The first American in Buzet, Croatia

When I was young, I would get on a train and just go. I didn’t care where really, but I would just buy a ticket to the end of the line, and go.
One time I did this in Croatia.
After many stops and several bribes to continue going to the next station, a group of teenagers got on. I liked them, they liked me. So, they invited me to their village.
It was a beer making village, they said, and I would like it.
Sure enough, that village made beer, but they also had one discotheque.
They invited me out that night, after finding a place near the castle with an old man and his daughter, where I could stay, “for as long as you want!”
I met the old man and his daughter, both erudite, having studied in Zagreb.
They were also happy I was there: “You are the first American in our village, so to us you are exotic.”
I had never been called exotic anywhere, so thought I should play this out.
At the discotheque that night, a group had gathered out front. The lights were typical Eastern European dance club neon blue and red. Something like a brothel, but with strobes and of course disco balls.
The first question they asked me: “Are you more like Tom Cruise or John Travolta?”
Quickly, I responded, “Travolta, but with a bit of Al Pacino and Deniro mixed in; and also Daniel Day Lewis, although of course, he is not American—but no cowboys (even though I was from Texas, I had no cowboy in me at all. I wanted to be real with them.)
After many questions, we drank their local beer-a simple clean slightly citrus pilsner style- and danced, until I was tired and went to my temporary home to sleep the day off.
The next day, they all came to the house and asked if I wanted to help them clean up trash around town? They said the whole community does it each Saturday, are you jewish?
“Not technically.” I responded.
“Ok then you are catholic, let’s get to work!”
Little did I know that the old man’s daughter had alerted the Zagreb press that an American was in town helping pick up trash.
When we started, roaming around the village and the especially the old castle’s grounds, I had the feeling of being part of an extended family, cleaning up a house on a weekend, but then we got into a large open truck and hauled all the trash to this great heap on the edge of town. There, the press had gathered, and my friends said, they want to take a few photos of your hurling trash into our collective heap.
I had never felt so glamorous and yet for hauling trash with new friends.
Sure, so I threw trash off the truck in the direction of the cameras.
The next day, the old man handed me the paper. I was on the front page with a banana peel flung in the air, seeming to be sweating with my bandana on.
American cleans up Croatia.
After translating it to me,his tall dark haired daughter, asked me if I liked the article?
I like the photo, but it makes me a bit too Tom Cruise.
I didn’t really come here to clean things up, but more to dance with you all like John Travolta.
“I thought all Americans were or wanted to be famous.” She said.
“No, some of us just want to wander making new friends on the frontier, or buy train tickets to anywhere just for the adventure along the way.”
“Oh, so you are more like John Wayne, I see-but you also like to dance.”

Each day, in the morning, i walk out before walking my dog and raise my arms and hands up to the sky and say thanks for today, here we are! And i try to include everyone i love and know.

It has started to worry my neighbors, but i still do it! Finding The Day in today still matters to me.

“This is the Day that God has made, i will rejoice and be glad in it!” Was my grandmother’s mantra. I still do it.

I’m sure they think i’m doing morning stretches or yoga, but who cares.

Like David dancing half naked before the Ark of Presence, i will continue my morning stretches towards the sky and saying Yes!

Why not?! It seems to make the birds and my homeless friends, who camp nearby happy, if not my neighbors.

Alas, judgement is God’s not mine. So, I’ll keep doing my morning prayers!

We all need heroes along the way, to keep us wanting to be our real selves!

My first hero I can remember, outside of Jesus
Was that French wire walking artist who walked between the world trade towers-
Prophetic stunts fascinate me. Jeremiah’s way has always been mine-
Go bury your underwear, God told Jeremiah-he knew symbolic stunts!
Then there was Ghandi and Martin Buber (my favorite practical jewish mystic!), my father, my mother, all the abstract artist who tried to paint essence
(And Chagall and Paul Klee for some reason who both made sense to my heart; one for recovering the spirituality in their religious tradition; the other for remaining child like-as that is surely the only way to enter into the Kingdom!)
Trying to paint essential essence of life matters; then there was my art mentor and friend- who taught me to see art all around me- a seeing jew
From Argentina; then the fantasy writer from long ago, then….well the list goes on!
When you see someone really being themselves, it’s hard to ignore.
It makes you want to do the same, or figure out how they did it. True identity is contagious.
In the end, they were all friends with Jesus,
So I re-picked Him as my arch-hero.
It matters who we try to emulate.
Pick your heroes well friends!
We become what we stare at!
Or as the prophet Daniel put it better:
“Fix your gaze to gain understanding.”
It matters where our inner gaze is aimed!

My first spiritual experience was ecstatic. On Pilot mountain (a local “high” place where I’m from), and then again in the church pew, I was possessed.
Then I had to think about it all for many years.
After thinking, I went with what I knew.
God entered me that hour, as I’m sure He was already there.
But that hour, I knew it. So that was my given in life.
The rest has been friendship-a bit outside
Of religion and culture, but somewhere inside
Of art and my heart.

//

We all need heroes along the way, to keep us wanting to be our real selves!

My first hero I can remember outside of Jesus
Was that French artist who walked between the world trade towers-
Prophetic stunts fascinate me. Jeremiah’s way has always been mine-
Go bury your underwear, God told Jeremiah-he knew symbolic stunts!
Then there was Ghandi, my father, my mother, all the abstract artist
(And Chagall and Paul Klee for some reason who both made sense to my heart; one for recovering the spirituality in their religious tradition; the other for remaining child like-as that is surely the only way to enter into the Kingdom!)
Trying to paint essential essence, then was my art mentor and friend- a jew
From Argentina; then the fantasy writer from long ago, then….
In the end, they were all friends with Jesus,
So I re-picked Him as my hero.

Just before sleep I had a dream
I was real friends with my wife
And kicking red rubber kicking balls
Up to angels to play with.
My circle of saint friends were all there
And we were laughing at life together.
That was a good pre-sleep dream.
Plus, all my friends on earth who have died
Were also wanting to play kick ball with us.
I hope this was a true dream. It felt like it.

When caged feeling
I make art. So it never ends
My art is everywhere, under every bridge
And in every bathroom, I can place it.
My wife complains, but this is simple survival for me.
When death, war and sickness comes, I make art
To offer hope, say thanks for existence, I make art
As my prayer of praise for the gift of being here.
And it won’t stop even when I’m dead, I will be making art
As I cross over. It may be good or bad art, but I will be making it.
For, how can I keep from singing.

Having once been possessed
This urban garden on this ghetto corner where homeless naturally are drawn
And birds, and fruit trees—is enough to say thanks over and over daily.
Thanks becomes one’s only thought
And turns out to dispel all that is not in life.
Love displaces all that is not loving.
Love changes the atmosphere, or rather
Makes it what it really is—more itself.
Yes, Love makes things more themselves,
Therefore more named and beautiful.
For God is Love, as they all said in different ways.
Our response to love is thanks. And the birds
And homeless know it when they see it.

Saying yes to being here:

It is enough to say yes daily
I am here, thanks. When we do,
The birds gather in our trees and sing
Each in their own names.
And everyone becomes a new friend.
Every creature newly named by Love.

Take walks, read poetry listen to the birds
Be. That is Sunday. There is nothing left to do today
But be. That is all. Thanks.

Love is a direction not a state.
Love is a way not a goal or ideal.
When one loves, one is leaning in the Right Direction
To make knowing more possible

With all my circle of saints above
I sit here, on this day, in this room
In thanks. Hearing all our voices being themselves together
All praising in their unique cadences and tones.

On naming things….
Everything has a name
Which does not divide it
But makes it whole. Whispered by Love,
That name is all we are.
Says the Father of all names.

On staying alive:

All that is alive inside is welcomed here
My urban garden monastery is open for that
Business twenty four seven. And the birds
And homeless know it, and father naturally
To what is living. And the dead come close
To resurrect. And I have become that
Urban monastery on this corner, for all who pass by!

This is to become local
To be so deeply in life and love
That birds and homeless gather
And children wave and smile
As they pass by my urban monastery
On this ghetto corner. In me,
Love has been localized, shining right here
And drowning all that is alive
Into the arms of her urban garden.

Know Him in planting trees
Know Him in watching breeze pass through leaves
Know him in building
Know him in demolition
Know him in singing
Know him in silence
Know him in words
Know him in what is not written
Or space between words—Ma.
Know him in positive and negative space
Whether in palaces or prisons—know Him.
Know him in pleasure
Know him in pain
Know him in sunshine
Know him in rain
Just know him.
Know him in health
Know him in sickness
Know him in wealth
Know him in poverty.
Just know Him.

From my counseling session today, some soothing words in turbulent times:

“It’s a really hard time to be alive. You are not imagining that.Yet, the old truths about Love are still true. Let us love one another, regardless of our historical moments.

Work with your hands, love people by name, try to truly be yourself, and honor others. And don’t be stingy with giving your gifts to others. Love reciprocates.

Then my counselor gave me a quote from the Jewish mystic and philosopher, Martin Buber:

I have no teaching, I facilitate a conversation. I point to something outside the window, and we talk about it until we both see one another and what’s outside better. That is through love’s lens.” Martin Buber

Quieter works—gardening, walking your dog at night, making art, just looking at the sky, for examples.
In times like these with the Wisdom of silence and quite art. Not escapist, not sentimental, not unaware, but quiter. A kind word. A gentle word has Love’s silence, implied. God is concerned, but not stressed. Inner Peace, comes before action.
What you do when alone, how you pet the cat or dog, how you watch birds in wonder, effects the whole. Infest people with kindness, gentleness, patience, good listening…..with all the fruits of The Spirit! Do that when alone, and then when with others.
Recognize one another’s names and stories as sacred. Wisdom moves slowly around things in Love to know them. Wisdom, is like a cubist painting that circles again and again until it knows what it loves, and enters exactly there.
Action without wisdom’s slow considering, will always be foolish. But it takes time to consider, before implementation. Take that time!”

Good counseling advice today!

About interruptions and a life of beginnings….

It’s like I don’t have times to discover and learn things, before the space is taken over. Just oil, or gauche—not enough time or undisturbed room to learn them, before someone needs me or that space or something which doesn’t let me fully learn anything. So, I pick one color, one technique—just red gauche, and white in case I need tone or hue—but I can’t even master red, before something or someone breaks in or through, and causes my red studies to scatter like a Jackson Pollock piece. In fact, at the end, which is not an end, I end up stray painting over the whole thing, as if to obscure it so only children could still see what I was working on. Or worse, I cover it up with dirt to make it look abandoned or like an archaeological tale site, for those in the future to excavate.
He was trying to learn red, the unseen poster read.
Perhaps it is just being used to living on the run. Having to move to the next park or city; leaving my poems behind or on subway walls.
Maybe even if no one ever touched my stuff or needed my space, I would just leave it, half way through everything. But as I get older and can’t run on my way to the next mobile studio; I find I need something like a cave which no one can interrupt; which no one has the key to; which no one, barely even myself, knows about. That secret hidden space with Christ, they wrote about. Where we can just sit and be and listen, and learn a thing or two. An uninterrupted sanctuary of being.
The monks went to the desert. They didn’t want to be found, or have books written about them with maps. They just wanted to be with God and themselves fully. Still, they got famous, and people gathered, and they didn’t get to finish their meditations.
For me, it is not just my awareness of the constant needs of others, it is that I expect to not finish my sentence. Not that it will be plagiarized, or stolen, or lifted by some traveling comedian; but that there is simply an ellipses on my life, and that is part of the sentence which never gets ended.
Make up your alphabet fast, make your wine, age it, drink it and move on.
Forced to write unfitted haiku, I do; but I always thought about a novel, or at least a proper short story; or something that had more than a beginning.
Maybe I am jewish, or Romano, or a circus carney, or was before. I just keep moving from space to space, never ever to find my grave.
Well, my uncles were itinerants as well, but they started churches or useful things along the way. I start nothing, or I only start, and have to leave before I get to put up the Jesus Saves neon sign, to convince people of the truth, by the force of neon. To burn the gospel into them, as it was tattooed onto me.
But maybe I want no sign, or memorial, or even a neon arrow leading to where I’ve been. Maybe I want my life to be untraceable like wind itself.
Or maybe I do want to leave a map, but one impossible to read.
To keep people guessing about where it leads….
I’m not afraid of failure or success; I’m afraid of not finishing my sentence.
Even if I’m just performing for the fat lady on the back row (whom I’m sure is Jesus); I still would like the curtain to fall.

Symphonic

She raced to work
Dodging cars on her way.

The pine trees slid by her slowly
While the cars were like pylons to her
On a slalom course to work
Until the last lorry crossed just in front of her, swerving into her lane
She was late to wrk but pulled back instinctively
Not competing with the big Fish of industry today.

At the hospital she only wanted her phone.
The call came late and not from her.
The hospital called the repeat dial on her phone
And told her work, she was gone.

When they retrieve her care from the wreck
It was still playing Mozart
Repeating some symphony over and over.

//
Ginsberg was a clown
He played us like an orchestra
In his sexual symphony.
He had us all going
He was the director
And conductor of the whole room—including those dead
Or not with us. He howled at the crowd:
Ok, train wreck
Ok, just beforehand,
Ok, sex with stranger in bathroom
They, crashing into one another
Upon impact. This was their last memory.

//
Each day is a symphony
With four parts.
The coffee and reflection on last night’s dreams
And love touches with she who is still beside me.
The slowly returning to the waking world and today’s labors.
The people peppered in like chili plants leaning into sun
While we work and grow.
The languid conversations of late afternoon
And all we’ve so far learned today.
Then, evening leaning into nocturne night
Where we practice the surrender of death to day again.
And all along the way, there, Love was
Playing along with us all through
So many movements each day.
//
She climbed on top of me
Riding me like a horse-l
This little daughter who came
From another daughter who also climbed on top of me
To make all this happen. l
Love their climbings
In different ways.
One I love like a cardinal
The other like a hawk.

//
Death itself flies over me daily
Like a hawk’s shadow, I was trying to photograph.
I don’t mind, it keeps me on my toes, while watching
All the traffic pass in the city
Right in front of me. I live by a highway
But death comes low, nearly tagging me on the head
As if I were its mouse to catch, or daily prey. But
I don’t mind, that shadow passes over all our doors daily.
Mine is blood red, just so the angels can see well
When they devour the hawk
In mid air. And I stand up, leave my front porch
And go paint a red tailed hawk
For memory’s sake.

//
I dreamed I adopted a daughter from Gaza
All I could do was hold her and thank her for being so alive
And having such a loud and beautiful name.
All I could feel was every father
Holding every daughter ever.
And she had curly black hair
And the deepest brown eyes I’ve ever seen
Peering out, at what seemed like, the whole world.

Her dog

She was a Czech (someone had told me) living in America and had a very small dog, she took with her everywhere. The dog didn’t like people, but loved other dogs, especially bigger ones.
She always sat in the corner with her dog, and commented on the weather when she talked at all. Mostly to herself, when she did.
But as soon as another dog came into the cafe, she would get ebullient in meeting the owner, asking the breed and age, and health issues and coloring—dog talk. She was great at dog and weather talk.
This one afternoon, on a particularly hot day, her dog needed something she couldn’t figure out. Not thirst per se, but restless in a non other dog sort of way.
“What is it sweetie?” I heard her say out loud.
I had never heard her be affectionate unless talking about other dogs.
“Why do you hate people so much, they love you.” She went on.
“I’m going to introduce you to a real person today to prove it!”
So, they came over to my table, where I had my computers set up for on line art classes from Berlin.
“She wants to meet you.” She said.
Pulling myself out of art class, and my own world, I said, “What is her name?”
“We are not at that point yet.” The girl replied.
I petted her tiny white and brown small chow dog, and looked her right in the eyes. She nearly nipped me, but I moved slowly, with my hand beneath her mouth, until she felt at home, and less skittish. And then looking up at her owner asked-“It’s a bit hot today, and by the way, what is your name friend?”