Truth be told, Dharma lives upstairs in the penthouse - one of them anyway.

 

Dear President Obama,

I have a simple idea that would put money directly into the hands of some of the people who could use it the most.

I live in California.  It is not uncommon for me to be somewhere on the streets in the San Francisco Bay Area and to hear the conversations of people who have just lost their job, their home, their healthcare – essentially, all that they had worked so hard for.  You hear these all the time, I know.

I see lone women living in parked cars in public areas.  A few years ago when I traveled to India and saw the poverty, I remember thinking to myself, “There but for the grace of God or an accident of birth go I.”  And now my empathy and compassion deepens even further as I see this suffering coming to our own country in unthinkable proportions.

I live in an area where the unemployment was already at 15.5% in April 2009 – I’ve recently heard it’s over 25% in my neighborhood.  I’ve read many stories of people who have just given up hope – I see it in their faces as I walk down the streets.  What I see is more desperation, more homelessness and more resignation.  Yes, stimulus is coming, but it has to trickle down through the corporations that have put us in this stranglehold to begin with.

In my view, this whole meltdown began as a debt crisis.  Credit was being given out hand over fist and foisted on everyone.  Yes, it was not wise to accept what could not be repaid, but as we are painfully aware, far too many people did just that.  The American Consumer just filled up on debt never thinking that a growth cycle may turn to a contraction cycle. 

And now, when so much Federal money has been directed to credit markets to ease this credit crisis, the credit rules are so stringent that many businesses have no access to money.  One local green builder just went out of business because though they had plenty of work, none of the projects could get bank loans.

It seems to be that certain industries charge fees that have no substantive relationship to the services provided.  Yes, some new credit card regulations were recently passed, but did you know that one of their latest schemes around the legislation is to say the credit card has been compromised by fraud, reissue a new card and then begin charging a 25% interest rate even though the old card had a much lower rate?  When did bank fees become profit centers to the banks and an ever-larger drain on the American pocketbook?  The problem with all of this is that the people who can least afford it are those who are charged the highest fees.

I have digressed.  These are larger issues than I believe I can solve here.

Right now, here’s how we could really make a difference to some of the people who really need help:

Create a temporary waiver of the penalty for the early withdrawal of retirement funds.  Further,  apply it retroactively to the point at which this crisis began.  This will give back money to the people who have already had to raid their savings.  This way, they receive all the money that was theirs to begin with.  For those who’ve already paid the tax, give them an immediate refundable credit.

Mr. President, I would submit to you that these are extraordinary times.  I agree with you that we don’t want people to cannibalize their retirement savings, but for many people, this has been their only option to survive.  If an individual has been brought to the point of desperation and forced to cash in their 401K (or other retirement accounts) – shouldn’t we waive this penalty in these most difficult of times? Do we really want the United States Government to benefit from this most desperate act?

With all that we have given to the corporations, can we not do something for the common man and woman in America?  It is my belief that this would be a stimulus package that would truly help some of those who need it most. 

You know, women want to be heard and men just want them to get to the point.

In case you missed it, here are a few of my favorite things from this year's Maker Faire:

Conjuring up the past...

Chai Tea, home brewed and organic of course...

Fresh ginger sliced thinly

Cardamon pods pounded

Finest cinnamon stick

Peppercorns

Cloves
 
and Fortnum & Mason Organic Assam Tea of course...

Brewed and steeped on the back burner of the stove - aromatic...

The meaning of is...

To Be...

So, in case you haven't heard...

On Monday at the annual meeting of the American Psychiatric
Association, it was widely postulated that yet another disorder needed
to be added to the ever expanding lexicon of the DSM (Diagnostic and
Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.)

Post Traumatic Bitterness Disorder

It was likened as being something similar to PTSD - Post Traumatic
Stress Disorder. Similar in that it presented after some traumatic
event and proceeded to consume an individual with inescapable
bitterness. It has been said that at this meeting it was widely agreed
that this malady of Post Traumatic Bitterness Disorder should be
entered into the DSM so that treatment would ensue.

Possible treatment alternatives may be:

Spank them - are these the people who were reared by parents who never
told them no? A firm but kind swat to the behind may just help them
set their priorities back in order.

Give them jobs and health insurance - are these some of the millions of
Americans who have lost the way to their own personal American Dream -
suddenly finding themselves sliding down the slippery slope of a
putrefying economy?

Would someone see if Alice has any more of her little pills? Maybe we
can make them smaller, really, really small - like Lilliputian small -
and we just won't have to listen to them anymore.

What I'm really wondering is, why does it seem that we have lost our
way and become so focused on naming what has already presented rather
than trying to figure out how we can all live together. Do you realize
that in most cities people walk down the street afraid to look each
other in the eye? Human beings are collective creatures by nature
don't you think?

Perhaps what we are trying to name is really just symptomatic of the
disconnection that engenders so many human relationships today.

Maybe we really need to look at the cause before we approve the medical
billing code for the "cure."

Home is where the heart is.  Isn't that what they say?

And so I wonder, to whom this city belongs?

Is it those who share these streets with me on my walks with Ysabella?  Maybe the homeless woman we passed last night who suddenly burst into a outpouring of profanity and frustration, all filtered through her drug induced haze.

It is certainly not the random concert goers who visit on a scheduled and sporadic time frame.

It isn't the office workers who populate the downtown bars ever so briefly after work.

Maybe, it is the two young children who seem to belong to the owners of the pizza delivery business.  Their play area is a very finite piece of sidewalk wedged in between the have's and have nots.

Me, I take ownership and umbrage with all that is here.  I am in the midst of a swirling debate that could fall to either side.  Given the existence of probabilities that have already been cast, the fate seems almost preordained.

You be the judge.

Me, I have learned to cross the street when I see trouble coming my way.

Well, you can now add yet another feather to her cap...

On our evening stroll through downtown Oakland by way of City Hall, we
had yet another fan club encounter.

We were nearly to Lake Merritt, just off Webster and waiting at the
corner to cross the street. Who pulls up and stops beside us but an
Oakland PD Car?

And you know, he stopped and leaned out the window to ask just what
kind of dog she is.

"Why part Chow," I replied "and part German Shepherd I think."

"Hmmm," he says. "She's a pretty dog."

And away he drove and away she pranced.

Me, I was just on the other end of her leash.

"What ever are you doing,"  she said?

scalpels it's way through time...

thoughts are suspended...

cries go unheard...


into the leanings of my heart...

foci emerge...

one...

Well, it was bound and determined to happened - Freak A Bella or not.

While wandering down the sometimes placid - not exactly sure when that
might be - downtown streets of Oakland -

Freak A Bella happened upon a crack puffing pup.

Is that dog friendly her master asked?

Said handler said why no, most certainly and decidedly not...

Ho...

And heave ho...

And in the mere seconds it took of futile avoidance, said crack pupping
puffing pup was thereupon attached to said snout of Freak A Bella -

Needless to say, she is still shaking from the trauma and ready to move
on to Jacksonville where she said she has friends if you know what I
mean.

Freak A Bella has had it with these mean streets - at least for the
moment.

Me, I am just forced to write every last word down.

I am lulled to sleep by the sounds of the ocean outside my brick
portico.

Over and out...

PS In her greatest feat yet of civil disobedience, she pooped at the
feet of a drug dealer and his crowd this afternoon. What a mess that
was.

Well, when last we updated you - life as the urban cliff dweller was
decidedly interesting and of note. Walks through a Victor Hugo like
tilt a whirl with dashes of mere incipient madness thrown in.
Interesting, walkable and somewhat electric at times.

And then just a few weeks ago, one Friday past, two murders within just
a few hundred yards of me.

On my way home from work, my regular route, the swat team had my route
completely blocked off. I may almost begin to recognize these guys by
first name fairly soon.

And then then next morning as I walked from home to the gym, I found
myself walking through the remnants of a taped off crime scene. No
"police tape" or some such thing was marked on said tape and so I
didn't think too much of it. After all, I live in a place where things
often don't seem to make sense.

And then that next evening, in the last light of day, walking that same
route, with the light hitting just right to catch the glimmers of
cracked and crazed glass - I saw bullet holes and cracked shop windows
that I didn't remember having seen before. hmmmmm

And so that Monday morning I asked a colleague if something had
happened over the weekend.

Well, yes, as it turns out. Two murders.

A drive by shooting of two women in a car mere minutes before I should
have been there.

And then a murder a few hundred yards from where I slept completely
unawares.

And so, this is where I live. These seem to be my people of the moment.

And so it gave me pause for thought.

And caution.

And mindfulness.

And then Ysabella and I ventured out one evening afterwards on our
favorite route to downtown and city hall.

And there we encountered the aforementioned crack head.

Everyone loves Ysabella.

But this man, clearly out of his mind, looked at her and emphatically
said, "You'd better move that fucking wolf."

And I looked into his eyes and saw what was and wasn't there.

He kept escalating his imperative.

And I watched as a man with a suitcase slung over his shoulder came up
behind him, to walk past me and on down the street. I saw the fear in
his eyes and saw the look as he did the mental math of should he stop
and help me or not. And he walked on by.

And so there I was, with a man clearly out of his mind, at the corner
of stop and don't stop, yelling at me to, "Move that fucking wolf."

I realized that saying nothing, was not a course of action that was
working.

So, I said as firmly as I could "Got it!"

He turned and walked straight through traffic, car brakes screaming,
and then began a tirade at the gas station across the street.

In a flash of wisdom, the light turned to walk and Ysabella and I
headed the other direction.

Trouble averted for this particular day.

Decidedly distracted...




.


.

Electrifying Dreams...



Fraughtfully fitfully functional...



Poised on the precipice of dreams and desire...

Adventures of Ysabella...

Murders within mere walking distance...

Crack heads gone mad...

All this and so much more...

I do not mean in any way to belittle or diminish the importance and
relevance of life in this topsy turvy town for those of us who live
here.

You probably know about some of the echoes of violence that have been
resounding around here lately. Me, I've never seen so much police
activity in my life. Last Friday heading home from work I had to make
two detours due to police activity. One was a swat team that had the
whole of a street blocked off and the other some more minor disturbance
that looked ready to explode.

Well, today I asked a colleague if they had heard of anything amiss -
the vibe on the streets last night was decidedly the most edgy I've
felt in my usual evening walk downtown. And I certainly didn't
remember the bullet holes nor the panes of glass being cracked and
crazed on my block. And for a very first, Isabella stood between me
and trouble - she never does but something within her took over and
suddenly she was between me and those who were questionable.

The swat team activity was for a fatal shooting and the bullet holes on
my block were indeed new and for still another fatal shooting. And
people think I'm kidding when I tell them I hear gunshots at night.
There is a different wind indeed that blows here at the moment. This
is the life of an urban cliff dweller in the streets of Oakland - have
mercy and pity for those who have no home to shelter within. Why on
earth someone can't do something is beyond my comprehension. I walk
here because I live here and this is how it should be. Needless to
say, that is now under consideration.

The emergency exit plan is scotch taped to the wall by the third floor
elevator.

Decidedly not a good idea and not much of a plan.

A day spent wandering in search of the other who answers back...

The world is silent but for the beating of my heart.  And then I listen.  And then I hear.

 

Rhythm.  And sound.  We are all comprised of the same building blocks, molecular structure, DNA and vibrational harmonics.

 

Do you believe in the collective unconsciousness, the knowing that we all have genetic memory that serves to bind us to humanity?   Is it a stream, or perhaps a river, or an ocean of thought, another, perhaps a higher consciousness?  Is it creation? Who was it who said, “To create is divine, to reproduce merely human?” (1)

 

Rhythm.  The flow, the sound of a breath, a heartbeat, the last eternal gasp, the cadence of humanity.  We are creatures who live and thrive from the stimulation derived of our group. Singularly we exist, within the context of the right nurturance, we soar to the heavens on the wings of divine ability.  Stimulation from nurturance, from positive challenge, from abstract thinking allows expansiveness in our conceptual thinking, our ability to solve problems and to be productive members of society.

 

Beginnings.  Babies tender and full of the possibilities of life.  All infants have musical ability. 2 We are moldable plastic individuals.  Brains formed, each of us born with 100 billion brain cells/neurons. 3 Learning is a lifetime of possibility, a lifetime event if we choose it to be.  Did you know that musicians have a 5% greater capacity in their cerebellum?  This is thought to be due to the structural plasticity of the brain.4  It seems, according to Dr. Norman Weinberger, Professor of Neurobiology and Behavior at the University of California, that “playing music seems to be the ultimate form of brain exercise.”2

 

Rhythm.  We are born with it.  We move to it.  Deep within our genetic structure, our de-oxy-ribo-nucleic acid (our DNA), we can establish relational models.  We can map it; photograph it with infrared light using a device called a spectrophotometer.  And through these images, through these pictures of our selves, in the most core sense, these frequencies are resolved down to a mathematical relationship, one that is coincidentally like the science of music. It replicates the linear relationship of musical notes, the building blocks of musical theory from which the foundational theories are laid.  That starting place from where we begin to bend and break the rules.  The harmonics of our DNA can be synthesized and played.  It is not dissonant nor discordant, it is harmonic in the sense that with these notes, we feel an overwhelming sense of comfort.

 

Rhythm.  Relational.  Music is the habitation of relational tone and structure and sometimes even dissonance.  Cultural dissonance.  Do you know that we compose mostly in C?  The drums and bells and gongs of the Eastern world are for the most part tuned to C as well.  “Could it be that we are all as a planet trying to tune to the same vibrational harmonics?” Could this be the beginnings of our understanding of the collective unconsciousness?  Vibrational frequency.  Nature or nurture?  In what ways does this serve to define and describe the ways in which we see things differently, to the beat of another drum?  What is the explanation for being attuned to a different harmonic scale?  Surely future science will help to inform us.

 

Rhythm.  The neonate.  The infant.  Full of possibilities, to be so much determined by nurturance and love.  To love a child, to touch a child, to sing to a child is to mold their circuits, the synapses of their being to be able to accept love and to give them the gift of critical thinking.  It is the programming of the computer, the laying down of the foundation; it is the beginning of their own circle of life.

 

Math and music are processed in proximate areas of the brain.  Abstractions, critical thinking, pathways laid down to solve and resolve, critical thinking.  One of those abilities that helps to define the tools of man.

 

Rhythm.  And music, yes music is transcendent.  Who among us has not been transported to the divine?  In the world of technical parlance, music has been linked to the areas of the brain reserved for biologically relevant, survival related stimuli.  And those shivers down the spine of ecstasy.

[6] It expands beyond our conscious space and into the world of possibility and hope and dreams.  To hear the chanting of the monks high atop the mountain, to listen to the choir in St Paul’s cathedral, it is to be like a bird and soar to the heavens on the wings of God.  It is to connect with that most beautiful part of humanity, the divinity of creation.  And so, even with the knowledge of the power of creation and destruction, man’s inhumanity to man, music restores us in our relationship to self, to our higher power, to the beauty that is life as we are allowed to experience it unfolding.

 

Rhythm.  It is the beat, the autumnal cadence, the fire of spring, it is beginnings and endings, the circle of life.  If all constructs are based upon the premise of a healthy brain is one that is utilized and maximized, the extrapolate from this:

 

A child’s most critical point in life, the time when these neural connections are laid down is from 0 to 3 years – maybe even conception to 3 years, but as yet, we do not know though preliminary testing does seem to validate the importance of prenatal stimulation.7 Music and math require the same abstractions of thought.  Through PET (positron-emission-tomography) scans of the brain it has been shown that the cortex area of the brain is stimulated while listening to complex musical forms, such as Mozart.  Testing scores, such as the SAT are demonstrating the ability of children exposed to the arts as being more able to engage in critical thinking.  In  1995 children who had studied the arts for over four years scored 59 points higher on the verbal portion of the SAT and 44 point higher on the math portion as compared to children with no such coursework.8 And we are never too old to learn, to stimulate our brain, to continue to maintain these neural pathways.

 

It has been said that from the time of the ancients, Plato and Aristotle to name but a few, that the healing powers of music have been recognized.  Since post World War I and II we have used music as a healing tool in this country.  The beginnings were with those men that we sent out into the world to be our warriors and our protectors.  They came back home from horrors that most of us will never, ever imagine.  Mustard gas, cries of the wounded, the living/breathing fury of battle.  And music, yes music was used to touch these men, to show them that even through where they had been and what they had seen; there was still the possibility of beauty and healing in their lives.  For what they now witnessed was their ability to still be touched most deeply and profoundly through the profound lyrical beauty of music.  That soul connection that music inhabits.

 

And so forward we have moved.8  In 1950 the National Association for Music Therapy was founded. The possibilities for music in healing seem to be limitless.  We have found that stroke patients who have lost the ability to speak can often more easily learn to sing their words, sentences and thoughts – thus allowing them “improve the fluency of their speech.” Think of it as a sort of rewiring of the brain, the temporal house of our soul.

 

Rhythm.  In healing.  It is our “big external clock.”9 Take it back to the images of our DNA, to the linear relationships, to the synchrony of movement with the beat, with the rhythm, into patterns and shapes and forms. A hand keeping time. A reigning in of emotions to a positive realm for an adolescent living beyond despair – that moment to connect back to a self evoked with the aid of music, to happier times.  Beneath the layers of what we can consciously detect, it is possible to see the changes reflected in the PET scans.  A consciousness layered beyond that which we can discern.  We are truly complex creatures capable of processing vast amounts of information.

 

Rhythm.  The underpinnings of music.  To put us in the mood, to fuel our desire, to calm us down and to establish our belonging to the tribe of humanity.  To witness the depths of mans’ inhumanity to man, the first breath of a newborn or the last whisper of our beloved. At core, we are all built with the same materials.  It is how our neural pathways are laid down, our ability to think, to create, to problem solve and our relationship to the world that makes each of us uniquely gifted.

 

The world is silent but for the beating of my heart.  And then I listen.  And then I hear.  Rhythm.

 

I walk into  sunset along the shore of memories not yet begun.

Waves speak eternally with a voice of some others making.

I hear the beating of my heart.

We live in a land of reinvention.

It occurred to me early this morning while in the midst of a workout at
my local gym.

I looked up at the concrete beams in the ceiling and remembered hearing
over and over again the words...this used to be...and then I remembered
that I too, live in a re-purposed building - I live in what used to be
ladies lingerie - or so I am told...

I am used to land and space - from vast acreage to smaller more
intimate gardens of my own creation.  And never did I anticipate how
this life as an urban cliff dweller would take hold of me.  I love the
proximity to everything and yes, I am even learning to fully embrace
all that this neighborhood is.  There are truly days when life here feels
as though you are living in the midst of a modern day Victor Hugo novel -
the juxtaposition of abundance, abject poverty and sometimes a
dash of madness thrown in for good measure. This used to be
a different kind of town...


It may have been decades ago while living at UFW headquarters that I
truly comprehended that true change comes from the bottom up.  Was it
the traveling to the growing fields to try to educate people to help
themselves?  Was it conversing with Caesar Chavez and learning of his
quiet determination and will?  Maybe it was sitting in on the meeting
with all the UFW  national organizers and listening to Jerry Brown ask
for their support in his first run for governor.  Maybe.  And maybe it
was that I was always one of those kids who organized the neighborhood
into our plays and carnivals and rescuing animals.  Maybe.

We live in a land of reinvention and purposeful determination - mindful
of the past and hopeful of the future.  Some are marred by debt and the
addictions that this upside down economy is laying bare, it is a
cautionary tale.  It is a time for change.

So while we reinvent ourselves once again, perhaps we can do so with a
bit more wisdom.  Perhaps we can stop worshiping at the false altars of
money and power and all that is perceived to accrue to them.  They have
no true bearing in all that is truly important in this life and those
that worship at their feet will always be lost unto themselves.

Perhaps we can learn to value people in their every iteration and
discern what is beautiful within.

Perhaps.