True Friends

One morning, the mongol warrior, Genghis Khan, and his court went out hunting. His companions carried bows and arrows, but Genghis Khan carried on his arm his favorite falcon, which was better and surer than any arrow, because it could fly up into the skies and see everything that a human could not.


However, despite the group's enthusiastic efforts, they found nothing.

Disappointed, Genghis Khan returned to the encampment and in order not to take out his frustation on his companions, he left the rest of the party and rode on alone. They had stayed in the forest for longer than expected, and Khan was desperately tired and thirsty. In the summer heat, all the streams had dried up, and he could find nothing to drink. Then, to his amazement, he saw a thread of water flowing from a rock just in front of him.



He removed the falcon from his arm, and took out the silver cup which he always carried with him. It was very slow to fill and, just as he was about to raise it to his lips the falcon flew up, plucked the cup from his hand, and dashed it to the ground.


Genghis Khan was furious, but then the falcon was his favourite, and perhaps it, too, was thirsty. He picked up the cup, cleaned off the dirt, and filled it again. When the cup was only half-empty this time, the falcon again attacked it, spilling the water.


Genghis Khan adored this bird, but he knew that he could not, under any circumstances, allow such disrespect; someone might be watching this scene from afar and, later on, would tell his warriors that the great conqueror was incapable of taming a mere bird.


This time he drew his sword, pick up the cup and refilled it, keeping one eye on the stream and the other on the falcon. as soon as he had enough water in the cup and was ready to drink, the falcon again took flight and flew towards him. Khan, with one thrust, pierced the bird's breast.


The thread of water, however, had dried up; but Khan, determined now to find something to drink, climbed the rock in search of the spring. To his surprise, there really was a pool of water and, in the middle of it, dead, lay one of the most poisonous snakes in the region. If he had drunk the water, he, too, would have died.


Khan returned to camp with the dead falcon in his arms. He ordered a gold figurine of the bird to be made and on one of the wings, he had engraved:




"Even when a friend does something you do not like, he continues to be your friend."


And on the other wing, he had these words engraved:




"Any action commited in anger is an action doomed to failure"

-PC

The Cracked Jar (by Paulo Coehlo)

An Indian legend tells the story of a man who carried water to his village every day, in two large jars tied to the ends of a wooden pole, which he balanced on his back.

One of the jars was older than the other, and had some small cracks. Every time the man covered the distance to his home, half the water was lost.

The younger jar was very proud of its performance, safe in the knowledge that it was up for the mission it had been made for, while the other jar was mortified with shame at fulfilling only half its allotted task.

It was so ashamed that one day, while the man got ready to fetch water from the well, it spoke to him.

“I want to apologize, but because of the many years of service, you are only able to deliver half my load, and quench half of the thirst that awaits at your home.”

The man smiled and said, “When we return, watch the path carefully.”

And so the jar did, and it noticed that, on its side, flowers and plants grew.

“See how nature is more lovely on your side?” the man commented. “I always knew you were cracked, and decided to make use of this fact.

“I planted flowers and vegetables, and you have always watered them.

“I have picked many roses to decorate my house with, and have fed my children, cabbage, onions and tomatoes.

“If you were not how you are, how could I have done that?”

All of us, at some time, grow old and start to acquire other qualities. We can always make use of these new qualities and obtain wonderful results.

Illusions: Chapter One

1.  There was a Master come unto the earth,
    born in the holy land of Indiana, raised 
    in the mystical hills east of Fort Wayne.

2.  The Master learned of this world in the 
    public schools of Indiana and he grew, 
    in his trade as a mechanic of automobiles.

3.  But the Master had learnings from other
    lands and other schools, from other lives 
    that he had lived.  He remembered these,
    and remembering became wise and strong, so
    that others saw his strength and came to him
    for counsel.

4.  He believed that he had power to help himself
    and all mankind, and as he believed so it was 
    for him, so that others saw his power and came
    to him to be healed of their troubles and their
    many diseases.

5.  The Master believed that it is well for any man 
    to think upon himself as a son of God, and as 
    he believed, so it was, and the shops and garages
    where he worked became crowded and jammed with 
    those who sought his learning and his touch, and
    the streets outside with those who longed only
    that the shadow of his passing might fall upon 
    them, and change their lives.

6.  It came to pass, because of the crowds, that the
    several foremen and shop managers bid the Master
    leave his tools and go his way, for so tightly was
    he thronged that neither he nor other mechanics
    had room to work upon the automobiles.

7.  So it was that he went into the countryside, and
    people following began to call him Messiah, and 
    worker of miracles; and as they believed, it was
    so.

8.  If a storm passed as he spoke, not a raindrop 
    touched a listener's head; the last of the multitude
    heard his words as clearly as the first, no matter
    lightening nor thunder in the sky about.  And always
    he spoke to them in parables.

9.  And he said unto them, "Within each of us lies the 
    power of our consent to health and to sickness, to
    riches and to poverty, to freedom and to slavery.  
    It is we who control these, and not another."

10. A mill-man spoke and said, "Easy words for you, 
    Master, for you are guided as we are not, and need
    not toil as we toil.  A man has to work for his 
    living in this world."

11. The Master answered and said, "Once there lived a 
    villiage along the bottom of a great crystal river.

12. "The current of the river swept silently over them
    all - young and old, rich and poor, good and evil,
    the current going its own way, knowing its own 
    crystal self.

13. "Each creature in its own manner clung tightly to
    the twigs and rocks of the river bottom, for clinging
    was their way of life, and resisting the current 
    what each had learned from birth.

14. "But one creature said at last, 'I am tired of 
    clinging.  Though I cannot see it with my eyes, I
    trust that the current knows where it is going.  I
    shall let go and let it take me where it will.
    Clinging, I shall die of boredom.'

15. "The other creatures laughed and said, 'Fool! Let 
    go, and that current that you worship will throw
    you tumbled and smashed across the rocks, and you
    will die quicker than boredom!'

16. "But the one heeded them not, and taking a breath
    did let go, and at once was tumbled and smashed by
    the current across the rocks.

17. "Yet in time, as the creature refused to cling again,
    the current lifted him free from the bottom, and he 
    was bruised and hurt no more.

18. "And the creatures downstream, to whom he was a 
    stranger, cried, 'See a miracle!  A creature like
    ourselves, yet he flies!  See the Messiah, come to
    save us all!'

19. "And the one carried in the current said, 'I am no 
    more Messiah than you.  The river delights to lift
    us free, if only we dare let go.  Our true work is
    this voyage, this adventure.'

20. "But they cried the more, 'Savior!' all the while
    clinging to the rocks, and when they looked again
    he was gone, and they were left alone making legends
    of a Savior."

21. And it came to pass when he saw that the multitude
    thronged him the more day on day, tighter and closer
    and fiercer than ever they had, when he saw that they 
    pressed him to heal them without rest, and feed them
    always with his miracles, to learn for them, to live
    their lives, he went alone that day unto a hilltop
    apart, and there he prayed.

22. And he said in his heart, Infinite Radiant Is, if it
    be thy will, let this cup pass from me, let me lay
    aside this impossible task.  I cannot live the life
    of one other soul, yet ten thousand cry to me for 
    life.  I'm sorry I allowed it all to happen.  If it 
    be thy will, let me go back to my engines and my 
    tools and let me live as other men.

23. And a voice spoke to him on the hilltop, a voice 
    neither male or female, loud nor soft, a voice
    infinitely kind.  And the voice said unto him, "Not
    my will, but thine be done.  For what is thy will 
    is mine for thee.  Go thy way as other men, and be
    thou happy on the earth."

24. And hearing, the Master was glad, and gave thanks
    and came down from the hilltop humming a little
    mechanic's song.  And when the throng pressed him
    with its woes, beseeching him to heal for it and
    learn for it and feed it nonstop from his understanding
    and to entertain it with his wonders, he smiled upon 
    the multitude and said pleasantly unto them, "I quit."

25. For a moment the multitude was stricken dumb with
    astonishment.

26. And he said unto them, "If a man told God that he
    wanted most of all to help the suffering world, no
    matter the price to himself, and God answered and 
    told him what he must do, should the man do as he
    is told?"

27. "Of course, Master!" cried the many.  "It should
    be pleasure for him to suffer the tortures of hell
    itself, should God ask it!"

28. "No matter what those tortures, nor how difficult
    the task?"

29. "Honor to be hanged, glory to be nailed to a tree
    and burned, if so be that God has asked," said they.

30. "And what would you do," the Master said unto the 
    multitude, "if God spoke directly to your face and
    said, 'I command that you be happy in the world, as
    long as you live.' what would you do then?"

31. And the multitude was silent, not a voice, not a 
    sound was heard upon the hillsides, across the 
    valleys where they stood.

32. And the Master said unto the silence, "In the path
    of our happiness shall we find the learning for 
    which we have chosen this lifetime.  So it is that
    I have learned this day, and choose to leave you 
    now to walk your own path, as you please."

33. And he went his way through the crowds and left
    them, and he returned to the everyday world of
    men and machines.

Jesus Christ For President?!

With Chris Christie (my personal favorite) and Sarah Palin opting not to run for President in 2012 it seems the only way a Republican candidate could appease the wing nuts on the far right, he would have to be Jesus of Nazareth.

“And even Jesus would be toast after a few news cycles,” quips comedian Bill Maher,

“’Feed the hungry’? Sounds suspiciously like welfare.

“’Heal the sick’? For free?! That’s definitely ‘Obamacare’.

“”And ‘turn the other cheek’? Maybe you didn’t hear, Jesus, but the Republicans are the party that cheers executions.

“So here now is short campaign life of Jesus Christ, Republican candidate:

“Three days after Jesus announces he’s in, a Gingrich spokesman reports that he “read” Jesus’ book”…and finds some aspects of it troubling.

“Mitt Romney says Jesus’ previous statements make him appear anti-business.

“And Rick Perry asks if America is ready for a Jewish president. And then Rick eats a paint chip.

“Day Seven: At the Republican debate, the other candidates pile on the new frontrunner. Michele Bachman calls the “meek inheriting the earth” a “colossal expansion of the estate tax.”

“And Newt Gingrich scores the big zinger when he says, “Mr. Christ, America can’t afford another cheek!”

“Day Nine: “Teabaggers” start getting emails from their idiot brother-in-law about how Jesus is not even from this country. And was born alongside a bunch of animals in a manger and…not to harp on it, but where’s the birth certificate?

“And if he’s a carpenter, is he too pro-union?

Day Ten: Jesus is now polling fourth behind Perry, Romney and the pizza guy.

“And in a desperate attempt to gain credibility, he goes to New York and has coffee with Donald Trump. Who pronounces him “a decent guy but a little effeminate.”

Very funny Bill. Thanks for the laugh. But sadly, there is truth in comedy.

Truth is our political system is currently broken.

Truth is our political climate has never been more polarized, more divisive, more toxic.

Truth is I’m disgusted with the actions and rhetoric of both parties in a time when all Americans need a little help, hope and healing.

“God bless America?” God, please help America first…

Coffee With Kahlil

It was a day of irony and paradox, sadness and joy. So much yet little, in one solitary day.

I enjoyed the freedoms of my first morning of solitude; then felt the absence of father now far away.

I beheld a birth announcement of a friend’s first child, then remembered the pain of a friend who is dealing with his dad’s imminent passing.

I found myself swimming in a sea of exhilaration, having just sent another book proposal to a prospective publisher; then heard the sad tale of a new friend’s professional hopes swept away in the current of misfortune.

And I thought of a good man named Joe, mourning two parents both lost within one month, while I was spending the summer in the sun and the sand and the sea.

Such a great day for personal ambitions, yet such a sad time for those I know and care.

So I went to the coffee shop alone, with my new friend Kahlil Gibran, to exude happiness, and unleash silent tears of compassion.

I ordered a double espresso and sat outside, staring at another magnificent sunset, a myriad of colors and clouds and majesty in the evening sky. Then I looked down upon the maze of asphalt and concrete, with cars speeding and beeping, contesting for parking spaces, the masses walking lost in thought with heads bent down to the concrete. And I asked my friend Kahlil,

“We have so much and need so little,” I said to the departed 19^th-century poet from Lebanon. “We live in Paradise yet sometimes see Hell. How can people not even stop for a moment, to glance and smile, at the beauty around, and wonder above?”

“We cling to the earth, while the gate of the Heart of the Lord stands wide open,” my friend Kahlil said to me. “We trample upon the bread of Life, while hunger gnaws at our hearts. How good is Life to Man; yet how far removed is Man from Life.”

I took a sip of my espresso, and I thought about this day. Then Kahlil answered with allegory:

“Is not the cup that holds your wine the very same cup that was burned in the potter’s oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

My thoughts shifted to those of friends once embracing love, now suffering the tragic pain of loss. And I looked at the dying sun in the deep red sky that had brought such a glorious day, and felt a loving breeze whisper gently in my ear.

“For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?” he said. “And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?”

I smiled, knowing such to be true. For all that lives, lives forever: the spirit has no end.

Then Kahlil added, “The reality of Life is Life itself, whose beginning is not in the womb, and whose ending is not in the grave. For the years that pass are naught but a moment in eternal life; and the world of matter and all in it is but a dream compared to the awakening which we call the terror of Death.”

I finished my espresso, and smiled through a tear. And Kahlil spoke once more:

“Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

“And when you reach the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

“And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.”

Oh how I wish Kahlil could be with those who needed him right now more than I needed him, those whose tears at this moment filled a deeper well than mine.

I finished my espresso as Kahlil said goodbye. He spoke his final words, and he spoke for all of us; for the friends who parted ways, for the lovers who lost love’s embrace, for the dreamers with mislaid dreams, for the parents who lost children, and for the children who lost mothers and fathers. And he spoke with conviction, and assuredness, and a promise for love tomorrow. And he spoke for all who were departed.

“Forget not that I shall come back to you. A little while, and my longing shall gather dust and foam for another body. A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me.

“Farewell to you and the youth I have spent with you. It was but yesterday we met in a dream…”

The Head and The Heart

He took a long hard swig from his bottle of beer, then an anxious drag off his half lit cigarette.
"I am tormented," he said, turning to me.
"I can tell," I remarked.
"What should I do?"
"Follow your heart."
"My heart says one thing, my mind another."
"That's because the heart and the mind are worlds apart, and always in conflict with each other."

He pounded his beer, finished his cigarette, and sadly sighed. "I traveled the world a hundred times over, and still can't reconcile the two," he lamented.


"The longest journey you will ever take in Life," I replied, pointing at my head at first, "Is from here...to here," I finished, as my finger traveled a mere foot and came to rest upon my chest...

OFF KEY WEST

“OFF-KEY” WEST

The small wooden boat sailed gently in from the west, atop amber waves under a falling red sun, ferrying on old man reluctantly returning from the sea. He made anchor alongside the rotting dock, coiled his ropes and furled his scrappy sail, and stepped ashore to greet a stranger known as me.

“Welcome back to Key West, Mr. Hemmingway,” I greeted him as he approached to shake my hand. “Welcome home.”

“First of all, this is no longer ‘home’, young lad. I am only here extending a professional courtesy, to speak to one who wishes me to speak.  And secondly, I’m also here because it’s been a while since last I had a good cold drink.”

He looked older than I had imagined. In silence we left the dock, and strolled leisurely north on Duval Street, amidst a sea of young and old, casual locals and gaudy dressed tourists, people with dreams lost and dreams still to be won. The thunder of motorcycles and the roar of jet airplanes overhead occasionally quelled the sounds of drunken revelry that engulfed the varied populace, all types from faraway places, but none as far as this old man returning from the sea.

Some of the multitude screamed into the night as they left the harbor of bars and taverns, and precariously navigated the crowded streets with drinks in hand. “WHOOOOO!” and “OH YEAH!” and “PARTY!” were their ignorant pleas.

“Look how they defile the English language” was the only comment he made, shaking his head in disgust.

We sauntered to the hangout of his youth, “Sloppy Joe’s Tavern” on the corner of Southard and Duval. There was a line for admission, and absent were his former associates and friends long since gone. So I suggested a small little bar around the corner, for some comradeship, coalescence, and conversation, and with the most unenthusiastic of nods he humbly agreed.

The place was a literal hole in a wall, five foot wide by ten feet deep, with a legal capacity of ten. A sign on the awning notes “reservations required”, but none are ever needed. It boasts of being the smallest bar in the United States, and no one disagrees.  

The place was empty, except for the bartender named Dan, who, along with the allure of two lone wooden stools, welcomed us to stay. The walls were painted in pastels of aqua, yellow and lavender, and littered with graffiti of quotes, rhymes and vulgarity, much like the scribbling often found on the bathroom walls of seedy bars. The desecration was even encouraged by the bartender, who would often hand his drunken patrons a felt tip pen.

“Everyone wants to be a writer,” Ernest sighed.

“Speaking of such, Mr. Hemmingway, tell me what are some of the major detriments to writing?”

“Politics, women, drink, money, and ambition,” he said with conviction. “And the lack of politics, women, drink, money, and ambition.”

I ordered a local pale ale and he a Coke.  I was surprised at his choice of beverage.

“I thought you were a renowned drinker?” I asked.

“That is all legend and lore, the product of uncreative reporters who add spice in lieu of prose to the bland stories they write.”

The bartender quickly served our drinks. Ernest took one taste and asked, “Where is the rum?”

“Sorry sir,” he replied, and added a rather healthy dose of Jamaican rum to the drink of the old sailor.

“So then you really do drink?”

“Drinking won’t kill me. Not living will.”

I hadn’t the heart to remind him that he had been dead since before I was born, so I took a sip of my beer and asked if he would like to visit his old house, where he spent nine fortuitous years in the Thirties, and penned many a novel.

“No,” he replied. “They turned that damned estate into a bloody museum. Can you believe it? The tourists flock there like sharks to the carcass of a wounded fish. Can’t get any privacy whatsoever.”

“I saw it today. It’s beautiful.”

He turned to me with disappointment in his eyes and sorrow in his voice, and remarked, “Aye, so you are ‘one of them’ too…”

  Right then I thought I lost him forever. I came to Key West for a little reprise from writing, to surrender to indulgence, and to visit the home of Hemmingway, hoping to gain insight and inspiration. But walking these streets with the silent old novelist, I knew this was not the Key West of old, the enchanted island he once adored. And now sitting beside him, with shoulders hunched and eyes gazed toward a strange horizon, I felt he would never truly reveal his most treasured thoughts. In his mind I was just a curious day-tripper who had taken a tour of the estate. Then he spoke.

“How about the urinal?”

“Excuse me?”

“The urinal at the house. In the garden. Is it still there?”

“Yes, it is” I replied, and with that his face smiled like a fiendish schoolboy and his heart started to grin. He told me the story of the urinal, how it was both a gift for his beloved multitude of cats as well as a symbol of defiance to his second wife Pauline. She had made the ill-fated decision to install a below ground swimming pool on the premises without his consent when he was conducting business one spring in Europe. At a cost of more than twice the price of the house, it drained nearly all of their savings, and was hardly ever used, since the salt water would perpetually turn rancid and need to be constantly drained. Then when Sloppy Joe’s was being moved from Southard Street to Duval, Hemmingway asked his friend and owner if he could take one of the tavern’s urinals which were being discarded. “Why on earth would you want that?” the owner asked, bemused. “Because I pissed hundreds of dollars in there through all my years frequenting your establishment, and I feel as though I paid for it already” was Hemmingway’s reply. Late one night he lugged the heavy porcelain artifact home and placed it in a grassy area beside the pool, filling it with water for his five dozen cats to drink. Being a woman of high society, Pauline was outraged, and demanded the urinal be removed from the property. “I’ll get rid of it when you get rid of the pool” he told her. Both the pool and the urinal stayed.

He ordered another rum and Coke and asked if I had seen the wine cellar. I nodded yes. Once again he told a story with an old man’s pride and a young boy’s glee.  When he was divorcing Pauline and moving to Cuba, he was in a quandary over what to do with his rare and precious collection of wines that he amassed on his travels throughout the world. He didn’t want to bequeath them to her, and was unable to bring them to Cuba because of the strict trade embargos. One day, when his soon-to-be-ex was visiting family on the mainland, he invited a few friends over for a “wine tasting”. Three days later, all the bottles were consumed without remorse.

It was past midnight now. The revelry in the streets continued unabated.

But aside from the melancholy of story-telling, a heavy air of despair still surrounded him.

“Do you know what bothers me the most?” he asked, as he downed his fourth drink, and with emphasis, placed the empty glass of ice upon the wooden bar. “I haven’t written a critically-acclaimed novel since The Old Man and The Sea.”

“Well you’ve been dead for over half a century,” I said in an attempt to console. “It’s understandable.”

“A mere triviality, my friend, but still no excuse. Once the passion is ignited, the flame forever burns inside.”

We finished our drinks and I paid the tab, happy to have shared his company, but still with an empty void unfilled by the much desired insight.  As we took to the street, loud tourists, oblivious to the greatness of this once great man, walked by in drunken ignorance. Then suddenly a great beam of brightness flashed upon Hemmingway’s face, and even I could see the magnificent glow of light.

“Follow the Light!” he said as if commanding, his eyes now beaming and a grin etched sturdily upon his face.

“Where?” said I.

“Home! The Light will take us home!”

I followed Ernest through dark side streets and around strange corners, past seedy bars and homeless persons. Then I saw the Light.

It was the beacon of the Key West lighthouse, and I remembered how the tour guide said earlier today that the Hemmingway Estate rested directly on a straight line between Sloppy Joe’s and the lighthouse, and after a late night of indulgence, all Hemmingway had to do was look for the flashing beacon to find his way home.

“What about the tourists?” I asked. “I thought you didn’t want to go back to your house because of the tourists?”

“We’ll sneak up the side street, and stay out of sight behind the tall iron fence. I want to see the cats.’

Sixty one polydactyl cats still live on the premises, roughly the same amount as when he called 901 Whitehead home. They are all the descendants of the very first six-toed feline he befriended on a fishing boat and brought to Key West seven decades ago. These great descendants welcomed him with purrs and tails raised high, rubbing themselves against his calves as if they had known the old man beyond the barrier of time. For nearly fifteen minutes he coddled and played with the cats, rolling and crawling with them in the dark shadows of the now gray lawn. He spoke words that were loving and gingerly. Finally he rose and spoke to me.

“It’s late. I must be getting on.”

We walked in silence for several long minutes. Then I asked him a question.

“Today I finished reading  ‘The Old Man and The Sea’. What does the giant marlin represent, as well as the sharks, and the fierce determination of the fishermen to risk life for the death of a fish?” I always believed a meaning hid everywhere and behind everything in life.

“Sometimes a marlin is just a marlin, a shark just a shark, an old man just an old man out at sea. Not everything has meaning. But everything has a purpose.”

The words echoed in my head as we approached the dock where I had first met him in the early part of night. Standing there in booming silence, he looked out at the vast sea with great yearning, his back to the little town he once called home. He appeared stronger now, and suddenly rejuvenated, younger in the late hours than he seemed earlier in the day. And he spoke to me for the last time.

 “To quote Thomas Mann, ‘you can never go home.’  Always look forward, old chum, with everything you decide to do.  Yesterday is only a memory. Never let the memories become greater than the dreams.”

Then the master wordsmith said to the fledgling writer, “And don’t read what the critics might write, or the listen to what the so-called enlightened ones wish to say. Trust your own convictions, the course you have set upon life’s great ocean. Cast logic and reason to the ocean tides, for you have no use for them. Your intuition and your heart are the only navigational tools you will ever need to get you where you wish to go.”

With a bit of wisdom delivered, he got into his old wooden boat, untied the mooring, unfurled his weather-torn sail, and took seat amongst sea worn wood, fraying rope, and graying oars, with a cold bottle of water and a brand new bottle  of rum.  

“And one more equally important piece of advice, my friend: never drink cheap rum.”

         With a wink and a grin, he rowed peacefully back into the black tranquil sea, eastward towards a rising moon and the other side of a dream.