Author: crdahlberg

The Conformist: A Dream 

One day last week, before the alarm interrupted my sleep, a dream played through my mind:

I entered a house of massive, temple-like dimensions. Inside, I was greeted by the wealthy owner’s wife, who showed me around the gigantic rooms. The vista from the kitchen window revealed an expansive view of a large swimming pool and, beyond it, a clear view to the ocean below. As we exited the kitchen, I encountered, almost incidentally, her husband, the wealthy owner of the house. He stood tall and straight, dressed in an elegant sports coat and neatly pressed slacks. His greeting was polite, but for a man of his financial stature it was surprisingly gentle, almost understated and deferring. His wife escorted me to the spacious entryway as I made my way out of the mansion.

My second visit to the house confirmed the prosperity of the owner. Major renovations and construction were underway. New plaster was being applied to what seemed to be acres of walls, making the house appear even more cavernous. Again, the fashionably-dressed owner bid me a courteous but restrained welcome, and I wondered what currents ran beneath his calm demeanor.

During my final visit to the house, the gracious owner sat in an office with the proportions of a large game room. Long and hard, the owner and his two adult sons earnestly discussed strategy for the family business. After some length, the sons rose from their chairs, their opinions firm, their gestures passionate. Their views conflicted with those of their father; I expected the father to respond with some animation to defend his own assessment. Instead, unflinching and stirring only slightly in his chair, his demeanor remained placid and relaxed as he took it all in and deferred to their views. I recognized by now the qualities of the man and his mastery of the craft of listening, how to step aside from superficial irrelevancies, and how to maintain the principles that governed him, like the steadying rudder of a ship at sea.

His ever easy and gracious manner seemed to bloom from the congruence his life held with his values. He shed that which was petty, trivial and distracting.

After my departure, I saw the owner once again, this time as a picture: a piece of shiny steel, pressed between two opposing forces, compelling him to conform to their pattern. He bent and unbent again and again, but always retained the integrity of the metal’s true shape.

And that allowed him to conform only, but fully, to that Power which governed his life and purposes, and to graciously let go of the rest.

The Woman with Lions in Her Head

The woman waiting for her train to arrive tried to recall how long she had been chasing lions. Since her first visit to the zoo, they had been her love, and ever since, her affection for them endured. Despite their enormous power, lions display tenderness toward one another, qualities she admired—restrained strength with gentle affection, the same qualities she would have welcomed in a lover, had such a lover ever materialized.

She longed to be near lions, but she refrained from joining the circus life. She once considered it, but their pure and imposing essence seemed tainted by their imprisonment and the taunting of their trainers. The prospect of joining the team of those who stage-manage the antics of such creatures made her blanch—wild carnivores acquiescing to perform tricks in exchange for meals of domesticated meat.

Still, her dream persisted. Even now, waiting on the bench, lions were in her head. They were still in her dreams.

Unable to reconcile her passion, she remembered how she had longed for a new vision of power and tenderness. She came to admire the desire of nuns living out their quest for their cause, of spiritual mission and its promise of tender redemption. She eventually gave herself to service in a convent, learning the holy life and attempting to fulfill its requirements. She admired and desired the quest, but she discovered that she didn’t do so well implementing the means of achieving it. The rigors of the disciplines chafed at her. Regulated days filled with predictable tasks; predictable tasks held structured sequences. She belonged to the ideals and the faith, yet the restrictive system crossed her longing for freedom. Like the circus lions, she felt confined and controlled. She started dreaming of wild lions again.

She thought of them as her train neared its rendezvous with her, oblivious of her fellow travelers waiting on the platform. She was even unaware of the neatly-dressed man wearing tan slacks and black sweater, waiting along with her at a nearby bench. He had immediately noticed her, with her head cocked and peering toward the sky. His scrutiny might have intimidated her, but it went unnoticed as she held her vision of the lions and wondered what the path beyond the convent would now hold for her.

As the black-sweatered man stared at the women, his gaze slowly lifted, expanded, filled, and gradually an image appeared that he did not comprehend: faintly appearing above the woman were what appeared to be clouds, or cats, or maybe lions—wild lions.

He trembled involuntarily at the wonder of the vision, and the mystery of the woman.

The train’s bell clanged as it came to a stop, calling the travelers on the benches to embark. The black-sweatered man with the tan trousers arose and hurried to the same coach the woman entered, searching for and finding her. He seized the seat directly across from her, and as he drew in a breath to begin an uncertain sentence, he found himself, suddenly, as he had never before found himself—supremely comfortable, at peace, seated beside the enigmatic women from the bench.

She flinched in sudden surprise at her new traveling companion. Her throat briefly grabbed and clutched the air. When she found her next breath, her exhale was long and quiet, as if she were expelling a long-dormant, soured mist. And then—at that moment and for the first time—she released the lions from her dreams. In their place and occupying their space, she made way for the black-sweatered man, strong and tender.

Yoga by the Sea

The pier in Cayucos, California, six miles north of Morro Bay, juts 953 feet into the Pacific Ocean. The usual population of surf fishermen and their fish bait, pelicans, seagulls and pigeons share its heavy wooden planks. Visitors such as myself wander and gaze into fishermen’s plastic buckets, which are never full enough of today’s catch. We stare down a pelican perched on the railing, gaping at our presence. He reluctantly leaves, heaving himself into the air, working hard to gain altitude. Airborne, he will gain a perspective I will never know. Beating his wings against the rushing air, he will cruise and glide, unaware of my envy and also unaware of his gift of flight.

He will peer down on the beach and observe those in the yoga class beneath him who, through mental and physical discipline, seek a greater state of enlightenment. They pursue a way to break the limitations of physical bonds and a way to purify their minds from unworthy appetites. This platoon of practitioners sits in a sea of sand for long minutes, eyes closed, legs folded tightly. Intermittently, ever thoughtful, ever meditating, they arise, bend, and stretch one arm to the sand and one to the sky….

It is the same sky where, under watchful and wondering eye, our pelican hovers. The pelican above, the yoga practitioners below—the steadfast subjects of his interest. Sitting quietly and reflectively, then moving and stretching together, their bodies create a puzzling pattern to his eye.

His eye, however, is an empty one, staring to comprehend these earthbound mortals, while he, oblivious of their quest to be free, soars high and away.

The (E-)mail Box

Most of us will remember the recent iPhone 4 pre-release debacle that transpired when an Apple company employee lost the new, not-yet-released phone in a bar he frequented, and it was discovered by the media.

Now the fiasco has recurred. This time, I am the one who discovered Apple’s latest top-secret not-yet-released gadget, mounted on the back of a bicycle.

This latest hi-tech wonder by Apple is apparently designed to help meet the needs of the non-techie-minded public. The device appears to be a technological step backward. They have created an alternative to having e-mail delivered to a computer’s digital mailbox: a silver-colored physical mailbox, in this case, attached to a bicycle.

The device actually converts e-mails sent from a computer into a physical letter that is delivered into the aluminum mailbox.

Thanks to this creation, the geek-fearing souls among us need no longer suffer the embarrassment of showing their limited e-mail skills. Apple’s newest common-man’s e-mail conversion technology forever removes the customer’s need to climb the exotic digital-expertise ladder. Apple has found a way to convert e-mails into an old-fashioned physical letter and deliver it into the new, fashionable shiny silver mailbox, which can be mounted anywhere: attached to a bicycle, glued to the hood of a fancy Ford Mustang, or pack-mounted on the back of a miniature schnauzer.

I had to see this secretive device in action with my own eyes. As I stared at the contraption, I heard a distinct whirring sound from within it. What luck! Apparently, a piece of reconstituted e-mail was just then arriving! What an opportunity to break into Apple’s newest product and retrieve this digital e-mail that would be magically transformed to hardcopy letter!

With the bicycle’s owner nowhere to be seen, I stealthily crept toward it. Slowly and gingerly, I drew down the mailbox’s handle, breaching Apple’s high-tech security system.

There, before my eyes, I beheld a message that was still in the process of reverse-engineering. An e-mail avatar faintly appeared, then faded before my gaze. In its place materialized, first as an apparition, then as a reverse-engineered hard-copy, a reincarnation of the original digital message:

“Barry, thanks for your good e-mail late last night. I knew we had been out-of-touch, but it was so good to hear or your wanting to come back on the Winning Side.

“It’s incredibly hard being a mortal, and it’s sometimes hard for even me to imagine. Challenges and defeats often come before victory. Always remember that. Last night, when you connected with me, that was your victory.

“The other hard thing for me to remember is that people don’t easily forget their errors, even once they get on the Winning Side. The thing is, I do forget all those errors—I promise that I do! I know that’s hard for you to fathom.

“So, because of my memory loss, could you shoot me the topic of your defeat to remind me again what this was all about?

“On second thought, never mind—I still won’t remember, whether I get it by e-mail or hard copy. I totally forget everything that you’ve set aright with me.

“Thanks again for trying to be all that you can be. You haven’t disappointed me. I’m eager to see the next chapter.”

Sincerely,

Your father, God

Recreational Vehicle Madness

The annual recreational vehicle show held at Pomona’s Fairplex is among the largest in the world. However, the selection of the pocketbook-friendly smaller, lighter and more economical RVs is gradually shrinking. Despite the shredded national economy, small manufacturers cannot hang on against larger companies that crank out huge vehicles with enormous profit margins. Especially in a “down” economy, wealthier folks wanting large RVs tend to have money left over for such indulgences while the fiscal reserves of many average recreational campers continue shrinking.

Since the overall size of the RV shows contracts with each passing year, the quandary is how to bring in more new potential buyers.

Unexpectedly, I spied this display, doubtless intended to gain attention and thereby assist the RV market turn the corner towards recovery. Be-speckled and be-nippled, this Halloween-inspired gorilla ballerina contraption beckoned me, clumsily lurching to and fro, apparently powered by erratic hidden robotic servomotors. (The sight of it was enough to make me look for the exit, but I hadn’t yet visited the Airstream RV exhibit.)

What inspired this crackpot contraption? Maybe it was an artist’s conception of the perfect customer who would be looking to purchase that “gotta have it” gargantuan-sized RV – the biggest, baddest, most ostentatious RV at the show. Or perhaps it was, in fact, a bankrupt salesman of small and sensible RVs from a previous year’s show, who had finally run out of his 99 weeks of unemployment benefits, donned a lime green tutu and a leopard-print Cat Woman mask, stuffed himself into a gorilla suit, and was now working for tips.

Memories of a Black Widow

This is the last picture I have of her, taken on the final day that I saw her. She had dangled below a light fixture on an invisible trapeze of spun web. Each morning, she was there as I trudged to meet my Monday to Friday train to work. I chose to greet her from a short distance.

I have other pictures of her, but I prefer this one because it displays the bright hour glass on her abdomen warning unsuspecting bugs: “Your time is up!”

In human years, our relationship was brief. But in spider years—black widows can live up to 1-½ years—she would consider our association lengthy, if not intimate.

I knew nothing of her mate, the black widower. I doubt that she ate him. The fearsome reputation of a black widow dining at her mate’s ultimate expense is generally undeserved. More likely, she consumed most of her recent offspring, 750 eggs laid in a sack. Cannibalism thrives, allowing only one or two of the baby spiders to survive.

Now she is gone, and she has no memory of our daily rendezvous—no memory of me, even when I blew on her web, seeing which way she would scurry. It was always up, up into the safety of the light fixture.

Bicycle Hoops, Bicycle Heaps

Bicycle Hoops
Bicycle Heaps

It was dusk, and in the landscape of cold concrete, a bright yellow bike, and four cheerfully-painted hoops intended for chaining bicycles jumped out of the dull gray surroundings. The bright oval hoops resembled the iconic rings of the Olympic competitions. Someone rested their bicycle on a trip to the store, or perhaps on an appointment to meet a friend. What story could this bicycle tell?

As a kid growing up in Germany, I rode a green three-speed bicycle with a whirring generator pressed against the wheel to power its lights at night. It was a 9-mile bike trip from my house along the Rhine River to my elementary school, and it was my brother’s and my favorite weekend expedition to spend time with our friends.

My green bicycle also served me well when my mother sent me to the next village to purchase small amounts of groceries. I would inevitably treat myself with gummi bears at the store, so I particularly savored these expeditions. On one occasion, coming home with a loaf of bread strapped to the rack on the back wheel’s fender, suddenly my bicycle squealed to an abrupt halt; the back wheel suddenly froze in place, leaving a long skid mark, and me very nearly dismounting into thin air over the handlebars. As I barely controlled my near-disastrous dismount, I was pelted with bits of who-knows-what, flying in every direction. It was bread. A bump in the road had dislodged my cargo – the loaf of bread –  and flipped it into the air and launched it into my spokes, where it was effectively shredded, pieces propelled in all 360 degrees. My pride bruised, but spokes unbent, I hastened to the bakery to replace the load—and refresh my stash of gummi bears for my second ride home to my waiting mother.

A few years ago, I saw a tangle of bicycles on a street in Amsterdam, heaped together and temporarily discarded by their owners, who were rendezvousing with friends or completing essential errands. A strange scene, I thought, bikes piled up like that. I stepped closer, quietly, cautiously sneaking up on their cold frames, worn seats and spindly tires.

Until my ears adjusted, I mistook the sound for birds twittering. Gradually I could make it out—the sound of joking, of laughter, of stories coming from the bicycles themselves, about their usual mounted riders: the owner whose backside had so overgrown its throne that the embarrassed bicycle seat shuddered to feel his royal rear descend upon it. The gears gushed in howls of laughter over retelling their own story of the chain pulling loose from the sprockets just at the moment its rider pulled up to an attractive maiden’s bicycle, upending him and launching him upon his bottom, effectively removing the seat of his pants. And then the most tender story–a woman’s battered purple bike, at the top of the heap of partying bikes, who admitted her fear on being hastily discarded at the hospital door by her owner – the rider – a woman about to give birth. Her owner possessed no other means of transport to medical care. The protracted hours had ground by with no news of the pregnant woman. Finally, worried over her well-being, the old purple bike heard the triumphant howls from the husband who had arrived late. His wife had delivered a baby girl. Carefully, the new father had then loaded the purple bike into the car, tenderly touching spokes and handlebars while affirming, “Good bike. Faithful bike….”

Like a tear on a child’s cheek, a drop of rain fell on the purple bicycle’s worn frame and slowly worked its way down, until it fell on the other bicycles below.