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I would like to call your attention to a great word: heuristic (hyoo'ristik). The only person I've ever seen use this word with regularity is Nicholas Georgescu-Roegen in his seminal book, The Entropy Law and the Economic Process, a book which, despite the efforts by many to disparage it, still reigns supreme and unarguable in this area. Heuristic, adjective: enabling a person to discover or learn something for themselves. GR always used it to talk about "A ha!" realizations. When a light bulb goes off and suddenly you understand a whole chain of events, that realization is heuristic.

*Herrings*

Here is reprinted one of five red herrings I mentioned last week. It bears repetition because it is so counter-intuitive, and so many people have it all wrong in their minds:

This one is obviously quite important to me now that I'm living where I belong, in the big city. When I left I had this foolish idea that one's ecological footprint (I didn't have a name for it then; my travels and studies have served me well) is smaller in the country than in the city. Total crap! Everything about cities makes it so that its denizens have a very small footprint compared to most: mass transit, many people living together in large buildings, being able to walk everywhere, etc. It's not even a close contest. Cities will always win, hands down, even if you only consider one thing: in cities the vast majority of people rarely, if ever, use a car. One of my idols, David Korten, reformed World-Bank economist, took note of this non-intuitive fact in his great book When Corporations Rule the World; I mention this agreement just by way of pointing out _I am not crazy_.

*Perfume*

Lord's Jester is officially an S Corporation in New York. Now comes the beginning of a life of bookkeeping.

The perfume we made a while back, Daphne, with 22 notes, a chypre, is working quite well. To my nose, the tonka is still a tad strong, but it's definitely a working recipe. A little more tweaking is needed. Several people have asked me over the years, so I feel I need to emphasize this fact: all of my perfume recipes are totally original to me. They're not based on, similar to, or inspired by anyone else's recipes. I have arrived at my recipes after years of hard work, of trying, failing, and learning. It irks me when someone asks, "Where do the recipes come from?" What! You actually think I would ever be happy using someone else's work? Please do not insult me so.

A recent entry on Lord's Jester blog, written by Jean Baptiste, my stand-in and ghost writer:

Mr Gottschalk and I have agreed to share writing duties for this journal (or “blog” or whatever you people call it). I’ve heard him call me his “ghost writer,” which, I must say, I really don’t take kindly to; must you really rub it in, sir? In any event, I’ve agreed to lend my expertise to his new commercial enterprise because he and his group are dedicated to the art of perfumery as it was practiced in days long gone, with truly precious, unadulterated botanical ingredients (some animal ingredients too, of the same high caliber; it is not possible to make a great perfume without a touch of the animalic). Gottschalk and his people have a deep understanding of the alchemical nature of the art, and they understand that masters of perfumery often add ingredients which, in and of themselves, are objectionable; a master knows how to balance and tame all the disparate elements of a perfume. The result must always be greater than just the sum of its parts.

This bunch, I know, is devoted to the art in its original form, with nothing the earth itself cannot provide, no chemicals, no fakery. They are so dedicated because they feel, justly, wronged by purveyors of synthetic perfume who do everything they can to keep the truth from the public: starting about 90 years ago, all perfume, ALL OF IT!, switched from real essences and extracts to chemicals made in a laboratory. They draw pictures, pyramids, supposedly depicting the notes in perfumes, but it’s all cheap synthetic garbage, and many of the notes they mention are not in fact found anywhere in the real world. Watermelon? No such thing. Cucumber? We’ve been trying for hundreds and hundreds of years and we still cannot create cucumber essential oil. Amber? Fossilized amber has no smell; vanilla, labdanum, and benzoin combine to make a smell we think of as amber.

I want to be clear about something: I am not advising Lord’s Jester because I think their perfumer has a great nose; in fact I think Gottschalk has a rather unrefined olfactory sense. The man can’t even tell the difference between Atlas cedar and Virginia cedar! Or Tasmanian compared to Australian boronia? The subtleties are completely lost on this one. No, I’ve decided to help him because despite this failing, and much to my amazement, he has already produced some world-class natural perfumes. And he just won’t quit (despite my best counsel). If you simply stay at something long enough, remain confident that you will prevail, stick to your guns as far as what allowed and what’s not, well, eventually the greatness will come. Once I teach them a bit more of what I know, I’m certain Lord’s Jester will offer perfumes even I would say are great. And I’m a tough individual to please!

*Poetry*

Another piece which has been at the front of my mind with every poem I've written follows. Note that starting with the line, "An old man, he lay down," the poem alternates between two threads, one about the Buddha, one about the sunrise. The remarkable thing is that one can read it beginning to end and be moved, without ever being aware of the two threads; it's miraculous the way the two threads reflect and reinforce each other. Poetic virtuosity. From her book House of Light (1990):

The Buddha's Last Instruction

Mary Oliver

"Make of yourself a light,"

said the Buddha,

before he died.

I think of this every morning

as the east begins

to tear off its many clouds

of darkness, to send up the first

signal--a white fan

streaked with pink and violet,

even green.

An old man, he lay down

between two sala trees,

and he might have said anything,

knowing it was his final hour.

The light burns upward,

it thickens and settles over the fields.

Around him, the villagers gathered

and stretched forward to listen.

Even before the sun itself

hangs, disattached, in the blue air,

I am touched everywhere

by its ocean of yellow waves.

No doubt he had thought of everything

that had happened in his difficult life.

And then I feel the sun itself

as it blazes over the hills,

like a million flowers on fire--

clearly I'm not needed,

yet I feel myself turning

into something of inexplicable value.

Slowly, beneath the branches,

he raised his head.

He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.

*Poem*

What's in a Crush

It's come to my attention

that numerous women

had crushes on me

in high school.

Almost universally

they say, "Oh, you looked

so confident and sure of

yourself I couldn't bring

myself to say Hello."

Oh my, ladies,

if you only knew how shy

I was then, and still am,

you almost certainly

would've seen how openly

any romantic overtures

would have been received.

Instead, there was only

one woman I had the courage

to talk to all through

high school.

What followed was an grand

affair, but I've remained

so shy I'm almost paralyzed.

In combination with being

unable to do for myself at all,

it makes for a 40-year-old

divorcée who is stuck

at home all day

lamenting all the pretty

women who might've

been his, all the choices

he could've made but didn't,

remembering the terrible

choice he did make for

a wife. If I had known,

if my young, awkward self

could've seen women

looking at me with desire,

if I had been aware that

I wasn't just a pudgy kid

who didn't fit in anywhere,

my life would certainly

have turned out better.

But I am still lost.

I am still without love.

I am lamenting

all the wrong choices.

*Slam*

My first exposure to slam poetry was at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in the East Village in the late '80s or early '90s. Back then I was a wannabe; I can't even stand to be in the same room with my "poetry" from when I first started. I found myself in Seattle in 1994 (arrived Thanksgiving Day 1993) and found there was a slam at a place called the Emerald Diner, hosted by Dave Meinert and another fellow with a patch over his eye whose name I can't remember. The poets at the Emerald Diner would be my people for the next couple of years, until I moved to Bellingham to finish college. They were a motley crew, and I say that with all the love in my heart. Poets are always "just raunchy enough, just Tin-Pan Alley enough" (as Joe Henry says) to hold my attention. I met up with other groups of poets, Bellingham and Portland, and they were generally excellent to me (with a couple of notable, individual exceptions).

At the old Seattle Slam, Meinert started every show saying, "Remember: the best poet always loses." And that was the point of slam in its original incarnations: it was meant to be a ploy to get folks actually to show up for poetry performances; the idea was that there would be a bunch of crap, but then people would be exposed to good stuff too. There were always featured readers and special guests, who brought the good stuff. Getting people out of their skins for a bunch of hoopla surrounding a competition is a no-brainer; witness the popularity of competitions of every sort on television. Competition is a "lowest common denominator" which can bring folks out and ultimately together.

When I lived in Bellingham I founded, produced, and hosted the Bellingham Slam for six months. That show was extremely popular, and was an extravaganza which folks came in droves to witness (200 people on Monday nights once a month; in Bellingham? Wow!): an open mic to start things off, then a featured performer of some kind (I was friends with all manner of artists in the Pacific Northwest), then jazz music (a trio featuring my good friend Christopher Woitach, an amazing player; at first we tried to do it as an "open jam," before the open slam, but the musicians rebelled after the first show I think, and the slot became just a time for really excellent jazz), and an open slam to end the night. I got a bunch of business owners to donate various goods and services, and the proceeds from the door provided cash prizes too.

That was an epic period of my life; I became a mover and a shaker in Bellingham (if you're thinking, "So what?" you're right to), and when I was host of that show I finally got up the courage to introduce myself to my ex-wife, whom I'd eyed with envy a half dozen times on campus (if you're thinking, "A lot of good it did you," you're right to). Not long after came the end, a most emphatic one, to my life with slam. Hosting a very popular slam, I thought it would be good for me to go the national slam, which that year was in Austin Texas. I was supposed to stay for five days; I left after two and a half--what I saw there disgusted me. I had assumed that everyone knew "the best poet always lost," so this would be "the good stuff" that the featured readers had always brought.

I couldn't have been more wrong! My first day there I discovered that what was, invariably, winning was the low-brow, button-pushing drivel that I so hated, which I thought everyone else despised too. Oh, I was mad. There was supposed to be a three-minute limit to every poem, but I immediately decided that when I got up to the mic I would perform my longest pieces, just as a big "Fuck you!" to the trash I was witnessing. I did so well that even after they'd deducted for the three or four minutes I'd gone over, I still did respectably. Oh, but done, done, DONE!, was I with slam "poetry" for once and for all. I am a spoken-word artist with many fans, but I will not ever touch slam again (just like I will not ever step foot on the west coast again).

*Quotations*

In an age of explosive development in the realm of medical technology, it is unnerving to find that the discoveries of Salk, Sabin, and even Pasteur remain irrelevant to much of humanity.

--Paul Farmer

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.

--Emily Dickinson

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

--Oscar Wilde

Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.

--Einstein

In all things it is better to hope than to despair.

--Goethe

Not only is another world possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.

--Arundhati Roy

We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.

--Obama

Most of the important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all.

--Dale Carnegie

Sanity may be madness but the maddest of all is to see life as it is and not as it should be.

--Don Quixote

To sit patiently with a yearning that has not yet been fulfilled, and to trust that that fulfillment will come is quite possibly one of the most powerful "magic skills" that human beings are capable of. It has been noted by almost every ancient wisdom tradition.

--Elizabeth Gilbert

*Music*

"There's only one constant

in this whole world

and that's nothing ever

stays the same.

Some day my life will be over

and no one will remember my name.

That's all right 'cause

what's in a name,

and who needs another one

to memorize anyway.

Make no fuss over my grave.

Just plant something pretty

and call it a day."

--Eilen Jewell

Peace love and ATOM jazz