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GABE'S BLOG.... |
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AUGUST-DECEMBER 2008 12-27-08: The weekend before Christmas God talked to me for the first time in ages. Had the audacity to do it while I was driving. Just going into the round-about on 40th and Sheridan. Boy Howdy it was a bit of a Mr. Toad's wild ride. It's difficult for me to drive and talk over the cell phone at the same time, but what was I to do when it was God who was calling? I picked up the line.
Call John.
Hmmm. That's it?
Silence.
Despite I have a half-dozen friends named John or Jon, I knew which John was the John I was supposed to call. John Harris is a friend of mine though by all rights it is strange that we are friends. John is a Pastor at Christ Temple--an evangelical Christian church whose members are predominately people of color. Not that it makes any difference really, but more so you can fully understand the nature of this Odd-Couple friendship, John is a black man from East St. Louis. He created here in Lincoln, ENCOURAGEMENT UNLIMITED--a non-profit social-services organization. He also works as the Church Liaison Coordinator for the People's City Mission here in Lincoln.
The color of our skin is only where the differences begin. John is openly and actively Christian. I am, for the most part, a spiritual mutt. John believes that God will help you if you have needs. I believe that you may or may not get help if you need it, but such is more likely if you work your ass off for it. John believes that when you die, you go to heaven and are welcomed there by your loved ones, Jesus and God Himself (yep, Him--not him nor Her or her). Having died once, that is not my particular perspective. John's clients are oftentimes homeless and always destitute--my clients are super-wealthy, media magnates with homes in the Hamptons or the South of France.
Anyway, we are very different. But we enjoy each other's company. I believe I am good for him because I think a man can stand only so much piety, prayer and do-gooding. I offer John a profane relief. Just yesterday he was laughing with tears streaming down his face after I told him of the fictitious finding of the 11th Commandment: Thou shall not be blind to the good that comes from a righteous ass whuppin'. We had been talking about criminals who prey on the poor and weak.
Where was I? Oh, yeah....God told me to call John. And I knew why.
I remember growing up in the old neighborhood--Christmas often didn't include gifts for many of my friends. There was just no money. We had modest Christmases in our home--though sometimes the best gifts were premiums my father got for buying FRAM oil filters at the garage. Though I didn't know it then, I'm sure my parents worried over the money. Can't remember my dad getting much if anything at Christmas.
The best Christmas gift I ever received as a kid was a three-inch refractor telescope. It was a wonder. I used it every chance I got--and I can still remember the cold nights I spent....lost in the Pleiades or looking at the nebula in Orion's sword--M-42--or more dramatic, the Andromeda galaxy-- M-35-- in Taurus. I gave the telescope away some years ago to my God son who, like a typical child of comfort and means, left it without care in the garage where it fell over and was destroyed by his mother's new Buick.
God talked to me. Told me to call John. I did.
We met at a sandwich shop and I told John about Christmases, or the lack thereof, back in the old neighborhood when I was a kid. I reckoned that things had not changed. John confirmed that they had not.
I thought back--A family sitting together at Yule time--trying to make it seem as if it were any other day. But they couldn't. The parents' eyes were misted by the hurt and a mean speck of guilt. The kids stared into the air, maybe wondering if they would someday have a....Christmas. Then I imagined, What would have happened if back then a moderately successful executive from the 'hood had....remembered.
Compared to doing triage in Africa--determining which pot-bellied children would receive your rancid food rations--this was easy. John came up with ten families that basically....had nothing. They had fallen through the social-services cracks. There would be no Christmas gifts--no Christmas dinner--no stocking stuffers.... Nothing. Come to find out, those ten families had thirty-five kids--thirty five kids....with no Christmas.
Until then.
To each of the ten families, we gave a $50 grocery gift certificate. Additionally, the parents got a $75 WalMart gift card for EACH of their children--thirty-five gift certificates. Finally, each mom got a $50 gift certificate to Bath & Body Works. The fathers had to tough it out.
So, this year ten families from my old neighborhood had a Christmas dinner with all the fixin's. Ten mothers got fifty dollars worth of pampering and femininity. Thirty-five kids got stocking stuffers and some GREAT Christmas gifts, and a half-dozen fathers got to see the smiles light the faces of their children. And I got the blessing to be able to make that happen.
No one ever learned my name. I never met with any of them. I never wallowed in their joy--nor did I seek their gratitude. I never saw them cry, nor did I pick them from the ground after they collapsed in disbelief. I did not dilute the squeals of joy from their children. I was just this crazy old man who used to live in the neighborhood. An old man who believed in magic--believed in doing good especially when no one was watching.
And sure I knew it. I absolutely understood. It was only a bandage. It didn't do anything to really change the cause of such poverty. My acts just mitigated the symptoms while the disease would likely continue to ravage.
But, maybe--just maybe, forty years from now one of those kids who got a Christmas this year will grow up to be a moderate success, and perhaps they'll....remember.
In the face of overwhelming odds of certain failure....we must try.
11-03-08: Billy Meeks died this last week. He was a formidable fighter from the old neighborhood--and an incredible athlete on the football field. After the fame and glory of high school had been bled from him in the jungles of Vietnam, he came back and floated for some time.
It was over thirty years before I saw Billy again. I was dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit, sporting a Rolex GMT Master. I was at The Night Before--a strip bar in Lincoln immortalized by American writer Jim Harrison. I was entertaining a business client from the Bay Area who was an avid Harrison fan and wanted to visit this Mecca of strip bars. We watched the bruised and meth-fired strippers lazily bump and grind.
The crowd parted in front of the pack of black men that stalked to a corner table. It was easy to spot the pack's leader. He wore long plaited dreads and had tattoos that were like blue watermarks on his dark skin. He had stripped off his long-rider, black-leather coat and sat there in a white silk collared tank top. His muscles were going to fat, but the dumb danger of the man was palpable. No one wanted to look at him. Some of the patrons, hedging their bets, just got up and left. I stared.
"Billy Meeks," I said to myself. My client suggested I not stare at the man and his minions of black jackals. "I know that guy. That's Billy Meeks," I said. I got up from the table. I could hear my client and friend hissing at me to stop. I walked over to the table full of trouble.
"Hi Billy," I said as I offered my hand. "Gary Gabelhouse."
"Gabe?" The big black man smiled to reveal a silver front tooth.
The jackals were tense, locked and loaded. Then Billy kind of calmed the waters in front of him with his arms and shook his head, still smiling.
"If it ain't ol' Gabe. It's okay--it's only Gabe. I know him."
The strippers were pissed. No one was poised with dollar bills in their mouths around the stage. The entire crowd of The Night Before thought they were going to witness a public execution. Imagine their surprise as Billy and I shook hands, did a man-shoulder hug and sat down to jawbone.
After about a half hour our conversation beached itself. The roll had been called: Red Wing Rogers, Cleveland Narcisse, Dandy "The Punch" Dandridge, Wayne King, Shurdel Lewis, Charlie Moore, Tough Tony Hassel.... Some dead, some in prison, no Nobel prizes awarded. We parted with the security that we would never see each other again. We didn't know the why of it--only the truth of it. It was the last time I saw Billy Meeks.
My guess is, Billy just got tired. Nothin' easy about hard times. Did a Google search and didn't have even one hit. If there's no evidence of your life, why should death bother? They say Billy Meeks died last week.
*******
A friend of mine has a web-based business called Jewelry-24-Seven. If you want to make a hedge investment in precious metals that you can wear, well, this is the place: www.jewelry24seven.com. They have GREAT custom and hand made jewelry. Give 'em a look, and if you can, buy something. The holidays are coming....
*******
For those of you who are not residents of Nebraska, this is U.S. Senator Chuck Hagel--once presidential candidate and said to be in line for a Cabinet job in the Obama administration. Anyway, I received this and a signed 8 X 10 which congratulated me on writing such a fine book. You DID notice the book he is holding? Glad he liked it.
Must be the real Jimmy's work, eh?
******* During one of my writing-in-tongues sessions, this one popped out:
Life is a sacred dance between mysteries.
Then, these:
God is too big to fit into one religion.
When we consider God, there is no metric small enough to measure a single religion.
*******
I was teaching my Daitoryu Aikijujitsu class at the dojo yesterday and one of my students came up with a Yogi Bera'ism:
I can remember all the techniques I know. --Don The Dragon
10-5-08: The past month has allowed me to plant my butt in front of the computer and surrender myself to the....muse. I am wrapping up my fifth manuscript--about 75,000 words deep in what will be a 100,000 word story. And it has been a joy.
I am not talented enough at writing to fully explain what goes on between a writer and a blank page. Think communion --think sacrament or even ceremony. However, those words that appear on a page are sometimes only echoes of the image or idea. The better the writing, the more the reader can feel, hear, smell and....live an experience framed by....the words.
Oftentimes it is as if the words are channeled through me--like a literary speaking in tongues. For me, that is the magic of writing. Sometimes the energy and emotion so charge the words that I will find myself typing the words with tears streaming down my face. One particular section of DREAMS OF THE N'DOROBO so emotionally engaged me, that I could not write again for nearly a month. Who says writing novels isn't dangerous work? There are usually dragons there.
When I go to the office in the morning, I am often reflecting on or more often, projecting forward from the words I wrote the night before. It has become a ritual for me....driving, sipping coffee and plotting the next plot. I have a round-about on my way to the office. When I make real progress with the storyline, I take at least three laps of the round-about just for the hell of it. Of course, the road work is often accompanied by....hooting.
PROPHETS REBORN IN PAPERBACK--COMING SOON!
Many readers refuse to buy hardbound books. I understand completely. Well, for those of you who may be waiting, we hope to have PROPHETS REBORN out in trade paperback before the holidays. One thing we're looking at is completely changing the cover design. The trade paperback volume of DREAMS OF THE N'DOROBO retained the cover from the hard-cover's dust jacket. We don't think that will be the case with PROPHETS REBORN. My publisher is looking for a cover with more grabber....
What do YOU think? Drop me a line: ggabelhouse@neb.rr.com
SENIOR BUDDHIST LAMA & THE DALAI LAMA'S BOYHOOD FRIEND COMING TO LINCOLN AS MY GUEST!
The Venerable Ngawang Chojor Lama Will Make A Sand Mandala & Exhibit His Religious Art In Lincoln
When I went to meet His Holiness the Dalai Lama back in July, I also made an aquaintance with the Venerable Ngawang Chojor Lama. Chojor Lama is a senior Buddhist priest who was born and grew up in the village of Taktser in northeastern Tibet. When his friend, Lhamo Dhondrub, was identified as the 14th Dalai Lama, he was invited to come with His Holiness to Lhasa. It was there that he was identified by His Holiness as a Lama--the Venerable Ngawang Chojor Lama.
The Dalai Lama's senior teacher was Geshe Sopa. His Holiness directed his teacher and his friend (Chojor Lama) to go to America and establish a center for Tibetan refugees, and to establish a monastery and temple to serve the Tibetan immigrants. Geshe Sopa and Chojor Lama ended up working with the state of Wisconsin and the city of Madison in establishing a destination for Tibetan immigrants. Over the years they also established the Deer Park Monastery and Temple where many Buddhist priests come to study and live. Chojor Lama currently resides in Madison, Wisconsin.
Chojor Lama is also a talented visual artist and will exhibit his art in a special exhibition here in Lincoln. The mandala construction, art exhibition and the book events will be staged at the Haydon Art Center gallery--335 So. 8th in Lincoln's Haymarket district. Activity dates and times are pending.
9-1-08: Welcome to the 2nd blog entry. Found my self a'ramblin' in my head a bit, but I'm sure it's due to no sleep nor whiskey. Yesterday I sweat like a pig, working on my bonsai trees. All afternoon I went in and out of the greenhouse--getting wire, fertilizer, chopsticks to tamp the soil. It was like going back and forth from Guatemala to Hell. However, it was nice to have my hands on the trees. A good shugyo, a good .... ceremony. Ceremonies are, for me, things I do....alone.
Not only do I have a Japanese rain chain instead of a rain gutter, I have rigged Tibetan prayer flags on the front porch railing -- resplendent with all of their Buddhist idolatry. They are quite something as they flag in the north wind--delivering their messages to the Wind Horse. And have I told you about all the wind chimes I have hanging on the front porch? Or the Fuku Bonsai--large Jade plants growing out of a boulder? Any God and the world can see that a henna hito--a strange man lives there. Can't say whether the neighbors like or dislike it. They don't come too close. However, they DO stare when they see me on the porch. I guess, what the hell else would they think other than ol' Gabe has done the slingshot maneuver around the sun and is on his way to the Crab Nebula.
Last night (or actually early this morning) I went outside to sit on the porch and felt the humidity and heat of Summer beaten down by an autumn wind. I had not spoken to anyone since the day before and meditated on the coming business day. Living alone, I spend sometimes days not talking to anyone other than myself. Holiday weekends are often like that--times for a private shugyo, sans the habla habla. I remember times when I would go into the Wind Rivers or the Mummy range and spend weeks at a time....alone.
I remember losing a few days when I was planted on an island in the Boundary Waters of Canada, left for five days with only a tarp and a match. Have you ever lost track of the differences between the northern lights and sunshine? Ever have an intellectual conversation with a loon? Well, let me tell you, once they get goin' a guy can barely get a word in edge wise.
One time I was alone in a mosquito-netting tent on the Maasai Mara for over a week. Seemed that no matter how far I traveled during the day, I was the late-night entertainment for this large pride of lions. I swear, every night about midnight those lions lined up outside my tent like friends and family of the Husker Nation line up to watch Cornhusker football. And I watched them....watch me.
I do not believe it wise to spend much time alone on Mt. Kenya. I feel that witch of a mountain would relish finding a man alone on her slopes. There is no metric small enough to measure a man on that mountain. But, if one DID find one's self alone, it would be at N'gai's Thanga (God's Bachelor Hut). I've spent a day or two there, alone. It is the only gentle place I have ever found on that mountain.
At the beginning of the Sirimon River track on Mt. Kenya, there is this wonderfully shabby old sign written in colonial English. One of the park rules I love in particular is.... No Hooting. That said, those times alone at N'gai's Thanga I dare say, would have qualified as....hooting.
Yes....alone. I love it, I surely do. Of course, there are the loud outbursts and laughing out loud--the hooting that comes with advancing insanity....
Laugh lots.
Salama, Gabe
P.S. Damn near forgot. Put together a video trailer for the coming book, FALLEN ANGELS OF EDEN. To view it, click here:
8-8-08: This is our first conversation. Glad you're here. Glad to be here myself. Think this is gonna be an auspicious day, or do you believe in that numerology mojo? According to what I think I know, September 9, 2009 should be better than today. Nine (9) is the best number in Buddhist numerology. Three (3) isn't shabby, either. Three nine's....well, what to say?
Speaking of things auspicious--I have to say that my life has recently been full of extraordinary events--life changing events. In June I received gifts from the abbot of the Kongobuji Monastery in Koyasan, Japan. Seems the monks of the Kongobuji Temple are enjoying PROPHETS REBORN as I am told that it has become a must read among the monks. In appreciation, the temple's head priest and the monks gifted me greatly.
Among the gifts was a thangka, or temple scroll. The thangka holds the hanko of every one of the eighty-eight Shingon Buddhist Temples in Japan--each seal signed by the temples' head priest. A giant Nokyo Cho! When I opened it the power of the thing filled the room. When I hung it in my bedroom, its pressence continued to . . . . fill the room. Take a look at it here....
Ever since I put up the thangka in my bedroom, my sleep has been totally free of the usual nightmares and flash backs from my PTSD. As I wrote in an article some time back....
I was no longer who I was before Entebbe. That kind of fear forever changed me. The reality of what once was, was violently taken from me. In a matter of minutes, I evolved to a burnt out shell of a man indebted with decades of nightmares.
Well, the thangka seems to have put an end to that. Rotten glad of it, too. Some have said that the thangka didn't do anything--that the cessation of nightmares is all psychological (what isn't?). You know what? I don't really care. If it is just purely psychological--hell, I'll take that. If you want to read what the Lincoln Journal Star had to say, click here to read an archived article here.
Sometimes experiences are life changing. This was one of those....
For color commentary on my meeting His Holiness, click here:
www.gabelhouse.com/Dalai-Lama.htm
I could write tomes on this half-day experience. I already have integrated His Holiness in my fifth manuscript, SOUL EATERS OF BAAL.
At the end of our private audience, His Holiness said to me four words--four words that have and will continue to change and define my life. It is, indeed, a blessing to have such exciting change introduced into my life at this age.
Already, I have been on CheapTickets.com to find the best tickets to Kathmandu (Nepal), Thimphu (Bhutan) and Lhasa (Tibet/China). May go to Dharamsala, India (home of His Holiness and seat of the exiled government of Tibet) as a side trip. ******* Last night I was up until the wee hours working on my fifth manuscript currently titled, SOUL EATERS OF BAAL. One of the central issues in the story is the biological basis for religious experience--the chemistry of enlightenment. Had to dust off the cortical cobwebs and remember my graduate classes in neurobiology and neurochemistry. Checked it with current sources and am amazed at the advances the body of science has made over the past thirty-five years. Found advertised online a gene sequencer more powerful than what was available for the Human Genome project only a few years ago. It could sequence genetic targets as large as the human genome and provide a map within a few hours. The cost of the instrument was under $100,000. The Human Genome Project cost $2.7 Billion and took hundreds of scientists twelve years to complete. Sheesh.
I don't know if you'd be interested, but I could post chapters of my most recent writing and have you look over my shoulder as I edit and rewrite a manuscript in progress. I could also post notes from the margins as I try to find a way out when I write myself into a corner. I remember introducing a character WAY too late in a story and having to kill her off about as quickly as she had appeared. Perhaps I will look to you for a thumbs up or down as I decide the fate of an errant character. In fact, it WOULD be fun to have your input before it goes down on paper and off to the editor.
For example, there's a character in my current manuscript who is unbelievably....bad. The strange thing is he is not a creepy, malevolent kind of bad. He is, in fact, a really upbeat, positive, loves-his-world bad guy who, regrettably, is a sociopath with no moral compass. He loves his work, and he is incredibly talented at his craft. He revels in the magic of death and is an insane mix of your best college buddy and a stone-cold killer.
And the truth is, I hate to kill him off. I really do. Though I cannot see how life could possibly be better with such a creature alive and mucking about, I cannot easily bring myself to kill such a character who has an almost child-like wonderment and enthusiasm with his role as the reaper.
If you'd like to have your say in this conversation, type BLOG in the subject box and email me at ggabelhouse@neb.rr.com . I'm anxious to hear what you have to say.
When I talk with my readers, one of the things that always comes up is what was the inspiration for the character Jimmy McCann. For those of you who may not have read one of my books, Jimmy McCann is an ex-UDT frogman (precursors to the US Navy SEALS) who retired from covert Spec Ops missions to the alphabet-soup world of espionage and counter intelligence.
Jimmy is a rounder. He swears like the sailor he is. He is eloquent and profane, ruthless and big hearted, loves Bombay gin and Cuban cigars. He is a heroic figure with heroic weaknesses. And, he is a real, true to life friend of mine.
To get to know him better, we've added a section to the web where we put the real Jimmy under some friendly interrogation. To read that bit go to www.gabelhouse.com/jimmy.htm and talk with a real hero of this country.
Well, as Jimmy often says in my novels, It's time for you girls to shed a tear, for I have to go. Laugh lots.
Salama, Gabe |
BLOG ARCHIVES
JUL-DEC '09
JAN-JUN '09
AUG-DEC '08
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I
remember being recruited to break up a fight in the parking lot of
Chubbyville on 27th street off of Vine. There I found Billy Meeks
beating the hell out of a group of strapping young college kids who found
themselves dancing with the devil. Freshly stained with the rot of
southeast Asia, Billy had found a redemption of sorts. After
ditching the cops and sitting in a junk car on Dudley Street, we shared a
joint and a bottle of peach brandy. Billy was already an old man.
Recieved
a plain envelope one morning this week--placed in my door some time
between 4:00 AM and 7:00 AM. I got up off the couch to relieve
myself and saw this envelope in the front door. I opened it and it
included the photo at your right....
My
current manuscript is my fifth Gabe Turpin story, currently titled THE
SOUL EATERS OF BAAL. The story takes place in Kenya, Africa;
Allahabad, India; and, Washington D.C. For those of you who read DREAMS
OF THE N'DOROBO, I bring back into this story the old N'dorobo Shaman,
Sendeo. Last night I wrote the farewell scene between Gabe and
Sendeo. I lucked out. I actually sat back in my chair and
said, "That's good stuff." 
VS. 
When
the Chinese invaded Tibet in 1959, Chojor Lama went with His Holiness the
Dalai Lama to create a Tibetan State in exile at Dharamsala India.
There, he continued to teach the dharma of Buddha and began to perform the
ceremonial creation of mandalas.
As
a gesture of religious inclusion and community, the ceremonial
construction of a sand mandala will be shared with religious leaders and
followers of the Christian, Buddhist, Muslim and Jewish faiths.
Since the major theme of my novel, PROPHETS REBORN is religious inclusion
and cooperation, we will also be doing a book event in league with the
making of the mandala.
Got
up this morning after my umpteenth late night with manuscript #5.
It was cool and raining, and I sat for some time watching the rain cascade
down the rain chain I have on my front porch. Brewed up some coffee
and sat outside on the porch and watched the rain. Watching rain
come down a Japanese rain chain is a better way to live. They don't
have gutters in Japan, so they deal with the rain with something
infinitely more beautiful than an aluminum gutter from HOME DEPOT.... 
Go
here. Get one for yourself....
One
night due to some water I had swilled down sans Clorox bleach, or maybe it
was the rancid butter on the fry bread--anyway, whatever it was had begun
to wage war in my lower GI. It was either soil the tent and bag or
lean up against a tree that was ten yards away from about fifteen lions.
Well, as they said in Elizabethan times, "My need was great."
I offered the viewing audience a real treat as I moaned with a cramping
stomach, leaned up against the small thorn tree. I watched the
lions....watch me. My moaning seemed to agitate the pride.
Several young males got up off their bellies and stretched. Upon
seeing this, I immediately engaged the leader of the pride, and told him
how I wished not to hurt him and his family--and how I knew Karate--and
five other Okinawan words.... 
At
about 14,000 feet on the North side of the mountain, there is a small
stream running over basalt boulders that is full of feldspar crystals.
The idyllic scene is framed in elephant grass and giant groundsel.
The times I have spent there alone were joyous. Despite basking in
the early sun, or snoozing to the sounds of melt water--I would often find
myself alone shouting insults and curses at the summits of Neilon and
Batian. Much like laughing at the devil, I would insult the
mountain witch called Kerrinyaga. It was what I did. It
was ME throwing down the gauntlet. But I felt safe to gain this bit
of psychological parity only at N'gai's Thanga. To do so elsewhere,
and out of the safe would surely invite the witch's swift and awful
retribution.
On
July 19th I met with His Holiness the Dalai Lama in Madison, Wisconsin.
I have to agree with Steve Martin and his line in Caddyshack: "The
Dalai Lama is a big hitter!"