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CHARACTURES

AND

POETRY


 

 

 

 

 

The Characturess

 

 

 

 

 

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Table of Contents

 

Section——————————Page

1—The Comic—5

2—The Cable Car—7

3—The Fishing Boats—8

4—The Envisionornery—10

5—The Rascal of Ocean Beach—12

6—The Awesome Philosopher—15

7—The Sculptress—17

8—The Holy Ghost Worker I—18

9—The Holy Ghost Worker II—19

10—Passion for Compassion—21

11—A Western Saga: Roy C. Rogers

Roy C. Rogers rides again!!!

Or yet!—23

12—The Continuing Western Saga—26

13—An Integral Moment—29

14—The Nature of a Tree—30

15—Sittin and A’Waitin at the Cross

Roads—32

16—The Philosopher of Life—36

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17—The Writing Caruso—37

18—Black Madonna—39

19—The Gentleman of Ocean Beach—41

20—Academic Cookbook—43

21—Inbetweenness:

The Interpenetrating Flow—48

22—Inbetweenness: Darkness Appears

Awareness Shines—49

23—Dimensional Flow—51

24—Sundown—54

25—The Journey—56

26—Quiet Calmness—60

27—The Wily Philosopher—61

28—The Outthinker—62

29—The Most Significant Event of Our

Lives—63

30—Stow Lake—65

31—The Rock Garden—67

32—Poetry—69

Digital Haiku—69

Phoenix—69

Golden Gate Park—70

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Past-Future—70

Night Fantasy—70

Appeal to Truth—71

Who’s Light Shines—71

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THE COMIC

There is a person who many have met, someone who

doesn’t yet know which, if any, person to be. Lost in the

limelight and living on laughter, The Comic keeps reclothing

a soul one mask to another. Gifted extremes

always tightroping the edge of neither, never quite

balanced when the pendulum begins its sure-coursed

swing. Arising high apex, now back falling blackening

abyss, riding mooded shifts momentary escape but living

somewhere hidden inbetween. Into unknown, granted

asylum given only to few. Coming full circle and on

through barriers, returning to the same new spot over and

over again.

Tragic ironic, funny and sad neither intended. In each is

found the same, an unknown person caught in the

confusion of inbetween. Living to work this tension,

pushed from side to side, few withstand the constant pull

of balanced opposition. Again and again same questions

asked, The Comic answers by quick-witted vision,

turning the onrushing instant tide. Lost to the limelight

like unspoken words, racing around unguided in those

who now let them escape, carried away by laughter.

Immediate relief and lightness ensues, the world regains

its whirl and rekindled glow. The moment has passed and

lights go out, again the unknown person turns and goes.

Strolling along streets where other feet step, saved by

time and imagined real. The Comic now empty lets down

all masks, revealing only another unknown bearing

secrets concealed. Quickly the night life fades into

another round, back in front with heads turned around.

There it goes, here they come, all seeking new voice.

Now find what’s been given by the one of many who

shows what characture confusion means in the creative

flow as essence in chaos gathers and fills open form. The

Comic now senses a beckoning spirit whose call catches

the open ear. Together they work and tighten the tension,

full pendulum swing full circle again. Over and over they

work that circuit still bounded by body in time, bandedlike

angels, exploding gloomed image with gusting

laughter that moves only out, the unknown person, The

Comic’s only friend.

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Buffoon clown jester all common to one who sees when

each gets caught in the flux, where life’s meaning finds

one standing atop a bottom looking high into the depths,

where double visioned meaning stands face to face.

Mirrored reflections of self alive in eyes that dance with

joy, stained by tears of laughter which fill unwritten

space. Joy and sorry laughter tears, complete another

circle, another coin tossed, flip-flop again, another

unheard, speaking voice.

—The Characturess

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THE CABLE CAR

The Soul of San Francisco, first dreamed by one now

loved by all. A glorious past alive. Clang, clang, rumble

shake, pull and tug uphill weight, quickly turn to

runaway descent, uphill downhill cross-town rails.

Climbing high to breathtaking spires gripman’s leathered

hands hold tight vistas of modern day Atlantis in

pinnacles of wonder. Fleeting moments slip past,

hesitation then shift to downward slant while stomachs

sink…slowly winding along its route clinging to the

hillside like magnets forged its sturdy wheels.

Along thoroughly winding narrowed streets The Cable

Car carries another flow of riders to just where each

wanted to go. Freely hang passengers on the sides or

from al fresco seats, pulling in together all compressed,

swish…the return car clangs past on its way to the

opposite turnaround. Friendly people from both sides of

their seats, like tree ornaments dangle in the mystery of

time.

Visitors hop aboard for promises of surprise, cloaked in

swirls of misty fog or in nature’s warmth on another

perfect San Francisco Day. For some an old standby for

others a newfound thrill, together ride through the streets

on common rails beyond trudging struggle of traveling

the hills.

San Francisco’s Cable Car is tradition. An image born

too late cut short by time, since 2 August 1873

landmarked the City’s golden early dawn Andrew S.

Hallidie’s inspiration brought the world’s first to its

home. First, last and only one, San Francisco’s treasure

survives like the Phoenix arises from its own. Cabled

networks ’neath the street, mile upon mile of

underground steel, stretched taut and tight by huge

turning interfaced wheels, pulling cables steadily,

relentlessly, until day’s and evening’s end.

—The Characturess

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THE FISHING BOATS

Rigged for work and manned by old salt tradition, from

out of the Bay in morning fog rumbles The Fishing Boats

taking leave. Named vessels each is unique, all scouts in

search of the catch. Guided swiftly by a sure and steady

hand at the helm, first seeking here then there, circling

wide life-filled pools below…quickly now, drop-baited

nets. Lower sinks into darkening, deepening mysterious

world beneath. Reel up hoist aloft wriggling moments of

death. Silvered scaled rainbowed flash, caught by first

rays of morning sun. Again and again, over the edge,

idling motors keeping pace with a moving school, drop

now again re-baited pots. Clawed pink red creatures

trapped by roped circles woven for single purpose, lured

in by morsels earlier caught then singly hooked in

glistening circles round the mouths of watered caves.

Pots full, nets squirming with life, poles taut and sharply

bent by fighting weight struggling to stay free. Steady

working back and again, fill troves high with treasures

found only in the sea. Today’s a good one early chests

are full. Homeward bound a little past mid-day chugging

steadily along coast side bulging at the seams. Captain’s

satisfaction purrs in the deep drone of mechanical noise,

lines flying in victory winds waving tribute to

commemorated and christened names painted on the

bow, each a personal prayer to the sea.

Rugged wary seaworkers return, safely guided toward

wharf’s edge by wisdom spanning centuries. Bayshores

envisioned, home again home. Hailed by friends berth

spot in sight, slowly maneuvered to a few short hours of

rest. Cut the engines, tie the lines, now ready hoist

proudly overflowing boxes of success. Line up one next

to the other while already admiring smiles agree, there’s

something special about living in close tie with the sea.

In chug others one by one, yellow rain-slickered figures

with wet weathered faces, giving thanks for yet one more

voyage. Lives tied by watered lanes moving between

land and sea, striking out each day before dawn for spots

farther beyond than the human eye can see. Some young,

some old, some inbetween. Business or pleasure same

souls they are, many languaged voices found by common

venture. Overhead gulls flap a noisy winged landing,

alertly poised atop rolls of netting, keen eyes cast for any

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moment to grasp, resting gently in soft rolling motions,

The Fishing Boats now scrubbed and clean, quietly

berthed, silent.

Prepare for tomorrow, checking, re-hooking the network

of lines, wondering alone and to teach other what

tomorrow’s elements will bring. Home to some,

workhorse for another, vacant and alone at times,

abandoned hull carrying now gilded women’s names

half-worn, rust red bottoms showing time’s use. A

haunting invitation to sea spirits found joined by vessels

that go beyond the bounds of land.

Tarrying far out into the horizon with fully outfitted rigs

bobbing in morning’s light…from out of the foghorn’s

returning call rumbles daily The Fishing Boats, guardians

and protectors of age-old faces, seafaring souls whose

eyes always strain to look beyond, to catch just one short

glimpse of the other side.

—The Characturess

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THE ENVISIONORNERY

Characture of Mervyn O’Leary

Shuffle shuffle, cane cane, here comes Mervyn O’Leary,

San Francisco’s Ocean Beach Envisionornery ready to

make and meet his daily challenge. For this long-retired

fireman even downhill is an uphill climb. The blustery,

fighting Irish, smiling intensity continues burning in

spirit as one caned step after another steadily takes him

from bottom to top of Sutro Hill, turning here, there

returning to the Pronto Pup for coffee and talk. Ocean

Beach regulars mingle and mix at the beach in front of

the Cliff House early morning each day, greetings hailed

to welcome as each arrival comes and goes.

A couple more minutes and there’s Merv sittin’ on the

bench…what’s the topic for discussion today? Who’s

here? Could be sports, could be weather…but could be

death, something he thinks all the others are spending

their time avoiding. Political philosophy, ethics,

medicine, physics and metaphysics are some of Merv’s

favorite subjects but are discussed only with the few

who’ve got it together. Once intensely athletic now

crippling pain restricting his emphasis from body to mind

achievement. Whatever the topic you bring, Merv’s read

it and hold’s ready Socrates, Plato, Aristotle,

Shakespeare, Voltaire and others at beckoned call.

With no mistake, he knows where he stands, he’s thought

about it. Better be prepared to back up any taken

position, he’ll blow you away like fog with one blast of

wind. Barbed words fly out to negate your being and

irritation momentarily flares, “you don’t know what

you’re talking about” and the Envisionornery again

throws you back upon yourself. What more can he do?

Revoke your birth certificate!

Face to face, eye to eye, that’s Merv. Standing fast is his

best speed. But then tolerance returns for others who are

not quite there, taking the time to listen between the

words his vision sees through the ornery and dialogue

now follows reason.

Up and off the bench, there goes Merv, up the downhill.

With companion walking on cane side, one constant, one

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temporary, always, inquiring, together beach-hill

climbing. He’s learned to take life as it comes, “I’ve

accepted what I’ve got” and “I can tolerate the pain”

except for the constant injustice which maintains much

hurt and experienced pain. One caned step down after

another, it’s his decision. Going downhill is the toughest

uphill struggle. He returns to his car parked at the bottom

of the hill, one more daily challenge met to make sense

of all the rest. Another lesson, another learned. Victory

visits for a body willed from bottom to top and up the

downhill again. He’ll be back tomorrow…the

Envisionornery will will on.

—The Characturess

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THE RASCAL OF OCEAN BEACH

Characture of Ralph Basye

Ya hungry?” The independent attendant of Ocean Beach

asks of those who approach. Voiced or just silently said,

“What is it that you’re looking for?” Untrusting birds

turn toward Ralph and find kindness as they fly up into

his lap, “How ya doin’?” Reaching into his left-hand

jacket pocket, Ralph pulls out a peanut, cracks it open

with both hands. The bird looks, waits and accepts the

gift. “Anyhow,” pigeons, blackbirds and seagulls fly off,

as both of Ralph’s hands go sort of straight up and fall

down to again rest upon his knees, “I first got started in

the printing business as a ‘press feeder.’ That was in

1916. I just walked in and asked for the person who did

the hiring.” By now at least six members of the Ocean

Beach Mafia, 65 years and older, have gathered around.

Ralph continues his story, “I can do that!’ That’s all I

said.” Ralph goes on to explain that you look for the

simplicity and then go from there. You imagine yourself

doing whatever it is and then fill in the steps to get there.

Ralph continues, giving a clear description of events,

making sure you understand, “You know how they do

letterpress printing?” While attending to those in the

immediacy at Ocean Beach #17, where he locates

himself, another person passes by the bench on which he

sits, “Hi Ralph.” And within the flow of conversation

comes a return, “Nice day for a walk.” Or he calls out a

pleasant greeting, “Very well thank you.” Ralph watches

what others do. He can be present and attend to both the

immediate situation and the surround. This way he can

watch how others approach to see what they are looking

for. “Everyone is trying to do something.” Ralph looks to

see what it is that the person is intending toward, then

sort of reaches into his own events and emerges with a

word-gift. “If I give to ten people and only one really

needs it, I am thankful.” Even when approached at Ocean

Beach for some money for something to eat, Ralph

reaches into and out of his pocket. “Giving a few coins to

people is like feeding the birds.” The flow of

conversation, moves on as Ralph gives a more

penetrating description, “I remember when I was only

six, we were really poor. My mother and two brothers

walked up the railroad tracks about a half-mile and

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picked wild strawberries. That afternoon my mother

made a strawberry shortcake. We were all going to have

a big piece. Then, the people from across the way just

happened to come over when we sat down to eat the

strawberry shortcake. So, we all took a smaller piece.”

Someone asks Ralph, “When were you born?” A smile

develops at the corner of Ralph’s mouth, “I am almost a

firecracker; a delayed fuse.” With a laugh, “I was born 7

July 1901, Topeka, Kansas.” He pauses, “Just outside of

it.” The just outside of it, reveals the personal

independence of the rascal who comes to Ocean Beach

because he likes the openness. If you look real close you

can glimpse the quick-witted smile at one corner of his

mouth. Ralph tells one story after another which brings

forth your own smile, too! “Yeah, I was here before this

Ocean Beach Wall.” You sort of feel the restriction of the

wall while Ralph continues, “I was out here with a girl.

We went out and walked around in the sand dunes.” Now

you begin to see the real rascal. Ralph continues, “Yeah,

I left for California in 1922.” The little smile emerges,

“In 1922, I won $100 in a baseball pool, bought a 1917

Touring Car for $75 and headed for California. I went to

L.A. first then came to San Francisco where I was in the

movie, Broadway Bill. Mickey Rooney was the star. I

was part of the local color in this race horse movie. There

I was in the infield of the race track. I was supposed to

jump up on the fence and shout as the race horse,

Broadway Bill, fell and died as he reached the finish

line.” Ralph pauses, now you look for that smile to

develop at the corner of his mouth, “I don’t remember if I

got up on the fence or not.”

“Anyhow,” as both of Ralph’s hands go sort of straight

up and fall down to again rest upon his knees, “I came to

San Francisco in 1924. Moonshine, speak-easies,

gambling, it was all here. I even went to Reno, Nevada

before gambling was legalized, in the late Twenties, it

was there!” As a person approaches Ralph is already

looking in that direction. “What’s happening Ralph?”

Ralph returns, “Just having a little conversation.” Ralph

is a conversationalist. He holds people around him the

same way he does the birds eating out of his hand. Then

someone asks Ralph, “What was one of the most exciting

events of your life?” Without pause the response comes,

“One of the most exciting events I had was in 1921. I

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went for a ride in a Jenny. As we flew up, I looked down,

the first thing I saw was the graveyard. Anyhow, we

continued on and then flew over my folks’ home. Later

my mother said ‘I knew it was you. Who else would be

flying over like that!’” The smile develops, “My family

has a tree but I just came from a branch all by itself.”

Then he says, “I always just wanted to have fun.” He

smiles and says, “I am unpredictable.”

Some members of the Ocean Beach Mafia have now

walked on only to be replaced with others. Ralph

remains. “Look a ship is coming into the Bay.” Turning

from the horizon he attends to the immediacy, “Look at

the two young puppies!” No sooner said, the puppies

come over as birds all around him wing off into the sky.

Then he attends to a little girl dressed in pink and blue

with white stockings walking alongside her mother.

Ralph smiles. The little girl looks, smiles and waves.

Ralph says, “Hi” to youth. He doesn’t try to impress

people. He’s just Ralph. This printer of 50 years retains

the quickness of eye. Each afternoon he is there with his

car parked at Ocean Beach #23. He feeds birdseed to the

birds two times. “The peanuts are for dessert.” Then he

walks slowly along the walkway to #17 and provides the

desert for the birds. Here as Ralph reaches into and out of

his pocket, for peanuts or events, is the cream of

reflection given to those who happen to pass or wander

by. After a short time the return walk from #17 to #23

begins. Just before The Rascal of Ocean Beach gets to

#23, he remarks, “Here come the scouts,” as two birds fly

toward him. Arriving at #23, pigeons come walking from

the parking area toward Ralph as he, too, moves toward

them. Ralph clears his throat and comments, “We meet

for a short time.” He smiles and says, “This is when I

feed them the third time. This is the last supper.” Ralph

throws birdseed on and around the birds, then says, “So

long.” As Ocean Beach brings wonder to its there you

then know Ralph will always be there.

—The Characturess

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THE AWESOME PHILOSOPHER

Characture of Thomas Langan

Standing here, at your door, a moment lasts forever.

Suddenly, life’s changed. Into your world he strides, a

genteel philosopher whose readiness to be astonished,

appropriates him well. Tall in stature, warm in nature,

inquiring in thought…awesome indeed!

American born, Germanic roots apparently sent to

explore. Vast openness appears on the horizon of each

new question as again and again he is set to wonder.

Strong penetrating mind tempered gentleness impelled by

compassion. One moment he’s light perhaps next

somber, each rising out of the other allowing delightful

surprise. Asking the right questions, gathering

information in short periods of time.

Mature in years, lively in heart, sensitive to the surround,

the global thinker who loves traveling by trolley. The

professional life might drive another less resilient to

become a recluse. But no, out he reaches, choosing those

to help, confined by frustrations imposed by time and

called to speak and write. Unpretentious about oftenpretentious

work; a scribe whose words carry wisdom on

aerial wings into human light.

Conversation reveals a host of scholars settling round his

name, dropping in as though truly present, at the mention

of their names. These constant confidants in thought are

ever ready for instant variety in frame of reference. Out

pops famous personages in contemporary philosophy,

each enacted in mirthful spirit, attending anecdote or

personal story; each a friend to the man. Truly an

aristocrat in Confucian terms, deeply steeped in Catholic

tradition, an educator for whom life quality will forever

foster authentic questions.

Witty, poignant, wise…what new venture might alight,

next thought? Considered options, rational selection,

giving way to higher voice issuing an appeal from within,

called to responsible action in serious work enjoyable

tasks of learning. A confident stride into the future…

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Standing there, now again, outside your door, bidding

farewell. The same everlasting moment now graced with

promise for the future by possibility of return. Awesome

indeed!

—The Characturess

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THE SCULPTRESS

Characture of Connie Fischer

Connie the sculptress…she sculptures images with

words. She’s moving across boundaries, going here,

going there, on her way up…she shows others the secret

she has learned about the power of the written and

spoken words, about the ability to use the power of

speaking together in order to show us other ways of

experiencing the same world. Her words cut into the

empty pages like marks in an emerging image, as it has

been just first glimpsed in its blankness. She moves into

that world and sculpts upon the pages the guided tour she

traveled in another’s world. These images speak out the

tensions which exist between discrepant ways of

experience and offer images of the Real, a way to

transcend the polarity, yet let it remain conserved and

active. That is the way she is moving, cutting a clear path

of the Real with the power of the word.

She’s strong…she’s proud, she’s loyal…she’s a lady of

action who does things! But she’s attuned, she’s aware,

she knows, she’s there, she’s moving up and out and

bringing back the lines of contact. She’s spreading the

word.

A woman of warmth and humor…of flashing wit and

high spirit…another who likes to stand in the sunshine!

—The Characturess

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THE HOLY GHOST WORKER I

Characture of Rudy Bielek

As a familiar character on campus you first came to me

in a time of beginnings. Rudy—The Holy Ghost

Worker—seemed like an angel to me. I shall never forget

our beginning Rudy…those first days of teaching for me,

our conversations together and your constant and faithful

encouragement during tenuous times of my own. You

were always there…and you remain there for me now. If

only there were words to reveal the quality of the vision

which seems to spring from your heart. As a true

messenger of the Spirit your presence on campus brings

the truths of a religious life to people who may never find

it without you. As—The Holy Ghost Worker—you reach

so many like myself who discover through you

Duquesne’s true educational gifts. Your spirit is the heart

of Duquesne. Speaking not only for myself but for many

others who have come to love you as I have, you make

our lives buoyant with your ever ready willingness to

give to others without thought to your own comfort and

needs. Gifts from the heart flow naturally from your

being. As the angel that you are Rudy…may God Bless

you and watch over you now and forever. I will always

carry with me the inspiration which flows from your

presence and which has on occasion lit up darker hours

of my own existence. I have grown richer in my own

faith through being with you. The gifts of yourself

unknowingly given to those of us who know you

illustrates for me the true meaning of the Spirit in action.

Your life shows it each day. You have taught me how to

look at a new world, one whose vision is inspired by your

faithful heart.

—The Characturess

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THE HOLY GHOST WORKER II

Characture of Rudy Bielek

Up the elevator, down…there’s Rudy working on all

levels. Here and gone working in the foundations,

sweeping us up into visions with practical application. He

just seems to know how things work. People are his

strength. None too big, none too small…sooner or later

he “pegs them down.”

There he goes…hands signaling the pictures in his

thoughts, watchful heart looking for students who need

someone’s help. He catches those who might otherwise

fall through the cracks. Rudy finds them one by

one…picks them up, dusts them off, helps them shine.

He’s like a little elf who brings good words when he

speaks. Encouragement is natural to his expression. And

his daily labors behind the scenes do far more than

keeping an office straight or ending his week with a

paycheck.

Rudy…here he comes, there he goes, in then

out…cleaning, sweeping and caring. One never quite

knows where he’ll appear. From the highest to the

lowest, he sees them all. In the gym, down in the

archives, up in the administrators’ office. Each place he’s

sent he gets things done while simultaneously enjoying

his unique talent of teaching others how to “conversate.”

As the local morale office on campus his presence

naturally livens up lackluster moods…he settles

differences…saying what needs to be said…to whomever

may need to hear it. Conversating with Rudy keeps the

spirit alive and working inbetween the people he sees

each day, from one person to the other he moves with

trails of human kindness following in his wake.

Students, priests, nuns, fellow workers, secretaries and

their administrators…right down the line, he likes them

all…introducing faith to hope in charity’s name. Rudy—

The Holy Ghost Worker—a one-man rescue team whose

dauntless efforts have sustained many a disillusioned

dream.

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Up…down, in then out, here he comes…there he goes, it

kind of makes you wonder who he “really” is while he’s

busy helping others discover who they can be.

—The Characturess

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PASSION FOR COMPASSION

Characture of Leo Zonneveld

…Along comes Leo…

…a man in search of…and for life’s call whose ear

remains always open for the listening…what do you ask

of life?…“Oh…to find God I suppose”…seemingly a

simple answer even though wisest in the end…the liferoad

leading to that pinnacle long and circuitous, fraught

with many a humanity’s puzzle…to what end can this

solitary quest lead?…to brilliant illuminating Light,

Knowledge, Love…unending rounds of prayers

continually offered up for ever-and-ever-increasing

more…this lone man in search of…less suffering for

all…passion for compassion…flame burns brightest of

them all…

Along comes Leo…

…distinguished profession, key member to a European

nerve-center of diplomacy—professional communicator

—wherein dreams can be made real with but a phone

call, thrives the spirit of a peace-maker by

heart…“Always leave a little room for negotiation,” freeflow

aspirations come to the ground…for an “old

walking encyclopedia of high-tech knowledge,” trusted

“science man”…a 20-year tour of duty in the service of

two Queens…“I’ve been to Heaven 100 times,”

still…despairing often times… meticulous, careful, still

flowing artist, portrait painter only of heart’s

vision…family life foremost, diplomatic post a path for

convention…truly listening first to one, then on with

another…and yet another…exchanges in deep on

occasion, “no not for me,” then on with another…

Along comes Leo…

…sensitivity floods to the fore, illuminating dark secrets

hidden till dawn’s twilight hour…artistic flair at eye’s

first glance, form, grace and balance, one not without the

other…life’s questions remain unanswered but more than

that, questions posed have not even yet been

imagined…father, scientist, dreamer, visionary…still not

all yet discovered …Teilhardian soul’s-dreams, human

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energy projects vigorously pursued, elusive remains

humanity’s finest hour…matter and spirit comingle with

never the slightest question’s ripple…husband,

philosopher, writer, high-tech master—now what?—

Still…Not Enough! Light, Knowledge,

Peace…beckoning to fuller and fuller existence, fanning

the flame…passion for compassion…deeply lived

expression, all for the brotherhood of man…OLJ Masters

standing at the helm, perhaps instilled more deeply than

ever imagined…soul-dreams breathing to life for him, a

man destined to become…from Alpha’s humblest

beginning to Omega’s all-inclusive end…

Along comes Leo…

…there—deep within—flickers life’s tenderest light…

…Along comes Leo…

—The Characturess

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A WESTERN SAGA

Roy C. Rogers rides again!!! Or yet!

Our story opens with two sinister looking mystics, each

upon his own Pony, high above the valley overlooking a

small, but universal town. These two hombres dressed in

black, astride great steeds of black, are temporally

situated upon an ominous and tenuous hillside. Got the

picture? The total figure/ground was bad. Now to add to

the wholeness of the story we shall enlighten your

existence with their names: Merlin-Pony and Sorté. Of

course, the historical, traditional and absurd question for

a psychologist to ask would be, “What is their purpose

upon this hill?” We cannot relate this to you, we can only

describe it through reflection of what we saw, otherwise

the whole context would be changed and we wouldn’t

want that!!!

Now we don’t want the readers to think and we don’t

want them to have second thoughts, just to feel, therefore

we shall describe how this picture came into being.

About two days ago our two bad guys were riding

through Dodge minding their own experiential business,

when lo and behold…they came across a badder breed!!!

Deadly Watson and his somewhat systematic Clark L.

Hull. One may ask, “How can one say badder when it

doesn’t exist?” Our presentation is that it must be so,

because Deadly Watson, the really bad one, started the

terrible mess and Hull came along and made the whole

mess worse, so what is worse than bad, is badder.

Now that we have the spectrum, that is a multiplicity of

colored confusion, we may begin with the confused

events that systematically and eventually transpired.

In the beginning, Deadly Watson evolved into Dodge,

throwing his weight around, eventually taking over the

town. People were aghast. Then one sultry Saturday

afternoon, old Systematic Hull showed himself, making

absolutely sure to keep that sinister hypothetical

construct hidden from view. He said to Deadly W.,

“You’re the best bad guy I’ve ever seen.” But the way I

see this situation, you’re not very systematic. It is a

universal fact that people have drives, habits and

24

incentives!!! If we utilize these to the fullest extent and

not just condition them the way you want to do, we can

easily take over the bank. Well, by Monday they had the

town. Tuesday was the day they set to rip off the bank.

They had been so forceful in their implicit approach, that

the bank should be a cinch.

On Tuesday morning they stepped into the street, Deadly

W. walking very tall and Clark L. looking very

systematically formulated, except that his postulate was

hanging over his belt!!! But he did have a lot of drive and

the incentive was money, that green stuff. Was that the

hypothetical construct of the world, even in those days?

Everything was set! All the assumptions were in place,

all the corollaries were put together. What a system!

What a conditioned! Reaching the middle of the street,

they were at the point of no return, they were definitely

and objectively, objects of no return. Then, along came

two persons (previously mentioned above), good old

Merlin-Pony and Sorté. Hull looked up in a very

systematic and scientific way, he saw the threat. The next

instant his assumptions were out and they fired five times

(but in a very systematic and scientific way). The first

two shots very systematically blew holes in the two

mounts upon which his opponents were riding, the third

hit a water trough, the fourth killed his partner and the

fifth was a reaction potential and he shot himself in the

hypothesis. In the meantime, Merlin fell off his Pony

(which is rather difficult to do). Sorté drew his gun

(which turned out to be a beautiful likeness indeed) and

fired into the air. The bullet struck a sign which fell,

striking old Clark L. right smack on his S-R, reducing

him to a fractional anticipatory goal response. He fell to

the groundless. Before he died, he asked, “What was the

cause?” Merlin-Pony quietly stated, “It was just an

unmeasureable and unsystematic phenomenon.”

Now the townspeople wouldn’t go for this, so they

banned together against good old Merlin-Pony and Sorté

and threw them out of town on their existential

phenomena!!! Oh, how that must have hurt!!!

Now we can transcend to the point in time overlooking

the little valley. Actually, you can see that they won the

fight, but lost the battle. So, upon continuing their search

25

for truth or reality of ideas, they rode down the hillside

looking for a dude named Hussler, who could hussle any

approach. As they got down into the valley, they

approached a little tavern, from all sides!!! They walked

in and here they met, another bunch of really mystic

weirdoes. Of course there was Hussler, Haydigger and

Nasheskee, not to mention Shultz. They were all here!

Someone said, “Where is Roy C. Rogers?” A bullet was

fired. How many can a bullet kill? Where was Roy? Did

someone die? Who will carry on the approach? The

Germans, the French or Roy. Is Roy really the leader?

Could he be the leader? Or is he guided by his company?

Again, who will carry on the approach? We have

presented it the way it happened. Now the reader should

decide.

—The Characturess

26

THE CONTINUING WESTERN SAGA

At our last report we found the disputed field of honor,

the intellectual Land of Oz, surrounded from all sides by

the mysterious and loosely bound force of mystical

weirdo’s, usurping the power and authority of the

traditional psychological Honchos, cultivating and

nurturing the seeds which have been planted in the

historical fields of knowledge, the slowly budding and

unfurling leaves on the tree of life. The residential House

of Being has been surrounded, the sacred cows of

knowledge formerly spread hither and thither throughout

the land have finally been brought into the fold. The

strays have been identified, rounded up by the sacred

cowhands and branded with the secret seal of power.

Our contemporary hero of the first saga chapter, Roy C.

Rogers, has been continuing his now strenuous chore of

treating others as significant and worthy, a contemporary

do-gooder wielding his weapon of Unconditional

Positive Regard in a rather unsuccessful bout with the

rigidly structured and traditional framework of the human

being as “Thing.” We are in a spot, no movement is in

sight. How will the dilemma end? Can they be saved?

Can they move forward? Can they prevail? Such is the

wondering of the loosely knit band of “Beings-In-The-

World,” the motley crew of bandolieros of DOO-KANE,

a team of cloistered in power. There is Haydigger, Sorté,

Hussler, Merlin-Pony and the Social Psycho, Rosenstock-

Who’s He?

Far off in the distance, across the arid desert space stands

the question and beyond that the horizon of doubt. Which

way will the wind blow? How far will the

phenomenological seeds scatter in the eye of the

hurricane of dispute which races toward the young

budding life-trees? How deep will the pelting drops of

moisture penetrate into the dry desert lands of

unknowing? Who in the mystical weirdo camp will

inherit this task of driving the maverick herd, the primal

horde, through the hostile deserted land? Who will brave

the brunt of the hurricane of dispute? Who will whet the

appetites of the “Up and Comers,” the little muchachos

of the future? Even in the cloistered little town of DOOKANE,

the locale of the “Beings-In-The-World,” a split

seams on the verge of opening a new wound of battle.

27

The ultimate question lingers on the lips of the champion

thus far, Merlin-Pony and his fore-sighters. The question

burning in their body-subjects is: Who is the new person

in town? Who is the mysterious stranger who threatens

each person’s existence and spreads terror in the hearts of

our traditional controllers? Who is Dasein? Dasein, the

terror of the West, a villainous member of the “Beings-

In-The-World” gang, rips a tear in the fabric of the takenfor-

granted ground, the garment worn in the “Land of the

Psychos!

All thoughout the quiet little village of DOO-KANE

exists an atmosphere of tension, a wondering and

respectful contemplation of the fearfulness, the power of

the heretofore misunderstood powerfulness of Dasein.

Hussler, the galvanizing force, the once upon a time

leader, turns to his faithful sidekick of 17 years,

Haydigger, his apostle in the night and says, “You ain’t

saying nothing!” But Haydigger persists. Martin sports

their joint weapon, a cold bright shining Reflectionary

.44 slung lowly on his “hip” of knowledge and then he

spreads the word, “Dasein is coming, Dasein is coming.

Hide the Structures! Hide the Structures! Something new

is on the way, something transforming is in the air, I can

feel it in my existentialle!” “Hurrah, hurrah, the deadlock

must be broken” blurts a Screaming Nasheskee, “before I

go crazy.”

Who can master the ultimate weapon which dispels the

blackness of unknowing, the all-powerful “light gun” of

the future? Will it be the Rat Men who lurk in the

recesses of tunnel vision and predict their own control, a

rigid town of puppets who live on each other’s string? Or

will it be the Freedom Fighters, the DOO-KANE

seven, the Big Guns of the Black Forrest? The DOOKANE

seven are on the field of honor. How shall they

fare? But alas, a deadlock has emerged on the impasse,

thwarting a united effort. They too have been caught up

in the dilemmatic horns of the sacred cows. Alas the

future looks grim, as the ill winds of dissention blow

through the cloud of unknowing, through the shifting

whispering sands, spreading through the land like a fine

layer of distrust, clouding the reasoning of their

visionaries, Trust Faith and Trust, the irrational ground of

the “Beings-In-The-World.” The future is up for remaking.

Who can meet the challenge? Who can open a

28

new path? Who can bear this Cross of Reality?

Out of the duskiness, the clamor, the choking blinding

swirls of the hurricane slowly advances two heroic

figures of the morrow, the Upholders of Faith and

Trust, the reaffirming grounders, the named members of

the flexible varied supporters of the not-yet existing Path

of Recovery. Two independent saviors bound together

under the banner of Fellowship step forward,

Weedhopper and Feirefiz. The new breed, the

Innovators, the Pathfinders, advancing the stock of

knowledge, the sacred cows of thought, into patches of

newly lit ground.

The drive is on, move those sacred cows! Lead that

primal horde! Two daring saviors joined together by

choice to trim the horns of dilemma on the sacred cows

of knowledge, pushing on to greener pastures for all. But

how? How shall they forge the new path? How will they

keep the horns of dilemma from trapping them in their

own mire? The “Light Gun” the laser beam of light

which unites rather than isolates is their weapon. Here

they are, Weedhopper and Feirefiz, carrying jointly the

names of one another, sharing membership and

partnership of another brand: the Existential

Existentialles. They outdistance the Phenomenonalles.

But wait, what is this ultimate weapon they carry in their

research bags strapped on the back of their trusty steeds

of temporality? The light, the spark, the waylayer of

mistrust an Experiential Montage the secret weapon

against isolation and division, the unifier supreme. Just

what will be their outcome? For that we must wait. It

resides in our futures together, one which has yet to be

created as the land of Social Psychos takes its own space

in the shifting whispering sands of disintegration,

searching for a re-footing, a re-grounding of the

visionaries of Faith and Trust, the irrational grounds of

all that has been done thus far. What will be their fate?

Tune in again for the next exciting episode of the

continuing saga starring Weedhopper and Feirefiz, the

Pathfinders of Tomorrow.

Recorded by the Scribes of the future,

—The Characturess

29

AN INTEGRAL MOMENT

Put yourself in San Francisco, which we will equate with

the beauty of all beauty you have known, with a woman

who loves. What do we see as a feeling experienced

when pinning a dainty, fragrant rose or gardenia, which is

the essence of respect, fragility, beauty and uniqueness,

on this woman? What do we experience when out of the

abundance of flowers available, we select one and it

becomes precious? To the person selling them it is

possibly just an income, a common everyday reality.

What, do we experience as this unique moment and

delicate bit of reality are joined with a force that could

motivate the world? The cars continue moving the

same, the clerks continue walking their narrow paths

and only 45 seconds of your life has passed. But you

are changed. You know things are different for you and

within you. You have opened yourself to your

experience, the sounds, smells, sights, perceptions and

your life has happened.

You were aware of it, you were feeling it, you were it,

alone yet sharing, with the rest of the world acting

upon you and the sensory enveloping environment.

Not all of this total environmental presence is

cognized yet it is felt. It is taken in and assists in the

translation and promotes the process of giving

meaning to that moment. It will be carried with you,

extended and will eventually change its form with

further experiences.

—The Characturess

30

THE NATURE OF A TREE

It is another hot summer day in this historic foothill town

where pickups with four-wheel drive outnumber

comfortable passenger cars by four to one. The rugged

terrain with its still-unpaved roads, untamed land, invites

only the hearty and robust in spirit to take any permanent

root.

A single four-way stoplight controls the flow of traffic at

the heart of this gold-rush frontier where one incoming

highway splits to leave, right or left. Here history has

concealed itself yet remnant; remain to imagine the

boisterous, wide-open adventurous wooden-planked

pathway of civilization from the 1800’s to now.

At this crossroads is Joe. He owns the local cafe. As an

astute observer of humans and nature, he sees the

changes wrought by time. The light regulating a steady

stream of traffic into town turns red. Vacationers in cars

anxious to move on are idled.

With a loud, continuous rumble of low-toned grinding

brakes, Joe recognizes without looking that a heavily

laden logging truck is grinding down to second gear in

lumbering, halting anticipation of the quickly changing

green light to red. The old red truck grinds to a grudging

stop. Joe feels its load without looking. Another future

lumber stack in the rough is driven precariously into a

rugged heap.

The logging truck groans with its burdensome load at the

red light. Just then Joe hears the silence when the logging

truck at the light dies. Joe turns to observe. The truck

starts. At the counter of Joe’s cafe are four philosophers

who were on their way to Reno after having recently

attended a conference in San Francisco. Here they sit at

the crossroads of life, stranded since they cannot think

their car started.

Idealist: I look at those trees on the truck at the stoplight

and I know that reality resides within the mind. The ideal

is not what I see it is an imitation of the real. It is beyond

you and me.

31

Realist: I see the trees on the truck. Reality is here. I see

the form in its wholeness. Although there are trees in

general distinctions are possible.

Pragmatist: Trees are a function of our experience. Trees

are more than form. Trees are of value. I see trees from a

practical view.

Existentialist: I shudder at the sight of the once-towering

pines no captives of the truck at the light. Just hours ago

nests of hawks lived in their now missing limbs, stood

tall to let winds whisper and sigh in their green-needled

branches, in time and space, nourished by roots now cut

free.

With a loud jerking instant of change from red to green,

the rugged, weathered logging truck lurches forward.

Smoke streams begin to bellow from the twin exhausts as

it rolls downhill toward the final leg of its journey to

deliver today’s last load to future already seen. Joe then

turns and asks the four conversants: Is it possible for the

four of you to get in one car and decide which way to

turn at the intersection?

—The Characturess

32

SITTIN AND A’WAITIN AT THE CROSS ROADS

He’s a rugged old soul whose proud straight posture

shows his spirit’s been strengthened by withstanding

many a storm. He’s like a rock...unshakeable, his Faith

sustaining these 84 years now, pushing towards their

close. The old Irish monk’s spirit, overseeing and

overlooking the heart of the steel city on the campus

Bluff has been tempered by time like steel forged by fires

in Pittsburgh’s mills scattered along the river below. Up

there...where landscapes of time have carved out a

modem day university’s life from soil which brick by

brick and hand by hand established this Spiritan outpost

some 100 years ago...up there roams the strong spirit of a

wise old man in the person of Brother Jerry, the most

unforgettable character I have ever known.

“Sleep, eat, work and pray”...that’s been life each day for

the 64 years of his service. And now there the old man

sits a’waitin under the three flagpoles a little past noon,

the first rays of springlight warming him in the new

summer’s sun. Waiting for another with a moment to

come along. Hands idled by time with a heart still

yearning to give. He’s a walking, talking storybook full

of life, wit and wisdom. “Do you like stories?” he asked.

“Oh yes, I love them” and quickly then, like so many

others before me, he knew he held me...right in the palm

of his hand.

There he sits now a’waitin, telling story after story,

handing down the wisdom. Go ahead, ask him a

question...you’ll get your answer...but probably not the

one you expected! Because talking with him is like

seeing your own image reflected in the mirror. He shows

you yourself by helping you find your own answer. And

each who comes finds what he needs. Time and again

we’ve found it true...going to him to ask a question. The

answer comes in the story he tells...and it sets you to

thinking. Later it hits you...“Oh yes,! see what he

means.” Back you go to show him what you’ve learned

and there you find him...sittin and a’waitin.

Swapping stories with those who visit, singing little

songs to me over the phone, growling like a gorilla in the

middle of his story, sharing funny moments bringing

comfort...sittin there on the edge of his bed in familiar

33

holy repose...“thinken’, thinken’ and thinken’” Pipe in

hand, smoke swirling up and round the room while a

tired old man “figures”...looking for answers to the

eternal questions nobody else knows.

Any fair day when the sun comes shining you will find

him...coming straight down the middle of the university’s

walk, standing tall and straight as an arrow. With cane in

hand helping to support the age he pauses for the

moment, easing back into the breeze, hat pulled down

tight a little to one side shading damp blue eyes with

bespeckled faded vision. But one kind of sight has given

way to another...a quick peep over the tops of his glasses

and his soul sees many a wonder missed by others. On he

moves a many-seasoned man like weathered leather,

steps now being guided by memories and pulled onward

to meet new friends. And still he goes on giving. Always

quick with a good word for others, ah yes, Brother

Jerry’s a very holy man.

And now there he sits a’waitin, summing up for his final

scenes. Greatest gifts yet to come, sharing with others too

the path his soul now travels...full of question with yet

the wisdom to prepare for his final acceptance and

surrender. The old monk’s vision shows you things

you’ve never seen. Like what he recently shared with a

class full of young nurses who spent quite some time

with him in his room...talking and laughing they wanted

to know just what it’s like...to be sittin and a’waitin.

Telling stories and handing down wisdom, chuckling at

himself and your reactions...a little crook at the side of

his mouth giving his secret joys away. Making you laugh,

letting you see, showing you just where to look for the

peace of mind you seek going to him and paying a visit

you find the door’s already been opened...knowing

you’re expected. And each person who comes discovers

something he seeks and each who asks hears from the old

monk what he needs. It’s funny it seems, there are as

many faces to Brother Jerry as there are people who’ve

met him.

“You got to treat everybody the same” that’s one of his

rules and one he struggles to follow to the letter. Never

really knowing what he’s thinking but full well knowing

he’s still giving you something. His years have been a

series of coming and goings young friends moving on

34

and he’s still staying...a stronghold of hope telling you

each time you fall...“just get up and go on.” Up you get

and on your way...never again to be the same. He’s the

strongest, toughest, gentlest man I’ve ever met. And

make no mistake about it...he’ll sit back and wait, full

knowing just where you’re headed. While off you go on

your mission thinking sure this time you know what

you’re doing...“I knew you’d be back”...he quips as you

return a little later, wiser from your lesson and a little

more willing to listen, there you find him...sittin and

a’waitin.

And there in his room open to full view hangs his own

personal story, framed moments of history attesting to his

victory. An award stands out which puts the old

Brother’s name in the Duquesne Sports Hall of

Fame...hanging right next to his honorary degree, a

Doctor of Humanitarian Services the old wise man

is...pretty hard for anyone to top. Each day you’ll find

him there in his room, in the same spot now 20 years.

Sitting in his chair in the morning with sun streaming in

on him through the windowpane, listening to the radio

and taking a short snooze. Still getting up at 5 and down

to the kitchen for coffee. Then into the chapel singing

and praying, still helping all of us while he’s sittin and

a’waitin. With soul nourished and spirit refreshed back

he moves towards his room looking forward to whoever

will visit.

“How does he know that?” so often we’ve found

ourselves thinking. “Why is it...each story he tells...so

much of what you’ve wondered appears right before your

eyes?” It’s probably something you’ve been asking...and

then up pops Brother Jerry, right out of the blue-acting all

the time as if he was the one who had been looking and

waiting for you. Yep! That’s the way he does it...keeping

one step ahead no matter how quick you think you are.

Each time you approach a turn in the road there you’ll

find him already...sittin and a’waitin. Fresh stories in

hand. Yes, the ways of this old wise man make a

particular kind of sense. He helps you look, he helps you

see...and then in his gentle favor, he helps you accept

what you find.

“Give to God what you promised and to your fellow man

what he is entitled.” If you think it’s easy...well, just try

35

it! And if a man is judged by his deeds, then each act of

kindness by his generous heart given is one small

treasure laid up in his heaven. The soil of his soul over

these many long years has been toiled and enriched,

heavenly virtues flowered now ripening to full fruit in the

light of the Spirit...the fruits of human kindness. “You

got to earn your way to heaven” he tells us and it’s all a

matter of degrees. And for us it’s been quite a treat

finding such a teacher, the gardener...he’s helped make

sense out of life by showing us something higher, putting

the finishing touches on my husband’s 10-year education

...helping to spirit a new work through. So many people

he has been, so many parts he has played for so many

like ourselves who asked for help in their struggle to be

free.

And now, as he sits a’waitin at the “cross roads” he finds

lessons of his own being handed down from above: “You

can’t see, you can’t hear, you can’t get around...so there’s

not much else to do”...but to sit a thinken’, catching up

on the past, looking at the life lived for serving others.

And when that moment comes when souls are weighed in

heaven, Almighty God surely will be pleased to find

one’s life coming as close as it can to perfection...in

givin’, givin’ and givin.’

—The Characturess

36

THE PHILOSOPHER OF LIFE

Characture of Viktor E. Frankl

One person’s life captured by time, suffering, struggling

and surviving freedom’s demand. Slowly eclipsed by

history’s on-going story. Reaching out beyond, one voice

stands chronicled step by step, displaying the as-yet

unfolding drama of the human dimension. Wrought from

sacrifice and giving direction to life, the will to meaning

echoes Viktor E. Frankl’s call to the human spirit lost in

the dark. Self-Transcendence, the essence of existence,

reflects the experiential nature of breaking-throughboundaries

opening conditions subject to decision.

Not to be free from finite circumstances standing in the

face of the abyss of nothingness, yet exercising the

freedom to choose we rescue and immortalize human

meaning, valued and ideal. Transcending ourselves

through the freedom to choose bears the existential

weight of the statue of responsibility, the monument of

our existence. Life’s flickering flame assailed by pain,

guilt and death brings poignant meaning, resounding the

height, depth and intensity of the passion of Frankl’s

unsung song “We Are Here!”

The Characturess

37

THE WRITING CARUSO

Upon foaming fringes of salted sands along San

Francisco’s Gold Coast wanders the free spirit of man

whose heart yearns to fly. Deep within the chrysalis of

time miracles of life gain for in his eye, catch the first

breath of life from his word. This, the poet in our hearts,

finds character and destiny following trails left by his

pen, The Writing Caruso...a man captured by time.

Strolling the glassy watered edge, soaking in sounds and

rhythms of life, surrounding aloneness, lost by time.

Meeting each passerby with intuitive reception, yet rarely

a word spoken...without interruption and the scene moves

on.

The poet reaches a destination only a short half hour

thereafter. Resting in repose, pausing, turning to overlook

buttressed rocks below where waves of humanity are

seen, crushed against world’s edge...enshrined and

clouded softness by morning’s rolling fog...onward he

moves, untouched by the clamor which tears at souls

within...steady is his pace. Consorting for quiet moments

with Sutro’s soul from the pinnacle of his vision, long

since gone from now atop this vista, opening onto

unending sea that surrounds...spirit still with the heart of

the old gentleman pine. One remaining guardian at the

gate. The poet gazes as no other, touches as not a man,

gifted with the word. Home he returns enfevered again,

ringing words play round his ears, no patience left in the

fingers that will not flurry to the time kept by

kaleidoscopic visions cascading through his

being...struggling wildly to grasp the smoke firmly with a

single stroke of his typewriter keys.

History manifests from latent dormancy with the work.

From where does this branch flower in its home tree?

The Writing Caruso, composer of visions, only but one

upon whom predecessors bestowed a golden glory...not

the first of 18 to live, a legacy given by one operatic

forefather but the first born, a single one. Life the river’s

winding flow through deeply gorged, canyoned earth,

rushing life seeks the open sea where family’s name

swells to rise from a life pooled source, rebirthed and

given expression once more. The Writing Caruso, still

yet unknown, destined by history to accept only one

chosen fate. Relentlessly pursued and privately found,

38

imagination soaring alone to heights unlearned, grasping

there essence in pure sound. Inward he turns, strikes the

right key, chiming each word according to it tone...letting

a melody carry him on...harmonies escape as if stored in

his heart, rhythms conducting words to rightful place, all

arranging together to paint far distant horizons, simply

with words. From his hands, in tune with forefathers’

spirits, Enrico and Luigi before him 200 years ago, the

Old Country song gives life again.

—The Characturess

39

BLACK MADONNA

Cloistered atop the “Hill of Light” in Czestochowa,

Poland resides the symbol of Polish spirituality, standing

not only for the unity of a people and the independence

of a nation but signifying the very existence of a country

for the past 1014 years. The Black Madonna of

Czestochowa is a small, wooden icon, venerated for

centuries, carrying the promise of religious and national

freedom. Since 1362 the Mother of the World has time

after time responded to the call of the Polish people for

Her help, intervening on their behalf in an hour of need,

issuing an undeniably effective protection. Her image

holds the place of honor in every Polish church, giving

voice to the hope for unity reaching far beyond the

historical, social, cultural and national boundaries, rooted

in the hearts of the faithful.

Resisting invasion after invasion, the Tartars in 1382, the

Hussites in the 1430’s, the 300 year struggle with

Teutonic Crusaders, the 17th century battle with the

Swedes, the Turks, the Russians and forward into a future

to be witnessed only by their future, the Polish nation has

been the cross point in the continual migration of peoples

and the middle ground of continental upheaval. At each

point in battle where victory by invaders seemed

imminent, where Her image was endangered, where in

fact Her Reality appeared at the mercy of their hands,

Our Lady’s world wide symbol of protection halted the

troops at Her door. Freedom, the victory won by Her

Son, provides the undefeatable sign of hope for

perfection in redemption. The Madonna’s presence,

Poland’s greatest symbol of their common hope, is the

ever renewing of inspiration, the bread of daily life.

After partition of Poland between Austria, Prussia and

Russia, a populace divided under new foreign rule,

remained united in spirit through their faithfulness and

devotion to the Madonna. The meaning of the Black

Madonna for Polish spirituality cannot be separated from

the historical events which have engendered a culture

imbued with Her Beauty and given expression to Her

meaning each day through the actions of the faithful.

The mutual self-giving love which flows inbetween the

Polish people and their protectress demonstrates the

40

tireless, living faith of love first fostered by the Holy

Spirit, issued through Her upon the moment of need. A

meeting of the East and West in the Church first

announced the promise, hope and victory found in

universal religious freedom. Candles lit, prayers rising

reverently into the light all revealed the personal love for

the handmaiden of God who galvanizes a common spirit

to once rise and meet yet another approaching darkness

awaiting on each horizon bordering the cherished

homeland.

Her marred image bears testimony to the brutal scars

upon the soul of a nation, the Hussite sword in 1430

unable to destroy the inconquerable yearning for freedom

in a heart. Hidden for long years by the Paulites from

those who would destroy Her image, the treasures laid up

in Her Heart continue to flow out in limitless generosity,

the life giving waters of life pouring into the open

sepulchers of awaiting hearts. The gentle purity of Her

being upheld in glory as a new spring wildflower wafting

in the meadowed breeze peacefully co-exists with Her

potential to mettle the human spirit, to temper it like fireblazoned

steel, providing and inner strength to withstand

the blackening smokes of violence and the flash of steel,

issuing a return call for justice to the people.

Legend has it that Saint Luke the Evangelist depicted Her

beauty on this piece of wood, which was from the time of

Her Son wrought by the hands of His protector, Saint

Joseph. The larger Truth remains through the symbol of

freedom, unity within, unity with others, the suffering

soul of a nation found in a heart pierced and wounded for

Her own Son. The Black Madonna of Czestochowa

speaks a vibrant message of love to the women of Poland

whose centuries-long duty has fallen to the laps like the

bereaved bodies of their own sons. The deepest essence

of Polish spirituality comes to life in the heart of Mary,

personified and inspired by the portrait once arrested but

the Spirit never imprisoned, the portrait of Mother and

Child, reflected upon a wooden bough once filled with

life of its own.

—The Characturess

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THE GENTLEMAN OF OCEAN BEACH

Characture of Charlie McCarthy

Charlie can bring to picture before your mind an

experience you feel is your own. The vividness and

vibrancy of Ocean Beach comes alive in each

description. The Electric Car run near and around Lands

End, Charlie rides each time as he calls forth the

experience while you walk alongside. A walk, you see,

with Charlie is a walk through the history of San

Francisco’s Ocean Beach. “The Electric Car went down

into Sutro. Sutro was quite a complex. There was even a

salt-water pool. An ice rink, too!” Charlie, then, waves to

a passerby, “Good Morning, nice day!” Moving along,

Charlie turns and continues the ongoing experience along

Ocean Beach. “Way on down around Taravel street there

was ‘Taits at the Beach’ with beautiful gardens and

landscaping. A little further on down was ‘Shorty

Roberts,’ a restaurant that was a hangout for local

politicians.” Charlie, then, smiles, laughs and says,

Shorty had a horse that would swim the Golden Gate.”

Charlie walks over to the Ocean Beach rail, pauses for a

moment at #15, “This ramp here was built for the Coast

Guard. Each day they would carry their boats from across

the street, from where they had their own building, then,

go down the ramp to practice in the breakers. Right close

to where the ramp is now was the Beach Chalet. The one

now across the street at the edge of Golden Gate Park

was built later. People would ride the equestrian trail to

the Chalet on the beach where, underneath, there were

stalls for their horses. Right there on the sand.”

Already moving along now Charlie says, “Our family

would come out here to the beach for picnics. I used to

gather firewood. We would put our granite coffee pot

over the fire.” Charlie, then, smiles, laughs and says,

“We just threw the grounds into the pot. We had to use a

strainer for the coffee grounds. But it was good coffee.”

As Charlie continues walking down Ocean Beach his

silver hair, now, glistens from the sunlight which has just

burned off some San Francisco fog. “A little warmer

now. Just walking from #1 to #28 you can go through

four different temperatures. In just a few minutes it can

change.”

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Now at the end of the walk way Charlie turns, pauses for

a moment at #28, looks at the Cliff House in the distance,

“As people looked out from the Cliff House they used to

comment about the Mail Carrier, with a horse and a

buggy, who would go along the sand dunes. With a

sudden disappearance it looked like the sand dunes

would swallow up the horse and buggy. Then it would

reappear only to disappear.” On the way from #28 to #1

Charlie continues, “The police used to wear khakis not

blues as you see today. Arthur Dolan was famous out

here for saving people in the breakers. With horse and

rope he would go out into brave the breakers.”

Continuing along Charlie waves to a passerby. Takes his

hat off when he meets a lady. Smiles as his silver hair

and sun-tanned face display The Gentleman of Ocean

Beach. Walking along within the continuity, Charlie has

moved you through the continuous ebb and flow of

Ocean Beach. You, then, begin to feel the appreciation

Charlie displays for Life. For Charlie everyday is

beautiful whether the weather is whatever. He extends his

appreciation to whatever there may be. Charlie has a way

of establishing and stabilizing visions previously

achieved while allowing new insights to spring forth. San

Francisco’s own since 15 April 1908. He utilizes the past

to illuminate and enrich the present and the future. In this

way he appreciates and extends the Lived and the Living.

And just before it is time to go your own way, Charlie

smiles, his eyes bespeak of kindness, only, then, Charlie

says, “We had a nice walk!” Somehow, just for a glimpse

within that moment, you feel what it means to go a bit of

the road together.

—The Characturess

43

ACADEMIC COOKBOOK

Introduction

The following is the Academic accepted method for

preparation of even the met, “esoteric” and exotic forms

of phenomena as they appear in the Judy Child’s

Cookbook Awards Pamphlet prepared by the

Phenomenal Professors on a yearly basis. Cookbookin

the phenomena, annual givens—the Dissertation Blue

Ribbon is awarded for the most inane, leveled down and

blasé phenomenal choice. Phenomenal choices must be

critique able, labeled “not a phenomenon” at least one

time during its development and to be open to question at

all times by the Professor at—otherwise known as the

Resident Oppressor and Picky Poo. Following

desecration of the experience of inspired fellowship

during the year 1977—the oppressor has selected the

most likely candidate for 78—Commitment—by Dawg,

to receive—the elitist and most sought after covetous

blooper-scooper award in the higher realms of ethereal

altitudes of human potential.

Following are a few preliminary cookbooker “recipes for

action” for preparation of typical commitment treats.

Main Course Commitments

A. Selection of A Commitment

Upon arrival at the local commitment store, proceed

directly to the specially marked “blue section” of the

atom. All commitments are blue (their first structural

component) as they are typically a Sunday fair; being

symbols of devotion, loyalty and should be used with

caution as they are spiritually binding. Individuals with

weak constitutions should avoid the commitment as a

gourmet delicacy as commitments have been known to

frighten even the stoutest hearts in the bright of day.

After arriving at the blue commitment counter, usually

located between the Head and Heart I’lls—one should

find a wide selection of commitments to be chosen from.

We do not select our commitments, they choose us.

Commitments are always in charge of their duty-bearing

responsible purchasers.

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1. All good commitments should be securely packaged

upon first inspection. You will notice that each

commitment is “graded” by US INSPECTORS of the

Department of the Already Committed located at the

dispensaries of Mayview and Woodville. The US

INSPECTORS are immediately recognizable by their

persistent clinging to the “white knight” image,—always

appearing in those funny white coats which tie behind

time back. Always insist on an already Committed

Inspected Choice Grade A= 4.O GPA points. These

commitments seen to yield the most satisfaction fulfilling

the urge to commit.

2. As mentioned before, color is most important in

selection of the proper commitment. Look for the good

“blue” in color, not too fat, not too lean. You want plenty

of “meaty” texture for your commitment, a nice and

plump, tenderized peace and one as boneless as possible.

No sense adding bones of commitment to the alreadyweighty

dooty aides of commitment. (As you know, the

price of commitments been rising steadily-particularly,

since the oily shirks from across the big white waters

have introduced an artificially-bionic substitute for the

real lifetime commitments previously available.) As we

were saying, we want as “bone-free” a commitment as is

available. You may prefer your selection in the form of

strips, sliced, or “pounded” commitment takes, simply

ring for the attendant and he will prepare your selected

commitment and accompanying harness, trimming it to

suit your needs—just ask for Father Time The

Commitment Cutter.

3.After selecting your main course commitment you are

now prepared to gather the essential “commitmentcondiments

which are chosen in hopes of enhancing the

spiritual blueness of your commitment. Side dishes night

include half-baked ideologies, stewed Spinoza in

verboten juice or hells-a-raisin popovers. A choice white

wino will supplement the quality of your commitment,

highlighting the savory-flavored characters of the

uncommitted, a necessary dialogal structure in

preparation of any kind of commitment. Winos often

reveal the mistakes in commitment selection, a perfect

cover-up for error or hidden bones in the commitment.

Winos are very important commitment condiments for

supplying the blue Monday weakly snivels that sometime

45

follow the individuals who lack commitment in their diet.

(It should also be noted that low-cal commitments are

available for those who need to keep their ontological

weight at the desired level.)

B. Preparation of Commitments

Now that you have been chosen by your commitment,

your duty lies in the ways that you handle your new

responsibilities, your karma-resolving commitment

dinner. Preheat the pressure-cooker life ovens to 5000 or 3 Celsius.

1. Preparation of all commitments should be

undertaken in the soberest of attitudes. As the ovens

of life are warming in preparation for the

commitment, one should prepare the commitment for

its fated or destined project. In order to preserve the

spiritual blueness of the commitment and to retain the

tender juiciness, first roll the commitment in Shak n’

Bak—place in plastic haggle, making sure that all

parts of the Vita Blue are covered in the lifesustaining

crumbs of the Shak n’ Bak mixture. When

someone asks “why” your commitment is so “crusty”

and has resulted in such a tender and succulent

commitment you can say: “Its Shak n’ Bak—n’ I

help’d.” After rolling your commitment, arrange it

with the bluest side up on the commitment rack. Insert

the desired seasonings and blending of personal

flavoring. It should be noted that as one removes the

commitment from the pre-packaged cardboard

container, one should let loose the binding threads,

which have cramped the commitment into a society

respectable shape, enabling the commitment to grow

and evolve into the inherent, and already present

possibilities of that particular commitment. Each

commitment must be allowed to flour into full

development through the freedom from bindings—the

commitment will retain its full flavor only when

resting in freedom. Freedom is the most important

dimension for the bringing to perfection of any

commitment, it is symbolic of the loving life—nothin

says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven...

2. Now that you have been chosen by your

commitment and taken the necessary preparatory

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steps for your new responsibility, place the

commitment in the ovens of life, making sure that the

temperatures remain constant as possiblewild

fluctuations in temperor flares of intense heat are

given to drying out even the juiciest and most tender

commitments. Keep a sharp eye on your commitment

through the see-through oven doors, being careful to

observe the development of a golden brown crustiness

as the browning edges indicate a blending of forces in

flaky surrender.

C. Serving Up Commitments

After a good thorough baking in the ovens of life and

after a lengthy subjection to the tests of the loving oven,

the commitment is ready to be served to its purpose.

1. Upon removing the commitment from the oven, it

requires a close re-inspection. Is this the way you first

envisioned your commitment? Is it getting enough heat?

Are the ovens of life hot enough, or too hot? Are you

burning (heaven forbid) your commitments behind you?

Commitments require constant checking as they rest on

their racks of freedom. A good, properly prepared

commitment will provide constant substance and meat to

everyday existence if adequate space and attention has

been given to its development. If the cookin’ has been

“underdone” return the commitment to the lovin’ oven

for further and future serving to purpose—a half-done

commitment may give rise to an inability to “stomach”

the commitment.

2. Each commitment must retain its spiritual blueness

after baking. If at any time, the brown fermenting and

oozing dread of “obligation” attaches itself to the cookin

commitment. the commitment will be spoiled and should

immediately be canned or put in the ostracizernothing

depletes the spiritual blueness of a commitment like the

fermenting acids of obligation. Keep your commitment

healthy and spiritually sustaining and it will be a

continuing source of sustenance and nourishment.

3. Serve your commitment with lavished-love,

underlying devotion and the urge to commit will be a

starring recipe for action in life...A“bean committed”

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sprouts the tenderest herb gardens which flavor a fullbodied

life.

Additional commitment recipes for action are available

upon request. We have commitments for “just desserts”

such as the Pure Whip Commitment (which requires a

professional prune welder for proper preparation);

Vegetarian Commitments for the non-flesh eaters’ foray

into commitment-land or the Involuntary Commitment

for those who are unaware of their anchored possibilities

of existence. Simply enclose in a pre-addressed and

stamped envelope your preference and returned address.

Send to: THE ACADEMIC COOKBOOK

–Commitment Recipes For Action In Care of: Looney

Tunes Department/Butch Cassidy and the Sundance

Kidd, two cases of the already committed–Your

commitment recipes will be forwarded in plane-browned

wrappers and secret names will be decoded.

—The Characturess

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INBETWEENNESS:

THE INTERPENETRATING FLOW

Have you ever seen the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset

when the clouds and fog cloak its topmost spires with the

hue of golden light, casting a glow from the setting sun

that reflects to emblazon water’s edge? One span on one

side forever anchored, reaches out toward the other side,

a single expanse begins and without whose returning

reach from the other side would fall, plunging into the

depths that lie below.

The other too reaches out, singular counterpart to the

alone expanse. As they do meet and touch—the two

complete each other—to be both, while together

providing a singular pathway, distinguishable as

something now freely flows inbetween. Each previously

alone, separated by the yet-to be traversed expanse, now

one together.

Something new exists, connecting what was previously

considered apart. Despite that both still are and remain

distinct, a new way exists inbetween, opening up and

establishing a viable pathway, allowing a mutually

interpenetrating flow inbetween where together, one

takes you to the other and the other returns you to

yourself.

—The Characturess

49

INBETWEENNESS: DARKNESS APPEARS

AWARENESS SHINES

There is something in life that connects us all. That

would be spirit, although it may be described by people

of different cultures in significantly different ways.

Regardless, it exists, it is, it happens. This sense of what

my first be felt as simpatico, as commonalities, as

something that is understood and felt rather than

cognitively analyzed and deduced indicates that it is

something a cut below it is foundational, grounding and

life affirming in its ability to be inclusive rather than

exclusive. It enjoins in freedom and conjoins in love; it is

the spirit that resides between—which lives inbetween.

Can you touch the wind? No. You can feel it on your face

and body, it blows past and around but you cannot touch

it. It is not there in the there dimensional sense, available

for human experience only as something beyond, outside

our own being. Inbetweenness shares some of these same

qualities only with the distinct difference that it does not

flow from the outside in but from the inside out—to

touch both ourselves and others. It too is fully

experienced and can change the direction in life of those

for whom it exists without preparation, just as the wind.

It too is experienced as touching us but of our not being

able to reach out and hold it. It flows and connects and

infuses love as a natural expression of itself. It is

mystery. It is itself without reference beyond itself. Pretty

metaphysical sounding in essence. It moves without

being of it sown. It initiates action without physical

dimension and it sustains life without recourse to what

resides or live apart from it. What is it?

Inbetweenness—What is it? During childhood life and all

it means is related to me—to my needs, demands and all

the essentials required for sustenance, protection and

nurturance, hopefully of our potential to grow, flower

and arrive at the gates of self-reflective awareness is

some integrated and fully functional way. Despite life’s

challenges and obstacles, it is possible to transcend, to

prevail, to ultimately, successfully.

As a vulnerable, inquisitive and needful youngster the

meaning and function of others in life are simply

restricted to the one meaning of the source, the provider,

50

the vast array of what is possible and necessary to sustain

the existence of what exists. That which is embedded

most firmly in the unknown as yet, cosmos of human

existence and reality.

As time carries one into future and newly emerging

patterns of growth, psychological and physical

development, the world itself and those most significant

to sustained existence begin to renew themselves as

centers of polarity. There comes a time early in life,

around two years or a little earlier when all in life is not

accessible for one’s own satisfaction—a space opens up

between I want and you cannot. One learns no! But

besides the denial of what has been accessible and now

has established a limit, now a glimmer of reflective

awareness as a center of independent action begins to be

a presence in the presence of another or others who

occupy and somehow can now deny my space. We

become a participant as well as and inhabitant of a world

of barriers, of doors now which close rather than

remaining always open. Darkness appears. The future

now is born.

The opening up of a space, the birth of distance from is

an expression, a natural one, of the experienced

condensation of becoming a self-reflected being, an

enlightened center of vision, a source of action by which

the I emerges to envision its own being.

From this moment in time the doors of freedom and unity

with the cosmos, the veil of inclusiveness is rendered.

The sense of I am apart from all that is begins to spread

its wings. Then treasures of heaven of unknowing are

locked from experience as it has been known via the

physical being. Awareness shines.

It is one’s space which opens up inbetween the budding

awareness and the recognition that there is an other—

indeed many others—which distances experience of self

from the all. This is the natural emergence and dynamic

human creation of one experience and reality of

inbetweenness.

—The Characturess

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DIMENSIONAL FLOW

Flow

I have been invited into another’s existence...the doors

opened to me and I accept I too open the doors. I walk

and I look and I feel...I experience agelessness,

eternity...the past is present, the future is present...in the I

am and the to be...I feel beauty, love, warmth, unity,

communion, tranquility. All of these adjectives to denote

traveling through space and time and climbing into the

heights and depths of consciousness. A release. No other

world exists...just eternalness within...timelessness...the

secrets of the past are revealed in all their glory. I see

myself, I see others, I see expansion...I see the intricacies

of life. I touch gently and it responds, alive...and

welcoming by entrance, inviting me to explore its

existence, eager for me to discover...what I already know

lies within. Life and eternity lives within this house, in

every conceivable texture, color, sense, touch and shape.

The past live gently and naturally beside the future,

coming together to present to me the present. The

essence of life is apparent to me...respect, gentleness and

regard with each afforded its own mode of uniquity, it

capturing its own beauty. I can follow the paths, I can see

where they have been, I can map their past, I can feel

their present and I can love them. Life pulses with this

house.

Flow

I am drifting, in this little boat, safe and warm with the

sun warming my soul. To the depths, comfortably,

resting and watching the beautiful birds as they swoop

and climb and can to me their secrets. My little boat is

carrying me to—somewhere and I willingly go, aware of

the beauty surrounding me and yet a distant place calls to

me. I hear, I respond and my little boat, carried by the

overwhelming but friendly power beneath me, whisks me

to this distance—this place that entices me...where am I

going, what am I doing, I care not, it is safe, it is warm, it

is beautiful. I arrive and I bid my little boat a gentle

goodbye...It is magnificent...beauty surrounds me as I

make my way into a soft and gentle meadow. There is

beauty in every view, a stillness prevails, with only the

sounds of beautiful birds as they call their love songs to

52

one another through the ages, there is water, babbling

over stone and running to its union, there are beautiful

flowers, all open to the world and full of gentle color, all

waving in the gentle breezes, whispering the secrets of

life to the gigantic pines who are singing their melodious

tune to the white fluffy clouds in the blue endlessness of

the sky. The flowers are damp, with soft velvety petals

extending their petals to me, inviting me to reach down

and touch their fragility, to experience...a red rose

catches my eye, I go over to it and I behold its loveliness.

I am taken into this flower, I go down and through and

become this rosebush upon which this fragrant entity

resides. I am a rosebush...Me as in all the way of being,

rooted and these roots sinking down into the rich fertile

soil, thirstily drinking and feeding from its fullness,

vitality flowing through each of the branches, leaves,

thorns and finally and ultimately, up to the beauteous gift

of my being, a rose, a beautiful rose, opening and pouring

its heart out to the world. I live in a beautiful soft,

sunshiny and dewey meadow, surrounded by lacy, soft

and luxuriously soft and splendorous grass, like cushions

of clouds and the hum of the birds and the bees fills the

air and I provide for others refuge and holding by

branches high to absorb the sun...and time lapses me, I

become dormant and quite still...sleeping peacefully

through the winters time, preparing to emerge again in

the cycle of life.

I have drifted to the shore, the gentle waters lapping the

contour of the beach and I am pulled into the warm and

powerful waters, I go down...down and down into their

irresistible depths...like soaring in the air and I glide and

circle and absorb the color, the mystique and the power

of the sea...and I go down, down, into the darkness...the

powerful magnificence of silence encompasses me and I

drift into a cave, one of plants and coral and little fishes

and something shines at the back. I work my way toward

this to discover its lure, I reach it, I pick it up and feel the

texture, it is warm, alive and pulsating...It tells me its

secret and I carry it within...up to the surface and

spewing forth on the surface like a whale surfacing,

sucking in great gasps of air...finally I am one the

beach...and walking along, the tides roll in and out and

the white foam brings upon the beach a little creature...“I

cannot live without...help me...love me.” I walk around

and immediately reach down can cast it back into the sea

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and I say to this little creature...“I love you...but I cannot

hold you...you must be you own, you are not stranded.” I

look up and I am tired, there is something upon the

waters, coming in...closer and closer, I cannot see what it

is, I am too exhauster and something keeps calling me

from afar, it keeps pulling me and I want to go with it, I

am open to it...

Flow

I am climbing this mountain, alive with creatures existing

in harmony, greenery all around and a barely visible path

leading me to the sun, to the top and I veer off to the side,

along a trail full of crisp air and piney scents, as I go on,

into...whatever awaits. I come upon this campfire and its

warmth and beauty draws me near, I put wood upon the

fire and a wise man sits quietly by the fire and I look

upon him...and he says, “Ask my child, what is it you

wish to say?”...and I say, “I have no questions, I have

nothing to ask...I feel from within what I want to know.”

He goes no to say, “Sit my child and rest yourself, share

with me my humble existence.” As we sit we talk and the

wise man says, “You are wise not to ask, you know

already and you need no other to seek...follow yourself

and you shall see...and he gave to me an eternal rose, one

that shall never die, it shall live forever in the depths of

my soul and I left to continue my journey.” I have been

there before...in the clouds another planet, just this

afternoon while lying in the grass...I made it to

there...and I want to go beyond...but I am too exhausted.

Flow

I cannot. I cannot go to where I have been through words.

I cannot describe living within the existence of another. I

opened myself and another flowed in...communion

occurred...it was the beginning...I am open to the future

and I welcome it.

—The Characturess

54

SUNDOWN

Sitting on a cold hard and round stone—the top of a

series of steps. It is the area intended for poetry readings,

the little alcove—a small clearing. Sky is barely visible—

pink with lacy green and a golden glow in the center. A

damp woody aroma fills the air speaking of a cool

stillness and cushiony damp softness beneath the growth.

My heart is still beating fast from the last hours’

encounter with ping-pong. There is little noise, I hear

various birds—the roar of the busses rounding the bend

at the street below—and the breezes rustle through the

treetops and gently brush my face. It is difficult to still

my mind and relax as it jumps from one idea or thought

to another—it seems very crowded as I look for the

causes of crackling in the undergrowth as little creatures

wiggle around in secret. Almost everything seems a

shade of green, from light to dark. There is a tendency to

look for the birds that seem to be remaining where they

are as they converse with one another.

Occasionally I hear an owl who seems hundreds of years

old—perhaps its sound is why it is considered to be so

wise, it hoots are muffled and sound as ancient and

knowing a I can think. Now I am amongst the growth

that seems like a forest, sitting between two large green

plants with yellow blossoms. The smells are different,

sweeter and the closeness of my surroundings seems to

be wrapping around me. I hear mosquitoes and see flying

bugs. The birds feel closer too—its almost as if you can

feel the glory of being a plant.

The temperature is cooling now as the sun disappears and

most all I contact is by sound. They seem clearer and

more distinct as I stop looking so much and simply listen

and feel. One bird is chattering incessantly and its

repertoire seems endless.

There is stillness now and the breezes have stopped. It is

very still and seems a crime to break the beautiful

silence. I am beginning to get cold and the plants feel

warn not like the cold hard stone I first sat upon. How

beautiful the end of a day is when one pays attention. It is

relaxing—my body feels more relaxed, as I start to give

myself over to the surroundings. The earth is damp and

55

soft and smells good. My senses seem much more aware

and my body tingles occasionally from the coolness.

The sun is gone now—and everything seems black and

very still. The birds have stopped their callings and the

only sounds that remain are made by humans somewhere

except for the rustle of creatures scurrying along in the

undergrowth and the sound of the wind rustling through

the branches. It is difficult to notice shapes of plants,

except the ones very near.

The darkness seems to set my imagination into

movement as the cause for noises and movements cannot

be detected. There are others moving about—something

comes out of a tree—cracking limbs and sounding like a

wild beast in the forest. Time seemed to slow down and

my own rhythm of breathing and heartbeat seems to have

slowed with it. Its like day is summer and night is winter.

I feel more relaxed and yet more alert to what is

happening around me.

—The Characturess

56

THE JOURNEY

As I begin the journey I find myself in a little wooden

boat. It is very small but large enough for only one and I

can feel the mist gently kiss my face as I snuggle down in

the boat and lose myself in the swaying gentleness. The

boat begins to move and to pick up speed. All of a

sudden it takes to the air and leaves behind the deep blue

mysteries of the sea. I am gliding as one with the boat,

soaring into the air through the gigantic billowing clouds,

up, up and up the air becomes colder and there are no

others—I am alone. I distinctly feel I am not in control of

this boat. I am not taking my own path. I look out and I

begin to recognize a path.

The path is the one my plane followed a couple of

months ago as I winged my way back to California to my

father’s death. I can sense the turbulence and feel the

sting of the hot razor sharp pain as it zings across my

heart—and I struggle against it as I reach out for my

man—he is there—and I continue the journey to find the

comfort and safety of his love—now I travel with him

and he carries me along to “our place”—San Francisco,

our beautiful San Francisco. A myriad of images flash

into my mind, like a merry-go-round as I gather the

moments of love and unity that we shared in our city and

my body shudders as our depths merge into their familiar

singleness.

Fair

I am truly excited. I am going to a fair. As I begin to feel

the anticipation arise I regress back in time. Pounds begin

to fall from my body and it quickly and fluidly changes

shape—I am now seven years old—and I am going to a

fair. It is thrilling and I have butterflies in my stomach.

Before I get in the gate I sense the total life inside—it

glows, it sings and it invites me to share in its tingling

moments and rainbowed glow. The movement is swift

and I am taken in and find myself on a Ferris wheel as it

spins through the dark of the night and the air swirls

around my ears as I look out across the great expanse of

the earth when I realize that I am very much higher than

the top should be—I have gone far above the earth and

am looking back through the night—suspended in

space—the wheel stops and my seat sways between the

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moment of life and death and I give a little gasp as I feel

caught between these moments—its like the instant

between breathing in and breathing out—this apex of a

moment became extended and I was caught in this instant

not knowing if I would continue to swing—then the

movement continued.

Costume

I am in a large room with a very high ceiling and dim

lights. Before me are racks with every kind of costume

imaginable—as I begin to sort through them I discard one

after another as I look for one this is “just right” for me—

I am looking for the sun—but then I think—no that is

impossible because that is what you are now—I feel

compelled to be something different tonight. Gradually, it

becomes a kind of game and the phoniness of the

costumes strikes me as peculiar. They are all “people”

costumes—that seems strange to me because I liked to

totally change my form and meaning—to experience a

total new experience. So I choose from another rack—

one that seems far in the back—I am a pansy. The deep

purple velvety feel pleases me—and the soft yellow glow

that generates from my center fills me with vitality. I like

this—I look around and I am tucked in green meadows—

I sway gently with the wind as it gently moves my entire

body—and I see that I resting beside a clear sparkling

stream as it giggles along knowingly—and I think—I

know you—I know who you are, I am not alone. What I

gain by this or what I win is true harmony, what I avoid

is—nothing—I avoid nothing because the cyclic

movement of life is the same—what one makes of it is

what is unique. I like being a flower—but I prefer being

the sun.

Wishes

I have no wishes—no—I do have one—I wish that Frank

Eichensehr would have taken my offer to undergo a

kidney transplant—he is with me tonight also—tonight is

uneasy.

Long Hallway

I am walking down the hallway, a dark brown wooden

hallway with many doors leading off of each side—I

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think, “I could go in there or there or in anyone, they all

open. But I do not want to go into them I want to go

through the last one at the end that faces “out.” It is

locked, I look for the key—I think where would the key

be—as I contemplate this problematic I decide that the

only place for the key is on the other side of the door—so

it must be locked from the other side. I slide a piece of

paper under the door and push through the keyhole with a

hairpin—there it is—I push and it falls to the floor—I

pick up the key and open the door—it is the door to the

universe—space, solitude and eternity—now I

understand why all the other doors were open—they

were limited.

Book

The book that I see is a purple satin book with gilded

pages of gold—and I find only one word inside—love.

Vessel

The vessel that I am carrying is a ruby red glass. It is

breathtaking, the color is so pure that it seems

transparent. The color seems to move inside in swirling

patterns, all shades of red. I has a fluted edge around the

top, like lace—and it is gently sprinkled with the most

delicate little flowers ever seen—white lacy ribbons

string the flowers together across the vessel as the color

swirls around inside, like the colors of a flame in the

quickness of its life but this color moves continuously

and it appears to be a power unknownst to me—I walk up

Mt. Olympus and a sunbeam strikes—a fusion of color

and sound gives forth a flash of brilliance and the vessel

becomes warm in my hand and the power begins to seep

into me as I stand there and I can feel the movement

inside ad it throbs, it is uncanny.

Mountain

I felt the rumble of heat underneath my crust and a force

pushing up—growing and growing until I begin to move

and go toward the sky—very hot—very rigid and

steaming. The turmoil of the creation bothers me—yet it

is necessary. Then I begin to cool and feel more gentle

and grass springs up, trees begin to grow at my base and

ice caps—no a glacier it developed over millions of

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years—Snow is all around and the clouds swoosh around

my peak. A lake is at the top—so magnificently colored

and clear—so majestic, untouched, unseen—it clearly

reflects perfection in its stillness and mirrors the vastness

of space and time—all I can do is behold it—and I try to

feel where it is—it is at my heart—life come and goes

and ages pass as life goes on and I am still. The clouds

begin to move and to take form, to take shape—they

become a giant eye as the sun streams through and

rainbowed colors shimmer in the air. Day changes to

night and night to day—I become active and then still as

night is soft and day is light. I grow old and ancient with

the cycles relentlessly giving way to one another and my

ground takes in a culture—and provides the fruits of

existence. I change back into a human—and the one

thing that I missed was making love to my man. I missed

the warmth of him as he rests so near.

High Plateau

I am on a high plateau and it is so still—like eternity—

nothing moves, no sound. A star shines above and I gaze

into its brilliance and it generates in to me as I move

toward it and it pulls me—I become one with the star.

Fire

I have nothing to throw on the fire.

—The Characturess

60

QUIET CALMNESS

Logs appear and flow along in the stream and then go out

of sight. From where I am the sky is barely visible. The

sun beaming off high branches, trickling down the leaves

and giving off a pink effervescent glow, bringing forth a

lacey green golden flow as it percolates down to the

bottom floor of the forest, drenching the tops of flowers.

A damp woody aroma fills the air speaking of a cool

stillness and cushiony deep softness beneath the growth.

The forest knows I am here. My presence is felt. It is

very quiet. I see a squirrel high above watching me

intensely. A bird announces its presence and another

answers. High above in the trees another realm of

existence is going on. A hawk jumps to another limb for

a closer look and then it slowly leaves. I can feel its

presence by its movements through the forest. All is quiet

again. Suddenly the hawk flies in low and slow and lands

in front of me. It looks at me then turns and walks off

slowly toward a little alcove, dimly lit. As I gaze toward

the alcove I notice a little plant about three inches tall

watching me. “I could have stepped on you little plant, I

did not know till now you were there.”

“Thank you! Hawk.”

The sound of breaking sticks and rolling over flowers is

on the path. It is person. Do not see me! I do not want to

be seen. I become smaller than the plant and I hide

beneath a tree. Hawk looks at me and nods its head. As I

look down the path that winds and weaves the flowers

and trees seem to surround me as my vision goes dim.

There is no need to move my head. I still smell the

undergrowth and my hearing ever so much is

accentuated. Again I hear a little crackling in the

undergrowth as the little creatures wriggle around in their

secluded places. Almost everything is a shade of green,

from light to dark. The birds begin to quiet. The plants

seem to be wrapped all around me. The temperature

begins to cool. All boundaries are lost. I am elsewhere. I

hear an owl. Its hoots are muffled and sound ancient and

knowing. The sun is gone now. Everything is very black

and still. The birds stop their calling. Slowing down the

rhythm of breathing and heartbeat of the forest. I am

more alert. Hawk comes to see me, looking at me,

touching me. We take to the air and fly.

—The Characturess

61

THE WILY PHILOSOPHER

Characture of Suncrates

Of all that is known and not known, of all that be and not

be, of all that see and not see there is one and not but one

Suncrates. He will teach you without teaching while

hiding in plain sight on this side of there and that side of

here. This multidimensional philosopher cuts across and

goes beyond thought to an understanding which makes

sense on one dimension but does not necessarily make

sense on another.

Only in degrees of the imaginary can his scholarly

dedication in a heartful beat resound and possibly be

found. All exists before our knowledge on a continuum

in which interactions can move in any direction

spontaneously

leaving our interpretations of his way as yet unknown but

known. Without substance Suncrates is empty.

But in the curvature of his way empty is whole.

Suncrates is MT yet whole.

His appeal to the infinite makes us take our positions

there on that side of here. Everything that constitutes

the past, the present, the future is en bloc.

The curvature of Suncrates’ understanding is so profound

it is there but we cannot see it.

“Don’t worry!”

—The Characturess

62

THE OUTTHINKER

Characture of Jim

Intuitive understanding.

Delightfully difficult, “Do Not Bother Me!”

Who is he? Jim is Jim. Fire in all but one house. Energy

abounds. An accelerated mind with no patience, no time.

A teacher who teaches teachers.

Moves without being seen in the classroom while

touching each heart.

With playful spontaneity and moving with incessant

change

he has come into the understanding of the unity of all

things.

—The Characturess

63

THE MOST SIGNIFICANT EVENT IN OUR LIVES

One cold winter evening in January I was reluctantly

driving along with a cold 6-pack of beer in the car. I

was on my way over to someone’s house that I didn’t

even know. I was to be at a party. It was a weekday

evening and I felt especially tired from working all

day. My mood was not one of great expectations, nor

one of joyful glee at the prospect of the evening before

me. I was quite ready to be bored.

After arriving at the house and as I walked up the

driveway toward the front door I happened to glance

up and see a face in what was apparently the kitchen

window. I was struck by her presence in the soft

evening light in a way which I as yet have trouble

describing. She was for me something special from

that moment. As I sort of stumbled along, being

transfixed by my own sense of attraction to her I

arrived at the front door just in time to drop the whole

6-pack of beer all over the porch.

Awkwardly I scurried around gathering up the cans,

hurrying into the house to get a closer look. After all,

my first image of her was only from the shoulders up.

When I looked at her I couldn’t believe it... she was so

tiny, so small, so neat! She was attracted to me too! I

could tell by the way she and I spoke without words.

We knew without saying that this original meeting

was the beginning of what was to become the most

significant event of our lives. Through this first

evening, we were always aware of one another,

glancing expectantly at each other.

It was 12 months later in December that we were

married. This beginning with my twin flame in love

has become the focal point for our mutual expression.

Together we have gone where neither of us could go

alone.

Our original meeting was only a beginning. Together

we have pursed our mutual aims and goals finding

avenues open for joint expression. We have

throughout our shared time and space provided one

another with opportunities to develop and enhance our

individual talents and abilities. Meeting “The Sun” as

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I have named her has turned my life around. Now we

face a future tether.

We have come to understand what it means to have

just one other person in our lives upon whom we can

depend in any situation, one who will be there when it

is essential. Our chosen path has been one of hardship,

struggle and sacrifice in many ways. But it has been

based upon our most prized value, freedom.

The quality of that which has risen inbetween us as we

now stand and face one another in the dawn of yet

another new beginning calls us back to our founding

spirit. We have freed one another, renewing the vision

which first lit up as our eyes met for the fast time.

Together we have learned the power of unity and

harmony that springs from the life of the heart.

The Writing Caruso

—The Characturess

65

STOW LAKE

On my daily bike rides I frequently ride around in

Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. One of my favorite

things to do is to pedal around for a while and then walk

my bike around the path which encircles Stow Lake. It

really isn’t possible to ride it there because there are too

many others who walk around the lake and it would be

too dangerous.

A particular experience which stands out for me from my

Stow Lake walk is one which truly allowed me to

actually see and understand intuition at work. As I

approached the area just before the boathouse I noticed a

young mother with her two children standing near the

edge of the lake. They were enjoying the fun of feeding

the ducks which live on and around the lake. The ducks

were quacking and paddling furiously toward them to get

something to eat. The boy was standing a little further

back from the edge than his younger sister whose feet

were right at the end of the lake. The mother was

standing in back of both the children. They were talking

to the ducks and holding bags of bread from which they

tossed morsels at a time to the hungry mouths of their

feathered friends floating atop the reflecting pond.

Amidst the quacking and flapping I noticed one large

white goose which was working its way through the

feeding group, its gaze was fixed on the little girl whose

bag of bread was hanging from under her arm and she

was totally engaged in what she was doing. The mother

looked up and saw the goose angling toward her girl. She

watched as the goose swam closer and closer, the young

girl oblivious continued happily throwing bread to the

ducks. The boy also noticed the goose as it approached

and he backed up a bit.

As I continued to walk towards them it soon became

apparent to me that the goose was going to go for the bag

of bread all at once rather than wait for the meager little

bits to be tossed to it. Patience was not present!

Quickly the goose reached the shore and began to

scramble hurriedly up onto shore. The mother quickly

reacted by telling her children to get back, to move away

from the edge of the lake. She immediately saw danger

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for her daughter in particular as she was too near the

goose. The goose seemed to look straight into the little

girl’s eyes and its neck arched. I knew from my own

experience that the goose was going to strike the girl. The

mother yelled at the girl, “get back, the goose is going to

strike you!” The young girl dropped her bag of bread and

jumped back fearfully and quickly as the goose refocused

its attention on the bread she had dropped and

began eating it straight form the bag.

Just as I was walking past the mother, I said to her “They

will!” She looked quizzically at me and replied

unknowingly, “Really??” Intuitively she recognized the

danger and successfully warned her daughter to move

back and the young girl obeyed and dropped the bag of

now goose food when so doing. The mother’s cognitive

understanding arose only after my affirmation that her

actions and statement were correct, that she had indeed

recognized that the goose would strike her daughter,

when she replied to me by asking “Really??”

The Writing Caruso

—The Characturess

67

THE ROCK GARDEN

Sunnie and I spent a few days together in a space that had

been extended to us as an open invitation. In this treeshaded

and life-inhabited space, we felt most free. The

summer afternoons were spent together gathering those

meanings of life that were sustaining and at the same

time exhilarating. This garden was our place to be.

We were discussing one particular area that was filled

with trees, bushes and rocks. It was a little below a wall

of rough rock where we practiced archery. As we talked

an idea began to develop, to build an archery range from

the large piles of stone.

It was to be a primordial space, outlined with stones both

large and small, weaving pathways which would lead to

the target area. A space in the center was designated to be

for communal gathering, for building fires and being

together during the evening hours.

We set to work and I do mean work! We began to bring

this little dream to life, working side by side. Never once

did Sunnie complain she worked right alongside of me,

pushing and shoving, rolling and lifting rocks. Her

strength and determination amazed me as she helped in

what seemed an impossible and unlikely task.

Our hands quickly grew blistered as we struggled with

our task. We built, we shared, we laughed at one another

and we perspired in the dirt and soot. Slowly, shapes

began to emerge as envisioned. Rocks fell and some were

so heavy that it took the two of us to move them into

place.

We would sit and look at one another during short breaks

and grin through the dust. I would hold her smashed

fingers or toes and she would remain patient as I leaped

around wildly with bugs on my hands that darted out

from under the stones as we moved them.

Moving toward the fulfillment of only a small dream was

our goal for the moment but one that took its place in the

wider context of our longer spiritual journey together. It

was a commitment we made, a vision we shared, a spirit

that moved us onward in spite of the many hardships.

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Sunnie’s endurance, her perseverance, drove me on too.

She participated beyond my expectations and even at the

time perhaps beyond my wishes as she wrestled with

rocks I could hardly bridge. We talked, we shared and we

were together as we so often feel. The hardships,

although chosen, were in a way a joy. We accomplished

a lot and we grew closer. Two full days of sweat and toil,

our dream had come alive. When we were finished, both

trembling from the heat and exertion required, the effect

was stunning.

We might have been in the darkest forest of medieval

days, as we gazed at our archery range that had been

courageously forged from one haphazardly piled and

strewn heaps of rock and stone. During these two days

the rest of the world had dropped away, we were simply

one, together, such is life.

The Writing Caruso

—The Characturess

69

POETRY

—The Characturess

DIGITAL HAIKU

In it we to us no.

If at go by so.

Is on of as?

Be up.

Ok?

PHOENIX

How often is it I wonder,

that the Phoenix of life

stands to face the abyss of time

as it creates the space of

being stretching beyond our

meaning without respite?

From this incessant exposure

of vulnerable self in search of light

arises from the ashes

the indestructible bird

without flight.

70

GOLDEN GATE PARK

Seagulls standing atop the pine trees

mallards floating on the pond,

and over across the meadow

the old buffalo grazes off the land.

Green grass waving, moved by spirit’s breeze,

reflecting rainbowed waves which crest

and break at your feet,

fanning sprays of liquid life

shimmering into space

where the alert foot traveler finds

icicles in the sand.

PASTS-FUTURE

Sand waves of time

drifted cross the past

in gusting life’s shadow

without matter.

NIGHT FANTASY

You come to me from the night of my soul

suddenly we meet in darkest hours of love

never to be seen...

still I know somewhere I live with you

like the song in my heart

which yeans to be

free.

71

APPEAL TO TRUTH

With morning’s fog mottled sky

once more atop the hill climbed for life

still one burning question alive

only time can tell.

Then a single breath

sweeps the fear away

into the far distant past

as twelve tones begin their appeal.

Joy mixed by pangs of memories

once paled the glow

still twelve tones strike a new appeal

now remain forever

never to be known.

Note: This is my reflexive presence in a moment of truth.

WHO’S LIGHT SHINES

Who is it for which one light shines?

Where shines the one light, can it be mine?

When is it my light the one who’s it...

That can be all that will

Ever shine.