Posts Tagged ‘ It ’

Posse Commentatus


IN THE BEGINNING was the Text. But not for long.

The Text – definer and exemplar, authority and comfort, platform and trampoline – was no ordinary collection of words. It spoke of history and possibility, treated miracles as though they were commonplace and elevated the commonplace above the miraculous. Its basic gist was that humanity matters, even if humanity couldn’t always understand why.

Yet while the Text was finite (after all, its Author had to stop writing somewhere) it did contain the seeds of an infinite perpetuation, though not in the most obvious of ways.

Topically all-encompassing, the Text also seemed contradictory or vague – at least on first reading. But its devotees were so in love with the Text and its ideas that they couldn’t help amplifying and illuminating these apparent inconsistencies, often at great and obscure length. Some of these clarifications were laughed out of the circles which bore them; others took hold to become part of the Text’s official lore, in turn spawning their own hyper- and meta-comments. Some of this secondary lore was so treasured and logical that many who had never read the Text first-hand (but who couldn’t help soaking up its concepts and practices through occasionally distorted dissemination) assumed that the expositions were actually primary documents.

After enough time had passed for the Text to inextricably intertwine itself into the culture which carried it, three main schools of thought began to develop. One held that no intelligent person could understand the Text without its body of subsidiary lore. Another proclaimed that the Text was inherently perfect and no intelligent person would gussy it up with a lot of commentary-come-lately. The third was composed of a grumpy few who insisted that any intelligent person could see the Text was “just a story,” and devoted as much time and energy to disproving the Text and its importance as the Text’s devotees did in celebrating it.

These three schools also invested much time and energy in attacking each other’s opinion and occasionally each other as well. So when a fourth school emerged, holding that the Text was just a set of clothing for an Idea, you may imagine the rage and blather which ensued from – and, ironically, united – the first three.

This fourth school, however, knew that the test of intelligent persons wasn’t in which school they followed but whether or not they believed Text’s basic Idea – that humanity matters. (Some members of the other three schools believed this also, but they tended to be more uptight about it.) With what seemed annoying smugness, but was actually ecstatic enthusiasm, the fourth-schoolers acknowledged that the Text was just a story, but an extremely important one – both inherently perfect and valid fodder for exposition – and that only a damn fool wearing either-or blinders could possibly disagree at this late date in the Text’s history.

Such views, of course, were heresy; thus, it’s no wonder that the fourth-schoolers tended to feel a bit lonely and picked-on.

But their heresies did not end there. Some bold souls, who had observed that story-telling (especially story-telling about story-telling) was one of humanity’s oldest and deepest traits, began to notice that what made the Text unique wasn’t the Text itself but the way in which people related to it: whether the Text was Torah, Gospel, Quran, Shakespeare, Tolkien, Roddenberry or Lucas (some would add Beethoven and Jefferson, and occasionally Capra or Huston). What’s more, its devotees displayed the same compulsive can’t-leave-it-aloneness: whether the question was one of authorship (man or God? Will or Francis?), psychology (why was Abraham willing to sacrifice Isaac? Was Hamlet mad, or simply adolescent?), intent (was Sauron a metaphor for Hitler? Did Paul corrupt or clarify Jesus’ teachings?), consistency (how did Klingons go from smooth to bumpy foreheads? How can God simultaneously command us to submit and to question?) or common sense (how could the Jedi not see that Palpatine was Darth Sidious? If Moses transcribed the entire Torah, how could he write about his own death?).

In short, the heretics had discovered a Great Truth: You don’t have to take the Text literally in order to take it seriously — and if you take it seriously, there’s no end to the fun.

Of course, the fourth-schoolers couldn’t share this cross-Textual speculation with anyone but other heretics. They realized that most Text devotees believed that only one Text (i.e., theirs) could be emulated and embraced, and all others were “just different, that’s all.” This made them sad; partly because they weren’t terribly keen on eyeless-among-the-blind pariahood, but mostly because they wanted everyone else to enjoy themselves, and the Text in all its manifestations, as much as they did. As they could neither understand nor overcome their neighbors’ stolidity, these unhappy souls resigned themselves to a life of furtive isolation.

But not, they hoped, for long.

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Contradicting the Paradox


“Most people don’t worship God. What they do is make an image of what they think God is, and worship that.”
– James “Sputnik” Gjerde

The biggest problem with Aristotelianism is that it posits false dichotomies (good/evil, up/down, is/ain’t, tastes great/less filling, et al) and forces us to choose between (and subsequently defend) inaccurate pictures of reality.

I don’t like doing that, nor should any sane person. But the Aristotelian Heresy (TM) so underlies our Western linguistic thought-frame that its perniciousness oft goes unnoticed. This is particularly true when applied to theology or other non-mystical apprehensions or understandings of [your favorite metaphor for nondualism here]. One classically smug statement of this sort of ontological oafishness is:

Can God make a rock so heavy He can’t lift it?

Rather than wasting time explaining the inapplicability of language to direct perception, perhaps the best response may be:

Yes — but He can lift it anyway.

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Message From Beyond


Not all mitzvot turn into ghost stories — but when doing holy work, it’s always a good idea to expect the unexpected.

My wife Ann and I are members of the Sonoma County Chevre Kadisha. “Chevre Kadisha” literally means “holy brotherhood;” it’s a centuries-old Jewish institution committed to preparing the dead for burial. Doing this is considered to be the most selfless of all mitzvot, partly because there’s no way the beneficiary can pay you back.

In 2002, Ann and I joined a crowd of about 50 at Cotati’s Congregation Ner Shalom where, over the course of an afternoon and under the tutelage of Rabbi Elisheva (Sachs) Salamo, we learned — as one participant put it — to “gift-wrap people for sending them back to God.” We practiced on each other the intricacies of “taharat meit” (washing and enshrouding the “meit,” or body), and learned to act as “shomrim” — guards who stay with the meit between tahara and burial. We heard some amazing stories from people who had done both of these mitzvot, and when the contact sheet came around at the end of the session Ann and I eagerly added our names and phone numbers.

Since then, Ann and I have acted as shomrim twice, sitting in shifts of two to three hours, sometimes late at night, and never yet for anyone we knew well. But the third time, I went alone — and that’s when it happened.

I arrived at Santa Rosa Memorial Park’s chapel slightly ahead of time on a warm afternoon. Other chevre members were still performing tahara, behind the closed door of the adjacent preparation room, for a female member of the county’s Jewish community. I entered the chapel, sat down in the front pew, then stood up when three women — one reading from a Bible — rolled the plain pine casket into its temporary resting place for the next day’s funeral. We exchanged quiet nods before they left me alone with the meit and a copy of Rabbi Samson Hirsch’s commentary on Psalms.

And the tapping began.

I looked up from my book. Had I really heard three quick, sharp raps from the vicinity of the casket? No. Couldn’t be. I grunted, and re-engaged with Rabbi Hirsch.


A horrible thought struck me, but I trusted that the tahara crew had bade this woman good-bye in the most scrupulously decisive manner. Still …


I got up, quietly laying the Psalms on the pew. I walked over to the casket. I bent down.

“Hello?” I asked.

No answer.

“If you can hear me, please rap.”

Only the sound of air conditioning, and my pounding heart. I stood poised, alert, scarcely daring to breathe.

From the bottom of the floor-to-ceiling frosted window behind me — three quick raps.

I smiled, sheepishly, thinking of tree branches, then frowned. The day was windless, and no shrubbery grew near the window. But at least I had localized the source of the rapping, which intermittently continued during the next two hours. If this was God trying to get me to add some kavanna — intention — to the mitzvah, it certainly worked. Tradition teaches that only mitzvot performed with kavanna really count, and I was doing exactly that — guarding my charge either from untimely internment or from unexplained intrusion.

At last, the next shomer arrived, flustered and apologetic and out of breath for not having found the chapel sooner. I reassured her that everything was okay, left the chapel, and unsuccessfully scanned the exterior for noisemakers before driving away.

I don’t know why I didn’t mention the rapping.

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… re-echo …


here’s what I wrote in a recent column…

Screaming in the dark
By Neal Ross

If you live among human beings, you must never mention how terribly, nakedly vulnerable we all are ? because we all spend a good deal of our lives trying to pretend we?re not.

I don?t know why that is; I suspect it?s related to our biosurvival imperative, which tries to keep us going against all odds. Intense pain is one of those odds: we humans like to build little consensual hallucinations to overlay and influence our perceptions, and intense pain ? physical, spiritual, or emotional ? shatters our careful efforts like a child?s foot through a sandcastle.

Since Dec. 27, I?ve discovered that the most profound and interesting of these pains is known as “deep grief.” On that day, Jim “Sputnik” Gjerde, my lifelong best friend (read: “psychic twin and other half”), died after spending two weeks in a coma brought on by a genetic-diabetes-related heart attack. And since then, I?ve been sifting sand and wondering what happened.

(I rarely read columns written about best friends who have just died, and writing this I realize why: If you didn?t know the person, or experience first-hand a similar loss, it won?t mean anything to you. But as death is the price of life, so is grief the price of love ? and we will all eventually experience at least one of these, in some flavor or another.)

“Deep grief” is the term used by my counselor at the Valley of the Moon Hospice Team (935-7504 ? a hard, but important, phone call), who is helping me cope with this first (for me) major loss. Deep grief (or what I?ve been calling “The Gray Sameness”) is when you don?t feel like eating, or sleeping, or working, or playing, or really doing much of anything except gazing blankly into the middle-distance, howling like an animal, and trying to melt into whatever surface is currently holding you up.

It hurts. A lot. More than can be imagined beforehand. But it also feels like an initiation into an exclusive but universal club. And therein lies The Mystery: “It cannot be borne, and yet it must.”

Generally speaking, I enjoy ungraspable mysteries ? I like the fact that the universe is bigger than my head; that some things can only be experienced, not explained. Grief is like that, but amid the rust and ashes there are glimmers of light ? definitely present though not always seen. And that?s exactly as it should be, at least for now.

A longtime friend called the other day to check on me. When he told me that his brother had died five years ago, I stopped in mid-mumble. “You know,” I said.

“Yes, I know,” he replied.

“So I don?t have to explain anything to you,” I said.

“Not one bit,” he said.

He then told me about the day, some time after his brother?s death, when he looked up and realized that he had just had a good hour. Sometime after that, the good time expanded to two hours. Then, eventually, a half-day. Then a whole day, two, a week. And so forth. The pain never left, but it did become manageable.

My friend then apologized for sounding superficial, and I told him there was no need: “You?re someone who?s traveled further down a path I?m currently walking, and telling me what it looks like. So thank you ? because right now, I have no idea how to even get to that first good minute.”

At this writing, I still don?t. But at least I know it?s coming ? and I hope to recognize it when it arrives.

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This is what I said about Jim at his funeral:

When studying to be a rabbi, I learned a tradition that says one should begin every public discourse with a jest. So here?s Jim?s and my very favorite shared joke ? at least, the one that?s suitable for mixed company:

A man who had studied much in the schools of wisdom finally died in the fullness of time and found himself at the Gates of Eternity.

An angel of light approached him and said, “Go no further, O mortal, until you have proven to me your worthiness to enter into Paradise!”

But the man answered, “Just a minute now. First of all, can you prove to me this is a real Heaven, and not just the wild fantasy of my disordered mind undergoing death?”

Before the angel could reply, a voice from inside the gates shouted:

“Let him in – he’s one of us!”

The ironic thing about my best friend dying is that he’s the only one with whom I want to discuss it.

This is my first visit to Griefland, and I’m still finding my way around. But “Sputnik” would see the black crushing horror part of it AS WELL AS the intensely spiritual aspect. And know that the one does not preclude the other.

Jim and I were soulmates for life, even though our 1980s-era experiments at roommate-hood proved that we would viciously murder each other in our sleep if we ever tried living together again. We were that much alike, and when you love someone that deeply it gives them leave to annoy you mightily. And annoy each other we did, though never intentionally.

But what really annoys me is that Jim finally won the game we’d been playing ever since we met in 1978. You see, he now knows something I don’t.

For Sputnik and I, the Alpha Male game was measured not by how big our toys were but by how big our brains and hearts were — and how well we used them. Our serious quest for the Sourceless Source meant we couldn’t afford to mess around with anything less — and even though we freely acknowledged that our quest was ultimately unachievable, we wanted it to be real.

An anthropologist’s skepticism, saint’s reverence and anarchist’s sense of humor, coupled with his amazing memory, made Jim fingertip-familiar with numberless and little-known facts, theories, theologies, philosophies, ontologies, epistemologies, epiphanies, chemical interactions and their results, and strange doings of mutual friends and secretly-famous personalities. As Jim’s psychic twin, I can tell you that this paved the way for inevitable and mutual quasi-macho posturing.

Now, one of the great joys of sharing unshared information is making the other fellow say, “Wow! Where’d you hear that?” During our quarter-century together, I could probably count on one hand the times that actually happened instead of the usual “Right. And have you thought about this or that correlation?”

This unspoken but obvious competition kept us both on the Path, which — for the two of us — was the exact same path with the exact same curves at roughly the same time, exquisitely tailored to our individual hands, accompanied by headshaking laughter at our unswerving devotion to something so obviously arbitrary and wordlessly meaningful as our different religious traditions ? his Christian, mine Jewish. But Jim was always a practical guy, living both in the moment as well as in its multiple interpretations, cheerfully accepting the Mystery even as he poked at its manifestations.

Well, that Mystery is cleared up for one of us. And now that Jim’s life is a closed book, I’m really beginning to see how much we actually were a part of each other — and how much a part we all are of everyone we know, especially if we let each other all the way inside.

None of us will never “get over” Jim’s death, because we will never get over Jim’s life. We can’t help it, because we ultimately live in each other. And while it may take a long time for the pain of Jim’s death to lessen, if it ever does, it won?t take nearly as long for us to understand that he is, and always will be, still with us.

Happy trails, my friend. I hope I’ll see you later.

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… echoes …


for some reason, perhaps because this is my first big loss, I thought the funeral would “make things better.” it didn;t occur to me that I felt that way until afterward, when it didn’t. … I did my hardest weeping after we got back Sunday afternoon. and I am now feeling the biggest part of the loss.

it was nice seeing the edges of the hole that Jim made, though — by which i mean the people who pilgrimaged to Shasta to attend the funeral. Ann wrote something about the weekend which she is permitting me to post, so I shall. But some random notes:

- Seeing someone-you-love’s name accompanied by two dates is a definite Step On The Path.

- ” ” photographs and realizing that “this is the remaining physical evidence” is another Step.

The alarm rang this morning and my first thought was, “Crap. Now I have to try and get through another day.” All I really want to do is sit and stare. I am completely unmotivated to work, play, laugh, teach, pray, study, shave, dress myself, or eat. (But at least I have my health, he joked attemptedly.) Even lifting my arms to the keyboard is taking all my effort.

Anyway, here’s Ann’s piece.

The Weekend of Jim’s Memorial January 10-12, 2003
By Ann

Neal’s/my/our friend Jim Gjerde had a catastrophic heart attack on
December 11, 2002 in his girlfriend Jan’s bookstore in Mt. Shasta,
California. He went into a coma where he remained, treading life for 16
days, until he died on December 27th at 10:08 p.m. Jan called us on
Saturday evening, just as our Sabbath was coming to a close.

Neal had known Jim for 25 years. Jim — or “Sputnik” aka “Sput,” as his
old friends knew him — was what I like to call a sane freak, and you must
understand that the term “freak” is a compliment when I use it. He was
deliciously weird, frighteningly intelligent, and endlessly interesting
and interested. As Neal says, he never stopped thinking, he never stopped
learning; he never stopped looking around and grinning. A fringe lunatic
of the most delightful variety. I loved talking to Jim, and listening to

I met him in Berkeley in 1988; he and I were going to meet for the first
time to walk over to the post office together to mail in our request for
tickets to the Grateful Dead New Year’s show. I was a tucked-and-
tailored legal assistant dating his best friend Neal; he was, like Neal, a
shaggy, scruffy, Goodwill-attired, sleepy-looking 25-year-old. Here’s the
weird thing about our first encounter, and I’ve never told anyone: We
individually mailed off our requests for tickets but I had run mine
through the office postal meter and so my request was rejected (“no
metered mail!”) and Jim’s tickets arrived in timely fashion. The part I
never told anyone was how annoyed I was that I, the responsible one, had
failed where Jim-of-the-casual-lifestyle had succeeded. I was really only
annoyed for about 5 minutes; after that I found it all quite amusing.

Throughout the years this is what Jim meant to me: someone who was always
there, someone to turn to. Even if we didn’t speak for years, I found
comfort in his presence, like the big old quilt you keep on the top shelf
in case the weather turns really cold. Had he been MY friend exclusively,
I probably would have pulled the quilt down far more often no matter what
the weather but simply because I liked its smell, and the way it felt when
I pulled it about my shoulders.

Jim knew things about me that only Neal knows. For one thing, that I am
in fact a fringe lunatic in conservative clothing. (Neal always told me
that was good — I could infiltrate that way.) Jim and I had some of our
best conversations in 1989, when Neal worked nights at Berkeley Sauna.
Jim would come over (appearing, like a hungry cat, seemingly from
nowhere….I didn’t know where he lived or what he drove, and I never
asked) and we would sit on my back doorstep and smoke and talk for hours.
I could always be myself with him; he was shock-proof.

Through the ensuing years, he was more out of touch than in. He and Neal
would go for huge chunks of time without talking or even knowing where the
other was, and then there’d be the reconnecting phone call. He was the
Best Man at our 1994 Tahoe wedding.

When Neal got cancer last summer, he and Jim reconnected and spoke often.
In November, 2002, a month before he died, Jim came to spend the weekend
with us.

That was a hard weekend. First of all, it was sprung on me. Guess who’s
coming to dinner, breakfast, lunch, dinner, breakfast, and lunch? So I
was in a bit of a wifely peeve. I was especially peeved to learn that
Neal was going to go about teaching religious school on Sunday, leaving me
alone with Jim to “entertain” him for four hours. I was so wrong. Our
time together was absolutely precious. I’m so grateful for that weekend.
And for the half-day that Neal left Jim alone here. We talked. Jim
REALLY listened to me. That was one of his gifts. He made a person feel

One thing he told me during that long talk really stood out for me after
his death: He told me how frustrated he was that he couldn’t drive and
that he had to rely on friends for rides. Decades of Type I diabetes had
damaged his eyes. After he died, I kept thinking, “You’re mobile now,
Jim; you can go wherever you want, my friend. Use those wings!”

So…December 27th comes and goes and Jan organizes a Memorial Service for
Jim at the Episcopal Church in Lake Shasta on Saturday, January 11th.

Neal and I left Sonoma Friday afternoon, January 10th. It was gray, dark,
and raining. And in our souls as well. Neal had been in a place of deep,
agonized mourning pretty much since Jim’s heart attack. I had felt stabs
of pain and had had bouts of sadness and crying, but had been going about
my life without obsessing too much on Jim’s death.

The trip up felt like a scene from a movie. The Winters Cutoff over to
Interstate 5 is a blank landscape, dotted only with cows and dilapidated
buildings which all seem to have arrived there by accident and without
purpose or people to tend them. I popped in Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were
Here” tape (“shine on, you crazy diamond!”) and we spoke little.

At Dunnigan we swung onto Highway 5; the sky grew darker and the rain
heavier. I had only ever traveled up Highway 5 for vacation purposes –
mainly to go to Mt. Lassen with my family. Highway 5 and all its
long-beloved town names — Dunnigan, Williams, Willows, Richfield, Corning
– had up until now only brought me memories of driving through them long
before the Interstate was built…days of feet-out-the-window sunshine and
the smell of alfalfa and my mom pointing out the different crops and
telling us “It’s going to be hot going up through the Valley today.”

This trip, however, was anything but a vacation. The rain pounded and the
big-rigs firehosed water onto every passing car and the state-sponsored
Rest Areas looked as dreary as vacant drive-in movie parking lots. We
switched tapes and motored up Highway 5 to Led Zeppelin (“Stairway to
Heaven”), more Pink Floyd (“Dark Side of the Moon”) and Alan Parsons
Project (“freedom, freedom, take the world away….). I kept noticing
things along the freeway I’d never noticed before, but they looked
anything but new: “casual” housing of dilapidated trailers, and
ramshackle, tumbledown homesteads, surrounded by dead and dying autos,
their parts strewn about as if by the very wind that buffeted us mile by

We stopped at a Taco Bell in one of the now-hostile-feeling towns and I
gagged down half of some sort of wickedly bad taco “salad.” Neal had more
luck with burritos. Heading north again, I stumbled upon an awesome
college-sounding radio station, playing 12-string guitar/poetry/folk music
which seemed to be a good chaser to Pink Floyd. One song merged
commercial-free into the next as liquidly as the raindrops on our
windshield and the station became the soundtrack to most of our
south-of-Redding I-5 trip. At one point, the rain grew leadenly heavy and
the sky turned pewter and we looked ahead and everything north hung black
and forboding like the edge of Mordor itself. It was still early
afternoon and felt like dusk.

When we finally reached Redding, my gaze turned to the right. Somewhere
out there was Mercy Medical Center, where Jim had gone to die. I felt a
clutching sickness tear at the inside of my throat, and suddenly I was
wailing/keening/moaning/crying for Jim. I called out his name, I told him
I missed him, I think I may have railed at God a time or two; I can’t
exactly recall. I went on like that for about an hour, or until we got to
Dunsmuir, at about the same time the last song on our home-made tape was
playing: Elton John’s “Funeral For a Friend.”

I hadn’t known that I held that much Jim-pain/Jim-love inside me. All
around me there were majestic trees and the moss-green mini-sea that is
Lake Shasta and patches of snow liquid-papered onto the foothills of the
Siskiyous, and I could see the beauty in which Jim had lived and through
which a screaming ambulance had borne him into the lowlands of Redding,
and it just all hurt too much to bear. I regained some sort of composure
as night began to fall and we made the last leg of the trip from Dunsmuir
into the City of Mount Shasta, second exit, to the Best Western Treehouse
Inn, $85 a night and a free breakfast.


Room 106. We unpacked. I turned on the Zenith because that’s what you
do: other towns might have better TV. However, I discovered that
television offerings have become America’s electronic malls — identical
from town-to-town. Paul and Jamie Buchman romped around the screen in our
wood-paneled motel room as comfortably as they had in our dingy-walled
apartment in Sonoma. It was 5:15. I had given Jan our ETA; she called
and we tried to set up a dinner but she, understandably, had much to do
before tomorrow’s Memorial service. We made plans to meet at 8:30 the
following morning for breakfast. Neal and I had never met this woman, the
love of Jim’s life.

I wasn’t yet hungry so Neal and I lit the Sabbath candles and read for an
hour or so, then went down to the hotel’s dining room/restaurant. As we
ate, Neal looked up and said, “It’s Alana!” His
old-friend-from-high-school-turned-our-friend with whom we are in frequent
contact, had shown up for Jim’s funeral. She and Jim had once been
roommates. I ran across the room and hugged her soundly and she joined
our table.

Dinner turned into a pre-memorial for Sputnik, as we all shared stories.
Neal and Alana had more to tell, of course, all about the old wild days
and their collective misspent but properly lived youth. After dinner,
Neal and Alana went to the hot tub together while I curled up with film
critic Anthony Lane’s new book. The phone rang — it turned out that
Jim’s old friends Linda and Randy from Humboldt County were also staying
at the Treehouse, in Room 227. I had met them once, at a wild party in
Rio Dell back in 1988. Neal knew them well. When he got back to the room
we crashed Room 227 and exchanged reunion hugs. They had with them
their teenaged son Cory, and a wonderful shepherd/pit bull/greyhound mix
named Maya who couldn’t tear herself away from me, to my delight. We
finally left them to their bedtime sometime after 11 p.m.

Our bed was comfortable but sleep was elusive and we awakened to the 6
o’clock alarm in mutual states of fatigue and dread. Today was the day.
My head throbbed from my Redding-to-Dunsmuir tear-letting; I pressed
ice-cold washcloths to my swollen eyes. As we headed to the lobby to meet
Jan, I had a sense of what she would look like. I knew that Sput would
not have chosen a round woman, and I was right: Jan is petite. Five foot
and a smidge, perhaps. She is beautiful. Long, thick, shiny straight
golden-brown hair; gray eyes shining with wisdom. And then she spoke and
there was that voice that been so generous over the phone with us in the
weeks since Jim’s heart attack — the deep, sweet, husky, soothing voice
of Jan. Only now she was saying, “It’s nice to finally meet you!”
Gracious, ever gracious.

We began breakfast, and Alana joined us, and once again there was a
pre-memorial for Jim — two more hours of shared anecdotes,
“how-did-you-meets” and remembrances. Jan excused herself at nearly 11,
and the rest of us went to our rooms to get ready.

The Memorial was at 1 p.m. at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in Mt. Shasta.
Jim had, within the previous 5 years, returned to his more
Catholic/Christian roots (similarly to how Neal had returned to his Jewish
roots), after years of exploring alternative religious practices. He was
very fond of Vicar Julie of St. Barnabas, and we had heard him talk about
her frequently during his November stay. As she began the service, Neal
and I both understood why Jim was so drawn to Julie. She was warm and

Once Jim decided to recommit himself to Christianity, he did it right.
That is to say, he was a purist. None of this halfway, this-and-that,
part-New-Age crap for him. He wanted the real thing. And this service
was traditional. The priests were in white Lenten robes; there was
chanting; there were bells and incense (or “smells and bells,” as Jim
called it). But Jim also felt free to have a voice in his religious
experience. Shortly after taking the podium and introducing herself,
Julie pulled out a sheaf of papers.

“Right after I became the vicar of St. Barnabas, I received this five-page
letter from Jim.” Laughter filled the room; his friends knew what was
coming. “In which he set down all the ways in which he thought services
at St. Barnabas could be improved.” Hilarity, from the crowd. Good ol’
Jim. Julie gave us the very precious gift of reading to us from parts of
Jim’s letter and in doing so brought him into the room with us in quite a
different form than the white-cloth covered ashes of Jim sitting on the
altar area.

The formal parts of the service were difficult. I’m Jewish, so I couldn’t
participate in the Jesus parts, of which there were many. I couldn’t even
say “The Lord’s Prayer” which, before my conversion to Judaism, had
brought me comfort and which I can recite not only forwards and backwards
but which I can also sing because I know the melody which someone wrote to
add to the verse. These days, however, “The Lord’s Prayer” sounds as
alien to me as Hebrew once did. I found myself longing to comfort myself
with The Mourner’s Kaddish, and I even brought into my head the beginning
of that prayer, “Yit gadal v’yit k’dash sh’mei rabbah,” desperately
searching for spiritual purchase.

Neal had been asked by Jan to deliver a eulogy, and he gave a kick-ass
speech about Jim that Jim would have loved. Then another man spoke.
Then Jan. As I told her later, she rocked. How that woman stood up there
and said the things she did, how she read that unbearably beautiful and
painful W.H. Auden poem, how she did all that without crumpling in a heap
of sorrow, I will never know. All I can think of is that in her religious
tradition, there is a deep belief that Jim is in the place in which he was
meant to be, walking with Jesus, in a happy afterlife somewhere beyond
time, place, and pain. As we say in MY religious tradition, “Ken yehi
ratzon,” — “May it be so.”

And then it was over. A procession out to the reception hall, and there
we were in an overly-flourescented, hot room, seeking out all the
different people from all the different communities into which Sput had
woven himself. “I knew him from Diablo Valley College days.” “I knew him
from the Mugwort parties in San Francisco.” “I knew him from when he lived
in Oakland.” “Tower Records.” “The Self-Realization Fellowship in
Richmond.” And then there were his parents, who had apparently reconciled
themselves to Jim’s early death from the day he’d first been diagnosed
with Type I (formerly “juvenile”) diabetes. And his astonishingly
beautiful red-haired sister Ann, who lost her husband three years ago and
who told me, “You learn that the grief process never goes away; it never

It was like a wedding, but so not. I kept catching myself wishing, in
some ridiculous childish fashion, that Neal and I were up here for Jim and
Jan’s wedding in this very church, and I kept catching myself slipping
into that alternative “what-if” scenario, like some kind of fantasy
addict. This was no wedding. Yes, a church, a priest, a beautiful woman
to love the man, a reception, a hall, the smell of coffee, a book to sign,
flowers and an organ. But no wedding.

And then the reception was over. People drove back — to Portland, to
Dunsmuir, to Alameda, to the airport, to San Francisco, to Vallejo. Neal
and I stayed another night. There was some talk of another party taking
place in Mt. Shasta — some of the Humboldt County community wanted to
keep the hour going without the presence of Episcopalian adults and with
something a little more relaxing than coffee — but Neal and I went back
to the hotel room to have our close-of-Sabbath Havdallah service.

When Sput had visited us in November, we did this service as we do every
Saturday night. There is a candle, a box of sweet-spelling spices, and a
glass of wine. Neal and I chant blessings together and it’s a very
hauntingly beautiful melody. During Havdallah at our home in November, I
glanced over at Sput on the couch and saw him with his head back,
listening to us, a blissful smile on his face. He loved it. Since his
heart attack in December, I haven’t been able to chant the Havdallah
blessings without choking back tears of Sput-sorrow.

And of course this night, the night of his Memorial Service was no
different and quite a bit harder. The chant is in four verses, and as I
finished the first my voice broke, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to get
through it. But then I thought of Jan on the podium that afternoon, reading
love poems to her beloved whose ashes were in a box about four feet to her
left. And resolve washed over me and I toughened up and I by God got
through it to the end.

Havdallah is about the pain of separation — the holiness of Shabbat
separating into the ordinariness of not-Shabbat. I had never really felt
a sadness at the end of Shabbat, as observant Jews are “supposed” to feel.
As Neal feels. I told Neal, “It’s funny that, because of Sputnik, I now
feel pain at the end of every Shabbat, just like I’m supposed to but never
did before,” I guess Jim gave me the gift of understanding something about
the pain of separation. Who said lessons or learning have to be ones we
necessarily WANT in our lives.

We’re home now. It’s Sunday night. There’s a wake in San Francisco, and
Neal will be driving over for it. I never much thought about the meaning
of the word “wake” before, until we were in Mt. Shasta. I was reading
Lane’s review of “Star Trek: First Contact,” in which he quotes a line
about a temporal wake. I started thinking of the wake of a boat, and that
a funeral wake must mean just that: that which trails behind after a
person’s life, and death.

Jim has left a deep and wide wake. And just as I did back in my
water-skiing days, I want to ride the rough part, the part that makes you
jump and jolt and makes every sense alert and alive to the any-second
possibility of diving head first into icy waters. That’s the way Jim
lived, and he would expect no less of his friends.

James Leroy Gjerde
January 24, 1962 to December 27, 2002

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What do you mean … “mortal?”


The weird thing about my best friend dying is that he’s the only one with whom I want to discuss the grieving process.

Maybe everyone feels that way when they go through this; I don’t know. But as my psychic twin since 1978, James Leroy “Sputnik” Gjerde would see the black horror part of it AS WELL AS the intensely spiritual aspect. And know that the one does not preclude the other.

For those just joining the show, here’s something I sent to friends:

Team loses star player
sub: Gjerde sparks psychotemporal “whiplash”

A memorial service will be held Saturday afternoon in Mount Shasta for Jim
“Sputnik” Gjerde, who died Dec. 27 in Redding following a two-week coma.

Gjerde, 40, suffered cardiac arrest at 7 p.m., Wednesday, Dec. 11 while talking with girlfriend
Jan Stirling in Stirling’s Shasta bookstore. Gjerde, who lost consciousness
almost immediately and never regained same, reportedly stopped breathing
before paramedics arrived and again while en route to Mercy Medical Center
in Redding. He was later diagnosed with diffuse global brain damage, and
– except for a few false signs of hope — began deteriorating throughout
his coma.

Gjerde left no written instructions, but close consultation with friends and
family led to the inevitable do-not-resuscitate decision. Thus, on Dec. 26,
Gjerde was removed from various machines, tenderly washed and dried, and (as
a recent re-adherent of classical/mystical Christianity) traditionally
ministered to by his favorite Episcopal vicar. (So, that part was done.
Those of us who worry about that sort of thing, in whatever flavor, can rest
our minds.)

Stirling said that as Gjerde’s breathing became slower and more peaceful, he
seemed to become more angelic, “growing younger and younger.” (Those who
suspected Sputnik to be half-related to Merlin, take note.)

Gjerde stopped breathing at 10:08 p.m. PST, Friday, Dec. 27, 2002. However,
he is believed to have exited the local space-time envelope sometime more
immediately after his heart attack. (Mark the times and consider.)

The memorial service will be held at 1 p.m., Saturday, Jan. 11, 2003, at St.
Barnabas Episcopal Church
, Mount Shasta, CA ). A more formal, potentially
Klingon- or Arrakeen-style howl will commence at an appointed time and
place …

Zechroteinu tzaddik l’vracha. Our memories of the righteous bless us. And so
it goes.

In many ways, Jim was my other half. Whatever he went through, I went through — and vice versa — and at the same time, though in flavors unique to our individual situations: he rediscovered Christianity when I rediscovered Judaism, and after the same explorations; we both fell madly in love with “older women” (Older than we were, anyway, not that age matters to either of us) and for the same reasons (they are more sane than the younger women we knew); we are both blessed with steel-trap memories, so could call up 20-year-old conversations with equal ease and re-weave their threads into whatever was currently before us, even if it took an hour to do so (but concisely, with no unnecessary explanatory extranea); we used to joke about which one of us would get the sex-change operation so we could marry. (Even though our 1980s-era experiments at roommate-hood proved that we would viciously murder each other in our sleep if we ever tried living together again. We were THAT much alike.)

(Interestingly, I was in the hospital for a sudden and heart-related condition on the day he died — I had picked up an atrial fibrillation after throwing up on the morning of Dec. 25, and was defibrillated on the morning of Dec. 27 at our local ER. So while I lay on one bed, my partner lay on another some 400 miles distant. One comes back, another leaves. (Alternatively, “The little bastard broke my heart.”) For the record, though, I’m fine — physically — according this week to my doctor and my cardiologist; an interesting contrast to Summer 2002, when I was physically wrecked and emotionally fine. In all things, balance, I guess.)

Connections like that are not easily severed. And I would dearly love to give and get insights into this incredibly cold darkness I seem to have stumbled into. When Jan S. called us on Saturday night, the 28th, with the news that Jim had died, I got off the phone, hugged Ann, and literally heard a big black “whump” fall over my world. Seriously — as clearly as I now hear the keyboard clicking out this account. Just a big “whump” as of a curtain or ton of feathers hitting the concrete, and then silence punctuated by sobs…

Fortunately, I was scheduled for a week’s vacation last week so didn’t have to work. However, my heart condition prevented us from spending that week visiting relatives in Texas as planned. Again, though, that fits — since we probably would only have wanted to be in our own home.

And now, everything seems to be in shadow. Ever read/see Lord of the Rings? When Frodo puts on the ring, he slip sinto the world of the wraiths — everything is insubstantial to him; dim; echoey; distant. That’s how I feel now. Nothing really seems real to me except my wife’s hand and the occasional dog. (We could really use a dog right now; something comforting there is about a big fuzzy wall to hug and watch softly sleep, and then the biting of the paws…)

So we’re driving to Shasta. I wrote a eulogy — one of four to be delivered Saturday afternoon — but maybe I’ll excerpt this instead. There’s nothing to say anyway, not really — but it seems vitally important to say something. I’ll think of something. I always do.

I’m very glad that Sput came to visit Ann & I in early November. We hadn’t seen him since 1994/5 (whenever we got married), but he made the trip down via bus and I got to “show off” a bit, a weekend, and then ferried him down to an East Bay friend’s house so he could help the UC Medical Center continue its assault on his ill health (he’s had Type 1 diabetes since he was 12, and was having some undiagnosed trouble which seemed thyroid-centered. The last thing I told him was that I loved him, and he said the same. So, at least there’s that.

If I don’t stop typing now, I never will. And I have work to do. More later… or not. We never can tell.

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Follow the Bouncing Ball


If one more person tells me that I can go on to win the Tour de France, I’m gonna scream.

On Tuesday, 6/18/02, I was told that my right testicle has to be removed due to a cancerous tumor therein. There is a possibility that it’s linked to lymphoma, but the doctors (and I) won’t know until the pathology is done (meaning — until they slice up and analyze the offending organ). Surgery is tentatively scheduled for next week or the week after.

It’s definitely cancer, but we don’t know much more than that. However, as a doctor friend told us Tuesday, “If you’re going to have cancer, this is the kind to get” — meaning that it’s treatable and beatable. If it’s testicular, it may be gone with the testicle. If not… things will suck for a while, and then, G-d willing and from what I hear, get much better.

This all “started” in late May, when I had exited the shower and was clowning in front of my wife a la Charles Atlas. “Hmm,” she said. “What’s that lump? You’re calling the doctor on Monday.”

I did so, also because I’ve been having some weird gut pain for about two months now — no loss of appetite or digestive problems, just low level, colicky pain with occasional spasms. (Interestingly, this caused me to lose not only a week’s work last month but also triggered an intense spiritual crisis of the “separation-from-G?d” variety, from which I seem to be fully recovered, thank G-d.) But “that lump” turned out to be an indefinite mass which, while itself benign, triggered an ultrasound which disclosed that my right testis is cratered like the moon. And so we come to the present, awaiting surgery and wondering what’s next.

Meanwhile, I seem to be surrounded by an amazing network of friends who are, literally, coming out of the woodwork to express support. I don’t know what I did to deserve that (although my rabbi tells me that I should try to figure it out), but I’m glad — it’s nice to be hugged so soundly and unexpectedly. But this Tour de France stuff… I thought it had something to do with the narrow bicycle seat, etc. But there’s this Lance Armstrong fellow who apparently beat testicular cancer and went on to win the Tour de France twice… Personally, I’d rather play the violin. (Does anyone still make that joke?)

Right now I’m still sort of in the “what the…?” stage. I passed through anger for about five minutes during dinner Tuesday, but as I don’t do anger well, it didn’t stick around for long. What I mainly feel right now is weird — my gut pain is actually subsiding somewhat, most likely due to the laxative I took last night (an abdominal X-ray yesterday disclosed to my gastroenterologist that what everyone suspected about me is true. So to speak. Nonethelss, it’s a colonoscopy for ol’ Nealo on July 9). But I feel weird because, while I have a serious illness, I don’t feel seriously ill. It’s a bit of a cognitive dissonance. I mean, I’m not minimizing this or anything — but I don’t feel sick. I feel optimistic, and trusting, and mostly worried about Ann, since I know from experience that stuff like this can be harder on the loved one than on the patient.

It’s interesting that one of the first things I thought was, “Well, maybe I can use this as a tool when someone comes to tell Rabbi Neal that he or she is going through something similar.” I think that, just as in anything else, there is an art to being sick — to being cognizant of one’s own needs, but also the needs of well-wishers. To hearing, for example, “Well, my Uncle Hymie went through the same thing — you’ll be fine” not as a minimization or a dismissal (as some protective people in my life have implied), but from not knowing what else to say in support and comfort.

To paraphrase Bilbo Baggins: “Don’t lessons ever have an end?” Gosh, I sure hope not! Anyway, I’ll write more as something develops — or doesn’t, as the case may be.

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Shema Echad, Shnei Regalim


Couple of random recent things:

1.) An amazing and unexpected side effect of daily prayer (which, last night in the shower, I have decided to call “Jewish text-guided meditation”) is the feeling of expansion and contraction. This occurred to me… a week ago? when I was davening in the morning. The morning before, I felt that my prayer-session contracted me into a single still point from which I could then go forth into the world. The next morning, I felt it again — with the added fillip of feeling that I was at the point between the waves, so to speak. I’m not sure I’m explaining this well, since it’s more of a visual impression than anything else. But it gives me something *ELSE* to shoot for.

2.) During a Shabbos walk-discussion with my wife (one of our great Shabbos joys), I was able to put into words soemthing that had been bugging me for a while about treading the rabbinical path — the balance between humility and self-aggrandizement. In other words, the paradox between seeking the center of attention in order to remove yourself from it. “I like being the center of attention,” I told Ann, “but I don’t like liking it.” She looked at me with her wise and playful eyes and said “There’s your problem and solution right there.” (She’s the one who really should be getting s’micha.)

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Another reason why married life is wonderful–

Last night, as I was getting into the shower and my wife was getting into bed, I decided to open the bathroom door in order that Ann & I would “be closer.” (After 14 years, we still don’t like being in separate rooms.) I opened the door just as Ann’s knuckles rapped softly on it.

“Oh!” she said in surprise. “I was coming in to ask if I could open the door so we could be closer.”

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