songs
consistently and fluidly
at the front of the band
well-lit and in full view of audiences from all over the world
who are willing to pay to see you,
keeping in mind that often times the guitar parts
are in a different time signature from the signing
and the singing is often in a difficult range
and if at the very same time you can provide a plethora of guitar styles
and sounds
from animals and pianos to oboe and E-bow,
not merely the required shrieking spooge solos
bt the interlocking precision-picked parts as well
and tap your foot
and make it all look easy, night after night
and if you can withstand the pressure, the criticism, the comparisons,
the indifference, and unkind remarks you'll receive
knowing that in the end you may never see credit for your work
and the huge investment it will take from you. . .

"If you can do all this as well or better than I do,
Please, by all means,
Step up on the stage.
I'll offer you my place in KING CRIMSON.
I'd be quite happy to sit at the back and just play guitar with my pal Robert.

"It's so easy to criticize.
But as the saying goes
PUT UP or SHUT UP."

In an era of pundits who, in Gurdjieff's words, "settle world affairs over a cup of coffee," it's easy to mistake the world for a level playing field. And as a longtime student of the guitar, I know what's ordinary, difficult, and beyond one in a million. Adrian is one of those extremely rare talents who puts so much money where his mouth us, the dollars can't even be counted.

Get on over to see him in a Crimson concert: or better yet, catch the Adrian Belew Power Trio (featuring a 20-year old barefoot girl bassist with chops like Live at Leeds-era John Entwistle, and her fabulous 21-year old brother on drums -- both alumnae of The School of Rock). . . as incredible as any power trio, in any age.

A Generous Man

With so much false information on the internet about Gurdjieff, accounts from people who were close to him are good medicine. From T Tchekovitch: *

"Since I was often with him at different times of the day, I saw in an intimate way aspects of his life that most of his pupils, who only attended the evening groups, never knew about.

"Mr. Gurdjieff often did his own shopping when he took his morning stroll. As soon as he returned, he started working in the kitchen. During this time, he would not receive any of his pupils, and the door opening onto the main staircase remained closed.

"It was quite another story, however, at the back staircase. One had to see it to believe it: from the bottom of the stairs to the top, there was a long procession of beggars, parasites, and the like. One had his bowl, another his tin plate, still another an old pot, all coming solemnly to receive a full ration of soup accompanied by some kind words. Mr Gurdjieff himself served from enormous cooking pots while asking after the health of everyone, not forgetting those who could not come because of illness. When he found that someone was sick, he would say, “Well, now let’s give him something special!” and, according to the latest information he received about him, he would fill the container with some dish or other that he had prepared.

"Here was an old woman who came for herself and also for her husband, who could no longer walk; there, an undernourished and sick man who said he was unable to work; then children from a large poverty-stricken family; and the concierge from a neighbouring building, who had looked after a bedridden tenant on the seventh floor for a long time. . .

"The scene was repeated every morning, the procession usually ending about one o’clock, sometimes only to start again in the evening. Mr Gurdjieff also prepared enormous quantities of food to share with his pupils and others, who regularly frequented his apartment. His table was a veritable cornucopia, for no day passed without parcels of food arriving from all over the world; the south of France, Spain, Turkey, Australia, the Americas, and even Africa. Yet, if there was no one to eat with, he would often choose not to eat at all."

* Gurdjieff: A Master in Life; Tcheslaw Tchekovitch

Into the Crim Zone (the terror! the horror!)

For those rare ones in the peculiar biped subspecies known as 'advanced guitarists' or 'prog rock connoisseurs', THIS is just archconnivin' hopscotchin' fretsmokin' great.


Prog-rockers, get on over to Robert Fripp's diaries, where wonderful illustrated madness has been proceeding for a few weeks.

The subject of the above panel, Adrian Belew, is beloved to me and countless others, thanks to his consummate musicianship and unique guitar artistry, to say nothing of the fact that he's a nice, down-to-earth, beamin'-up-at-the-sky man.

Sometimes when I'm down in the mouth over the madness of the world, recalling that King Crimson is in it warms my heart and restores a steady, inspired smile.

Scholarships Foster Dreams

While on a spree, go whole hog. Might as well add another video -- different theme, cut from the same weekend shoot as the vMentor segment below:



Orphan Foundation of America students describe how OFA scholarships opened doors to education and changed their lives forever.

In the process of interviewing these young people, I had the privilege to enter into their lives and get close to their hopes and aspirations. They're so bright, motivated, and world-wise beyond their years.

A Caring Online Connection

Here is a four-minute video I just finished cutting with my pals at POV-Rose Films for the Orphan Foundation of America.



It covers OFA's innovative vMentor Program, which connects teens aging out of foster care with experienced adults who can guide and encourage them -- at any time of day or night through a unique web-based portal.

Feller's got a Brand New Smeller

Gurdjieff group meeting last night: Sensing connects me instantly to the fact of aliveness, an entry point toward presence in the moment.

Post-op trip to the Otolarongolygist's office earlier in the day: The good doc took a pair of needle-nose pliars and pulled those maddening plastic stents out of my nostrils for good. They had been plugged up almost to my eye sockets, keeping things open and structurally secure during recovery after sinus surgery (see post below), and driving me nuts in the process.

So he yanked them out. Drumroll. . . .no bleeding at all.

Wonders. . .I can breathe through the nose. I can SMELL again!

In fact, I can smell several things distinctly at the same time. The Wife says I looked like a wide-eyed child in a candy store when we went out to get a sandwich after the procedure. Even the pickle smelled heavenly, and I'm no fan of pickles.

Having practiced for decades the traditional variations of sensing exercises given by Gurdjieff (as passed along by Mr. Nyland and Mrs. March), I'm grounded in that aspect of Work enough to know it is a process with constant beginnings and no end. Mrs. March loved to take it down to simplest micro-details: relaxing a hand, the tiny muscles in the face; attention embracing any part "from toe to hair."

Four Senses congratulate number Five upon his return. Out to the garden I go, to get a whiff of flowers, leaves and natural elements.

Now with delicate smelling-sense returning from exile, I'm surprised and welcome it into my house immediately. Scented surprise -- whether from bending toward a flower or even my own armpits at mid-day in August -- is fine for coming into the now.

What Grows in a Nose

At left, not moon, nor planet, nor heavenly body, but a medical image reasonably representative of a polyp lodging inside my schnoz.

Several such biomasses had been roosting in there with oozy swagger, blocking nose breathing until last Tuesday, when I had them all removed via endoscopic sinus surgery.

Since then I've felt like I got hit by a train. Only today, nearly a week later, the bleeding has stopped and I have been recused from a haze of codeine-based pain pills to feel fortitude enough to report on this delicate adventure.

For days after the procedure, impulse to bleed was at the level of "trigger happy." Even talking beyond a whisper would get bleeding started out both nostrils as well as down the throat. Not since childhood have I been so attuned to blood's clotting nature: In texture as well as timing, it's a wonder to behold.

Reston Hospital's post-operative instruction sheet includes commands like "Refrain for three weeks from lifting heavy objects or bending over." Best not to let anyone tickle you either: laughing will get bleeding started like a New York fire hydrant in July.

Anyway this thing has packed a wallop and I'm ten days out from getting back to even tempo. Despite the pain and lethargia, I don't regret anything. This has put me deeply in touch with the present moment. . .

. . .as in tending to fine points of physical nature --sitting, standing, lying down; moving an arm or a lip; how to spit without causing more bleeding; keep the tongue moistened; how to chew a piece of bread, suck applesauce off a spoon; what happens when the body needs to cough, turn in bed, or lay back to find equilibrium again.

Tell me, my codeine-addled bladder, should I stand or sit lady-like to pee? Since it took three times as long to fulfil the act, sitting was preferred this week.

That's to say nothing of being away from the computer and whirl of daily chatter and buzzing demands, leaving cares of my day job on the doorstep, settling into pillows and submitting to attentive, soothing care of an angelic home nurse. . .my wife.

I've thanked her so many times. . . Gratitude, combined with reverence for life's slow healing sway, has been stirring in heart and mind, even as blood in my nostrils clotted into bullet plugs.

It's okay to look in the mirror, you fat-nosed fuck. This too shall pass.

Welcome to Deadwood

The closest thing to Shakespeare for me in this day and age has been David Milch's Deadwood, which aired for three seasons on HBO.


I have never been so touched to the core by any multiple-episode screenplay as by this one. In Deadwood, Milch found a setting to pursue threads of the human condition along their interwoven sources and ends. The characters don't just get under your skin; you find they've already long been living there. We all stake a claim of some sort in the lawless thoroughfares of Deadwood, just by being the people we are.

Above, Doc Cochran, played by the great Brad Dourif, is a tormented healer who saw the worst blood of the Civil War and comes to Deadwood to find his humanity again -- by tending to the camp's prostitutes.

I could see doing a blog for one year about this one show, but my powers of articulation are not up to the task -- I can't convey what I see, feel and ponder on in the depths. The series serves up moments that intersect with my deep moments of living; little startling, stunning experiences of truth, where time and costumes of convention fall away. Naked little strangers we are, no matter what we imagine we're packing in our holsters.

The best fuckin' thing I can recommend is to go to HBO.com and buy the DVDs of its three complete seasons, watch them several times, and get yourself a copy of David Milch's incredible accompanying book -- Deadwood: Stories of the Black Hills. It's utterly fantastic and fascinating -- best of the best.

A Billion and One Things

I had a billion little things to do yesterday, editing press releases emailed by my publicist, getting them approved by a Congressman's office, racing over to the Hill for an event, talking on the cellphone while driving and walking, later scurrying over to the supermarket to buy a cake and bottled water for 22 kids, while programming my colleague's GPS so we didn't get lost in the maze of D.C.

And somewhere in the middle of that, the aforementioned publicist (who as luck would have it is in a small Gurdjieff group in upstate NY) was on the phone and said, "Wiggle your toes." And we laughed, and that was very helpful.

Sometimes I have to add *one more* little thing to the billion others, to start setting the rest of them in motion back toward the present. Evolution against involution. And then once in a while, the billion little things blend into a whole, and everything is very simple. Then I lose it again. Involution against evolution.

Searching for Stephen

Nine-year old Stephen Batte works from early morning until late evening breaking rocks in a Ugandan quarry. His mother also worked at the quarry until recently, when she was killed in a rock slide.

A message was forwarded to me a few days ago by Cheryl Carter-Schotts, executive director of Americans for African Adoptions. It was written by Joseph (I don't know his last name), who works for AFAA-Uganda:

"What a terrible 2 days passing I've had! I spent most of yesterday moving and asking around stone quarries around Kampala till late evening when, as I was about to give up, I came to a quarry where people, mostly kids, knew Stephen. They said he lived at a far end of the quarry hill, and it wasn't easy getting there.

"What I didn't know then was that Stephen is not alone but one of hundreds of little orphan kids who spend the day crushing rocks from early dawn till very late in the evening. Many don't even have a shack of Stephen's type to go home to. Sets of siblings clutch up their legs into their heads and sleep hungry. Many can't remember when they last had a bath or a drink of good water. Children 8 or 9 years old look like 3 year olds because they have been stunted by the conditions they live in. They crush heaps of stone and wait for the time the rock owner will come to count the number of cans crushed so they can have something to eat.

"Many are orphaned by AIDS or war, others were abandoned by their fathers, mainly, and have to scavenge around the rocks with their mothers for a hard living. From the look of things, others are children of prostitutes who have grown old and fallen out of the trade.

"The stone quarries are huge, long, winding tunnels which have formed over the years through daily, repeated crushing, chipping, knocking, hitting, etc... and the children and some old women are hanging in there hitting the rocks with primitive tools that put their lives that much more at risk. One girl lost her eye to flying stone chips and the second eye functions with much difficulty. Without food, a sure place to sleep, safe water, medication yet breathing in huge amounts of stone dust everyday, this is one of the most precarious situations I have seen children in in many, many, years.

"We need to do something. I took photos of Stephen and many other such children. Many have very thin or totally no parental strings holding them and could be easily helped through adoption... but they're too, too many and we might not be able to move them all to North America. Yet taking their photos and moving away like that without a definite promise to help in whichever small way feels more painful than the kids' actual situation itself !! While we look up families to adopt them we need to do something to help them out of the deadly rocks. Right now, I've no idea how, yet I am certain we'll do something about these souls.

"I am falling behind on our other lines of work but I will endeavor and catch up tomorrow after I send you all these realities from the rocks."

* * *

Cheryl wrote to me:

"Stephen's story, and other children like him, has climbed inside my heart. What we need to do is to establish at least two AFAA Houses in Kampala. Children will be under 10 years of age, they will be children who are breaking rocks at the quarries, they will be checked for their parent situation, then have medical tests for HIV and Hepatitis B and then the children who are totally orphans or semi-orphans, and the one parent relinquishes the child, and who are HIV negative, will be welcomed into an AFAA House.

"This is going to take much time and money - we have to have staff check out each child's situation within their local community and also take the child for the medical tests, and pay for them. While this is all happening we need funds to rent a foster home with preferably four bedrooms, renovate it, I'm sure, purchase bunkbeds, tables, chairs, etc. and hire staff, and get children started in private schools, then start all over with a 2nd AFAA House.

"If there is ANYTHING you can do to help, please, please let me know. This is such a tragic situation for these children."

* * *

To my friends:

Please send anything you can, even just FIVE DOLLARS, to help alleviate this unbelievable condition of children who are working themselves to the bone for a drink of clean water or morsel of food at the very moment you're reading this. Do you know how far five dollars would go to help a child like Stephen?

Donations can be made to AFAA-Uganda, through Americans for African Adoptions, 8910 Timberwood Drive, Indianapolis, IN 46234-1952. Telephone: 317-271-4567. They are a licensed non-profit agency; their director Cheryl Schotts draws a tiny salary and has dedicated her life toward action and relief for these little Angels.

Click HERE or on the photo above to read an article on Stephen Batte by The Associated Press.

Slow and steady wins the race

I found this little friend, about the size of a silver dollar, on the sidewalk near my house. Fit to be snatched up by a predator or squashed under a sandal sole, it needed to be taken out of harm's way. So I took it across the street and put it on a spongy carpet of moss, deep in the woods.


You're on your own now, little one. Hopefully you will have a chance to eat, grow and achieve full turtle potential.

Quiet Legacy

A friend in the U.K. took this picture of the grave of A.R. Orage, situated at St John at Hampstead, Church Row, Hampstead, London:


The stone does not bear his name, but has an enneagram and inscription carved on it by Orage's friend, the great typographer and sculptor Eric Gill. The words, from the Bhagavad Gita, are those of Krishna to Arjuna, and read:

Thou grievest for those that should not be grieved for. The wise grieve neither for the living nor for the dead. Never at any time was I not, nor thou, nor these princes of men. Nor shall we ever cease to be hereafter. The unreal has no being. The real never ceaseth to be.

Orage is a hero of mine. He was responsible for establishing the first Gurdjieff groups in America, beginning in 1924, laying groundwork for those who would come after bearing a wish. His legacy endures in the fibre and vibration of work taking place today.

Benches In Need of Butts

I have run into some interesting bench creations lately. This porous collaboration between nature and a woodworker's hands sits behind a townhouse in Lake Anne, Reston Virginia.

It is interesting that someone would take the time to create unusual, beautiful variations that celebrate contact between a horizontal surface and the human ass.


The dolphin and butterfly benches are situated on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland.

Indeed life is good for standing and sitting when you've got an ATM inside and a butterfly bench outside.

Lil' Kid On Good Road

My friend Alex's boy -- turning on, tuning in, Stratocasting the moment.


Purrfectly acceptable peekture, if u axe me.

HUMANITY, SNUBBED (Mainstream Media Moment 7,000,285)

Put your good eye on the January 14, 2008 edition of TIME Magazine. In the center of page 24 is a photo box, replicated on the magazine's web edition as follows:

As you can glean from the photo caption, $2.3 billion were recently bequeathed to charity by the hotel magnate Barron Hilton -- a rare, gargantuan philanthropic gesture.

Working for a national non-profit (Orphan Foundation of America), I can imagine the tsunami of joy and impact Mr. Hilton's gift will bring to the causes he has designated. How many people besides Bill Gates and Warren Buffett are you aware of who have donated that massive a sum to needy causes?

So this is huge news -- but only in reality. And here's where things turn upside down. The sleeping desk editors of TIME have downplayed a major humanity-impacting story, and titled their piece "Hilton Snub." Apparently, the fact that Paris and Nicky Hilton are only inheriting a paltry $5 million each from their grandfather is the "real news."

Thus the Hilton Snub trumps good works of mankind* and is rubbed into eyes of the American public. And no one blinks, because that's the news that matters. You've just read it in TIME, after all.

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

*The Guardian UK (a British publication), provides a description of Barron Hilton's donation:

"The gift. . .will increase the wealth of the Hilton Foundation to $4.3 billion and turn it into one of the top philanthropic bodies in the U.S.

"The Foundation, which describes its mission as 'to relieve the suffering, the distressed and the destitute,' provides funding for clean water, education, housing and drug projects. It also funds a project for Roman Catholic nuns in Los Angeles."

Onion Tears (of Laughter) #1

In The Know: Are America's Rich Falling Behind The Super-Rich?

Open Treasure Chest

For the new year, here are a few posts honoring newness and creation, highlighting some works of friends encountered in the Gurdjieff groups and other channels.

I met Michael and Shelley Buonaiuto in Warwick NY in 1979. They have worked as original ceramic artists and sculptors for over 30 years, concentrating on myriad renditions of people and the human form.

Their site is chock full of visual delights; some will surprise you.

Below, behold the Ark of Noah, hand-carved and decorated by artisans of the Rochester Folk Art Guild.


For many years at the Guild, adult community members took turns doing 'nightwatch' -- seven days a week, two shifts per evening, 10 p.m. - 2 a.m. and 2 - 6 a.m. You had to take a flashlight and visit each workshop to see that heaters weren't left on and that everything was in order. Whenever my stint came, I always loved going into the pottery shop to investigate the racks of newly fired vessels in porcelain, earthenware and stoneware -- some of the most beautiful pottery you can imagine.

To this day, Guild artisans don't sign their own names on their work; it's all signed "Rochester Folk Art Guild." This is in keeping with tradition of the craft guilds of old, and reflects that the creative forces going into a vase or any work of craft go beyond those of the individual maker.

Turning back to artists who don't mind signing their own work. . . Below, "Triple Incalmo Bowl with Antelope," an 11" x 12" vessel by glassworker Gary Genetti.

Art of the Assist

This was the scene last night at the Verizon Center in Washington, D.C. Steve Nash and the Phoenix Suns came to town and did a joyful warm-up dance just before tip-off time against the Washington Wizards.


I took the family to view the game close to courtside. It was the first live NBA game for my wife and daughter; and my first since childhood, when my dad took me to see Wilt Chamberlain and the Philadelphia 76ers face the Knicks at Madison Square Garden.

It's hard to describe how wonderful this game was. During pre-game warm-ups, we observed how the Suns players carried themselves: light, buoyant, happy in each other's company. Steve Nash, my daughter's role model in basketball, hopped and danced around the court to loosen up and fine-tune his shooting. As teammates passed by, they would tap and high-five each other. A warmth and joy emanating from their circle carried over into the game, which my wife likened to a ballet.

The Wizards were impressive also, hanging shot for shot with the Suns in a close match until the third quarter. Then the Suns started raining down shots from inside and outside, preceded by lightning fast laser-precise passes that made the crowd gasp out loud.

Steve Nash, a two-time League MVP in the prime of his athletic abilities, contributed 19 assists during the game. The Suns in total made 42 assists -- the most by any NBA team this season.

Final score: Suns 122, Wizards 107.

I know what Gurdjieff has written about sport and its effects. Yet there is a beautiful, transcendent aspect of sport occasionally revealed in some of these events. It's found in the impression of individuals putting aside ego and selfishness, blending and working as one team. And teamwork is most vividly reflected in the assist -- the moment of sharing the ball, finding the "open man." The assist is the kernel of what basketball is about, because many scores aren't going to happen and games cannot be won without it.

So last night we were fortunate to get a close view of the Suns "assisting" each other -- most vividly so when Nash the superstar was on the floor. He kept threading the needle for his teammates, mapping out advantages moment by moment, responding to a creative symphony of opportunities, wherever and whoever they resided with.

Proof in the Pudding

At the Orphan Foundation, we get hundreds of thank-you notes from our kids during the year, all brimming with emotion and spelling/grammar mistakes. But this email came in clean as a whistle:

"Thank you for everything you do to advocate for former foster youth. I don't think I have ever properly thanked you for those efforts. I really believe that education saved me.

"I was reminded of this the other day when I got a phone call from a Sherie, young woman I used to live with in a Sacramento group home. The story she had called to tell me really shook me up. She was walking down the street and stepped around a 'crazy looking old homeless woman' (her words, not mine), whom she tried to ignore. Then the homeless woman shouted, 'Sherie!' Startled, she looked at the woman and realized it was Alicia, a girl two years younger than me who I had shared a room with in a group home. Alicia and I had been quite close. Apparently she was strung out and all but unrecognizable. The shocking contrast was striking.

"Alicia and Sherie and I were all in the same group home at one point, in the same position in life. Sherie is living in a government housing project on public assistance, Alicia is on the street, and I am sitting in my beautiful apartment filling out graduate school applications. Why? Because people like you and organizations like OFA knew what a difference an education makes in determining the course a young person's life will take. The state paid to raise all three of us. Unfortunately, it takes more than that.

"Thanks again. It means more than you may ever know. Gratefully, Katherine Hunt"

I spend my days as a "professional communicator" trying to inform the public about foster care issues through websites, videos, Powerpoints, and press releases. Meanwhile, this young college student nails our mission and its results in a thank-you note.

Cinematic Chair Gripper

With our kid at a Halloween party, the 'better half' and I took advantage of some rare time off and caught a matinee of Michael Clayton.

This is a special film. The English actor Tom Wilkinson is a revelation, and George Clooney is exquisitely understated as the title character; he just gets better and better with age. But the real star of the film is the screenplay by director Tony Gilroy. Treacherous corporate decisions made secretively in hotel rooms, whispered into cellular phones. . .ugh, it got under my skin and I shouldn't have been in tears at the end, but I was. If the film ends up with a couple of Oscars, it will be a just world.

Ambition / Aspiration

From Robert Fripp's diary, 8/3/05:

"The creative power that brought KC [King Crimson] to life in 1969, which we called the 'good fairy,' did not originate in the young men that formed the band: it acted through & upon them. As an older player, I look back with greater experience of the workings of the creative process; and find the creative impulse that came into our lives unimaginably more generous than I could appreciate at the time, and even more mysterious. . ."

I reproduce a few words from this diary to flag it for those who wouldn't likely have found it. There's a lot of gold in them thar Frippian hills.

Sticker Shock

A friend/colleague at the Orphan Foundation enjoys sharing viewpoints with the 'captive audience' bottlenecking along with her during rush hour traffic on Route 7. Click to enlarge for an entertaining read:

And while we're on the subject of public messaging / truth in advertising, here's one of my favorite T-shirt designs:

It comes from our Kulture-cutting, copyright-infringing friends at Negativland, the world's greatest 'found-sound' band. It was designed to accompany their album DisPepsi -- a tapestry of audio clips from the eerily familiar world of soft drink advertising. Highly recommended for seekers of musical refreshment.

Perfect Imperfections

I met this guy Tom Daly a number of times when he came down from Montreal to visit Mrs. March and the group at the Folk Art Guild. He was a student of Thomas and Olga de Hartmann, starting in the early 1950s. A retired filmmaker, he had a youthful sparkle in his eye, and I liked his energy and spirit.

An anecdote of his was posted on the blog of the Lighthouse Editions website. I feel like reproducing it because such experiences can come as gifts from Work once in a while; they are part of what keeps us young and enlivened even as we age.

“It was during a coffee break at a Gurdjieff meeting near New York. I went out in a courtyard, and there was a copper beech tree there with nothing around it. It was a tremendous tree with all these long branches going out in all directions. It was full, beautiful with colour. The sun was glistening off of it. I burst into tears, because I immediately saw it as like the world: all our differences stretched out from a common trunk, a common root, and no branch was more
important than any other. It was a vision of overflowing perfection.

“It was so beautiful that I went over to pick a leaf as a memento of the moment. The first leaf I pulled had a wormhole in it. Another had another leaf stuck to it. The third had caterpillar damage. I could not find a perfect leaf. And then I had a still deeper moment of vision: this perfect thing was made up of all these imperfections!”

Time Wrinkles in Union Station

1) Friday afternoon business brought me to Capitol Hill. I arrived at Union Station early enough to grab lunch in the big food court.

On the train, I was thinking about my late teacher, Dr. Nobileo. He was always working, serving, helping people from morning to night. 'Be ready; be ready every moment,' he used to say. While writing about him these past weeks, the feeling of his presence has been strong. Now 28 years since we were together, how I wish to be awake like he was. Sitting with the crowds in Union Station, I had a sense he was in the neighborhood, ethereally aware, smiling from on high.

I ordered a bowl of rice, vegetables and meat from a stand called "Panda Rice." The portion they served was huge and I could only eat about half of it. I headed over to the waste bin, regretful about throwing an adult-sized portion of food into the garbage.

Out of nowhere, a middle aged man approached and pointed at my tray. "Sir, you are finished with that?"

My eyes locked with his. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Okay. . .then get yourself a clean fork over there."

Taking the tray, he thanked me and quickly went off to eat his meal. I left the plaza smiling at the thought of Dr. Nobileo guiding the hungry man over.

2) Still with spare time on my hands, I didn't want to walk to the Capitol and wait outside in 90 degree heat; so I wandered upstairs into the B. Dalton book store and browsed through the aisles.

Attracted toward a stand of children's books, I bent to pick up a slim, handsomely designed paperback with a gold medal embossed on the cover: A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L'Engle.

Leafing through the book, I recalled that I'd read it as a child and liked it much. I decided to purchase and save it for my daughter, who loves to read and will be ready for this one within a year. That was the only book I was drawn to examine in the store.

At home later in the evening, I read in the New York Times online that Madeleine L'Engle had just died at age 88.

Wanna hear about my Colonoscopy?

It's a safe bet you don't.

Yeah, well, it was easy and benign -- from Wednesday's fasting and cleansing prep, through the procedure itself early Thursday a.m. Piece of cake.

So, a public service announcement: Anyone who's been putting it off on account of the 'ugh' factor, hang your phantom squeamishness out to dry and just do it.

Coming out of anesthesia was a comically disjointed experience. My mind was instantly alert and sharp; I could talk and make jokes with the nurses. "Wow, that was the best sleep I've had in six months. You mean to say you've been here reaming me out the whole time?"

Meanwhile, the body was. . .a bit disconnected, shall we say? I attempted to stand up on legs of rubber, and had to sit back down. Not for naught does it state in the post-op directions (which they make you sign): "Do not attempt to drive for 24 hours after procedure."

Sharp little mind, wrapped in its soft-muscled cocoon. One doesn't often see the line between them so vividly.

When did you Work?

Someone said, "Take the pepsi challenge: Did you Work in the past month? When did you come close, and what reminded you? What was going on in moments when you were more present?"

I went back and unrolled the film, combed through impressions, and made a list:

• Walking through door of the fitness club
• Standing on the escalator
• Sitting on the exercise bike
• Drinking at the water fountain
• Curling with dumbbells
  
• Waiting on grocery store line; eye contact/hello with clerks
  
• Walking the dog. Being walked by the dog?
  
• Sitting in the Comcast Center in Maryland, watching daughter in basketball clinic below on the big court. (Empty modern-day colosseum reminds me of sleeping humanity.)
• Blabbermouthing with basketball team mothers & fathers; odd personalities intertwining; emotion of connection through our children; fleeting glimpses of compassion
  
• Lying flat on my back in bed, listening to my wife speaking
• 1) Involuntary thoughts about someone who hurt me in a past workplace. 2) Involuntary thoughts about someone else who hurt me in a past workplace. 3) Swallowing anger & thoughts of revenge; seeing these as mechanical impulses. Separating from the mechanical. Letting energies settle to their proper place. Feeling compassion for those who hurt me.
  
• Gearing up to repeat above process 7,000,285 times
  
• Reading Beelzebub's Tales, the chapter on Art. Hola!
  
• Waiting in airport en route to Orlando. Sitting in the plane. (Standing/walking feels so good after you exit a plane.)
  
• Sweating from every pore of my body in sauna-like Orlando. The heat/humidity reduces you to walking essence
• Second day visiting Sea World. Watching energy in body, maintaining aliveness and positivity, staying collected during a hot and physically taxing day
• Waking up early a.m. in Florida with feeling of an old friend 1100 miles away. So strong it was, I went outside and called her. She was jogging in the park where we first met 30 years ago. Some day I will learn to trust intuition.
• First glimpse of a leafy sea dragon. Shimmering translucent creation of nature
• Meeting dolphins and hearing their voices
• Sitting in early morning, Draining and Sensing with 'Lord Have Mercy' exercises.*
• Carefully screwing in another lightbulb after the first one fell out of my hand and broke
  
• Watering the garden
• Awake at 3:30 a.m. Sit in the dark, pondering; come to utter simplicity, 'I am.' Verify that my personality is nothing, a 'nullity' but something else of me is a particle of the Whole -- always, eternally now. Dude, you do not need drugs to experience this ;-)
  
• Listening to latest group meetings recorded in New York, Warwick and Tucson**
• Turning away from the computer. Looking out the window
  
• Waking up in the morning. Gratitude
  
  

*I don't teach over the internet, so don't ask.

**Thank God for Mr. Nyland's idea of recording Gurdjieff group meetings. The groups are moving from cassettes to MP3s. Great way to stay connected with distant fellow seekers.

Seven Stones in the Garden

If you've read your Tolkien, you know the legend of the seven Palantiri, the ancient seeing stones crafted by Numenor's wisest craftsmen, before Middle Earth existed. Or something like that. Following is a version of that myth illustrated in contemporary action:

A Faerie mother worked to put some of her gracious wisdom into seven stones for the Garden of Spriie. . .while a bright young apprentice Faerie sat patiently by.


She cast the mold at her feet with indestructible concrete; then laced it with shards of bright glass, eclectic buttons, and shimmering stones.


When the work was complete, she laid it out to dry under the dimming night sky. No need to ask why. In the morning, it was all done and ready to be placed in the garden under the sun.

Whereupon the young apprentice Faerie tested her feathery weight upon it, blessing the stone for its place in the garden's smile. This process was repeated six times further, resulting in a seven-stoned walkway fit for Faeries, cats, butterflies in search of cool puddle drinks, and visitors of size and shape you can only imagine in dreams of a waking day.

Bassic Instincts

Today being the birthday of Dirk Malavase, musician, luthier, a/v illusionist, and bassist for the lounge act formerly known as Uforkestra, we post a picture of one of his splendid hand-crafted creations:


Hola music boys and long-fingered ladies: these are as good as any basses on the planet. To all aficionados of the "lower register," I endorse such instruments, and wish Dirk success akin to Fender, Gibson, Hofner, Rickenbacker, Carvin, you name it. And happy birthday too.

Fostering Dreams

Here is a video I produced for the Orphan Foundation of America with POV-Rose Films. It features a group of kids who, after aging out of the foster care system, have gotten to the threshold of graduating from college -- thanks to OFA scholarships, care packages, and mentoring.



It's part of a campaign aimed at business leaders to generate support for OFA's care package program. I was amazed at the impact that a simple care package can have on these kids, who have no families to watch their backs or go home to during spring break. The thank you notes they send in (by the hundreds) convey gratitude way beyond the usual. One of the students we interviewed, a Liberian attending Catholic University, was in tears the whole time the camera rolled, and I was barely able to use any footage we got of her.

Olbermann: Bush Should Resign

Talk about courageous. . .Has anyone said it better?

Enlightened (once again!)

A glimpse of what a man looks like when he reaches enlightenment:

I was in upstate NY editing the Orphan Foundation video, staying at the house of a friend who has adopted two little girls from Russia. The pair quickly descended on me and began weaving spells of giggles and magic. Don't let their size fool you. These are two evolved and enlightened beings. Within a few minutes, I became enlightened too.

Joni versus the tits & ass bubblegum machine

OMG, you gotta love this woman:

"I've written roles for myself to grow into gracefully, but there is no growing into gracefully in the pop world, unfortunately, because the airwaves -- everybody is in the same bind. The business is sick. And music and the genuinely gifted, such as myself, and there aren't a lot in any generation, being shunned from the airwaves in favor of tits-and-ass bubble gum kind of junk food is a tragedy. And there is no other arena for me to make music in. So I feel constantly in a position of injustice. There's a civil liberties thing here. Is it my chronological age? That should never be held against an artist. We're all going to grow middle-aged. We need middle-aged songs. I'm an unusual thing. I'm a viable voice. For some reason, even though I want to quit all the time, you know, I still have a driving wheel to do this thing.

". . . all the time I'm trying to be un-influenced by anything including myself, not to steal from myself. That's one reason I invented the tunings. Because every time I twist and twiddle the strings into a new tuning, pain in the butt as it got to be in terms of performance, I am back to square one, the neck is completely foreign again and I have to discover. I have to find the chords in the tuning. Astrologically I just found out there's a book of birthdays. I'm born the week of depth and the day of the discoverer, so I have a need to discover because of astrological influence."

The inventor of 50 guitar tunings and one of the best lyricists on the planet, she considers herself more of a painter than musician.

Paris Hilton got out of jail last week; they should have redefined justice and given her six months house arrest at Joni's place. Fight the power: Humanize the tits & ass bubblegum machine!

A moment of sweet serenity

Sometimes when your inner 'tescooano' (telescope) isn't working, someone else's lens is on you when you least expect it. As a footnote to my White House post below, here's how the kind folks at National Geographic saw me the day after the Abu Graib story broke:

I admit it isn't pretty. Sorrrry. . .just lost my cool with that gang of crooks (Rumsfeld, the 'POTUS' and 'V-POTUS') so close at hand.

Heck, are you beautiful, sweet and serene every waking moment of the day? Yes? Then come on down to W-D.C.; tiptoe through the White House tulips with me; and sweet-serene we both will be, for maybe five seconds before we flee.

Double Take at the White House

I took the Metro to McPherson Square in Washington, where we are shooting video for the Orphan Foundation. Got there with 40 minutes to spare, took a pleasant stroll down the street, and came upon this quaint landmark:

When you move back about 25 yards, the vista is altered:

I took these photos within a few minutes of each other; click this one to enlarge for an entertaining read. Who knew a peace vigil has been stationed in that spot since 1981? I haven't seen it in mainstream media photos or reports. Here is the taciturn hippielooking guy who runs it:

For millions whose reality is shaped by media, their vista on George's House comes from where TV outlets set up their cameras: out comfortably away from the hippielooking dude and his sobering display. A benign vanilla White House is what folks want to see after all, isn't it? Out of sight, out of mind. . .

From Duds to DADS

Pictures close to home suggest every day is Father's Day.

Little brother with brand new son. Note the similar hairstyles. Before Dylan was born, my brother and his partner were visiting. Sasha, speaking English only five months, said "Hey John, what happen big forehead come out?"

Meanwhile, middle brother and son got an early start on reading.

Last winter I took S to Florida for her first experience of the beach and ocean. When big waves assaulting us got the upper hand, you never heard a kid laugh so hard in your life.

Gentle Giant for a Day

Whoever said the 70s were an uninspired era in music must not have been listening past the wax in his ears. Yes children, once upon a time, a rock band or two actually made up and performed such music as this. If you discern a spark in Giant's playing and demeanor here, it's because this clip catches them at the top of their game.

I always laugh at the "critics" who flagged Punk as the most happening artistry of that decade. [Frank Zappa's definition of rock journalism: "People who can't write, doing interviews with people who can't think, in order to prepare articles for people who can't read."*]

Even while the discos wailed, and punk stooges dove onto shards of glass, and all that was good from the creative explosion of the 1960s degraded into derivative mediocrity...a group of 30-year olds was singing in five-part harmony, conjuring intricate melodies on baroque instruments, and weaving it into a rocking good time. Fuck what the magazines and critics say. Most of them don't know music from a ball of earwax anyway.

*Zappa, The REAL Frank Zappa Book, 1988

Simon and Bill and Garfunkel and Me

My friend Bill drove down from Warwick in his magnificent new (old) Ford Crown Victoria, stopping for an overnight en route to North Carolina. We had a quiet 6:30 a.m. walk in the nature center with little Rosie, and spent the morning talking about music, friends, and stuff. It is such a pure reminder when friends from the group visit.


Bill recalls the first time he met Mr. Nyland in 1969, at a meeting upstairs at the Gotham Book Mart on 46th Street in New York.

"Simon and Garfunkel came to the meeting. They had both ridden in on motorcycles and were wearing their leather motorcycle jackets. Garfunkel was very interested and even continued coming to meetings for a while. Simon had no interest in what was being discussed and kept looking around, obviously bored."

Bill's experience was different. To this day he vividly recalls the impression that Mr. Nyland made. "He was addressing a room packed with people, but at a certain point I had the strangest sense that he was speaking to me, and just at the moment when I felt it strongest, he looked directly at me."

Thirty-eight years and thousands of work days later. . .who is and who isn't still crazy after all these years?