Revised Chapter One

Well, I have finished the first half of "Not Quite Human Anymore" and it runs approx 61,000 words. I'm working on the section titled "Dr. Death" right now and expect to be finished with the entire book in six months or so. The chapters that have been blogged previously are only somewhat representative of the current version. I thought it might be entertaining to post the new Chapter One, which begins the section "Farewell Traveling Boy." Permission having been obtained, Chapter One ("Car In A Closed Garage") follows. Oh, by the way, the legal people asked me to remind you that the copyright is fully in force. Ah, lawyers. Hoops jumped, here is the new Chapter One.

Chapter One:

Car In A Closed Garage

“Take me out to the ball game.”

* * * * *

A human life is like a baseball team born in the spring, reaching maturity in summer, peaking in the early fall, dying before winter. That dead team will never exist again, for even if the identical players, coaches, and manager return (which rarely happens), their individual and collective states-of-mind will not be the same. Physical aging and the experiences of the previous year will change them, just as ours changes us. They are better or worse, more confident or less, advancing in ability, or regressing. Something constant remains, however, and prepares a new team for a new birth and a new life.

* * * * *

Many years ago, a Vietnam war widow with two young sons moved into a country cottage, near where I had retreated to write my first book (subsequently awarded the dubious honor of Ultimate Self-Censure by Fire).

My pre-widow days were paradise: writing, reading, musing. In the early evenings, I treated myself to well-paced, long walks on and along a soft dirt path traversing a meadow miles in length, several times bridging a lazy meandering creek possessing an ambitious aspiration—judging from the unused depth and width of its bed—to become a raging river.

Came the summer solstice sunset, every year a time to contemplate my emotional connection to the relentless soil toil of past generations, who savored the longest day because it heralded a rare rest recess between the end of the planting season and the beginning of the harvest. Additionally, the Northern hemisphere is never closer to the sun, and for many—including me—such an equinoctial event has been and remains sufficient motivation to celebrate Stonehenge-mode adorations.

Perhaps pagan gods were smiling broadly during this particular solstice. Or does solar proximity explain the onslaught of heat when for the initial time the scouts that are my eyes sighted her approach. I doubt the latter.

Her boys had run ahead and were timidly peeking over the protective rock arms of a minimus arched bridge, cobbled together by a local artisan’s adroit integration of creek bottom stones.

The young woman wore a flower-pattern hippie granny dress, for which I am a well-known sucker. I smiled. She smiled. The boys glanced at her face. They stared at mine. Two months later we were living together. That’s another story.

Here’s the one that stays in my mind.

Under the principle that opposite is better, my lessons of how to be a good father were learned from a bad father. The latter is not presently our concern.

Suffice to report I spent many hours being a guide and a faithful guardian to these wonderful children, whose fundamental goodness was a tribute to the love-filled nurturing of their mother.

We all became friends. The boys loved it when, one at a time, I held their wrists and swung them in a circle as fast as I could.

“More,” each one would shout when their turn ended. “Do it again.” They enjoyed the dizziness. I enjoyed regaining my sense of balance.

When we had been together for a while, they cautiously and haltingly told me the story of their dad, including that he had been wounded by gunfire in a war, and fallen off his boat, and drowned in a far away river. I learned they had no affection for flowing water, and would often play at creek’s edge, but never enter.

Living with the widow, for all its precious compensations, was paradise lost. Once they began to love me, her children, aged seven and six, demanded constant attention. So too the widow. Gone were the days when I had liberty to write, and read, and think. For all practical purposes, the second and third items on my Edenistic list had become impossible, and without them, how the first?

My frustration with this unwelcome aspect of my new reality eventually caused a pleasant and promising relationship to founder. But not before an incident which I earnestly pray was beneficial to all three of my live-in companions, two directly and one by osmosis.

* * * * *

Matt Ridley: “Mother and fetus have a common purpose, but argue fiercely about the details of how much of the mother’s resources the fetus may have.

“The father’s genes do not trust the mother’s genes to make a sufficiently invasive placenta; so they do the job themselves.”

* * * * *

Baseball’s lack of territoriality gladdens my heart.

One team takes the field. After three are out, that nine leaves and is replaced by its opposition. No territory is claimed or ceded. The seventeen or eighteen exchanges are non-violent.

During the course of a game, both teams usually have opportunities to touch “home.” Though the winner’s gonfalon is awarded to the aggregation successfully doing so more times than its competition, by the rules no one can claim to “own” home.

When I was young, I read an encyclopedic article about the wisdom of Black Elk. The philosophic Chief describes a mindset typically Indian—a stewardship-rather-than-ownership relationship with the land on which they lived and hunted.

Baseball is more in harmony with a nomadic mindset rather than that of a landowner. No wonder it became our national pastime during a time of massive immigration.

Baseball’s intrinsic non-violence profoundly influenced my formative years. As a lad, I could see that the other boys were using violence (fisticuffs and wrestling) to establish a pecking order. Studying my favorite game helped me come to a maverick conclusion—difficult to achieve and thus more dearly held—that fights were unnecessary.

Over time, playing sports taught me that I had many competitive advantages and would come out on top in most brawls. Yet to what purpose?

To me, the whole dance seemed like a foolhardy and ridiculous exercise. Even under severe provocation, I abstained from street combat and suffered the inevitable resultant humiliations.

So what? Their accusations re: my cowardice were not credible. I knew it took more courage to do what I was doing—being true to my beliefs—than it did to unthinkingly adhere to the animal territorial choreography captivating the majority.

Ironically enough, on the gridiron—rather than the diamond—I had the capacity to make them pay, including the ones who secretly felt I was right.

* * * * *

Three days of rain hammered our cottage home. Our initial sanguinity derived from the “we’re safe inside” pleasure of listening to water drum roof. This faded soon, then disappeared.

Cabin fever being contagious, we all had it. So on the third day, the woman and I swathed the boys in anti-rain gear, and I took them for a walk. She chose a different direction. I think she was tired of being with me. The boys honored her wish.

The path was mud, so the three of us trampled the adjoining saw grass, bent as it was from the added of weight of three-day aqua saturation. As we stepped on the first bridge, the boys’ eyes went wide. The creek had achieved its goal. Fast moving water now filled its pleased bed.

Surrendering their momentum, they froze in space, as quickly as if they both had stepped on snakes. In an instant, I processed their fear and realized that, if not faced, it surely would constellate into something deeply harmful.

What better time than now? Isn’t that always the question?

I bent my knees to be eye to eye with my young friends.

“Do you trust me?”

Hesitation.

“Do you trust me? Yes or no. Either answer is okay.”

“Yes.” From both.

“Take my hands.” They did.

“Look at that water. Do you know who is in charge of it today?”

“Who?”

“Dr. Death. He took your Dad. Now he wants you…and me. Do you want to leave your bodies with him?”

“Please no.” “I don’t.”

“Me neither. But we can’t be intimidated. We can’t let him run our life. Can we?”

‘How can we stop him?” This from the seven-year-old. Nothing from the six, but a determined expression told his tale.

“Do you trust me?”

Hesitation. “Yes.” From both.

“Let’s challenge Dr. Death on his own turf.”

Brave boys. Afraid. Stared at me. I nodded yes.

They did not speak. We waited. We waited.

Finally, the oldest took a deep breath. His eyes narrowed as he nodded to his brother. A few more seconds passed.

As if by pre-arranged signal, a little hand from each boy reached for one of mine. Still wordless, we waded together into the rapidly flowing water. Knee high to them. Waist. Chest. I kept a careful watch, especially on the younger and shorter, now heart deep. I was glad his mother could not see him.

I swear that I could hear the thump of their hearts. Whatever they were thinking and feeling, they kept moving with me.

I began to trash-talk. “Come on, Death. Take your best shot. Is this all you are? A rippling puddle? You call this danger? You have nothing! Your mother dates life support technicians!”

We were halfway across and in the deepest water. Suddenly the boys began to shout their own defiance. “Hey, Death. You suck. That’s right. You heard us. Your mother dates you.”

The river whipped around their bodies, wrapped them, pushed them, fought to knock them down and take them. Suddenly, as if acting with one mind, they dropped my hands, and turned to face the oncoming current on their own, fully extending their arms toward the sky. The older one shouted:

“You killed our dad, but you can’t hurt us. Not today. Not yet. We’re not afraid of you. We’re not gonna die in this water. We’re gonna live. Live. Do you hear? Live. Live.”

His brother joined him, “Live. We’re gonna live. You don’t scare us. Not today. Not now. Live. Live.”

They cried. I made a funny face. They laughed. We started again and made it safely across the distended creek. Safe on the bank, they hugged my legs and, with great excitement, looked up into my downward gaze.

“We beat Dr. Death,” they exclaimed in unison. Added the six-year-old, “The water’s ours.”

* * * * *

The pause between the pitches. William Wordsworth: “Reflection comes with the lull, taking its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.”

* * * * *

How To Watch Sports:

Option One, The Partisan: If you are not willing to accept the possibility of pain, you forfeit the possibility of pleasure. How can you be elated in victory unless you are willing to be crushed by defeat?

Option Two, The Detached: Move beyond the duality of victory and defeat. Bob Costas finds pleasure from whatever emerges through the flow and pattern of the game. He has moved his emotional attachment beyond the partisan.

This is only reason he has never been the play-by-play announcer for the Yankees or Cardinals or any one team. His skills are more than sufficient, but his partisanship has long since sailed. Consequently, he is a network man.

Does sport still generate sufficient emotion for him and his ilk? Of a different sort, I think. Competition by exceptionally talented individuals and teams has the virtue of frequently producing singular excellence. Appreciation of these occurrences—absent partisan distortion—is superior.

Cause and effect are more easily perceived and evaluated. Patterns emerge. Lessons are learned. Detachment is the path of maturity, progress, expertise, understanding, wisdom. Such things are lasting wealth, but are they enough to satisfy human longing?

* * * * *

Doctors have morphed into medicinal bean counters, mechanics with a check list, substituting the detachment of technology for the healing wisdom of the family doctor, the shaman, the medicine man.

What connects them to the passions of life? What is wise about their detachment? They are in dire need of a pennant race.

Here is how I propose to cure doctors:

They each shall be required to pick a team, pay careful attention to every game, avidly read what is written, post on a fan board, endure the directness of rational and irrational responses, get to know the philosophy and personality of the coach and players, suffer when they lose, rejoice when they win, hope for the championship, and when it doesn’t come, wait till next year, and when it does, make like the ’85 Cardinals and celebrate, celebrate, celebrate.

* * * * *

Why are we attached to an outcome which almost always give us no direct material benefit?

Consider the secret spiritual treasure given by sports to watcher: the gift of identifying with something not solely self. This glorious transcendence unseats the narrowest definition of self-interest and moves athlete and observer beyond money, class, religion, race, geography, ethnicity. That in the physical universe which has the illusion of division is experienced as unity.

* * * * *

The movie “Being There” is based on the philosophical insights of Heidegger and Voltaire. The key elements are state-of-mind and gardening.

Simply put, I feel you should know this.

* * * * *

I had to go to the hospital again today. So much pain. Damn! I have a picture in my head of my car in a closed garage, motor running. No.

Maybe.

* * * * *

What is time? Einstein discovered its variability within physical reality. Simply put, energy has a sum, and this totality is divided between forward motion in time and forward motion in space. Thus someone riding in a car traveling 70 miles an hour is growing older slightly more slowly than someone sitting at a desk. That’s a fact, though not nearly an entire explanation.

But time’s relativity is not limited to physical reality. Time is also relative within mental reality.

I know this is true, because I have experienced it, as have thousands of others. With experience and concentration, athletes undergo their own version of relativity. The “game” slows down.

What seems like three seconds to spectators can seem like three minutes to those so engaged. It is accurate to report that a focused competitor can enter a zone in which she or he flows faster than earth’s “base time,” while interacting with others still apparently moving at what we call a “normal rate.”

To an athlete, it is the “not-me” whose speed has decreased, because personal pace—to personal perception—remains constant. This, of course, is the foundation of Einstein’s discovery.

I hungrily embrace my too few moments in this zone. Time’s passage is elongated here as necessary, in some cases to total stoppage, arguably the true maximum. Or just as there is an unseen physical world existing below the molar level, perhaps there is also micro-time, possibly a place in which one can do marvelous things, such as travel from century to century, as unlikely as that seems to those conditioned by normal life. I don’t know because I’ve not experienced micro—yet.

Regardless, I remember striving to catch a football and seeing it absolutely motionless in the air, patiently waiting, or so I conceived, for me to raise my arms and bring to cradle.

All other stimuli were muted and dimmed, as if heard and seen through “a glass darkly.” But the ball, the beautiful ball, remained perfectly illuminated. Behind the coveted sphere, a disintegrating sky. Below, a disappearing world.

My grasp did not exceed my reach. The catch was mine! And with a sonic roar, normality rushed to flood my senses.

So yes, I have no doubt that the mind has the power to alter time. Perhaps one day we shall formulate this into an immutable law.

* * * * *

My dear friend Bob Broeg, who gave Stan Musial his immortal nickname “Stan the Man,” has passed. He had the knack of having everything he wanted come to him, although he never acted selfishly. Maybe the latter explains the former.

I had the honor to write the second and final draft of his autobiography. As I result I learned to understand him and, at the same time, grew to love him.

Once Bob and I, returning from a meeting with his publishers, found ourselves in Springfield, Illinois, a little after dinner time. Famished, Bob urged me to stop so he could have a “horseshoe” sandwich and savor a couple of Buds.

We took our seats at the bar to ensure fast service. Soon we were swapping stories about sports and women. Bob’s hearty laugh boomed throughout the restaurant.

Within minutes we were surrounded by people who recognized Bob’s guffaws and flocked to his side. “You’re Bob Broeg,” one said. “Yes,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”

What he could do is what he naturally did. For more than two hours, Bob told them his stories and they told him theirs. During this time, no evil had the power to enter our restaurant. Goodness reigned unchallenged.

When we left, goodbyes were said, sometimes more than once, for we lingered, loath to part, not wanting the too-short evening to come an end, looking for the right words to demonstrate our appreciation for what we had shared.

Many of the restaurant’s patrons walked with him to our car and watched as we drove away, waving yet another farewell.

As them then, so me now.

Goodbye, Bob. I’m waving. See you on the other side.

* * * * *

I used to be almost entirely unloving. Selfish, really, without conscious intent to be so. I didn’t realize that I possessed this trait until my forties. Yet from my teens, my main prayer has always been: “Help me grow more loving.”

How interesting that I should ask for what I needed, long before I understood the need.

Oh, and this: such a prayer, while a blessing, is so central to the essence of human growth that its answer has to be hard-earned step-by-step.

* * * * *

Can I go back in time to the first moon landing? That’s when my wife informed me that during our separation she had taken a lover. Tough lunar association. My reaction left much to be desired.

So I’d like to return to that evening and talk with her from my current perspective. Not because of any desire to save our marriage. We had no business being an officially sanctioned couple. Our happiest wedded morning was the day the divorce became official.

I’d like a chance to respond to her admission of infidelity (perhaps that’s the wrong word…we were on a break) with love, not hurt. And, if I muster the courage, admit to my own adultery, which preceded hers.

Actually, all I want is a chance to tell her the truth as I see it now, not as I saw it then. Life is much more gentle than I believed it to be while in my twenties.

One small step.

* * * * *

Every mental aggregate has a sense of “I am.” Sometimes this core is called a “monad,” sometimes its appellation is “the heart of hearts.”

This central sense of identity is relatively unaffected by circumstance. Age and disease affect it indirectly.

* * * * *

And thirties. And forties.

* * * * *

Everything in every sentence of this book—including this one—is fiction.

* * * * *

The basic law of the mental universe is aggregation, as true a description of reality as Einstein’s relativity or Newton’s gravity.

* * * * *

Like every town, my home village had a bully. One day he came around to the field where I was playing baseball with some of my friends, took notice/umbrage of/at my enthusiasm, and backed me against the faded red bricks of the east wall of the school gym. He insisted I fight him. I offered to wrestle.

He said it had to be fists. I said no. Why? Because I don’t believe in violence, I told him. True enough, my claim. Yet not totally accurate. Something else was stopping me. Something lurking in shadow, sensed but unseen. No time to speculate. The bully hit me in the face and told me I would get worse if he ever saw me on the schoolyard diamond again.

Maybe I was brave, maybe stubborn. I neither left nor stayed away one minute that I wanted to be on that field. He returned twice more and slugged me to the ground each time. As I neither resisted nor relented, he grew bored and started passing without taking action. Finally, he stopped his threats.

I felt as if I had validated Mahatma Gandhi.

Yet what lived in my darkness?

* * * * *

If I were Divine, and I believe I am, dogma would be understood as a barrier to self-realization. If you were Divine, and I believe you are, disdain of dogma would be universally elemental. Which means it is.

* * * * *

Before illness took his ability to command his muscles, Stephen Hawking had a reputation that went beyond (though perhaps hand in hand) with being the world’s brightest and best physicist. Arrogant. Dominating. Determined to shape events and beliefs his way. Believing he was the chosen one best suited to find the right path.

Does that same personality still exist somewhere in the mass of twisted limbs and distorted features? How has it been reshaped by his illness?

Is his heart of hearts—the core of his being—impervious to the deficiencies of physical form? Is he in his depths still a dominant personality, the alpha mind of science, though currently unable to impose his will by force of personality? Because he worshipped thought, did karma grant him a world limited to idea?

Does he still dream as a human…or something beyond?

What is it like to be his friend?

* * * * *

Today I went to a special sub-specialist clinic…a Center for Advanced Medicine…where I was examined by eight doctors, who took sixteen vials of my blood and subjected me to yet another conductivity test, wherein electricity is fed into my system to measure the ability of my nerves to transmit messages to and from my brain.

Every time I am forced into this procedure, I fantasize that after it is completed, I should be allowed to administer it to the prescribing doctor.

Results of the tests will be available in three weeks.

Slow time!

No Chapter Thirteen

Or fourteen. Or.

Hello dear readers. Thank you for your emails and other comments. I'm sad to repeat here what I was sad to tell many of you personally or via cyber-space. My agent has asked me not to post the remaining (very exciting IMHO) chapters of "Not Quite Human Any More." Truthfully, I'm not finished with the book yet (not even the first draft) so the remaining chapters are only kinetically exciting.

Surprisingly, I very much enjoyed posting the chapter first drafts. Finishing a chapter on Saturday morning, immediately posting, and knowing my work was being read before it was an hour old turned out to be a strange thrill. I wonder if Dickens experienced the same keen excitement.

Often, too, I would cringe while reading a post, seeing immediately a clearer and more poetic way to express a thought or describe a moment. A beauty of a first draft is that a form now exists; a deeper beauty is using that initial creation as a guide to greater clarity. Perhaps the Divine has a similar method of operation.

My already substantial appreciation of Mozart significantly increases if the legend that his first drafts were his last drafts is true and accurate.

"Not Quite Human Any More" has veered in a different direction since I sat down to write Chapter One. What I intended to write is no longer what I am writing. To say I'm pleased with what is happening is an understatement. This is my work.

I believe the new first draft will be finished by late September or early October. The finished manuscript should be ready by Thanksgiving. And, if my agent is as zen as he appears to be, the book will be published in the spring of 2007.

By that time, most of you will have forgotten "Not Quite Human Any More." I hope that publicity or word of mouth will be a reminder and you will once again grace its pages with your eyes and mind.

Lawrence Miller

Chapter Twelve

Writing for Nothing

If we met at a party, and made each other smile, and walked out to the screened porch to sit on weather-resistant chairs, and listen to the sunset songs of birds, and feel the warm spring wind on our hands and faces, and talk privately, you would tell me about yourself, and I would hang on every word, delighted to be getting to know someone with your characteristics and thought, and when you asked me tell you about myself, because we met at Chapter Twelve, what I would say is exactly what follows.
*******
I vividly remember the moment my football career effectively ended. Up to this point, my sense of personal mortality remained minimal and the abuse inflicted upon my body by my life habits had not exacted a noticeable toll.

My amateur league team was on defense with me at free safety. The weak side wide receiver split wide left. At the snap of the ball I instantly read my keys (running back and center) and decided (correctly) to defend the pass. I had deep responsibility for the left side of the field. The receiver raced down the sideline and the quarterback lofted an arching throw.

As I had done thousands (absolutely) of times previously, I raced to a point on the field where ball and receiver would intersect. If I didn’t arrive in time—but why be silly, I always did—the attempt would be successful, resulting in a long gain or a touchdown.

My attitude may seem haughty, yet my self-confidence—based on experience—was legitimate. Every (yes) time I made this move, I either batted the ball to the ground or intercepted it.

Why should now be different? I had reacted quickly and was moving swiftly. Nothing had changed except when I extended my hand to smack the pigskin—unprecedented anguish—my fingers were eight inches shy. The pass whooshed and the receiver whistled while making the catch in full stride. Touchdown them.

When the game concluded, I minimized on-field conversation, walked directly to my car, and drove home. Exhausted, I slumped into my favorite chair, pondering what had happened. The answer seemed simple. My wonderful body had lost a split second of reaction time and a step or two of running speed.

What did this mean? Well, my football days would soon be over, were already over in my mind. Plus I had no choice but to re-asses the durability of my physical form, which, up to now, I had more or less considered eternal.

Suddenly, my head began to buzz. I felt as if my skull contained a strong wind, which rapidly grew to be a tornado, causing my head to fiercely vibrate.

I need to be clear. What I am describing had no external manifestation. The intense vibration was totally internal.

Then something happened that I can insufficently describe. Perhaps others have survived similar and could explain more eloquently. Yet I am at the plate and my efforts—no matter how feeble compared to the actual event— will have to suffice.

From the tip of my toes and the bottom of my feet, a feeling of total peace rose cell by cell, up my calves, thighs, pelvis, back, chest, arms, neck, and…..

Such peace! No tension. No fatigue. No fear. No troubles of any kind. I sat up straight, pleased with proper posture.

I felt—and believed—that my sense of my body was being transferred from the physical to the spiritual. If I wanted to leave the material world, all I had to do was to allow the process to continue for a few more seconds. The result might be called death by those behind, but it held no termination, and re-defined the adjective “beautiful.” I labeled my state of mind as “the peace that passes all understanding.”

“Choose,” said a voice. Maybe it was mine. Probably.

Though tempted to leave, I chose to stay. In a heartbeat, the burden of living in the physical universe returned to every cell in my body. I slumped back into the chair, amazed at the difference, regretting my decision.

“I’m so sorry,” said another voice, female and compelling, definitely not mine. It could have been my anima or my Sufi priestess. Or someone else who loved me, perhaps a stranger altogether to this lifetime.
*******
Combining quantum mechanics and relativity is a gigantic task. Science needs thoroughly educated visionaries to meet the challenge. Unfortunately, modern scientific education tends to treat creative vision as a weed instead of a flower. What is most needed to resolve a fundamental dilemma is least nurtured.

The trans-discipline issue facing the human race is more than gigantic. Gargantuan aspiring to titanic, maybe. Super-colossal. Big bang big. Okay. That’s good enough.

Given the destructive capacity of our technology, don’t you think it vital for us to modify a belief system which allows violence? We will be well served if we can genuinely convince ourselves that non-violence is a superior winning tactic. In fact, is this not a necessity?
*******
When that fellow’s three shots whizzed past my head, my reaction surprised me. A little bit of scared, true, buried in a ball of excitement, and commanded by a necessity to pacify my emotions and remain calm.

The bullet which came closest sounded like a very small freight train traveling at a very high rate of speed. Before I could react to its approach, it sped by, the noise of its passage imprinting me with an indelible memory.

The situation’s most surprising element has to be my instant reconciliation to being fired upon. I might be killed. So be it. To die with personal honor is the key.

Think it’s luck who gets hit and who doesn’t? Luck is subordinate to will. Will is personal and collective, conscious and unconscious. From time-to-time I have wielded my will for myself and friends, and have seen others do the same. But will is not necessarily tied to conscious desire, nor consistently susceptible to conscious manipulation. At least not at my stage of development.
*******
I won't forget the cartoonish look on the naked aristocrat’s face when I wheeled him over the edge and his feet ran out of earth. In a panic, he released his partially-drawn gun as he realized life was over for him, except for a few seconds of serious pain. Perhaps his consciousness left his body before the latter destructed.

I don’t require that this murderer and rapist experience pain. His punishment is not my concern. I only wanted to protect the woman’s life and, after I got involved, my own.

Killing the second guy poses a more complex moral question. I could have accepted his surrender, but didn’t trust it, and didn’t feel I could take a chance. With this choice, I willingly—and that is deeply shocking—forsook my belief in non-violence.
*******
Lead a tame life and you avoid a certain category of danger. But the tame tend to cluster (by their very nature) into herds. In North America, Europe, and Asia most herds have been domesticated and go only where directed.
*******
Pete Seeger: “And they all get put in boxes, little boxes, all the same.”
*******
In the midst of being fleeced and harvested, the common sense of tameness is an unspoken desire, “I hope it happens to you and not to me.” This is the opposite of compassion, the opposite of Jesus, Buddha, Muhammad, Moses, Krishna.
*******
Friedrich Hegel: “Firstly, that of the Orientals, who knew only that one is free, then that of the Greek and Roman world, which knew that some are free, and finally our own knowledge that all as such are free, and that man is by nature free.”
*******
Is America’s freedom, in its practical application, not its rhetorical fancy, sufficient? Will a better idea emerge from our unique blend of cultures and colors? Are we free when we allow our ego to run the choosing process, instead of trusting our heart-of-hearts?
*******
After the killings, my writing took a different tack. I found myself summoning up memories, savoring them, and incorporating their essence into my work. At the same time, I improved my ability to translate the rapidity of my thought stream into the slowness of my words. This helped me create my best work to date, but I am the only one who has ever read it. That’s the way it goes.

Believing I lacked the capacity to shape my ideas into a book, I didn’t try. The concept seemed foreign to me, as if radiating from an inaccessible realm.

I repeatedly attempted to convince newspapers and magazines to publish my work, but by this time had already become too “niche” for mainstream media. The way I approached the world, the ideas I felt important enough to be brought forward for general contemplation, were deemed “esoteric” and “not suited for our demographic.”

So I couldn’t find readers. Troubling. But not defeating. I slowly came to realize that my work had value though it had no audience except one. I put aside any desire to be read by others. Immediately my writing gained a clarity which increased my understanding and helped me shape my sense of self.
*******
Chuang Tzu: “When an archer is shooting for nothing he has all his skill. If he shoots for a brass buckle he is already nervous. If he shoots for a prize of gold, he goes blind or sees two targets—he is out of his mind. His skill has not changed. But the prize divides him. He cares. He thinks more of winning than of shooting—and the need to win drains him of power.”
*******
Martin Heidegger: “All interpretation is based on understanding. The character of understanding as projection is constitutive for Being-in-the-world.”
*******
Consider it a given that the aggregate of consciousness we call the Divine is unimaginable, yet with limited ways and limited means we can conjure plausible deductions to guide our contemplation. Because we are part of It, matter what else It does, to some extent It does what we do, because what we do is part of what It does. If you can follow this, your name is not Z.
*******
Why should we love sport? Because as participant and/or spectator, we experience demonstrations of excellence and error, conflict and resolution, winning and losing. We consider cause and effect in the sporting universe and by extension the larger one in which we live. We blend our thoughts, feelings, and desires with and against others, playfully identifying with one group and against another. We witness the mental becoming physical, intent begetting act. We witness the power of the portion within the perspective of the whole. Might as well ask: “Why do we live?”
*******
Robert Thurman: “Tibetans believe that the spiritual is an active energy in nature, subtle but more powerful than the material.”
*******
What wins what? To compete absent intent to cause death or injury is a beauty of sport. What is gained is more than mere victory.

To compete with a willingness to kill or injure is to wallow in the hollowness of an endlessly repeating cycle: the game is over, the season is over, a death necessitates a birth, all victory leaks meaning. How can such repetition satisfy our need for happiness? For progress? For self-expression? How can we let an inferior outcome define what it means to be human?
*******
Like many, I long nurtured a burning desire to be a big league baseball player. Every day—rain or shine—I closed in on my goal.

If I couldn’t find a game, or someone to hit me flies and grounders, I hurled a hard rubber ball against the planked back side of our tall shed, practicing my fielding and throwing. In bad weather, I handmade a batting cage inside (section of garden hose, Christmas tree stand, hanging blankets) and whacked for hours.

When bedtime arrived, I curved my covers into an outfield wall and positioned a washcloth as the infield. A clothes pin became the bat, a penny the ball.

Top of each inning my right hand pitched and fielded, and my left batted. Bottom half, the opposite, I often played whole seasons of Cubs-Cardinals game in one evening.
*******
Many years later, Bob Broeg invited me to drive with him to Chicago to watch a ball game and have dinner with two retired players, Dizzy Dean and Hank Greenberg.
*******
Joe DiMaggio: “Hank Greenberg was one of the truly great hitters. When I first saw him at bat, he made my eyes pop out.”
*******
Actual newspaper headline after Dizzy Dean was hit in the head by a thrown ball: “X-Rays of Dean’s Head Reveal Nothing.”
*******
“Little padner,” Dizzy advised me at dinner, “Work will take you part of the way. Hard work will take you more. But it’s all for nothing if you ain’t got the goods.”

“Not totally for nothing,” Dean’s friend and former World Series rival Greenberg countered. “If you are deeply dedicated to a dream, and give your all, something good—probably unexpected—is likely to happen.”

Dean closed his eyes and stroked his chin. His exaggeration of the thought process made us chuckle. Finally, he spoke. “That’s high faluting…but maybe true. Who’d have thunk it? Wisdom from a Tagger.”

Greenberg laughed. “Thanks farm boy. You’re full of surprises yourself.”

Dean faked a mean face. “You got another when we was playing cause you made it out I’d just as soon throw at you even though we ett supper the night before with our chairs facing.”
*******
When what we truly want aligns with our inherent potential, all barriers disappear. A right desire is invulnerable to limitation.
*******
Phil Jackson: “The point is to perform every activity with precise attention, moment by moment.”
*******
Pete Maravich: “I would dribble blindfolded in the house, take my basketball to bed with me, lay there after my mother kissed and tucked me in, shoot the ball up in the air and say, ‘Fingertip control, backspin, follow through.”
*******
Dwight D. Eisenhower: “When I was a small boy growing up in Kansas, a friend of mine and I went fishing. I told him I wanted to be a real major-league baseball player. My friend said that he’d like to be President of the United States. Neither of us got our wish.”
*******
As for me, I didn’t have the goods for baseball. Without adult support, no matter how much I practiced I never developed sufficient self-confidence to bring out my best. That didn’t come until I left home and, on my own, slowly, slowly, began to believe in myself, and so advanced in my work and life.

Do I regret the hours sacrificed to baseball? No! Greenberg was correct. I chased a childhood dream with everything I had and gained something valuable—and quite unexpected. I learned to align my dreams with my possibilities, welcome the necessary labor, and never withhold helpful passion because a positive outcome could not be guaranteed.

Do I regret the years sacrificed to what I call my work? Again, the answer is a resounding no. My passion for my work is the love of my life. Perhaps this is a love of self. Perhaps a love of the Divine. Perhaps both.
*******
For approximately six months, I dated a psychologist. Her wit, sense of humor, and penetrating insights had me in a whirl. She could apply her considerable intelligence to any topic. Few references escaped her and I grew increasingly hungry for her high-pitched laugh. I never tired of our in-depth, layered conversations and friendly, creative, verbal interplay.

Eventually the relationship reached a plateau containing the idea of marriage. Here we foundered. Maybe it’s more accurate to say I foundered, as always. She wanted me to abandon my work or subordinate it to making a “more standard” living, so there could be a family.

My shock and horror generated a desire to flee. The romance drained from our relationship, as it previously had at this same failsafe line when I dated the fiery animator, and before her, the sexy, folksy accountant.

The fault was always mine. I knew it and grew increasingly reluctant to enter into any kind of romantic relationship. Which eventually grew to such proportion that I have been alone for a long, long time.

Though it makes my heart ache, I can’t honestly claim any wrong decisions in regards to the valentine realm. Not to say anything negative about some fine, fine women, but I’m better off doing my work and living by myself and they’re better off not living with me.
*******
Carl Jung: “The artist’s life cannot be otherwise than full of conflicts, for two forces are at war within him—on the one hand the common human longing for happiness, satisfaction, and security in life; and on the other a ruthless passion for creation which may go so far as to override every personal desire.”
*******
Do I have the goods when it comes to living a non-violent life? Obviously not. I talked a great game, and believed what I was saying, but when the decision moment arrived, my choice did not reflect my rhetoric.
*******
Red Smith: “Once there was a high school athlete who, called before a crowd to accent an award, blurted: ‘I don’t appreciate this honor, but I deserve it from the bottom of my heart.”
*******
Saddest day? 11.25.63. Kennedy’s funeral. Sad enough. Worse. A letter. From JFK himself. Handwritten. Mailed from the White House 11.20.63.

“I’ve been thinking about you teaching the chemistry class while in Juvenile Detention. The innocence of your message and the courage with which it was delivered continue to touch me. This caused me to re-read your essay on freedom and, more than ever, I am stirred by its articulation of a higher perspective. Perhaps I will quote from it in my Thanksgiving message. I shared your story and essay with my wife and we had one of our better recent conversations and I intend to improve as a husband.

“You are very young and could easily be my son, though I don’t think of you like a father, I think of you as a friend. The mind defies age and other limitations. Being open and trusting, my chief limitation is the pain of my illnesses, but my will to live is very strong, and my will to help my country has never been more powerful, not even during WWII. I have found my way as president and much good is possible. Your idealism has re-activated mine and I look forward to our next meeting.”
*******
Gussie Busch and I walked from his living room into his kitchen, accompanied by an exceptionally happy diapered monkey upon which the beer baron doted. The three of us had just finished viewing “Chisum.” From watching it finger through Mr. Busch’s videocassette collection, I personally believed the monkey preferred Clint Eastwood.

Tough simian luck. During his retirement years, Busch saw at least one John Wayne movie every day. He knew most of the words and scenes by heart, which enhanced his enjoyment.

“Want a beer?” the old man growled. “We’ll drink to the Duke.” Who would refuse?
*******
In the 1950s, sports author Roger Kahn conjured a memorable metaphor to illustrate his conclusion that getting to know Stan Musial had not diminished his admiration for The Man.

Kahn characterized his usual close encounters with celebrities—sports and otherwise—as disappointing, and used for an example a much anticipated slow dance with the voluptuous beauty Gina Lollabrigida. To his immense disappointment, a large and active volcano of a pimple flourished on her bare right shoulder.

Real life heroes, being human, are always flawed. Even the fabled Musial has an egotistic imperfection. Stan dyes his hair jet black. Here is the unofficial transcript of a speech given by an elderly Musial at a major awards banquet in St. Louis.

“Everyone my age has gray hair. Except for Musial. You might ask, ‘How does he do it?’” (Giggles.) Reaches to the podium. Brings up bottle of black dye. Shows it to audience. (Giggles.) Puts down dye and picks up harmonica. Plays “Folsom Prison Blues.” Crowd stands and cheers. Plays “You Are My Sunshine.” Standing crowd enthusiastically claps in rhythm. Musial finishes playing and waves goodbye. Crowd cheering increases in intensity. Musial leaves the stage.

Stan may have struck out once in a while (692 Ks in 10,792 times at bat), but he never failed us.
*******
He didn’t disclose any scorching details, but I hope Kahn had enough presence to fully enjoy his slow dance with Gina. In the context of the big picture, what is a shoulder pimple?
*******
Back we go to a time when I was in the best physical shape of my life. Lean, muscled, swift, quick, and agile. As an outspoken advocate of the value of Gandhi’s teaching, I attracted the attention of a group dedicated to non-violently protecting movement leaders from assassination. We shared many ideas and feelings, including an acute sense of loss related to the deaths of the two Kennedys, Martin Luther King, and Malcolm X.

The group eventually recruited me and I agreed to use my body to non-violently protect those to whom I was assigned. Prior to this commitment, we discussed many aspects of the philosophy we held in common. I yearned to see two powerful ideas—non-violence and capitalism—coordinated. Being part of that grand experiment could attract me to political and economic life.

My assignment as a “guardian” was Cesar Chavez, an exceptionally calm person. He told me he had lived with anger and frustration for many years, but slowly had come to understand a better way.

I surmised, “Now you can manage your negative emotions.”

He replied, “No need to manage what I don’t have.”

I didn’t know what to say. He smiled. “So you are willing to give up your life for me? There’s no need. I’m not afraid. But I’m grateful. Thank you.”

One of his aides approached his side and whispered. Chavez nodded goodbye to me. We spoke frequently during my time with him, but never resumed this conversation.

Chavez operated in harmony with Gandhi’s principle that violent resistance resulted in the same from the opposing side. Non-violent resistance confused and eventually disarmed those in opposition.

I traveled with Chavez for six months and heard him speak many times. He outlined what he felt was the problem with human existence. “We accept violence as a way to get what we want. It’s not necessary. There’s a better way.”

How can we move from one belief system to another? We certainly are being prompted to do so. Martin Luther King. Gandhi. Chavez . I can go on. Buddha, Jesus, Moses, Muhammad. Those are the big leaguers. But I can also list Rumi, Job, Emerson, Whitman, W. James, Thoreau, Ann Spaulding, Mother Theresa. Each of these people, with their writings and/or their lives, urged us to re-interpret reality. The amount of names I could add who have contributed to this commentary is quite striking. You can find many of them in “When I Dream Too Slow.”

They come to us, these giants, and they tell us and show us the way they say things really work, the true rules by which we should live. They say when life appears to be less than what they describe, that’s an illusion.

Well, yes, someone talking to us like that roughly can be compared to an early era prophet fish preaching to his school that, while many dangers and obstacles can be expected, there’s an unexplored existence out of water, which may well be superior.

One or more fishes might heed his words and desire to leave the ocean. But there’s the problem of lungs. So most fish undoubtedly considered the prophet foolish, irrelevant, impossible. But despite the evidence of their senses, a few fish believed, took the first steps, and here we are.

Consciousness pushes forward. I think it will eventually grow bored with being human. Especially if we don’t heed our prophets. But don’t worry. You and I are not eternally tied to our species, either in form or belief.
*******
One of Chavez’s teachers was Saul Alinsky, a man exceptionally clever at using non-traditional, non-violent tactics. For example, after trying to get thousands of workers fair treatment from an employer famous for making excessive profits and paying minimal salaries, Alinsky read about a symphony series sponsored by the company in question. He learned that these performances were attended by the decision-makers of the community where his target corporation headquartered. The symphony—no question—highlighted the area’s limited social life.

So Alinsky solicited donations of season tickets and received many from people in sympathy with his organizing aims. He announced he would use these ducats to allow many homeless to attend the performances and would be sponsoring a free pre-concert meal for those attending. The only items on his menu would be various bean dishes, featuring chili.

Within three days of the newspaper story announcing his plans, and two days prior to the first concert of the series, Alinsky reached a satisfactory agreement with the company in question.
*******
I never felt my danger while guarding Cesar Chavez was substantial enough to be considered real. The nation had sickened of political murder and even non-mainstream rhetoric cooled, at least temporarily. I took my responsibility seriously and learned the arts of scanning a crowd for possible danger and checking heights for snipers. There were no incidents, not even the flash of the sun’s reflection on a pane of glass being mistaken for a rifle. Eventually, my tour was over. I said goodbye. So did Cesar. He thanked me. That was that.
*******
My allegiance to non-violence was primarily intellectual. I thought, didn’t feel.

I also saw that the anger my father had spawned had not disappeared entirely. I still kept the remnants within me, unlike what I witnessed in Chavez, and read about in Gandhi, Jesus, Buddha…all the usual suspects. I don’t know how they eliminated negative emotions, but I know I can’t.

Confession time. I’ve secretly harbored a thought that what Jesus, et al, are teaching might be nothing more than a beautiful rationalization of wishful thinking to ease the pain of the weak and powerless. If true, I can only say, “Better than nothing.” But not good enough.

Okay, I’ve killed. I’ve changed. I see myself more clearly. I made a decision based on what I really believe, not what I thought I believed. In a moment of revealing crisis, my choice was inconsistent with my sincerely stated beliefs. I revealed myself to be nothing more or less than human. That’s who I am now. Human. Watch out.

Bring on your slings and arrows. I don’t feel guilty in the slightest. Condemn me as a traitor to non-violence. Praise me for risking my life to save hers. I don’t care.

I’m going to travel on as I know best, and trust my heart-of-hearts to bring me home.
*******
Memories: In the mid-80s, Steve Cauthen introduced me to my favorite athlete of all time: Affirmed, whose champion’s heart and refusal to lose to Alydar, the Joe Frazier of horses, won my admiration and my love.

Cauthen, having read a published poem I had written about this indomitable animal, crooned to Affirmed, “This is a friend of yours. He admires you for all the right reasons. He knows who you really are.”

The extent of my ambition in this circumstance was to touch Affirmed, perhaps to scratch the long white of his forehead. Even this request seemed too audacious to voice.

And then, out of the blue, Cauthen asked me if I’d like to “sit the horse.” Not to ride the horse, he stressed. I wasn’t capable of that. But if I wanted, I could mount.

I am rarely awed. To put my foot in the stirrup and rise to the saddle, suddenly astride a legend that owned a piece of my heart, yes, awe-some, awe-some, awe-some.

Cauthen held the reins and walked the horse slowly forward. I held Affirmed’s mane and fought back tears.
*******
I feel honor bound to occasionally remind you that every sentence in this book is fiction, including this sentence. What is the sound of one page flapping?
*******
Gussie reached into the cabinet and inspected a large drinking mug, finding, to his evident displeasure—correction, disgust—two small water spots. Without comment, he casually—with a practiced spontaneity—smashed the mug against the back wall, and reached for another, which satisfied his careful scrutiny.

He opened the spigot of a huge keg indiscreetly tucked between the perfectly maintained classic oak table and the extra-extra-large double door refrigerator. At precisely the correct instant, without strain or affection, he slanted the glass and stopped the flow (the head was flawless), presenting me with the best beer I ever drank.

He had one or two himself that afternoon, but the monkey, whose favoritism to Eastwood seemed more evident by the moment, was not served.
*******
And so our hosts bid us adieu, and the party ends, and we shake hands, and say goodbye, and as we walk our separate ways, we stop, and turn, and once more smile.

Chapter Eleven

Duty Towards Himself

During baseball season, as a young boy earnestly desiring to aid his favorite major league team, I imagined a way to beg probability for a favorable outcome.

I would gather nine good throwing rocks, one for each inning, and chuck them at one of the few stop signs in our village. If I hit the sign five times or more, the Cardinals would surely win.

Although no correlation between my rock-throwing and my team’s victories could ever be conclusively demonstrated, I continued the habit for several years. During this time, I became unusually adept at winging a rock—or a baseball—fast and accurately for about twenty feet, good for hitting stop signs, but not much use in a sport whose shortest measurement is 60.5 feet.
*******
After my cats died, I resumed my travels, first concentrating on South America. Eventually, I returned to Ecuador, briefly staying with friends in Quito before heading to the Northern Andes.

I intended to climb Mt. Cayambe, a mountain traversed by the Equator. In fact, at 18,750 feet, Cayambe is the big dog of all Equator peaks, and the only place on zero latitude able to honestly claim snow as a tropical attraction.

Prior to my climb, I spent a couple of days in Otavalo during the festival of Yamor. After a full day walking the streets and savoring colorful folklore and art, I came across “The Peguche Waterfall,” a small, attractive restaurant.

I was soon seated and, like everyone else—staff and customers—seduced into a comfortable, carefree state ideal for enjoying—or facilitating—a first-class dining experience.

The mood was tainted, however, by the entry of two large, well-muscled young men sporting clothes and hair cuts consistent with membership in one or another European aristocracy. I might have guessed which one. Why bother? Aren’t they pretty much the same?

One of them had a thick scar over his right eye. The other had no ear lobes. Aside from these physiological quirks, their features would have been fine, were it not for a facial distortion both manifested, of the kind caused by a lifetime of selfish self-indulgence.

They spoke English, rudely. Before long one of them—ear lobe-less—had his hands where his waitress didn’t want them. She protested loudly and, when this had no effect, hard-slapped her molester. He raised his arm to strike her. Independently, yet as one, every man in the place stood to protest.

The malevolent lad stared at her volunteer corps and then called for the manager. He insisted that the waitress be fired for striking him, and said if she weren’t, he would see the police chief and press charges.

Well, he might try, but I don’t think he’d appreciate the witness testimony. Maybe, though, he had enough clout to overrule the truth.

The manager fired her on the spot and insisted she leave the dining area and accompany him to the kitchen. He apologized to the two aristocrats, who responded by saying something which I only partially overheard, “My father blah blah blah a member of the House of Lords and a good friend of the Prime Minister blah blah blah.” “Mine owns blah blah blah blah and they rule small countries like blah blah blah blah.”
*******
Chang Tzu: “A poor man must swing for stealing a belt buckle, but if a rich man steals a whole state he is acclaimed as statesman of the year.”

*******
A few minutes later, I excused myself to the replacement waiter, paid for my meal, and left the restaurant. The main course hadn’t yet arrived, but I’d lost my appetite, as had, apparently, many of my fellow diners, who joined my exodus.

The next day, I noticed the two boors heading north out of the city, thus confirming my decision to explore what lay to the southwest. The entire region is dotted with lakes, jungles, and mountains. Each direction has its plusses and minuses.

That evening I returned to “The Peguche Waterfall” and enjoyed a full meal. My highest recommendation is hereby given (except for the wine).

To my delight, my server was the woman supposedly fired the previous night. “I’m glad you’re here,” I told her. She smiled in a way that confirmed the issue had never been in doubt.

Early the following morning I headed southwest, carrying a carefully arranged crammed-full backpack. For the next several days, I explored several sections of the Cayambe-Coca Ecological Reserve.

Finally, I began my ascent of the Cayambe volcano. A little more than halfway, I grew tired, but continued to climb—no choice—until I came to a small indentation of trees and grass cramped against the mountain—a miniature Palm Springs, if you will—measuring no more than twenty feet in depth and two hundred fifty feet in length.

Fatigued, I searched for a tree with appropriate trunk and branch strength and spread. Finding a likely candidate, I augmented its natural support with various rods taken from my backpack, carefully positioned my sleeping bag, and settled in, fully prepared for a good night’s sleep.

Do you find it odd that I made my bed in a tree? Consider how seldom people look up. Remember, though, not to seek an arbor sleep while in the jungle. Jungle snakes love trees.

The sound of two people loudly talking and laughing roused me from a nice sleep and a promising dream. The distinctive sweet odor of marijuana haunted my epithelium. I knew the smell. I used to smoke dope. I thought it helped me have more friends. But all it really did was dumb me down, which made me more popular, true, but didn’t benefit me in any other way. So I quit.

Peeking through the leaves, I saw—to my extreme disappointment—the two obnoxious aristocrats. They were resting their backs against the mountain, sitting in front of a fire, smoking weed, and drinking something apparently alcoholic from their canteens. The more they drank, the louder they talked.

Anyway, their conversation was adolescence gone bad. One of the them, the larger, said, “I don’t see the problem with being led by my not-so-little head. I find it rewarding to go where it takes me.”

“Sure, that’s right. Works for you and me. But not so much for...”

“Shut up about that.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. No one tells me what to do. I’m not the one who…”

About then, a hand appeared over the cliff edge, followed by a second, and, shortly thereafter, by the figure of a woman. Breathing heavily, she dropped to one knee and, while resting, carefully scrutinized our oasis, especially the two smokers. Her assessment complete, she waved “hello” and walked to the opposite end of the clearing, where she efficiently established a sleeping camp and treated herself to a few bites of trail mix.

The rich boys were stirred. Might this mean some “little head” action? Scarface ambled over, looking every inch like a man used to hearing yes. Not this time. She sent him on his way. Embarrassed, he slithered back to the fire and his buddy, who welcomed him with mocking comments and laughter.

They lit another joint and drained their canteens. I might have gone back to sleep, but instead watched them closely.

“Let’s do her,” urged scarface. “Both of us.”

“Sure, that’s right. We’ll enjoy her to the fullest and when we’re finished….”

“…throw her off the cliff. Think she’ll bounce? I call dibs.”

“No, we’ll do it together. Do you have the stuff?”

“Sure. Right here. Give me a minute to measure it. Need enough so she’ll do what we want…and enjoy it. But too much will fry her nervous system. ”

“Who cares about her nervous system? When we’re done, we’re gonna throw her away. You fall down there and no one ever finds you.”

“Not me, Bud. I don’t care. Let’s go.”

“Not yet. More ouzo first.”

“Sure, that’s right. Liquid stimulation for men in their sexual prime. Fun, fun, fun, till her daddies take her life away.”

They both laughed. Not me. And I thought following my cat into the woods took courage. Goodness!

Unless this woman has some sort of weapon hidden in sleeping bag, I have to help her. Damn!
*******
H. D. F. Kitto: “What moves the Greek warrior to deeds of heroism is not a sense of duty as we understand it—duty towards others; it is, rather, duty towards himself. He strives after that which we translate ‘virtue’, but is in Greek, ‘arête’ (excellence).
*******
These guys are big! They have guns! If I try to interfere—and fail—they will kill me. No doubt. What chance do I have?

My personality…my preferences…my skills can’t help me. I must be what I am not. To do the right thing, I must embrace violence. I must be willing to kill.

God, help me. My enemies are rapists and killers. I…can’t…show…them…any…mercy.

Kill or be killed. Is it in me?

Yes. In me, and in all.

If I summon this beast and let it reign—for need—will it refuse to cede its rule? No matter. The risk is a necessity.

Speak the truth. I am the one who will be killed. Wow! To say these words! To know they most likely will prove true!

Each of us arrives at a time with only a few minutes to live. Most of us do not know it. How much grief is averted by that difference? So speaks the condemned man.

No. I will not surrender. I will fight. Yet what of my desire to live a loving life? What of my advocacy of non-violence? What of the moral stain? Murderer!

Scarface, carrying a syringe in one hand and pistol in the other, and Lobe-less, hands free and pistol holstered, rose and moved toward the sleeping woman. This marked the end of my soliloquy. I had no plan.

They pulled her from her sleeping bag, ripping her clothes until her breasts and genitalia were exposed. I dropped from the tree as silently as possible (for me). Crouching, I hurried.

Forced onto her back, fighting against injection, she bit Scarface, who dropped his pistol and used one hand to fend her defenses, while the other tried to jab the dripping needle into her neck.

The bigger fellow, Sans Earlobes, inserted himself between the woman’s legs. He dropped his pants and lowered his underwear.

This being no time for Freudian angst, I ran at him, grabbed his erect penis, and pulled him to the cliff edge, and over. He made no resistance until the end, seemingly stupefied by my totally unexpected emergence from an infinite array of probabilities.

He attempted to pull his gun just as I spun him over the cliff, and was able to clear the holster before the full horror of his situation compelled his attention and he—shall I say absentmindedly--dropped his weapon. At the instant he lost contact with terra firma, the look on his face reminded me of Wiley Coyote.
*******
Thou Shalt Not Kill. I write that now, but didn’t give it a thought then.
*******
Scarface and I locked eyes. He rose from the woman. She knocked the syringe to the ground. To distract him from his pistol, I charged. He lowered his head and met my challenge.

Low man wins. I hit him at the ankles and he went tumbling. Nice block. The ball carrier would definitely make big yardage, maybe even score. Oh, to be playing any game but the one called “life or death.”

Is there any other?

Both of us shook off the effects of our collision. We got to our feet and prepared to fight, circling. He lunged to hit me. I blocked. He tried again. I parried and sought to penetrate his defense. He knocked my attempt aside, slugged me on the side of my head, stunned me.

He slammed his big fist into my stomach and I doubled over. He hit me again and again, knocked me down, pummeled me. I thought of my Dad and used my arms to cushion his blows.

Snarling, Scarface backed away, stooped to pick up a large rock, held it over his head, and moved toward me, intent on smashing my skull. I saw him approach. Couldn’t stop him.

Out of darkness, an actor rejecting the script but refusing to be written out of the play, came the woman. She lunged at Scarface with his syringe, buried it in his neck, pushed the plunger, and filled him with the poison he had planned for her. Mission completed, she slid down his body to the ground. He kicked and reeled backward, steadied himself, poised the rock he held, to crush her.

I fought my pain and reached my feet. Bloodied, battered, bruised, I looked at my hand and discovered it held a stone the size of a baseball.
*******
Jane Roberts: “The sacredness of life and spirit are one and the same.”
*******
My thrown missile smashed into Scarface’s forehead, forcing him back. Now he stood at the edge of oblivion. I think the drug had begun to take effect, because his shoulders seemed to droop and his eyes glazed. He dropped his large rock. I heard it bounce down the mountain.

The woman crawled forward and pushed at his legs. This had some effect. Suddenly, Scarface bent and picked up…

…Sans Lobes’ pistol. He paused, as if slowly deciding whether to shoot the woman or me. I was the lucky winner.

He fired three times. I heard the second shot whiz past my ear, tearing through the air like a very small, very fast train, missing me by no more than two inches. Not a sound I'm likely to ever forget. His other two attempts were further off target. I’m not sure what I did during this time, but after the gun jammed and he threw it down in frustration, I again looked at my hand, and, again, discovered a stone.

Scarface teetered on the line between cliff and air, life and death. The woman pushed at him. He fought her, but looked only at me.

“Please,” he begged.

But he was nothing to me now, nothing but a stop sign.

The wind-up. The pitch. Cardinals win.

Down plunged the degenerate aristocrat, gone from the woman’s life, gone from my life, gone from the privileged form, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, dead meat in the jungle.

Ender of life! Yes, yes that's me! I am a traitor to non-violence. Forgive me.
*******
Did I kill because my wife, my daughter, my mother, my sister, my friend were threatened? No, I did the unthinkable for a stranger. What price must be paid?

What is the karmic calculation? Her life for theirs.

I do not feel guilty even though I have joined the ranks of those who have violated our most sacred commandment. Why no guilt? Why did I kill?

Because I am human. This is what humans do when faced with mine or a similar dilemma. Was cowering in my tree a better solution? Or should I have dropped down and turned the other cheek?

I made the decision to kill to protect what I love. My duty toward myself. The protection of good against evil.

When necessary, we humans always choose to kill to protect what we love. This is consistent with the core values of our species, embraced planet wide by every culture and every generation.

When visionaries like Christ, Muhammad, Moses, and Buddha urge us to change our belief system, we listen but do not heed. I did not heed. Humanity’s curse. My curse. What price must be paid?
*******
I staggered to the side of the mountain and sprawled my back against the majestic Cayambe. She slowly made her way to me, rested her head on my shoulder, and, wordlessly, fell asleep.

Me too. The next morning, I was awakened by the feel of a wet cloth against my face. She cleaned my wounds and washed blood from my face. I did the same for her.

She only spoke Portuguese and I know English and a little Spanish. So our wordlessness continued. We rested most of the day, frequently smiling at each other.

In the afternoon, we burned the belongings of the evil ones and scattered the ashes into the mountain wind.
*******
The universe is entropic, which means it is attracted to a state of disorder. Consciousness is anti-entropic, which means it is attracted to a state of order. So there we have it. At an elemental level, we are at odds with our environment.
*******
That night we became lovers, by her initiative. I never learned her full name, nor she mine. We made love with heartfelt gratitude for the joy of life, the beauty of being, the triumph of love over evil. We were also careful not to roll over the cliff edge.
*******
Eventually we made it to the other side of the mountain, and the easy walk to the glaciers, and finally the nearest village. There we parted, taking separate cinque centavo buses.

I read in the regional newspaper—translated to English for $2 by a local school teacher—that two British young men, one the son of a member of the House of Lords, the other of a rich industrialist, had missed their charter flight to London, and were presumed to be somewhere in the North Andes. A search and rescue mission was being organized.

Any trepidation this might have caused was erased by another story that related how a woman from the small village of Agato had disappeared while traveling to Yamor festivities in Otavalo. She last had been seen, some said, talking to a couple of Anglos.

Her brothers, cousins, and friends were looking for her and the men in question. The story indicated they were very serious about their search.

Chapter Ten

Pray That It Is Never So

Blitzing from the defensive secondary, I kept one eye on the quarterback and the other on his armed guards. Speed-rushing the president tends to make the Secret Service nervous.

John Kennedy had been America’s chief executive for more than two years. Constant serious pain had dramatically reduced his strength, but not his will.

JFK’s right hand still grasped the ball when I pushed him down for the sack. Quickly I yanked the fallen leader to his feet, and glanced in the direction of the glaring agents. He grimaced, then grinned at me, and chastised them, “You call that protection?”

After the game, our little group boarded the presidential yacht (the Honey Fitz), and sailed tame waves until the summer sunset. Kennedy drank a bottle of re-corked 1928 Pommard (hidden in a secret cellar during the Nazi occupation of France), and we talked about the social benefits of athletic competition.

“More than a rite of passage,” Kennedy opined. “Life lessons. Learn to take risks, overcome self-doubt, try again after failing, react under fire, never quit. Win!”

“Sport provides observable cause and effect,” I offered. “A perspective conducive to myth."

“You’re right,” he quipped. “Here’s proof: Baseball has a Homer.”

We laughed at his silly joke. “Hey,” JFK graciously offered. “After I finish my second term, let’s write a book together…about the mythological utility of sport.”
*******
Casey Stengel: “Half of the men that we used to get, they came in there and they—I mean they were good enough, but they slowed up for you. Maybe they’d say, ‘I cannot see with one eye.’ Maybe they had to say ‘Well, I tell you what, I can’t pitch anymore but I can pitch three innings.’”
*******
Kennedy’s interest in me was the result of an essay I wrote on “Freedom.” A national competition on this topic produced thousands of entrants from high school seniors. I was fortunate enough to be one of three chosen winners. The prize? A $5,000 college scholarship and a visit to the White House.

A form letter from the President dated May 7, 1963 notified me of my selection. On the letter, JFK hand-scribbled, “Your writing inspired me. You seem mature beyond your years. Perhaps we can spend a few minutes talking when your group comes through.”
*******
My essay began thusly:

“Love of freedom is the only desire that remains with us after we die and float from our bodies. Freedom is integral to our being, more basic than breath. The desire for liberty is one of history’s propellants. Freedom may be repressed by cruel tyranny, yet those oppressed never cease to seek a remedy. Such duty is not theirs alone. When one is not free, all are not free.”
*******
When we met for the first time, Kennedy posed with our group for pictures, and after, ushered me alone into the Oval Office. We chatted about the essay until, somewhat hesitantly for fear of hurting his feelings, I began to tell him my Bay of Pigs story.

No fear! Amused, he called his brother to hear my tale. Senator Everett Dirksen and Secretary Robert McNamara were meeting with Bobby and joined us. Dirksen was delighted to learn I resided in Illinois and told Kennedy to “desist in any maleficent attempts to distort my fledgling political development. He’s my constituent,” Dirksen intoned. “I claim senatorial privilege.”

Kennedy answered, “We’re holding him until he’s old enough t