It came to me in a dream: I was alone in an emptied village. There was no one around; everything was completely still and silent. There was no wind; there were no sounds from birds or insects. The sun was bright and low on the horizon and I knew that soon it would be dark and that I had to find shelter. There were several small houses ahead of me and I started to walk toward them. I could hear the sound of the dried grass beneath my feet. The air was cool. I didn't know how I had gotten to this place and I didn't understand what I was supposed to do there. I listened to myself breathing as I walked up to one of the houses. I called out, but no one replied. I walked up to an open window and looked in; there was no one there. There hadn't been anyone there for some time from the looks of it. Then I knew; somehow I knew that this is what it will be like in the end. This was the place at the end of time. Then I woke up.

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We went to a memorial gathering for a friend you died Monday. He had cancer. Cancer seems to be really common now that H.I.V. is controlled by anti-virals. I guess cancer, at least to a certain extent, is controlled too. The docs can keep you going for a time, but inevitably in the end, the cancer wins. It isn't pleasant from what I can see. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, except maybe fore a few high ranking government officials. Well, no, not even them, though they deserve something more appropriate to reflect their service other than the library that will be named after them in Somewhere America. Anyway, our friend was a good person, full of life, loved by many, ready to help out with any trouble or problem, someone to be counted on, a big heart, a good head, a trusty soul. We will miss him. He was seen off by loved ones who looked over him while he left his body. It was, as deaths go, a good death. I wish him well.

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He said: "Trains have a very different meaning depending on your heritage and history. Trains mean one thing to European Jews and something completely different to AfricanAmericans. Trains meant a visit to Grandma to me when I was growing up. For friends living in San Francisco in 1978 after the Jonestown masacre, there was a long, long wait for family or friends to be shipped home on a train from Delaware, where all of the victims were sent to from Guyana. I love the "Chunnel" train that painlessly connects Britain with France and a friend of my son is looking forward to riding the "Bullet Train" in Tokyo this summer. We all sometimes must ride on different trains to get to where we will ultimately end up. We always have trains in common."

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It was, by now, many years ago that Nicki and I toured Vermont during the Fall Foliage season there; their "Silly Season" when the state is over run with "leaf peepers". One of the stops was to the farm used by Bread and Puppet theatre company. There wasn't anyone around the place when we stopped, but the barn that they used to store their very large and often very strange puppets was open with the sign saying that we were welcome to go in and poke around for a bit. And, so, that's what we did and it was a lot of fun and there were some truly amazing and magical things in that barn, for sure. There was also, parked outside, the "Art Bus", looking a little bit run down and run over, but being put to good use as it contained plastic bins filled with prints and watercolors and various other kinds of art pieces that were "for sale" there in the bus. Sales were on an honor system: you just picked out one or two or more pieces that appealed to you and left the money in a box there in the art bus. So, that's what we did. We "bought" two block prints pictured here (no pun intended) and left the money, which as I remember now was about $5.00 or maybe less, in the box. Then we got into the car to drive to the next magical place, which turned out to be a Inn run by the women with stop-watches; but that's another story entirely.

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"Is the first temple of the people; taste the course beyond the range." I don't think anything has been expressed more poetically or more truthfully. These, indeed, are words to live by.

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I had a very strange dream where Bing Crosby and I were paling our way across America looking for Bob Hope. Mr. Crosby was dressed as a priest and wherever we went, people would turn around and stare at him. I wasn't certain if they were staring because they knew it was Bing Crosby or if they were staring because he was wearing the frocks of a Roman Catholic priest. In any event, we, the two of us, had managed to loose track of Bob Hope and this was a cause of much concern. It wasn't clear in the dream who had the primary responsibility of keeping an eye on Mr. Hope and his whereabouts, but we were both of us focused on finding him before he got into trouble. Apparently, Mr. Hope was know as a person who easily found trouble. So, anyway, we were marching from one bar to another bar looking for Bob Hope and not finding him and no one we talked to had seen him lately and it was all getting very worrisome. Then I woke up.

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This is what could be called "Technological Earth". It's what we use to cover over the dirt that sometimes inconveniently turns into mud when it rains or dust when it doesn't rain. Nothing grows in this techno dirt, but then nothing is supposed to. (In fact, nothing will grow pretty much wherever techno dirt has ever been.) One of the many magical things about techno dirt is you don't have to weed it. When it gets wet, the sun dries it out in minutes, not hours. It's ideal for walking on, but is a little too hard to lie on comfortably for any length of time; and woe to those who, for whatever reason, happen to pass out or faint on this stuff. Ouch! It's not as colorful as real earth, but that only means it doesn't make itself noticeable in a garish way. It also makes a very textured minimalist design.

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This is a part of what used to be, back in the day, the main terminal of National Airport. A traveler could see the (prop) planes taxi up to the curved wall of windows here and watch the passengers debark down the metal stairs that were rolled up to the plane door for that purpose. I still remember newspaper pictures of those long-haired "mop tops", the Beatles, coming down those metal stairs for their first concerts in the U.S. I like this part of National. It is now just one part to pass through between the parking garage and the terminals for Delta and NorthWest.

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The Leopard has his spots, but the Zebra has the stripes. Sometimes the stripes blend in with what is going on in general and you hardly notice them, and sometimes it's hard to hide the fact that the Zebra's stripes are not really leaning in the same direction as other people's stripes are leaning, and this can cause some problems for the Zebra in general. He might feel a little self conscious; maybe a little nervous that his wrong-leaning stripes will be noticed. Or, he might give a good G*d Damn.

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I sat down next to a man on the subway who asked me how I was. I told him that I didn't know yet, and he replied "Well, Jesus loves you", to which I answered "This I know" and smiled at him. I could see that at any moment we, the two of us, would begin singing classic gospel songs and that, maybe, but unlikely, the entire car load of people would join in and we'd be riding on the glory train bound for work. But, instead, I smiled at him and we both turned to our inner thoughts. He put his hands in his coat pocket because it was cold. I read a magazine article about the three Mexican fishermen who survived 9 months at sea. One of the fishermen was named Jesus.

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Not every place in America looks like this. But, then again, every place in America doesn't look like where I live: Washington, DC. A lot, a very lot, of American is small towns in a rural setting and relatively little of America is large, crowded cities. It always amazes me how much of America is "empty", with no one living on it, no houses, no malls, no roads, nothing. You see this part of America best from the inside of a coast-to-coast airplane. It is with comfort that I look down on these places for these are the places where there is still hope that we can someday get it right.

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They pass through like ghosts, like something that is not a part of us; like vapors. They're there and the next second are gone. You feel them more than see them; like a scent born on a barely felt breeze; a phantom, a moment in an almost endless series of moments, perceptions, a breath on the back of you neck. They are the "others".

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