How do you fit 200 Jews into a Volkswagen Beetle?

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Yascha Mounk, a young man, German and a Jew writes of a time when he was with friends enjoying a festive beer toasting, drinking Munich Oktoberfest. He was the only Jew. A young woman in his party got angry because Hans, one of the festive group told her to “knock it off” — she was in the process of telling a Jew joke.  The following is from Yascha Mounk’s recent article in the New York Times.

Stephanie, a petite woman in her late 30s, was trying to make a joke. “How do you fit 200 Jews into a Volkswagen Beetle?” she asked.

“Knock it off,” said Hans, a big-boned, folksy friend of mine. “This is not appropriate.”

“Why should I?” Stephanie shot back. “Because you tell me to shut up? Because they tell me to shut up? Come on, it’s just a joke!”

“I doubt it’ll be funny,” Hans said.

“Not funny? Have a sense of humor! Why can’t a joke about the Jews be funny? It’s 2006. The Holocaust happened 60 years ago. We should tell jokes about the Jews again!”

“Look,” Hans said, “you know as well as I do that Germans have a special responsibility to be sensi — ”

 “A special responsibility? I’m not even 40! No, no. I won’t stay silent any longer. Here’s how you fit them in. You gas them. You incinerate them. You stuff them in the ashtray. That’s how you do it.”

I came to know of this article from Julie Rosenberg’s blog “Googling The Holocaust.” Julie was quite upset. Portion of Julie Rosenberg’s blog reads …

 … There was that word “again” again. Read the third paragraph from the bottom of the anecdote and you’ll see it. The line reads, “We should tell jokes about the Jews again!”

What the f*ck!?!?! It will always be too soon to tell jokes about the Jews. Especially Holocaust jokes. Who in their right mind could think a Holocaust joke is in any way humorous? Just cut it out you ignorant joke-telling people. Those jokes are far from funny …

Julie Rosenberg went right to the heart of the hatred; she nailed the pulse of anti-Semitism, its lives on, the operative, conspicuous word …  “AGAIN”

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Are both Julie and I over reacting to “AGAIN” — carrying its implication too far? Hey, it’s only gallows humor, right? Wrong. This is: this is gallows humor from the mouth/mind of Woody Allen; his take on Richard Wagner … “I can’t listen to that much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.” Woody Allen on death … ”I don’t mind death, it’s the hours.”

It’s a Jews specialty; bagels, smoke fish and humor, gallows and otherwise. As for most Germans, humor is not their thing, especially gallows humor; they need to wait a couple of hundred years, then give it a try. Holocaust jokes are beyond the pale, not funny, nothing funny in any way about incinerating Jews to ashes. And to note: gallows humor is typically made by or about the victim of such a situation — not the perpetrator of it or for that matter their future generations whose hands are clean but thoughts rage anger against the guilt and the reason for the guilt, the Jews. Back off Jews. Back off guilt. Hate, front and center.………………..

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Julie Rosenberg wondered how Yascha Mounk responded to Stephanie when confronted with the Jew Joke.  Me to. I read his book, Stranger In My Own Country: A Jewish Family in Modern Germany. There he describes in greater content the Jew joke incident. We don’t get Yascha Mounk’s reply. We get his analysis, his take on it her.

Yascha Mounk writes explaining Stephanie’s behavior.

Stephanie’s joke was anti-Semitic. But, even as her bad taste and provocative demeanor repelled me, I realized that her reasons for telling it were not anti-Semitic, at lest not in the straightforward sense. Stephanie does not hate Jews as such. Rather she hates the standard conceptions of what Jews, and her country’s past should mean to her. In this sense, Stephanie is not just another neo-Nazi. She is part of a fast spreading movement.

Listen up Yascha Mounk; your friend, acquaintance, what ever you call Stephanie she is clearly an anti-Semite, a straightforward, no holds barred anti-Semite, nothing complicated or layered about it.  Stephanie doesn’t hate a “standard conception” of a Jew, she hates Jews.

Stephanie wouldn’t have told her Jew joke if you, Yascha Mounk, the only Jew present wasn’t there to draw blood from. If the likes of Hitler ever took reign of Germany again the likes of Stephanie would be a recruit. Anti-Semitism seems to fester within; it waits for a joke, a nod, a cause, excuse, proclamation so it may surface to find expression – “Again.” It always seem to be an easy sell — at least for the last 2000 years.
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The German language is stunning, mesmerizing, mind-blogging, chunky, substantial like a bratwurst, far-reaching with the jabbing thuds of a boxer’s punch. Some one – no one seems to knows who – joined 2 words together creating a humongous lengthy powerful word, audibly and in meaning. 25 characters in weight meant to help guide Germany from the Third Reich into the present on into the future. Vergangenheitsbewältigung: describes processes of dealing with the past, the struggle to come to terms with the past. A tough German word to live up to, not easy to apply.

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Yascha Mounk describes the young Germans of today as fed up with Holocaust memorabilia; they want to move beyond the “philo-Semitism” of their elders. Yascha Mounk uses philo-Semitsm to describe Germans who are moved by guilt, social pressure, political correctness, compelled to go thru the motions, be especially nice, make nice to the Jews, overly polite, hyped enthusiasm for all things Jewish such as Klezmer and  Yiddish.

Actually the word philo-Semitism offers a history and meaning carrying a more nasty virulent interpretation.

In fact, “philo-Semitism” was invented as a term of abuse, applied by anti-Semites to those who opposed them. …  “philo-Semite” was the equivalent of a word like “nigger-lover” in the United States, meant to suggest that anyone who took the part of a despised minority was odious and perverse ….
… selected from a review of Philo-Semitism in History edited by Adam Sutcliffe and Jonathan Karp
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Yascha Mounk tells us that many young Germans believe they have been inundated and persecuted with the slaughter of 6 million Jews for much too long; they now want to blot it from memory and public discourse; 60 years of penance — they’ve paid their dues.

Well … for those Germans who had to suffer thru their perceived, persistent persecution for crimes of the Third Reich I suggest the following antidote.

Suffer this; we take away all your possessions, furniture, photographs, family keepsakes, all of your cloths, clutching your six month old baby we stuff you, your family, neighbors into a cattle car shoulder to shoulder jammed tight one against the other, you can barely find space to sit, 3 days in the cattle car with no food, no water, it’s below zero you’re freezing, you defecates and urinate in place, the car reeks from the smell of feces and urine, old men and old women collapse and die, after 3 days we herd all of you out of the car, we take you, your baby, your young nephews, nieces, your grandparents, we have you strip naked, march you into the gas chamber where you will all share your terror, agony and last breath; we toss your bodies into an incinerator, burn you to oblivion, you, your family never happened, never existed, erased. You up for this?

All right, now that I got that out of my system I want to know. Do the citizens of Germany have a case; are they pilloried with the Holocaust as much as they say, as much as they feel they are?  Have many, any German citizen experienced Vergangenheitsbewältigung — have they come to terms with the past or are struggling to? I would never have asked these questions if not for Yasch Mounk’s book Stranger In My Own Country: A Jewish Family in Modern Germany. Never gave much  thought about Germany’s post Holocaust experience. 

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 … an interview

The interviewee,  Lars Rensmann, a German educator who teaches political science at the University of Munich and at the Moses Mendelssohn Center for European-Jewish Studies, University of Potsdam.

Interviewer: The 60th anniversary of the end of World War II was commemorated a few weeks ago. And in conjunction with that event, a poll was conducted on German history, and it indicated that one young German in two does not know what the Holocaust was. The poll was conducted by the independent research institute Forschungsgruppe Wahlen for public broadcaster ZDF and the newspaper Die Welt.  Do you think this statistic is connected to your earlier point about the limited amount of time given to teaching history?

 Lars Rensmann: Yes. It’s definitely the case that there’s insufficient history teaching and insufficient knowledge about the Holocaust among young generational cohorts, and this does not just affect uneducated adolescents. Political efforts need to increase to change this. It needs to be taught in schools way more thoroughly. It’s a shame that such a high amount of young Germans don’t know what Auschwitz or the Holocaust was, in spite of all the lament about an “over-representation” of Auschwitz in the German media and schools. Those data are alarming. It finally needs to become an important, if not central part of education, just like other subjects. Increased efforts in teaching about prejudice, anti-Semitism, and the Holocaust are overdue.

for the complete interview click here

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YASCHA MOUNK WRITES

…. In the context of the postwar years, the argument that Germans were victimized by some kind of draconian form of collective punishment rang particularly hollow. After all, most Germans did not even want those compatriots of theirs who had actually, personally, committed horrible war crimes to be punished. Many among them refused to acknowledge that the Third Reich, itself had done anything particularly wrong.

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YASCHA MOUNK WRITES

Fifteen whole years after the war, the reception afforded Marlene Dietrich when she first returned to Germany shows how little sympathy most Germans had for those compatriots of theirs who had chosen to fight against the Nazis. Dietrich, perhaps the most famous actress of the twentieth century, had fled the Third Reich and even – the audacity – donned an American uniform in appearances for the US troops during the war. When she briefly returned to her hometown, Berlin, in 1960, angry crowds protested her concert, one spectator egged her while she was on stage, and another spit at her. They all agreed with the slurs they had read in the local newspaper then. Dietrich was, quite simply, a traitor in her own country.
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Ursula Duba is a German-American writer, the author of Tales From A Child of the Enemy (Penguin 1997) and a non-Jew who believes that anti-Semitism is a problem that non-Jews have to expose and eradicate. She has researched and written about anti-Semitism and German-Jewish relations for 15 years. This excerpt is from her October 2004 lecture at Pennsylvania State University.

And yet, despite all the efforts made, despite all the good intentions, despite the genuine desire to do good, 59 years and four generations later, the legacy of the Hitler regime still haunts us, causing many of us Germans to feel frustrated or even angry at anybody who mentions the Holocaust.

As I mentioned at the beginning, despite all the effort made, it seems to be difficult for us Germans to accept that we are imperfect human beings like everybody else and that we did, in fact, give in to the darkest forces within ourselves. Could it be that the concept of the master race still inhabits part of our psyche and that the acknowledgement of our very human shortcomings is not considered acceptable within contemporary German society?

for the entire speech click here
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Jens Pieper

A summary of the views of Jens Pieper, the 24 year-old editor of Nobody Asked Us, a recent book written by a group of young “third generation” Germans who are students at Humboldt University. It represents this third generation’s thinking on how the Holocaust should be confronted and remembered and why they have declared their distance from how their parents’ and grandparents’ generations have dealt with the Holocaust. This summary was written by Peter Rigny, associate producer of this FRONTLINE film, “A Jew Among the Germans.” It is drawn from Rigny’s discussions with Jens Pieper.

The second generation of Germans has not overcome the taboo of talking about the Holocaust, despite the ’68 student movement and its rightful attacks on former Nazis still in high positions in the German federal government. This holds a great danger for the future.

 If it is still taboo to talk about the meaning of the Holocaust, its central importance to German and human society cannot be conveyed to future generations which will no longer have direct contact with eyewitnesses to the Holocaust.

Our generation should do what the former generation failed to do: to tackle the Holocaust on a personal, emotional basis, to allow on an individual level the sentiments of moral responsibility for the crimes committed in the name of the Third Reich, even though none of us (the generation of our parents and our generation) has committed any of these crimes.

 We are sufficiently informed about the facts of the Holocaust, but we are critical of our schoolteachers (as primary “informers”) for failing to convey to us (or perhaps they were psychologically unable to do so) the level of meaning of the Holocaust that could be of use today and in the future when direct contact with eyewitnesses will no longer be possible.

The second generation of Germans, our parents, pass on to us their message about the Holocaust in an imposing manner, i.e. without allowing any questions or responses or criticism from their children. They want to cement the message as it is seen by them, and in this way they declare us dependent, minor, underage. And yet “they” expect us to actively come to our own understanding about the Holocaust. This is self-contradictory, we say.

for the complete summery click here

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Germany Holocaust Memorial

The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, also known as the Holocaust Memorial, is a memorial in Berlin to the Jewish victims of the Holocaust, designed by architect Peter Eisenman and engineer Buro Happold. It consists of a 4.7-acre site covered with 2,711 concrete slabs or “stelae”, arranged in a grid pattern on a sloping field. The stelae are 7 ft 10 in long, 3 ft 1 in wide and vary in height from 7.9 in to 15 ft 9.0 in.

An attached underground “Place of Information” holds the names of all known Jewish Holocaust victims, obtained from the Israeli museum Yad Vashem.

Building began on April 1, 2003 and was finished on December 15, 2004. It was inaugurated on May 10, 2005, sixty years after the end of World War II, and opened to the public two days later.

“Look into the camera meine Kinder”

Photo: Central State Archive of Film, Photo and Phonographic Documents / United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Photo Archive

The children’s parents, family, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents the whole mishpocha upon mishpocha are taken to a ravine or pit. If there was no pit they, the Jews, had to dig one. After stripped of their clothing, naked, they line up side-by-side facing the pit where they are shot in the neck just below their skull or shot by machine gun; they collapse on top of the previously slain, body upon body, layer after layer until the pit was full to the brim and the Einsatzkommando ran out of Jews.

She is rushed to her death to stand naked before the pit she just help dig, stand naked before a sea of the naked dead swimming before her. She knows a German bullet is about to pierce her skull. Her words are lost among the barking dogs, the angry shouts, the gun blasts, the terrible cold, the chaos: “Oh God, please save my children. I love you husband, I love you father, mother, I love you, I love you, Oh God don’t take my children, let them live, mother, mother, sister, sister I love you, I love you, I love you, God save my children ….” Her words to God are lost among the 6 million lost souls who all pleaded to God during the holocaust.

The finishing touch: the Einsatzkommando bring the children to the incomprehensible, the abominable, the horror, the nightmare, the carnage and throw them onto the top of the pile. Tumbling in air or landing on the pile of bodies they are gun-down, the Germans showing off their shooting skill.  Some of the killers, laughing, toss candy to the children during their “target practice.” If the Einsatzkommando should decide to burn the stack of bodies before covering them with dirt they throw the children alive into the flames.

Mobile killing units, Einsatzkommandos are smaller units of the Einsatzgruppen, responsible for systematically killing Jews in small villages throughout the Ukraine. About 1.3 million Jews (nearly a quarter of all the Jews who died during the Holocaust) were killed, one by one, by the 3000 men who were organized into the four Einsatzgruppen (mobile killing units) that headed toward Russia in the summer of 1941 on the heels of the German military.

Evil? Sadist? Cruel? Twisted? Inhumane? Sub-human? What do we call them: What names do they go by: German? Einsatzgruppen? Einsatzkommando? Nazi?
 SS? Getaspo?    Did Hitler know German men had it in them to do such work? Or did he have to draw from a special breed, part of the criminal element, depraved to begin with, soulless.

It seems that Hitler had the best of the German citizens for recruitment, not the dregs but the cream of the crop, educated, bright. Einsatzgruppen officers were professional men. They included lawyers, a physician, and even a clergyman. Postwar trials brought some of them to justice. Arrested in April 1959, an officer said of himself: “I was always a person with a heightened sense of duty.” Yes nothing stood in the way of him killing children. What does this tell us? That Hitler and these professional educated Germans are of one mind, of one evil, cruel, atrocious, malignant predilection to bloodletting,  murder, genocide? It seems so.

The Ukraine people, witness to the mass killings, knew the Einsatzkommandos as Germans. For more on the Ukraine mass killings and Father Patrick Desbois a French priest who travel from village to village interviewing and documenting witnesses to the slaughter read my post: “Required Reading: subject: “Holocaust By bullets”

Required Reading: The Holocaust by Bullets

The quote taken from Father Patrick Desbois’s book
The Holocaust By Bullets
A priest’s journey to uncover the truth behind the murder of 1.5 million Jews

Patrick Desbois, a Roman Catholic priest from France, spent four years in the Ukraine hearing witnesses’ accounts of mass executions while searching for the hidden remains of the victims — 1.5 million Jews shot point-blank dead by the Nazis from 1941 to 1944.

Those witnesses he interviewed were children and teenagers during the time of the mass executions.  Their parents were forced to work as diggers of mass graves, cooks who fed Nazi soldiers, seamstresses who mended clothes stripped from the Jews before execution; some including the children were forced to participate in the slaughter of the Jews.

Photo: Guillaume Ribot/Yahad-In Unum

They live today in rural poverty, many without running water or heat, nearing the end of their lives. Patrick Desbois has been seeking them out, roaming the back roads and forgotten fields of the Ukraine. His goal: to identify and record the mass execution of Jews, Roma and other victims, so that “The Holocaust by Bullets” along with the extermination camps are an enduring, glaring record of the Holocaust, are forever a part of world consciousness and that the dead along with the very earth covering them are memorialized to acknowledge, visit, ponder and mourn.

Desbois with a small crew traveled from village to village where he usually found one senior, sometime two or three seniors a village each laden with a singular childhood experience of mass murder they finally, nearing the end of their life might purge by its telling.  They often took him to the site of carnage, the site for some being out their window, their backyard, laden not only with bones but spent German cartridges.

 A CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCE

Petrivna, an elder women from the village of Ternivka, tells Desbois how she witness the Jewish children and handicapped torn from their families, children torn from their mothers, carting them off to be killed later after the Germans finished off the adults. The adults were place into a large pit — 20 by 20.  They were all naked. They had to lie down on the dead bodies from the previous shooting, then shot in the head or nape of the neck.

Petrivna tells how after each shooting she and 2 friends had to walk barefooted ­­­over the bodies to pack them down so to make room for the next group. She explains, “we were too poor for shoes, we had to walk barefooted.”

After finishing pressing they poured a layer of sand over the bodies. Many of the Jews were wounded and still moving. “You see its not easy walking on bodies,” she tells Desbois.  Petrivna saw a Jewish classmate who sat next to her in school in the pit, naked, shot in the head.  Petrivna had to step on her classmate’s body along with the others. She and her 2 friends were force to continuously press the victims flat non-stop without rest, food or water — from 10am to 4pm, 6 hours of carnage and immense suffering as the Germans continued to relieve each other for lunch. Note: she describes them as Germans, not Nazis.

At the end of the day, after all the adults were slain, the German soldiers threw the children and babies onto the top of the pile.  “They threw them in the air. They threw them any old way,” tells Petrivna.

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November 11th Remembrance Day & Post-ukraine Reflections
By Guest Blogger, Geneviève Blouin

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THOSE AMONG US

What subspecies of German citizen could enact those atrocities?  I can’t believe as Father Patrick Desbois suggest, that they were once humane citizens only to be corrupted by an aggressive inhumane ideology — once loving, caring fathers with children of their own, but corrupted so as to enjoy their role as butchers in human abattoirs. All they needed was encouragement, thank you Adolf Hitler, he gave them the final solution, that’s all they needed, no threats, no intimidation, they were raring to go from the get-go, moral equivalents to the worst our country harbors — bigoted, righteous, Ku Klux Klan look-a-likes easily convinced to kill in the glory of white or Nazi supremacy.  Rush Limbaugh ranting away over the air waves would look right at home in a Nazi uniform; there’s plenty more where he came from.

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The Holocaust by bullets – Shoah Memorial 
Hanna Antonivna Gonovaltchiouk Born in 1921
Interviewed at Berditchev, Zhytomir region on the 16th October, 2005
Eye-witness. Witness 251
© Guillaume Ribot

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Grave n. 17: the remainds of a child under 10 next
to those of an adult.  ©Guillaume Ribot

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Euthanasia of useless eaters

holocaust chronicle time line 1933

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The Frightening Agenda of the American Eugenics Movement
Mr. Platt, emeritus professor of social work,
California State University Sacramento

that California not only led the nation in forced sterilizations, but also in providing scientific and educational support for Hitler’s regime. In 1935, Sacramento’s Charles M. Goethe praised the Human Betterment Foundation for effectively “shaping the opinions of the group of intellectuals who are behind Hitler…” In 1936, Goethe acknowledged the United States and Germany as leaders in eugenics (“two stupendous forward movements”), but complained that “even California’s quarter century record has, in two years, been outdistanced by Germany.” In 1936, California eugenicist Paul Popenoe was asking one of his Nazi counterparts for information about sterilization policies in Germany in order to make sure that “conditions in Germany are not misunderstood or misrepresented.”

… that California’s eugenicists could not claim ignorance that Germany’s sterilization program was motivated primarily by racial politics. For example, in 1935, the Los Angeles Times published a long defense of Germany’s sterilization policies, in which the author noted that the Nazis “had to resort to the teachings of eugenic science” because Germany had been “deprived of her colonies, blessed with many hundreds of defective racial hybrids as a lasting memory of the colored army of occupation, and dismembered all around.” Not only did California eugenicists know about Nazi efforts to use sterilization as a method of “race hygiene” — targeted primarily at Jews — they also approved efforts to stop “race-mixing” and increase the birth rate of the “Northern European type of family.The chilling words of Progressive reformer John Randolph Haynes anticipated the Nazi regime’s murder of 100,000 mentally ill patients: “There are thousands of hopelessly insane in California, the condition of those minds is such that death would be a merciful release. How long will it be before society will see the criminality of using its efforts to keep alive these idiots, hopelessly insane, and murderous degenerates. … Of course the passing of these people should be painless and without warning. They should go to sleep at night without any intimation of what was coming and never awake.”

The Frightening Agenda of the American Eugenics Movement
George Mason University’s History News NetWork

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In Search of the Miraculous, Give or Take

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1 The dreads and the gargoyle
2 Serial killer dream
3 Celestial body
4 Robin’s suicide
5 What for dreams?
6 Dreams, no bullshit
7 Howard, The lesser of 5 evils
8 Psychic phenomena via parent-child constellation
9 Psychic phenomena via parent-child synchronicity

1990  –  2012
Monday Sept 17, 1990

I woke this Monday morning and once again not more than 3 feet tall, inches from my ear, originating from somewhere within my digestive tract but undigested and indigestible stood the gargoyle, somewhat perched on my left shoulder.

Kay, my wife lies next to me sleeping soundly

The dreads and the gargoyle

Before the gargoyle made his appearance I woke with the “dreads” only — a suffocated feeling stuffed with doom and helplessness. Monday mornings were and still are the worst. They have more angst than the other mornings of the week but every morning bares weight. I’m impressed when I’m on my feet stumbling away from an empty pillow where moments ago I was pinned; the simple act of getting out of bed felt heroic.

He first came to my shoulder earlier this year. I woke in the morning and perched on my shoulder, long last, was a representative of the dreads. Lying on my side, one side of my face consumed in pillow I opened an eye to see a figure, a shadow, maybe at first I sensed something, seconds later I realized the gargoyle. He dawned upon me. He held a list.

I’m not the only one that has the morning dreads to be sure. There’s got to be a ton of us who wake with their version. Those in the profession call it clinical depression. Our malaise — feeling like shit — doesn’t necessarily hinge on how well or bad life is going. Something is embedded at the core: a DNA of suffering. Circumstances have given that DNA cause; could be a bi-polar disorder, borderline personality disorder, a whatever disorder coupled by bad parenting, bad luck or a combination of them all.  Thus to the rescue comes my gargoyle. Gargoyles are accustomed to this kind of work. Over millenniums they stood guard above church portal vomiting torrents.

In pre-gargoyle times I woke with unarticulated dreads. Now the gargoyle gives my dreads a voice, a spokesperson so to speak, a stand-up comic working me for laughs, there on my shoulder to lighten things up, wasn’t going for belly laughs, a chuckle, a snicker would do.

Keep in mind Jackie Mason, hailed as the ultimate Jew, belting out his material in his usual mischievous, melodious, burbling Yiddish style to a packed nightclub of hungry, ready for fun dolled-up Jews and Christian derivatives.  And keep in mind the gargoyle.

(To clarify if need be: I did dream of the gargoyle. He did make it to my shoulder. His spiel, his dialogue I wrote as if I was the voice of the gargoyle a cappella Frits Pearl and Gestalt therapy. Frits would say to a patient, “Speak as the ocean in your dream. What does your ocean have to say?” What does my gargoyle have to say? )

For openers: he read through the list, crumbled it, stuffed it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, gulped, smacked his lips and feigned gagging

Thus spoke the gargoyle.

 “Enough already. Enough is never enough. Every time you get enough, “poof,” what happened, it’s not enough. You don’t have enough money to pay the mortgage, enough for the electric, enough for the phone, taxes, the living, the sick, the dying. Enough? You got enough? Poof, not enough. Enough is only enough when it’s too much. Too much is enough. Anything less than more than enough isn’t enough. So forget it boychic. You’re a born looser, a serial failure, a schlemazel, a schlemiel, a schmendrick and last but not least a smuck!  You don’t have more than enough and from where I’m standing you’ll never get it. So enough already. You have 21 days to discover a cure for anything. Anything.  Forget about it. You’re out of time. You’re middle age, can’t afford health insurance. What a mess, an altacocker without health insurance. Name one respectable altacocker who doesn’t have health insurance. What we got here is a kosher anomaly — a kvetch up to his pupik in schmaltz, the only living breathing Jew from Sullivan High School that hasn’t made it to big macher status. Fifty years old and bupkis — not a pot, cornisht, empty, nothing, zilch. A Jew with no pot. That’s it!  No bagels for you my friend, No maza ball soup — well maybe a cup of maza ball soup without the balls. Wait! What I want to know is where  — where is your God-given Miami Beach Arizona nest egg with a view? Bubbeleh, bubbeleh, bubbeleh, don’t look so flummoxed. So big deal, you got a mane like a lion. Lions drown in

tar pits, why shouldn’t you?  Fascinated with the homeless? Right? Can’t take your eyes off them. Right? Enough! That’s when enough is way too much. When it comes to the homeless. Stay with me on this boychick, huddled, groping, tangled, sleeping under cardboard boxes men, women, children — human shards — they shiver, starve, defecate, yes shit and piss and go meshugana on that concrete. You boychick are only a checkbook away from the pavement. A cashmere v-neck sweater away from a killing chill.  What a punum brags your mother as she squeezes your cheeks to death. How can a good-looking Jewish boy like you blow it she asks.  Take a look in the mirror. Is that the punum of a failure? You looked so good coming out of the gate — a winner. What happen she asked? What happen I ask? Maybe your father’s got the answer — but he stoops, he limps, a fragile caricature  of you — you a verklemptverblunget  caricature of him.  Give your father a kiss, here give a hand, help lower him into his grave for crying-out-loud.  Arthur Murry, Carmen Miranda, Gene Kelly  — they have the answer. Dance the light fantastic. Keep moving, justify your existence.  Don’t stop. Once you come to a halt you’re hospitalized, then you’re dead, they bury you. So bubbala, boychic, whatever, embrace your tsuris, worship your tsuris, keep dancing cha cha cha, hold onto your tsuris no matter what. That’s all you got is tsuris. You’re going to take your tsuris to the grave with you. Is that devotion to tsuris or what? cha cha cha.”

That’s the gist of his routine. It would vary from dream to dream. It wasn’t so easy to come up with fresh material based on my gestalt he’d tell me. There are some life events even he would have the decency not to touch no matter how big the laughs.

FOUR MONTHS BEFORE THE GARGOYLE MADE HIS APPEARANCE MY 21-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER ROBIN COMMITTED SUICIDE AND MY DREAM-LIFE TOOK OFF.

AT THE TIME MY DREAMS WERE VIVID, HAUNTING AND CONVINCING, DENIED THEY WERE DREAMS, TRIED TO PERSUADE ME THAT I BUY THEM AS REALITY.

AS IT WAS THROUGHOUT MY TWENTIES AND THIRTIES MY DREAMS TRIED THEIR BEST TO GET MY ATTENTION. COULD NOT SPEAK THIER LANGUAGE. THEY REMAINED A MYSTERY, INDECIPHERABLE. UNTIL.

Serial killer dream 1967 – 1988

When my daughter was about a year and half I began to have this dream. No one else appeared in the dream except a fuzzy out of focus figure hovering nearby, standing slightly behind me off to my right side.  I had committed a crime, some thing heinous, terrible. The dream never revealed what it was.  I woke drenched in guilt and apprehension. This dream occurred every few months.

Several years later the dream divulged my crime. With the same hazy figure floating behind me I had this awful epiphany. I committed the worst, the unforgivable and immutable. I killed someone. Who? Never saw the victim. Never knew in what manner I killed but there was no escaping the verdict of murderer and the fear, anxiety and guilt experienced in the dream and upon awaking. Judgment day will come. I will pay the price. Murderer.

About the 11th year the dream offered up a self-synopsis of the killing. It occurred to me within the dream that my crime was a familiar one, a crime of killing that I had committed in the past, had repeated again and again and will repeat in the future. The dream expressed a history of its self; included its passage of time, predicted its future and reflected its status quo. I will spend eternity as a serial killer dreamer in limbo, never apprehended except by my own guilt. I will go on killing ad infinitum until I go numb with guilt.

Time came when my serial-killer dream surfaced not during sleep but mid-day when I was overwhelmed with grief, during my daughter’s funeral service, it leaped out of the blue, slapped me breathless, the blood in my veins came to a halt. I knew then I would never have the serial-killer dream again. I got the message. I understood, finally, but way-way too late. I was too late, too late to intervene, too late to find the courage, strength, will to extract myself from myself, to be there for Robin, my daughter, the shadowy figure besides me, the victim in the dream. And as I said, then my dream life took off. But I was right — no more serial killer dreams. The victim was laid to rest. I blew it big time.  Judgment time now holds its enduring prosecution. The future holds no daughter.

Celestial body

She gave a yank at the bottom of the sheet covering Kay and I. Startled I abruptly flew from sleep to a sitting position yanking the sheet back. I woke to see floating pin-points of bright lights, a constellation, a milky way cluster of stars set against a black chunk of universe giving shape and dimension to a young women standing before me at the foot of the bed.  Everything in the bedroom was vivid, clearly detailed, highly saturated. I sat up in bed stunned, fixed on the vision sparkling before me.  In no way was I going to take my eyes off this galaxy of her. I wanted to take in her stunning visitation as long as she remained before me. If I turned away for one second then turned back just as quick she might vanish. “Hold your gaze, hold your gaze, don’t look away,” my Astonishment demanded. Am I dreaming? The details of the room were glaringly visible, too extensive to be a dream. Dreams leave out all kinds of stuff — nothing was.  I did a quick peripheral scan of the room, still holding her in sight.  A deep blood-red mahogany Victorian dresser with socks and underwear hanging from an open drawer substantiated realty. Howard this is real — the unreal is real! No dream. She waved at me, her elbow held near her waist, her open hand floating back and forth with a slow gentle motion. Before I could respond — as if I was capable of responding — she disappeared. Was it a hello wave or a goodbye wave? Or both. One more hour of sleep before I had to rise to get the day going. As I went back to sleep my Astonishment warned: “When you wake you’ll think she was a dream. She is not a dream. When you wake you’ll think you were dreaming — you are not.  As time passes you’ll convince yourself that this awesome cosmic-lit galaxy of her was naught but a dream. Don’t give into your denial. Trust in the miraculous. Don’t succumb to the entropy of memory. Keep the miraculous.

That morning I chose not to say anything to Kay about the cosmic visitation. Kay went off to the creamery to ladle (with the help of two other cheese makers) 2 vats of fresh goat curd into plastic molds. I went into the office in the barn to call our specialty food shops in the city for their weekly orders.  Later that afternoon while at lunch in the kitchen I told her.

“Oh my God, she exclaimed, do you know what day it is? Do you? Do you? I had no idea. “No. I don’t know.“  “Robin! It’s Robin’s birthday!”

Was never good with numbers, dates, history, math. I spent my life neglecting Christmas, Hanukkah, birthdays, can’t recall my father’s birthday, my mother’s, my brother’s, my wife’s, and yes my daughter’s. I came to ignore celebrations, my parents making little of them and then there were the math traumas in grade school that turned me against numbers and dumb to their consequences. Wouldn’t you think that her suicide being 5 months fresh, after grieving daily for 5 months I’d be attuned to my daughter’s upcoming birthday? Robin committed suicide Jan 29 and 5 months later comes her birthday June 25 and I have no recall. Appears my conscious-self is unconscious — my unconscious-self conscious.

Was Robin’s celestial appearance a psychic moment, a phenomenon there at the foot of the bed or only a dream. Is her visitation any less miraculous if she was only a dream — albeit a spectacular dream — albeit a lucent dream, a dream acutely aware of its self. Is my dream-making apparatus capable of such an awesome cosmic production and if so why? Why bother? What’s the message here? What’s the point. Why carry on so after her passing?

Most likely my subconscious held her birth date while my conscious played dumb as usual. I Iet it slip by as I so often have, was about to do again.  Just as my subconscious through dream tried to alert me to the increasing danger my daughter was in, to my apathy and guilt, now, not tolerating further anomie, my subconscious makes the move, pulls out all the stops, bells and whistles, makes the decision for me, celebrates her birthday in spite of me, coming up with a magnificent cosmic-lit display to knock my socks off. Is that it?

Or is this it — as I am told to believe by the psychic voice warning me not to treat her cosmic appearance as a dream — Robin pierced the impenetrable.  She was there, ethereal, from the other side, at the foot of the bed on her 21st birthday giving a yank at the sheet, a yank at my sleep — a yank I keenly felt and woke to.

Might Robin’s paranormal cosmic-lit celestial self tap into my circuitry? Her spirit as numen haunts my hypothalamus mixing it up with cellular memory to speak to me through dream. “She’s okay now, there’s a place for her without enduring the fruitless palliatives of talk-psychiatrist, in-out patient therapy, in-out hospital, in-out group, this-med that-med and the pain-deadness of being alive.” Was it a hello wave or a good-bye wave or both?

“Hey wake up Dad, it’s my birthday. Get your ass out of bed and celebrate my birthday.”

Robin’s suicide

On January 29, 1988, Friday morning Kay and I take United Airline flight 429, leaving 10AM from LaGuardia, Air Port, NYC to O Hare airport Chicago.  We’re on our way to see Robin Blume, my 21-year-old daughter before she went off to Menninger Clinic in Houston Texas, to be treated for the eating disorder anorexia and/or bulimia.

She’s seen a psychiatrist for 3 years, tried various medications and spent time as an in-out patient at Chicago’s Michael Reese hospital; none of these palliatives gave her long-term relief. Her depression got worst as she got older. Bob, her step father, Gail, her mother, Dr Kreche, her psychiatrist, Kay and myself were all looking to Menninger for an answer. During that time eating disorders first began to be sighted in the media. There was minimal psychiatric expertise available, no strong conviction on a treatment’s efficacy. Menninger was known to be at the forefront of psychiatric treatment. We all had hope. Robin by then had none.

As our plane taxied up to the gate we heard from the loud speaker. “Would Mr. and Mrs. Blume on your way out please see the stewardess at the front exit,” Puzzled we did. “Your brother Phillip is here to meet you. I’ll take you to him.”  We never made plans for Phil to meet us at the airport. I had no idea what was about to play out. I might have if I have had any inkling of what those serial-killer dreams where about.  The stewardess led us to a storage room filled with tall cardboard boxes where Phil waited. She left shutting the door behind her. “Robin committed suicide.” Not one beat. Not a beat between the word suicide and an explosion implosion of me-I-self attacking the stack of packing boxes, fist pounding on a box lid over and over again in sync with the screams of a hundred “Nos.”

For most of my adult-juvenile life I never considered suicide as an option for myself, my family or friends — life above all else. Robin’s last 2 years of High School was spent living with us, us being myself, Kay and her 2 children, Eric and Gwyneth in our home in Irvington, NY.  During her senior year Robin swallowed an entire bottle of aspirins. As I waited in the kitchen for Robin to come down stairs with Kay to leave for the emergency room I stood at the kitchen counter eating what was too be dinner. I’m chewing away and my daughter just swallowed a bottle of aspirins. What an oblivious dork. Feed the anxiety. Feed the denial.  “She was just trying to get our attention. Right?  She really wasn’t that serious. Right?” She wouldn’t have told us she swallowed an entire bottle of aspirins if she meant it. Right?

Four years later she meant it. She made dam sure she meant it.

Robin Blume, 21 years old, on Jan 31, 1988, at 1 o’clock in the morning got out of bed, walked downstairs to the back door, walked across the yard to the garage adjoining the alley, entered the garage and meticulously covered the garage windows with duct tape so no light could escape to the outside.  With the garage lights turned on she meticulously taped every single breathing opening to the outside. She taped along the interface where the bottom of the garage door sits on the cement floor. The back door to the entrance to the yard she taped as well. Sitting in the front seat of the car she placed along side her a favorite doll from her childhood, Lou Lou, a letter addressed to her family and a letter to Randy her brother. She had with her 2 cassettes, one Pink Floyd and one Roxy Music. No note for dad.

You’d think Robin’s psychiatrist, Dr. Kreche would have alerted Robin’s mother and stepfather to the tell-tail signs of a child prepping for suicide.  Gail, her mothers berates herself for not picking up on those signs which seemed so obvious in hindsight: Robin began giving away stuff, to her friends her jewelry and books, to Randy her stuffed animals.  The  week before she took her life she joined her family for dinner every night, not like her, she usually ate in her room behind closed door. She was attentive with everyone, even talkative, not her usual behavior. Gail and Bob thought that her appointment at Mayo Clinic might be responsible for her mood change.

I met with Dr. Kreche 3 months after Robin’s death, my question to him was after 3 years of treating Robin why hadn’t he had some indication that Robin was suicidal. I’m sure they had to discuss it. Ho w did it get by him? Why hadn’t he cued the family in on what indicators of suicidal behavior to be on the alert for? I don’t recall his answers. He was stunned by her suicide, never expected it.  A year later he left Chicago for California, the reason he uprooted his abode and practice rumor said was because of his failure to intervene.

Talk about failure to intervene. What about my colossal failure as a parent? How many nails did I drive into her coffin?  More than one given I was and wasn’t a father from the day she was born.  Can’t help thinking of Robin envisioning Kay and I on a jet on our way to Chicago while she prepared to kill her self with carbon monoxide poisoning. Would she have gone thru with it if we had not come. Did she do this to get my undivided attention?
Death was her note to me.

About those serial-killer dreams. Would it have made a difference if I understood their message early on, when Robin was 2 or 3 years old — when I really could have made a difference? Would she still be alive today? Would I have heeded the dream’s message or would I continue to stuff my face with food. (Silence) (Silence) (Silence) We know the answer to that, don’t we, Howard.

(An aside)

After many-many shots of vodka, after running barefooted down an empty suburban street at night trying to out pace my daughter’s suicide, after looking at my daughter lying in a casket, her skin so quietly pale against a yellow ochre wall while my mother-in-law, her face wretched with fury, agony, screams at me, “see, see, now are you happy, you did this, you, you’re responsible for this, you killed her, her father.” After Robin’s funeral service, after drained, squelched, exhausted, a hollow vessel, I’m in the back seat of my brother’s car on the way to the airport and to Interlaken New York. Mia, my brother’s 5 year old adopted Korean daughter, as soon as we were seated, reached for my hand taking a firm grip with her warm little fingers and did not let go for forty minutes, until we exited the car. No one told her to hold my hand. Mia looked straight ahead for the entire drive, concentrating with all of her childhood to console, she born with the impulse of a care giver.
Kay sat in the front seat, my brother drove. Phil had a CD of a comedian he recently saw on TV. He asked my permission to play it: “You’ll really appreciate this guy, your sense of humor.” First time I heard Jackie Mason. My brother was right, I appreciated. With Jackie Mason on one end and Mia on the other I laughed — one octave above the grief. Borsht Belt Jewish humor from an ex-rabbi, soothing, healing like chicken soup, have a bowl, it can’t hurt, won’t kill you. Most likely it was then the gargoyle burrowed into my dreams taking the grasp of a child’s hand along with.

What for Dreams?

“Consistent with evolution and evidence derived from neuroscience and reports of dreams, I suggest that dreams reflect an individuals strategy for survival,”

 A passage from Scientific America, author, Dr. Jonathan Winson, previously associate professor emeritus at The Rockefeller University. What am I doing hanging around with Dr. Jonathon Winson? I’m looking for a hint of the miraculous gleaned from authority, scrutiny and discipline held forth in field and laboratory, from neurons splayed out Rorschach like.

Paraphrasing Dr Winson:  150 million years ago a primitive mammal, a marsupial began to dream for the very first time much the way we do today. The marsupial dreamt to protect his ass. We dream to protect ours. Paraphrasing me: 150 million years of nucleotides playing musical chairs, fine tuning brain waves — beta, alpha, delta, theta — evolving into a breathing living generator of varying discrete degrees of frequency and amplitude. Impressive.

In 1979 Dr. Jonathon Winson became an associate professor at Rockefeller University where he began groundbreaking research on memory processing during waking and sleeping states. He nailed the actual site in our brain wherein our dreams reside. Professor Winson gave us the unprecedented, unfolding physiology and neurology of dreaming.

According to Winson’s research when an animal is involved in an activity that pertains to its survival such as a rat searching for food, the hippocampus, a part of its brain where memory is stored produces brain waves called theta rhythms. Theta rhythms code the day’s survival activity in the hippocampus, leaving coded neurons in distinct locations within the hippocampus where they’re available to be called upon again to replay the exact same survival activity.

Theta rhythms are found in one other mode —  REM sleep or by its other title “dreaming.”  Winson mapped the external stimuli of potential dream content — the survival activity — in the hippocampus of a rat, neuron by coded neuron. During REM sleep those same coded neurons from the exact same location in the hippocampus fired. They played out again reprocessing and enforcing crucial information most important for the rat’s survival, like the whereabouts of food or a safe haven from predators. Basic primitive stuff this survival; five prehensile digits, an erect spine, twenty-twenty vision and dreams all contribute to it. Rats dream, who would have thought? Rats survive, right?

 “Whisper dreams in my ear and I’ll follow you anywhere.   Dr. Montague Ullman

In my quest for an insight into the miraculous I can trust, we now turn to Dr. Montague Ullman, now deceased, his most recent job, Emeritus clinical professor of psychiatry at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. Ullman is a synthesis of psychiatrist, psychoanalyst and parapsychologist, his curriculum vitae cuts a broad, consistent, deep swath through our dreams life.  Trained in neurology and psychiatry he graduated from New York University of Medicine: psychoanalytic training at the New York Medical College: psychosomatic research in dermatology.   At the Maimonides Medical Center in Brooklyn, N.Y. he helped develop one of the first fully operational community mental health centers in the United States.

Dr. Montague Ullman has been called the dream merchant. I’d call him the Jonny Apple Seed of dreams. His interest in dreams began with his residency in psychiatry, continued on thru 15 years of clinical practice and more than 20 years of innovative work with experiential dream sharing groups.

Ullman took the exclusivity out of dream work, devoting much of his career to extending dream work beyond the consulting room, out into the community where he schooled small groups in how to help each other understand their dreams and ultimately get on with one’s life with minimal damage to self and others, possibly have a satisfying, expressive, creative, passionate, kind-hearted life; yes, all that from dream work. Ullman saw dreams as a natural healing system much like our immune system. The immune system takes on physical healing; dreaming is there for our emotional healing, that being the repair of our relationships to other people and our selves. One of the reasons Ullman believes dreams can heal is that they are honest, at times painfully so.

Dreams, no bullshit.

Dr. Jonathon Winson in search of dreams embedded in coded neurons, Dr. Montague Ullmam in search of dream metaphors among us dreamers. Both speak of dreams as a survival mechanism.

Our mammalian ancestors dreamt in image only without embellishment of metaphor. An accurate rendering of their daily activity is a prerequisite if they expect to survive. We’ve inherited that same prerequisite, recording our events as if seen thru the lens of a camera — an honest witness subject to no manipulation, alteration or bias, telling it like it is, a resolute, accurate rendering of our emotional state in metaphor.

We don’t spend our days preoccupied looking for food or afraid of becoming food. Our days are spent in interpersonal relationships with people. That’s where our survival mechanism kicks-in and our dreams are spun from says Dr. Montague Ullman, where our emotions are in play, in our zeitgeist with lover, friend, family, parent, child. With my daughter Robin.

 “The essence of being human is being connected with other humans and the schisms we have setup have kept us from realizing that vision when awake, a vision that has never been lost while we are asleep.  Dreams never give up on us. They are with us every night urging us to face issues that restrict and discourage us, that limit our inventiveness. They remind us of the responsibility we all have to free up our emotional life. They are in their way, our personal spokesmen for a saner living.”   Dr. Montague Ullman

I can’t remember taking her around in a big warm hug to comfort her. I can’t recall Robin sitting on my lap.  As a grandparent via my wife’s grandchild Justin I’ve been given grandpa status, given a second chance to comfort, to appreciate, given the opportunity to be there for a child from day-one. I taught him to toss and catch a frisbee when he was 5. Today at ten years Justin and I play a mean game of frisbee.  Can’t recall a time I ever did the likes with my daughter. Remorse for what never was, for what’s not recalled. I’ll check with Robin’s mother to see what she remembers, afraid of what she will say.

Robin dressed in a white and pink dress with a waisted ribbon wearing white shoes all of 6 years old stands outside holding an umbrella.  In a drizzle she waits for me. I never show.

That’s what Gail, my ex-wife tells me.  I never showed.

 “I can’t believe I just didn’t show up without calling?”

Gail’s not sure. Maybe I did call. But I cancelled often. “Robin was always so disappointed.”

“Did I ever give her a hug, hold her, comfort her,” I ask.

“No. She didn’t either,” she said. “We were both too self absorbed. You were her favorite, though. Her father. She put you up on a pedicel.”

This is all too painful to hear. I want to vomit, cut off an arm, a leg, tear Robin loose from the void. Gail’s memory must be faulty, colored by guilt. My memory full of holes. (Silence) (Silence) (Silence) You frigging selfish blind stupid frightened helpless lame SOB.

Several months after Robin’s suicide Gail invited Kay and I back to Chicago to go through Robin’s things, letters, photos, artwork, souvenirs, school yearbooks. “To take back with you,” she said, “I thought you’d like to have them around for keepsakes.” The word “keepsakes “sucks, suggests something of sentimental value, mementoes, items collected on a vacation at Disneyland. Instead I’ll go with affirmations, affirmations of a daughter’s short life painfully lived and a father’s neglect.

Gail handed me a paperback book with worn cover. “This is really for you. There’s Robin’s underlining you should read.”

The book, “The Wounded Women “ “Healing the Father-Daughter relationship,” author Linda Schierse Leonard, Ph.D. a psychologist and a philosopher who trained as a Jungian analyst at the C.G. Jung Institute in Zurich and has been in practice for nearly thirty years. The underlines were made with yellow marker and red ballpoint. Robin’s selections were troubling to read, more than troubling, painful, too close a  fit.  “The daughters of these eternal boys grow up without an adequate model of self-discipline, limit and authority, quite often suffering from feelings of insecurity, stability, lack of self-confidence” … “Don Juan men who run from women to women…. the lack of commitment she experienced with father … it is also possible for both father and mother to be eternal youths and then there is little stability, structure or authority provided by both parent …”

1. Adolph Hitler

2. President W. Bush

3. Bennie Maddow

4. Kenneth Lay

5. and Howard, the lesser of 5 evils.

Dr. Ullman breaks evil down into 2 categories each with 2 sub categories.

MACRO-EVIL:
THE WHOLESALE DESTRUCTION OF HUMAN BEINGS

1. Perpetuated for the glorification of the leader and/or state such as genocide: Holocaust. Rawanda. Darfur.

2. Perpetuated for the higher good: he considered Hiroshima and Nagasaki as such. Lets toss in the invasion of Irag. I’d put that one at the head of the list.

MICRO-EVIL:
THE REDUCTION OF HUMAN BEINGS TO THE ROLE OF OBJECTS TO EXPLOIT

1. Death and destruction is not the goal since the object has value. Large scale but impersonal:  Enron, where thousands of people lost their life savings yet were left exhaling and inhaling except for those driven to suicide.

2. Dr. Ullman prefers not to call this one blatant evil: abuse is more like it.  “It refers to the common garden variety of things we do to each other and to our children that are hurtful to others as well as to ourselves.”

I got away with ‘murder’ and my dreams called me on it.

“The truth-finding capacity of dreams arises out of an incorruptible core of being that registers deviations from the truth. Regardless of what games we play with the truth, that core comes to life in our dreams throughout our life.”  Dr. Ullman

Hitler got away with mass bloody hideous slaughter — what about his dreams?

What truths came from Hitler’s incorruptible core of being as he “played with the truth.”? From Enron’s Kenneth Lay and Jeffrey Skilling dreams as they played with the truth.  What truths from the muckymucks at Arthur Anderson, Bear Steams, Lehman Brothers, Citigroup, Morgan Standley, Goldman Sachs.  And what about Bernie Madoff dreams as he played with the truth and million upon millions of dollars of trusting investors. And there is our 43rd president, W. Bush, what about his dreams when he and his White House played with the truth. Does anyone of them have an incorruptible core to begin with? Or are they rancid through and through? Do sociopaths dream? Do psychopaths dream? Does the dreams of sentient evil condone evil?   If there is zilch altruism, zilch empathy the incorruptible core of being is a no-go, yes? no? anyone?

Psychic phenomena via parent-child constellation

I find it curious that a scientist or physician would ever consider the existence of psychic phenomena, that she or he would explore it without fear of tainting reputation, of being called a quack.

Dr. Ullman had no fear. Beginning as a teenager and throughout his career he experienced, observed and pursued the paranormal, from the telekinesis to the telepathic, possibly beyond. Besides developing one of the first fully operational community mental health centers at the Maimonides Medical Center in Brooklyn he also pioneered a sleep and dream laboratory where he investigated the occurrence of dream telepathy.  The results are covered in his book “Dream Telepathy: Experiments in Nocturnal Extrasensory Perception (Studies in Consciousness) ”

As Dr. Ullman worked with dreams and the dreamer his belief in aspects of the paranormal accrued. He believed the dream was an appropriate medium for psychic phenomena. His studies and experience led him to believe that psychic phenomena most likely occur in dreams when:  “earlier unmet needs are experienced in dependency terms, as the parent-child constellation, or as problematic peer relations, most commonly in the form of male-female tensions.” 

A psychic event tends to take place in a “parent-child constellation.”  Robin my daughter and I, implies Dr. Ullman, are a likely coupling for igniting a psychic event. And there is a satisfying synchronicity in his descriptive use of  “parent-child constellation.”  and in Robin’s appearance at the foot of my bed on her birthday as a constellation of sort, as a stellar experience.  Are these grounds for the miraculous? Did Robin reach out to me one last time from some ethereal place be it in a dream or through the ether? If you give Dr. Ullman’s prerequisites for a psychic event any credence I’d say yes, a possible yes, at least it’s a foothold, a nod for further meditation. I hear a scoffer. Is that I, I hear?

What’s difficult to reconcile: in death all connections are pulled, no more brain waves, not even static. We among the living to conger up a psychic event have ciphers, prayers, Gods, Wee-Gee boards, séances, dreams, superstition, insanity. What do the dead have, a bus transfer?

When Dr. Ullman was sixteen he along with a group of teenage friends of like mind held a séance once a week for a year and a half, rarely missed a sitting. The results: levitating table among other psychic phenomena, the most intriguing, contacting a discarnate spirit, Dr Bindelof, a physician who had been dead for 12 years. The group of teenagers and Bindelof communicated through a series of written messages when pencil and paper were placed on the lower shelf of a night table. The messages were replies to questions the boys asked of Dr. Bindelof. A hoax?

A year and a half is a long time to carry on a hoax. Six decades later the group met to validate the experience and relate how it effected or transformed their life.  Documenting the year and a half of séances including their meeting 3 to 6 decades later Dr. Ullman put together compelling evidence to substantiate the experience — yours to interrogate: “The Bindelof Story, part one, two, three and four.” Their experiences classified as psi events (a term for parapsychology or psychic phenomena) is also known by its recent epithet EUE, Exceptional Human Experiences. I’ll go with that, Exceptional Human Experiences, give or take a grain of salt.

Dr. Ullman, as far as I know never considered the haunting of a dream, the possibility of the deceased visiting a dream. It’s unlikely he would rule it out since he has embraced a full range of human subjectivity. Still that would be a tough one to run studies on as Dr. Ullman did with dream telepathy, precognition and clairvoyance. How could he distinguish between a metaphorical episode from a dreamer’s memory bank from a visitation from an external ethereal source? They’d read like one in the same. Possibly are.

Possibly the overwhelming grief that I went thru when Robin committed suicide could have stirred up a nest of brain wave activity leaving me open for an EUE event. Given such stimulation I might have created my own private mini-séance during REM sleep wherein the father-daughter constellation materializes in a dream and Robin makes her appearance from the void or thereabouts. Now that speculation resonates.

“Enough already,” said the Gargoyle.

Psychic phenomena via parent-child synchronicity

I am running flying zipping about stooped over with my arms stretched out like wings making buzzing sounds as I go. I’m a bee flitting from one flower to another, the flowers being an assortment of people, about 16 total, squatted on a carpeted floor.  I buzzed every one of them.

It was a Sunday afternoon, downtown Chicago, year 1973, at Oasis, an organization that grew out of the human potential movement.  I’m at a group session, can’t recall what the group leaders specialty is but I recall he is of celebrity status within the movement and better yet from Manhattan. The assignment that provoked my flight of the bumblebee was to quietly sit, imagine something and let it unfold. I chose an open prairie trail along side a railroad track where wild flowers grew in abundance, where bees went about their business pollinating them.  When I told the group leader my fantasy he had me play the part of the bee, other members of the group were flowers. After the explosive burst off bee energy I sat quietly on the rug taking deep breaths as the group leader revealed to me the message taken from my bee and flower metaphor

After the group I walked back to my film company, several blocks away from Oasis, to studio, offices and a space l call bedroom. Once there I began to go thru Saturday’s unopened mail. There was an envelope from my daughter Robin, then 8 years old. Inside was a folded sheet of drawing paper I opened. She had drawn 2 flowers, one on the left side of the paper, another on the right. On each flower Robin drew a face with a teardrop, one from each eye. In the middle between the flowers she wrote: “Today I am glad to wish you a happy fathers day. To my dad. I would like you to see more of me.  But you’re as busy as a bee.  Happy father’s day. To you lots of good luck. And happiness too. Love Robin.”

Right under my nose, the miraculous, Robin, my daughter

Any thoughts?