AUGUST 30, 1978 - JOURNAL ENTRY

Summer will be over soon, the equinox is only three weeks away. winds from the North signal the impending change in seasons. the rustle of leave underfoot foretell the approach of autumn. Last night a cold gust caught me unaware. Winter, the coldest season of all hates to be forgotten.

A delicate butterfly bobbles against the August sky. Its shoulder-high flight dodges cars and trucks on 1st Avenue I pray out a warning to the danger The butterfly soars above the traffic. Preserving its beauty And the hope for mine.

I want to write a short story combining my trips to Evans Notch, the Moose Bar and Grill, and Peter Gorr's spooky mountain retreat. Lately I have been inspired by reading HP Lovecraft and sense the mysteries of the Other Side.

Our Boy Scout troop camped atop Evans Mountain next to the ruins of a stagecoach inn, a two-story wreck with a gaol in the damp basement. That evening the troop leader told a campfire tale of three Dartmouth students vanishing the night before the Thanksgiving of 1943. We went to sleep scared to the marrow.

As a teenager I checked the records from the surrounding towns without finding any information affirming the incident that although the East Village isn't very conducive to traveling through dimensions other than with LSD.

Last night Alice was hurt by my staying out all night. Her decision to sleep alone drives me out of the apartment, despite loving me and wanting to share all her pleasures and woes. Once I woke, she said she had risen at dawn and watched me sleep for several more hours.

"Your chest rose and fell so gently, but your sleep seemed like too much a waste of the day."

The Atlas of The Bible = National Geographic

National Geographic Society was founded in 1888 by explorers and scientists at DC's Cosmos Club with the backing of wealthy patrons as "a society for the increase and diffusion of geographical knowledge." Expanses of unmapped lands sprawled across the continents. The Society financed innumerable treks to Alaska, the Arctic, Antarctica, the steppes of Tibet, the Indonesian archipelago, and ruined cities deep in the heart of terra incognita.

In January 1905 the National Geographic's debut publication featuring photos of the society's team accompanying the British Punitive invasion over the Himalayas to Lhasa.

Ghost forts ravaged by weather and war guarded the desolate plateau.

The Empire's soldiers and explorers were astounded by the majesty of the Potala Palace.

Nothing in Christianity prepared the western readers for the devotion of the Tibetan pilgrims circling the most holy Jokhang Temple. Buddha was the answer. Jesus was unknown entity as was life over the Himalaya's monsoon shadow.

National Geographic was an instant sensation opening the world to armchair travelers for over a hundred years, however in the 1990s the old yellow-rimmed magazine was forced to answer the education shortcomings of its reading public. My cousin's husband was managing editor in 1991 and after a protest in Washington DC against the Iraq War I joined my father, Oliver, and his two young girls to watch Intercollegiate Rugby Championships. After the Wyoming win Oliver complained about the prolific swearing by both teams and their coaching staff. I said nothing, while he wrote a scathing letter to both university about the cursing.

Later at dinner I asked about the subpar writing in the National Geographic and Oliver said, "People aren't as well educated as we were. They read at an 8th Grade level, if they read at all, so we had to dumb down the magazine."

I never considered myself well-educated, but viewed the dumbing down the National Geographic as a rebuttal against the Theory of Evolution.

There is no bottom to ignorance and in 2018 the magazine featured cover story was THE ATLAS OF THE BIBLE.

The history of the Old Testament, New Testament, and the Koran.

The site of the first circumcision, the birthplace of Jesus, and Mohammad rising from the Temple Mount to travel to Jannah or Heaven.

Nothing about shrinking Palestine.

Neither is their any mention of Robert E. Peary's Inuit family.

My grandfather was polar explorer's doctor in Westbrook, Maine long after his fellow Bowdoin alumni had 'discovered' the North Pole. National Geographic honored Robert E. Peary as the White Man's Hero, even though Matthew Henson, his accompanying Afro-American explorer, actually reached Ultima Thule.

As an Atheist I wish that the Lands of the Bible were once more Terra Incognita.

A land lost to time.

ps - My cousin's husband received no letters from Wyoming U or the bother team, but I wrote him a fake response from a fake Dean of Sports apologizing for the graphic language. Oliver was so proud of that accomplishment, I had not the heart to tell him the truth, then again I only explore the soul.

Ganden Monestery 1995

Tibetan Dogs On The Prowl

There is an old joke about Tibetan street dogs that is more than part true.

Why do you need two sticks to take a shit in Tibet?

One to hold onto and another to beat off the dogs.

I never had occasion to relieve myself in the cities of Tibet, however more than once I found myself confronted by packs of dog.

Vicious snarling mutts descended from the famed mastiffs of the Himalayas.

Scared.

You bet I was.

They were everywhere in the 90s.

The Tibetans considered them sacred.

The Chinese authorities decided the kill off the mongrels.

By the thousands.

But they live on.

By the millions.

Free Tibet Now And Then

Back in 1998 I went down to Washington with my father. The ostensible purpose was to visit my cousin Cindi in Annapolis. My secondary reason was to protest against the World Bank with the Free Tibet Society. My father was comfortable situated with my cousin, her daughters, and husband. He had his crossword puzzle and a glass of white wine. I mentioned the demonstration and my old man said, "Aren't you a little too old for fighting with police."

"This will be a peaceful gathering."

"I don't want to get a phone call from the police." He handed me the keys to his car.

"I don't plan on getting arrested." I had never been caught by the cops during the anti-war movement in my youth.

"You're not as fast as you used to be." Cindi had been with me on Boston Common for a massive gathering protesting the invasion of Cambodia.

"I won't do anything stupid and at the first sign of trouble, I'm out of there." She was right. I couldn't outrun any pursuit other than by fat people.

"If you're going into DC, then parking could be difficult." Her husband gave me his pass for parking in the National Geographic HQ. He was an editor for that esteemed magazine.

"I'll be back before dark."

"If not, we'll send out a search party." My father held up his glass for more wine. It was almost noon. No one said anything. He was still mourning my mother.

Traffic into DC was light and I drove down New York Avenue to the center of the city. Various convoys of black Ford Suburbans sped past me. The SUVs were loaded with crew-cut men with steroid-thick necks. They were out-of-town reinforcements for the DC police.

During the early 70s I had protested against the Viet-Nam War with a college friend from Northern VA. We also drank at the Tap o Keg on Wisconsin Avenue. After parking my father's car under the National Geographic offices, I phone Tom McNelly's old number. It was disconnected, so I started searching through the crowds for my Tibetan friends. Finding them was an impossible task and I found myself in front of the World Bank HQ, as the buses were bringing in the delegates for their meeting. A phalanx on cops pushed us back.

I said, “Hey, I’m moving.

The cop in front of me jabbed my stomach with his nightstick.

His second hit was on my wrist. I hadn't done anything wrong, but I had had enough and retreated to the National Geographic parking lot, where I retrieved the car and drove back to Annapolis to drink wine and eat soft-shelled crab by the harbor. My father asked how it went.

I told him, “As I expected.”

"Glad you're in one piece." We clinked glasses and he said, "Free Tibet."

"Free the world." My cousin and her husband joined the toast.

It was a good cause.

Ganden Mud

In 1995 I went up to Ganden monastery with my friend Tim Challen. The Red Guard had destroyed the temple complex during the Cultural Revolution. The Tibetans were finally rebuilding it in the 90s. I joined the volunteers in tramping around the roof singing Louie Louie. It's an easy song to learn and a good one for tramping in the mud. Free Tibet.

The Sky Of Road

In my earlier years I traveled the world.

I loved seeing vistas such as this one.

I'll see them again, although maybe not the north side of Mt. Everest from Tibet.

Lhasa Guitar Boy

Shot By Tim Challen

Hell on Earth Tibet

After my youngest brother's demise to AIDS in 1995 I traveled to several of Asia's most holy sites to expiate his sins.

Some of mine too.

My main destination was Lhasa and I spent two months there drinking beer and walking around the Jokhrang, the Tibetan cathedral to Buddhism.

The Chinese presence was noticeable with soldiers posted on the outskirts and undercover police scattered amongst the pilgrims to suppress any mention of the Dalai Lama.

The authorities were also engaged in tearing down the old section of the city to erect modern buildings, mostly because the Central Bureau understands that order brings power and chaos brings disaster, however few people in the West about the wholesale destruction of Tibetan Culture, especially when their heaven of consumerism is collapsing like a castle of sand.

Only one voice is heard in this desert.

"Tibet has become "hell on earth," Dalai Lama said to the public on the 50th anniversary of the failed uprising in 1959.

On that day 300,000 Tibetans gathered around the grounds to prevent the Chinese from arresting their spiritual leader.

Their blockade was futile and the Dalai Lama fled over the Himalayas to conduct a campaign of non-violence against the Chinese occupation of his homeland. Fearful of another outbreak against their authority such as the 2008 Losar uprising the Chinese security forces have reinforced the high plateau with hordes of police and soldiers.

No reporters are allowed within the old boundaries of Tibet and all tourists have been issued restricted visas.

Only rumors filter from Tibet, as the Dalai Lama promotes the Middle Way to contest the Chinese rule.

"I have no doubt that the justice of Tibetan cause will prevail if we continue to tread a path of truth and nonviolence. We have to prepare for the worst. At the same time, we should not give up our hope."

Ireland never gave up hope.

Not for 400 years of British occupation.

I can only pray that Tibet can triumph against the odds.

Tibet go bragh.

Freedom will come one day, for in the words of the deceased IRA hunger striker Bobby Sands, "Our revenge will be the laughter of our children."

Bad Road In Tibet

My visa for China was running out at the end of October 1995. My overland departure to Nepal had been delayed by a massive avalanche smothering Tibet-Nepal Friendship Highway, but the staff at the Snowlands Hotel in Lhasa announced that a rough track had been opened through the fall area and I bought a ticket to Kathmandu. The bus only went as far as Shigatze, where we switched to a van, since the makeshift road couldn't support the weight of a fully loaded van.

We reached the distressed stretch in the afternoon. The driver hadn't exaggerated about the condition of the road and he suggested that we walk across the freshly cleared half-mile path.

"Rock fall. Hit van. Die."

He wasn't joking.

Some of the stones were bigger than a house, although a few tourists complained about the walk.

I ignored their whining and hurried to the other side of the fall. The rest joined me a minute later, but a German tourist lingered, shooting pictures of the impressive chasm with his Leica.

Someone shouted and we looked up the steep slope. A gigantic rock had shaken loose the grip of the scree and was starting to tumble gathering speed. The tourist was in its path. We yelled to him, but he was focusing the lenses on the Himalayas.

"My husband," cried a middle-aged woman. "Hilf ihm."

Like what?" I asked, for he was too faraway from safety to help him.

"Something," pleaded a German woman.

"There is nothing to do." The Tibetan guide shook his head. The man's fate was in the hands of the Gods, but we continued to shout.

He finally heard us and waved with a smile.

We pointed at the bounding boulder and he realized the danger, running to the right. The rock bounced in that direction. He juked to the left and the boulder followed suit. The tourist froze in his tracks, as the stone bounced in the air.

His wife screamed.

Her husband was destined for death far from Germany, except the boulder landed twenty feet before him and caromed over his head to smash down the slope to the river below.

The German woman sobbed with relief, as her husband rejoined her. All the Tibetans touched him for good luck. The man laughed foolishly, knowing in another path of existence he was dead.

The van traversed the dirt track and the driver muttered to the guide about stupid tourists.

They understood the power of the mountains and fear fate.

We reached the Nepalese border at sunset. The van dropped us at a hotel. I stayed at a different one than the Germans, because he had used up his life's allotment for luck and being around him wasn't a risk for anyone other than the foolhardy. The Tibetans felt the same way and we drank beer, toasting the stars and heavens and the Himalayas.

With respect.

Because they deserved it.

Ganden Sky Burial

A mango tree shaded our old house in Sri Racha. Birds roosted on the branches. Our next-door neighbor hated the tree. Its leaves fell into their yard, even though the tree's spread of shade cooled down both houses.

My neighbor only saw the leaves and the other week she called up the electricity office to trim the tree, while we were away in the country.

Upon my return I wanted to confront her about this assault on my tree , but Mam advises to keep a jai yen on these matters, since a cool head is easier to live with than a hot heart.

The next day I smiled at my neighbor without humor. She smiled back wondering how I would right her wrong. I smiled again communicating that my revenge was only in my mind and she smiled with gratitude. The Thais have more names for a smile than a Wall Street banker has for ripping off money from the taxpayers.

This week a small bird fell from the tree in front of Fenway and me. Its mother swooped to the ground and attempted to get its baby to fly, but the little bird was grounded by a broken wing.

Fenway was almost four year-old. He grabbed the little bird and put its body in a box, promising to heal its wing.

"I want to be doctor."

"Good boy." My grandfather had been a doctor in the Great War. I hoped that his skill might have been passed down to my son, but his mother knew the truth.

"Let him dream." It had been a long time since either of us had been so young.

"Bird will die." Mam was a fatalist.

"Not up to us. Up to Buddha."

We fed the little bird rice and its mother came to visit the stricken bird. Our efforts fell short and three days ago the little bird expired in the night. In the morning Mam asked me to bury the bird.

"Is that what Thais do with dead birds?"

"I not want cat eat." The Thais buried nothing.

"Okay." I sat down at the computer and searched google for 'thai bird burial'.

Tibetan sky burials covered the first five pages and no narrowing or broadening of the search words returned a traditional Thai bird burial ceremony, so I decided to give the little bird a sky burial.

Years ago I had been trekking around the Ganden Monastery in Tibet. Tim Challen and I were accompanied by two Canadian women who had been attending the Women conference in Beijing. Scores of golden vultures were gliding to a cliff top overlooking a fog-shrouded river. A gargoyle of a man stood over a human body. He held a savage cleaver in both hands. His bald head glistened with sweat, as he hacked the corpse into smaller pieces. A monk watched from a short distance. His prayers were a mantra caught by the wind. The vultures came to his call and swallowed chunks of flesh whole.

"What are they doing?" The girl from Toronto asked with wide eyes.

"It's a sky burial. Tibetans and Zorasterians believe that putting a body in the earth defile the world, so they let the vultures take them." I had read about this rite in Francis Younghusband's journal about his invasion of Tibet.

"It's disgusting." Ann was a homeopathic nurse. She hated the sight of blood.

The burial butcher waved for us to come closer.

The two girls argued against our interference with the sanctity of this moment.

Tim and I hadn't traveled thousands of miles to miss such a sight.

"If you want to keep walking, go ahead." Tim was a young man of 18.

"You can't be serious." Ann's friend was a squat feminist who had little use for men other than cadge food off them.

"Dead serious," I said and Tim and I joined the sky burial, as the two women stomped off in anger.

The vultures hobbled over the rocks to pick at the flesh. Their skull dipped blood. The sun broke through the clouds. Tim and I looked at the dead man's face. He wasn't wearing a smile. The monk lifted his hands from prayer to indicate that this was the way of the eternal wheel. We left before the butcher chopped apart the skull. Some things were better left to the imagination.

"What are you going to do with the bird," asked Mam that evening.

"A sky burial." I wrapped the little bird in plastic.

"Nang fan?" Thais burned their dead.

"Yes." I went outside and chucked the still body onto the roof. I didn't bother to say any prayers. I didn't know any for dead birds.

"So that sky burial?" Mam asked with Fenway hugging her legs.

"Same as they do in Tibet." I didn't explain about cutting up the bodies.

"I not sure."

"I've been to Tibet. I know what to do with the dead bird."

Farang bah." The Thais thought all westerners were crazy and I know what they would do with my corpse, if given the chance.

It had nothing to do with the sky.

Showing Your Humanity

During my treks through Tibet and Nepal I encountered herders on the trails. Each time they stuck out their tongue. My Sherpa guide explained that this custom proved that they were not a reincarnation of an evil spirit and human.

This greeting was repeated with regularity and I pondered how many evil reincarnations wandered the high country seeking hapless souls.

Even Albert Einstein picked up the practice to show he was a normal person.

Politicians generally don't stick out their tongues. They look ridiculous and voters don't want their leaders to look ridiculous like Pierre Trudeau.

Or John McCain.

Politicians prefer babies, although they act the way they want to act on cue.

Shaking hands has worked for many pols.

Although nothing reveals humanity more than eating food like Jimmy Carter jawing on ribs with his brother Billy.

Or George W Bush gnawing on a corn cob.

And Barack Obama scarfing a hot dog.

Ronald Reagan chomping on pizza.

And what about Gerald Ford.

A true man of the people.

Not everyone is so human.

George Bush # 1 had jaws.

Hillary Clinton had a small mouth.

And Donald Trump just wants something in his mouth so bad.

Of course me I love fried clams from Tony's on Wollaston Beach.

Like Putin I like my beer.

Guess the KGB boss is more human than I thought.

But I still would want him to prove it by sticking out his tongue.

His heading a soccer ball doesn't count.

Then again neither does Trump sticking out his tongue, because evil can be tricky, especially from a man who lies about his baldness.