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.”

Join Captain Flip Side in his true life adventures every Sunday!

Happy daze,

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.
Join Captain Flip Side in his true life adventures every Sunday!
Happy daze,
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.
Join Captain Flip Side in his true life adventures every Sunday!
Happy daze,
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