The Uncontrived Internal Art of Body, Mind, and Spirit If I stand very still and relaxed, I can feel the earth move. What is not seen is the movement in uncontrived silence that makes it true. The subtle movement, which is not movement and beyond obvious sense, is what makes it useful for a state of stillness in which the feet need a tremendously fast moving object. In the earth, is a fiery center of molten iron. It is the heart of the earth, which is not seen, but necessary to existence. Follow the heartbeat to find fire and the intuitive. The bellows of the lungs makes steel when combined with the fire. The wood of the liver grows in the earth of the spleen. Thus the heart is dependent upon the success of the liver and spleen. Most important is the water of the kidneys and lower abdomen to circulate vitality from the groin. The nutrients follow the stem of the spine to the lotus flower of the heart. "I Am Who Am" could not have said it better. The feet benefit from the flower and the footstool of the Grand Quiescence, which must have a place to rest. The hands work with the feet in communion with the leading principal of the mind. Thus the head of the body is in communion with eternal life, which we often fail to see. Thus it is important to find a good teacher to show the way, but don't expect anything less than what is human.   The Jade Pillow The jade pillow is expensive and hard to find. Once acquired the organs are balanced. Suspended between The Source and Creation, they achieve immortality. The organs are wrapped in heliocentric spirals. The vitality is circulated. The gate of life is Unlocked with the gift of ancestors. The root is deep with the golden fruit of the mother. The violet healing light of the heavens combines with mother's milk to produce the spiritual embryo. "People like talking birds, they like beautiful and fragrant plants, they like animals, they like pet fish -- are not other people as important as these creatures?... "For Heaven helps the good, God enriches people.  Therefore to those who want to know the way to deal with the world, I suggest, Love People." -- Chang San-Feng circa 1391 to 1459 A Dog  On an Island of Humanity From the transport in Rio of the mind, I am moved by a common dog at a busy intersection of humanity. The dog is leashed to a solitary tree on a no man's land of cement and barren ground worn to a hard white in the hot sun. I take courage in the relaxed confidence of the return of his compassionate companion, who makes the wait possible with a fresh bowl of water. Together, they make a life of meaning beyond a simplistic reduction of politics and pride. Nearby is a makeshift prosthetic contraption made of abandoned tires and scraps of iron. It was fashioned by the companion when the dog lost his rear legs to another humanity in a hurry. The return of the companion is the return of a miracle of the heart, the way. We should care for humans in such a way.  Then would humanity blossom. A Night In Rio For Christmas dinner, a blind man sings Verdi's Requiem.   We are served on occasion pasteis, heart of palm, bolinoes, bauchalau de portuguesa, and sweet beer. Colors change as we descend to lower levels  in tunnels approaching speed without movement. We leave the strong pull of waves  on the edge of youth and the eternal. The piano player is heckled to his amusement. Christmas is in his hands. We depend on his talent or we are not fed.   Largo Machado And The Wheel of Law We return to silence and space. The father and mother die  as prescribed in the wheel of law. Without the dark,  there can be no light. Wait for a bus that never comes and you end up taking a taxi. Many women of beautiful design, exotic and a smile genuine. The Many are too far and the One is not seen or fully appreciated. She complains of lack of sleep  and no time. We return to silence and space even in Largo Machado! The third eye is open in Brazil . We navigate without looking. There are hard mountains and soft threads that lead through tunnels to warm sands on the edge of the eternal. There are pleasant sights  to soften the features as we navigate without looking, eyelids half closed. Without seeing, all is beautiful.   Travel Far The earth is round.   The sun and stars are round. Nature seeks a circle  in the seasons and the planets. Travel far to return home.   Memorial Park Parade The arms and feet move in graceful arcs in response to the sun and celestial storehouse. The legs shift on centers low in mother earth's womb of iron. With magnetic currents, we migrate the treasure of emptiness that is never consumed. Silk tentacled seeds signal the nascent state in an impromptu tickertape parade.   East Meets West Tai Chi Prayer Tai Chi is a prayer of unity of spirit to be with God in heaven as in a catechism memory. We learn to follow the will of God as in a joyous dance of a St. Francis story. The holy spirit of breath is united with blood and mind. We appreciate the unfolding of creation  in yin and yang, empty and full, negative and positive, centripetal and centrifugal, all of a kind. We blend our center with the center of the earth and the insubstantial pull of heaven. Our root sinks in accordance with nature from center to center in a flow  that is balanced and even. Electromagnetic fields increase the current in a prayer of slow even streams in which we breathe. It is a prayer, a holy sacrifice to peace and unity. A Prayer Without Words Is the peace of God found  in the silent desert beyond the senses? Is a better prayer,  a prayer without words? Perhaps in the quiet of the desert we find the eternal stillness that empties  into the rivers of life. Food is no longer a blinding obsession, but the bread of life. Power and glory fade in the honesty of the sun. Miracles are a matter of course when heaven and earth are united. The eternal compliments the temporal  without boasting. Moon of the Liver Burn lewd, lascivious thoughts, anger, and resentment on the sacrificial altar of your center, the seat of the soul, the gate to emptiness. Watch the burnt offering with the third eye turned inward, the eyelids half closed, the word without and within blending, the worry of time dismissed. The steam of spirit rises  when the heart of fire and breath of life  boil water guarded by the golden gates and watched over by the moon of the liver.  Remember The Door Of Forgetfulness On one side of the door, we do not know who we are; where we came from; or how we are connected if there is a connection. On the other side of the door, we feel like shouting, "How many times do we have to remind you? Take your memories of connectedness and  the center when you  embark on your journey to the other side," but something is lost in the translation. It is heard, but not listened to. It is disregarded for anxiety and greed. We do not take heed of the wind's audible clarity. It speaks to us one way as it finds its way through a hallow log. It orchestrates myriad signs in the dervish leaves of autumn. How could we miss the peace that is nowhere hidden but is preoccupied clutter?   One Great Leap For A Frog Leaves fall. Trees remain. We nourish. We fall in a vast silence. What remains; remains. A frog leaps in the ancient pond. Some say there was a sound. Some say it went this way or sounded another way. The frog does not have time for this. He does not care if the ripple in the water is proof. There could be danger in the water. Do we need a sign or a politician? Who wrote this? I cannot write, so it was not me. Perhaps it was the frog who after all did not jump  in the ancient pond, but allows us to jump in for him. The lazy frog, did not do his part, leaving sages in disrepute.   Famous Art If fame replaces art, art is dead. There is no culture, only fame, a form of friction, a form of screeching for attention. With culture gone,  science fills the void with gadgets.   Holy Thursday The unseen supports all. The skeleton supports the body, yet it is not seen. It is unknown and unnamed, yet we give it a name. Many skeletons support history  and tell us it is true even onto the end of you. I have seen skeletons in closets. I have copied their abstraction to touch and connect with unknown memories, a history of art,  and you. The air I breathe is  the air Caesar and Christ breathed. The nourishment of bread is their body and blood and me and you. It is communion, transubstantiation, the empty self. A Child's Day In The Sun The fish are ragged in the soup of the bay. Tension tries them with the hooks of commerce.  For how would we live without all that they say.   Yes, we are blessed they babble and bumble in a terse way. The sea is not like the dew of the day, not fresh,     not at all slight or silvery. It is the warning of time and all that is washed off.   The dew is the children of the slavery    of the selfish sun, which scoff's.   A scorching sorrow she engulfs,    which I would not trade for the threatening air. I give my life to the survivors of the sun fare    that life will not be so short or shallow as the dew. We caught the sun and jailed her in our hearts,    so the dew would flourish. The promise of each drop spread joy to the sea's     proud embrace of the world that would perish. An Unusual Day at the Doctor's Office It was an unusual day at the doctors office.  I was diagnosed with a case of skin cancer.  It was not malignant, but required treatment. I was surprised to find the doctor dressed uncharacteristically in blue jeans, chaps, engraved leather boots, and an embroidered shirt fastened with pearly snaps.  His assistant was similarly dressed, but in a manner that became her gender. I was briefed on the procedure, which I understood was a new procedure that incorporated some holistic approaches to heal the whole person.  Even the attire of the physician was meant to stimulate the positive healing effects of the mind. The procedure would actually take place outside, in the back of the building, where the negative influence of the sterile clinic would be shed. The back of the building led to a courtyard, which on three sides were placed bleachers.  In the middle of the courtyard was a tall wooden pole about two feet in diameter and rounded on the top and sides. It must have been about seven feet tall judging by my experience with it. I was directed to strip to the waist. When I protested that this was a very unusual procedure, the doctor talked brusquely about the limits of science, and if I didn't want a recurrence of the disease, I should submit totally to his will in this matter. I could not argue that I spent many years in medical school, so I somewhat warily removed my shirt to expose the cancerous cells on my back. I was then directed to embrace the before mentioned pole with both hands clasped together on the opposite side.  No sooner than I complied, my hands were bound expertly by the assistant, who must have had considerable practice, judging by the rapidity of her skill.  At the same time, I was gagged from behind. I heard the door open and close numerous times as gradually the bleachers filled.  I heard the doctor greeting colleagues with great enthusiasm as they entered. It wasn't long before the doctor asked for silence and began an introductory speech. "In the past, some few ascetics discovered the healing powers of the mind.  Martial arts, because of the dangers involved, heightened awareness of practitioners, which awareness could be harnessed for healing as well as for defense.   "Saints have been enlightened through hardship and persecution.  They in turn discovered a means of healing beyond anything we have been able to achieve with science up until our current day. "With the aid of the most powerful computers, we have secured the secrets of faith healers, martial artists, and saints in one simple procedure that is more effective than any medicine or surgery to date. "Until deemed unnecessary to protect the skeptical public, we keep our clinics and hospitals as necessary fronts to prevent hysterical reactions to the discovery of truth.  Are you with me, Mr. Riley?" At this he removed the gag, and I said somewhat unconvincingly that I was.  In truth I was totally confused and did not know what to say or do, not that I had much choice in the matter.  My hands were firmly tied and the pole I embraced was firmly anchored to the ground. Let us begin," bellowed the doctor. The assistant on cue lit a cigarette and took a puff.  She produced a minor amount of ashes which were suddenly and unnervingly whacked off with the acutely accurate snap and crack of a bullwhip, wielded expertly by the doctor. Then the whip was turned on my back, and unrelentingly applied. "Are you with us, Mr. Riley?" I heard the doctor through searing pain.  I screamed as if to release my spirit from the tortured body, "Yes! Just stop!" The torture continued until I felt a rhythm.  I felt feverish.  I sweated.  I cried. "Are you a man, Mr. Riley?  Can you take it?" "I can take it." "No you can't.  'Man' is politically incorrect and I wouldn't be where I am today if I accepted such language from students without severely correcting them, just as I am correcting you, an impudent patient, Mr. Riley.  How can we have a diverse society if we go on using such a word.  I cannot even mention it.  It may be taken out of context, and then what, Mr. Riley!  I would not be able to run for office.  In other words, Mr. Riley, I am teaching you to be politically controlled in every utterance.  It is healing, Mr. Riley, to accept authority with humility in outdoing the self-effacement of man!  This will cure you, Mr. Riley!   "Are you a man?" I whimpered at this point and collapsed in a comma from which I am still recovering in a politically correct manner.  I try to cry to impress the doctor's assistant so she thinks I am sensitive enough to be released into public life.  I'm not sure what I said or wrote to deserve the threat of cynical scholarship or to be intimidated by the false criticism of the whip.  Even doctors employ knowledge and craft for recognition in society without regard to the source.  Contrived artificialities in the hands of maverick word police have replaced the natural order. The Dead Arrive Kierkegaard had quirks, which were frowned upon by native clerics. Always dressed the same without regard for the game, he went his dark way in disdain. Never too late, Fr. Beardsley  (since deceased) proclaimed sainthood  for his pain. This was the last I saw of the priest, parting on bad terms before the last chapter of his book. It was not a book  that many would take the time to read. The pages were stained with plumbing that leaked. Bones from The College of St. John's Western Civilization protruded from a sagging cover. His frame was propped up by a footing over lesser degrees. To pull it out at this late stage would be akin to grave mischief. Silence is always the best answer to know the source. Epic Heroes Wanted There is no Homer or epic hero, little less news coverage of our young heroes. Where is the story  of the training camps for terror  our young Perseus closed down severing the head of Medusa. Instead we relish the sterile numbers of mad media power brokers undermining  the glory of Independence over tyranny; the establishment of democracy  in the breeding grounds of terror; terrorists dead or in hiding; Syria in retreat without firing a shot; Lybia turns over a new leaf... "They can't lose from without, so I will win from within," says the Cracken. Who will hold up the head of Medusa  to expose the Cracken menace  as an empty block. When our writers only have hearts of rock, there is no word. The people despair. When Odysseus returns home, there is no one to recognize him in media rags and phony gags. Will he slay the suitors of approbation who have no souls? Where are the World War II heroes of today to cover the pages of our consciousness! They protect us so we might reach our potential! Where is our Patton, our Audie Murphy? Where is our Edward R. Murrow reporting from the front lines? Will Odysseus be forgotten by his bride? No Bridge to Time There once was a time, when a song opened a door. It was down the evening road to a water way. The monkey cigar trees were friends to boys there. A forbidden bridge was crossed no more. Memories were trapped in woods and sandy shores. Armies marched and desires scattered on flowing water. This world was made from war and one buried in silence. A door opened to terms of musical scores. No more is the heat in discord destroyed with disdain. The bridge that led to the yearnings of youth is guarded by fears of trespass. Shall we stand in defiance to yearnings proscribed with inflexibility? With the song dead, do we walk up or down the lane alone? Hunting Swans fly so far from frozen tundra to a song remembered on Southern bay and river. Is the door key hidden in their down turned wings? Let us fly in hurricane winds to biddings beyond our reach. Won't you listen even though we missed the door? Some Practical Advice for Ideologues Raised in churches of dictated crucibles of contention,  we build pious walls and church steeples, minarets, and red faces; Until a savior, a prophet, a seer, a bodhisattva valiantly strives to free us of fetters of hypocrisy. Ideologues fret and fight for righteous moral high ground from which to crush imagined foes. So we sew the seeds of defeat in setting ourselves up. Some practical wisdom from Tom Paine or Taoist priest may prove more useful in salvation than memorized tomes of strained and tenuous if clever rationale. Quiet the raging soul. Focus on breathing deep and beat the drum far down in the lower abdomen. Find the spirit in a point on the top of the head. Contend not but harmonize with the sounds of Ha and Hen. Bread is "The Body of Man" and he who shares is the presiding priest. It is not only the bread, but the water and wine, the skin of the room. A drawing is the touch of man. The moon and stars and all that is missing to make it so is the measureless expanse of a healthy soul. The smallest particles and the boundless spaces of worlds within worlds are the realm of countless mansions of the creative of many names that are nameless. Even so, let us not forget to gather in public places in the name of a savior, a prophet, a bodhisattva, the Great Spirit, that which cannot be explained or examined. It is missed with microscope and telescope and yet without it, nothing exists for the space could not give it a place to exist. What is given freely, unselfishly, in silence is truth. Slow Time Time passed slowly and gently  through unspoken consensus having discarded clocks  for a respite of peace in the quiet sanctuary  of manicured lawns. Not much changed along the road of stalwart oaks, catalyptus (haunting, wiry, and wormy),  dervish yew, proud pines who err in spiritual pride  if not worldly, tenacious and unassuming crape myrtle until it shares hope in heat, tough dogma dogwood and gentle flowing redbud (opponents but complimentary to create a grace giving space uniquely their own). Azaleas, rhododendrons,  roses hanging and dangling  and standing and thrusting in form, royal healing iris, many headed hydrangea,  dreamy poppy,  mountain laurel waiting humbly backstage,  burning bush whispering "I Am Who Am",  wisteria's rich facade of grapes, serene Japanese maple,  climbing clematis,  foxglove,  and honeysuckle's irresistible temptation for the ruby throated hummingbird --  All remain unchanged  to remind us what was lost; so many memories it is almost unbearable at times. Boxwoods remain in neat rows guarding weeping willow sanctuaries. The giant magnolias cloak in mystery their low limbs for a childhood fantasy. Crabapples and the prickly fruit of the Sweet Gum were the hand grenades and bombs of youth. The weeping cherry looms large and threatening. Herhe Her and me could not divide by none. The dishes on the wall, the fish tank empty, and window frills made one. Interlaced with words and frills are entanglements made. Undercurrents of proof of the superior qualities of I run deep in the undertows. In silence living by nature is accepted. Once, the walls were empty,  but the room was small. Bill of Rights in the Dark The Bill of Rights is kept in a dark room for viewers who can't read. Religious freedom is circumscribed in the public forum. Common sense is held hostage in the dark room of the letter of law. Schools are dark in the letter of law. The children are quite pale and few emerge  into the daylight  of genuine people, their spirit proscribed by the letter of law. They learn to say what they are prescribed to say, not what they think or the spirit guides them to say. Heroes without Stories We have turned our backs on our youthful heroes. Where is their story? We disgrace them from Viet Nam to Iraq with our tepid, grudging account  in sordid statistics  and ghoulish fascination  with the destruction of heroes, Jealous of sacrifice, the upstage, the ardent character we lack and live in fear of. Afraid we might lose our job, our propped up meaning. "If I don't go along with the proscribed education in self-flatulence, what would they say. What would happen to my tenure in the great manure pile of self-importance?" Courting the wife of Odysseus has its dangers, but we blind ourselves with desires and ambition. Thus prelates fall to pride and a well ordered guide. Editors crawl to power brokers on high. Professors chant sacred texts from comfy chairs. Would the honorable Chamberlain  of Civil War campaigns please step forward? Thus Lao-tzu said: "When people govern by inaction, this is contrived, and so it is harmful.  Those who govern by inaction are deliberately being inactive, and those who act in a deliberately contrived manner cannot be uncontrived.  Those who cannot be uncontrived cannot be creative. "If people say nothing but their spirits are talking, this is harmful.  If they say nothing but their spirits are putting on the act of saying nothing, this is harmful to the spirit that is spiritual."  -- Wen-tzu [30] Crime Against Nature By way of introduction, Matsuo Basho was a great haiku poet of the shogun period in Japan .  One of the most famous haiku poems was spontaneously composed by Basho, when, during a period of silence, he suddenly heard a sound.  The resultant poem embodies the spirit of Zen, which Christian theologians have praised as "the highest form of natural mysticism".  Zen meditation is also practiced in Christian monasteries, and is similar to Christ's retreat to the desert.  Baho's poem is as follows: Ancient Pond - frog-jump-in water-sound. You might say he expressed a leap of faith. Li Po is the other character described in this poem.  He was an ancient Chinese poet who described the convivial benefits of wine.  On a fateful cruise, he was admiring the reflection of the moon in the water, when he fell in and drowned. The two poets are opposites, but complimentary, like yin and yang.  Thus we can appreciate an acute awareness of relationships of all kinds, and that nothing is alone, nothing unimportant - Li Po to the moon said hello and fell into the reflection  to drown in his poem,  his life. Basho was a frog, who leapt into an ancient pond. All that was left was the sound of Li Po falling  in the reflection of Basho. The story goes Li Po was drunk, so did he know he was falling in Basho's poem or was it a deliberate attempt to upstage the frog, who was left behind all wet? At the trial, Li Po called Basho  as a surprise witness. Basho declared Li Po's innocence. His action was uncontrived. Even if inebriation was a factor, he was not an actor. An actor such as  the referenced frog could not create. Speaking was contrary to the nature  of the frog. The frog's insistence on the importance  of getting the story straight was self-serving and damaging of the spirit. The frog by consensus was condemned to willing compliance to jump in the ancient pond only to find himself  not having jumped in the pond by any reader who so chose to perpetuate the punishment  over and over again. Prometheus heard of the fate of the frog.  It didn't sound bad  considering he had to roll  a huge stone up a hill only to have it roll down again. Prometheus hopefully offered to exchange sentences with the frog,  but that story is for another time. Buddha with a Gestalt Gesture Buddha with a gestalt gesture passes the key to the heavenly gates. With a bud he elicits an "ha" to announce the kingdom of Zen , a scripture-less state. Hard to decipher a way without words, it eases the presence of Yahweh, a communion not proscribed by the pretense of a name  ascribed by proud clay. "The Spirit too helps us in our weakness, for we do not know how to pray as we ought; but the Spirit himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be expressed in speech.  He who searches hearts knows what the Spirit means, for the Spirit intercedes for the saints as God himself wills." - Romans 8, 26-27.  Young and Old Connect in New York City Watched over by machines of grace, we travel the Way to tall and gracious buildings. Ancestors whisper truth in silence, what is truly given in gears and wheels. In the Crompton Gallery, young and old witness contrasts emerging in energy from and understanding of light. Father and son witness sacred memories of marriage and change from primeval subways -  smoldering, sweltering. Long ago, prehistoric monkeys swing from strap to strap in the canopy of Banjo Jim's New York . On Wall Street, a violin master collected alms for the blending of past and present  in an impromptu temple comprised of surplus parachute and content youth. Long journey's  connect young and old from Italy , China , and Brazil within a few blocks.    Paradise Lost Eve ate from the tree of knowledge. She couldn’t stop talking about it. Adam lost his heavenly peace of mind. He said her tongue was like a serpent Or an archangel's sword Driving him to the brink. The neighbors, who could only grunt indecipherable grunts, lived in contentment and harmony amidst the heavenly canopy. They scratched their heads in awe and wonder, When they observed Adam desert his nest to get away from the pest. On the forest floor, Amidst dangers from wild boar, he made a ruckus banging rocks and sticks with hands that grew rough and sore. Soon he had a fortress formidable With sharp pikes to keep out Alasorus and the like. For weapons he fashioned deadly spears and clubs, With which he proclaimed haughtily he would rule the world. He anointed his sons, Cain and Able, princes, Who mocked and hunted their neighbors in the canopy. Able served them in a dish he called canapé. The missus was impressed and showed her favor,  Which Cain took amiss. In a rash move, Cain disabled Able, And inspired innumerable internecine squabbles. As knowledge grew and bright ideas blossomed, The neighbors were put to good use as slaves, Who dreamed of a lost paradise somewhere above. To this day, without dreams, we foolishly live on bread alone, And it is wise to avoid noisy people who drone. Busy people are not much better with guttural groans.  A Question of Change In a marriage, a house, and a baby carriage, The paramount question promotes and elevates a previous state of one. What is best for one on the heavenly quest becomes What is best for the sum In this situation or that conversation. Beyond simple elation and romantic airs, There are losses and crosses to help one through, Until the one ceases to exist.  The Fall of Music The music fell from the door. Now it lays dormant behind the screen, Where only sound is heard in volume. Horns blow; voices bellow. Having rebuilt the grandparents quiet home,  Wait for them patiently to come. One site is a farm with a pond. The other is a grand mansion built with freedom and patience. In one was a fiddle, in the other was a piano, but not a sound is heard.  If We Only Knew If we knew why we were thrown together at this appointed time and place,  We wouldn't know who we are, but why. We would be beyond ourselves, In a place beyond,  Which connects and not you or me, But a source of connection. Therefore, a pain without a body Would have no place to exist. Without pain and death, Life and health would not be precious. We would not exist  In this time and place. Who would miss us for why?  Presence Connect with the present wrapped in leather. The present is not wrapped in leather, but the receiver. The bearer of the present is neither external nor internal. Peak-a-boo is a favorite game of the eternal. Wrapped in the leather is nothing more extraordinary than dirt. It is effectively cleaned out with concentrated breath and a little grit. This procedure is attributed to the way of an ancient janitor, who created Adam, the first man. Breathing spirit into dirt was not his job, and he was let off with a warning to stick to the plan. Eve was his undoing. He tried to hide her in a garden, but she was impossible to control. She thought she was so smart, She created a sensation with a fashion she referred to as the fig leaf rock'n roll. There was such a commotion that the caretaker found out after all. He told the janitor to move to planet earth and take his creatures with him, though he didn't intend to be mean. That is why the earth is so dirty and we need to breathe in and out to keep clean. Toasted Having been a toaster On a number of occasions, I recommend a good rest after each toasting. Thereby one may attend in tranquility with garbled miscommunicating. Whether one serves as toaster of hot water bottle, to be discarded for the latest model may appear on the surface to not matter. A premature and unnatural disconnection may seem most expedient and expand or inflate an ego. We may put on blusterous fronts and steely masks. The truth lays hidden, however, in discarded heaps of human convenience sites.  Great Mystic The greatest Taoist never wrote a book or contrived to be famous. This priest of priests offered the self-deceiving "I" to the universe and the universe offered guidance in return. In the end, there was no "I" to offer in sacrifice, no separation between you and me. In this manner, the accusers and executioner were cheated. Scientists in their expert opinion explained this missed communication and tragic consequence fit in with their theory that everything tends towards chaos. If this is so, everything must be chaos by now or at least seem so from a limited view of the universe.  How Many Limited Views Does It Take to Make a Universe? An opinion is a limited view of a person who is not significant enough to be visible to the naked eye from a relatively short distance.  Even the noise of many opinions, which may come closer to the truth in a greater consensus, can't be heard clearly in the next room.  One observer's opinion may describe the tail of the elephant as an accurate description of the animal.  Another may describe the tusks, and so on.  Even though they each have a particular understanding of the truth, none of them are able to understand the whole truth and the ephemeral air of words can hardly be expected to carry the weight of an elephant.  Since each faithful observer is convinced that they own the truth as they experienced it, they believe all of the others are infidels and should be destroyed to prove their point.   A Tribute to Higher Ed    I remember the white and withering winter wind of tall coastal cities. With little to protect me from the forces of amplified cold, I grew to know in an intimate way, the lofty blustering of erudition at NYU. Thus wayward lust was tempered by lowly temperatures waiting in ambush with an airbrush to obfuscate and eradicate images of self-gratification. Seeking the Wayfarer's wisdom in wind of a greater breath, I broadened my esoteric studies in Boston U's bombastic blasts. Disguised as a student of the wheel of law, I reflected in repose on an uncompromising floor of granite. With a thick tome as pillow in the stairwell of aspiring barrister, I absorbed the day's literal lessons. Associate Professor Gravity impressed me with the meaning of relentless pressure in an uncompromising truth. Thanks to my down to earth advantage of higher education, I can now appreciate the true significance of a warm and cozy bed.   For the Birds I have read the birds. It did not entail entrails. The black raven heckled and taunted, crooned and cajoled, threatened and haunted. He did not care for the risky toil to harvest his feed. If you hear the raven, it is better to find safe haven. Hawks in unlikely places apparently betray some omen. One, in particular, in Grand Army Plaza , upon ascent from subterranean transport, was perched in leafless tree of historic root unseen. Invisible was beleaguered troops calling still for support. Years pass and the hawks appear more incessantly along paths and more obviously in branches above my home. Could it be said more clearly? What battle am I to lead? Why so long to send an answer? Are the battles within the only kind?   The Conundrum of the Writer We gather from the extremities of the eight directions. We are whirling dervishes with a whomp. Practice until all that is left is the center. We owe this to our illustrious ancestors. Honor and respect are due the Powhatan, the early settlers. They mixed and mingled in whirlpools of misunderstanding. The truth and beauty is often laborious and spotted with bloodshed. The sad