That Which Remains

“The fragrance always remains in the hand that gives the rose.”

Heda Bejar

The brilliant white light which illuminated everything is gone. Drifting into consciousness my eyes are a fixed on a handful of sparkling specks of brightness in the still night sky. Through the black silhouette of a sheltering oak tree I trace the pattern of dots as the big dipper emerges from my foggy mind like a series of pinholes punched into cool flat gray cardboard. The silence is consuming as there is no breeze to animate this solemn moment of passage. Against the dark tattered foliage is an intermittent yellow beacon of the first firefly of the summer. As it lazily drifts in and out of the arching boughs I slowly follow its assent from tree to tree in search of another firefly to complete the union. Where are the clouds of fireflies of my childhood which filled the meadows in a dancing choreography of abundance? Waves of shimmering sparks lost in the sultry heat of a summer dusk. No longer the ambassadors of nigh center stage beckoning us to take pause in the waning day, but now hiding in the dark shadows to few in number to reveal themselves in the ever expanding recesses.

I slowly realize that the pain is gone leaving a comforting sensation of warmth as I lie in a sanguine puddle of blood which trickles down my chest searching for earth from a small hole in my heart as I lie naked under the stars. The thick salty taste of blood in my mouth is familiar as it congeals on once hopeful lips. The chill of the evening floats over my skin but I do not shutter as numbness rebukes any sensation. For the moment all feelings and desires have been replaced with the ambivalence of simultaneous conflicted feelings toward life. I can not determine if I am grateful of survival or regretful of not perishing in the light. Appreciative the brutalizing chaos of toxic thunderstorms of rogue emotions have abated leaving an exhausted soul without the will to measure gain or loss. Lying motionless with no pain there is no need to discover the extent of disfiguring mental and physical wounds that invariability exist. Future disabilities have no relevance in this restful state of disconnection and isolation; there will be adequate time to hide the scars under a pall of normalcy and blinding routine. In the aftermath there is no one willing to help shoulder the suffering of loss so it will be hidden deep in a black hole where the demons play, where a past world of light and love are trapped by the inescapable gravity of darkness. Naked before the ebony curtain of closure, emotions have nowhere to cling, like a smooth granite surface the seeds of fragrant summer flowers can not germinate falling helpless to the ground. Seeds destine never to germinate in the fertile ground of aspiration. Seeds of dreams that once held the promise of a future of spiritual discovery while quenching flames of self denial, seeds of limitless possibilities will never support life.

Hanging on the pregnant dewy air is the charred scent of Pinyon long after the burning embers have given their warmth to the hungry land leaving only undetectable residual ash from once was a vibrant embodiment of life. Returning to dust its story of existence forgotten, its struggle for life unrewarded, the Pinyon will leave no mark other than meager trace elements it deposits on a cold mantle of soil which has no memory. Like the Pinyon my struggles, triumphs, loves, losses and memories will accompany me to the grave leaving the rest of the world knowing no different. In my foggy ravished mind the clarity of it all is so dreadfully apparent, nature does not care. Nature can not care favoring one action over another; it operates blindly to the equality all and the pretence of none. We all exist as a collection of our experiences, hopes and dreams wishing to find meaning in the random violence of indifference, but in the end even those fragile mental processions will be taken from us as the last struggling breath escapes our cold lips. The lesson we must learn is that tomorrow is not ours and can never be, so we must throw caution to the wind and capture every kiss, every embracing caress, and every opportunity to love regardless of the consequences of unknown probabilities. Endeavor to expose our soul to excesses of bliss and to debilitating suffering of pain, only then will fate assure us that maybe one of those fragile memories will fall to the ground to be cherished up a loved one before death erases them from the chronically apathetic record of existence.

Clutched in a drawn fist is a small charred image of yesterday which I can recognize without looking at. Its edges are worn and familiar where they are not burned. It is the only procession that remains from before the light. My fingers tremble as they caress the smiling figure of beauty incarnate as if the power in my touch could invigorate life into restoring an era of captivation. The wistful face in the photo did not make it to the other side with me, swept away by the storm unable to share in that which remains. An ocean of tears is beginning to ebb as I search my mind for chards of broken memories that I may have overlooked in the conflagration. Like fine sand these visions of the past will slowly seep from between my fingers as the erosion of time washes away what remains until it is uncertain if it ever existed at all. Nothing will prevent the once vibrant colors to fade until the indistinct stains evoke no meaning, seldom visited in the cluttered junkyard of abandon paths. The weight on my chest is heavy but is no longer crushing as I exhale deeply allowing my thoughts to wander aimlessly amidst scrapbook of the all too few fleeting encounters with happiness. Time permits perspective to evolve, but time can not be allowed to distance the feelings. Questions which were so abundant are unimportant as I attempt to heal in confines of desolation.

Fearful to move knowing that pain is still hidden below the placid surface of calm, there is little need to disturb this comforting void of solicitude. At the crossroads what lies before, the path remains highly uncertain as a forceful disregard for tomorrow is omnipresent. This mortal struggle to capture that which is impossible to capture, has exacted a horrific toll on the stamina required to move forward especially when a soft blanket of exhaustion is numbing the pain like a burning spoon of heroin raging through my veins. Lying so still that my own breathing keeps rhythm with a muted fragile heartbeat, I understand will need to stand erect and decide which path to choose. Aware that each new movement may reveal the prospect of searing pain hiding slightly below the façade of normalcy, it will be a long time of repeated motion before the agony will seek a new sanctuary to take root. Physical and emotional trauma can alter the foundation of perspective as new patterns reroute themselves around damaged pathways. Even in this relative state of inertia, the new patterns are emerging, some darkly foreboding while others are filled with possibility of restoration. Unfortunately those pathways continue to remain in the future and the future does not care. The future is as unattainable as the as restoration of the past, so I am investing little energy in the consequences of what is to be and instead be present in the moment with only that which remains.

“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”

Nelson Mandela (1918 - )

Acquisition of Influence

“He who wishes to exert a useful influence must be careful to insult nothing. Let him not be troubled by what seems absurd, but concentrate his energies to the creation of what is good. He must not demolish, but build. He must raise temples where mankind may come and partake of the purest pleasure.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 - 1832)

The stage is arranged as if it was a presidential debate, flowing silk curtains drop from the ceiling in billowy cascades as the green stage lights paint a theatrical illusion to the floating platform. Mounds of green tropical plants decorate the foreground as a single glass lectern rises from the center like alter in an ancient place of worship. Flanking the stage is two drive-in size projections screens which explode the event as if staring into a microscope. Massive association logos glowing on the screens suggest power and influence as the soft light washes over 800 eager spectators arranged neatly at circular linen covered tables festoon with glassware and plates. A din of frivolity echo in the expansive ballroom as the sounds of dinnerware mix with idle conversation, while every table is filling as waiters dressed in black tuxedos scurry about in a silent choreography of restrained movement. Many different languages can be heard in gentle whispers as the spectators have traveled from around the world to partake in this exchange of knowledge and celebration of achievement.

At a slightly larger table with a small reserved sign, I sit silently as individuals drift by smiling and offering kind gratitude of the opulence of the banquet. A black on black pin striped suit I acquired on a trip to Chicago has recently been tailored so that it fits perfectly over a crisp white cotton shirt and a stunning yellow and black patterned tie which adorns my emotionless expression. The executive director next to me leans over and whispers in my ear, “you should try to eat something, it always helps me.” Smiling I push a few chards of romaine lettuce around the plate in a concealed attempt to satisfy his concerns. I have lost an interest in cuisine lately as I nod at the dean of a prestigious Canadian university sitting across from me. Someone taps me on the shoulder and introduces a stunning slender young lady dressed in a simple ebony evening gown with long black glistening hair that gently arcs toward her cleavage as she leans over to explain the basis of her research into the physiological response of humans when viewing natural environments. Her eyes deeply search my face as if holds a secret she is seeking while her voice slightly stammers from nervousness as a river of appreciation flows for the association which has brought her from Chile to accept an award. My mind is wandering as I am distracted by the detachment I feel for the activity swirling around me, unable to focus on what she is saying and I stare into her soft appreciative face which calms my own butterflies. Standing to thank her she cradles my hand with both of her warm hands in a familiar caring touch which lingers longer than I would have expected. With a disarming beautiful smile she turns and disappears into the crowd. I search my mind for her name but have already forgotten it as I realize it is possible I might never meet this person again.

My shallow daydream is interrupted by a slight nervous tremor in my hand as I watch someone glide up the stairs of the podium to address the crowd. I’ve become tolerant of the physical toll this level of travel and stress imposed on the body. The sound of glass twinkling lessens as a spotlight appears over the lectern. A distinguished colleague with a Bostonian accent addresses the crowd with a style that demonstrates a long history of standing before large crowds. My mind wanders not really listening to the speaker as I search the crowd for a face, a particular face which could personally share in the upcoming moment of adulation, but I know I will not find that face staring back at me. My spirits sadden as I ask myself why do I push so hard, what is the personal purpose for spending an entire life on the road at the expense of just about everything. I begin to fall into a hole of despair having spent now 30 years of my life chasing this elusive concept without any feelings of advancement or significant achievement. A few words from the speaker catch my interest because he is now working outside the script, into the realm of improvisation. I am always fascinated with the ability to work on the high wire without a net, the realm of high danger, my realm of speaking off the cuff. “Our master of ceremonies is a five time award winner and has won so many awards at this banquet that we felt we could prevent that occurring again if we made him a judge and kept him onstage…..I think we succeeded.”

A smile breaks my stoic facade as I find the comment quite amusing. A creatively crafted bit of restrained Bostonian humor which fits the moment perfectly. It is a skill acquired over long periods of time to be able to work a large crowd so that they find you both engaging and personable. Before long I once again begin scanning the crowd for a familiar face only to discover the stunning lady with black hair is met a few minutes ago is staring at me from a few tables back. As I attempt to return a smile she disappears in an explosion of white light as a spotlight singles me out from the audience. The words of the speaker climb to a credenda as he concludes with “Please welcome a dear friend, a valued colleague, and our next chairman….Mr. Blue”

As if I was turning on a switch, my mind is swept clear of any thoughts, only feeling I possess is a slight nervousness as I stroll through the tables toward the stage watching myself on the two huge flanking screens. The sight of yourself twenty feet tall in stereo could be intimidating to most, but I am fascinated with the muted color patterns as I approach the stage. Adding a slight bounce of energy in my gait, I jog up the steps to the lectern as the crowd continues its applause. Embarrassed by the reception I hold my hands up to silence the rolling thunder of clapping. All of a sudden there is a silent anticipation of the moment as I wait for what seems like a short eternity allowing it to build. At that precise moment I am completely alone and naked before a crowd of my peers, unable to hide in the shadows, unable to conceal the insecurities and flaws that I am composed of.

The origin of my nervousness is that most all of this ceremony is completely scripted in a binder that sits atop the podium. It contains over 60 pages of descriptions, names, companies, categories and explanations. My entire professional speaking career I have formed a general opinion of how I was going to deliver a speech and just ran with it, allowing a feel of the crowd and my rising emotions steer the content of the dialogue. Today is a steep departure from my typical routine; I will be expected to execute this event with precision, a precision that includes (insert joke here). This is a degree of structure I am unfamiliar with and it serves to destabilize my sense of confidence. After welcoming the crowd I joke “Anyone that knows me understands that I am an outline the lines type of person, and they have me heavily scripted today.” Holding up the binder to show the crowd I conclude with “we’ll just have to see how well this is going to go” as a polite laugh rolls across the hall.

The list of acknowledgements run on for ever as I have each individual stand when their name is called, the organizing committee, the host local committee, the board of trustees, the executive committee, the conference committee, the association staff, distinguished delegates from around the world and finally the awards committee judges. It is common practice in providing a keynote address to open with a joke, especially for a master of ceremony, so I explain the background of how I have been the force in pushing a number of controversial policies and agenda directions in the organization which has resulted in a split in some of the membership. It is my opinion that a professional organization is not breaking new ground if there is not a vigorous debate that brings members for from the sidelines; this is the edge where new ways replace old ways as the paradigm shifts. I continue, “Just for this conference I was informed that I get a special new name tag which indicates my new status in this organization.” Reaching from under the lectern I pull out a hunting target with a lanyard which I slowly place over my head allowing it to hang over my chest. The crowd roars in laughter as I model my new nametag. Squeezing as much out of the prop I continue “and for some unknown reason the staff tells me its works the best if I allow it to hang from my back, something about better visibility.” Turn the hunting target around so that it hangs off my back I turn facing away from the crowd exposing the target to all as cat calls fill the hall. The gag is a complete success as I use a divisive issue to create as sense of community.

As each award recipient steps onto the stage they are a mixed bag of raw emotion, running from fear, to elation, to confusion, to overwhelmed, but they all have a single trait that unifies the experience which an extreme humility that they are on stage with me. You can see the admiration in the eyes and feel it in the handshake. How have I acquired such a degree of influence? Will I fulfill the expectations which clear ride on my leadership? Can I build a legacy of vision that will translate into action and become an agent for change? Have I ascended too far above my rudimentary skills of public persuasion to be effective? I am filled with doubt and insecurity, not out of fear of failure, for I have failed to many times to count, but fearful of letting an entire industry down that has invested their faith in my ability. In order to manage their expectations I again joke with the crowd “I just wanted to thank our past chairman for raising the bar so high in this organization that it is impossible for me to clear it.”

By some odd stoke of fate I will become chairman of two separate North American organizations at the same time one with a two year term and the other a five year term. Two entire industries one under attack and seeking to reinvent themselves in order to evade becoming totally irrelevant and the other that is gaining relevance and credibility while growing 40% in the worst market in 80 years, have staked their future on my leadership. Most disturbing is that it comes at a time when emotionally I have achieved my greatest level of ambiance and distain for the ability of society to correct the damage occurring in the world. Society has reached the tipping point of environmental degradation that I’m not sure we can impact the impending cataclysm. As the Neil Young song goes “And there ain't nothin' like a friend who can tell you you're just pissin' in the wind.” Is it my role to tell the world that they are just pissing in the wind? I struggle deeply with the fact that my inspiration and motivation for continuing to invest in the world has been abruptly eliminated. I have built my world on a foundation of childish dreams and fallacies that could never be achieved and like the sand castle on the beach the rising tide of reality has swept it away leaving only indifference and detachment. The desire to check out of society and spend the remainder of my life in a self absorbed escape to some distant isolated beach where I can indulge in self gratification of contributing nothing but fulfilling a hedonistic exploration of myself, is real. Why not buy a boat and consume as large a carbon footprint as possible, is not this the reward of capitalism, is this not my personal reward in having won the game of financial security. Would anyone really care if I disappeared from their life, or is my value really defined by their continued financial security? I am at a terribly confused crossroad in which deciding on what path to take is quite meaningless.

What an ironic circumstance that at the point where I have finally acquired significant influence to effectuate change that is real, my motivation and will is almost not existent. I am highly disillusioned by the fundamentals of human behavior. Society as a general rule never seeks to achieve what is possible but rather settles for mediocrity and the most convenient solution. This extends to all phase of societal behavior, we settle in our relationships, we settle in working for some else instead of starting our own business, we settle for the soma of network television instead of volunteering for change, we settle for like status friends so we can spend the empty hours discussing other people’s lives. It was said that mediocre minds talk about people, enlightened minds talk about new events, and brilliant minds talk about ideas. What does that tell us about a society which is addicted to reality television and electronic social networking? I am most recently a fatalist that wishes to find comfort my childish dreams, but understands that seeking the possible is doomed for failure when the rest of the equation desires to settle for a false sense of security induced by our own disregard for the future. When individuals realize their mistake, this window of opportunity will have closed leaving us a future which much less fulfilling than we had dreamed. Am I to gain a sense of glee in reciting to everyone, see I told you so, I find that prospect very sad.

I have now been on stage for almost 90 minutes, my mistakes and flubs are probably more apparent in my mind than in the audiences. A couple of mispronunciations, a name or two skipped, a few extended pauses as I try to find my place in the text, a few forgetful moments to wait for the photographer to snap a picture of me with the award winner. Not bad for my first scripted banquet. The past chairman sneaks up to the podium to hand me a glass of water as my voice begin to get raspy. I have become comfortable in the spotlight and the experience has drained me of most of my emotional energy. I conclude with a small joke as the executive director get up to promote the next conference in Canada. In his polished familiar way he pumps the crowd into a second round of applause as I bow and exit the stage. I once again flip the switch in my mind and I turn off the amplified enthusiasm and passion as my minds drifts back to emotionless detachment. Scanning the crowd I again look for a face than will never appear as a touch of emptiness washes over me but the question remains, what will be accomplished with this new acquisition of influence?

“Do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger men. Do not pray for tasks equal to your powers. Pray for powers equal to your tasks. Then the doing of your work shall be no miracle, but you shall be the miracle.”

Phillips Brooks (1835 - 1893)

Where Dreams Go To Die

On loess bluffs high above the plain
towers a statuesque oak with no memory
as wind whispers patterns on placid water
songbirds sing of hope in azure skies

Dreams tethered with love drift on sultry breezes
chasing willowy clouds to summer’s soft shoulder
caressed by sheltering limbs they become prisoners
no longer seeking fulfillment of childish wishes

Desperately seeking inspiration in fleeting daylight
my love’s caring hands grow cold to the touch
as painful eyes betray longing in a broken heart
yet tears fall to be devoured by parched earth

Immersed in endless beauty of nature’s undeterred wealth
with little reason to struggle against destiny’s will
for sadness of loss can never scream loud enough
to free dreams from its solemn resting place

Cruel is unintended consequences of circumstance
where forces of time are blind to unrealized ecstasy
obscuring the grace of endless compassion
with indifference to the promise of tomorrow

Unbounded love shall not secure freedom
for stormy night fade silently from view
as rain kiss crimson lips of passion
knowing dawn will steal heaven’s joy

Beauty abounds for final embrace burns
as dreams dies fearing the approaching sunset
on loess bluffs high above the plain
mourned by a statuesque oak with no memory

Mr. Blue

Cape of Spring

In lavender field of dreams lost
Wild winds beckon my love
Golden mane dances on sunlight
Boundless hunger in radiant eyes

In saffron meadow of time abandon
Silken perfume caresses my love
Oaks bow across newborn green
Tireless joy on silent lips

In burgundy claret of hope revealed
Fragrant bounty nourishes my love
Alluring glances over vanilla linen
Weightless melody of words unspoken

In sanguine velvet of desire found
Creamy skin envelops my love
Opal smile whispers breathless
Ceaseless beauty of supple curves

In ebony darkness of solitude sought
Ardent limbs cradles my love
Trembling hearts find wings
Endless ecstasy in moment shared

Mr. Blue

Black is the Color of the Day

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night."

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950)

Black is the color of objects that do not emit or reflect light in any part of the visible spectrum; they absorb all such frequencies of light. Black means darkness, doubt, ignorance, uncertainty, or the negation of color. Black is a mysterious color associated with power, elegance, formality, death, evil, and mystery. Black is the color of grief.

In Cherokee culture each of the four cardinal directions was associated with a color and inherent meaning. Blue represented north which meant cold, defeat and trouble. White was south representing warmth, peace and happiness. Red was east, the color of the Sacred Fire, blood, and success. West was black the color meaning problems and death. West symbolizes the setting sun, the end of light, the satiation of warmth, the process of dying.

For someone struggling with a deepening spiral of depression which continues to find no bottom, no lessening in intensity, I have found the express elevator to hell. It’s called a solitary three days in a cheap airport hotel room in Minneapolis during an overcast dark rainy cold weekend after a long painful winter. To effectively contrast my misery the hotel is part water park filled with young families of beautiful innocent, curious children and doting pretty mothers with their bubble toes, red painted toenails and partially revealed tattoos adorning alluring glimpses of flesh as they stretch and bend. For them it is all about a world of constant hope and dreams about the future, a connection to tomorrow which I have never experienced. My sole focus on career has left me with no children and what has been growing into a gapping hollow void which can’t be diverted or distracted by the needs of a child. This great contrast of direction and purpose between me and the sea of young families I’m immersed in further accelerates my decent into lifeless chaos. I am invisible, a haunted spirit wandering the corridors unseen, unimportant. Occasionally I will catch the exquisite angelic face of a small child staring at me in the elevator, asking with their soulful eyes why are you sad, as I avert my gaze to prevent a tear from escaping to my cheek.

Until recently I would play a little game each day to discover the color of the day. It was a simple trivial exercise most people would find childish, but which gave me an immense sense of pleasure and connection to the day, a reason to stay fully engaged in the moment, not to drift to yesterday or tomorrow. It was a personal intimacy that had great individual meaning, a little precious secret about the world which no one else was allowed to know. A secret garden tended only for me where I could sit in my mind and feel the sun and smell the perfumed flowers. For what seems like an eternity the only color of the day has been black or the absence of color, just another missing handhold on my decent into hell.

In the sullen blandness of the below standard room I stare out on a brutal indifference to humanity, a sterile concrete parking garage and a scattered collection of dispirited nondescript low utility structures devoid of architectural adornment. Even a grey rain can’t wash the visual violence from the scene as it swirls with a toxic oily film from the hemorrhaged bleeding vehicles that litter my view. Coldness creeps from the window to numb my skin. Time has stopped as red digital clock is frozen. In the deafening silence of the night each small creak and groan of the structure slams my head like a hammer tormenting my attempts to sort through this emotional haze. To unfit to sleep, but yet to lethargic to move, I wait feeling my heartbeat in a listless stupor. The night is caught on a hook not allowing it to move closer to dawn.

Depression is a new experience for me for which its symptoms I find curious. I would have expected the dull confused mental debate and listless apathy, but the overwhelming sense of abandonment and betrayal for no apparent reason is debilitating. My chest feels like it is bound by leather straps so tightly than my breath is shallow, almost suffocating me in a constant reminder of the pressing weight on my soul. Subconsciously I reach to my heart trying to claw away the invisible restraints which confine me. I am surprised by the unbending nature of the torment which barely ceases for brief moments before resuming with increasing intensity. Accompanying the complete loss of appetite is a dramatic shedding of weight. Food has always been an important medicine to cure the ailment of continuous travel and I’m amazed at how complete my repulsion of food is right now, another missing handhold of security.

I have recently developed a slight tremor in my left hand an apparent causality of the degeneration of my nervous system due to the tidal wave of anxiety and stress overwhelming brain function. It is probably a survival response where the extremities are sacrificed to preserve core function, the stockpiling of precious reserves in preparation for a prolonged conflict. After hours of careful observation I have come to the conclusion that there is no collation between the rhythm of the tremor and the pounding of the low grade migraines that are now my constant companion. It is funny how the mind occupies itself during the sleepless hours of the long night.

My mind is trapped in a loop replaying happier times in attempt to discover the path back to that moment in time lost. Images of pain and pleasure flash in my cortex in a surreal mosaic of my life experiences transformed into an evil madness. I’m irritable and quick to anger but cautious to keep mired in despair and sorrow, not allowing anger to gain a foothold. Anger can build into a raging conflagration of resentment and retribution which will burn and consume everything in sight leaving only a bitter residual ash that was once was a beautiful existence. I try hard to contain my despair to only sorrow, not daring to expose the burning flames of anger to be fanned by the winds of chaos and resentment.

I am being summoned to perform another act of group exorcism, restoring their faith in the ability of humanity to deviate from its path of natural destruction. This time it’s a crowd of two hundred gathered awaiting me in the undisputed shrine of consumerism and the citadel of corporate economy, the Mall of America. I walk past the amusement park and the looming murals of sexy vibrant models seducing us with perfect round partially exposed breasts and pouty full red lips. Past the billboards of pubescent bare chest males sporting washboard stomachs, past the overtly sexual manikins with erect plastic nipples, toward the great hall in center of this false church of idol worship. The images festooning every surface are alien creatures from another planet, because none of the mass of humanity milling through the corridors resembles these gods of fashion. I sit quietly gathering my demons into a small cage and summon all the clarity and strength I can, as the speaker reads a long list on my accomplishments. As I arise to take the podium and clip on the microphone, my baggage remains in a heap off stage. I take a deep breath and clear my mind as my voice fills the hall. My words flow like silk decorating the hall in a tantalizing vision of the future, my voice paints a picture of powerful self determination and empowerment as I remain centered and focused as the faces of the crowd convey understanding and solidarity in the message. For ninety minutes I captivate the on lookers, converting their ignorance and forging it into action. The rock star lives. As quickly as it began, it is over as the crowd rises to their feet and provides a sustained ovation of appreciation. I slowly turn and bow leaving the spotlight to return to my cage of demons that have been confined much too long and resume my downward path into darkness.

Black is the color of objects that do not emit or reflect light in any part of the visible spectrum. Black means darkness, doubt, ignorance, uncertainty, and the negation of color. As it was yesterday, as it is today and as it will probably be tomorrow, black is the color of the day.

Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice
And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device'
And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast

Last thing I remember, I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
'Relax' said the night man, we are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave."

Hotel California by The Eagles

"The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis."

Dante Alighieri (1265 - 1321)

What If?

“Depression is the inability to construct a future.”

Rollo May

Caught unprepared, the slap stung my cheek probably because it was so unexpected. I guess it was an attempt to awake me from this darkness which haunts me. Just pick yourself up, walk it off, its time to cowboy up. Your despair and loss is not unique, you are barely average at best, this shit happens to people everyday. If you want to compare scars look at this. My demons are stronger and bigger than yours. Get use to fact that you are powerless, inept, and drowning in self pity, that’s just the way it’s going to be, so swallow and take your medicine. The words bite me, striping me naked. I’ve always dreaded the precursor “You probably don’t want to hear this, but” because it’s always been an invitation to level a shotgun at my view of reality. It has now become apparent to those around me that I have reached a wall which I can’t surmount. Call it burn out, depression, midlife crisis, or whatever I can no longer conceal it behind a stoic resolve, I can no longer turn it into anger and use it to clear the next hurtle. For the first time in my life I cannot find the pleasure in spring for I am frozen in a winter of blue unable to move forward.

The essence of my self destruction sends me spiraling down a black hole of apathy, a marriage between nightmares and headaches. Some days it's just not worth chewing through the restraints as I bleed like the stream, pouring sorrow into the ocean. It is like I am standing in a room without any doors. The room is plain white and its only distinguishing feature is its corners. Believing that every corner contains the answers I seek, I claw at them feverously. However, the answers I seek can not be answered by the questions I ask and the corners only torment me. Silently I hope to find the answer, but my hope is fading as I stand in this white room with no doors, no longer wanting a way out. I am assaulted by the clichés just breathe, just put one foot in front of the other, take one step at a time, tomorrow will be better, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, it’s the darkest before the dawn, things will get better, but ringing in my ears the clichés are of an ancient dialect that I don’t understand. Do not try to take my sorrow from me; it is the only thing that comforts me right now.

What if your fears and dreams existed in the same place?
What if to get to heaven you had to brave hell?
What if everything you ever wanted cost you everything you ever achieved?
Would you still?

Breathe No More

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow—

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:—

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met

—In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

—With silence and tears.

Lord Byron

Houston...We Have a Problem!

“There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery.”

Dante Alighieri (1265 – 1321)
The Divine Comedy

There is a point in time in all exploration missions where uncertainty commands your undivided attention and the success of the mission hangs in the balance. Decisions can no longer be obtained from the operations manual. This is called uncharted territory, a theater of the unexpected. In rocket science they call the event a “flame out” when one stage of a booster rocket is expended and no longer provide a function to the completion of the mission. It becomes a liability exerting drag on the vessel, distorting the trajectory, creating an obstacle to other equipment. Though a planned sequence the spent rocket stage is jettisoned and the next phase of the mission begins. After flame out danger of failure is high, for the thousands of pounds of useless junk must be detached to ensure that the vessel can continue in its manifest journey.

Approaching the milestone of thirty years of trajectory in my career, I have achieved a total flame out. As it is with all engineered systems catastrophic collapse never occurs in a failure of a single system but is the occurrence of multiple failures in related subsystems that become a perfect storm culminating in a catastrophic failure. In my case the small system failures are fairly apparent. It is an industry procurement system that consistently either significantly undervalues or totally ignores capability and experience, allowing unqualified and ill-equipped companies to undertake contracts with a tacit acceptance of underachievement. The result is a continued proliferation of decades old ineffective solutions that have created the environmental crisis we are confronted with. The procurement industry insulates itself by promoting accountant and managers to positions of authority, until they achieve maximum incompetence. They measure progress in the most inept distillation of the concept of capitalism, the absolute short term triple bottom line without incorporation of any long term impacts or considering the costs of extraction of natural resources from the system. Even the most prudent of financial accounting which is operational costs has been abandon for the cheap, bottom dollar; trim the budget at all cost mentality by our procurement industry. This is the primary obstacle to the introduction of innovation and creativity within the system. Unless you can produce a disruptive technology, a technology which is so clearly more effective and efficient that it overcomes the great risk of adoption by the atrophied decision makers, it is dismissed without consideration. More importantly if it does peak an interest due to its amazing potential, you must be able to immediately deliver the new solution below the existing cost model. It becomes a death sentence attempting to deliver a new technology in a competitive pricing scenario against some Chinese factory which has been pumping out cheap, antiquated products using slave labor wages and amortized machinery.

The system failure in the green industry is equally disheartening and also contributes to my lethargic ambivalence to the future. The manufacturing industry has finally gotten the message after three decades of pounding them with a sledge hammer. “Green” products are now the primary focus of just about all industries that wish to remain competitive, as they appoint sustainability officers and investigate the environmental costs of their products and production facilities. Unfortunately the path of least resistance is not reinventing their products or production processes, but rather “green washing”, telling the consumer some half truths or out right lies about how the company’s commitment of sustainability exceeds all others while continuing to operate under the same destructive methodology. I am appalled at how simplistic the general public has become to advertizing claims. Just tell me seven times and I will believe anything you tell me without questioning its source. An example is the artificial turf industry’s claims of environmental benefits, are we so stupid to believe that installing synthetic turf helps the environment, apparently so because municipalities around the country are funding projects based on their environmental claims. Here’s what one of the most advanced water management agency, the Irvine Water District is saying about synthetic turf. “Many environmental benefits result from replacing turf grass with synthetic turf. At a typical residence (with about 750 square feet of turf) the installation of synthetic turf can conserve approximately 22,000 gallons of water per year. Synthetic turf also requires no fertilizer, no pesticides, no mowing and reduces urban runoff caused by irrigation. It also cuts down on the amount of green waste, like lawn clippings, going into landfills.”

Let’s think about the synthetic turf industry’s environmental claims that they save water, fertilizer and the labor for mowing. They don’t water synthetic turf but they should because it increases the surface temperature of a field by 60 degrees contributing to unhealthy increases in the urban heat island effect, and increasing air conditioning demands. They don’t use fertilizer, but they use wetting agents and antimicrobial chemicals to control pathogens. They don’t mow, but they ride around on tractors and groom almost as frequently. If that’s not enough now let’s examine the composition of the product. There is nothing even close to green technology involved in the synthetic turf industry. It is one of the blackest and dirty heavy chemical oil based industries around. The components that make the rug are polyvinyl chloride, polyethylene, urethane, adhesives, solvents, colorants, fiberglas as well as other toxic elements. That being said the product is then filled with silica sand an EPA registered carcinogen and waste SBR rubber from discarded tires. SBR rubber is the perfect product because there are millions of scrape tires because they are too toxic to dispose of in most landfills. Here’s a partial list of the chemicals identified as being released in SBR rubber from confirmatory analytical studies at the Connecticut Agricultural Experiment Station:

“Benzothiazole: Skin and eye irritation, harmful if swallowed. There is no available data on cancer, mutagenic toxicity, teratogenic toxicity, or developmental toxicity.

Butylated hydroxyanisole: Recognized carcinogen, suspected endocrine toxicant toxicant, gastrointestinal toxicant, immunotoxicant, neurotoxicant, skin and sense-organ toxicant. There is no available data on cancer, mutagenic toxicity, teratogenic toxicity, or developmental toxicity.

n-hexadecane: severe irritant based on human and animal studies. There is no available data on cancer, mutagenic toxicity, teratogenic toxicity, or developmental toxicity.

4-(t-octyl) phenol: corrosive and destructive to mucous membranes. There is no available data on cancer, mutagenic toxicity, teratogenic toxicity, or developmental toxicity.”

The study also detected metals that were leached from the tire crumbs. Zinc was the predominant metal, but selenium, lead and cadmium were also identified. The problem is many, if not most, of the compounds present in tire crumbs and shreds have been incompletely tested for human health effects. In some cases, a partial assessment can be based on the estimated actions of a chemical class or on structural activity characteristics. The concentrations reported in various studies indicated that chemical concentrations exceeded hazardous waste site limits in some cases. What the hell are people thinking? Are we so ignorant to be incapable of making this comparison and understanding which is least harmful?

The public could be forgiven if this was an isolated incident but it is not. Every industry now is hiring legions of “green washers” to devise elaborate stories to convince the public that their toxic ridden product is really Mother Nature in disguise. To make thing worst these corporate giants are buying new green technologies and burying them so they will not disrupt the cash flow from their flagship environmentally toxic solutions. Why invest in hundreds of millions of dollars to upgrade production processes when you can spend a couple million to maintain the status quo. It could be decades before these viable green solutions receive the light of day. How do you assemble an environmental army when the public is continuously fed the opiate of corporate advertizing?

For over three decades I have stood before hundreds of thousands of people advocating for inclusive integrated solutions to our world one which values ecological cycles and connections. I have railed against the worst offenders of the gate keepers against change, challenging the flawed logic and absolute ignorance. I have volunteered for dozens of boards and positions of influence in the industry, where I could help craft policies which would steer the world in a different direction. In the after hours when the sky is dark I have written article after article explaining the simple realization of a dream. A fire in my belly drove me on day after day to make a difference. When I was confronted with failure it angered me and motivated to push on the accelerator even more. I was convinced that if I was to fail I should rather do it sooner, throwing caution to the wind. At times I would cross over to compulsive obsession always looking how to influence change. My motto was “If only I can light enough fuses, maybe someday it will ignite a rocket which can illuminate mankind” Rather lofty and foolish goals for an individual which such a limited set of talents.

The final event that culminated in the perfect storm and my subsequent emotional collapse was the loss of a deeply personal relationship which provided me a reason to continue. Someone who I was mentoring to stand beside me and make the dream come true, someone who could finish my sentences when I had not the will to carry my weight further, someone that knew me better than anyone else in this world. The tragic and abrupt loss of this close relationship was the final piece of my devise. The motivation for continuing my individual assault on the world evaporated whisked away on the breeze in the blink on an eye. My view of the world while in the past although caustic was always optimistic and hopeful but is now brutally fatalistic and bleak. I no longer believe that I possess a key to change the tidal wave of apathy; instead I am content to allow the wave to wash over me and become another lost soul hiding from the reality of my failures. Beneath our brave facades we are all deeply flawed and weak spirits that maintain balance in the faith of a better future. Given the right conditions when our fragilities are exposed our strength disappears leaving only the confused insecurities of a child lost in the woods.

Is this the accumulation of thirty years of effort? A complete emotional flame out, like an old boxer which has had the will beaten out of him, no longer capable of defending a small piece of canvas with ferocity of a lion, but willing to turn his back and walk away? I press my hands to the gaping wound over my heart and watch the life blood of passion and desire bleed from my soul. The most frightening realization is that it concerns me little as despair fills my thoughts. In an attempt to resurrect a healing process I have once again come the healing waters of my youth, the ocean with all its mystical powers of life and faith. This time is different the sound of the pounding surf only echoes my abandonment and loneliness mocking my significance by wiping my footsteps from the sand. The sky is empty, heavy with sorrow and I don’t know how to change it.

Like the spent booster rocket I am without director or purpose, frozen in time. My mind searches for comfort and solace but the only thing that would retrieve me from this pit are unattainable and beyond my meager reach, for change will not come. Instead I dream about what could have been. In that dream I find fulfillment, faith in the future and the simple pleasures which made me smile. Until then “Houston we have a problem”

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness.”

Henri Nouwen

Endless Remains

If life were but a dream, my Love,
And death the waking time;
If day had not a beam, my Love,
And night had not a rhyme, --
A barren, barren world were this
Without one saving gleam;
I'd only ask that with a kiss
You'd wake me from the dream.

If dreaming were the sum of days,
And loving were the bane;
If battling for a wreath of bays
Could soothe a heart in pain, --
I'd scorn the meed of battle's might,
All other aims above
I'd choose the human's higher right,
To suffer and to love!

Paul Laurence Dunbar
1872-1906

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)