Negril Notes
Thoughts - Words - Images - Music - Loosely based on my travels to Negril Jamaica

The next day started early for me. Well before dawn I walked cool damp Castle grounds. I love his place! I love the gentle slosh of the Sea emanating from the Blue Cave, the cool salty breeze in my hair, the sun lightening the edges of the eastern sky, and of course, the steaming mug of Jamaican coffee in my hand. Did I say I love this place?

Since retirement, Dad has gotten used to sleeping in, and for me in Negril, sleeping in is about six-thirty in the morning. I’m not sure when he actually rose since clocks are not on my vacation agenda, but by mid-morning we were hungry, and I had Dad all jazzed up for an authentic Jamaican Breakfast.

I always enjoy Selina’s so I figured we’d head down to her place for breakfast. We hit a road in a route taxi, and my Dad was great, he just rolled with the punches all week long, open to everything. We got to talking to our fellow travelers about Jamaican Breakfast, and one of the guys named Lionel told us he had a cousin with a real authentic Rastafarian Breakfast Joint directly on the beach.

“I’m a tour guide!” exclaimed Lionel, but when the other guys in the car laughed when he said it, he knew the jig was up.

Of course the afore-mentioned restaurant seemed too good to be true, but what the hell, these guys had a good positive vibe and I said, “Sounds great! Take us there!” Dad seemed a bit trepidatious.

We passed Travellers and Shields and pulled into a small overgrown drive just before Bar-B-Barn. From where we parked, we couldn’t see the beach, or the road, and Dad was expecting us to be robbed at any minute, but I could hear the surf close by. We followed our new friends up a grass covered path and in seconds Seven Mile Beach appeared before us. I looked over to Dad as he stood wide-eyed at the impossibly beautiful sea of blueness. We were so taken by the scene that we didn’t notice the big Rastaman setting up a table for us.

Lionel, who stood beaming as if he was a bit surprised by his new-found success as a tour guide, decided to talk, and talk, and then talked some more. He was entertaining at first, an amiable bloke to be sure, and he was even up front about having to hustle tourists to make a living.

I don’t know If the big Rastaman was actually his cousin Lionel, but Lionel seemed pretty nervous when he came by to give us fresh squeezed juices, or to update us on the progress of our meals.

The Jamaica Breakfasts arrived and I was impressed! They were bountiful and beautifully plated. The big Rasta-Chef explained everything and my Dad was rapt with attention. “Don’t eat too fast.” He admonished us. “We don’t use salt. We let the natural flavors come though the food. Please enjoy!”

This guy had a great touch, and the food was excellent. The Ackee was tender, and there were few bones in the Saltfish. The yam, the plantain and johnny cakes were as advertized, bland at first but the subtle flavors built as you enjoyed them.

I was so happy with the meal that I grossly over-tipped Lionel, which had the added pleasure of making him go away. I loved the guy, but we really wanted to eat in peace.

I guess I’d made up for the previous night’s hooker debacle. I really felt like the island-savvy son, and Dad really seemed to be enjoying himself.

We checked out the beach a while but there wasn’t much going on, and we were back at The Castle before noon. I walked over to the bodega for beer, water, ting and other assorted necessities to stock the fridge for the week, while Dad went to work on his Vince Flynn novel.

On my way back from the bodega I ran into sweet beautiful Petrona, who offered to move us from Deluxe 2 into Superior 12 which had a TV and A/C. Dad was happy with the move, and with the panoramic ocean view from the porch. You really can’t beat this place, you’re treated like family, the location is paramount, and the prices are so low you can’t understand how they stay in business.

Dad and I relaxed reading, taking short dips in the sea, and drinking Red Stripes. The place wasn’t crowded, but we did meet Angela from Nova Scotia that day. Orchid as she is known on the Negril.com Message Board. Dad had been to Nova Scotia with my Mom a few years back, and they seemed to hit it off pretty well. Angela was living large in the penthouse and was on an extendned and extending vacation, she may be still there.

Later in the afternoon Susan, the owner of The Castle, returned from her vacation. So where does someone who lives in Negril go for vacation? Brooklyn of course! Susan graciously invited Dad and I out for a lobster dinner at Erica’s Cafe.

Susan drove us in her little red car, Petrona joined us, and there was also a Canadian couple, who were long time Negril residents, and friends of Susan’s. We had a nice time, the food was excellent, and so was the conversation. We each had half a grilled lobster, and a nice portion of curried lobster with all the accoutrements. Dad and I peppered Susan with questions about the building and history of The Castle. There’s definitely a book in that story, maybe even a mini-series.

Being Saturday night we said our good-byes to our hostess and we hopped a taxi over to The Seastar In for some twisting by the pool. The road into Seastar seemed darker than usual on this moonless night, but everything brightened up as we turned into the driveway. The party was in full swing when we arrived, Rob, Lisa and Captain Rob were working the webcast, and I introduced my Dad to all the boardies logged in that night. The place was crowded, there seemed to be so few people in Negril, they must have all been at Seastar.

As we settled in with ice cold Red Stripes, there was some commotion in the pool area, some girl had gotten naked and jumped in. Henceforth she will be referred to as Nakid Girl, though her nakedness was relatively short lived. She spent most of her night stumbledancing to the reggae stylings of Rasta Ralphie, other than the few minutes we chatted about things metaphysical. She was very wasted but she was no dummy, and she seemed a bit over her head in whatever she was involved with, but for that night she had a grand time.

Dad was very impressed with Rasta Ralphie. The two of them were in the same basic age range, but old Ralphie had the physique of a much younger man. I’m sure is had something to do with his hyperactive stage persona. I tell you that man can rev up a crowd.

I had a nice time visiting with Rob, Crob and Lisa. Lisa was only a few days away from heading back to the frozen tundra of Winepeg Canada after six plus months in sunny Negril. She must not have stayed too long because it seems like she was back in a few weeks, but I’m sure for Rob it was an interminable absence.

We’d had a long day and I doubt we lasted much later than ten or eleven o’clock. Chris, the Seastar’s owner, had his driver take us back to The Castle with the added fun of sharing the ride with Nakid Girl. 

More to come…

Vinny

Upon hearing about Hands-On New York Day, a friend of mine said, “Ya know, that’s one of those things that when you hear about it you and think, ‘Hey I’d like to do something like that someday’, but you never actually do it.” And for a long time that was my position too. I’m not averse to doing this sort of thing, it’s just that such opportunities rarely cross my path at an opportune time, but in this case the stars aligned.

My roommate Chris was the Site Captain meaning he set-up and helped run the event. The hard work was done, so all I had to do was show up. Once I committed I got pretty excited, so I wrangled up some family, friends, and co-workers to help out. The Saturday before the event I had six definites with a few possibles waiting in the wings, but of course when the day came only two we able to make it. I didn’t care as they were the two I really wanted to spend the day with anyway.

And wow, what a special day it was! I had been so focused on the outcome that I hadn’t put a moments thought into the process, the actual doing of the thing. I expected a freshly painted fence, and a lunchroom with brightly painted murals. I didn’t plan on the camaraderie and sense of purpose seventy or so eager volunteers would engender. Very un-Zen of me I know.

The day was all about the process, the experience. The care and goodwill this disparate group of strangers put into beautifying this little elementary school in Brooklyn warmed the cockles of my heart. It was so much of a “Coming Together” my inner cynic was forced to do a double-take. Could it be there really are this many good people in the world? And this was only one of a hundred plus events that day; seventy-five hundred people fanned out across the city planting trees, fixing up schools, cleaning playgrounds, and generally doing good.

Did I mention it was really fun too? I’m no painter, but I painted for hours. Kristine and I did a lot of sky work, while Diana painted a super-hero elephant. The sky is important in mural painting, there’s a lot of it, and the chances of screwing up are slight. Kristine and I also did about an hour of fence scraping, less glamorous than mural painting, but it had to be done. I was impressed how the crayola blue fence brightened up the whole school.

I’m proud to have been a part of Hands-on New York Day. So proud in fact that this Thursday evening I’m going to Borough Hall in Brooklyn for orientation on becoming a full-fledged member on NYCares, the umbrella organization which Hands-On New York Day is a part. My little crew is excited to do more volunteering, and as members there is literally something going on every day, so finding a monthly project to work on shouldn’t be tough.

I’d like to thank everyone who made this day possible; Christian for all his hard work, Kristine and Diana for making the day even more special, and every other person who worked at Public School 94 on April 12, 2008.

Vinny

Here we go again! I just booked another Negril trip! Woo Hoo! I did the cha-ching thing with the nice Air Jamaica gentleman last night around 9PM. I was going to wait till next week to book, but the fares plummeted in the last few days. EWR (Newark NJ) to MBJ (Sangster Montego Bay) round trip $276.00, you can’t beat that! It beats my best rate $306.00 back in ‘04 by thirty bucks!

This trip is going to be a blast, (aren’t they all in thier own way?), my Dad, Vinny from Jersey, will be coming along for all the fun and frivolity this time. It’s his first time to Jamaica, but he’s been to the Caribbean many times. Over the years I’ve brought back souveniers, so he does have some proper attire, at least one Red Stripe shirt, and a tye-dye.

Plans? Plans? Of course I have plans. I used to plan each trip for hours at a sitting, but recently I realized, “I keep going back over and over, so why not continually plan, but in smaller chunks. Then just plug them is as needed.” 

So on this trip the only real planning will be for my Big Blue Cave Castle Bashment. The Sunday after we arrive we’re having sunset cookout at the Castle. I’m thinking, BBQ, beer, rum, music and maybe a webcast if I can set-it up with Rob @ RealNegril.com. I’m not sure who will be in town, but we should be able to round up a crowd.

By the way, you’re all invited.

We’ll do a few day trips of course. My Dad will love a Black River Safari with Rasta George, and then on to Appleton Estates for the rum tour. It’s corny, but I like it. A detour to The Pelican Bar is possible too. I’ve heard a lot about the place, but I’ve only seen it in pictures. Then there’s snorkeling, bar hopping and possibly a fishing trip with Captain Rob.

My Dad is with me for the first week and then I’m solo for the remainder. There’s nothing like it, two weeks at the Blue Cave Castle overlooking the hopefully placid Caribbean Sea.

I can’t wait, its just on the other side of September…

Vinny

All My Bags Are Packed, I’m ready to go
I’m standing here just by de doe (waiting for a cab)
Kris just called me up, to say goodbye.

But the dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn
Leaving Rosie has me emotionally torn
Already I’m so excited, Jah Rastafar - I

So Kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you envy me
Don’t cha wish you were going to Negril

I’m leaving on a jet plane
AJ cancelled my flight again
Oh Babe, Can’t wait to go

There’s so many times I’ve gone to town
All I do is play around
I’ll tell you now, I can’t wait to get some Ting

Every place I go I’ll think of you
Every beer I’ll drink I’ll drink for you
When I get back I’ll bring your Christmas thing

So Kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you envy me
Don’t cha wish you were going to Negril

I’m leaving on a jet plane
Shuttle bus to Newark; A big-ass pain
I wish they would have let me know

I’m leaving on a jet plane
Gonna get really drunk ‘pon de plane

Leaving on a jet plane
My buddy Clive, will pick me up again

Leaving on a jet plane
To stare ‘pon de Caribbean

Peace

 

Last Sunday morning I found myself alone at a railroad siding waiting to hop the train into Philly. I was a good ten minutes early, so I sat near the tracks, leaned back and closed my eyes.

When I was a kid Peter O’Malley and I would make day long explorations to the frontier of our world. We would ride our bikes back behind the Tingley Rubber factory, the hilarity of the name lost on our twelve year old experience, for us this was the height of reckless adventure, though actually, we were only a few miles from home.

Cutting a swath a few hundred feet wide through the woods were high tension wires that seemed to go on forever, maybe even as far as Route 1, I don’t think we ever went far enough to find out, we usually stopped near some train tracks.

We’d sit at the road-less crossroads looking up and down the tracks and we’d argue as to where the tracks led. Peter, always a bit more grounded in reality than I, would say, “Up there (North) is Iselin and down there (South) is Trenton.” Me, on the other hand, would conjure up names like Tuxedo, New York or Bel-Aire, Maryland, claiming I knew better since my Grandfather worked these rails “before the War.” I probably didn’t know what “before the War” really meant, and maybe not even sure what war I was even referring to.

It might have been my enduring fascination with maps. As a kid I’d lay out a map on the living room floor and look for distant magical destinations, like Nashua, New Hampshire, or Gettysburg, Pennsylvania (I only had a Northeast US map). Then I’d figure a route, calculate mileage, and read about the places of interest on the back of the map, or I’d look them up in the Funk & Wagnalls kept in the hallway bookcase.

Sometimes we’d put pennies on the track, urban legend had it that the train would stretch and flatten them into oval copper discs. Try as we might, the train never showed up, or if it did, it was so long we lacked the patience to wait for the caboose, so we never found out if the stories were true.

Shaken back to the present by a distant ambulance siren, I reached into my pocket to search for pennies; I had six.

Looking all around like an unpracticed criminal, I carefully placed the six pennies end to end in the center of the rail, making sure to alternate between heads and tails. Moments later the train came into view, and for some reason I stepped away from the pennies as if to disassociate myself with them.

Late that afternoon I made my way back from Philly, and I’d forgotten all about the pennies until the conductor shouted, “Crestmont Next Stop!”

I stepped from the train and nonchalantly walked away from the platform, just in case the railroad police put out an All Points Bulletin: Be on the lookout for a stealthy criminal penny layer, chances likely perpetrator will return to the crime scene.

I waited till the train was out of sight, and when the coast was clear I turned around to search for my pennies in the rail bed. They weren’t where I left them, but about eight to ten feet away I saw something shiny, and one by one I found all six flattened copper oval discs, almost featureless with faint penny markings.

I felt like a little kid again, and all the way home I turned the coins every which way with an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment.

All this week I’ve carried the former coins in my pocket and I discovered I wasn’t the only one who thought they were cool. Every guy I showed them to was impressed; it was a universal male reaction. Older guys, younger guys, black guys, white guys, Spanish guys, skinny guys, fat guys, even Phil, a drunk guy; everyone got it! They would ask to hold one and look at it in wonder as I told my story. 

I also showed them to several women, they didn’t get it. They just looked at me with a blank expressions and asked, “Why the hell would you do that?”

I guess women are just more complicated. 

Peace

Vinny

 

My daughter Kristine was born twenty years ago today! WOW! 

I remember like it was yesterday! Meeting Kris for the first time, I knew right away she was cool! Her mom was there too, making a lot of noise if I remember correctly, but I did most of the work. It’s stressful in them delivery rooms!

I have to admit to getting a bit misty looking through her photos, I think I feel an ode coming on!

Kristine’s Twentieth Birthday Ode

O’ Kristine, O’ Kristine
O’ How I love thee
You looked like this when you were about three

Once such a cutie

You’ve grown into a beauty!

You play, You sing, You dance

OK, and occasionally you prance

Your look has changed year by year

But there were no facial piercings for Dad to fear

You work so hard, and you play the same

It amazes me how you win your game!
Although below you’re looking a tad bit lame, but I don’t mean to flame

So take today and try to chill,
I send you my love, my heart it does fill

Just think, in six months we’ll be back in Negril!!

Happy Birthday Kris!

Love,
Dad

It looked easy from the picture on the box. How hard could it be?

(L to R) Michael, Aidan, Priya, Uncle Vinny

Or to be politically correct Happy Ramahanakwansmas!!

Ahh Christmas, this year I had a plan. Ninety percent of my shopping was to be done online, and I started out great. Two weeks out and my Amazon.com shopping cart was full of deals and thoughtful, insightful gifts for friends and family. Then I hit check-out and thirteen of seventeen gifts would not arrive till January THIRD! I was pissed. It really squelched my Santa spirit.

For some reason work ended early last Monday so I hit the shopping center right off Exit 7A on the NJ Turnpike. I was unmotivated to say the least as I trudged into Wal-Mart.

To coax myself into the “mood” I bought an obnoxious Christmas t-shirt for myself and hummed a few yuletide melodies as I fought my way through frantic grannies and soccer moms on steroids.

I turned down an aisle when what to my wondering eyes did appear? High atop a shelf was a really cool telescope! A whole lot cooler than the one I’d picked out online, and only a few bucks more! I was psyched! I grabbed it and crossed my nephew Thomas off my list.

Then it just hit me. I felt like the Grinch when his heart goes from two sizes to small to breaking the little frame thingy, and for the rest of the day I was Santa’s friggin’ little helper.

I bought books for Mom, CD’s and DVD’s for Kris, and tons of miscellaneous crap you buy when you go to Wal-Mart, but the one thing I couldn’t find were those white fudge covered Oreos. AWWW YEAH!! Oreos! Truly a Christmas delicacy, I mean they’re really awesome, especially frozen. Hey, maybe I should write an ode about them.

Anyway, a few hundred lighter, I hit Barnes & Noble, the Kohls, by the time I got home and laid out my gifts the bug had bitten me and I looked forward to some tax-free shopping tomorrow in Delaware.

For me, Christmas is all about giving, about finding something unique for each person on my list. I’m very anti gift cards. They seem more about getting than giving. Merry Christmas, now go buy your own damned gift!

I know some people love getting them, I guess it’s like a mini shopping spree, but for me it’s the thrill of the chase. Now I’ve gotten horrible gifts over the years, but it warms my heart to think someone took the time, saw something and thought, “Vinny would love this,” or, “Vinny would look great in this.”

So last night I cracked open a nice bottle of wine (thanks Ross & Glenn), grilled an extra piece for Mahi-Mahi for Rosie The Cat’s Christmas dinner and I wrapped and bowed my gifts.

Later I stood back to look at my outgoing pile with satisfaction, looking forward to seeing them all ripped open. For those few moments I thought, “This is definitely my favorite pagan ritual, goat not withstanding.”

Have a wonderful Christmas

Peace
Vinny

“That’s beaut-E-ful, Vinnie” he says on cue. Fighting heavy eyelids Joe watches the slideshow of “The Bogan Family’s” latest vacation in our darkened living room, as my dad, Vinny also, goes into painstaking detail on each of the hundreds of slides. It’s going on two hours, all the kids have snuck off to my sister’s room to listen to Bay City Roller records, and all the other adults have long since dozed off. Undeterred my dad continues the story of our trip, and good ol’ Joe Nolan loyally feigns rapt interest in the saga.

Joe Nolan was my Dad’s best friend. For more than thirty years, they’d shared life’s ups and downs. They had so much in common, both Teamsters, both Irishmen, and both family men with kids in the same age range. They’d seen communions, confirmations, graduations, marriages, ordinations, divorces and unfortunately even a funeral. Through it all, along with the wives, they stayed the closest of friends.

Joe was so proud of his boys, Brian a priest, and Brendan one of New York City’s Finest. He was no bragger, but he could tell a story with the best of them. He’d have the room in stitches telling of Brendan’s trials and tribulations as a New York City cop, and though his Brian stories were a bit toned down, they were no less enthusiastic.

Joe loved to laugh! My first job was as a dishwasher at a local Chinese restaurant and Joe thought it was just hilarious how they pronounced my name. He called me Winnie till I was forty! It was our thing, and it’s funny how sad it makes me to know, I’ll never hear him say it again.

“Essie and Joe”, you never say one without the other. I can barely remember when “The Nolans” weren’t a part of our lives. I was in the first grade when my mother told me the son of a woman she bowls with would be in my class. For the next thirty plus years “The Nolans” were and still are as close as family. For twenty years we shared Thanksgiving Dinners together, and Thanksgiving remains my favorite holiday.

Joe somehow made it through the sudden and untimely death of his only daughter Maureen, and it seemed to give the rest of the family comfort knowing they were together again. I’m sure he’ll love what she’s done with the place!

Brian, their oldest, and I went through St. Matthew’s Elementary School together, we even served as alter boys. Though my Catholicism waned in the intervening years, Brian’s grew stronger and I’m sure Joe beamed with pride as he looked down upon Father Brian Nolan stoically performing his funeral mass before the very large crowd.

Safe Home Joe

I could have listened to thier stories all night! Kris and Patrick had been back from Negril for about forty-eight hours, and their Jamaican enlightenment lit up the room. Looking at photos of places I’d been, but with Kristine’s attitude in them and her stories behind them brought me back to my balcony on the cliffs. As much as listening to the words, I absorbed the unmistakable Negril energy flowing from them.

I was so proud! They really got it. They really understood the magic. It got in their bones, they didn’t simply watch it from their porch, they got into it, and thats what it takes! Now at least now there’s another person in the family that can’t answer the big question, why do you always go back to Negril?

The answer is in every story. It’s in the vibe that arises when sharing experiences with friends, and when Kris says she can’t wait to go back, I understand completely. Sadly so many don’t get it, maybe they never will, or they won’t, I don’t know which is worse.

In Jamaica you constantly find yourself asking, “Am I really here?” “Did that just really happen?” So many nights I’ve sat at my journal laughing to myself when comparing the day’s original plan with what actually happened. The well laid plan is so far from where the Jamaican party gods had actually taken me, and it is nowhere near the rich full life experience I’d experienced that day. It’s just a scrawny agenda, and it looks as if it was written by another person entirely. I guess in some ways it was.

I ask myself, “Was I really there this morning?” “Was this really the day’s starting point?” Bless Jah! How does one take an idea, form it into words and expect it to fill a day in a life? In the real world we do it everyday, and we never question it. Our lives can be so well lived, if we just let go of convention and fucking live it! Maybe that’s a partial answer to the big question.

Why Jamaica! You can really live there, no rent, no bills, no stress, no job, no clients, no deadlines, just life, just living, just feeling the vibe coming over you, and having the freedom and the audacity to ride it. That’s my Negril, my spot in space and time where I live totally. Where I choose live how I’m unable, afraid or unwilling to live everyday life. Everyday life where all those things listed above have such a hold, and became so real. Even more real than our true selves, and the worst part is we know it, we see it happening, and we feel powerless to change it. “The Rat Race”, “Life’s Rollercoaster”, “The Human Jungle”, choose your metaphor.

I guess that’s why its called vacation, maybe we can only handle the wide open, unencumbered life in small doses.

I dose again in August.

My daughter Kris had a big day Saturday, she turned 19, and she received her Associates Degree with a 4.0GPA. She has a couple more degrees, and at least four more years of school ahead of her, but proud papa wanted to do something special to mark this dual milestone.

In my way of looking at things, the best thing anyone can get is a trip to sunny Negril, so that’s what she got! But it’s more than that; I want to give her Negril itself, to give her that untouchable something that keeps me coming back year after year.

My original idea was to buy her a ticket and a week at a nice place on the beach. Then she could bring a few friends who would only need a plane ticket and spending money, but as anyone who goes to Negril knows, original plans have zero relevance to what actually happens, so as booking deadlines drew near the only “friend” interested in going was her boyfriend Patrick.

Now I like Patrick, my ex-wife likes him (fighting the urge to make a smartass comment), and my daughter, of course, loves him. I admit I was kind of shocked by my reaction, I had none. I thought it was great, my little girl was growing up, and maybe I was too! Could it be?

So next week if you see them say hi, I guess you can call them “Pat and Krissy from Philly?”

I am so proud of Kristine. Above and beyond being a wonderful daughter, she’s an awesome person. Her life hasn’t been as easy as it could have been, I look back over 19 years and I think of all the ways I could have done more, been there more, but somehow all that stuff goes away and I’m just amazed by the young woman standing before me.

When I think of this smart, talented, self confident young woman, of whom I have dibs on 23 chromosomes, I begin to feel pretty good about myself, but I have to give big ups to her Mom (the other 23). We didn’t stay married long and we disagree about almost everything, but we always put Kristine first. She may have gotten her brains and tenacity from her mom, but she gets her love of music and film, her talent, and most importantly the stars in her eyes from me. She has big dreams and big plans to achieve those dreams!

Good Luck Kiddo, Have a great time in Negril!!

Aidan Ishaan Raman Bogan, son and heir to my brother Michael and his lovely wife Amrita.

I saw my brother only hours after the blessed event. Words cannot describe a father after the birth of a child. He is a tangle of contradictions, exploding with love, pride, satisfaction, and joy, while also imploding with decompression, relief, overwhelmth and awe. He was a wreck, it was truly a joy to see!

Listening to him go on and on was inspiring, thankfully he left out most of the actual birth details. He spoke of the stoic performance of his beloved wife during the process of labor, how she never broke character, and dealt squarely with her situation. The reverence with which he spoke of her filled the room with a warm glow, he spoke with gratefulness, a kind of, “How did I get so lucky to get to this place in my life.” I just looked on and smiled, it was obvious to everyone but him.

We spoke of all the aspects of Aidan’s new life, even how he’ll probably live to see the twenty second century, yeah, we had it all figured out. He will learn, grow, stumble, get back up and go on. With all this positive energy at his back how can he go wrong?

It makes one understand and acknowledge the presence of divinity on some unspoken level. Something that is bigger than us, yet is totally us. More totally us than we can really get our minds around. That’s why we don’t speak of it, we don’t know what “it” is, and least of all how wrap it up in words. Our religions can’t touch it, yet we all feel it, and deep in our bones we know it. It’s only in these rare moments that it bubbles up to the surface and asks us to come to terms with it.

Ganesh the Hindu Deity can be an example of this concept. He is the remover of obstacles, so remove the obstacles of jewels, the fancy hat, the clothing, the dogma, and you’re left with the Elephant in the room.

I bought a book of Hemingway’s short stories today. I was thinking, since I’m kind of writing short stories I should read some really good ones. Of course by contrast my stories really suck, but I enjoy the process and the apparent sucky-ness will hopefully either be short lived, or at least some un-sucky material will poke thru the drek from time to time.

I was struck by the preface written by old Ernie himself. It had a playful character to it. He even joked that his favorite stories are the ones teachers made their students study, and thus putting more coin in his pocket. It made the guy real to me, I understand being self-deprecating.

About a dozen years ago my brother Michael gave me “The Old Man and the Sea,” complete with two “Hemmingway” cigars. I remember the cigars more than the book. I could write two pages about those cigars right now, but other than an old guy, a boat, a kid and a fish, the smoke from the story is gone. It’s funny how things come to you at different times in your life. I’m going to dig up that little book and re-read it, if not for inspiration then to illustrate this point.

I do something called “Writing Practice.” It’s like journaling with a mission. For the last several years I’ve kept an irregular journal, irregular both for the frequency of my journaling and the strange thoughts and associations that come from my less than sane head. Writing Practice is committing to the daily practice of writing as a discipline.

It’s wide open writing, punctuation and neatness don’t count, and the only rule is to keep your hand moving. Sometimes it gets to the point where all I write are the words “keep your hand moving,” which when someone reads these notebooks years after I’m dead they will be assured I was just another nut-job writer.

I’ve been hot and cold with my new discipline, often I write absolute nothingness, but then I’ll get a good line I can use in a story and occasionally I’ll have a breakthrough. Sometimes I find myself writing the deep truths of my soul that all of the sudden just pour out onto the page. I can feel it coming through, I try to stay out of the way and keep going with it as long as I can before the “Editor” or “Thinking” part of me begins to look for sentence structure or proper word usage.

In Zen it is called Satori, gimpses of enlightenment, where you get out of your own way for a short time and become connected to what Alan Watts calls, that what-cha-ma-call-it of all what-cha-ma-call-its.

Hopefully I’ll be able to string enough of these together to make an impression.

- To be continued . . .