Discipline

My idea of discipline is eating one peanut butter sandwich for lunch instead of three. Having one whiskey in the evening instead of four. If I can eat less than 3000 calories a day, I’m disciplined. If I can hold my daily potato chip consumption to half a bag, I’m disciplined. If I write a page a week, I’m disciplined. In other words, I have no discipline whatsoever—never have, never will. Yet I have this dream of living a life in which my foibles, my weaknesses, my perfect inability to control my impulses, give way to a new man: A Man Principled in the Art of Denial. A man so self-regulating that he can go a week on a slice of Velveeta and a Perrier. A man who shuns the carnal in favor of protracted sessions with the Koran, ignores the pangs of alcoholism for a cold glass of jus d'orange. A man who favors a gloveless ascent of the Eiger to eating a quart of Ben and Jerry’s during the two-hour finale of The Bachelorette. This is the man I seek to be: the man for whom self-denial is a way of life and self-discipline the road to salvation. I'll get started on this new program any day now. As soon as I get a little discipline.

Tiny brain case

Of course, there is in this world a vast creative human intelligence that cannot be underestimated. Cynicism is always the order of the day in human affairs, but beyond its overwhelming pessimism a pure intelligence burns: the primordial fire. The fire of consciousness imagines the best and worst, the entire universe embryonically seething within this tiny brain case, endlessly conjuring.

Well, kids, Chuck's back

Yes, it's been many moons since you all had your Chuckfix, but it's time to get the ball rolling again. I've had an epiphany of sorts--at the ripe young age of 64 (yep, I climb aboard the Medicare train next month--if there still is Medicare--the oink-oink Republicans may have wrapped it up tight and shipped it off to Bolivia by then). Epiphany: a sudden revelation or insight. It pops out of the blue and cracks your head open egg-like, shakes up your juices, your long-held beliefs, grinds down your rude protuberances, pricks your prides and prods your prejudices. In a few well documented cases your epi-fanny leads you to greener pastures, to near-Nirvanic ecstasies, to whiter sheets and perfumed pillow cases. Anyway, my epi-fanny was that I wasn't gettin' no younger, time's a wastin and I just might kick the proverbial bucket any day now, what with all my bad habits like drinking, eating, reading too much fiction and being a captive of the New York Times. Then too I been watching American Idol and Big Losers all winter and the more I watch, the fatter I get. I got on the scale at the doc's office the other day and when I saw my weight I about broke out into sniffles. The had to give me lydocaine intravenously and winch me off the floor into a meat wagon. As I collapsed on the deck my doctor decided to check my prostate, but he couldn't find it. "Your ass is too damn big," he said. "It's like searching for a nickle in a dough ball." And he's a friend of mine. So you can see why I want to get a few projects underway before I buy the ranch, as it were.

So here are some of my plans:
1. I'm going to build a funny little house up in the Maine woods near the lakes and mountains and ski slopes for all to enjoy. This funny little house will sit right on the site of the extant and notorious Nest Among the Hills. Hopefully people will visit from miles around to touch and be touched by the natural world. I'll post the design asap.

2. I'm going down to Cuba to see if I can set up a language program for American students. I want them kids to mix with them Cubans and vice versa and come up all smiles after 50 years of political bullshittin between two obstinate political philosophies. Smile, love, embrace, exchange body fluids. This is my dream. Bring together the white skins and the black skins, Make lovely brown skins, Throw in a bunch of indigenous folks for good measure. Make the bronze skins. It's called the Cuba Connection. You can read about it right here. And even more here. Take your time; it ain't gonna happen overnight. Just know that I'm working on it and I will be asking for your assistance and monetary support at some not too distant future date. Feel free to refuse. It'll happen anyway.

3. I am opening a small carpentry business to supply composting devices to the world. Composting is the next green wave for mankind and we'll soon learn that recycling our egg shells and banana skins is the key to a self-sustaining life on earth, a valuable contribution each and every human soul can make to our posterity. My compost boxes are made of fully bio-degradable materials and as they reach the end of their useful life, can be recycled and composted themselves. Here's a picture of my three models--the 24-inch Minch, for the small kitchen garden; the 28-inch George, for the backyard veggie plot, and the 5-stacker 32x32 Grandon for the orchard, the Pecan patch, or--yes, you equine entrepreneurs--for the horse barn. Write to me for more info and photos. I will also include my famous composting instructionals: The Simpson System: Composting for Peace, Hope and Aristophanes, in full color, with magnificent illustrations: charlesrsimpson@gmail.com

4. I am outfitting my newly rebuilt 2002 Toyota Tacoma for extended travel to all parts of the contiguous universe. Toyota completely rebuilt my truck after it was determined that the frame had turned to cheese and another salt-strewn winter would render it gutter bound forever. So the kind folks at Toyota spent 11,000 bucks to restore my ride to its original cherry condition. I am the envy of the pedestrian hordes now, but with gas tickling 5 bucks, I'm a little reluctant to drive to the Yucatan; in fact, I'm a little reluctant to drive to the corner. But I have it fully outfitted with two cases of skittles, a map, Kristofferson's greatest hits CD, and a large jar of 1 mg lorazepams for those lonely nights in the Mojave when sleep don't come easy.

5. I'm writing a novel, perhaps the great American one, in invisible ink. In fact I'm writing it with tap water. This of course means it will be forever unreadable, even by yours truly. 500-plus pages of artistic genius, deep human insights, a plot that shakes your snake, and a metaphysical theme rivaling Leviticus. I'm writing it with my right hand so as to fuel my deliberative powers, thereby making each page a unique and breathtaking experience unto itself. There has never been a book like this one, and there will never be another. Need it, read it, heed it, bleed it. In better bookstores soon. Sorry, can't tell you the name. It's invisible.

6. I'm rekindling my lost love of photography. As many of you who followed my meteoric photographic career will attest, my images had the capacity to move souls. I heard you moan in anguish when I put my camera down and took up puppeteering last year. Well, I'm here to tell you that I'm back shooting the light with a vengeance. Just lookie here:

So let it not be said that I am not pursuing my passion with a passion, which is what all us Medicare Boom Booms are supposed to be doing as we suck up what's left of social security, hoard our gigantic pension funds, and await the crack of the back and the slash of the lash. Mazel tov.

C.O. In Paradise

During the so-called war in Vietnam I was a United States Army medic, but my experience was somewhat different than most medics because I was also a conscientious objector. Having previously served in the Peace Corps, and believing that the war violated my personal view of America, I entered the service classified 1-A-O. I was willing to serve, but I refused to carry a gun.

I trained at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. In basic training they kept the CO’s hidden away on a distant corner of the base, where our chicken-shit conscientious objector ideas could be properly controlled and contained. They didn’t want our seditious anti-war lies corrupting the killer instincts of the patriotic fighting men across the base. These were gung-ho warriors preparing to spill their guts rooting out commie gooks for Tricky Dick and his fellow cutthroats, and apparently they needed protection. So we peace-loving yellow-bellies were condemned to consort with none but our own kind. They saw us as cut from the same swath: timid, inexperienced, idealistic, God-fearing, goody-goody, church-going wimps. We must be kept from our diabolical mission: to seduce innocent patriots into joining us on a traitorous quest for world harmony.

In fact, I was none of those things. I was a long-haired, pot-smoking, agnostic son of a U.S. Marine who had convinced me that when we went to war every American had an obligation to serve his country. Guns were no mystery to me; I’d been shooting them since I was a kid. On the other hand, I was a friend of Zen, a meditating, Che-Guevara-loving vegan who would sooner rot in a jail cell than shoot a man on behalf of the corrupt, imperialist thugs who ran the country in those days.

I’ve often wondered about the non-coms and officers who were assigned to train that motley bunch of anti-warriors. It must have been a regular army man’s idea of hell on earth:

“Sergeant Jackson, you will hammer army discipline into the heads of those candy-ass objectors; you will mold them into fighting machines and prepare them to make war.”

“But Major, them boys are against war. How do you expect me to make killers out of ‘em?”

“I don’t know, Sergeant. I’d like to gutshoot every one of them chicken-liver bastards, but it says here we gotta train ‘em, and orders is orders. So train ‘em, Sergeant. Now move out.”


This is a shot of my brother Jim (left) and his buddy Raz. Old friends from high school, they got together while serving in Vietnam, 1966-1967.

We Don't Need Much

I need something in my mouth, gum, food, cigarette, liquid, water. Something something to satisfy this craving that I do not really have. Cravings for things I do not need. We are so burdened with needs, and we waste so much time yielding to them. Yet they are not really there. We’ve created them from nothing, from emotional trauma, from societal pressures and stimuli, from habits, defeats, longings. I repeat: they are not really there. Yet they rear up from memory and custom, making us want when in fact we need next to nothing. A little food, a few rags to kill the cold, a roof, some heat, medicine when we’re sickly—little more. The other things—love, satisfaction, contentment, freedom, happiness—are separate and harder to come by, and they come to us by a different means. The truth is that once our basic needs are met, there is little need for the material world.

The deals we cut

As usual it was all about fear. Fear of death. Fear of failure. Fear of humiliation and ridicule. The same fears that had plagued him throughout his life were with him now like old enemies: always close enough to give a whisper should he need a reminder of his personal inadequacy. As the days and months turned into years of unremarkable existence, his fears deepened, became burdensome, unbearable at times, until of late he simply wallowed in personal paranoia and self-denigration.

The sacrifices we make, the deals we cut with ourselves, the lies we tell, the innuendo, the backbiting, the little digs we get in on others when they’re not around.

I'm Back

OK, so it's been more than a year since I posted to this blog. I'm older now, and wiser, and the world is a different place. I've almost been killed a few times, my father died, and I've been diagnosed with laryngopharyngeal reflux and pressure uticaria. Time's a wastin'. Why not rev up the old blog?

Here's the MedShed, which I recently built. I hang out in here when I want to stop thinking.

I built the stool 22 years ago. It's a goat milking stool. It has goat feet. I never got a goat, but I knew I'd find a use for it eventually.

A mighty wind took out a large hemlock last year, leaving a fine stump. It was begging to support my meditative endeavors.


MedShed design.

Rerun

Circus: El Gorriaga, Spain. June 2004.
The wind returneth again to his own circuits . . .
The time that has been, it is that which shall be:
and that which is done is that which shall be done.
Ecclesiastes

It's A Start

US lawmakers introduce bill to ease Cuba travel

WASHINGTON (AFP) — Lawmakers in the US House of Representatives have introduced a bill to permit US citizens unrestricted travel to Cuba, according to the Library of Congress website.
The "Freedom To Travel to Cuba Act," which would overturn the 46-year-old US policy strictly limiting travel to the Caribbean island, will be subject to debate after being referred to the Committee on Foreign Affairs.
The bill, introduced by Massachusetts Democrat Bill Delahunt and backed by eight other lawmakers, states that "the President may not regulate or prohibit, directly or indirectly, travel to or from Cuba by United States citizens or legal residents."
Currently US nationals are supposed to request Treasury Department permission to visit Cuba. They are not routinely allowed to spend money in Cuba -- the Americas' only one-party communist state -- creating an effective travel ban.
US President Barack Obama has said he would speak with all foreign leaders in sharp contrast to successive US administrations which have sought to isolate Havana.
But he has offered few details on how far he might be willing to go in reaching out to Cuba.
During his campaign for the presidency, Obama said the Cuba embargo had not helped bring democracy to the island, led by President Raul Castro, 77.
But so far he has said only that he would end some sanctions on Cuban-Americans traveling to the island, and eliminate limits on their remittances to relatives in Cuba.
The neighboring countries do not have full diplomatic relations, and the United States has an economic embargo on Cuba.

Books: the next big thing

Help!

Soupy Bowl

Sitting here trying to watch the Superbowl. Waste. This is the last year for me on this non-spectacle. The game is crashing like a gutted hotel. The only sport here is watching these dim bulbs trying to sell the world a pile of shit in the middle of a depression. Who's depressed? Not me.

And furthermore . . .

By FRANK BASS and RITA BEAMISH, Associated Press Writers

SANTA CLARA, Calif. – Banks collecting billions of dollars in federal bailout money sought government permission to bring thousands of foreign workers to the U.S. for high-paying jobs, according to an Associated Press review of visa applications.
The dozen banks receiving the biggest rescue packages, totaling more than $150 billion, requested visas for more than 21,800 foreign workers over the past six years for positions that included senior vice presidents, corporate lawyers, junior investment analysts and human resources specialists. The average annual salary for those jobs was $90,721, nearly twice the median income for all American households.
The figures are significant because they show that the bailed-out banks, being kept afloat with U.S. taxpayer money, actively sought to hire foreign workers instead of American workers. As the economic collapse worsened last year — with huge numbers of bank employees laid off — the numbers of visas sought by the dozen banks in AP's analysis increased by nearly one-third, from 3,258 in fiscal 2007 to 4,163 in fiscal 2008.
The AP reviewed visa applications the banks filed with the Labor Department under the H-1B visa program, which allows temporary employment of foreign workers in specialized-skill and advanced-degree positions.
It is unclear how many foreign workers the banks actually hired; the government does not release those details. The actual number is likely a fraction of the 21,800 foreign workers the banks sought to hire because the government limits the number of visas it grants to 85,000 each year among all U.S. employers.
During the last three months of 2008, the largest banks that received taxpayer loans announced more than 100,000 layoffs. The number of foreign workers included among those laid off is unknown.
Foreigners are attractive hires because companies have found ways to pay them less than American workers.

With God on Our Side

Obama’s inauguration was inspiring, yes. The media, as usual, did its absolute best to make it more so, and quite unnecessarily, I’d say. For as most of us know, Mr. Obama is a genuinely inspiring and charismatic man. And the near-landslide election of an African American to the American presidency is incredible enough; we hardly need Tom Brocaw’s unctuous slathering to remind us of its uniqueness. But when the ass-kissing and the fashion shows and the unfounded comparisons with Lincoln were finally over, I came away with a slightly foul taste in my mouth: the taste of religion being stuffed down my throat. Last I heard, this government’s strength lay in keeping church and state at a distance, yet this inauguration was so full of preachers, prayers, and pious pleas to the Christian god that I began to wonder whether those time-honored 1st amendment strictures had been cast into the fiery pit. George Bush’s belief that he enjoyed a direct line to his maker was responsible for some of the most reprehensible policy decisions in recent history. One would hope that Obama, in spite of his sincere belief in a personal higher power, would keep it between him and his god, instead of requiring the rest of us to join in. Yes, he called for unity among the world’s most contentious religions, and, yes, we need all the help we can get, but where’s the unity in a script that features two Protestant clergymen (one a homophobe), a musical petition to the Christian god to protect American liberty, a mass recital of the Lord’s Prayer (the best known prayer in all Christendom), and, so help me God, an oath sworn on the Christian Bible?

Corrine and Larrybob

Bed, San Francisco. August 2007.
Corrine was less than forthcoming about her extramarital activities
and who could blame her
doing it was one thing, talking about it quite another
that’s why Larrybob was forever loath to inquire
after his wife’s nocturnal whereabouts
he knew he risked a shot to the mouth
or a slap across his lightly bearded face just for asking
like for example the rain-soaked morning she arrived home
panties in one hand, flip flops in the other
you must be freezing, he said
having risen from a fitful slumber to answer the bell
mind yer own beeswax, she’d countered
sauntering to the shower, tracking mud down the hall
Larrybob for his part was civil and obedient
he’d never known a woman like this
she was a wild mystery and in the thrall of that mystery
he was gutless, putty in her hands his father used to say
Larrybob could no more protest her infidelities
than he could defend his own pathetic obsequiousness
he simply loved every inch of this woman and had long ago decided
that he would tolerate any abuse she might see fit
to rain down on his empty head
so long as he could daily inhale her divine scent
so long as he could sleep most nights at her side 

and so long as he could, 

in his dealings with the fair citizens of Farfetch, 

refer to her proudly as the queen of his kingdom

and the light of his life.

it's always always

Sky consciousness, January 2008

beyond the icebound lake
the universe blazes
behind the canvas
a crow cries
the sound of all sounds

the stars between the trees
the trees beyond the stars

in that mountain
this mountain
in these rocks
all rocks
sleeping the life of always

this drop of day is on fire
this is what you are
adrift in the endless dream
in this time
in all time

Xmas 2008: scamland

Photo: Somewhere in America

markdowns on markdowns
but nobody's buying
laid off her job
her children are crying
old people freezing
homeless are starving
tuna for turkey
nobody's carving
families on food stamps
while bankers run free
in the land of the scammers
and the smug bourgeoisie
where there's only one question
what's in it for me
so this is America
the U.S. of Fraud
hounded by hucksters
suckered by god
lost in the flim-flam
a people in need
in the home of the knave
and the landfill of greed

Q: Who Shot the Tiger?

A: We all did.

Photo: Obviously not mine. Saw it, stole it, am passing it on. 

East is East

Marsh Grass. Maine USA. November 2008.

Oh, olive, my olive.

Living without drinking?

The perfect martini.

 Served at Jimmy's retirement party. Nov 15, 2008.

Maine Rocks

Living without thinking?

Coast of Maine. October 2008.

Go Bama

Obama won it. Truly a milestone. I am dazed and awed, and for the first time in many years, proud to be an American. His speech tonight was as great as I have ever heard, a statement of hope, strength, and reconciliation. May President Obama govern us with the the same skill and compassion that he put into his campaign. And may the Americans who had the good sense and courage to cast their votes for him continue to use their talents and commitment to create the democracy we have all long sought.