Kissing The Leper

Kiss the lepers that you meet,

as the spirit moves you;

embrace the uncomfortable in your life,

to grow in your light, as it behoves you.

Love, serve and remember,

instructed that beloved Swami –

who else had once said that and altered history?

This lends itself to no ideology.

One has washed the feet of transients

in the public parks or elsewhere;

hugged drunks, beggars, all regarded as sentient –

free of any trip about it, just showing care.

If you'd ever lain next to a dying AIDS-stricken,

body skeletal, sweaty, his mourning partner sickened,

and there hugged him together, held him close and tight,

then you've been there, you've known such nights.

If you'd been up to your knuckles in piss and crap,

or changed clothing on severely handicapped

with the same joy and aplomb with which you once wrung cotton diapers,

then you know what I mean, you know to adapt.

If you'd wiped spittle while feeding adults,

or felt love toward a huge bellowing, now quiet

psychotic in messed shorts, whose nails and beard you'd been trimming –

you know very well what I am talking about.

If your spirituality's too refined, you are only pious –

bring that refinement into the messy world and put it to use;

let no body be foreign to you, let the mess test the mettle

of that refinement, so that spirit has some gut and hooves.

Kissing the lepers is an internal acceptance

of forms as they are, not forced or imaginary "tolerance"!

It is most natural and native when about nothing

but loving, and serving, and remembering.

Am I Being Un-patriotic?

No fallen American soldier in my lifetime
has ever died for my freedom.
It is but a lie, an untruth, and an affront
propagated by interests ruling our governing body,
as a cancer drives a body, cell by cell, toward
eventual capitulation of all moral force and integrity.

It does not matter which president sits, the die is cast;
profit at all cost in the unrelenting contest of greed,
cynicism, hypocrisy, incompetence and intrigue.
Young countrymen and women, with ever darkening futures
or none left to see at all, trained and indoctrinated, sent abroad,
trained but unprepared, schooled but not matured,
heroized with propaganda which respects not one of
their precious lives now fallen – not for my freedom, nor for yours.

It is a lie as a matter of policy, an untruth as a matter of duty,
an affront toward every soldier sent and fallen, and toward the families
they have left to mourn. But those who form the policies do not mourn,
so don't listen to them; don't attend their parades, don't buy their memoirs,
don't support their platforms or their calls, the ground is thin ice breaking.
Strike at the polls, vote them out, vote them out if you can – but can you?

No fallen American soldier in my lifetime
has ever died for my freedom or for yours.
Democracy is as precious as those fallen lives,
for it too is fallen, its cadaver carried high
in a frenzy of propaganda.

To love Democracy one has to first imagine it,
not play to its travesty, it is to embrace it within
where heart and mind might learn and mature –
this would be patriotic, but not politically correct.
The naiveté of my people does not excuse the ineptitude
of principle-challenged psychopaths who begin wars on a lie.

When free speech and critical opinion fall to the mainstream culture
of arrogance, ignorance and aggression, Democracy falls
and my freedom is at perile as is yours; patriotism,
a beautiful and a noble feeling in the heart,
becomes a whacked-out cocaine high when it is
toyed with, manipulated to justify cover-ups of crimes
no American can bear to be apprised of.

May I be pardoned in this, for being so un-poetic,
may I be pardoned for sounding so un-patriotic.
But do not pardon me for being politically un-correct.
Arrest me, charge me, throw me in jail – for there I will sleep no worse
than I do many many nights, far removed here from my home shores,
here on a continent being dragged into the American Dream of delusion.

I am no stranger to mourning the dead and the fallen,
I have learned to mourn the dismemberment of
differential analysis in favor of deference to
demonic ideological wills abroad and at home.
If the truth is slow to come to the surface
I will be around as long as it takes; if my deep concerns
are called irrelevant by the relativists of the day, then
let the Orks of Islam prove me out at the end of that day.

Am I saying something new, of course not,
but I will not court silence or appeasement, I will not behave.
I will not submit to the poison of insipid correctness,
I will stand corrected by historical evidence but I will stand
on my own two feet and strive to perceive with a heart immersed
in my very private love for Democracy and for patriotic values.

I remain an expatriate, but will never be an expatriot.
My weapon is prayer, my shield as well, the barricades I mount
are internal, and should I be called to the barricades on my own street
I will be there. In the meantime I burn this candle here,
unextinguished, for the fallen, for my freedom and for yours.

Love Is Most Great!

The night’s vigil ended at break of dawn.
After breaking fast together over wine, pork, and song,
the Mad Fool of God left my presence;
he told me he’d now climb naked
the minaret of the Spheres,
and proclaim there a better Calling:

"Love is most great, Love is most great!
Love is most great, Love is most great!
I bear witness that there is no reality but Love,
I bear witness that there is no reality but Love!
I bear witness that Love is its own Prophet,
I bear witness that Love is its own Messenger!
Come to celebrate, come to surrender!
Come to consciousness, come to completion!
Love is most great, Love is most great!
There is no reality but Love!"

I told him he was mad, he answered,

No, he wasn’t angry at all, and we laughed, and he left.

But like that Great Woman of Basra

he’d carry torch and water pail,

to burn down paradise and put out hell’s fire – so that

Muslims might just once find something better to do

in the Name of God, than sparing themselves no effort

in erasing the "competition," and to reflect for once,

try loving God – without hope or fear, but for Love –

and after 14 centuries finally learn to dominate

themselves rather than "everyone else."

Myself and Glad of It

I am so glad to be me,

no – make that overjoyed,

by God I am glad of it!

I don't wish to be anyone else

for better or worse, a blessing or curse,

I have so much to do, there's much to be done;

time is a luxury, and so am I.

I've but one wish toward

all those others about me –

extending to still more others –

a horde of them, a city, a continent:

I want each one, each and every one

of you to stop and love yourself,

rejoice with me in being you –

for as there's no other me,

there can be no other you.

When you have this, really –

when you have this, only then

will you have ground, the earth

will bless your feet, the air

will refresh your mental and physical wealth.

Only then will you grasp equality, basic sanity,

giving and receiving, becoming Human.

When you have this – only then will you

finally be in the position to ask:

What is this “I“ all about?

No one else can do that but you.

No Pets Allah'd

"Nothing is more unclean in My sight
than the obsessive fastidiousness of the self-righteous,
nor more loathsome in My sight than their loathing piety."

So dogs are out, cats as well no doubt!
You cannot have a prayerful house
where prayers are answered – if pets run about!
You'd best keep timid and resigned, stay quiet as a mouse!

You may mistreat animals and ignore them,
sexually abuse them and abhor them,
you may slaughter them en masse at tradition's whim
to cleanse yourselves of supposed sins!

But neither own nor keep a pet,
not in your house, befriend no vet;
and for the sake of heaven and of paradise,
never ever invite one to prayer – they're worse than lice!

Piously hate all others who are not of yours,
you'll wind up hating some of yours as well;
Smile sweetly with dagger clenched, concealed of course –
while you in pet-free paradise dwell, we gladly reside in hell.

I ran with my dawg in the park, got arrested,
Iran, being Muslim, ran off with my pet – it's haram;
"In the Name of God, the Compassionate!" I protested,
(Ayatollahs know better than the Creator about Creation.)

"Woe unto you Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites,
you clean yourselves outwardly, but within
you're like open reeking sepulchres...
for not what goes into your mouths will contaminate you
but what comes forth from there!"

( http://www.al-monitor.com/pulse/originals/2013/06/iran-cracks-down-on-dogs.html# )

Not a Sparrow Falleth...

How often do I hear demanded
with the same easy umbrage and scorn –
sometimes quite poignant, often quite banal –
always easy, because to drop anchor in deep waters
and to wait it out requires work – and character:
how often have I heard demanded,
"Where was God?" or "What kind of 'God' would allow...?"

The real despair is entirely understandable,
the righteous indignation behind it makes a lousy argument
for self-styled atheists and agnostics or followers of
a materialistic gospel leading ultimately nowhere.

The Question begs an answer, for it assumes an intellect,
yet is intellectually weak and wanting a breath of life –
I will try to give it that, a goose in the ass, a jump start.

Putting aside any chat of "predestination" or joining the chorus
of misusers of the term karma, consider for one moment:
if I get in my car right now and someone else climbs in one,
and each of us has a preconstructed plan for the day
based on habits and wants and needs and routine – clueless,
neither of us plans in an accident, but we arrive
at the same intersection and it happens.
Someone wasn't paying attention. God always does.
(But we shell out dough for "navigators,"
and we ask, What kind of God would allow this!)

A child is murdered, a pet is run over, an elderly woman
is mugged, a homeless man is beaten half-dead, a girl is raped.
There are so many persons all at once, whose person-selves
are each planning an agenda without knowing everything,
mostly without a clue because you cannot know everything –
people crash, slip on the ice, commit suicide, shoot their mates.
Where is God? On the breath, but we aren't.

There are mass atrocities, all ideological, committed with religious fervor,
the latter unspeakably committed in the ever-abused name of that "God"
of whom we are now demanding, How can He! How dare He!
The natural world is being laid waste, greed and crass consumerism rule,
construction and de-construction and destruction – millions of egos
carrying out their grand or petty agenda simultaneously over lifetimes.
With such odds, something's bound to occur.

Ah, "God" – that laughing, scorning Psychopath with a sadistic sense of humor,
infantile and pathologically narcissistic, surely a Deity with issues.

There is one very unpopular and uncomfortable reason
for all this: we are free to choose, we are not machines.
It is a characteristic of that same God, that we are born
with this very freedom, that we came here of our own free will,
to be and to become human, to dis-cover Him as our own true nature.

It does not mean we are born conscious, nor that it will make us so.
But we are free to wake up at one time or another, and when we do,
we may also choose to stay awake and live in an awakened state.
This requires of us the most intelligent responsibility.

So where is God now, and what is it that He appears to allow?
He didn't give us ISIS, ISIS gave us ISIS. We gave ourselves
all the shit we see before us, from the most intimately personal
to the most regional or global – everything which causes some to
ask ceaselessly: WTF was God thinking! In short:

"God" will not solve your problems, remembering Him might –
that would be to mindfully and with devotion stay in the breath –
But God will not "solve" your problem.
We are given the freedom to responsibly pay attention.

And there is being with each other and for each other.
And staying really close, and really loving.

A poor woman came to Buddha,
wept over her dead son,
begged Buddha to bring the boy
back to life.
Buddha said, fine, okay, I'll do it.
First bring me a mustard seed from a
household which had never
lost a member and mourned.
She went out, she sought all over, she returned empty handed.
And she got it, and she took the Path of Dharma.
And she began to pay attention.

"For a few pennies ye buy yourselves a sparrow,
but I tell you: not a sparrow falleth, but the Father knoweth."

Not a sparrow falleth.

 

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.