Eulogy

I’ve been asked by Betty, Kim’s mom, to express how deeply grateful she, and we are, that you came here today to share all of our love, and our sorrow.

I’d like to open with an invocation from my tradition which generates love and compassion: “May all beings have happiness May they be free from suffering May they find the joy that has never known suffering May they be freed from attachment and hatred”

*******

Kim and I used to giggle about people who got ordained out of the back of Rolling Stone magazine. I would always joke that “oh yeah, they’re a minister from that Church of the Brighter Light”. When I got ordained it was totally different. Well for one thing, it now happens over the internet. For another I fancied myself to be this really cool someone, who really should be officiating marriages. Cuz how much fun is that? I’m guessing that had I thought a little more seriously about it, or actually gone to a Divinity School it might have occurred to me that the not fun, flip side, would be potentially officiating at funerals, memorials and wakes. And it certainly never, ever, crossed my mind that the first one of such occasions would be the memorial for one of my oldest, dearest, friends.

*******

Kimberly - She had so many brilliant, jewel-like qualities.

Her mind was quirky, creative, quixotic. She could handle herself in almost any conversation - from the best way to get a really moist carrot cake, to the fine points of metaphysical philosophy, to teaching a kid some vital life skill like reading, shoe tying, or just the right spots to hang the decorations on the christmas tree. Had she had a meaner spirit, her sardonic wit and sly, charismatic laugh, could have earned her a spot at the Algonquin’s Round-table.

Highly intuitive, Kim could read other people, and their situations, piercing through facades and bringing to light underlying realities. And like so many of us, it was always easier to see for others, than to see oneself.

She was extra-ordinarily empathic. The worlds suffering was her suffering. She was always taking in strays. Of every race, creed, and breed.

Kim was generous to a fault. She used to literally give me the clothes off her back, by the armload. She was basically what we now would call my stylist when I was 18. Although I learned later that perhaps it was more Betty who was technically behind that, whether she was aware of it or not...

She deeply enjoyed the rituals around food, whether it be gourmet at The Earle, exotic like her favourite Indian food or just plain good cookin’ like a Manikas omelet or her Nana’s chicken and dumplings. Making and sharing it, trying new foods and recipes, going to restaurants to socialize with good food and beverages at the center, as well as all the traditional holiday feasts, even when she couldn’t fully participate, warmed her, cheered her, and nourished her soul to simply be around and involved in such activities.

She passionately loved art, and music, and books.

Theatre and movies.

Saints and sinners

Because most of all, Kim loved.

She constantly surprised me when she would offhandedly comment “well but of course I do love him - her - them” whomever. I thought that maybe this capacity she had, to love “sinners” just “not their sins”, was kind of foolish, and possibly, probably, dangerous. In reality? It was daunting. I was a little shamed by her ability to generate genuine love for people I considered useless, a waste of time or too big of a problem. She always ended our phone conversations with “I love you” or “I love you Laurie”. I, having grown up in a family that was never expressive in that way, initially would always awkwardly say “yaloveyatoobye”. It really took me a long time to learn to say, sincerely, with real feeling, “I love you too Kim”.

*******

Nowadays we’ve all been exposed to some Jungian psychology, often under the guise of new age philosophy, as Jung wrote compellingly of learning to live with one’s own shadow side. The ideas of having compassion for oneself, learning to understand and accept one’s shadow in order to become a fully integrated human is now a common and accepted methodology for becoming humane, forgiving oneself, and moving into balance.
What has not been quite so humanely articulated, written about, and subsequently served to us, the questing friends and families, is how to deal with the shadow in others.

We’ve been bombarded with some very popular theories of how to conduct our relationship to people who seem to want, need or to be under some compulsion to, live primarily from their shadow. We are told, and our own experiences frequently appears to reflect that, trying to help people who seem to be becoming lost there, is pretty much like shouting down a well.

We’ve seen talk shows, read books, and been immersed up to our eyebrows with the advices of mass psychology instructing us in methods of “tough love”, “codependent no more”, “dealing with toxic people” and other, sort of, one size fits all, approaches to these relationships. Realistically, these are likely to be some of the most complex and painful, intimate relationships we will experience in our lifetimes. These are the relationships that have asked us, and potentially will continue to ask, throughout the years, What if...? Why didn’t I..? And, if only...?

It’s no wonder that we’ll eagerly try out all these various techniques. When nothing else seems to work, when we find ourselves baffled, desperate, and really, very terribly, afraid, solutions that assure us that they are almost surefire are very appealing. Not to mention that if we don’t have some recognized theory or technique that we can claim to be utilizing, we ourselves run the risk of being socially and psychologically bullied, belittled, and labeled with some catchy buzzword which infers that as we are clearly not being part of a trendy solution we therefore must be part of the problem.

I don’t have any one solution to offer here. The problems are too complex, the circumstances too individual. But I have come to feel that the usual approaches of becoming insular, preserving our self above others, trying to remain in, or restore ourselves to, a pain free state are potentially not as helpful or as safe as some would claim.

We are come to this life to learn, and these terribly painful moments are some of our most defining, learning, moments. These teaching moments have the potential to become like fruits of the vine, with precious juices that blend together, and processed thoughtfully, carefully, with love and compassion for self and others can become a rather heady wine of a profound, personal, understanding of life, living, and death. Mark that it must processed carefully though, as any wine that is not lovingly handled can turn and become vinegar. Just as our love can turn bitter without that large dose of compassion for self and others.

I have learned maybe two basic things so far from my work with the dying, the living, and those balanced there, trembling, with only one breath separating the one from the other:

One is simply that no one can, or should, micromanage anyone else’s life or death. People need to make their own choices about their living and dying even if those choices bewilder us. All we can do is offer our very best and truest information to them and let them proceed to work it out from there.

Another is that - people do the best they can at the time, or they would have done better, period.

This is true of others, this is true of ourselves. Everyone here did the best they could in each moment. If there is something in your heart of hearts that whispers to you “I could have made a bigger effort, I could have tried harder, if only, if only.... well I’m not going to give you the easy task and tell you to just let it go, instead I will ask you to take on the harder but much more rewarding job of holding and remembering that feeling, in order to learn from it, so that another time you’ll be able to let it be the spark that ignites greater effort, inspires you to greater compassion, and subsequently creates one billion better moments, for yourself and for others.

Hail & Farewell from Stoners Blough

A founding member of the original swimclub died last week. Oddly he was the ex-brother-in-law to Michael Davis of the MC-5 and as far as I can tell they died on the same day, of the same cause.

We had chatted briefly a few times on Facebook but I had not seen him in person since the early ‘90’s, as he had become a determined left coaster and once my grandmother died I had no cause to go back to Seattle except that it’s one of my favourite cities. Too bad for poverty eh?

Randall was both my friend and my nemesis. He was scathingly brilliant, witty as shit, and at times completely amoral. He once framed me for a thief when he himself had been the thief. This has rankled in my soul for years, as I have done all kinds of things in my life but deliberately gave up thievery at a quite young age, as well as that I have a huge issue with stealing within the tribe. He had no such qualms at the time. And given the circumstances there was no particular reason for anyone to believe I had such qualms. I really felt the sting of that scarlet letter T within that community, still do, I just don’t wear it on the outside anymore.

But prior to, and even later after all of that, he was my good friend. Early on he was my housemate for awhile. We had such a blast. At least until he abruptly abandoned the house and his 8 foot boa constrictor there. Which having two very elderly cats and being really nervous of feeding a really hungry, really large, snake became a serious issue for me. Someone finally did come for her after I threatened to sell her.

Swimclub was where my memories of him shine. His humour, his magic tricks, his natty outfits, his ability to construct suddenly critically necessary things from weird scrap and “ordinary household items”, his willingness to go gonzo into any adventure that arose. He was, at times, truly a mesmer. When he was sharp, focused, playful, “evil twin Vic” he was terrifically fun. When he was “do what thou wilt shall be the sum of law” Vic, not so much. I’ve never been a Crowley fan and within that community his influence was seriously not helpful.

But the rage at the time was to live primarily from your shadow self. And there is some serious beauty in that realm. We were all so young, so lordly, so dead earnest about it all. There are winter shadows foreshortened onto glittering snowdrifts and long summer shadows on parched pavements. Many of us couldn’t or wouldn’t, make the journey into integration. And when looking at ones aging self, in the trophic light of the daily rat race it is not easy to keep that keen, sharp, edge of humour that helps keep despair squimped down to its proper supplicant position. So one lets go this time when Yama approaches, yet again, from behind the left shoulder. Why not? He is our old familiar after all. And who doesn’t ache for that moment of rest, and then another cast.

FOTO Credits:
#1 Unknown
#2 Christina LaNoire

Samsara, you’re soaking in it

I am having a very difficult time personally. I also have a severely problematic situation at home. Last night the stress was so bad I only had 2 hours of sleep, only to go to work and have my client stroke out on me. I feel so very strange. I hate my life at the moment. This could mean I lose my job. Samsara is a superbitch.

John D. MacDonald on death

"Picture a very swift torrent, a river rushing between rocky walls. There is a long shallow bar of sand and gravel that runs right down the middle of the river. It is under water. You are born and you have to stand on that narrow submerged bar, where everyone stands. The ones born before you, the ones older than you, are upriver from you. The younger ones are braced on the bar down river. And the whole long bar is slowly moving down that river of time, washing away at the upstream end and building up downstream.

Your time, and the time of all your contemporaries, schoolmates, your loves and your adversaries is that shifting bar on which you stand. And it is crowded at first. You can see the way it thins out, upstream from you. The old ones are washed away and their bodies go swiftly by, like logs in the current. Downstream where the young ones stand thick, you can see them flounder, lose footing, wash away. Always there is more room where you stand, but always the swift water grows deeper, and you can feel the shift of the sand and gravel under your feet as the river wears it away. Someone looking for a safer place can nudge you off balance, and you are gone. Someone who has stood beside you for a long time gives a forlorn cry and you reach to catch their hand, but the fingertips slide away and they are gone. There are the sounds in the rocky gorge, the roar of the water, the shifting, gritty sound of sand and gravel underfoot, the forlorn cries of despair as the nearby ones, and the ones upstream are taken by the current. Some old ones who stood on a good place, well braced, understanding currents and balance, last a long time. A Churchill, fat cigar atilt sourly amused at his own endurance and, in the end, indifferent to rivers and the rage of waters. Far downstream from you are the thin, startled cries of the ones who never got planted never got set, never quite understood the message of the torrent."

It is risen

I got me a fresh sheet of virtual paper and I roll it into the carriage...

I think I’ve been sick of typing. I’ve even found it difficult to effectively do e-mail, and that is one of the few ways to reliably get ahold of me. The FaceBook, 2-3 sentences and I’m out, has been de rigeur around here.

It was a really harsh winter around La cerise de chateau, maison du fumeur de detente. So right now forsythia is like the breath of the atman made manifest on earth.

I had a really, tremendously, bad bout of infection that started just before Thanksgiving. For the most part I missed all the holidays. On Thanksgiving itself I was too sick to even walk next door. About a week of 104 fevers. Since then it’s been a long, slow, road back.

I popped into UBU’s one of the very first good days, that was a good thing, getting out, into town, having lunch. Now I have have to pop back and give him back the books I bought as well as a few additional. I find myself in the market to get rid of, in some cases sell, books. That is something I’ve never been good at at all. It feels pretty free to be in a place where I can let a book go deliberately as opposed to losing it.

I’m ready to let more things go.
I have started sorting out anything I don’t have a pretty legitimate claim on to be sent back. I’m watching the hoarders and I don’t want to be there or leave that for someone else to deal with. Keep the precious and let the chaff blow away. That’s the new mantra. There will be a porch sale this year.

Butter Sculpture = Impermanence

JFC 49th day

The 1:34 am phone call

I just received the phone call I had been expecting some time this week.
Uncle Bunny, died this morning.
James Franklin Coats
Sept 20, 1944 - Sept 12, 2009

AM Earworms

Hungry Freaks Daddy (again), & Willie The Pimp - Frank Zappa

What’s the dealio? Is it FZ’s birthday or something? Because he’s been “on the screen” quite a bit lately.

One of my life dreams had been to sing with/ for FZ. When he died, so did that. But then I had an actual dream very shortly after, I think within a few days of his death. He came to see me at the tattoo studio. And we had this great conversation, him sitting in the green chair next to the stereo, me cleaning the work station. We talked about art & music, life & death, you know, my favourite subjects (besides soup & psychology).

The thing about it was, that it was extremely realistic. Even down to the way he sat and that when I lit a cigarette he coughed and waved and bitched at me about it.
I could (almost) swear that it was, on some level, real. Like this was the way he finally found some time in his busy schedule to have a little time to visit with people who sincerely admired his life work.

For those in the know

We’re experiencing another rash of Uncle Bunny setbacks. So send vibes, thoughts, whatevs you gots his direction. I wouldn’t mind if you sent some to my family as well, as that situation deteriorated as well.

Synchronous

“Having the same period and phase”
It’s odd. Repeatedly.
Just when things are bad, quite bad. And I’m angry, so angry. And depressed. An odd series of events frequently occurs. They don’t have to be big, just oddly arising out of the muck (like the spontaneously arising lotus) which, if I’m paying attention, remind me that this is how real magic works. In it’s time. For my ultimate benefit. And without force and manipulation. Not to buy me a cadillac, but to remind me that there is some method to this madness.

So

I might want to post some pictures of an amazing dead cat mummy I found. Would anyone really run away screaming if I did?

WTF?

My sister’s dog died yesterday as well.
Not a good month to be a pet in my family.....

So that’s it

My cat is dead. He was found today and was identified from the collar. We went to get him to take him to be cremated but we had to bury him right there on the spot. It was that bad.

Hey Danny Boyoyo

Hey
Danny Boyoyo


Viet Nam
a trailer full'a death
still running crazy
on booze and nightmare

Ran you right over
mashed you right flat
Flat old gas bag
your corpse became
when long weeks of August
finally deflated

You couldn’t live
two dimensional
picture
perfect
soldier
You remain
oh
so
three

To stand on your dirt
Is to feel those sharp edges

Writin' a rap

We’re doing a double dip tomorrow. There’s a party and Quatro Veda plays, then the 6 Foot Poles, then The Bottom 99, then Largebeat. So, Oliver and I will be doing 2 completely disparate sets. At least not back to back.

This is the intro I wrote for one of our darker songs (also shown). When you hear it with the lamenting clarinet with it, it really reminds me of when Klezmer gets sad.


“When I wrote this song in 2003, I had some vague hopes that the upcoming election would help make it irrelevant. It didn’t. First came Katrina, then hard on her heels the Sago Mine Disaster.
So, I’d like to dedicate this to the brave people still struggling for survival down in New Orleans, to those 6 workers dead in the dark at the Crandall Canyon Mine and the people who just died at the Gibson County Coal Mine.”

Pick and Shovel, Fire and Flame

To keep repeating history
Let them eat policy
Let them eat cake
To keep them on their knees
feed them on fallacies
how much will take?
To not acknowledge idiocy
greed and banality
is a mistake
Compounding the insanity
fake christianity
Who’d you forsake?

And still we die
from flames and fire
pick and shovel
wind and rain
Thirst and starvation dog this nation
ragged and driven
bowed in pain
We’ve become
awestricken, dumb
battered and numb
our hands are chained
And still we die
from flames and fire
pick and shovel
wind and rain

God is in the radio

I’m thinking of the first time I heard Johnny Cash covering “The Mercy Seat”.
It was 3:20 in the morning and I was dead asleep. Apparently Oliver was listening to WCBN and pacing around. Suddenly I was ganked from sleep by something pulling up every hair on my head, raising hackles on my neck. Goose bumps running all up and down my spine and arms I yelled out with my eyes still closed “Is that fucking Johnny Cash?”
Less than 48 hours later I had that motherfucker of a disc in my hand.

Again? But that trick never works....

Had another, last thing before waking, dream of a close friend dying. It was a very peaceful and auspicious death. Many flowers and gardens involved. Everyone behaving in a calm and serene manner. Things being dealt with in a respectful, equitable fashion. The one very odd note was that they died sleeping in a car on a trip and the person who had been driving brought the car round so I could look at the corpse. They hadn’t moved it even though it was several days later. That was a little strange.

PONOTF

Pressing

The past flows like elder wine
which plucked cannot wither on the vine
the days pass out of mind
scatter to the winds of time

So it goes and the current
spins away every moment
So this life is gone

The fates for which we are the foil
are twists against which we rail
The prize for which we toil
Is glimpsed through the tattered veil

So it goes and the current
spins away every moment
So this life is gone

Scrofulous Humours

Well-
Uncle Bunny is back in the hospital
Little ghee ended up at the vet with fever
I’m in bed waiting for gross things to come spewing out of my stomach

I get just tired of labs and offices and waiting rooms.
Pills and doses and needles.
I’m tired of bed
sick of tired
Waiting waiting waiting