"There is no Sanctuary!"

Last night I dreamt that I was given access to view an archeolgical site in order to further my studies. I was permitted to fly -- without a machine -- over a kind of stone shelf with intricate carvings and pools. No one exaclty understood what they signified or who made them, but they were vast -- something like a Mayan city stretched flat, but Celtic in it's symbolism (and also somewhat influenced by the aesthetics of Logan's Run which I watched last night). I had to record everything mentally and take my findings to class...

...which was taught by the Franciscan Brother who was my extremely gifted high school philosophy/ theology teacher who was probably one of the most talented educators ever and whose lessons are still "exploding like a time bomb" in my mind twenty years later. He passed away in January. Brother Mc debriefed me before class and it was agreed that what I learned from the stone site was part of the lesson plan. But I was just a tool -- he knew the over-arching theme of the lesson and me and my stones were a mere instrument to be used to advance the lesson as he conceived it. I was to learn the lesson, too. It was like I was a secret weapon against ignorance, but my utility didn't lessen my own lack of awareness. Class was held. I came to realize that the point of this lesson would not be made clear in one class but would unfold slowly over the course of a year. My stones were not mentioned. I was confused.

Then the brother was informed by the mean, ignorant Department Chair (nun) that he would be required to use the syllabus she was handing out as a template. He had to turn it in for approval. He and I understood that the goal now was to continue the class as he designed it but to somehow disguise the plan to fit into the very rigid and useless construct being handed down so he could teach us undisturbed. I was scanning the sheets and helping him edit parts to look like a rubber-stamp approvable plan ... my shoulders ached and my vision blurred and then grew black...

...I was driving a pickup truck through the country. I pulled into a gravel drive between a trailer with an intricate walkway/ deck and a shelf of ancient stone carvings now covered with grass and weeds. About a dozen of my classmates were there playing ball and my task was to get instructions from inside of the trailer that would explain what formation and steps we should take to clear the stones and open them to their ancient, intended purpose. I had to do this before Brother Mc came and none of my peers could know that I knew this. I had to make it seem to happen organically. I climbed out of the truck and up the intricate walkway but every door and window was locked. Then Joey (a weird dream amalgamation character) came over to see what I was doing and I had to pretend nonchalant mischief. I had just figured out (mentally) the way into the trailer and felt urgency because Brother Mc would soon be coming. I heard and felt a rumbling and looked up over the trailer to see the Brother was a 25 foot giant dressed like Paul Bunyan -- he was both Paul Bunyan and Brother Mc. He flashed me the briefest sideways glance of acknowledgement while bellowing about those of us who were content to watch the shadows on the wall. Joey dashed over the walkway and into the field. I used this momentary distraction to enter the trailer from a back window but before I got in I noticed Brother Mc was carrying a hairless, purple rodent -- it looked like kangaroo babies (joeys) when they exit the birth canal and have to crawl unassisted into their mothers' pouches. I did not understand but I was unafraid and glad and then I woke up.

Sweet Dreams

A tip of the snifter to Chico Banks who died suddenly a couple of weeks ago. I'll miss you, man and I hope you're still getting a little extra in your glass just because you smiled and said pretty please.

"Never Can Say Goodbye"

Isaac Hayes passed away last night at the age of 65 and after 40 years of us grooving to his Hot Buttered Soul.


Isaac got his start as session player for Otis Redding at the legendary Stax Records in Memphis. He went on to record an impressive catalog of his own, spanning 5 decades.

He changed soul music with his deep jams and long, intricate interpretatioms of songs. He won an Oscar for composing and performing the music for Shaft.

Another generation got to know him and his Chocolate Salty Balls when he voiced the role of Chef on South Park. At times, Chef seemed to be the only sensible adult in that quiet little white-bred redneck mountain town -- although he would burst into song about making sweet love in irrelevant and inaapropriate situations. But I sometimes have that problem, too.

Eventually, Hayes left South Park -- although there seems to be some dispute as to the reason for his departure.

Hayes also left us some damned fine dirty grooves.

We'll miss you Isaac.













America, I can't believe it! Bernie Mac just up and left!


Bernie Mac, one of the original Kings of Comedy, creator and star of the Bernie Mac show , Ambassador of the City of Chicago and fellow White Sox fan, died of complications from sarcoidosis on Saturday.


Goodbye, Mr. Mac. America will miss you, too.



***
Oddly, both Bernie Mac and Isaac Hayes filmed a movie with Samuel L. Jackson before both passed away. The film, called Soul Men, is scheduled for release in November.

The Planet Is Fine

I love those random conversations with strangers in which you feel tightly, yet temporarily connected to this other person somehow. Or, barring the sensation of a personal connection, I love having a random conversation with a stranger in which it seems that one or the other of you (or both) is passing on some kind of clue.

And as I get older, I find myself having random clue-like conversations with strangers in which our bizarre exchange indicates to me that this very intimate spiritual and philosophical spiral path I've been traveling IS relevant and meaningful, at least for me and the occasional random stranger.

I saw M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening at the theater the other night. (Parenthetical snatch* -- I forget how much better movies are in the theater on the big screen. DVDs are convenient, cheap and fabulous for lazy entertainment and escapism, but you really end up missing something in the transition to the small screen.) Anyway, I recommend The Happening, but I'm not really going to tell you about it because you know how you just have to see his movies and let them unfold to really enjoy them. Also, the theater where I saw it was crowded and about one third of the audience seemed to really enjoy it and two-thirds were pissed, saying things like, remind me never to see another M. Night Shyamalan movie. In other words, he didn't necessarily tailor this to soothe the fears and meet the expectations of the status quo.

So when the movie ended, my friend and I did the post-movie meaningful look that says, Whoa, good, I think. Need a minute. And the lady in her early sixties with fabulous earrings and a very sharp gauze pantsuit (confession: sometimes I'm into certain kinds of clothes and accessories) on the other side of my friend also gets in the post-movie glance interchange with us. And she and I start chatting while waiting for the grumbling crowd to pass.

Random Stranger Lady (RSL): Well, I really enjoyed that!

La Sirena (LS) and Friend: Me, too! (he owes me a coke)

RSL: You know, lots of people have been saying things like that, that plants are interactive and you should talk to them, like... (lots of people are walking by and complaining here so I don't catch the first five names she rattles off)...and George Washington Carver. You know, and I think I would hate people if I were a plant. We deserve everything we get and then some!

LS: You know what George Carlin said about the earth, that she's just going to--

LS and RSL: (in perfectly metered unison)-- shake us off like a bunch of fleas!!! (The women laugh while the passing 20-something hipster doofi fire them looks of annoyed confusion.)

And so this is my roundabout way of saying goodbye to George Carlin and here is the full text of the Carlin bit from which the aforementioned quote came.

Goodbye, George -- or is it, really? Perhaps you've just attached yourself to another valence?

* Wouldn't "Parenthetical Snatch" be a great name for a band?

Good Night, Ike

He was a famously cruel abuser, a controller, a cage. He arguably created one of the first rock and roll albums ever. He recently won a Grammy for an album of downhome blues. He was a gifted musical writer and arranger. He could bring out someone's shining light and then threaten to snuff it out forever. He was bad, mad, hard, funky and blue. Goodbye Ike Turner.

The wise man said:Don't ask me

All i know is you'll be sorry

Sorry when i'm dead

Dead and gone

In a bitchin' blaze of glory

Holding a grudge can take a lifetime

And there's a lot that i got to say

I'll tell it to the world

On my deathbed

Someday

Na, na, na, na, na, na

--Deathbed, Ike Turner

"What Dreams May Come"

I don't pretend to understand the metaphysics of why -- but sometimes things do seem to cluster. For example, maybe a bunch of people you know will get married or have babies within a small window of time. Or perhaps you and a bunch of your friends show up at the same party with the same Prince (or Curtis Mayfield or De La Soul) album AND the same brand of rum -- only no one usually drinks rum and it wasn't on sale. For the last several weeks there has been one of those syncretic clusters. There's been a whole lot of dying around here.

The sucky thing about people dying is that you don't get to see them for awhile and you miss them. (I personally believe -- and once again, I don't pretend to understand why -- that things are much more harmonious on the other side. Supposing that, when we do reunite with our people again once we cross over to the next place it will be joyful. And considering geographic time, a human life isn't such a long span of history -- so ultimately it's all good, etc.) Anyway...

As I said, lately there's been a very funereal bent to Sirenaland. I already mentioned Noreen who sent me the coyote and I went to another memorial service on Saturday. It was held at the zoo in the underground dolphin viewing area. The minister said that humans are the only animals aware of their mortality, but I don't really believe she has any evidence to back that statement up. Actually, I suspect the evidence supports the opposite. Aren't elephants supposed to know where to go when it's time to die? Doesn't the instinct to preserve one's life hint at an awareness of its impermanence? Anyway...

At the end of this memorial service (which was rather tranquil and lovely with the large tanks throwing off a turquoise ambiance) the minister started a closing prayer and 6 dolphins swam up to the glass, looking at the congregation until we filed out. In order to keep their place, they softly undulated their bodies and waved their fins as if to say goodbye.

Also, Bad, Bad Leroy Brown died on March 11. (Yes, the real Leroy Brown.) I met him in the summer of 2003 when I started working at the Mines. I served him many beers and Martels. He always ordered with his hand alongside his mouth -- like a pantomime of shouting -- but he held his hand up to the wrong side of his face, effectively muffling his raspy voice and blocking the lower half of his face from the person he was talking to -- so you couldn't read his lips. Thank goodness he always drank the same thing.

Leroy always looked snazzy. He wore crisp fedoras and alligator shoes. In the summer he wore linen pants and they never seemed to wrinkle. He liked to shoot pool and I lost a few games to him. He could be mean, although generally he was friendly enough to women -- especially women bartenders. Once he gave Christine and me a ride in his El Dorado and he always bought us a drink when he was managing Eddie Clearwater's (now defunct) Club. (This is a picture of Leroy with the wife of some amp manufacturer. I found it on their website.)


And to the 33 people slain at Virginia Tech yesterday, I wish you sweet dreams.

"So It Goes..."

Kurt Vonnegut (author, painter, father, veteran, scientist, human being) passed away yesterday from injuries sustained during a fall. He was 84 years old.

Have you ever read such human stories as those of Vonnegut? Well, human in their humor and imagination -- the sense of possibility and the touches of awe and compassion. There was a man stunned by man's cruelty to man -- but he wasn't content to be a mere observer and telegrapher of life. He didn't try to cop out of being an active participant. (Well, maybe once ... but sometimes it's hard to keep waking up every morning when you're both sensitive and observant.)

He didn't quit or sell-out or stick his head up his ass like some narcissistic ostrich. (What happened to some of you guys? When did you all get so damaged and self-involved and undependable?)

Anyway... I'm looking over the list of his Complete Writings, and one exciting thing is ... I've only ever read some of his work -- Breakfast of Champions, Happy Birthday, Wanda June, and, of course, Slaughterhouse Five or The Children's Crusade. So I have tons of Vonnegut works ahead of me. Art has greater longevity than artists. "So it goes."

I really did go back to Dresden with Guggenheim money (God love
it) in 1967. It looked a lot like Dayton, Ohio, more open spaces than
Dayton has. There must be tons of human bone meal in the ground.

Goodnight, Mr. Vonnegut. Thank you! (Read Playing Chess With Kurt Vonnegut by Andrew Leonard. It's a very sweet memorial.)

Howl

Yesterday, a one and a half year old coyote was in the Loop -- the concrete and skyscraper center of Chicago -- and feeling hungry, stopped at Quizno's for a hot prime rib sub. The sandwich staff was quite surprised and not understanding the coyote language, started jumping up on counters and fleeing the premises. The coyote was frightened by such an overreaction to his simple request and climbed into the stainless steel cave with all of the pretty bottles. Maybe his mommy would find him there.

When people I know die, they often send me a coyote. Usually, the wild canine will run alongside of my car when I'm passing through the country. I think it means my loved one has made it safely to the other side. Yesterday, my childhood friend Noreen was waked and today she was buried. It was very creative and of her to send the coyote to Quizno's, so he would appear on the news and I would be sure to promptly get her message.

Molly Ivins, 1944 - 2007

Sweet dreams.

Here is one article from her "old-fashioned newspaper crusade". (And read a tribute to Ivins here.)

Bubba, we -- yes, we --have to stop the war now

By Molly Ivins
Creators Syndicate

The president of the United States does not have the sense that God gave a duck -- so it's up to us. You and me, Bubba.
I don't know why George W. Bush is just standing there like a frozen rabbit, but it's time we found out. The fact is that WE have to do something about it. This country is being torn apart by an evil and unnecessary war, and it has to be stopped. NOW.
This war is being prosecuted in our names, with our money, with our blood, against our will. Polls consistently show that less than 30 percent of the people want to maintain current troop levels. It is obscene and wrong for the president to go against the people in this fashion. And it's doubly wrong for him to increase U.S. troop levels in this hellhole by up to 20,000, as he reportedly will soon announce.
What happened to the nation that never tortured? The nation that wasn't supposed to start wars of choice? The nation that respected human rights and life? A nation that from the beginning was against tyranny?
Where have we gone? How did we let these people take us there? How did we let them fool us?
It's monstrous to put people in prison and keep them there. Since 1215, civil authorities have been obligated to tell people the charges against them if they're arrested. This administration has done away with rights enshrined in the Magna Carta, and we've let them do it.
This will be a regular feature of mine, like an old-fashioned newspaper campaign. Every column, I'll write about this war until we find some way to end it. Every column, we will review some factor we should have gotten right.
So let's take a step back and note that before the war, one of its architects, Paul Wolfowitz, testified to Congress that Iraq had no history of ethnic strife.
Sectarian and ethnic strife is a part of the region. And the region is full of examples of Western colonial powers trying to occupy countries, take their resources and take over the administration of their people -- and failing. The sectarian bloodbath we see daily completely refutes Wolfowitz.
And let's keep in mind that when the Army arrived in Baghdad, we, the television viewers, watched footage of a bunch of enraged and joyous Iraqis pulling down the statue of Saddam Hussein, their repulsive dictator, in Firdos Square. Only one thing was wrong: The event was staged, instigated by a Marine colonel and a psychological operations unit that made it appear spontaneous.
When we later saw the whole square where the statue was located, only 30 to 40 people were there (U.S. soldiers, press and some Iraqis -- and one of several U.S. tanks present pulled the statue down with a cable). We, the television viewers, saw the square being presented as though the people of Iraq had gone into a frenzy, mobbed the square and spontaneously pulled down the statue.
We need to cut through all this smoke and mirrors and come up with an exit strategy, forthwith.
The Democrats have yet to offer a cohesive plan to get us out of this mess. Of course, it's not their fault -- but the fact is that we need leaders who are grown-ups and who are willing to try to fix it. Bush has ignored the actual grown-ups from the Iraq Study Group and the generals and all other experts who are nearly unanimous in the opinion that more troops will not help.
It's up to you and me, Bubba.
We need to make sure that the new Congress curbs executive power, which has been so misused, and asserts its own power to make this situation change.
Now.

"Papa's Got A Brand New Bag!"

(This image borrowed from the James Brown Homepage.)

James Brown (May 3, 1933 - December 25, 2006)

The Godfather of Soul has gone on to the funktastic jam in the sky. Since I was born on his birthday, I always considered him my own personal, secret godfather.

Do you think he and Curtis Mayfield are tuning up even now? I can almost feel that celestial groove channel through my soul, down my spine and out my hips...

When I hold you

In my arms

I know that I can't do no wrong

And when I hold you in my arms

My love can't do me no harm.

And I feel nice, like sugar and spice.

I feel nice, like sugar and spice

So nice, so nice

Well, I got you.

Touch Me, I'm Sick

Touch Me I'm Sick

(one, two)

ooh

wow

ooh

I feel bad, and I've felt worse

I'm a creep, yeah,

I'm a jerk

Come on

Touch me, I'm sick

wow

I won't live long, and I'm full of rot

Gonna give you - girl - everything I got

Touch me, I'm sick, yeah

Touch me, I'm sick

Come on baby, now come with me

If you don't come

If you don't come

If you don't come

You'll die alone

wow

ooh

I'm diseased, I don't mind

I'll make you love me 'till the day you die

Come on

Touch me, I'm sick

ahhh

Fuck me, I'm sick

Come on baby, now come with me

If you don't come

If you don't come

If you don't come

You'll die alone