held harmless

If anyone or anyplace needs indemnification, it's Planet Harm. To indemnify: compensate for a hurt or injury; or to protect one against hurt or harm. From Latin, indemnis, unhurt. Here it gets tricky for us Harmlings. Who among us can be counted among the unhurt? Exactly. No one. That doesn't mean we're on a level playing field of harm. No, no, no. Harm glides on a continuum starting from the first infinitesimal, granular speck away from unhurt or unharm all the way to the end of the harm continuum: a nightmare beyond words or imagination. Worse than that, is there an endpoint to the harm continuum? Harmlings can always go darker, conjuring up new brews of bruises and agonies. 

Then again, surely it's not linear. Our paths of harm are zigs and zags, spins and turns, halts and balks. Same with unharm.

Let's not be so bleak. If we are to think that way about the worst of us, or the worst of the inclinations of any of us, then we should go to the other end of the spectrum. When does harmless leach into harm? In other words, who says anything or anyone is pure unhurt/unharm or pure hurt/harm? And whoever said it's static or immutable?

In real life on Planet Harm, it's typically, if not always, more gray. Harm competes and blends with unharm. Unharm flirts with harm; they may have a dalliance here or there. Unhurt and hurt, harmless and harm, might sport in the same bed in some riotous rampage of intertwining. They may even breed offspring. Or it might be more subtle than that: harmless and harm might merely exchange glances, or shake hands, or briefly embrace, or catch a cold from each other, a virus of harmlessness infecting harmfulness, or vice versa.

This is getting too confusing. The point is: it ain't all black or white.

We'll end on a buoyant note, a lifting of spirits, a poetic hymn to what Harmlings aspire to, sometime somehow somewhere:

Held harmless.

In the bosom of love. In a mother's arms. A father's grip. Embraced in the night. Sheltered from the storm. Under the brooding wing. Behind the fortress walls. Held harmless. Held without question or qualification. Held without cost or payment. Beyond all doubt, merit, or fear. Less harm. Free of harm. Banished. Forgotten harm. Erased. Ambrosia d'amnesia.  

 

the charm offensive

We've all done it. We've all done it, knowingly or not; with the best, or the worst, of intentions. (As the aphorism puts it, "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.") We've all done what? We've wrapped ourselves in munificent intentions as a cloak of armor against giving or receiving harm. You've gone on The Charm Offensive, haven't you? Be more specific, you say. "Give us some examples we can remember, that we can take to the metaphorical moral bank, the one that kept open our bankrupt accounts in the hope the tide would turn," the populace proclaims.

The Charm Offensive.

The Charm Offensive wears a multitude of disguises, a whole wardrobe of masquerades projecting delight or fright. 

Such as what?

The compliment that distracts from a slight. The gift that's not a gift at all but a barter for something in return. A bouquet of penance or regret. The trinket of triumph over trouble, a trouble you inflicted. A totem of praise that diverts from the scars in the skin you carved. The ancient and venerable talisman that is in reality fake-shiny and store-bought, on sale. A poem that is a paean to their virtue or their pain (words you borrowed, copied, or rephrased without guile or shame). The fragrance of forgiveness, perfectly blended with its perfectly prescribed olfactory vocabulary. A portrait of her/him/them for the ages, commissioned by you and painted by a new generation of the Old Masters. An anthem of solidarity and compassion that you can hum--to yourself--on a starless, sleepness night in the small hours.

Yes, you know full well The Charm Offensive that serves as a juggernaut before which all negativity throws itself in abandon under the wheels of killing kindness, the juggernaut festooned with hibiscus and roses pulled by ropes gripped by all the devotees of your wounds, unstoppable as it cascades downward.

Is this what Planet Harm wants or needs?

saving grace

you know, I saved a baby
what do you mean you saved a baby; from what?
it was choking
it was choking?
it was choking, a newborn
where?
I don't know where
what do you mean you don't know where, what?
even if I knew I wouldn't tell you
stop playing games
what games? 
so, tell me
tell you what?
what happened
I was working at 911, the mother called
and...
and I walked her through it, what to do
like what?
turn the baby over, pound the back
pound?
well, not exactly pound
so it worked?
it did
it did?
yes, thank God
or thanks to you
both
both?
both me and God
the three of you?
yeah, okay, then, sure, me, Mom, and God
the baby, too
true, why not, throw the baby in there, too
saving grace
if you say so
I do
fair enough
was that her name?
hunh?
Grace
I don't know, I never found out
good story
it's not a story
but it is
if you say so

petitioning the desert fathers and mothers

The Zen Dads and Zen Moms barely walked barefoot into the desert. Their silent footsteps and stilled voices echoed against the dunes. For the curvilinear tawny dunes, picture, the landscape of Lawrence of Arabia. 'It is written.' By accident or providence, the barefoot pilgrims discovered the Holy City of Lightanddark. They commingled and communed with the Desert Fathers and Desert Mothers. The sands were hot, the nights cold. Our protagonist applied to join the community in the desert among the dunes. Only by invitation, he was told. What was on the application, he asked. A portfolio of pain, a paean of penance, a prostrate petition, he was told. This is not the French Foreign Legion, he was warned. You don't enlist, we don't recruit. The hardest question on the application (which existed neither on paper nor on digital atoms) consists of: why? Our applicant surmised this would be a cinch. Easy. Yet he was forewarned. No whining, self-pity, or quixotic gestures toward finding oneself. Skip the escape rhetoric, the confession, or the absolution. The self-actualization crap. Our fallen hero wanted to join, even if momentarily out on the periphery, along the outer borders that required a Passport of Perfidy. The chasm between then and now, between her and him. Hesychasm. Sacred stillness silence. I want to be honed, carved, cured, our triumphant warrior wailed. There is no cure, there is no cause, replied the palindromic Abba (Father). I want to be whittled, reduced, spared, declared the supplicant-applicant. There are no words, smiled the recursive Amma (Mother). Iconic. Dolorous. It is not to hide but to expose, not to lose but to find, implored our narrator. Let me dry out, sober up, be salved, o saviors, prayed our petitioner. Why, the Abba and Amma intoned speechlessly. Read my lips. Quiet. White sands. Ascetic fasting, paring down through prayer, alms as balms. 'Though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed.' The desert monks and nuns, in a chorus cried, Cities of the night, metropolises, subway roars; there's your desert for you. Dig in. Delight. Yet the applicant seeking to join the Settlement of Sandy Silence persisted. Let me be hewn, tell me how, he said. And waited. 

fine vs. not so fine

The recent suicides of celebrities Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain have spurred a discussion on mental health, or mental hygiene, if you prefer, which is good, right? Some people close to these poor unfortunates have expressed surprise at these suicides; some have not. 

We register surprise at these tragedies because of the mismatch between outer appearances and inner feelings.

Is an outward show of happiness an American trait? When I traveled to foreign countries or if I have engaged in conversation with foreign visitors here, more than once I have heard them mock our cheeriness, our brightness. One person pointedly criticized our chirpy "have a nice day" or "how are you." They were British.

We say we're fine, don't we?

The first reason people do that is out of a social convention. Rarely would someone reply to a co-worker in the hallway asking how you are with a literal sob story or anything more than a superficial declaration of fineness. The troubled person doesn't want to be unseemly or overly personal with another who is not much more than an acquaintance, even if the two work side by side eight hours a day five days a week.

By virtue of their training and their mission, sales representatives often exude an avalanche of bonhomie. It evidences the power of positive thinking, in the mold of Dale Carnegie, who wrote the transformative best-seller and whose legacy involves courses and practices.

These are understandable social norms. 

I couldn't tell you whether Americans are different from anyone else on these matters. 

But what if one is not fine?

What are the avenues to travel, the resources to tap? I don't mean help lines, though I suspect they offer measurable value and life-saving tools.

In rooms where people seek recovery from addiction and other malaises, some try to subvert the facade that masks unhappiness by saying f-i-n-e stands for "fucked-up [or frustrated] insecure needy enraged." Variations include  "... neurotic emotional," "needy egotistical," and assorted alternatives. 

And they say, "You're as sick as your secrets."

What's the solution?

Not being a mental health professional, I don't know. I doubt the answer is to be exceedingly frank, candid about secrets, and self-revealing at the drop of a hat. But I would say it's critical to talk to someone, anyone, especially a confidant, a trusted friend.

I recently watched the last several episodes of "Mad Men." If anyone ever needed help, it was Don Draper/Dick Whitman. Near the end, he was suicidal: gone, lost, wandering, meandering, searching, driving through America's heartland to save his own heart.

His escape, his flight, didn't work.

Not exactly.

Remember what did work?

Don/Dick witnesses another man in the same kind of grave pain he is in. In a therapy group, the man tells his story and then collapses into sobs. Don/Dick watches, moved to his core, and walks over and hugs the man for all he's worth, with all he has. Don/Dick is saved by a perfect (very imperfect) stranger, another wounded man just like him, a man who felt invisible to those around him. Don/Dick ferociously embraces the weeping man and also breaks down himself.

So it wasn't a matter of talking.

It was a matter of being there -- literally, being present.

And from what we could see, it saved Draper/Whitman, and presumably the Weeping Man as well.

Something happened.

And why for those two, and not the two mentioned at the top, is a mystery.

ad newseam

Since the time I followed baseball box scores, at the age of six, I've been a news hound. I devoured something we called "the news." My older brother and I would hungrily await the afternoon delivery of The (Stamford) Advocate, hand it to our father, just home from work at the factory, and then respectfully wait for him to drop the sports section (or any other section, for that matter) after he finished reading it. "Current Events," another name for news, was always my best subject in school all the years before high school, and I was the best in that subject, long before trivia games that featured "current events" became popular. Lately? Not so much. As John Lennon lamented in song, "I read the news today, oh boy." Oh boy is right. What does the Gospel of Matthew say, "wars and rumors of war"? Oh, we've gone beyond wars, rumors of wars, all right. Beheadings, slaughter, burnings, torture, suicide bombings, and myriad forms of mayhem and carnage. Yes, these woes are not new to the human form except in the particulars. But lately I want to avert my eyes . . . and ears and so forth. It does not mean I want to be oblivious to the suffering and travails of the human condition. Though when I was younger, it used to be that this knowledge, these informations, somehow led to more empathy on my part, whether I was moved to action or thought. Was that so? Me, a news nut. Driving around in the car, always sure to catch the NPR news on the hour, if I'm listening to the radio, and not a music CD. Not so much. Not today. Burying my head in the sand, you say? Sounds like the latest atrocity.

shaking the snow globe

In "The Trip Treatment" by Michael Pollan in The New Yorker, the author cites neuroscientist Robin Carhart-Harris, saying, "It is striking that a single psychedelic experience -- an intervention that Carhart-Harris calls 'shaking the snow globe' -- should have the power to alter these patterns in a lasting way."

Shaking the snow globe.

Has your snow globe ever been shaken? What would shake it, freeing the crystalline flakes of ineffable beauty such that nothing in the globe of consciousness were ever quite the same again?

Shaking the snow globe.

Spiritual cataclysm, sobriety, submission, complete defeat, spiritual rebirth, surrender, love, mysticism, pharmaceutical redemption, satori, enlightenment, dharma, meditation, mercy, metanoia.

A Simple Twist of Fate

This will be hard to explain, but I'll try. I solipsistically did a Yahoo search of my real name (not my nom de plumage). Results? 2,000 hits, most inaccurate in their attribution, which I find amusing. Around hit number 700, there was a link for a poetry magazine I had long ago forgotten. The link apparently provides digital archives (or maybe just an index) of all the issues of the magazine, going back over 40 years. My name shows up, on an endlessly long and unreadable litany of names, many of them literary lights, right next to a former poet laureate of the United States, side by side, as if we are rubbing elbows, literarily and metaphorically speaking. (I actually met the guy about 18 months ago at an event, and he signed a book of his poems that a friend had sent me as a gift. You already know I am a shameless name-dropper, but not as bad as my brother, methinks. Isn't it a sign of neurotic low self-esteem?) I had something published in the magazine in 1967, the datastream tells me. A poem. A vague memory tells me that contributors had to pay to get into this poetry press's anthology. I would probably cringe now at what I wrote, but I'm still curious. Then, after my name, the website reports that the celebrated poet published something in the magazine in 2006, if I'm reading the streaming run-on river of data correctly. Earlier in the stream is the maiden name of my son's new bride. Sheeeesh! What next? The date, hour, and minute of my death? On the surface, none of this is the least bit noteworthy or remarkable. It is so obvious: We all have K at the outset of our last names. A simple-enough explanation. So what? you say. Big deal. But it all struck me as eerily coincidental, even providential. It creeped me out, as if it was fore-ordained that these connections should occur. It reminded me of the saying "Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous." But if I allow that the connections and their discovery may've been providential, why did it scare me? Is my faith that shallow? And, after all, are the connections more alphabetical than coincidental? Are they more alphanumerical than providential? Or is it all a modern personal message of the Alpha and the Omega? And, if so, how do I decode it?

Photo by Matej "Dedek" Batha; at least, I surmise as much.