b.rox

I sat next to empty seats on my two flights up to Hartford (changing planes in Charlotte) so I didn’t talk to much of anyone until I got on the shuttle I’d reserved. I was sharing the vehicle with three young folks who looked to be in their mid-twenties. As we pulled away from the airport, I said, “Hey, I noticed y’all had instruments. Are you musicians then?”

The reply: “No, we’re not, we just enjoy carrying musical instruments with us wherever we go.”

A man after my own heart! I would later learn his name was Gabriel Saltman. I also discovered that he and his companions were headed to the same place as me — to Amherst College, for the second annual conference of the Association for Contemplative Mind in Higher Education. Or, more succinctly, the Contemplative Academy.

Actually I was staying at the Holiday Inn Express in nearby Bradley. I mention this because it was something of a mistake. There are no hostels in the area, so I’d gone with the conference hotel. I’d looked on a map and thought it was about a mile from campus. Turns out it’s more like two miles. And there are no sidewalks at the hotel. (Also, though it was clean and quiet it was bland and generic. I would have been happier in a bed and breakfast or even a rundown motel with some character.) The upshot is that after I checked in, I had to take a taxi cab from the hotel to Amherst College campus.

My driver was a young woman; I later learned she was 18. As she zoomed down the road we got to talking about the fall foliage. I had gotten there just in time to see the leaves starting to turn, though the peak was still some weeks away. As my driver started describing her favorite fall colors — she was partial to red — I noticed that traffic was stopped ahead of us. Yet she didn’t seem to be slowing down. At the last possible moment, she swerved to the right and drove off the road between a Jeep and a telephone pole, narrowly missing both. No collision, but it was a near thing, and I think we could have been badly hurt if she hadn’t snapped back to attention in time.

Which was ironic, because strengthening attention is one of the major aims of contemplative practice.

The conference kicked off with a keynote speech by Stephen Prothero. I first learned of Prothero, oddly enough, through The Wild Hunt. His theme was “The Art of Doing Nothing: Wandering as Contemplative Practice.” It was a compelling presentation. In the question and answer session after, I wanted to add Guy Debord and the Situationists to his litany of famous wanderers. Their concept of the dérive would have fit nicely, I think.

(This talk took on a deeper resonance later that evening when I returned to the hotel and read an e-mail from my boss who is in Riyadh. She had just had two days of “freedom,” meaning she was able to “explore” the city — strictly under male escort, and having to self-monitor against being excessively animated or otherwise calling attention to herself. While Prothero discussed the gendered nature of wandering, my boss was living it.)

The conference began in earnest Saturday morning. Amishi Jha presented neuroscience research on how mindfulness practices can strengthen attention. Later, Arthur Zajonc remarked that the presentations by Prothero and Jha extended to both the poles of contemplation — open awareness and focused attention.

When the parallel sessions began, we all faced some very difficult choices. Because the conference was essentially “maxed out,” there were no fewer than seven different offerings on hand at any given moment. This despite the fact that it was a fairly small conference — only about 160 or so total attendees, I believe. Further confusing matters, each of the seven rooms hosted three thirty-minute sessions in sequence. Some people scrambled around from room to room trying to make the sessions that most interested them. Many of us (myself included) chose to simply commit to a room and check out all three sessions in that space.

Thus, over the course of the entire conference, I sat in on eight parallel sessions and missed approximately 54.

My Saturday morning sessions began with “Education of Peacemakers: Challenges and Opportunities in Interreligious Dialogue in Undergraduate Education” by Diane Bliss and Sr. Margaret Murphy. I was astonished when Sr. Margaret concluded with a Jewish song, first in Hebrew, then in English. Her white hair revealed her to be in the wisdom years, but her voice was something outside time. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so beautiful in my life. I was moved to tears.

Next, Mary Ann Kahl and Valerie Schmitz led a discussion on “Diversity and Dialogue: Critical Elements for Collective Intelligence.” I took a special interest in this, as early that morning I’d identified as a personal objective that I need to learn how to foster better group discussions. They attended first to space and time. They had us quickly rearrange the furniture so that we were sitting closer to one another. They put a small timer on the screen counting down the minutes we had remaining. Yet they didn’t have control over a third crucial parameter: number. We started with a dozen people, but more kept entering and soon their were two dozen. We went around the circle with brief introductions: who we are, where we came from, and why we are here. By the time we’d made it all the way around the circle, we were virtually out of time. Nevertheless I found it a valuable exercise.

Finally Jane Carpenter lead us in a “practice of embodiment.” I’m not sure if this practice has a name or comes out of a specific tradition. (Since Jane mentioned the Wind Horse I suppose it might come from Tibetan Buddhism.) I will enumerate the five steps here, primarily to exercise my own memory, since they will be hopelessly obscure without Jane’s instruction which I can’t duplicate. The five steps are: earth, heavens, heart, holding, extending. I found this very helpful and think it holds great promise.

It was time for lunch. Because I registered late, when the conference was nearing capacity, I wasn’t on the meal plan. As fate would have it, neither were the musicians I’d met. Under the guidance of recent graduate and current employee of Amherst, we all made our way just off campus to a sandwich shop; afterward we took a look at the Emily Dickinson museum. I suppose most of the musicians were about half my age, and I was aware for perhaps the first time that they are a different generation. I mentioned how environmental education had been a big thing when I was in elementary school, and they were amazed. Likewise I was amazed at, for example, Molly Jones’ description of living in a zen temple. Together with the summery weather and the fall foliage, I found their presence enormously refreshing.

Poster sessions were next. I was surprised that there were only three.

My afternoon parallel sessions began with “Contemplative Multitasking(?)” by David Levy and Alfred W. Kaszniak. (I had to sit in on this one just to learn what David was up to. I’d checked out his webinar called “No Time to Think: The American University and Its (Anti-)Contemplative Roots” back in May, and it was one of the factors that motivated me to attend the conference.) Their $150K NSF study may be the first to look at a contemplative intervention into our heavily mediated technology culture. An initial look at their results seems to suggest that Zen mindfulness training can help people be more effective (or efficient?) in a hectic office environment.

When Daniel Barbezat began speaking I had a momentary fear that he was going to simply read his paper in a monotone. I couldn’t have been more wrong. In fact, I should mention that at most conferences there are some duds, but at this conference I found all the presentations to be of a uniformly high quality, without exception. But even amongst all these presentations, Daniel stood out. He didn’t have any Powerpoint slides or multimedia. What he did have was a presence that was absolutely transfixing. The only professor I can think of with a similar presence would be Marty Linsky, whom I encountered at Chaos, Conflict and Courage. I found it almost impossible to take notes while David spoke, but I did jot down that he asked his first-year students to spend fifteen minutes contemplating an ordinary object of their choosing, and then to write about it. But I could have listened to him talk all day.

The third presentation in this set was Sara Lazar’s “Neurobiology of Meditation” — hooray, a title without a colon! Here we enjoyed some hardcore science geekery. It seems the paralimbic cortex is active in meditation, and the insula and prefrontal cortex are bigger or thicker in meditators. Also, Zen appears to help therapists provide better care. Is it reasonable to extrapolate that perhaps contemplation may help teachers do better in a similar manner?

This session was unique in that the Q&A for all three presentations was combined and saved ’til the end — bearing out my notion that one should commit to a room for the duration. A man from Italy spoke up: “I didn’t start meditating in the Zen tradition in order to be faster and more efficient.” That garnered a round of applause. David Levy was quite receptive to this criticism, lamenting our “radically instrumentalized culture.”

Soon we were all gathered in that same big room again for the ACMHE forum, a chance for all the members of the Association for Contemplative Mind in Higher Education to discuss business. A book appears to be in the works. The consensus of the group seemed to be that an extra day could be added to the conference. However, there was also talk of offering a conference on the West Coast. Perhaps a second conference would obviate the need for expansion.

Also here’s a little statistical nugget that surprised me. According to the Higher Education Research Institute, the majority of students now coming to college say they are on a spiritual quest.

That night I went out to dinner with another Italian guy (not the one mentioned above) at a local place called Tabellas. A restaurant with a manifesto — I like that. We discussed amari, of course, amongst many other things.

My dinner companion retired to his B&B, and I walked back to campus. The unseasonably warm weather was beginning to cool off. The moon, just past full and starting to wane, was shining above a church steeple to create a picture-postcard New England tableau. I arrived back at Converse Hall in time to catch the second half of a jazz performance with Gabriel, Molly, and the other students I had met and Ed Sarath. It was all improvised in the moment. I gather they all studied together in the Creativity and Consciousness Studies Program at University of Michigan.

Sunday was the final half-day of the conference. The morning began with a panel called “Contemplative Pedagogy and the Academic Disciplines: Value Added or Changes Everything?” with Susan Burggraf, Barry Kroll, Judith Simmer Brown and Thomas Coburn. The consensus seemed to be that most everyone starts with “value added” and ends up at “changes everything.” When the conversation turned to promoting such practices throughout the academy, we again took up the theme of instrumentalizing contemplation and the pressure to do so. We were further advised to use words like “enhance” and “enrich.” Don’t oversell the transformation of the academy in a zealous evangelical fashion. That will only scare people away.

My final set of parallel sessions consisted of only two presentations, the third having been moved to another room. Karen Jennings, Tom Bassarear and Wesley Martin led a discussion on “Keene State College’s Efforts to Transform Educational Practices at the College.” (Another colon-free title.) The very first thing they mentioned certainly got my attention: They got the Dean on board. How, I wanted to know? They offered a Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction course on campus, got the Dean to participate, and she became a supporter. Another program involved the Head Groundskeeper. The lesson to keep administrators and staff involved is one I am taking to heart. They aim in all their efforts to avoid any sort of in-group/out-group dynamics. All are invited and a spirit of openness is embraced. We were advised to “be like water” in efforts on our own campuses.

The last presentation was “Hospitable Space: Spelman’s Journey to a Contemplative Campus” by Veta Goler. The presence of this title on the schedule is what “sealed the deal” for me in my decision to attend the conference. I also got to share a couple car rides and breakfasts with Veta. I’d hoped that her efforts at an HBCU would have some resonance with mine (though I am, of course, just getting started) and I was not disappointed.

We had a final gathering in the big room. It began with a mix of poetry and improvisational music and concluded with a variation on the bell meditation. Then it was time to go. I’d arranged for a shuttle back to the airport and this time shared it with Veta and three other conference-goers. Our conversations continued for the whole ride and probably even after that — I had to run to catch my plane.

On the way home I sat next to a guy with some pretty serious flight anxiety. Naturally I talked up the idea of a simple breathing meditation. During a lull in our conversation, I did a little of that myself, and could almost imagine that I was drawing off some of his anxieties, feeling them dissolve in my calm. We talked quite a bit. I don’t know that our conversation really helped him — he said it did — but it certainly made an impression on me. I could tell the conference had worked a changed in me.

A few other random things I learned at the conference: MBSR is huge, especially in medical circles, and this might be a good point of entry for our campus. The issue of “language” came up again and again; people are wrestling with how best to communicate these concepts without scaring their colleagues away. I was saddened by how several people obviously experience the academy as oppressive; I know that’s real, but my own experience has been so liberating. Arthur Zajonc said he hoped our conversations with others between session would be the best part of the conference, and indeed I found it to be so, but I didn’t take notes on those and this write-up is too long already.

All in all, it was possibly the best conference I’ve attended over the past decade.

I did not make a presentation myself, by the way. I came to listen and learn. Maybe next year.

Our equinox celebration was a little chaotic, because the guys who are re-doing our driveway showed up somewhat unexpectedly to pour concrete.

Nevertheless, we persevered. We had a few friends and neighbors over. I invented a simple cocktail of champagne, Sence rose nectar and wild hibiscus flowers in syrup. The flavor was probably more appropriate for the vernal equinox, but hey — these were the items I had on hand from Tales of the Cocktail. So I just pretended we were in the southern hemisphere.

(I almost forgot to mention that this was the end of my alcohol-fast, which began after Lammas, roughly. I called it a “sobriety binge.” This was not my first such venture nor my last, I’m sure; it seems like a good idea to give my liver a break from time to time; in this case I was motivated by a concern that my tolerance was getting too high. But a doctor I visited recently seemed to interpret this bout of abstinence as a danger sign. Me, I always thought the danger was when a person can’t stop drinking.)

I’ve taken note of the equinox for years, and often yearned to celebrate it, but I think this may be the first time I’ve actually done so. It felt good. I even made a little demonstration for the kids. Gauge held the flashlight while I tilted the globe back and forth. But through the general chaos I’m not sure anyone actually absorbed the concept.

Meanwhile the guys outside were pouring concrete until well after dark. I raised a toast to them, but they didn’t notice me over the roar of the cement mixer.

I also discovered my own sister has no idea what an equinox or solstice is. I will have to give her an astronomy lesson next time I visit.

Another circle of friend gathered at the Fly and improvised a ritual with “marching drums for music and some cut wild flowers to toss into the river,” which sounded cool.

In addition to the equinox, it was also the first night of Sukkot (חג שמח!) and the Harvest Moon. A festive time by several measures.

So how did you celebrate?

I will write more about the whole driveway odyssey once the project is finished.

I recently finished Meditation as Contemplative Inquiry by Arthur Zajonc. Here are a few brief notes.

It’s rare for me to finish a book and immediately think I need to start over at the beginning and read it again. Yet that’s the case here. I found this book engaging and compelling yet increasingly challenging. I’m convinced there is real value here, but I am equally convinced that I have not assimilated it wholly.

Zajonc begins with some persuasive arguments in favor of contemplation, urging us to take (or make) the time for daily practice. He then gives an overview of the path as he sees it. This is given in simple terms so that even people unfamiliar with meditation can follow it. (By way of reference, perhaps I should mention that I have practiced only the simplest sort of breathing meditation, very erratically, for many years.) That accounts for the introduction and the first chapter. The remainder of the book is devoted to examining steps along the path in greater detail. Perhaps it is unavoidable that each chapter is more esoteric than the one before it. It is a credit to Zajonc’s lucid writing style that this never lapses into incomprehensibility, despite the increasing subtlety of the subject matter.

One of the most praiseworthy aspects of this book is the care the author takes to distinguish the essential nature of his subject from various religious traditions. This is a delicate balancing act. Zajonc connects various aspects of meditation to explicitly spiritual perspectives from around the world, including the “usual suspects” such as Christianity, Islam and Buddhism, but also Native American spirituality and anthroposophism — without ever committing to one of them. Zajonc also notes that religion “has become an obstacle to many.” It is left to the reader to locate his or her practice within a religious context — and a thoroughly secular reading is also possible.

I also appreciated the many connections drawn between contemplation and social justice. King, Mandela and Gandhi are cited repeatedly. Zajonc is a physicist, and we get some Einstein quotations as well. These were amongst my favorites.

I feel compelled to offer some sort of criticism so this review doesn’t seem overly gushing. All I can say is that, from my personal standpoint, Zajonc seems to articulate a very “solar” perspective. I feel that I need something somewhat more “lunar,” if that makes any sense. I’m sorry I can’t express it better than that. I don’t really know what I mean, as it’s just something I intuitively feel. But perhaps that’s just a matter of locating my practice in my proper religious context — once I figure out what that is.

Perhaps most importantly, this book is convincing. I am both persuaded and inspired to incorporate some form of contemplative practice into my daily life. I look forward to reading this book again.

Dear Persephone,

Somewhere in the last month your temper has taken a turn for the worse. Don’t get me wrong, you are still sweet and cute — much of the time — but you are also more prone than ever to tantrums and meltdowns and fits of pique. Perhaps it’s because you’ve been fighting off a bacterial infection for much of the last month, but I suspect it has more to do with being two and a half years old. One pediatrician calls your age “The First Adolescence,” and that makes a lot of sense to me. You are establishing yourself as a person.

It’s all about opposition. Sometimes you oppose us, sometimes you oppose yourself. You will often switch gears suddenly and without warning. You’ll be happily eating some pasta or hugging a stuffed animal one moment, and the next you will be pushing your bowl away or throwing the animal down on the floor and saying “I don’t like that pasta” or “I don’t like that rabbit.” Indeed, the list of things you “don’t like” is lengthy. This morning you told me you didn’t like my bed, and told me to “take it away.”

Often these little upsets don’t escalate into anything further, but sometimes they do. Sometimes they evolve into full-scale weeping and wailing. Sometimes the source of your frustration is comprehensible, even if it doesn’t really make sense to my adult mind. Other times it’s completely mysterious.

Usually a short “time out” is all that’s needed to get you back in a fairly cheerful mood.

I don’t want to make it seem like you are throwing fits all the time, because you’re not. But neither do I want to paint an overly rosy portrait of your early childhood. You are behaving like a toddler, which is to be expected.

I suppose as long as I’m discussing things that may be embarrassing to you later, I should note that your toilet training is coming along well, but you still haven’t learned to dress yourself.

Your linguistic development continues to amaze me. You recently “got” personal pronouns. It was one of those sudden lightbulb revelations. Instead of saying “Dada and Sephie,” you started saying “you and me,” and your delight in this breakthrough was manifestly evident, as you kept repeating it with greater enthusiasm each time. Now you use “you” and “me” all the time without even blinking.

(I hesitate to even mention that you seem to have develop a stutter over this past weekend. I spoke to a colleague who is a speech pathologist, and she indicated at your age there’s nothing to do but watch and wait. She also noted that such aberrations often crop up after rapid spurts of development, and usually go away of themselves.)

Another important concept you recently mastered: “I don’t know.” You used to say, “Hmm!” when you didn’t know the answer to a question, which was fairly adorable, but “I don’t know” is obviously more sophisticated. It has become one of your favorite expressions. I take that as a good sign; knowing our limits is a prerequisite to wisdom.

You fascination with princesses and fairy tales continues. Yesterday you asked me for a “poisoned apple.”

Finally, I just wanted to note the funniest thing I think you’ve said over the past month, while banging a brush and comb together: “I’m making music with a crazy purple beat.”

Strangely enough, just as Islamophobia seems to be reaching new heights here in the States, my boss is in Saudi Arabia. She was invited some months ago, to give workshops at two different women’s campuses on topics such as student motivation, active learning, planning for teaching, and so forth.

It’s a great opportunity, of course. But as she prepared for this trip, I was surprised by some of the things I learned about Saudi Arabia. I knew it’s a strictly regimented society, and that gender roles are somewhat constrained. I knew, for example, that women have to be covered head to toe when they go out in public. (And my boss had an interesting time purchasing the necessary garments here.) I was not familiar, however, with the system of male guardianship. I gather that women cannot travel freely or do many things without approval of a male guardian.

More to the point, my boss is not able to go outside without a male escort. That’s got to be tough for an American woman to accept. I’ve been trying to imagine how I would feel in that scenario.

As I scanned recent news headlines coming out of the Kingdom, I couldn’t help but goggle at these bizarre headlines.

• SAUDI ARABIA: Cleric in hot seat after calling for women to give men breast milk to avoid illicit mixing
• SAUDI ARABIA: Women threaten to breastfeed drivers if they aren’t allowed to drive

Meanwhile France has banned veils for women in public. It’s a very strange world we live in.

Anyway, my thoughts, and those of my co-workers, are with my boss at this time. (She reports that they have made her feel “right at home,” and she is finding a striking similarity between the concerns there and on our campus.) It’s truly an honor and a privilege for her to have been invited to this faraway place. I hope she reaps a maximum amount of cultural enrichment and personal development from the experience.

Photo: Desert wind at night by Cary Bazalgette, licensed under Creative Commons

Here’s a mix dedicated to my favorite instrument.

Album art by Dauvit Alexander, licensed under Creative Commons.

I don’t really know Gina very well. She’s a friend of a friend, the intermediary being the irascible PJ Christie. Gina and PJ played together in a band called Rabbit Hatch back in the pre-K days. They played at our 2005 Samedi Gras party, as pictured here.

So obviously Gina is a musician but she’s also a visual artist. I remember seeing a show of hers on Julia Street, but I’m pretty sure that was before the flood, because it all seems very hazy, like it happened a long time ago. When I heard through Facebook that she had a show of new works up at Delgado, I thought it would be fun to take my daughter to the opening.

And it was fun. The show is called The Call of the Alluvial Empire, and I was really knocked out by the work Gina has on display. Persephone enjoyed it too. That’s indicative of the broad appeal I think this art has. These pieces are colorful and funky and halfway between quilts and paintings: kinda-painted, kinda-sewn. They are extraordinarily beautiful, joyous and also wistful but not sappy in the least. This is stuff that I imagine would win the love of hipsters and grandmas alike. And if you are lucky enough to have a hipster grandma — well, you need to take her to see this show.

In fact, I was so impressed I had to go back and take a second look this Wednesday. I took my camera with me and snapped a few photos. I suppose this is an egregious violation of Gina’s intellectual property rights. (So Gina, if you read this, just say the word and I will take these down.) You can see many more photos of her work on her website. These humble don’t even begin to do the work justice, but I hope they convey a bit of the flavor, as well as the color and texture, and most of all the level of accomplishment.

So actually I guess the main point of this post is just to say you really need to check out this show. The work is up until the end of September, and the gallery is open weekdays 9AM-4PM. It’s on the third floor of the main building on Delgado’s main campus. Totally worth the trip. Trust me on this.

This is the second installment in my new resolve to write about other people every so often. I suppose I should establish a new category for this. But I already have too many categories, and the only title that’s come to mind is the Sartre epigram, “Hell Is Other People,” which might be deemed an insult to my subjects…

I’ve seen this guy around town for years. He’s made a cart out of two bicycles for hauling junk around. For some reason whenever I see this contraption I feel like I’m on some small island in the Caribbean. I’m frankly awestruck by his ingenuity.

There’s a certain domain name of which I am part owner, the other owner being my friend in Missoula. This domain is a three-letter dot-com and as we all know there are a limited number of those, therefore they have a certain value. I’m not naming the domain here, but I think the perceptive reader can figure it out.

A friend helped us register this domain back in the early nineties, when it was free. Since then, we have used it for a legitimate purpose; we are not cybersquatters.

Over the years, as the registered owner, I have gotten frequent inquiries about selling the domain. Most of these inquiries are not credible. They most often in the form of a one-liner e-mail, “Hey, you wanna sell that?” They rarely offer a price; it’s more common for them to ask me, “How much you want for that?” I find that sort of approach annoying and unprofessional.

Three years ago, my partner and I talked about actively seeking to sell the domain. We share a sentimental attachment to the domain, and I use it daily, but it’s the content that matters more than the address. We could move that content to another domain. We are not making money off the domain, and if someone else has a plan to do that, why not sell it and reap a little profit?

So we discussed it and came up with a price that we both found acceptable. My partner did most of the work in terms of research and arranging for an auction. But for some reason which eludes me now, we never went through with it.

Fast-forward to the present. Monday morning I got a voicemail and an e-mail from a broker looking to buy the domain, and they actually named a price — $10,000. I responded politely that the domain was not for sale. Soon I got a follow-up offer which was five times the original. I still said no. The broker made a third offer of $60K and asked “what price it would take” for us to part with the domain. I named the price my partner and I had cooked up three years ago. Now the broker wanted to know why our price was so high. She revealed their “dedicated pricing team” had appraised the domain. I won’t mention the figure here but it was substantially higher than her best offer but also much lower than our asking price.

$60K may sound like a lot of money, but keep in mind the broker would take a cut, and then my partner and I would split it, and then we’d have to pay taxes on it. I’d be lucky to see $20K. That’s still a good chunk of change, I suppose, but a dollar is definitely not what it used to be. As a matter of comparison, a couple years ago I pissed away $10K on the stock market, our tax refund this year was $9K, and Xy recently took a $20K pay cut. More money is always welcome, but I know we could absorb $20K into our annual living expenses and not even really notice.

My partner’s financial situation may be different, of course, and I need to be sensitive to that. Still, I don’t regret saying no yesterday. When I told Xy I’d turned down an offer of $60K for the domain, her response was “One million dollars, and not a penny less! Tell ‘em your crazy wife said so!” I think if we sell the domain it should be on our terms, as a result of proactively seeking to sell it, rather than waiting for a deal to fall into our laps. That would seem the best way to assure we get a good price. But what do I know? I’m simply not motivated at this point to do the work necessary. And if we are unable to sell it for the price we desire, I am willing to accept that.

Coincidentally, as I was responding to these inquiries, I was also trying to untangle a confusing and messy situation regarding a domain name that belongs to a local civic organization. My head was abuzz with domain names and other contingencies and by the end of the day I was experiencing a bit of cognitive overload. But at least I got a good night’s sleep.

It’s not just a sign — it’s a kinetic sculpture.

This was constructed by Peter Hickman and friends at the place where the Jeff Davis neutral ground intersects the Lafitte Corridor at the foot of Bayou St. John.

It is propelled by the wind. In my personal opinion, it’s a perfect expression of community desire for the greenway which we hope will be created here soon.

For more info about the Lafitte Corridor and the greenway see folc-nola.org

I’m still in touch with a number of friends back in Indiana. Last week I heard some sad news from one of these friends: His mother had passed away. She was advanced in years, but it was still rather sudden and unexpected. Yet what he asked the next day brought a smile to my face. He wondered what it would take, at a bare minimum, to put together a New Orleans-style jazz funeral in a small town in Indiana.

Here’s how I advised him, more or less. I said he needed a brass band. What would be the minimal instrumentation? I’m guessing a trumpet or trombone, a tuba and drum. The players should know at least one slow sad song and one fast upbeat number. You play the dirges on the way to the cemetery and the happy songs on the way back home.

A mutual friend, who is a musician, hooked him up with some players from Indianapolis who were available at a reasonable rate. Two on percussion, one banjo, tuba, trombone and trumpet. Plus a clarinet. He described them as “a smaller, if slightly less cinematic, version of what you’ve seen on Treme.”

And what do you know? It all came together very nicely, or so I gather. The musicians arrived on time, dressed in black and looking good. I don’t know the whole playlist, but the music was reverent and mournful on the way in, and joyous and celebratory on the way out.

But of all the details my friend reported, this one stands out to me as extraordinary.

The funeral director said it was like nothing he’d ever seen and he was going to let his family know that he wants this when he dies.

Says it all.

Maybe it was the caffeine. And the lack of food. Or the physical exertion late in the day. Or just my old overactive mind.

In any case, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I tried. Repeatedly. But I just couldn’t do it.

I don’t think I’ve pulled an all-nighter since that freaky Jazz Fest weekend five years ago.

(Wrong! Don’t forget that homebound all-nighter in 2008.)

To elaborate:

I’ve been off caffeine most of the summer, except for an occasional indulgence. At book club Saturday morning, I had two and a half tiny cups of extraordinarily strong coffee. But since it was before noon, I thought I was safe.

As for the physical exertion, that takes a bit more explaining. I’ll recount the essential facts without delving into the numerous bizarre details. As I mentioned a couple months ago, we need some work done on our driveway. A parent of one of Xy’s students offered to do the work — for free. This is amazing enough I hope to write more about it later. He and his crew got started yesterday, busting up the old concrete the old-fashioned way.

I felt obliged to go out and swing the sledgehammer with them, even though I’m not really in shape for that kind of work. We kept going until well after dark. I learned that sledgehammers make sparks when they strike concrete.

Between the caffeine and the exertion, I didn’t really seem to have much appetite, and so I didn’t eat much. I’ve found that having a snack before bedtime helps me get to sleep, so I planned to have a bowl of cereal, but we were out of soymilk, so I skipped it.

I’ve had many “sleepless” nights before, but that’s usually a figure of speech. Usually I drift off around four or so, or just after dawn. In this case, however, I really don’t think I slept at all. I got up several times during the night, to read, to eat a snack, to surf the web. I worked on my interface to the library of Babel, available (for now) at borges.rox. At 4:15 AM I left the house in my robe to investigate a car alarm. Each time I went back to bed and tried to go to sleep. But it just never took.

I have suffered from intermittent bouts of insomnia for as long as I can remember, but I do believe this was the worst ever. Certainly the worst since my daughter was born.

It might seem to the rest of the country that New Orleanians are insular and self-absorbed. There’s some truth to that; sometimes this place feels like a distant province of the United States rather than a part of the mainland. But events like the terrorist attacks of September 11th touch us all, and after suffering through a major (not entirely natural) disaster ourselves, I think most New Orleanians feel a special sympathy for New Yorkers. I have seen grown men cry here at the mere mention of September 11th, even after all these years.

Of all our national ideals, freedom of speech and religion, pluralism and tolerance are the ones that inspire me the most. Lately they seem to be crumbling as tensions increase between Christians and Muslims in this country. That, of course, was part of the terrorists’ aim. It’s not clear to me whether or not we have passed the point of no return. I hope not.

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Bissell Homecare, Inc.

PO Box 3606

Grand Rapids MI 49501

For the attention of Mark J. Bissell, President & CEO

Dear Mr. Bissell,

Goodness gracious! I’ve just been going through some old files, and I realized it’s been one full year since I wrote to you. I have yet to receive the courtesy of a reply.

Is this your idea of customer service? What would your great-grandfather Melville Bissell think if he knew how you were running the business?

I am enclosing a copy of my previous letter for your convenience. As you will see, I was merely asking for clarification of your policy regarding your 90 Day Limited Warranty. Why was I charged for twelve dollars for a replacement hose?

Enclosed please find my personal check for $2.00 to cover the expense of writing back to me. This should cover the cost of an envelope, the appropriate foolscap, ink and even postage.

Sincerely,

Is there any point in even trying to talk about anything else today? No. There’s not, not here in New Orleans anyway. Tonight the Saints play the Vikings in a re-match that is being hyped beyond all belief. And yet the massive hype feels perfectly natural and entirely appropriate, here in New Orleans anyway. I don’t know about the rest of the country.

I saw this truck in the brickyard parking lot yesterday morning. You can’t see in this shot, but this gold pickup is decked out in Saints regalia, including a big “Who Dat Nation” marquee on top of the cab. This little diorama is in the bed. Yeah, so they spelled his name wrong. Can you really blame them? They get extra points for creativity.

A sign on the back of the truck said “Brett Favre Retirement Party.” Or so I thought. When I passed by this morning I saw the same truck but no sign. So maybe I imagined the sign, or maybe it fell off.

I for one plan to tune in and watch the retirement party on television tonight.

Update: Howie jogged my memory. I did not imagine the “Retirement Party” concept — I saw it on Facebook thanks to the fabulous Mary H. Gotta give credit where it’s due. If my memory continues to deteriorate it may be time for my retirement party soon.

I should also note that Howie had a cool Favre voodoo doll.

Over the long weekend I was privileged to observe and even participate in some bizarre graveyard rituals to ensure a victorious season for the New Orleans Saints. These were organized in large part by college professors. There were at least three profs in attendance — maybe more. With getups like these it’s hard to tell.

I also had the opportunity to sit in on a roundtable discussion organized by the New Orleans Lamplight Circle, a local pagan group. This is the second such discussion I’ve attended. The previous was on “Existentialism and Spirituality.” This one was a true roundtable, with participants bringing their own topics for discussion. We talked about everything from the nature of divinity to the proper texture of brownies, and all points in between.

I thought this was a funny sort of inversion, since one typically associates academics with roundtables, and magic rituals with pagans, rather than the other way round.