1
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
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
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—
31—The Rock Garden—67
32—Poetry—69
Digital Haiku—69
4
Past-Future—70
Night Fantasy—70
Appeal to Truth—71
Who’s Light Shines—71
5
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
7
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.
too late cut short by
time, since
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,
survives like the
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
8
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
10
THE ENVISIONORNERY
Characture of Mervyn O’Leary
Shuffle shuffle, cane cane, here comes Mervyn O’Leary,
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
Characture of Ralph Basye
“Ya
hungry?” The independent attendant of
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
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
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
21
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
22
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
23
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
speaks a vibrant
message of love to the women of
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
41
THE GENTLEMAN OF
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.”
42
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.
44
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
46
steps for your new
responsibility, place the
commitment in the
ovens of life, making sure that the
temperatures remain
constant as possible—wild
fluctuations in temper—or 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 ostracizer—nothing
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”
47
—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
48
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
51
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
53
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
57
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
58
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
59
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
64
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
66
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.
68
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?
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
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.