From a Deeper Place

Dhamma Torana is a meditation Centre a couple of hours north of Toronto, where the Buddhist technique of Vipassana is taught and practiced. I’m heading there tomorrow for a weeklong work period, during which volunteers like myself will work at whatever maintenance, building or landscaping projects are scheduled. It’s a time for service. Any “old student” is eligible to participate, an old student being anyone who has completed a 10-day course during which the practice is taught. But for me, the work period is an opportunity to practice meditation in a deeper and more focused way than I have in the ten years since my training.

I took my course here in Ontario, just a few months before the centre opened, at a rented camping facility a ways east of the current centre. There have been many opportunities to visit the centre, but this will be my first, and it coincides with the 10 year anniversary of its opening. In commemoration, there will be a 1-day course in the middle of the work period – an all-day meditation. On each of the other days, there will be three 1-hour sits, and the general guideline of silence and the avoidance of distractions will be followed throughout.

Vipassana has been a very helpful practice for me, despite the fact that I practice it so laxly. Students are encouraged to do two 1-hour sits per day. I manage a single 20-40 minute sit perhaps four days a week, on average. And there’ve been long stretches during the ten years when I didn’t meditate at all. But the benefit, when I do practice, are clear.

I’m more grounded when I’m meditating. I feel more rooted, more solidly seated within myself. I notice that I’m less agitated, distracted or put off by events and people and problems. And, I’m less inside my head. That last is a big one for me. A theme of my entire adulthood has been freeing myself from living too much in my head.

And I’ve lately noticed this freeing happening in a new way. I find myself making decisions that seem to form not entirely in my mind, but in some deeper, less conscious place. So often, my decisions are a result of long deliberation and the mental weighing of factors and tangents and possible outcomes. But occasionally, a decision simply wells up, from some inner source, and its rightness is evident, even before it has generated any change.

Deciding on this trip to Dhamma Torana is actually a case in point. Had I given it much thought, there was plenty to argue against it. Vacation time is limited, and we have so many things we might do with it. There is family to visit, including aging parents. There is Cloud, our new country retreat to see to and make improvements on. And so many other possibilities. But the notion of giving service time to the meditation centre, and deepening my own practice in the process, had been rising quietly in my spirit, and when it emerged as a clear, directed thought, my thinking about it felt like a formality. I knew it was the thing to do.

It’s a wonderful feeling when decisions come from this place. It probably comes across as anti-intellectual, and I guess it is. But there is other intelligence than Mind intelligence, isn’t there? I guess this could be called anything from being guided by conscience, to inspired, to having a gut feeling, to being spoken to or guided by God. (And I bet we could generate some really contentious arguments by debating the point) Maybe the key thing is simply to be open to such inner direction. I hope to be.

So as of tomorrow, I’ll be at the Centre, doing service work and deepening my meditation practice. I’m looking forward to it.

Three Years In

Three years ago today, I set up Obsidian Blooms and posted for the first time.

That initial post became the descriptive passage, “What It’s About” that adorns the home screen when you visit this site. I had hopes that maintaining the blog would spur me to being more regular and productive in my writing. I tend to be a slow writer, uncertain and second-guessing about my choices. I wanted to develop a quicker process, from idea to composition to dissemination. And I hoped to become looser and freer about my choice of subjects, to get over my wariness of airing personal issues and opinions. And I hoped to generate an exchange of opinion with readers about issues and concerns that matter to me.

I’ve accomplished all of these objectives to some extent. I’ve posted 156 pieces, which works out to exactly one essay per week, many of which are fairly substantial. But my intention was to do at least half again as much. I’ve written about some very personal – and occasionally controversial – subjects. But I’ve been fairly general and indirect about religious/spiritual matters, and I’ve hardly touched at all on love and sex, which are as interesting and important to me as anything else I’ve written about.

Occasionally, I’ve gotten a response to something that has led to an exchange and even a deepening of thought about an issue, but that’s come far less often than I’d supposed, and often, when I’ve most expected it, there’s been no response at all.

So, like every other meaningful activity in my life, blogging has been a journey, bringing satisfaction and disappointment. It provides cause for deep gratitude, and the road stretches ahead, with objectives, but no clearly discernable end. Which is alright with me. It’s all been a blessing. And it’s nourished my life in many ways.

Maybe the biggest challenge is how blogging has affected the other writing I do. I had been a committed journal keeper for more than thirty years when I started blogging, and that journaling has slowed to a mere trickle. I’m more surprised at that falling off than disappointed. My journaling had fallen into a rut, and the break from it feels rejuvenating. But I’d expected and hoped that blogging would somehow invigorate my creative writing, which has only happened indirectly. My blog essays require the organizing around an idea that other writing requires, but it’s otherwise a very different pursuit.

One of the most wonderful aspects of blogging has been its reach. Blogging gives me a way to share with friends, colleagues, acquaintances and strangers, with whom I’d otherwise have much less connection. I may get less commentary on-site than I’d hoped for, but I get quite a bit of unexpected reaction and acknowledgment from people as we interact in other ways – in person, by phone and email. And while initially, Obsidian Blooms drew barely a pageview per day, it now average 15-20 per day. It’s a modest readership, but rewarding to know that some out there find value in sharing my observations. And I confess to getting a kick from the fact that readers have linked in from more than fifty countries.

So this post is an acknowledgement of the three years that have gone into this blog and of you readers who have made it so worthwhile. I hope you’ll stick with me and keep reading!

Culture Drunk

I could blame it all on Wisia. There was a small gathering on my birthday awhile ago, and I insisted on no gifts. But Wisia brought one, anyway. I chastised her later, for not honoring my wishes, which she acknowledged. But she finished by reminding me that for her own birthday gathering, which is tomorrow, her wish is for “cards, gifts, flowers and champagne”. Serves me right, I guess. And so ironically, the one person who disregarded my own resistance to gifting, compelled me to go gift-hunting.

So, this culture binge I got started on is all Wisia’s fault. It’s her that got me shopping at BMV, a favorite bookstore that carries new, used and remainder volumes, and always stocks lots of wonderful art books. I began browsing for a gift and found an amazing volume, In Plain View, documenting the varied career of Dan Witz, a phenomenal artist who specializes in a kind of surrealist, illusionary street art, but who also excels in various forms of painting, sculpting and montage. It didn’t strike me as just the thing for Wisia, but I got a copy for Ponczka.



A couple of hours later, I drifted into Cosmos Records, just off Queen West, intending to pass a little time while waiting for a client to show up. Half an hour later, I emerged from there with five albums:

You’re Under Arrest, a missing album in my Miles Davis collection. I’d avoided it upon its original issue in ’85, turned off by the fashion model, bad boy pretensions of the cover art: Miles, all in black, sporting a fedora and carrying what looks like a toy machine gun. It’s the album that drew attention because it features covers of tunes by Michael Jackson and Cindy Lauper, something frowned upon by the snoberatti of the day. I was intrigued by the comments Miles made of it in his autobiography, and wanted to finally give it a serious listen – something that all of Davis’s many recordings deserve.

Horace Silver’s Silver ‘n Brass was next. I already have his Silver ‘n Voices, and Silver ‘n Percussion, and neither disappoints, though they don’t equal his masterful, small combo recordings of earlier years. Silver seems to bring his melodic touch to everything, and after listening to a few choruses on the record shop’s system, it was a keeper.

By now I was getting that old, good feeling, open to sampling all the little known and unknown offerings in the shop, and I was in danger of emptying my wallet.

I came across Dreams Come True, by bassist Buster Williams. I don’t recall ever seeing this before, but I’ve loved Buster’s work as a sideman, particularly backing Norman Connors on some brilliant recordings, most notably, his Love from the Sun, which I’ve featured a few times on Jazz Gumbo. Stellar sidemen often make disastrous turns as leads, but I like to try them out. So why not see what Buster put out, with a pretty good supporting cast?

Then I came across a Jimmy Smith classic, Got My Mojo Workin’, and didn’t even hesitate. By this point, I was trying to will myself out of the shop, but I was on automatic by then. But what a great buy! Classic Jimmy Smith is the essence of funky, jazz groove. It evokes memories of when I was a kid, of goateed men on street corners, talking trash and sipping from cans of beer in paper bags.

The final lp was a step out of the jazz idiom. Buddy Miles, Them Changes. A great many of my 1,500 or so albums are singletons – by artists from whom I’ve never purchased a second album. If I really liked the first album, this represents a failing: What did they do next? What did they do before? But it often comes down to the depth of the pocket at any particular time, and making choices. Anyway, I love the first and only other Buddy Miles album in my possession, A Message to the People. And I know and like the title tune of this one. And what a great cover photo, of shaggy-headed Buddy, sitting casually at his multi-colorful drug kit: check me out, ya’ll!



Hours of music ahead. But still no gift for the birthday gal. So I was back to BMV again the next day, this time with a specific book in mind. Throughout my life, my most common gifts to others have been copies of the books and albums that I love, and I decided to go with a much loved old stand-by, as suitable for anyone on any occasion as sunlight or fresh air.

I found a near mint, used copy of Gibran’s The Prophet, for only $6.99, wouldyabelieve. It’s a ’77 reprint (the 98^th, according to the copyright page), identical in format, though smaller, to the edition I received decades ago. I was passing through Detroit in my early twenties, headed west toward some dream, but equally fleeing my eastern discontents. And my uncle Earl took his copy from a shelf in his office, and on the title page he inscribed “for the angry times”. It has served as a balm ever since.

It’s possibly the wisest book I know. So many phrases that pierce to the core:

“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.”

“But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor, into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.”

“The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.”



So, I had my gift for Wisia. But I didn’t make it out of BMV before stumbling across another jewel of a book: Street Knowledge by King Adz. It’s a cornucopia of street culture, overflowing with color, style and all manner of interesting facts and suggestions related to the outer and inner edges of art.

And I still wasn’t out of the store. I’ve been listening to an audiotape of Eckart Tolle’s The Power of Now, a brilliant work about the path to enlightenment. In one section, Tolle remarks on how monks will sometimes sneak up on an acolyte and smack him with a staff, as a lesson on remaining ever alert and attentive. It brought to mind a favorite scene from a favorite film, Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai. In it, the head samurai is seeking others to join his mission, and he tests them by inviting them through a doorway, behind which an accomplish stands, waiting to club the unsuspecting visitor. The results are varied and amusing, and I won’t give anything away. See the film! One of the greatest of all time, at once beautiful, philosophical, dynamic and poetic. Needless to say, I noticed the dvd bin in BMV, and didn’t they just happen to have a copy.



Books! Albums! Now a Film!
I’m completely filled up. I’m drunk now from this binge of cultural consumption. But feeling no pain. Stimulated, titillated, ideas charged, my own imagination unleashed by it all; feeling nourished by the flood of positive stimulus, engaged and enlivened by the confluence, cross-pollination, the re-mixing of all this inspired output of human minds and souls.

But enough! Must stop! Go home!
So I’m in the car, escaping downtown. And I pass by Roy Thompson Hall, and I see the streams of folk entering the venue. What’s up, I wonder. Who’s performing? My darting eyes find the marquee, listing the acts set to appear over coming weeks. I scan through it backward, making my way toward tonight’s event.... Esperanza Spalding! OMG! She’s amazing! Why didn’t I know?

But no...I don’t park and rush to buy a ticket. And I don’t even feel bad about it. I actually caught her act just last summer. Wonderful. Her lush, fluid, fusionistic style. The soprano voice, the lithe frame cradling the deeply vibrating, upright bass. A beautiful interplay of rhythm and melody and lyric and generous intent, the partnership with an audience that all art is, the revelation of the beating heart, the collective WE, bound together in creative inspiration, fused at the root, reaching toward some invisible summit, entwined, even when we don’t know it, in this shared, magical, human spirit.

Which is love, culture...drunk.          

Tears and Streams

I once went through a period of years without ever crying. It got to the point where it concerned me a little. It’s not that I have any kind of fetish about crying. I don’t look for opportunities to cry or anything like that. But, I do find crying to be one of life’s high emotional experiences, and I generally rate such experiences as good.

Crying is so cathartic. When I cry it gets at something that can’t otherwise be got at. An itch gets scratched that can’t be scratched any other way. It shakes stuff loose that otherwise stays stuck. And so I started to be a little concerned when, over a period of years, any number of very opportune occasions came and went, and nary a tear was shed. That is, I had moments when all the necessary ingredients for crying were in place: some emotional impact had been absorbed, the flood of feeling that seems always to auger the release of tears swept over, the necessary threshold of tension had been reached, and the setting and company was condusive. The tears just didn’t come. Never having been resistant or self-conscious or gender-opposed to crying (I’ll admit even to a little pride, that even in the era before sensitivity became manly, I was capable of shedding the studly tear or two) I began to wonder if something in my soul had gotten clogged up. Maybe I was in need of some emotional drano.

But I was spared any extraordinary measures. I began to cry in my sleep one night, and I came out of some emotion heavy, but totally forgotten dream, with tears streaming down the side of my face, and with my heart open in that particular way that only tears can bring about. So these were tears that, despite being tinged by whatever sadness had descended in the night, also bore qualities of joy, and of relief. They were the kind of tears that somehow confirm that all is right with the world.

I cried here at Cloud a couple of weeks ago. Unexpectedly, while recounting to a friend the story of a long ago acquaintance, and his grief at losing his wife of many years, and the peculiar and touching way in which this withdrawn and silent man expressed his grief. It was one of those unexpected cries that seems to come from nowhere, then is gone.

I had another like that, a couple of years ago. Sitting in the apartment of an old friend in New York: I was introduced by her to a fellow artist who was also a poet, and who’d brought along a book of his poems for us to see. And, not being particularly interested – I wanted to visit, not read – I flipped open the small volume randomly, and suddenly my heart was wrenched open by the words wafting up from the page. I could do nothing about it – I was in tears, and deeply moved. I cannot remember the poem now. But the situation caused me to remember him.

But none of that’s what triggered this post. It’s not why I’m writing this.
What draws out these thoughts and memories is the experience of Cloud this week.

Water is everywhere. The spring thaw is on, and water is coursing in rivulets and streams, collecting in puddles and in the proverbial babbling brooks. It's spreading, rushing, sparkling and dancing across these acres, everywhere we turn. We hear it and smell it, it is present in the mud that squooshes under every footstep. And it rains down in tiny droplets that a month ago were the latest snows. It’s beautiful. And it seems as spontaneous and fresh and as freeing as those unexpected tears.

 

To Us - Aiming for Sixty

It's the first of Spring.

And according to the metaphor of my life as one long hour, I'm about to enter the final minute.

Before I go on, don't put a grim spin on this. Another hour lies ahead, and I fully intend to enter it. I don't really expect I'll see that second hour through – another fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour might be nice.
Would I even want to see that next hour through, and live to be 120? Yeah, probably. I used to not think my 50's would be much of anything, but look at me now! I'll take what I can get, and be glad for it.

But the point is – this isn't any depressed or desperate looking toward death. That figure will make its entrance in its own time, and I'll hope to clasp its hand with some dignity and an abiding sense of gratitude.

Yes, I'm excited about nearing 60. And I like the metaphor of the hour, each minute one year – the sweep of the second hand around the dial, shadowing the Earth's spinning journey around the Sun, hitting that 3, representing March, birthday to birthday, equinox to equinox.

And now I find myself almost at the hour mark, when the second hand will align with the hand whose one sweep represents the entirety of my life so far. What a long hour it's been, but how quickly those minutes are ticked off.

I had an interesting observation: that I moved so often during the first half of my hour. The first quarter of my life took me from Detroit, to New York, to Berlin, back to New York again, and saw me to the start of my life away from home, off to boarding school at Exeter.

That second quarter sweep saw me through Exeter, then to Harvard and Cambridge, and then a bunch of shorter stops, many lasting less than a minute, going by my hour metaphor: Atlanta, San Francisco, Montreal, let's not forget Mississippi! Norfolk, Detroit and Rochester in small doses. Kansas City for almost a full minute, then Seaside, Oregon for almost another. Then on to Seattle. My regret is not having traded some of those roads of North America for pathways through Africa and Asia and South America. Even Europe I've only experienced in brief nibbles. (but there's still next hour).

But look how I've slowed. The entire last half hour in two cities! More than 10 minutes in Seattle, and now, almost twenty in Toronto! Amazing. Never would've thunk it!

But wait a minute. Just that. A minute to go before the hour is closed. One more brilliant dash around the sun before summing up. And what'll I do with it. A minute goes by so quickly. And – as though to compensate – each is denser, richer, fatter and more over-layered with meaning, and with intent that spreads in every direction.

I'm intoxicated by this hour, by the quickening spin of the dial, the excitement of this symbolic minute that, in reality, means no more than any other. I sense that as the hands come around, to meet in some unbelieving supplication, they will generate some vibration that will shatter something in me that has waited all this while. Something will finally and fully ripen. Something will truly come full circle. Maybe I do mean some kind of dying, after all; but if so, it will be the birthing that matters, because even the last minute leads to the next.

My friend Gerry begins his 60th spin today. Mine starts just next week. Zik's will follow. And Debbie and Donna's later this summer. And Thomps, and Greg, and Lucie, and John, Lauren, Rachel and Tom, Joan, Faith and so many others, will be a little ahead or a little behind. The sky is full of us Sun Spinners. Going round and round, coming full circle, tying up loose ends and discovering what's next.

Happy Birthdays to Us All!

Lois

Today, I learned of the death, on Saturday, 9 March 2013, of Lois, a former client, at the age of fifty-five. Lois was probably the most difficult person I ever housed. She was a practicing addict and alcoholic who turned tricks to supplement the disability payments she burned through. She was a survivor of multiple traumas, including the loss of one husband in a fire and a second to a heroin overdose, as well as the loss of a seven year old son. And she suffered from acute cognitive impairment and other mental/emotional health issues which, due to her personality and lifestyle, were not thoroughly diagnosed and often went untreated. Judy, a colleague who worked in a Community Health Centre, asked me to work with Lois after watching her tear through one housing worker after another, and determining that she might well be beyond help.

During the nine months or so that we worked together, Lois was given to spontaneous outbursts of venomous, verbal abuse and other forms of gross behavioral inappropriateness. She would forget appointments, or decide in the middle of a meeting that she had to go and get a drink. I was told that once, during an interview for housing, she kept excusing herself to use the washroom, where she progressively drank herself to a staggering intoxication, leading to the housing offer being withdrawn. With another worker, while on the way to another interview, she jumped out of the van at a stoplight and couldn't be found for the rest of the day. Because of such antics, I knew that preparing Lois for interviews would be a slow process.

There are very limited housing options for those with concurrent disorders (having both an addiction and mental illness), and Lois added to that package a demand for independence of movement and freedom of companionship. Other behavioral characteristics that would make housing in any group setting challenging were her propensity to lose her own belongings, in particular, her keys, and the matching tendency to pick up interesting and attractive items left around by others – a trait that exposed her to frequent accusations of theft. Opportunities for appropriate housing couldn't be wasted.

But the slow pace of application and preparation infuriated Lois. Despite her dysfunctions, she was very bright, articulate, had a great memory that clicked in and out, and was quick to take offense at any suggestion that she was in any way incapable. She was full of accusations that no one – I, in particular – was willing to stick with her and help her. And so she was often intoxicated when she arrived for our meetings, occasionally dismissed me in a screaming tirade, or she simply didn't show up.

And yet, I loved working with her. Despite the miseries of which she so regularly complained, Lois was full of life, and of the joy of life. She enjoyed people and wasn't shy about speaking her mind, so a major challenge involved managing her interactions with others when we travelled together, especially in the confines of a bus or streetcar. One minute she might be complimenting a woman on her handbag, in the next, describing the detached rectal lining that caused her great discomfort, and then screaming at the top of her lungs at an eaves-dropper who turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

Because she was so often consumed by a grievance or a mission, some distress or preoccupation, it could be extremely difficult to move forward with the task of finding housing. So early on, we two devised a tactic for working together, which was to take turns. Our meetings sometimes began with a twenty minute Lois rant about the injustice of being barred from yet another shelter, sometimes with a memory of better times that she wanted to share and relive, occassionally with a song, sung in a soft, childlike and lilting voice. When she was done, she's say, "Your turn." and we'd proceed to business, generally with no more substantial disturbances that day.

As is so often the case, much of Lois's disruptive behavior was both a way of dealing with her own anxiety and fear of disappointment in the housing game, and a rigorous test of workers, to see who would stick. As Lois became assured that I would stick, she revealed more of her fears to me, rather than act out on them. And gradually, a calmer and more focused Lois did emerge. And penultimately, she did obtain housing, in a low-rise apartment building where she had a self-contained unit, and her own key, with staff on hand to give support, and a level of tolerance for residents like her, who'd lived so many years in street culture.

I don't know how things ended for Lois. I continued in a support role for a couple of more months, before handing her on to another community worker she'd had the chance to bond with. Ultimately, that housing situation deteriorated and I learned that she'd been moved into housing in another part of town. I don't know what brought about her death this past Saturday, and perhaps I never will. One of her fears had been that she'd die on the street, and I hope that wasn't the case. It was obvious that her life didn't suddenly become rosy because for awhile she had a place that felt to her like home. But she was proud that she'd survived what had been a long passage of years without one.

I write this memorial of sorts because it brings me comfort. I was able to be a bit of a plus in the equation that was Lois's life. But Lois is also a powerful lesson to me. I started this essay by referring to Lois as probably the most difficult person I ever housed. But she was by no stretch the hardest person or the most difficult case I've worked with. It's simply that hers was the most challenging case that met with a small measure of success.

Lois was in the borderland between what the social net would consider a "workable" client and one who is "unworkable". Lois was bright. That helped to make her workable. She had a solid grasp and a vision of the concept of housing, and a strong, focused desire to obtain it. She had the ability, over time, to adapt her level of drug and alcohol consumption when circumstance demanded it, and to manage her fears. She liked other human beings enough, and was charming enough, that I and others wanted to work with her, enjoyed her, and so were able to stand by her, despite the abuse and sabotage. In some measure, the social safety net has expanded in recent years to take in the Loises. The "Housing First" philosophy – which basically means, provide shelter 1st, then worry about the addictions and all the rest – made housing Lois possible. But essentially, it was Lois who did most of the adjusting that made her housing possible. She found and climbed into the net. Despite being barred at one time or another from just about every shelter, drop in or Health Centre that she depended on, and despite her numerous arrests, and assaults of various kinds, both administered and received, Lois managed to negotiate and survive the system.

A key thing I learned from working with Lois, is that our system of care does not and cannot provide much help to the most dysfunctional and most mentally ill of the homeless. There are so many others who cannot make the adjustments she did, who cannot manage enough of the jumble of requirements that stand between them and access. So many others are so cognitively damaged, traumatized or otherwise disabled that they remain beyond the reach of programs like mine.

Housing resources are so strained – particularly supportive housing resources, that the numbers alone dictate against needs being met. Clients end up competing against one another for spots. Sometimes survival goes to the more needy client, but just as often it goes to the less needy, because the program can only deal with and support the lesser need. And it's a sad trick that, after housing someone like Lois, a worker feels he or she has done something exceptional. Because, after all, why should securing housing for anyone in need be exceptional?

Lois, you are missed. And you will be remembered.

I just received the following update from Judy, the worker who originally connected me with Lois:

"By the way, according to ..., she got into her building but couldn’t find her apartment key. So she lied down outside her door and fell asleep. I think staff found her body later and it was on Saturday. So according to that version of the story, she died inside where it was warm and dry, in her sleep."

Psycho Love

                 When I first heard of the show “Dexter” I was sure I would never watch it. Why would I watch a show about a serial killer? It was such an obscene idea, and clearly some producer’s inspiration for cashing in on the viewing public’s addiction to thrill-kill gore. But a few years later, after hearing the show lauded by a number of friends and co-workers, I gave the show a try and quickly pored through three seasons on Netflix. And yes, when I gave it some thought, I was troubled by that.

                Then, a couple of months ago, I started seeing these intriguing ads for a show called “The Following”. And now I’m watching it too. This time, it’s not merely a binge of indulgence, as with “Dexter”. Because “The Following” is new, I’m consuming it the way it was intended – one episode a week, giving me days of speculation and anticipation of the atrocities to come each Monday night.

                And yes, I’m still troubled.

                I remember that when “Bonnie & Clyde” and “Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid” and “Superfly” came out, there was always a bit of underground grumbling about the glorification of bank robbers and drug dealers and pimps. Generally, I dismissed such criticism as conservative, reactionary, status quo fear-mongering. I considered it the same sort of rhetoric as that which damned marijuana as an inevitable gateway to heroin addiction and ruin.

                But this psychopath thing.... It worries me. Will I stop watching? Remains to be seen. I’ve tired of “Dexter”. The device of making him out to be simply a regular guy trying to get along, while saddled with a psychotic condition he had no part in creating, is wearing thin. The qualifier, that he only kills those who deserve it, feeding into the vigilante soul that lies dormant in us all... well, it only goes so far. But, considering my default position, that I’d never succumb to watching such trash, I bought into it pretty seriously.

                I absolutely love “Breaking Bad”. And a big reason is that it unflinchingly traces a character’s descent from mere moral opportunism to ... well, evil. And I remain convinced that “The Wire” presented us with the best television EVER, because it was so raw and similarly unflinching in depicting an enduring reality of the drug wars as they play out in the economic wastelands of America.

                But “Dexter”? It treats its subject too much as a game; there’s so much winking at the audience for the cute absurdities it presents. Is it well written? Without a doubt. Is it gripping, in some ways even instructive? Yes, that too. But it’s also such an easy-natured, smoothed-over, sanitized presentation of psychopathy, that it winds up being much less clean than Breaking Bad and The Wire.

                And “The Following”? I hardly know what to say. It too is gripping and well-written. And in its probing into the cult mind, and its speculation about the roots of psychopathy, it sparks endless rumination about the nature of being human. But here the psycho-killer is elevated to the status of charismatic guru. He impresses, he charms, he seduces. And he’s brilliant. Far more than Dexter’s boy-next-door, he’s the killer rock star. He’s a Charles Manson with good teeth. Hannibal Lechter with sex appeal. The purported good guy here, who repeatedly invites the psycho’s minions to shoot him (to put him out of his misery), comes off as a determined but hapless stooge in comparison.

                So I’m bothered. Just as I am by the violent porn that is so accessible all over the web. And, on that note, will we next be presented with a cuddly, adorable, charismatic rapist as the subject of a television series? Or how about a pedophile?

                And yet...I’m watching. Or have been, until now. We’ve just decided to give up cable in our home. The shows I’m commenting on aren’t the main reason for that. The reasons have more to do with our priorities, and with the tempting distractions that television offers, in so many forms, and with our woeful lack of discipline, and with our vulnerability to seduction and desensitizing. And I can’t help but think...what of the kids?