As an armchair philosopher and student of Buddhism, the question of personal identity has long been a fascinating one for me. Who am I? Who are we? These, respectively, are perhaps the single most important questions we can ask ourselves as individuals and as a race. Important and profoundly difficult to answer . . .

The jungle of sense impressions which engulf our physical selves, layers of memory and learned response that accrete around our minds as we make our way through life, biological imperatives and urges � these are only a portion of the many obstacles that must be weeded and sorted through in order to determine what, if anything, lies behind the pronoun "I".

For some the question is further complicated by disease and/or disorder of the body or mind. It has been something of a revelation for me to realize that I may well fit into this latter category.

A few years ago, precipitated by her reading of An Anthropologist on Mars by noted neurologist and author Oliver Sacks, Sarah mused that I seemed to display many symptoms of the greatly misunderstood condition, Tourette�s Syndrome. I did not think much of it at the time (despite Sarah�s proven and uncanny knack for diagnosing a variety of mental and physical conditions in friends and co-workers) but as time passes and I learn more about Tourette�s, I realize that this informal diagnosis is more likely than not accurate. In which case, I am blessed to be at the mild end of the Tourettic spectrum.

I am not plagued (thank goodness) by the wildly flailing limbs and uncontrollable vocalizations which characterize more extreme cases of Tourette�s Syndrome. Rather, the condition (if, indeed, it is Tourette�s) expresses itself in me via smaller, subtler physical "tics" and language eccentricities akin to echolalia and glossolalia. For instance, even as I write these words my left leg is vibrating rapidly up and down on the ball of my foot. Other physical manifestations include a general state of more or less constant fidgety twitchiness involving finger tapping, knuckle cracking and intermittent head rolling. The above mentioned language eccentricities are evidenced by my regular fixation upon and verbalization of certain words or phrases � either real such as "spatula" or gibberish such as manunu yodo parp. These phonic fixations seem to pass through cycles, one word or phrase replacing another as favorite on a varying scale of time (usually bi-weekly or monthly, it seems).

I hesitate to refer to any of these "symptoms" as uncontrollable or involuntary, as is typically the case with Tourette�s. However, I must admit that I am often unaware of my physical perturbations (such as the shaking leg) until somebody (usually Sarah) brings the movement to my attention (�Rick, you�re vibrating the entire room!�). It is true also that my mind is almost constantly moving, occupied with thoughts, images, song lyrics and words of one sort or another � although in this I wonder if I am so different from most people, possessed as they are by what is known in Buddhist circles as monkey mind.

As I tend to be almost pathologically shy among people with whom I am unfamiliar, all of the above mentioned behaviors are downplayed or completely suppressed in most social situations.

Other aspects of my personality that might be explained by Tourette�s Syndrome, or conditions often associated with it, include the mild depression I have struggled with most of my life and the (thankfully) infrequent attacks of rage I have been known to suffer (during which I have destroyed an electronic typewriter, a stereo system and more than one avocado), as well as my long time habit of counting to the number nine while engaged in certain activities.

The possibility that I might be among the estimated 1,000,000 Americans (according to this article) who experience life through the lens of Tourette�s Syndrome has certainly shone a new light on many facets of my physical and mental self. It is a possibility that has caused me to wonder anew about just who or what that self is.

A new light on an old question. . . . Who am I?

EPA relaxes clean air rules

-the Bush administration yesterday announced a relaxation of clean air rules that will benefit coal-fired electric utilities, chemical factories and oil refineries-

Fed logging rules might be eased

-The Bush administration is proposing less emphasis on wildlife preservation and other environmental concerns-

Geothermal drilling near 'sacred' lake gets Bush OK

-American Indians and environmentalists said federal officials were selling out to big energy. The project, they said, would produce a meager amount of electricity while wounding a rugged landscape of conifers and sparkling hills of obsidian-

Happy Thanksgiving.

Some days I feel evil,

like blood dripping
from a shiny blade

or the eyes of a killer
as the kill is made.

Other days I blaze -

so filled with love
that I shine -

and Jesus walks beside me,
his sweet hand in mine.

Most times I�m a party of two:

one stomping cloven hooves,
the other lifted on gently fanning wings.

One clad in sack cloth and ashes,
the other agleam with diamond rings.

- R. Cody -

Bush Sucks

Shortly after posting the entry I made to this space on 11/18/02 (see below), I realized that I felt conflicted about the content, or lack thereof, in that post. I have never before experienced a single qualm about publicly airing my disdain and (yes) fear of Bush Jr. and his administration. So why did I consider reconnecting to the 'net, logging into Blogger, and deleting the post below? No, not because I feared that El Presidente would send his goons to drag me into the night for voicing dissent (yet), but because I did not express my dissent clearly enough. The post below rises no higher than mere invective, weighted by no arguments and not even an opinion about what is right or wrong with the World Court that Mr. Bush Jr. refuses to acknowledge (he has wars to wage after all). What use can such a post possibly serve? For those who agree with me regarding the Evil that is the Bush Administration it is pointless corroboration. For those who support Bush Jr. and his policies it is equally pointless as they will surley not be moved by such unsubstantiated puff. Of course, the same might be said of any writing on this subject - simplistic invective or well reasoned and articulated argument. I suppose I am disappointed with myself for not practicing the latter (on this occasion at least).

This is what comes, apparently, from attempting to update one's blog at the end of a long and tiring day.

P.S. for some compelling criticism of Bush and his quest for world domination check out The One True B!X

U.S. fears prosecution of president in world court

They should.

And if the "Higher Authority" in which Bush claims to believe actually exists, he ought to be fearing prosecution in that court as well.

Thank goodness the Cirque Du Soleil have brought their latest traveling show, Varekai, to we in the Bay Area.

Despite the storm that caused the cancellation of the opening night performance last week the big yellow and blue striped tent - or, as the Cirque says, "Grand Chapiteau" - remains standing in the parking lot of Pac Bell Park, a colorful anomaly in the generally gray urban landscape at the edge of San Francisco and the steely waters of the bay.

I'm glad because after the disappointment of the GOP sweep on 11/5/02, I can use a good shot of the awe and wonder that the Cirque Du Soleil bring to the world.

This Friday (11/15/02) Sarah, myself and Molly (Sarah's daughter from a previous marriage and one of the sweetest people I have known) will be entering the Grand Chapiteau to escape the so called real world for a couple of hours. The Cirque is much more than mere escapism for me, however. I find the combination of imagination and sheer physical execution these folks produce very often transcendent and, subsequently, inspirational.

I have been a huge Cirque fan for a few years now thanks to the above mentioned Molly, who provided me one day with a copy of the soundtrack of what I would soon know to be one of the Cirque's best shows, Quidam. I was captivated by the music - ethereal girl child vocals, dreamtime melodies, driving rhythms conjuring magic in my head - and knew I had to see the show from which this audio delight had come. We rented the video and I ended up watching it from beginning to end three times in two days! I have done this since with select films but this was a first. Not a traditional circus fan at all, I was enchanted by Quidam's amazing blend of theater arts, gravity defying acrobatics and otherworldly music. I had to see more and quickly hunted down all the Cirque shows I could find on video.

Cirque Reinvente, Nouvelle Experience, and especially Saltimbanco only increased my admiration for this amazing troupe. A filmed Cirque performance is magical but no screen is large enough to contain all the wonder that is the Cirque Du Soleil. I know because I was fortunate enough to see their last touring show, Dralion in '99 sometime before the Orlando incident, and the permanent show, La Nouba while we were in Orlando.

I'm about due, as I say, for a trip to the world of the Cirque. Don't be surprised if this site is not updated again. Sarah and I might just run away from this world and into that one for good. No, it might be better to enter the Grand Chapiteau and bring some of that magic back to this world. God knows we could use it.

Blessed be
the rising sun!

Blessed be
this day begun!

Bounty and beauty
may we find
and to the world
return in kind.

Blessed be
this day begun!

Blessed be
the rising sun!

I penned the above Morning Invocation with the intent of giving thanks and focusing positive energy at the beginning of each day - very much in the nature of a spell or a prayer. It is written in the plural for Sarah and myself. I offer it here for you, the reader, to take and use as you will.

Sarah and myself will be rising early tomorrow (11/5/02) and heading to our polling place here in Oakland so that we may exercise our right to vote. According to all of the pundits and papers I have read voter turnout is expected to be low due to apathy, disgust with gubernatorial candidates, and the traditional low turnout of off year elections.

My own history with the vote can best be be described as "on again" and "off again" - which is to say that I have chosen to vote and I have chosen not to vote (the reasons for the latter decision will be found here). Two years ago, when we resided in Orlando, I believe I was prevented from voting due to my attempted registration as a Democrat being three times delayed by the registrar, but that is another story. . .

At the moment, with George W. and the GOP raping the U.S. Constitution and the planet for fun and profit, I feel that I have no choice - as a socially conscious person - but to vote. I had determined some time ago to vote Green whenever a Green candidate was an option, especially my gubernatorial vote, but a recent post by Tom Shugart (unable to link to the specific post for some confounding reason so here is Tom's follow up post) and subsequent comments from Frank Paynter have caused me to reconsider. I want with all of my progressive liberal heart to endorse Peter Camejo for governor of California but I know that he has little or no chance of winning. I shudder at the thought of Republican Bill Simon gaining the governor's seat and, fearful that a vote for a third party candidate will only aid Simon at this point in time, I find myself leaning toward Gray Davis - the Democrat incumbent whom I would rather not endorse but must if I would prevent a Republican stranglehold on this country.

This sorry situation almost makes me want to stay home tomorrow but that's just what they want us to do. . .

From: The Executive Committee Against Uppity Citizens
Sent: Monday November 03 7:37 AM
To: MoveOn.org
Subject: Please don't vote.

Dear friend,

On behalf of Shell, Mobil, and Exxon; Boeing, Lockheed-Martin, and GE; all the Enrons, Halliburtons, and Harkens; President Bush, Vice President Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, and the other CEOs of the Cabinet; and thousands of us who are working for a better life for the wealthiest Americans, we have one simple request: Could you please just stay home tomorrow?

See, we have things to do. Nations to invade. Wetlands to destroy. Oil to drill. Courts to pack. Corporate taxes to cut.

What's frustrating for us is that we're coming up against some pretty stiff resistance. We've spent hundreds of millions of dollars to secure the Senate, but it looks like we just may lose it. Heck, we may even lose the House. We don't quite get what it is about our agenda that you people don't like, but it's clear that this time, you may be upset enough to actually do something about it.

That's why we're writing this message to you today. Please don't vote. Ask your friends not to vote. What could the harm be in sitting this round out? If you could just stay home on Election Day, we can get back to the important business of running the nation for you, and we won't have to bother you again.

Thank you,

The Executive Committee Against Uppity Citizens

(thanks to the folks at MoveOn for forwarding the above missive from the ECAUC)

Sarah read a poem of mine at Craig's memorial service on 10/27 (see below). She selected the piece, called Two Geese ( a poem based on actual events), because it represented for her the tragedy of Craig's death in regards to the union that was Craig and his wife of many years, Dorrie. When two people unite in love they become something greater than themselves, they give birth through their affection to a third entity called Love. My poem does not address these issues directly but Sarah believed it to be appropriate. I had some concerns initially about her reading a piece of mine but, as it turns out, it was appropriate. Not least because Craig - as a published writer - was, perhaps, the first person besides Sarah to read my stuff back when I first began sending it out into the world.

A day or so before the service, Sarah - who had a copy of Two Geese with her at the office - allowed a coworker to read the poem. I was amazed to hear (and Sarah was amazed to inform me) that her colleague, upon reading the piece, gasped and burst into tears. This woman, by Sarah's account, is not anywhere near the hysterical or weepy type. I still find it hard to absorb that something I wrote could cause so visceral a reaction in a person. As an artist, I suppose, there is no greater complement.

Here's the poem. . .

Two Geese

Waddling across three lanes of traffic,
two geese long necked and starry white
in the rush of headlights.

It seems they are attempting,
like the chicken in the joke, to cross the road.
Or perhaps they lit upon this dangerous ground
while the automobile flow was at an ebb,
only to find themselves beset.

We pass them at 30 m.p.h.
and wonder why they do not fly.

A red light stops us
and in the rear view mirror we see
the inevitable reflected.

In that small rectangle of glass
one of the misplaced pair is struck down
by Fate in the shape of a Ford sedan.

The remaining goose flutters into the night
and whatever brief history awaits it, alone.

�Geese,� you observe sadly,
�mate for life.�

Seconds later,
wind tossed feathers blow by.

Jack O'Lanterns grin,
illuminated within
by slow burning flame.

It is late.

It is late, I say,
and I don't mean the time of day -

though darknes is visible as I write
and the windows rattle in their panes
as they do only at night. . .

Indeed, it is late and there seems so much to say - but I haven't the voice right now.

I could tell you about the memorial service I attended yesterday for Craig Mills - a man that I knew but not well enough. Once over six feet tall, he is now a pile of ash in a lacquer box. Sarah knew him better than I and she says we had an amazing amount in common. We are both Pisceans and writers married to older women, shy in large groups but not for want of anything to say. Well one of us is those things, anyway. Craig has gone beyond them and dwells now only in memory.

I could point out the bitter irony of the Bushmaster semi-automatic weapon manufacturer being "horrified" that their product, a killing machine, was actually used to kill people. I am, in fact, sorely tempted to rail about the responsibility the makers of guns must accept for the weapons they produce.

But it is late, as I've said
and I really ought to be in bed.

Feeling generous and pissed off about Bush and his Iraqi adventure?

Tune in to The Wonderchicken to find out how to donate to the trust fund that has been established for his friend and my namesake, Rick, who was injured in the Bali nightclub bombing.

Then, if you are able, get yourself to San Francisco or D.C. on Saturday, October 26 to march against Bush Jr. and his war with the world. Details for the march courstesy of Not In Our Name.

I regret that I am not able to give money at the moment or time on 10/26 but this is not about me - it's about you. Make a difference.

What would you do if you knew you had only 24 hours to live from the time you finish reading this sentence?

My mother is in the hospital as I write this.

She has been there since about 5:00 a.m. when my step-father drove her there because of chest pains. The emergency room doctors diagnosed the potentially fatal Pulminary Embolism from which she was suffering pretty quickly. A hell of a lot quicker than her regular doctor, whom my mother visited on three different occasions over the course of a couple weeks complaining of chest pains. On her last visit, just this past Friday, my mom was sent home with antibiotics and told she had a viral infection!

I know my mom is on an HMO and I don't feel I am going out on a limb in suggesting that her health was compromised because of the relationship between doctor and insurance company. Sarah told me a story today about a coworker who was ill with urinary tract problems but refused catscans by her doctors. As it turns out she has cancer of the bladder which has metastasized due to the negligence of these professionals who are sworn to protect and not harm life.

Laying this all on the doctors is, of course, unfair. It is the insurance companies who bear the most responsibility. The insurance companies who penalize doctors for pursuing expensive tests, the insurance companies who have denied my own Sarah medication prescribed by a doctor because they did not want to pay.

Tell me somebody, please, when did book keepers and accountants begin playing doctor? And, while you're at it, tell me also why we are allowing it to continue?

I had a horrible dream the other night.

I dreamed that one of the most powerful, and potentially noble, nations the world had ever seen was falling from a state of lofty possibility into a spiritual morass of war mongering, profiteering and naked imperialism.

Ruled by a morally bankrupt opportunist who claimed to be a servant of the people but actually worked only for himself and the rich and powerful intrerests that put him in office, this nation isolated itself from the rest of the world by rejecting numerous treaties that might have served to better the planet and schemed unceasingly to increase it's dominance through war, deception and capitalist propaganda.

Worse yet, a considerable portion of this country's population supported their duplicitous leader due to ignorance and/or greedy self interest.

I awoke feeling depressed but relieved that it was only a dream.

Then I read in the morning paper that both Congress and the Senate passed Bush's Iraq resolution and realized the nightmare continues and I have yet to wake.

In San Francisco this evening, Sarah and myself stumbled across a box of treasure at the crossroads of Valencia and 20th streets - whereupon sits a small out post of literary heaven called Dog Eared Books. The treasure came in the form of a box of interesting free books. We walked away with the following used novels under our arms (three by men named John, two more by men named Charles and Carl respectively!):

Native Tongue by Carl Hiaasen

The Cider House Rules by John Irving

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole

The Ebony Tower by John Fowles

The Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark

and Rumour Has it by Charles Dickinson

All these plus three small press chapbook/zine publications.

One of these latter, a slender little volume called Anatomies by Dan Featherston, contained a rare find of it's own in the form of a personal note, seemingly written by the author and signed Dan. The message, black ink penned in a legible hand (reminds me of my own in the way it forms letters with sharp lines and billowing curves) on purple construction paper, reads in part:

Hi Brian,

Hope this reaches you - recent work, Anatomies.

A book that we (Sarah and me) purchased at a used book store in St. Augustine a couple of years ago contained a handwritten note on the inner sleeve. This book, Great Theatrical Disasters, is a riotous collection of. . . well. . . great theatrical disasters. The message was signed in a tidy cursive (which, despite the name of it's author, looks nothing like my abominable cursive scrawl):

Merry Christmas 1983
Richard

and was apparently a dedication to an actor:

May you have enough "disasters" to keep you laughing, but few enough to keep you employed.

Whenever I come across something like this in a used book it sets my mind to wondering. Just how did this book, gifted to somebody, end up in my possession?

Multiple possibilities appear equally likely. The Featherston book, mailed judging by that opening line, never reached the intended recipient but was stolen from the mail. The recipient of the gifted book died some time after receiving it and the tome found it's way to a used book store. The recipient moved and sold the book in an effort to make space and a little extra cash. A friend borrowed the book from the recipient, moved, and ultimately gave it to a girl he dated four times whose brother works at the book shop where I found it. Or, perhaps in the case of the theatrical Christmas gift, the book was lost in holiday wrappings after opening, found by a garbage man who is barely literate and eventually sold - after riding around in the cab of his truck for five months.

Maybe all the scenarios aren't so likely, after all.

But then, consider yourself - a mass of flesh and blood no more solid than the spaces between the atoms which form that mass of flesh and blood that calls itself "I". A brain moving around on legs and lungs thinking about itself. Not a very likely scenario either, now that I think of it.

Two (2) things that have annoyed yours truly of late:

1. Baseball.

I am not now nor have I ever been a sports fan (except for Battlebots and, on occasion, The Olympics). This may explain my irritation with reports and photos of Oakland A's and S.F. Giants playoff games plastered all over the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle for the last few days as if there was nothing of any real import happening in the world at the moment. What happened to the sports page?

2. The current Wrangler Jeans television ads

Much like the recent Jaguar ads which used The Clash's apocalyptic and completely innapropriate London Calling to sell luxury cars to the clueless, these appalling ads from Wrangler take Creedence Clearwater Revival's caustic protest tune, Fortunate Son, and butcher it so that it sounds like a patriotic anthem.

The Wrangler ad uses the following lines as they fill our TV screens with stars, stripes and Wrangler clad asses:

Some folks are born
made to wave the flag,
Ooh, they're red, white and blue.

Conveniently enough, the geniuses behind this campaign cut the song there and leave those of us familiar with the tune carrying on with it in our shaking heads:

And when the band plays "Hail to the chief",
they point the cannon right at you.

It ain't me,
it ain't me.
I ain't no senator's son.
It ain't me,
it ain't me.
I ain't no fortunate one.

Manunu yodo parp.

Talala spotz tril - talala manmon oma! Harn tarn ta, molanin molana pah.

Weligh ta harn ondoona, pontu-pontu Manunu. Wilkitz filtru dun. O-noono. . .

Manunu yodo parp.

Shiggy.
Shiggy.
Shiggy.

Tala frat zanda mop. O-noono miltrip harn tala.

Manunu yodo parp.

I sat down at the computer nearly two hours ago with at least half an intention to update this space. I had nothing particular in mind and ended up perusing other blogs. A few comment boxes got any good words out of me tonight.

Tom Shugart's, for instance. I just discovered his place, INSITEVIEW, recently when I found he had quoted me a short time back in regards to Elaine's call for a male version of BlogSisters. Currently, Tom is wondering why he is not surprised by recent developments in Bush Jr.'s war fantasies - namely his Rose Garden photo-op with key Democrats.

On a more intimate level, Phineas Narco (who has appeared here on previous occasions) takes us into his mind - a mind diagnosed as schizo-affective - on a "low capacity" day (sorry, can't find permalinks to specific posts at Livejournal).

Shelley, concise and right on target (unlike Lili), somehow starts with a hurricane and ends with Washington D.C. Unfortunately, the only wind in the capitol is the usual gales of hot air.

And Kathryn, who brings us The Hestia Chronicles, muses about sensory stimuli and visual arts.

Sometimes, it seems, blogging is more about the reading than the writing.

As I mentioned earlier, yesterday - 9/30/02 - marked the 13th anniversary of Sarah and myself. Not to be confused with our wedding anniversary, this is the significant date whereupon we first joined hands and lips. There are stories to tell about that day as well as the days which preceded and followed it, but they will not be told now (the novel way in which we two met has already been described here).

Instead, I offer for those who care to read it the poem I wrote for my beloved to mark the date:

September 30, 2002


13 years ago, give or take a day or two,
I gazed into the sky of your eyes
And wished aloud as lovers do:

I want to be yours,
I want you to be mine.

I can only hope the years between then and now
Have proved these words no idle line.

My blood,
My breath,
My spirit now and after death
Are yours to do with as you will.

Sarah, my heart, I want to be yours
And I want you to be mine still.