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Tonight I'm having a dinner party for my 40th birthday. I'm a little distracted and preoccupied, so this installment will be brief.

*Peace*

This week a Facebook friend emailed me about my saying I'm trapped but I'm at peace. I am definitely trapped--my inability to walk or do most anything for myself is _not a choice_, therefore it follows that I am trapped. But this lady seemed to think that I couldn't feel simultaneously trapped and at peace. But I can and do. Why am I at peace? Because I do not fight anymore, my body, my condition, my person. I am not waging war on MS; I am waging peace, so with each new symptom that comes up, I learn what I have to do to accommodate it. I don't fight it as many do--and I am better off by miles because of it. Please, please don't ask me to do things I know I can't do safely--I am at peace because I don't struggle with myself. That certainly doesn't mean I'm happy all the time, quite the opposite, but by not waging a war I could never win, I am at peace.

Think about how incontrovertible this is:

Peace will only come by not fighting.

How can you have peace if you're fighting? You can't. And believe me, it's true what they say: to wage peace takes a great deal more courage, strength, and sheer gumption than it will ever take simply to wage war.

*Symptoms*

An odd heading. But I've realized that my needing to spread myself ultra-thin is not just indicative of who I am; it's all symptomatic of the MS as well. I cannot do one thing. I always bring at least four areas to whatever it is I'm working on. I cannot imagine living any other way. Here's a short list of the subjects I know a good deal about:

engineering, alternative fuels, electric and hybrid cars, sustainable agriculture, mini farming, organic gardening, basic construction, alternative homes, renewable energy installation and maintenance, physics, calculus, moral philosophy, environmental science, geography, transportation systems planning, land-use law, civic planning, film production, photography, graphic design, poetry, spoken word, playwriting, natural perfume, jazz music (as a player and aficionado, and especially contemporary jazz), being a radio DJ, being a producer of shows and concerts, Mandarin Chinese (fluent), Chinese culture, Nepali language and culture, Spanish, French, Latin, being an ESL teacher, etc.

It's a tad frightening to think of all that stuff in my head! And more! None of these is a passing fancy. I've spent most of my life devoted to these subjects, and there's no sign of my interest letting up any time soon.

*Poetry*

Here is another piece which helped to determine my writing identity. Written in 1943, it ushered in the office life of modern America:

Dolor

Teddy Roethke

I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,

Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper-weight,

All the misery of manila folders and mucilage,

Desolation in immaculate public places,

Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard,

The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher,

Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma,

Endless duplication of lives and objects.

And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions,

Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica,

Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium,

Dripping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows,

Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate gray standard faces.

*Maine*

When I left New York in 1992, I moved to family land in Maine with a new girlfriend. The only structure on the land at the time was the old barn; the fact this woman came with me, to live in a barn, having only known me a few weeks is a miracle. I guess I used to have a certain charm, a charm which has long since left me completely, judging by the many women who have said, "No thanks," over the past 10 years. We had a hell of a time up there, alone in the woods, putting up a cabin, making love everywhere. God it feels good to remember! I have known love and lust, and if they never return, I made the most of them while I could. Here's an old letter poem I wrote to Nicole:

Dear Nicole

I picked up one of my oldest books the other day

and I found a note from you in the back saying,

"I hope when you find this note one day

that you are thinking of me fondly."

In an instant I remembered what it was like

to be just beginning, and so, unstoppable.

When we walked together into cafes and shops

and dance halls, folks used to turn and look.

I always felt like we carried The Great Middle Path

with us wherever we went. We were about

to discover, at any moment, every drop

of what had gone missing from all our lives.

We ate only the things that would help us

live forever. And I was straight for months,

months at a time. I remember what it was like

to be straight once, lucid, mindful. I remember

what it was like to not care about

not having enough hours in the day

to thoroughly live. But I do care now;

I am desperately rushed and cannot spare

a minute because too much time has already

been spent in the clouds. I used to think

I had extra senses, was just waiting to take my place,

finally, beside the North Star and the symbol

of the next epoch. But, you know what?

I haven't remembered a single one of my dreams

in years. I'm fairly certain now it's all in

black and white, though. I sleep and

I eat in black and white, and I can see the edges

of the universe from where I stand, no more

mysteries. I still carry that one December

in my head when you finally stopped me

in the aisle. We used to pass each other

almost every afternoon, and then, one day, that

was it, one simple, "Hey. What's up?" was

all it took. We dropped everything a few weeks

later, piled what we couldn't let go of into that

station wagon we borrowed, fled the city without

asking questions, drove slowly north into the last

winter storm. The snow was thick, and we pulled over

at one point for lack of clear vision. I felt

like Noah with the howling outside,

ice instead of rain, books and changes on the inside

instead of ducks and cattle. We were

thrown together. We were not ready. We were

like two young strangers must have been

in the old country, thrown together one day,

aiming for a hillside they could plant on.

We were strangers thrown together.

We were not ready. Most of all,

I remember our designs and visions. I remember

digging holes for posts to hold our floor, milking

enough stones out of the meadow to build

a whole new world. I remember sleeping

on a single mattress inside the little cabin

we put up. Being tightly knit like that,

but still alone together, just wasn't enough,

was it? We were still ignoring some deep thirst,

weren't we, Nic, the sort of thirst a person

just can't shake these days? I laid down next to you,

listened to you breathe, listened to the wind

in the trees, and I thirsted. Thirsted for some answers,

longed for some old roads and some

new ways of living without having

to die so fast. Have you found a way to quench

your thirst? Have you found any water clean enough

to drink yet? I guess I'm writing mostly to tell you

I'm working on a book. Look for it. It will be

real and even larger than life. I am in it, of course,

and my part is that of a deliverer. No longer

like Noah, less like a simple vehicle,

now even more like a deliverer, like Moses. I am,

in fact, most like the sea that Moses parted,

divided down the middle, both sides

heaving and waiting to converge again.

There will be just enough time for

public flight through me back to the old country.

When we reach what used to shallow on the other side

of the sea bed, it will really be deep. Beyond

the banks of the sea, once the waters behind us

have met again, there will not be paths.

We will walk straight out into the expanses

we come upon nevertheless, will tangle ourselves

in the undergrowth. We will sit down peacefully

at the end of the day, and not go anywhere

again, and live forever at last.

If you can't quite find the people and the places

you were looking for way back when, then

look for this book I'm promising you, and

come along for the ride. It will really be fine,

I'm sure. Until then, be sure to quench

your thirst as if you mean it, and be sure to live

as if your kids will never die.

All my love, Adam

God how convoluted! I was just at the beginning, of a world of learning, of immersing myself in the globe, of learning how to love. It brings me to tears to read this and remember the incurable idealist and romantic I used to be. I ask myself, "Where did it all go wrong?" I can really only think of one answer: the west coast. Good riddance.

*Quotations*

Ordinary riches can be stolen, real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.

--Oscar Wilde

Perfume is a veil that reveals the soul.

Perfume is the fanfare of our individuality sounding differently to everyone who listens.

Perfume is a signpost to our true selves--a different journey for the brave to travel.

Perfume is the weather of our inner world bringing life to a personal landscape.

--Christopher Brosius

Life is no "brief candle" for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

--GB Shaw

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

--Thomas Gray

A revolutionary poem reminds you where and when and how you are living and might live; it is a wick of desire.

--Adrienne Rich

When we are born, we're born with a matchbook. The question is: how do we use it? Burn, baby, burn, brightly. You've got so much to give.

--Sonya Kitchell

The hardest thing in life is to know which bridge to cross and which to burn.

--David Russell

We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.

--Kenji Miyazawa

Books won't stay banned. They won't burn. Ideas won't go to jail.

--Alfred Whitney Griswold

English history is all about men liking their fathers, and American history is all about men hating their fathers and trying to burn down everything they ever did.

--Malcolm Bradbury

Peace love and ATOM jazz