Peace on Earth

Reading for December 27, 2009

     Because …........................... I love you............

       

      this     I       p r a y.....                 
                 
                      ….the sacred, by every existence ….......

Angels of Light, Angels of Dark,

…....protect your soul...........

embolden your heart.........................

make peaceful every thought, each action ~  time    place

…... nurturing and nurtured  by .......health , and well being …
............in a world of such

Permission - to use this prayer and image for any, and all non-commercial purposes - is given of the spirit inherent within.

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Happy daze,

The Captain

post nuclear prep

Reading for December 20, 2009

At the age of seven, I would have attained reason; the adult world informed me. I kind of thought that meant I would possess a magic wand for life..........oh, not so.  One day in second grade, having barely made it through the preparation for likely annihilation by an Atomic Bomb Blast, I came home to find my home in an uproar.
In my village, my brothers had a friend, their age, whose name was Ronnie.
“What was the matter with him? Was he mad? What was he thinking? Was he crazy?
I had my first glimpse into craziness in no time at all.
Ronnie would often come over and play with my brothers in their boyhood days. I could only watch from a distance as their high energy fun and games excluded me by virtue of the age difference.
I will never forget, though, the succession of wild circumstances which evolved out of Ronnie’s idea.
Now, I thought what Ronnie actually did was, like super cool. Obviously not sharing my point of view, the grown ups were so fraught with dismay over the incident, an alarming tumult like nothing I had ever seen before, was developing right in front of me.
Adding to the chaos, was my introduction to the shadow world of nuances, innuendos and judgment calls. In years to come, I would find the only thing to rival its mysteriousness was the world of young ladies. Girls - I would come to find out - were a life form of their own, with powers to vaporize my brain.
At present, though, I had a situation. This was the first time in my tender years of childhood that I was not only confused on an intellectual level, but emotionally split into different directions by the attempt to relate to the conflagration of emotions that the adults were consumed in.
Between the number of years separating Ronnie and I, and, the apparent sequestering that I sensed he had received, I never came anywhere near even mentioning the event to him - yet alone being able discuss it in any detail.
What was at the eye of this storm, to the best of my knowledge and memory, was that Ronnie had come upon a great practical joke to play on his mother.

With incredible insight into both the laws of physics and the neurochemistry of a mother’s heightened state of response, Ronnie marched into his back yard and pretended to hang himself.

His brilliant scheme, which left him virtually unharmed, was to hang from the yard’s lone tree, but do so in such a way that he was completely supported from the waist. An ingenious combination of a rope with his pants’ belt held him safely, albeit somewhat uncomfortably, aloft. With the touch of nothing less than theatrical genius, while his body was solidly supported at his mid-section, he managed to bring a loop of the rope around his throat, creating the illusion that his entire weight was borne fatally by his neck.
One can, but only, i m a g i n e……. what primal responses get triggered in a mother when she is suddenly confronted with the hanging dead body of her only child.
Probably, she was held in that unnameable state for but a few seconds, because in a stunning reversal of events, her son returned to life. With this re-occurrence of life, came an understanding of the hoax.

It was said that Mom took Ronnie to an inch of his life as she beat the holy shit out of him.

This is how I remember the story told and retold so often that it reached near epic proportions. I have no firsthand knowledge of this event; but the intensity and scope of the swarm of stories about it were such that it was impossible to pass through unaffected. I attribute much of the staying power to the graphic details (I left out as a courtesy to Ronnie's family that I have nothing but the fondest memories of) my mother repeated over and over again. My brother Jerry, who has thankfully abandoned his dream of being the United States representative on the Olympic controlled long spit team; and, even more thankfully has become a best friend, recalls Ronnie playing a joke on both his parents in the form of being shot to death. In this version, Ronnie creates a life like pool of blood with a ketchup mix and is found in the middle of the shop. When I told Jerry what I remembered and pressed him for more of his memories, he said “who knows?” maybe he did them both.
Who knows?
There was definitely a part of me that wanted to see the tiniest morsel of recognition in behalf of either or both of the masterful simulation(s); but, a greater force overcame that – the survival instinct.

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Happy daze,

The Captain

Introducing bob

Reading for December 13, 2009

Please be so kind as to allow the introduction of bob....................were you to find your conscious, sub-conscious, pre-conscious, subliminal, liminal, lemonade, or limeade so............... like there.................

alas.................

there would bob be. I needed to create bob {{ as it will be in common text }} to explain what I'm doing: book on blog

health, love, peace, joy, and all such things......................

or

enter desired state of being: ______________________

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Happy daze,

The Captain

Never argue with.........

Reading for December 6, 2009

I have treasured a singular quote since reading it in the “drill” era of the 1950s. At that time in our grammar school education when we were becoming well “oiled” machines that positioned our flesh and blood under those hallowed desks, the Federal Civil Defense Administration published a pamphlet. The pamphlet was a guide on what to do when an atomic bomb had been dropped on you. (Like getting under a small wooden desk for protection – something, by the way, that has since been proven to be the optimal maneuver)

I suspect the one point managed to trigger a universal concinnity among sub and sub-acute as well as domain and a cute domains nuclear shells ~ thus completing my brain chemistry. Thus, among a number of life saving directives, from the government [~{ …...of the people..............by the people............and for the people}~] came the admonishment ( that during a nuclear blast, one should)  

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,"never argue with an insane person".........

I was to learn that there are times in life its best never to argue, period. There were also times; I would find that, determining what “crazy” meant, were events in which it seemed all the participants themselves were crazy.

On the plus side of life at the age of seven, I was old enough to venture around the block. My parents did not allow me to cross any street; but they deemed the alleys safe. The block was just so big and complex, though, that even trekking about every chance I got, I was still just on the Diversey side of my block. The significant thing was that all my explorations produced nothing but happiness; and, all the adventures that came from my traipsing totally reinforced the goodness and safety of the wonderful village in which I lived.

Thank you, Bob Gilham, for the term “village” herein. Bob, another Peace Corps Teacher, became one of my very best friends during our service together in Koforidua Ghana. After our duty in West Africa, Bob came from his California home to visit with me. He was flabbergasted. As he got his bearings, Bob could barely get the words out. “Everyone here knows you - by name - and they're all friendly; this isn’t a city neighborhood, it’s a village!” Bob continued with the remark that where he lives.... “a neighbor is the enemy!"

I needed all the best energies of my village as I was confronted by the scene of its members embroiled in a tangled mess.

In my village, my brothers had a friend, close to eldest brother Bob's age, whose name was Ronnie.

“What was the matter with him? Was he mad? What was he thinking? Was he crazy? I had my second glimpse into craziness in no time at all. Having barely made it through the preparation for likely annihilation by an Atomic Bomb Blast, I came home to find my home in an uproar.

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The Captain

Vapors and Crazy

Reading for November 29, 2009

Time or no time? I just had to make the time, because the second grade was where I would be able to dispatch the language barrier.

St Hyacinth was "Swiety Jacka" in Polish. Not only would I be privy to the secret language of the adults at home, but I could cruise the neighborhood and talk with everybody there. From the neighborhood it would be on to the world. In my joyous state of mind, images of that heaven on earth wafted, as I saw the decoder allow people such understanding of life and each other that harmful/bad/evil/hurtful things would be able to be known ahead of time and changed into helpful/good/holy/joyful things. Oh boy, this was going to be good.

I was on the Polish highway reaching for my decrypter, with nary a speed limit sign to be seen.

Eager to see all my friends, and excited to begin my first Polish language class, the first day of 2nd grade couldn't come soon enough. Hmmmmmmmm – subtle, but total disintegration.....the likes of which I wouldn't experience for another four plus decades when my computer screen would flash: access denied.

Polish classes were stopped.

The line I got at the school from the nuns and priests was that we needed more time on all the other subjects. What I overheard in that place where adults talk more freely than anywhere else in the universe, my dad's drugstore (especially if I am completely out of view) was that while – yes - the other subjects did need as much time as possible; the real reason was to learn English, and learn it well enough, to forever rid the planet of the scourge of the stereotype: "dumb Polack".

How simple that posit seemed…………. and………….. how very much I had to learn about myself, in the ease, I would be finding "a", "some", "any", justification........... for hate.

The kindness of time, fused - probably as a result of some maverick Ras protein's last second experiment to meet an immunology class project deadline - with the hope of space, created an unbounded zilch about Lattice Q function for me to deal with that stuff later. Right now,though, bizarre was approaching front and center.

At first, I struggled to find a place for it in my seven year old mind. In short order, however, its inanity seamlessly dovetailed with all the other contradictions and weirdnesses I was picking up on; and, in comparison, television was becoming boring.

My second grade class started doing “something”.

This “something” I would come to know with unfailing certainty belonged to that same friggin crazy part of this world that was friggin crazy. We did this thing over and over, so that we could do it as quickly as possible. Of course, there was the usual giggling and joking 7 year olds did when confronting a thing so silly that, if we did it at home, we would be told to stop acting foolishly. Nevertheless, the nuns were unrelenting about “practicing” this absurd activity. The schoolyard skinny was that it was really important because people all over the city were doing the same thing. We even heard the signal loud and clear that told us to start our routine; and, someone had even mentioned that their uncle or aunt told them that people all over the United States of America were doing the same thing we were doing – but no one believed that!

Well over time, the second grade grapevine had all the juicy facts. What we were doing had a name. It was called a “drill”. A drill was exactly this "practicing" that we were doing – no matter that it was idiotic. It did not matter either, that "practicing" was the way we learned our prayers ~ and no one ever called that a drill ~ this was different ~ this was a drill. As we were learning more and more, we were becoming more and more mixed up.

Now finding out what the drill was for became my first exposure to senselessness.

We were learning to get under our desks to be protected from an “atomic bomb” that some really bad people over in “Russia” might be dropping on us.

I never did learn to appreciate my desk at St Hyacinth grammar school for its atomic bomb protecting abilities. One day, however, in eighth grade - after Billy Green and I managed to work out some of the screws that held his front row desk to the floor, and, we decided to see what would happen if we both pushed on it as hard as possible – I grew to love its ability to rocket forward and crash into the blackboard.

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Happy daze,

The Captain

**special thanks to CATFISH of the great state of Californisurf, and its Green Flash for tutelage in the mathematical systems that bore the Zilch about Q Theory, which made the substance of this chapter possible

Encryption One

Reading for November 22, 2009

At the most interesting parts of conversations, which brought me edging closer and closer to hear more clearly, they broke into Polish! Secret codes and encrypted messages shared right in front of me. I understood nothing. Sure I heard Polish all around the neighborhood and in church, but I didn’t understand it. This never failed to infuriate me.

And there’s another thing. Some time last year after the religion class’ little oh, by the way to reach life’s goal of getting to heaven, there’s a load full of stuff to do teacher dinged us again. Sister Felicia was telling us about Mary, the mother of Jesus, and the many many reasons we have for honoring her. Sometimes, she said, the church picks out one of the most important reasons and makes a special day just for that. At the time last year we were about to celebrate the feast day of the Immaculate Conception; so, sister went on to explain its meaning. Mary, and only Mary, she went on to say started her life inside her mother without any sin, or pure, or Immaculate! I thought “like cool” that’s neat. Good for her. The hammer came down when Sister followed that with saying that everybody else that was born, came into the world in a state of sin. I thought, hey; wait just a minute, here! To me, this was the same as saying we all somehow arrive at this place, and then the very first thing that happens to us is that we are given a gigantic chore list – because we are flawed or something like that; and it was pissing me off. To add to all this, I began thinking, hey, I didn’t volunteer to be born, and I didn’t know of anyone else that did.

In some strange way, these very things that were annoying me, were also giving me sense of purpose. An internal directive emerged that overrode the questions of where am I and how did I get here – and inspired me to deal with the fact that I am here and I have things to do…………..like learn Polish. I thought of one of my favorite television shows: Flash Gordon. I decided I was going to be like Dr Zarkov. Zarkov had a limitless number of cosmic resources and inventions he used to save the earth from peril. I was going to invent and/or decode things to save life on our planet from that birth chore list for the flawed; and, then all of us could just be happy.

The third part of Sister Felicia’s catechismal dogma: “to serve God” then appeared in my mind and identified itself as that very inventing, decoding and saving the world. Okay, that still works.

Doing the “to know God” part still was “learning” for me and that was fun – so no problem there. Only one thing remained blurry, but somehow didn’t seem so important. The “blur” came in seeing the “to love God” and the “to serve God” parts as different. They seemed pretty much the same to me.

A more critical question was, whether - with all this other stuff going on - I was going to have time for the second grade.

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Happy daze,

The Captain

There's something more

Reading for November 15, 2009

First grade class started off great. Teacher was actually echoing the very concerns I had. She spoke that first question that got me all pumped up from the start: “what am I doing here on earth?” Sister Felicia got my total attention when she set about telling everyone the answer. I really, really liked the way it began.

She said that we are on earth to know, love, and serve God. I liked that. I got the “knowing part”. I figured that was learning, school and all the really good stuff. “Love”, wow! I could do that easily, I was the “love baby”! Now I guessed the “serve” part must have been what my older brothers, Bob and Jerry were already doing as altar boys. I would see them “serving” mass up at the altar in the church where everyone in the neighborhood came to pray. I learned later that actually not everyone went to St Hyacinth School and church, that some people acted very differently from the people in my parish, and many of them weren’t even were Polish or Catholic; but that didn't come until later. I wanted to be an altar boy and serve mass too. I couldn’t wait. Sister Felicia went on to say that the knowing, loving, and serving God, then, was how we achieved the final goal.

Following ever word, I thought it made sense as Sister put it all together. The good Sister summarized that we were here, then, with the means to fulfill our one true purpose, which was to be with God in heaven. Once there, we would be in a state with “beatific vision” or, perfect happiness. She then described this happiness as being so big that she really could not put it into words because it was much greater than words, and - in fact - greater than anything on this earth. We were given the idea that it would be perfect ~ absolutely perfect happiness ~ we wouldn’t need, want, like, or desire anything – and nothing on earth could be perfect. I was musing the idea of being with God and absolutely happy, when suddenly, it dawned on me: this makes no sense. Why wait?

Now, as much as a six year old can, I deeply considered and weighed carefully, thoughtfully and thoroughly this position. I pondered as much as my then brain was capable of. I concluded that I already had "perfect happiness". In fact, so many happiness-certainties were filling my mind, that my first grade skull started to leak. I had vast love from my “love baby” status - and on this wise - all the affection and caring from my parents with special attention from my Aunt Nina, a burst of altruism and innate sense of service of others welled forth from somewhere in me and my hand shot up in revelation so profound I could not keep it to myself. Sister, sister, I have a question!

Yes, Henry, what is your question? I said, well if the goal of the life of humans is to be with God, why not take all the newborns and kill them so they could be with God right away? I thought that made sense, it fulfilled the goal, why go through all this life stuff, seemed like an unnecessary waste of time. I remember even then, speaking in the abstract, the underlying absurdity of killing babies sort of highlighted a system flaw...................there's something more.

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The Captain

SPECIAL EDITION

NOW

TODAY

Peace ... Beauty .. Love.... however they may be .....

obvious ~ pervasive / hidden \ rare\ | calm or fear

^...........^......... I commit my soul to this reality~~~

.............that they are here....................................

footprints on the Polish Highway

Reading for November 8, 2009

It was, then, in the fall of 2008, that my brother Thad and I walked past the “portal postal” to find lunch on the “Polish Highway” as we shared memories of childhood. Our parents, we mused, were drawn by the strong socio-cultural pull of migration in the 1930's and 40's. With this force growing stronger and stronger, the influence of the Polish Highway, surely as anything, drew our parents, Edmund and Helen to the Avondale neighborhood and the parish of St Hyacinth. I border on inordinate pride with the sentiment of having created the term “Polish Highway” for Milwaukee Avenue.

I believe it sociologically sound.

Milwaukee Avenue runs diagonally on Chicago’s northwest side. One can see the Polish migration running along Milwaukee Avenue followed closely by the Hispanic populace, and that, later, by the Black and Korean Communities. Two Polish dynasties jump easily to mind as examples. With long standing family businesses that have moved up along the Polish highway from Bucktown, and operate today at the time of this writing, are the “Wojciechowski’s Colonial Funeral Home” and the “Przybylo's White Eagle Banquets and Restaurant Halls” {notably both on the “Milwaukee Avenue”}

At a church on the city's near south side with close proximity to the genesis of this cultural trail, in 1995, I had an unusually clear view of the Polish Hispanic movement on Chicago's northwest side. In addition to the opportunity to see evidence of this cultural phenomenon, the intriguing circumstances provided a lesson in humility.

It was on a hot and humid day; one that Chicago can produce, even in Spring, with its asphalted zigguart zones radiating enough heat to compromise the laws of physics, that I accompanied my dear mother to St Pius Church. Our quest ~|~ my brother Bob's Baptismal certificate, the one that had to have the Church's validating embossed canonical mark. St Pius Church, located at 19th and south Ashland Avenue, was the first of the two wellspring parishes for my parents. Well when my mother and I entered the church record room, I inwardly groaned with the expectation of a long frustrating wait in this, the lair of the Luddite.

Not a single computer in sight.

The room was pleasant enough with the glow from weathered but gorgeous aged oak counters and a picturesque set of beautiful oak cabinets. The cabinets held thin, yet wide and deep drawers set with polished brass handles, which dutifully held the books wherein handwritten notations bespoke the intimacies of family passages. So my mother pulls out this piece of scrap paper with her perfectly straight practiced notations as to my Brother Bob’s exact name with the date, month and year of his baptism. The clerk, glancing at the paper as she headed to the drawers behind her, located with ease the decade required as indicated on the large worn but graceful drawer faces. She effortlessly opened the drawer marked 1930 to 1940 and brought out a long book from its conforming container. She then, swung easily, much like a professional dancer, to the counter where in rapid succession the book was opened to the year, month and date. Finally, with precision in her pleasingly clean fingers, locates my brother’s name and the information my mother requested. All this happened, I came to realize, in less time than it takes for my computer to even boot up; and even when my computer is running, the time I would need to find and open a program then activate a specific function (such as locating information on a date and year of a person's event) would take much more time then what I had just witnessed. I decided to be thankful for the quality lesson in humility and the fine example of the "Galileo - Minsky Paradox".

The ethno-cultural insight was spectacular.

In the book, I had felt compelled to peruse, the pages spoke loudly and clearly with the cadence of the multi-syllabic Polish names they bore. One after another was written, all with the running of consonants, not unlike my cousin’s marriage name: Przybylo. It was also as familiar as my grammar school role call: Karwowski, Kwasnieski, Gorski, Grabski, and Raczybowzinski. Then, after a few years, the list started developing a new "music" with an occasional Hispanic name; a Santiago, or Domingo here and there. Over the years, the register transformed into more and more Hispanic names until by the current year, all the names were Hispanic.

Sure, some of the same deep rolling "R" sounds which peppered both the Polish and Spanish languages were still present; but there it was: eloquent in its simplicity, profound in its plainness: cultural footprints.

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The Captain

Postal Portal

Reading for November 1, 2009

The place: 3659 W Diversey Avenue, Chicago. The date: September 22, 2008

It was sixty-two years ago Sister Felicia had spoken of our earthly presence; sixty-three years had passed since I congratulated myself for having everything figured out. Its been a perilous decline, a lofty ascent, and many a hair-pin turn since then. And, just as I liked only the beginning of our first grade teacher's explanation for existence, I found many false starts in self.

“I stood there, leaning slightly on the mailbox in front of my childhood home. Some things vary, some things don't.

While my body and soul vied for time away from each other, a sleep like haunt hummed of a system gone awry – paradox prevalent ~~ “everything continually changes while it stays the same”. I “looked” at the mailbox, the hulk of metal armored in thick coats of red and blue paint that protected me in “tag” games as a child. In these six decades, nothing about it, the chocolate brown bricks of the apartment building, that wire fence, this wooden porch, or that crossing guard, seeing children safely routed to school, had changed. I was as this portal postal, both object and subject, impartially observing and passionately interacting.

Nothing had changed while everything had. Tides of emotion drowned me in anger from the broken glass, garbage, filth, and neglect that fed person on person violence - violence that occurred often here now - violence that never occurred here during my childhood.

I was 4, 15, 21, and 63 years of age, all at once, in this very same moment now. I was powerful and impotent. I was loving non-judgmentally and hating decisively, I was peacefully accepting “now” and hostilely struggling to right wrongs and make the past the future.

Redemption came by a grace I will probably never understand.

I felt the soft late September air touch my face while the sun's easy warmth grew hot; and, together, these two visitors awakened me. I was, again, in a real moment of ordinary time. Calm followed swiftly, silently.

Consummate peace drew upon my path other travelers. They radiated a consuming vision in which people will hold precious the future – as precious as the parent lovingly held the toddler's small hand - as the two walked now, slowly past me...................past me, and the mailbox.”

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The Captain

Special Edition

So great a love light,

Sloan infant,

Same as day, is night

an early self ah ha

Reading for
October 25, 2009
The first day of kindergarten had started off as pure magic. There were two huge rooms full of kids my age to play and play all day. The incredible scents that would remain with me all my days began to be ensconced in the “favorite things” part of my brain . Erasers, paper tablets, the alcohol fragrance from the duplicating machine that turned out those lavender colored handouts, and, of course that pasty opaque whitish glue; all hit their sweet mark. I began to think my philosophical inquiries into life just might have to be put aside as I seemed to need all my energy for simply enjoying life.
That’s when the 8 struck.
Why the number 8 chose to be my nemesis, I know not; but, there is was challenging me to script it. I tried and tried and tried but to no avail, I could not write the number “8”.
At one point I considered beating the system with posing a snowman as an “8”. And it was at this point that the concept of my life's navigational system took shape. A perception of truth started a perpetual motion gyroscope inside me. Like a great magician's rookie apprentice, I had no idea the power this held.
Life's first bit of self awareness - I could not fool myself.
I went as far as making a feeble effort at seeing if I might skate past inspection (feeling more uncomfortable with trying to fool teacher than with neglecting my education). Not much more than sort of a wish that she might “cut me some slack” {with both of us really knowing it was a snowman and not an eight} could be mustered. I furtively glanced to the giant nursery rhyme characters pinned up on the walls. Was there room to hide in the midst of all those children playing in that shoe the little old woman lived in?
Unbeknownst to me, Sister Spongia did her doctoral thesis on writing the number "8".
I tried to hide under the little tables we were at, but Sister's words were powerful and had papal dispensation to pass through wood, steel, and probably even lead. "Henry!” That isn’t the number "8", it’s a snowman. I knew that, and I knew she would know that – but I was just hoping for a break.
Busted at the age of 5!
My mind flashed to that new thing in our house called television. The other day - much the way I was - Ming the merciless had to face facts when Flash Gordon declared:”.... you didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you Ming!!” At least I didn't have my brain melted with the death ray.
Though {or because} I was only five, I was certain that my thriving's hinge-pin would squeak tortuously [“you didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you Henry!!”] if I didn't act according to how things simply were - and be true to myself.


PRESENT DAY drift
    Fall's farm fields beamed golden haze images. October's crisp air induced heat to flow, while its warm sun pried the sun roof open. I oozed my car to an isolated stop at the intersection of two Indiana rural routes. Accompanied but by the sounds of George Harrison's “ My Sweet Lord” - time stalling - a cord in psyche vibed. In the song, there is a notable refrain which implores: “..............I really want to see you,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, really want be with You,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, really want to see You, Lord.............” - and as I was singing along, without missing a beat, my soul sung : "but not alone".
Don't forget anyone, Lord.
That yearning labored in my heart's daylight just this calendar October. The willing acceptance of a world compelled to start every human life as destined to suffer, and picking winners and losers according to contest rules, however ~~ struck me with tremendous pause ~~ even when I sat in that all too rigid, very uncomfortable desk/chair, in Sister Felicia's first grade classroom.

1952 drift
I calmed my wiggle-worm body by concentrating on the old souls circumnavigating the room. They were somehow present in the symbols that were confined to two or three places on the walls; but, just looking at them made me feel a vastness well beyond our school building.
Class started off great. Teacher was actually echoing the very concerns I had. She spoke that first question that got me all pumped up from the start: “what am I doing here on earth?”
Sister Felicia got my total attention when she began telling everyone the answer. I really, really liked the way it began.
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The Captain

"8" sideways is infinity

Sunday Read
for October 18, 2009


THE READ
Having survived my two older brothers another day, and toting pockets full of security as the "love baby" I entered Kindergarten. How could I go wrong, after all, I embodied the world's double celebration of the end of World War II and the death of Adolf Hitler. As if that wasn't enough, I had a back up plan were I to suddenly drop dead – my "question for God".
Soon enough though, I discovered Kindergarten to be less like Tom Corbett's simple solutions in the books "Tom Corbett and the space Cadets"; and, more like that game the adults enthusiastically played while I became more confused watching: "Monopoly". New rules on playing that board game came up so fast and furiously that the fun hooting and hollering was over with the games end before I figured out what "GO" was.
Well I was on the "board of life" positioned at the square marked: "Kindergarten – write the number 8"
Oh oh.... the first of many menacing obstacles to getting past infinity – I hadn't planned on not being able to write that number. Discovering the discontinuity of Infinity's walls temporarily lost their allure when I started to understand I might not even make it past the wall with the pictures of "Jesus", "Mary", and "Humpty Dumpty" on it.
The words “you're a fool!” did not come from Sister Spongia, nor, was it uttered by Sister Regina, the other of the two nuns who, I now know were real guardian angels. The words “you're a fool, Henry!” that authoritatively cracked through the air like the sound of a judge's gavel impact, did not come from anyone in that room, nor did it come from within myself.
But, what warmly wafted through the portal of consciousness at that time [[ as a first confrontation with myself ensued – how am I going to able to get this number "eight" written... ]] was the initial concept for my life's navigational system. A system that matured to provide guidance for setting the force of “you're a fool, Henry” into a direction of harmony when it was pronounced some 34 years later in a Portland, Oregon surgery suite.
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The Captain

.....what lieth in wait.....

SUNDAY OFFLECTION

For Sunday October 11, 2009

On an early summer day, in a pleasant northwest Chicago neighborhood, a crooked beautiful tree had just shared some of its secrets with my other four year old buddies and me. Christine, Johnny, Darlene, and I were hanging in metaphysical perfection ….a state of supreme well-being like nothing else; except perhaps the watching of Howdy Dowdy while eating a mom-made lunch in front of the new black and white television. Then, like the click of Dorothy's heels transported her back to Kansas, the click of opening latches remanded us to the custody of our parents - as an arrow swift through meutriere – the call to come home for a nap was swift. I waved bye to my friends as I jumped, skipped, and walked past the 4 other houses in such a way to touch every square inch of earth on my journey between Christine’s home and mine.

I was excited. I had formulated a question, upon my death, to ask God in heaven to get me beyond infinity. I was happy. I had the time to nap and gather my forces.

Before I could breach the laws of the known universe, I knew that I had some everyday things to take care of. I had to survive my two older brothers - older brothers who delighted in torturing me to within a breath of my life – with my youth and size allowing me few to no countermeasures. There did exist though, a single instrument of battle that not only possessed a reasonable degree of stopping power; but delivered revenge. Drawing from the reptilian sub-brain most active in children between the ages of 3 and 6 when being ignored by their parents or are being killed by a sibling, I would activate................ the taunt.

This weapon is used best to create emotio-spiritual havoc, and the more truth in a taunt, of course, the more destructive it is. I seized on a simple but powerful reality.

My parents loved me more than they loved my brothers.

Eminently, my parents would often tell me, much to my joy, that I was their “love baby”. The world called for a “love baby” my parents often explained. “World war two was over!’ “Hitler was dead!” So I would taunt my brothers about their inferiority in being "things" other than “love babies”.

At those moments when my older brother, Jerry, would have his knees on my upper arms to hold them still while he practiced his “spit controlling” abilities; I may well have thought that him to be the “hate baby”. Anyway, in practicing his spit control with me pinned below him, he would release some spit very slowly down towards my face. Now the object of this Olympic sport for which he was preparing, was to create the world’s record length of spit that could be sucked back up into the mouth before gravity overcame it; and, yes, hit me in the face.

I may well have thought of Bob, the eldest, as the family’s “jerk baby”. Bob seemed to lack the Olympic spirit and creativity that effused from Jerry’s twisted torments which actually took practice. Bob would simply come in fast and furious for some simple basic pain delivering act like twisting the skin on my forearm in reverse directions, referred to in the 1950s as an “Indian burn”. Bob did have, though, a talent for aiming criticism at some major psychological organ. I remember, about the age of 5, being “hammered. Bob, at the time, was in high school; and, therefore had attained a rank similar to the archangels. I was happily herding cattle among the tumbleweeds on my pretend horse. My trusty stead galloped and raced wildly to the beat of a 78 vinyl LP recording of “Riders in the sky” blaring from the large family phonograph cabinet. Well, Bob then cruises in and drops: “what are you doing!? they’re riding to hell! What's the matter with you! That took all of the fun out – in a flash - and on top of it all, I felt guilty!! Oh Brother ……

So it was clear that when my parents said that I was their “love baby” they were right.

Being the favorite and most loved child was okay with me, but I was eager for adventure. I packed up all that love – in my heart pockets I guess since I didn't have a lunch box because I was only going to half day Kindergarten – and was off. Soon enough, I discovered the first of many menacing obstacles to getting past infinity – learning to write the number eight.

The Sunday Offlection for Sunday October 4, 2009
I have titled this work "The Sunday Offlection", as this best expresses the many motivations, forces of conscience, and the single longing of my heart's provocative hunger for beauty and peace. The Peace is within reach. My criticism and ridicule of others because of my own inadequacy is the distance. And, suddenly aware that the fierce fighting cessation has calmed the battlefield, I see the legions of my angels exhausted, fallen, and fully spent..........and among them the battalions of my demons weary, wasted, and worn. A holy kick ass energy begins to glow, and, as I muse comic over yesterday's zany conversation with a dear life long friend – spiced with tabbouleh recipes and reports of a crony's curse upon him to die in hell with prongs inserted in his skull for stealing the dirty underwear of an unsavory zombie - I sit at my keyboard and begin.
I begin with dedicating this to my daughter Althea, from whom I have learned while struggling to understand hope with only minimum success; that full awareness of such is the work of a lifetime.
The meaning of my life is clearest in the love, affection, support, and energies of my friends and family. They are grace. They have been and continue to be that wonderful sustenance that performs miracles, works magic, provides point for reality checks, ministers the balm for my hurting heart and stands firm a fixed compass for my lost soul. They are without place, yet everywhere - seminaries, jails, churches, brothels, email, prime forests, urban slums, gated communities ….........they exquisitely dine on rare cuisine at richly appointed restaurants anointed by the gods, and the cinder-block containers of steam tabled items nearly impossible to distinguish one from another in a milieu suffused with bleach and Lysol …............. they are wives and lovers with whom portals to bliss were opened; reasons to aspire, create, and transcend given; and that perfect communion of souls experienced.
So let me give, with deepest gratitude, the names of those whose support made this work possible, in like totally random order: Ed and Helen Karwowski, Caesar Krzymowski, Linda Hill, Barb and Mike Lofgren, Mike and Sherrie Kelly, Amy and Andrew Przybylo, Steve and Deb Ohrn, Jonathan Shapiro, Peggy Shannon, Sharon Anderson, Shelley Arthur, Peggy Mulryan, George Jendrach, Sister Desolata, Caroline Webb, Kathy mon cheri, my brothers (Bob, Jerry, and Thad), Karen Becker, Buzz Victor, Zaba Inan, Stephanie Schuck, My Godfather/Uncle Ork, and my aunt Nina, Tim Hiatt, Vivian Kolpak, "Becca", Chelle and Bob Medow, The Jebeiles, Bob from San Jose ...........and others ~ the names of whom are somewhere among the infinities of my neurons..........
The Read
They were already there waiting for me by the tree – the one tree in the universe that did what it did. I was just recently granted the privilege and took on the weighty responsibility of “crossing the alley”. Dutifully looking both ways east and west along the alley as well as making sure there were no cars coming off Lawndale avenue, this four year old passed safely onto the land “down the block” where the meeting of the secret society was convening.. Traversing the distance of 5 houses through the melange Kielbasa smokehouses, giant ringing Church bells and, the Polka being danced by Polish and English tongues, I found my co-conspirators. Johnny and Darlene already at their duty stations - 2733 N Lawndale. This was the home of our friend Christine, where the door to the cosmos, disguised as a tree, was located. As I joined them, Christine emerged from the enchanted sunken gangway of her garden apartment. I know we were all close to 4 years old because we initially talked about the ensuing start of kindergarten "next year" – and everyone knows you start kindergarten at St Hyacinth School when you are five years old. Once the “gang” had established the initial rituals of greetings and small talk, our attentions turned seriously as we spoke of the tree that we were encircling and its “magic”. Something like a trance that elevated us to a higher state took place and we were free suddenly from things mundane. The ultimate idea came up: “When you die and go to heaven, what are you going to ask God?” Frankly, I can't remember Johnny, Darlene, or Christine’s question; but mine was one based in a concept with which I had already wrestled and would find myself driven to somehow interact with the rest of my life. At the age of four, I already felt constrained by elements of the universe. Therefore, with it being my turn, I said to the group, "Well, when I die and go to heaven, I would ask God to take me to the very end of the universe, as far as it is possible to go; and, since I was with God, I would ask God for us to go one step farther.
Join Captain Flip Side in his true life adventures every Sunday!
Happy daze,
The Captain