My Immortal

“These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me”

Evanescence

All That You Have

Loosing my grip
Fists clenched in pain
Drifting from sight
Pelted with rain

Silence sighed deep
No longer sane
Darkness a voice
Called my name

Tears from her eyes
Filled me with light
Hope is near
Beautiful the sight

Cradled to her breast
Caressing my face
Softly I wept
Suspended in grace

Bending to whisper
Hair brushed my cheek
What we share
You may never speak

All that you have
Is far from complete
We shall fly again
Over fields of wheat

I am but an angel
Never to possess
I’m always near
This I must confess

Mr. Blue

Falls the Shadow

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)

Brutality of Silence

“Oppression can only survive through silence.”

Carmen de Monteflores

A fleeting moment of ecstasy quickly dissipates from the senses as the deafening roar of silence approaches as swiftly as night obscuring the vibrant colors of light replacing them with a lifeless pall of grey. The exuberance of warmth with its clarified purpose and exquisite detail slowly yields to a cold uncertainty which dulls the mind with obsessive destruction that systematically dismantles any security in the belief that the beauty of life remains within reach. The silence grows as emotions flood every thought until the ringing in my ears can’t be tolerated. Reality recedes like the picture of an old television tube after it has been turned off, quickly denatured of primary hues that disappear into a white dot of light, flickering before disappearing into a black abyss. What remains is a mental struggle for sanity with the strengthening grip of silence. As each second grows to an untamable eternity time becomes the most powerful weapon of silence wielded with ruthless brutality seeking to crush any sanctuary or refuge of reason.

When the mind is idle without direction or focus, demons emerge from dark shadows of silence to dance in the conscientious, harnessing boundless creative energy to construct disturbing visions of loss and pain. The images born of a firestorm of doubt are more vivid than reality, manifesting into visions of betrayal devised to unleash a flood of anger, hopelessness and loss. The creative power of imagination is hijacked by the subconscious to explore all scenarios of possibilities with the intent of inflecting mental discomfort of the cardinal order. I am a prisoner of the silence forced to watch increasingly more perverse interpretations of my worst nightmares. Like a soldier bound and seated before a white sheet with him eyes taped open so that under no circumstances he can avert him gaze from the flittering images that torments his soul, I am bound to watch as imagination claws at my flesh attempting to find a soft weakness so that a mortal wound can be inflicted. Each personal acknowledgement of weakness is quickly attacked with mental abortions and repeated imagines of increasing brutality. Where is the joy of spring, the perfumed whisper of convergence? How long will I have to wait until tenderness and compassion lifts me back into the light removing the cloak of blackness that blinds me from all that I desire?

My stomach sours as searing cramps acknowledges the relentless attack of silence. A putrid acid rises to erode my resolve as I wait for the brutality to crease, but it won’t for I am trapped in a dimension devoid of time. The slim vestiges of hope that ecstasy and light will return to hold me and secure my loss slowly dissipate like morning dew under the intense desert sun. Fear of the pain recedes as a greater fear emerges from the recesses of my mind. It is a blue cloud of sadness that weighs heavy on me like lead. I struggle violently in order to escape its deadly grip, hoping to hide in a sacred sanctuary of bliss. My breath becomes labored as I feel misfortune sits beside me placing its cold fist on my chest. My mind is numb and listless as I wait for the images that pound on me with a relentless rhythm to end. My limbs are lethargic without purpose as I am paralyzed by the cruelest of imagined outcomes, but still the silence beats in my heart and rings in my ears. An impenetrable veil of gloom surrounds my sadness, a veil that all hope is obscured under, a veil that is stitched from the thread of despair. Deeper and darker my thoughts spiral downward, never closer to rescue, always increasing in negative aspect, always preventing me a handhold to resist my descent. The uncertainty is boundless, as I wait for a sign, a small gesture like a frightened child alone in the dark.

From beneath the droning madness of the silence is a faint undetectable tone that begins to emerge. A counter melody to a disturbing symphony of darkness grows like a flowering vine among the thorny briars. A whisper at first subtle enough to make me question its existence, but I dismiss it as only the madness feeding my isolation. My numb tortured mind wants to believe that a song so angelic and so perfect that it melts the sorrow and uncertainty. Hope flows back into my limbs as the voice lingers with a beauty which can not be held drifting on the scented summer breeze. For the briefest of moments the soft voice nourishes me with tenderness as tears of relief fill the sky glistening like diamonds. There is no desire to understand why I was abandon for so long, only the need to be as one again. I revel in its beauty as hope washes over me cleansing the despair from my soiled soul. The world fills with light as I breathe deeply inhaling an inspired sense of aspirations which empower my dreams to soar. I am comforted by the caring sweet caresses as I float on cottony white clouds of tenderness.

As quickly as it appeared the voice disappears leaving me in the bliss of a lingering sunset of ecstasy. I race for the horizon to capture the fleeting rays of color but am left gasping for air with my limbs burning as the sunset is extinguished against the cold black earth. Dusk leads the triumphant return of night and uncertainty as my surroundings implode and collapse upon me with a suffocating weight of sorrow. Slowly fear creeps from the shadows to reside in its familiar place next to me while reaching for my hand; I resist the temptation to stare into the cold black lifeless eyes which gaze at me with endless anticipation knowing I will eventually fall into a morose sleep. My angelic voice of life has dissipated as the maddening drone of darkness fills every crack and seam leaving no escape. I once again I resign myself sit to alone waiting for the brutality of silence to cease.

“Now the sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence... someone might have escaped from their singing; but from their silence, certainly never.”

Franz Kafka (1883 - 1924)

Where Real Men Eat: Cattlesmen’s Café

A faint hum of a neon sign fills the street as we emerge from a cab into the crisp fall night. Low two story turn on the century brick buildings proclaim the wares of the frontier from beneath deep shadows. Faded traces of advertizing clinging to brick walls whisper “western wear” and “cattle auction” as the brisk cold wind has driven every living creature from the wide streets seeking warmth as we move toward the door.

An unpretentious blond brick and plate glass exterior is covered by a simple awning awash in an eerie red glow providing a niche where the scent of searing red meat lingers before being escorted away by a blast of bitter wind. Reaching for the full length plate grass door I grab the longhorn of a silver steer head which marks the entrance of an dining institution which has served cattlemen, drovers, ranchers, cowboys and brokers since 1910.

Food critic Michael Stern noted “Surrounded by the largest livestock trading center on earth, Cattlemen’s is the consummate western steak house. The original dining area maintains its old lunch counter, where brokers, haulers, and buyers come for breakfast of steak or brains and eggs starting at six a.m. In the South Dining Room, which was added in the 1950s, there are spacious upholstered booths; one entire wall features an immense, illuminated panoramic transparency of a herd of Black Angus cattle with two men on horseback watching over them. Curiously, the mounted cowherds are not dressed in buckaroo attire. They wear suits and ties, apparently to distinguish them from common cowboys who work for wages. These gents are cattle ranchers who can afford a blue-ribbon steak.”

The dimly lit dining room is filled with dark mahogany walls and booths covered in white linen tablecloths as black and white sketched portraits of famous visitors festoon the walls. A drone of subdued conversation drift across the dining room as worn cowboy hats slowly hover above the high back booths as we are escorted to our own booth in the back dining room. Looking over the menu the focus is clear, red meat steaks and burgers supplemented with simple country cooking. Feeling the part I order bourbon which is delivered in an oversized simple glass tumbler sufficient to knock any cowboy off their horse. Apparently during prohibition the restaurant was well known for home-brewed “liquid delights” which could be enjoyed on premise or taken home in a simple brown bag.

The colorful history of the café is as rich as its customers. As the story goes “In 1945, Cattlemen's was owned by Hank Fry, a gambler of sorts. In a smoke-filled room at the old Biltmore Hotel in downtown Oklahoma City, Fry was running out of luck and money in dice game attended by a local rancher, Mr. Gene Wade. Fry put up Cattlemen's as the pot if Wade could roll a 'hard six,' otherwise known as two 3s. Wade put up his life savings, which was a sizable amount of money. With one roll of the dice, Gene Wade was in the restaurant business. The '33' brand on the wall of Cattlemen's Hereford Room became a well-known symbol of Wade's good fortune.”

As a culinary explorer I am seldom intimidated by any menu entry I stumble across. I even seek out the most unusual food offerings to expand my knowledge of cuisine, to educate the palette so to speak. I was somewhat surprised and a little unprepared to discover a delicacy on such a common county menu. I read the description a second time to make sure I understood the exact composition of “lamb fries”. As Michael Sterns explains it, “Lamb fries are testicles that are sliced, breaded, and deep fried. Gonads are a highly-regarded delicacy in much of the West; when young livestock is castrated on the range, it is traditional for cowboys to fry their harvest as a treat at the end of the day. Cattlemen’s lamb fries are served as an appetizer: a mound of them on a plate with a bowl of cocktail sauce for dipping and a half a lemon to squeeze on top. They are earthy-tasting inside their golden crust, the exquisite organ meat quivery and moist, with nut-sweet savor.”

Approaching the bottom of my tankard of bourbon my courage is welling wondering what this rare and traditional delicacy would actually taste like. In a moment of liquor induced madness I ask the waiter for an order of lamb fries looking closely to detect any indication of a smile or acknowledgement that the menu item is really an inside joke making city slickers eat gonads. As soon as the words pass my lips I realize the dilemma I had just created for myself. I stare blankly at the waiter looking like one of those moon-pie faced cattle just before being hauled off to the stockyard for execution. Sensing that our conversation is not finished my young waiter stands calmly waiting for my next request. For what seems like an eternity I finally decide of the exact phasing for my next question. “What type of wine would you recommend with the testicles?” Even as the words break the silence of the moment I realize that the discussion has just entered a new territory of which I had never experienced. Fearing that my young server would be at a loss to provide an adequate wine pairing with it then degrading into a public group discussion at the table with the restaurant sommelier, I decide on a heavy dark cabernet that would be robust enough to erase any evidence of testicles from my palette.



As the waiter heads to the kitchen I ask for another tankard of bourbon to accompany my red wine. The table conversation revolves around the anticipated dish. Halfway through the second bourbon tankard the lamb fries arrives mounted high on the simple white plate. We all stare at the plate for a while before lifting a golden brown morsel to our lips. The great secret of county cooking is that you can eat anything if it is covered with enough breading and deep fried long enough, as was the case with the lamb fries. My overriding opinion after finishing the last of the testicles was “been there, got the tee shirt, no reason to go back”.

As we straggle though the main dining room in a bourbon fog, I nod at a few of the remaining cowboys seated at the big mahogany booths knowing that I had the balls to eat balls where real men eat.

Capitulation of Excess

“One watches them on the seashore, all the people, and there is something pathetic, almost wistful in them, as if they wished their lives did not add up to this scaly nullity of possession, but as if they could not escape. It is a dragon that has devoured us all: these obscene, scaly houses, this insatiable struggle and desire to possess, to possess always and in spite of everything, this need to be an owner, lest one be owned. It is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease. One feels a sort of madness come over one, as if the world had become hell. But it is only superimposed: it is only a temporary disease. It can be cleaned away”.

D. H. Lawrence (1885 – 1930)

A small voice awoke me from a deep trance only to realize that I have not recorded my thoughts for far too long. At the point where you are convinced that it is impossible to travel more than what you are, you allow the world to crank it up another notch. The opportunities to speak and convey a message of hope, a solution to the madness, a future of balance are endless. As a result I attempt to reach every eager ear willing to listen. From Charlotte to Tampa to Toronto to Philadelphia to Seattle to Baton Rouge to Vancouver, I travel in an endless march with a sense of urgency for our time to prevent the tipping point is limited.

We have begun to enter the dark ages, a period of regression from an era of excess and greed. As a small boy I watched my father commute each morning to Wall Street and learned the arcane language of the stock market. As a system once entirely devoted to raising capital for an expanding economy, it has recently digressed into a manipulated arena of speculation and gambling. Without emotion I witnessed the total collapse of the system that provided my father a career for over forty years. My father would not recognize Wall Street today, with the bodies of power brokers and market makers smoldering in the flames of a conflagration unimagined. Goldman Sachs, Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch and Bear Stearns were once the powerful barbarians at the gate, the piranhas that would strip a company of its flesh, discards its bones in the gutter. I had to admit some sense of retribution when the piranhas turned on the mighty Wall Street elite and erased billions of dollars of equity in a matter of weeks. The poor stockholders who reaped the rewards of years of greed and plunder cried for the government to protect them from their own imprudence. I do not weep over their loss, for they were a parasite feeding on the sweat equity of Main Street.

Where we not warned there will be blood? All of these troubles are attributable to the failure to exercise reasonable prudence. Why should I be responsible for paying to guarantee the sins of others? It’s ironic that the financial conservatives, who proclaim the loudest that a free market is essential to our way of life, are the first to beg for intervention from the government. I have no sympathy for the greed that motivated the couple to buy a house they could not afford. I have no sympathy for the banker that made the toxic loan in hopes of unloading it within 30 days. Even our sub-prime market became drunk with profits and greet. Staring into an abyss we may never see again the world we have become so fond of.

This small financial event is likely to be obscured by a global cataclysm of monumental proportions if we continue to fund our lifestyle on fossil fuels. Skeptics surround us chanting in hopes of convincing us to destroy more of our planet in search of the opium of commerce. They ignore the impending death of the fossil fuel economy with righteous indignation while the slogan “drill baby drill” is repeated as a bible quote. As climate change is advancing with mythological speed many sit idle in their comfortable live of luxury assuming that it was just some 10,000 researches have gotten it wrong. The threat of climate refugees will number in the millions if not billions. The global economy is in jeopardy of total collapse, just look at one somewhat minor weather event called Katrina. It turned the gulf coast into a third world country. A total break down of the tenuous and fragile concept of social order. We need to consider our options carefully and with a great sense of urgency. We have reached the capitulation of excess.

“One of the weaknesses of our age is our apparent inability to distinguish our need from our greed.”

Author Unknown

“If the world should blow itself up, the last audible voice would be that of an expert saying it can't be done.”

Peter Ustinov (1921 - 2004)

Unkempt Thoughts

“Silence propagates itself, and the longer talk has been suspended, the more difficult it is to find anything to say”.

Samuel Johnson (1709 – 1784)

Out of the silence I am compelled to whisper so that my thoughts are released into the summer air freeing me of the burden of sequestering them in my mind. I have no explanation for my prolonged silence, only that I find there is no voice to describe what is most remarkable. Is it that there are new ways to communicate or can it be that communication has ceased and silence prevails? It is not for lack of effort, for there are a dozen stories half finished discarded and abandon, unkempt thoughts that failed to capture sufficient interest to merit completion. To the contrary my summer has unfettered exploration and discovery beyond my dreams.

Taking time to embrace the fullness of life with enthusiasm and abandon has freed me from the need or the time to reflect on its meaning. In the short time since capturing my last thoughts I have wandered the great wildness and stood at the top of the world only to capture a rainbow in the broken sleet, kneeling before the beauty with lungs and muscles burning from the lack of air. I have sat on the shore watching the surf pound alone for hours as dolphins passed before me in the hundreds only to be obscured by the ebbing sunset. I have spent endless days touring the wine country savoring each taste of bottled sunshine. I enjoyed an incredible evening at the finest restaurant in the world and had the chef provide a personal tour of the kitchen. I have witnessed one of the great sporting events of the nation which started 133 years ago. I have traveled to dozens and dozens of locations to be treated as a respected celebrity of sorts. I have met fascinating people and renewed friendships. I have spent quiet and meaningful time with family. I have been honored to speak at the birthday of a centenarian that I can not recall a time in my life when I did not know her. I have loved without fear and been deeply rewarded.

I find myself humbled to a degree that silence seems to be the appropriate response. I harbor no illusion that my musings finds an audience beyond which can be counted on a single hand. Therefore I see little obligation to be prescriptive in my thoughts for they can be as irregular, incoherent and unkempt as I like. It is a rare moment in life where bliss flows over me like a wave. Content in holding my breath for as long as possible, I am certain I shall surface for air, but until then I shall listen to the silence of my unkempt thoughts.

“Happiness comes of the capacity to feel deeply, to enjoy simply, to think freely, to risk life, to be needed.”

Storm Jameson

Iron Mountain Deadhead

The saying "Getting there is half the fun" became obsolete with the advent of commercial airlines.

Henry J. Tillman

My arrive was unusual as the old Beechcraft turbo prop banked hard and prepared to land on a small runway craved out of a dark green pine forest. The stark interior of beige had the look of a military cargo plane which rattled and creaked as the landing gear shuttered into place. Years of carrying passengers left a thick patina of scratches and abrasions on everything. The seat is little more than an aluminum lawn chair bolted to the floor covered with a thin fake leather pad. The abraded and worn windows are almost opaque turning the landscape into a smoky imitation of an impressionist painting.

There was no neatly dressed flight attendant. The copilot assumed the duties of the flight attendant issuing mandatory instructions with a mechanical wooden voice, as he carefully removed his hat and placed it in a wire holder attached to side of the cockpit door. The word door is a stretch; it was more of a battered blue cloth shower curtain which hung carelessly from the cabin ceiling. A hard jolt awoke me from my daydream as the turbojet slams on to the tarmac expelling a large puff of blue smoke from the engines. Unlike most other jet I’ve become accustom, there was no abrupt engine reversal in order to prevent the jet from coasting off the engine of the runway, instead the whirl and wine of the props slowed as the plane seemed to roll to a stop. For only the third time in my flying career, the plane makes a u-turn in the middle of the active runway and taxis back up the flight line to a small nondescript building with a rusty sign waving in the wind which said “Welcome to Iron Mountain”. As we pull up next to a maintenance truck parked next to the terminal a wiry thin young man in a worn flannel shirt opens the door and darts past the whirling props in an attempt to stop the plane from rolling past.

Emerging from the plane, I maneuver down the steep steps and cross a short fifteen feet to enter the terminal. The terminal is a dated 1950’s structure which would be comfortable in a foreign third world country airport. The dark brick floor echoed in distress against the natural knotty pine laminated beams as my bag rolled across it. The worn beleagued appearance of the terminal matched the patina of the turbojet interior. Winding my way past the watchful eyes of the locals waiting to take the flight out, I head toward the only car rental company on the property which was set up like a child’s lemonade stand hastily constructed of whatever plywood was available, haphazardly squeezed into a corner near the main entrance.

After waiting at the desk for a few minutes I notice the stained beige 1960 southwestern bell push button phone, a relic of the period when ma bell still had a monopoly on phone service and you had to buy one of their phones. Above the phone was a hand written tattered sign taped to the wall which read “For Service Dial 411”. As instructed I pick up the phone and call, only to be routed to a residence. A man answers with the drone of dogs, kids and a blaring television in the background as he states in a casual voice “Yeah I’m only a short distance away, I’ll be right over.” I smile at the novelty of the concept, working from home and all that.

A few minutes later a rough hewn middle aged blond man in unbuckled floppy black rubber boots and a red flannel shirt with a couple of torn holes in the elbow come striding in and step behind the counter. With an unassuming smile wrapped across a leathery tanned face he says “How can I help you?” Looking out at the rental car lot through the terminal windows it is evident that there is only one car available as I reply “I’ve come for that little gem right there.” As he is completing the paper work with is head bowed down, I notice the callused hard hands of a laborer. Looking up his blue eyes are piecing and focused as he hands me the keys he says “Its all yours, be sure to fill it up before you return it cause there aren’t many stations nearby.”

The car is an older mint green Ford Taurus which has seems better days. As I sit down, I arrange my array of electronic equipment on the soiled seats preparing for a three hour drive. I look around at the piles of snow from the wet spring snow storm the night before. The morning air is already warm and the snow is retreating quickly into small puddles of grey liquid. Turning the ignition, the odometer reveals the true age of my rental car as the number 51,475 partially glow green through the burned out pixels on the electronic dash. As the car begins to warm the distinct smell of burning oil envelops the front of the car. Having spent many years less affluent than I am today, I immediately flashback to those many years of driving my old wrecks surrounded by a blue gas. This history allows me to discern the severity of the oil leak by the aroma of the acrid smoke. I determine that the mechanical seepage is not sufficient to alarm me. I think to myself “So this is the place where rental cars go to die.”

I decide to start my long drive to geography unknown by backing out of the parking space. As I turn the wheel hard to the left there is a terrible loud scrapping sound in the wheel well like the frontend of the vehicle has been damaged and the radial is rubbing on the inner wheel well. I decide that sound is ominous enough to warrant an inspection. I bend over and insert my head into the driver’s side wheel well to find the cause of the obnoxious grinding noise. Unable to see anything particularly offensive I crawl back into the troubled green Taurus and drive into the pine forest wilderness with the Australian accent of my GPS unit telling to turn in 300 feet.

After a determined day of research and a subsequent interview for a small environmental liberal arts college my mission to Siberia is complete as I prepare to return to the little forlorn airport in the great north woods. Nothing I received when leaving the airport contained the street address of the airport, not the car rental agreement, not the airline schedule, not the hand drawn local road map, so entering the return location in my GPS unit was a little creative. I typed in the state and the city, and then took a guess by typing in 1 Airport Drive. To my surprise the address appeared on the screen so I pressed okay assuming I would arrive at the same location from which I departed. My heart rate continued to climb for hours the closer I got to the airport because nothing appeared to be familiar. Was my Australian girlfriend taking my to a subdivision named after Arthur Airport miles away from my desired location, or was it a park named after the historic location where the first biplane landed? Oh ye of little faith my panic subsides as the always calm soothing female voice tells me my final destination is coming up on the right and a retire 50’s military jet on a stick frozen in an imaginary dogfight twelve feet off the ground reminds me I have traveled this way before.

I find the parking lot unusually empty as the entire TSA security crew sits at the terminal entrance smoking in small cliques. I’m a little more than 90 minutes early since I was unsure if my faithful electronic companion would know the exact way back to such a remote location. I walk past the TSA crew and head over to the car rental counter which has a slot in the top of it. I drop my rental agreement and the car keys in the opening then decide out of a curtsey to call my buddy on the ancient southwestern bell telephone. As he picks up with the same background noise of dogs, kids and television I inform him “Hey I wanted you to know I dropped the keys and the agreement in the slot.” Before I was able to recite another word he responds “Great, I’ll be down there in a couple of minutes to write you out a receipt.” Hanging up the phone I think, now that’s pretty accommodating, he must be going nuts in the house with all the commotion and needs an excuse to get out of the house for a few minutes.

I turn to walk to the ticket counter stuck by the fact that I’m the only person in the entire terminal. There is a pilot talking shop with the gate agent about jumping this flight. During the conversation the gate agent mentions that the flight is delayed about 40 minutes. Concluding the discussion the gate agent turns to me and asks “Mr. Blue do you want your boarding pass?”

Stunned that he would know my name, I respond with the only explanation I could think of “So am I the only person taking this flight today?”

In a congenial tone he says “Yeah you’re it Mr. Blue. Since the news hit everyone else baled and was rebooked on other airlines.”

Surprise sweeps over my face as I mutter “What news?”

“Oh it was announced last week that this Midwest Connect Airlines was terminating service and tomorrow is our last day. It’s a real shame that all these people will be unemployed after today.”

I try to find a positive thing to say attempting to gain my footing. “Well there is always another regional carrier coming into this airport that everyone could apply with?”

With a look of distain and surrender he replies “No than won’t happen for three months, when Northwest will pick up the route. Until then the entire airport will remain closed.”

Slowly I walk past the rows of empty seats with the sound of my rolling bag echoing in the vacant terminal. The gate agent words begin to echo in my mind “the entire airport will close.” Finding a seat in front of a large television spewing sound to nobody I sit facing the closed security checkpoint. I find the sensation of being the only passenger a little disturbing. Before long a group of TSA agents begins milling toward the locked gate. Their movement is lethargic appearing almost in slow motion as they fumble for the key to open the lock, when the crackle of the public announcement speakers begins. “Mr. Blue the TSA security agents are ready for you.” Smiling I turn around to see the gate agents giggling. I have to admit this was my first personal airport announcement.

The security agents conduct their inspections on my luggage without comment as I thank them for doing all this just for me. Waiting for the flight to arrive I strike up a conversation with a female TSA agent in charge of the crew. “So are you getting laid off also with the airport closing?” I ask assuming that it being a governmental position a layoff was improbable.

“No all of us a being relocated to an airport which is a three hour drive away, until this airport reopens in three months.” She responds.

“That’s going to be tough.” I sympathize, “Does the government pay for mileage making you drive six hours a day?”

“No, they are providing us a governmental car to travel back and forth each day. We will need to dress in our uniforms in order to use the car. We’ll find a location to car pool from and all four of us will travel together.” She explains. “It’s probably good we are traveling together since most of the drive is though a national forest wilderness.”

As we continue to talk about the airline employee she turns her head in sadness says “Most of these people have families with small children. It’s a crime what they are doing to these employees. They have been great over the years”

Leaning over in a whisper she reveals “Did you hear ATA Airline also closed their door today?” I must have been stuck in this American Siberia longer than I thought. What is happening to our economy I wonder, recalling the announcement on my drive in that unemployment claims increased 80,000 last month to a five year high?

“No I didn’t hear that. I know Aloha Airlines ceased operations on Monday after 65 years of operation.” I reply. I’m stunned to realize that three airlines have ceased operation in four days.

“The real shame is that quite a few of the pilots left and was hired by ATA when they heard Midwest Connect was closing. It’s the double whammy, fired twice in less than week.” She says with a tear in her eye.

Everyone’s attention turns to the runway as a plane begins to circle for landing. The dozen people left in the terminal are perceivably excited as I hear one of them announce “Wow, look they sent a jet, it’s a real jet!! It will even have a flight attendant” One of the gate agents runs out on the tarmac with a camera to take a photo of this apparently rare occurrence of a jet landing at this airport.

The security agent places her hand on my shoulder and says “You should feel honored. They sent a jet up here just for you. Notice that no passengers will get off the flight.”

As the plane rolls up to the door a small group of employees walk out to greet the plane. The door opens and the pilots emerge, there is a round of hugs and handshakes reminding me of a family reunion. The group pose in front of the plane as a gate agent holds a small camera. My new found friend explains the scene unfolding before us. “This is the last time most of these pilots will see each other. You see that group of three pilots, they are deadheads.” She explains.

A deadhead is an airline employee which is commuting to work in another airport. It is sort of airline equivalent grabbing a bus ride in to the office. I realize another first in a day of many; this will be the first time that pilots out number passengers five to one on my flight. I guess you could also call me a deadhead, the last passenger leaving for the last time.

I hear the security agent tell me “I think they are ready for you.” I turn and shake the hand of the agent saying “I wish you the best of luck.” She smiles and opens the door to the tarmac as I am greeted by the entire grounds crew which was also the gate agents that checked me in.

“Mr. Blue your plane waits.” as he bows and extents his arm as if I was royalty. The young flight attendant greets me with a smile as she says “Any seat you like Mr. Blue.” As soon as I’m settled the flight attendant begins her standard preflight announcement, smiling at me knowing that the three pilots have heard it many times before. As she concludes she begins packing her instruction manual and other equipment carefully placing it into a blue zipper bag. Its obvious that this is also her last flight.

About fifteen minutes into the flight she offers me some refreshment “I’ve got a couple types of beverages left if you want one, but we don’t have any ice. “ I take the opportunity to ask a question, “So what are you going to do? You have job lined up with another airline?”

“Not me I’m done with the airline industry. I’m going back to school next semester.” She admits with a touch of frustration.

The deadhead pilot in front of me spends the entire flight in silence reviewing flash cards with alpha numeric codes on the front and a scribbled answer on the back. He must be preparing for a job interview with another airline attempting to memorize some arcane aviation language.

I look down at the flight emergency instructions in the seat back pocket. It’s the last time anyone will see “Midwest Connect Airlines” on any printed literature. The thought of taking the instructions as a memento of the last flight of a dying airlines, a relic of a past era, but I dismiss it. “What the hell will I do with another piece of junk like this?”

Beginning to descend the flight gets choppy as snowy flakes scream by the window. I wonder if the pilots are fed up with the entire situation and have decided to just to cut through the weather instead of taking additional time to fly around the weather. The flight attendant begins her final landing instructions once again smiling at me as she proceeds. Near the end of her announcement she injects an editorial comment, her only departure from the standard spiel as she concludes “We at Skyline Airlines hope you return to fly us for the next six hours.”

The plane lands and taxis to the gate in Milwaukee about 200 feet from the terminal door. As I depart the plane I wish the flight attendant the best of luck and walk out into a driving cold rain. Standing on the tarmac I adjust my coat and roller bag the rain pours down wetting my clothes. For some reason I am not compelled to hurry as the gate agent stands at the door waving at me to hurry. How appropriate that the sky would be crying as this flight concludes. Halfway across the tarmac I glance back at the last time this particular plane will fly with Midwest Connect on its tail. I reach for my camera and snap off a few photos.

In the terminal I check my next flight on another carrier on the large screen hanging from the wall. I begin to count the Midwest Connect flights still on the board noting 32 flights flashing boarding or listed as on time. With a touch of sadness I watch one of the flights push off the gate and disappear from the board. In less than six hours each of those 32 flights will push off the gate forever disappearing from the board. How strange day it has been on this end of an era. What started out as another typical travel day ended on a rather somber note on a cold rainy day in Milwaukee. I brush some raindrops still clinging to my coat, turning away from the screen and mutter under my breathe “Just another Iron Mountain Deadhead.”

“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.”

Isaac Asimov (1920-1992)

Dirty Secrets

"The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart."

Saint Jerome (374 AD-419 AD)

Each of us is hiding behind a stoic façade a dirty little secret that we pray each day will disappear but never does. It seems to start so innocently with such modesty. It was a part of what was so endearing about the person, a reckless nature of indulgence, the life of the party, the clown whose antics and yarns are the envy of the group. The infallible personality that everyone loves and wants to be in the presence of is what we remember the most. Those distant memories are only fragments of a time of naivety we hold on to like chards of broken glass from a past existence. Gripping the past so tenaciously that the chards we hold cut deep into our flesh. Somewhere along the way the evil took hold, a point time you cannot recall.

Then slowly you realize that the actions have become predictable, a pattern emerges that is only discernable to you by careful scrutiny. A small defect emerges in a once pristine personality. It starts with a familiar story that you have heard more times than you can recall, it’s a trigger, a warning sign of what’s to come. It’s the storm that gathers on the horizon building strength in the hot summer sky threatening the calm still air, threatening the perfect silence of the moment. No one else surrounding you knows the story as well as you, no one can see the shift in posture, the eyes that lose a ever so slight glint of passion, a word falls from the lips haphazardly as it shatters on the floor like a glass alerting you to increase your attentiveness, which only hastens the unavoidable car wreck. A gentle suggestion is ignored, simple prompt is deflected, a not so subtle look is repulsed, while oblivious to your concerns there is an increasing amount of push back, exerting a stubbornness blinded by the desire to continue into the ugly crevasse for reasons unknown. A small turn down a dark path foretells the danger.

The crowd swept up by the spectacle drives the exhibition on to a frenzied pitch, like a mob at the carnival they stare at the freak show empowered by the fact that they aren’t the biggest baboon on display. Individuals that were strangers only hours ago are now life long buddies as you hope for the best. A mob mentality surfaces as the signs of a riot echo against the walls of poor judgment. All you can do is watch disgusted, hurt, embarrassed, sympathetic and angry that it is your responsibility to clear the wreckage, to explain the lack of judgment, to reconcile the image of self abuse. The well worn excuses roll of your tongue as if memorized childhood rhymes as you attempt to recall how many times you have used this exact excuse with the same crowd. After a while you just stop offering excuses because everyone has heard it, everyone knows the pattern and no thin veneer of makeup can disguise the sad reality. You have become the caretaker, the arbitrator, the enabler, the warden; you have become the adult to a child.

Afterwards you sit solemn in the darkness with your head bowed in your hands, wondering why the self destruction is of so little concern, of no importance at all. Why it is such a proudly protected right to abuse themselves without compromise to which they will defend to their death. How can they view your compassion and concern with only the contempt of denying a condemned man the entitlement of his last meal? It’s my life, it’s my body and I can do with it as I please, you have no ownership, no say in this relationship we have create together. My poor decisions only impact me; my unilateral actions are mine to wallow in like a vane teenager peering into a mirror. How dare you ask me to think beyond the moment and remove this cancerous growth that is now so much of who I am?

As the destructive play is repeated over and over throughout the years, the script increases in intensity, the play becomes more violent, the actors know their roles so well that there is no enjoyment like a drone of flies against a screen door. The frequency becomes more prevalent, what was exclusively a weekend premier, is now more often a weekday matinee. Then before you notice it’s not about the audiences any more, there is no need for anyone to watch for the play to continue in the void of emptiness. It becomes a ritual of destruction, an obsessive masturbation which is just as easily preformed solo. In the end we turn a blind eye to the damage being done. It is much easier to clean up the broken glass than it is to stand in front of the bullet. Resentment slowly gnaws at your conscience, poisoning ever simple discussions as you keep the boil buried deep beneath the skin. Like a contagious disease the cancer is passed to you, only your symptoms are anger, pain, isolation, depression which robs you of self respect and compassion. Every so often the sickness of your soul erupts with unbridled violence and venom. You strike out attempting to exorcise the disabling disease which has taken root for years with a single swift and brutal assault of verbal dismembering. The violent eruption of those isolated moments are met which equal fierceness which only alienates and divides. Why do you impose limits to my self destruction? I see no harm in the mutilation, there is little justification to question my motives.

Little by little like the snow pack grinds away the stoutest of granite peaks as your will to resist; your desire to set the course right is tried and worn until you lose the motivation to change the gradual descent into hell. Instead you spend your time crafting cleaver disguises for your dirty little secret. In anger and pain you disconnect driving the chasm of isolation wider and wider, until you can no longer see the other side through the foggy pall of depression. Finally you become the victim, the dying heroine of this tragic play when as Grace Slick would say “the little pills that mother gives you don’t do anything at all.” You pass the time in the fantasy of escape, if only I could have the courage to run, to leave this all behind, to be swept from the ground by a tornado like Dorothy and deposited in another world. Bound by some powerful magnetism you are compelled to ride this hell bound train to its conclusion, the final stop knowing all along it guarantees your own destruction.

Why do so many of us deal with addictive behavior in a close relationship such as a partner or a family member. The numbers are staggering when you decide to count the dirty little secrets hidden in plain sight all around us. Compulsive destructive abuse of drugs, alcohol, gambling or tobacco is everywhere close to us, but yet we tolerate it in the people we care the most about. Slaying the demon is no easy task; it requires placing everything we value at risk in order to succeed and just as easier can equally result in failure and irreparable damage. Instead we become paralyzed, unable to act taking the coward’s way out by ignoring the ugliness and deceit. Tomorrow it will be better, tomorrow things will change, but tomorrow is just a faded dream, a tattered illusion we trick ourselves with while we bleed a little more dignity today.

You will have to excuse me, the play is beginning without notice and once again I need to take my place in support of this American travesty, take my place as the dying heroine destine to be a victim of my own neglect. Where is my anger and resentment? Where is my cloak of depression and despair? The curtains are opening and the dirty little secret is once again on public display. I must hurry, where is my basket of excuses? There is no time the car wreck has begun; the hell bound train is departing. The crowd is jeering knowing today’s self destruction is going to be better than ever. Forgive me I am not allowed to talk to you, it is not allowed. I must hurry hell is waiting for me.

"The only alternative to coexistence is codestruction."

Jawaharlal Nehru (1889-1964)

In The Depths of Solitude

i exist in the depths of solitude
pondering my true goal
trying 2 find peace of mind
and still preserve my soul
constantly yearning 2 be accepted
and from all receive respect
never comprising but sometimes risky
and that is my only regret
a young heart with an old soul
how can there be peace
how can i be in the depths of solitude
when there r 2 inside of me
this duo within me causes
the perfect opportunity
2 learn and live twice as fast
as those who accept simplicity

Tupac Shakur

Pathology of Genius

I drank to drown my pain, but the damned pain learned how to swim, and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good behavior.

Frida Kahlo (1907-1954)

Slowly over time a condition of pathology has been developing unknown to me. It may have started as long ago as decades. It was most likely a gift for my father who given the gift from his father. It has been most surely aggravated by my lifestyle. Without warning the condition reached a tipping point and erupted in a matter of hours into the most painful event I could ever imagined to experience. I have always considered myself as having a reasonably high tolerance to pain, but this eclipsed any previous understanding of chronic pain.

Acute pain of the type I experienced for nine days can only be described as the most extreme physical suffering and distress, coupled with severe emotional torment. The word pain does not even adequately describe the feeling, a combination of torture, misery, torment; agony and anguish are more accurate definitions of the intensity of the feeling. Consider the moment when you slam, with excessive force, a hammer on your unprotected thumb. Consider that moment of searing, burning, throbbing pain that explodes into white light in your eyes while your nervous system is so overwhelmed by an electrical shockwave that your body can no longer command your legs to stand and you drop to your knees. Consider the feeling of accidentally sticking your thumb into a caldron of white hot molten lead then holding it high above your head to amplify the throbbing drum beat of your heart.

The severe pain I have described is somewhat temporal because your body immediately prepares a survival defense against pain. As the pain reaches your brain, neuropeptides and other peptides, such as the endorphins and enkephalins are poured into your system providing profound analgesic (pain-relieving) effects similar to morphine. Now consider what it feels like if your body has no defense and the pain is unmitigated and chronic, without anyway to lessen the severity of the agony and suffering. Here’s another way of describing the unrelenting torture of the past nine days. Due to my wife’s recent surgeries I have access to fairly powerful pain killers while waiting for a doctor’s to treat me. Consider stacking both Vicodin and Oxycontin on top of one another and eating them like Chiclets with absolutely no reduction in the severity of the agony. Welcome to the “Disease of Kings” or more commonly known as “gout”

In the medical references, attacks of gout are so painful that they are described as being comparable only to the agony of childbirth. Fortunately modern medicine has virtually eliminated severe child birth pain with 90% of women having epidurals. In my defense I’m not sure that those that decide to forego pain medication are in labor for nine days. My doctor indicated that there is only one condition that is more painful than gout which is passing kidney stones and by the way if you don’t treat the gout aggressively it can result in the formation of kidney stones. Oh great!

The word "gout" is derived from the Latin gutta, meaning "a drop," and reflects the ancient belief that the disease was caused by a malevolent fluid dropping into the weakened joints. The problem was that no one really knew what caused gout. For years people attributed it to all sorts of things; Saint Gregory the Great viewed his own gout as a form of mortification visited upon him by the Lord. Less lofty souls simply used their eyes and saw that most gout sufferers tended to be heavy eaters and drinkers who, as was often the case, happened to be either priests or members of the aristocracy.

Gout implies a grand life spent drinking the finest wines or that the road to hell is paved with good vintages. Kings and saints alike have suffered from it. So have great artists. Some sociologists have linked gout with the pathology of genius. Of course, this is all coincidence. Gout may not be a measure of your breeding or status, but in my case it could have been aggravated by many years of fine dining and entertaining of clients.

According to an article in Forbes magazine, “In the old days, treatment of gout was no less primitive than most other forms of medicine. After all, remember that for centuries doctors firmly believed in the healthful benefits of leeching and trepanning (a particularly painful operation, usually used in connection with bad headaches that involved boring a hole in the patient's skull). Not surprisingly, the survival rate was depressingly low and even though gout was rarely a fatal disease, because there was nothing doctors could do to treat it, many of their patients may have wished they were dead.

The closest thing to a remedy was "flannel and patience." The affected joint, most often the big toe, would be propped on a stool and swathed in flannel and the sufferer would simply have to wait in pain until the attack subsided--which could often be up to two weeks. The pain could be so great and the skin so sensitive that even the weight of a bedsheet could send the sufferer into agonies. It was believed that only port and other fortified wines were to blame for the gout but small beer, punch and whiskey were considered therapeutic. Doctors prescribed these in liberal doses although it never seemed to strike them as odd that their patients only got worse.


In the early part of this century a fashionable treatment was to encase the sufferer's foot in a glass boot and use vibration-generated heat to reduce the pain. Unfortunately, more often than not it had the opposite effect: The vibrations would dislodge the uric acid, which immediately went to the kidneys and frequently resulted in kidney failure and sometimes death.”

One false belief was that only port and other fortified wines caused gout. England saw a dramatic rise in gout after 1703 when Pedro II, king of Portugal, decided to ally himself with the British in the War of the Spanish Succession. This resulted in a treaty that allowed Portugal, in exchange for buying British wool, to export its wines to Britain at one-third the tariff imposed on French wines. Everyone, except the French of course, found this an advantageous development and soon Britain was importing Portugal's finest wines in unprecedented volumes. These wines, like many wines at the time, were subject to spoilage and the shippers "fortified" the wines by adding brandy and then stored them in lead casks. Lead, however, is soluble in alcohol and an epidemic of saturnine gout--this is a particular kind of gout that is also found among moonshiners in the U.S. whose stills are also often lead-lined--erupted across the British Isles.”

The cause of gout is the accumulation of urine acid in the blood which begins to crystallize into needle like crystals in the joints. Elevated levels of urine acid in the blood are a result of digesting a type of protein that is high in purines. Treatment of gout requires limiting food high in perines as well as taking a pill everyday for the rest of my life, because the disease is incurable. It sounds simple enough until I looked at the list of food high in purines which includes, red meat, seafood, lamb, organ meats, duck, mushrooms, asparagus, alcohol, poultry and just about everything else I enjoy while fine dining. In simple terms if I like it, I can’t eat it and if I don’t like it, I can eat as much of it as I like. It is a great way to become anorexic. I’m not sure this diet is going to work well with me. Take anything you want but don’t take away my ability to dine well on the road it’s the only thing that makes travel bearable. Like the old NRA advertisements you can have my foie gras when you wrench it out of my cold dead fingers.

Just in case we have the opportunity to meet in a fine restaurant some time in the future, I want to profusely apologize in advance for my behavior. You will know which is me, I’ll be the one in the corner with a plate of seafood with asparagus, a vodka martini and a wonderful mushroom consume screaming “Son of a Bitch that hurts” as I hobble into the night. Just nod your head at another victim of the Pathology of genius.

The more severe the pain or illness, the more severe will be the necessary changes. These may involve breaking bad habits, or acquiring some new and better ones.

Peter McWilliams

Angel Of Healing

Let me take your sorrows
Let me drown your pain
Give me all the troubles
That run through your veins
I can extinguish the hurt
Just let me hold it in my hands
I can squeeze it into nothing
If you just show me where it stands
Hand to me all your problems
Let me cover you in light
I may be your ordinary angel
But let me heal you tonight

Tatianna Rei Moonshadow

The Instinct of Hope

Tomorrow is a day of recompense of which the future is uncertain. Once again a surgeon’s cold steel will exorcise evil in the weakness of flesh. Hopeless to change what is written in blood of the innocent, breathless I shall wait for fate to be revealed. In the darkness of the night the landscape is barren except for the warm glow of the instinct of hope.

Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
'Tis nature's prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E'en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?


John Clare (1793-1864)

Cradle of Inspiration

The finest piece of mechanism in all the universe is the brain of man. The wise person develops his brain, and opens his mind to the genius and spirit of the world's great ideas. He will feel inspired with the purest and noblest thoughts that have ever animated the spirit of humanity.

Alfred A. Montapert

True inspiration has its origins in many aspects of life, some more direct and immediate, others subtle requiring reasoning and discovery. Seeking inspiration is a primary tool for the creative process of an artist. In its purest form inspiration is an energy that stimulates the mind contrary to the established path of thought and consciousness, allowing new paths to be explored in a mind expanding experience. These new pathways stimulate neurons that alter perception and reasoning to the degree that revelations occur. Consistent with any life force, creativity is energy that ebbs and flows in intensity and magnitude providing periods of abandonment and periods of abundance. The challenge of the artist is to continuously mine copious amounts of inspiration to fuel and sustain the creative process over extended periods of time.

Understanding the need to accumulate creative inspiration is the easy part, while capturing the source of inspiration in sufficient quality to sustain innovation is a much more elusive endeavor. Each individual establishes a personal methodology for acquiring inspiration. For some inspiration is gained while exceeding personal limits of endurance while hiking mountain peaks, while other look inward to in contemplation and meditation, but everyone one is unique in the method of seeking and quality of inspiration required to function in the world. Admittedly some in society are devoid of creative pursuit never finding the need to challenge their perception of life, comfortable to reside in a familiar environment, always resistant to change.

One of my fundamental sources of creative inspiration is devouring an exceptionally wide universe to subjects and topics. Board exposure to the arts, literature, science, philosophy, engineering, design, geography, culture and history dumps an enormous amount of information into the crucible to be dissected and broken down to its fundamental elements. These rendered pieces of reasoning and thought bump into each other forming new combinations of connections and postulations needing exploration. Each discovery of a new source of information is savored as it adds new favors and insights to the crucible

The recent board meeting conducted in Montreal provided me a rare opportunity to find a wealth of creative energy which has fueled me for the last month and conceivably for many months into the future. The source of the inspiration is the other members of this nation board from which I participate with. Individually each one is what I would consider brilliant and driven toward pioneering leadership in new and emerging areas of practice and theory. They are all within their intellectual prime and are recognized internationally as the steward of a movement. This particular board has a focus on environmental infrastructure, so each of these diverse thinkers is committed to environmental change on a global scale. The most rewarding of all is than these individuals are not just committed to change they are actively redefining the world as we know, which adds to the inspiration for me. Observing and discussing how one takes creativity energy and effectively applies it with success to real world problems places creativity in a powerful context.

Our Meeting Place, Old Town, Montreal. Phot by Mr. Blue

Arriving to the hotel early I run into Scott in the lobby and decide to grab a late lunch around the corner at a small French bistro. As I order a glass of wine, we catch up on the intervening months since our last board meeting. Scott is one of the world’s leading authorities in industry ecology, a new science which has emerged as the focus of considerable interest in urban planning circles. Industrial ecology is an interdisciplinary study of technology, society and ecology that sees industrial systems (for example a factory, an eco-region, or national or global economy) as being part of the biosphere. Industrial ecology is the shifting of industrial process from linear (open loop) systems, in which resource and capital investments move through the system to become waste, to a closed loop system where wastes become inputs for new processes.

Unfamiliar with the concept Scott explains, the industrial metabolism, that is, the flows of energy and materials through socio-economic structures, is seen as the major driver of environmental burdens and threats to sustainability. Technology in its function of transforming energy and materials into goods and services, and inevitably also into wastes and emissions, is seen as a key to more sustainable solutions. As we eat lunch Scott receives a call about an industry swap meeting he organized before coming to Montreal. He is excited to know that the event was a huge success requiring the participants to be run out of the meeting room after running over by three hours. The focus of the meeting was to allow industrial manufacturers in the area to swap and trade post manufacturing waste and excess materials. With a sense of glee while concluding his call, Scott informs me the swap meet resulted in thirty five trade agreements which represents waste diversion of millions of pounds of materials now to be looped back into the manufacturing process of products and services.

As we finish lunch another board member, Steven is strolling past the restaurant on the cobblestone street. We tap on the window to get his attention and wave at him encouraging him to come in and join us. Smiling Steven nods while heading toward the door. Warmly we greet our old friend as he sits at the table. The small talk covers the usual topics as we catch up until we begin to discuss professional activities. Steven indicates that he is in the process of collecting photos for a new textbook on Biophilia. I ask Steven to define Biophilia and he begins with Harvard biologist Edward O. Wilson, PhD, who coined the term biophilia in his book by the same name in 1984. Dr. Wilson argued that human beings have an innate and evolutionarily based affinity for nature. He defined the term as “the connections that human beings subconsciously seek with the rest of life.”

Excited to share a conversation about his passion, Steven continued with Kellert, who co-edited The Biophilia Hypothesis with Wilson in 1993 and more recently wrote Building for Life in 2005. In which defining the concept of biophilia as “a complex of weak genetic tendencies to value nature that are instrumental in human physical, material, emotional, intellectual, and moral well-being. Because biophilia is rooted in human biology and evolution, it represents an argument for conserving nature based on long-term self-interest.”

As his hands begin to moves with greater exaggeration Steven moves on to Judith Heerwagen, PhD, a psychologist whose research has focused on the relationship between buildings and psychological well-being and who has written widely on the subject, suggests Biophilia, has evolved as an adaptive mechanism to protect people from hazards and to help them access such resources as food, water, and shelter. In a friendly challenge knowing that Steven will take the bait, I ask him why Biophilia matters.

Animated he begins pounding the table, stating we should care about biophilia in building design for two primary reasons. First, it is becoming increasingly well demonstrated that biophilic elements have real, measurable benefits relative to such human performance metrics as productivity, emotional well-being, stress reduction, learning, and healing. And second, from an environmental standpoint, biophilic features foster an appreciation of nature, which, in turn, should lead to greater protection of natural areas, eliminate pollution, and maintain a clean environment. The discussion culminates is a jovial round of laughter as we chide Steven that he needs to seek professional help to deal with his obsession.

Looking at his watch, Scott says that Michael and Rick two other board members were going to grab a taxi together and should be in route from the airport. He flips open his cell phone calling Michael to get an idea of how long it would be before they arrived at the hotel and suggests that they drop off the luggage and head to our restaurant to have a cocktail with the crowd. About twenty minutes later they stroll in the restaurant bundled in thick coats to protect them from the cold. As the handshakes and smiles continue, I suggest we move to a larger table in front of a large rustic stone fireplace with an inviting roaring fire. As we settle in and order a round of cocktails, Michael declines and asks for some hot tea.

Looking much thinner than the last board meeting, Michael indicates that stomach still has not recovered having just returned from Lomé the capitol of Togo a country in West Africa bordering Ghana. Since the last board meeting, Michael resigned his position at one of the greenest development companies in the nation and started his own green venture capital company. After discussing the reason for his transition, the conversation turns to why he was in Africa. In an absolutely fascinating story, Michael explained how his new company is developing a distributed green power infrastructure for the country using biomass energy generators.

To many people, the most familiar forms of renewable energy are the wind and the sun. But biomass (plant material and animal waste) supplies almost 15 times as much energy in the United States as wind and solar power combined—and has the potential to supply much more. There are a wide variety of biomass energy resources, including tree and grass crops and forestry, agricultural, and urban wastes. It is the oldest source of renewable energy known Biomass is a renewable energy source because the energy it contains comes from the sun. Through the process of photosynthesis, chlorophyll in plants captures the sun's energy by converting carbon dioxide from the air and water from the ground into carbohydrates, complex compounds composed of carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. When these carbohydrates are burned, they turn back into carbon dioxide and water and release the sun's energy they contain. In this way, biomass functions as a sort of natural battery for storing solar energy. As long as biomass is produced sustainably—with only as much used as is grown—the battery will last indefinitely.

From the time of Prometheus to the present, the most common way to capture the energy from biomass was to burn it, to make heat, steam, and electricity. But advances in recent years have shown that there are more efficient and cleaner ways to use biomass. It can be converted into liquid fuels, for example, or cooked in a process called "gasification" to produce combustible gases. Current agricultural practices in Togo is to burn the fields after harvest to remove the stubble, which is a major contributor to the poor air quality of the county while releasing huge amounts of carbon dioxide. Michael’s plan was to collect and use this agricultural biomass to fuel the power generators.

After discussing the culture, economy, geopolitical influences, government and obstacles in Togo the conversation turns to the financial model Michael was proposing to fund the five hundred million dollar investment. In a brilliant plan, Michael using a World Bank loan will sell on the international market the carbon credits generated by the biomass energy recover to pay the investors since biomass energy is carbon neutral. After five years of operation the biomass energy will generate sufficient carbon credits to pay off the investors, allowing Michael’s to turn over the entire national power infrastructure to the Togo government. I sat there in total amazement thinking about how Michael was poised to take a country of over eleven million residents making them independent of oil using sustainable power in a matter of five years. I always talk about changing the world, but here is someone that is doing it. What an inspiring discussion that was for me.

The group turns to Rick to ask how his architectural practice is was proceeding. Rick is a principal in a firm that specializes in Biomimicry which is a relatively new science that studies nature, its models, systems, processes and elements and then imitates or takes creative inspiration from them to solve human problems sustainably.

In the 1997 book, "Biomimicry: Innovation Inspired by Nature", Janine M. Benyus introduced the concept. We spend some time discussing the numerous examples of men and women who are studying some of nature's most wondrous achievements including photosynthesis, natural selection, self-sustaining ecosystems, etc., and then, "... consciously emulating life's genius," to improve manufacturing processes, create new medicines, change the way we grow food or even harness energy. Rick explains that Biomimicry principles instruct us to: build from the bottom up, self-assemble, optimize rather than maximize, use free energy, cross-pollinate, embrace diversity, adapt and evolve, use life-friendly materials and processes, engage in symbiotic relationships, and enhance the bio-sphere. By following these principles, you can create products and processes that are well adapted to life on earth.

I look around the table and realize that the entire board is present with the exception of Dan. We decide to call Dan see if he wants to join us in front of fireplace. Ten minutes later the board of directors is complete as Dan opens the door and heads toward the table. With a close clipped beard of salt and pepper, Dan is the original hippy who decided to join the establishment in order to make a difference. Dan’s area of expertise is environmental law and his firm represents a dozen of the most recognizable environmental nonprofits in the nation. This board is just one of more than ten boards he is a member of. Recognized as a brilliant thinker, Dan is a voracious reader of science and technology journals providing him an informed opinion in a vast array of technical subjects.

As a lawyer Dan always has the final say on official opinion and enjoys the mantel of devil’s advocate. He has become the ring leader of the board. Many times during past board meetings he has spoken about his crazy Uzbekistan clients that he had to entertain. While ordering a glass of vodka, Dan makes another reference to drinking vodka with a couple of friends in Moscow. I finally decide to ask Dan what the hell he was doing in Russia and with that Dan revealed his early work in the law firm before he was partner.

Apparently his law firm was hired by the newly formed Uzbekistan government after the fall of Russia to negotiate leasing of the oil and mineral resources of the county to western investors. The firm’s senior partners were experienced in the land title issues but needed someone with an environmental background to work through the regulatory requirements. So as a budding attorney, Dan volunteered to head to Russia and learn international environmental law. As Dan is explaining the complicated process of working during the formation of the new government, I suggest that the environmental regulations were probably lax during those early days. To my surprise Dan says that since the government was being formed they allowed the first environmental laws to be write by University professors and as a result the newly written laws were so of the most restrictive and complicated in the world. Under Uzbekistan law any lease holders were liable for all past environmental sins and were required to correct them. Since the overriding environmental mitigation was so costly that no one would be able to sign the lease agreements. Dan would work with the government to structure very complicated leases which would manage some environmental restoration early, but the more onerous restoration would be tied to future lease revenues.

His stories are filled with the colorful wild characters, wide open emergence of organized crime, shady backdoor agreements and a party like Wild West frontier. As the stories flow I take the opportunity to sit back a look at the group around the table, each individual an accomplished passionate professional in the peak of their career. Each one a wealth of knowledge and experience, each one an inspiration. Collectively, they are a group which is capable of changing the course of history. I am privileged and honored, if not a little intimidated to be a part of this group of friends. Knowing that these moments of true inspiration are fleeting, I drink in the joviality and friendship while sitting around a roaring fireplace in a beautiful restaurant while the snow blows past the windows. In a few days we will be once again scattered to the four corners of the world, experiencing new stories to share the next time we meet. Until we meet again I shall reach repeatedly into this cradle of inspiration.

"Leadership can be thought of as a capacity to define oneself to others in a way that clarifies and expands a vision of the future."

Edwin H. Friedman

The Blackness of Gravity

A Perfect Storm of Turbulent Gases in the Omega-Swan Nebula, Photo by NASA

“Gravitation is a natural phenomenon and one of the fundamental forces by which all objects with mass attract each other. In everyday life, gravitation is most commonly thought of as the agency that gives objects weight. It is responsible for keeping the Earth and the other planets in their orbits around the Sun; for keeping the Moon in its orbit around the Earth, for the formation of tides; for convection (by which hot fluids rise); for heating the interiors of forming stars and planets to very high temperatures; and for various other phenomena that we observe. Gravitation is also the reason for the very existence of the Earth, the Sun, and most macroscopic objects in the universe; without it, matter would not have coalesced into these large masses and life, as we know it, would not exist.” (Wikipedia, 2008)

Beyond a critical point within a finite space, freedom diminishes as numbers increase. ...The human question is not how many can possibly survive within the system, but what kind of existence is possible for those who do survive.

Frank Herbert (1920 - 1986), Dune

The kinematical and dynamical equations describing the trajectories of falling bodies are considerably simpler if the gravitational force is assumed constant but bodies never fall in unison. This theory is useful to explain the dilemma we all face in the search for happiness and spiritual balance. Humans by their nature, encoded deep into their being are solitary souls that preserve a secret world of existence that is inaccessible to all. I call this the secret garden where we sequester our hopes, fears, desires, and the inner realm of our dreams. Over the course of a life we allow precious few to glimpse past the door of the garden. All of us float in isolation in space subject to the attractive or repulsive forces of gravity. Our family, friends, relatives, mentors and strangers all exert the force of gravitation on us to varing degree. In thermodynamics the closer two bodies are the greater the gravitational bond, although this might not be the case with spiritual influences.

As the gravitational pull grows within the closest of relationships an elliptical orbit is established which represents a balance of energy for a small moment in time. We find our selves falling into comfortable orbits that may or may not allow the individual to nourish and tend the secret garden. As relationships build and families grow the gravitational forces change and shift, creating new orbits some of which are closer, others than travel further from the nucleus. It’s most important to realize that at any moment in time everything is in constant motion and dynamically changing. Each new experience, each new acquaintance, each new flower in the secret garden changes the balance of gravitational forces in our lives. Relationships in order to survive must allow orbits to change and seek new balances. Excessively close orbits can implode and collapse like a black star, consuming all light and energy, destroying both bodies. These orbits are inherently unstable and destructive, but the pull of gravitational forces appears too great to overcome creating a death spiral in the secret garden as the blackness of gravity blinds us.

The Aristotelian theory of gravity was a theory that stated that all bodies move towards their natural place. For some objects, Aristotle claimed the natural place to be the center of the earth, wherefore they fall towards it. For other objects, the natural place is the heavenly spheres, wherefore gases, steam for example, move away from the centre of the earth and towards heaven and to the moon. I like to think that all bodies move towards their natural place eventually overcoming the influences of gravitational forces that traps us into artificial or obsolete orbits. Therefore is becomes our primary challenge to find our natural place where the secret garden flourishes. We must always be moving toward finding the natural place regardless of the consequences, because denial of this state of balance is spiritual destruction and emotional bankruptcy. In this balance a new series of orbits will be established that foster personal growth and fulfillment.

This explanation oversimplifies the inherent contradictions in life which is the duality of existence. Gravitational forces are just one example of the duality of life, being pulled in two directions by opposing forces. We all seek to balance between opposing forces in seeking happiness. Yet it must be understood that happiness is illusionary always fleeting and can not be guaranteed without constant toil and mental exertion. Each of us must always tend the secret garden, unending in our journey to find those precious few souls which we can allow for a moment in time a glimpse past the door into the garden. Over the years, I have become comfortable with the duality of life, since most of my existence is bifurcated by travel, a constant state of disconnection. Acceptance of the duality of life in seeking our natural place, our balance, while always in motion and changing is the essence of spirituality and emotional bliss.

Many religions embrace the struggle in finding balance in the duality of life. Hinduism seeks enlightenment through the acceptance of Advaita or the concept of oneness with the duality of life. Advaita (a+dvaita = non-duality) simply means that the Source, by whatever name known - Primal Energy, Consciousness, Awareness, Plenitude, God - is Unicity, Oneness, Non-duality. The manifestation that arises or emerges from the Source is based on duality, the inevitable existence of interconnected opposites: male and female, beauty and ugliness, good and evil. At any moment there are bound to be interconnected opposites. The sage accepts the duality that is the basis of life and is anchored in peace and tranquility while facing the pleasures and pains of life exactly like the ordinary person. The ordinary person does not accept the duality, the existence of interconnected opposites at any moment of life, chooses between them and is unhappy.

In the teachings of the Yoga of Devotion Retreats, the sage accepts the 'duality' of life; the ordinary person chooses between the interconnected opposites, and lives in the unhappiness of 'dualism'. The man of understanding certainly sees preferences being made in daily living between the polaric opposites, but is totally aware of the fact that the preferences happen according to the individual programming in each case, and are not made by any individual person doing the preference. The man of understanding is, therefore, always in tune with the Source or in balance with gravitational forces. When the final flash of total understanding happens, it is not at all unlikely for the individual to realize the unbroken wholeness of the universe and to clearly see the whole range of polaric opposites as a great illusion or a play of a feigned quarrel between lovers.

Another source of insight and inspiration on the challenge of duality is from a chapter in the book 'The Tao of Physics'. A basic conjecture in Tao, the Chinese philosophy is that there is an underlying equilibrium of two opposing forces in nature. The Chinese call these the yang and the yin. The yang symbolizes the masculine nature of reality, the rational, calculating, analyzing side; whereas the yin represents the feminine, the more sensitive, delicate, conscious side of things. Chinese believe that all human life is interplay between these two forces, and equilibrium is desired between the two for a smooth functioning of things.

This duality is not only seen in human nature, but also in all things in life. Every aspect of life has this dual nature, or rather everything has these seemingly opposite extremes to itself. Good-evil, success-failure, life-death, expansion-contraction, up-down, positive-negative are all examples of these opposites. The greatness of Tao and Hindu philosophies lies not in the realization of this duality of things, but in overcoming the so-called opposite natures of the duality, and realizing the underlying unity in them. It is the art of seeing good in evil or success in failure and living between the lines in harmony.

The duality of life is most prominently in conflict between our inner secret garden and the world around us which requires allegiance and strict codes of behavior. Whereas our dreams, hopes and desires more often lead us into an orbit which is in conflict with the gravitational forces that are pulling us in another direction. It is the inability to escape artificial or obsolete orbits which fuels conflicted emotions and ultimately creates greater and greater instability as one suppresses the need to seek the natural space of self actualization. Living to sustain another’s orbit is not living at all, its indentured servitude of a life denied.

In the early 20th century, Sigmund Freud attempted to define the duality of the human mind with the psychoanalytic model of the id, ego, and superego. Freud posited a structural model of the mind in which these three parts interacted and wrestled with each other for dominance; the result of this constant struggle is the whole of each human's behavior. The gravitational forces that we place upon ourselves are also in constant motion, ebbing and flowing attempting to seek a natural balance. Any state of emotional equilibrium is fleeting as we grapple with new thoughts and experiences.

The term id is derived from Latin meaning inner desire and is dominated by the pleasure principle standing in direct opposition to the super-ego. “The id is responsible for our basic drives such as food, sex, and aggressive impulses. It is amoral and egocentric, ruled by the pleasure–pain principle; it is without a sense of time, completely illogical, primarily sexual, infantile in its emotional development, and will not take "no" for an answer. It is regarded as the reservoir of the libido or "love energy".”

The super-ego tends to stand in opposition to the desires of the id and acts as the conscience, maintaining our sense of morality and the prohibition of taboos. Freud's theory implies that the super-ego is a symbolic internalization of the father figure and cultural regulations. Fractured relationships with one’s father can manifest itself in an over compensation of the super-ego at the expense of the id or keeper of the secret garden.

“The ego is the mediator between the id and the superego; trying to ensure that the needs of both the id and the superego are met. It is said to operate on a reality principle, meaning it deals with the id and the superego; allowing them to express their desires, drives and morals in realistic and socially appropriate ways. It is said that the ego stands for reason and caution, developing with age.”

“When the ego is personified, it is like a slave to three harsh masters: the id, the super-ego and the external world. It has to do its best to suit all three, thus is constantly feeling hemmed by the danger of causing discontent on two other sides. It is said however, that the ego seems to be more loyal to the id, preferring to gloss over the finer details of reality to minimize conflicts while pretending to have a regard for reality. But the super-ego is constantly watching every one of the ego's moves and punishes it with feelings of guilt, anxiety, and inferiority. To overcome this, this ego employs methods of defense mechanism. Denial, displacement, intellectualization, fantasy, compensation, projection, rationalization, reaction formation, regression, repression and sublimation were the defense mechanisms Freud identified.”

As we struggle to seek a natural state of balance it is easy to see how both internal and external forces can create conflicted emotions which can paralyze an individual, manifesting into feelings of helplessness, confusion and conflict ultimately laying the foundation for depression. All of us must embrace the duality of life recognizing that some actions of self survival may be viewed as instability in the orbits surrounding us. Acceptance of the duality of opposing forces allows us to embrace adjustments in our orbit by the ones that love us the most, for it is a principal of natural law that no orbit can remain static or fixed. As a result no one should expect to keep someone confined to an orbit that is in conflict with the natural place of self balance.

Outlining a framework for happiness is the easy part, actually finding and maintaining that natural state of grace is a life long pursuit, a journey without end that will take us to places unimagined. We should not fear where the attractive forces of nature may take us as long as it toward balance where the secret garden flourishes and dreams are realized. I have found that taking my hands off the wheel, eliminating the desire to steer and manage gravity, is the most empowering feeling of all. Seek out whose individuals who make the garden grow, allow the gravitational forces of attraction to move you to your natural place or otherwise fall into the blackness of gravity.

The great majority of us are required to live a life of constant, systematic duplicity. Your health is bound to be affected if, day after day, you say the opposite of what you feel, if you grovel before what you dislike and rejoice at what bring you nothing but misfortune. Our nervous system isn't just a fiction, it's part of our physical body, and our soul exists in space and is inside us, like teeth in our mouth. It can't be forever violated with impunity.

Boris Pasternak (1890 - 1960), Doctor Zhivago

In the space which thought creates around itself there is no love. This space divides man from man, and in it is all the becoming, the battle of life, the agony and fear. Meditation is the ending of this space, the ending of the me.

Krishnamurti