All in Good Taste - End of August

Dear Friends,

Yesterday I crossed the Mississippi River into Louisiana, the 15th state I’ve visited since I left Kauai exactly two months ago. I’ve traveled over 5000 miles, and glancing at the United States map, I’m still a long ways from Seattle, where I need to be in two weeks.

Leaving Memphis, I was going to drive straight through to Monroe, Louisiana, but after missing the Memphis Pyramid and other attractions there I decided to rest at a Best Western in Canton, about ten miles north of Jackson, and take in the sites of Jackson in the morning.

Just south of Canton is a huge Nissan manufacturing plant. The building is a good quarter of a mile long. Except for Boeing in Everett, Washington, I’ve never seen a bigger building. This no doubt greatly fuels the Jackson economy. On the north end of Jackson I stopped in at one the nicest malls I’ve ever seen. (below left)

It was designed like a small town, with trees and several blocks of cobble stone roads, fountains and a central clock tower. Each normal mall business - like Banana Republic - had its own separate village building, each with a different design and painted in warm yellow and orange pastels.

I'm really not gay.

I can’t help myself. I’m an artist. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been drawn to architecture. I remember in high school how I was blown away when I first saw the work of Frank Lloyd Wright . Fallingwaters in Pennsylvania (shown below) was finished in 1939. Believe that! 1939!!!

I'm always thinking of design, color and space, and how the whole composition works. It doesn’t matter to me if the building was designed in 1903 like the Jackson, Mississippi Capital (below), or the new Mall I visited, or Fallingwaters from 1939; tasteful architecture inspires me. Tasteless architecture like Graceland doesn't. Simple as that.

Blind Justice in the Mississippi Capital Rotunda

Justice Tarot

Looking at the Justice stained glass window reminded me to balance my words and judgments carefully.

I’m not through with Elvis. Bless his soul.

I had to sleep on him, and re-evaluate my attitude. Looking at his Human Design chart also tuned me into what made him tick. In Human Design there are Nine Centers, depicted in squares and triangles placed around the human body. (shown below) Elvis was pretty wide open, with the top six of the nine centers undefined. In Human Design, if the Center is undefined, then you don't have a stable or preferred way of dealing with those qualities. (open head = open mind) If an undefined Center is "open," then it is more susceptible to outside influences, because it is not "cast in stone," like a defined Center. Those with undefined Centers will seek to learn the qualities of the Center. Some of the greatest singers, like Elvis and John Lennon, have an undefined Throat Center. Elvis had a defined Sacral Center (basically doing what he wanted to do - owning his power), Root Center (protecting his home - never forgetting his roots), and Solar Plexus Center (guarding his privacy and emotions) Those things were most important. to him. He had to rely on others for everything else. (Colonel Parker or Hal Wallis running his career for instance) I could write all day on what everything else means.

Elvis was a great artist. His voice painted canvas after canvas of songs like no other. Down to his core he was a good old Christian country boy, who always did the best he could - which usually proved to be exceptional. He was the King, arguably the best vocal artist in the 1950‘s. But being the best in one thing doesn’t mean you’re the best in all things. With his first movies, Jail House Rock and King Creole, they wanted him to fill the shoes of James Dean; to be the next great actor, in the league of Marlon Brando and Clark Gable. But, that wasn’t to be. Hal Wallis decided he was foremost a musical entertainer, and cast him in a different variation of the same sing song movie over and over again. In the late 60’s he did all the required singing and acting, taking only one month to complete each of his 31 movies - then retreated to Graceland, hiding in his little upstairs bedroom for up to two weeks without coming down. When he wasn’t acting or resting he was recording his thousands of songs, or touring. Anyone who examines the volume of work he produced in 22 years will wonder how he did it. He apparently was too busy to move from Graceland. He was comfortable there and that was all that mattered. Graceland was the place where he was in total control of his power, emotions and roots.

So I begin my first day on the bayou, staying with my old friend Chante (Jan) Quiett. I will attract experiences, such as: Minding my own business at a Starbucks on the University of Louisiana Monroe campus, a man came up to me who introduced himself as a Cherokee Jew. I wrote what appears to be a judgmental blog about the same linage man I met at the Davey Crockett Museum in Tennessee - and life presents me another opportunity to look at my judgment. This time in a Jesus loving Cherokee Jew video maker, good hearted, outgoing man.

Life is full of wonders, and you never know what new one lurks around the corner.

With continued blessings,

David Dakan Allison

Graceland

Dear Friends,

Some things are much more fun when you do it with a friend. Like visiting Graceland. For those who hold Elvis in the company of Jesus, I mean not to offend - just to offer one observers honest opinion:

I bought the Platinum ticket - $31 with my $5 senior discount. I was hoping Graceland would be worth the entrance fee, especially being the most expensive attraction I’ve been to yet. I have to say . . .

The mile of strip mall on Elvis Presley Blvd approaching Graceland is full of run-down buildings, old malls half deserted and architecture thats fallen farther and farther into disrepair since the 1950’s. There’s a few new structures, but more than not, empty signs or ones that are weathered and faded, in front of long deserted or sad looking businesses, line the road. Standing right in the middle of the intersection of Shelby and Elvis Presley Blvd, men sell the Sunday paper, emphasizing the fact that Graceland is now located in the poor Black section of southern Memphis. As you approach Graceland, and right next door, stands a fairly big red-bricked Baptist Church with a once upon a time white steeple. It’s boarded up and weeds chock the yard. The neighborhood has a third world feeling, a run down environment that carries over into Graceland itself.

I joined the tour and entered the Graceland “Mansion.” I put that in quotes, since I think it is far from being a mansion. I’d say more like a large mausoleum. There’s a sad ambiance that fills the house - not because it belonged to a beloved star who died there - because it was all put together in such bad taste. If anything, Graceland is a museum of 70’s tackiness. The house really isn’t that big. Downstairs when you walk in there’s a medium size living room on the right, a medium sized dining room on the left, a kitchen that is smaller than the one in the last house I lived in, and a medium sized bedroom for Elvis’s parents. Behind the Kitchen is a shag-rug family room, which was so ugly that it was hard to believe it was the choice of a multi-millionaire.

Love the green shag carpet and the lava lamps

Don’t get me wrong. I have always been a fan of most of Elvis’s music. But his taste? Or lack of. I think there are only two types of people in the whole world who could pull off wearing the clothing Elvis wore. Elvis (a type all to himself), and high rolling Chicago pimps - circa 1970.

Anyway, down in the basement there are two entertainment rooms and a large room with gold albums. I felt totally ripped that they wouldn’t let us see the upstairs - Elvis’s bedroom. There's this big mystery about the upstairs - nobody is allowed up there - not even people who have worked there forever. It's supposedly exactly like it was the day he died. I imagine Tacky Heaven. The upstairs to me was the highlight of the Edsel Ford Estate, seeing the modest bedroom where he and Eleanor slept, with its solid gold bathroom faucets; which by the way was a tour I enjoyed much more than Graceland.

Yes, no doubt Elvis was a humble man, but with all the money in the world, why would he choose to stay in that dump? There are at least 1000 bigger and more stunning mansions with beautiful gardens bordering rivers and lakes in Detroit alone. He could have bought a 100 acre estate anywhere in Memphis and built a real mansion.

I absolutely didn’t get it. At the end of the tour we went by a very small kidney shaped swimming pool and the graveyard of Elvis, his mother, father and grandmother. It just added to the feeling of it all being one big cemetery.

Graceland wore me out and after checking out his airplane and deciding I didn’t want to buy anything from the ten Elvis kitsch stores across the street, I headed south to Jackson, Mississippi.

Once here I realized that I didn’t get to see what would have really held my attention in Memphis - like the Memphis Pyramid, pictured below.

There is a bit of controversy surrounding the Pyramid, which is a sports center. When it was being built a man named Isaac Tigrett place a crystal skull in the apex of the Pyramid. Tigrett is a devotee of the living India saint Sathya Sai Baba – who Tigrett worships as God Incarnate. According to him the skull just appeared in Sai Baba’s hands. Tigrett believes in the supernatural power of this skull and that cosmic balance depends on it (somehow) and that it carries a cosmic curse which can destroy the earth. Wow! Apparently after Memphis officials removed the skull from the Pyramid, they had all sorts of technical problems, which some believe had to do with the skulls curse. Whatever is going on in the Memphis Pyramid, it sure stimulates my imagination much more than a bunch of shag carpet and leather couches.

I guess its more fun dreaming about Elvis, then walking around amidst his tasteless clutter.

And what do I know - I ain't nothing by a hound dog. Blessings, David Dakan Allison

Back to the Present - Southern Tennessee

                                              I'd sure like to meet the guy who got that quote.


Dear Friends,

I headed north on I75 out of Chattanooga around 9 am, and about a hundred miles south of Nashville I turned onto Highway 64, which meanders west across southern Tennessee toward Memphis, a distance of around 350 miles. The land is gorgeous - rolling hills of forests and farmland: a panorama of pastural America that stretched mile after mile. Below the highway farm houses, barns and the occasional steeple of a country church peacefully reside in the lush green valleys. Above the blue skies and cumulus clouds canopied the earth in surreal perfection. The corn had been harvested and the fields mowed, soybeans were next, although most acres were gearing up for a second harvest of wheat. 

Looking for the almost noon latte I never found, I ventured into an off-the-highway small town. What I saw there reminded me - the human mind is a curious thing. It finds slots for forgotten experiences, real or otherwise. I don’t think we ever really forget. This time my mind exploded with the memory of the clock tower and the small town movie theater . . . and the DeLorean racing Back to the Future . . . all filmed in the most unlikely place, Winchester, Tennessee. 

Driving out of town, US 64 became the Davy Crockett Parkway. Here again more memories were stirred. In 1955, when I was eight years old and living south of San Francisco, all us boys loved Davy Crockett. You HAD to have a coon-skin cap and a toy Winchester rifle. Or even a tomahawk so we could play mountain men and Indians. It didn’t matter what the real Davy Crockett looked like, to us he looked exactly like Fess Parker. This man was our hero. 

                                                                   Fess Parker in 1955

We were all from Tennessee, or certainly wished we were, and knew all the words to this song: 

Born on a mountain top in Tennessee, 

Greenest state in the land of the free. 

Raised in the woods so's he knew every tree, 

Killed him a bear when he was only three. 

Davy, Davy Crockett King of the Wild Frontier. 

(It goes on like that for a bunch of verses)

While in Davy Crockett country I decided to visit Lawrenceburg, where they had a statue of him in the town square and a museum. The Davy Crockettt Museum took me by surprise.

The place was a dump. Old books and arrow heads and dusty magazines and weird Indian pictures hung discombobulated on the walls. It looked as though nobody took the initiative to clean the place since 1972. Behind the counter were three very strange looking dudes and a black chick, all smoking cigarettes. 

“Sign the register,” an old skinny guy with a cowboy hat said as he got up from the cloud of smoke. "You White Cherokee or Black Cherokee?" The man had a chest full of beads and feathers and all kinds of other Indian shit around his neck. His pony tail reached his waist and k o o k was tattooed on his forehead. (not really)

"Whaaat?"

"I said, are you White Cherokee or Black Cherokee?"

"I don't know."

"Well, where are you from?"

"I suppose you don't want to know . . . you want to know my linage?"

"Of course. Where you from?"

"Well, my Dad's side was Scottish, then Irish and then Pennsylvania."

"Pennsylvania Dutch?"

"No, Scottish."

"No doubt you got Cherokee blood."

"Maybe. How would you know?"

"We need to give you a DNA test. It will cost you $400."

"Ahuuum. I think I'll pass."

"If it shows you have Cherokee blood, then you're a Jew."

"Whaaaatttt?"

"The Cherokee are the Lost Tribe from Isreal. Look here. (he showed me a long computer

readout with a couple hundred names) All these people got their DNA tested and they are all Jews."

"How about that?"

"It's all recorded in this book, written in 1775 by James Adair, a Cherokee Indian historian. He's got proof, and now its showing up in peoples DNA. Probably yours too. You should read it"

"How much?"

$30."

"Ahhh. I don't think so. Thanks for sharing. Gotta go."

"Don't you want to know about your Jewish heritage?"

"I don't think so. Bye."

The more I hear stuff like this, the less I care about ancient history. Why would I care if a bunch of Israelites waved goodbye to Jesus, got in a Red Sea canoe and rowed across the Atlantic singing kumbaya all the way to their new happy hunting grounds in the Great Smoky Mountains? Right now today you're just you and I'm just me and I'm this guy who's driving down the road, minding my own business, blogging away, hoping tomorrow an old man with a cane and a white star-studded jump suit will wink at me from the shadows of his mansion and whisper "Howdy, I haven't left the building." I'm going Graceland - five minutes away from this funky motel in Memphis, Tennessee. 

Follow that dream, I gotta follow that dream

Keep a-movin, move along, keep a moving

I've got to follow that dream wherever that dream may lead

I've got to follow that dream to find the love I need.      Elvis Presley

Blessing and all good wishes,

David Dakan Allison

Ruby Falls and Discovering God

Dear Friends,

I’m not sure why I was hard wired to look deeper into the meaning of things. While down here in the American South, with all the energy on one or another interpretation of the gospel of Jesus, resulting in one Baptist church a block from another Baptist church, next to a Methodist church, next to a Calvary church and so on - literally - I can’t help but wonder why they can’t all unite and come up with One Story, and therefore one Christian religion, and stop thinking my Jesus is better than your Jesus. I think I could write all day on this subject, and I won’t, though I’ll add a bit more at the end of this blog, if you are so inclined to read on.



Beyond all the separations of religion I do believe in God. I don’t think the miracles of life I see and experience all around me are random, or merely science. The formation of every atom and molecule, and the structural organization of each and every thing has to have been divinely orchestrated. The conductor of that orchestration is beyond my comprehension, and therefore I refer to the Conductor or Architect of All That Is, as God. Which brings me to Ruby Falls and the words of Leo Lambert on a brass plaque at the entrance of the Ruby Fall castle - which pretty much sums up what my Ki Earth Journey is all about:

“Discovering Ruby Falls was like discovering God. At first it is very dark, scary and uncertain. You don’t know what lies ahead.

You bump into things you didn’t even realize were there and you suffer injuries, bumps and bruises. You fall down into sticky, sticky mud and mire and feel like you cannot go on. But you get up with a feeling that somewhere ahead lies something more wonderful than you could ever imagine.

As you add light to what you discover you find that the things that caused you suffering and injury were wonderful God made things, put there for you to witness and give you joy. It is all more than you ever imagined you could witness. It is God, and Ruby Falls & the Lookout Mountain Cave are God’s creations, made for man to enjoy.

I am just a little proud that he used me” Leo Lambert December 1928

So today’s blog is a fun travelog with pictures of a wonderful under-earth trek to Ruby Falls, which is located a quarter of the way up Lookout Mountain, overlooking the city of Chattanooga, Tennessee. People always knew there were caves and tunnels in Lookout Mountain. American Indians, outlaws and Civil War soldiers all hung out in the caves, but when the railroad was built in the early 1900’s the cave entrance was sealed.

In the late 1920’s Leo Lambert, then a young man, became fascinated in reopening the caves, so he put together a company and started drilling a shaft down from a place on the side of the mountain directly above the old caves. After drilling 260 feet into bedrock they came upon an air chamber. Leo and his men climbed on their hands and knees and bellies for 17 hours before they heard the sound on falling water. It was then they discovered a spectacular 150 foot waterfall, which Leo named after his wife Ruby. After finishing the elevator shaft and cutting 6 feet high paths, the half mile of trail to Ruby Falls was open to the public in 1929. The following pictures are of stalactites I encountered on my walk to Ruby Falls.




A little more on “One Religion,” which is all about my "sorting it all out" and may be of interest to inquiring minds:

When I was at Livingston United Methodist Church last Sunday, the congregation read the Apostles Creed out loud. By the way, it is written that each stanza of The Apostles Creed was given by “The Holy Spirit” to each of the twelve Apostles, but it really wasn’t all put together until 180 or 390 years later. (which makes me wonder if any of it was lost or misinterpreted). I’m also curious about the last four stanzas: 8. I believe in the Holy Ghost: (I’m not sure of the difference between the Holy Ghost and the Holy Spirit, and exactly who this ghost or spirit is in relation to God. According to the “written word,” the Holy Ghost “conceived” Jesus Christ - the only begotten “Son of God” - which implies that the Holy Ghost is God. So why the two name confusion?) 9. I believe in the holy catholic church: (Catholic come from a Greek word that means “Universal.” In the first century the idea was to create one church - a “Universal Christian Religion): the communion of saints: (I suppose a Universal religion would naturally include a communion of saints, although I question who the saints are - are they “the people” who attend the Universal Church? Are we all Saints?) 10. The forgiveness of sins: (this doesn’t define “sin” and is therefore vague as to exactly what needs forgiving.) 11. The resurrection (coming back from death) of the body (does this mean reincarnation of “the communion of saints” - the people - and when was the idea of reincarnation taken from common acceptance?): 12. And the life everlasting. (this seems to be another reference to reincarnation, which could also mean living forever in Heaven, but certainly doesn’t literally refer to “life everlasting” being a hell option).


So this whole can of worms only leads me back to Ruby Falls and fact that nobody knows where the water for the falls comes from or where it goes. It’s just plain beautiful and that nobody can deny - and like Leo Lambert says it’s “like discovering God.”

Blessings, David Dakan Allison

Hell Fire and Aunt Jemima

Yesterday we went on a Sunday morning outing to the church that June grew up attending. Family is important to her, and showing up at her church every now and then is part of her keeping family alive. And so there I was, sitting in a pew at Livingston United Methodist Church in Coosa, Georgia, with my hat off, willing to hear, not what the good lord had to say, but something that would be fun to write about. Honestly, going to church on any Sunday is way down, maybe not even on, my priority list, but at that moment I was happier being there with my “Georgia family,” then staying home alone.



Livingston United is a very small poor country church that has been open to local parishioners here since1833. The old cemetery was on one side, with tombstones dated well into the 1800’s, and many that were just rocks with no markings whatsoever. The “black section” in back was overgrown in weeds and everywhere the ground was soggy, like it would all cave in with the next step and I’d fall into the lap of a Confederate soldier. Although it was a Methodist church, which I always figured was a not so distant cousin of the Catholic church, on this Sunday it appeared as if a takeover was happening. Maybe I attracted what I’ve been avoiding. The “guest” preacher was a hell fire and damnation one way Jesus or hell screamer, which did little more than give me a rare headache, a touch of the fires of hell burning in my head.



Well, here is the part where I could go on and on with my satire sense of humor, but after I slept on it last night I woke up feeling a bit sad for the man. He, I think his name was Gus, so I’ll call him that, was in his late 60’s, way overweight, and I think just a little bit drunk. I imagined Gus was an uneducated man without a church, and probably even the Baptist’s didn’t want him. But Jesus did. And he had to tell everyone - that despite all the odds against him - he was still loved and excepted by Jesus, and because Gus was born again into this life he would soon be joining his Mamma and Pappa, and older brother and three younger sisters in Heaven.

OK, so I have a different version of the whole heaven and hell thing. Some things make sense to me and some things don’t. That whole story Gus was preaching made sense to him, and I guess all I can really say is more power to him. I’m wanting to believe that I’m already in Heaven, but there’s probably around 5 billion people who would disagree with me, who think I have to “do something” or another to be worthy of getting a ticket through the Pearly Gates, or into Nirvana, or find Oneness with the Buddha. Maybe so.

I actually don’t really know - and either do they. What’s most important is being a good loving person, and practicing whatever in the heck you’re preaching. The proof is always in the pudding. And I know that not because “the Bible told me so,” but because my Aunt Jemima did, bless her soul.




And so it was when I called up Mrs. Slater. This woman is 84 years old. I have no idea where she lives, only that she gives remote healing over the phone for free. I’m more than ready to be done with this rotator cuff pain, and I thought I’d give her a try.
“OK, honey, I want you to put five fingers lightly on where it hurts.”
“I have my fingers there.”
“Now lift them up slowly. Now tell me how it feels.”
“The same.”
“Let’s do it again.” “Now how does it feel.”
“The same.” (that went on for about six times)
“Are you thinking about your shoulder?”
“Should I be?”
“Heavens no. Think about something else.”
“Like baseball?” I asked, trying my sense of humor.
“What?” “OK. Let’s try something else. Put your left hand over your belly button and your right hand over the left. Now slowly lift them. Feel better?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you have your hands over your belly button?”
“You mean the hole in the middle of my belly?”
“That’s it. How does your shoulder feel now? Better?”
“The same.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t ever get married. Women are no good for you.”
“You’re no good for me?”
“No, not me! You don’t want to get yourself hooked up with a woman, not that I have anything against women, since I’m one - you just don’t want to be with one.”
“No women friends?”
“They’re alright. Just not a wife. I’ll tell you what to do. Find yourself a nice woman, one you can talk to, and put her in your passenger seat and travel around with her.”
“I thought you just told me not to have woman.”
“Not a real one! Make up an invisible one. I have my invisible man. Doesn’t give me any trouble.”
“I know what you mean. I have angels on both my bumpers,” I said. “Protects me from getting into an accident as I travel around the country.
“Well,” she answered, obviously happy to be speaking to a kindred spirit. “I have five - one on each bumper and the other riding shotgun.”
“I think I’ll add a few more,” I answered.
“Call me anytime,” she concluded. “Let me know how that shoulder is doing.”

This is what I'm now studying:

WORLD FAMOUS SOUTHERN TALK
BECOME A NATIVE SOUTHERNER

How to talk native SOUTHERN in one easy lesson

Aig - What a hen lays

Aints - He's got aints in his paints

Paints - What cha put on your laigs of a mornin

Arn - Ma's tard of arnin

Bag - He bagged her to marry him

Bobbed - A bobbed wire fence

Bresh - He had a bresh with the law, and the law won.

Bub - the light bub burned out

Cheer - What you set in

Crick - A small stream

Clum - He sure clum that tree fastern any 'coon

Chiny - country over in Asia

Chuch duds - Sunday go-to-meetin clothes

Core - He got hisself a new Ford core

Cyow - Animal on Farm

Deppity - He helps out the shurf

Dribbed - He dribbed milk on his shirt

Dainz - Satidy night social

Ellum - A graceful tree

Fanger - What you put your rang on

Faince - Whats round the hawg lot

Far - What get the brandin arn hot

Furred - He got furred from his job

Flar - A rose is a purdy flar

Frash - Them aigs ain't frash

Furiners - All non-'bamans

Further - Hits ten miles further to town

Grain - She was grain with envy

Hail - Where bad folks go

Hep - Poor George, he can't hep it, he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

Hern - It aint hern, it's his'n

Hilbilly - People in the next county

Hollar - Whats between the hills

Hard - Got a brend new hard

hand Tar - His core blew a tar

Laymun - A sour fruit

Laig - Most folks have two of them

Lather - What you climb up

Liberry - Where you go to check out books for larnin

Mailk - what you get from cyows

Mere - What you see your self in

Minners - Live bait

Misrus - Married Woman

Nar - Opposite of wide

Nayk - Your head sets on it

Nup - No

Orrel - Them hinges need orrel

Ormy - What the sojers go in

Pank - A light red color

Parch - Sit out on the parch and watch the grass grow

Petition - What separate the rooms

Poke - A paper bag or sack

Pokey - What the shurf and deppity puts crimnals in Poke

Salit - A green vegetable

Puppet - What the preacher is in

Purdy - She is purdy as a pitcher

Purt near - Almost; he purt near caught that greased pig

Rang - You wear it on your fanger

Rut - That there tree sure has long ruts

Rah cheer - I was born rah cheer in town

Rainch - A big cow farm

Rat - Do it rat now!

Rench - Rench the soap yourself

Roont - She plum roont her shoes

Salary - A stringy vegetable

Soardeens - Small canned fish

Shar - A light rain

Gully Worsher - A medium heavy rain

Toad strangler - A heavy rain Sody

Pop - A soft drink

Sprang - Water out'n the ground

Shurf - The Shurf put Clem in jail

Storch - This here aprn has to much storch in it

Skeered - that plumb skeered me to death

Thanks - He shore thanks he's smart

Tho - Tho me the ball

Thoat - I shore got a sore thoat

War - A bobbed war fance

Worsh - Go worsh your face

Warter - What you worsh your face in

Yurp - A continent overseas

Tit Sucking Twins and Elvis

Yesterday I took a side trip to Rome, Georgia, which has absolutely, as far as I know, nothing to do with Elvis, or the Beatles.


Rome, Georgia - August, 2010

If you connect the dots - Elvis was born in Mississippi, Graceland is in Tennessee and my friend June was born in Rome, Georgia - there is no dot connecting whatsoever . . . except the dots do connect. Sort of. Let me explain - I’ve been thinking about Rome, and other American cities with famous European names - like Memphis, which actually isn’t in Europe, as sort of a side-bar fascination ever since I first met June 34 years ago. There’s something exotic about saying you’ve been to Rome, even if it’s in Georgia. Or Paris . . . Texas . . . just to say you’ve been to Paris. I’ve been to Moscow, Idaho, but I’d never tell anyone. So, here is how the dots connect - Going to Rome made me think of Memphis, which made me think of Graceland. And therefore Elvis. June loved Graceland and I . . . do I love Elvis? Let me put it this way - if you were nine years old in 1964 when the Beatles first came to America, with all the Beatlemania and “I want to hold your hand,”


The Beatles, 1964

then you will understand how I felt in 1956 when I was nine, and Elvis hit the scene with “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog.” That was the first 45 I ever remember owning. My first 45! Most nine year olds today would have no idea what a 45 is, except maybe a Smith & Wesson. Elvis probably owned one. I’ll have to go to Graceland to find out.


The King in 1956

Anyway, to quote the great Paul Simon, “I’m going to Graceland. For reasons I cannot explain - There’s some part of me wants to see Graceland, And I may be obliged to defend every love every ending or maybe these’s no obligations now, maybe I’ve a reason to believe we all will be received in Graceland.”

And this all comes right around to Benito Mussolini, and by default Hitler, although I won’t go there - nor will I write about Marilyn Monroe or JFK. Where was I? Benito Mussolini, Romulus and Remus and the Capitoline Wolf in Rome, Georgia and the great stock market crash of 1929. See how its all connected? No?

In 1929 Benito Mussolini, then the Dictator of Italy, presented a bronze statue of the Capitoline Wolf, an exact replica of the Etruscan art that stands in the Palazzo dei Conservatori on Capitoline Hill in Rome, Italy, to the city of Rome, Georgia, Rome, Italy’s sister city. City officials proudly planted the statue in front of the historic City Hall on Broad Street in downtown Rome. Understandably, not all the good high moral Southern Baptist’s appreciated a statue of two human boys, Romulus and Remus, sucking on a wolf’s tits - right there in front of City Hall.



I guess it was all tolerated until 1940, when Benito buddied up with Adolf, and worse yet after December 7, 1941 and Pearl Harbor, when the United States entered World War II. Can you imagine - we’re at war with Hitler and Mussolini and right there in the cradle of American pride in the United States South, unless you’re one of the thousands of Dixie Separatists who were still pissed about losing the Civil War to the damned Northerners, and right there in your face at City Hall is a tit sucking statue given to the city by Mussolini Himself?!!

Why let’s melt the sucker and make bullets to shoot the bastard with. Or maybe just dynamite it and send it to hell, with the devil and the rest of those Nazi non-believers.

Fortunately the Capitoline Wolf with Romulus and Remus was spirited away and replace by an American Flag, until 1952, when they dusted it off and put it back in front of City Hall. By the way, if you are curious, Romulus and Remus were the mythical twins sons of Mars, the god of war and Rhea Silvia, (a babe) the daughter of King Numitor of Alba Longa. (which takes us back to the 7th century BC - long before Elvis) King Numitor was overthrown by his brother Amulius who then ordered Romulus and Remus to be cast into the Tiber River. (bad uncle) They were rescued by a she-wolf (thus the tit suckling statue) who cared for them until a herdsman found and raised them (as sheep). (Sounds like the Moses story - except Romulus and Remus never really forgot they were wolves) (wolves in sheep clothes, or so the (my) story goes) Romulus and Remus grew (into big bad (wolf) warriors) and after reclaiming Alba Longa for King Numitor, (a Romulan humanoid from the planet Romulus in the Beta Quadrant) (Which brings Star Trek into the equation - and finally connects Rome to Romula) the brothers began plans for a city near the site of their rescue on the banks of the Tiber. (they were actually gay interior designers at heart) During a (hissy-fit) quarrel over the city’s name, (Remus wanted to name the city Uncle Remus) Romulus killed Remus. (he could have just slapped him) He then built the city, giving it his name. Rome. And not to be dismissed, Joel Chandler Harris lived in Atlanta, Georgia, not that far from Rome, when he wrote all the Uncle Remus stories. See how it all comes together?


Uncle Remus and the young Vulcan Spock to his left collecting Southern negro data

Which also brings up my sense of humor. Am I crossing the line with a picture of Uncle Remus? I have to confess that I did cross the line with the word "hillbilly," and humbly apologize to all them "Mountain Folk" out there who were avidly reading my blogs until I offended them. I'm a naive Yankee, I'll admit. Not a Damn Yankee, mind you, who is a naive Northerner who actually lives in the South and offends everyone with the mere intrusion, especially if they aren't a God-fearin' Christian, or didn't go to the High School of the town they moved to. Which, upon saying this, I hope doesn't upset all my God-fearin' fans. I'm just trying to sort out how exactly I can be my on-the-road (just telling it as I sees it) satirist writer self without every now and again not upsetting someone who is not me. I certainly don't upset myself, unless I'm doing something that is not selfish, which would be somewhat insincere if you know what I mean - which I don't think you or anyone else would really appreciate.

Stay tuned. I'm not done with The Trail of Tears and that damn Andrew Jackson.

Love and blessings, David Dakan Allison









I Am that I Am

The Ki Earth Journal continues on as a chronicle of people, places, things, and events; recorded in blog form as I travel around the United States in the summer of 2010. I thoroughly enjoy taking and sharing pictures, (for some reason they won't load in today) and talking about the places I go and the people I meet. I plan to have more interviews and dialogs with interesting people - like the hillbilly and his wife a few days ago.

And there is absolutely no mistake about it - this is also a spiritual journey - a finding of my way home. Exposing myself in the most transparent and honest way possible. This Journal is the humble offerings of a man seeking true life meaning. I intend to go as deep as I possibly can in my openings to innocence; my becoming genuinely human. The blogs are not teachings or suggestions . . . they are invitations to share this journey with me, if you will - a journey from outer observations to the inner observations and back again. The following from the Osho Tarot sums my journey up:

Zen says truth has nothing to do with authority, truth has nothing to do with tradition, truth has nothing to do with the past - truth is a radical, personal realization. You have to come to it.

Knowledge is certain; the search for personal knowing is very, very hazardous. Nobody can guarantee it. If you ask me if I can guarantee anything, I say I cannot guarantee you anything. I can only guarantee danger, that much is certain. I can only guarantee you a long adventure with every possibility of going astray and never reaching the goal. But one thing is certain: the very search will help you to grow.

I can guarantee only growth. Danger will be there, sacrifice will be there; you will be moving every day into the unknown, into the uncharted, and there will be no map to follow, no guide to follow. Yes, there are millions of dangers and you can go astray and you can get lost, but that is the only way one grows.

Insecurity is the only way to grow, to face danger is the only way to grow, to accept the challenge of the unknown is the only way to grow.

Although the above says that truth has nothing to do with the past, I believe that the revelation of truth is shaped by the past. When I visited my Junior High after 50 years, it revealed part of the story that shaped my life today. This morning I wondered if I could find any other stories at the beginning of decades. In 1960 I was 13 in a new school in Columbus, Ohio. In 1970 I traveled from LA around the world, a high adventure which includes many wonderful stories I’m anxious to share. In 1980 I was married and my second son Aaron was born - we owned a restaurant in Homer, Alaska. In 1990 I moved to Kauai as a carpenter. I found this 2000 letter which I feel compelled to share - an honest recording of who I was then. It also totally illustrates who I am at this moment, 10 years later.

A day in my life #63 October 3, 2000

Dear Ones,

In January of this year I went through a brief period of depression. A downward spiraling series of events proved to me that my behavior towards, my choices concerning woman, money and life in general did not work, had never really worked, and never would work. Period. My depression came when I ran out of lifelines and the question was, “Is “this” your final answer?” My choices were 1) yes 2) no 3) duh 4) what was the question? I had no idea which one to pick. Regis from hell would keep repeating the question, “Is this your final answer?” until finally, in front of a packed audience of myself, I screamed “NO!!!!!!” And Regis says, “You have just won $500 and we’re going for $1000.” Ugh.

I realized that in order to continue living – living with any value or feelings of self-respect, self-esteem and self-worth, I had to change – I had to metamorphosis myself. I had to.

Putting new engines in old jalopies isn’t easy. I’d been lugging my caterpillar body/mind around for 53 years and the thought of completely reinventing myself, of actually becoming a butterfly, was frightening. So I blubbered like an old fool for awhile and, thank God, my son Alan held my hand with wise and helpful counseling.

My metamorphosis came while embracing two teachings. One is a daily reading from A Course in Miracles (I read a lesson every morning upon rising) and the other is, beginning with the reading of a book titled “Zen and Now,” a daily card drawing and reading from the beautiful and enlightened Osho tarot deck.

Both teachings are reminders of who I really am, as opposed to who I thought I was or who I thought I wanted to be. Osho has reminded me to live life like the Zen masters do. For them, for me to the best of my ability, every act is a sacred act performed with intention, honor and grace.

I have found that as I commit to living in the here and now and plant those zen seeds of intention, honor and grace with conscious action, the seeds have slowly but surely taken hold, taken root and have begun to grow flowers.

Several months ago I shared regarding an Osho card that I frequently pull. This particular card has become my theme card for the year 2000. Here it is again –

Flowering

Zen wants you living, living in abundance, living in totality, living intensely – not at the minimum as Christianity wants you, but at the maximum, over-flowing. Your life should reach to others. Your blissfulness, your benediction, your ecstasy should not be contained within you like a seed. It should open like a flower and spread its fragrance to all and sundry – not only to the friends but to strangers too. This is real compassion, this is real love: sharing your enlightenment, sharing your dance of the beyond.

This is why I write to you.

There are 78 cards in the Osho deck. Every morning I thoroughly shuffle the deck, cut it into three piles and pull the top card off the middle pile. In the 30 days of September I pulled “Flowering” 10 times, including the last four days of the month four times in a row. That’s not totally true. On the 30th I cut the cards and pulled “Suppression.” I immediately looked at my body all slumped over. I was all serious and not smiling – like I was in this box and wanted to stay there. The card was a perfect reflection of myself that moment. And . . . I didn’t want that moment to be my day. I sat up straight, threw my arms out wide, smiled, laughed to myself and said, “All right – now I’m ready for my Flowering card.” I shuffled again and pulled it.

Zen or God or my Highest Self (the All I Can Be Me) wants me to live in totality . . . wants all of us to live in totality.

And Regis from Heaven has this show called “Who wants to be a god?” All of us do.

If you were to ask your typical realized being, Jesus for instance, if He wants to be a god, He would answer, “Surely I Am, for God and I are One.” Or something along those lines.

What Abraham and Moses and Jesus and Buddha and Mohammed and Krishna and all the other Cosmic All-stars had in common with you and I, is the physical body. Now that’s pretty obvious. But you have to ask – if they all had their God ducks in a row, if before their holy births they realized without a shadow of a doubt their Oneness with God, then why bother to take a physical body? Why didn’t they choose to just hang out in Heaven all day, play their harps, frolic with the angels, smile down and leave us earth fools to our folly?

Well, there’s a reason. God is Pure Consciousness. When we die we return to Pure Consciousness in the non-physical. In our all knowing state of Pure Consciousness in the non-physical we know whether or not we lived a life of Pure Consciousness in the physical or not. All those guys in the last paragraph are saying in one way or another. “In my great love and compassion for all humanity I have come to demonstrate what it’s like to live in Pure Consciousness while in a physical body. I am here to show you that there is no separation between God and I – that God and I are One. I’m here to show you what you can do. Check it out.”

Of course all those saints and mystics and shaman and nuns and bodhisattvas and enlightened cowgirls throughout the centuries most seriously checked it out and did their very best to follow the ways of the All-stars. Many actually succeeded, and left the physical, while the rest, God love them, died trying. And the billions of us puppies left licking the Big Dog’s bones? How about them puppies? Some don’t give a shit, some do, and the rest of the litter give it a good sniff now and then. Are you still there, God? Help me! Elvis has left the building.

I keep thinking that it doesn’t have to be that big of a deal. Somewhere along the line a medieval marketing department made us believe that only those who can dribble and dunk can make the All-star team. I don’t buy it. We’re all on the All-star team!!!!!

When a baby is born, that baby enters the world in Pure Consciousness and innocence. After a few mid-night waaaaaaaa’s and some poopy diapers we forget. We (all of us parents, aunties and uncles, big brothers and sisters) become unknowing agents of those medieval marketing assholes (actually it goes back much farther than that) and we take right up with telling that Pure Conscious baby, “You’re not That, you’re this.”

When we sleep at night we return to Pure Consciousness – we (all of us) return to Oneness with God. When we open our eyes in the morning and Bob next to us is farting or the kids are already up fighting with each other or we feel our aches and pains, we immediately (in-correctly) verify again, “I’m not That (for sure Bob’s not That), I’m this.”

Well, let me be your brother (not the guy on the cross or the lotus blossom – your, I’ve been known to fart like Bob, brother) reminding you, YOU ARE THAT!!!!!! You’re not “this.” “This” is bullshit. “THAT” is who you are.

“This” is not my final answer. My metamorphosis came about when I decided that I am no longer going to buy “this.” “This” being the world energy thought that all of us mere mortals are less than “That.” I’m not buying it. I Am the god that I Am. You (YOU!) are the god, you are the goddess that you Are.

How do you remember that? You get up in the morning and you smile. You look around and thank the Creator and all the creator elves for everything your see that’s been created. You thank the Mother for the earth you live on and all life upon it. You thank your brilliance for birthing yourself into the physical where you have another opportunity to demonstrate Pure Consciousness. How do you do that? How do you demonstrate your godliness?

You do it the very best way that you can.

How would a Zen Master do it? How would a god do it? They do it with intention, with honor and with grace. They scramble their best eggs. They make sure their pee hits the water. They consider consequences and act accordingly. They have fun or they forget it. They love whatever you don’t; whatever you do. They kiss babies. They do what floats their boat.

However YOU choose to live your life, live it as if every moment here is a privilege, an honor given to you; a sacred experience. Live your life as a flower, flowering. As the Osho card says, live in abundance, live in totality, live intensely – at the maximum, over-flowing. Live in the physical as if you are the god that you are. Love yourself. Carry the Pure Consciousness from your sleep over into your awakening and walk it – simply by saying “I Am.”

With great love and honor for who you truly are,

David Dakan Allison

Chattanooga Pictures

I’m thoroughly enjoying Chattanooga, Tennessee and the time I’m spending with my long lost sister June (actually I’m the one who was long lost for 20 years in Hawaii) and her husband Scott, in their Ringgold, Georgia home. From my layman architect, interior designer point of view, this is a Metropolitan Home, beautifully laid out and furnished, with family antiques and treasures that span several generations.


June and Scott's Living Room

The three story home hugs the side of a hill, with a forest below that goes on forever. I truly feel as though I did something right to have gone from one home filled with true Southern hospitality to another. In my journey to find home and family there is not a doubt in my mind that I’m getting closer and closer. It seems that I’m a blink away from having all my dreams come true. To my surprise, in this house of treasures, I found some original Dakan Art:


Dakan Art Glass - circa 1978


Dakan Mask - circa 1991

Chattanooga is a clean, rich city. Old turn of the last century buildings have been restored and occupied by cool shops, restaurants and galleries. Public art is everywhere. Walking paths lead you down to or up across the Tennessee River. It is all quite lovely. The other day Scott and I went to the Hunter Museum in downtown Chattanooga, which is half historic country mansion and half high vaulted glass modern architecture. In the contemporary art side I was pretty much blown away with the glass art of Steven Powell. I had watched glass blowing before, but had absolutely no idea how anyone could blend the intense colors together the way Steven does. The video of how its done kept me spellbound for a good twenty minutes. I continue to be fascinated and impressed with the true Masters of Art.




Today June and I walked around Rock City, on the top of a mountain outside of Chattanooga. Rock City has nothing to do with rock music.





It is cluster of Enormous Rocks, that are butted up within inches or feet of one another. Paths lead you between them, in slivers so close that a normal fat person would get stuck. Set Stone walls, bridges and walkways, built back in the 1920’s, connected it all. Growing beside the walkways and stones was an arboretum, with signs identifying every plant, shrub and tree. At the very top lookout you can, on a clear day, see seven States. This day was a bit foggy, so I imagine we only saw three or four down below. Below are more pictures of Rock City.



One of the earth people






Dakan face - 1991