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Lyric Of The Day:

And you just don't get it
No you just don't get it
You just don't get it and you're vaguely proud of that...

-- Peter Mulvey ("29 Cent Head")

paying the syndicate. part 2

The Welfare Office was packed. Wall to wall people, crying babies, whole lotta pensive faces. There's a window where you check in first, to state your business. I tell the friendly young guy that I'm just there to submit one more piece of paper, for my pending application. Peering into the computer screen, he says, his face brightening, "I'm gonna cheat here...I'm gonna sneak you in. Have a seat and a woman will call you in just a minute." I can tell that most of these people are waiting more than just a minute. If this were my first visit I'd protest, of course. But since I already went through the interview last week, and since I'm here between working two jobs, I go along. Besides, it looks like it made his day to play with the system just a bit.

The woman who calls me into an office is Native American. She's quite nice, and professional. Gets the papers in order quick. I can't help having this thought, though: does she, somewhere, feel just a little satisfaction at me, a struggling white person, coming to ask the government, via her, for help? I hope it's not rude of me to wonder this. It actually seems kinda cool. My minute contribution to the national karmic/historic debt.

After a few minutes of paper-shuffling, she gives me a verdict. Using a complex system of points, percentages, income levels, algorithms, star charts, augury and divination, the Department of Human Services has decided that it can pay half my gas bill. And they wish me the best on plea-bargaining with the company for the other half. I thank her and say that I'm grateful for whatever assistance I can get.

paying off the gas syndicate

I'm going down before work today to finish applying for Welfare. Hah. How's that for an ironic sentence in the Land of Opportunity. Never done anything like this in my life. And it's only happening now thanks to the gas company and their little extortion game...(Please: we prefer to call it "Standard Policy"...)

$228.72 is what they want from me, to turn on the gas in my apartment. Not a penny of this is charges for gas, actual or imaginary, that I have used. It's all fees and deposits. The fees I won't attempt to fathom, and anyway they're incidental. But the deposits, which make up most of the bill, are calculated using these two factors: 1) the highest gas bill incurred by the previous tenant at my address (Please: we like to think of it as "insurance"), and 2) a quick look at my credit report. Which I thought was a nice blank page. But which turns out to have one terrible, irredeemable BLOT. And I can share this with you, readers, here from the safety of anonymity: six years ago, I was late with a credit card payment. Nevermind that I did pay the bill shortly. Or that the card itself, along with all my other worldly debts (okay, my financial debts) is now paid off entirely. That late payment makes me a Risk. And in a high-stakes game like providing utilities, we can't afford any risks. (Here's one more bit of information they gave me: should I choose, for some reason, to give up and just have it re-dis-connected, there will be a $63.00 Disconnect Fee. Cause if you can't pay 228 you can surely afford 63? Huh. "Disconnect" is right, I say.)

It wasn't that bad, the first time at the Welfare Office (c'mon, we like to refer to it as "Human Services"...) It was clean, well-lit, organized. There were people at every step to tell you where to go. The chairs were padded and less than 20 years old. People of all ages, races, and family structures waited quietly for their turn in line. My wait was only an hour. There was even free photocopying available for your documents. The document which they asked me to bring back this time is a letter from my boss at Domino's, stating that I do, in fact, work 13.5 hours a week for minimum wage plus the serendipitous generosity of my fellow workers who choose to tip. Hopefully this will be enough for them and they won't be sending Tony to break my legs (yeah, I know, you really like the term "Collections"...)

breath/quote

"Freedom lies at the exact point between the in-breath and the out-breath and at that moment, grace may enter."

-- Reshad Feild, Here to Heal

freedom/fight/or

Sources: an early, weary drive north on the interstate. An old song about a prisoner of war. A conversation with my sister, in which we agree that next time we get the question, "So, what do you do?" we're going to answer, "Freelance Freedom Fighter". And a dreamtime meeting with an old friend, now out of touch: a friendship which carried much ambivalence, and many unresolved questions. So.

So we meet again
with familiar calm good humor in yet
another undefined transition space
just like each untenable place
where we crossed paths before
I might've been your partner in a different lifetime
the one that I was raised for and rejected
the one of us and them
the one I met you in
and you might've asked me to
but for the war and the gulf between us

one true mountain man
almost archetype
still wandering free in the world's wild lands
for now in the storm of desert sands
but ready and able to
chop the wood
carry the water
defend the homeland
and still extend a hand my way
but what am I my friend to do with
my four years of leftist education
ten of blood sweat tears for Spanish
and a lifetime of subverted fire?

there's no such thing I hear
as an ex-Marine
probably less a former freedom fighter
in the land of shock and awe
but every soldier battles
against another's present freedom
don't they
and aren't we all some prisoner
wrestling this life
the weight of history
and conflicted possibilities
to make it home

how many times the futile wish
that one shot through with hidden brilliance
would rise up and transcend his leaden past
if not his repressing present

every man an empire
glorious expansive immaculately ruled
and one tenth the size of my existent holdings
at least the terrain that I'm allowed to see
every companion portal open
to fantastic undiscovered country
for which I will pack myself
into tiny and secure boxes
for supposed adventuring again

is there no path of mutual liberation
no common ground defended, sacred
no coexistent freedom left
to fight for?

seeds

"Plant some corn. It'll set you free."

-- Robert Mirabal, Taos Pueblo, on his latest CD

"I gotta get some new seeds!"

-- a wise friend in Santa Fe

Right now, in the sunny windows of my apartment, these things are growing: chard, chiles, Thai basil, Italian basil, oregano, thyme, fennel, parsley, mixed lettuces, spinach, kale, broccoli rabe, mizuma (a zigzaggy Japanese green). And, if the seeds are kind enough to sprout in November, cilantro from last summer in the Valley. Such luxury, to be able to eat in my own home, without paying or owing or asking anyone else.

Right now in the newly opened windows of my head, these things are growing: Stability. Simplicity. Presence. Patience. Containment. Security. Competence. Self-trust. Tuning in to growing processes. Being in agreement with Sun, Air, Water, and Timing. Knowing what gifts I have to offer, and giving them with awareness: no more, and no less.

The friend who made the second remark above was talking about her own search for stability. How for many years, she had only planted "groundcovers" with her choices, and then wondered why she never felt rooted. Me, I've been waiting all these years for land to grow a garden on. As well as for rootspace, in the psychological sense. In both cases, with such a tangle of sadness and hope. And am finding, in this moment, how easy it is to get free by putting down roots of any kind, however fine and fragile. And how the places those roots can go is not by any means confined to the smallness of their germinating space.

awake/quote

Life's little word to me this week..if anybody else happens to dig it that's cool too.

One note here: I read "independence" not as "separation" or "invincibility" but more like "being truly centered"...

"There is no way...that you can have a decent life...if you aren't awake and aware every moment...The most extraordinary gift you've been given is your own humanity, which is about consciousness, so honor that consciousness.

Revere your senses; don't degrade them with drugs, with depression, with willful oblivion. Try to notice something new every day...take care of all things, of every single thing there is - your body, your intellect, your spirit, your neighbors, and this planet...

Only through constant focus can you become independent. Only through independence can you know yourself. And only through knowing yourself will you be able to ask the key questions of your life: What is it that I am destined to accomplish, and how can I make it happen?"

-- Elizabeth Gilbert, The Last American Man

twice changing dream

In itself it is a chapter growing out of a much longer story, mostly hidden or already forgotten. The setting looks deep rural South: dirt roads, tall trees overhanging, paint-peeling wooden houses slowly degenerating to their origins. The house where I am belongs to a kind, peaceful man, around 65 years old. He is tall, mustached, pot-bellied, silver shoulder-length hair. Mellowed Chicano Hippie is how I'd describe him. He's sort of a friend, possibly a mentor. At the least, a pleasant host. He has a sadness about him, from his own stories untold. But we are content, in the moment, to work in quiet cooperation.

We have a project of some kind to do together, he and I. And we've come to a point where we need some help. A battered old truck rattles by, on the road which passes right in front of the house. There are three strong men inside, all 35-40ish. We signal, asking them to stop. They brake, stirring a small fog of dust, and put the truck (a 60's Ford or Chevy, blue or green) in reverse. We're apprehensive as they pull even with our roadside workspace. For one, we know that these men have great power, and we're not sure how they will use it: to help or to harm us. But the need is enough that we have to ask them, either way. We need assistance dealing with forces far beyond our abilities. I think these forces are in the house, but I'm not sure.

The other reason for our wariness is this: this scene has already happened once before. In a kind of rewind and instant-replay, there has already been the moment in which we flagged them down, their truck rolled back toward us, and they climbed out, ready to assist us, but humming with an undefined danger. In that other scene, they quickly donned costumes appropriate to the significance of the work: a sort of protecting or clearing ritual is what it seems we're asking of them. Or perhaps, instead of costumes, they enacted in a flash some essential transformation, that added to our awe and our wariness. Because in their changed state they were much more than three guys from the hood. They were at once clearer and more ambigious, but intensely full of purpose. They would not be stopped from their task, once we had engaged their help and allowed them entry.

But this time around, their presence is a little different. Only slightly less threatening, but it's enough that we can all sit down together, in our dilapidated wooden chairs near the cluttered workbench, and talk things over a bit. Not that there's that much to talk about: they already know our situation, and what has to be done. They get out their costumes and begin to put them on: slowly, carefully, deliberately this time. My host and I watch quietly, giving them our complete attention. At first I'm surprised, and a little disappointed: these costumes seem simple, even crude. Certainly handmade, and probably with found materials. But my suprise turns to elation as I begin to understand: this time, they're even more powerful than they were before. When they finish putting on their costumes, they will have become what they are dressed as, in all its strength. In total disregard of appearances.

The scene ends here. I won't write more about these three, because there are details here that ask for much reverence. They bring images that come from my time in la danza, and my astonishment at receiving such ones in my dreamwalk is matched only by my gratitude, for whatever they come to offer and teach. And that, within this repeated moment of watching power come to light, I was aware that whatever the intention of these three toward us, personally, it was certain that in the greater outcome we (and our work in this quiet place) would fare very well indeed, thanks to their help.

blue

It seems Life is asking me, right now, to go through a breaking. Of hope. Of wishes. Of heart. Of continuity. Of a sweetest fire and light relationship of 8 months' time. Yet another leaving, in the already incredible volume of transition, not-knowing, not-having. I'm not ready for this. About 93% of me is crying out against it. I am split into at least 5 facets right now, and each one reflects on a completely different reality. Pain. Denial. Shock. Anger. And a deep, inexplicable presence that is almost peace. Because at the same time as all my NO!s, I can say I think that this has its reasons for happening. I think I can say he has his reasons, as well. He was as kind as he could be. While I don't grasp, or even know, all of these - Life's reasons or his - I'm trying to let them be whatever they are. And not to move, or judge, or look, past the moment.

Needed a book, and picked up James Hillman again today. This guy, to me, is like a super-double espresso, with a shot of absinthe. And yes, I did try absinthe once, in a warm Portland house filled with Santa Clauses. But that's another story. Such a drink, if it existed (whether one needed it or not) would sure enough give a boost. The disclaimer about quoting Hillman: I do not for one moment claim to grasp what the hell this guy is talking about. I know he's drawing on psychotherapy, myth, alchemy, and dream analysis. My imagination and intuition have a time, at any rate, with the dreaming and the reaching his words initiate. Even on a blue, empty, open day like today. And the words the book opened to spoke right to this very here and now. I'm gonna quote them like I read them: starting off somewhat coherent, into a quick and lovely unravelling that I can only end up writing as found poetry.

Please hear this, then, as a little offering from the facet of me that needs always to go on learning and understanding. The other facets are shimmering out there in the blue for now, and may not be reachable for a while.

"The blue transit between black and white is like that sadness which emerges from despair as it proceeds toward reflection. Reflection here comes from or takes one into a blue distance, less a concentrated act that we do than something insinuating itself upon us as a cold, isolating inhibition. This vertical withdrawal is also like an emptying out, the creation of a negative capability, or a profound listening -- already an intimation of silver...

Sadness is not the whole of it. A turbulent dissolution...can also show us...anima fantasies...we can place them within the blue transition...
There are patterns of self-recognition forming
a new anima consciousness, a new psychic grounding
her depths of understanding
never cease to strike deep toward shadows
driven, images locked compulsively in behavior,
visibility zero, psyche trapped
in the inertia and extension of matter
a time of symptoms.
these inexplicable, utterly materialized tortures of psyche
can commence as a mournful regret
with the appearance of blue
feeling becomes more paramount and the paramount feeling
is the mournful
these laments hint of soul, of reflecting and distancing
necessary reduction

Believe it or not, there is more color in the alchemical desert than in the flood,
in less emotion than in more. Drying releases the soul
from personal subjectivism
Blue is singularly important here because it is
the color of imagination
calls the mythic imagination to its farthest reaches
no longer concerned with distinctions between
things and thought
appearance and reality
when the eye becomes blue, that is,
able to see through

-- James Hillman, A Blue Fire

poem

The place where you are right now
God circled on a map for you.
Wherever your eyes and arms and heart can move
against the earth and sky,
the Beloved has bowed there.
Our Beloved has bowed there knowing
you were coming.
I could tell you a priceless secret about
your real worth dear pilgrim.
But any unkindness to yourself,
any confusion about others,
will keep one
from accepting the grace, the love!

-- Hafiz

forwarding

Okay. I know a lot of people will laugh at the tendency to find Messages From The Universe in simple, mundane experiences. But for those of you who can relate, I'll describe today's little puzzle, for your entertainment. Or maybe for any insights you can help me find, if you wanna get metaphorical with me here for just a minute.

I've been in my new apartment for just over a month now. The day after I moved in I took my little change-of-address card to the nearest post office, which happens to be one block away. Then I waited. And waited. Three weeks later, with not so much as a junk mail flier in the box, I called to inquire. Yes, we have your forward, they said. It should be on the way. What else can I do but wait some more. So I do. And now after almost two more weeks, it seems like it might be time to call again. This time they direct me to a different station. The guy there asks, "Are you sure you're using the right box? There's not a set of locking boxes on your block?" I haven't even considered this possibility, since there is a large, rusty, typical-looking mailbox immediately outside my door. Which I've been checking, hopefully, almost every day. But I go outside, and what d'ya know, there's a locked box a couple houses down. With my address on one of the little doors. The landlady (who lives next door) happens to be home, so I go and ask her if, by chance, I'm supposed to have a key to that box. "Oh yes," she says. "I told you all about it when you moved in. You have to take your lease to the post office near the airport - the one down the block is not our post office - and show it to them. And they'll give you the key."

Wow. I have no memory of this conversation, but I get directions from her and head to the airport. Have to call the station again en route for more help finding them. My new post office finally appears, behind the airport, past the rental car offices, in with the international freight movers. Next to where they park the planes when they're not using them. At least there is no one waiting in line. The friendly woman at the counter has me fill out a form, and tells me they'll go out and change the lock on my box, probably tomorrow. I was hoping to get my key right away, and go discover a month's worth of treasure (or at least unpaid bills) awaiting me. No, she says, they'll call me when the change is made, and then I can drive out behind the airport once again and pick up my new key. And, no, they don't hold unclaimed mail without a special written request. If I'm lucky, my mail from the last month will show up somewhere, out of whatever forwarding limbo it's been circulating in all this time.

Okay, any ideas? I think there's something here that applies to the life-class called Learn to Ask For What You Need, but I'm not sure...

free

Here is the beautiful and slightly imbalanced thing about working for tips: you can be totally broke and living in abundance, at the same time. And you can forget how to tell the difference. And, depending on the day, this can get you into trouble or it can save you.

Earlier, it got me into trouble. I'm living a little close to the edge right now, with 3 or 4 part-time/occasional/on-call jobs. So that for part of this week, my bank account had a negative balance. Okay, maybe that's more than close to the edge. But I tell it because I would like to commend Wells Fargo for their surprising humanness, in consenting to drop the fees-on-fees they were imposing on me. Crazy, to penalize someone for not having any money by charging them more money. But great to see that the people, now and then, are still better than their computers.

Right now, this freedom's kind of entertaining. I just put my last two dollars in the gas tank, headed to another night of work at Domino's, and felt nothing but gratitude that I'm one of the lucky ones who has some work at all. Before that, I enjoyed a fabulous free lunch, courtesy of Whole Foods Market. Their food samples today were particularly commendable. Pumpkin pate on flatbread. Brie on toast. Guacamole and chips. Lemon ginger snaps. Cheeses of every year, make and model. Of course this meal only consisted of one or two bites of each lovely item, but that's the sort of minimal elegance people pay high dollar for, in a town like this, right? They were even offering wine tastings, but I passed that one by since I'm on the way to work. With this rich gourmet food, you gotta draw the line somewhere.

There's so much that's free out there, right this minute. Music on the radio. Books, CDs and internet at the library. Sunlight, wind, treegold, birdsong, earthshine. Kindness, now and then, from a fellow human being. I could continue the list, if I had a little more time free. Tonight at work I'm asking for good tips, so the side of life that requires money can keep working. But I'm also engaging in the larger system in which ideas, help, little gifts, and friendly words are all forms of currency. And in which the things you have and the things you do without are two kinds of freedom.

2morequotes

"Time -- when pursued like a bandit -- will behave like one..."

"There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history. How much do you love me? And Who's in charge?"

-- Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

quote

This from a book I avoided at the first 2 or 3 meetings, as it seemed to rank too high on the Trendy Book List. But it's got some really nice insights. Here's just one of them.

"...responsibility. That word worked on me until I worked on it, until I looked at it carefully and broke it down into the two words that make its true definition: the ability to respond."

-- Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love