Peace Amidst Chaos.

“I AM ANTI-GANESH.....”
bah dah dah dah dah, dah dah dah dah dah dah dah, dah dah dahhhh
(please nod your heads to the tune of ‘Iron Man’ by Black Sabbath)


Hooo-weeeeeh. I’m pooped. What a week, what week, what week. Time for a beer
and an email.

There are few things more stressful than a move. I remember thinking back when I
moved into my current apartment, “Dear Lord, let me die in this place. Don’t make
me move again!”

I was only half kidding. I didn’t want to have to face the choices, the memories, the
dust and the chaos of another life upheaval. I thought, “Hmmm. A brushfire in just
my room would be kind of nice. No collateral damage, and nothing to pack or
transport. A win-win!”

I think I secretly have desires to be a renunciate. Biggest decision, “Wonder which
sackcloth I should wear today?”

My last move I didn’t prepare until the day before. By the grace of dear, patient,
allergic and enthusiastic friends, I was able to move in just a few hours. Alex,
Phoebe, Renata, Mike, Jane, Maurino, Leanne and David all gave up a good portion
of their weekend to help Patrick and me move up the hill.

This time I pledged to make it different. Always being a single-draft-before-the-day
it’s-due kind of writer, I have always made friends with the intensity of a deadline
and the chaos of order amidst chaos.

With any move, you have the experience of revisiting all the stages of your lives, the
joys, the tragedies, the light, the dark. As I was walking through the strata of debris
in my apartment, it looked like my life had been vomited up on the floor.

‘Welcome. Tour group forms here... “On your left, the Actor Model Epoch. Passing
through this, we enter Early Entertainment Mogul Era, replaced by the HIV positive
Soul Searching World Traveler Stage, the thrice unemployed depressive Epoch, the
Inspired AIDS and Cancer Fighter Era, the Crazy Overactive Triathlete Wannabe
Period, and of course, the Retail Era. Please stay together folks.”’

Who were all these people? Was there any common thread? Oh, that’s right.
They’re all me.

This move, being one of my most major in twenty years, I made a pact with myself
to not move things that I didn’t need to move.

This means opening boxes. Lots and lots of boxes. Laughing at Eighties hair.
Sneezing at 20 year-old dust. Wondering about an empty champagne bottle.
Experiencing devastating sadness upon reading my mom’s words about becoming
terminal. Each speaks to a time, an emotion, a love, a loss. It’s not easy reliving 44
years in four days.

As my spiritual self has bloomed amidst adversity, as I have waltzed with
devastating loss and numerous personal challenges, the “things” have become less
and less important. Or at least I have repeatedly told myself this. I think I mainly
believe it.

Had a couple of great chances to test this theorem today.

Right about now, you may be thinking, “All well and good, Craig... what the hell’s the
email title mean?” Here is my feeble explanation.

As you may or may not know, Ganesh has become one of my favorite archetypal
characters. He’s inspired a tattoo, and holds court in great numbers in my sacred
space. The elephant headed son of Shiva is the God of knowledge and the remover
of obstacles. He is worshipped, or at least remembered, in the beginning of any
venture for blessings and auspiciousness.

When I first started my travels into the developing nations and the developing,
deconstructing Self, I was given a Ganesh to help me overcome my obstacles.

Being true to my Hermes self, I’ve needed the talents of Ganesh more than a few
times. I wouldn’t be surprised if He changed his number and didn’t tell me. I don’t
blame him. I’ve kept him hopping.

You see, I like to bring obstacles into every situation just to make them more
Hermeslike, more challenging, more chaotic, more of a chance to develop humor,
patience and a flexible ability to roll with the punches.

Not really. My obstacles just seem to appear as a wry way of testing my resolve and
belief in the “just things” attitude.

If karma is to be believed, I must have been a real bastard in my former lives. I
apologize for any beheadings, smitings, name calling, pig tail pullings or general
rapscallionisms I may have beset upon your earlier incarnations.

So, a major life change, little-to-no-money, the dreaded of feeling of cutting the
safety net, leaping into the void, trusting that the trapeze bar will appear, and
feeling like you may be experiencing the moment where the coyote hangs in the air,
toes twinkling, waiting for the thousand stories fall into a canyon.

“Beep beep.” ~The Road Runner

Dust clouds forms and I walk away all accordion-like.

“How can I make the move more fun, I thought? Hey! Let’s get shingles! That’ll be
a hoot!” Cut to last week and a rash that went from my elbow to waist, feeling like a
cross between fire ants and being tickled with a feather.

Pshaw. Is that all you have for me? I can take that. Hah. What next?

I helped my pal Phoebe move five days ago. As I was walking down a flight of six
steps carrying a 50 pound box, I realized there was actually a seventh step as I
made the long, slow heavy step into a sprained ankle.

Bring it on, can’t bring me down! I’ve got Ganesh removing my obstacles!

Flash forward to this week. Actually, to today. As I and my friend Maurino were
doing the last few tasks of my move, we went up to Marin to pick up the items I had
in storage. I had been paying 60 bucks a month for almost four years so that I could
keep my family heirlooms and various life debris safe and sound.

I was a bit vague on how much I had in there. I just remembered David, my brother
Scott and I jamming things into a four by four space and filling it to the ceiling.
Among the favorite items, a tiger maple dining room table from the late 1700’s, one
that had survived a family fire in the early 1900s. Also there, family paintings, an
oriental rug, some family tchotchke type stuff and perhaps the most valuable, my
vinyl/lp collection.

I was worried that not everything would fit in the truck. I didn’t really need to
worry.

I opened up my storage space, and right off the bat I thought, “Sure are a lot of
spiders. Huh. I thought I filled this to the ceiling. Why’s it only three quarters full?”

Then I looked down.

The Amityville Horror seemed cozy with their quaint fly situation. Ever seen a
quarter million moth larvae? Or water damage that makes boxes, carpets and
records dissolve?

Baffling.

I told the manager of the Storage facility that we had a problem. He came and
looked and reacted like he had been punched in the stomach. “Oh my God. This has
never happened. I so, so sorry...” He snapped polariods and apologies, and I
thanked him for his help.

I did say, “You know, you’re lucky it was me this happened to. I could see someone
going ballistic.”

He smiled wanly and said, “I would go ballistic. This is your history. You cannot
replace that.”

Yeah, I guess. But I have my memory. And if you take that, will I remember to
care?

So what did I lose? The table was cracked in half, rotten and warped. The oriental
rug, probably 150 years old, had turned into gel, then crust. My albums, all glued
together. The albums were good ones, some rarities I’d paid $200 for back in 1979.
Probably $5 grand worth of plastic for recycling.

And you know what? I REALLY believe, “hey, it’s just stuff.” As I pried my table
loose from the muck and floor, I thought of the folks who’d lost their entire lives’
belongings in Katrina. And their loved ones.

I have nothing to gripe about. Records and a table? A lovely lesson in
impermanence. I appreciated them when I had them and I will always remember
them. (And I am so thankful I gave Scott & Jane the majority of my stuff to use in
their house. Things are to be used, loved, seen and held, NOT stored away, out of
site, held onto for the sake of being held onto. Nothing’s that precious.)

Okay, so I’m really getting a grip on believing the “Just Things”ism.

So we headed back into the city to load up the truck with what would fit from my
apartment.

My friend Maurino is a master mover, with a keen Tetris eye when it comes to
packing. He made my move possible. Thank you, Maurino.

As I was bringing a box out to the truck I bumped a mirror that was leaning against
my desk. Yup. A mirror. Victorian, mahogoney.

Funny thing. I have a tattoo that says ‘One Hundred Percent Irony Free’. In an
ironic twist of fate, I had just been discussing that same mirror with my friend Jane
just last night, saying, “It’s so cool that four or five generations of my ancestors
have looked into this mirror and seen themselves. I LOVE it.”

And I did. And now it has shown its last Goward/Tewksbury/Hermes reflection and
has gone to rest. Sad about the loss, but, hey, I’m still believing in the “Just
Things!”

So, you may be thinking your creepy, New Age-y, crystal toting, incense burning,
Ganesh loving, friend/relative is freaked about breaking a mirror before a new
venture. Absolutely not. That would be superstitious. Pshaw, deux.

So where has this brought us?

I am excited to embark on a new journey, with a slightly lighter load, a greatly
deepened appreciation for what is really important, and an armpit and ankle that are
returning to normal armpit-and-ankleocity.

The melancholy optimist treads the bittersweet line of good byes and hellos, so
thankful for the entire journey, all the lessons about things that matter.

Thank you, San Diego, for introducing California to me and making me realize I
wanted to spend almost two decades here. Thank you, Los Angeles, for more fun
than any single person should have and still be able to call it work. And thank you,
San Francisco, for my spiritual hunger, my chance to be involved in work which
bettered our world. And thank you, all my dear, dear friends and family who have
daily demonstrated your love for me. It is most appreciated and I hope you know
how you matter to me.

(How could you not? I never shut up on this infernal computing future machine...)

Thank you.

Love/Namaste
Craig.

PS. Fu and I will be in a truck from Tuesday til the following Tuesday, more or less.
Gimme a call and say hi! I bought a Bluetooth Lt. Uhuru earpiece so I can talk to
you and not drive off the road. What could be more fun than an Iowa
hello, really.