Play the Reincarnation Game

I'm an atheist. That should be no surprise for anyone who knows me. I dabbled a little with religion and found I had very little interest in any of those belief systems I tried to understand and incorporate into my world. I got a little closer to spirituality, thinking for a while that it was the organization and structure of religion that stood in the way. That really didn't work out either, but I did learn to appreciate benefits of seeing humans as part of something larger. It fit well with my understanding of environment, evolution and belief that we are, indeed, part of the web of life. Many trips to the wilderness and maybe a little bit of time spent under the influence of things that allowed me to believe in things that can't really be seen may have helped a little there as well. But in a life where I've celebrated with family and friends the same music and food and sporting events and politics and concern for the welfare of others managed to illustrate that there are common bonds that humans share.

But all of that is just prologue to the point, if there is one, of this note. While wandering the world of Eastern religious belief it's not unusual to run into the concept of reincarnation. Buddhist teaching tell us that we are on this wheel time and time again as we attempt to improve our soul and earn our ticket off. Reincarnation isn't a reward, but a continuation of the struggle not being able to attain Nirvana or a real understanding of the nature of existence. Some would suggest struggle is the wrong word, but for those who feel they've come to understand why we exist and what the purpose of life actually is, they would have to be pretty convinced they were being punished when they are sent back to ride the wheel around one more time. Now I'm not going to claim I have any insight on what the ride is all about. However be sure to keep your head and arms inside the ride at all times, just to be safe. I'd be a bigger liar than I already am if I didn't admit I've had times when I've thought about the possibility of reincarnation. It is an interesting concept. Normally we play with it, not as a way to evaluate how we are progressing spiritually toward that ultimate understanding of reality but more as a wishful exercise in how we may become immortal. By the way, that desire for immortality will probably get you back on the wheel again, so if you are looking to get off, stay away from that one.

I don't understand all the dynamics, conditions and limits to reincarnation, but as I said there have been times when I've explored a possible future path that included various additional spins around the old cosmic block. It's actually quite a fun game to play, sometimes. At least until you get to that part where you have to acknowledge the realities of life, regardless of circumstance, gender or species. If you take it past the purely superficial where the future you is a super-model, leader of your favorite NFL franchise, extremely wealthy entrepreneur, lion or wolf. Of course I left out the sickly child born into poverty in the slums of Lagos, Mumbai or Los Angeles, the starving dog on the streets of Tijuana or the lab rat. None of us has done so poorly to end up in any of those situations, right? And we ignore the fact that those first picks will also suffer and die, maybe the super-model will have organ failure from the years of not eating properly, the athlete might end up with early dementia from repeated head injuries, the entrepreneur suffering from liver failure and the lion and wolf scraping to find enough to eat in a depleted and altered habitat or maybe end up in a poorly run zoo. Not really the kind of fun we think about when we play the old reincarnation game, so I won't talk about any of those things.

My fantasy has a few steps in it and somehow they all keep me in this region. So play along with me as I plan something well beyond my control as I make a few draft picks in the Fantasy Reincarnation Lottery, first up, next life will be a raven;

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_raven - the one after that coyote;

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coyote - and then bristlecone pine tree;

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bristlecone_pine

Of course all of these may end up having their lives changed by climate change or other more direct human behaviors. But the image of a raven gliding along, wingtips inches from slot canyon walls, croaking and pinging above the heads of hikers has stayed with me for quite a while. Studies suggest they are an intelligent bird, crafty in it's own way and I'd like to think it has a bit of a sense of humor. Coyotes padding along, trailing a herd of deer or looking for handouts near a rest stop in Death Valley, then singing at the moon later in the night also has a slightly romantic image in my mind. The day to day focus on survival for the individual and genetic drive to preserve the species would be a nice extension beyond politics, entertainment and self-awareness. Then the stability and amazing longevity of the bristlecone pine would give a reincarnated soul plenty of time to search for that key to the universal off-ramp. And evidently I'm not the only one with that thought, take a few minutes, relax and listen to the song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gTu18pgDwY .

So there you have my preferred path for the next several incarnations, but I understand the forces that govern the Karmic recycling process pay little attention to what we say, only what we do. Given my transgressions, weaknesses, lack of faith and unwillingness to change away from comfortable patterns may end up keeping me on the wheel as a human, housefly or Pomeranian for a few more turns. Hell, with my track record I'll probably come back as a member of congress. Maybe I'd better start working harder.   

Too late to submit

NPR Weekend Edition has an occasional contest called 3-minute fiction.  Not fiction you can write in 3 minutes, but can be read that quickly.  Basically it's a 600 word story based on a prompt they select.  This time was a piece based on a president and I decided to enter.  Unfortunately I looked at the September 23 as the deadline and read it as September 28 and did the final edit on the story just a few days late.  Since I couldn't submit it there I offer it up here to anyone who has the stomach to face another piece of my fiction.  ===================================

The Crowd Gives Bill A Hand

The Secret Service agent blinked and felt the normal knot in his stomach twist tighter than usual as President Clinton, held aloft by thousands of willing hands, floated over the audience smiling and waving. A second agent attempted to follow the president into the crowd only to have them move aside. He crashed to the pavement and when he stood up was sporting a bloody gash on his forehead that would require stitches.

Clinton had been in rare form on this trip and today his speech roared and soared as he addressed mostly students assembled outdoors on the Columbia University campus. He had discussed the economy and foreign policy and was beginning to ad lib as he ignored his secretary who was pointing at his watch.

“We seek balance.” He looked at their young faces and wished that it hadn't been so long since he was still trying to decide if growing a mustache was a wise choice. “You all look pretty bright to me, I don't need to explain yin and yang.” He waited for the applause to die down a little. “It's not opposites, it's not the idea of competition but completion. A duality that exists as a whole. Market forces and regulation, military might and compassionate service, freedom and responsibility, even Democrats and Republicans.” They laughed and before they could finish he carried on. “Although I think we could use a few more Democrats down in Washington these days.”

He took the microphone from the lectern, held it in his hand and started to pace the stage. “You know, that's what I'm all about, not the Democrat and Republican thing but analyzing the entire system as we look for what's missing to complete the picture. When we find it, it's the most logical thing in the world. Sometimes it's making sure children have health insurance and sometimes it's the guy who thought to add marshmallows to rocky road ice cream. It makes us smile not just because it's the right thing but because it fills a glaring hole in our world.”

As they yelled and applauded Clinton looked beyond the crowd toward the edge of the campus. It was a beautiful fall day with a light breeze blowing in over the crowd so he was catching the smells from them and the city. His sense of smell had always been exceptional and he'd joked more than once that if Republicans had smelled as good as Democrats he would have been on the other side. Today it was cinnamon, sandalwood, sweat, perfume, pot and fainter smells, probably from Broadway that included asphalt, curry and hotdogs. Somehow it reminded him of the little places where he could get a cold beer and inexpensive seafood when he studied at Georgetown.

“We need to be looking for those holes that exist for those we serve. On the other hand, we can admire those places where nothing is missing and we're all working together, on the same wavelength, like this crowd. I have a lot of responsibility and you have a lot of freedom and that's a balance we can share. You can help me today.”

He put the microphone back in the holder and returned to the edge of the stage where he spread his arms, pointed toward Broadway and fell toward the crowd. Before the Secret Service could react he was on his way toward the street wondering why he smelled so much beer in a 10 AM crowd and wishing old saxophone players could be in punk rock bands.

Metal, glass and plastic ephemera

Ephemera often connotes a notice on paper, not intended for a long life. A flier for a concert, a poster intended to be stapled to a telephone pole or a leaflet intended to provide a bite-sized bit of education on an issue all come to mind. However our society has created much more than paper that seems to fit the bill. Electronic posts and artwork zap in and out of existence in less than a wink of the eye. Some if it is archived, if only by it's creator, and some ends up in tedious blogs (not unlike this one). These archives will survive until the next great electro-magnetic pulse smooths out the wrinkles in all the electronic brains exposed to that powerful eraser.

Recently, I encountered another form of ephemera in Las Vegas. Signs have surprisingly short life spans as businesses whirl and spin their images in that highly competitive market. Many of these signs have value on a number of artistic and cultural levels. Without a doubt, these signs are one significant example of what Las Vegas means to many of us. While the image you bring up may be of gambling, attractive people, a plethora of adult entertainment and even fun, often the first impression we have are the lights and signs. Sometimes if we arrive in the area after dark, it's the glow of the lights on the horizon for a half an hour or more before we reach the crest of the hill and begin our glide into the valley. Our eyes drifting from the road to the amazing spectacle of light radiating from Downtown and along The Strip. The stars and the moon are no longer important or even visible. It's all we can do to keep our eyes on the highway, the spectacle is so much an attractant. It can't be pushed away and draws us in, surprising us by how long it takes to get there. That focus of power in the middle of a bowl of street and house lights is so powerful that it seems closer than it actually is. When we finally get there we are assaulted by not just the lights but by sound blasting from speakers everywhere and crowds of people all being changed in one way or another by this environment of over-stimulation. Charles Ives and John Cage might both be overwhelmed by this city with a constant and unavoidable soundtrack.

Along The Strip and Downtown we see light displays that are beyond anything found in almost every other city in the world. This is changing as casinos and their particular form of libertine signage are finding new homes all the time. Others are adopting it as they can or feel the need, making the designers and manufacturers of these displays very happy and wealthy. This is particularly true as they find the need to upgrade their signs either to new technology or just to compete with neighbors. We have seen the change from incandescent bulbs and neon to light emitting diodes. The technology has advanced from static displays that were limited to lights flashing on and off to video screens the size of buildings that are not limited to just the nighttime to be effective. Now it's 24 hours a day and the message can be changed in a breath to make sure the already distracted viewer has even more options. But what of the old signs that have served so well, but must be replaced if the business expects to be respected in this market place of attraction and desire? There are those who seem to love the old stuff, even if it's only 20 or 30 years old. Artists and engineers spent months developing some of these creations. They were pieces of wall art, stand-alone wonders and architectural designs that represent the brief history of an often despised, but fascinating city. Just as much as the original mobsters, entertainers, lever pull wheel slot machines and showgirls, the signs are symbolic of Las Vegas. An effort has been made to save some of them in an attempt to document that element of history. Right now the collection is in it's infancy. Some of the pieces have been saved and restored, put back on display for people to admire, even if they don't recognize what it is they are seeing. Other pieces have been saved and are in long term storage at the Neon Boneyard in the dry desert air of Las Vegas. A trip to the north end of Las Vegas Blvd and a few dollars less than you would drop in one-armed bandit will get you a taste of that metal, plastic and glass ephemera. Walk around with a guide who will provide more background that you can absorb in the hour long tour, but soak it in anyway, because that rust is part of our collective bloodstream.

The swirls and lines, channels and broken lights in dirty sockets are waiting for attention. Samples of all types of sign are being saved. From painted signs, roadside directional signs, marquee, sculptural and architectural additions from each era of this city are being sought and saved. Their history, including the name of the designer and the company that manufactured the sign are being documented. And each sign they collect is being placed in a context that will help us understand not just the history of Las Vegas or signs, but the history that effected the signs in their design and construction. The long-gone Moulin Rouge opened a door that ended segregation by race in Las Vegas and the Stardust and others used their signs to embrace the open air testing of atomic bombs over the mountains to the north. The signs tell many stories and shed light in places they were never intended. Maybe that will eventually pay off as we begin to better understand ourselves and our relationship to that sparkling and immensely gaudy jewel lying there in the dry desert.

All I Want For Christmas

What do you want for Christmas? I really used to like that question and now I don't like it at all. Not one bit. New toys or technology or gear or tools used to satisfy that question. Hell, even clothing worked from time to time. There are presents I received for Christmas that I cherish or appreciate to this day. My Kenner “Bridge and Turnpike, Panel and Girder” building set was the greatest toy, ever! I was maybe 11 or 12 when I got that set and became, for a while at least, a budding engineer. The reality of understanding the math and physics of real engineering had yet to become a known and I was able to build anything in the kit and create even more. I built the suspension bridge that stood nearly 2 feet tall and more than filled the card table. I had to redesign the New Jersey side approach to include an extra turn of it would have required I move the family off the kitchen table.
Speaking of the kitchen table. Remember, I was 11 or 12 and had too much unsupervised time on my hands at that time. Following the process of discovering how heat changes the strength and stability of these plastic girders, I also found that heat not only rises, but radiates out and down as well. Once I had finished my tests, extinguished the flames and began the cleanup I had one of my first real “Oh Shit” moments. The heat had burned a hole in the gray Formica table top. It was right where my mother would sit for her meals. After a little well done panic, running around with my hands in the air saying things my mother didn't know I knew how to say, I revisited the arson scene. A place mat wouldn't do since the edges of the burn were slightly raised and we didn't use them anyway. A review of the situation once I'd cleaned up the best I could revealed my solution. Turn the table around! The other end of the table always had the Lazy Susan with the napkins, salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowl and a few bills or letters. To the best of my knowledge it had never been otherwise.
It looked perfect. The apartment had aired out sufficiently that there was no obvious trace of the toxic smoke by the time Mom got home and I figured I was in the clear. Now I had until after high school graduation and a job to worry about the final solution. If I was living somewhere else and sent home a brand new table and chair set it would be a great gift and we could laugh over what an idiot I had been back when I was just a kid. What I didn't realize was my mother did things that 11 or 12 year-old idiot boys didn't comprehend, like when she cleaned the table, she moved everything out of the way. So instead of having 6 or 7 years to work on the problem I had until the next Saturday morning. I won't go into details, but believe me it wasn't pretty from my point of view. She probably didn't have much fun with it either, but I was pretty focused on my experience at the time and failed to appreciate her emotional investment at the time. Unfortunately there would be more of that before I could appreciate the parental view of this kind of situation. I learned a few things other than engineering and thermodynamics that week and surprisingly, I still have a bit of a handle on some of them as well as the the building kit. Maybe I'll dig it out for a grandkid to use one of these days. Maybe I'll pass one or two selected lessons on.
So back to the original question, what to say when someone asks what I want for Christmas. Everything that matters now seem to be in others hands. I want my wife to be healthy once again and not have cancer lurking in the background, leaning in on every plan and decision we have to make, every trip we take and every photo we take with loved ones. I want my children to be successful and happy, independent and making us proud with their smiles and stories of accomplishment. I want their kids to be the same. I want the same for the rest of the family and my friends, you all deserve it, really you do. All that helps make me happy, almost like I have some control over those situations and conditions from afar. I have a rich fantasy life, so if something good happens for someone I care about after I've suggested they deserve it, I will take some credit.
And for me, personally? Time. Control over my time would be nice. Not the kind of control where I can move back and forth from today to 1847 where I'd suggest to Brigham Young that the Tooele valley would be a better place for his city. The kind of control that leaves me time to write and post stuff more frequently than every 5 months. The kind of control that leads to a bit more time camping with friends or traveling with my bride or even sleeping in the afternoon if it's needed. Time to watch movies or go to galleries or casinos and just look at stuff and people and breathe and smile at how wonderful all of this can be. Oh, and I'd like to hit the Powerball, see more Major League baseball games have Democrats win a lot more Utah elections and have the Jazz win the NBA championship too. Now Santa, you know what I want, so get to work. Okay?

Desolation Canyon

Travel on the river is unusual in many ways for me. I've always moved about on land and occasionally by aircraft. My time on the water is limited and most of that has been on sail boats for part of a sunny afternoon. Trips to the backcountry that require sleep have always been either car camping or backpacking trips. In the car camp trips we have a base camp that stays the same as we wander about during the day and return to the comfort of the base for drinks, food, entertainment and sleep. Backpacking is so dependent on the limited weight I can carry that the minimal comfort and luxury quotient has to be balanced by the beauty and isolation factor. It's really simple math once you get used to it, a kind of camping calculus where even the constants are variable, but fortunately they are within acceptable and predictable ranges. On rare occasions something goes out of whack and you are left nursing blisters, sore muscles, confused egos and empty water bottles. But those times are well outnumbered by the unexpected and soul-soothing beauty of a wild sunset, a meadow of wildflowers or a rock wall so full of color that they would challenge the ability of an Elliott Porter or Paul Gauguin to capture or John McPhee to describe or explain. And I challenge the stars of the Food Network to prepare meals that would better fit the occasion or satisfy hungry rafters.

River trips invite comfort, luxury and even extravagance at times while fostering the same leave no trace philosophy and isolation that backpacking does. This type of travel leaves plenty of time for social interaction, a significant difference from backpacking where we are strung out in a single line of hikers, each dealing with the trip in their own way. We gather in clumps at breakfast, breaks and dinner for quality social time but much of the travel time is solo. On a raft we are sitting next to our fellow travelers and able to observe, point and discuss without fear of falling over or losing the trail. There is a continual opportunity for socialization and shared experience as the raft moves through rapids or past a particularly interesting site. The massive amount of material that is carried requires teamwork to set up the shared part of camp, the kitchen in particular. That team effort makes it happen quickly and if there are no other demands, the social environment is reestablished in short order. If there are other demands for the members of the trip, and there were on this trip, they can begin shortly after the rafts have been beached for the evening. Work is shared, so a majority of the folks are able to carry about with their business while a small group is engaged in setting up the kitchen, the bathroom and preparing dinner.

Wait for another paragraph to roll by before I get to the comfort and luxury stuff, because this was a work trip. The rationale for being there in the first place was work. Well, maybe the beauty and fascination offered in that canyon inspired the quest for work there, regardless of the chicken and egg argument, it was a work trip none the less. Read the details elsewhere by those who know and understand better what we saw and recorded. This was archeology. The trip was sponsored by the Bureau of Land Management in their effort to identify and document the cultural resources on lands they administer. The particular resources we were charged with finding were those of the Fremont era people who lived in this set of canyons 800 or more years ago. Rock art, structures and tools are all preserved in the area and they are one of the things that draw people to the river and the canyons. However, over the years many of those resources have been damaged or removed, leaving the record of the Fremont people cloudy and obscured by more than time and the lack of formal records. Every site identified and documented by professional archeologists adds something into that modern record that may eventually allow for an understanding of what life in these canyons was like. Once we know that past, it may shed light on how we need to deal with the canyons now and in the future. It's one more place that may be “loved to death” if we don't understand what we are dealing with, so extraordinary efforts like this are critical in providing managers the information they need.

Each raft has a very large cooler that is packed full of ice and perishables at the beginning of the trip. There are also large metal dry boxes filled with food and anything else you might need to cook with or otherwise used to enhance a long summer evening in camp. There were a great variety of both food and drink to savor and share. We carried tables, chairs, a fine kitchen, awnings, and the raw materials to create a very comfortable setting each evening in a great camp site on the river and under the amazing rock walls of the canyon. The kitchen was the first thing to be set up followed by the conversation circle of chairs that would be the focal point of the camp for the remainder of the evening. We laughed, we listened, some played music and some of us tried to sing along, it was all good. Discussions ranged widely and were always entertaining. Each member of the trip has a couple of river bags that are coated with waterproofing and contain their tent, pads, sleeping bags, clothes, books, cameras, guitars and anything else they believe might be needed. Of course all of this is subject to the most basic travel fallacy, that we can plan for everything. There was one small issue. While we were prepared for mosquitoes no one knew we would be facing an epic gnat infestation on the river. Some of the crew were very attractive to these little guys and they feasted extensively on those poor folks. I was fortunate in being pretty to look at, but unappetizing and suffered only a few bites.

On the raft we felt the gentle rolling of the river and even in most rapids there was little sense of forward momentum and more the movement of the river under our craft. The first day was motoring as we lashed the rafts together in groups of three and ran a small outboard motor to speed us downriver. After that it was the river and human power through oars that directed our party where we needed to go. The river is powerful and is not into negotiation, so the pilot needs to find the best line to avoid hazards or eddies that curl backwards, trapping the unwitting in quiet pools as the rest of the party moves along. Rapids hide rocks and provide places to trap or even flip boats that are not properly directed. We were splashed, bounced and on the new, and becoming infamous, Cow Swim Rapid, we pioneered a route that required skill, strength, communication, faith and a little bit of luck to keep us upright. It was interesting that after the run Andy decided to tell us that it was the first Class 5 rapid he had done in a large craft. He didn't want us to be worried in advance. I guess he didn't notice how white my knuckles were as I grasped the rope and crouched in the bow of the raft as we approached the foaming, spitting, growling rapid.

Although Andy did most of the rowing, both John and I got a chance to manage the boat on both smooth and splashy water. John did better than I in the rapids, and both of us felt better and more confident after the trip than we did going in. It was another learning experience and the kind I like, those without disasters that drive home the point that had been missed. The crew was steeped in education and it would have been impossible to not learn about rafting, archeology, the Fremont, the history of the canyon, music, politics, other rivers, politics, policies and river management among so many other topics. We shared the beauty of the canyon as it rained diamonds or saw it lighted through a honey or a whiskey filter.

Those rafts were time machines that took us to places where portals opened and we could at least look at the evidence of a hard life and share a vision of life 800 years ago. The companionship was excellent and the company of those from the past and those who shared the boats during that week will be well and long remembered. I left the river with an eye open for a used raft, knowing that it probably won't happen. But that's how a good trip should work, like a performer who ends the show leaving the audience wanting more, the river needs another and another visit before I'm satisfied.

More photos can be found at: http://picasaweb.google.com/neville.orange/DesolationCanyon2010#

Confusion isn't all bad

This morning our house phone rang with a caller id we didn't recognize. Usually we let these go to the answering machine, particularly if they seem to have that feeling associated with scam. We got pretty good with those back when three out of four calls to our house were to offer me an extension on my car warranty. You know, they were worried that I would need service on the 1973 pickup truck or on my 1992 Jeep and the manufacturers warranty might have just run out. Occasionally I'd talk to them in an attempt to use up all the minutes on their throwaway cell phone, it was the least I could do. The call this morning was local, our area code, so it could be someone attempting to collect money. Still another good reason not to answer the phone. But I was just getting around to that first cup of coffee and wasn't at my best, so I picked up the handset.
“Hello?”
“Dave?”
“Yes?”
“This is Tori, how are you?”
“Tori? I'm sorry but I'm drawing a blank. I'm trying to remember you and can't.”
“Dave Barnes?”
“I'm sorry, you have the wrong Dave.”
A few more embarrassed pleasantries and the call was ended. It was a call for Dave, but not this one and for a few moments I was very confused. Now I've been confused before. In fact, there have been times when the level of my confusion was nearly Olympic. I usually wander around with an odd look on my face, not really sure what is going on and often not caring either. In those greatest moments I could have managed to infect on the law of gravity the question of not just “up/down” but wouldn't sideways be an option as well. This morning was minor confusion, quickly and easily resolved. It was the unintended side effect of the call that interests me. In much less time that it takes to brew and drink a cup of coffee I was fully awake and thinking clearly. The cloudy feeling of confusion had been blown away as I struggled to figure out who the hell Tori was. Evidently I'd been given a shot of the brain equivalent of adrenaline and I was up to speed. So much that after my cup of coffee I was taking on tasks that I'd been very successful in procrastinating for quite some time.
This was amazing and I'd love to find a way to duplicate the effect, without having to talk to Tori or answer the phone if I can avoid it. It was the unexpected that I confronted and it cleared my mind. Inspector Clouseau had his trusted Kato to attack him at any time in order to keep his self defense skills at their peak. A master provides a koan to the student as an aid to finding that moment of clarity and zen. Kids are constantly confronted by the unexpected and it's during those years they experience the greatest growth in knowledge they will have in their life. Of course dementia patients are exposed to the unexpected on a daily basis and they don't seem to enjoy the growth or clarity seen by the others I've mentioned. But their confusion is from a very different set of circumstances and maybe it isn't the best example here. At least I hope it isn't.
It is a daunting challenge to find a way to be confronted by the unexpected on a regular basis. The very nature of scheduling a chance to be exposed to an unexpected event or problem is self-contradictory. It's kind of like Steven Covey suggesting you put a block of time in your Franklin planner for some spontaneous creative activity. This is more of a koan than a time management suggestion if you ask me. What is the sound of one hand clapping pales in comparison to the modern concept of scheduling some spontaneity. I guess I'll just try to wake every morning with a mind clear of preconceptions. I will expect to make coffee and plan to avoid spilling hot liquids on my body.
The day can come to me in spurts or flow like an old meandering river, washing me up on the bank for a new adventure or just a little rest. It's all good and it seems that after looking at the whole mess, a little bit of confusion can be a good thing.

The Origin of Neville Orange.

It was 1971 and I was living in a tiny apartment on Center Street in Salt Lake City with my friend John. I'd been learning cartography but studying underground comics. H.D. Roberson had shown me a simple way to draw a face and I took it from there. The idea of actually taking a class to learn how to illustrate wasn't even considered. In fact, I didn't think anyone would ever see any of the images I created. They were for my amusement initially, but the character that sprang out of those images took on a life and character of his own. Dan O'Neill had produced a wonderful series of simple cartoons titled "Odd Bodkins" and I loved the simplicity of the design and strange humor in his stories. His things were much better and can be found on the web. I recommend going there now and forgetting this exercise.

My character was a round fellow with hiking boots and derby hat. No arms, legs or other appendage were needed because he was all about attitude. Charming but cynical, Neville Orange was born on my drafting table and found his way onto paper, restroom walls and finally now off into cyberspace. This is probably where he was headed all along, I just never knew it at the time.

In his first and longest adventure Neville takes his ward, all super heros had wards to train and possibly to abuse for their own pleasure, on a trip to visit Mr Sun. I know, it's odd. But remember this was 1971 and I was probably under the influence of a culture where experimentation was expected and Art was a kid I knew in elementary school.

My "studio" was probably a blank door set up on cinderblocks to serve as a desk. Light came in through a couple of small, dirty casement windows that had been painted shut. The stereo was a KLH and my pride and joy. We had my records, John's records and a bunch that had been left with me by a friend of my first roommate when I bought his record player. He didn't have anywhere to store them and no way to play them, so I had them on long term loan. He got them back about 2 years after that but they had given us plenty of enjoyment. I might have been listening to British blues or maybe a live album by a San Francisco band as I worked.

Why did the Sun have a Fu Manchu and John Lennon Glasses? Why did he have a mouth? If I could answer that I would. It seemed pretty neat at the time and I still kind of like it in a dated anachronistic hippie way.

Neither Neville nor myself had any desire to go into dentistry or even to practice better dental hygene. There was a lot of trust there between Neville and the Sun, maybe like those little birds who pick the teeth of crocs in African rivers. Or maybe not. It could be that they were both just a couple of wierdos and this seemed to be something fun to investigate or taste. They do both seem pretty happy when its done.

And there it is. There was going to be a word balloon that explained the Sun had bad breath, but the graphic seemed to be better without it. I can't explain it any more now than I could then. It was a fun experiment and from that point on every Neville Orange cartoon was a single frame with some kind of smart-ass remark. He became one of my characters, an alter ego and I could use him as 'Neville sez:' to comment on the goings-on around me. Neville is a zen gutter philosopher. Don't follow him or believe what he says because he is a version of Coyote and will probably be setting you up for something silly at best.

Murph and St. Patricks Day

It's St. Patricks Day and some of you may remember my Irish stepfather, William E. Murphy. He told me once that he never worked a St. Patricks Day in his life. It was probably a lie, but I believed him anyway. He was born in Boston where he and his brother were given up for adoption by his poverty stricken parents. He went to a few homes but apparently his Irish prevented him from ever sticking in one place during his youth. He ran from the orphanage several times. He learned that the cops would recognize the metal toes of his shoes and cut of his jacket and put the collar on him. He learned that when he was returned to the orphanage the thankful brothers would beat him for running away. It took a few times, but he finally left and didn't return. He learned a lot on the streets of Boston too. He found friends that taught him how to swim by tossing him off the pier into the Harbor. He was stronger than any of us ever realized and he learned how to use that physical gift along with a sharp mind to survive in times that were less than forgiving. He learned from a wide range of experiences and kept the successful lessons close and never forgot the failures. He was in the National Guard, played professional baseball in the minor leagues, worked at the horse track, tended bar, worked as a salesman and drove anything that had wheels. Once while playing ball for the Hollywood Stars he was mistaken by some for Bing Crosby, until they got a little closer or heard him speak.
I was just getting into Junior High when my mother met him. She and my father had been divorced for several years and she was attempting to raise my older brother and me by herself. She found some support and he found something to settle down for. It wasn't me or my brother, just in case you wondered. Their lives improved and although I was clueless, mine did too. He tried a variety of jobs before settling in with Salt Lake City Streets and later the Airport as a Materials Engineer. Not bad for a guy without a degree. He may not have even had a diploma, but he was able to work nearly two decades before retiring. I need to address that "settle down" thing. He still had adventures, he was still Irish and there was this thing about Gin, Horse Races and playing Craps that I'm still trying to understand. He even had a chance or two to run away, but times had changed and he was welcomed home to people who really did care about him. While he didn't invent "Murphy's Law" he was a practitioner of the first order. From picking paint colors that never failed to disappoint to getting to Ireland for his only trip to the homeland, only to spend most of his time sick in his hotel room near the Shannon Airport, he found a way to keep that particular faith.
We thought that when my mother passed away that he wouldn't be around much longer, but he was a stubborn as ever and battled shingles, loneliness, mouth cancer and the NFL on a regular basis for many years after that. One day I got a call from him and went to see him at the hospital. He told me he had cancer again and this time it was a bad one. A couple days later I took him home and a few nights later I slept on his couch in case he needed something. While I wasn't paying attention he left and all there was left for me to do was to say "May you be in Heaven a half hour before the Devil knows your dead."
I learned more from him that I'm really aware of. While it's evident that my streak of bullshit is genetic, I like to think that Murph allowed me the opportunity to put a flower on it. He opened my eyes to some of the worst jokes a bartender ever told and pushed me, in spite of himself, to the left politically. He demonstrated that marriage wasn't a test but a career that required dedication, respect and trust. He set standards high and even now I try to buy good gin and I try my best not to work on St. Patricks day. So I'll drink my morning cup of Irish Coffee today (Bushmills) and wish you all the best as spring begins to roll out in front of us.

May the road rise up to meet you.May the wind be always at your back.May the sun shine warm upon your face;the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

May your horses always finish in the money.
May your gin always be cold.
And may the world smile on you fondly
as you very slowly grow old.

The God Gene

I read recently about “The God Gene”. The hypothesis being there is a genetic tendency toward religious belief. For those with this gene it is more likely they believe in god, participate in regular religious activities or are generally more likely to see themselves in a spiritual context. While not well or widely accepted the theory has plenty of support and I like it. I have attempted to find my spiritual center on a number of occasions and end up with a blank, the eternal void. The only times I've been close to organized religion it was through peer or family pressure and I never found the comfort or reassurance promised. I'm guessing that I'm genetically an atheist and will always have that wall between myself and an ability to commune with and trust in God.

I know it has been said that my odds will be better to believe. If it is true, somehow God will like me more and I'll better off in the afterlife with that extra chip in my pocket. I've never been a very good gambler, as most of my poker playing friends will attest, so I'm willing to wander toward those streets paved with gold without the benefit of a holy hall pass and hope my behaviors haven't been so evil that I can remain. Stuff like that just doesn't make sense to me. Nor does concept that there is either a kind and loving God or one bent on punishing our evil choices. And the large number of religions we have invented doesn't help me either. The simplist explaination very often is the best and most accurate. Let me go with brain chemistry being the source of most mystical experiences. The moral foundations are common sense that needed to be codified, first in an oral tradition and later written down. How it became organized and the basis for really odd choices that are contrary to what was written is beyond me.

Now this doesn't mean I can't be spiritual in some sense. I feel there is strength in community and am comforted by time spent with loved ones and out in nature. My atoms came from somewhere and after I die they will move on at a less organized and hectic pace. However, my consciousness or soul is destined to vanish. Oh well. Since I don't really know or understand what I'm missing it's not a great loss to me. As Tommy Johnson in "Oh Brother Where Art Thou" says when asked why he sold his soul to the devil, "I wasn't using it." Those who believe in an eternal soul, reincarnation, heaven or hell may just have to plan either to not see me at the bar or be ready to laugh at my folly. Hey! It ain't my fault.

Since this might be a genetic trait it would be interesting to find out where it is headed in an evolutionary sense. Is it something that is proving to be a benefit for survival or is it something that is being weeded out by natural selection. It's common in many Christian faiths to “grow and replenish” and they tend to have more children, an evolutionary benefit I would guess. However, there seems to be a reduction in the number of people attending church or claiming belief in God. The latter is based on short term data and may be temporary. Surely there are a lot of people who are not being subjected to Harris, Newsweek, CNN or Gallup polls. Like those folks living in China, India, Indonesia, Africa, South America and most of the Middle East. These are people who practice or don't practice many other faiths or belief systems, some of them with very large numbers of devout believers. I don't have data for those areas and would be reluctant to offer opinion on what is happening in this regard in those locations.

Regardless, there seems to be a very strong tendency for religious beliefs to spring up or survive under (or maybe because of) even the harshest conditions. During the official ban on religion during the life of the Soviet Union there were plenty of churches operating underground. China has never seen a lack of people who believe in something beyond the state. It also seems that just as I am on the unbelief side of the gene, there may be folks who are just as far on the other side, filling out the bell curve of belief. Is it something we can apply statistics to? For every fanatic believing in the glory of God and the words of God's prophet(s) is there a fanatic who rejects it all as foolishness? I don't have a clue. It could be that I'm here with just one more genetic trait that manifests itself as a cultural characteristic.

If this theory is true, will there be genetic therapy one of these days to correct the defect, one way or the other? What would happen if we flooded the air with nanobots capable of delivering a gene that would either add or remove this trait? Will we see compeating factions with labs manufacturing genetic floods that result in mass religious conversion or abandonment of faith beyond what we can see? Breakdown or salvation of society? Damn, that's another story and well beyond my ability to figure out. However for the right price I will offer the idea to someone who wants to write the novels as a counterpoint to the series of Rapture related books that seem to be doing pretty well these days.

On the other side of this argument is the lack of a genetic component to belief in God. If that's the case then why is it I haven't been able to make the connection? Logic? Lack of rigor in my search? Inability to recognize spirituality when it's right in front of my face? I had a chance and misinterpreted the experience? I'm correct in my disbelief? I'm open for suggestions. After all, I'm just barely past mid-life now and this sort of thing should be a bit more important as I approach the end of days. However, I've always been approaching the end of my days since the moment I made my entrance. Why worry now? I'm comfortable as a spiritual slacker and will most likely remain one for the foreseeable future. Anyway, when God wants my opinion she will give it to me. Until then my Sundays are free and morals unencumbered by anything other than love, respect and a little common sense.

Suicide is . . .

Very few people go through life without thinking of suicide at least once. I had more than one flippant conversation when I was in my early 20's about the subject. The focus wasn't the dull pain of life and the need to end a meaningless existence. It was about the most thrilling means to that end. My friend John had selected a high speed motorcycle to propel him off the rim of the inner gorge of the Grand Canyon at Toroweep as his choice. After my first visit to that spectacular site I understood the draw it had. My knees nearly buckled at the sheer drop and mind-boggling beauty of the place. The view from the middle of the canyon looking back and up at the ledge would be one you would remember for the rest of your life. Right.

I attempted to find a similar testosterone-fueled demise for myself. After quite a bit of consideration I settled on a trip to the far north where I could seat myself on the very lip of a melting and calving glacier. There I would sit and wait for that piece of ice to metamorph from the leading edge of a long tongue of ice to a free-floating iceberg. The choice of time would rest on the ice and I would eventually tumble with tons of brilliant blue ice into oblivion, my body a frozen meal for whatever critters would find it. It seemed good for the time and still would work, re-written as an action scene in a blockbuster movie, but no longer seems the best for me.

I have yet to find the pathos needed to bring my worldly existence to a premature end. Still the hopeless Pollyanna I look for rainbows in the rooms of dying people and wait for the first crocus of spring like a child waits for Christmas morning. Some people with a more realistic grasp on the nature of the world look at me with pity. Others just don't address the issues fearing cross-contamination would make them incapable of making sound, adult decisions. I respect that and would like to experience the hopelessness and futility that creates a well-rounded adult. So far I've only dipped my toe in that dark pool and find it's cold and not very inviting for the lightweight spirit I claim as my own.

I've tried once again to think of the best means of taking my life. Hell, I just turned 60 years old and feel at times like I'm still a kid, not knowing what the world expects of me. So I listened to the darkest music I could find and drank whiskey as I set about deciding how I would bring this life to an unnatural end. The music was classical stuff by Malher and before long it was Wagner and then Beethoven. From there it went to Bach and finally to Gilbert and Sullivan. It wasn't working as I was soon singing along with the Major General in “The Pirates of Penzance.” The whiskey got me thinking of sharing drinks while camping or playing card with friends or while watching a good game on the tube. It just wasn't working.

While driving this morning the DJ played the theme music from M.A.S.H., “Suicide is Painless”, a wonderful song by Johnny Mandel, I think. I was re-inspired and finally came up with some options for this stage of my life.

Suicide by Patience: I'll wait here for death to come and fetch me.
Suicide by Grandchildren: When they have had enough of me being silly or realize that money can come in a truck rather than in dollops, I'll move on.
Suicide by Talk Radio: When Sean Hannity is President and Glenn Beck is V.P. I'll lay my head under the free-market bus and be done with it.
Suicide by Clean Basement: By the time I've gotten it cleaned up and ready to finish it into organized storage, guest rooms, bath and recreation rooms, I'll let them deliver a load of sheetrock on top of my chest. Or maybe I'll be so startled by the vast space that now needs to be attended to that I'll die rather than engage in another lengthy enterprise that illustrates the lack of balance between my expectations and my skills.
Suicide by Regulation: So afraid that they will be caught by their own people for the exaggerations over the Health Care bills, the Republicans will amend the bill with a real death panel that focuses on old Democrats exclusively, thus killing more than two birds with one stone.

A unique travel opportunity presents itself.

Greetings fellow traveler,
Like so many others you have probably put off the kind of travel we offer for any number of reasons. Cost, Official Restrictions, concern over the technology and Lack of meaningful opportunities all come to mind and I'm sure you have others. We share your frustration, but I believe we have come up with an option that will have you off on the adventure of a lifetime.
First let me clear up the technology issue. Our company is staffed with some of the finest programmers in time travel research. We have attracted former government service employees who bring with them a broad knowledge of the cutting edge of this environment. Added to researchers who have been with our company from the very beginning and Adventure Time Travel Associates (ATTA) becomes the most respected name in the business. We have a safety record that is second to none, including Government, Universities and Private contractors around the globe.
Official Restrictions have been a source of frustration for many of us. We all remember the cost, complexity and emotional burden we shared with the Lincoln and Kennedy Re-Assassination projects. And the recent indictments of misguided time travelers that resulted from the dot com and housing investment bubbles prove that we can't be too careful about how we interact with the past. We have a solution in mind that we believe will bring you back to time travel.
These restrictions have also created that lack of meaningful opportunities. Currently trained professionals continue to visit and record many of the critical moments in history. Those recordings are a boon to researchers and are critical to our understanding of our shared past. Many of these events could be altered if we were to send even one casual visitor. If that is your ideal trip, there are many less critical moments open and we may be able to accommodate you. However, this note is something very different and equally exciting.
You are in this mailing because of your interest in the outdoors, adventure and this particular part of our world. For nearly 100,000 years there were very large freshwater lakes in western North America. The largest of these Pleistocene lakes were Missoula and Bonneville. Imagine the Little Cottonwood glacier calving off icebergs into Bonneville, or the great floods from Lake Missoula carving the Channeled Scablands. And while we can't guarantee a Mastodon or a Saber-toothed Cat sighting on the shores of one of these lakes, our success rate has been nearly 90%.
With limited opportunities to change history during this type of travel, Official Restrictions are reduced in number and complexity. The large time window and extensive geography available create offerings are nearly limitless. This flexibility simplifies the complex time placement calculations and power demands thereby reducing our costs. How much? Two weeks are less expensive than a “Weightless Week” in orbit and much less than the popular Disco and Spa weekend at Tranquility Base. And those trips are fully booked well in advance as I write this letter.
While this may be an “Adventure” trip, it won't be lacking in amenities. Each of our vessels is prepared to sail for the full two weeks offering everything from gourmet meals and on-board spa, to fully equipped primitive camp experiences on isolated islands in northeastern Nevada or overland trips to see the mighty Virgin River carving Zion Canyon. Your budget and interests are our concern and within our program. Call today and be ready to go tomorrow.

The rules of the road

A fly was buzzing around my head off and on all day yesterday. Since the weather has changed from summer to fall I've seen a lot of these little guys looking for new places to live. The housing crisis must be a problem for them similar to the problem being face by those of us with only two legs, but I'm not about to open my doors for them to move in. There are contaminants enough being brought in by grandkids. I just don't need any more things to worry about. I would swat at this fly with my hand when it landed within arms reach and was only giving it exercise and a chance to mock me. It wasn't going to be a good relationship and we needed to end it soon.
I like Ed Abbey's take on living things. In “Desert Solitaire” he said, "I'm a humanist. I'd rather kill a man than a snake." I don't know if I feel that strongly about it, but I do like the sentiment. This fly was straining the relationship I have with the natural world/human world interface. We were not making progress toward a de-escalation in hostilities, but moving toward a serious confrontation. I would come to the table with plans and proposals, my needs and expectations and wait to review the materials offered by the fly. Nothing came. He was stonewalling me and expanding his territory and thumbing his proboscis at me by landing on food and utensils. All of them places clearly outlined in my negotiation documents that were being ignored. There was a confrontation brewing, but I was attempting to find ways to avoid violence if I could. I opened the door so he could go to the screen and use that as eventual access to the outside world where another place of refuge might be found. He ignored my offer and landed in the fruit dish and wandered from apple to banana and back, mocking me once again. This was getting personal.
It's always amazed me that we can drive hundreds and thousands of miles and never crash into another car. Think about it for just a moment if you please. Each of us locked inside our own steel, plastic and glass machine barreling down our 10 foot wide section of highway at high speed, with all of these internal and external distractions and we do it safely. The rules of the road prevail. Even when we find those jerks who make their own rules and fail to signal or drive within 15 or 20 miles per hour of the recommended speed, our understanding of the rules work to keep us safe. It happens at times that two vehicles attempt to violate physics and occupy the same space at the same time. Usually its a small space and the result is a 'fender-bender'. Occasionally it's a large space they try to share and the results are serious, even deadly. The amazing thing is it doesn't happen all that often considering how many cars there are on the streets at any one time. Add to this the fact that each of those drivers is locked inside their own brain-case and some of them are mis-wired, malfunctioning, unfocused or closely focused on anything other than the operation of the vehicle, and it whole thing becomes nearly a miracle. 'Faith and Begorrah', we're all potential saints. I find it even more daunting that the average vehicle has thousands of parts, most of which are critical to safe travel and were manufactured by disgruntled workers after a bad fight with their spouse or kids. They don't know me and couldn't care less if I'm safe as I drive to the store for my weekly supply of bacon. If I die in a horrible accident because the framus came loose and flew into the discombobulator that they failed to secure, I'm just another statistic that will never be part of their life. All for my desire to eat a little bacon.
We constantly are making decisions as we do our daily time travel, bringing the other three dimensions into the equation as well as an awareness of all these other stable and moving objects out there. It shouldn't be as safe as it turns out to be. Time is ours to use and timing our turns, stops and accelerations is critical to our successful completion of each and every day. We grasp the operational nature of it, but not the math and science behind it. If we had to do that as well, we would probably die in our chairs, unable to successfully put food in our mouth or get out of the way of a runaway vacuum cleaner. The fly mocked me and refused to negotiate. He was convinced that his skill in flight, multi-faceted eyes and quick reaction times would be enough to homestead here in my house. I escalated the battle and with the extended reach of my light green plastic flyswatter on the wire handle, proved that he needed to improve his timing. Or at least he needed to learn the rules of the road. My road.

this is a story that may go somewhere, someday

The problem he was facing made his head hurt somewhere between his left eye and the base of his skull. It wasn’t just complicated and frustrating, it was getting cats to square dance. He didn’t say it couldn’t be done but he wasn’t about to channel his inner politician and promise it would happen. This effort would require money, patience, a prostitute with a heart of gold, an attorney with poor judgment and a good cook. He had a few bucks in his wallet, a library card, coffee buzz and an old jeep he had just beat up with an aluminum baseball bat. It wasn’t looking good.
That morning he had taken a reheated cup of coffee from his kitchen to drink while the Jeep warmed. Late fall frost had turned the Cherokee windows gray in the pre-dawn light. The warm cup had melted a circle on the roof of the car in the time it took to fish the keys from the pocket of his worn jeans and unlock the “beast from the City of Soul-Sucking Darkness”. Beast had been his favorite vehicle ever, dependable, strong and with a kickass stereo that was the only place left that he could play his collection of cassette tapes.
The combination of cold moist air and no winds had allowed the frost to grow crystal patterns that as they flowed and grew appeared to be the size of dinner plate dahlias on the windows of Beast. The engine moaned three times as he turned the ignition and then caught, first rough and then smoothing to a smoker’s purr. He turned the defroster on just as the November sun was changing the elemental base of the frost from diamond and steel to topaz and gold. He turned toward the window and watched as the flat crystals of frost softened. Channels began to open and flow across the window as solar fusion and internal combustion conspired to vaporize this microns thick icepack. The world outside was revealed as frost slid downward on lubrication made of its own mass recently converted from solid to liquid.
It was going to be an unseasonable, warm day with clean air and plenty of promise for enjoyment. Except for having to meet with a former co-worker for lunch, the day would be his. As he started to back out of the drive he felt a bump and heard a crunch that made his teeth hurt.

Time is a liquid

It used to be that if I had an appointment at 11:00 in the morning that I would incorporate it into my lunch schedule. I might get to work a little early and depending on the nature of the commitment, I'd grab something to eat on the way back to the office or just eat something at my desk. Not a big deal. Yesterday I was about to make up a pot of coffee to linger over with a visitor when I realized that I had 20 minutes to get to an 11:00 appointment. I was wearing my tee-shirt from last night, cotton gym shorts and I was barefoot. It used to be 11:00 came just around lunch but on that day it arrived shortly after breakfast. It's not always that way. In fact it's always different and I think I know why. Time is a liquid flowing in unique and incomprehensible ways.
It isn't a liquid we can consume like beer but we can drown in it. It can wash us away in a raging torrent or we may end up becalmed with no wind in our sails to move us along. There are steady currents and trends that, if we begin to understand them, may aid in our navigation. But it is complex beyond our ability to understand, constantly changing and occasionally surprising. The single major constant is movement, mostly in one direction. Sometimes we are aware of the drip, drip, drip of seconds falling out of a clock in a quiet room as we watch someone sleep. Other times we are pushed off our feet by a firehose full of days or weeks and we wonder if we will ever get a handle on what all has transpired. We can be surprised when we discover a whisp of time has stuck to us and we revisit a moment that has already flowed past or more strangely something that hasn't, but could be downstream, waiting.
Someone with a strong understanding of fluid dynamics may have a better idea of how it all works, or what to expect from time. Me? I only have a few clues and stories that may help understand some of it. I think of old sayings that work for both time and water and my favorite is 'you can't step into the same river twice'. Time works like that, doesn't it? Even in those days at work when it seems like the tasks we did the day before are on our desk once again or it looks like the wall we painted has to be painted once more, there are differences. When we start planning on continuity and stability, the pattern changes and we are drowning once again. I walked down a narrow desert canyon once where the stream was flowing clear and slow, rarely deep enough to flood over the tops of my boots. I drifted into a walking meditation, Zen in the canyon. Multi-colored sandstone walls twisted around me, keeping my hiking companions out of sight and the sound of their passage away from my ears. A soft down-canyon breeze pushed the quietly applauding willows around and stirred up the scent of organic mud, flint and a sweetness of distant blooms. My pack was comfortable. my stride was regular and just as I was about to accend to the next level of consciousness, I stepped off a rock into a knee-deep pool disguised by sediment stirred by an eddy in the stream. Twisting and falling, trying to keep my camera dry and not break my bones, I ended up on my ass, cool water washing away my dignity as well as that cosmic train of thought. Laughing waters for sure.
Time and water came together at that moment but I wasn't ready to understand. Something about keeping my sleeping bag dry and being able to survive in the wilderness started nagging at my mind. The water didn't do anything different than it normally would, I just didn't see it. Now that I think I understand more about it, I'd probably still end up on my ass. I can't increase my ability to both think cosmic thoughts and walk in a stream. During that disorienting fall a flood of time washed over and around me, filling my world with enough time to think of how I was about to land, the importance of keeping the camera dry, if I was going to need to get someone's attention if I was damaged, who the hell put that hole in the river and why was the sky such a wonderful shade of dark blue against the yellow canyon wall at this time of day. No one else felt that same flood of time. It wasn't confined by the canyon walls like the stream and could have been moving in any of several directions. Regardless of the direction, straight up from the core of the Earth, downward, sideways or hopscotching along like a rook, it changed my capacity for experience and moved along.
It would be wonderful to be able to control it, dam it up, channel time along nice confined routes that benefit our world but it is a primal thing that can't be contained or controlled. Hell, just don't tell me it's other than normal to not see the knee-deep pools until we are drying our butt on the warm rocks as time and the stream chuckle.