Behind the Times
Michael Burgess
Mo’ Stuff
Yep, it is true your beloved editor has
suddenly lost all fear of flying. And with the help
of Ms. Angie in her role as travel agent, I will be
boarding a plane for Copenhagen Oct.24lh, armed
with valium, nicotine patches and enough gin to
keep me quiet enough to not scare the other
passengers. I will be staying in Amsterdam for a
few days to get over jet lag and culture shock,
(“You can smoke that right here at the bar?”) and
then on to Barcelona and eventually to Paris. (Fair
warning, Mr. Whitman, I will be showing up on the
doorstep of Shakespeare & Co. before you know it.)
No, at this writing, 1 don’t have either the money or
a passport, and I sure don’t have the Platinum VISA
card I have been hinting at for months. But, none
the less, I’m off. I ’m still also looking for someone
to sub-let the hideout. Five hundred a month for the
winter, two bedrooms, two baths, a couple blocks
from the ocean. No pets, but smoking is allowed.
What?
The paper will continue under the gentle
hands of Ms. Angie and Sally, and I will still be
ranting on a regular basis, so don’t worry.
Okay, if you are absolutely broke and have
no prospects of getting better off soon, please stop
reading now.
The rest of you folks I would like to
encourage you to do something silly; send me
money. It doesn’t matter to me why, you could
send me money because you don’t like me and want
me to leave, not just this town, but this state and this
country. Works for me. You could send me money
because the paper has made you laugh or think, and
you liked that. You could send me money because
everyone else who is asking you for money
deserves it more than I do, and you don’t care. It
really doesn’t matter. I will be leaving anyway. I
can’t tell you how much I will miss my beautiful
home by the sea, but I will be leaving anyway. I
might be back, I don’t really know. But if you want
to be really silly, like I ’m being, send me money!
Peace,
billy
“ Let us have but one end in view, the welfare of
humanity; and let us put aside all selfishness in
consideration o f language, nationality or religion."
John Comenius
Mary Elizabeth Anderson, one of
the sweetest women I ever hope
to know, lost her battle with lung
cancer September 28th.
aiar
Mary was my neighbor for three
ears; I fed her cat when she traveled,
SI h e excelled in tolerance and
generosity, had a sweet nickname,
and a thoughtful nature. She offered
plant starts and cookies, and
abundant friendship.
For some recent time Mary had been writing a column for
the Cannon lieach Gazette, and it is a measure o f her heart’s
greatness that in her last few days, she focussed in her writing on
the tragic recent events in America, the huge importance o f
human compassion, o f finding common ground, and of
understanding others.
In the midst of her own struggle for life, Mary devoted most
o f her thoughts to the struggles oFhumanity, and ends her final
column with these words: . . . Let’s share the experience of
asking questions, knowing there may be no easy answers.”
Her absence leaves a void.
,
/ . >
nCZai
W1ÍKRB TO GET AN EDGE
C annon Beach: Jupiter's Rare and Used Books.
Osburn's Grocery, The Cookie Co., Coffee Cabaña,
Bill s Tavern. Cannon Beach Book Co.. Hane s
Bakerte, The Bistro. Midtown Café, Once Upon a
Breeze. Copies A Fax Haystack Video. Mariner
M arket, Espresso Bean. Ecola Square A Cleanline
S u rf
M anranJta: Mother Nature's J u k e Bar.
Cassandra s, M anzanita News A Espresso, A
Nehalem Bay Video
Rockaway: Neptune's Used Books
T illa m o o k : Rainy Day Books A Tillamook Library
Bay City: Art Space
Yachats: By the-Sea Books
Pacific C ity: The River House.
Oceanside Ocean Side Espresso
L in c o ln C ity: Trillium N atural Foods. Driftwood
Library, A Lighthouse Brewpub
Newport: Oceana Natural Foods. Ocean Pulse Surf
Shop. Sylvia Beach Hotel. A Canyon Way Books
Eugene Book M ark. Café Navarra, Eugene Public
Library. Friendly St. M arket. Happy Trails.
Keystone Café, Klva Foods. Lane C.C., Light For
M u s k , New Frontier M arket, Nineteenth Street
Brew Pub. Oasis M arket. Perry's. Red Bam Grocery.
Sundance Natural Foods. U of O. A WOW Hall
C orvallis: The Environm ental Center. OSU
Salem : Heliotrope. Salem Library. A The Peace
Store
A storia KM UN. Columbian Café, The Community
Store. The Wet Dog Cafe, Astoria Coffee Company.
Café Uniontown. A The River
Seaside: Buck's Book B am . Universal Video, A
Café Espresso
Portland A rtkho ke M u s k . Laughing Horse
Bookstore, Act III. Barnes A Noble. Belmonts Inn.
Bibelot Art Oallery. Bijou Café, Borders. Bridgeport
Brew Pub. Capt'n Beans (two locations). Center for
the Healing Light, Coffee People (three locations).
Common Grounds Coffee, East Avenue Tavern.
Food Front. Goose Hollow Inn. Hot Lips Pizza, Java
Bay Café, Key Largo. La Pattlsserle, Lewis A Clark
College. Locals Only. Marco's Pizza, M arylhurst
College. Mt. Hood CC. M u s k M illenium . Nature's
(two loratlons). NW N atural Gas. OHSU Medical
School. Old Wives Tales. Ozone Records. Papa
Haydn. PCC (four locations). PSU (two locations).
Reed College. Third Eye. M ultnom a Central
Library, and most branches A the YWCA,
Ashland Garo's Java House. The Black Sheep,
Blue Mt. Café, A Rogue River Brewery
Cave Junction: Coffee Heaven A Kerby Community
M a rk e t
Grants Pass: The Book Shop
(Out of Oregon)
Vancouver, WA; The Den
Longview. WA The Broadway Gallery
Naselle. W A Rainy Day Artistry
N ahcotta. W A Moby D k k Hotel
Duvall, W A Duvall Books
Bainbridge Island ,
Eagle Harbor Book Co.
Seattle, WA Elliot Bny Book Co.. Honey Bear
Bakery. New Orleans R estaurant. S till Life In
Fremont. Allegro Coffeehouae. The Last Exit Coffee
House. & Bulldog News
San Francisco, CA: City Lights Bookstore
Denver, Co Denver Folklore Cente
Washington, D .C .i Hotel Tabard Inn
(Out of Ü .S A I
Parts. France: Shakespeare A Cle
B righton. England! The Public House Bookstore
•A sm all paper for s small planet.*
2
f
ruP P E B L E F T E P O E Jl
E d ito r, P u b lis h e r, J a o s to n
Lloyd Hults
B ilk
-------
the Beloved Revere n d [B
r o o fir g , L
La a y o v t:
G rap hies E d ito r, Prool
Sally I-ackaff
U o d e M ik e , B la m e it on th e Stars,
B e h ia d th e T im e s : Michael Burgess
R e p o rte r a t Large:
Massie
Peter C
“SpufF^SK^el
P rofessor L in dsey: Peter Lindsey
J a n e ’s G a rd e n : June Kroft
L o w e r L e f t B e a t: Victoria Stoppieflo
L la m a S p it, Pu blish in g In te rn :
Angela Coyne
F o n a d ia g F eB o w aat la r g e :
Bill W icUand
Im p ro ris a tio s u d E n gin eer: Ur. Karkeys
W e k W o n d e r W o m a n , D is trib u tio n
D i m , Subscriber’ s S w eeth eart:
Myma Uhlig
W e b M o th er: Liz Lynch
: P layer: Bill Uhly
hltg
M a jo »r
r Daatar
D is trib u tio n : Ambling Bear
Distribution
5M 0 to M M copies are printed and
distributed monthly in Oregon and to
points around the world.
A dvertising Rates
Business Card size
1/lftth approx. 3xS
l/8th approx. 4x7
1/4 approx. 6 1/2x9
1/2 page
Full page
Back page
$40
$50
$60
$110
$160
$350
$450
per month Payment is due the 15th of the
month prior to the issue in which the ad is to
appear All ads must be “camera ready”. We
arc usually on the streets by the first week-end
of the month
In a past life, while preparing thirty wildly
disinterested high school students for a history exam the
state insisted that 1 give them, I was presented with an
interesting challenge The examination would cover
western history from the rise of Greek civilization
through the Second World War. The challenge, aside
from pretending it was possible even to write such an
examination, was to find a unifying theme for twenty-
five centuries of large scale human activity. Without
some common thread to connect them to the past, these
apprentice humans' connection to the present would
remain an unapproachable mystery. I wanted them to
understand what had happened, how we’d come to be
where and who and what we are. They, of course,
needed to pass the test.
I was in those days a budding young educator
and took very seriously my responsibility to subvert any
young mind I could get my hands on. It was the early
seventies. The social and political revolution that came
inches from ripping America limb from limb had quietly
mutated into ad copy for Buick commercials. It was my
considered professional opinion that the children of the
middle class needed all the subversion they could get.
Every educator has an angle. That was mine.
History has been called a river of events flowing
into an ocean of legends, lies and indifference. It is,
always and forever, what we make of it: the raw data of
what happens is, as they say in the entertainment
business, a story in need of a hook. The unifying theme
I gave my young innocents was that the rise of western
civilization is most honestly seen as a relentless
succession of robberies: most of them well organized
and all of them heavily armed. From this perspective,
humanity’s trials and travails, its agonies and triumphs,
its laughter and its tears have all flowed from a single
nasty fault line in our collective psyche: our tendency to
want what we don’t have and to take what doesn’t
belong to us.
The wealth of nations is, in simplest terms, the
current score in an endless blood bath of greed and
violence. Owing to the rules of play, and the uneven
topography of the playing field, whatever laurels there
might be often wind up on the wrong heads; and the
strong, who aren’t always more virtuous than the weak,
end up with all the stuff. They also get to write the
history books: a fact which explains why there are so
few accounts of fox hunts written by a fox. Their little
student eyes widened. They saw, they understood and,
for the record, every one of them passed the test. This
is, a quarter century later, more than can be said for
whatever wizard it is who lives behind the curtain.
Someone, it doesn’t matter who, once offered
the idea that all ownership is theft. The earth did not,
after all, come with a deed; nor did the birds of the air,
the beasts of the fields, the fields themselves or the oil
bearing strata beneath them. The earth, it can reasonably
be argued, belongs to everyone and what belongs to
everyone can belong to no one. Humans are, of course,
territorial animals, as justified as howler monkeys to
shriek from the treetops when someone invades their
berry patch. There remains a difference, some would
say a deep conceptual chasm, between defending one’s
territory and parceling it into real estate. In many
societies, not all of them extinct and none more savage
than our own, the notion of buying and selling bits of the
earth is a craziness unworthy of anything but laughter.
The issue of possession, and its consequences,
run deep. A researcher recently found that human
populations have varied in relation to the status of
women in the society. In groups that reserved for
women the status of domestic slaves and breeding stock,
population growth exceeded the territory’s capacity to
sustain it. In groups in which women were considered
every bit as human as men, population remained in
balance. The pattern, the researcher noted, still plays out
in the world around us. When women are confused with
something one can own, the cellular metabolism of
human society becomes cancerous. Who among the
thoughtful would be surprised?
Given the idea of ownership, the idiot notion of
dominion is as predictable as the progress of an
untreated psychosis. The myth of possession leads to the
myth of control. The briefest review of the behavioral
outcome would, to a mental health professional, indicate
a patient crying out for intervention. What greater
insanity than to imagine that, even if dominion over
nature were possible, humans would be the natural
choice to wield it. (My personal vote would go to
otters.) What unbridled lunacy to think that, because we
have a large, and largely unused brain, we know more
about nature than nature.
An old friend, who spends enough time in the
forest near his home on the Oregon coast to claim more
“ownership” than the timber company clear cutting it
with a vengeance bordering on hysteria, is looking hard
to find a bright side. He believes, with great sadness and
sincerity, that anything that can properly be called a rain
forest will be lost in our lifetime. The forest is not a
collection of trees and plants; it’s a free form laboratory
conducting critical basic research in the perfection of life
forms, one of which is us. Our dominion boils down to
turning the old growth DNA of evolution into two-by-
fours, bark dust and tree farms which are, to a forest,
310 Lake Street
PO Box 72
Ilwaco. WA 98624
o sto p a rc@poc if ©r com
ANTHONY STOPPIELLO, Architect
3606424256
H e AC
O
¡ S o O K ^ 4
i
N EL W ^U 5E LD B O O K ^
J im
P q « t
R m o n i
7 1 7 -Î7 7 7
I
K in o w c l l
O rn e s
C a n n o n
150 A ve .U, S e a s id e ;
i
STOPPIELLO
Architecture
& EcoDesign
IL L A M O O k
"The liberty o f a democracy is not safe if the
people tolerate the growth of private power to
a point where it becomes stronger than their
democratic State itself. That, in its essence, is
Fascism: Ownership of government by an
individual, by a group or by any controlling
private power." - F D R
WPF6R LCFT £D&e OCTOBER 200”)
what sofa-sized paintings are to art. We must remind
ourselves, my friend reminds us, there are things worth
dying to prevent.
The notion of ownership runs deep: deeper than
rainforests and wetlands, deeper than the condo in Cabo,
deeper than the family assault vehicle, deeper even than
the children we import from third world countries to
vacuum carpets in Brentwood. (As anyone with too
much money will tell you, nothing in life quite compares
to owning another human.) Rich or poor, slave or
master, a final question faces all of us: who, or what, am
I? When I say I, what is it exactly I mean? What do we
see when we look in the mirror; or, more importantly,
when we turn out the light? What is it, truly and finally,
that’s ours? Until we know this, we can’t know our
place in the unfolding universe; and, if we don’t know
that, whatever else we know scarcely matters.
if we possess anything that can’t be taken from
us by a slump in the market, a boss who doesn't
appreciate us, or a lover who’s had enough, it must be
who and what we are. Our dearest possession is the idea
of a self: a privileged observer who, through thick and
thin, is always there: looking through our eyes, fondling
our sensory circuits and trying, often desperately and to
no avail, to understand what’s going on. Should the
world tum on us and take away our toys and trinkets, we
still will have our selves. If we can be certain of
anything, we can be certain of that. We can also be
certain it’s not what we don’t know that hurts us; it’s
what we think we know but don’t.
Siddhartha, the man who became Buddha, had
an interesting take on the notion of self. Confronting the
challenge of putting an end to human suffering, the hook
he gave us for the history of human experience was that
unhappiness has its roots in attachment: in clinging to
imagined permanence in a world whose only constant is
change. This is as close as Buddhism comes to original
sin. We divide the world revealed to us by our senses
into two parts: the self and the not-self. Disengaging
from the seductive smoke and mirrors of the not-self is
challenge enough; disengaging from the intimate,
incestuous embrace of the self is the end game of all
control. Here, loosely paraphrased, are Siddhartha’s
thoughts.
Whatever the Self is, it cannot be our body
because our body is impermanent and dies. Whatever
the Self is, it cannot be our feelings because our feelings
are in constant flux: what we feel now we did not feel
yesterday and may not feel tomorrow. Whatever the
Self is, it cannot be our thoughts because our thoughts
rise and fall like leaves in the wind and change radically
from moment to moment. Whatever the Self is, it cannot
be our soul because our soul is pure becoming: the
product of our actions. Siddhartha concluded that,
instead of a Self there exists only a bundle of Not-
Selves clamoring for attention. His advice, in simplest
terms, was to ignore them and get on with our search for
happiness: the swiftest horse that bears us to
enlightenment.
But we were speaking of history and the rising
and falling o f civilizations. All politics is personal. On
the most fundamental level we can imagine, our sense of
self we are all of us the idle rich: possessed by our
possessions and owned by the act of owning. It’s
helpful sometimes, when considering the unfolding and
unraveling of life around us, to consider the nature of the
“real” world. Aside from music and poetry, the best
description of things as they are is provided by physical
theory; or, as it was called when ordinary people were
encouraged to think, natural philosophy. Physical
theory, it’s important to remember, isn’t the least bit
theoretical. A theory may change over time, or be
supplanted by a more powerful theory, but its
generalized principles are grounded firmly in
observation. In order to be successful, a theory must
explain what we see. This is its reason for being.
The most successful theory in the history of
human thought is quantum mechanics. Nothing, not
even general relativity, comes close to quantum theory’s
ability to explain the vast scope of what we can see,
from the birth o f light to the death of stars. As far as
quantum theory can see, there are no nouns in the
universe. There are only verbs. There are no products in
the universe, there is only ceaseless process; no things,
only events; no endings, only beginnings; no being, only
becoming: a rising and falling of phenomena that, not so
oddly, mirrors the rising and falling of mind. Rather
than a great machine, the creation more closely
resembles a great thought.
And thoughts, like cats and rain forests and
people, can never be owned. Like all of life, they can
only be experienced.
H ox
3B 2
B c a c h , O B 9 7 1 IO
5 0 3
• 4 3 6 • 2 3 5 *