An Hour Away

Throughout my life, I have struggled with domestic tasks. Oh, I can cook with the best of them, but cleaning is my bane. From the wandering days of my hippy mother until now, what I like best is to play. It is amazing to me, how many people just don't like it. Or are not good at it. Life is best when we are playing a fun game. We laugh harder, think better and act out of our true selves. I suppose that is why so many resist the fun of good playfulness, because we act out of our true self when we are being playful. That can be scary for many. When I act of my true self, I can be scary to many. I am only sort of kidding, just ask my brother.

There are many fears associated with playing the games that life presents us. Sometimes the consequences are not fun. We accept certain risks when we agree to abide by the rules and play. Namely, losing. But depending on the game, many physical injuries occur to the players. And of course, there is always ridicule. The joy of abandon to the game is the motivator. In my work with oppositional children, I have learned the reason for rules. They are required to have fun. They give us an agreed upon platform for our fun. That is all. No drama required, when we all agree to play by the rules. Within the rules, however, even drama can be fun. But that requires serious directing and blocking. So don't attempt drama without proper training. Again, I am sort of joking here, only sort of. All my drama people say, Hey! I love you all.

It is only in the last couple of years that I have been able to conceptualize cleaning as part of the fun. Clearing the way for the next table of fun, that is the concept. This is so clearly revealed in the realm of cooking. Doing the dishes and having clean dishes, make creative cooking possible. A fresh tableau. First, I have to do the dishes. That is generally where I am at. I dream of the clean kitchen, and I know how to have one, but I am not there yet. As a single dad, my house is my castle. I have moved up in the world. It is not a perfect castle, however.

Seeking the ultimate state of living, is our life goal and I now accept that cleaning is part of ultimate living. I realized the other day, while cleaning, in preparation for my brother and his daughter to visit, that while I wasn't there yet, I was only an hour away. Somehow, my rhythm has shifted. Upon reflection, generally speaking, I keep a state of house that is perpetually an hour away from visitors. I feel that this is an acceptable adult reality. Grown up life. This includes the toilet. As a guy, I now accept that it is mostly our mess and therefore ours to clean. We all prefer a clean spot. So stop by anytime, I am not ashamed of my life and I love stop-bys. If, however, you need to stay the night. Please, give me an hour.

Hiding Behind Poetry

When I started this, I told myself I would keep to the schedule of one story per week. The most interesting things that happened to me, repeated in story form. That was the idea. I recently realized that writer's block set in. It dawned slowly on me, and as all things in avoidance, I knew I was suffering, but did it anyway. Poetry. Knock one off. That will do. True, it is a form of story. A telling of the moment. A slice of my day. Once done, however, oft repeated. Put off an actual story with a dashed down line. It works.

I look at some of the stories that have come out of this project and I know why I hide. Many are heavy moments indeed. Only barely made easier by the literate form. I wanted a break from their weight. For instance, The Guy Fell In (pt. 1 &2), are stories of the recent death of a friend of mine, from not so random violence. Little Walla Walla, as ever, a hardcore place. Seriously kids, how could I, of all people, live here if it wasn't. I cut my teeth on hardcore. Not just eighties punk rock and metal, but also the Bay Area ghetto lifestyle and cowboys and indian hardcore in Wallowa County. Schools of violence and hard knocks. For real, no metaphors intended or used. Hard knocks to the head, to the body and to other parts as well.

So give me a break. I know poetry is cheating the short story. I digress. With rhyme and with rhythm. So this week is about the inspiration of freezing temps., combined with sunlight. Walla Walla has been gripped in the bite of an Alaskan cold spell. However, as opposed to many cold winters before, instead of grey foggy madness, we have had crystal clear, blue sunny days. One after the other, after the other, after the other. Yes. It has been good. Getting on my bike, all bundled in gear. Music in my ears. World rushing by. Dropping downtown like a boy on a rocket. That has been the day to day joy. It is also nice, at the end of the ride is coffee!

Sunlight in winter. That rare, special experience of light and motion. Keeping the cold in perspective we can move about doing the things we always do. On top of the train, where the wind rushes by. We are reminded of our humanity. I do not mean how we treat each other, rather simply the fact that we are human. We are not bigger than life. The rich and the famous alike. We, mostly, all have two arms, two legs, ten fingers and ten toes. These, unless taken care of, will get cold. Cry out against this, with all your might. You will find them talking back to you. Saying, "...thank God for shoes." Uh-oh, can you hear it? Poetry. Dirty little bugger, trying to steal my story. I better go and save it for another day.

A Twist and A Turn

A slippery pathway, that leads to
a place, so few have seen, yet so
many know. A slip, a fall, the road
is rocky, lookout below. We find
our way from here to there, we aren't
sure how or why we have arrived.

Yet here we are and just in time.
The nick of the moment, that
close shaven line. Keeping our
balance when life is unkind. As
it will from time to time. The age
of wisdom keeps drifting away. We
think it comes for us, but really
it is the other way. No book to
guide us, no artificial stays.

We must discover, as if unknown,
the way forward, or back, or sideways,
who really knows? What is up
for one, is down for two, and yet
we all are walking on our shoes. The
same forces made us, yet different
we are. No one alike. Not the same.
Sometimes we stumble, sometimes
we glide. Each one of us has the
dance inside. Do the twist or turn
and shout. However you do it, do
it all about. Let love show it,
yourself is you, the one and only,
inside and about....ya! you betch u do!

The Guy Fell In: Do Over

When death comes to a house near you, it is always a shock. Even when it is expected, we still experience that feeling. It is so final. This person has died, there are no do overs. It is over. I wrote this story, The Guy Fell In, the other day. It was a story about the goings on of my town, and my life. In that story, I was the dispassionate observer. A witness to the rescue of a stranger and a participant in my own life. In the first story, a man was rescued. In this story he dies. In the first story I did not know him. In this story, I did. I am no longer a dispassionate observer. I am now saddened.

The man at the heart of this story has a name. It is Allen. He was pulled out of the Mill Creek Canal by fire/rescue workers. That is what we know. Word on the street is that he was beaten up and pushed into the canal. The canal is cement. It is about fifteen feet down. He was hospitalized and it is reported that he did not recall how he ended up in the canal. His head injuries were so severe that he was sent to a larger hospital in another city. Where, I read in the newspaper, he died. I cry now, for him, for his lost life. For the life of his family and his many friends in this town.

I think my point in the first story was about the interconnectivity of life. It still is. In fact it is even more profoundly so. I bear witness. That is what is changing me. I was there. In the moment it was experienced a certain way. I was affected enough to write about it the next day. The truth of the moment was really very different. When the actor becomes personally related to us we feel the sadness. That is why starving children around the world are still starving, because we are not relating to them. One shift in the narrative and what was once tolerable is now not. So I write again. Do over. The first story was the lie. This is the truth.

The worst part is that I was three blocks away when his fatal moment came. That is what is hard to wrap my head around. I was drinking coffee at Starbucks. Downtown Walla Walla is about six square blocks. The corner he was in was under bridge construction and the side of the street has no lighted businesses at night. So my moment has changed forever, as his was forever ended. That is the fact. Life is a gift. The regard that we have for the others can bring both happiness and pain. The open heart feels. The closed heart never heals. I am changed by my experience. Life is now more interconnected than ever to me. I feel my relationship with my community deepen. I continue to bring my life of joy to Walla Walla. Even through my tears.

SNEAKING CANDY

She looked over, guiltily.
Yet she did not stop.
Snap. Crackle. Pop. Her
fingers in her mouth, a smile,
a nod, chewing on. She
had a hidden supply. Imagine
that, Halloween being a week
before. A stash indeed, freely
given. To all our children, far and
wide. There is a tide. A tide of
candy, the USA. Nobody knows it,
but Willy Wonka is our God.
Keep it coming, it can't be
stopped. The people will
riot, blood in the streets. Tires
would be blazing. War in our
nation, would not be absurd.
Give us our candy. Red, white,
and blue...purple, green, and
fuchsia too! World economies
collapse, but candy makers
can't keep up. Everybody wants
some. You want some too! Who
wouldn't? Pure glucose in my
veins. My inner most child in
heaven on earth. Men and
Women, we will not be denied.
They better get us our candy,
or there will be a fight.

Christmas @ Starbuck's

Happy Tuesday, November 17, 2009. Welcome to the dream. It's here, finally, Christmas at Starbuck's, it comes every year. I have seen it. This year its understated. Thank you great Starbuck's overseers. But the Christmas music? Circa 1952? It is like being in a Macy's movie. Thankfully, I have this new fangled apple thingy. It plays music for my ears. In fact, I can even create music on my laptop, if I don't like the sound of Bing Crosby in November. Big angry beats, if I am really feeling frustrated. I digress. One artistic expression at a time, please.

The dream, that is what we are living here. The dream. I had this thought and low and behold the dream has unfolded. It is our dream. How we live in it is up to us. We, more than any outside agent, define our own reality. There are many examples of people who have persisted in the joyful pursuit of individuality, even after crushing events have occurred in their lives. Beyond that, however, is the truth of the dream. Bringing into our lives, that which we desire and that which we dwell upon is the manifestation of our dream state. Some call it karma or kismet. That indefinable substance of the universe.

People say, but I did not want this terrible thing! The psychoanalyst in me says, "Hmmm? Really?" Clearly, some people have genetic disadvantages. However, many "smart" people are depressed, anxious examples of the human life. A life we would not wish for. Many people are born into states of poverty. However, many wealthy people are depressed, anxious people as well. No amount of intelligence or money can bring us that manifest life. The one we seek. The one with the power to bring the joy to otherwise grey days. That is a skill, a practice, if you will. Each adversity becomes an opportunity. Kind of like snowboarding, each bump is another chance to practice your jump tricks. The borderline between the spiritual practice and the mental discipline of joy, is full of humanity. Examples of those who can, experiences of those who did. That is what we want. We need to see it.

So bring on Christmas at Starbuck's. I am not afraid. My dreams are incorporative. Seeking to promote space in my life for others and their dreams, has been the object of my growth curve. Finding that reality that I seek, has been the product of each day of my life. Each one brand new, another chance to bling up my space. Sending sparkles in the dark. Eyes that dance. Feet that move to some other beat. One that only they know. The possibilities are endless. I dream it to be this way. And it is. Dream it to be that way. And it will be. They're your dreams. Lift your sights. Expand your horizon. Dream it up. Focus on your heart beat. It feeds your dreams. Dream state reality, that is what we get. It's up to us to create the state that we want. So create. Start today.

The Guy Fell In

"Strange things happen." So they say. In my life it's true. Too many to count. This is one more. Riding home, on my bike, last night. I rode out of the downtown area of Walla Walla, headed up through Whitman College. For those of you who do not live in Walla Walla, it is important to realize that Mill Creek runs right through the center of town, on an East to West line. Years ago, after too many floods, government came through, on behalf of the people, and built a cement canal to house the river. Good government. From the east end of town, to the west, Walla Walla is intersected by bridges, as many roads cross over Mill Creek. One of them has been under reconstruction recently, stimulus money I imagine.

Generally speaking, when I see flashing emergency lights, I do not stop to see what they might be doing. On this occasion I could not help myself. As I rode by the construction, I saw on the other side of the bridgework, a gaggle of fire and police cars. The ambulance was close to the fence that shut the area off. There was one police vehicle on my side of Mill Creek, next to the fence blocking this side. There were also three people standing next to the fence, on my side, watching what was happening. Like I said, I could not help myself. It was too curious, what was going on? I rode over to the people at the fence and asked, "What's happening?" "There is a guy down in there. He's drunk and he fell down in there and now he is too injured to get himself out," they told me.

The fire department had a ladder deployed down into the canalway. It was probably a good fifteen feet down in. We could see shadows on the cement walls, of the rescue workers working on him. The had a floodlight that was backlighting the scene. It was an interesting effect, with all the lights flashing from the emergency vehicles parked above. We could hear the guy moaning and the rescue guys talking to him. At this point in the construction, the entire road section of the bridge is gone. What was left were the cement pilings and the cement walls of the canal, which had several sections to it, at this point. Each section was divided by a cement wall. He was in the section farthest from our side of the street.

We were making the usual commentary on drunken ignorance. Those of us, who were safely perched on our observation post. Suddenly, the ladder was pulled down and then flipped back up. Somehow they had contrived to attach the rescue board to the tall end of the ladder and he was quickly removed by those on top and put into a waiting ambulance bed. They worked on him for a moment before they put him into the ambulance itself. I turned and asked the couple next to me. "Do you know how he was found? Who called it in?"

"We did." They said. "Where were you when you heard him?" "We were in our apartment." "Wow!" I said. "Amazing, you were inside your living room?" "Yep." "And you heard him hollering for help?" "Well, our walls are really thin," they said. "He is lucky you heard him." "We hear everything in there." Just then the officer, whose vehicle was parked on our side, began to climb out. The couple moved over to speak with him. As I got ready to ride out, I saw a good friend of mine and we left the scene together. It was interesting, this friend and I had recently had some tension between us and this was a good opportunity to bridge that gap. After we left we went to his place to catch up. I love Walla Walla. Life happens everywhere, I know. The intersections of life, those points when coincidence becomes the norm. That life happens here and is unique and interesting to me. I know that I am a lucky person and these little events go on in a way that keeps working for me. "Strange things happen." Indeed.

Green America: A Walla Walla Halloween

True stories. That is the blog. So there I was this weekend. It was Saturday, Oct. 31, 2009. The farthest I had progressed on my costume was the green wig and the concept. Which, had finally gelled thursday before. Green America. That was the plan. That is the plan. Oh yeah, plus I had put it out there that I was into the mask. Big Halloween parties are super fun when you are undiscovered, so to speak. Still, the farthest I had gotten was some vague idea about fabric and the mask. Plus I had green shirts, green silk pants collected at Burning Man this year, and of course the green wig. The origin of the wig is somewhat lost in time to me. It has been floating in my stuff for several years. When my daughter was little, I used it to accompany her power puff girl as the colorful clown.

Over the years, Goodwill Walla Walla has come through for me, not just in fashionable reused clothes, but in Halloween extras and Burning Man costumes. That something that sets off your costume, what you need at the moment, you know, so it is just so. I have this inordinate faith in the local thrift stores for all my needs. So, I found myself at Goodwill, trying to figure out how to tie all the green pieces together. I looked for some mask options, of course, there was nothing. I did find a green choir gown to cap off the outfit, of course. Finally, after ghosting through the prominent sections, I saw a small group of people looking through a table. It was a bits and pieces table. That is where I found it, a green misshapen piece of fabric, with small blue paislies all over it. I didn't yet know how it would all work, but I knew it would.

It only took thirty minutes, Saturday afternoon. There were two big parties lined up that night. One, at an artist's studio with two friends, Dj Pending and Dj Danny Boy. Good friends, whose music choices are particularly fun to dance to. The other was at the property of another person I knew. Every year he has a barn party with live music and lots of people from the area show up and throw down. Inside the barn he has fire pits and hay bales to dance around and on. I showed up last year and had a great time. I planned on going to both. Danny Boy is new and it was his first vinyl set, so I told him I would be there for his set to support him, plus I really dig his sound. The party started at ten and he was the opener.

Still, the costume was not done and I had to get home and be there for my daughter. She and her best friend are both twelve. They had decided that they did want to go downtown for afternoon trick or treating. Initially, they had been too old. But as Halloween approached they grew younger. It was amazing. We had ushered in Halloween the night before, with a spooky sleep over with three other best friends. Complete with pumpkin carving contest and spooky flashlight tag in the park. This friend was the last girl standing so to speak. They got some goth, anime, vampire get up on and the downtown was on. Later, she left with her friend for a sleep over at her house and I continued on with my planning for Green America.

This started with a meditation on the couch and then passing out candy to a small number of kids who came to my house. Finally, I got all the pieces out and laid them on my bed. It was cool, when I folded the fabric a certain way it transformed into a sweet geometrical mask shape. I had to cut eye holes and sew the fabric together, after folding it. It worked. There it was. A stitch and a fold. A cut and a slice. A mask revealed. Green Wig, mask, and the robe, open over green shirt and pants. On the back of the robe, I sewed a small American flag. It was the perfect dance outfit. Which is also a requirement for any costume that I might inhabit. The wig gave my head that waggly boom bounce, effect. You know? When I got out there, I found that Green America rocks!

The dance party went off, with the dubstep dj danny boy and the electro/breaks dj pending just killing it. I love technology. We left the dance party, briefly, and went to the barn party. Drop in and drop out, that was the plan. In full mask, it was easy to just drop in and dance around the fire. No talking to anyone. If anyone asked I told them. It was funny, mostly they were blank. "Green America? I don't get it." I knew it was too subtle, but I figured it would give me the opportunity to put it out there. "Cool, huh. Green America. Get it?" Some do, some don't. At least the dance was on. We went back to the dj dance party and rocked on. I love my town, I love my life, I love to dance, I love the color green, I love america and I clearly love Halloween.

Laughter

The kind that makes one shake

convulsing, in kind of a fit. The

way we did when we were kids,

that is a place of true content.

Making life's puzzles pale, in

the sound of today. Laughter,

plainly spoken word. No other

is quite so pure as that true

humor. Don't be grave, let

that smile play, rapidly across

your page. The face you show

to the world, as if no doubt

you ever knew, would prevent

mirth's present dew. In tears,

we find the real meaning, as

it spreads to the ones who hear,

laughter so pure in our ears.

Now our mouths are forming

that hollow shout. Echoes of

the feeling in your mind when

you experience that familiar find.

Laughter, so dear, even though

free, we must seek our way every

time. Come today, come tomorrow.

Laughter is something you can

never borrow. ha ha ha or lol!!

Tears

"I see you dancing, through my tears,
like smoke dances in the wind." A line
from a song, wrings my heart into
a memory of past love and current
reverie. So it goes in life, as well as
play. We turn and turn again, looking
for that one to stay. Soon, son, love will
come again. To the dance, to the play.
A signature of the place we make, in
our hearts and in our minds. Alone
inside that secret place. The temple
of our life, the dance that is our core,
once built and seldom occupied,
stands swaying in the dark. Dreaming
of what is in store. Crying for what
has come before. "I see you dancing
through my tears...." An afterthought.

Placed to late to stay the weight. When

again we face the stars, looking on

and on, us near and they far. Remember

child, life is yours to make, and the space

you create, is yours to lace and within those

sweet places, your tears will evaporate.

A Green Story of War and Fisticuffs

I was stunned, watching the log fly over the courtyard fence at the Green Lantern Pub, I could not believe my eyes. That log was hucked at three boys out in the parking lot. Angry and drunk, the National Guard guy, who threw it, had clearly lost his way. One of the boys had been hopping up and poking his head over the fence. Each time saying some derogatory thing or another. Most of us were just trying to ignore them. Before the kid started his shenanigans, I had been having a rousing argument about Bush's War with the young guardsman. He had not deployed yet, and was full of his opinion about the need for this war. It was 2004 and there was still a lot of energy in the issue of the Iraq War. Using all the catch phrases of the Cheney/Rumsfeld team, he was convinced already, and to him I was a hippie freak. At the time my hair was down to my waist, I was long hair pony-tail guy, it's true.

When I told him I was an former Marine, who served in combat, and that I was clear about my right in America to think freely, without being intimidated by him. He was quieted, for a moment. Then the debate really heated up. I was comparing Cheney and Rumsfeld to guys who start fights at bars and watch as other guys fight it out. It is easy to talk big talk, much harder to back it up. America was being taught a lesson at this time, it would be much later that we would learn. In 2004 the faultiness of our cause and our strategy in Iraq was first revealing itself. It would be many years until we learned our lessons.

In the midst of this debate around the fire, at the Green Lantern, this kid began his routine. Apparently, they had tried to come in the bar, but were underaged and not allowed. When it first started up, the guardsman yelled back at him. Fired up, he kept shouting back every time the kid jumped up and poked his head over the fence. The kid was hollering stupid stuff. Like, "I @#$%@# your mama!", and "You all are a bunch of Bi$##es!" At one point, the guardsman had grabbed a log and ran towards the fence, threatening the kid. "Hey!" I called out, "Stop with that! You can't hit him with a log! The bouncers will deal with him! Sit back down! I was just telling you about why this war is going bad. Because those in charge of it don't know what war really is. None of 'em, not Bush, not Cheney, not Rumsfeld, and not Condi!"

I was irritated at the spectacle of the kid, because I was just turning the corner on the argument. To be interrupted while this was happening was frustrating. Plus, I had to use my marine command voice with this young soldier to get him back on line and sitting down. There were several other guys around the fire, talking amongst themselves, trying to ignore both the kid at the fence and our political argument as well, I am sure. The guardsman sat back down, and I used the incident to talk about the problems we face, when we use to much violence to deal with security issues and why this war would not turn out the way we want. Just as his log approach would not have worked out the way he wanted, it would clearly started more problems than it solved. I was in full form. Outside of the bar we could hear the bouncers yelling at the kids, "Hey! Get outta here or were calling the cops! Beat it!"

The kids yelled back, but we could hear them moving around the corner and through the back parking lot. Suddenly, over the top of the back fence now, the kid popped his head up. He let loose with a string of profanities and insults, in our general direction. That was it for the guardsman, he snatched up the log again and hurled it over the fence at the kid. "There it goes!" I thought. In these moments of real violence, time slows down. I remember my thoughts occurring, and at the same time watching the log loop, end over end, as it sailed towards the kids. "I hope they don't get hit. Wow! That log could hit a car!" Listening now for impact. Hearing the log strike the ground and skid. Listening, as the kids yelled out in anger at being assaulted by a flying log! My brain kicked into gear. "They are going to pick that log up and throw it back!" I look up, and yep, sure enough, I see the log sailing back across the fence. Right at me! Before I could react the log slammed violently into my leg!

Of course, it was me. Even in that moment I recognized the irony of me paying the price for their nonsense. It was funny, for a moment. As I was turning to the guardsman and saying, "You did this! I don't blame them, I blame you. Can't you see that this is your fault. I got hit in the leg by the log you threw! Just like Bush! Who pays the price for your stupidity? We do! That's who!" As I am pressing my point with him the Log War escalated. Two beer bottles soon followed the logs. Falling amongst us like artillery shells, they exploded in a spray of glass and liquid. Fortunately, no one was hit. That was it for the guys around the fire they blew out of their seats en masse, rushed out of the bar and into the parking lot after the kids. Still pressing my argument about Bush's War with the guardsman, we were left around the fire. I get up, saying, "Look, now I am going to have to go out and stop those guys from beating the crap out of those kids and I was the one who got hit by the log! This is all you man! You started this and now it is out of control! Just Like Bush and Cheney!" With that, I turn and run after the rest of them.

I got out to the parking lot just in time. One of the guys from the bar had the main kid down on the ground and was swinging solidly for the kids head and face area. I ran up and hooked his arm before he imploded that kids face. Now I was locked in a struggle to keep him from hitting the kid and also to keep the kid, who was now striking out, from hitting back. Speaking low and urgently, "Stop. Stop. Stop. Just Stop." I remember, I was holding one guy back with one arm and the kid away with the other as we wrestled on the ground. Finally, the bar guy, who knew me, said "alright Larry. alright!" and with that he quit. I let the kid up and we all got up. Everyone was yelling. One of the other kids had socked the bar owner, who was trying to break it up too, and his nose was bleeding. I was yelling at the kids, "Just get out of here! The cops are coming and you will be arrested!" Treating them like children, I started counting down from thirty. We could hear their sirens. "Here they come in 30 seconds, 29,28,27,26........" Finally the kids ran.

Assessing the scene the cops would find at this moment was easy. Just us standing around and the owner, with a bloody nose. What they did not find was a young man, bloody and broken, lying on the ground needing medical attention and a bunch of adults, trying to explain themselves. Violence begets violence, that is clear. In the midst of the chaos, its tendency is to escalate. Unless there are agents, such as my role that night, who take personal risks to bring it down to reasonable levels, violence will perpetuate itself. There will be regrets. There will be damage and associated costs. Each act is its own, each blow has an identity behind it and an identity in front of it. People are real and real damage is irreversible.

This story of violence in America occurred in 2004, after it was clear that George Bush's war in Iraq was going badly. As an ex-Marine and social worker, who did not believe that this war was just, I was distraught nearly all the time. The very first casualty of the Iraq War was a Marine whom I served with in 1992, Lt. Therrell Childers, he was a personal friend of mine. I was shocked and in disbelief, when I read of his death in the NY Times. The cost of war is always personal to those who pay and to those who don't, they just keep on living their own way. Mostly, here in America, the Iraq War and the Afghanistan War, are ideas, metaphors of the personal politic, not a personal reality. If you have friends and family in harms way, it is real. It was hard on me to know that my friend payed that price. His life. He always was that guy, the one who cannot stand by when there is something to do. That is the reality of service. Sometimes the price to pay, is your life. He was a Marine and he served willingly, and that is our great strength and our great responsibility.

I was always looking to get into a political discussion during this time. Furious with not only the Bush-Cheney war, I was also very upset at the clear lack of adequate strategy being employed. If we were going to fight, establishing control with enough troops on the ground is always the key. Oddly enough, President Obama is currently toying with the idea that less is more in war. So not true. More is More. Boots on the ground win wars. And mother's pay the price. You cannot prosecute a war half-heartedly. There was so much energy in this country for the Iraq war at the time, to voice a different opinion often invited verbal abuse or outright intimidation.

The Iraq War was equated with loyal Americanism and, at least in Walla Walla, to not be for it labeled one an Anti-American. As an ex-Marine, who was in combat during Desert Storm, I can not only out shout you, I have proven my Americanism beyond the level of most who would argue with me. I have earned my right to have a constitutionally protected minority opinion. Period. Plus I know what I am talking about, when I talk about war. Something George Bush, Jr., Dick Cheney, Condi Rice and Don Rumsfeld do not. The only one who did was Colin Powell, and he was marginalized quickly during this time. Which brings me to my point, it is always the little guy in the back, with the big mouth, who starts the fight and then relies on others to fight it for him. This to me, is a perfect metaphor for the Bush/Cheney War in Iraq.

In postlude, later that night I was laying in bed. Still jacked up on adrenaline, I was reviewing the events in my head. Suddenly, I heard running footsteps outside my window. At the time, I lived only three blocks from the Green. I heard a police officer yell, "Get on the ground!" Looking out my window, I see a cop tackle and arrest the kid. Right in front of my house! An hour and a half later the kid resurfaces and the cops are there to arrest him. How's that for ironic? After all that. Just for me, it seemed, to see the reality of justice prevail, so that I would know the final consequences of my action. That kid had started a lot of balls in motion that night. He will pay the price for his choices, just not with his blood, thanks to my intervention. Later, the bar guy would thank me for preventing him from beating up a teenager. I am here to serve, that's all. This is just one night in my life and there are so many more to go.

Why I Dance....or How I Stopped a Stabbing

PT. 1
This story is hard to tell. Funny thing, one would think that true stories tell themselves. And I guess they do, but some are just more difficult stories and harder to get out. This story happened last Friday night, October 9, 2009. For the record. The evening was destined to dancing. For anyone who knows me this drive to dance in me is strong. For better or worse, I dance. For richer or poorer, I dance. I dance, yes I do. This has driven me all over the world to find the dance. Asia, Europe, and North America, have been danced on by my little legs. How I got there is a story for another day. Dance for me, is how I set my spirit free. It is how I connect with the world outside. 360 degrees of motion, so many possibilities. It has contained the violence, and allows the world to see the essence of me.

In Walla Walla, WA, the choices for dancers are very slim. One hip-hop dance club, that is it. No other choices. It is a typical box-top hip-hop, booty dancing, hook-up club. That is the major reason that I started DJing and throwing dance parties. I got tired of having to drive to San Francisco, Seattle or Portland to let spirit go. Be the change you want to see in the world, according to Gandhi. This means dance if there are no dancers. Provide the house music, if there is no house music. Throw down with the breakbeats, if there are no break dancers. If I can't stand the dance scene available to me, make a new one. This actually has worked out very well for me, evolving so many dance parties that have been so much fun. All with the music that makes me get down; house, breaks, electro, and dub-step. However, in the dance performance business, less is more. Which means, most weekends I don't throw a party. Where do I dance then? You know it. Where all that booty poppin' is going on.

Learning to love the dance, no matter what, has been the consequence of all this. Once I realized that dancing as a mating ritual is the oldest form of dance we know, I became free indeed. I stopped the hating, not just of those kind of dancers, but everyone who is not like me. I no longer dis' on those who do the mating dances. I admire them, based on their skill. I respect them, based on their humanity. I dance with them, because I can dance. What I do not do, is mate with them. I might pretend for a minute, to prove my hip-hop skills and not be rude. I can go low, so very low. My burning man friends call it my two-foot box. All with a girl or three, trying to press up against me. Keep moving, step and turn, step and turn, go low, back up, spin again. What I am trying not to do is hit that booty, bump, bump, bump. Watch. You will see. No contact is how I dance free.

Which brings me to the heart of my story. The troubling, ponderous heart. The part that stares out the window as my writing slows. You see, now I share the truama that happened to me. I did not get stabbed and neither did he. It was late, the dance club had closed. I had a dance with destiny, waiting to unfold. My friday night had gone well. The DJ had played a couple of seriously beat dropping songs, allowing me to get my break on. Dripping with sweat, that's how I know. I came to work my body. No matter what others are doing. I am here for me.

Floating out of that space, I moved on. Walking home was a joy. First, I thought, I will stop at the gas station and get a candy bar and some soda. A little sugar sounded good. As I neared the stop my first clue that the winds were shifting was the screaming and yelling drifting out to me. I looked closer and saw a melee of people mashing around the front door. Clearly a fight had broken out. By the time I got there, two main actors were revealed. Both African-Americans. Only one had a bloody face and the other didn't. Faced off now, they were yelling insults and moving in to get it on. That is when I jump in. Of course. This is where my trauma begins. I need to take a breather. I will finish this later.

PT. 2
Ok. I continue. Violence creates trauma. This sounds so obvious. After a violent event, however, it is often difficult to isolate and identify the trauma from that moment. Memories blur rapidly. We hold on to what we feel, but why we feel that way is often lost. True violent actors move in this space of trauma and rapidly do more, if allowed. Why I act is because I can and most cannot. Frozen, watching the two men. Waiting for the next round. Which is certain to be on the ground, pounding into the cement. At this moment, I dance in. Sending my voice first. "Heyaaa!! SToppp!! Stopppp!" Using my Marine Corps command voice, I shout. Just remembering this is making my heart race. It is not just the coffee. Bounding in between them now, I dance around. Attention now shifts to me. Everyone is confused. Who is this guy? "Just STopp!" "Enough!" They break attention from one another. The injured one is protesting. The aggressor is threatening. I have done this so many times, stopped fights, that I have some idea about how it works. I am seeking to create space, with my voice, from the moment. I am also trying to keep my space from the actors so they can't reach me, if possible. I will interfere in between them if they are already fighting, but in this case I did not have to. They stopped.

Sorting the circle out. The primary actor moved to the other side. Back with his boys. There were five of them, all African American. I am sure they are thinking, "Who is this white guy?" What they don't know, is I am not all white. My grandmother on my dad's side was full blooded Caddo Indian. I also am enrolled in my tribe. Participating in Native culture most of life has informed my outlook significantly. In this moment I was able to create identity with these guys, even if they did not. I feel it, the oppression of the larger culture. I feel the power of the circle. I also feel my strength as a warrior and dancer. I know what I am doing in this place. That is an inevitable gravity in my life. Sucking me in to these violent circles.

Now the girls are screaming at me, "Who the f... are? What the f... are you doing? Get the f... outta here! Let 'em go! You #$$%%!!!" I said, "I am being a grown up. Get back in your car!! Just leave it alone!!" She gets back in, screaming at me the whole time. I am trying to get the injured one in with her, they are obviously friends, but it is not working. He is still calling out to the other guys. "Fight fair!" "Come on! Man on Man!" I am trying to water him down. "No ones going to fight here! Enouugh!" At this point, one of the other brothers runs over, pulls off his shirt and yells, "Awright Nigga! Lets Go! Let's Do It!" I turn, dancing higher, step, side step, back step, side step, dancing on, "NO ONES Gonna Do It!" "Go back to your car! He goes back. I suddenly feel a car pushing up against me, trying to drive me out of the way. I turn. It is the girl again. I look her in the eye. Shake my finger at her. "What do you think you are doing? Enough! Just back up!!" I don't move. I will not be distracted, or this fight is going over the top. It is like managing five boiling pots. I look back. Now a fourth one and the injured guy are getting to it. I run over. "Stop!!" They do. Things recede for a moment. The injured one, however, will not shut up. Yelling out at the five, he continues to keep the moment on fire. I turn from him, just in time to see the original actor rushing out of the car at us.

Things slow down in those awful moments. Everything became surreal, the moment I saw his face, enraged and hardened, and then I saw the bright shiny thing in his hand, he had a knife! All these thoughts rush in that long moment of reality. Why am I here? Am I really getting in between a knife and the guy the knife wants to stab? Picture thoughts of my daughter are in my mind. What am I doing? He is bum rushing us with a knife. I know he just wants to shut that guy up. I sweep him behind me, commanding,"Shut up! He's got a knife!" Dancing higher! I am bouncing two to three feet in the air now. Side step, side step, back step, side, side, back step. Eyes never leaving the knife, bright in his hand. I am committed, he will not stab this guy if I can help it. I feel the injured one, holding on to me, while hiding behind me. I am now using every command tone I know strong enough to go over the moment, but trying to keep it just right so he doesn't go after me. "StoP with that noise!" "PUt that noise AwaY! StoP! Stop! Stop!" Nobody needs that noise!" "Enough with that NOISE!" Dancing between him and his object of hatred was truly frightening, I remember those feelings. At the moment, however, they have to be ignored! This is what break dancing is all about. Pop and lock! Slide step, legs forward, torso back! Let's dance.

He finally stops. Looking at us. "Just get back in the car. The cops are going to be here in minute. Just leave." I say. Jedi mind trickery. That is what I do. Pretend to be the fool, the drunken master, stagger, side step, back step, jump up and down. These are my tools, dancing down the street. He goes back to the car and gets in, they are all loaded up ready to go. I know it is almost over. I start lecturing, "Really, again and again. Why must we do this. It's always like this!" I am yelling now. Truly upset at having my life threatened. "Brother on Brother! Again and again! Over and Over. Seriously! Are you kidding me! One more time?" I feel in that moment that I am channeling the black mother, who is so tired this noise, the black preacher who is preaching to empty chairs. I am talking of the reality that in communities of color, it is brother on brother. That is where most of the real violence occurs. In streets and bars all over America. The true consequence of racism is horizontal violence. They are not listening. One of them hears me though, the one guy who never got into it. He shouts back, before jumping in the car, "I don't even know you man!" "I know!" I yell back,"But you know I am right!" Just like that it is over.

Except for me. I had my life threatened. That is real. It was not a joke. Life does flash before your eyes in those moments. I just remember my daughter's face in my mind. I want to cry. I am so upset. I am also angry. Why must it be this way? Why must it be me? As a good friend said later, when I called to debrief, "If not you Larry? Then who? No else could do that in that moment." I say without ego, that is true. I say with great sadness, that is true. The skills I have, I earned the hard way. I have had my violent times. Even in war, however, I never had to face a knife fight. I was traumatized by that knife fight. No doubt about it. Having friends to help me debrief is so important. Having an artistic process is the key. Mostly though, being mindful of the reality of trauma is the work. I do struggle with PTSD already, from the killing fields of Kuwait that I participated in as a US Marine in 1991. Fortunately, I am well into my work. I have suffered great losses already and have learned how to cope. Hence, why I dance....and also, how I stopped a stabbing that night. Because I can and I will. Two different things they are, indeed.

Upon Peace and Prizes

Seems like such and odd prize to win, doesn't it really. "Congratulations, there is no peace actually, but if there were you would get some credit." Log it down. President Obama is in line for some credit. On behalf of those who need it. He will accept it.

Now, where are we? Oh, yeah. Headed to the war council, Mr. President. "How many bombs did we drop today? What was the collateral casualty count? Are those numbers in our acceptability target market group? What was the kill rate coefficient ratio? Are you confirmed on those? Do we have eyes on the bodies? Is this a gross estimate..............?" Yes, it is Mr. President. Totally gross. For real.

OK. I understand that he intends that there be world peace. But wouldn't it be nice if we actually had some, first? We could then award our prizes, rest on our laurels and celebrate our victories. Let there be peace. Please.

I intend to continue to believe. Don't get me wrong. I am not cynical. I am behind him all the way. Maybe it is a prelude to peace that the conference of prize awarders have recognized. A new spirit of European optimism is here, after a century of bloody, internecine wars, that involved the whole world in their personal vendettas and prejudices, Europe finally has it eyes on the prize. Peace. And they see Mr. Obama as the most likely architect.

Optimism has influenced their view. "I think I can....I think I can......I think I can." "Choo...choo...choo", said Mr. Obama. We shall see. Self-fulfilling prophecy is a known quantity of human psychology. Strange things happen. Who knows, maybe soon, Mr. Obama will guide us through the wilderness of the twentieth century wars and on to the stars. "I believe he will....I believe he will....I believe he will."

I hope, I pray, I dream, I cry for peace.........I am with you Mr. President. I am with you. As many soldiers and marines know, getting out is harder than getting in. As many natives of other lands know, getting us out is harder than getting us in. Good luck, and may this prize bring with it the world peace we are looking for.

About Last Night: Or Racism and Violence in America

There seems to be some resurgence of late, in the ranks of those deniers of racism. They scourge those who point to racism as a real and malevolent force in America. It seems these deniers are, routinely white, very few people of color deny racism as a truth. When those who decry the current president, and those who speak up about the true state of race in America, seek to divert our resolve this issue, we must respond. Here is my response, a true story of how racism is real, and also violent.

It was about 1:40 AM. Our favorite watering hole in Walla Walla, WA, was closing. In the men's room my friend J, stated forcefully, "I want to kick some Redneck ass!!" I said, "Oh yeah? I saw them too, they are for real. No doubt." I had seen them. The guy in the Cowboy hat and boots, who clearly belonged in them. His buddies. And the one with military style ball cap and serious swagger. They were not play actors, they filled the bill. They were strangers to this bar, that was also clear. As I left the bathroom I walked by the group of them, leaving in a tangled mob with some of the others in the bar. Right at that moment, ball cap dude turns back to two Laotian men, who were regulars here, and says "....what are you saying slant eyes?" I guess this verbal interchange explained why my friend had been all bent outta shape about these guys. These guys were fulfilling the stereotype! I instantly blurted out, "Slant eyes? Are you kidding me? You can't say that, that is so racist! Really guy! That is just so unacceptable! " Ballcap turns on me and says, "Who are you rope smoker? What the F... is your problem?" I said, "I am just saying, what you said is not OK. Seriously, that is ridiculous."

One of his friends, in passing stated, "Go hug a tree, tree hugger!" Another one came up to me and tugged on my strap for my laptop case. I had arrived on my bike with my bag over my back. "What is this, a satchel strap?" By this time, I was engaged in the struggle. I caught his undertone, we had moved from racism, to environmentalism, to fashion and the man purse. I said, "Really? You are going to say that? I get it." He said, "You get what?" Me back at him, "You are gonna trash talk me too. Seriously, are you kidding?"

By this time we were headed out the door and I had caught the bouncers eye. They were all waiting for me when I got out. All attention had shifted from the Laotian men, to me. The latent violence that exists whenever racism rears its nasty little head, was becoming clearer by the moment. They all gathered around me, badgering me, testing my boundaries, threatening me with their very posture and dialog. I just repeated over and over. "You can't say stuff like that! That's all I am saying."

There was more of that mode, back and forth. Ball cap dude insulting me and encroaching more and more on my physical space. Pushing in between us, the bouncer called out to them, "That's it, get off the property! It is time to go. Right now!" Ball cap dude now turned to him and said "What? I didn't do nuthin!" I quickly said, "Yes you did! You called that guy slant eye!" He said, "What slant eye? Where? Are talking about a slope?" With that the bouncer exploded. There it was, violence. The bouncer double stiffed arm pushed him. He slammed right to the ground, on his ass. Back up against the fence. The bouncer, a tough blonde dude, was obviously now pissed off, later I would remember that the Laotian guys and the bouncer were friends, "I told you to get off our property. Now!"

At this all the guys friends surged forward. Yelling, "Hey why did you do that!" "That was f'd up!" The bouncer just repeated, "I said get off our property, at least twelve times, he wouldn't move!" By this time the other bouncer and the bar manager were out there too, they hustled the first bouncer inside and then turned to all of us demanding we leave. We are all talking back and forth. Same punch lines. Finally, the manager turned to me and said, "Larry, you need to go home, please, you are making it worse." At first I tried to deny it, but clearly I was upset too and was feeding the fire at this point. I had stated my point, and as ever in my life, hung around too long!

"OK," I said,"I have to get my bike though." He said, "Well, get it and go home." Everybody was headed to their cars and I could now get my bike safely. After getting and climbing on, I turned and began to talk to my friend J and the two Laotian guys. All three told me, "you need to go Larry." I said, "It's all right now." What I didn't see was the baseball cap dude who had approached again, for one more word. Along with his other friends who hung back a bit. He marched right up to me. At this point it is important to note that as a US Marine, who had experienced combat in Desert Storm, and now as social worker, I know real violence. This was a serious threat, the way this guy moved and looked, he did too. That being said, he was also a real smart ass! Which honestly does require some intelligence.

He said to me, "You caused a lot of shit back there! You know that?" I just looked at him, at least this time I knew enough not to verbally engage him anymore. "I don't like you!" He spat on the ground. "How does that feel?" He said, staring at me. First I felt the adrenal charge of near violence, him crowded into my space, me on my bike now. I looked at him. Thinking, if he hits me I am going to be in a very awkard position on this bike. Readiness for the charge overtook analysis. I looked back at him and said, "I feel fine. How do you feel?" Immediately, "I feel fine too!" "All right then!, " I said. "We're good?" "No we are not," he said. "You need to leave. Just get out of here. Go On!" Now I was stuck, my pride now preventing me from leaving. "I'm fine right where I am at." I said. This went back and forth until the bouncer came over and said, "Go home Larry." Grateful for his intervention, I immediately headed out, saying to baseball cap dude, "I am leaving because I respect that guy." And I was gone. Riding my bike home, alone in the dark. The adrenaline hit on the way and I shook uncontrollably. It was over.

Except it wasn't. The next day I woke up. All I could think about was, did I start all of that, like he said? Really? Baseball cap dude was in my head. I now had to deal with the effect of violence, first accountability for ones own part in it and then emotionally. I was just really quiet and down, until it all sorted out in my head. I know the effect of racism. It is both mental and physical. The violence came from a racist being called out on it. The threat was physical until the bouncer dominated that scene, as bouncers are paid to do. Then the threat was mental, with latent violence in clear effect. It took about twelve hours for this energy to clear out of my life... baseball cap guy and his violent racism....and required that I visit the manager of the bar the next day and thank him for helping me disengage when I was too caught up, and be accountable for needing help. Whose fault was it though? It took awhile to sort out, but I know now, for sure. Don't be mistaken on this one. The answer is clear.

Top Ten Reasons Why President Obama's Policies Are Still Like President Bush, Jr.

1. He believes that habeas corpus (false imprisonment) only applies if we like you. (i.e still wrongly detaining people at guantanamo and immigrant detention camps)
2. He believes that we should drop more bombs not less on innocent civilians with predator drones, just say we're sorry for collateral casualties. (i.e. bombs on pakistan)
3. He believes that a national health care plan does not have to include a public option, and insurance companies are good people.
4. He believes that wall street does not have to be regulated more, actually.
5. He believes that that president does have the right to eavesdrop on American citizens, by any means necessary.
6. He believes that we need less troops, not more to fight a war on foreign soil. (i.e. current state of the war in afghanistan, maybe he too will change his mind.)
7. He believes that the federal fish plan should protect power more than the fish. (effect of plan for the snake river salmon)
8. He reserves the right to waterboard, freeze, deprive of sleep, food and water those whom he deems necessary, but mostly he is against it. (i.e. actual executive position on this issue.)
9. He does not believe that deprival of the right to marry of any two, consenting american adults is a violation of constitutional rights . (i.e. acceptance of civil unions as adequate for homosexuals, effectively recognizing some religious ceremonies and not others)
10. He is an evangelical christian.

ARE WE CLEAR FOLKS? HELLO. READ MORE NOT LESS. THINK OFTEN ABOUT HOW OTHER PEOPLES SEE AMERICANS, NOT HOW WE SEE OTHER PEOPLES.

Don't worry i voted for him too, and i knew all this then ;) Seriously, this is a grey arena. What one says on the campaign trail and what one puts weight behind as president, has always been an issue. Also, I understand that President Obama picks his battles and fighting full front on these issues is not his style. This is merely a commentary on the way things stand today. We shall see where we end up. As a citizen it is our job to mock and cajole until forces align, and then we work towards our common goal of liberty and the pursuit of happiness.....................

Burning Man Is Over

One more time. We did it again. Went to Burning Man and came back better than we left. Evolution 2009, , that was the theme Spent lots of energy, time and money to bring our gifts to the desert floor and give away our love for free! We know how to do it, we have done it before. Each time, however, we learn some new twists, get thrown some new curves. This year we were placed right down on the esplanade (the main drag). For those who got Sake Watering Hole love, you will never forget. For those who didn't. So sorry you missed it. We gave away over fifty gallons of Sake! It is a lot of work to give away good stuff. With a full blown desert party in effect!! Over 1000 watts of sound! Dj's spinning vinyl and digital beats galore!!! (that would be me and my friends from walla walla:) With Art Car superstars and the new, evolved, Nightjuice. She is an old school, art car, burning man veteran!! Our favorite art car experience is our own. Thanks to hard core campers from San Francisco! Love to you all!!

The Sake Experience is fronted by a wonderfully made tent from Morocco. Sweet interior space and design work on the outside. Out in front of our station we dug two clear plastic tubez (about eight inches in diameter) into the desert floor. Inside the plastic tubes we had coiled copper tubing, through which we pumped the sake from inside the tent. As the tubes were filled with water and dry ice, by the time the sake got to the top of the tubes it was ice cold! Turn the tap at the top and there we have it, a cold shot of Sake! In the desert, at over 100 degrees, our dance party was on! Wednesday and Friday afternoon our post was blown up by burners downing the love juice and dancing to the big beats rockin' the playa floor. With Night Juice plugged into the sound system we brought down the subsonic bass fo yo ass!! A true give away, with the full on party provided by the Sake Watering Hole. An evolution indeed. This project required all thirty plus members of our camp to bring it! Each with our own gift to the overall project. Socialism at its finest if you will....each according to his/her abilities and all that. We have some camp members with some serious abilities yo!

In my own personal experience of burning man 2009, evolution is what happened. Indeed. Assisted by a personal art project for the temple burn, each year a crew builds a huge replica of different temples architecture and then after a week of covering it with our griefs, sorrows and angers, it burns down! So incredible, after the chaos of the man burning the night before, to have so many thousands of people now completly silent, contemplating the sweep of the fire and their lives, blown into one existence. Past becomes past and present begins. I let you go Larissa, still tears I have, but you must go from my heart, it is time to make space for new growth.....Loved you I did and still, but on we must sail ever evolving to the timing of our beat, space eternal, placed within, always and forever, without.......within..........I love you all people!
So much, so much, so much......my heart fills with tears and love and it leaks out inside...for love is how I am made.

It All Begins and Ends at Burning Man

Burning Man, 2009, Evolution is the theme. The countdown is on. Here we come, Man. If you don't know what Burning Man is, Google it, really it is 2009 folks! As anyone who knows me can testify, last years Burn changed my life forever. All of them have, some more than others, but last year I fell in love on the playa. I have never entertained a playa girlfriend at burning man. Since I arrived in 2001, this has been a solid rule. I am just to busy doing other things than allowing that particular agenda to compete with my artistic impulses. I broke all my rules last year, 2008. I am glad I did, although it turns out they were, indeed, good rules.

In 2008, The American Dream happened to me. I fell in love with the impossible love. West Coast me meets East Coast her. Quantum mechanics are a fine pursuit, by that I mean interstellar love affairs. Impossible love? We brought it off on the playa, and then off as well. We brought it to the West Coast. She now lives in the Bay Area, in the east bay, my birthplace. I, however, live gladly here in Walla Walla, WA. Bringing the joy in for our own lives, hopefully, we just aren't together at it. There will always be something left of the love for each other, just no longer impossible love. That is the story of my life. It is a good life. This is the beginning of my blog, now engaged, August 3, 2009. Thank you Larissa, I will be writing more and saying less. Inspiration happens.

Burning Man this year will be going off, in case there have been in any worries out there for you squirrelly burners. "Hmm, well, uhh, maybe next year." This year. It will happen. We will have fun. Sake Explosion, that is the word. We are coming down with it. Cold from the desert floor. A cool oasis of misty pleasures. Beats raining down delicious. We are fielding the HMS NightJuice, mobile limo of our loves. Straight to you, from us. Bass amongst us. That is the plan. And as always. Quantum mechanics works best for these affairs. And it does work kids. It does. I know the bass fo yo spinal core. We know the places those deep bass spaces. Comin' fo yo ass. Evolve it. Stop it. Pop it. We ain't gonna stop it.