Walking Raven

“New Year”

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” T.S. Eliot

Two Flutes and One to Wail

Many of you know by now that at approximately 1:20 a.m. the morning of Sunday, November 23, 2008, David Moses Jassy, a black rap musician from Sweden, brutally murdered my beloved brother John. According to eye-witness accounts, as my brother crossed the street, a white SUV crossed the line delineating the crosswalk. Apparently, John slapped his hands on the hood of the car. In response, Jassy exited the rental SUV, hit him in the face, and, as John bent down to retrieve his glasses, kicked him in the head. Despite efforts on the part of witnesses, including an off-duty police officer, to restrain him, Jassy broke free, got back in the vehicle, and drove over my brother’s body as he fled the scene. EMTs arrived within four minutes of the first 911 call. John had no vitals at that time. Even so, he was intubated, given CPR, and so forth. He was pronounced dead at the hospital at 1:52. More about this senseless tragedy, along with memories, photos, and music may be found at www.johnosnes.com.

John and I were 18 months apart. My younger sister Mary Beth came along 6 years after I did. Our Mother’s death from breast cancer at the ages of 16, 15, and 9, respectively, formed a bond among the three of us that strengthened over time. One of the many things we shared was a love of music. Whenever we were together, a word or phrase would cause one of us to start singing, and the other two would chime in. We knew a song for almost any word. For instance, one of us would use “sunshine” in conversation and soon would be heard, “we sang in the sunshine, you know we laughed every day . . .” We were “on the road again,” or on “the long and winding road.” We never “let the sun catch [us] crying.” We did our “crying in the rain.”

John and I lived together (with a few other friends) in St. Paul for about a year while I attended the University of Minnesota. It was the hey-day of the Selby-Dale restoration. Our gang was well-known at the Commodore Hotel where F. Scott and Zelda lived while he wrote This Side of Paradise. One night John orchestrated a Lutheran Church basement potluck to be held in the magnificent Art Deco bar. Everyone who had escaped from the surrounding small towns and made it to the “Big City” brought their favorite childhood casserole and Jello dishes, washed down with martinis and other cocktails. Scandalous.

We also frequented the Oak Room Bar which was a couple blocks down from the Commodore on the Southwest corner of Selby and Western. This area of the city was still very much in a state of transition. The regulars would be lined up outside by 8:00 a.m. waiting for the doors to open. Many would still be there when we arrived around 8:00 p.m. Cutty Sark was the bar scotch (60 cents a shot). The jukebox played standards like “Mac the Knife” and “Three Coins in a Fountain.”

I moved to New Mexico in 1978, and for the next 30 years ours was primarily a long-distance relationship. I made it back to the Midwest at least once a year. After John moved to New York, he and I nearly always managed an annual Minneapolis rendezvous with Sister Mary. In addition, I tried to make it to Manhattan at least once a year. For many of his years there, John had a fabulous 18th floor, one-bedroom apartment on West 14th between 5th and 6th facing dead onto Midtown and the Empire State Building. We used to come in from a late dinner and sit on his sofa (my bed) and make derisive comments about the tourists who pointed their cameras into the night, flashing away in the surrounding darkness.

In 1993, for John’s 40th birthday, his then-partner Jim drove John to a cattery in Connecticut where they picked out a Cornish Rex kitten with the registered name of Beaconwood Desert Chief. As they drove back into the City down 7th Avenue, John spotted an old painted sign on the side of a building that read “Jensen Lewis Awning Company.” And the kitten had his everyday name, “Jensen!”

Jensen was fairly feral in those days. He didn’t mind being petted, but forget about holding him. Any attempt to do so would be met by a fierce struggle that ended with him leaping out of one’s arms and running for cover. He was, however, extremely fond of playing fetch with his little toy mice. John would throw one and Jensen would go careening full speed after it and pounce on his prey. He would then pick it up in his mouth, walk over to my brother, and deposit the mouse in front of him for another throw. He never tired of this activity. Given his penchant for fetch, I sometimes refer to him as “dog-kitty.”

Rexes have a need to communicate their presence often and loudly — especially in the early hours of the morning. For that reason, the kitchen served as Jensen’s bedroom, and a blanket atop the refrigerator as his bed. I still remember stumbling into the kitchen to start the coffee, and there would be Jensen — staring down at me from his perch.

John and Jensen lived contently in Manhattan for several years, but in 1997, circumstances made it difficult for John to keep him, and John asked if he could come live with me. I readily assented, and so one day, he and Jensen boarded a plane for Albuquerque. I met them at the airport. I will never forget the moment Jensen’s Kennel Kab finally emerged through the flaps of the oversized luggage conveyor belt. He was wide-awake, lying on his refrigerator blanket. Jensen has lived with me for over 10 years. Even so, if you knew my brother at all, you knew about Jensen. Jensen is/was the love of our respective lives.

John and I had a few “must dos” in New York. If he was playing somewhere, I, of course, would hang out and listen whenever I could. One night at the Omni, Judy Collins came in for dinner. John and I conferred as to which song he should play. We settled on “Michael from Mountains” by Joni Mitchell that Judy covered on her Wildflowers album. As she left, she walked over to John and thanked him, both for playing the song, and reminding her how much she liked the song. He told her his sister had suggested he play it. She replied, “Well, then, thank your sister.”

Even though he had a wonderful voice, John sang rarely and reluctantly. For 30 years I begged him to sing. Finally, during what turned out to be my last visit to Manhattan, John both played and sang at the Ada Restaurant. The night I went to hear him, he pulled the microphone close and announced that the next song was for his sister Kris. He then serenaded me with a beautifully phrased version of the Carpenters’ “I Won’t Last a Day Without You.” Needless to say, I dissolved into a puddle of tears.

No matter what time of year, on Sundays we’d walk across the Brooklyn Bridge and have either lunch or breakfast in Brooklyn. At least once during each visit, we’d have dinner at Joe Allen’s. We’d sit at the bar, and John would treat himself to a cheeseburger and fries. I liked the red beans and rice with andouille sausage. Two of my most prized possessions are the Joe Allen Christmas presents given out each year to regular patrons. John gave me the t-shirt and wine bottle coaster. (Sorry, Deborah.)

One year my visit overlapped the Thanksgiving weekend. John took me to see the Metropolitan Museum’s Christmas tree adorned with 18th-century Neapolitan angels and cherubs and other crèche figures. Exquisite. That may have also been the year he and I attended his favorite holiday event, “Lessons and Carols” at St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church on Fifth Avenue. Angelic voices intermingled with the muffled rumble of the subway trains rushing below.

On the morning of 9/11, John was on the roof of an apartment complex near Columbia having his morning cigarettes and coffee. One of the planes flew directly over his head and on down the island. Shortly thereafter, John wrote a beautiful anthem,“Who Could Know.”

At the very least, John was an economic victim of 9/11. In times of economic distress, live music is one of the first cuts. To make matters worse, his “day job” was as a travel agent. The agency he worked for eventually closed its doors. He struggled valiantly, but in 2004, it became clear he simply had to leave his beloved Manhattan. In September, he started driving with a friend from the east coast about the same time I started driving north from New Mexico. We converged at Sister Mary’s house in Burnsville, Minnesota, the southernmost suburb of Minneapolis.

We both loved road trips. The initial plan was to check out possible piano venues in D.C. and do some touring along the way. We were excited about visiting, among other locations, Gettysburg and Savannah. Essentially, we planned to turn right at D.C. and end up in Miami where he hoped to find piano work. Once we met up in Minneapolis, however, we reevaluated the situation. John thought he might like to come on to Albuquerque with me instead. And so we did, by a somewhat circuitous route. I had earlier managed to travel old Route 66 from Springfield, Missouri to Albuquerque. We decided we could use the opportunity to tour the first leg, starting at Adams Street and Michigan Avenue in Chicago. So we went east before we went west. On the way to Albuquerque, we rode to the top of the St. Louis Arch and touched the nose on Abraham Lincoln’s bust for luck.

John enjoyed his months in Albuquerque. During that time, I experienced my first major COPD exacerbation and emergency room transport. After my hospitalization, he moved in with me and my partner Darcy, so that someone would be home during the day should I require assistance. He and I had many good times while he was on “Kris Watch.” At the time, in addition to Jensen, our “farm” consisted of three other cats (Sophie, Shobo, and Simon) and two rescued greyhounds, Dante and B’mer. John and Dante fell in love. The two of them were inseparable. John would take both hounds on long walks almost every day. On the way out he would let them wander and sniff, but on the way back, he would march them home, one on either side. It was a sight to behold.

In 2005, an employment opportunity took John to Los Angeles. Though he left behind Jensen, Dante, and me, his former partner, now best friend, Jim a/k/a “Chonga” lived in Silver Lake. I made three trips to LA, and John came back to Albuquerque twice on the train. His first train trip coincided with a Sister Mary visit. It was the last time the three of us were together.

For the past two years, my brother and I either talked to each other or exchanged voice mails every day. Last February, I could tell he was feeling kind of low, so I jumped in my tangerine pearl PT Cruiser and drove out to LA for a visit. I timed it so I would be there for his Sunday night “John Osnes and Friends” at The Piano Bar. He had some wonderful singers who were there most Sundays, but it was also set up so that anyone who wanted to sing was welcome. For the first, and now only, time, John played and I sang “Imagine” and “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.” I also cajoled him into riding the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica pier.

In the past few weeks I don’t know how many times I’ve heard or read from folks offering condolences, “I don’t know what to say.” That’s just it; there is nothing that can be said. What happened is unspeakable. In a different sense of the word, the more I read and tinker with the above, I realize it tells you some things about John and me, but it doesn’t really “say” much. Perhaps someday I will find words to tell you about my brother, and our relationship, and what he meant to me.

One thing I will say is that many of you are unaware that for most of John’s life, his was a struggle simply to survive. The reason most of you were unaware of this struggle is that he managed to survive (and, yes, often to the consternation of his family and friends) on his own terms
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Finally, when someone dies people often remark that a light has gone out in the universe. In John’s case, I’m with Don McLean. The early hours of Sunday, November 23, 2008 mark, for me, “the day the music died.” The rest is silence.

Beware of Tricksters

Prednisone Rant, Sort of

Just wanted you to know I’ve been on prednisone for a few days now and ran out of my generic Paxil last week. Don’t worry, I’m just waiting on a refill of the Paxil. My ribs hurt. Either because I’ve been coughing so much, so hard, or my lungs are trying to expand out of my chest. And, I don’t mean to be a drama queen, but sometimes it gets a little scary. [Note: And I wasn’t being a drama queen; I spent the day after I wrote what you have just read at the emergency room on the urging of my wonderful Nurse Jane and the EMTs and orders of Dr. Bro relayed via Nurse David. A kick-ass steroid and a couple antibiotic IVs have hopefully gotten my infection under control, but the gang at Presbyterian gave me an open invitation to come back anytime this weekend should the need arise.] As a result, I’m a little cranky, and possibly a tiny bit manic. Something to keep in mind as you read the below.

Some of you know I’ve been spending the last couple weeks writing a post whose working title is “Mother of All Blog Entries” in between fighting my massive addiction to that massively multiplayer online game (“MMOG”) World of Warcraft (“WOW”)with The Burning Crusade extension — me and 10 to 11 million other monthly subscription players worldwide. (I used to have a postcard on my bulletin board that read “400,000 heroin addicts can’t be all wrong.” I suppose on some level that remains to be seen, but I’m more or less betting it doesn’t really matter one way or the other in the; i.e., my, “grand scheme of things.” [And for those of you who just rolled your eyes, clichés are hardwired into my DNA, so deal. Besides, when you think about it, they are an excellent “common-denominator” communication device even though I know many of you would begin that phrase with the word “lowest.” In this case, untrue. The qualifier “at the end of the day,” is the lowest common-denominator for communicating the particular sentiment expressed above. I suppose I could have said, “in the grand scheme of Indra’s Net.” Show of hands, how many of you have I lost with what some might consider an obscure reference? How many of you just think I’m being affected? How many prefer “in the long run?” Okay, enough.]

Yesterday, I had the following early morning Instant Message (“IM”) exchange with one of my most preferred human s (“ph”) who will know who s/he is when s/he reads it:

Me (6:41:58 AM): [M]aybe the Matrix [movie] is right. [W]e play video games to manufacture energy for [the inhabitants of] another universe and they decided to at least make it pleasant for us.
ph[d](6:42:51 AM): [O]r maybe you’re just using it to keep away from your own real feelings and to keep from interacting with other living human beings[.]
Me (6:43:28 AM): [N]o, [I]‘m following the natural law of physics. [A]ll things being equal, [an object will follow] the path of least resistance. . . .
Me (6:44:39 AM): [I]t’s easier to play WOW than read. [I]it’s easier to read than write.

Some of you may have had encountered me in the throes of my initial infatuation with WOW. I confess. I was rude. I kept playing while we talked, and for that I apologize. That said, the idea I am playing WOW to avoid feeling or interacting with other humans is, at least in my reality, (almost) ironic. “Almost,” because, as I stated in an earlier entry on this same subject, I am an off-the-chart introvert. See December 8, 2007 Entry. [And speaking of irony, I note I posted that entry on the third day of a prednisone burst.] Perhaps in the minds of those of you who read my earlier entry, you misunderstood me, thinking I meant I really didn’t want to talk to any of you. If so, that was a failure to communicate on my part. [And a “shout out” to another buddy who, after reading my earlier post was prompted to call me on Skype to have voice contact rather than send an email while traveling outside the country.] [See, I’m watching the Democratic Convention. A new meme, “shout out,” has gone national. Thanks, Barack.][Okay, show of hands, now how many of you have I lost? Screw it, I’m just going to write, and let the chips fall where they may.] [Oops, there I go again.]

Before our friend Myra died, she and Darcy would periodically call each other and talk for seemingly hours. When asked later what they had talked about, Darcy would invariably answer, “Green grapes,” her metaphor for the everyday stuff, places gone and people seen. She came up with the expression after seeing the following New Yorker cartoon:

The caption reads: “On my way home today on the bus, a lone grape rolled down the aisle and came to rest near my feet. It was pale green and looked to be of the seedless variety.”

Unlike Darcy and Myra, I am Green grapes-impaired. When I was practicing law I consciously had to remind myself to begin a telephone conversation with “Hi, how are you? How are the spouse, pets, kids?” Often though, I would screw up and just dive right into the business at hand. I think I got better over the years, but if I’m in a social situation with a lot of people I don’t know, I still have trouble coming up with things to talk about. So, for me, food and the weather, not so much. Movies and books, better, much better. Discussions about a subject du jour, free will, predestination, the nature of karma, the Islamic version of the second coming of Christ, the meaning of life, the fear (or not) of death. Even better.

I’ll also confess to being empathy-impaired. I was fascinated to learn, well into my 20s, that some people, when they tell me, for example, “I have a headache,” don’t want to hear “Well, have you taken aspirin? Do you need to call the doctor?” More often than not, they don’t want the perceived problem solved, they just want me to acknowledge their pain or frustration or whatever. I still tend to miss those signals, but learning, and employing, the expression, “Poor, baby,” when I think of it has been invaluable.

For the record, though, I am still, and will always be, a recovering attorney. I do like to argue, and I like to win. Perhaps the least understood aspect of the practice of law is that law is based on the precept that one side wins and one side loses. Ultimately, a decision must be made. Good attorneys, and I was a good attorney, must find the winning argument, based on the facts and the law, no matter which side one takes. That’s why so many attorneys invariably preface any answer to a question with the infuriating quip, “It depends.” That’s because law, like physics, adheres to the special principle of relativity; i.e., before one can apply the law, one must create an inert situation by establishing the facts. Juries are known as fact-finders. Judges are the law-givers.

Here’s a classic law school illustration: 99 nuns swear under oath the light was red. A witness, known by the jury to have previously been incarcerated for committing perjury and to have been paid a large sum of money by the present defendant to testify the light was green, swears under oath the light was green. If the jury believes the perjurer, well, the light was green. And it’s the attorney who is charged with the task on behalf of his client, the defendant, to convince the jury to believe the perjurer. [Show of hands, how many of you have just thought, "If the gloves don't fit, you must acquit?"]

I hope the above somewhat explains the overzealousness I sometimes exhibit over something that really doesn’t matter, oh, let’s use “in the long run,” this time. On another day, I might agree with your position or decide it’s not worth fighting over. But for today, it’s the hunt. The smell of fear and blood. (My fear, my blood, too, remember.) So cut me a deal and don’t take things so personally, okay?

There are other times though I would like to have what could be characterized as a serious discussion. To experience the intimacy of communication and understanding. And it’s those times I regret my adversarial ways because well, these ways get in the way. Perhaps my major regret in this life is to have done (and still do) whatever it is that prevents this level of communication. So, there you have it.

I don’t get out much anymore and planned events get cancelled for health reasons as often, if not more often, as they happen, but if you’re ever in the neighborhood feel free to come on by. No pressure. Be it for green grapes, debate, or to climb into Kerouac’s bathtub (metaphorically speaking, and fully clothed, of course), you’ll be welcome. I’ll even try to remember my manners, and at some point ask if you want something to drink. But if you don’t want to wait for that to happen, please feel free to wander into the kitchen and help yourself.

Quiz

Which statement was written by a college graduate:

a) I’m not dead yet.
b) I’m not dead, yet.
c) I’m not dead . . . yet.
d) I’m not dead. Yet.
e) I’m not dead; yet.
f) I’m not dead yet?
g) I’m not dead yet!

cko
7/28/08

Final Jeopardy Answer

“Wish I could quit you, Enkidu.”

Happy Anniversary, Jim and Nora

On this day in 1931, James Joyce married Nora Barnacle at the Kensington Registry Office in London. They had been living together for 26 years. She once complained about Joyce’s late hours, “I can’t sleep anymore. … I go to bed and then that man sits in the next room and continues laughing about his own writing. And then I knock at the door, and I say, now Jim, stop writing or stop laughing!”

Happy Bloomsday

“The hidden hand is again at its old game. ” — James Joyce, Ulysses

Happy Bloomsday

“. . .and yes I said yes I will Yes.” — James Joyce, Ulysses

Midnight Musings

Living, as I do these days, a nearly unscheduled life has led to some rather erratic sleeping patterns. For instance, tonight I went down for a nap about 10:30 p.m. A couple hours later, the transition from nap to going to sleep; i.e., moving from the couch to the bed, got slightly bumpy. You guessed it. I started to think. First, I thought about the nature of poetry – well that might be a bit of a stretch, but I found myself reciting the Second Witch’s line from that play whose name one is never to say,

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

For those of who you don’t already know, according to the Wikipedia entry, “[t]he notion of a pricked thumb came from ancient Rome. It was said by seers that palpitations of the heart, the flickering of the eye and the pricking of a thumb were all warnings of evil. In particular, a pricking sensation in the left thumb was very worrisome.” (Palpitations of the heart can also be a sign of low oxygen saturation.) Anyway, I thought about how Shakespeare rearranged the syntax to make the rhyme and how, well, prosaic, the same line would sound if he wrote it as we would normally expect, “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked comes this way.” Boring.
Then I started to think about about how one of my friends reported that a friend of hers was having trouble remembering which president was on the fifty and hundred dollar bill, respectively. Well, at the time of our conversation I’m happy to report I knew they were Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin, respectively. And then I thought about poetry again. I though of writing a poem entitled “Poetry” that would go something to the effect:

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked comes this way.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Jackson

But then I got stuck, I was unable to remember who is on the $20 bill. So I had to get up and look. Turns out it’s Jackson. So if Jackson’s on the $20 bill, who’s on the $10 bill? Well, I didn’t have a $10 bill. Now, I had shut down, search engine-wise, for the night. So I went back to bed. Would sleep come? What do you think? In between obsessing on trying to remember who is on the $10 bill, the strains of “[t]he time has come, the Walrus said to speak of many things” came drifting by. But that was all I could remember. Understandably, the prospect of sleep any time soon had pretty much gone by the wayside. So, I got up. Booted the computer. Since it was now an hour or so past the witching hour, my Writer’s Almanac for Sunday, January 21, 2007, awaited in my email inbox. Reading it solved one of my causes for insomnia in that “The Walrus and the Carpenter” just happened to be the featured poem. Twilight Zone music? Maybe. Then I googled “ten dollar bill.” Alexander Hamilton. Well, that blew my whole poem out of the water because what I was going to try to communicate was the poetic quality of the term “dead presidents,” my failure to think about the same problem with Benjamin Franklin notwithstanding.

So, anyway, I thought these musings had enough poetry and synchronicity to creep into the realm of blogworthiness, especially since I haven’t posted much in awhile. The First Voice is going well as, for the most part, is my life. And now, to bed.

Not On Our Watch

Once upon a spacetime, it all began here. Let it begin here again.

www.savedarfur.org

Imagine.

Is it just me?

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

– Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ozymandias II

Happy Bloomsday

“Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.” — James Joyce, Ulysses

The Guthrie

My brother called me Sunday night. We’d already had a fairly lengthy conversation earlier in the day, but he’d forgotten to ask whether I knew that it was the night of the last performance at The Guthrie Theater (The Guthrie). After we spoke, I started to wonder how many other phone calls were made (or emails were sent) to commemorate this event around the nation and the world? (Since I started to write this entry, I’ve received an email from one friend attaching a news story about the closing and one from another letting me know she was there for the final performance.)

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this hallowed space, a little background. According to the information provided by clicking the “History” link on the above-provided website:

The Guthrie Theater opened on May 7, 1963 with a production of Hamlet directed by Sir Tyrone Guthrie, the theater’s founder. The idea of the theater began in 1959 during a series of conversations among Guthrie and two colleagues — Oliver Rea and Peter Zeisler — who were disenchanted with Broadway. They wanted to create a theater with a resident acting company that would perform the classics in rotating repertory with the highest professional standards.

On May 7, 2006, The Guthrie came full circle, closing its doors at Vineland Place after a final performance of Hamlet. The new Guthrie on Second Street is slated to open in July with a performance of The Great Gatsby.

During my high school years, I was fortunate enough to live just 100 miles south of Minneapolis. In addition, for a time while attending the University of Minnesota in the mid-70’s I had a fabulous 4th floor walk-up studio apartment that overlooked the Walker/Guthrie Complex just a couple blocks down the hill. During those years The Guthrie was an integral part of my life.

I think I’ve remarked in earlier blogs about how extraordinarily lucky I was to attend high school in a small rural community where, as I and others have been told time and again by professors and others “in the know,” we received a top-drawer education. I’d just like to take this opportunity to thank one of my English teachers, Karen (“Mrs.”) Anderson, who, over the years, on her own time, would fill her car with students and head up to The Guthrie for a Saturday or Sunday matinee. I’m pretty sure the first performance I attended was The Tempest in 1970. I can still close my eyes and see the opening shipwreck scene. To this day, when I’m particularly irritated about something I hiss like Caliban, or, as I have affectionately come to refer to this now part of myself, “Banni.” Indeed, at any given time, I can close my eyes and be greeted with a flood of images and sound bites from other performances like Cyrano or The Taming of the Shrew or Under Milkwood, as well as concerts with the likes of Laura Nyro and Janis Ian and Sarah Vaughn.

As we got older, we used to drive ourselves up for performances. I can still remember my disappointment when, on one Saturday, my buddy David and I queued to see The Guthrie’s production of Oedipus. This particular performance was significant because, in stark contrast to traditional Greek drama where the violence occurred off-stage, Oedipus actually gouged his eyes out in living color on-stage. Alas! David got the last student ticket available, and I was consigned to spend those two hours wandering the Walker Art Center (“the Walker”) (the two are attached) waiting for him.

The announcement of plans to build a new facility coupled with the Walker’s intention to demolish the old building (designed by Ralph Rapson) caused a major uproar. In 2002 the National Trust for Historic Preservation put the old Guthrie building on its list of the most endangered historic properties in the United States. Notwithstanding, at present the original Guthrie building is slated to be torn down late in the summer of 2006. I hope the old theatre gets saved, but just in case, the last time I was in Minneapolis I made it a point to stop by, say good-bye, and, of course, get me a cap.1

1 My intention when I sat down to compose this entry was to write a relatively straight-forward “farewell to the Guthrie” entry. I had been forewarned that doing so would take some discipline on my part as I am on prednisone at the moment. Prednisone sort of gives my brain a wake-up call and suddenly I am ready to Dominate With Attitude. In other words, I get a tad manic. I had already appended a comment to a simple “you’re welcome” email reply to my sister that could take years of therapy fully to explore. That was followed by another email outburst to a friend concerning the act of reading a book as opposed to having read a book and how sometimes the enjoyment of reading a book crumbles into regret for having taken the time to read it if it has a singularly disappointing ending. I went on to question whether that regret was “justified” if the actual reading of the book had, overall, been a positive experience. I’m still on the fence in that regard with Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. I am decidedly not on said fence when it comes to The Rule of Four – shame on them.

Nevertheless, I did real well with this entry right up until the time I completed my final draft. And then, a title for it leapt into my brain in the form of the word “touchstone.” To make sure “touchstone” meant what I intended to convey, I looked it up. The act of “looking up” for me generally entails first clicking on the “Encarta Dictionary Tools” icon on my Quick Launch Toolbar. Doing so in this case yielded no results because I searched for “touch stone.” Undaunted, I moved the mouse onto the desktop and clicked the Oxford English Dictionary (“OED”) icon. This time, I typed “touchstone” in the search field (what a difference a space makes) and arrived at the following definition: “That which serves to test the genuineness or value of anything; a test, criterion.” “Well,” I said to myself, “Self, as the first reparatory theater in the country, The Guthrie is a touchstone, and I confess I tend to judge other live theater performances by those experienced at The Guthrie, but that’s not what I meant to say, is it?” Before I knew it, my brain had taken command of my fingers and we were off on a mouse-clicking, word-typing fest in search of the word I had meant.

In the next few minutes I went from the OED back to Encarta to the Visual Thesaurus to the “Synonyms” function in Word. That’s when I stumbled across the “Lookup” function because the right-click menu for a word contained in the endnote portion of a document fails to contain a “Synonyms” option. Instead one gets the “Lookup” option which, when chosen, provides Encarta definitions, thesaurus entries in English and, in my case, French (though I’m sure that can be easily customized), as well as a translation section.

All right, back to my struggle to find the word I thought touchstone meant. But it’s really quite hopeless as I’ve now had to find out about “all right” as opposed to “alright.” The American Heritage Dictionary appends the following usage note to its online definition of “all right:”

Despite the appearance of the form alright in works of such well-known writers as Langston Hughes and James Joyce, the single word spelling has never been accepted as standard. This is peculiar, since similar fusions such as already and altogether have never raised any objections. The difference may lie in the fact that already and altogether became single words back in the Middle Ages, whereas alright has only been around for a little more than a century and was called out by language critics as a misspelling. Consequently, one who uses alright, especially in formal writing, runs the risk that readers may view it as an error or as the willful breaking of convention.

(So, does using it as the “willful breaking of convention” make it alright? Even so, how will we know? And what if, deciding to give an author the benefit of the doubt, we’re wrong?)

Okay, back “on task.” From “touchstone” I went to “waypost” and “marker” and other similar words that came to mind. Eventually, I ended up at Thesaurus.com which presented me with the term “benchmark.” That sounded right/rang true. I was pretty sure I meant “benchmark” when I initially thought “touchstone.” Having answered that question, it was time for a nap.

After said nap, I started writing this endnote. At this point, some of you may be asking, “what does it matter? After all, the terms ‘benchmark’ and ‘touchstone’ are ‘synonymous’.” (Don’t worry, I am not going there – not yet, at any rate.) Suffice that I wanted a term that conveyed a sense of place as well as an abstract concept. For me, “benchmark” does that more so than “touchstone.” Even so, neither term really served my purpose, and so I had to resort to making one up.

The first word that came to mind was “mindpost.” As near as I can tell, “mindpost” has not yet made it into any dictionary or thesaurus. A Google search yields a “mindpost.org” and a link to a blog where the term is used by someone to describe his blog entry. I considered using “mindpost” and so give the term a second definition, but instead I settled on “mindmark.” Again, I found no dictionary or thesaurus entries for this word. There is a “mindmark.com,” but I really can’t tell what it’s all about. There also seems to be a “mindmark” entity associated with Legos®. I found no evidence, however, of the term being used as I mean it; i.e., as a landmark in one’s brain, but that is precisely what The Guthrie is for me — a place I can visit every now and again and, for a moment at least, re-experience some of the most excellent times of my life.

My Buddy

A few days ago I was awakened by a ringing telephone. The Caller ID began to prepare me for the news. If the person on the other end was indeed Tina, then, it was more likely than not someone we both knew from our days at the firm was dead – it was just a question of whom. Sadly, I was right. I still find it hard to believe it was Ed. He was one of the most physically fit individuals I knew, having, for instance, participated in the La Luz Trail Run at 60. (Heck, he was the only lawyer I knew who had an undergraduate degree in physical education.) The last time I saw him, he was down to 5% body fat and playing golf everyday. That he suffered renal and congestive heart failure is just wrong.

For those of you who don’t already know, Ed was the second-named partner of Sager, Curran, Sturges & Tepper, P.C., the law firm I joined as an associate in 1987 after winding up my clerkship with Justice Mary Coon Walters. He signed his pleadings “Edward T. Curran,” and whenever he did so in my presence, I would hear in my head Tennessee Tuxedo declaring “Edward T. Curran” — which was funny because in contrast Ed had a high, almost lilting voice.

Ed was a good lawyer, and I learned much under his tutelage. You had to earn his respect. I can still remember what seemed like hours (no, now that I think about it, it was hours) sitting across from him being grilled about a particular case only eventually to be asked, “Kristine, did you even read the file?” The turning point for me came when I wrote a coverage opinion which he rejected out of hand, refusing to believe anyone would find insurance coverage under the circumstances. I rewrote it as he requested, but continued to maintain that I was right the first time around. We took the case to trial, and, though a valiant effort was made by the two of us, and I almost convinced the judge to use my version of a jury instruction, which, if read, might have saved the day, we lost for the reason I advised in the first place.

More important, Ed was my friend, or as he once referred to me (and I admit I melted when he did), my “buddy.” What’s unusual about that is I think I can safely say we were near polar opposites. Ed was 26 years my senior (we shared a birthday) and a conservative Republican Irish Catholic. He would, among other things, often make the most tongue-in-cheek sexist quips (and he’d come a long way as I was often told by others who had known him “back then” when such utterances weren’t tongue-in-cheek). I used to say that with Ed, the symbols contradicted. I can honestly say that I never felt he treated me as anything other than a colleague and an equal. Moreover, he was one of the kindest (dare I say, sweetest?) human beings ever, and I adored him.

Ed’s obituary underscores his passion for Notre Dame Football. I, too, can attest to this passion. Indeed, one day we went out for lunch and, before returning to the office, we stopped by the house of one of his friends so he could show me the cap that then-Notre Dame Coach Lou Holtz had worn when he coached my alma mater’s Golden Gophers.

Ed retired shortly before I made partner in 1993. He soon after announced the move to Arizona. We saw each other sporadically after that. I’m pretty sure the last time I saw him was in 1996. I had moved back to Minneapolis and he and his wonderful (and I think it’s somewhat accurate to say, long-suffering) wife Barbara came up to attend an Elder Hostel. Barbara had grown up in Minneapolis and I remember spending a wonderful day touring the Twin Cities in search of her roots, including the Hill House in St. Paul. We may have spoken by phone a couple times after that and then, as is so often the case, just lost track of one another.

Last week, the Bar Bulletin contained a Clerk’s Certificate with Ed’s address and phone number. I’m still not sure why, as it really wasn’t new. Nonetheless, it prompted me to want to call and check in. I got as far as actually picking up the phone, but stopped short of dialing the number. I’m not sure if I would have had an opportunity to talk to Ed had I completed the call, but at least it would have still been a possibility.

Unfortunately, my health precludes a trip to the memorial service in Arizona, but my thoughts will be there. I miss my buddy.

The Raven

On this day in 1845, the New York Evening Mirror first published Edgar Allen Poe’s narrative poem, The Raven. Illustration for the French Edition by Édouard Manet

JANUARY THIRTEENTH, 1996*

One last tug on the left glove, and I step back into it. This time I’m on the right side – well, almost. Two feet of storm. Still cold, but I don’t feel it, breathe it. Come outside, what do you think? Maybe. I don’t smell it here. Rain, sometimes. And, it’s never too cold. I look down. The eyes have always been mine. The shadow has always been I. The coat has always been mine, but rarely worn. Not my landscape. Nor mine. Frozen vomit. That first night, just across the way, she held my hair. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Later, we betrayed each other with private kisses. The squeaky crunch of boots on storm. I reach the crossing. “But you said you would come with me.” “I cannot.” So, I step back into it, across it. I look out and know, for the first time, the landscape that has always been mine. I step into it. And God remembered . . . Do Lord, Oh, do Lord, oh, do remember me.

* I wrote the foregoing 10 years ago as an entry for a “write like William Faulkner” contest. Back then a friend, who agreed that while in the spirit of the contest, thought the entry was too serious to be considered a serious contender.

Angst

I woke up feeling anxious about the blog, but that’s easily fixed. Unless I have an overwhelming need to post an entry, I’m taking the month off to unfoul my nest and enjoy the holidays. Later.

Been There, But I Have Way Too Many T-Shirts

Today’s Writer’s Almanac Reports that:

On this day in 1930, a Swedish newspaper reporter telephoned Sinclair Lewis to tell him that he was the first American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, for his novel Main Street (1920). Lewis thought the caller was making a practical joke and began to imitate the man’s accent. But it was not a joke. Lewis was, in fact, the first American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Works for Me

Agnes by Tony Cochran

Message to my Loyal Readers

Hail and well met to those of you who may have wandered by to see if there’s anything new this week. Alas, no. I’ve been feeling a bit puny for a couple weeks and haven’t had the energy to put together much in the way of posts. It’s just as well, given the metaphoric orange barrels dotting the site during the transition to the new publishing application. My beloved blogmeister, mjh, is in the midst of implementing my blog happiness list. I’m quite pleased.

In the meantime, thought you might be interested to know, I heard from a fellow at Dell yesterday, name Michael – well not THAT Michael, but we had a nice chat anyway. See October 4, 2005 Post. He’s going to make sure my account gets properly credited, and he’s sending me a system battery. I’m not sure if I’ll get charged for the battery, but shipping will be free. I’ll keep you posted on any further developments. (Pun intended.)

We Interrupt This Blog . . .

Some of you may remember a great movie that came out nearly 30 years ago called Network starring William Holden, Faye Dunaway, Robert Duvall, Peter Finch, and others. Peter Finch portrays an aging news anchor who, fed up with the current state of affairs, goes berserk during a broadcast. He encourages his television audience to get up off their seats, go to their windows, open them up, and begin yelling, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” The camera shifts to the network muckety-mucks who are watching the broadcast. Once of them goes over and opens a window through which can be heard the sounds of voices chanting, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.”

Some years later I met Ray whose motto was “I will never be a victim.” He never accepted less than was his due in any situation. He did it nicely, rationally, and firmly. I have tried to live by his example. As a result, I have endeavored to rectify, and have often succeeded in rectifying, many unfair situations for myself, and just as often, others — though there was that one time that the IRS agent hung up on me (and I was being really nice). Threatening class action lawsuits has been particularly effective — especially since I knew of what I spoke having defended a couple of them. I’m proud to say I have been an example to my friends and family in this regard. Call center folks, on the other hand, think I have entirely too much time on my hands. I can almost hear them muttering under their breath, “Get a life.”

This was going to be a post much different from the one you are actually reading. The last two weeks have been particularly frustrating, and so I started an entry wherein I planned to tell you in great detail about the mix up with my Dell order, the lack of problem-solving skills on the part of the cable guy (“I don’t know what to tell you ma’am. It should work; I hooked up the box.”), the notice from a collection agency because a healthcare provider had failed to update information I had dutifully provided to them, and the software program I could not install no matter what I tried (including, but not limited to, reading the “Installation Instructions and” the “read me” file, and checking (and installing) the “patch” program provided on the website. By and large I got every thing worked out. Even so, I don’t feel like talking or writing about incompetence anymore, even when, in retrospect some of the stories are amusing in a twisted sort of way.

The latest Dell fiasco has put me over the edge. I went down fighting, at least. In the last couple weeks, I have made fourteen “from scratch” phone calls – that means cycling through fourteen interminable voice menus – simply dialing “0” out of the gate no longer works, it just makes the main menu start over again. Two calls ended in hang ups on the part of the sales representatives, two ended in disconnects, and one ended in an especially annoying busy signal. I spoke to seven sales representatives, one sales specialist, three entry level customer care representatives, an extension supervisor, a floor supervisor (impersonating a manager after being told I expected to be speaking to a manager), a customer care supervisor, and, finally, a manager. I left two voice mails, both of which remain unreturned. No one I talked to listened to what I had to say. I finally asked the last couple of folks to repeat back to me what I had just told them until they finally got it right. In the end, the last guy (the manager) quit even pretending he wanted to help resolve the issue, and I just quit asking for help. Instead, for the first time ever, I’m packing up and returning a perfectly wonderful, reasonably priced, editor’s choice technological device along with many cool accessories. I’ll sell my stock. I’ve prepared, and mailed, a six-page single-spaced letter to the Executive Support Team (an entity so secret even Dell supervisors and managers don’t have a telephone number for it) explaining why I am severing ties with a company from which I have personally purchased, among other things, 3 pretty much state-of-the-art desktops and which I have recommended to friends and family over the years.

I am so disgusted by this latest episode, that I’m not only done with Dell, I’m done with them all. I’ll pay the stealth handling charge that gets added at the end of an online order for which I have been promised “free shipping.” I’ll pay the “office co-pay” my health care insurer charges for a lab test (and try not to think/care about the folks who don’t realize they don’t owe one and for whom fifteen bucks matters). I’ll meekly accept the pronouncement, “Well whoever you spoke to was mistaken,” when, in anticipation of a problem I’ve actually called customer service before making a trip to the brick and board store. I bet none of you ever thought you’d hear/read me say the bastards got me down. But they did. I’m still mad as hell; I just don’t have the time or energy to verbally strong arm people into keeping their companies’ promises anymore.

Postscript

So, I’m just putting the finishing touches on this entry when I hear the phone ring. As is often the case these days, I can’t find the phone in time to answer it before voicemail kicks in. I wait a bit, and check caller id. One of my guys, who, like me, has severe COPD had called. In my memory, he’s never left a message before, but this time I have a voice mail. Of course, I immediately imagined something bad had happened. On the contrary, he told me I didn’t need to call him back, but he just wanted to let me know that because of my encouragement, he met with his health care provider who, in turn had agreed to contact his recalcitrant insurer. He had just received word the insurer would pay for a new drug that up to now been he’d been paying for out of his own pocket because it hadn’t made the approved list or whatever. He’ll save $132 a month. In his words, he had “won that battle,” and thought I’d like to know.

Imagine

It’s Only Words

Just to clarify, I suffer from writer’s malaise as opposed to writer’s block. That is, I know precisely what I want to write — at least for the next hundred pages or so. I am simply unable to summon the energy required to translate the stuff of which my novel is made into written form. As a general rule, I am a product, not a process, person. It seems, however, that the novel is too big a product for me to produce of a piece. In part, then, these Walking Raven entries will serve as a way for me to marshal my thoughts and research about a character or other aspect of the narrative to produce smaller, more manageable pieces. This exercise may spoil a few punch lines in the novel for those of you who can still remember one day from the next, but for whatever reason, I seem to have this need to tell you the story of the story before I can write the rest of the story. And so, as one of my law school professors was wont to say, “Let’s begin, please.” And we might as well begin at the beginning (well, nearly the beginning).

Aside from a brief stint as a teen-aged poet, I produced relatively little by way of the written word that was of any consequence well into my twenties, notwithstanding that I was an English major. Papers were agony and usually turned out badly. (What’s the written equivalent for “tongue-tied?”) Only after my first year in a master’s English program did I find my voice for scholarly (as opposed to creative) writing. I coulda’ been a contendah in academia. Instead, I went to law school and entered private practice. The mid-80s to the mid-90s are a blur of work (and golf) and very little else.

My biggest regret during those years was that I virtually stopped reading for pleasure. I am ashamed to say I can probably count on one hand, and certainly two, the number of books I read during that time. I did, however, have ample opportunity to hone my writing skills. I wrote literally hundreds of supporting memoranda and trial and appellate briefs. By the time I retired from the practice of law, I felt fairly comfortable stringing words together in sentences and paragraphs. To have the words accurately communicate what I want to say, though, continues to be a long, and often painful, process. I’m thankful that, unlike some writers, I can use my computer for most of the process. Before I had access to a word processing program, my paper needs required the death of way too many trees. If I can really get this together, perhaps they will not have all died in vain.

It Isn’t Whether You Win or Lose, It’s . . .

Greetings from my aerie (lair) in arbitrary spacetime January 9, 2005, Albuquerque, New Mexico. This blog entry is my first in awhile, but one I hope will prove to be the first of many that will evolve into an ongoing online discussion of a statement that occupies my thoughts nearly every I sit down to write anything, to wit:

There are no synonyms.

In less than an hour, an event will begin. At its conclusion a few hours from now, I would like to be able to say, “We (being the Minnesota Vikings) beat the Packers at Green Bay.” I also would not mind saying, “We won the game.” Given what has so often occurred before, I might even be satisfied with, “The Packers beat us at Green Bay.” What I decidedly do not want to have to say is, “We lost the game.”

So, there you have it. Talk amongst yourselves.

Untwining the Inextricable

When I asked Mr. Edgewise to set up this blog, I did so with the expectation I would post an entry every week (or so). After all, I have the time to write. I also have plenty to “say.” Even if I don’t sit down with any specific expectations, all I have to do is start typing and something generally comes to mind. For instance, I just had the urge to explore the nature of the meaning of the term “say.” BRB. Okay, according to the Microsoft Encarta Dictionary, the use of the term “say” in connection with a written form of expression generally indicates the writing “conveys information” — more specifically, “substantial or significant” information. Otherwise, what’s written might be described as really not “saying” much of anything. Along the same lines, why do we say we can “hear” ourselves think?

That said (as my intent was to convey something), I’ve been asking myself, why has it been nearly two weeks, three, a month, now two months since last I posted a blog entry? And then I “heard” a voice inside my head say, “you don’t smoke anymore.” I used to smoke. A lot. I quit (for the most part) on Monday, October 21, 1996 at 10:21 a.m. I quit because I couldn’t breathe. For those of you who don’t already know, I have since been diagnosed with severe COPD — classic panlobular emphysema to be exact. In other words, as a practical matter, smoking is simply no longer an option.

If I still could sit here in front of my monitor and keyboard and suck down one Lucky Strike after another, the words would come, not in fits and starts, but in a steady, unbroken stream. And after the flood of words, there would be uninterrupted hours crafting each paragraph, sentence, phrase, and word choice — rebuilding the thoughts on the other side of consciousness. These days, I’m lucky to sustain, contain for more than a few sentences before I become distracted, restless. And then I have to stop, because well, my head might explode. Sometimes I get back to it in an hour, sometimes days, sometimes never.

Science tells us that nicotine enables users to focus — that is, until nicotine is withheld. Then focus immediately shifts to discerning when the next opportunity to feed those receptors might arise. And a voice I equate with Audrey II’s voice in Little Shop of Horrors emanates from those receptors. It begins with a barely audible whisper and builds to a resounding, reverberating “FEED ME!” And it’s not just the nicotine. It’s the smoke filling the lungs, riding through the central nervous system and binding, at last, with those wide-mouthed famished, voracious receptors. And those receptors, once opened never close. Mostly these days, they’re rather peckish, unless and until I sit down to write. Consequences.

Maybe this knowing will enable me better to keep the nicotine demons at bay. If not, well, Ritilin anyone? Or better yet — would someone please perfect virtual smoking.

Happy Bloomsday

I See Said the Blind[person]

Now that I actually have my blog, I’m even more aware of internal and external stimuli that I could turn into blog entries. Indeed, I’ve not sat down to write for a while because different ideas have been falling over themselves in my mind to the point that I was overwhelmed with the thought of picking out just one of them and seeing where it goes. This morning, though, I’d pretty much decided where, at least, to begin. And then, a few sentences into this composition, I realize I’ve written something that takes me in an entirely new direction. To wit, why did I just write the phrase “seeing where it goes?” The eyes are unnecessary for thought. See, e.g., The Iliad, The Odyssey, and Paradise Lost. The tag I just used, “see, e.g.,” I wrote hundreds of times during my life as a lawyer. Legal briefs follow the rules set forth in The Bluebook: A Uniform System of Citation. According to said same (I’m in lawyer mode now), using “[s]ee” means the “cited authority [that follows] directly states or clearly supports the proposition.” Adding “,e.g.” indicates that “other authorities also state, support, . . . the proposition but that citation to them would not be helpful or is not necessary.” Id. (briefspeak for “ibidem” or “ibid.”).

Sight is unnecessary to write. I could type this entry with my eyes closed. Indeed, the various implements associated with the task of writing are unnecessary. Included within the many definitions of write or writing is “to produce or be engaged in producing a poem, book, play, story, or article: give literary or journalistic form to a conception, plot, or happening.” See Webster’s Third New International Dictionary (1976 ed.). No one suggests that Milton didn’t wrote Paradise Lost even though one or the other of his daughters actually wrote it. More specifically, then, Milton prescribed while one or the other of his daughters transcribed. “Pre-,” however, means “earlier than: prior to: before.” Mirriam-Webster Online. So maybe it is more accurate to say (I mean write) (don’t get me started) that Milton described Paradise Lost, since “de-” means “to reduce.” Id. Except, one doesn’t necessarily need words to write; i.e., another definition of write is “to take part in or bring about (something worthy of recording) . . . the Colorado River has been writing a record of history in the earth’s crust.” Hot-metal Magic. Webster’s Third.

So, the writing of a thought occurs sometime before it is either prescribed or described. The writing, however, appears to end before the thought is transcribed, as “trans-” means “on or to the other side of.” Mirriam-Webster. So when does the seeing of the thought take place? Well, I guess that depends on however one understands the title of the first chapter in my Freshman English textbook, “[h]ow can I know what I think until I see what I say?”

Why am I here?

Okay, I’m going to try to recreate the process I went through in creating this latest entry. Most of what I consider to be blog-worthy thoughts fall far short of the epiphany mark for me. Some merely unfold gently and calmly in my brain. Others explode with what Darcy calls BFOs (blinding flashes of the obvious) — those thoughts that result in a figurative, sometimes even literal, slap of the forehead. Epiphanies, though, travel like a lightening strike from my brain into my solar plexus and ignite me inside out. Epiphanies are deep red with pink around the edges.

In the early days I’d walk them off. In my teens, I’d fight fire with fire and smoke. In my later teens, I’d douse them with scotch, et al. Then it was back to just cigarettes. As my brother once quipped, “We had a cigarette for every emotion.” Epiphanies though meant several cigarettes in fairly rapid succession. Now, I let spacetime take care of them (though ice cream does help).

Before getting to this morning’s epiphanic moment, I need to provide some context. Especially during my life as an attorney, I would (more often than I care to admit) find myself arising from my desk, wandering into the hallway, and stopping abruptly, usually just in front of my legal assistant’s cubicle, and questioning, out loud, “Who am I, and why am I here?” The question for me was triggered by the fact that I had quite simply forgotten why I found myself standing in the hallway. My legal assistant though, never one to let any question, even a rhetorical one, go unanswered, would usually say, “You are C. Kristine Osnes, Esquire, and you are here because you love the law.”

First, I’m sure it does not escape you, as it does not escape me, that I just characterized what is so often identified as an individual’s life purpose as a rhetorical question. Second, while I did, and do, love the chase for the ever-just-elusive seamless web that can be spun out of legal argument and interpretation; I was there, more and more, for the money. I finally quit when I realized no one could pay me enough to do it any more. (Well that, and the fact I didn’t have kids to put through college).

Anyway, given that for me, wondering who I am goes hand in hand with wondering why I am here, I sat down at my computer this morning thinking a companion piece to my “Who I am” entry was in order. I deliberately chose to entitle my previous entry as an affirmative statement. I figured that one out quite some time ago. Knowing who I am wasn’t the problem. It was being able to be who I am. I am grateful my life has evolved to a point where that is, indeed, possible.

Why I am here still poses a question, but not one that troubles me much anymore. Here is neither the place nor the time (spacetime, again) to detail my search for the meaning of, or even if there is a meaning to, my life or anyone else’s. If ever I actually finish my novel, whose working title is The First Voice, a good deal of my search will be recorded therein. In brief, writing and thinking about The First Voice led me to research the concept of sentience — thinking the term could serve as a more elegant-sounding synonym for the concept of self-awareness. (I sure thought that’s what Jean Luc and the others meant whenever they encountered a new life form.) According to Merriam-Webster Online, however, sentience means “feeling or sensation as distinguished from perception and thought.” In contrast, self-awareness means “an awareness of one’s own personality or individuality.”

Though controversy exists as to whether other creatures or objects are, or can become, self-aware, ultimately, I agree with those who have concluded self-awareness must, by definition, include an awareness of death — especially an awareness of one’s own death. Further discussion of this aspect of self-awareness, however, can wait for another day. For my present purposes, it suffices that self-awareness means we tend to question our place in the world, the galaxies, the universe(s). Surely there must be more to it than this; surely there must be a reason for being; surely there must be others out there. These days, I find I’m spending a lot of time thinking about Stephen Hawking’s supposition in this regard. He speculates:

[T]here is a very low probability either of life developing on other planets or of that life developing intelligence. Because we claim to be intelligent, though perhaps without much ground, we tend to see intelligence as an inevitable consequence of evolution. However, one can question that. It is not clear that intelligence has much survival value. Bacteria do very well without intelligence and will survive us if our so-called intelligence causes us to wipe ourselves out in a nuclear war. So as we explore the galaxy we may find primitive life, but we are not likely to find beings like us.

The Universe in a Nutshell, p. 171.

In this context, then, I closed my eyes a while ago and asked, why am I here? In response, I heard in my mind’s ear, I think therefore I am. I am. The [present] first person singular of [the infinitive] “to be.” I be. No, I am. Why am I here? No, why I be here? And then I experienced the lightening followed by the spreading warmth of realization — what Virginia Woolf labeled the moment. What Joyce calls an epiphany. And on the heels of the moment, came the struggle to translate the mindspeak engendered by the epiphany into a language others might understand. I’m not yet fluent enough in the English language to prevail in that endeavor. Here, though, is as much of the after-the moment-process as I can remember, as well as what I did to augment the memories as I wrote this account.

The first thing I remember is thinking of the French version of Descartes’ theory. Je pense, donc je suis. I also remarked to myself that nothing gets lost in the translation. My painful study of French required me to be learn about infinitives, tenses, and regular and irregular verbs. So I already knew that the infinitive of I am is to be. I knew to be was an irregular verb because instead of I be, the present first person singular form is I am. Just for fun, I looked up the term infinitive. According to good old M-W, the use of the term as a noun means “a verb form normally identical in English with the [present] first person singular that performs some functions of a noun and at the same time displays some characteristics of a verb and that is used with to (as in ‘I asked him to go’) except with auxiliary and various other verbs (as in ‘no one saw him leave‘).” (Emphasis in the original.) My epiphany left me with the following questions: (1) Why was to be an irregular verb? (2) Where did am come from? (3) Could I think of any other verbs where the irregular form o