Their Lowest Common Denominator

Two things could be said to differentiate Salafist and other strains of traditionalist/fundamentalist Islam, the Catholic priests of notoriety, and the Ultra-Orthodox/Haredi/Hassidic "Jewish" Community, commonly, on the one hand – and the entire political class of EU-parliamentary (and across-the-board from Brussels to Berlin to Vienna) Left, Green, and SPD (formerly Social Democrats, I don't know WTF they are today, all sell-outs) Parties, commonly, on the other hand:

So what differentiates the two would be this, that the former grouping promotes and upholds an agenda of patriarchical, archaic family structures somehow binding family values with cranking out large litters of kids, and leaving responsibility to chance, or out of it altogether. The latter grouping in today's above-mentioned career politics exerts all its influence in destroying family values and structures altogether, period.

Now what the two groupings have in common, I mean beside a culture of aggressive dogma, a knack for guilt manipulation, twisted projections on feminism/sexuality and women – and a pathological lack of responsibility or empathy matched only by their colossal arrogance and hypocritical piety – is this: After all is said, by far their lowest common denominator, or shared trait, is that both groupings are loaded to the gills with practicing pedophiles and their enablers, protectors and camouflagers – all acting with impunity. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

But they are being exposed, it is all finally, if gradually, dawning – the worm is turning. And so will a new leaf. But not without serious upheaval.

I of an Atheist

Most of us know God don't exist.
Everyone knows God isn't there -
I'm a born-again atheist!
Must you be so doctrinaire?

Even knowing the universe is ordered,
down to Nature's infinite detail,
down to every principle's sorting -
must I buy some Holy Grail?

There is one Healer, we are all His patients,
with one breath circulating this body is whole -
from whom else, pray tell, shall I learn patience?
We atheists don't squander thought on soul.

So I praise that God that don't exist,
I see traces of that God everywhere -
and pray like no kind of atheist:
how do you explain this love in prayer?

If one would be more introspective,
"tolerance" would be replaced by clearer acceptance;
most differences being about various perspectives -
lovingkindness over ideology, empathy over invectives.

Alright! so it appears I'm one lousy atheist,
Lord knows I've tried, but His proof is unrelenting -
I'm afraid I'm just not very good at this,
I confess before the Humanists - yes, I'm repenting!

Go with your gut, don't be a dope!
Everyone has his or her wine;
the atheist has his or hers, I hope -
'cause I sure as hell brought mine.

Faithing the Music – For a Song

The love which I bear the reader is not my love,

nor mine to own nor claim; for were it that

it would be limited by my own weak capacity to bear its fullness.

No, the love which I bear my reader is my Source, not I its –

it is a love of overwhelming proportion, blinding

with its vastly unlimited presence while likewise focusing

on whomever appears before me.

The love which I bear the reader includes you and me both,

embraces us equally on a breath so fine, so subtle, so intimate.

This love includes alike all forebears, after-bears, grizzly Yogi-bears,

and all future generations to come.

I'll confide to the reader, but only for love of you:

the in-tone-ation of love's mantra is just the engine it takes

to power all this. It is not religious songs or hymns – these are all

about God in your life, you sing them, that's good, they may inspire;

but … that comes and goes. Even at their best, they are still: mind.

This however, is something else, this engine: it is God in every syllable,

it is hear and now and in reality – and it sings you, it's not about but is –

you're the Music – it is consciousness itself,

conscientiously paying attention.

And the secret of its working is this:

no ego taking it hostage, no I-dentification,

just going back into and back into and back into

the tone in depth – letting it vibrate, circulate in the chest,

in the crown, the throat and the belly, the gonads and anus, every limb –

undoing knots, opening doors. Let that engine idle (just don't you be idle):

don't let your ideals become I-deals and then from there I-dolls,

for Joyful Joe reminded: "No-Mind makes no deal!"

Proof of love's mantra is this: where no comfort may be possible

in your own worst trials, this quite guarantees it.

This sovereign joy no one can take from you,

it is your heritage and your birthright, there on your own tongue;

in every fresh timeless syllable is poignantly, majestically That

which alone draws the grace of faith and the line of your destiny.

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2014/06/pregant-with-radiance.html 

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2014/05/which-mantra-which-dhikr.html

 

Some prayers of mine...

May all women everywhere find and assert
their inborn sovereign dignity and power.

May all women everywhere find and assert
their inborn sovereign confidence and grace.
Amen, so be it.

May the living spirit of of The Divine Mother be with all children
everywhere at all times.

May Her lovingkindness and intercession prevail mightily on behalf

of their well-Being, in all situations on all levels.
May all children be well, may all children be happy.

Peace, peace, peace

May this prayer be extended and applied with all power and grace

to the entire Animal Kingdom, that all of Nature's creatures great and small

be blessed and sustained, shielded and protected, cherished,
healed and restored through this prayer;

that all of Nature's creatures, as with all children the world over,

be delivered from the hands of human cruelty into the hands

of human compassion and lovingkindness.
May all of Nature's creatures be well, may all of Nature's creatures be happy.
Peace, peace, peace.

If I'm a Homo – Let It Be Sapiens

Some of my best friends are not gay,
nor lesbian for that matter – is that okay?
Some of my best friends might be either,
my being hetero concerns them neither.

Do I have to know with which gender you sleep,
any more than you must, which company I keep?
The reason that I do not know is that I don't inquire,
the urge toward such irrelevance awakens no desire.

Does my knowing if one's gay build mine or your character?
Is sexuality no longer that but only what's politic'ly correcter?
What's private, own and intimate no longer's sacred – all must know!
Then why is no one interested that I'm a flaming hetero!

A 'phobe a 'phobe a homophobe – is what I'll likely hear:
If I don't pass the Tolerance-Test I must be nursing a latent fear!
The trend, the ideology, the current coin, The Faith:
Believe in Gender-Mainstreaming and all that's preached as truth!

All perspectives, views, opinions have a place in true diversity,
except new dogma's dictates place a muzzle on democracy.
So yes, I'm Homo, I'm coming out – and you're one too, I've said it! 
We're both one Homo sapiens, kid, I wish you'd finally get it!

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/05/for-mevlana.html

Eritrea, Eritrea

(Notwithstanding the severe dictatorship it has since become within two decades since its hard won independence from Ethiopia, this tribute to its victory in 1993 according to my information then,

stands as a dedication at that time,
and in heartfelt memorium now, to my very dear friend, Hanna Ehtiopia Berhane (d. Aug. 1013),
twenty years following that event.)

Mother Africa!    look upon your children,
have they not tasted the blood of their suffering and indignity
and lived?
Have they not responded with grace and more dignity?
Wherefrom, O Mother?

Was it because your very milk runs through their bones,
through those very feet with which they stood their ground,
and they know it?

Was it your love whoch gave their fight such boldness, did they inherit
from your bosom the richness of Being, to show such clemency
toward the aggressor whom they wore out with the enduring power of
their prayers and the sincerity of their faith?

What sort of a people, these lions who trust in the Lamb, this little Israel,
with a name like a beautiful woman?    Eritrea   Eritrea   Eritrea  .  .  .
daughter of Africa, a little jewel in the ear of the Mother Continent,
glistening in the light of the Son, victorious.

How Black Thunder Entered My Life, and How Practice Always Pays Off

The Noble and Enchanting Story of

How Black Thunder Entered My Life,

and How Practice Always Pays Off

Letter to Chet in Boulder:

(This is the story I never wanted to publish. It is a story of shame and hubris and infamy, and every time I've told it, listeners encouraged me through tears and gales of laughter to definitely do just that. It is the story which should never have been as true as I'm afraid it is, I am ashamed to givein to the urge to let it take its rightful place among many so-called Sam-Stories. It is the tale of an accordion.)

Defense Language Institute Monterey, August 1987

First I should explain that I've always loved the accordion and the versatility of its abilities. My own, by contrast, leave something to be desired, hence the occasionof this ridiculous anecdote.

When Agni and I flew to Chicago last December, I still did not own an accordion, nor did I actually intend this trip to materialize one. My full 120-base white and used Americano or Amerago or Arrivederci went to the pawn shop for thirty bucks before I left for Ft. Dix Basic Training. He was really in the market for one, you know, ofthis quality, as he'd only had about two shelves of them and they were selling like flap-jacks at the chow hall.

We met John Cunningham while in Chicago, and he'd just come down fromt he Montana backlands to peddle real Christmas trees to Chicagans – wait, Chicagoans. Myself, I was mostly employed that weekend in chauffeuring a certain young – if that word could apply – Rinpoche about town. I got to know the City, or parts therein, pretty well as driving goes. Mine has been beyond reproach, by the way, since we'd left Austin. So John wanted help unloading the trees and Agni and I agreed that we had to have a concertina for this, to squeeze out carols, notwithstanding the conspicuous absence of any snow .

She called one place, Walles Music, which happens to be the accordian capital of the USA if not beyond. They would not rent a concertina to us, but when I went down there they helped arrive at the conclusion that I didn't come all the way to The Big Windy to rent a concertina but indeed to purchase a robust new 120-base accordion. It was a tad smaller than the white, and was just what I'd have envisioned had I been in the market again, and a nice subdued solid black, all of which suited me. I downpaid the fifteen bucks cash which freed up my pockets so I could walk around Chicago with my hands in them, and by June it was all paid off and in my hands. Black Thunder became the long awaited addition to my barracks room, which by the way, is like Motel-6 style accomodations inside a Monterey-Spanish Holiday Inn quality building overlooking the peninsula, its woods and the ocean. When asked upon its arrival, why I got the thing, I replied cryptically, “Oh, just an ocean of mine.“ Yeah, war is hell, light my Cuban and freshen my drink.

The Practical Story of the Texan and the Big Apple

A Texan visiting Manhattan stops an elderly Jewish man on the street, meaning to ask directions: “Pahd'n me, suh, but c'id yew tell me how I git to Carnegie Hall?“

The New Yorker replies with a delicate hint of admonition in the wave of his hand: “Practice, practice …!“

How I Loved Black Thunder

The squeeze-box to me is a living thing, like the harmonium, and I cherish it as such. After a half-hour of fiddling around on it (can you do that with an accordion, fiddle around I mean?) I can spend hours just trying out new possibilities. I understand now, after many such hours, that I a m a sick man and I am seeking help right now from those who have come out of the closet and are willing to admit that they have had sufficient, even loads of experience with this. You see, whenit comes right down to listening to me – well I'm about as popular with it as John Cunningham's Montana-grown Christmas trees in dry Chicago. Neither of us would break even with what we do.

What Really Happened At Graduation

“The horror, the horror of it all, the horror...“ (Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now)

Chet, you know me too well to forgive me for what I've done, I only expect you to cover the next round of drinks after you've fully digested the shame and the horror of what I am about to relate.

My graduation day from Egyptian dialect, following a delightfully grueling year of standard Arabic, was approaching. A briefing was held the previous Friday, attended by some classmembers and myself, and those from other classes, other languages, mostly strangers to me. Hey – I had no idea what I was going to do when I went in there, in that ex-hangar now-auditorium they called The Tin Barn, I just wanted to have done with it like the next guy. Then I noticed something about this Air Force Staff-Sergeant briefing us, that struck me in a way which rather minimized the remarkable impression her logistical talents had already made on every one of us sitting there. She vaguely reminded me of a girl I'd known in school years ago...

My classmates know me well enough that I need to be watched and monitored, as skillfully as possible, or my behavioral instincts will kick in and cause them usually avoidable regret. I swear I had nothing up my sleeve – nor my pant leg when I'd walked in there. Even as we all filed out like buffalo off a cliff I had nothing in mind, until I caught a dangerously familiar smirk edging its way like a San Andreas Fault across my soldierly punim, my eyes literally steered my body around and my feet followed suit. Without so much as a ponderous stroking of my stubbled chin, I strode over to this NCO as she concluded some last minute business – and I got right down to business. Alone with her in a conspiratorial huddle I proposed...a plan. “Sergeant,“ I said, with that relaxed and confidant air of intimacy with which NCOs usually addressed each other – yet assuming with my half-turned smile that she would notice my brilliant idea was sheer kidding, that she would get it (with a bare touch of hope that she wouldn't): “I could wrangle out a mean 'Pomp and Circumstance' on the accordion at graduation if you'd like.“ She didn't get it. She bit.

“Great!“ she said without reservation, and she was not joking. “But what I'd really like is if you would play 'The Star-Spangled Banner'...“ She looked right at me and she meant it. I fixed my best Dennis Quaid held-gaze on her, testing the moment. And then it happened: that was it, I bit.

Sure, I'd get back with her Monday. I went straight to my deluxe room and worked it out after a shower and a few bangs on the head against the tiled wall for being so stupid – and a few dance steps on my carpeted floor for the daringness of it all. Is it any wonder that I've had three roommates leave town for good since I arrived here?

Sharing this in strict condidence over lunch in our cafeteria with my one real fellow-hoodlum, Jenna-of-the-Wild-Hair, a beauty then and a beauty to this day, with very dangerously prankish Scots blood in her veins,  she said, characteristically, "Saaam,I love it!"  Then chillingly adding:  "Wouldn't it be great if you blew it!"  That ended lunch, with an Arabic phrase, "la' jinnani!" - a play on her name and capabilities, translating:  "don't start driving me insane!"

It sounded great, the key was right, and I spent the weekend working out a couple or three chords and practicing the coordination of it all. If played smoothly and well, the acoridon can and will produce a round of the National Anthem – right, any national anthem – equal to a big brass band, and I do mean a good one. I practiced secretly all week, informing no one who would be attending the ceremonies, and only a couple who would not. And I'm quite comfortable with audiences, however large – as long as I have a clue what I'm doing and I knew this had to be note-perfect, as it was not an improvisational setting nor jamming around in a night club nor even a company picnic. I knew everyone woudl be standing at attention (and at my mercy), that my name with the National Mayhem would have top billing on the program, that behind me would be standing high Brass and academic supervisors and hoity-toity ex-thises and ex-thats, ad nauseum. Well, we're coming to the nauseum shortly.

I knew that what would really be useful would have been a dry run on the stage prior to everything else that morning, but that in the absence of this opportunity, I had to settle for waiting in the wings and going over it softly. One highly placed gentleman said it would be far better than that phony piped-in band music we were listening to at that moment as the hall filled with graduating Arabs, Russians, Germans, Eskimos and assorted weirdos and their respective families. I knew that if it came off as well as I'd envisioned, it would be a beautiful gesture of farewell to my stay here.  And I drew inspiration from Robert Preston's Prof. Harold Hill in "The Music Man," who taught the "think method"!  Of course, he was a con-artist.

And then it happened: I was asked by some high-ranking NCO whether I actually knew what I was doing. I knew that I didn't need that; and neither did he, because he sort of gulped and appeared a bit shaken when I nodded my assurance and informed him that I'd just gotten the thing a month ago. I knew I could do it, I knew that my growing sense of doubt would abate, this gnawing would all pass the moment I stood out there turning on the juice. No crowd, no Air Force E-5, no Brasso, no ammo. Just hair-raising tones of national collective exaggeration.

What I did not known, and did not fully grasp until I walked out there, was that I do not know who to play the accordion. I mean, I knew but not really – until just then. My friends and classmates who were standing at attention at that moment would gladly have pointed this simple fact out to me had they but known I was so much as contemplating this feat – which now was turning to cold feat. Shall I describe what went on behind me among the esteemed guests of honor, speakers from officaldom? Suffice it to say, they wer profoundly moved. As for my class, they bit their lips out of the warmth and affinity they were feeling toward me just then, great humored as they were. All the others stood open-mouthed – and they were not singing this “Star-Mangled Banner“ I'm afraid.

Nor will they ever again, without wincing, after I'd finished with 'em. Four hundred-odd people with one oddball on the stage squeezing out the strains of a strained patriotism that morning, teaching them a whole new perspective on humor.   The look on my entire row of fellow-Arabic graduates with whom I'd just spent 15 months of intensive classtime, as I took my seat among them, was worthy of any sit-com. I spent the rest of the weekend between hysterical appreciation and horrified agony just reminiscing it all. One classmate told me afterward that there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Another thought it was the best rendition of “Bridge Over Troubled Waters“ he'd ever heard.  Still another met me with a drive-by revenge hit a day later as I was strolling across the green; he stopped at a foot's distance, rolled down his window, and grinning, cold-bloodedly handed me the following, which required a week on intensive and lots of stitches - my God, I thought, seems some people just have no sense of humor:

They did not take one stripe away from my dear Air Force seargeant - who'd whispered a nod of encouragement as I left through the wings and darted outside to re-enter and take my seat (my mind screaming "Now!  Run for it - run!!"), nor have they shipped her off to some post in Alaska sorting mail to the seals. How did I know that Monday after the briefing, when I'd hand-delivered that fresh spring flwoers arrangement to her desk with a note: "Val, 'The Star-Spangled Banner“ is on! - Sam", that she wouldn't insist on hearing me first? I don't know everything, least of all Lady of Spain and Melancholy Baby.

As I walked back to the wing the Major or Colonal at the podium off to the side, wheezed out a strained, “Thank you, Specialist.“ Thank God I didn't do any stand-up just then. Immediately following was the Chaplain who stood there and saved the horribly awkward moment with a well-placed “Now let us pray.“ No shit, Sherlock. Still, no clues either.

Final Reckoning ("because it's there")

(Dusted off on the occasion of the 25^th Anniversary of the End of The Wall in Berlin* - fictionally reprinted , with permission, from Climbs You Never Read About, Vol. III, No. 69, Summer 1994. Offered – and declined – for publication in Climbing Magazine, Oct. 1994. *"Park Service" refers here to the Allied Forces in West Berlin, the "Saxon bears" are a reference then of course, to the East German border guards.)

FINAL RECKONING:

Scaling the Berlin Wall's West Face
a profile in audacious feats of shenanigans,
by Sam “Mountain Goat“ Inayat-Chisti

Created by glacial movements of a former age, and spanning some ninety-nine kilometers, the sheer magnitude of this "climber's nemesis" intimidated villagers and travelers alike, with its forboding presence and relentless atmosphere of impregnability. Its monotonously endless ridge, resembling the Alaskan Pipeline and rising some several meters above the communities overshadowed by its awesome challenge, was not, properly speaking, the highest point in Berlin, as that status was claimed by Teufelsberg (or Devil's Mountain), which was no less formed as a result of the same not-quite-Ice-yet-still-rather-Cold Era. No, the altitude was merely the lesser of grave considerations for anyone contemplating conquest of this beast, whose formidable lateral expanse was actually more dizzying to the mind than was its height. It could hardly be said there were any notable climbing routes in the aea – unless you counted the canyonesque – and off-limits - "Social Highrises" east of the Great Wall; it could hardly be said there was any climbing. Hardly any mountains. Okay, so none. Hence the Great Colossal Challenge of: Der Wall.

While some 130 lives had been claimed in attempts to take the east face of this smooth, solid mass just since summer's end, 1961 (no previous attempt had been necessary, hence none on record), no one had ever seriously considered the equally perplexing west face. So it was, until Crilley, Bohning, Prof. Müssen and I locked in on it that fateful evening in early November, 1989. And another thing: I've pretty much run out of hyperdescriptive adjectives, so now that I've captured the reader's attention this far, if indeed at all, I'm thinking of taking a short break from words of the fifty- and seventy-five-cent caliber, if that's okay with everyone.

As I've mentioned, bodies had abundantly dropped on the east side over the years, some quite recently in the time frame of our story, although the last such fatal attempt had gotten the guy a hundred foot drop from his ingeniously but, as fate would have it, inadequately constructed balloon into the west. Those who had successfully negotiated the east face over nearly three decades actually had never negotiated the behemoth itself, but circumvented its bulk via "the hiker's route" or by tunneling – the last clever ruse which worked being to simply spring over a couple subway tracks, a daunting matter which took him 15 years of planning. These didn't count as climbs of course. We were going to scale the sucker right where she stood, as she stood.

 

I should mention that the Park Service had always restricted any and all such notions on the west face since those early fatalities in 1961. In fact, the only way one could go near the east face was to take a frequently trafficked "hiker's route" specially provided by the Park Service, which always looked out for your interests, and always included a nice, glitzy tourist guide to show you all the interesting areas where you could or could not go. Well, that was a lot of fun, I can tell you. But there is truth in the regularly confirmed sightings of Saxon bears on the east slope in those days – and that they did not have a sense of humor but could be really quite nasty. Hence the west slope Park Service would become a mainstay, much to the general satisfaction of the villagers here.

Crilley and Bohning, both inexperienced and under the influence, banged on my door the night of November 9^th, 1989, shouting incoherently that the restrictions were dropped and we could now execute our long-shelved plan to climb the daunting west face of the Berlin Wall. Dr. Bartee, my roommate, was on important out-of-town business, and would be so darkly disappointed (also under the influence on occasion) that we would carry forth our shared plan in his absence, that he refused even to send me a postcard from where he was staying, or cover the drinks when he returned. Bad attitude, considering what this would mean for Climbing history, but such are academics, they're a touchy breed. I told the boys to settle down, we'd deal with it the next evening, and to inform Prof. Müssen immediately.

Night-climbing was preferred to broad daylight, as our schedules were too locked in to our own respectively routine duties with the Park Service. Moreover, a daytime ascent would have been insane, out of the question really, as the maneuver would require stealth and discretion. Only one person I ever knew of came close to what we were about to do, and that really was in broad daylight – but then he really was a bit touched and void of discretion. John Runnings, a bearded American octogenarian of indeterminate age but of very determined chutzpah, was a sporadically encountered feature at - and on - the west face, when from time to time he tried to breach the Park Service restrictions and actually taunt those bears, but was always hindered and repulsed in his attempts (which once included mooning the bears) by imposing forces well beyond his control.

We decided on the 10^th, and met outside our compound, taking the most direct and least treacherous route there we knew: the S-Bahn subway to Anhalter Bahnhof, beyond which point one had to strike out on foot, a grueling but not unpleasant ten minute walk. I noticed on the way there, that none of us had thought of carrying any direct-aid equipment. I myself was wearing Park-issue all-purpose shoes and my worthy companions, minus Dr. Bartee, were stepping out in sneakers. What about: webbing? hex-nuts? some Quadcams maybe, with chrome vanadium axles, stainless steel cables, and silver soldered joints to ensure both high strength and low weight, available in nine sizes? What about a simple carabiner? What about, maybe a a purlon rope?! After we'd stopped and seriously reflected on this, Crilley merely said, "Ehh, so what? We got 'Jimmy.'" And he was right. "Jimmy" would suffice, yes "Jimmy" would have to do.

And off we trod, outwardly sober and carefree, yet each of us holding his own secret anxious yearnings toward --- actually nothing in particular. The sobriety gradually wore off, and this had more to do with "Jimmy" than with the bounding confidence in our climbing skills. I should mention here, that the elixir we carried in Crilley's flask was not, strictly speaking, "Jimmy" Beam but his equally potent cousin "Jackie" Daniels, yet since the flask normally contained the former the name stuck. I had no care for either "cousin," but just to be a right bastard I offered to be the carrier of the flask, and proceded to whittle "Jimmy" down about a third by the time we were embarking from Anhalter. I regaled the group with Climbing anecdotes, bolstering their spirits (as I'd now had some "Jimmy" in me) and with the laborious tale of my roughly perimeter-length Walk along the entire west face, in October of '88 (little knowing my way then, around and through the villages, and into the lurking shadows of the formidable Spandauer Forest). I had used that occasion to look the west face over, up and down, checking for any vulnerabilities in its near-perfect 90-degree stretch of slab, any cracks, crevices, handholds, couloirs, chimneys,a dihedral or two – and found the entire thing instead: a monotonously endless ridge, with a forboding presence and relentless atmosphere of impregnability and despair.

But on this evening despair was the furthest thing from our minds, because we'd brought along "Jimmy." We thought about what lay ahead, and the promise of what would no doubt follow: throngs of weeping, ecstatic villagers greeting us as they feted us with wine and song and garlands and kisses, for having accomplished the hitherto impossible – thus winning their admiration and gratitude.

Well. Interestingly, and speaking of throngs, it did not strike us as odd – but should have – that quite a number of people seemed to be headed in the exact same direction as we were. And a few of them looked more prepared for a direct-aid ascent of something than we appeared, but then, it was already decided on free-climbing it, entirely without aid but for "Jimmy." Our breathing measured, and our pacing swift and sure, we filed toward the looming edifice with wild thoughts of fame and glory. Ignoring the crowd alongside us, we rounded the last curve. Imagine our chagrin to see thousands of people we didn't even know, already scaling our Wall, and even sitting on the summit – not only sitting, dangling their feet, but standing around, teetering, dancing, making whoopie, passing around the Bubbly, which anyway interested me a lot more than just "Jimmy"! And what was more, these were supposed to be our throngs of happy villagers who should have been down below, jubilantly preparing the parade float for our return, tired, safe and alive, from our conquest!

"Well, gents," I sighed, "let's do what we came here to do." And forgetting all matters of climbing etiquette or any climbing discipline, we set to with no semblance of order. I jumped and lunged at hands reaching down to grab me; I was on-belay, and half swinging out and half scrambling with my feet, badly scuffing the toes of my Park-issue patent leather low-quarters, I foisted myself up, up onto the summit slabs. I looked out . . . and could see . . . from this great height: nothing. Nothing but heads, heads and more heads, a sea of heads and much spurting Bubbly. Then I turned and saw the Northern Lights as they illuminated the renowned Brandigate, that stone edifice which beckoned me now as it had since '88. Another climb for another time – as fate would have it, New Years. I turned to Crilley. "Where're the others?" I asked. "Dunno," he shrugged, "they went on. ...Where's 'Jimmy, have ye got 'Jimmy'?" I paused to look at him significantly, then replied with the full weight of all that this had meant to us, all the months of agoniznig and planning and keeping faith: “Crill, I gave 'im to you five minutes ago. Look down, you're holding 'im.“

Crilley sheepishly acknowledged his lack of attention to climber's integrity, then jerked his head to the left, gazing off into the distance, focusing his razor-sharp vision which had earned him the name he had long accepted from his comrades: "John Crilley," or "the Crillmeister." We were a daring and original group of pathfinders, we were. "Look!" he was shouting now, grabbing me by the sleeve and causing me to spill Bubbly. "Isn't that Peter Jennings?" he pointed. And the next thing I knew, I had completely lost sight of the last of the three companions I'd ventured out with just earlier that same evening. Vaguely reminded of the Japanese plum wine I'd once foolishly brought with me on a summer ascent of the east face of Longs Peak in the Rocky Mountians back in '70, I now began the slow and painful descent from that west face of the Berliner Wall, and staggered home, full of pride and wonder, sorrow and loss. "Jimmy" and Bubbly.  All in all a poor mix.

You don't want to hear the rest.







Dr. Bartee however did want to hear the full monty, and got it.  Still would not cover for drinks but the postcard arrived later after all.

Exactly 25 years later to the day:  I'm still here.