Today, I have reprinted a portion of chapter 14, "Werewolves of California" from my book, Dream Weaver.  It is to be found under "Essays" in the website.  

Oddly, now I think of this incident only as a chapter from my book, not as something real.  But it was. I had been telling the story to friends for years before putting it down in this book, which itself revealed an unknown aspect of myself - that, for me, the miraculous was always expected, as if waiting in the wings of my unconscious.  After the sighting of Bigfoot, I did not experience any other psychic disorder, nor a repeat of the vision.  Apparently, after reading several other accounts, seeing Bigfoot from a distance, where it is not personally involved with you, does not cause the disturbances of those who have looked it in the eye.  I suppose I am grateful for that, but like Cal Roeker in his comment, I kinda sorta wouldn't mind a life-altering event - even as others warn us off.  Many of us share this hope, I bet.  But even the Biblical prophets warn of such things, seeing their roll in exposing the supernatural as a terrible burden.   And so I was let off easy.  I personally know several people who were not, but for now, I'll leave it at that.  FK    

In the comments, Cal Roeker talked about our "worst fears," getting exactly to the point of the Kushtaka from Dennis Waller's book, In Search of the Kutashka - for that, in the end, are what the Kutashka are all about.  Fear.  Spirits who get inside our heads and bring out the very worst from our depths.  It should not be surprising to learn that so many movies we see, from "The Excorcist" to "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," are about our greatest fears, of evil protruding into our lives and even our thoughts.  That this idea is featured in myths from around the world show us that this is not only NOT something new, but something timeless.  In the past, what brought these fears to the open were called spirits; now, they are called complexes or a variety of mental disease, but whatever we call them, they are there and now and then, something, some  power, exploits them.

I say "some power" because who is it that brings our fears to our minds?  It has often occurred to me that most of us could easily walk on tiny ledges, or on the edge of tall buildings, were it not for our fears. We do such 'daring' things all the time, often as a game; but put that same ridge that we balance on along a parking lot way up high and we tremble, scream and fall.  These fears, fear itself, kill us, and yet they are apparently self-generated.  It makes no sense.  No wonder they were thought to come from alien spirits.  

 Waller presents us with another very good real-life story exhibiting this kind of fear.  It is of a woman who went on a boating excursion with her husband and some friends in the Alaska panhandle waterway.  She explains first that as a child, her older brothers made her terrified of large groups of birds while watching Hitchcock's "The Birds," so much so that she had to go inside the house whenever a flock appeared until high school.  She thought that was all over until, on her expedition, she took a walk along a path on a deserted bay.  She was in the lead along with a friend, when suddenly she noticed that there was no sound anywhere, and no insects of any kind.  Then she heard the cry of a bird.  Then many.  Soon, to her absolute terror, there was a flock about her so thick that they blocked out the sun. They descended on her and tore her to ribbons, until she left her body, allowing her to see that nothing was left of her except tattered pieces of clothing.  Then a bird-man presented himself to her, telling her, "there is no hope for you, nothing will save you.  Your only recourse is to come and follow me."  At this, she got so angry that she cursed everything, including an apparition of her dead father, who was trying to calm her.  With her anger as a shield, eventually the bird-man went away, and there she found herself on the ground, all in one piece, except for several scratches on her arms.  She thought that she had been gone for hours, but her friend came from behind on the trail and asked if she had fallen.  Only seconds had passed, except on her watch and the timer on her camera, which had accidentally been touched - showing that, in some other world, four hours had passed.  She later insisted that she and her husband leave Alaska and never return.  Some time later, she found that her little walk had  taken place on the legendary Bay of Death, feared and avoided by the Tlingit for the presence of the land otter people, aka, the Kushtaka.  

There are fears that are brought to mind, as if by spirits, and then fears that progress in such a fashion that one cannot believe that they are not advanced by the spirits, as in the case of the woman above.  We are then brought into an alien space that somehow exists within us - although such an idea of location is not really exact, for we do not really know where such power comes from. In his comment, Call Roeker hopes to encounter aliens or bigfoot or something of the sort.  It seems to me that the possibility lies within us all, but most are not happy when the weird - especially our fears - take real shape. Here, our world view is questioned; here, we find that what we take for granted is only a mirage (as the land otters tell us in one Tlingit myth, we humans live in the "dream world," while theirs is the real); here, we lose our footing, as a man often does on a mountain trail when overcome with fears.  

We are told again and again by shamans and mystics that this losing of our world is no joke - that it is the ultimate in terror.  It might even be that our worst fears are materialized only as a representation of our fear of losing touch with our flimsy reality.  My own worse fear is a case in point:

When I was very young - I can't remember when, but it was before kindergarten - I walked into our house from outside and found the living room filled with large balloons.  But they were very strange balloons, configured in a variety of three-d geometric shapes, such as triangles, cubes, rhomboids and what have you. I was absolutely terrified.  I felt that I was losing my mind, not even knowing what that was.  It was as if an evil had descended upon me, and I not only cried then, but was revisited by them for weeks to come in waking "hypnogoguic" (sorry - spelling) dreams.  I am still terrified of this - obviously not for the shapes ( I came to love geometry almost to an obsession later in high school), but for that feeling of losing my mind.  And that, I feel, is at the bottom of our worst fears - the loss of that which holds the bottom in our little boat of reality on the great sea.  

The Tlingit say as much - that one must be mentally strong, or one is killed - which might be the same as losing one's mind; but if one survives, their life is changed forever.

In the case of the woman above, she was confronted some short time later before they left Alaska by an old Tlingit woman at a diner.  "They have visited you, haven't they?" She told the terrified woman.  Later, the old woman said, "most cannot handle their visit.  But for those who do, it means something important.  It will come to you some time in your life."  

We know that for the Tlingit, such a manifestation meant that the person was to become a shaman - to come to know the "other lands" beyond our human ones.  We might want to go there, like Cal, but we are warned  - it is a terrifying road, where one walks on the ledge.  It is a path where one must learn to control his ultimate fear.  It is, as Castaneda's Don Juan might say, a path of power, but one also of danger.  I am not sure anymore, as I was as a teenager, that I would chose it, but according to legends around the world, often it chooses you.

Be careful what you wish for, Cal!  FK   
        
  

              

        

The weather has won.  The struggle that has plagued me this late winter over the accessibility of God has become hard to maintain in the face of the undeniable force of Spring.  The soft maples are putting out their tiny red flowers, covered in swarms of minute pollinators flush with the promise of life and nourishment; the pussy willows are pushing out their gray, soft tufts, and the willows and other wetland bushes and trees are turning bright colors with the flush of sap released from their roots; and of course, the birds are everywhere, singing, fighting for territory, and somewhere mating to bring forth a clutch of new life.  What can I say, but that I am defeated, and am glad for it.  Life is good.

Oddly appropriate, I picked up a book at the library about Bigfoot, an encyclopedia of hundreds of different encounters with "cryptozoology," including everything from the outrageous -  Mothman in Pennsylvania and floating, hairy hands in England - to the more standard depictions of Bigfoot (see The Bigfoot Book by Nick Redfern).  In this book, the author strongly advised me, the reader, to buy Dennis Walker's In Search of Kutashka, which I did.  It is, unfortunately, a slapdash work that desperately needs an editor, but last night it gave me one of the best real-life ghost stories I have read in some time (written by the "Chautauqua Hunter", who has a website of his adventures) Ghost stories, you see; campfires and tall tales - summer! Terrible, yes, this story, too, but no more so than the teen-age tales of the one-armed man with the hook who goes about trying to kill young couples necking in their cars out in the boonies.  And better, too, because it is supposed to be real.  

The writer claims that he is a Vietnam vet, who, with a head full of problems after the war, moved up to the south east Peninsula of Alaska, where Juneau and the Alaskan Waterway are located, looking for adventure and a change of life.  In time, he comes to know the area, and the legends of the Tlingit Indians, one of which is about the Bay of Death, an isolated area where a village of Tlingit mysteriously disappeared in 1750.  To this day, it is a cursed area, where no Indians go, and no one of any stripe lives. Now, in it live the Kutashka, or Land Otter people, who are shape- shifters who can appear as human, as animal, or as a combination of the two.  Say those who know, they are different from Bigfoot - more spiritual than material, and usually full of evil towards humankind.  

Of course, the author had to go there, but it took years and years before he got the exact location and the background information. Finally, he gets a posse of three together - a Tlingit buddy, an ex- biker (Jim) from California and himself, and they plan to travel there in the biker's houseboat.  On the day before, the Tlingit decides not to go at the stern advice of his grandmother, who says, "those who make it back alive are never the same."  The biker, however, has dreams of bravado, of capturing one of the creatures and putting it on display to become rich.  As they approach the Bay, the author dissuades the biker from this, but he is still all bravado until they come into the Bay and sight a small cabin put up by the Forest Service.  Jim wants to go there to sleep for the night, but the author, using binoculars, finds that the place has been shot up- not by yahoo hunters or fishermen passing by, but by occupants, for the rifle blasts created "exit" holes, showing that it was the residents inside shooting at something outside. Then the big chill begins.  

That night, they hear strange and terrible howls and see odd lights that are NOT the northern lights. In the morning, Jim appears nervous and declares that they are leaving - no questions asked!  The author takes a soda from the fridge and finds it full of sea water.  A sense of evil prevails, and as they pull up anchor, they find that the steering barely works.  Making it back to a town, the houseboat springs a leak, with no problem for it found.  The biker sells it later, and the author goes back to his place in Sitka.  Going to visit his Tlingit friend, the grandmother says, see?  For those strong enough to withstand them, it is a life-changing experience.  For others not as strong - and she knew this of her grandson - they mean death or madness.

Ah, I suppose you have to read the full account, but it sent tingles up my spine and a feeling of fear - of evil - but of "evil" that is far off and away from me.  I loved it, of course, as most of us love such tales.  And we know why: because it speaks of the mystery we know life is, and of its dangers beyond what we can understand, or are given to understand in our philosophies and religions.  The ghost story, usually fake, is sometimes the more realistic version of life for its spookiness, for its elicitation of the unknown - for life is, after all, unknown.  Huddled besides the campfire, we thrill to its dark depths - and then wait for the sun to bring us back.  But the night never really goes away.

In the next day or so I will print out the chapter in my book, Dream Weaver, that speaks of my own real (I swear!) encounter with Bigfoot.  I'll let ya'll know when I get it together.  Until then, enjoy the coming weather and never tread on land where the Evil Ones have settled - for to do so, your life, if it remains, will be changed forever!  FK                          

It is early March and already the birds are back, the sap is long-running, and the grass is spotting green.  Global warming?  While it is a fascinating topic, it has become far too political for a blog like this to tackle head-on, which is unfortunate.  With this, time will have to tell, but it brings up the equally interesting topic: how much do we control our environment, both physical and mental? Does our mindset actually change physical effects on the ground, or does our (group) mind only reflect those changes that are occurring?

While these questions seem far removed from the latest blogs concerned with the personal aspects (or lack of them) of God, they really are not.  Consider a New Age perspective on cancer; at least for a while, many of its adherents preached that cancer was caused not only by cigarettes and other carcinogens, but also by one's spiritual/mental state.  Many people were offended by this, considering it an unproven burden placed on those already suffering, and I have to admit that they have a point. However, this provokes a contrary and equally un-provable belief - that some things, like cancer, simply happen; that some things are up to fate; meaning, for believers, that some things are simply up to God, who in His higher wisdom has deemed certain sufferings necessary.  Could it be, then, that something as large and unwieldy as climate change is really more up to God than to us?  

Many think so, but this does not mean that Man is off the hook, for in this view, we may be approaching Armageddon in the form of Global Warming due to our sinful behavior.  We might  even say that the excess carbon in the atmosphere is due to greed, so that both our sins and science coalesce.  This points to a third way of thinking, something that holds the scientific and the moral together.  According to many esoteric thinkers (see The Secret Teachers by Gary Lachman), our current technology is the product of unbalanced, "left brain" thinking that has overridden  "right brain" conceptualizations of timeless unity between individuals, humans, and nature.  We are now at the breaking point, where we will have either a smooth transition to a more balanced approach, including both the left and right mode, or we we will have a  complete meltdown of the left, causing the end of the world as we know it, and a return to those who survive of the primitive, mythological mind.  In this case, "sin" is replaced by poor balance, and our current science is simply a reflection of our lack of balance, along with the ensuing problems.  Thus, science and mind and physical reality are joined together in mutually causative ways.  And no matter how one looks at it, we need a return in some degree to a more right brain, or spiritual mode.

But where in this has God gone?  Does he remain the distant clock maker who has built in this dichotomy, so that we might not run too far from the spiritual path in pursuit of physical control? And is our "free will" only the choice between this limited duality, or its balance?  In other words, is God still an active "father" or is "It" removed from our prayers and concerns?   

Here, we go back to the beginning, to the poor guy with cancer. Is this cancer the will of God?  Or is it from unknown carcinogens alone?  Or is it caused by the friction between the right and left brain dichotomy?  

If either the dichotomy or the will of God, then the cancer is a sign that things are not OK, and that we have to work on our faith or our balance. If it is simply an organic problem, then we have to find the material that caused this, so that it will not happen again.  Which of these, though, is it?  

And so this writer's struggle with the nature of God.  Not surprisingly, I found synchronicity between this question and the Gospel in this week's church service, the famous one about the Prodigal Son.  In this, God is compared to a loving father who is willing to allow his son the freedom to choose his own destruction, yet who is overjoyed when he rejects this and comes home in humiliation and repentance.  There is much to be made from this, but for our purposes, we see here a god that allows foolish, self-destructive behavior, but also welcomes the fool back into the fold.  We see, then, a permissive but loving and involved being, something so attuned to humans that we might truly say that we are made in His image. And yet, we are allowed to kill ourselves, if that be our decision.  Where would this fit in with science?  Where would this fit in with the balanced an unbalanced mind?

More directly, where would this fit in with Global Warming and cancer?  Oddly, I think it agrees with all of the perspectives.  With pure science, humans have the reasoning powers to destroy or to create - to mess up the environment, or not - or to make carcinogens or find the cure.  With pure religion, we are cared for if we truly love God; with this, cancer might be a test or a strengthening, and Warming (as mentioned above) a consequence of sin - and in any case, eternal salvation is always waiting.  With the New Age approach, God gave us both reason and spirituality, both necessary and useful, but best when well-balanced.  And, except for His absence in science, "He" is more than willing to take us back.  

But God's nature, or even lack of it, still remains a  mystery.  Just as he could be either nothing but science or mental balance, so could he still be the benevolent father.  But how does one talk to science? And is it worth it for one part of the brain to beseech the other for good fortune or health?  This, at least for me, requires more thought and maybe that something else - more prayer. For although it might be foolish to have my will in many ways of the world, how could greater clarity of mind ever be a mistake? And if there is no  response, could that not also be a deciding answer?  FK              

It has not been a hard winter here, but it has been cloudy, so much so that the sight of the sun in a week could be measured in hours on the fingers of one hand.  Perhaps it is this that has darkened my perspective of late.  And perhaps it was the sudden change to brilliance yesterday that has altered that, at least to a degree, as if leaving truth dangling on the whims of weather.  Still, the fact is that the Power, that glance of 'being' often as cold as the eyes of a wild animal, is also benign beyond human measure.  Poets have come near to doing it justice, and I can do no better, but it must be proclaimed: there is more reason to live than not, and this reason goes well beyond any measure of success or happiness that we might recognize.

It was yesterday, and we were well into our walk along the river when the wonder of it burst to mind.  New powdered snow crunched beneath our feet, and the last flakes of fluff had filled the older footsteps and made them glisten with a jeweled brilliance. More than that, though, for there was a certain something about the contrast of the dark river and the white snow, the water edged by new ice, that drew a remarkable contrast that cried "life!" This was no recondite moment of inner vision, but a calling out to beauty for everyone, a touch of universal grace.  In it was The Power, not of exploding galaxies or blood-enraged predators, but of its stillness, of its peace, of its promise of eternal rest among the movements of wind and water. Already, the Canada geese were back, sharing that promise that had been given them hundreds of thousands of years ago, this endless cycle that displaced, that changed, but remained the same.  For the geese, they had never lost the heart of the promise.  For this human, it was found, again, as it always has been, and I hope always will be. 

Geese die, however; if not by age, then by the predators, and even in stillness this cannot be denied.  Just an hour ago, as I sat before the computer thinking of this re-emergence of beneficence,  I received a call from an old friend.  He had been one of our core group of six from high school, now reduced to five with the unexpected death of one of us with a sudden heart attack.  That had been less than two years ago, and now I was being told our number would be reduced to four.  Shockingly, Bill was now in hospice for a cancer that had spread to his brain.  He might not last the week, I was told. Perhaps even now, there would be no time to say goodbye, with the drugs and all.  

We had imagined these days when young, and had soberly turned these thoughts over, then tossed them out.  It was all too far away. We had forever, as the young always do, but now we do not, as the old come to realize.  I don't know how Bill has managed, but I can't imagine him in panic, as I can myself. Perhaps I will find out, but the friend who called has already found solace in Bill's cheerful resignation, as if it is us, not him, who needs comfort.  For me, he is the "Bill" in my book, Dream Weaver, the one who came to Wisconsin, got injured in a car wreck and was happy about it, as he no loner had to work at logging.  He was also the one who, after a night of intense beer drinking, could knock cans off a wall with his shockingly powerful "whizz." Juvenile, I know, but it is those memories that build a person. With him, these memories remain in bright sun; with him, there were seldom dark clouds.

And so it is, this silent and peaceful, this quietly beautiful side of The Power.  It is no lie, no cover-up, no barefoot dancing in the park. It is as real as war, as pain, as hate.  Really, it is more so, for of the latter, they come and go, but the peace, the silent movement, never stops, ever.  And it is this that gives us the meaning behind its beauty: we know it will always be with us, no matter, just as the geese know without need for thought.  We, too, know deep inside that we will always be a part of its flow, even as the hard and temporal tears us apart, and this, too, we know without thought.  This too we know from the beauty that holds us gently as the quiet stream moves endlessly through the changing shore.  FK                

OMG!  Sunday night, we drove through an unexpected blast of cold and snow to the movie "The Revenant," and were treated to unimaginable storms - storms of revenge, storms of nature, all projected through awe-inspiring scenery and relentless acts of brutality.  It left us exhausted, and neither of us could go to bed afterwards, even though it was late.  

This was The Power on stage, something that I have been dealing with intellectually and spiritually lately, as one might see from the last essay.  It is not the awfulness of humankind that has been bothering me, but the apparent distance of the force that animates all reality, what we refer generically to as "God."  This turnabout came as I realized that most of those personal things, small things that I could have little effect upon, have simply not worked out, mindless of my pious prayers.  This could never convince me that The Force is not with us - that is, that it is not in the very fabric of all being, for I have felt it and still feel it - it is simply the truth.  No, but rather it seems that my life is too small to matter, too inconsequential to be heard by whatever that Force might be.  And that is a problem.  That is a problem, for however smart I think I have become with my readings and cogitations, I have realized that I still hold the image of God the Father, of God as a sort of super-dad, in my heart.  

It is not entirely my fault. This is what many of us have been taught as children, and it has long served as a wall against the existential angst that has troubled modernity these past few centuries.  But that, to paraphrase St Paul, is a childish thing, and not meant for adults.  Yet I, many of us, still cling to it, a security blanket against meaninglessness and death.  

That this concept is still within me came as something of a shock, and with this recognition has come another shock: that without the kindly, although stern, Father, I must come to deal with the raw power exhibited in "The Revenant."  It is glorious, the power of mountains and galaxies; it is what the grown-up mind was made to contemplate.  But it takes courage.  The mystics understood this all too well - that every concept we have of God must be jettisoned before God can be beheld - and in that, we must pass through the infamous Dark Night, which is not simply a night of obscurity, but one of terror and disintegration, where everything we cherish must be let go.  The Power is not only far greater than a great father; it is greater still than any natural event we might witness or even imagine.  We have the means to approach it, and in its light is also a glory greater than any we can imagine, but for most, it is not an easy journey.  Thus, some wise men have thought that for those lacking the drive, it is best to stay simple, to stay with the things of a child.  But for some, the cat is already out of the bag.  For some, they have no choice but to drive on.

In the movie, no easy answer is given us, just as in real life.  If one is content with one's beliefs now, one is probably wrong, and the movie makes damn sure we understand this aspect of Being. To make certain we remain uneasy and awed, we are treated to only one aspect of The Power, given us through stupendous shots of natural scenery.  But Glory goes well beyond this.  It glimmers in all of us time and again, and is ever present, if we could allow it.  We hold it at bay, not only with childhood memories of God that attempt to shield us from this power, but with the "objective" mentality of modern humans, the breakdown of all into little bits that can be explained all-so-coolly by a team of Vulcans in lab coats.  That, too, is only a security blanket of the child.  

That the God, the All, is concerned with every hair on our heads is, I think, true - God is far removed from the cold objectivity of the scientist.  But neither is "It" swayed by childish dreams.  What IS, is vaster than a glacier or comet, and greater than deaths both of mice and galaxies.  We cannot correctly think of such a force in terms of anything less than that which is greater than anything we can imagine.  For that, we must endure a voyage that in many ways mirrors that of our tortured hero in "The Revenant."  And it is on this voyage where we can all say, without the fault of immaturity, "God help us."  FK 
      

Today, a new essay, "By Chance, a Cold Dread," under "Essays" in the website.  FK

Recently, I have been corresponding with a European anthropologist (I still can't believe the internet) concerning hitchhiking, what might seem an insignificant thing.  And it is, from a casual perspective, but it can tell us a lot.  The rush to the roads in the late 60's and early 70's was due to many things, including a large youth population and a new interstate road system, and that tells us something about demographics and modernity, but there was much more.  Some on the road were runaways, some were road hobos, but many, if not most, were like myself: idealistic students looking for some place, some way to a better world that would be found by fate, or the Will of God working through the chance of a hooked thumb. It was both a naive and sacred movement, caused by hope in the wake of the disintegration of the the old American way that had been pieced together out of immigration, depression, war, and cold war.  It was, as the anthropologists say, a liminal time for many young people, an aperture in the normal collective conscious that allowed for new thinking.  Much of the new thinking tended towards utopia.  A very little of it fell on fertile ground, but most died with maturity, with a return to a different, but just as mundane, consciousness.  

We, the dreamers, had thought of it then as the end of the old and the beginning of a new age, named by some astrologists the Aquarian Age.  It may still be at work, more slowly now, but because of its slowness, it is hard to say.  However, after reading some new chapters in Gary Lachman's The Secret Teachers, we can say definitively that such millennial periods in modern history are nothing new.  According to the author, the late 1700's and early 1800's was such an era, populated, he said, with such an array of mystical thinking that it put the 1960's to shame. Swedenborg, Mesmer, Rousseau, Blake and Coleridge were just a few of the more notable stars that arrayed the esoteric sky at that time, which had grand practical implications.  The French Revolution was not, as common history tells us, simply a precursor to Marx and a socialist society. It was instructed instead by a belief that the cosmic balance between the micro world of man and matter and the cosmic "all" had been upset. Man was, in the thinking of that time, a possible god, a microcosm with infinite potential that had been buried by dogma and laziness.  Throw off the shackles of the ruling elite, and Man would rise to celestial heights, creating a new paradise on earth.

This was made possible by a combination of the belief in the efficacy of Man that was reborn in the Renaissance, a revival of ancient esoteric beliefs (Pythagorian, Neoplatonism, Hermeticism) and rapidly changing times due to technological development.  It was at this time that Blake and Coleridge rebelled against the "atomization" of knowledge that was permitting the Industrial Revolution, something that also made possible their very heretical (according to Medieval standards) ideas to grow and thrive. In the wake of mechanization, they were able to appreciate the holistic view; and in the wake of the retreat of the power of the church, they were able to read and write about things formerly forbidden.

Such it was, then - to every action was a reaction, and that time period had, perhaps, the greatest impetus towards change of any other in the post-medieval era.  It was then that Newton made of the universe a mechanical clock; and it was then that science began in earnest to change technology and the way people had lived for centuries.           

And so, it seems, that our era holds nothing new - but of course, it does.  The stage is still set as it was in the early 1800's: science has further atomized our thinking, and the technology it has wrought is further changing our lives, and quickly.  But the villains and heroes have changed their masks.  Socially, mechanical capitalism (the new aristocracy) is being pursued by mechanical democratic socialists (materialists), who are are being pursued, unwittingly, by those of a holistic bent (spiritualists), who are in search of the same micro-macro union of those of centuries before.  The front, however, is no longer set in the cities of the poor, but in the eco-systems of the world.  We see the disconnect between the micro and macro worlds not so much in the misery of the working class, but in the tottering eco-systems of the world.  It does not matter if this vision is scientifically correct or not: rather, it is a spiritual movement with its roots in the ground of European revolutions, and further, in the esoteric beliefs of the ancients.  Much has changed, then, but the inner battle between the sacred and profane worlds continues.  

In the late 18th century, many of the illuminati believed that a new era was in the making - and it was, that of the modern mechanically (now digitally) based world - but their belief was that a New Age, a much better one, in harmony with the cosmos, was in the offing.  It did not happen.  In the 1960's and 70's, many of us believed the same - and still do - simply recall the broo-ha-ha over the Mayan calendar a few years ago.  In the past, this spiritual unbalance was bringing the world to the point of social collapse, just as today we believe that our 'atomistic' thinking is bringing us to environmental catastrophe.  Both were and are true, to a point. But the former did not lead to a union of the micro and macro worlds, just as, to date, our current dangers have not. History tells us that, apparently, nothing will; that our dangerous and disparate mentality is as stubborn and as illusive as gravity. Yet everything of this world ends.  Something has to give.  Is it just "when", or will the world struggle on as it is, with wars and rises and falls, punctuated only by individual breakthroughs?  Will there ever truly, as Marx once said of his utopia, be an end to history? FK           

Corruption - we hear it said of government all the time, and it appears in them ALL to greater or lesser degrees.  Exactly how much a national society can bear is hard to calculate, but there are limits.  Venezuela has hit the bottom, for instance; Zimbabwe and North Korea are in the running, as well as a lot of the "Stans" that tumbled out of the Soviet Union.  In a recent news story, an official in Afghanistan admitted that his country is corrupt from top to bottom - including himself.  Certainly a country has hit bottom when corruption is necessary for survival, because everyone else does it.  

In my essay on Costa Rica ("Costa Vieja"), I remarked that all of the Latin American countries I have lived in (there are 3, not including the brief trip to Costa Rica), the general population is very aware of corruption at most levels.  Right to our south, Mexico stands at the crossroads - a nation of great natural resources and, now, a functioning democracy that is plagued by corruption from the presidency through the police through the military.  As with Venezuela in the 1990's, it still functions because there are enough people who believe in honest behavior - but that can easily fail, and all nations, including the USA, should beware.

I was reminded of this last night when we watched the movie, "The Tailor of Panama," with Pierce Brosnan as a corrupt M-6 British spy, and Geoffrey Rush as the honest expat tailor in 1999 Panama, the year Panama officially took charge of the Canal. Rush has a secret he keeps from his wife, an American who works directly under the Panama president.  Brosnan exploits this to get info from Rush, who dresses the rich and powerful of Panama City, including the president.  As Brosnan, an egotist who gets what he wants, blackmails Rush, Rush feeds him imaginary information to get what he wants - money to keep his wife's farm, and money for his friends who were once tortured in their opposition to the uber-corrupt Manuel Noriega, the pineapple-faced dictator of Panama who was funneling cocaine through Panama and Cuba to the US, and who was summarily removed by a US invasion.  Rush is a good guy, willing to sacrifice all for his honest friends (just two) and family, but in his dealings with Brosnan, he is dragged through the streets and brothels of the city, where everyone, it seems, is corrupt.  It ends in another US invasion involving money, lies, and theft, leaving only Rush, one friend, and his family intact.  Everyone else has been exposed for what they are - corrupt. And, although his life comes back together, the national society at large continues to live in cynicism, poverty, and abuse.

In this blog, I try to find the metaphysical or spiritual in everything, but here it is straightforward: as in Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, we see that moral corruption leads to misery and, finally, to collapse, not just of empires but of individuals. We need no vengeful gods to punish us for moral transgressions, but rather punish ourselves through corruption, much like Hindu karma.  It is an absolute moral law that requires no prophet on the mount, and yet, for many, it is still hard to see.  Why not cheat the government if it is cheating you, and everyone else is doing it?  Why not steal, when you are being stolen from?  But, like the characters in "The Sopranos, " corruption breeds corruption: mistrust, back-stabbing, petty jealousy, hatred, and not only a lack of love, but the loss of the ability to love. It leaves good times to intoxication and sex which lead to poor health and/or ennui, a need for bigger and bigger highs that further hurt others and the individual himself.  

All this is no secret; it was, after all, one of the US founders who declared that without a moral society, a free democracy would never work.  This remains true, and reminds us that, with or without a belief in the transcendent, every one of us is responsible for the other's well- being; if we are not, we will not find it with ourselves, at least not for long.  This underlies the foundation of every great religion, of which Jesus said, "love the other as the self.'  If not, Hell may not await one after death, but it will come to one or one's descendants sooner rather than later. It is a fact that is so simple, known by most, but so easily forgotten when one domino falls, and then the other, and then all of them in the last panicked, corruption-filled attempt at survival.  FK                              

 It's good to be back to the old homestead after an adventure in the Great White North.  Thomas Edison said of his genius: 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration.  "Adventure" has a similar dichotomy: 90% slogging perspiration, 10% terror.  Perhaps the word "terror" is a bit overdone, but that was our trip.  

I am leaving that for another essay, however.  After unpacking our gear last night, I hobbled upstairs to the study and once again delved into the large book, The Secret Teachers by Gary Lachman, and read once again of a pivotal turning point in the West's perspective.  It is the famous ascent of Mt Ventoux in France by Petrarch, one of the great poets of the 14th and 15th centuries. Today, climbing a mountain it hardly worth any notice at all, nor should it be.  A few years back, I had just started out climbing one of the "Whites" in New Hampshire, and had to pass a group of Hasidic Jews - or so it seemed, although I suppose they could have been an off-sect of Hutterites - who were decked out in the traditional suits and hats and dresses, and worse, leather walking shoes.  The group included several children, and some of the women carried old-fashioned picnic baskets. Hours latter, I sat on the top of the mountain enjoying the view and eating my sandwich and apple. Just as I was beginning to leave, the traditional group started filing onto the scoured rock peak, looking only slightly worse for ware.    

Such it is nowadays, but back in Petrarch's time, no one climbed mountains without a very good reason.  Petrarch, however, was doing it for the view.  Petrarch, on his way to the top, passed a shepherd who told him that he had tried it once in his youth, had failed, and would never do it again. He was sternly warned, even beseached.  But on he went, and he was rewarded with a glorious panorama at the top.  

And that, the panorama, was the "change" that the classical scholars site, for in the past, people did not view things from afar; rather, they lived in their environment as an integral part of it.  In the old paintings, there is little perspective - rather, the size of things was determined by their importance. All were part and parcel of their surroundings.  But in the Renaissance, "good" paintings were produced with realistic depth.  This was not due to greater skill, but with the change of perspective of the painters. They were now seeing things as viewers, as outsiders; they now would look "out" at a view, much as Petrarch had done.  A great change towards objectivity had taken place.  And with it, of course, came the scientific perspective, that of the outside observer of parts, that we have today.

In Germany, says Lachman, they coined a word that corresponds to outside perspective, sehnsucht, meaning "sweet yearning." My first experience of that came when I was four, when I would walk to the top of a hill where my older brother and sister got the bus to school. As they drove off, I would look longingly at the small, rolling mountains to the West and think, there is heaven! Already, I had sehnsucht; already I felt this separation which, the scholars tell us, did not exist before the Renaissance.  The longing is for participatory union, for the ecstasy of belonging fully to life - and to whatever may surround life in its greatest fulfillment.  

With age, this sweet yearning has grown deeper, as if all our years have us climb not only to greater wisdom, but to greater separation and loneliness.  And this is true.  Even my son at the age of 21 still has intense, unguarded moments with friends that he finds essential.  At my age, such intercourse is highly stylized, polite enough to not provoke controversy.  Words are carefully, wisely, kept.  Although loneliness came to me at the age of four, I can still recall the absolute honesty and chumminess of me and my classmates through most of grammar school, and, like my son, the tribal-like closeness of friends into our early 20's.  

No more.  I have gained perspective and social delicacy, but at the price of sehnsucht.   That this might have begun with a lone poet in France 600 years ago seems a stretch; but experience has shown that such objectivity does increase with age, and it does lead to longing. And longing leads to the Search.  So while curiosity kills the cat, it might also bring a greater wisdom - and perhaps a greater union.  Here, we once again confront the Great Road, and its many forks.  Yearning, sweet yearning, then, might be one of our more important directional signs. It is, perhaps, everyone's calling.  FK