11 years ago today, Sarah and myself dressed up (not something I do often, preferring to feel rather than look good), grabbed my sister (known that day as �The Witness�) and headed to the San Jose court house where, between criminal hearings, a judge pronounced us man and wife. We had joined ourselves through a ritual of blood two years before and this trip to the halls of justice was made simply to ratify our union in the eyes of the law. Except for the law and my sister, nobody knew that we had tied the knot for many months. Why? That, perhaps, is another story. . .

This anniversary will, of course, be marked by the two of us. The real anniversary, however, is not until September 30 � the day of our first actual date, the first time we held our hands one in the other, the night on which our lips first touched (they have seldom been apart since). Can it really be 13 years gone? Almost. . .

But today is 11 and I find myself wondering if my old friend, Dan, recalls the bet we made some time before I met Sarah. I was a pessimistic, angst ridden and occasionally self-destructive young man who never imagined a world capable of producing the woman of my dreams. In fact, I wagered against it. Dan, old man, if you are reading this (and even if you�re not), I owe you $1.00 and I am glad to pay up.

Now a fragment from a dog eared notebook of mine from 11-13 years ago in which I mused upon the hopelessness of turning my meager talents to the task of describing in verse the woman I married:

I wonder if it is artistic excess or mere stupidity? Certainly my poetic license has done expired, null and void at my first attempt to describe, in dull and clumsy words, the essence of a woman whose beauty and life leave me breathless and speechless with tears in my eyes.

Sarah, beloved, will you marry me again?

One more reason why The Bush Administration scares me much more than any threat of so called terrorism:

Ahscroft's call for Camps for American citizens.

Green was the color of the world, it seemed.

After walking so long that day, our feet lifted by plush emerald grass, our heads sheltered by those strange frond like leaves, the rods and cones of our eyes grew attuned to the particular frequency of light that was green. It was not that other colors ceased to impress us, the reddish brown that was the bark of the Pallin Trees and the flashing indigo wings of the occasional ziggurat wisp, for instance, merely accentuated their respective innate greeness previously unguessed. Hours passed in this world of green as we made our way through the wood. Many miles had passed beneath our feet, and many Pallin leaves above our heads, when Val stopped and placed her hand on my shoulder.

"Water", she said, "do you hear it?"

As if in reply to her query there came to my ears the faint tinkle and splash of what must have been Mander Creek as it wound it's serpentine way through the Valley and toward it's tumultous and white capped rendevous with the River Vika.

"After all this green," laughed Val, "it sounds so silvery!"

I could think of no better word to describe the shimmering silver line that ran through my head and all of the verdant greenery that had filled it for so long. "Are we on time?" I wondered.

Val glanced at her wrist then peered up, as if to pierce the thatch of frondy leaves that had so long been our sky. "Don't know," she admitted. "Can't judge by the sun because I can't see it, and my watch stopped hours ago."

I glanced at her as she spoke then looked more closely. "Val," I whispered, "your clothes. . ."

She gazed down the length of herself and laughed a laugh as silvery as the voice of the distant creek. Her khaki shorts and black cotton sweatshirt had been replaced. . . no, not replaced. They had metamorphosed into a garment the likes of which I had never before seen or even imagined - a kind of blousy gown, faintly luminous it seemed, golden and lushly green in color and composed of some marvelous organic compound which consisted somehow of the grass and the trees and the sound of the creek splashing beyond the wood. The sensible sneakers on her feet had become some kind of leafy amber sandals, dimly glowing.

Even as I blinked and laughed myself before the vision she had become, she pointed a slender finger in my direction. Following the line of her gesture I discovered myself to be clad in similar magical style. My trousers and sweater were gone. A luminous foliage made itself my dress and a sudden exhilaration swelled in my breast and found voice through my lips.

"I think we're right on time!" I exclaimed, moving forward once more and passing a cluster of thick trunked Pallin Trees to see the house behind them.

"It's huge," whispered Val, at my side now and gripping my hand.

I gazed at the small building, surely no more than two rooms, constructed of wood and pale stone, and wondered what was beyond the oaken door and darkened window that faced us across the glade.

Sure the preceding is copyrighted, Richard Cody 2002, but if you read the piece through it is just as much yours as mine now. After all, it's in your head too. So you tell me - what happens next?

Like a solid rock is not shaken by the wind, so the wise are not moved by praise or blame.

- The Dhammapada, chapter 6, verse 81, translated by John Richards -

The verse above is one of the most powerful in all of the Buddhist literature I have read thus far in my tiny life. I suppose I find it so because, as a writer and creative type in general, I am burdened by an ego the size of an overweight bull elephant. An ego this size is not a useful accessory for one who is interested in attaining oneness with the universe. The reams of rejection letters that poured in when I began submitting my work to prospective publishers helped to deflate the beast, as have my Zen/Buddhist studies and the growing realization that artistic expression itself is a means to wholeness and Universal accord. Certainly, the big E has diminished in size over the years (it was once the size of a sperm whale, after all!) but it remains hearty and hungry.

As evidence of this last point I offer my reactions to the votes I have recieved on this blog since adding the Bloghop voting apparatus below and to the left. In the couple of weeks or so since adding this feature I have garnered (to date) 15 votes - ranging from "love it" to "hate it". Yes, you guessed it. . . I have been pleased by the positive votes and unhappy with the negative. While it is true that these essentially meaningless votes (anonymous and with no means of indicating what the voter liked or disliked) neither ruined nor made my day, I was nonetheless surprised at the strength of the feeling roused in that quivering ego of mine. Somebody enjoyed my blog! How dare they say my blog sucks! And I thought I had conquered this particular ego trap through my review writing experiences at Amazon, where one's reviews are voted helpful or not according to the whims of on-line shoppers.

As I write these words (fresh from my head to this screen!) it occurs to me that I ought to be questioning my motives for placing the voting link on this blog in the first place. Was I merely seeking attention and/or approval of some kind? Very likely. Was it, perhaps, done according to some unconscious desire on my part to test myself, to see whether or not my big 'ol ego would react?

I don't know but I like the latter answer best.

Bumper sticker spotted on the San Francisco Bay Bridge:

You fuck with us
We fuck with you
God bless America
(obligatory image of the Stars and Stripes follows this succinct and reactionary tribal credo)

It is clear from our reaction to the events of 9/11 that the above referenced adhesive declaration is all too true if not completely accurate. It is clear from Bush Jr.'s policy regarding Iraq, for instance, that we will f**k with you regardless of what you have or have not done to us. In fact, we are very likely to f**k with you if we have something to gain by said f**king, oil markets for instance.

As for God blessing America. . .

I can only assume that George W. and the driver of the decorated vehicle (an unknown large pick-up truck, no gun rack visible but this is The Bay Area!) are worshipping Mars, Odin or some other jealous and vengeful God of War - most likely, given the Judeo-Christian leanings of this country, the Old Testament Yaweh.

As Sarah points out:

"While it seems to be a truism that people end up looking like their dogs, it seems equally true that their gods end up looking like them."

serpentine

ballerinas


slither


gracefully


through


my


ballroom

The following spam from my old friend ted@tytcorp.com was waiting for me when I opened my in box this evening:

I wanted to touch base with you...
are you still looking to find a Home-Based Business?

Look this over: replicapages.com

A few details:
- BUILD YOUR BUSINESS ON AUTOPILOT with our Online Lead Generation and Marketing System.

- WORLD WIDE business... in over 170 Countries.

- It's totally AUTOMATED AND CUSTOMIZED TO YOU.

- You'll never believe what it does.

- There's nothing like it on the net!

If you have e-mail, chances are you have already seen this message or one much like it. I find myself wondering what, if any, logic is behind that opening couplet. Do the authors of this come-on anticipate that a majority of their recipients, victims of short term memory loss or some form of brain damage all, will think that they actually know this person who "wanted to touch base with" them? Perhaps the spammers are not really trying to fool anyone and believe their message will be construed as an error, mistakenly sent to the wrong address or somehow misrouted in the highways and byways of cyberspace.

Could it be that this is actually an effective means of advertising due to the hoards of folks, especially those susceptible to spam messages, who might be tempted by the mention of a "Home-Based Business"?

I don't know and, despite the length of this post, I don't care.

Hmmm. . . reminds me of a song by World Entertainment War - what is the difference between apathy and ignorance?

"Evidence that people can communicate with each other using thought transference has emerged from ground-breaking research in Scotland, it was claimed last night."

- Science experiment picks up telepathic �signals�-

I know what you're thinking. . .

They may have broken some ground in Scotland, you say to yourself, but has not that territory been well travelled by people and groups such as J B Rhine and The CIA, as well as scores of pets and their owners?

Well, sure, but the cult of Science is an exacting one and requires much verification and reproducible results before it will allow new theories into it's cannon.

Today marks the six month anniversary of Notes From a Life in Progress and I would like to mark the date with a selection from the better late than never department. Digging into the filing cabinet, I pull forth this post from February 17, 2002 in which I erroneously reffered to the propietor of abuddhas (one of the first blogs I discovered and, perhaps, the first to link me) as Dr. Menlo when, in fact, the paradigm busting abuddhas is merely hosted by the paradigm shattering Dr. Menlo. Tony (sorry, Tony, I don't know your last name) is the man behind the curtain at abuddhas and I hereby stand corrected.

When I have the time I will actually edit that old post and change names accordingly.

The good news: Sarah's surgery occurred as planned and without incident (fortunately we saw a recent program on the History Channel featuring anesthesia horror stories after the operation). What's more, despite some residual pain in the left leg due to the severity of nerve damage, the microdiskectomy was successful.

The bad news: Because we were living in Florida and not paying California state taxes during the arbitrary period of time which the State of California reviews for wage and tax information ( which they use to calculate disability payments), Sarah is inelligible for California State disability insurance. Because eating and living indoors are pretty high on our list of basic needs, Sarah now finds herself in a position of cutting short her convalesence by at least a week and returning to work sooner than health, love, and doctor's orders would advise. This is particularly galling in light of the fact that for sixteen or more years before our ill conceived Florida detour, Sarah worked hard, paid her taxes and never once utilized the system of support we need now.

I hope you don't mind
the good news first
and the bad last.

It is simply my inclination
to save the worst
for the last.

"Whether or not you believe in the paranormal may depend entirely on your brain chemistry. People with high levels of dopamine are more likely to find significance in coincidences, and pick out meaning and patterns where there are none."

-Paranormal beliefs linked to brain chemistry, New Scientist-

According to the sources at Dictionary.com, one of the prime definitions of paranormal is that which is "beyond scientific explanation" or "not in accordance with the laws of science". With this definition - and abnormal amounts of dopamine - in mind, I must say that I am a believer in the paranormal. I must be so whether or not I believe in Faeries or telepathy simply by virtue of the fact that I do not believe in the infallability of science nor even in the possibility that science is capable of telling us everything about the universe in which we dwell. Science is without doubt a useful tool in the measuring of man and the cosmos and in the improvement of life quality, but in the way that it reduces everything to the material it is also a dangerous one. Science, I am sure, is fully capable of telling us the how of things but not the why.

I would like to suggest the following edit to the final sentence of the above excerpt:

"People with high levels of dopamine are more likely to find significance in coincidences, and pick out meaning and patterns where there are none apparent to those with low levels of dopamine"

The urge to update this old blog (not too old, actually - 6 months of age in just about six days) is upon me and a certain window of time in which to do so has opened before me. As I sit here at the keyboard, however, I find that I am simply not in the mood (despite the aforementioned urge) to discuss recent events either personal or global, nor yet am I currently inclined to discourse on any number of subjects that might take my fancy. What's a blogger to do?

Perhaps this is a good time for the second installment of The Paper Trail, the proposed series highlighting some of the less embarrasing writings from my late teenage years. Yes, perhaps it is.

Todays entry is a short one. Enjoy and please remember these pieces are presented as originally penned with no prettying up or editing.

The Paper Trail

"Come on home." said the little man "We ain't got nothing but love for you."

The slimy green blob regarded the little man and decided it would be best to eat.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!" said the little man.

R. Cody 2002

unable to load,
frustration has a new name -
error 503

Early this morning, Sarah will be going to the hospital where I was born in San Jose to find some kind of relief under a surgeon's knife. Read this post if you don't know why.

The first light of dawn will find us at the hospital. Not a good way to start the day unless you work there.

The performing doctor tells us that the procedure of removing disks from the spine is a fairly common one - but then, he's a neurosurgeon.

Happy thoughts and well wishes are appreciated.

Shine, Perishing Republic

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity,
heavily thickening to empire,
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops
and sighs out, and the mass hardens,

I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make
fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances,
ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.

You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy;
life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than
mountains: shine, perishing republic.

But for my children, I would have them keep their
distance from the thickening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the
monster's feet there are left the mountains.

And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man,
a clever servant, insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches the noblest spirits,
that caught - they say - God, when he walked on earth.

- Robinson Jeffers, 1925 -

Like D.H. Lawrence a while back, Jeffers is a poet/writer that I knew by name only until recently. Making my way through the Vintage Books edition of his Selected Poems has been a delight and an education in the power of poetry. The above piece, for instance, resonates with a vision of man and his institutions that, in light of current events and considering it was penned well over 70 years ago, seems prophetic. Click here if you are interested in some brief analysis of the piece above.

That much of Jeffers' poetry is informed by the rugged and haunted beauty of the Carmel/Big Sur region of the Pacific Coast where he spent most of his life is, perhaps, one reason why I find his words so compelling. This is a landscape that I am familiar with, a place where the beauty and power of nature is a tangible thing, a place I would gladly live given my druthers and one which has inspired a number of poems from my own pen - Twenty Seven Years and Big Sur (impressions) to name a couple.

Someday, perhaps, Sarah and myself will leave America to it's vulgarities, sell all those possessions that are not essential, and find a home where our only neighbors are ancient Redwood trees and the whisper of the surf will greet us in the morning and lull us to dreams by night.

That there was something wrong with all his work Le Maistre well knew. Words and music, as the critics never failed to remind him, "just missed" that nameless "something" which would have made them good - perhaps great. Moreover, he was sane enough to realize that the blame lay not with an uncomprehending public, but simply with himself. The spark of inspiration that was beyond question in all his work never gathered to the flame stage. Thus his productions warmed people, but did not light them.

-Algernon Blackwood, an excerpt from the short story, The Man from the "Gods", in The Lost Valley and Other Stories-

I wonder if Blackwood ever felt this way about his own work?

I can certainly empathize with poor Le Maistre. That haiku in the post below(7/13/02) for instance. I saw a tree, already a beautiful thing, gilded by sunlight and made beatific. It was without doubt a haiku moment but did that moment make it into the words? Perhaps there is a dim glimmer of suchness in those three lines. Perhaps. . .

There are some who would argue that words, being the symbols that they are, could do nothing but fail me in my attempt to transcribe the experience of the illuminated tree.

They might be right, too, but I had to try.

pine tree made golden
by the westering sun -
a pillar of fire

I have been submitting poems and stories to prospective publishers recently, both on-line and off. If I was still in the habit of scrap booking my rejection slips (as I did so many years ago when I first started to submit my stuff) there would be two more among them.

Both Glimmer Train and The Manzanita Quarterly were foolish enough to return unused my golden words.

The folks over at Short Stuff, however, seem to recognize genius when they see it and have included some of my haiku and tanka inspired forms in their latest issue. You can take a look at my contributions right here if you are so inclined.

Also, if you are so inclined, wish me luck with my submissions currently under consideration at Deep Tapioca and Night Train. Chances are these two will both come back home but, in the immortal words of Fats Waller, "One never knows, do one?"

The bad emotional weather mentioned in my last post (see below) has broken but these are still painful days for Sarah and myself. Painful for Sarah because she is suffering from a number of herniated discs in her lower lumbar area, the agony of which is keeping her more-or-less bed ridden. Painful for myself because it is well nigh unbearable to see the person I love most in this world suffering. With the aid of pain medication, patience and (most of all) love, we are making our way through these painful days, hoping all the while that relief is imminent. Toward that end we are going to visit a neurosurgeon tomorrow.

I am often dubious of medical science (more appropriately, perhaps, I should say I am dubious of the hubris which medical science often displays) but I am hopeful that the strange cult of neurosurgery can give my Sarah back to herself and me.

The last few days here in Oakland (where I live)/ San Francisco (where I work) have been composed mainly of blue sky and sunshine. Lots of each. It almost feels like summer, which is unusual for San Francisco in the summertime.

Fine, fair weather. The kind of golden hued days that made me feel immortal as a child.

My inner weather these last few days, however, has been punctuated by brooding black clouds, occasional thunderstorms, several inches of rain.

Sarah has suffered with me through these strange days of sunshine and deluge. I thank the Universe for her presence. Even in the murkiest downpour, I see rainbows every time I look in her eyes.