Despite the seclusion, I did venture out

From an unnumbered red cover stenographer book, mostly October 1972, which includes trips to New York City and Binghamton.

But first: Playing my violin with new bow gifted to me.

Said Swami: “Jnana, I just discovered something about you – you’re a delightfully violent lover!”

From seclusion into the depths of Gotham.

In NYC:

Stimulation overload. Disorientation. Discomfort.

Crazy lady, not yet 30, looks 45. Newsdealer says, “She’s been here 10 times in the last hour. I’m afraid she’ll damage something. Security’s afraid of itself, won’t do no thing.”

Her friend “balled Debbie and Donna in one night, they’re sisters; said he raped one because she was toying with him. He then split for Texas for three weeks.”

~*~

Return to Binghamton on Virgo/Libra cusp 1972, traveling as Swami Jnana, a very difficult trip: everyone asks so many questions, trying to rip apart the riddle, to find out why and what I am now. “You know I can’t go back there anymore,” Joni Mitchell on the stereo.

So difficult for them to call me “Swami,” it’s always the the name no longer relate to …

My trip up? For Len’s b’day?

Hitchhiking a good omen: my first ride a Cadillac [like so many others in my hitchhiking experiences]; from Geneva, Ohio, he commutes weekly from NYC to home, and back, the weekend: once got it down to seven hours …

The second a straight sophomore [meaning non-hippie] from East Stroudsburg State College; a Datsun with many cassette tapes; Iron Butterfly and Grand Funk in the shoebox; strong wind blows us like a boat on rough water; his hair once long (for the summer) this former high school football star telling me about long hair as he heads home to see girlfriend

Take side trip with him, all over Scranton, waving and honking at his friends; I’m dropped off at Clark’s Summit. Scott’s his name.

Third ride a cigar-smoking car dealer from Wilkes-Barre – he lost all business records etc. in the flood; on his way to Upper Cayuga Lake, where he has a large cruiser. A soft, gentle man, honest. I told him I had returned to school [as the ashram could be considered, rather than a commune]. Such a beautiful crisp September day, blue with wispy clouds tearing at me like the drive Vivienne and I took stoned or the September views from the window Len and I had on Hawley street. “There’s something out there you’re not getting,” it says. The driver, meanwhile, told me of a retired couple who had finally cleared themselves of debt had lost everything in the flood – they received government relief of $5,000 – nothing. I told him it was impossible to imagine the flooding, the pain. He nodded, said it is so. People were now fleeing the city, leaving mortgages behind. You have to have a receipt for everything or the government won’t pay, which means your own labor is worthless.

He then told me about the graves exploding as the water undercut the cemetery at Forty Fort; bodies washed away. I later read that some 1,800 bodies were still unaccounted for and heads and arms were being found in people’s backyards etc. Curiosity seekers descend on the towns on Sunday.

Zizi commented that I had met so many fucked-up people and how fortunate I was in getting away … including escaping the sad-trap Press …

Celeste said that when I speak now, it’s from experience, on and of a human plane, not from things I learned in books and of books. She also spoke of being called immoral by some of her housemates. (Immoral? See it as doing anything without love)

Len’s party so dull he and I took the 10-speed bicycles and flew through the streets, downtown running red lights and singing opera at the top of our lungs like birds flying to freedom. Me, seldom so wild and happy in so long.

Out there, a system of threats.

The Bronx funeral trip:

Three knifed to death Saturday night in Upper Bronx; no reason given, no theft; nothing in the news. The mother of one victim turns this into a party; has an autopsy despite Hebraic law; does nobody learn? A gang initiation, murdering a white? Or merely cheap thrills? Going for a walk in a better neighborhood and then being followed unknowingly.

Police call at 4 am – “Come now to lineup – see if we have the man” – and they’re so irritated if the victim’s companions are not immediately out of bed for the station. Sympathy?

Yesterday I was at Len and Ise’s, next day it was Brooklyn.  Such a strange place, the city. Heading to the Bronx, we drove through Harlem, stirring thoughts of Ise. We had left the ashram at night, as soon as I got back to the farm from Binghamton.

People? More wolves than men?

I began reading Moby-Dick on 17 October – great, original, and thoroughly American … such an intoxication, a swell of language …

First mentions of my planned Tibetan novel … “a novel should retain a dream-like entrancement/reality – distortion”

The Dolly Lama, as the kids called him.

“He needs me” is a kind of possession.

Hunter doesn’t accept advice or new ideas, except later. Rigid, has his own way to do a thing (as does Swami) … their (unexpressed) joy of wrestling.

A pipe organ recital program from Tuesday, March 28, St. John Chapel noon series at Columbia University: Reger, Seth Bingham, Jean Langlais premiere performance, Vierne, Dupre.

~*~

The Delaware Water Gap and smaller Wind Gap were major features in our horizon to the east. Here’s a typical view from the neighborhood. Image by Chuck Walsh via Wikimedia Commons.

~*~

From Spiralbound Yoga, with commentary from now.

Anyone ready for a dark valentine?

Love, if you haven’t noticed, can be very hard to define. Really define.

Here are some examples. Add “Be Mine” at your own risk.

  1. “Love isn’t soft, like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.” – Stephen King
  2. “The pain of love is the pain of being alive. It is a perpetual wound. – Maureen Duffy
  3. “Love is a hole in the heart.” – Ben Hecht
  4. “Sex isn’t hard, but intimacy is terrifying.” – Tatiana Maslany
  5. “Love meant jumping off a cliff and trusting that a certain person would be there to catch you at the bottom.” – Jodi Picoult
  6. “But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.” – Khalil Gibran
  7. “You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.” – Franz Kafka
  8. “I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you. I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. If our demons cannot dance, neither can we.” – Nikita Gill
  9. “Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.” – Bob Marley
  10. “Never love anyone who treats you like you’re ordinary.” – Oscar Wilde

As a postscript, let me add this: “If I love you, what business is it of yours?” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

So how do you define love?

 

I’ve really been fighting the urge to blast away politically

After all, my college degree is in political science and I spent a career in community journalism, meaning I had to stay bottled up and objectively neutral, but what’s been happening in national politics in the Trump era is so appalling that when I sit down to create new blog posts, so many are snide comments along the lines of bumper stickers of a FU nature directed at the idiots.

Not that you’d want to display one on your car without the risk of being shot in the neck. Yes, that’s where the level of civility has sunk in this country.

And then there’s the sense of the futility of building sand castles in the beach in advance of tides that will overrun them.

It ain’t been easy.

So for now, I keep holding my thoughts on all of it in reserve, not that I’ve found any of it easy. As I did in my last decade or so of editing the news.

A recent study suggesting that the party divide is ultimately about males, as in the white male, and everything else. Seriously, I read it in the New York Times.

Like Donald Trump is any role model to emulate in a meaningful relationship?

That’s how low we’ve fallen, friends.

In Native parlance, I live at Muselenk

Or is that “in” or rather “on”?

The revival of the Passamaquoddy language has stirred a renewed interest in tribal place names in the easternmost corner of Maine, as we heard in an insightful Sunday afternoon talk by historian Donald Sacotomah last winter at the Eastport Arts Center. Many of those names, I should add, convey first-hand observations of conditions that would get lost in translation. Not that many non-Natives would be so observant of the waters or perhaps even their own emotions.

Concurrently, the Tides Institute and Museum of Art here has updated its free map of the region to include some of those place names, including Muselenk for Eastport, which is largely on Moose Island and where I live.

In trying to land on the its proper pronunciation, I was pointed to a most remarkable website, the Passamaquoddy-Maliseet Language Portal, which has a dictionary that includes recorded examples of pronunciation.

There, I learned that “Muselenk” is an example of a word that was imported from the English, in this case Moose Island.

Which leaves me wondering what this place was called before that. As well as curious about so much more, such as nuances of personal anger in entries a few pages away.

Answers I wish I’d given at the time

My favorite time in my public presentations for my book Quaking Dover have come in the question-and-answer period at the end.

Still, a few questions have caught me off-guard, stimulating my thinking in the days after. Here are a few to date, along with a few more points I’d like to develop in public conversation.

~*~

Why did the Puritans go so viciously after the Quakers? Or was that the other way around? Carla Gardina Pestana in her Quakers and Baptists in Colonial Massachusetts did remark that the Quakers seemed to go out of their way to make trouble, even after they had achieved some concession from the Puritans. I’m left agreeing that Friends were so critical of the Puritans because they felt the Puritans hadn’t gone far enough in their revolution. A description of Quakers as a radical fringe of the Puritan movement further suggests that connection.

How could you sleep at night after writing about some of the horrendous things that happen in the book? At the time I glibly replied a martini before going to bed helped. For a more meaningful answer, I would go back to the experience of dissecting a frog in high school biology, the way I learned to bring an imaginary Plexiglas screen down between me and the formaldehyde amphibian before I gagged and puked. It was a skill I found useful working as a newspaper editor – the emotional distancing that many other professionals find essential. You know, like a mask. I think of one surgical nurse I knew who had no problem with open-heart surgery, for instance, but when she saw the movie All That Jazz and the retractors went to work on the big screen of the theater, she vomited.

The Puritans in context. While they come off as villains in my book, they were far less hostile than the Virginians. There you could be executed if you missed three public worship services. At least one Quaker died after being severely whipped and thrown in a prison cell. There may have been further atrocities per Kenneth Carroll.

Richard Waldron in context. What were his redeeming qualities? He is a complex and largely unexplored figure in early American history.

I don’t intend this to be the “final word” on the topic but rather a starting point for some deeper discussion and inquiry. Inclusion of the ways faith i.e. religion is a core but often neglected/overlooked aspect of personal and public life can add to our comprehension. In the colonial era, especially, religious identity and political affiliation were practically one.

Working against a deadline. If it weren’t for the Dover400 anniversary opportunities, I’d still be researching. The big book remains to be written, if anyone wants to pursue it.

~*~

I am interested in other provocative questions, so fire away if you wish.

A guardian angel appears for Maine’s daily newspapers

All but one of the state’s daily newspapers recently came under new ownership, but the surprise is that it’s not a mass-media corporation run by profit-squeezing accountants or, worse yet, investment brokers.

Instead, they now come under a non-profit committed to maintaining community journalism.

I’m hoping this is a wave of the future.

Curiously, it’s also something my last employer, the conservative New Hampshire Union Leader, turned to for continuation.

It will be vital to see how this plays out.