New Year's Resolutions, the DOABLE kind

Big Frank has in the past always made some New Year's resolutions. Usually they have centered on the usual list: weight, exercise, increase this, decrease that, add this, eliminate that . . . you know the usual kind. So THIS YEAR Big Frank was thinking - why not think off the list, as it were. Nothing to do with elimination - no emetics, thank you. And no painful additions of the kind that even though it hurts to do it (you know like eating brussel sprouts, or running 10 miles every morning before 6:00 am) it in some is believed to be good for you. No, nothing of the sort this year. This year it's all about making me happy by doing more of those things that I already enjoy. Typically New Year's resolutions involve an attempt to not do something. Not this list - it's all about doing. So Big Frank suggests that as an approach to making resolutions this year - do more of what already makes you happy. What are Big Frank's? I suppose that anything over 7 would be approaching a top ten thing, and that is too derivative so only seven (for now):

1. Spend more time with more people (Big Frank likes people)
2. Spend more time outdoors in the fresh air (starting tonight with night snowshoe trek)
3. Say what you think (Big Frank likes speaking his mind and he thinks a lots so this is good)
4. Be happy (Abe Lincoln says that all you have to do is decide to be this and it happens - we shall see!)
5. Travel more (OK, Big Frank already travels a huge amount, but he likes it so . . . MORE)
6. Write more (Poetry, interviews, and blog ---- you all have been forewarned)
7. Sleep more/Dream more/ (Who doesn't like sleeping and dreaming?)

Now this will be a New Year to look forward to; feel free to share your resolutions with Big Frank.

HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL OF YOU OUT THERE IN BLOGGERLAND

Some Good Questions!

Big Frank got these from a good book full of questions (The Book of Questions). Here are some of his favorites:

1. If you could have free unlimited service for five years from an extremely good cook, chauffeur, housekeeper, masseuse, or personal secretary, which would you choose?
2. Would you be willing to give up sex for one year if you knew it would give you a much deeper sense of peace than you have now?
3. Would you like your spouse (partner) to be both smarter and more attractive than you?
4. Do you prefer being around men or women? Do you closest friends tend to be men or women
5. What would constitute a perfect evening for you?
6. How many times during the day do you look at yourself in the mirror?
7. If you wanted to look very sexy, how would you dress?
8. Which would you choose if it had to be one or the other: one intimate soulmate and no other close friends, or no such soulmate and many friends and acquantences?
9. If 100 people were chosen at random, how many do you think you'd find leading a more satisfying life than yours?
10. Were you able to wake up tomorrow in the body of someone else, would you do so? Whom would you pick?

Feel free to send Big Frank your answers.

On the trail

Big Frank took Gina out snowshoeing today. It was her first time, but she managed the trail like a pro; while her dad was the one who fell. Great day for mushing through the woods - in the mid 20s with a bright sun overhead. Big Frank is now waiting for that moon to wax into its fullness so he can head out on the trail in the moonlight - maybe a good way to bring in the new year, away from the crowds and noise.

Astrological Dilemma

Astrological Dilemma (The Virgin to the Bull)
---- Big Frank Dickinson

Summer stretches perpetually between us;
You on the horns of your dilemma
And me hovering on wings of adaptability;
An angel of persistence aching to receive

Your warm venereal breath lisping
Insistently of lingering silk.
Me - ruled by Mercury; oh so mutable;
You by Venus and the breeze of love.

Some say that it is Ceres, the goddess of growth
That truly rules us both, but in that case
Why such a long cold winter?
How long can the sun withhold its rays?

Bring the half-cup of your flowering horns
To this angel on the lam, wings still spread.
Be my yin, the fecund earth beneath me,
And I will be your coming summer sleep.

Midholiday musings

Big Frank has seen Christmas come . . . and go. It's funny how this holiday is supposed to one of peace, love, and giving; yet for so many it brings stress, nostalgia, and disappointment. Big Frank thinks that this is a remnant of one's youth, when the holiday truly was a magical time - a time when all routines were broken in a refreshingly bright way, when wishes and hopes rose, and family traditions brought everyone together. As we age the routines vary, wishes and hopes get tempered and family traditions change. Instead of carrying one's own hopes and wishes, the holiday becomes the challenge of fulfilling the wishes and hopes of those loved ones that depend on you. It is funny how those desires of others replace your own and in some way one's own limitations in the difference you can make in others' lives gets accented more and more. This coupled with the knowledge that there really is nothing magical about this time brings a certain melancholy to the season. Of course, especially for those who are not religious, the above mentioned combination can result - in sum - in a holiday that in some ways is a combination of loss plus glaring limitation. For way too many it becomes a time, a season to weather with as much good cheer as one can muster. Big Frank thinks that there is a way around this. Click here for the solution.

Merry Christmas

Big Frank had the pleasure of spending Christmas with family and a good friend. It is a time of the year, whatever your religous views, that centers on goodwill, good thoughts, and connections. Big Frank was lucky to have his mother and her husband with him along with his daughter, and his good friend, Magne.

However, given this emphasis that this blog has on poetry, it seems appropriate to put in some lines of poetry that fit the season. These are not necessary Ho Ho Ho lines, or amazing grace has lit upon us, or green spangles and jingly bells etc.; no, they are lines that carry good solid messages that are worth thinking about and that could apply anytime, but given that this time of the year we want to think that we have substantial thoughts - well, these are substantial - so think about them.

"Love in full life and length, not love ideal,
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name,
But something better still, so very real . . ." Lord Byron

"If you are the dreamer, I am what you dream,
But when you want to wake, I am your wish,
and I grow strong with all magnificence
and turn myself into a star's vast silence
above the strange and distant city, Time." Rainer Maria Rilke

"I miss it so much
No button to touch
No dial to turn
No key to hold" Royksopp

"If the gods bring to you
a strange and frightening creature,
accept the gift
as if it were one you had chosen." Jane Hirshfield

.

"Life on earth is quite a bargain.

Dreams, for one, don't charge admission.

Illusions are costly only when lost.

.

The body has its own installment plan.

And as an extra, added feature,

you spin on the plantets' carousel for free,

and with it you hitch a ride on the intergallactic blizzard,

with times so dizzying

that nothing here on earth can even tremble." Wislawa Szymborska

Remember: What it is!

Home

Tucked Into the Warmth
---- Big Frank Dickinson

Tucked into the warmth, full without ambition,
Like a bowl of popcorn without butter,
A mission-less angel, missile in silo,
Or dart nestled in its bulls-eye home.

Having arrived - no matter the time,
No matter the place, the silence
Is as quietly deceiving as
Crickets crying next next next.

From "H" to "M"

Agent Hope---- Big Frank Dickinson

". . . Falling through your whole life, you are breaking apart . . .
But in the round shape of the wheel is the idea which is the bone upon which the flesh of the wheel is fixed . . ." Russell Edson

Agent Hope was assigned to him after desire awakened, and disappointment appeared in the mirror. Agent H, let's call him, wore seersucker suits with a panama hat, and carried himself with a swagger. In one hand was an unlit cigar and while it never did get lit, still he appeared ready to smoke it when it did. He followed his charge only intermittently, having a tendency to disappear for long stretches of time and then, often reappear after some horrible setback when he would whisper in the fallen's ear, an ear that until then only heard loss, how that fall could be turned. Agent H would give him this kind of stuff: "Look at the H in hope: its upward reaching sidebars need to be restrained, lowered and centered - and when it is you can make a poem out of it." Agent H was full of those kinds of convoluted kernels. Still, odd as it may seem, they took root. The man began to be guided in his desires less by hope and more by poetry. Sometimes he rhymed, often not; more often he found his syncopated, quick-footed dance and its reverberation with all that surrounded him satisfying and pleasurable, even if he could never really say why.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Do Wacka Do
---- Big Frank Dickinson

"Yeah, I see you’re goin’ down the street in your big Cadillac,
You got girls in the front, you got girls in the back,
Yeah, way in back, you got money in a sack,
Both hands on the wheel and your shoulders rared back
root-doot-doot-doot-doot, do-wah," Roger Miller

Smoothness and a chipper disposition rode on his shoulders. Of course, the weather also helped - those sunny days, that warm breeze, and the regularity of it all. "All luck", some said; and he, "So what, I'll take it, who wouldn't?" Days stood up for him, at attention and served him well in the form of a clean conscience, limited imagination, and an unflinching ability to sit in the middle of where he actually was. This ploppiness, as he called it, always revealed through some amount of patience, learned at a cost of potentially lost opportunites, initially unnoticed lurking possibilities. It was with these weeds, as he called them, that he made his life: toast without butter, moles with hairs emerging, lazy eyes, and dripping facucets. Nobody saw these things - what they saw was the glint in his eye, the bounce in his step, and the way his eyes embraced them "A clean windshield, and shiny shoes": that had been his mantra - not so much something that he sought but outward signs of preparedness and attention to detail, which he did not so much pay attention to as keep in mind as a linguistic touchstone to being on track. In actuality he rarely washed his car, but that didn't stop it from running - that is, until those trucks plowed into him.

Is this a dream?

What Kind of Dream Is This?
---- Big Frank Dickinson

He was very big on bifurcation and certainly nobody could dispute the truth of life = dreams + waking life. Yet, he always reminded himself that most of everything was all in the second category: all our plans, our self-esteem, our relationships, our ideas of self-improvement, our regrets, our love interests, our . . . (there are lots more). Dreams it seemed to him were a form of life that was not taken very seriously. Maybe, he thought, that was because dreams were viewed as completely outside of our control - kind of like the weather, unlike our personalities, which we tended to feel were of our making; but, were we not just kidding ourselves (about how much control we really had (in waking life).

So he took control of his dreams (it's a long story how - not for now). They became predictable, because he, like most people, liked a set scene, with a reliable cast of characters, and the dreams were limited by his conscious imagination, which - let's face it - is no way near as wild as what comes up from your wacky whatever. His dreamland was like the life that the proverbial people who abandon their current setup, family and friends and move to a distant city, only to recreate the exact thing that they ran away from. Eventually, of course, he could not tell the difference between his waking life and his dreams. One was only a slight variation on the other - bigger house in one, smaller mate in the other, three kids in one, only two in the other, red toaster vs black, ski holidays vs diving, and so on.

In time when he went to sleep he packed a lunch, and called his wife in the middle of the night to see if she wanted to have breakfast when they woke.

I am not my personality - yeah, right.

I Am Not My Personality
---- Big Frank Dickinson

He kept saying that he was not his personality. He was not sure exactly what he was; sometimes he thought that he was nothing and that certainly was not his personality. You know, the Buddist thing about the self being the absence of everything. But his friends made fun of that, and anyway, who can have an image of nothing? Well, you can imagine an empty room, but it's still a room. Then there is empty space - like those big gaps in the universe, but that was still surrounded by stuff. Then he thought nothing was all about what isn't - so he went with that. About the best image he could come up with was everything that he was not: without desire, consistent, eternal, infinite, everwhere, all knowing, completely self-sufficient in everyway, and absolutely knowling of itself. But this drove him nuts, because that meant that he was what he wasn't and how could that be? What kind of world is that he found himself in where in actuality he was everything that in his mind he thought he wasn't. This was too neat - so he concluded that he was probably some of the things that he thought he wasn't: he chose - eternal, and infinite (they seem to go together), but rejected the others. This made sense and gave him hope; if he was eternal then in time he would probably figure the rest out. His real self thought this was a riot!

Prose Poem - "Synchronicity"

Synchronicity
---- Big Frank Dickinson

6:02 am, he wakes, when in a small city 200 miles to the south a young woman is also awaking and reaching for the alarm, as across the globe in Osaka a sushi chef reaches for his knife and is cutting a thin slice of yellow fin tuna, as that tuna's mother slices a parrot fish in half swallowing one half while the other drifts slowly to the bottom, as on the surface directly above in a sailboat's galley the ground's of the captain's coffee sink to the bottom of his cup, which has a yellow tuna and the words "TUNA MAN" written in exactly the same script as the accountant's business card, who at this very moment in Samarkand is setting his alarm and going to sleep with thoughts of the number 602 in his head, exactly the amount of money that a woman in the Couer d Lane casino is seeing pour out of a slot machine, which was made by a company called Tuna Alarm at the bottom of a hill in the industrial half of Kandarsam, Ohio, address 602 Osaka Street, on which there is also a post office, which has a PO Box number 602, in which is a letter addressed from Global Reach and addressed to Lane Chef with an appeal to save wild parrots, one of which at this very moment in Brazil is sitting on a branch across from another parrot who at this moment is waking up for exactly the 602nd time in its life, and immediatly falling down as the axes of the coffee plantation's expansion slice through the surface of the tree, the wood of which will make the next bed that he orders online for his guest room in a couple of years, days - 602.

Then 206 days later while in Ohio he meets a woman, an accountant, whose father comes from Samarkand, and sells Yellow Tuna to Japanese sushi chefs. He is alarmed that she is unhappy with her recent Brazilian bed she won in a casino, and she at his reluctance to contribute to the wild parrot fund. They then look at each other and say, in unison: "What are the odds"? They know they were meant for each other - it was meant to be.

Prose Poem

Big Frank has been reading more prose poems. Here's a good one from Peter Johnson. Read it the first time, and then ask yourself: "How does that make me feel?" Then read it again and ask yourself: "Why?"

A Ritual as Old as Time Itself
by Peter Johnson

There's a man flying his wife. He's been at it for the last year of their marriage. With one end of the string around her heart, the other around his fist, he scurries up and down the shoreline.
A year ago, his wife yelped at the first tug, but now she seems content, as if she'll never come down.
And the man? He's so happy he wants to fly her all the time. But just as he considers this, the sand beneath his feet gives way. He's unable to run, and his wife begins a slow descent.
"No," he yells, "it's not fair. It's only been one year, you flew me for two."
"Now, now," she says, making a perfect landing. "You'll get used to being in the air again, and, unlike you, I promise to be very gentle on that first tug."

Sherman Alexie and Jess Walter in Spokane

Big Frank spent the afternoon (along with 100 others) with two terrific writers, both national book award winner, who are native to Spokane. They were giving a reading at Aunties, Spokane's locally owned bookstore. The room was full, standing room only, and both gave funny and heart-warming readings, with plenty of local references to keep the crowd from Spokane happy. When Sherman noticed some young folks from a town where he used to live he struck up a conversation with them, and finding out who they were - he told one of them that he had made out this the guy's aunt! Walter read an extended demographic piece on Spokane which helped him explain to himself, and the audience why it was that he still lived in Spokane, even after all his success as a writer. Walter only read one piece, Alexie, read about 6 of his poems - all much appreciated. The best line, which Big Frank can only remember in paraphrase was from Sherman's poem entitled "Late Night Phone Call From a Former Girlfriend", which ended with this couplet:

"What we really most want for ever more
Is to be wanted by those we wanted before."

Here's another poem of Alexie's recently published in Valparaiso Poetry Review:

HOMILY
by Sheman Alexie
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Desire is the inconvenience of its object.
Lourdes isn’t Lourdes if you live in Lourdes.”
—Don Paterson, Best Thought, Worst Thought

How often have I walked through my front door
And forgotten to exult? Why won’t I roar
For all of the objects that I adore?
When did I stop praising the books I hoard
And the bookcases, lovingly restored?
Why do I ignore the baskets and gourds?
O, Lord, let my love for things be reborn.

Let me sanctify my shirts and coats, adorned
With feather, paint, and bead. Let me sing for
The star quilts piled on the beds and floors.
I own so much yet want for so much more.
Why do I treat my possessions with scorn?
From this day forward, let us be forewarned:
Lourdes isn’t Lourdes if you live in Lourdes.

Love by Milosz

Big Frank has been reading poetry lately by Czeslaw Milosz, the nobel prize winning poet. Milosz wrote in Polish, but often translated or worked with the poets who translated his poems into English - the translations are very good. Here is a poem he wrote on love. It's a different view, and one puts the accent on understanding oneself by stepping out of the mind-lock so many fall into whereby they only see themselves from their own perspective - a tough nut to crack, but one that allows one, as Milosz understands, to truly love.

Love
by Czeslaw Milosz

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills—
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn’t matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.

It's COLD outside

Big Frank is cold. OK, winter is coming, and when it's winter and you live in Washington state, you will experience cold. Still, even knowing that it was coming; Big Frank is cold. He was thinking this morning about one of those questions that people ask, you know, when you are asked to choose between two equally disagreeable outcomes, like would you rather lose your right hand or your left one, or would you rather be left alone in the desert or in the jungle? Well, one more of these asks, would you rather be really really cold, or really really hot? Right now, Big Frank would rather be really really hot. However, it's cold Big Frank is experiencing and writing about so how about some tips on how to best handle the cold?

Tips On How To Best Handle The Cold
A. Ideal but probably not realistic:
1. Eat as much as you can, grow (or buy) a thick winter coat, reduce your body temperature and find a hole in the ground where you can hibernate,
2. Go to Singapore
3. Sit in your bathtub full of hot water with a stocking cap on.

B. OK, getting real now
1. Behavioral things to do
a. Eat high energy food; it increases your heat production
b. Exercise; it also increases your heat production
c. Shiver - this can increase heat in your muscles up to five times (but can cool your core from loss of blood) - not a good thing long term!
d. Wear multiple layers of clothing - the trapped air in between acts as insulation.
e. Wear a hat (over 50% of heat loss occurs through you head!)
f. Mittens will keep your hands warmer than gloves
g. Light a candle (they produce a lot of heat)
h. Cook! This warms the house - and you get to eat those calories
i. Take a hot shower or bath and then put lotion on your skin; it acts as insulation
j. Use a humidifier - it can increase the apparent temperature in your home by 15%
k. Find a friend (a close one!) to snuggle with; any warm blooded creature is a furnace unto itself

Finally, Big Frank welcome more tips from all of you readers out there. Let's beat this cold. One last thing - Big Frank is not sure what the effect of poetry is on the cold; he's still ruminating on that one.

A Poetic Mantra

Big Frank read this poem today and immediately it asked to be repeated, was, and then again, and again etc. So, it dawned on Big Frank that this was some kind of intuitive mantra - and that is what it is. Say it ten times and you will see what Big Frank means!

Here Now
by Samuel Menashe

Now and again
I am here now
And now is when
I'm here again

Gina's Come and Gone

Big Frank was very happy to have his daughter, Gina, at home for the Thanksgiving holiday. It seems like she hardly got here and then she was gone. We had a great time together sharing the Thanksgiving meal with friends, going to the movies, and just hanging out. She's on her way back to college (hung up in Portland because of fog), but likely (we hope) back in Ashland soon. Big Frank is already looking forward to her return for the Christmas holidays.

The Hidden Source of Support

The Hidden Source of Support
---- Big Frank Dickinson

They told him that the universe was pulling for him. That confused him no end. The universe? Well it certainly had a perverse way of doing so. His life was OK, but if the whole universe was for him - then he ought to be on top - of everything; a stand out with joy dripping out his ears. Perhaps it wasn't the whole but rather only a part. He tried to place the source of support in some singular way. Was it Neptune or Chile or Antarctic ice? All much too far away. His washing machine and toaster were helpful, as were his shoes, but mostly he didn't have a clue. Perhaps that new neighbor - or his mom (no, not her). Was he really that special, or was it all (the whole vast muddle) evenly spread? Nobody, not even the universe cheers for everyone. He wanted to be the universe's favorite - otherwise, what was the point. Still - they said that it liked him; it would all be all right. So he opened his arms, spread them out wide and embraced the whole damn thing . . . at least as much as his arms could bear.

The Face of It

The Convention
---- Big Frank Dickinson

I am at a convention of me's. They have all come to see themselves in others. The membership card is their face. Nobody is allowed to say: "You look like me." Pronouns are a problem: "You look like you" leaves me out; "they look like them" has neither you nor me; and so it goes. Aside from the face, the rest is erased. There are splinter groups scorning, reformers, who claim that the face is not you. This prompts other features to be deleted: nose, eyes, age, race and gender. It is hard to find myself among the attendees. The keynote speaker (he looks like me) tonight will speak on "Identity: The Face of It". There are protesters assembling already. I recognize myself among them.

Prose Poetry

Big Frank has been looking at prose poetry. It may not look like poetry, but it has a lot of the same ingredients; it's just presented in a different way - not so much white space. Below are a couple of examples from two poets who use this form well: Russell Edson and David Shumate.

Trains
by David Shumate

I am seduced by trains. When one moans in the night like some
dragon gone lame, I rise and put on my grandfather's suit. I pack a
small bag, step out onto the porch, and wait in the darkness. I rest
my broad-brimmed hat on my knee. To a passerby I'm a curious
sight—a solitary man sitting in the night. There's something
unsettling about a traveler who doesn't know where he's headed.
You can't predict his next move. In a week you may receive a
postcard from Haiti. Madagascar. You might turn on your
answering machine and hear his voice amid the tumult of a
Bangkok avenue. All afternoon you feel the weight of the things
you've never done. Don't think about it too much. Everything
starts to sound like a train.

Historical Breakfast
by Russell Edson

A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face, tilting it to his mouth. It's historical, he thinks. He scratches his head: another historical event. He really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of history this morning.
Oh my, now he's buttering toast, another piece of history is being made.
He wonders why it should have fallen on him to be so historical. Others probably just don't have it, he thinks, it is, after all, a talent.
He thinks one of his shoelaces needs tying. Oh well, another important historical event is about to take place. He just can't help it. Perhaps he's taking up too large an area of history? But he has to live, hasn't he? Toast needs buttering and he can't go around with one of his shoelaces needing to be tied, can he?
Certainly it's true, when the 20th century gets written in full it will be mainly about him. That's the way the cookie crumbles--ah, there's a phrase that'll be quoted for centuries to come.
Self-conscious? A little; how can one help it with all those yet-to-be-born eyes of the future watching him?
Uh oh, he feels another historical event coming . . . Ah, there it is, a cup of coffee approaching his face at the end of his arm. If only they could catch it on film, how much it would mean to the future. Oops, spilled it all over his lap. One of those historical accidents that will influence the next thousand years; unpredictable, and really rather uncomfortable . . . But history is never easy, he thinks. . .

The Office of Lost Opportunity

The Office of Lost Opportunity
---- Big Frank Dickinson

In the office of lost opportunity there are no current calendars and the clocks all run backwards. Those who come are always late for their appointments, and usually they are turned away with lots of upbrading about if they had only and why didn't they . . . It is not clear why anyone bothers to come here in the first place for to do so is to admit that one blew it; but many seem to want to make that admission. Those who do show up on time expect to be able to review their loss. They are given mirrors and told to look over their shoulders - what they see is seldom consoling and after a few questions about second chances, and how maybe it was all for the best (something this office does not encourage) they head across the street to the Bureau of Lucky Losses for a healthy dose of snythetic happiness, which seems to please them to no end.

The Stake and Big Frank

The stake in the trail was a question mark that puntuated every walk, hike, or run that Big Frank had. There it was . . . just to the west side of the trail, with a small remnant of a chain. He often passed this stake and he often wondered what it meant, and why it was there. Everything happened for a reason, right? What was the reason for the stake? Or was it everything happened for a reason with people, but with stakes - there need not necessarily be a reason. This stake, perhaps, had no explanation; it resulted from nothing - it just was there. No, Big Frank rejected that because no stake drove itself into anything - somebody drove this stake into this trail - that was what it resulted from, just as his pondering resulted from the stake being there, and so . . . he thought it did indeed mean something. At first the cliches emerged: "a stake in the road" - did he have a stake in the road; "stake something on this road" - he was staking his walk on the . . . NO, he was not going to play the cliche game. This stake meant something - it was a symbol that went beyond the cliches, or it was a metaphor for something, or maybe it just wanted to be noticed. That stake then has accomplished its purpose - thus!

Czesław Miłosz's "Road-side Dog"

Big Frank has been reading Milosz's "Road-side Dog", a wonderful small book of poetry, essays, aphorisms and anecdotes. Milosz starts the book with a couple of quotations taken from Lew Shestov, and this reveals much of where he is going with language and the mystery of life, or perhaps the deception of life:

"Perhaps truth by its nature makes communication between people impossible, in any case communication by the intermediary of words. Every one may know it for himself, but in order to enter into relations with his fellowmen he must renounce truth and adopt any conventional lie."
---- Lew Shestov, Penultimate Words, 1911

Here are some excerpts from the book:

The Last Judgment
"The consequences of our actions, Completely unknown, for every one of them enters into a multifaceted relation with circumstance and with the actions of others. An absolutely efficient computer could show us, with a correction for accidents, of course, for how else to calculate the direction taken by a billiard ball after it strikes another? Besides, it is permissible to maintain that nothing happens by accident. Be that as it may, standing before a perfectly computerized balanced sheet of our lives (The Last Judgment), we must be astonished: Can it be that I am responsible for so much evil done against my will? And here, on the other scale, so much good I did not intend and of which I was not aware?"

Meanwhile and Made-Believe
"To get up in the morning and go to work, to be bound to people by the ties of love, friendship, or opposition--and all the time to realize that it was only meanwhile and make-believe. . .

He did not regard kindly this affliction of his. He agreed with the opinion that he should be here--entirely present, in a given place and moment, attentive to the needs of those who were close to him and fulfilling their expectations. To think that they were just for meanwhile and that he practiced with them a make-believe was to harm them, yet he was unable to renounce the thought that, really, he had not time for life with them."

"What is not said, tends to nonexistence."

Inserting a Meaning
". . . And inserting a meaning into one's own life. Something must correspond to something, something must result from something. Perhaps, so that things just pain stupid and dishonest find an explanation."

Thanksgiving

Gratitude
---- Big Frank Dickinson

Do you have to thank someone in order to be thankful?
No, but it could help.

Is the gratitude for you or them?
It is large and contains multitudes.

Will being grateful mean I have work to do?
It's not an intention, it's an accomplishment.

Can I put it on my resume?
It goes under experience..

Is it something that I need to put into words?
They will show you your gifts.

Do I need to include words like blessed, fortunate, and lucky?
Yes, unless you did it all alone and on purpose.

Can the brightness be reckoned without recourse to the dark?
Yes, even if it does not obliterate it entirely.

Do I need to be thankful for the dark?
Look at it at glancingly; be thankful for that.

Is gratitude the ladder to happiness.
That's what I've heard.

What does gratitude look like?
It is plump and winks back at you.

Interesting, but, no doubt, unoriginal thoughts

OK, after having been put in my unoriginal place by my brother, I will muse on, in an assumedly unoriginal way. A few recent thoughts, nonetheless. This is on the sensory field that surrounds us. In the old days (let's say 100 years ago to avoid any nitpicking) people's sensory perceptions came at them from the place that they were in. If they were traveling they were surrounded by the sounds that were present in the places that they passed through. If they were out for a walk, or running (probably not so much of that back then) then it would be the sounds of the field, the forest, the city streets, or whatever that filled their ears. If they were were working, it was the sounds of their place of work that surrounded them. Now, with ipods, radio, sterios etc. we can replace the "natural" sounds with our own. Perhaps a better way of putting this would be that we can replace sounds of the places we are in with sounds of our preference - usually music. So, why not visuals also (perhaps this is already beginning to happen with the videos in cars, planes, and trains?). However, why should it stop with movies - why not a full visual display to replace whatever it is that actually surrounds you at whatever moment. With the advent, for example, of self-navigating automobiles the windshield could become a kind of visual screen that could display whatever scene you chose: nature, photographs, movies, paintings, . . . anything. And why stop there, why not replace the tactile sensations that are so unforgetable - the impressions of the seat you are on, for example. Replace them with the most satisfying tactile sensations that you can imagine. Then scent and taste and we will have really entered the virtual world that has little if any relationship to the actual one that surrounds us. This probably would not make any difference because the only real world that you ever live in is the one in your head anyway! OK, there probably has already been a movie on this or some article, so Big Frank is not claiming any originality just marking this as an idea worth contemplating.

Posting and Pasting and Linking and Such

Big Frank has been thinking lately about how much of what we write, read, and talk about is really just a post, past or link to someone else's thoughts. How much of what you share, not what you think necessarily, falls into this category? OK, exclude what Big Frank refers to as your personal itinerary: you know, where you have been lately, who you were with, and what it is that what it is that you are planning to do. Then think about actual exchange of information apart from that. Much of it centers on books you read, stuff you read in the paper or online, movies you saw, or, what you heard on the radio or TV. On the social networking sites and many blogs, the ideas often relayed via links to other people's or organizations presentation of causes, spins, editorials, rants, or other packages of ideas. Think of the last time that you had a conversation and shared an idea (not about your decorating, your yard, your children, your past or upcoming journeys, or your friends and relatives) that was YOURS and not the passing on of something that you read or heard? OK, Big Frank hears your mutterings - "So, smarty pants, what's your distinctly original idea that YOU have to share with us?" Well, actually, this is it! Remember: that's WHAT IT IS!

"With so many options to choose from people find it very difficult to choose at all", is what Barry Schwartz, author of "The Paradox of Choice (click on the link to hear Barry speak on this at TED)" has to say. So what does this have to do with original ideas? Hmmm . . . . this may be a leap, but Big Frank thinks that with sooooo much information out there that people pass on trying to examine anthing in any depth or breadth, rather they just grab what feels good right out of the gate. What does this have to do with original thought? Quite a bit, actually, because thinking is a kind of paradox of choice itself; your mind has a zillion things that it has to choose from at any time, and as a result often opts out and just goes with what is loudest, most persistent, and generally stays on one's mind. The way out of this to real original thought. Well, remember tough love? No, this isn't that. Tough thought require overcoming weakness of will and the ability to limit choices and work with what remains. Not sure if that's an original thought, but Big Frank doesn't know where it came from if it isn't.

Of course, having an original idea means you must have courage, and face the quite real chance that your original idea could be wrong, or misguided, or in some way lame. It takes courage to be creative. And it may appear that Big Frank is contradicting himself in attaching a quotation and link on this, but, so what?

Here's Sir Ken Robinson on all this: "If you are not prepared to be wrong you'll never come up with anything original." Listen to Sir Ken at TED on originality here.

What is a Social Adventurer?

Big Frank is the organizer of a great meetup called the Social Adventurers. It gives him and the other members in the group the opportunity to meet new people, and to interact on a very real basis with everyone. The group has been meeting for about six months now and has 65 members now! Well, not all come to the actual meetings - the one this evening only had 5, but the encounter was meaningful and amazing in many ways. Five people who had never met before come together, introduce themselves to each other, and then with some limited discussion launch into the evenings activities: role play! The group enacted role plays centering around interpersonal relationships: couples, employer/employee, and parent child. All brought up significant issues that led them to reveal personal issues about themselve, which opened the door to more discussion on those issues, and allowed everyone to really get to know each other. That is a social adventure. The photo above is of the four others beside Big Frank - real Social Adventurers. For those of you in the Spokane area interested in joining - go here and sign up. Our next meetup goes on the road - to The Blue Door Theater for comic improv, followed by refreshments and discussion!

The coffee press and white wine blends

Big Frank has been thinking lately about inconvenient thoughts, red wine stains, and the excessive cost of AA batteries. OK, these are not earth-shaking topics, but they are topics. Let's forget the problem with the batteries - buy rechargeables and the problem is solved. So, what's with the coffee press? We all have had experiences with those pesky inconvenient thoughts - no need to give a list, you all know what they are, and each one of us has his/her own particular species of them. Inconvenient! In other words: thoughts that you would rather NOT have. Let's keep this simple - we are NOT going to be going, now, to visit our therapists, rather we are going to envision a coffee press! The coffe press clarifies the coffee by pushing the grounds to the botton. So, what Big Frank does is to put the image of this coffee press into his mind and then the inconvenient thought is thereby replaced. It is no use to think that you will NOT think the inconvenient thought - that is a sure way to thinking it. Big Frank is not sure whether the purging is effected as a kind of mental metaphor or whether the same result could be effected with any image (for example, a goat) because the mind cannot entertain two thoughts/images at the same time (go ahead and try it - try to envision a coffee press and your heart's desire - at the same time - can't be done). So, skip the visit to the therapist and think coffee press (or goat if that works for you).

Now - white wine. Big Frank has always been mostly a red wine kind of guy. He doesn't have any particular single grape that he favors; rather he likes the blends. However, as was recently pointed out to him rather graphically in Berlin at a late-night soiree; red wine stains your teeth and your tongue (not to mention the corrosive effect the tanins have on your teeth!). There are some ways of addressing this problem - here's one approach. However, while whites can also be corrosive (over the long run), they don't leave you with purple lips. In addition, Big Frank was not aware of the white blends, but he now is. So, he now sips Chardonnay-Marsanne-Sauvignon Blanc or Jean-Luc Colombo les figuieres Cotes Du Rhone (2005) and has the pleasure of the rich smooth taste of the blend without red-mouth. Here are a number of great white blends.

The Little House of Our Desire

That House!
---- Big Frank Dickinson

"Everything was spotless in the little house of our desire,
the clock ticked on and on, happy about
being apprenticed to eternity."
-- John Ashbery

That house was such a small one (in retrospect).
Of course at the time it wasn't; it was (then)
Like the cavernous halls of childhood, which
When revisited later shrinks as
Perceived
That house magnified touch and time,
Rebounding and reverberating
Eternity and infinity dancing till dawn
To the tune of balanced breath, or so it
Seemed
That house was stillness inside a pause within
Which time looped but could not escape,
Like a ship in a bottle forever sailing but
Never touched by the outside elements - they
Thought
That house had rooms inside rooms mirroring rooms
Leading into passages that revealed
New halls where they dallied and strolled
In timeless amplitude of exploration, or so they
Felt
That house, was entered by them, like a distant relative
Who mistaking loneliness for awhile,
Came into the little house, but leary of
The dance of intimacies and spots that tire
Fled.

Inconvenient Thoughts

Inconvenient Thoughts
---- Big Frank Dickinson

Like uninvited guests they come;
Evict them as many times as you will
They'll be back and what makes you feel so dumb
Is the fact that you listen with interest to their swill.

The belief, conviction, holy urge
That she who sits inside your heart today;
Though hers is closed, and you've been purged
Will recant, return, and with you always stay.

The never ending search for that day,
The pages of the calendar flip ahead
January, February, March, . . .May -
Towards not now, but the future instead.

This is what you're gonna do, gonna do,
Gonna do; see the end, the accolades;
Then the delay, today, tomorrow too,
Still the thought it says and overpersuades.

It all happens for a reason, oh yeah,
And the reason is a good one too;
The shit you're in's not crap - naah,
In truth of fact it's heavenly do-do.

I'm a special person uniquely different
From all the rest who seem so terribly alike;
And yet their lack of praise I do lament;
Much as shining stars to a northern pike.

All I know is living now, life, awareness,
And the feeling in my hands, warmth of my breath,
But gnawing at my bones is the unfairness
Of what I'm told awaits me: certain death.

Sometimes you get away

Escape
---- Big Frank Dickinson

"Sometimes you get away. This time it's true."
---- Kaskade

You look over your shoulder and sure enough
They're gone: the nagging doubt, the fixed
Obsession, the incompleteness, along with
The killing routine - and all that comes along with them.

Clean away - the great escape; and how did you
Manage this? Well, it was quite simple; you lost yourself.
Otherwise, they'd all be here along with you.
We've all heard that - "I lost myself in thought" or

"I got lost going to Kansas City", or there could be other
Means, other places into which you entered and by getting
Lost - you, ironically, get away. Of course, there is
Some consternation that accompanies the sense of being lost:

How am I going to kill this bear; emerge from the burning car,
Or find my way out of this gunnysack? Or less dramatically,
Seek shelter from the rain, find my wallet, or
Speak the truth despite the shame.

But this is more than made up for by the gains realized:
Ignorance of past burdens, avoidance of what was thought
To be pressing, and generally redefining the moment by
Raising the stakes of the present to obliterate the past.

The car skids across the road, your feet go out from underneath,
The sky lights up above you, or you scramble to do three things at once,
And in all cases your mind runs away, your focus realigns, and
In looking closely at something new, you forget and let go.

All of these are your lucky crises; the floodlight dispelling shadows.
Of course, the forgotten can return when the crisis lifts and the
Present glaring spotlight goes out revealing the hundred
Tiny flashlights alternately coming up quickly from behind.

The Power of Intention

The Power of Intention
---- Big Frank Dickinson

The best of intentions, who doesn't have these?
They sit like birds on a wire, all in a line, but
With the first clap of thunder they scatter;
Do they line up that way ever again?

The call center's associate informs the voice at the
Other end of the line that much as she would like,
The computer won't let her; but in a perfect world
Her intentions would prevai. So where do they go?

Do they recast events in some other dimension;
The world of what was wanted; the well-intentioned
Outcomes, played out as it should have been;
Where the sluggards rise early in spite of weakness of will.

Where the words always come out exactly as you intended,
And are received and understood as conceived;
Where late-night resolutions see the light of day,
And take on a life of their own oblivious to future vacillations.

The power of intentions like dark matter, in this universe, would
Then override the actual, invisibly pulling events toward intended
Outcomes, overpowering the unacted, and leaping the gap
Between what you want to want and what you do.

"That's not what I meant", would never be said.
"Someday I'll get my shit together . . ." would be today.
A world in which the best laid plans would never go awry;
The backward glance always be the promise sought.

In that world would we pine for the unexpected,
Impossible liberation from the rigid rule of want;
Where prospects were uncertain, and what was over
The horizon was unknown and free of our sovereignty?

Time For Some Tunes!

Big Frank has been listening to a lot of music lately and he has one very big recommendation for all you listeners out there (listen to Big Frank, he's talking like he was on the radio or something). Well, as Big Frank was saying - good tunes are hard to find. By that Big Frank means that music aplenty abides but we would all be a lot better off if some of it did not. Sifting through the derivatively and annoying along with the hours and hours and song after song - -leaves Big Frank, and he assumes, you also, gentle listener/reader, is hard work, but someone has to do it. After all that - what up? KASKADE! That's what. Kaskade was born Ryan Raddon and is a dj and record producer. He released his first single in 2001, and every release since then has just gotten better and better. Big Frank recommends his 2006 release entitled: LOVE MYSTERIOUS! Check out a couple of songs from it here: Be Still and (in a slightly more subdued version than what is played on the CD) 4 AM. Listen and you'll be hooked - no other outcome possible - so say Big Frank.

I Sisyphus

This is a pretty good presentation of the modern Sisyphus. Pretty grim; but - look below, at the previous post, for an alternate ending.

I, Sisyphus
Uploaded by Unbearable_Films. - Classic TV and last night's shows, online.

Sisyphus Takes a Break

Sisyphus Puts Down the Rock
---- Big Frank Dickinson

I'm done with this carrying this rock;
The nobility of the acceptance of pain,
The duration of boredom welcomed,
The tiring repetition of the steps - enough!

I'm open to a new challenge - one that
Can be accomplished in its finality, that
Leads to another or a gap in the sequence of
The previous endless monotony of time.

Putting down rather than picking up
Looking not up nor down,
Catching my breath, not holding it,
Or panting in exertion to pant yet more.

Looking my destiny straight in the eye?
I don't think so - not anymore;
"My destiny": springing from my head
Like Athena from the head of Zeus?

No, because unlike Zeus - this is not wisdom
This is creative speculation, so I now stop
Thinking that replacing the rock with
Anything else is any more meaningful.

I might as well conjure up images of
The afterlife, the reasons of love, or
A model of reality in its totality.
No more leaping out nor pushing up.

Instead, I will sit down, right here,
And embrace the nobility of nothing;
Break the links of cause and effect,
And know only the sound of my breath.

Solipsism taken to the extreme

Big Frank has been travelling and "What It Is" has been dominated by his travels at the expense of poetry, it seems. He's back home again, and so it's time to turn back to poetry. Here is a great poem by Vivay Sashadri called Thought Problem (recently published in the October 12th issue of the New Yorker): think about it!

THOUGHT PROBLEM
---- Vivay Seshadri

How strange would it be if you met yourself on the street?
How strange if you liked yourself,
took yourself in your arms, married your own self,
propagated by techniques known only to you,
and then populated the world? Replicas of you are everywhere.
Some are Arabs. Some are Jews. Some live in yurts. It is
an abomination, but better that your
sweet and scrupulously neat self
emerges at many points on the earth to watch the horned moon rise
than all those dolts out there,
turning into pillars of salt wherever we look.
If we have to have people, let them be you,
spritzing your geraniums, driving yourself to the haberdashery,
killing your supper with a blowgun.
Yes, only in the forest do you feel at peace,
up in the branches and down in the terrifc gorges,
but you've seen through everything else.
You've fled in terror across the frozen lake,
you've found yourself in the sand, the palace,
the prison, the dockside stews;
and long ago, on this same planet, you came home
to an empty house, poured a Scotch-and-soda,
and sat in a recliner in the unlit rumpus room,
puzzled at what became of you.

Torun with Konrad and Aneta

A 15th century Torun grainery.

Big Frank and his son, Konrad making a visit to the renowned astronomer Copernicus' birthplace.

Torun's old city square ("rynek starego miasta")

Konrad and Aneta.

Big Frank on the couch that would NOT turn into a bed!

Big Frank had a terrific time in the old medieval city of Torun, Poland with Konrad and Aneta. Konrad, as usual, was the guide and the driving force behind this trip. He arranged for an apartment for us in the center of the old town. The apartment was terrific, even if the bed that Big Frank slept in collapsed in the middle of the night and could not be repaired. This did not put a damper on anything. The three of us spent a couple of days doing the city up in fine style. We visited the ruins of the castle of the Teutonic Knights that the city of Torun razed in the 15th century. This city was a prosperous grain center, and there are lots of beautiful old 15th century granaries still to be seen. Of course the main attraction in Torun is the home of Copernicus, who was born here. We toured the home in the wake of a group of school kids who were taking copious notes - we took none. We also sampled the other main attraction of Torun - gingerbread ("piernik").

Train to Warsaw

Big Frank saw the snow coming and headed east. Train, train, ("it takes a lot to laugh - it takes a train to cry") - what does that mean? He stayed ahead of the snow, for now. He was on the Berlin - Warszawa Express, a six hour jaunt. He arrived in Warsaw on time and descended onto the platform and then (thinking like he was in an airport) he headed for the main terminal. Meanwhile on the other side of the platform, waiting for him, was his son, Konrad. After much consternation on both sides they eventually met up and headed back to Konrad's for an atypical Polish evening meal: tacos!

The Fulbrighters part ways, but the memories stay!

Big Frank's next stop on his German trip was Frankfurt. This is where the Fulbrighters had their final wind up and then went their separate ways. Big Frank is now back in Berlin, but has very good memories of Frankfurt and all the wonderful people that he spent the last 2 weeks with.

Bayreuth Opera House

Big Frank is in Bayreuth, Germany. This is the home of Richard Wagner and now has an annual opera festival where Wagner's operas are put on every summer. However, there is a tradition of opera here that predates Wagner. In fact, the opera house here is one of the few remaining roccoco opera houses left in Europe - it dates from 1744. Here are a few photos that Big Frank took of it yesterday.

Antipodes in Jena

Big Frank is in Jena with the Fulbrighters. Today was full of touring, power point lectures, schnitzel, coffee, university talk, and lots of picture taking. Big Frank is going to spare you having to review all 60 or so of the photos that he took today. Instead, here are a couple of photos that accent the old juxtaposed against the new - two views in the same frame, as it were. Nothing further needs to be said, or does it?

.

Fulbrighters having fun

Big Frank is lucky to be in the midst of Germany with a great group of people from all over the U.S. They are all, like Big Frank, in Germany as part of the Fulbright for U.S. Administrators in International Education. They're from all over the U.S. and not only do they know how to study hard in mastering al the changes in the German higher education system, but they also know how to have a good time. Here are a few photos of some of the people from this group. The evening started out at the Restaurant Weihenstephaner at Hackescher Makt in Berlin and then moved on to Restaurant Frarosa at Zionskirchstr. 40. The Frarosa is a great wine bar where they have a unique system: you pay 2 euros for a glass and then pour your own wine throughout the evening. At the end you pay whatever it is that you think the wine was worth to you - the honor system. Big Frank likes that - a lot!