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“Archaeologists think they’ve found a cave where John the Baptist baptized many of his followers “

A friend asked me today if any part of my post an ambitious man quotes Coleman Barks, who is mentioned in it. Nope. The writing in that post is all mine; Mr. Barks can be blamed for none of it.

Rummaging around in the archives of All That Arises today, I found this post I wrote on August 30, 2003. In the spirit of summer television, I offer it as a timely re-run.

For lunch today I had soup, vegetable beef, left over from dinner last night. With a little crumbled feta and crackers. Just your basic flat soup crackers.

I ate the soup and sat there for a while, eating crackers and drinking water. And staring at the screen of my laptop, where a chapter of my book was curdling in the warm summer air.

Suddenly I found myself stuck in time, staring at a cracker frozen halfway between the table and my face. I looked at the unfocused thing in my hand and realized that somewhere, deep inside me, some lost and lonesome chamber of my soul was trying to cry.

Well what’s this then? What do I have to grieve about? We’re all alive here, though maybe we’re not getting out of here that way. What’s up?

It just occurred to me to wonder what in the hell we have done. I mean George W. Bush and mankind in general. I was thinking about the children in Iraq, in Jerusalem and Gaza, in Liberia and so many other places where there is no peace. Is that so much to ask for? Peace doesn’t cost anything, require postage, or go bad if you leave it in the open air. Peace can be had with the act of a clinched fist, deferred in favor of an open hand, and there is no reason in the world why the children of the world can’t have it.

Go get yourself a cracker or something, and see what I mean.

Spotted amidst the wreckage:

God hath not promised

Peace without pain.

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I’ve been watching the poet and translator Coleman Barks, reading the poetry of Rumi, as well as his own, on the UC Santa Barbara channel. Beautiful poems. This was taped in March 2003, and one of the things he read was a poem of his, which was in progress on the eve of Shock and Awe. In it, he speaks to President Bush, offering a peaceful alternative to killing. Send people to carry goodwill; people eager to learn about the vestiges of the culture that inspired Rumi.

We’re different now. We are in Vietnam again, and people are dying, and we don’t know why. It doesn’t make any sense. We have accomplished nothing.

• Countless gallons of blood has been spilled, and Iraq is in chaos.

• The threat we thought we would eliminate never existed.

• We toppled Saddam and dragged him from his hole, only to see him replaced by more tyrants, of various stripe.

• Democracy is an insane improbability of absurd dimensions. People are still without power; their lives are still fraught with difficulty.

• Here at home, reactionary ideologues are running roughshod over our freedoms, all the while lifting a litany of vague and inexorable fear to justify their power and keep a megalomaniac in office.

• The coffins keep landing at Andrews AFB unabated, whether we can see pictures or not.

• Half the country still supports the inarticulate, audacious presidential pretender who got us into this mess.

Sound, rational voices were raised in the days and months leading to this ruddy, unmitigated debacle. Calmer heads failed to prevail, which is no surprise. I just don’t want it forgotten. We told them so.

It’s too late to turn back. Too late for anything approaching victory. The best we can hope for is someone to pull us back from the madness and hose us down, mop up the exsanguination that can never be explained but to God.

But first, November 2 isn’t the Ides of March, but lend me your ears: I tell you Caesar is an ambitious man.

This hurricane has just caused terrible damage, hasn’t it? I feel very sorry for all the people whose lives have been wrecked by this storm. I hope the readers of my blog will join me in praying for them.

Passengers on a small commuter plane are waiting for the flight to leave. The entrance opens, and two men walk up the aisle, dressed in pilots’ uniforms–both are wearing dark glasses, one is using a seeing-eye dog, and the other is tapping his way up the aisle with a cane.

Nervous laughter spreads through the cabin; but the men enter the cockpit, the door closes, and the engines start up. The passengers begin glancing nervously around, searching for some sign that this is just a little practical joke. None is forthcoming.

The plane moves faster and faster down the runway, and people at the windows realize that they’re headed straight for the water at the edge of the airport territory. As it begins to look as though the plane will never take off, that it will plow into the water, panicked screams fill the cabin–but at that moment, the plane lifts smoothly into the air.

The passengers relax and laugh a little sheepishly, and soon they have all retreated into their magazines, secure in the knowledge that the plane is in good hands. Up in the cockpit, the copilot turns to the pilot and says, “You know, Bob, one of these days, they’re going to scream too late, and we’re all gonna die.”

I’ve been sitting here since Letterman went off, trying to think of something unusual in the dawning, arching and dying of this Friday that might bear observation on this blog. Comin’ up with bupkis. I had lunch in one of my usual places, where the owners know me by name, watched my family leave for warmer parts of the state, did a little reading, writing, paid some bills ….

About the only thing I can think of is that I have the song “Benson Arizona,” from the movie Dark Star, floating around in my head.

Benson, Arizona, the warm wind through your hair

My body flies the galaxy, my heart longs to be there

Benson, Arizona, the same stars in the sky

But they seemed so much kinder when we watched them, you and I

Other than that, I suppose I’m doing alright. Good grip on cognitive functions. All five senses percolating along — in sync with the rotation of our arguably stable planet.

POWELL

Phenomenology…

OK, my blog is starting to see dead people, and that’s enough for today. You guys quit dyin’ out there already. Here’s a quote:

“It doesn’t matter if you yourself are among the medal winners, what matters is that you represent yourself and your sport and our great country with class and dignity, come what may.”

— Former U.S. President George Bush to American athletes getting ready for the Olympics in Athens.

What a crock, huh? Fire ’em up, George! America’s amoral collapse, at the hands of Junior, has made us the normative whipping boy of the planet. And losing medals to the Coalition of the Unwilling and Morally Superior won’t insprire them to show up for the ass-kicking in the middle east. We might as well continue our national arrogance in Athens. To do otherwise only protracts the Fall of the New Rome beyond what’s aesthetically tolerable. We just ain’t good entertainment anymore.

If this doesn’t draw a few comments, y’all must be sleepin’ through the blog.

Well I see on Yahoo that Julia Child has Died. I’m sorry to see that. The world needs more people like her, who are celebratory, positive and not trying to cause anyone else any grief.

It’s interesting that the article I linked to says she moved to Santa Barbara in 2001. I know for a fact that she lived here, at least part time, for many years before that. In 1988, I attended a party at the home of my employer, attorney Barry Cappello. The house was a rambling and beautiful Tudor in the Hope Ranch section of Santa Barbara. It had previously belonged to Julia Child.

The way I picture heaven, there’s no need for food up there. But bon appetit anyway.

The New York Times: Poet Admired for Precise Beauty

Bio/interview