Crossings and Reflections

Guineas

2011-10-08T16:30:00.000-07:00

I recently ran across a reference to "guinea fowl," which brought to mind my rural southern upbringing on a small farm in the Piedmont of North Carolina.

My Grandfather Martin kept "Guineas" around. They had the run of the place, and I can remember his gathering their rather small eggs. Often, I would hear him calling them: He would simply call out "guinea. . .guinea . . . guinea"!

This is a slight memory, I guess, but I had neither thought about them nor seen any for thirty years or more.

By the way Erick Tolle says that anytime you start thinking or talking about "your life," you are already deluded, as there is only "now."

Then I start considering that we are all human, after all, and though memories may come. . .naturally to mind, we do not have to dwell on them. . .

"Down East" Peninsula: Cedar Island

2010-11-28T17:46:00.000-08:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: July 15, 2002

During the first week of December in 1979, I decided to photograph Ocracoke Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I chose the dead of winter because I wanted to visit the Islands when there would likely be few tourists attempting to camp in the chill, 40-50 mile an hour gales that swept that part of the coast at that time of the year.

I decided to take the scenic route on this expedition and planned to catch the toll ferry to Ocracoke at Cedar Island in Carteret County (See map). I noted at the time that the route would take me through an area of which I knew little, a small cone of land jutting out into Pamlico Sound known as the "Down East" peninsula. Yet, visiting those piney woods and saltwater wetlands on the Peninsula near Cedar Island, which is across Pamlico Sound from the Ocracoke, I found a place where I crossed over into that twilit border between past and present, self and other, being and nonbeing.

The area is also famous for the Cedar Island National Wildlife Refuge, a well-preserved tidewater ecosystem, encompassing thousands of acres of marshlands and pine hammocks, as well as hundreds of species of wildlife, especially birds. This land is a birding dream. Herons, egrets and ibis are abundant, though you will also see, willets, oystercatchers, black skimmers, plovers and sandpipers and many other species.

Awed with the area I spent some time there exploring and photographing the region before I caught the ferry to Ocracoke. Time seemed to have stopped; the old South seemed to peek out of the countryside like a quick glimpse of a grand lady's petticoats. The area abounded with Spanish moss, old colonial period homes, as well as thousands of acres of longleaf pines, from which North Carolina gets its nickname, the Tarheel State, as pitch and lumber from the trees were used for naval stores and ship construction in the early days of the colony.

Cedar Island, where only 350 or so people live, is a land isolated by its remoteness and ties to a past that goes back to settlements in the early 18th century. The older residents there still speak a variation of Elizabethan English known as the "High Tider" dialect.

As I explored and photographed that secluded land, the landscape seemed held in some dusky mystery, as if some little-known, ancient god had rubbed the earth with salt from humid air and swampy marshes; perhaps, seeking to preserve the teeming wetlands and obscure, crumbling manses out of time.

On that ageless island, time seemed to pass so slowly that stillness seemed the only conclusion to time itself. It was a place where to listen to the cry of a tern or haunting echo of a wintering loon, or to gaze on the dark needle grass in evening, was to experience the profundity of an unwavering world held fast in the sentience of sound and water and wind.

I wish I could pour that moody countryside and friendly people into your heart, but the atmosphere, being beyond words, I offer these few images...

There were many water lilies (Lotus) in fresh water ponds. The print you see to the left is a color slide printed on black and white paper.

As one approached the village of Cedar Islandfrom the South on NC Highway 12, I noticed this abandoned storefront. The print has been sepia toned.

"Jigs" was passing through also, staying at the same campground. He played a great guitar.

This railroad crossing is on the "Down East" peninsula before crossing over to Cedar Island intrigued me with its hint of magic and mystery. I kept waiting for a unicorn or other mythical animal to appear in the distant haze.

Eventually, I caught the ferry and rode for for almost three hours to Ocracoke Island where I pitched my tent that night on a small dune on the Atlantic Ocean in a near Arctic gale that seemed almost hurricane force in its intensity.

Somehow, the tent and I survived the night. The next day I straightened out the tent, and trying to keep my hands from freezing, began photographing in black and white the startling tones and shadings of the Outer Banks.

But that's another story. . .

Editor's Note: Not the least of the reasons that these barrier islands, known as the Outer Banks, are famous is that the Wright Brothers chose those high, windy dunes for the first flight of a self-propelled airplane. The Outer Banks are also famous for the Lost Colony, the first English settlement in the New World, as well as the lair and legendary burial place of the infamous eighteenth century pirate, Blackbeard.

An Offering of Seasons

2010-10-05T10:31:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: February 1, 2001

One of my favorite books is "The October Country," by Science Fiction/Fantasy writer Ray Bradbury; One of my favorite poems is "To Autumn" by the English Romantic poet John Keats; and Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I suppose there is an inescapable logic here which means that my favorite season is Fall.
Actually, all the seasons are such a gift to us. There is nothing so pleasing as the delicate flowers of early Spring and the perennially exciting discovery that Nature has authored yet another shade of green. But then there is Summer: All that lush growth; so much beauty, so little time to appreciate it.

Of course, I cannot ignore Winter: I love those quiet shades of white and those wet blacks and subtle undertones of gray. How I cherish the breadth and quality of the sunlight as I view it through bare branches!

Yes, but Autumn! The magic of the leaves of summer turning into a myriad shades of red and gold. Walking with pale mists along the stream banks. Chill mornings and sudden frosts. The harvest has been gathered and is safely distributed or stored. Corn stalks gray in the lonely fields. Leftover apples turn to vinegar in the musty orchards of Fall. Pumpkins, squashes and gourds decorate the fallow earth. When the sky is blue and a little wind spins by, uplifting your spirits along with a swirl of leaves, I feel I meet the immortal part.

For Fall is a dance to the beat of mortality. Maybe that is why so many people like Autumn. With the plants of the earth dying and animals responding in their various ways to the temperatures and a lessening of the hours of light, perhaps, we catch a glimpse of our own immortality in all this transition. Maybe whatever powers may be are sending us a message that in the midst of the mortal throes of the earth, there is something powerful within us that is immortal and beautiful beyond beauty.

Only poets or other artists can really illuminate these metaphors that are perhaps inherent in the change of seasons, for while prose is a language that can at best offer reflections of the Eternal, the artist presses the raw perception of truth upon us as best he or she can. When I think of the essence of a season, I often remember these lines from To Autumn by the English Romantic poet, John Keats:

“. . .While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies. . .”

Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

A Human of Crows

2010-09-05T16:34:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: March 6, 2001

My neighbors consider the crows that hang out on our street in Beaverton, Oregon as pests and certainly must wonder at my sanity as I try to photograph them while they are foraging on the lawn.

However, I wonder and appreciate any wildlife that appears in our neighborhood. My spouse, Joyce, marvels that the first words that I sometimes speak to my elderly mother (who lives in the rural South where I was raised) is often about the wildlife that we have seen close to our house or on trips into the wilderness.

Many farmers also consider the Corvids (family name for crows, ravens, magpies, etc.) a pest because they feed on corn and other grains. Like the famous, cartoon magpies, Heckle and Jeckle, crows may eat the farmer's grain but they usually more than make up for what grain is taken by feeding on insects, worms and other crop pests. Crows are omnivorous and, in addition to previously mentioned critters, feed on seeds, nuts, and small rodents and amphibians as well as carrion.

As I head to work in the morning, I often see the crows roaming my side of the street with abandon. These are smart creatures, and have, in fact, been observed using automobiles to crush nuts. They drop the nuts on streets where cars pass and then pick up the meats after the cars have "cracked" the nuts.

Crows have also been observed using two distinctly different kinds of tools to forage for invertebrates such as insects, centipedes, and larvae. A biologist in the New Caledonian islands observed "both manufacture and use of a hooked tool made by plucking and stripping a barbed twig. He also observed the use, but not manufacture, of what he described as a "stepped cut tool" with serrated edges." (See the article at http://www.jcrows.com/crow.html .

Quite often Corvids are considered magical creatures and at least one culture, the Tibetan, has developed a tradition of divination using crows. Telling the future by means of the appearances and behavior of birds,especially their calls, is called "auspicy." For a complete look at fortune telling by use of crows, see William L. Cassidy's excellent article at http://www.jcrows.com/crolang.html .

I suppose one cannot write an article about the Corvids without including at least one anecdote about their legendary attraction to shiny objects. A Lakota woman of my acquaintance related to me that she and her famiiy nursed an injured crow back to health a few years ago. The bird apparently "adopted" her family. The crow made a nest high in the eaves of a barn and so lived on the farm near the Native American family for years.

Finally, there came a time when the family had to move from the farm. All was packed and they were ready to go except they could not find the crow. Finally, a teenage son climbed up into the rafters of the barn and found the crow's nest. When the teenager looked in the nest, he found simply dozens of objects "lost" by the family through the years. He found entire sets of earrings, various coins, assorted silverware, various stockings, socks and other small articles of clothing. Among the objects were candy bar wrappers, dish cloths, aluminum foil of various shapes, and finally an expensive dress watch that she had been looking for ages. And, yes, the bird chose to move with them, and is as far as I know, still living.

I have read that crows sometimes flock in groups of as much as ten thousand birds though they separate into smaller groups of 10 to 50 birds when foraging. A flock is called a "murder," because in legend the birds held tribunals for wrongdoers and meted out punishment by sentencing the guilty crow to death; that is "murdering" the offender. I suppose the fact that they are black and are scavengers as well as predators contributes to this tale.

Somehow, I seriously doubt that crows play the justice game. This bit anthropomorphism is most likely human beings projecting their own ideas of blood and justice off on some guileless though intelligent birds. If we are going to indulge in a bit of anthropomorphic projection, let us be more appropriate. Since crows with their manufacture and use of tools and problem solving capacities exhibit traits of intelligence usually associated with humans, I propose that we dignify flocks of crows with the appellation, "a human of crows."

Moreover, since we humans are the real murderers among animals, killing not only animals, but plants and each other deliberately and carelessly, I propose that we denote a gathering of human beings by a true and terrifying, but oh so apt moniker, a "murder of humans."

Copyright Thomas James Martin, 2002-2010, all rights reserved.

A Morning of Crows

2010-09-05T12:19:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: February 19, 2001

Though the chill is severe sometimes, I love clear winter mornings. Here in western Oregon, cold, clear mornings are rare during February, as often the rains begin in November and do not cease until April. But this morning I marvel at the small, red star rising in the cloudless dawn.
On this winter morning, I hear no bird song in the small orchard meadow that is our backyard, though I have seen a few robins and blue jays in the past month. All is quiet except for the staccato caws of ever-present crows that seem to feed in our area in the morning, especially in late fall and winter.

Crows and their larger Corvid family cousins, the ravens, are among the most complex beings in legend and mythology. The crow is often thought of as a trickster and "shapeshifter." In the lore of some Northwest Indians, a raven is depicted holding a disk of the sun in its beak, for the raven placed the stars, moon and sun in the sky.

On the other hand, ravens and crows are sometimes found around battlefields, execution sites, cemeteries, and other places of the dead where they scavenge human as well as animal flesh. This observation has fed the dark tales of the Corvid family. Even today, I understand, a gravestone in the British Isles is sometimes called a "ravenstone." I am sure that their black color and rather shrill cry has contributed to this identification.

Seeing numerous crows in suburbia is a fairly recent phenomenon. Ornithologists speculate that they are attracted by the lights to roost in urban areas because they offer protection against their main predator, the Great Horned Owl.

Watching the crows on a winter morning, I make a note to myself to ask a favorite uncle about the family legend of his pet crow. I remember hearing this tale in childhood, but in the throes of growing up never quite learned all the details. Now that I am in middle age, such things assume more urgent importance than before. Many friends and relatives have died the past few years: I find that with each passing I lose a connection in the living fabric of my life, as that person passes into what I now call My Personal Mythology.

t occurs to me that my mythologies--like more elaborate mythologies from ancient or modern cultures--are usually black and white, like bleached bones in an earthen grave. Rather like a historian or cultural anthropologist restoring an ancient city from a few remains of foundations, bones and pottery, I am only able to reconstruct what was living and breathing with a pitifully few remembered words and gestures.

Often I remember what they did for a living; whether they were kind or harsh; occasionally an interesting turn of phrase comes to mind. Sad as it may be, only concepts of how I viewed them in the past inhabit my memory rather than the actual living persons.

Watching the crows so prominent in myth and legend, and at this moment in my back yard, I do not doubt the intelligence and even extraordinary perception that has struck storytellers since the dawn of recorded history. I also remember that some native peoples believe that whatever animals appear in your consciousness are trying to teach you lessons important to your life and spiritual growth. They are viewed as messengers from God or whatever Great Spirit exists.

I am inclined toward this belief and muse on the messages the crows are trying to impart. I realize that they could be impressing on me the importance of adaptability, as they are among the most adaptable of creatures. Some other messages could be: Take care of my relations; Make at least a little effort not to take our world and its inhabitants for granted.

Perhaps, one day I shall truly recognize and translate the enigmatic soul urges imparted by observing crows or any other creatures into words. In the meantime, I am grateful just for the miracle of their life, and that some birds celebrated in fable and fact have helped me to understand some small truths about living.

Some excellent web sites referencing crows and ravens are: The American Society of Crows and Ravens and The Raven Archive.

Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Sawdust Memories

2010-09-04T07:39:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: July 15, 2003

Love is now the stardust of yesterday
The music of the years gone by.
~Stardust by Hoagy Carmichael and Mitchell Parish

It's evening at the Sawdust Theatre in Coquille, Oregon, and Darling Dearheart, a heroine dressed all in white, enters stage left; the audience Oohs and Ahs as she puts her hands together, starts to say her line, and then sneezes for what seems like the "twenty-third" time in the play. No one minds; everyone just laughs and smiles for the twenty-third time.

"Boo!" cries the audience as the dastardly villain appears dressed in black, sporting a V-shaped moustache and, screaming, "Curses, foiled again!" No one minds; they laugh and yell at Hadrian Heartless, once again for the twenty-third time.

The players who come from Coquille, Bandon, Coos Bay and other cities of the South Coast and refer to themselves as "Sawdusters," take the stage every year from May to September to act, sing and dance their hearts out. They continue a city tradition that goes back 37 years.

They are ordinary people from the South Coast area; a few have professional experience; a few more maybe acted in a high school play or appeared in other local theater. Mostly though, they are people from all walks of life: Title clerks and social workers, bus drivers and school superintendents; fathers and grandfathers, mothers and daughters.

They come in all shapes and sizes, just like ordinary people, from svelte to chubby, from blonde and brunette to gray and balding. Some are players who act in the comic melodramas; some are olios.

A bit slow on the uptake, I finally figure out that an olio is a performer who sings and dances or participates in sketches before the curtain during set changes. Later, I discover that the heyday of the olio was in Vaudeville. Examples of the olios (sketches and performers) are seen in the movies Hello Dolly and The Seven Little Foys.

A lady olio, in skimpy dress and fishnet stockings, lifts her long legs and braving male catcalls and other taunts, dances from stage left holding a sign that says These Cinderellas. When she reaches center stage, she flips the sign over and it reads, Sure Get The Fellas as she dances off stage right.

Sitting between my wife and her aunt, I try-- unsuccessfully I fear--to avoid staring at those shapely "be-stockinged" legs. Joyce good naturedly punches me in the side with her elbow, and I stare straight ahead for a while. Finally, I look at her smirking face and pretend to hang my head.

This season the melodrama that the "Sawdusters" are putting on is called Dire Doings At the Dusty Saw Theatre and Saloon or There Will Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight. The company puts on a different melodrama every season, and they are very entertaining. Be sure to check out the website of the Sawdust Theatre for some excellent pictures of the performance, the players and the olios.

Audience participation (Boo, Hiss, Ahhh, catcalls) is one of the elements that makes the theatre unique and contributes to making it one of the finest and oldest melodrama traditions in the western United States. Other attributes of their success are the sheer energy and skill with which they perform in offering their audience such viewing pleasure. The fact that the cast stands outside the theatre shaking hands and thanking members of the audience for attending their performance is still another element in the Sawdust's success and quite a pleasant touch also.

Besides, unbeknownst to Joyce I got to shake hands with the lady olio whose legs I admired.

You can tell they have rehearsed long and hard to produce such a fine evening. The sets are great, the music from the lone piano enthralling, but the costumes are simply wonderful and really evoke those days of gas lamps and horse-drawn carriages. You cannot help but admire and appreciate the effort of this community and the pride the all-volunteer cast and staff take in establishing successful theatre in their city.

Before the curtain goes up on Act Two in which the heroine will most likely sneeze several more times and be saved from the dastardly clutches of the evil villain by the young, dashing hero, an olio dances out cradling a sign that says These Insects Don't Bite. At mid-stage she turns it over where we see, They're Beauty in Flight.

Then, the other olios materialize in front of the curtain with the men dressed in Victorian casual clothes looking like butterfly collectors out of a Gary Larson cartoon (The Far Side) chasing fair damsels dressed as butterflies around the stage as the piano plays a bright, sparkling tune from olden days.

The original Roxy Theatre—home for the Sawdusters for 28 years—burned in 1994. The new Sawdust Theatre is the result of many hours of volunteer labor and hundreds of thousands of dollars. Locals say the ambience of the "Gay 90s" that was so much a part of the old Roxy is slowly coming alive in the new theatre as volunteers finish the interior.

The Sawdusters put on their shows from Memorial Day to Labor Day, every Friday and Saturday. The curtain rises at 8 PM, but the "Gay 90's" ambience starts before the curtain goes up with a sing-along featuring old favorites from the American songbook of the era, such as < Old Good the>and By the Light of the Silvery Moon. Prior to the play, the lady olios perform the French dance famous from 19th century music halls, the Can-Can, with lots of attractive, high-kicking legs and rustling petticoats.

Oh yes. . .I forgot to mention that the popcorn is free and plentiful. They also sell beverages and snacks in the "saloon."

Two separate casts alternate performances so each performance may be slightly different from any other. Many members of the audience come several times during the season and find the production fresh eveery time.

The Sawdust Theatre is located at the corner of 1st and Adams in Coquille, which is 15 miles from Coos Bay. The entire area is accessible from Interstate 5; take the exit for Highway 42 at Roseburg.

Reservations are taken only from Tuesday through Saturday from 10am until 6pm. Please contact:

River Bend Floral & Gifts
38 E. First Street
Coquille, OR 97423
541-396-4563

Oh yes, a final word. . .please remember that "Gentlemen are asked to use receptacles for chewing tobacco juices. . ."

Editor's Notes: Melodrama--literally a blend of music (melody) and drama evolved from the early 1800's and survived through the 1920's. In accord with the artistic sensibilities of many in the Victorian Age, most melodramas involved simple, often sentimental plots, stock characters that appealed to the audience's emotions. Men were men, women were women, heroes were usually bright and brave while villains were usually dark and dastardly.

Melodrama developed hand in hand with a type of acting developed by Francois Delsarte, a Frenchman. Delsarte developed theatrical aesthetics that coordinated actors' expressions of their characters with a near scientific application of appropriate gestures to help define character and acting situations. Many famous actors and singers of the day studied with Delsarte, including Jenny Lind.

Modern melodrama--such as presented at the Sawdust Theatre--often pokes fun at many of the standard plots and characters of the Gilded Age. According to Dictionary.Com, modern usage of the term, melodrama, now usually refers to plays, movie and television dramas "characterized by exaggerated emotions, stereotypical characters, and interpersonal conflicts."

Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Peace Pilgrim

2010-08-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: June 12, 2002

Living to give rather than to get. ~Peace Pilgrim

I should like to have met the Peace Pilgrim while she was alive. She was within 200 miles of me once, but what with the comings and goings, ups and downs of a young man’s life, I never quite made enough effort.

Rest assured that it was my loss.

Peace Pilgrim, otherwise known as Mildred Norman Ryder, died in 1981. She had spent the previous 28 years walking the highways and byways of the United States on a personal pilgrimage for peace.

This great soul journeyed from 1953 to 1981, vowing to "remain a wanderer until mankind has learned the way of peace, walking until given shelter and fasting until given food." In all she walked more than 25,000 miles during her journey, touching the lives of thousands with her simple way to peace:

This is the way of peace.
Overcome evil with good,
Falsehood with truth,
And hatred with love.

Peace, who always emphasized "the message not the messenger," dressed in a navy blue shirt (monogrammed with "Peace Pilgrim") and slacks and a short tunic on her pilgrimages. In her pockets she carried her only worldly possessions: a comb, a folding toothbrush, a ballpoint pen, copies of her message and the latest correspondence.

This silver-haired lady, an inspiration to the thousands with whom she met or heard her speak, was born on a small farm in 1908 in New Jersey of parents of modest means. As with many of us she grew upand lived a life that revolved around making money and buying things.

However, she came to look upon her life as self-centered and meaningless, feeling that worldly goods were burdens rather than blessings. She took a long walk through some woods all of one night (around 1938) until I felt "a complete willingness, without any reservations, to give my life to God and service."

According to her writings, conversations and speeches collected by five of her friends in Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words , she gradually adopted a life of voluntary simplicity and began what was to become a fifteen-year period of preparation. While not knowing just what it was she was preparing for, she did volunteer work for peace groups and also worked with people who had physical, emotional and mental problems.

During this preparation period and in the midst of some spiritual turmoil, she found inner peace--and her calling. The inspiration for the pilgrimage came in 1952 after she had become the first woman to walk the entire 2,050-mile length of the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to northern Maine. She writes of that time:

< />I sat high upon a hill overlooking rural New England. The day before I had slipped out of harmony, and the evening before I had thought to God, It seems to me that if I could always remain in harmony I could be of greater usefulness--for every time I slip out of harmony it impairs my usefulness.
Shortly thereafter on the morning of January 1, 1953 she began her pilgrimage for peace. She walked alone and without money or any ties to charities, churches or other organizations. She walked "as a prayer" and as a chance to inspire others to pray and work for peace

She actually finished the first 25,000 miles in 1964. Though increased demands for speaking eventually led her to accept rides in order to make her schedule, she still continued to walk.

Peace said so many beautiful, poignant words as she walked into eternity, touching all with whom she came into contact with her gentle ways and simple, profound message. I like the following very much:

We who work for peace must not falter. We must continue to pray for peace and to act for peace in whatever way we can, we must continue to speak for peace and to live the way of peace; to inspire others, we must continue to think of peace and to know that peace is possible.

The Pilgrim believed deeply that the road to world peace lay in each human being finding inner peace. Perhaps her simple message bears repeating one more time:

This is the way of peace.
Overcome evil with good,
Falsehood with truth,
And hatred with love.

On November 19, 2000 a new statue of Peace Pilgrim by Costa Rican sculptor, Fernando Calvo, was dedicated at the United Nations University of Peace in Colon, Costa Rica. The life size statue joins busts of other world peace makers such as Gandhi and Tolstoy on the grounds of the University.

Searching for an ending to this story of an extraordinary and inspiring life, I find myself gently remembering that Peace Pilgrim would have kept it simple and emphasized the message not herself. I see, perhaps, that her own words say it best:

I never want people to remember me except in connection with peace. . .

Editor's Note: I wish to acknowledge the wonderful web site, Peace Pilgrim Website devoted to the works of Peace, and from which I learned much of her life and times. I urge you to visit this place of beauty and spirit on the Web to learn more about Peace, her pilgramage and above all her message. There, you may dowload freely her beautifully written and inspiring booklet, Steps Toward Inner Peace as well as the book compiled and written by her friends after death, Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words .

Copyright 2002-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

I've Got a Little List

2010-08-20T17:26:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: July 11, 2003

As an admirer of the light operettas of the 19th century British artists, Gilbert and Sullivan, I recently viewed The Mikado, one of their most famous and admired plays. Sir W.S. Gilbert, who wrote the lyrics and libretto of the plays is certainly one of the outstanding satirical poets to write in English. Likewise, Sir Arthur Sullivan's spirited music, alternately saucy and lyrical, beautifully complements Gilbert's splendid verses.

Anyway, I am amazed at how well some of Gilbert's observations of the Gilded Age relate to 21st century society. So, with apologies to W.S. Gilbert, here is my take on one of his more celebrated songs. Yes, it is yet another parody of the famous song sung by Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner of the city of Titipu (set in Japan), with a chorus of men and is called I've Got a Little List. You can find the original lyrics at Rice University. (You can also find links to other parodies of the verse as well, such as the one by Eric Idle of Monty Python fame.)

For those of you not familiar with the Mikado, in the speech immediately before the song, Ko-Ko relates the following about finding offenders to behead:

If I should ever be called upon to act professionally, I am happy to think that there will be no difficulty in finding plenty of people whose loss will be a distinct gain to society at large.

Again, Sir William, my apologies. I hope you will take my humble efforts in the spirit of the satirical verse forms that you so magnificently developed for later generations to enjoy, build upon and (of course)imitate. Here's my own modest example of a Little List with Gilbert's chorus left intact:

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,
I've got a little list--I've got a little list.
Of society offenders who might well be underground,
And who never would be missed--who
never would be missed!

There's the pestilential pundits who write without a clue—
All men with bloated bellies who hang out guzzling brew—
All children who play computer games and beat you just like that—
All people who like a glutton eat but keep their tummies flat—
The terrifying boss you've only just met, who on first names insists—
They'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed!

CHORUS. He's got 'em on the list--he's got 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed--
they'll none of 'em be missed.

There's the Metallica lead guitarist and the others of his race,
And Material Girl, Madonna—I 've got them on the list!
And the fearful ladies who serve spaghetti on their finest lace,
They never would be missed--they never would be missed!
Then the millionaire ball players who smirk and snort cocaine,
And unfailingly prove that even with money you cannot buy a brain;

Then there's the homophobes in the closet who curse but mostly lie,
They'd rather stay where the sun don't shine than admit they like a guy;
And that shallowest of arrogant, back-stabbing pr--ks, the corporate ladder climber-ist--
I don't think he'd be missed--I'm sure he'd not he missed!

CHORUS. He's got them on the list--he's got them on the list;
And I don't think they'll be missed--I'm sure they'll not be missed!

And the self-righteous jurists, who free the high and mightier,
Overbearing, moralistic judges—I've got them on the list!
All afternoon talk show hosts—nah, not Oprah —but especially Jerry Springer;

They'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed.
And the slick politician who about corporate influences never lies,
"What, never?" Well, hardly ever when even their socks Enron buys

But it really doesn't matter whom you put upon the list,
For they'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed!

CHORUS. You may put 'em on the list--you may put 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed--they'll none of 'em be missed!

The music to The Mikado by Sir Arthur Sullivan, who was the leading English composer of his day, is glorious also; he really caught the spirit of Gilbert's lyrics. You can learn more about these two incomparable artists, study the libretto of the Mikado and other plays and hear the songs at the Gilbert and Sullivan Archives

As 19th century British gentlemen(and women) said when they thought a thing "first-rate, I say, "Capital, Sir Wiliam! Capital Sir Arthur!"

Copyright 2003-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved

The Terminator

2010-08-19T14:36:00.000-07:00

Published by Thomas James Martin - Suite101 -2001
March 20, 2001

Science fiction writer, Kurt Vonnegut, wrote a comic novel back in the '70's called "Galapagos." As I remember the theme of the book is that a kind of scientifically manipulated isotope of water called "Ice 9" is gradually taking over the world, rendering ordinary water completely useless. In the novel the human race perishes for want of water except for a small remnant of souls surviving on the Galapagos Islands. Vonnegut drips irony here, as Darwin drew broadly upon his observations of flora and fauna on these south Pacific islands to formulate much of his theory of evolution.

As I recall the narrator of the novel muses that perhaps the intellect ultimately does not insure the survival of the species, and, may, in fact have put humankind at a disadvantage. The point Vonnegut makes is that reason by itself is too linear and limited; unable to deal with the real world which is most assuredly quite curvilinear and unpredictable.

Every time I read another article about genetic engineering, I remember Vonnegut's novel and shudder. Never have I shivered more than when I read yet another article about the so called "Terminator" seed. For those of you who have not heard about the "Terminator," you have a real "treat" in store. The development and patenting of the Terminator definitely and horribly shows that science fiction cannot keep up with reality in the new millennium.

A few years ago an American cotton seed company announced that, jointly with the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA), it had received a patent on a technique that genetically disables the capacity of plants to produce seeds that will germinate. The patent, US Patent No. 5,723,765, is entitled "Control of Plant Gene Expression." One news report described this patent in the following way:

"The patent broadly covers plants and seed, both transgenic and conventional, of all species for a system designed to allow control of progeny seed viability without harming the crop. The principal application of the technology will be to control unauthorized planting of seed of proprietary varieties. . ."

In other words, it is a patent for a method of biogenetic engineering that turns off the reproductive processes of plants so that the seed produced by the plant is sterile. Farmers who use this seed would not be able to collect seed from their own crops for the following year's planting. Thus, they would have to buy new seed every season.

Since the beginnings of agriculture, farmers have saved the seed from their best plants, those proven hardy and fruitful, for planting the next season's crops. Using this low-tech, but highly efficacious method, the plant genome also benefits from cross-pollination from wild species which often introduce genes that improve the quality of cultivated crops. In other words, this interaction between cultivated crops and their wild relatives ,and the simple process of conserving and planting the best seed has been part of the process through which the food we eat not only has evolved, but has endured through the ages.

The large seed companies (such as Novartis and Monsanto) disagree, but many, if not most, biologists believe the Terminator seeds will cross-pollinate with wild and domestic plants with the result that natural selection ceases. Instead of the natural processes of Nature, corporate scientists and executives as well as government bureaucracies will select the characteristics of our plant genome.

For a more rigorous discussion of the Terminator technology and its ramifications for world wide agriculture, please see the extensive articles available at The Ark Institute. This wonderful organization also makes non-hybrid seeds available free, and is a leader in the fight against genetic manipulation of our precious flora.

Biogenetic technology tinkers with the most intrinsic elements of life and nobody can predict all its ecological and agricultural consequences. In my opinion our precious biosphere and indeed life itself should not be entrusted to those who wish to play with life as a God, but who through their own lacking in the most important attribute of godhead, humility, reveal neither the superiority of intelligence nor depth of wisdom necessary to play with worlds.
--------------------------------
Update 2010: Since writing this article, among other tragedies, known and only partially reported, thousands of indigent farmers on the Indian subcontinent have committed suicide as bioengineered cops have failed and they were locked into buying hybrid seed they could not afford.

Copyright, 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

The Thanksgiving Cat - Part 2 - The Leavening

2010-08-12T11:47:00.000-07:00

Well, dear readers it has been a couple of years since I wrote about, The Thanksgiving Cat, also known as Ram, our mischievous male black cat.

A friend in western North Carolina found Ram playing in the median of an interstate highway. She already had so many animals on her farm that she asked if Joyce and I would give the six-week old kitten a home, and we agreed.

I picked up Ram at Portland (Oregon) International Airport and brought him to our suburban home in Beaverton. When I reached inside his travel container to take him out, he immediately started purring.

This quick and wondrous purring is the story of how he came by his name.

The name is taken from the Ramayana, the great Indian epic about the life and times of the enlightened king, Ram, and his consort, Sita. Thus, Ram is one of the names of the gods in Hindi; Gandhi exclaimed it as he died.

To me, the purr of a happy cat reminds me of this name of god; thus, this is the derivation of his name. However much Rambo may be more suitable as a name for this rambunctious, mischievous cat, I still think of him as the "Thanksgiving Cat."

He gets that moniker because Joyce and I consider his presence a blessing. . .albeit often hidden and sometimes infuriating! I mean, why do modern day humans keep cats at all? There are no granaries to guard from marauding mice which was one of the principle reasons for domesticating Felis domesticus in the first place.

Many would argue that humankind's friendly relationship with such an independent animal is probably based on masochism. Why else would humans put up with a so-called "pet," who only deigns to answer to his name when in need of food or due to some mysterious, arcane feline agenda?

The ancient Egyptians even worshiped cats, especially admiring their strength, grace and unfathomable poise. (Except around water, I suppose.)

Unfortunately, when I look around our house, I see much evidence for the masochistic theory. Our speaker covers are still in shreds from his kitten hood (and teenager hood) as is the back of the couch. He would continue to shred the furniture were it not for his fear of the spray bottle (considered a humane way of disciplining the little fur balls).

Furthermore, I may grow old and die before he comes in when called after letting him out into the backyard. Usually I have to go outside and chase down the little villain. I must admit though that he does not complain too much when I pick him up.

Most appalling, I suspect that he is trying to murder me when he insists upon entwining himself around my feet when I am puttering around the kitchen.
Why do we put up with punishment like this? I'm not so starved for affection that I must stroke his silky, black fur and listen to his "basso profundo" of a purr.

The other day though, I believe that I figured out this whole cat and human thing.

This illumination occurred while I was making one of my infrequent loaves of homemade bread. Just as I was adding yeast to a batch of flour and water, it occurred to me what the importance of the common house cat is to human beings or at least to Joyce and myself.

"The Leavening! He's the leavening," I shouted as the cat snaked around my feet for the millionth time, distracting me so much that in avoiding his sacred tail, the whole bowlful of batter wound up on the floor.

I almost ran out the door shrieking "leavening" in a pale imitation of the ancient Greek mathematician, Archimedes, who according to legend jumped up from his bath after figuring out how to determine the purity of gold and ran through the streets of Syracuse, exclaiming "Eureka!"

Well, I am sure that my discovery is not as important to the history of the race as discovering how to measure the volume of an irregular solid through hydrostatic displacement. Still, it explains much.

In addition to being an agent like yeast that causes bread to rise, leavening is also according to Dictionary.com, "an element, influence, or agent that works subtly to lighten, enliven, or modify a whole."

Ram(bo) helps me to take this world more lightly, not to be so attached to things or concepts. Though he can be infuriating, I find myself smiling or even laughing sometimes when I look at him or watch his antics.

He's so stubborn and independent, it is quite funny. I have come to admire the way he sits on his haunches and stares at me while I call his name. . .perhaps the occasional yell as well, I must confess.

Ram knows he should not get up on the kitchen counters or the stove though he persists in this behavior no matter how much I squirt him with the water bottle. Since he knows all the best places to hide and is about a thousand times quicker than I

I am, he usually evades discipline. He is especially adept at hiding under the bed where squirt guns are most ineffective.
Even when I corner him, he knows how to handle me; he just surrenders, laying on his back and stretching out into a little black crescent. He knows I love him too much to hurt him. I have to squirt him sometimes because it is dangerous for him to get up on the counters much less the stove. After a while though, I usually just wind up rubbing his belly while he purrs away.

Thus, Ram magically turns my anger into love. Even his neurotic compulsion to stick his head in the freezer section of our refrigerator and leave me tapping my toes while he noses around is so amusing. He helps me to stop and appreciate the value of a free spirit and seemingly boundless curiosity.

I may be in middle age but I still worship at altar of the god of play. Ram must be that god's right-hand creature. At any moment he waits in readiness for the games to begin. I have to chuckle as he chases his ball across the floor or tests his reflexes with the shredded remains of the shiny belt that goes with Joyce's pure silk housecoat. Mere baubles and folderol. . .

How I admire his athleticism. When he makes one of his patented broad jumps from the arm of my easy chair to the back of the sofa (at least five feet), I smile with pride just like a father watching a child.

So what if we have lost a couple of stereo covers, sit on a tattered couch and will have to replace the drapes where he climbs soon. Heh, heh. . .hey look, Ma! No attachment to material things here!

Sigh! At least, since he's grown up, he has at least stopped dancing on the word processor's keys, but then I may have written more succinctly when I had to guard those keys and perhaps edit more often thanks to his additional keystrokes.

So, thanks Ram(bo) for making me smile and laugh and increase my enjoyment of simple things. Thanks also for the ongoing anger management seminar.

You raise up my life whenever it starts to become dull or complacent. You are our wondrous creature who has come under our stewardship. You are so intelligent; you are so curious. Your sleep is inspiring. Your tail is is not only sacred, but also draws us mere humans within the boundaries of your esoteric feline universe as you curl it around yourself.

In the unknown corners
of the unleavened worlds
the sacred cat
draws us into infinite
power and love
with curious
grace and silence
risen

Yes, Ram, In the Divine Comedy that is sometimes life, you are the leavening!

Article and poem copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

The Thanksgiving Cat - Part 1

2010-08-12T11:40:00.000-07:00

A happy arrangement: many people prefer cats to other people, and many cats prefer people to other cats. ~Mason Cooley, US Aphorist

As I write this weekly essay, I am watching our male, black cat, Ram, all curled up in a ball high up on the arm of the sofa. (Tap, tap, tap. . sounds of typing on keyboard), trying to write something profound about Thanksgiving, reaching inward, trying to go into the deep recesses of the soul, searching out original concepts, well-wrought phrases.

Tap. . .tap. . .how can he sleep so peacefully with such total relaxation. . .tap...tap. . .and yet wake up, stretch and destroy another vase so quickly, I muse, for the thousandth time. Tap. . tap. . .How did we wind up with this cat who is so adoringly beautiful and loving and so maddeningly independent and stubborn.

Tap. . .Oh let's just write an article about "that darn cat." He 's probably controlling me anyway in his catty dreams. Besides, he's convinced that if he's not God, he is at least the emissary of godhead on the planet.

I actually wanted another dog (having had many cats in the past), and Joyce did not want another animal at all, much less a cat. Being blessed and cursed with a world-class sniffer, she hates litter boxes and abhors feline aromas.

Then our friend, Patty, called from western North Carolina. Seems she had been driving back from Asheville to her home high in the Great Smokies when she saw a tiny black blur out of the corner of her eye playing in the median of the freeway. She pulled off the road and walking back along the highway, discovered, as she suspected, a black kitten playing merrily with twigs and shrubs as cars and tractor trailers swept by at 65 or 70 miles an hour.

To make a long story short, she rescued the cat, checked with animal shelters to try to locate the kitten's family. Unable to find its family and having a full household of adult cats and dogs herself and with a husband threatening divorce if she took in any more creatures, she called us.

Tap. . .tap. . .Why us?

"You only have a dog," she told us. And she added so very sweetly, "I know that you guys will give him a good home. Besides, you're such good people," she added in what I now realize was a shameless attempt to get us to adopt the rescued kitten and soothe her feline-threatened marriage.

Well, blush my cheeks, shut my mouth and kiss my grits. "Aw, shucks," I said (I'm a Leo and flattery will get you everywhere!). After consulting with Joyce, we said yes to Patty, after what probably should have been more consideration. . .a lot more consideration.
Our fate sealed, we picked up the kitten at the Portland airport. Yes, he jetted 3,000 miles from Asheville, N.C. in the southeastern USA to Portland Oregon in the Pacific Northwest. After peering in his travel cage to make sure that he had survived the flight, we drove him home to Beaverton.

Tap. . .tap . .Placing his container in our utility room, I opened the door and placed my hand inside and pulled him out. Poor little thing, I thought. Here he's traveled all these miles. He must be scared to death.

But what's this! He's purring! Loudly! A three thousand mile flight, a twenty mile ride by auto, and a strange hand picking him up and an eight-week old kitten is purring so happily!

As a student of comparative religion and literature, right then and there I decided his name should be Ram, which is the name of a mythical Indian King and the subject of the Indian masterpiece, the Ramayana. Ram, who led an army of animals against a demon to rescue his queen, Sita, is also one of the many names of God on the Indian subcontinent. Purring is a kind of special sound, like a "name of god" for a cat. Some devotees meditate on the name of god. Since Ram was so centered and fearless as to purr while being held by a complete stranger after such an awesome journey, we felt that he was a special creature indeed.

Tap. . tap. . .tap. . .Indeed, he is! Now that we have survived his "kittenhood" and adolescence, our attitude toward him has mellowed somewhat as he has mellowed into "cathood."

Yay, verily, yay! With a blowing of ancient horns and beating of sacred gongs (probably from Egypt where his Cattiness was worshipped), we offer sincere thanks to all Powers and Dominions and calling all angels to witness our testimonials of gratitude for this remarkable cat, who so richly changed the lives that we thought we deserved before he came into our lives. (Whew!!!)

Tap. . .tap. . .Rambo. You see, Ram did not hold up too long-as a name, I mean. After his
his first broad jump from the arm of a chair with a bounce off the back of the dog to the sofa, we knew that we actually had been entrusted with "Rambo," after the Sylvester Stallone character with the superhuman muscles and reflexes.
Tap. . .tap. . .Sorry, I digress. Here is a list of the things about Rambo for which we are grateful to God (or whomever). Note that I have included the good and bad. . .O shut my mouth again. . .I mean the positive and negative and, Oh yes, it's all good in the end (crossing my fingers).

We thank you, O lord that:

Rambo has finally grown up and no longer climbs on my shoulder with claws extended fully in order to play with the hanging planter. Oh, and thank you for taking care of the spirit of the plant that died shredded and partially eaten. I know also that it was You helping me sweep up the pieces of expensive, enameled pottery; many thanks.

He does not actually play in traffic though on one shameful night we did contemplate leaving all the doors and windows open (because it was so hot, of course).

He manages to play so gracefully and easily with almost any object in our house. Thanks to Ram our creativity has increased many times over. He has taught us, for example, that drapes not only afford us privacy but also make excellent swings. Those swings may need to be replaced soon, but, hey, it was time for new ones anyway.

Ram has helped us with our material attachments. I mean, who cares about a Waterford crystal goblet anyway. They're overpriced and Aunt Betty has passed on now and will never know that we no longer have a complete set. I guess it was one of a kind, but that's life. You cannot expect delicate glasses to survive for very long anyway in this catastrophic world much less the gentle pull of a playful kitty on a linen tablecloth.

He has helped us so very much with our emotional problems, especially anger management. God, I used to really get upset when he jumped down on my chest from the head of the bed at 3 o'clock in the morning. But, I have settled down now and no longer require tranquilizers in order to get back to sleep. Now, I get up and go to work without dozing all day long; My My boss has really been quite understanding.

He supervises us so closely in the kitchen. Really, I don't know how he manages it since he has never had his tail stepped on while stepping gracefully betwen my feet with every step that I take. He seemed so glad to see me when I returned home with splints and knee braces. Tap. . .tap. . .Well, I suppose it's time to go now. Rambo is st4art3ing to wa9lk oTn the k0eys and is purrY7ing as h7e does so. Rubb9Ying his fa(ce ag(&Yainst my haAnds.

There, he's gone now. Thank you, Rambo. I really did need to rewrite. . .tap. . .tap. . .
--------------------------
In researching this article, I came cross this excellent site in the United Kingdom, Cats Online.
If you enjoyed this article, you may also wish to read the sequel, The Thanksgiving Cat: Part II - The Leavening.

Another Country

2010-08-12T11:25:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin - Published Suite101 - 2004

Listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go --e.e. cummings

Walking the woods in October, held helpless before the unimaginable beauty, like looking in the old Queen's Looking Glass.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who's the fairest one of all.
Why we are, all walking on the other side of the mirror, fairer than any fey princesses, paused on the woodland paths, held breathless in the chill breath of autumn, riding the misty winds, our red and gold cloaks billowing.

Looking with all my heart for the fairest in the mirrored lands, I find no fabulous day-glow princess ponies or pumpkin-colored SUVs or beautiful, coiffed celebrities or handsome, olive drab action figures.

I find hickory leaves still clinging to the tossing trees, etching the sky with their pale, golden lattice. I see the grasses still greening before the first frosts, a few golden apples still hanging from some bare boughs. I also see the brown remains of a few rotting pears underneath our Bartlett tree and tatters of decaying Damson plums, still slightly purple on the damp ground near the Lutheran church.

Why does Nature even in its moments of violence and decay seem so much purer to me than the manmade world of computers and ice cream?

I remember the question of what actually constitutes the "natural order" coming up several times in those endless "bull" sessions over cigarettes and beer (smuggled in those days). Some bright but shallow intellectual upperclassman would always point out that everything is really part of Nature. Thus, the argument would go that the very cigarettes that we were smoking and beer we were drinking were also "natural."

According to these "wags," a '65 Chevy Impala Convertible should be looked upon with the same reverence and awe as Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon or the stately oaks that bordered my grandparents' farm and which I dearly missed sitting on my bunk, a little country boy lost in the cold glitter of first year at the state university.

Yes, I have come to understand that in this paradoxical world, supersized fries, SUVs, CEO salaries and politiicians' egos have some kind of place in the universe. Silicon chips implanted in my noggins, hoisting a glass with my bespectacled clone--All part of the Natural Order.

So, you see, I cede the point.

Yet, I have come to value the heart over the mind, as I have put some time and perspective between those impressionable years and myself. And, yes, Nature wins the argument.

That is the Nature of: Waterfalls, the Paper Birch, Goldfinches in sunlight, scurrying squirrels, passing shades of cloud light on green meadows, the shake of a loved one's rainy hair--even the sights and smells of a flower dump at high noon
One of the first poets to touch me was e.e. cummings, the American poet quoted in the epigram. I still value many of his poems after all the years that have passed since I first read him. Among the many lines of his that I remember are these from the same poem:

A world of made
is not a world of born. . .

Walking the woods in October, gray in looks and ways, I feel as if I am walking in another country, not just one more lovely but a land so much grander, so much deeper than that inchoate, flickering land where I also must live.
-----------------------------------------------
Author's Notes: The poem quoted is e.e. cummings poem entitled with the first line: pity this busy monster manunkind. You can read the entire poem at Bartleby's.

Copyright 2004, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Read more at Suite101: Another Country http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/caring_soul/111890#ixzz0wPujScHo

The Gourd from which I Drink

2010-08-09T11:51:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published - Suite101 - 2001

Are you not the oasis where I dream, and the gourd from which I drink in long draughts the wine of memory? --Charles Badelaire, French poet and critic

Toward the end of October every year, my wife, Joyce, and I make our annual pilgrimage to a local "pumpkin patch." There, we join with other adults and children in a ritual ride down a muddy country lane at a local farm in the back of a tractor-pulled wagon to an even muddier field to pick a pumpkin for Halloween.

While waiting our turn to ride to the field, we enjoyed cups of warm apple cider and tried to keep warm in the chill, Autumn afternoon. The shelves of farm buildings and small open-air stands set up for the event were filled with various types of squash, Indian Corn in shades of red and blue and also gourds of every shape and color.

As I looked over the gourds this year, I was suddenly flooded with childhood memories. They were sweet, soulful memories of simpler times, of cleaning springs and drinking pure water from gourd dippers, of nesting birds and kindly ladies. The whole episode started with memories of my grandmother hollowing out gourds with a "crook neck" and leaving the dippers in the sun to season and toughen up before using them. One such dipper hung from a sapling near a remote spring that my grandfather cleaned every year.

Sometimes I would go with my paternal grandfather in late March or April to help him clean the spring of leaves and tree limbs that had fallen into the water over the fall and winter. Looking down that long path into my memory, I still see clearly the tall, oak tree that marked the site. Other than the water we carried in Mason jars, the spring was our only source of water while working in the fields and around the barns, so clearing it of brush and insuring its purity was very important to my family.

My job as a boy of six or seven was to check the gourd dipper for spider webs (and spiders), insects and small twigs and leaves. The spring was bounded by sunken boards to make a square watering place. After my grandfather had raked the spring clean, I would shake the dipper out and clean it by splashing it around in the water.

I so enjoyed watching that spring clear after it was cleaned. Water bubbled from the depths up to the surface, and if I waited long enough I would see “crawdads” and once in a while a salamander. The presence of these creatures indicated that the water was clean and pure. This is why I have always admired Robert Frost’s poem, "The Pasture," because I have lived it:

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may:
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too."

Another gourd dipper hung near a spigot from which ran well water that we drank as well as used to water farm animals. It’s probably all imagination and nostalgia for a simpler life, but somehow there was nothing quite so sweet as water drunk from a gourd dipper. Of course, usually when we drank that water we were hot and tired from hard farm work. Surely, any liquid would have tasted like the nectar of the gods.

On trips to Durham to visit my grandmother, we first took a country road to Chapel Hill through the rolling, red clay hills of the North Carolina Piedmont, and sometimes we stopped at a meeting house founded by the Society of Friends in 1787. Among the ancient oak and elm trees on the grounds of the old Quaker church stands a “spring house” where yet another aging, parchment-colored gourd dipper hung.

The water from this public spring was also very pure, as evidenced by the great numbers of wasps and yellow jackets flying around the pipe from which the water continually poured. I remember my father filling the dipper with water for us, and my brother and I carefully eyeing those flying “bombers.” Even today, I always stop by that spring and taste that wonderful water when I visit the university in Chapel Hill.

I also associate gourds with a childhood neighbor. She was very much into conservation (at a time in the late ‘50’s when it was not so fashionable as now) and nature and loved birds. Tall poles from which hung rows of long-necked gourds stood in her backyard. When I visited her, she delighted in showing me all the birds living on her property in her many birdhouses. Purple Martins mostly filled the gourd aviary during the spring and summer. This lady, who had lost a son during World War II, was so kindly and thoughtful, always remembering the birthdays of the children in our country neighborhood and often baking us delicious, lemon meringue pies.

Well, we did eventually ride down a muddy country path and pick out a large orange pumpkin which Joyce turned into a smiling but still scary Jack-o'-Lantern. We also bought a rather large Butternut squash, and "to "to drink in long draughts of the wine of [childhood memories]," we also took home a rather beautiful and soulful hand-carved, gourd dipper.

Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Another Autumn with My Mother

2010-08-08T20:15:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin - Published - Suite101 - October, 2005

My Mother loved the Fall. I suppose that is why my thoughts turn to her this October, the first one since her death.

Many years she sent me some fallen leaves in her letters; red and gold treasures from times and places that have now moved on and now exist mostly in my memory.

She loved the crisp air and smoky mists; the leaves falling in shallow circles, the glory of the colors, especially the maples and oaks that graced our yard. She loved making pumpkin pies and persimmon puddings for her two boys.

Perhaps one reason she liked autumn so much was that it was the season of her birth. She was born on a farm on November 6, 1921 near Liberty, North Carolina.

Her father, Hassell James, named her after one of the movie stars from the twenties and thirties, Ina Claire. Hence, her maiden name, Ina Claire James.

Ina Claire, the actress, was funny and ebullient, a person who one reviewer called the "queen of high comedy." Ina Claire, the mother, was a dark-haired brunette, serious, even grave at times. She was nothing like her namesake, a favorite of Flo Ziegfield and his Follies, and one of the few actresses to make the transition from the "Silents" to the "Talkies."

She died the evening of December 12, 2004 of complications of leukemia in Raleigh, N.C. She was 83. My brother, Bob, and his wife, Linda tended her lovingly and faithfully for almost a year prior to her passing.

She had a hard life. She knew tragedy as a teenager. Her father died when she was fourteen; they were very close. I do not believe that she ever got over her loss.

She always spoke with such love and reverence of following him around on the farm, going fishing with him in the small creek on their property. She admired his love of the Classics and facility with Latin even though he was not educated beyond high school (in an era when mostly the wealthy were able to take advantage of higher education).

She worked day after day for minimal wages in a hosiery mill in Liberty to provide for her two sons. Sometimes, she went in on second shift in the summer after working in the tobacco harvest during the day. Thinking of how hard she worked and sacrificed for her family, I feel a deep sense of appreciation but also much sorrow for her sometimes bitter struggles to help raise her family.

She was very active in the First Baptist Church of Liberty, especially with the mission group and other charitable activities. Her deep spirituality also led her into the study of Edgar Cayce, the "sleeping prophet," and other spiritual figures. She enjoyed meditation and studied correspondence lessons from the Self-Realization Fellowship in California, founded by Paramahansa Yogananda.

My mother was one of the most sincere, most intelligent people that I have ever known. She also expressed herself phenomenonly well in her letters.

My roomate happened to read (quite by accident) one of her letters to me while I was in college. He was so impressed with her insight and sincerity that he remarked"

"Your Mother seems like a wonderful person, an incredible woman."

That she was, that she was:

In the clearing springs of April,
In the grasshopper blur of midsummer,
I thought of you
And of the quail's calling "bob, bob white"
in early autumn
And the leaves covering the graves of Macedonia
In November.

I do not believe that you went away anywhere except in brightness.

Schreiner's Iris Gardens: A Spring Tradition

2010-08-08T15:53:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published - Suite101 - June 8, 2003

Family rituals offer so much anticipation and togetherness for my wife Joyce and me. For example, every year we look forward to the opening of the Farmer's Market in the small city of Beaverton, Oregon where we live.
We also look forward to driving through the Columbia River Gorge in the Fall to gaze at the changing colors of the forests and look upon the mist-shrouded mountains and perhaps stop along the way to purchase fruit or nuts—especially Oregon apples and filberts.

However, I believe that our annual spring visit to Schreiner's Iris Gardens may be the most anticipated of our annual rites. In northern Oregon Iris bloom each year on the cusp of late, spring and early summer, during May and early June.

Recently on a balmy Sunday in late May, Joyce, and I drove the thirty miles or so to Schreiner's, the largest retail grower of Iris in the United States and one of the largest in the world. It is located near Salem off Interstate 5 (Precise directions are at the end of the article in the editor's notes.)

Ostensibly, our journey from the Portland metropolitan area to the Gardens is to buy a dozen or two Iris cuttings and perhaps a few of Schreiner's renowned bulbs at bargain prices. While we plant a few new bulbs every year, what we really enjoy is filling the house with the beauty and astonishing scent of the cut flowers that we purchase from Schreiner's.

Every spring we return from the iris farm with enough cuttings to fill every vase and jar that we own with the intricate though delicate blooms shaded in amazingly variegated hues, from the deepest black to fairest white, blazing red to pale blue. I sometimes favor radiant yellow varieties while Joyce loves the velvety purple ones.

We are not the only ones to make a pilgrimage to Schreiner's today; cars and trucks fill the parking lot. Looking at the license plates, I notice vehicles not only from Oregon but also from Washington, Idaho, California, and even a plate from British Columbia.

The gardens hold hundreds of varieties of Iris (over 500 this year). The gardens are so romantic this spring afternoon. I recall that in Greek mythology, Iris was the messenger of the god of love. In fact, a Greek man would sometimes plant an iris on the grave of his beloved as a tribute to the goddess Iris, whose duty it was to take the souls of women to the heaven (the Elysian Fields).

Holding hands, Joyce and I stroll through the gardens filled not only with Iris, but also with other flowers, such as poppies and pansies bordering the Iris, and tall lupine. We breathe deeply the fragrance of thousands of Iris in bloom, growing on hundreds of cultivated acres in the fertile Willamette Valley. Ten acres of gardens are open to the public.

A small sign near each group of flowers tells us the name of a variety. The names of the Iris are delightful and sound magically on the tongue: Gypsy Romance, New Moon, Merlot, Dark Passion, Indigo Princess, and my personal favorite, the light blue Pacific Mist.

We see couples and families eating at shaded picnic tables, and Joyce mentions that next year we should bring a picnic basket. Eventually we wind up in their garden shop looking for unusual gardening items and studying cards and pictures imprinted with the many varieties of irises, many of which have been developed at Schreiner's or by growers associated with the nursery..

I leave Joyce in the shop and wander outside where I look over the extensive fields where the family and workers of Schreiner's grow the flowers. I am struck by the layering of the fields with all the blue ones in one area; all the yellow in another; still another band filled with a "coppery" golden color. I feel as if I am in the Low Countries of Europe, in the Netherlands where I once visited and enjoyed seeing bulbs in flower for as far as the could see.

I take a close look at a purple specimen at my feet; idly I wish I knew the variety. I cannot help but reflect that irises are not a simple, straightforward design. The flowers are more complex than a daisy or a tulip; they are intricate and curvilinear with uplifted petals and downward sweeping sepals.

They remind me of Victorian times. In a sudden reverie I see an anteroom in a charming manse (with dormers and arches of course) where the first thing you see as you enter the house is a small wooden table in the middle of which on a white, crocheted doily is a golden vase holding an enormous bouquet of the elaborate multi-colored blooms.

I feel someone take my arm, and realize it is Joyce. She shows me her treasures: Some cards with finely drawn prints of different varieties of Iris and a small watering can. We put our purchases in the car and walk over to the area of the farm where the cut flowers are for sale.

Picking our flowers is always a wonderful exercise in marital cooperation, as we take pains to allow each other to select personal favorites. Joyce picks them out and then hands them to me where I hold the rapidly growing bunch first in my hands, and then as the bulk becomes too much, I cradle them against my shoulder.

As we walk to the car, the afternoon sun goes behind the clouds, and we are suddenly bathed in a light shower that stops even as we reach our car. As we pull out of the parking lot, I see a rainbow, one of those magnificent ones that run across the sky from horizon to horizon and in which you can easily make out all seven spectral colors.

Something flashes through my mind as I gaze up at the rainbow, and suddenly I am glad that I did suffer through that rather pedantic class in Greek Mythology in college. I remember that in addition to being the Messenger of the God of Love, Iris is also the Goddess of the Rainbow.

Ah! Now I see why the profusely colored flower is so named: Truly the Iris is the Rainbow Goddess of the Earth.

Editor's Notes: Thousands of people from the Portland Metro area and the Pacific Northwest as well as from all over the United States and the world flock to Schreiner's Iris Gardens each year, and the Nursery ships bulbs all over the world. Many growers associated with Schreiner's have won awards for new varieties developed.

The display gardens are open to the public from dawn until dusk, seven days a week during the time of blooming. The garden gift shop and cut flower show are open from 9 a.m. until 6 p.m. during that time.

While a complete catalogue of their bulb inventory is available from their store or online, here is a link to a free Mini-Catalog.

Each May, Schreiner's Gardens hosts a few events. For example, on Mother's Day each mom gets a free Iris stem. Check out the Schreiner's Website for more information on the Keizer Iris Festival and other festivities.

Some readers have commented that the bearded iris has no scent. It is true that some varieties have had the scent "hybridized out." However, many other varieties are bred to retain the natural fragrance of the Iris.

The farm and gardens are located 32 miles south of Portland and 5 miles north of downtown Salem. Schreiner's is located at 3625 Quinaby Road NE in Salem, Oregon.

From Portland, take I-5 south to the Brooks exit 263. Go west on Brooklake Road, turn left on River Road for 1 mile, then turn left on Quinaby Road.

From Salem, and points South, take I-5 north to the Chemawa exit 260. Go west on Chemawa Road, turn right just west of I-5 following signs to Volcano Stadium. Continue heading north past stadium and turn right on Quinaby.

Copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

The Effect of Chaotic Collards on Organically Cute Iquanas

2010-08-06T09:15:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published - Suite101 - 2004

Author's Note: Lo, what is this I find in some lost, little viewed directory of my hard drive? Why it's an old unpublished column from my days of writing for an organic foods company!
Hmm. . .It does make some feeble attempts at humor, and it's most certainly not your usual take on the wild and wonderful world of fruits and vegetables.

Well, I am desperate to publish an an article to meet an editor's deadline this month. I wonder. . .

Searching for inspiration at 3 o'clock in the morning a columnist trying desperately to meet his editor's deadline but punchy from lack of sleep still hopes for a fortuitous swell of the Internet surf.
Gesturing hypnotically (like Mandrake the Magician, he of cartoon fame of old) and rising above all inhibitions, he types c-o-l-l-a-r-d-s into the Google search engine.

I feel as if I have entered a new dimension of awareness as I scan the search results. Talk about "nowhere Zen" information! I ponder the intricate networking of the paths of my life that have led me to the fourth choice on the page. If I had never taken that "right turn in Albuquerque" would I be reading about "The National Iguana Awareness Day Web Page."

Hoo. . .Hah. . .Undoubtedly madness lies in this direction. But I'm game. I click the link and arrive at "niad.org" where a flashing sign reminds weary web travelers that September 9, 2000 is the famous day (See note at end of article.).

Good grief! From what little I know of Chaos Theory, I understand that its mathematics (in part) helps us to find connections in the real world that are not apparent. But, how in the world do "iguanas" relate to "collards?"

Turns out that collards are on the short list of the best foods to feed one's iguana, as it is a dark green leafy vegetable, and 70% of the lizard's diet should be composed of greens. In addition to collards, Iguanas thrive on dandelion greens, endive, mustard greens and turnip greens.

In fact, I learn that Iguanas also like parsnips, butternut squash, figs, green beans, peas, grapes and raspberries. Rhubarb, however, is poisonous to the cute critters.

I hope no offense has been taken by Iguana lovers of which I am one-though, admittedly, I will probably not own one in this lifetime (too many cats and dogs flitting around my place).

Now I was about to call the collard the "Millard Filmore" of vegetables, after the 19th century president whose accomplishments like his name are seldom remembered today. I don't watch much television but I'm pretty sure collards are not often prepared by famous cable TV chefs. And, I seriously doubt "Oprah" or any other afternoon talk show host has pursued experts on collards.

The name, collard, just seems humble-like something some hayseed would give his beloved. "Here. . .uh. . .Maybelle, I thought maybe you'd like this here "mess of collards."

However, for too long this nourishing and delicious vegetable has been considered just an ethnic dish, a "pot green" of the South, traditionally boiled with "ham hock" or other meat.

Like most dark green, leafy vegetables, collards are a nutritional bonanza and are especially valuable sources of calcium, Vitamins A and C, and iron and other minerals.

See, you just can't beat a collard. . .or a nice green iguana either for that matter.

By the way, collards do keep well, especially if wrapped in plastic. Kept too long though and they turn as yucky as old mustard stains turning a puky yellow on neglected acid-washed jeans.

Collards are closely related to kale, as both are derived from Brassica olearceae. Collards have a round, smooth leaf while kale has a curly leaf.

You know what kale is, right? It's that stiff, green stuff on which they serve cheap French Fries and onion rings in the better chain restaurants.

Cheers if you like your collards boiled with a fatty meat. That's the way I had them growing up in the South.

However, in tribute to free-flowing arteries, I now much prefer my greens cooked without "fatback." I actually prefer just to steam the leaves until tender and serve with some balsamic or apple cider vinegar.

I suppose the morals of this little article are threefold:

Never presuppose that (as some elements of Chaos Theory expound) a connection cannot be found between seemingly unrelated objects or events.
Never understimate the power of green, leafy vegetables, especially when your mother harped on eating them for some 18 years.
A seemingly impossible timelines can often be met--especially with a DSL connection and a little faith in the serendipity of the Internet surf.
Good Grief, Tommy!

Places of the Soul

2010-08-06T09:06:00.000-07:00

Published 2001 - Suite101 - By Thomas James Martin

[In cultivating the soul] we have to live that spiritual life which is ours -- somehow find some way to contemplate, to pray, perhaps, to find some imagery, poetry, paintings, sculptures, or some architecture that takes you to a place that is so much beyond yourself that it is part of your spiritual life.--Care of the Soul, by Thomas Moore

I have places that take me out of myself, that show me the spiritual side of my life. In my case many are natural places that inspire me or raise my spirit when I cannot by ordinary effort and my own attempts at love or reconciliation with my life and relationships reach the extraordinary, feel that oneness and joy with all life. They are special places, my places, places that hold beauty for me, places where wonder enchants my spirit and my heart leaps toward the infinite.

While many of my special places, like my grandparents’ farm in the Piedmont of North Carolina or the small park near our house in Beaverton, Oregon, are not of worldly renown, others are natural treasures celebrated in poem, song and essay. I certainly count the Muir Woods National Monument and other redwood groves that I have visited some of the many treasures of nature that never fail to uplift my spirit. Nearly every time that I visit the redwoods, I find myself dwelling in joy, drawn upwards and held speechless in the presence of their majesty.

When I first stood among the redwood trees (the taller, coastal variety), I remarked to my life partner, Joyce, that I felt as if I were in a cathedral. Later in the park’s gift shop, I was thrilled to read that the great western naturalist, John Muir, actually described the presence of the trees as a cathedral.

Anyone who has visited the great European cathedrals, such as Notre Dame or Chartres, is struck by the power of the sacred space created by the light filtered through the incredible stained glass windows and towering, vaulted ceilings. The ego recedes, the spirit quickens, and the gaze is naturally drawn upward.

In similar fashion the long trunks of the redwoods draw the visitor up into an incredible experience of light and majesty in a sanctuary vaulted by green and blue. One is pulled deeply into a silence that seems the essence of the soul. Quite powerfully, one not just understands but experiences deeply the adage, “Be still and know that I am God.”

When I camp in the redwoods, I always feel cleansed. My sleep is always deep and mellow, full of wonderful lights and seemingly enlightening conversations, which I seldom recall upon awakening. No matter, I probably wouldn’t understand anyway. Joyce and I always feel as if we have merged with various divas and nature spirits during our stays among the trees.
After returning from a weekend in the redwoods or other places of the soul’s joy, I usually have trouble readjusting to urban life. I often go outside into my backyard at night, and looking up into the white-washed, city sky with its pitifully few stars. That's when wish I could simplify my life such that I could live closer to nature, experiencing the grandeur of living among the redwoods everyday.

Yet, in these sentiments, I am reminded of this saying by an unknown Zen master:

Before a person studies Zen, mountains are mountains, trees are trees, and stars are stars;
after the first glimpse into the truth of Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and trees are not trees;
after enlightenment, mountains are once again mountains and trees once again trees and starts once again stars.

I am glad to at least have my life with all the chances it offers to appreciate the Creator and his/her creation and cherish the simple love that happens between human beings. Alas, at this stage of my life, I cannot always find the luminous in the ordinary world, and must seek those places of inspiration where I can renew my soul with the extraordinary. So, I suppose I will just have to commit a heresy (much admired by Zen practitioners) and rewrite the ancient dictum:

Before I saw the Redwoods, they were just trees in a picture;
upon seeing the Redwoods, they seemed more than just trees;
now that I have experienced the Redwoods, I realize they are just trees.

Thankfully, the joy and wonder are all mine!

Copyright 2002-2010 Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Bored With The Rings or Frodo Lives Or The Graffiti of Middle Earth

2010-08-02T17:31:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published - August 2003 - Suite101

Glancing around to make sure that no one saw me, especially renowned hawk eye, Mrs. Helen King, my chemistry teacher, who was sitting nearby, I surreptitiously scribbled Frodo Lives! on the inside, back cover of the Broadman Hymnal as I sat in the back row of the First Baptist Church of Liberty, North Carolina.

Holding the volume up a little, I pretended to look over the hymns. Then taking one more look around, I quickly put the hymnal in its holder on the back of the wooden pew in front of me. I felt sure that no one had noticed. Glancing around the auditorium I saw that a few members of the congregation were absorbed in Dr. English's lengthy sermon on the Beatitudes while the rest were struggling with varying stages of wakefulness.

"I live!" I mumbled to myself. "I live!"

Such is the power of J.R.R. Tolkien—even in those days before appalling media hype, DVDs with director's cuts, targeted merchandise, computer modeling and fantastic special effects.

Such is the energy and vitality of Lord of the Rings that I, a shy, quiet, small-town teenager and scholastic overachiever initiated my rebellion against the narrow moralistic confines and shallow intellectualism of small town life with those two words.

Later, I learned that some nameless artist first wrote the same words on subway walls in New York City in 1967. Those scribbles essentially started the graffiti movement in the 60's and 70's to write, paint, on chalk on every available surface in the western world that the heroic hobbit had survived the armies of Mordor, the lava pits of Mt. Doom and Sauron, the Dark Lord, himself.

I have always been something of an admirer of good graffiti, as sometimes people truly reveal themselves in this "art form." Anthropologists study quite earnestly the graffiti of ancient cultures, as the writing tells them so much about daily life.

For example, in ancient Rome, lost in the dust of history is the name of the young man who posted this message: Helena amatur a Claudius (Helen is loved by Claudius). Some things about civilization never change, as one famous bit of writing from the walls of ancient Pompeii translates: Cornelius made me pregnant. The Romans also left jokes, laundry lists, stories, and even a few advertisements on the walls.

I hasten to add that with the exception of the Frodo incident and maybe one other minor indiscretion having to do with a jilting by a certain girlfriend; I am neither a graffiti artist nor have any ambitions to write such trash.

. . .Ok, well, maybe just a little. . .

You see, I did come across some ancient writings from various walls, tables, lavatories and, yes, pissoirs of Middle-Earth. I suspect the Dark Lord himself, knowing that I would not be able to resist publishing these mad scribblings, sent this muckraking journalism to me to spite arrogant wizards, self-righteous warriors, dour dwarves, goody-goody elves, small-minded men and other fops and fools over which he hoped to hold dominion. However, I must say they do offer some fascinating insights (and reality bites) into the diverse folk of The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and the Silmarillion.

For your convenience and possible amusement I have translated the inscriptions from the various languages—Elvish (Quenya and Sindarin), Khuzdul (language of the dwarves), Orkish, Westron (the common tongue) and even the Black Speech and Entish.

Carved into a tree in Mirkwood:
Watch out for Treebeard, girls. He's fast!

On a restroom wall in the Shire:
Hoo boy! that Bilbo Baggins,
I'm so tired of His Naggins.

Scribbled on the pink walls of a Mordor Pissoir in black ichor:
Sauron sucks Galadriel's toes!
Do Nazguls really need to go?
Free Gollum!

Scrawled on the poker table in the Orc's Recreation Room:
Those Nazguls are such creeps
They've been dead so long
They actually think DVDs
Are really BVDs.

Once every millennia or so Galadriel's Mirror fogs up. . .
Elrond's mother was a brunette!
Arwen rocks!
The Grey Havens suck.
Who's your Daddy?

Attributed to Orcs in the Mines of Moria:
Elves, schmelves
They think their ichor don't stink.

More from Moria:
Mordor!
I'll give you Mordor,
You two-timing dwarf!

Attributed to a bright Olog-hai at Isengard:
How many dwarves does it take to change a light bulb in the caves of Moria?
Answer - At least fifty: One to change the bulb, one to twiddle his beard while wondering what a light bulb is, and 48 to feed the cave troll!

Lipstick (from wild berries of course) smeared on the mirror in the Rivendell Ladies Room
He's so pretty, he's so cool
I can't help it, Legolas rules!

Stencilled on an inner wall at Minas Tirith:
Gandalf rides a whisk broom!
Thimk, you Hobbits!
Boromir slept here with Hobbits.
Gimli did too!

Carved on the White Tree:
Isildur did it!
Bored with the Rings (Initials below are almost illegible but may be JRRT.)
While not technically graffiti, the items that follow were sent to me by another clandestine source. Though he did not request anonymity, I am still loathe to attribute these materials to someone known to me only as that "Fool of a Took."

A small collection of Middle-Earth bumper stickers:
Orcs do it in the dark!
Wizards do it with will!
Balrogs fire it up!
Elves do it lightly!
Rangers do it with elves!
Merry changed his name and did it!
Nazguls used to do it!
Trolls still wonder. . .

Recent headlines in The Gondor World News:
Treebeard Is the Father of My Child!
I Was a Balrog Love Slave
Samwise Gamgee Separates from Mr. Frodo
Merry and Pip. . .Together Again
Eowyn Breaks Up Aragorn and Arwen's Love Nest
Amphibian Rescued from Flames. . .

The rest of the sentence. . .
Frodo lives. . . and though sick and tired of elves, is hiding from Samwise in the Grey Havens
Author's Note:If you are a fan of the Lord of the Rings and other works by JRR, check out the outstanding articles entered in the 2003 Tolkien Event.

Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved

Beethoven's Revenge

2010-08-02T17:24:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin

Published - Suite101 - April 18, 2003

The haunting beauty of the melody played by the solo violinist from Vilvaldi's The Four Seasons literally pierced my basically liberal, ex-hippy, mostly vegetarian soul as I stopped for the red light at the corner of Broadway and Hall in the City of Trees, Beaverton, Oregon.
My whole body swayed to the music; who cared if the people in the cars behind or ahead of me thought I was crazy. Then, a rusty-looking ancient Pontiac Trans AM pulled up beside me, its juiced-up amplifiers spewing some god-awful heavy metal through the huge speakers that I could see lurking in the back seat.

That this "jump car" was playing music loud enough to drown out the screaming decibels of a landing jet was bad enough, but that it drowned out my violin solo was just too much. Caught between the twin vises of the sanctimoniousness of the lover of harmony and classical music and the cantankerousness of a balding, heavyset man near fifty, something in me snapped!

Deliberately I lowered all the windows that I could reach from the driver's seat. My hand snaked out, found the volume knob and with a sudden, violent twist turned the knob all the way to the right.

For one glorious moment I could not hear the pounding of the bass of Guns and Roses or Ozzy or whoever was putting out that noise. Then, I saw the windows in the jump car lowering and the violence of their music began assaulting my eardrums.

You don't mess with a guy who grew up on assorted Warner Brothers cartoons.

"Of course," I thought to myself a la childhood chum, Bugs Bunny, "You know this means war!"

Opening up the glove compartment I reached for my CD case and with a flourish withdrew Alexander Scrabin's Ninth Piano Sonata, also known as the Black Mass. "Let's try a little Russian justice!" I muttered to myself.

"Let's just see who knows more about darkness—Ozzy or Alexander!" I thought to myself as I ejected the Vivaldi and put in the Scriabin! Quickly, I adjusted the tone until the treble from my small speakers challenged the raw bass emanating from the Pontiac.

The effect of the" Devil's own music" was unnerving to many of the people in the cars around me. Those who had their windows down enjoying the cool spring temperatures quickly rolled them up.

The rather large, hulking fellow sitting in the passenger seat of the Pontiac with a gold earring dangling from his ear, smiled sickeningly and stuck his hand out the window with a single middle digit showing. Somehow, they found some more volume and drowned out the demonic but lucid notes of the Scriabin.

Madly, I dove into the glove compartment again and rummaged again through my CDs. I quickly discarded a Chopin, dropped Mozart's 40th to the floor, brushed aside a Bach 3rd Brandenburg.

Pawing through Tchaikowsy's, Brahms, Bartok—even a little Gershwin—until I finally found what I was searching for. With a mad gleam of triumph in my eye, I looked over at the grinning barbarian in the Pontiac, ejected the Scriabin and threw in Beehoven's Ninth Symphony, and hit the button until I found the final track.

I fired this salvo of Ole Ludwig at them point blank.

I turned up all the tone controls clockwise as far as I could. I made sure the volume was turned up as far as it would go. Slowly the music built, and I could see it was having an effect on the guys in the jump car.

As evil spirits caught in the headlights of God, they were cowering before this masterpiece of western music. "Take that!" I thought, as the baritone began singing the eloquent, opening lines of Schiller's Ode to Joy stirred by Beethoven's masterful music:

Freude, schöne Gotterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuer-trunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

The stoplight turned green, and I watched in amazement as they writhed and screamed in torment. God help me, but I love the sound of heavy metal tearing in the afternoon. . .

I thought sure that horns would start honking, people yelling, and motorcycle cops would arrive and take me away in chains, but, no, as far as my eye could see, people were getting out of their cars and heading toward me.

Oh God, Martin, I thought, you're going to get it now! I closed my eyes, knowing that I would probably next awaken with every limb of my body in heavy traction or be peering down at my body in the local morgue.

When I opened my eyes, I beheld in profound wonderment that dozens of people from the stopped cars had formed a circle around my small Honda. They were cheering and applauding, and holding their thumbs up. They didn't care that the stoplight circled through several more cycles of red, yellow and green.

Flaxen-haired girls and dark-skinned maidens alike were blowing kisses and showering me with rose petals. A smile started from one ear toward the other. . .then the stoplight changed to green, and I shook my head a couple of times and drove off with Vivaldi into the spring afternoon. . .

Editor's Notes: Ode to Joy is the English title given to the poem An die Freude by the German classical poet Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller (1759-1805). The poem is famous because of its setting in the fourth (and final) movement of Symphony Number 9 in D Minor, the "Choral Symphony", by Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827).

The verse that I include translates:

Joy, fair spark of the gods
Daughter of Elysium,
Drunk with fiery rapture, Goddess,
We approach thy shrine!

A full translation of the poem is available at Beethoven.

Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915) is often said to be the first "modern" composer. You may find out more about this enigmatic Russian figure at Scriabin Society

Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Truer than True Romance

2010-07-15T09:35:00.000-07:00

A Book Review

by Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - March 17, 2002

I am probably walking through a minefield in taking on this review of Jeanne Martinet’s brilliant send-up of the romance comics of the 1940s, 50s and 60s and 70s. I noticed Truer Than True Romance while foraging among the new books in the local library and figured my spouse, Joyce, would get a kick out of it.
Now I probably would not have reviewed this book (perhaps barely on topic for Caring for the Soul), had I not heard hysterical howls of mirth emanating from the side of the couch where Joyce curls up with her favorite books and pots of Earl Grey tea.

(Even while reading the comics and laughing herself senselessly, Joyce has just told me that I am a chauvinist by definition merely by suggesting that she--just because she is female--would naturally read such magazines. See, I am already blown to smithereens.)

But wait! Martinet says that the original comics, which began in 1947 and lasted through the mid 70s, (when the genre was mercifully killed off) were in fact written by men! She claims that this explains the “sexist sensibilities,” and why all the women have perfect bodies, the men are never bald and always taller than the women.

In Truer Than True Romance Martinet rewrites ten episodes of the old True Romances. The drawings are from the original classic comics, but written from the point of view of a modern, early 21st century woman. You know you are in for a satiric tornado when you peruse the front cover. A handsome young couple embraces with the woman looking up love struck into the man’s eyes. Yes, she is blond and blue-eyed and he is. . .what else. . .tall, dark and handsome with that fabled “blue-black” hair of comic book fame.

In the word balloon, the guy is saying to the girl, “Wow, you really are clingy and filled with self-loathing. No wonder I find you so attractive!”

Perhaps because I do not have a great deal of hair on top, I particularly liked “I Hate My Hair,” an episode originally called “Stolen Dreams.” This is the story of a hairdo gone bad enough to turn not only the poor girl’s day but most of her young life into a bad hair day. She simply wants that fabled "different look" and winds up looking like Sinead O’Connor while falling for a guy that she is convinced hates short hair.

In another episode that I thought was quite clever, a young woman, who usually winds up hurt from dating married men, finds herself dating the shrink from hell, as she lives though “My Heart Said Yes, But My Therapist Said No.”

I do not want to give too much of the book away. Here is a sampling of some episodes:

Too Dumb for Love
My Heart of Darkness
The Narcissist Heart!
What Are You Saying?
If It’s Raining, It Must Be Love
The old comics carried columns full of advice for the lovelorn also. Martinet does not miss a trick here either, and we read such columnists as “Ask Dr. Mary, Licensed Therapist” or “Dee Pressen, Love Counselor.” You cannot fool these pundits; they know what is going on and are ready to rescue the innocent from the wages of sin or at the very least lay a really good guilt trip on the unassuming.

There is even a modern columnist for “The Male Point of View.” "Hank Hanson" (a self-proclaimed hunk) advises women that want to "get over" with men to "dress like you love them, but act like you hate them. . .So show your cleavage and your claws, kitten.” Well, I suppose a bonafide "hunkarama" would know. . .

One of my favorite inclusions is the “test” Martinet includes. “A Test of True Love” tries to help lonely women to recognize their true love, but it is probably decidedly more tongue-in-cheek than the original. Here’s a sample from the True/False Quiz:

True/False - [You Will know he is your one, true love if]some of his hair is blue.
Answer: True. If he has dark hair, and he probably does if he is your true love, you will notice a distinctive, royal blue sheen on parts of his head.

Anyway, I felt that I would be remiss as a columnist if I did not recommend this screamingly funny satire of American pop culture. After all, in caring for the soul, one must always stand vigilant and strong against the wages of cultural mythology and stereotypical thinking.

Hmmm. . .I dunno. . .You think the chicks would really go for that blue-black hair, a narcissistic, "god's-gift-to-women" attitude, and perhaps a withering sneer?

Truer Than True Romance was published in 2001 and is available at bookstores everywhere. More information is available from the publisher, Watson-Guptill Publications.

Copyright 2002, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Ask Doctor Zin

2010-07-14T19:23:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - September 1, 2002

I recently received a letter from an old friend of mine who had suddenly disappeared many years ago. It turns out that he has been studying ancient religions and mysticism all over the world during the past few years.
After years of meditation and spiritual practices, he opened his eyes one morning after a particularly deep meditation to discover that he had been in satori for weeks and to find dozens of other spiritual seekers sitting around him in a circle. They immediately bowed to him en masse and introduced themselves as his students.

Apparently, they had become so awed while watching the play of golden colors above his head as they watched him in meditation that they now considered him an enlightened master. Soon his fame spread far and wide, and many were amazed at the effortless wisdom with which he handled the problems of his disciples. An avid group of his followers determined that the master should share his wisdom and glory with all the peoples of the world.

Thus, the media phenomenon of Doctor Zen (I mean Zin) was born. The good Doctor has asked me to function as his intermediary. His mailbox is overflowing (as well as the tongue in his not so politically correct cheek). Here are some questions from tortured souls along with his humble but possibly "brilliant" answers.

Dear Doctor,

I have lost my job, my life savings, and have had to declare bankruptcy. To make matters worse, my wife called me a deadbeat and ran off to Madagascar with a lingerie sales clerk with money gained from selling our children to a black market adoption service. My psychiatrist tells me that I am depressed and has put me on various anti-depressive medications.

However, I feel there must be a spiritual answer to these problems. Can you help me, Dr. Ze\in?

Broke in Buffalo

Dear Broke,

Just snap out of it man!!! You don't need no stinking pills!

Of course, there is a spiritual solution to any of life's challenges. I prefer the word challenge to problem as a problem is really an opportunity for growth. Now you can do something with your life that you really want to do. For example, you could:

Teach seminars to the recently unemployed at $500 a pop on coping with change
Sell homemade cayenne pepper ice cream
Open a carwash that specializes in SUV's and other earth-friendly vehicles
Become a hit man (the money's great!)
Take a course in VCR repair (preferably Betamax). By the way, DVD's are just a temporary phenomenon in my opinion.)
Earn thousands of dollars on the Internet just mailing out letters to friendly folk clamoring to fill up their empty hard drives
Earn a substantial living telemarketing, as you help willing people find mortgage refinancing or various types of siding at dinner time or even better while they are watching Monday Night Football or reruns of Ally McBeal or Seinfeld
I would not lose any sleep about losing your life savings and retirement either. Most convenience stores will continue to hire older workers, especially for the graveyard shift. (Don't forget, just give them the money; no heroics.)

Hope this helps!

Sincerely,
Z

Dear Doctor Zin,

What is the secret of life?

Siddartha
Delhi

Dear Siddhartha,

Now it wouldn't be a secret any longer if I told you, would it? Don't ever ask me that again. As they say in alphabet agencies (CIA, NSA, FBI, etc.), If I told you, I might have to kill you.

Sincerely,
Z

Dear Doctor Z,

My boyfriend is into natural foods and has become obsessed with pistachio nuts. He eats them everywhere, and usually I don't mind. It's just that lately he's started shelling them while we are. . .well, you know. . .mixing it up so to speak.

I wouldn't mind his eating the nuts if he would just properly dispose of the shells, but he insists upon just throwing them anywhere, and I, for one, am sick and tired of lying on the them.

Also, I am becoming quite nauseated when he runs those red-stained hands over my body. Oh, Doctor Z, I don't know what to do. I do love Billy, and am afraid that he will leave me if I complain.

I don't know if I can take it anymore, Doctor. Please help!

Nutty in Naples, Florida

Dear Nutty in Naples,

Since you are a female and a second-class person, you can try talking to him in that sweet simpering tone of voice for which your sex is famous. Tell him how you honestly feel about the situation. (Hey maybe you could do this while ironing his shirts.) Don't go too far of course; you don't want him to dump you!

Try watching some movies from the '40s or '50s if you need some cultural conditioning to help you achieve the proper passive aggressive tone and manner. May I suggest almost any of the Doris Day-Rock Hudson movies, such as "Lover, Come Back" or "That Touch of Mink."

Some of the romance comics of the period offer some good advice on how the "little woman" should deal with the dominant sex. Try some of the old "Modern Romances." If you have trouble locating old copies of the comics, try Truer Than True Romances, a modern update on the romance comics.

Yours,
Dr. Zin

Dear Zin,

I recently appeared on the "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" television program. I was all excited about the prospects of winning a million dollars and international fame and fortune.

Unfortunately, I missed the first question. It was just too hard. They actually asked me to name any two sexes of human beings. How was I to know that BDSM and Foot Fetish not actually the names of the sexes.

Of course, now I know that male and female were the correct answers, but I don't know if I will ever be able to show my face in public again since I am so humiliated.

P.S. - I also lost on Jeopardy.

Clueless in Seattle

Dear Clueless,

Don't ever again send your filth to me! After washing your mouth out with soap, you should crawl under your bed and never come out again!

Furthermore, don't even think about tying me up with #2 twisted fiber hemp rope to the goldplated iron rings that were mistakenly installed by rambunctious disciples in the base boards of my heart-shaped bed.

Believe you me, I WILL find out and suitably punish with my new cat-o-nine tails whoever of my enemies told you about this!

Also, I will sue you into eternity if you tell that I also lost on Jeopardy.

Exasperatedly yours,
Z

Well, that is all the advice the good Doctor sent me this time. If his column catches on, he has promised to send me some more of his enlightened wisdom and advice. Until that future time, Doctor Zin has asked me to pass along to you this deep thought which struck him one evening as he was eating his usual box of Milk Duds:

Don't you think you would like it if it were likable.

Peace.

Copyright 2002-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

The Key to the Treasure

2010-07-14T19:18:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - October 22, 2001

The key to the treasure is the treasure.
--John Barth, Chimera

Dear Reader, if you are like myself you probably long to read in a column such as this one fabulous notions on how to calculate with absolute accuracy the exact location on the planet of your true soul mate. Perhaps you would like me to whisper in your virtual ear the secret of enlightenment or show you how to juggle all your various karma chameleons until they vanish as the delusions they are. Even just a few words about the nature of reality would probably be welcome. Surely, Martin, you can twirl the Dance of the Seven Veils on the head of a pin while changing a tire and drinking a latte.

When I figure out such matters, I will gladly relate the findings to you, especially that one about the tire and the latte. However, I do know a tool that I believe has helped my life, helped me to live more abundantly and come closer to my mature goals. The use of Affirmations has been an important tool for me, and while their use may or may not lead to the sudden enlightening bolt from the blue (or salvation or nirvana or heaven), they do help me at least to live my life in a positive frame of mind.

The creation of this positive framework is why affirmations are both the key to the treasure and the treasure. When I am in a positive state of mind, I am open and responsive to new experiences, to new ways of thinking and doing things. I am not afraid to be creative; I share and enjoy and enjoy your sharing and joy.

Contrast the preceding with what happens when you are down or in a negative frame of mind. As you talk negatively to yourself, perception narrows and often pessimistic expectations lead to negative experiences by way of the self-fulfilling prophecy. That is you get out of life what you put in. If you constantly expect negative experiences, you will tend to get just that, negativity in your life.

As we have learned from sports figures such as Michael Jordan and Larry Bird and the inspirational lives of such figures as Helen Keller, Martin Luther King, and the current Dalai Lama, attitude may not be everything but it almost is. Negative events happen in every life whether we like it or not (and no one truly knows why), but what is so important is how we respond to such events. We can maintain a positive attitude that will help us move more gracefully through such circumstances.

So, I am not here to preach that saying a few magic words will heal your life. I am saying that talking positively to myself has helped me to lead a life that at least is open to the possibility of prosperity, joy, harmony and love. In that openness the magic can happen. The sun may not shine all the time but it surely cannot shine through a shuttered window to bestow its gift of warmth and light.

There are many sites on the Net that offer affirmations. Here are some links to get you started. Just pick affirmations that seem pertinent to your personality or situation. You can find books in the self-help section of your local bookstore or you can check them out of the library. Here are some books that I have found useful. (To check Barnes and Noble for titles featuring affirmations, just click the "Buy" icon at the top of the page to go to their online bookstore. You may need to use their search function.)

You can also write your own affirmations but please remember always to use positive language. For example, do not write “I am never broke,” as the word “broke” is negative and with the word “not” you already creating a negative situation. Instead, write something like, “My income is constantly increasing.”

There is some disagreement as to the timing of affirmations, but in general be sure to write your affirmations in the present tense. Write as if the situation you wish is already happening. "Doing what I love serves others" is stronger to your consciousness than "Doing what I love WILL serve others." Use of the future tense implies that you are approaching but possibly may never reach your goal.

Using affirmations is easy. Some people find a quiet place and meditate on a few statements. I believe the key is to expose yourself to the positive statement as much as possible. I carry cards with me at all times on which I have written affirmations dealing with areas of life that I feel need some positive energy. I place a few cards near my computer where I see them many times throughout the day. Sometimes I pick one up and concentrate on its significance. Another good way of handling affirmations is to tape a few of them to your lavatory mirror. Every time you wash your hands or look into the mirror you are reminded to consider your positive statements. Even when I work out my health club, I repeat my affirmations to myself while on the treadmill or with each repetition of my strength training.

Here are some affirmations that have helped me keep my windows clear. Perhaps you will find them useful also.

I am thankful for the prosperous circumstances of my life.
I am glad that others are prosperous and successful.
I am generous with myself and others.
Action helps transform my goals into reality.
I am constantly creating my life anew.
I love and accept myself.
I have an attitude of gratitude
I allow others to be who they are.
I choose my response with love.
What I concentrate on expands.
Money is good.
I am prosperous in all areas of my life.
Hair continues to grow on top of my head.

This is such a vast subject, and I have only scratched the surface in this essay. I will be writing some more articles on the general subjects of affirmations, self-talk, prosperity consciousness, etc.

While the individual affirmations sometimes work wonders in my life, I am even more impressed with the positive attitude that seems to derive from constant attention to them and other techniques of positive thinking and meditation. One reaches a state of mind whereby one begins to operate from a sense of trust in the universe. An alignment with the positive forces happens. And, it is not "magical thinking" or engaging in “pollyannaish” behavior. People who practice these techniques do realize that accidents happen, loved ones die, sources of income dry up, wives or husbands suddenly leave.

They do however hold a precious key that enables belief in themselves and a continually growing confidence in maintaining a positive alignment. To possess and to use that simple, but powerful key of affirmation in whatever life circumstances one finds oneself is indeed the treasure itself.

Copyright 2002-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

'Twas All Hallows Eve

2010-07-14T15:31:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - October 30, 2002

Part the First: Introduction

I discovered this poem in a haunted house in my part of town.
My ghoulfriend liked its silly rhymes and lack of renown;
She admired it so much, she started to rhyme without reason
So realizing the true nature of the Halloween season.

She loved it so much that she shucked her gown,
And danced quite naked on a moonlit down,
Screeching and yowling like the banshee she was
Howling the words 'til the cops came fas-t.

Cuffing us and throwing us in the city jail;
Wondering if we would ever make bail,
Gave us lots of time to shape shift this verse,
Though God only knows how we could get it any worse.

Part the Second: Twas All Hallows Eve. . .

Twas the night of All Hallow's and all through the room
Not a creature was stirring not even a broom,
The apples were floating in a deep cauldron pot
And without the sorry revelers were turning to rot;

The little ones were'nt nestled all snug in their beds,
Whilst visions of sugar goblins danced in their heads;
And Queenie with her boas and me in Versace threads,
Had just settled down to dine on the dead.

When up in the attic there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from the table to see what was the matter;
Up the stairs I flew like a flash
Shooshing Elvira 'way from her mash;

Saw the moon on the plates of my best dragon brood
Snarling and feasting over some fast-flowing blood
When, what to my hooded eyes should appear
But a large, hooded coach and eight wolves a-howling

Followed in reverence by Nine Kings a-groveling
And a partridge in a pear tree deliciously hanging;
(. . .Oops, dreadfully sorry, wrong schtick);
I heard rattling chains then someone get sick;

I roared out so loud that spiders sprang for corners,
Then what should I see but Drac and his mourners,
Cavorting and singing in the silver moonlight,
Dark shadows lurking, children of the night!

"Now Basher! Now, Necromancer! and Vixen!
On, Vomit! On Cuspid! On, Condor and Bludgeon!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall,
Now tear away! Tear away, tear away all!"

As dry bones before the vile Witches do fly,
When they meet an obstacle, such as why
On earth the coursers to the house top they flew,
Maddened with bad poetry and and smelly body parts too.

And then, in a wrinkling, I heard in the raw
The scraping and scratching of each hairy paw;
As drew back my hand with a snarling frown
Into the chimney Old Dracula slid down.

He was dressed all in black from his foot to his head,
And his cape swirled around showing glimpses of red,
His minions before him carried bags of naughty boys,
Demanding more candy and making dreadful noise.

His eyes -- how they stared! his face so pale!
His cheeks were like paper, his nose like a rail!
His droll little mouth was twisted upside down,
In danger of setting in a permanent frown

I guess I embarrassed him when I pointed to his teeth,
Where a smear of blood circled like a spinach wreath;
He had a mean little face and hardly any belly
And as he smiled, I shook like a bowlful of jelly.

He was a lean and mean, a right scary old vamp
Didn't mean to laugh when I saw him, but doubled up in a cramp;
Then a wink of his yellow eye and a glimpse of his head
Soon gave me to know I'd soon be among the living but dead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And took all my blood, then turned me into a jerk,
Just like him, and taking his finger aside picked his nose,
And giving a nod for me to follow, up the chimney we rose;

He sprang to his coach, to his team gave a whistle,
And away we all flew like a guided missile.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove into the night,
"HAPPY HALLOWEEN TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD FRIGHT!"

Part the Third: This Sounds Familiar

I wish I could say I knew the author true,
But really, I must say I haven't a clue;
Some say some flake of a monster
Borrowed the rhyme from a right old Napster.

I say this verse is based on The Night Before Christmas,
Something most shameless, since those verses delight-mus;
Some attributed those great children's verses
Peviously to Clement Clarke Moore but trust us

Major Henry Livingston Jr (1748 to 1828)
Is To whom is now attributed that poem's fate;
Now if you will allow me one final word,
Cursed be the reader who calls me nerd.

Editor's Note: I am not open to discussions of enjambment.

Copyright 2002-2006 article and verse, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

The Graffiti of Middle-Earth

2010-07-14T15:21:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101- August 5, 2003

Glancing around to make sure that no one saw me, especially renowned hawk eye, Mrs. Margaret King, my chemistry teacher, who was sitting nearby, I surreptitiously scribbled Frodo Lives! on the inside, back cover of the Broadman Hymnal as I sat in the back row of the First Baptist Church of Liberty, North Carolina.

Holding the volume up a little, I pretended to look over the hymns. Then taking one more look around, I quickly put the hymnal in its holder on the back of the wooden pew in front of me. I felt sure that no one had noticed. Glancing around the auditorium I saw that a few members of the congregation were absorbed in Dr. English's lengthy sermon on the Beatitudes while the rest were struggling with varying stages of wakefulness.

"I live!" I mumbled to myself. "I live!"

Such is the power of J.R.R. Tolkien—even in those days before appalling media hype, DVDs with director's cuts, targeted merchandise, computer modeling and fantastic special effects.

Such is the energy and vitality of Lord of the Rings that I, a shy, quiet, small-town teenager and scholastic overachiever initiated my rebellion against the narrow moralistic confines and shallow intellectualism of small town life with those two words.

Later, I learned that some nameless artist first wrote the same words on subway walls in New York City in 1967. Those scribbles essentially started the graffiti movement in the 60's and 70's to write, paint, on chalk on every available surface in the western world that the heroic hobbit had survived the armies of Mordor, the lava pits of Mt. Doom and Sauron, the Dark Lord, himself.

I have always been something of an admirer of good graffiti, as sometimes people truly reveal themselves in this "art form." Anthropologists study quite earnestly the graffiti of ancient cultures, as the writing tells them so much about daily life.

For example, in ancient Rome, lost in the dust of history is the name of the young man who posted this message: Helena amatur a Claudius (Helen is loved by Claudius). Some things about civilization never change, as one famous bit of writing from the walls of ancient Pompeii translates: Cornelius made me pregnant. The Romans also left jokes, laundry lists, stories, and even a few advertisements on the walls.

I hasten to add that with the exception of the Frodo incident and maybe one other minor indiscretion having to do with a jilting by a certain girlfriend; I am neither a graffiti artist nor have any ambitions to write such trash.

. . .Ok, well, maybe just a little. . .

You see, I did come across some ancient writings from various walls, tables, lavatories and, yes, pissoirs of Middle-Earth. I suspect the Dark Lord himself, knowing that I would not be able to resist publishing these mad scribblings, sent this muckraking journalism to me to spite arrogant wizards, self-righteous warriors, dour dwarves, goody-goody elves, small-minded men and other fops and fools over which he hoped to hold dominion. However, I must say they do offer some fascinating insights (and reality bites) into the diverse folk of The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and the Silmarillion.

For your convenience and possible amusement I have translated the inscriptions from the various languages—Elvish (Quenya and Sindarin), Khuzdul (language of the dwarves), Orkish, Westron (the common tongue) and even the Black Speech and Entish.

Carved into a tree in Mirkwood:
Watch out for Treebeard, girls. He's fast!

On a restroom wall in the Shire:
Hoo boy! that Bilbo Baggins,
I'm so tired of His Naggins.

Scribbled on the pink walls of a Mordor Pissoir in black ichor:
Sauron sucks Galadriel's toes!
Do Nazguls really need to go?
Free Gollum!

Scrawled on the poker table in the Orc's Recreation Room:
Those Nazguls are such creeps
They've been dead so long
They actually think DVDs
Are really BVDs.

Once every millennia or so Galadriel's Mirror fogs up. . .
Elrond's mother was a brunette!
Arwen rocks!
The Grey Havens suck.
Who's your Daddy?

Attributed to Orcs in the Mines of Moria:
Elves, schmelves
They think their ichor don't stink.

More from Moria:
Mordor!
I'll give you Mordor,
You two-timing dwarf!

Attributed to a bright Olog-hai at Isengard:
How many dwarves does it take to change a light bulb in the caves of Moria?
Answer - At least fifty: One to change the bulb, one to twiddle his beard while wondering what a light bulb is, and 48 to feed the cave troll!

Lipstick (from wild berries of course) smeared on the mirror in the Rivendell Ladies Room
He's so pretty, he's so cool
I can't help it, Legolas rules!

Stencilled on an inner wall at Minas Tirith:
Gandalf rides a whisk broom!
Thimk, you Hobbits!
Boromir slept here with Hobbits.
Gimli did too!

Carved on the White Tree:
Isildur did it!
Bored with the Rings (Initials below are almost illegible but may be JRRT.)
While not technically graffiti, the items that follow were sent to me by another clandestine source. Though he did not request anonymity, I am still loathe to attribute these materials to someone known to me only as that "Fool of a Took."

A small collection of Middle-Earth bumper stickers:
Orcs do it in the dark!
Wizards do it with will!
Balrogs fire it up!
Elves do it lightly!
Rangers do it with elves!
Merry changed his name and did it!
Nazguls used to do it!
Trolls still wonder. . .

Recent headlines in The Gondor World News:
Treebeard Is the Father of My Child!
I Was a Balrog Love Slave
Samwise Gamgee Separates from Mr. Frodo
Merry and Pip. . .Together Again
Eowyn Breaks Up Aragorn and Arwen's Love Nest
Amphibian Rescued from Flames. . .

The rest of the sentence. . .
Frodo lives. . . and though sick and tired of elves, is hiding from Samwise in the Grey Havens
Author's Note:If you are a fan of the Lord of the Rings and other works by JRR, check out the outstanding articles entered in the 2003 Tolkien Event.

Copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved

Looking Breathlessly

2010-07-13T13:43:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published - May 5, 2002

For me there is only the traveling on paths that have heart, on any path that may have heart. There I travel, and the only worthwhile challenge is to traverse its full length. And there I travel looking, looking, breathlessly. ~Don Juan (Yaqui indian shaman in Carlos Castneda's series of books)

I have been in and out of photography all my life. It all started with a “Brownie” box camera given to me for my 10th birthday. In my teens I saved up enough money to graduate to a cheap 35mm camera.
I was early captivated by the great photographers and it seems that I bought a magazine of collected photographs of various types almost every month. For example, I had collections of Scandinavian photographers, Ansel Adams and other nature photographers, photojournalists, etc.
In those days there was more question than there is nowadays as to whether photography is an art. This was never a problem for me. Photography is its own art form, ". . .a discovery of the world in terms of light."

How those photographs enriched my experience and understanding of life. The French photographer, Henri Cartier-Bresson, was my earliest hero.

Looking over his work in collections (those "annuals") as a farm boy on tobacco road in the Piedmont of North Carolina, I yearned for a little 35mm Leica rangefinder like he made famous and a knapsack with which to travel and photograph the world.

I dreamed of capturing--like Bresson--the essence of the eternal moment: An embrace of lovers; bicyclists caught in some great mysterious design, the ineffable truth of which could only be expressed visually; Language at times unable to express the true nature of the infinite heart of existence.

If you were to ask me what is the most valuable thing that I have
learned from photography, I would have to answer, “seeing.” When I work with a camera, I am fascinated with how so often I cannot find anything of interest to photograph at first.

Then, as I relax and shed layers of mental preoccupations, the linear expectations and anxieties of our very mental (perhaps insane) culture, my mind settles quietly into my intention to take pictures, I find myself shifting into greater connectivity with my feelings, and I begin to “see.”

What we see so often is a kind of consensus reality, an inventory of preconceptions that we have agreed that is the way the world should be. For example when I first look at a tree when I am in my ordinary, preoccupied mental state, I don’t see that tree in its totality. I filter it through so much mental noise that I only see the obvious things happening around it. I may notice a bird flying away or if there is a strong wind, I may notice the swaying of branches and trunk, but I don’t really “see” it.

To really “see” you must become as an infant or small child who does not see the world the way we see it as adults. A child does not see the color blue or rather s/he sees one color as a continuum of all colors; not a tree, but an extended form. The child has not learned all our adult notions of consensus reality.

Turning away from all my mental preoccupations, I become a vessel for expression. As my intellect joins with my feelings, suddenly pictures are everywhere: A leaf falls into an interesting arrangement of wild flowers; a spider web glistens with dew; a curve of sunlight on wind-swept water.

I think this phenomenon is an example of what some spiritual masters call “falling into the heart,” that is releasing the bonds of the conscious mind and acting from one’s center of being, a place where heart and head and senses meet.

For me it is the place where true art is found whether the art form is visual or not. Photography—as well as poetry—have from childhood been natural ways for me to diverge from the ordinary mind into a kind of “super-mind,” where I find that I can use so many more of my faculties other than the intellect.

Once experienced, to attempt to create without functioning in this "super mind," is rather like the taste of a sugary soft drink after sipping a fine wine; cheap and empty and heartless.
Don Juan, the shaman quoted in the epigram, offers additional observations about "seeing" when he tells his disciple, Carlos Castaneda, that he is teaching him how to see as opposed to merely looking, and stopping the world is the first step to seeing.

We have talked about "seeing" in this first essay. Next time we shall continue our exploration of the relationship between art and spirituality as we look into some ways to "stop the world" and see it as it really is rather than how we think it is.

Copyright 20002-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved

Mitakyasi

2010-07-12T15:11:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - October 2, 2001

. . .only connect. . . ~ DH Lawrence, Over the Rainbow

There is a wonderful word which I learned several years ago when I participated in a sweat lodge offered by Wallace Black Elk, a teacher, healer, and shaman of the Lakota Sioux tradition and Dr. William Lyon, an anthropologist formerly of Southern Oregon University. That word seemed to penetrate so deeply into my consciousness that even now I continue to marvel at its depth and relevance to my life and spiritual path.

That summer evening as we sat stuffed into a large teepee-shaped lodge, our bodies issuing buckets of sweat as "warriors" brought in one fiery, red stone after another, "Grandfather" Black Elk (spiritual descendant of the original Oglala Sioux holy man, Black Elk) referred to an honoring of all our relationships in our personal world. He asked each of us to consider Mitakyasi, a word from the Lakota language that literally means all my relations.

As steam splattered from water poured over the stones and the sacred pipe was passed around, Black Elk explained that the Lakota saw the universe as a living, breathing, entity in which we are all connected, not only flesh and blood creatures, but mountains and trees, oceans and rivers; all the inanimate world also. He even referred to the heated boulders as the "Stone People." The Lakota word to express this interrelated web of life in which we all exist and have our being is mitakyasi.

This powerful word (actually an anglicizing of the Lakota phrase Mitakuye Oyasin), for which there is no equivalent in English, is a recognition of the unity innate in the universe. Even more, it is a salutation, a prayer for all creation to commune in the harmony and balance that bridge the diversity of our lives.

I have come to understand that this Lakota word is a sort of touchstone for my feelings about myself and my relationships with the other beings in my life (human or otherwise). A touchstone was originally a black stone (somewhat like flint) used to test the purity of gold and silver by the streak left on the stone when scratched by the metal. Thus, it has come to mean by connotation a standard by which other things are measured.

Whenever mitakyasi comes to mind, I know that I am receiving a signal from my higher consciousness that I need to consider my relationships not only with friends, relatives and coworkers but also how I am feeling about the world outside my personal realm. As a person with a long history of exhibiting a tendency to cut myself off from people and live as a loner, I find that I must look more deeply at "all my relations."

When I test my soul's streak against the touchstone of mitakyasi, I see neither gold nor silver. I see a myriad of gossamer strands shining where each person that I have known has touched my life, and also where I have touched them. I see that I am part of a greater whole, and that I cannot ignore my relationships with beings outside my small consciousness.

When I forget this truth of our "ecology of being," I sometimes fall into the psychological trap, of "exclusivity." Perhaps it is due to the "loner" mentality, but I sometimes think that "exclusivity" may be the only true "disease" of the soul. Now please understand that I am not referring here to individuality, but rather to "exclusivity" in the sense of the verb "to exclude." To be excluded is to be isolated such that one cannot participate.

Exclusivity becomes a disease when a person believes that her/his truth or beliefs are truer than another's. The condition (rather like the sin of pride) occurs, for example, when I think that God favors me rather than my neighbor for the righteous life that I have led.

While I am sure you have your own list of ways in which you separate yourself from others and the world around you, I will step forward here and list just a few preconceptions that keep me from realizing my connections with others, animate and inanimate, mortal or immortal at times:
Do not participate in gatherings of fellow human beings, as the people all engage in "groupthink" rather than think for themselves.

If I sing, everyone will start leering at me when they see that I cannot carry a tune (Actually, this may be really true!).

My search for truth is more profound than yours.
It’s just an animal; it can’t really think, can it?
That person muttering on the street is probably crazy.
I'm turning to gold, turning to gold; I don't know about you!
Do not show love; someone may laugh or worse show indifference.

Participants in that sweat lodge left that evening with various images or ideas about truth through the eyes of a Native American shaman. From talking with them, I knew that some had received visions while others heard voices that provided some direction as they left to proceed on their own paths. Others experienced healing or peace. Each of us left the sacred ground with a different experience.

I experienced neither visions nor voices nor very much peace; only legs cramping from sitting too long and heat so fierce that I had longed for the coolness of a sauna. With good fortune though, I took away a word of power, mitakyasi, which I have never forgotten, and which reminds me from time to time that I am not alone in this world; I am connected with everyone and everything. My participation in this universe we call home illumines this whole shining web in which we all live and have our being.

If I take the time to speak, think and act with a sense of my interconnectedness (as the Lakota concept implies), I can only feel compassion toward all creatures as they are indeed part of my self. If I am indifferent to you, I am indifferent to myself; If I care for you, I am offering love to myself as well.

Editor's Note: "Grandfather" Wallace Black Elk continues to offer sweat lodges and workshops. Together with Black Elk, Dr. William Lyon wrote Black Elk: The Sacred Ways of a Lakota. Dr. Lyon is also the author of Encyclopedia of Native American Healing and and other works about Native American cultures.

Let It Be War!

2010-07-12T10:51:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Democratic Underground

The shock therapy of decisive war will elevate the stock market by a couple-thousand points. We will know that our businesses will stay open, that our families will be safe, and that our future will be unlimited.
--Larry Kudlow, National Review, June 26, 2002

I remember my mother telling me when I was an idealistic teenager about a person who she called an "ignorant old man," who she heard say in public prior to WWII, "If it means higher prices for corn, then let it be war!"

I could not help but think of those callous words when I ran across the esteemed Mr. Kudlow's words, which I cited in the epigram to this essay. Now Mr. Kudlow by no stretch of the imagination could you be considered "ignorant" like the poorly educated farmer my mother mentioned so many years ago

Mr. Kudlow is CEO of Kudlow & Co. and Economics Editor of the National Review, a respected (by Republicans anyway) conservative periodical. I took a couple of economics courses in college, and I know that the subject is quite difficult even if it still retains (somewhat erroneously) Thomas Carlyle's nineteenth century moniker, the "dismal science."

Thus, Mr. Kudlow, you are no lightweight—at least with respect to financial theory and market savvy, and since you are a CEO of a your own corporation, you must also be well versed in management, and human relations. (I may have that last bit about the human relations wrong, since in today's corporate world, the winners are the sharks that excel at corporate infighting.)

Aw shucks, Larry (May I call you, Larry), I am only a sometime journalist and writer, but I can't help but wonder what all those soldiers may think about your statement. Having served one hitch in the U.S. Army, I might have felt pretty good about keeping the "families safe," and maybe even have agreed with some of that keeping the businesses open since that implies keeping the breadwinners working to support their families.

However, I do know what I would have felt about elevating the "stock market a couple of thousand points," and it probably would have involved procreation with your self in a darkened room.

Now, I know gambling—excuse me—investing in--the market is supposedly not the same as "making book" on sports action or the "ponies," as there is research done by a whole lot of smart people—probably like yourself--who attempt to time the market and pick the securities that are on the way up or down (since knowledgeable investors make money either way). Then again, maybe my naiveté exceeds that of a little old lady buying Enron stock with the last of her nest egg from a trusted broker at Merrill Lynch.

Hey, Larry, you know; it just dawned on me--in spite of my persistent 3rd grade view of American history and society. People at your socio-economic level with your inside knowledge of markets, access to the corporate "old boy" network and good friends over at the SEC most likely only bet on sure things—like the fact that wars drive up the stock market. After all, it took the entire mobilization of the country during WWII—not to mention a few tens of million of deaths--to end finally the Great Depression. Hey, Larry, I guess I just made your case, didn't I?

Still, Larry, dying for one's country, making the ultimate sacrifice for the survival of our people and our democratic republic is one thing. I could probably have even died peacefully while serving my country knowing that my parents were living well and my children, eating hamburgers and fries under the flawed economic system that some now worship as free-market capitalism.

However, I don't think that I would have been exactly thrilled to die for the greed of you and your cronies, no matter how much it is couched in your quasi-patriotic language expressing "that our businesses will stay open, that our families will be safe, and that our future will be unlimited."

You go on to say in the same paragraph, "The world will be righted in this life-and-death struggle to preserve our values and our civilization." Since when did the upward mobility of Dow Jones have anything to do with preserving anything of our values and civilization other than the most crass—much less the gallantry of our young men, Larry?

All too often the deaths of a brave soldiers merely to preserve entrenched political and business interests smacks of the "rich man's war and the poor man's fight." I cannot help but think of World War I British poet Wilfred Owens' lament:

The old lie:
Dulce et decorum for patria mori.
Those Latin words translate to "Sweet and glorious it is to die for one's country." Those words are not always a lie used by elites to rally the population around the flag; occasionally those deaths may be necessary for the greater good.

Nevertheless, Larry, it is not sweet and glorious to die for greed and crony capitalism. Besides, I wouldn't want to shock my sweet, 80-year old mother with the truth of your well-wrought words about truth, money and the "American Way." After all, she still, in all innocence, thinks that only a low-class, semi-literate old dirt farmer would wish for the deaths of young men and women just to drive up the price of corn.

Certainly, she would never in her wildest dreams believe that a man as well-educated, well-connected, and literate enough to write for a prestigious national magazine would want to unleash the dogs of war just to chase a few bears on Wall Street.

This site was last updated 07/12/10

Copyright 2002-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Organic Touchstone

2010-07-12T10:43:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin

Published Suite101 - April 7, 2002

This April as Joyce and I prepare the soil for our vegetable garden and visit the natural foods store in search of organically grown seedlings to set out, I, in a fit of abstraction, began contemplating the implications of the word, organic.

I wonder if there is a better word than organic to serve as a “touchstone” for our feelings and beliefs about Nature and perhaps also the nature of reality. A touchstone was originally a black stone (somewhat like flint) used to test the purity of gold and silver by the streak left on the stone when “scratched” by the metal. Thus, it has come to mean by connotation a standard by which other things are measured.

Organic is not just a word describing the farming or food produced without the use of chemically formulated fertilizers, growth stimulants, antibiotics, or pesticides, but is a word implying a certain world view.

If I rub my soul on the touchstone of Organic, I find that I enjoy working with nature, finding and following its laws to encourage growth and development rather than to force out the biggest and best with artificial means. With a growing thing, this means to plant the seed, use natural fertilizers, and see that it gets plenty of sunlight and water, and to give it space to get as big as its current genome intends it to be. My small organic apples are much more delicious than any supermarket apple, polished to waxy “perfection.”

The essential thing here is getting out of the way. Sure we can help Nature (We do have to introduce some fertilizer sometimes to help the plant flourish.), but the idea is to be a steward not an overbearing master.

In like fashion I find that when I am true to myself rather than trying to behave a certain way to impress a boss or some other human to whom I sometimes give too much power, my life flourishes anyway. I’m not sure if it matters if I get the next promotion or not. One thing I have learned for sure: All that “material, status-chasing stuff” will not make me any happier.
On the “organic touchstone” my streak shows me that I appreciate simple food cooked in simple ways. To flourish I need to give and receive love. I have also found that I like my life much better when I am thankful for great and small blessings that befall me each day.

The structure of my life has grown organically from the complex networks of nature, both seen and unseen. I have learned that the body is the only true healer. All the “nostrums and potions” in the world are but temporary palliatives of greater or lesser success to the body’s own healing processes. I try to get out of the way, use natural remedies, drink plenty of water, get lots of sunshine and fresh air.

Sometimes, I can let go enough to thrive as a human being.

Copyright 2002, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

This site was last updated 07/12/10

The Blackberry Couple

2010-07-11T16:20:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - April 17, 2001

There is a comeuppance to those lost souls who simplistically try to classify us humans into only two types of people. The appropriate--perhaps even politically correct--rejoinder is that there are those who distinguish only two types of people and those who do not.

How then am I to explain the infamous Blackberry Confrontation that occurred a couple of years ago between my spouse, Joyce, and yours truly. My God, this battle brought out the personality differences inherent in two otherwise close people. Such differences finally drive a hopeless writer into the bright but intellectually shallow waters of simplistic classification.

Sadly, I must declare that there really are two types and only two types of people. Psychologists, I am truly sorry for all your wasted studies, but I have learned that attitudes toward blackberry vines fully explain every nuance of human behavior.

I grew up on a farm and though we mowed our lawn and cut our hedges like middle class folk everywhere, we usually just let fields and cow pastures go un-mowed for years. Thus, we had many blackberry brambles on the land from which we gathered buckets of berries every summer. Thus, when blackberries invaded the fence surrounding our home in Beaverton, Oregon, my attitude was a welcoming, "Let'em grow."

These same blackberry vines made Joyce (who has both an urban and a rural background) very nervous. Where I saw a magical bramble full of nesting birds and maybe a rabbit or two and, of course, delicious berries, she saw only a creeping menace threatening to take over the yard, our neighborhood, and possibly the world.

I won for two or three years while the vines were multiplying and climbing all over the fence. We scored a few berries every summer also which helped my case. There is nothing like a fresh blackberry cobbler to settle everyone's nerves.

Admittedly, the blackberries were beginning to take over. I would cut them back every year, but they would come back stronger, hardier, and denser every spring. Of course, I admired the tenacity with which they clung to our fence. Here is an example of the force and intelligence of Nature; I mused--silently to myself of course, as Joyce was fast losing patience with my philosophical ramblings about the encroaching of humankind on the wilderness.
I suppose she felt that the wilderness was encroaching on her.

Finally, unable to get near the fence without risking major hemorrhage and torn clothing, and what with my take on Thoreau beginning to wear on my spouse, we determined to get rid of the bramble. We even used the "H" word a time or two, but could not bring ourselves to institute a scorched earth policy using herbicides (the "H" word).

We tried various natural ways to get rid of the blackberries, but in the end, vines were simply too strong. To make the punishment fit the crime, Joyce decided that I would just have to dig them up. After an enormous expenditure of effort--and not a little bleeding-- I thought that we would never see another blackberry on the land. The fact that every summer I dig out yet more blackberry vines, attests to the fallacy of that logic!

So the blackberries are under control (somewhat) and our yard is now neat and orderly--a veritable testament to the heritage of the 18th century and its emphasis on the regulation of nature. "Not Nature, but Nature mechanized," said poet Alexander Pope. Like Pope and many gardeners, Joyce loves Nature but wants to keep it in perspective. After all, we humans must also live on the planet.

Now I can respect that opinion, but personally, I feel sure that we have insulted the intelligence and spirit of the Blackberry guardians, not to mention various earth divas and nature spirits. Surely we shall be cursed for the rest of our days. Everytime that I see a bramble I keep my distance lest fierce shoots impale and wrap me like a green mummy.

As for Joyce, I am sure that she will end her days food for berries.

Yet there is compensation. I do surely love the peaceful vines that now climb our fence. The clematis and Rose of Sharon are quite beautiful, but, ah, those blackberries; so tough and strong with an unyielding vigor to live; so beautiful when flowering streams of white, star-shaped blossoms.

The Big Rock Candy Mountain

2010-07-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin

Published Suite101 - March 24, 2002

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
There's a land that's fair and bright
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out ev'ry night.
~Traditonal Hobo Ballad, (Often attributed to Harry "Haywire Mac" McClintock)

One of the first songs that I remember enjoying as a child and that I used to play over and over again on my cheap, little portable record player was The Big Rock Candy Mountains. It was on a little yellow record (a 45 rpm) along with A Tisket, A Tasket, A Red & Yellow Basket and a few other songs that I no longer remember but were intended just for children.

The version on the child’s record was quite a bit more sanitized than the actual hobo ballad. The “alcohol springs” that “come a-tricklin’ down the rocks” of the original become “lemonade springs” in the children’s song. Likewise the sanitized version does not mention police truncheons turning to rubber and railroad "bulls" with wooden legs.

Where the boxcars are all empty
And the sun shines ev'ry day
Oh, I'm bound to go where there ain't no snow
Where the rain don't fall and the wind don't blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

Still, once again about 40 years later, I find myself utterly fascinated with the song since hearing it again, this time in the movie,“O Brother, Where Art Thou.” Playing it over and over, grateful for the tonal quality and handy index of the CD rather than the tinny overtones of my old but beloved and now defunct record player. Obviously, this song strikes a deep chord in me.

Oh, the buzzin' of the bees in the peppermint trees
'Round the soda water fountains
Where the lemonade springs and the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

The artist who sings this song in such a rhythmic but raspy sing-song voice with such wonderful phrasing seems right out of the lawless, almost mythical 1930s, the era that defined so many of the attitudes and sensibilities of the parents of the baby boomer generation. But, this is not an essay about the grim but fascinating era of the Great Depression.

Rather, it is about that longing for the perfect land and easy living, where everything goes right all the time; where there are no headaches or trips to the dentist or complaints from the boss—Just pure, unadulterated joy all the time. Heaven, Nirvana,the Happy Hunting Grounds, Honalee. . .The Big Rock Candy Mountains are just a few of the names of the ideal world of some of humanity’s deepest longings and fondest dreams.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
You never change your socks
And little streams of lemonade
Come a-tricklin' down the rocks.

Just lower your cup in the stream and draw up a cup of the finest lemonade; Nothing to worry about. No surgeon will take out your gall bladder or boss demand that you work overtime in The Big Rock Candy Mountains. There’s always plenty eat and drink as we sit with gentle companions by the fire in the evening.

And I suppose that a possible attribute of enlightenment could be never having ". . .to change your socks. . ."

The hobos there are friendly
And their fires all burn bright
There's a lake of stew and soda, too
You can paddle all around 'em in a big canoe
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

Maybe paradise exists in some religious sense; maybe it does not. Perhaps, as the wise have said through the centuries, we are living in the fabled land even now, but sadly cannot realize it. I have always found this quote by Alfred Souza useful:

For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life.

Actually, Souza’s words probably sum up my philosophy of life up to the current moment. Believe as you will about the after life; you have your faith. Personally, I have to be happy now; I can’t wait for the possibilities of a reward later. I suppose there is nothing new here. We are so often told to live in the present. We hear this helpful, and insofar as I can tell great truth proffered so much by saviors and savants of the moment that it has become deified in the digital age.

Yet, I do not want to be misunderstood here; I am no enlightened soul. I am just like most of humankind. I long for my own personal paradise: I want the bluebird of happiness singing constantly in a beautiful Alpine meadow, complete with tiny golden flowers and sheltering evergreen trees under a great Delft bowl of a blue sky. A dappled stream flows through the meadow where I drink with the deer and bluebirds. A lovely maiden whose hair shimmers with every color of the rainbow lives with me in perfect harmony. As the old song goes:

Oh, the buzzin' of the bees in the peppermint trees
'Round the soda water fountains
Where the lemonade springs and the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

Well, I suppose it's up to the individual how it works. One time a street person, after assailing me successfully for a handout, toasted me with some nameless wine. As he lifted his bottle to his lips, he shouted: “Here’s to the holidays! All 365 of them!”

I hope that it was a good wine even if probably not a great one; I will never know, as he did not offer me a drink only a toast. I wish now that I had stopped to chat with him. I should have asked if he was as happy as he seemingly appeared to be.

Well, this essay has really been about my own whimsical longings as a deluded mortal, I guess. I find no great truths to hand out from my personal well of wisdom (such as it is); Just a song that started some wheels of mind a-turning.

Maybe I will just give you (and me) one small scrap of advice. Since it is a day for old, anonymous songs redolent with insight and wisdom, here’s a lyric from another nameless genius:

Dance as if no one's watching;
Love as though you've never been hurt;
Work as though you don't need the money;
Sing as though no one is listening,
And live as though it's Heaven on Earth.

I can’t speak for you, but I have a feeling that this is the real “Candy Mountain,” living as though each day is truly heaven on earth.

Editor's Note: There is some confusion over the provenance of the song, Big Rock Candy Mountain. The song is listed as a tradional hobo ballad by many accounts, but many sources also attribute it to to Harry "Haywire Mac" McClintock, a tramp entertainer and organizer for the "Wobblies," who apparently recorded it sometime around 1928.

There is little doubt, however, that he based his lyrics on a traditional hobo ballad. According to some sources, McClintock himself lost a lawsuite on the issue of copyright and was not allowed to receive royalties from his original recording, as the judge ruled that the lyrics were in the public domain. Singer, Burl Ives, popularized the song in the '40s and '50s.
The copyright may be owned by either MCA Records, or the McClintock or Burl Ives Estates, but I have been unable to determine who actually owns the song.

Copyright 2002-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

This site was last updated 07/11/10

Biblical Verses--Lost and Found

2010-07-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published suite101 - May 25, 2005

Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.~ The First Letter of St. Paul to Corinthians 13:1-13

The Bible is one of a number of sacred books based on the legacy of the lives of great spiritual masters. I try to honor all spiritual traditions, but lately some in the United States who wish to politicize evangelical Christianity into a one-party theocracy seem to find a few things in the Bible that I cannot for the life of me find there.

For some reason I always thought Christ based his message on love, faith and mercy and somehow came to update the old Jewish law. Where in the Bible does it say:

Thou shalt discriminate against all who are not like you.
Thou shalt not allow Gays to marry.
Thou shalt honor only Christians who take the words of the Bible literally.
Thou shalt steal from the poor to give to the rich.
Thou shalt not kill--unless of course it is "anyone wearing a towel around their head," (as one conservative Southern senator remarked), or those referred to as the "collateral damage" of war or maybe a doctor who honors a woman's right to choose.
Thou shalt base U.S. foreign policy on hate, fear and divisiveness.
Thou shalt base U.S. domestic policy on hate, fear and divisiveness.
Thou shalt treat with contempt any mainstream Christian who questions your beliefs.
Thou shalt believe that God created the world in seven days. (Even if God did create it in seven days as it states in Genesis, I do not find a passage in the Bible that says you have to believe that concept literally.) This leads to the ancillary commandment following:
Thou shalt assume that thou knowest the mind of God (Hey, just what exactly is a "day" in the mind of God anyway?).
Yea, thou shalt rub mercury and PCBs into the fertile land, destroy the birds of the air and the fishes of the sea--since it matters not a gasping salmon after you are Raptured.

And ye waiting for the Rapture, pay not attention to the following words of Christ recorded in the Gospel of Mark (13:32) about predicting the time of Christ's second coming:

"But of that day and that hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels which are in heaven, neither the Son, but the Father." (Mark 13:32)

Thou shalt be as self-righteous as is humanly possible. Ye are not the same as other religious fanatics. Ye shall be forgiven and not kept from the Kingdom for promoting wars and killing a few medics with whom you disagree.

Thou shalt support imperialism in all its perfidious circumstances and use it for the conversion of those who do not follow your path.

Thou shalt not support stem cell research no matter what the cost in human suffering.
Good News! I did find the following verses:

Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. [Beatitudes]

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. [Beatitudes]
You have heard that it was said, "You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy." But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you be sons of your Father who is in heaven. . . . [Matthew 5:43]
. . . You shall love your neighbor as yourself. . .[Matthew 22:37]
This is my commandment that you love one another as I have loved you. . .[John 15:13]

They are some of my favorites. They are the ones I first learned at the First Baptist Church of Liberty, North Carolina on Sunday mornings, that church of the beautiful stained glass windows, red brick facade and cheerful-sounding bells.

They are the words that truly comforted a small child.

They are the ones that offer a "lantern for my feet and a light upon my path" as I wend my way through this life. They are the words that help me offer love when I feel hate, mercy for vengeance though I am most decidedly human and practice Christ's message so very imperfectly.
The ones that I cannot find in the Bible have not--insofar as I know with my admittedly limited human perspective--really helped anyone. They do not offer bread to the poor or a hand to the suffering. They do not address the social or economic needs of most Americans or help a powerful nation offer compassionate leadership in the world.

In my opinion, those verses that I cannot find mostly feed hypocrisy and self-righteous bloviating. I cannot help but wonder if they are not the beliefs of latterday "scribes and Pharisees."

I do not believe that a small child has ever taken comfort from them.

Stopping the World

2010-07-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published by Suite101 on: June 12, 2003

I am teaching you how to see as opposed to merely looking, and stopping the world is the first step to seeing. --The Teachings of Don Juan by Carlos Castaneda

In the companion piece to this essay, Looking Breathlessly, I introduced the concept of "seeing" as related in the teachings of Don Juan by Carlos Castaneda. Don Juan, the Yaqui shaman or sorcerer that Castaneda encounters in the Sonoran desert of Mexico, impresses on his student, Castaneda, the importance of going beyond the intellect to truly experience the greater reality of the world.

I remembered Castaneda's words as my wife, Joyce, and I recently as one of our annual spring rituals visited a local nursery to purchase cut irises and bulbs which are Schreiner's specialty. After we had walked over the gardens on the grounds and selected about two dozen of the elegant flowers in all shapes, colors and sizes, we were walking back to the car when we noticed before us the acres and acres of Iris blooming before us as far as the eye could see.
I stood gazing at the layers of colors in the field: Bands of bright yellow, pale and royal blues, purples, lavenders, oranges. Then, it occurred to me that I was not really "seeing" all that beauty. I was merely observing it with my intellect, having a superficial experience.
However, the nursery is located on a country road, and though popular in the spring, is rather isolated. Suddenly, I realized that I was hearing bird song, different calls of birds mating and gathering nesting materials in the spring.

As I listened to the birds, I felt a small breeze ruffle my hair. I was not just watching the different bands of color in the fields at Schreiner's any longer, but had entered the realms of sound and hearing also.

Then, in a moment, I felt closer to the beautiful sight before me, the fields of growing blowers. I realized that I was now not just looking but seeing those fields. The sounds of the birds and cool breeze on the balmy spring day had helped to take me "out of my head."
I brought out the pad of paper that I always carry around with me, and wrote down a few lines of poetry that occurs to me sometimes in such moments. I do not always write in such moments. Sometimes though, I do not want to think about artistic expression; I just want to be with what is happening or I just want to be.

After recording a few lines, I found myself still in a joyful state, and began noticing with more depth the other people around me, seeing flowering plants and hearing the sounds of nature more from the heart than with the head. The sense of this phenomenon is hard to relate, but all human beings experience it from time to time.

The problem is not that we do not as Don Juan says, "See." We all experience this state of being from time to time just from being members of the human race. It's a natural state of consciousness.

Rather the problem is one of cultivating the experience so that we are not always running around anaesthetized and held prisoner by the tryarnny of the monkey mind, the one that chatters constantly, wants you to worry neurotically about money or what someone thinks about you or the thousands of other fears and anxieties that we are prey to.

How then shall we cultivate that special blessing called "seeing" that is known by so many names in all the cultures of the Earth, names uch as inspiration or oneness or the "grace of God".
Well, I am not sure anyone truly does anything by oneself. I feel that the sacred (or inner nature or God) stands ready to help us at all times if we can but open ourselves to it body, mind and soul.

While regular meditation certainly helps greatly in learning to "stop the world," and cultivate a rich inner life, here are some techniques that have collected through the years that have helped others and myself to fall from the head into the unity of consciousness found when head connects with heart.

Concentrate on the breath; feel (and possibly hear) your breath going in and out. Do not try to force it or control your breath; just witness the experience of breathing.
Softly or mentally repeat a mantra or other word of power or expression of your own choosing. Repetition and fixating on your word(s) calms the mind which is a necessary conditon for this experience.

Singing a song that inspires you is another good technique and helps balance your breathing, producing the calmness necessary for the experience. (Sing to yourself or mentally if you do not want to be heard by others.)

Here is one of my favorites. Since so many of us get most of our information visually, sometimes focusing on your surroundings with another sense helps you to experience the world in a more feeling way. I find, for example, that relating to the world through sound often helps me to get in touch with myself. Listening to the sounds of the forest—the whisper of the wind running through the leaves of the trees or the sound of running water does it for me. Others find that focusing on pleasant fragrances or touching the bark of a tree or petals of a flower puts them more in touch with their feelings.

Many people find prayer useful to enter a receptive, feeling mode of being.
Experiment! Find what works for you. A friend of mine finds she "stops the world" by the simple act of taking water. She has come to experience drinking as a sacred rite (which like the taking of food, is considered a sacrament in some spiritual paths).

Often, "seeing" is simply reaching a state of consciousness where you appreciate experience of the true self and that life that is happening moment by moment so beautifully. I shall never forget being alone in the forest after a storm and listening to the drip of the rain off of the leaves. Suddenly, I started experiencing each drop and every drop at the same time, and, though it was extraordinary and mystical in its own way, it was a very simple experience.
As the Zen master says:

Before a person studies Zen, mountains are mountains, trees are trees, and stars are stars;
After the first glimpse into the truth of Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and trees are not trees;
After enlightenment, mountains are once again mountains and trees once again trees and stars once again stars.

In other words, the beauty and mystery are always with us; Indeed those flowers and trees and rushing waters and winds whether--breezes or gales--are part of us in my view. We simply must awaken to experience the world through our true nature, to see. . .to see with the heart.

Copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

A Southern Line

2010-07-09T06:28:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - February 17, 2002

We die of cold and not of darkness.
~Miguel de Unamuno

Supposedly travelers on the trains of the Southern Railroad Line taunted departing passengers by parodying Patrick Henry’s patriotic words, Give me Liberty or give me Death. . .I’ll take Death! as the train started slowing to stop at the small town of Liberty, North Carolina.
To paraphrase Tennesse Williams, the “Milk Train” does not pass through Liberty anymore. It was before my time anyway, the era of the steam locomotive pulling into the old "Depot" that still stands on the tracks in the center of town as far as I know.

The taunt (a bit unfair perhaps) doubtless derived from the perceived dullness of the town, a place whose greatest claim to fame was the tying of the mayor’s race in the early ‘60s. While the name, Liberty, fairly rolls of the tongue, recalling visions of Lexington and Concord, I cannot help but wonder if I could have pronounced that name without dripping sarcasm if I had been a black living there prior to the '70s.

There were perhaps five stoplights, a rather large water tower visible for several miles, a town cop who drove around in a converted Buick most always chomping on a cigar; he was called “Lop.” He mostly chased teenagers driving hot rod Chevies or Fords; sometimes he caught one too, hair slicked back in a "ducktail" with large, plastic dice hanging from the rear-view mirror.
I am not sure how many black folks lived in the town where I grew up in the fifties and sixties. Actually, my family and I did not live in the town of some 1400 souls, but resided instead on a small farm about four miles down Highway 421, the real Tobacco Road, that if followed another 15 miles leads to Randleman, home of NASCAR legend, Richard Petty. Keep on going another few miles or so and you wind up in Greensboro where a number of black students from North Carolina A&T initiated sit-ins at the Woolworth Cafeteria in 1954.

In those Jim Crow days in which I grew up, I seldom saw black people shopping in the small downtown. Of course, there were never a lot of people shopping in downtown Liberty anyway, though the funeral home did a good business, having a monopoly on the business of death for a radius of several miles. Every member of the owner’s family drove a Cadillac; still do.
I remember the blacks sitting up in the balcony of the Curtis Theater; they had an entrance separate from us white breads. I especially remember Saturday matinees with Gene Autry or Roy Rogers features and maybe a Flash Gordon or Three Stooges short; sometimes I would get up and go for popcorn or candy and happen to glance up. There were throngs of children floating like little dark balloons over the auditorium.

In reflection, what I remember most about those Saturday matinees is the silence from that dark upper story. Little children are not quiet; they are boisterous; they yell and scream and laugh. It must have been a tedious nightmare to sit in almost total silence, sometimes the whispering between friends or a suppressed snicker at a Stooge drifted down into the first floor melee.
Movies were very cheap in those days; for a while only nine cents for a child. Town children used to stand outside the theater asking for pennies from their friends and neighbors so they could “go to the show.” I never saw any of the black kids doing that. And of course there were two sets of bathrooms, one for the whites and one for the “coloreds.”

Sometimes I would see a black child going in the special side entrance; It didn’t strike me very hard at nine or ten years old. I barely noticed and went back to my chemistry set or astronomy books or rode bikes with my brother around our grandparents’ farm.
In growing consciousness by junior year in high school, I had begun reading James Baldwin, Gwendolyn Brooks, and especially Ralph Ellision. I read Ellison’s The Invisible Man, a novel that shows only too well what was going on in those days prior to civil rights movement. That book is far scarier than the most horrible blood sucker or acid-tongued alien because the characters in the novel are us, we who need as a species to grow in the consciousness of our connections at all levels, racial, soul or otherwise.

“I am an invisible man, this classic of the American experience begins. "I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me." If he registers on white consciousness at all, it is as "a figure in a nightmare which the sleeper tries with all his strength to destroy."

I never really knew any black children until I was about fourteen, when my father hired two black teenagers to help us on the farm in the summer, harvesting. . .what else. . .tobacco. My brother and I really enjoyed James and Benjamin though. Being lonely country kids we were always on the lookout for playmates, and we all dearly enjoyed trying to hit each other with corn cobs or dirt clods when the adults were not around.

We were always sad when James or “Benny” were no longer around after the harvest in late summer, and in fact, we became friends. I lost contact with the pair after I went off to college, but I understand that Benjamin went on to finish college, and James had stayed around Liberty and eventually had a fine family of which he was very proud.

Let’s be clear about something here. I certainly do not pretend to understand the black experience in the United States. I am just offering some memories and reflections about growing up in a segregated town in in the South where the people were neither good nor bad any more than people in any other place in any direction of the compass--just people caught up in a vicious, negative pattern that had existed for centuries.

With the innocence of growing up in the country in those times, my brother and I were only dimly aware of the poverty of the black people who lived in the shanties in that special section of town that began with the “N” word. We knew the children went to one of those “separate but equal” schools, but we never had any contact. Every now and then at high school basketball or football games, it ran though my mind that maybe we should play the other Liberty High School.
I don’t go back to Liberty very much though it is not a reflection particularly of the people who live there; they are like people eveywhere. There’s just too much past in those parts for me, though white attitudes toward African-Americans have changed somewhat as far as I can tell.
Since the civil rights movement the schools are now successfully integrated. White people complained for a while, but in the end things worked out. The adults had the problems, not the children. From my sparse visits I saw for a couple of decades that blacks and white worked side by side in the furniture factories and sewing mills that used to predominate the area. Not the best work, but that was all that was available. Now, there is not much in the way of work around the town at all; most people commute to Greensboro or Burlington. There are few farmers left; many of them rich gentlemen “hobby” farmers.

Sometimes I think the South gets a bad rap; sometimes I don’t. For a long time I put the region down when talking with friends from other parts of the country. As I grew older, it slowly dawned on me that the “redneck” mentality is everywhere; Southerners just have that hick-sounding accent.

The recent release of the movie, The Monster’s Ball, has placed the issue of southern racism and ignorance front and center in our consciousness. Debate rages on Internet forums about just how bad it is “down South.” Have white people in the South really changed? Certainly the South still remains the “whipping boy” of the country, especially for educated Americans.

These questions are too complex for so short an essay, though I as I mentioned previously, I do see many positive changes for minority opportunities both in my former home town and elsewhere in the South. These are just some thoughts and experiences that I have been wanting to express for a while.

I write only from my experience of those times and places as a white boy growing up in a rural environment in the South. Perhaps this quote from the poetry of Claude McKay, an influential literary and political figure of the Harlem Renaissance sets the boundaries for white expressions--however personal and even tangential--of the black experience:

So what I write is urged out of my blood.
There is not a white man who could write my book,
Though many think their story should be told
Of what the Negro people ought to brook.

Copyright 2002-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Bread and Circuses

2010-07-08T18:26:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - August 12, 2003

It is hard NOT to write satire. ~Juvenal , Roman satirist, writing about the Rome of his time)

Every time I turn on the television these days, I cannot help but think of Juvenal. Yes, that's right, Decimus Junius Juvenalis, better known as Juvenal, an ancient Roman writer who lived in the 1st and 2nd centuries A.D. For those of you who are unfamiliar with him, he wrote some of the most biting, bitter satires of ancient or modern times.

I cannot help but wonder what he would make of the "lamest medium;" television is full of distracting programs that must have the great Roman satirist turning in his grave.
In Juvenal's time (55-127 A.D.), the Roman Republic was but a distant memory as the power of the emperors grew stronger and stronger. The once proud Senate that had witnessed the splendid orations of Cato and Cicero—dominated and weakened year after year by the succession of dictators—atrophied into a figurehead of an institution. However, Juvenal felt that the populace took the duties of citizenship far more seriously during the days of the Republic than in the virtual dictatorships of the Caesars
.
He lamented that "the people that once bestowed commands, consulships, legions, and all else, now meddle no more and longs eagerly for just two things — bread and circuses."

Those scornful words "bread and circuses," panem et circenses in Latin, become more meaningful when you understand that Roman citizens became increasingly addicted to free distributions of food and the violent gladiatorial and other contests held in the Coliseum and the chariot races of the Circus Maximus. He felt that Romans had lost the capacity to govern themselves so distracted by mindless self-gratification had they become.

Thus, bread and circuses, is a phrase now used to deplore a population so distracted with entertainment and personal pleasures (sometimes by design of those in power) that they no longer value the civic virtues and bow to civil authority with unquestioned obedience. Bread and Circuses has also become a general term for government policies that seek short-term solutions to public unrest.

Unfortunately, Juvenal's words apply quite strikingly to the United States, certainly a people who at the turn of the 3rd millennium are almost wholly distracted by cheap fast food (relative to other countries) and by the decadence of an entertainment industry that that deals so much in sex, violence and propaganda.

I wonder how our own mass distractions compare with those of Juvenal's era:
In ancient Rome, muscular men called gladiators (actually slaves from all parts of the empire) fought each other in front of thousands with swords and axes to the death. If they fought savagely and well, the emperor du jour might save the loser with a "thumbs up."
Hmm, muscular young men and women (many of whom are the descendants of slaves) contest for our allegiance in a complicated "box" while fighting desperately to overcome opponents and sell beer.

While the Romans threw Christians to the lions, we watch reality TV and watch young men and women devouring such appetizing concoctions as Pureed Centipede a la Mode or Black Pepper Grilled Scorpion with Grubs and Live Ants on the side.

Related to the prior bullet: Please note that for Romans who had eaten too much but who still wished to indulge themselves, there were "Vomitariums" available, rooms, where those feasting on delicacies superior than the ones mentioned above I am sure, lightly waved a feather against the back of their throats. . . Well, you get the picture.

Also playing on reality TV, more young men and women attempting to survive canoe trips on the Amazon without Off or other insect repellents while fending off hungry piranha and avoiding deadly snakes. Great fun! I sure do enjoy watching all that suffering.

We watch "electrons deify" dubious politicians into hero status while the economy worsens and matters of real nation security (such as our poorly guarded borders and mediocre safeguards for nuclear power stations) are ignored. I seem to recall that while Nero fiddled (actually more of a symbolic legend), no one paid much attention until the capital of the Empire started burning.

Viewed with a little distance, almost all television commercials are really satires of a low (certainly not high) order. I mean, really, who can watch those clips advertising prescription drugs without snickering. All those "feel good" scenes of couples playing on the beach or rolling around in grass without peeing or collapsing due to allergies are pure comic opera.

Now don't get me started on the television news! Ok, if you insist I will say just a few words. . .actually maybe only one: Condit. . .Now I know the man is not particularly likable maybe even somewhat reprehesible, but the media news--all of them but especially the "fair and balanced" one-- crucified the poor man in the court of public opinion. I seem to remember reading that in the United States we are innocent until proven guilty. For those of you not familiar with the "Roman Spectacle" that sometimes passes for TV news in this country, Gary Condit was a Democratic congressman from California who was investigated for the death of a politcal aide.
Disgracefully, the corporate news media gave the U.S. populace saturation coverage of this "non-event." Do you think it was a conspiracy to distract the people from various corporate accounting scandals and downright felonious actions of Enron et al? Who knows? Nevertheless, we were distracted!

Eventually the media feeding frenzy calmed down. Gary Condit was never charged with a in the death of Chandra Levy. Talk about the distraction of "bread and circuses!"

Which brings us to Jerry Springer. I am not sure there is a Roman correspondence here; the times being what they were, full of danger and intrigue, they probably did their best not to air dirty laundry in public (not always successfully, I fear). I just cannot see the Empress, Agrippina, getting up in the Forum and telling all about her adulterous escapades while her husband, the Emperor Claudius, waits offstage to be ushered into her presence where she confronts him and the assembled Patricians with her latest lover from the Praetorian Guard. (Though she did come close!)

Well, enough of this foolishness already! I do fear that Juvenal would probably be out of a job in the 21st century, since in our modern times we do not really need a literary genius of his calibre, only a humble scribe to write down the events of the day--epic or inconsequential--gleaned from the mass media, especially those on the small screen.
Yes, Decimus Junius, it is indeed hard NOT to write [down] satire in these times, in the midst of a civilization, whose people and (seemingly) its government are so consumed with panem et circenses, that it continually satirizes itself.

You probably would have liked Benjamin Franklin—our first great man of letters, and though not in your league as a writer of satire, was no slouch with words. Like you, he served human liberty. As the story goes, this exchange of conversation occurred as the now infirm 81-year old was carried out on a "sedan" from Independence Hall in Philadelphia on September 17, 1787 after he and the other 38 delegates had signed the Constitution:

"What kind of government do we have, Mr. Franklin?"

"A republic," the elderly statesman, writer and scientist replied, ". . .if you can keep it. . ."
Copyright 2003-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Back | Home | Up | Next

A Soldier's Christmas Memory

2010-07-08T18:15:00.000-07:00

It was the evening before Christmas Eve, and I padded along in my boots headed for the snack bar where I hoped to have coffee and conversation with my army buddies.
New fallen Snow covered the streets of Blakeman Caserne near Frankfurt, Germany and brushed with angel hair even the rows of battle tanks lined up like toys on the barbed wire enclosed concrete field that determined the northern boundary of the U. S. Army post. I noticed that the fir trees surrounding the small pond that was the heart of the Caserne were filled with drifts of white snow, almost but certainly not quite making even an army post into a magical place for Christmas.

Actually, the multi-storied, stone barracks and service buildings taken over by the U.S. Army's Third Armored Division after World War II still had a little of that look of a medieval fortress as it row after row of buildings marched up the hill. Were it not for the uniformed servicemen and soldiers on guard duty walking around, a visitor might have felt that he/she had truly returned to the Olde Country for the Holidays.

This was my third Christmas in Germany, and God willing, it would surely be my last. I was tired of the military life with all my decisions being made for me, had only contempt for the military pecking order with its artificialities of respect and classification, and had rather unsuccessfully not managed to sublimate my desires sexual or otherwise into a bottle.
However, there was an almost sacred comradeship that developed among soldiers, and even at twenty, I realized that I would probably not know such friendships again in my life.
I had also learned to love the beautiful land of Goethe and Schilling even while casting a cold eye on times past while visiting Zeppelin Field in Nurnberg where the ghosts of millions continued to scream.

While on maneuvers, gazing at the village lights tucked like jewels into the foothills of the Wildflecken or falling asleep beside pools streaming starlight in the Schwarzenwald near Stuttgart, I felt as if I lived in some labyrinth of magic and mystery. In my soldier's loneliness, I awaited only a sweet, flaxen-haired Ariadne, whose eyes would hold me fast in their blue depths until locked in dreamy armor, we at last followed her silvery threads through those misty corridors to what. . .something more wondrous and finer than hard steel and a landscape of olive drab.

Walking along lost in thought, I suddenly felt a tremendous slap on my back that hurt just a little also. I stumbled a little and turned to look around for Father Brewer, the only person I knew who would dare deliver such a blow to a young GI, a "trained killer." Indeed, I thought I saw his slight figure up a head, hunched down into his overcoat against the damp chill of the German night. I thought I could make out that deep chuckle of his in the distance also.
I suppose that I should explain that Father Brewer was noted for giving these great Zen-like "whacks" on the back. You would be wandering around the post lost in your own thoughts when suddenly you would feel one of these powerful slaps. I mean, I am not talking some little friendly tap on the shoulder. No, I am talking big, powerful soul-rattling whacks that totally filled your consciousness for a second or two. You could not deny such an experience.

"Just wanted to be sure you were ok!" he said to me one time. Having through some wonderful but mysterious agency been the recipient of several of these "whacks," I had noted that usually he just smiled at you while holding your eyes with his crisp, blue ones.

The effect of Father Brewer's engaging rather "Zen-like" whacks should not be underestimated. To this day I remember that deep look, that sense of compassion and, feeling as he had shared some deep, unfathomable mystery of God with me.

I looked up, caught a deep breath of starlight, and started hurrying to catch up with Father Brewer. Once or twice we had shared coffee and some pleasant small talk. Suddenly I wanted that cup of coffee more than anything in the world, more even than getting out of the Army or sharing a real Christmas with a real girlfriend.

I went into the PX and then entered the snack bar. I looked around for the Father. I even asked a friend who was sipping coffee with a group of other soldiers at a table near the entrance to the snack bar, if they had seen the Father enter. No one seemed to have seen him that evening though.

I did not learn the truth until the formation the next day.
Standing stiffly at attention with several dozen other headquarter's personnel, various clerks, medics (such as I), cooks and signal personnel, I listened to Captain Aves, the company commander say

"Many of you knew Father Robert Brewer. You also know that he was recently transferred to Vietnam. Be it known that he died yesterday while leading services in a small village near Saigon. I do not know any other details.

"Remember, men, though I want you to enjoy the holidays, we must always we remember that we are soldiers first. Always be prepared to be called back to base if necessary.
"Dismissed!"

Youth is such a time of black and white, right and wrong. Everything is such high drama; even real tragedy so often becomes a mere melodrama. I remember sitting with a beer in the room in the barracks that we medics shared. I stared through the window engaging the darkness, pondering the meaning of life and death until Taps was finally played, ending my attempts at playing roles of great sadness and profundity.

Of course, I will never wonder who actually gave me such a bone-rattling whack on the back on that evening near Christmas at the height of the Vietnam War; I know and do not really care if you believe me or not. I actually seldom saw Father Brewer as I was not Catholic and did not know that he had so recently transferred to take up a chaplain's post in Vietnam.

Looking out that window into the ensuing darkness, I gaze from that selfsame window even now, as dusted with age and grave beyond stars, I write these words.

I did get out of the Army, though I stayed in Europe for a while, eventually winding my way back home to finish college and marry and proceed down some more of life's seemingly endless byways.
It was there in Germany though that I began to see that there is a true self that is at once all beauty and heart and intelligence. You cannot hold it even as you cannot hold the wind or spread the stars, hold onto your youth or hold your true love without trembling.

You will know it one day when you open a door and are suddenly engulfed by a yellow morning. You will know it when the fire you are making springs to life or as you watch each ember die. You can come to know it with every breath you take. You will know it when you reach with care for someone. You will know it when you are aware of the movement of life and death within yourself.
I first knew it when a certain priest came up behind me and whacked me on the back so hard it jarred my self awake.

Editor's Note:Though this story is quite autobiographical, I consider it a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. There are many barracks in Germany called Casernes (also Kasernes), but "Blakeman Caserne" is fictionalized though modeled after a real caserne.

Copyright 2002-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

This site was last updated 07/08/10

Signed With Their Honor

2010-07-08T16:50:00.000-07:00

By Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101, June 19, 2002

I think continually of those who
were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light where the hours are suns
Endless and singing
--Stephen Spender.

An interviewer once asked Ernest Hemingway for his definition of a writer. Doubtless, the great artist and incomparable prose stylist answered this question many times in his celebrated life, but on this occasion, he thought for a few seconds and then replied that a writer is someone with a "built-in crap detector."

As a sometime writer, I like to think that I at least have the junior version of this inestimable machine. Thus, it is that my own "crap detector" goes off every time the media rolls out the hype whenever the latest celebrity passes on to the Great Publicity Agent in the Sky.
Inevitably, the celebrities are mostly movie stars, sports figures, politicians, or politicians' spouses. For instance, as much as I admired the baseball legend, Joe DiMaggio, his death, the same week, overshadowed remembrance of the great film director, Stanley Kubrick (2001, A Space Odyssey, A Clockwork Orange and many other masterworks of world cinema).

Overshadowed even more that week were probably the deaths of lots of less well-known mortals, who were perhaps too busy being helpful teachers, caring counselors, heroic firefighters or police officers, brilliant scientists, insightful writers or artists, or great parents raising amazing children to inconvenience themselves with the trappings of fame and fortune.

Sometimes the world seems exactly backwards from the way we think it should be. Indeed, we are always seeing everything reversed: After all, my right hand is your left hand from my point of view. Sometimes it seems as if the people who deserve recognition for their contributions to humankind never get that acknowledgment, while those of limited mind and spirit are all too often trumpeted by the media. Thus, we look up to hunks and "hunkettes" who play heroes and heroines or dress their bodies fashionably or who have refined the twin arts of double-talk and deceit to the most rarefied levels rather than less glamorous but more straightforward people living real lives as real heroes, real heroines.

I do not mean to be too hard on the movie stars, models and other celebrities. Sure, they have their place in our society. However, this essay is a celebration of all the great souls who are not great celebrities, who are not particularly famous, who are sometimes known only regionally or locally or often only within a small circle of friends, if at all.

Such people are sometimes formally called "mahatmas" in India (such as Gandhi). They are "great souls" or "great selves," and according to the The Occult Glossary by G. de Purucker are especially "called teachers because they are occupied in the noble duty of instructing mankind, in inspiring elevating thoughts, and in instilling impulses of forgetfulness of self into the hearts of men."

You could say in a more familiar way, I suppose, that angels are always among us in one way or another.

Of course, I could never recognize all the myriads of people who deserve gratitude and admiration in a mere essay, so out of necessity I must present a rather short list of those people who have actually touched my life. Think of them as surrogates in memory of the millions whose names and of whose accomplishments I know nothing.

I think. . .if not continuously. . .at least sometimes. . .of the following people--many of whom I have never met--who have touched my life in some profound way:
Raychelle Solomon, the visionary, who founded the Optimum Health Institute near San Diego, California. Thousands have visited her holistic living centers and have been helped with chronic diseases, such as diabetes, cancer, heart disease, and many other life-threatening conditions by adopting the natural healing modalities and lifestyle changes she advocated.
Margaret Wylie and Irene Johnson, my high school English teachers, who, like so many educators, cared enough about their students to look into their hearts and minds and minister to the individual needs and concerns of each child. I appreciate these patient souls who encouraged so many of us with words or smiles; who put up with our growing pains, and through untold frustrations loved us so unconditionally; and, who--probably far too often, I fear--sacrificed much of their own personal lives for the education for which most of us showed such scant appreciation at the time.

It is hard to believe that they have actually passed, and I so regret never quite getting around to writing those letters of appreciation that I intended to send to each one.

Richard Brautigan who became fairly well-known prior to his death at an early age. In my opinion he virtually invented a new literary genre with his surreal, comic, but oh so human novels and short stories, and insofar as I know, his novel, Revenge of the Lawn, contains the only known literary reference to my nickname. Thanks, Richard, wherever you are, for calling that little stream, "Tom Martin Creek" and for creating that genuine and highly original prose, which some critics have called, "the Brautigan."

Father Brula, U.S. Army Chaplain, who died in Vietnam. I knew him while I served in Gelnhausen, Germany. I would be walking down a street on the caserne when suddenly I would feel a powerful, bone-rattling whack on the back that always caused me to stumble a little. I would turn around, and there would be Father Brula, a rather nondescript little man, teeth chattering in the German winter with a tiny smile turning up the edges of his lips. "Just wanted to be sure you were ok!" he said one time. Usually he just smiled, and, yet, I felt as if he were sharing some deep, unfathomable mystery with me. I wasn't Catholic; I didn't even know him that well. He didn't patronize us like so many of the other chaplains, didn't wink or nod in sympathy with young men doing those things upon which churches usually frown, such as smoking and drinking ourselves into oblivion or chasing every woman in sight. When he held services, he just shared a simple message of living our lives as best we could in view of the god of our understanding. He was much respected and beloved among the soldiers on the army base.

As the years pass, I sure do miss those occasional whacks on the back. By the way, the sudden "whack-on-the back" is famous in the literature of Zen Buddhism; a "technique" whereby Zen masters literally attempt to increase the awareness of their students.

My late family doctor, who I only knew as Dr. Patterson. He was a surgeon in World War II, and the deep scars from the battlefields sometimes showed in nervous mannerisms. He practiced in our small town for over 40 years, often charging only modest fees or working out generous payment plans with the poor. He probably delivered hundreds of babies in his time, making house calls when children were running fevers. I remember his coming to our house and waiting in his car a bit for a downpour of rain to stop. Then, he came in and took my temperature, and for all his trouble and four-mile drive, finally advising aspirins and water to bring my fever down. Mostly he just reassured my nervous mother.

Thanks also for holding me up when I was a lad of eight or nine so that I could look through your microscope at those living blood cells.

The Peace Pilgrim though not well known is the exception to the rule, as she actually does have a monument or two erected to her. This great soul walked from 1953 until her death in 1981 on a journey for world peace. She walked until given shelter and fasted until given food. She carried little more than a toothbrush, a pen, a pad of paper and the clothes on her back.
During her pilgrimage she walked over 28,000 miles and touched the hearts and minds of thousands. Read more about the life and teachings of this inspiring person in a previous article entitled Peace Pilgrim.

You will find no monuments to these great souls, most are not listed in "Who's Who;" maybe a simple obituary, at most a few words spoken earnestly at a funeral listing a few highlights of a life well lived. With some skill and a good map, I am sure that you can find a headstone in a simple graveyard; most will have no epitaph.

So, thanks for bearing with me; I am sure if I had more time and space I could come up with many more examples, but being all too human, I forget so many of the great souls who have graced my life and the lives of so many others. They have no need for recognition for the part they played in designs grand and mysterious or merely commonplace of gods playful or profound. They are the ones. . .
. . .who in their lives fought for life
Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
Born of the sun they traveled a short while towards the sun,
And left the vivid air signed with their honor.
.
Editor's Notes: All the poetry quotations are from the poem, I think Continually of Those Who Were Truly Great, by Stephen Spender. You may read other poems by this 20th Century British poet at Bartleby's.

Copyright 2002-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Pillar of Salt

2010-07-08T11:18:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - March 26, 2003

And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been [in Sodom and Gomorrah]. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. ~Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

I read a lot of science fiction, and years ago became enamored with the short stories and novels of Kurt Vonnegut, especially Mother Night, Galapagos, and Slaughterhouse Five. I noticed that he always included in the short biography at the end of his books the statement that he ". . . witnessed the destruction of Dresden."

Vonnegut was an infantry scout during World War II and was captured on December 22, 1944 by the Germans during the Battle of the Bulge. Taken to the city of Dresden as a prisoner of war, his captors put him to work in a plant that made malt syrup for pregnant women.
The firebombing of Dresden, Germany on the night of February 13, 1945 which Vonnegut references, is one of the most controversial acts of the Allies during World War II. Dresden manufactured no munitions, was not an industrial or commercial center for the Nazis. There were no anti-aircraft emplacements to speak of.

The city was not even defended by the Luftwaffe at the time, as the German airplanes in t he vicinity were grounded due to lack of fuel. Yet, on this city renowned as a center of German architecture and culture, the Allies unleashed one of the most relentless and destructive air raids of the war.

During three waves of attacks, over 1,300 British and U.S. bombers dropped more than 3,300 tons of bombs on Dresden. Many of these bombs were incendiaries, filled with highly combustible chemicals such as magnesium, phosphorus and napalm. These incendiaries started a firestorm that sucked the oxygen from the air, causing temperatures to soar as high as 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit.

Strangely enough, the only likely military targets, some barracks in the city's north side and the rail yard (sometimes used to transport troops and materials to the Eastern Front) were left untouched.

Depending on whose version of the events you read, the raid killed anywhere from 35,000 to 135,000 civilians though some studies indicate the death toll may have been in excess of 250,000, more than were directly killed at Hiroshima or Nagasaki, more than were killed during the days of the Blitz in Britain. The influx of refugees that had fled into the city as the Red Army marched into Germany from the East in the months prior to the bombing had almost doubled the population and makes it difficult to derive a better estimate of civilian deaths.

What is certain is that there is little chance of escape from a firestorm, especially if there is a concentration of buildings and bombs to set off many huge fires rapidly. The air becomes super-heated and the rush of heated air upwards produces the characteristics and power of a tornado. Horribly, the winds are strong enough to pick people up and suck them into the flames.
From the eyewitness account of Margaret Freyer, a survivor of the catastrophe:

To my left I suddenly see a woman. I can see her to this day and shall never forget it. She carries a bundle in her arms. It is a baby. She runs, she falls, and the child flies in an arc into the fire. Suddenly, I saw people again, right in front of me. They scream and gesticulate with their hands, and then - to my utter horror and amazement - I see how one after the other they simply seem to let themselves drop to the ground. (Today I know that these unfortunate people were the victims of lack of oxygen). They fainted and then burnt to cinders.

From another eyewitness account published on the Memories Project website:

We saw terrible things: cremated adults shrunk to the size of small children, pieces of arms and legs, dead people, whole families burnt to death, burning people ran to and fro, burnt coaches filled with civilian refugees, dead rescuers and soldiers, many were calling and looking for their children and families, and fire everywhere, everywhere fire, and all the time the hot wind of the firestorm threw people back into the burning houses they were trying to escape from.
If Vonnegut had not been a prisoner, he might not have survived, but somewhat ironically he sheltered that night of the firestorm with other POWs in an underground meat locker.

Vonnegut emerged from the locker to find that Dresden looked as he later described it in Slaughterhouse 5, "like the moon."

He found the historic city pockmarked by bomb craters; its populace utterly decimated. According to Vonnegut, the city had the desolate look of the surface of the moon, barren and wasted, void of anything redolent of human life. Vonnegut, along with other prisoners, was forced to dig through the rubble to find the bodies of Dresden's men, women and children and carry them off to mass funeral pyres.

Vonnegut struggled for years to write about this event that he experienced as a young man. He was only 22 years old when it happened. Finally he returned to Dresden 23 years later in 1968 with a fellow former POW and found himself finally able to come to terms with that experience which he used in his landmark novel,Slaughterhouse Five.
Yet, this is not an assessment of the literary importance of Kurt Vonnegut though he is a fine novelist and original thinker in my estimation. Rather, it is a brief examination of the nature of war that leads to such excesses as the bombing of Dresden. . .what we now so pretentiously label collateral damage.

Of course, it can be argued that the destruction of Dresden is not collateral damage as the civilian population was bombed deliberately. In researching the history of this incident, one learns that the Allied High Command thought there were several strategic reasons to bomb the city.

Apparently, the leaders of the Allies, especially Churchill, feared the growing power of Soviet Union, who was invading Germany from the East, and thought that Stalin would be duly impressed with the firepower that United Kingdom, the United States and the other Allies could unleash. Thus, the Allies sacrificed the people of Dresden to throw a warning at Stalin and the feared menace of international Communism.

From an Internal Royal Air Force Memo from 1945 concerning Dresden:

The intentions of the attack are to hit the enemy where he will feel it most, behind an already partially collapsed front, to prevent the use of the city in the way of further advance, and incidentally to show the Russians when they arrive what Bomber Command can do.
I personally do not believe that the end justifies the means, and I do not believe in killing several tens of thousands of innocent people whatever the motive, even if they were citizens of a regime that engaged in the worst of war crimes, inhuman experimentation and mercilessly bombed London and other European cities.

I do not believe in the Old Testament's "eye for an eye" mode of human interaction, realizing that such behavior just makes everyone blind and more angry. That said, I do believe that if actually attacked, one must defend oneself.

However, my beliefs about the futility of war are not the point here. My point is that regardless of your view of war, whether you see a proper motive behind the firebombing of Dresden or not, whether you view any war (including the Gulf War II) as necessary or not, we must not forget just how horrible the reality of war really is. War usually represents a failure of nations to deal realistically (and firmly sometimes) with their conflicting interests and problems.

War is not just another violent video game as the images of bombers and missiles and explosions seen during television coverage of recent wars would seem to indicate. Screaming mothers and burning children sucked into the maw of a raging inferno, bombs falling on desperately fleeing civilians, metaphors of the enormity that was Dresden, that is the real war.

Like Vonnegut's insightful interpretation of the behavior of Lot's wife during another time of destruction, perhaps to be human is to look back and remember the destruction and loss of wars past. I like to think that Lot's Wife looked back in empathy as guided by the two angels, she and her husband and two daughters climbed into the mountains, with a heart heavy with concern for the people burning and dying in the desert below.

Perhaps, that Pillar of Salt that she became is really a monument to human compassion.

Author's Notes: Vonnegut has written such powerful often serio-comic novels as Mother Night, God Bless you, Mr. Rosewater, Galapagos, Timequake, Breakfast of Champions, Slaughterhouse Five, and many other noteworthy books. You may read more about the author—who is also quite an important visual artist—at The Official Website for Kurt Vonnegut.
If you found this article of interest, you may also want to read Traute Klein's fine, related articles that draw upon her experiences as a child in Germany during World War II: Email from Belgrade, Memories of 1945 and Kosovo Refugees, Memories of 1945. Traute is the long-time Contributing Editor for Natural Health and other Suite101 topics (Healing Hug, Kids Garden, Organic Gardening and Young at Art). I think we should pay attention when this fine writer and scholar tells us about the horrors of war from her own personal experiences.
Dresden, Germany celebrates its 800th year in June, 2006. More information about he beautiful city on the Elbe is available at the Dresden website.

I wish to acknowledge the resources of Education on the Internet and Teaching History and The Memory Project in researching this article. The exceptional Memory Project site has many eyewitness accounts of personal experiences during World War II.
Copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Site Meter

Real Gifts

2010-07-08T11:08:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - March 31, 2002

Many of us over a certain age remember where we were and what we were doing the day President Kennedy was assassinated. I likewise am of an age to remember that tragedy, but I also remember where I was at a much more positive event.
I first heard the old Shaker song, Simple Gifts, at a wedding that I attended on June 21, 1981 in Durham, North Carolina. On this date, the first day of the summer, a mature couple with whom I am friends renewed their marriage vows
.
Here are the verses:
'Tis a gift to be simple; 'tis a gift to be free; 'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be. And when we find ourselves in the place just right, Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gained, To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed; To turn, turn will be our delight, Till by turning, turning, we come 'round right.

The day of that wedding was an exceptionally beautiful summer day. I remember so well the brilliant, blue sky and balmy air fragrant with the scent of rose and iris. The wedding was held outside in the couple’s back yard, and was filled with so many good friends.
The day in itself was memorable for me, as I do not recall being in the presence of so many close friends ever again. Yet, that duet with those simple, beautiful words stands out for me as dramatically as purple clouds on the horizon at sunset.

Since that time, it seems that many life lessons have concerned learning--perhaps the correct word here is "re-learning"--the art and science of Simplicity. After all, as a small child I certainly lived simply and as freely as parental safeguards would permit. Like all children I did not burden myself with the trappings of society and the expectations of others. No, that comes a little later.

As a young child (under perhaps six or seven years), I climbed trees, splashed through puddles, and sometimes rolled in the mud for the pure, simple enjoyment of it. Rather like a hawk or deer or bear or flower, I did not burden myself (read worry) with such baggage as climbing corporate or academic ladders.

For that brief period of time, I did not worry whether people liked me or what was right or wrong; I was a priest unto myself; my dog was as much of a therapist as I needed. As much as I can remember, I more or less just lived, and eventually and inevitably (and necessarily, I suppose) learned to judge people as good or bad and value some objects and concepts over others.
So, in my view there is precedent for the simple life, the very personal experiences of early childhood that we all undergo. We all lived quite a simple, free life as we started down our path to learn about the vicissitudes of this earthly reality.

To me this childhood simplicity relates so much to spirit. So many mystical traditions (including the early Christians and Monastics, but especially the Zen Buddhists) speak of "de-learning" much of the arithmetic of thinking, of going beyond the preconceptions that we have developed over the course of our lives about the nature of reality. Most spiritual traditions celebrate the return to "heart of a child" as a necessary stage on the road to enlightenment. And a "little child shall lead them" the famous Biblical passage reads.

Maybe more simply put, it's just another passage into maturity. As life becomes more and more complicated with its jobs and progress and toothaches and relationships and the inevitable trips to the doctor, the therapist or the priest, it is easy to become disillusioned. Fumbling in the dark for the light switch of our lives, we suddenly see that what really matters is that we draw breath and love. The rest is so much rot.

Therefore, as I grow older, I have come to realize the importance of the sentiments of an old song from a less technological, though still burdened, age. Turning and turning on the lathe of life, baseless intellectual edifices and irrelevant possessions necessarily drop away because we cannot really fly spiritually with all those attachments to thoughts and things and people weighing us down.

Make no mistake about it: In my view this is a required course in life. Sooner or later we all jettison the excess baggage of life and not just at death either. It happens during our lives whether we like it or not, for our spirits want to be free. I believe all human beings have this simple need to be at peace with self and others and are drawn to put down their burdens. Look how many Christian hymns speak of laying one’s burdens at the feet of the Master.

Then, I suggest, we become truly supple spiritually. Is not flexibility of body, mind and spirit one of the goals of the profound physiological and spiritual traditions of Yoga and Tai Chi and of the shaman and the Native American Medicine Man among so many others?
Thus transformed, we can actually bow and bend in reverence of our real selves. In coming to value and live the truths of a simple life, we discover that we have been bestowed the other gift spoken of in the song, the gift of freedom.

Editor’s Note: Simplicity is really about finding out what is valuable in a life and then living that life in the perspective of those priorities. As I understand simplicity in the context of my own life, there’s more to the concept than just giving away possessions and living frugally (though that may be a part of simplifying one’s life also).

This article just took a quick look at some of the philosophical underpinnings of the Voluntary Simplicity movement and its relationships to the spiritual journey. I consider Simplicity an integral part of caring for the soul and will be writing future articles on the subject.
There are many helpful articles on Simplicity here at Suite101; just do a search. I would especially like to recommend Mari Alvig’s great site, Living Simply. Mari explores Simplicity from practical and theoretical perspectives. I have found her topic most helpful in my own spiritual growth.

Barbara Nicholson Bell, has written an excellent series of articles exploring Shaker beliefs and attitudes in the context of their famous furniture and craft designs for her great topic, Antiques and Collecibles. The first in the series is called, Shaker Furniture, Part 1: Faith in Form.

Additional Notes: Please note that this song, Simple Gifts, that has become fairly well known lately (since it was sung so beautifully at President Clinton’s first inauguration) is of Shaker and not Quaker origin as is commonly believed. Also, the opening lines are correct in stating “. . .the gift to be free [and] the gift to be Simple.” Often an “a” is substituted for the “the.”
Moreover, the song is often said to be of anonymous origin, but it was actually written by Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett, Jr. in 1848. Finally, it was considered by the Shakers as a “song” and not a “hymn.”

More information about Shaker music with related links is available from Simple Gifts.

Copyright 2002, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserve

This site was last updated 07/08/10

Loafer's Glory

2010-07-08T07:07:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published by Suite101: November 25, 2001

I loafe and invite my Soul;
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.
~Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I want to go back to Loafer’s Glory and have another cup of coffee in the small diner there, look out the windows at the wooded hills, maybe while away some time “just sittin,” as the mountain folk say. Watch the play of light and shadow on the mountains and perhaps discreetly observe the people as they come and go.

Loafer’s Glory is a wide place in the road in the mountains of western North Carolina. At last count less than a hundred souls live in the community, but at least there is a caution light marking the spot on NC Highway 226 where it it intersects NC 80 of this "gloriously" named town near the Tennessee border perhaps 50 or 60 miles west of Asheville.

As the young editor of a weekly newspaper in Mitchell County, I quite often passed through Loafer’s Glory on a country road that wound through the valley of the Estatoe River, and even in those tender years just after finishing college, I marveled at the name and stopped and had coffee at the diner several times. The diner along with a general store comprised the downtown of the village. At that time I certainly did not realize that the place name actually obliquely referred to one of the keys to the kingdom, to one of the key elements in caring for the soul.
As I have aged, married, divorced, remarried, careered, studied, re-careered, contemplated and meditated, I have come to a greater understanding of the idea of Whitman’s invitation to the soul set forth in the epigram and emphasized in my consciousness by the metaphor of Loafer’s Glory. A more familiar variation of Whitman’s line is found in the King James Version of the Christian Bible where the Psalmist says in Chapter 46, Verse 10, “Be still and know that I am god.”

I do not know about you, but sometimes I feel as if I am still really a teenager at heart; emotionally, I mean. Any day now I may turn seventeen. Like a teenager coming of age, I find that I still want to pour experiences into my soul. Too often I find my consciousness is turned outward. I am busy thinking about my job, my mate, our income, what’s on at the movies, the latest electronic toy, the news or indulging that great pastime that I am sure that I share with you, since it is the penultimate pastime of the human race; meaning worry, of course.
Sadly, as with so many humans, I only began to seek the inner experience as I faced crises in my life and with nowhere else to turn, finally turned inside. The aging process itself often brings a cynicism toward fulfilling oneself with empty material possessions and hollow mental chattel and for many impels a turn inward.

As Blaise Pascal, the French mystic writes in Pensees:
. . .I have discovered that all the unhappiness of men arises from one single fact, that they cannot stay quietly in their own chamber.

I have come to believe that one of the critical ingredients in living a beautiful life--in caring for the soul if you will--is to cultivate that stillness inside or as Whitman puts it so succinctly to “loaf and invite [the] soul.” Lao Tze, reputed author of the Tao Te Ching, the “bible” of Taoism wrote so eloquently about stillness:

The seed of mystery lies in muddy water.
How can I perceive this mystery?
Water becomes clear through stillness.
How can I become still?
By flowing with the stream.

In my own experience meditation has been the key to stilling my mind so that I can experience a greater awareness of the universe and myself. There are as many meditations as there are people I think sometimes. Far be it from me to say which one is right for you or if you need a teacher or if you even need to meditate. Experiences in my own life and with friends imply that some sort of quieting of the mind is necessary for everyone if knowledge of the true self is sought. Here are some links to help you in your investigation of meditation. There are also many great articles on meditation here at Suite101. Just do a search in the directory for "meditation."
I suppose a note is in order about the concept of “stilling the mind.” There is a saying in India and perhaps in other Asian countries as well that “the mind is a great servant but a poor master.” In this view the mind is considered quite accomplished at abstraction (that is with mathematics and language). Thus, it calculates and theorizes and figures things out so well, that we mistake it for the "master" when it is in reality the "servant."

Yet, what is behind the mind, what inspires us to delve deeper into the nature of reality with our mathematics and art and physics? To meditate is to quiet this chattering, conjecturing mind and experience the "master," the “mind behind the mind,” God, Allah, Krishna, the Great Spirit, Truth, "Sam" or whatever you want to call the creative force of the universe.
After I had meditated for a few years, I began noticing that at times I could just sit or lie and not need to do anything, including meditation. It just felt so good to be quiet and experience my breathing and myself; to be alive and truly aware of it. This is very hard to explain, perhaps impossible to understand if you have not experienced the quality of this encounter with the self.

In my view, the truth goes on and on seemingly infinite in nature as our true selves seem boundless, creating a myriad of worlds and creatures, yet ultimately simple in experience. A lighted candle held out to the wind is easily blown out; still the winds of the mind and experience the spirit burning bright.

Meanwhile, in Loafer’s Glory as elsewhere:
Sitting quietly, doing nothing,
Spring comes, and the grass grows by itself.

If as most mystics (and some physicists) believe, we are actually living timeless in the eternal present, I propose that aged Walt paid a visit to that simple diner in a remote but paradisal part of the world; ordered his coffee and apple pie and, brushing crumbs from his white beard and finally taking off that wide-brimmed hat, sat quietly for hours silently acknowledging the mountain folk so far away from "Mannahatta's" shores, and looked through the windows until purple shadows fell on the mountains and as he glimpsed some flash of truth, added that wonderful line to Leaves of Grass:

I loaf and invite my soul.

Editor's Note: I am not sure that any poet of any land has held so great a vision of a people and a country as does 19th century American poet, Walt Whitman. Most of his poetry is collected in his opus, Leaves of Grass. In many ways he is the soul of American democracy, extrolling the working people and the simple virtues of family and community but also with ample time for song and celebration. . .and of course loafing and spirit.
I have used the Native American name for Manhattan, Mannahatta, in which Whitman delighted, which he used throughout his work and it is the title of one of his most famous poems.
The full text of Mannahatta and links to other poems from Leaves of Grass are available from Bartleby.
Copyright 2002-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.

Paul Robeson. . .The Courageous Journey

2010-07-08T06:56:00.000-07:00

Author: Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101: February 1, 2003

The artist must elect to fight for freedom or slavery. I have made my choice. I had no alternative.
~Paul Robeson

Some individuals are so painfully ahead of their times. When coupled with genius they are the visionaries, singled out by God or some force of Nature to shatter the outmoded paradigms of their contemporaries. They are special incarnations, singular gifts from some aspect of God that we only dimly understand if at all.
I think of abolitionist John Brown, leading an idealistic, but premature rebellion against slavery; of Mozart being told by the Emperor Franz Josef that his music had "too many notes;" of Negro League baseball players Oscar Charleston, Josh Gibbs and Satchel Paige, playing before Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball, playing without the recognition that should have been accorded them for their outstanding abilities.
I think of Paul Robeson.
How did this outstanding individual, a true Renaissance man, so truly exceptional in so many ways become if not totally forgotten at least not fully appreciated for his outstanding abilities and powerful force of character? He was a world-class athlete, an All-American in football, a Phi Beta Kappa scholar who was valedictorian of his Rutgers graduating class, a lawyer, a renowned actor, a truly great singer, and a relentless fighter for the rights not only of African-Americans but of all men.
He was born in Princeton New Jersey on April 9, 1898, the youngest of five children, to Rev. William Drew and Maria Louisa Robeson. His father was a former slave who escaped to freedom at age 15, eventually earning a theological degree. His mother was a schoolteacher, the daughter of a line of free abolitionists, a heritage that included an English Quaker, Delaware Indian, and African Bantu lines.
It fell to him--as to so many of those rare individuals who are ahead of their time--to lead the way, especially in the performing arts and civil rights. He was like a frontiersman, one who comes before the settlers, who blazes the trails and maps the wilderness for those who come afterwards. Often he was a lone voice in the wilderness in those days prior to Martin Luther King, sit-ins, marches and the Civil Rights Act.
His wife, the former Eslanda Cardozo Goode, encouraged his acting, and he eventually joined the Provincetown Players in Rhode Island where his efforts came to the attention of playwright, Eugene O'Neill. He is remembered to this day for his performances in O'Neill's All God's Chillun Got Wings and The Emperor Jones. He was also renowned for his portrayal of the Moor in Shakespeare's Othello.
He appeared in several movies and is especially known for the role of "Joe" in both the stage and screen versions of Showboat., where he became identified with the song "Ole Man River." That song rendered in his powerful baritone sends chills down the spines of audiences even today. Robeson eventually changed the lyrics of the song to remove some of the stereotypical racial overtones when he sung it at concerts. For example, he rewrote the following verse, which you have probably not heard before, as it has been decades since it was sung that way.

Original Words:
Niggers all work on the Mississippi,
Niggers all work while the white folks play.
I gits weary and sick of tryin';
I'm tired of livin' and scared of dyin'
And Ol' man river, he just keeps rollin' along.
Robeson's Rendition:
There's an old man called the Mississippi,
That's the old man I don't like to be.
I keeps laffin' instead of cryin'
I must keep fightin' until I'm dyin'
And Ol' man river, he just keeps rollin' along.
Eventually Robeson became disgusted with the paucity of decent parts available for African Americans both on stage and in Hollywood and concentrated on his singing, eventually performing all over the world. He became more and more interested in learning the languages (He learned over 20.) and folk songs of other cultures.
In his autobiography, Here I Stand, he wrote that he "learned that the essential character of a nation is determined not by the upper classes, but by the common people, and that the common people of all nations are truly brothers in the great family of mankind." Thus, he began singing spirituals and other folk songs as he found that "they, too, were close to my heart and expressed the same soulful quality that I knew in Negro music."
Nathan Irvin Huggins, writing in an article in the Nation, expresses best the importance of this discovery to the complex figure and multi-talented person that was Paul Robeson:

[Robeson] found the finest expression of his talent. His genuine awe of and love for the common people and their music flourished throughout his life and became his emotional and spiritual center.
After extensive tours of the Soviet Union in the 1930s, he became an advocate of Communism, as he saw a kinship between the serfs of Czarist Russia and oppression of African Americans. By the late '30s, he had become a vigorous opponent of racism. He lent his prestige to crusades against lynching and refused to sing before segregated audiences. He petitioned Congress to legislate against the racial barrier in baseball that had kept so many talented black athletes out of the major leagues.
After World War II as the enmity between the United States and the Soviet Union grew into the Cold War, Robeson's advocacy of Communism and leftist politics in general left him a victim of McCarthyism. Among many things, they questioned his trips to the Soviet Union, support of picketing against the segregation of black actors and his efforts to organize Panamanian workers.
At Congressional hearings In 1946 he first denied under oath that he had ever been a member of the Communist party then rescinded that denial in another inquiry. His passport was revoked by the State Department in 1950. Although he was awarded the Stalin Peace Prize in 1952, he was unable to leave the country to claim it until 1958.
His activism and leftist leaning came at an even greater price for his career though. For example, a riot prevented his giving a concert in upstate New York. No agents would book him for concert tours. When he published his autobiography in 1958, the New York Times and the New York Herald-Tribune refused to review it.
During the McCarthy hearings a Congressional committee asked him why he did not stay in the Soviet Union since he admired its government so much. He replied:

Because my father was a slave, and my people died to build this country, and I am going to stay right here and have a part of it just like you. And no fascist-minded people will drive me from it. Is that clear?
In the end he entered a kind of socio-political exile in his own country, becoming a forgotten man in the 1960s and 70s. This pariah status probably contributed to his growing health and emotional problems. His disconnection with his audience and some friends led to depression, and he tried to commit suicide twice.
Harry Belafonte, the famous singer, became good friends with Robeson. Realizing that his friend could have chosen an easier life for himself, Belafonte asked Paul near the end of his life if all his struggles had been worth it? Paul Robeson's reply is timeless and is enlightening for every single soul who has drawn or will ever draw breath on this planet:

Harry, make no mistake: there is no aspect of what I have done that wasn't worth it. Although we may not have achieved all the victories we set for ourselves--may not have achieved all the victories and all the goals we set for ourselves, beyond the victory itself, infinitely more important, was the journey.
In 1973 at the celebration of his 75th birthday, Coretta Scott King remarked in Carnegie Hall about the importance of Robeson to the Civil Rights Movement. She said that he had been "buried alive" for fighting for freedom and dignity in those decades before the movement gathered momentum.
Paul Robeson died of a stroke in 1976. What a powerful and courageous journey it was.
Editor's Notes: I would like to acknowledge the following web sites which I used in researching this article:
Rutgers University
Paul Robeson Home
Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.