Sexual Abuse

Abuse - sexual, as in my case, or any other - will mess you up. I was probably in my late 30s when I was able to pinpoint the exact moment when my life changed forever. Though I do not know the exact age, I know the exact location, circumstance and people in the room as clear as I am writing this. That meant more 20 plus years of layer upon layer built upon that wound so that area of my life was underdeveloped, overcompensated for in other ways and a mythological creature was built upon that vortex.

The curious thing is that I remembered it and could talk about that moment but the disconnect was so great that I did not know that it was the source. I may have have noticed it when feelings of rage flared up around the person even though I didn't quite know why; I just thought that person was just a jerk and I justified the behaviour because of the abuse within his family. In hindsight, after this I would find myself amongst the company of outcasts, most, maybe even all, of whom had come from abusive or troubled environments.

I recall being at one of my friend's houses and having his stepfather threaten to whip all of us in the room, me included, with a belt because we were being too loud. And he most certainly meant it. My friend would later move on to the military and I lost touch with him though back at home he was seen in town behaving in a fashion that would lead one to believe he carried on the same manner of raising children. 

It was never a conscious thing. I just knew I did not belong in certain cliques and, though not antagonistic toward those cliques, I did not fit in. So I fell into the non-clique cliques and even hung with the 'hoods' loosely enough not to go down those paths which, I am well aware, were also symptomatic of abuse. Had I chosen to go down that path rather than soak up the vibes without actually entering, those addictions may have done more damage sooner.

It was then that the seeds of rebellion were planted. Though it would in time graduate beyond the suburbs it was comfortable, suburban rebellion. Sneaking out at night, alcohol - lots of alcohol - and rock music though, again, it was the obligatory classic rock and the rebellion that got a knowing smile from those who lived through it the first time and passed it on to us.

However, this was a linear progression. This was not a circular progression out of which people grow and conform into their expected role once they've shaken the 'teenage rebellion' rite of passage. No, this would grow differently than those within my family.  I was not alone in this as many from my class would follow similar trajectories and it always led me toward believing that there was some form of trauma underlying all of these people's lives.

I graduated beyond the classic rock of my youth and 'discovered' Motley Crue (now classic rock) and heavier, louder rock and roll, though comfortably from within my suburban bedroom. Alcohol was not frowned upon so it was easily accessible. In my case, it started before I became a teenager. It was all controlled, the parameters of our rebellion laid before us. And I think, when coupled with the abuse, because there was no relief for feelings of which I was not aware, I progressed. I wanted more, further, deeper, louder, angrier, self-inflicted as other than appearance and my internal dialogue I had learned to put on airs.

I kept clean cut rather than becoming a stoner cliche. I maintained, though this was a gradual slope, a job. From the upper echelons of my first job to working in a coffee shop, I cannot remain oblivious to the fact that my addictions were leading me to make some minimalist choices.

There was always 'something' there that kept me from going all in, some effort at restraint that kept me from doing heroin, that kept me from growing my hair long and living the cliche. But that 'something 'was slowly losing its grip and I was gradually on my way there. Addiction isn't always instant. Perhaps our level of security slows the journey and we can go a long time without going all the way there. But it was coming.

Before I left on my walkabout I met my now wife. It was she who kept me going and it was she who I turned to on the lonely journey across the country, even as I lived among and with people. She was my life line though I didn't know it at the time. And it was because of her I returned when the bottom was falling out and I somehow knew where I was heading. And it was through her that I was introduced to a faith that would ultimately reveal that moment in time when life changed, when my innocence was lost and I would spend my youth trying to destroy that innocence - and myself in the process - and my adulthood trying to reclaim it.

Seattle, Kites and LSD

I keep coming back to 1994. Either I am elevating it to myth or it has been the center of gravity of the space in which I now occupy. It was only a year but so much came out of that year I am only now beginning to understand the fallout.

In revisiting my past, mostly through music, I stumbled across an article I had published in the Seattle Times on October 2, 1994. It was my first published piece. Here it is in full:

Soaring Spirits -- A Brief Lesson In Kite-Flying Offered Pure Cleansing Energy

I read the letters to the editor daily and find myself wondering where the good is in the world. But sometimes, amidst the muck and the mire of the daily grind, there bursts a ray of shimmering hope. Spending a cathartic Sunday afternoon at Magnuson Park, I sat watching in fascination as a colorful array of sport kites, poetry in motion if you've never really watched them, circled in the crystal clear blue sky above, Mount Rainier in full splendor dwarfing the background.

After following one particular kite for a while, the man controlling it so gracefully sensed my awe and said hello. I commented on his kite and before I knew it he was teaching me to fly it using his own kite, a child's excitement in his voice as he performed this completely unselfish act. The beauty lies in the bond formed with the kite and the wind. If I took my eyes off the kite for two seconds it came crashing to the ground. When my focus was on the kite, not only did it fly smoothly but all other things were washed from my mind, there was simply no room. An act as simple as flying a kite was pure cleansing energy; one could say it was spiritual.

This man also introduced me to several gentlemen from Prism, a local company that crafts these high-tech, high-quality kites. They had volunteered their time and kites to show a local church group how to fly them. To see the joy in their faces as they learned; to feel it in the enthusiasm of the man who taught me; and to feel it in the pride of the guys at Prism, their dream, a perfect union of man and nature, soaring above their heads, made me realize there is hope in the world. And it felt good.

Sometimes the big picture that so terrifies us just needs a little fine tuning. So, to Pack and the guys at Prism, a heartfelt thanks.

The funny thing about the story, the subtext if you will, was that I had just taken a hit of acid. 

I own a Prism stunt kite and have flown it a few times since then.  A friend of mine fixed me up on a blind date because she had asked her if she liked flying kites.  Tough to build a relationship on that (well, that and smoking pot).  I vaguely remember driving about an hour from my home to look at new kites.  Seemed like kite flying could have been a big thing but I live in Ohio and the kites were sold out of some guy's basement.  Guess it wasn't a big thing.  Maybe somewhere other than Ohio... 

My family thought I was bizarre when, in more recent memory, I brought it to the Outer Banks on a family vacation.  Loved the reaction from one of the guys in the beach shop when I showed him my now "vintage" kite.  There was a moment where I thought it was kinda cool.

It was a joy to fly it on the beach but for some reason it just never lived up to that brief, fleeting moment written about for all the world to see.

Seattle 1994 Baraka and the World of Illusion

I am listening to the soundtrack for the film Baraka as ripped from the DVD (seems this is heading for obsolence as the Blu-Ray is said to be astonishing...).

In 1994 I was living in Seattle, having found myself there after several months on the road after quitting a "real" job and hitting the road (fueled by confusion, madness and drug use...). It was quite an experience.

One of the memorable moments in the drug-fueled period of my life was the opportunity to see the film Baraka in all it glory on the big screen. I doubt it was in the original 70 mm Todd-AO format though it may have been. All I know is that I was stoned when I went to see it and was mesmerized. In the midst of a spiritual crisis/catharis, the subject matter of the film was right on point. It was where I was at the time; it was also where I wanted to be. I sat in a stupor for about an hour and a half as I asborbed the images and sounds of the film. If you've never see it, you must see it at least once.

One of the pivotal moments, at the height of my buzz no less, was a scene in a trash dump in India where people are rummaging through the trash while Dead Can Dance's "Host of Seraphim" is playing. I was frozen in time. Never had I been so moved during a film; never had I felt a song so powerfully. It was, for that moment, transcendent. Even now as I listen to the song, it takes me there, a perfect memory capsule of a moment frozen in song.

Now, fifteen years later and a bit more worldly wise, I have found that many of the images in the film are based in settings that would be considered the tourist variety and the film itself is structured to "sell" a point. Though profound and moving it is now fairly obvious. Perhaps maturity and experience has shattered the illusion but it doesn't take away from the original experience for which this was a pivotal moment. This is a risk as we age, that we condemn and become cynical about those things that profoundly altered our worldview. But this film educated me and was instrumental in my desire to see the world in context.

One of the scenes which freaked me out at first was early in the film when a group of men, all seated, perform some kind of a dance in the jungle, all led by an older "shamanic" figure, eyes glazed over in a hypnotic trance, arms in unison as the bodies sway back and forth to the rhythm of the chant. A striking visual.

Years later I would learn that this is a staged performance called Kecak, or Ramayana Monkey Chant, a musical drama performed in Bali that celebrates an ancient Sanskrit epic. While it has its roots in sanghyang, a trance-inducing exorcism dance, it has become a "Westernized" version of the original.

A German painter and musician, Walter Spies, became interested in it during the 1930s and transformed it into a performance piece. Spies worked with Wayan Limbak, a Balinese dancer, and Limbak popularized the dance by traveling throughout the world with Balinese performance groups. These travels helped to make the Kecak known throughout the world.

This transformation is an example of what James Clifford describes as part of the "modern art-culture system" in which, "the West or the central power adopts, transforms, and consumes non-Western or peripheral cultural elements, while making 'art' which was once embedded in the culture as a while, into a separate entity."

Here is a more telling photo:

Sounds familiar...

Americanization

To what extent is education exploitation? Too cynical? Is my desire to keep such cultural elements confined to their historical roots a sign of the same "spirit" of Westernization, an elitist version of creating an exotic "other" for voyeuristic purpose?

Speaking of exploitation, tourism and Sufism, this all reminds me of an article from Hakim Bey, one of my favorite anarchist writers, about Overcoming Tourism...

This film was my first exposure to the music of Dead Can Dance and I would, over time, absorb anything related to their music, discovering many artists on the legendary 4AD label. Even today, it is still some of my favorite music.

However, much of this had to do with the mystique I created around their music. I envisioned some mysterious, mystical, exotic group whose music was angelic, ethereal, transcendent. That wasn't the case but the music of Lisa Gerrard, vocalist for Dead Can Dance, is truly amazing. She is perhaps most known for her work in the film score for Gladiator. Like much of my early spirituality, I chose to believe in a myth of my own making, a self-idealized projection that led to living in a world of illusion I created.

Time, age and maturity can often dampen the original joy of an event but this film changed my worldview and instilled a deeper desire for exploring the religious life. With music from around the world buoyed by a score from Michael Stearn (a favorite of Hearts of Space), it's a gem. The music is incredible though I think the weed enhanced the music to an extent I haven't experienced since.

Actually, the last time I watched the film itself I was tripping on LSD and in one of the early scenes of a mountain, I saw the face of Jesus being molded, melting, out of the mountains, a liquid face morphing and changing but still clearly Jesus.

I don't expect you to see Jesus there but I did, plain as could be. It was a charcoal etched vision of him in Fritz Eichenberg or Gustav Dore style (no halo, though) but it was unmistakable. I wanted to stay in that moment forever. Sadly, the crew I was with wanted to trip to something else and ejected the video.

A soundbyte from this film can be found in Jonathan Lisle's incredible Original OS.0_2 mix on John Digweed's Bedrock label and if you watch closely you'll see stills of the film in The Matrix Reloaded when Neo speaks with The Architect.

It's amazing the things that frame our worldview. Because this film so impacted my life (and, obviously, the lives of others) it has become a way of framing my perception of the world and is thus instantly recognizable when placed in various cultural media, a signpost, common ground among a larger tribe, all on the same journey, like product placement (is that irony or cynicism?).

The CD version of the film was too short and left out a lot of the subtle musical gems from the film as was the case with both Koyaanisqatsi and Powaqqatsi. Certainly these will be on Blu-Ray soon. What a peculiar twist having paid $75 for a used VHS version of this movie off of ebay after it was pulled from the shelves of Blockbuster when it went out of print. I can't help but think that there is something ugly and sinister about the material product of media proliferation.

It looks as if an "upgrade" to the soundtrack to Koyaanisqatsi is forthcoming as well.

My wife and I saw Koyaanisqatsi performed live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with Philip Glass leading his orchestra as part of an effort to fund the finishing touches on the third piece of the trilogy, Naqoyqatsi (or, as my wife calls it, quite prophetically, Not Quite Qatsi). Having heard this live with the film playing on a movie screen in the background was comparable to my viewing of Baraka, though I was sober this time.

Life without drugs and addictions. Being grateful. No regrets. Enjoying the now. To live without illusion. It really is possible.

WALSTIB...

Smokin' weed...

Why did I dream about getting high last night? It's been over ten years. Could be the stress load, the addiction diverted, could be all the talk in the news about legalizing marijuana (a good move, if you ask me...though one has to wonder about the quality of the stuff should it be FDA approved) or the fact I was thinking about plasma donation and the warehouse I used to live in was right next door where I used to get high with the landlord and, late at night, climb up on the roof and sit for hours.

Were pot to be made legal, would my use, or lack thereof, change? Is it ethically, morally or spiritually wrong other than the fact that it's been made illegal?

Christians for Cannibis anyone?

Seattle...1994...

I can't believe that 15 years have passed. In February of 1994 I left the comfort and familiarity of home for the open road. Having always done what (I thought) was expected of me, I had done just enough to get by, always longing for some form of escape (usually chemical in nature).

Somehow I had managed to graduate from college with decent, certainly not stellar, grades and had landed a sales job in the burgeoning cellular telephone industry. Somehow I managed to do quite well for a twentysomething and made quite a bit of money. In hindsight, it wasn't a lot of money but considering material things never mattered much I stockpiled money.

It was during this time that my issues began to blossom. I reached full blown alchoholic status during this time. It seemed the more successful I became the further away my sense of self appeared from "above" and thus the farther to fall. I ran headlong into the insanities of the bottle. To make matters worse I lived about a block away from my local bar where I hung with my drinking buddy and I was, uh, close to the bartender and drank for free. Cliff and Norm were we. We'd give a $10 bill to pay for the liquor and get a $5 and 5 $1 bills in return. At the end of the night it was nothing to leave a pile of money on the counter for a tip. Jack Daniel shots were lined up and I'd knock 'em down one after the other.

It was during this time that the blackouts began, waking up in the morning and not remembering getting home, ending up in strange apartments, finding strange people in my apartment, doing really strange things. I began sleeping in 'til late morning, showing up at work to make an appearance and going back home to bed to do it all again. It wasn't until I almost lost my job that I quit drinking. I quit cold turkey. But not really.

It was also at this time that the shift from alcohol to drugs began. I don't remember exactly how but I soon learned of other employees who smoked weed on a regular basis. Looking for another distraction and really not caring I decided to give it a whirl. A new love affair had begun.