Author: frankisemptiness

May 19th, 2019

We stayed in a casino. We didn’t do it on purpose. Seriously. It just sort of happened.

Karin and I were on our way to Reno to see Joseba and his wife, Goretti. Joseba and I are friends because of a brief interaction we had at a peace action two years ago in front of Creech Air force Base in Nevada. The group was getting ready to do some civil disobedience, and Joseba and I struck up a conversation. It turned out that we were both writers. In any case, we talked for at most five minutes before we blocked the entrance to the air force base. When the cops came, I got busted. Joseba didn’t.

By rights, our relationship should have ended there. It didn’t. Somehow, we stayed connected during the next two years. Joseba bought a copy of the book I wrote about Hans and the Iraq War. He sent me a copy of his book, “That Old Bilbao Moon”. (Joseba is a Basque. He has written a great deal about the city of Bilbao and the Basque portion of Spain.) Our correspondence centered on our writing, and on family matters. We often talked about meeting again, but it never seemed to possible.

Until now.

Karin and I had stayed with Hans and his family in Texas, and we were on our way to visit Senji and Gilberto at their temple near Seattle. Reno was kind of on our way between Texas and Seattle. So, Karin and I worked it out to spend a night with Joseba and his wife, Goretti. Both Joseba and Goretti were in the middle of a massive transition in their lives. They were both retiring from the University of Nevada in Reno. They were busy selling their house, so that they could move back to Spain. Karin and I were arriving to see them at a chaotic time. It turned out to be exactly the right time.

We arrived at Joseba’s house around 5:30 in the afternoon, after a long, lonely ride through the length and breadth of Nevada. Joseba was a bit surprised to see us come so early. We had expected to pull into Reno closer to seven o’clock. Goretti was attending a photography class, and she wouldn’t be done until 7:00. Joseba suggested that he take us over to the hotel where he had booked a room for us.

We didn’t stay in Joseba’s house because he had literally just sold it, and the place was half-empty and half in disarray. Joseba and Goretti had insisted on getting a hotel room for us in Reno. Karin and I were okay with that, although it seemed extremely generous on their part. Karin suggested that we offer to pay for the meal that evening. I mentioned to Joseba that Karin and I wanted to buy dinner. He would have none of it.

His instantaneous response to our proposal was, “No, of course you won’t pay! We are Basque! You are our guests!”

End of subject. That’s old school hospitality.

We followed Joseba into downtown Reno. He pulled into the parking lot of The Sands.

We were initially surprised, but not for long. We hadn’t expected to be staying in a room at a casino, but we should have. I mean, we were in Reno. Where else would a visitor stay besides at a casino? If Joseba hadn’t set us up at The Sands, we probably would have been at Harrah’s, El Dorado, or Circus Circus.

Karin and I had a nice room on the 12th floor of The Sands. (A bit of trivia: there was no 13th floor in the hotel. The elevator goes directly from the 12th floor to the 14th. “13” is bad luck and all that). Karin did notice that was impossible to open the room window. She surmised that this was to prevent big losers from flinging themselves down to the pavement below. Suicides are generally bad publicity at a casino.

Karin and I wandered around the casino until Joseba and Goretti came to pick us up for dinner. Karin had never been in an American casino before. I got plenty of experience in casinos last spring, when I was wandering around the country with the Indians. They are all the same: no windows, no clocks, and enough flashing lights to trigger an epileptic seizure. There was no efficient way to get anywhere in the casino. Karin and I got lost repeatedly. Casinos are flashy, gaudy, and designed to keep customers inside. It’s a system that works.

Joseba and Goretti took us to a distant Italian restaurant. La Vecchia sat on a hill and it had a panoramic view of Reno. At night we could see the downtown all lit up with red, purple, and green lights. The restaurant was much fancier than the eateries where Karin and I usually go. I had never been in a place where the waiter offers to grate fresh Parmesan cheese on to your plate. The food was excellent, and the conversation was better.

Karin and Goretti spoke mostly to each other. Joseba and I did the same. We talked about writing, as usual. Joseba is an academic, so he writes all the time. Because of his job, he has to write. He has to produce essays for publication. This is where we differ. I write (as I am now) because I want to write. I don’t have a gun to my head. Joseba, until now, has been required to write, and that can be a curse.

We talked about retirement. I am already three years into my retirement. Joseba, although he is older than me, is just starting this new phase of life. Joseba knows that he will continue to write. That is his great gift. Now he can write when he wants, and he can write what he wants. This is a huge change for him. He wanted to know if he should start a blog. I didn’t have any good advice for him. I could only suggest that he write about his passions. Retirement is a wonderful thing, but the shadow of mortality hovers over it all. Joseba and I are in the last chapters of our lives. We need to make the days and minutes count. We need to do what we love, and we need to do it well.

After dinner, Joseba and Goretti took us back to The Sands. Joseba promised to share breakfast with us before we continued on our journey in the morning. He made mention to us that the gambling industry in Reno had faded somewhat during the last decade or so. Indian tribes in California had opened up their own casinos, and they had siphoned off customers from Reno.

I could see that. The casinos were still brightly lit, but they looked tired somehow. The sign for The Sands had a light burnt out where the “n” should have been. I noticed other things. Nobody was at the crap tables or playing cards. Anybody who was in the casino was sitting at the slots. The Sands had all sorts of posters showing healthy, happy, young people gambling. I saw nobody who looked like that. Everyone in the casino was old. They were not only old, but they looked rough. I remember one woman with an oxygen tank, playing the slots, and never once glancing away from the flashing screen.

Karin and I got up the next morning, and we waited in the casino to meet with Joseba. The bar was already open, and it was already full. I have had an early morning drink in my time, but these people were pros. I listened briefly to customers talk the usual shit that barflies talk. It was profoundly depressing.

We found Joseba, and we went into Mel’s 50’s Diner, which is also part of the casino complex. Joseba noted that this restaurant was odd, in that it actually had windows.

Joseba said wryly, “You are getting the real Nevada experience.”

Indeed.

It was hard for us to say goodbye to Joseba. I think it was hard for him too. We had only had a few hours together, and we were lucky to have even that. Maybe Karin and I will go to Spain, and visit Joseba and Goretti. Maybe they will visit us in Wisconsin. Who knows?

All I know is that we are grateful for the time we had. Truly grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 16th, 2019

The Abbey of the Hills is nestled amid farm fields and woods in the northeastern corner of South Dakota, quite close to the Minnesota border. It was the last stop for Karin and myself, as we made our way home from the Pacific Northwest. To say that the abbey is out of the way would be a gross understatement. The abbey’s address uses the town of Marvin as its location, and I don’t recall ever even seeing a town called Marvin. If there is a Marvin, South Dakota, it is carefully hidden, or remarkably small.

The Abbey of the Hills actually sits atop of a hill. There aren’t many hills in that part of the world. Most of the land is flat or nearly so. Cornfields stretch across the prairie for miles upon miles. The home of Laura Ingalls Wilder is not too far away. That might give you a sense of the landscape. After all, she wrote all of those “Little House on the Prairie” books.

Karin and I arrived at the abbey after a long drive from Rapid City, South Dakota.  We had to call Valari at the monastery for additional directions when we got close to the place, because we got confused. There were no landmarks to use as guides. Valari got us on to the right road, and eventually we saw the church steeple in the distance. We came up the driveway and parked. Ours was the only car in the lot.

We got out of the Toyota, and we were grateful just to walk around and stretch. We met Valari inside. She worked as the receptionist. Like many retreat houses, this place was nearly empty during the week. Valari welcomed us, and escorted us to our room for the night.

We asked her about the abbey. Valari explained,

“This abbey was run by the Benedictines for many years. At one point, there were over eighty monks in this monastery. Their numbers dwindled. Five years ago, they were down to fourteen monks, the average age of which was eighty. They just couldn’t do it any more. So, we took over. We are part of a non-profit that handles the property and provides retreats here.”

Our room was down a long corridor in the “monks’ wing”. It was nice room, with a queen-size bed, and a vanity with a sink. Our window faced to the east. There was a separate shower room, and a separate restroom. Karin did not like the restroom because it had urinals. Well, the building was designed for monks. Monks are men, and they often use urinals. Maybe, at some time, they will redesign the bathrooms, but not yet.

We made our own supper in the kitchen. Karin and I ate alone in the dining room. Everything there was clean and well-organized, and abandoned. I kept imagining how that dining room would have been when it was full of monks. It was probably noisy and chaotic and alive. When we were there, it was not alive  We ate quietly in a museum.

After supper, Karin and I went for a walk. We did some exploring. We went outside and looked over the grounds. We found an old handball court, and a tennis court. We found sheds and outbuildings that clearly had not felt the hands of men for years and years. We walked past a small lake (or pond). It was cold and windy, with the threat of rain. The bells in the clock tower rang every quarter hour. We heard nothing else, and we saw no one else.

Karin and I returned to the abbey. We went into the church. It had choir stalls for the monks, monks who would never, ever return to fill them. The church felt empty and forlorn. Karin said that it was because the chapel no longer held the Blessed Sacrament. The Eucharist no longer resided in that space. so, in a way, God no longer resided there. I didn’t stay in the church very long. There was there nothing for me.

I went back to our room. Karin found a nice meeting room with a fireplace and a portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe hanging on the wall. Karin stayed there to knit and do her evening prayer. I walked around. The rooms were all immaculate, and they all had a donated quilt as a bedspread. The corridors were eerie, a bit like the hallways in the hotel from the movie, “The Shining”. I never quite felt alone. I felt the presence of the spirits of the monks, or at least of their memories. ‘

Karin and I had breakfast in the dining room near the kitchen. We were on our own. I made some coffee. There was cereal, yogurt, fruit, and bread available to us. We ate mostly in silence. We cleaned up after ourselves.

As we packed our things after breakfast, We met the caretaker, Sylvia. She is our age (i.e. old), and she is tall with grey hair and eyeglasses. She was wrapped up in a shawl. Sylvia apologized for not being there early enough to make coffee for us.

I told her that it was okay. We know how to make coffee.

Sylvia asked about our stay.

I told her, “It’s a nice place, but it’s full of ghosts.”

Sylvia gave me a stern look, and she asked,

“Were they bad?”

“No, no. They were okay. They were just here.”

“Who were they?”

“The monks.”

“Sylvia nodded, “I know what you mean.”

We talked for a bit. Sylvia told us about how empty it was here during the winter. They had had a brutal winter here, much like that in Wisconsin. Sylvia and I talked about Native American rituals. She seemed to know a lot about them. Eventually, the conversation faded, and Sylvia said,

“I want to go to the lake and pray.”

Fair enough.

We said our goodbyes.

Karin and I went home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 18th, 2019

“A little bit of this town goes a very long way.” – Hunter S. Thompson

Nevada is a big state. It is an amazingly long drive from the Las Vegas to Reno. Karin and I did not actually start from Vegas (thank God), but we were in the vicinity. We began our day’s journey from Zion, Utah, and the GPS took us through some obscure corner of northwestern Arizona in order to get us into the great state of Nevada. Keep in mind that I have some personal history in Nevada. Two years ago, I got busted at a protest in front of Creech Air Force Base, and I was able to spend some quality time in the CCDC (Carson County Detention Center). Nevada has weird energy for me.

Well, I should talk a bit about the Great Basin, since that is the title of this essay. Nevada resides almost entirely within the Great Basin. The Great Basin is a place where rivers never meet the sea. That is the definition in a hydro-graphic sense. Nevada is surrounded by high, snow covered mountains. In the spring and summer, the snow on these peaks melt, providing streams and rivers of fresh water that flow into small lakes. Eventually, all of the snow melt, and the streams dry up. Then these lakes and ponds turn into dusty salt flats. They become places where dust devils go to play.

Karin and I had the opportunity to see both the sweet lakes and the forbidding salt flats. The lakes were small, but life-giving. They were often surrounded on their edges by cottonwoods with deep roots. Enterprising ranchers irrigate fields with the water to keep their cattle alive and well. When we drove through places where the snow melt had been exhausted, Karin asked me why the ground was so white. It was salt, all of it. We saw tiny tornadoes of dust dance over these salt flats. It was desolation like that of St,. John’s Apocalypse.

There are very few towns in the Great Basin. A person learns quickly to take advantage of every opportunity to refuel. It is not unusual to drive two hours and not find any kind of service. It is not unusual to drive for over an hour, and not see another vehicle going in either direction. This can be disconcerting to some people.

There are stretches of road that are utterly deserted. These highways are in flat valleys and they are straight as a die. It is impossible for a driver to determine the distance through these level areas between the mountains. One hundred miles looks like twenty.

It is tempting to exceed the posted speed limit. Generally, the roads are posted at 70 mph. A driver is a damn fool if he or she drives at less eighty. On these highways there is often the sense that you are hardly moving at all. Correspondingly, there is an intense desire to pass slower-moving vehicles, even if they are already going at a reckless speed. It is extremely difficult to estimate the speed of oncoming traffic, little though there is. Any car or truck coming from the other way seems to be either too close or too far, depending on a person’s perspective. Passing in the left lane can become a dangerous pastime.

There is also the hazard of cattle on the road. Most of Nevada has open grazing, which means no fences, which means a steer can be on the highway at any time. Hitting a cow at 80 mph would be unfortunate for everyone involved.

There are towns on the route which really don’t qualify as towns. Luning is one of them. The burg is little more than a collection of boarded up buildings and houses that are collapsing of their own weight. Luning is a speed trap that screams of desolation. The entire place is nothing more than a backdrop for another zombie movie.

Weather is peculiar in the Great Basin. We encountered a micro-storm while driving along. Cumulus clouds crammed the sky and raindrops poured down. In most cases, the rain never hit the ground. The moisture evaporated before it could arrive. However, on one occasion, the rain slammed into our car, and I had turn the wipers on as fast as they could go. The shower was done in less than a minute. It did clean the bugs off of the windshield.

As we got closer to Reno, we drove past the Hawthorne Army Depot. There were rows upon rows of ammunition bunkers. Every section of the highway is dedicated to some poor bastards who fought and died in an American war.  I truly feel for the guys who are stationed there. What a hideous place to be.

Was all of Nevada ugly? No. Some of it was beautiful in a rugged, brutal sort of way. Parts of the state were absolutely glorious. There was just too much of it.

 

 

 

May 16th, 2019

South Dakota is boring in a way that is difficult to describe. I don’t mean that the entire state is boring. Some parts of it, like the Badlands or the Black Hills, are quite impressive. Unfortunately, much of the vast expanse of South Dakota is flat and treeless. It is a mind-numbing landscape. Time crawled as Karin and I drove through it today. I can’t even imagine what it must of been like for the pioneers to cross the prairie.

It’s not that South Dakota is boring because it is desolate. Parts of it are green and fertile, and farmers raise cattle and grow corn on this land. Arizona is much more desolate than South Dakota, but its scenery is varied, and often breathtaking. South Dakota is boring because for hundreds of miles nothing changes, nothing at all. A person can drive along I-90 for hours and not notice anything new. Even when moving at a speed of 80 mph or more, there is a sense that no progress is being made.

Being that much of South Dakota is monotonous, people eagerly look for something out of the ordinary. Even a cow or a tree can catch a person’s interest. Towns along I-90 vie for the attention of travelers. For instance, Mitchell takes pride in its Corn Palace. Another place has a 50’s auto museum. But nothing beats the town of Wall, South Dakota.

Wall is home to Wall Drug. There are signs along the highway advertising the glories of Wall Drug as far west as the Wyoming border, or as far east as Minnesota. The signs say: “Free ice water!” or “Five cent coffee!” or “Six foot rabbit!” Eventually, the messages seep into the mind of the sensory-deprived driver. The desire to stop at Wall Drug becomes overwhelming. A person is ready for literally any kind of distraction.

Karin wanted to stop at Wall Drug. We had been there once before, many years ago. I had found the experience to be profoundly disturbing. Well, that was a long time ago. How bad could it be?

At some point in its history, Wall Drug was just a pharmacy in some little town in the middle of nowhere. Now, do to its location (or lack of location), Wall Drug is a tourist mecca. It has no competition. There is nothing else to see for miles in either direction. People, like Karin and myself, stop there because we can’t stand the long and winding road any more. 

Wall Drug is actually a collection of stores and restaurants, all housed under one roof. One shop is linked to another. It resembles a souk or bazaar in the Middle East more than anything else. It is easy to become lost in there, and I believe that is by design. Like a casino, Wall Drug makes it hard for a person to escape without spending money. We didn’t make it out of there without opening our wallets. I don’t think anyone does.

Wall Drug seems to specialize in selling amusingly tacky products. You know, authentic faux Indian merchandise, and that sort of thing. The place is full of pseudo-cowboy kitsch. There is a Travelers Chapel that is almost sacrilegious in its cheesiness. The place is a wholesome, all-American tourist trap, and Wall Drug is proud of it.

After maybe twenty minutes, I had to flee outside the building.

Karin laughed.

 

Wall Drug specializes in selling tacky merchandise. You know, authentic faux Indian blankets, and that sort of thing. The place is filled with pseudo-cowboy kitsch. It’s just hideous. They have a Travelers Chapel that is  

 

May 15th, 2019

The GPS initially was taking us south on I-90 toward Sheridan, Wyoming. Then it told us to turn off the freeway and take US Highway 212 instead. The exit off of I-90 took us right to the entrance of the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. Karin wanted to see it. I didn’t. We went to Little Bighorn.

I wasn’t very interested in seeing the battlefield. I have seen battlefields before, and generally they just look like ordinary fields or woods. After a while, all the evidence of violence fades or rusts away. Little Bighorn is like that. The monument covers 765 acres of rolling hills that look just like all the hills that surround them. The land is covered with tall grass and clover. There are occasionally small yellow flowers that keep the butterflies and bees busy. Apparently, snakes like this place too. Far off in the distance, a person can see snow capped mountains.

Little Bighorn is home to a national cemetery. It also has a small visitors center. Most of the monument can be viewed within an hour. The visitors center is located near Last Stand Hill. Karin and I walked up the trail to Last Stand Hill. On top of the knoll is a granite memorial dedicated to the soldiers of the 7th Cavalry. The names of the fallen are inscribed in the stone. Under the massive monument lie the bodies of most of the fallen soldiers and civilians who were part of the 7th Cavalry on that fateful day in 1876. Many of the officers’ bodies were eventually re-interred elsewhere. Custer’s body is lying under the ground at West Point, his Alma Mater and mine.

There are numerous white stone markers scattered on the hill and throughout the local vicinity. These stones show where soldiers fell during the battle. Many of the markers have the name of deceased written on them.

I felt a slow anger welling up in me as I looked at the memorials on Last Stand Hill. It was all about the white guys. There was even a memorial for their horses. I didn’t see anything there that made mention of the Indians who fought and died in the battle.

I told Karin, “I don’t like it here. It feels wrong. It’s just about Custer and the soldiers.”

She said, “I feel that too.”

We walked a ways and saw two red stones near the path. They showed the place where two Cheyenne warriors died in the fight. My mood lightened a bit.

We walked a little further and found the Indian Memorial. I wasn’t even aware that there was such a thing. The Indian Memorial is built into the hill in the form of a circle. It’s not obvious at all, and could easily be missed. This is in stunning contrast to the memorial on Last Stand Hill, which is totally in your face.

We walked into the circle, and we saw the Indians’ story of the battle written on the stone walls. One portion struck me deeply. Carved into the rock is a picture of Custer speaking with the Indian leader, Stone Forehead, in 1869. At that time, Custer promised,

“I will never kill another Cheyenne.”

Stone Forehead replied to Custer, “If you break your promise, you and your soldiers will go to dust like this.”

And so it came to pass.

I suddenly felt sad, sad to the point of nausea. I sat down on a ledge on one side of the circle.

I wept.

I don’t know why. It all felt tragic and pointless.

Karin came back from taking some pictures. She stared at me for a moment. Then she said, “Maybe we should go now.”

Karin drove us back to the highway.

I told her, “It was a good idea to stop at the monument. It was worth doing.”

She kept driving. She said,

“I’m sorry that going there made you cry. But, I’m not sorry that we went there…”

She paused a moment, and continued, “because now I know that somebody cares.”

 

 

 

 

May 14th, 2019

“I remember once in the Holy Land seeing a sign in the shape of an arrow along a road. It said, “Armageddon, 4 kilometers.” If ever there was a sign that made you wonder whether you wanted to continue down a road, this was it.”

― Father Benedict J. Groeschel,  from “After This Life: What Catholics Believe about What Happens Next”

“If Kitsap County was an independent country, it would be the third largest nuclear power in the world.”

– Brother Gilberto Perez

The Ground Zero Center for Nonviolent Action occupies a small piece of land in Poulsbo, WA, that butts up against the U.S. Naval Base Kitsap-Bangor. There is, in fact, a chain link fence with barbed wire separating the two properties. There is a large and intimidating “No Trespassing” on the fence. The imposing fence and sign were not put up by the folks at Ground Zero. They are obviously the work of the U.S. Navy. There is a road next to the fence that is regularly patrolled by Navy personnel. They are eager to protect the nuclear weapons which are on the base allegedly to protect us.

On Saturday, the day before Mother’s Day. Ground Zero sponsored a peace action directed against the Trident submarines that are stationed at Kitsap-Bangor. It was an all day affair that included breakfast and lunch, along with classes, and a demonstration in front of the main gate of the nuclear submarine base.

Karin and I rode to Ground Zero along with Senji, Gilberto, and Ben. Karin and I were staying with Gilberto and Senji at their temple on Bainbridge Island. It is only a short ride to Poulsbo from the Nipponzan Myohoji Dojo. I think we arrived there around 8:30ish in the morning. A few people were milling about. There was a tent set up in front of the peace center with a table for signing in and procuring a name tag.

Karin and I met a man named Michael who showed us around the property. He showed us the stupa that had been built. Then he pointed out a wooded area that covered the ruins of the original peace pagoda. The pagoda had burned down in suspicious circumstances over thirty years ago. The steel rebar from the structure was still there, buried under bushes and trees. A member of the Ground Zero community plans to cut down the woods and removing the rebar. Michael was unsure when that would occur.

A new peace pagoda is scheduled to be built on the site of the first structure. The reconstruction project has been a decades-long process, often hindered by local bureaucracy. Apparently, the last regulatory obstacle is being surmounted, and the new peace pagoda will be built. The monks from the temple have been deeply involved with this effort, and they have shown a very Buddha-like patience.

Elizabeth, who who runs the peace center full time as a volunteer, kept the day’s activities flowing. She gently, but firmly, encouraged people to get with the program. I don’t envy her. It was like herding cats. I would have lost patience within the first hour.

The schedule started with a light breakfast. After that, a video was shown concerning Julia Howe Ward, and the origins of Mothers Day as a day to promote world peace. It was a good video, actually quite moving. Then we all got to hear the Seattle Peace Chorus.

The chorus was tuneful and enthusiastic. They were also out of date. The song list included “Blowin’ in the Wind” from Bob Dylan, “If I had a Hammer” from Pete Seeger, and “This Land is Your Land” by Woody Guthrie. Don’t get me wrong: those are all great songs. However, those songs are usually only meaningful to a particular demographic group, and that group is old. 

Even a casual glance around the room showed that the people assembled for this peace action were up in years. There was a younger family with their children at the site, but they did not seem to be actively involved in the program. Other than that family, the youngest persons I saw were Ben and Ray. Ray is an Air Force veteran. I would guess that Ray was in his forties. Everybody else was old, by any objective standard.

Does this matter? I think it does. All of the people involved with Ground Zero are deeply concerned about eliminating nuclear arms. They all see these weapons as an existential threat to humanity, and to all the other life on earth. They are correct. However, nobody from the up and coming generations seem to share their passion. Younger people care about many other things, although I am not entirely sure what those things are.

I have been wondering what Hans, my combat vet, redneck son, would say about the folks that were gathered at Ground Zero. I suspect that he would shake his head and mutter, “Bunch of old hippies”. He would be right to say so. This senior crowd working to stop nuclear war is fighting the good fight. Unfortunately, they aren’t recruiting anybody to follow in their footsteps. Ground Zero needs some fresh blood, or the organization will go the way of the dinosaurs and the woolly mammoths. Extinction will not help the cause. I don’t know what can be done to attract young people to this effort, but whatever Ground Zero is doing now is simply not working.

Anyway, back to the meeting.

A lawyer, Blake Kremer, gave an outstanding presentation about how to deal with the police when involved in a protest. He gave us a list of magic words to use with the cops. The first of those were: “Am I free to leave?” Then there were: “I wish to remain silent”, and “I do not consent to a search”. He explained repeatedly that the police are professional evidence gatherers, and should be treated accordingly. He also discussed the legality of making videos of arrests. The bottom line was that a person recording an arrest would probably be charged with something ambiguous, something that basically meant “contempt of cop”. All in all, the information presented was excellent.

After lunch, Kathy Kelly spoke. She is a remarkable woman. She has been involved in peace actions all over the world. She has been arrested repeatedly. She has unlimited energy. Kathy also has the rare ability to recognize the humanity in the persons who are opposing her.  She hates war and violence and injustice, but I have never seen her hate another human being. Her compassion is universal.

The last part of the day involved the preparations for the action, and the actual demonstration in front of the main gate at the naval base. I was truly impressed with how that all went down. These people had trained and prepared for the protest, and everybody knew their role in it. Some people, like Ben, served as peace keepers to ensure the safety of the other participants. Some people planned on carrying out acts of civil disobedience, and thereby getting arrested. I carried a sign.

The demonstration itself went smoothly. There were plenty of cops at the gate, but they knew beforehand what would happen. They knew what we would do, and we knew pretty much how they would react. People from our group broke the law nonviolently. The cops arrested them. Our folks got fines, and were then released. We made our point, and there were no surprises. That’s actually a good thing, a very good thing. I have been to protests that were not well planned, and chaos ensued. It is not a good idea to do things that scare men carrying loaded firearms. Sometimes boring is okay. Drama is often overrated.

Did we close down Kitsap-Bangor? No.

Are there any fewer Trident submarines? No.

Did we make any difference at all? Maybe.

I think that we did make a difference, but one that is difficult to see. We may have made one more person aware of the danger. We may have influenced one person to look more closely at the American war machine. We may have planted the seed of doubt into the conscience of a serviceman who is working at that naval base.

Maybe that is enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 12th, 2019

I seldom experience true darkness. At home there is always some sort of ambient light. Even on moonless nights, the sky always has a hazy glow, and only the brightest of the stars show through it. It’s not that way in the desert.

The monks at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert ring the bell for Vigils just before 4:00 AM. I got up grudgingly on three nights to pray the psalms with the brothers. Karin went along with me once. Each time I left the retreat house, I was astounded by the utter blackness that surrounded me. There was a small light outside the door of the house to guide me, but after a few steps, I walked like a blind man on the path toward the church.

I always looked up at that point, and I stared at the stars above me. Some of the sky was hidden by the high canyon walls, but the visible portion of the heavens was glorious. When I looked to the east, I could see Scorpio and Sagittarius rising. Jupiter was near to  them, blazing with a frozen fire. The Milky Way crossed the night sky like glowing, ragged river. There were so many stars, and they were so bright, and they were so cold. Starlight is a curious thing. The light of the sun brings warmth even on the shortest day of winter, but the stars burn like ice. Their light shines with a jewel-like purity. It is a purity that is brilliant, and yet somehow dead. Stars make the rest of the sky completely black in contrast to them. The stars accentuate a darkness that is already overwhelming.

After Vigils, Lauds, and Mass, I went to for a long walk in the morning. I walked for six miles along the dusty, dirt road that connects the monastery with the rest of the world. The sunlight never completely illuminated the canyon. Portions of it were always in shadow. I came back to the retreat house and sat in a chair on the porch. One of the canyon’s cliffs towered over me. I watched the sunlight play hide and seek on the canyon wall.

The cliffs that surround the Chama River Valley are sandstone, laid down in some ancient sea eons ago. Now the primeval seabed is lifted hundreds of feet in the air, and I could see the various layers of stone as I sat on the porch. At the very top, the sandstone was a dirty grey. Below it, the rocks were bright yellow. The next layer was white. The lowest and largest of the strata was rust red, like the surface of Mars. Each of these layers subtly changed their colors as the sun made its journey through the sky. Greys became darker and dimmer when the sun moved away. The yellow stones became ocher when left in the shade. Whites turned to dull grey until the sunlight returned to brightened them. The rust colored stones turned to blood when the abandoned by the sun.

These changes of hue were rapid and unexpected. I was often distracted by other things: a black beetle crawling near my feet, a butterfly that came to play, a hummingbird flying in every direction at once. When I looked back at the canyon wall, it looked entirely different. New hollows and crevices were illuminated. Other indentations were swallowed up in shadow. I saw trees and bushes that I hadn’t seen before. They clung desperately to crags with their roots, holding on to a paper-thin layer of soil and the slightest bit of moisture. The green of the plants provided a welcome contrast to the red rocks. It showed me the tenacity of life.

I sat for hours watching the canyon wall. It was a wonderful show.

 

May 11th, 2019

“We will pray this afternoon at the beach, not in the temple. Today is special.”

Senji didn’t say why the day was special. He just said that it was. It could have been because Karin and I had just arrived at the temple a few hours earlier. We had driven to the Nipponzan Myohoji Dojo from Wisconsin, via Texas. It was an absurdly long journey, with numerous stops along the way. We finally made it to the temple on Bainbridge Island, which sits across from Seattle on Puget Sound.

Bainbridge Island is essentially a bedroom community for wealthy workers in Seattle. The vast majority of the residents of the island have college degrees, and nearly all of them have a great deal of money. The only possible exceptions would be the two Buddhist monks, Senji and Gilberto. They have degrees, but not much money. They maintain their tiny temple with donations, and they spend most of their time working to promote peace. Their home is an island of voluntary poverty situated in the middle of an island of affluence.

Generally, Gilberto and Senji drum and chant in their temple twice a day, at 6:00 AM and at 5:30 PM. Senji decided to take Karin and myself to Gazzam Lake Park for the evening session. As its name implies, the park contains a small lake, but it also has a footpath that leads to the seashore. A branch of Puget Sound called Port Orchard separates Bainbridge Island from the Olympic Peninsula. The footpath twists and turns steeply down a hillside to the edge of Port Orchard channel.

I had been to this park once before. That was in February of last year. Winter on Bainbridge Island is cool and rainy. The forest was damp and wet during my previous visit. This time, as Karin, Senji, and I walked the narrow path down to the sea, the ground was dry and the air was warm. The plants were still lush and green. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees, sometimes shining a spotlight on a particular bush or plant.

The trail wound through a forest made up of towering Douglas firs and cedars. There were also maples and birch trees interspersed among the conifers. Some of the trees were covered with lichen, while others had beards of green moss hanging from their branches. Ivy and ferns covered the ground. Occasionally, I could see tiny white flowers scattered here and there.

We took our time walking the path to the shore. It was very steep, and in places steps had been built into the trail. We had to climb over a massive tree branch to get to the beach. The beach had pebbles, but very little sand. The water from the sea lapped softly on to the shore. The afternoon sun beat down on us, and we all sat down on large stones.

Senji reached into his satchel and took out two taikos, handheld Japanese drums. He gave one of them to me. Then the three of us began to chant “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” over and over. “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” is a chant distilled from the Lotus Sutra. Senji and I drummed as we chanted. I tried to blend my thin tenor with his rich baritone. Karin chanted with her alto voice during the space when Senji and I were silent. We chanted and drummed for at least half an hour. During that time, the sun got closer to the western horizon. Shadows lengthened. White birds flew above us, and motorboats sped through the channel. Sunlight danced on the waves of the water. I could smell the salt in the air. I could also smell incense. The taikos must have absorbed a bit of the smoke from all the incense that was burned in the temple.

We stopped chanting. Senji spoke of the sixteenth chapter of the Lotus Sutra. In particular he talked about our inherent Buddha nature, and about our path to fully expressing that innermost part of ourselves. Then we all stood up and bowed to the West. Then we turned and faced each other, in order to bow to the Buddha that we saw within the  other person.

We were at peace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 30th, 2019

“I’m looking for an interruption
Do you believe?
You looking to dig my dreams
Be prepared for anything
You come into my little scene
Hooray, hooray, hip hip hooray
There’s one thing I can guarantee
You won’t have to dig, dig too deep
Said leave me to lay, but touch me deep
I don’t sleep, I dream
I’ll settle for a cup of coffee
But you know what I really need.”

From “I Don’t Sleep, I Dream” by R.E.M.

I was lying on the couch in Hans’ living room. I had been startled from a dream by a noise in his apartment at about 1:45 AM. It was now about 2:30, and I was hovering in that grey space between sleep and wakefulness. I couldn’t let myself drift completely away, because I knew that Hans needed to start work at 3:00 AM, and he needed me to drive him to the concrete company’s yard.

Hans’ VW Passat is at the dealership for repair. That’s why he needed me to give him a ride to work. The Passat is a black car with a black interior. The air conditioning doesn’t work, and Hans lives in Texas. This means that within a month or two, the car will be unbearably hot to drive. Hans could probably put up with that kind of misery, but his baby boy, Weston, cannot. Getting the A.C. fixed is not optional. It has to be done. We figured that he might as well get it fixed while Karin and I are visiting. That way, Hans and Gabi and Weston have our car available while the VW is in the shop.

I used to work third shift at a trucking company. I did that for almost twenty years. I never got used to it. I always felt a little incoherent, both at work and at home. All those  years of living like a vampire ruined my ability to get any good sleep. Even now, after have been retired for over three years, I still wake up in the wee hours of the morning, and restlessly wait for the sunrise to come.

It’s not a long drive to Hans’ workplace. It takes maybe fifteen minutes to get there. This is a good thing, because my reaction time sucks at this time of the day/night.

I heard Hans getting up at around 2:15. Gabi was up too. Fortunately, Weston, the four month old, was still dozing. Hans took a piss, got dressed, and gathered up his belongings. Once he put on his work boots and his Capitol Concrete cap, we went out to my car. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say.

Hans was tired when he got up. He’s always tired, just like I was always tired. He had worked eighteen hours the previous day pumping concrete. He had started his shift on Monday at 1:00 AM, and he didn’t get done until 7:00 PM. Karin picked him up at the end of his shift and brought him home. He looked rough when he got back. He was totally covered with dirt, and completely worn out. He had bought himself a couple Lime-ritas, and he cracked one open as soon as he walked in the door. He warmed up some chicken that he had brought home from Sodolak’s restaurant on Saturday. He ate the food listlessly, more from a sense of duty than from appetite.

Weston was in his swing when Hans came home. Hans looked closely at his little boy, and told him,

“Don’t ever pump concrete.”

Good advice.

As we drove down US 190 this morning, Hans asked me,

“Can we stop at the store?”

The store is in a gas station on the way to his work. Hans goes there to buy Red Bull, bottled water, and smokes. I waited in the the car as Hans purchased the things that would help him to survive today.

When we got to the concrete company, Hans had to get out of the car to unlock and open the gate to the yard. Oh, Sweet Jesus, that brought back ugly memories for me. I used to unlock the gate at my workplace every Sunday night for years and years. I hated that. I suspect that Hans hates it too. So, why did this action carry over to another generation? I worked hard because I thought that my kids would not need to go through the same bullshit. Yet they do.

I dropped off Hans next to his pump truck. It is an impressive vehicle. It has twelve wheels and a 58 meter boom on it. Hans is proud to operate something so large and so complex. He should be proud of his work. He has a very responsible job. It’s not really a bad job. It’s just the hours that are slowly killing him.

We will pick up Hans from work some time this evening. He will be at the ragged end of exhaustion, like he is nearly every day. He works in order to care for Gabi and Weston, but he has nothing left to give them when he gets home. I know how that feels.

 

 

 

April 28th, 2019

Weston is four months old. Hans has plans for him. Big plans.

I guess that is normal for a new father. I probably had big plans for Hans thirty-two years ago. I just don’t remember what they were.

There is the temptation to look at a baby, and see all possible futures in that child. I suspect that is one of the things that we find attractive in an infant. There is a tendency to view a baby as a tabula rasa, a clean slate, a place where we can write down all of our hopes and dreams. That is a mistake. I know this from experience.

What are Hans’ plans for his little boy? Well, I don’t think that even Hans knows exactly. The details are kind of fuzzy. However, I can give you hints from the way that Weston’s bedroom is decorated. For instance, there is sign on his wall that says, “Ducks, trucks, and eight point bucks: that’s what little boys are made of.” Another picture has written on it, “Vegetarian -noun- an old Indian word for ‘bad hunter’.” There is also a stuffed bear’s head on Weston’s bedroom wall. It’s not a real bear’s head. It’s like the head of a teddy bear, but it looks like something that Weston had hunted and then hung up to display.

You get the idea?

I have made no comment on all of this, mostly because it might not have the desired effect. I am almost certain that whatever dreams Hans has for Weston’s future will not come to fruition, at least not in a way that Hans can imagine.

I base my prediction on past experience, which may or may not have any bearing on the situation. The fact is that Hans tried to do the opposite of most everything that I had intended for him. The biggest deviation from the plan came when Hans joined the Army and went to war in Iraq. He knew that Karin and I did not want him to join the military. He knew that we would be angry and hurt. He also knew that we would forgive him, and back him up in his decision.

At one point, years after he fought in Iraq, I spoke with Hans about his choice. I told him how Mom and I felt about it. He smiled a crooked smile and said,

“Yeah, that was kind of a big ‘fuck you’, wasn’t it.”

Indeed.

Will Weston follow Hans’ lead? That depends on how you look at it. Will Weston just be a miniature Hans? I doubt it. Weston will do his own thing. Will Weston be as independent and impulsive as Hans? Yes, I believe that may happen.

One advantage of growing old is that a person can gain some perspective. Some of the patterns in life become more obvious. In many ways Hans is different from me. People often tell me that, and it’s true in a superficial sort of way. I try to look a bit deeper.

Hans is politically my opposite. So what. People key on that sort of thing first, but for me it is peripheral. Who cares if he likes Trump? Who cares if I don’t? What are the things that really do matter?

Now that Hans is an adult, with adult problems and adult choices, I can see some of the things that he might have learned from Karin and myself. Hans has many of my faults. He drinks too much and he pushes himself too hard. He can hold a grudge. He gets depressed and lives on the dark side quite often. On the other hand, Hans is brave and loyal and true. He works hard, and he takes pride in his work. He cares about his family more than anything else in the world. He is willing to take risks.

What will Weston be? He will inherit many of Hans’ virtues and vices. Weston will be a very interesting young man.