Short Stories & Social Commentary, by Charles Carreon

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THE STRANGER, by Charles Carreon

Suddenly, he was there. Talking with the stewardess about his seat, easily agreeing to sit in an alternative empty seat, since his assigned one was occupied. Agreeing to sit on the aisle seat in her row, leaving a comfortable space between them of one empty seat. Stowing his bags away quietly in the overhead compartments. Sitting down sort of comfortably, sort of carefully. Placing a book between them on the empty seat, something thick and worn, with a bright blue cover and embossed silver letters.

He was kind of tall and definitely thin. Wearing black jeans, black pullover, and black tennis shoes with a white patch and blue star on the inside of each ankle. He had a ponytail braid about a foot long, knotted tight like a whip, with loose strands at the end, unbound. He had a kind of unusual face, pale, with dark eyebrows, framed by curling grey wisps at the temples. His voice was sort of sweet, accommodating, perhaps a little childlike, but with a firm base.

She smiled with her own full lips. She thought about her makeup. Had she put too much on? No, she'd checked it closely before she went out. For a moment she wished she'd worn some lipstick, then pressed the thought down, like an unneeded item in a cluttered purse. He was smiling back.

The conversation began. Some small overture on her part was taken up like a hand she'd extended at the start of a dance. His voice was soft and continuous, and her responses were not weak or demurring. The conversation took off like the short-hop jet itself, as they both talked over the in-flight announcements, the safety lecture, the roaring turbines of the jets and settled into the stratosphere of communication.

He was a roguish person. Not salacious or crude, not at all -- she wouldn't have liked that at all. But he had a bit of a teasing style of suggesting one outre concept after another, and then adopting it as his own, just as she allowed that such a view did not frighten her.

And indeed it did not frighten her. For even if this man were a devil, as seemed quite a bit more possible with each successive word that danced from his lips, even if ... she was strong in her faith, a faith nothing could shake. The faith of her fathers, strong as stone pillars, hallowed as the tilled soil of the heartland, as pure as the maiden skin of her virginal belly. Faith upon which other faiths were broken, the rock of ages.

He, on the other hand, professed only a strange faith. He claimed to do good by easing the weight of justice on the backs of criminals. He talked about drugs and sex and family abuse like they were everyday occurrences. He professed a belief in kindness as the supremely divine attribute, the hallmark of God in humanity. He made an argument against the existence of hell as a permanent condition on the grounds no god could be so cruel as to permanently condemn his creatures for sins of transient importance.

Then at last, she had to venture forth. Her questions came one upon the other -- did he believe in reincarnation? Did not justice require punishment? Was not her book the supreme authority? Could both of them be correct in their beliefs? If she were right, as she knew she was, did not an eternity of torment await him?

His statements became more difficult to follow. He gazed more deeply into her eyes. She felt he was looking at her more closely than anyone else ever had, certainly any stranger. He seemed to be prolonging his words, punctuating them with his gaze, trying to get her to hear the silence between the words. He quoted scripture -- "be still and know that I am God." She protested that empty space was not knowledge. He insisted that words of doctrine were not stillness.

She retreated, raising her weapons again, beautiful weapons. Her faith was safe, never had been imperiled. The edge on her sword of belief was sharp, gleamed with light. The weight of her shield was comforting, and she raised it before, proud of the golden cross that adorned it. From behind its shelter, she expressed her regret that he was so close, with his sincerity and love of kindness, and yet so grievously mistaken, so unavoidably doomed. She saw him, foolish in his professed wisdom, like a common wildflower tossing its head without a care for the morrow, heedless of the scythe. He did not yield his ground, the stranger, and his eyes continued to twinkle as his mouth seemed more resigned.

There was something he was not saying, some argument he would not bring forth. She knew it. It left her feeling confused. At one point he seemed to come close, but then he said something so strange it felt as if she had been handed an imaginary object that dissolved upon touch.

He could not say, would not say; it would be unseemly and taking advantage of her youth to say -- love, my child, burns all your theories, all the pages of your book. Love wrecks the smooth skin of your belly and the innocence of your thoughts. Love averts the hailstorms and the lightning threatened by the lawgivers. Love smolders on your lips, consumes your mind, and razes your heart. Love takes you where the wind will blow and the water flow. He did not say these things, and thus his argument seemed incomplete. The plane landed.

Her flights were mixed up. She had hours to wait. They crossed paths again in the airport. He was leaving just then. She felt a little lost. The hours would be wasted. Perhaps a few more moments, and she could have heard the rest of the story, and made a last bid to save this errant, and troubling, stranger.

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A NEW RECIPE FOR UPSTAIRS?, by Charles Carreon

It seems that everything eventually runs its course, even at the ACFS Corral. Recently, there have been signs that the mood of hopelessness surrounding the upstairs development is giving way to some positive, innovative ideas. It is heartwarming when the light of sense begins to dawn over the dull haze of long-standing inertia. The food store is, after all, sitting under a potential gold mine. In a town like this, where properties change hands and value faster than the action in a Monopoly game, the commercial value of the upstairs is potentially enormous.

But ACFS has a philosophy -- "Food for people, not for ... etcetera," -- and the upstairs corollary of this should certainly be "Space for people, not for profit." Of course, "the people" do not have the cash necessary to make the space usable. It will be necessary to activate at least a portion of the profit potential of the upstairs in order to finance its development. And, perhaps because nature abhors a vacuum, perhaps because the time has come for a good idea, we are beginning to hear about proposals for the use of the upstairs -- the most concrete being the one from Sandler Films. I understand at this time that Allen Sandler has withdrawn his proposal, but it still seems important to note that this plan, and others like it, which would subordinate the use of the upstairs space to the control of a single commercial interest, are really not in harmony with the basic reasoning behind creating a Community Center.

The Sandler offer is a good thing, for it wakes us up to the value of our possession. But to allow a private commercial venture to possess a controlling interest in the destiny of the upstairs will, inevitably, cause the major portion of the actual cash benefits to go into the pockets of relatively few people. ACFS, philosophically speaking, should aspire to exactly the opposite sort of result for our upstairs. We should try to share all of the benefits (the space, the profits, the services provided) as equally as possible, so that the community will be truly enriched -- not merely by the creation of a new stage for theatre or gatherings, but by a variety of services which are needed and desired by the members of ACFS.

Many people have worked to make the upstairs what it is, pouring uncounted hours of skilled and willing labor into a project which they understood to be the creation of a focal point for diverse community activities. This intention must not be abandoned -- we must keep faith with our starting energy, and any plans to actualize the profit potential of the upstairs should preserve the Community Center as the centerpiece of all structurings of the physical space and the rights of usage. Office spaces, a mercantile store, a craft coop where local craft-people can sell and trade without markups, a kitchen -- all of these are things would complement the atmosphere of the Community Center, making it a natural place for interaction.

ACFS will get what it wants out of the upstairs if we can define our goal clearly. A first step toward forming our ideas might be to create some preliminary plans (or publicize existing ones) for the use of floor space. This would give us some kind of handle for dealing with interested groups who might want to know what amount of space would be available to them under what conditions and costs. The idea of seeking monies to establish a mercantile store seems flexible enough to work with, since it could be managed without impinging on the community space (if that were part of the plan), and a mercantile store could channel a lot of very useful cash through the space and thus assist the development.

At any rate, the pot is boiling, and these are just seasonings for the stew which we can all create together. Perhaps the time is right for coming up with a recipe.

(October,1982, Issue 45, "More Than Food," Ashland, Oregon)

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BOOK REVIEW: BORN IN TIBET, by Charles Carreon
[Published in "More Than Food," house organ of Ashland Community Food Store, Ashland, Oregon, circa 1980.]

As far as I know, "Born in Tibet" was the first bit of literature, the tip of the Trungpa iceberg, that has since appeared on the contemporary spiritual scene. It chronicles his early life, the unique circumstances of his upbringing as a tulku (a reincarnated spiritual teacher), as well as his personal account of the catastrophe which drove the Tibetan people from their home amid the snowy heights.

Being the eleventh incarnation in the illustrious lineage of the Trungpa Tulkus, his rebirth as the child of Tugtso-Drolma in a small village in Tibet was divined by the Gyalwa Karmapa, the supreme head of the Kagyu lineage. When the monks who were coming to ascertain the genuineness of this prediction arrived at the home of the infant, he appeared very glad to see them, waving as they arrived. When they left, though a mere eleven month babe, he laid his hand on their heads in blessing. His enthronement as the abbot of Surmang monastery took place two months later, and it is related that he did not cry even once.

His formative years slowly led up to the training in scholarly discipline that forms the basis of spiritual illumination, and further, the mastery of the various means by which beings may be freed of delusion. His memories of his tutors all seem to be fond ones, as well as humorous. I particularly enjoyed reading how Apho Karma would first prostrate before the young tulku, then speak some words of edification, and then administer the required chastisement "to the appropriate part" of his body.

Gradually this form of outer study became blended with the spiritual transmission he received from his gurus. Foremost among these was Jamgon Kongtrul of Sechen, himself an incarnate lama, who had received teachings from the Tenth Trungpa. It is through this method of passing the Light from one tulku to the next that Tibetan Dharma has remained a living teaching, losing none of its force over the centuries since its establishment by the famed magician and teacher, Guru Padmasambhava.

This entire process of passing on the transmission was paralleled by the growing menace of the Chinese intruders. While each passing year brought an increase of maturity and wisdom to the youthful tulku, it also revealed the dominating intentions of the Communist intruders. Like the rising tide, it soon became apparent that the Chinese would not rest until all things went their way. From poster plastering and road building, to the enlistment of spies and coercion of chieftains and local leaders, to the actual murder of lamas and landowners, it is plain to see that the Chinese were following a premeditated plan in their takeover of Tibet. By the time Trungpa decides to escape, it is nearly too late, and the hundreds of refugees who attach themselves to him are forced to endure a months-long trek through desolate mountain passes, dodging the Chinese, eating little or nothing for days on end. It almost becomes an adventure story, and yet, it is something more, because it speaks as the test of Trungpa's practical presence of mind and inner growth after a lifetime of esoteric study. When all around others were losing their grip and acting irrationally, the young Tulku maintained an incredible constancy of energy, and fulfilled the faith of his followers.

After arriving in India, fate took him to England, a scholarship at Oxford, etcetera. Somehow, he felt that the important ingredient in his life was missing, which was resolved on a visit to Bhutan. There, during a ten-day retreat at Tagtsang (where Guru Rinpoche first manifested in wrathful form in order to subjugate evil forces before entering Tibet), Trungpa prayed for guidance. At first, he says, nothing happened, and then he received what he sought. "The message that I received from my supplication was that one must try to expose spiritual materialism (the term Trungpa used to describe egoistic manifestations of spiritual practice) and all its trappings, otherwise true spirituality could not develop. I began to realize that I would have to take daring steps in my life." He did not last long in England.

At this point, he becomes part of the American scene, founding Tail of the Tiger in Vermont, scandalizing the uncertain, headlining at Naropa with Ram Dass. It is worthy of note that Trungpa speaks with great warmth about Suzuki Roshi, the founder of Tassajara and the Zen Center in San Francisco. He also has many kind words for the late Thomas Merton, whom he characterizes as "an open, unguarded, and deep person ..."

"Born in Tibet" is the simple, direct story of a life that has been lived with great clarity. If emotionality and attachment are missing, feeling and warmth are not. The spare, simple drawings by Trungpa add much to the text. It is a splendid introduction to a teacher who will doubtless be remembered as one of the most colorful founders of American Dharma.

Next month, Part two of this series: "Meditation in Action" and "Mudra," Chogyam's only book of poetry, and well worth reading.

(December, 1979, Issue no. 16, "More Than Food," Ashland, Oregon)

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IMAGINARY BOOK REVIEW: THE NO-CARE CHILDCARE BOOK, by Charles Carreon

THE NO-CARE CHILDCARE BOOK -- a handbook for parents with limited commitment, by Lee and Mary Usual

In today's rush-rush world, children are often left out in the cold, swept under the rug, given the short end of the stick, and in general exposed to a continuous stream of pedestrian treatment which, we are warned, will blunt their receptivity to life in general and foster feelings of resentment toward their parents, in particular. News of this regrettable phenomenon has given rise to a wave of concern among sensitive parents, already concerned about their parenting abilities. All in a rush, they buy child-size furniture and organize their own lives around Montessori activities involving brooms with shortened handles and sandpaper letters to stimulate the child's tactile sense. Their conversations with their children become slow, careful, considered exchanges between equals. A new school of child-rearing encourages parents never to forget for a moment the delicate and impressionable qualities of the child. Like avocadoes or peaches, careless handling can swiftly reduce a child to a mass of unappealing bruises.

This new book by the Usuals provides a refreshing alternative to the attitude which emphasizes the importance of a warm bath following the trauma of birth, titty till the child rejects it in disgust, and potty training as an elective. While one may not agree with the Usuals on every point, their philosophy of benign neglect may be far more appealing to many parents than are the rigorous developmental timetables emphasized by the new school of child-rearing. The central idea of this slim but valuable book is that children, while fond of attention, need, and even desire, considerably less of it than many people claim.

A sampling of chapter titles may help to convey the flavor of the book, which is liberally salted with humorous anecdotes drawn from the Usual's home life.

• Chap. 1. The Fine Art of Looking the Other Way--the core of no-care childcare
• Chap. 4. When Childproofing Becomes Adult-proof--keeping the home livable for parents
• Chap. 5. Ten Ways to Abuse An Apple--activities for pre-schoolers

And one that I found especially helpful:

• Chap. 8. No, We're Not There Yet--useful mantras for traveling with children

While many parents may not agree with the Usuals when they maintain that six-year olds are ready for unsupervised backpacking trips, they have many ideas which every parent will find helpful. Especially if you find yourself oppressed by feelings of guilt due to your disorganized style of child-rearing, but seem to lack the time or the saintly disposition required to go full-bore Montessori, this book may be for you.

(May/June, 1981, Issue 30, "More Than Food," Ashland, Oregon)

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IS GREED GOOD?, by Charles Carreon

[When I wrote this column for our Co-op newsletter, the movie "Wall Street," had not yet been filmed, so I could not quote Gordon Gekko (memorably played by Michael Douglas) and his wonderful "greed is good" speech. Nevertheless, I had an intimation that simple greed might be a less hazardous emotional material than ideological certainty. I penned the column shortly after an upheaval in our Co-op management that resulted in the complete discharge of the entire Co-op board of directors in a Nixon-style Saturday night massacre. Subsequent experience has shown that non-profit corporations of the religious and spiritual sort fall prey to the same types of manipulations. Keeping sight of the object of a dispute, and remembering not to destroy it in the process of battling for it, has since become a watchword in the management of my own affairs. Perhaps others may profit from my musings.]

With the deadline for this column only a couple of hours away, it's definitely time to find a topic. I guess I'll just write about the successful strategic nuking of the late, great Board of Directors. Actually I wasn't sleeping last month; I had merely averted my eyes to avoid having them melted from their sockets. Nothing lost, though. It was enough to see the crater left in the aftermath of the incident, to hear the garbled rumors from dazed survivors, helpless even to regroup their cause and to read the newsletter, composed in a state of shock, like a memo from a doomed civilization. Like the refugee in Graham Nash's song, "Wooden Ships," I too must ask, "Who won?" And also, "Why did it happen?" Who pushed the unstable energy of the General Membership to critical mass and beyond? Why did the advocates of caution and reasoned action choose to act in the fashion they so often deplore?

Gabriel Garcia Marquez occasionally writes about a character who has the strange habit of building things during the day and taking them apart at night. This seems to be precisely the problem here at ACFS. One month a new board is ushered in with flowers, laurels, and trumpets, and the next month their work is summarily halted by the very persons who elected them. That this does not seem like a very rational way of doing business does not occur to anyone, and if it did they probably would not care. Like Marquez's character, the mere fact that it is dark is probably sufficient reason for getting on with the process of disassembly. At least, however, this gentleman does not destroy his creations utterly, but merely takes them apart, to begin his work anew with the coming dawn. The fused slag-heap of ideology and emotion left over from this latest strategic first strike hardly invites renewed creativity.

In his works on Taoism and Zen, Alan Watts was fond of pointing out that greed may often be a more compassionate guide for action than pure, ideological dogmatism, which may sound better at first gloss. His reasoning was that while the greedy can be depended upon to curtail aggression when it threatens to destroy the object of their desire, true believers are known for their policies of extermination, and a war between partisans of irreconcilable ideologies can only be a war of mutual annihilation. That our entire world today is threatened by such monumental stupidity is common knowledge, but that our own little island of collectivity is threatened by the same dynamic is scarcely considered.

The corporation of which we are members is not immortal: it is not invulnerable, and those who insist upon taking liberties with its safety through irresponsible actions should reflect and feel cautioned. The energy of human commitment is precious, and it is easily wasted in fruitless engagements wherein one faction indulges its whims by ousting another. Those who initiated this motion may be quite satisfied with themselves, feeling that they have removed an obstacle to progress, and saved everyone from long hours of wretchedness. Granted that their action may have been a response to some irresponsibility on the part of the board, it yet remains a tremendous display of indelicacy and lack of creativity. Those who are too swift to accuse others of being intractable and uncooperative should recognize their affinity with those who order lobotomies and command hit squads -- the politics of elimination are simple and effective, but they rarely lead to conciliation or unified action.

I do not mean to sponsor yet another ideology in this column. We may be sure that when a war of mutual destruction is being fought there are ideologies on both sides, and I do not wish to join the ranks of either. But responsibility for the master stroke which broke this whole issue open like a sore lies squarely in the hands of a few. Glosses and justifications do not seem to be in order. We must consider the morality, the fragility of our collective organism, which continues to live on the basis of human commitment. Before we decide to take up a fixed position, from which we will not budge, we should consider. And before we resolve to dislodge another person from their commitment, regardless of the consequences, we should consider.

(1982, Issue 41, "More Than Food," Ashland, Oregon)

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MAHAYANA PHILOSOPHY, TANTRIC ICONOGRAPHY, AND THE MAGIC OF BUDDHIST COMPASSION IN ALLEN GINSBERG'S "SUNFLOWER SUTRA", by Charles Carreon

Every generation of poets derives inspiration from different sources. Social conditions, living environments, economic fluctuations and wars, in short, all the varied movements of life are the background for creative expression in every period of time. Writers are moved to find styles, forms, and mythic outlines appropriate to their experience, which help them to say what they want to say.

In "Sunflower Sutra," Ginsberg has used the paradoxical philosophy of Mahayana Buddhism to reconcile the decayed nature of our society with his own unitive spiritual vision.

The anxiety brought on by what Alvin Toffler called "too much change, too fast," has afflicted many persons with a sense of hopelessness, and the eagerness of youth often finds itself with little to feed upon. Our society has warred against mythical consciousness, which is the nourishment of poetic minds. Scientific reductionism has consistently triumphed over structures which once gave spiritual meaning to existence, and questions of quality have been buried under a barrage of surplus goods. The mythic landscape has been razed; the flower of life has been killed by commerce and industry.

Allen Ginsberg, born in the Eastern U.S. grew up close to the chaos and confusion of this age. His poetry has never ceased to be a reflection of the anarchic conditions of our times, and yet it always rings with a spiritual impulse. In "Sunflower Sutra," these two qualities are quite evident, and the very title implies that the poem is some sort of spiritual instruction. There is no tone of resignation in the poem, despite an unpicturesque setting. For a Buddhist it is apparent that Ginsberg is affirming the Buddha nature, which remains pure in all circumstances, ever free from dualisms of all types. It is a part of the Buddhist Mahayana (Greater Vehicle) path to affirm the supreme reality of one's Buddha Nature, regardless of the apparent extremity of a situation. "Even if the sun were to rise in the West, the Bodhisattva has only one way," said Shunryu Suzuki, the founder of Zen practice in this country. By this he meant that followers of the heroic path of Buddhism (Bodhisattvas) are pledged to uphold the pure view of all phenomena as the play of an intrinsically empty awareness "even if the sun were to rise in the West."

Ginsberg, like a good Bodhisattva, has taken up the standard of enlightenment, though in a railway-yard he can find no better emblem than the wilted, besooted corpse of a dead sunflower. The holding of the sunflower "like a sceptre" parallels the symbolic postures of Tantric deities in Tibetan Buddhist iconography. These deities, who depict various aspects of the enlightened mind, often hold a ritual implement called a vajra (diamond) sceptre, representing their possession of the untarnished and indestructible quality of the pure, original mind. Almost comically, and yet with absolute seriousness, Ginsberg takes the same sort of posture. He is willing to stand up for the purity of beings, to affirm their intrinsic beauty and worth, though it be hidden within the grime and decay of phenomenal existence.

According to the Zen tradition there is only one place to look for enlightenment, and that is in the world. The Sixth Patriarch, Hui Neng, said: "To seek for enlightenment outside the world is as foolish as looking for a rabbit's horn." Ginsberg's Sutra begins in the world, with a restless, roving description of decaying objects in a bleak environment. The sunflower is an ugly object in an ugly world. "... the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of old locomotives in its eye --" He describes it with human attributes: "... big as a man ... seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air ... leaves stuck out like arms ... a dead fly in its ear ..." It is a pathetic figure, which Ginsberg identifies as his own soul: "Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!" The sunflower, with "all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin ... artificial worse-than-dirt ..." is afflicted by civilization, but even worse it has lost its identity as a living thing from long association with "rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tin cans with their rusty tongues aslack, what more could I name ..." The sunflower is estranged from itself just like Allen and Jack: "rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily." There is real tenderness, genuine compassion in his question: "Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your sin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?" And this is the turning point of the poem, which might have led to a depressing dead end but instead turns, stirs almost astonishingly to become a song of celebration, a defiance of appearances worthy of praise. Standing aside from the tragedy, Ginsberg can say, "You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower," which is, after all, not such an amazing thing to note. But then again, who else but Ginsberg would do it?

It is said in the Bodhicaryavatara, a root Mahayana text, that to discover compassion for other beings is like finding a jewel in a dunghill, because compassion transforms every situation in life. Unlike many modern poets, Ginsberg is able to use the magic of compassion to transform his perceptions, and purify, as it were, a rotten situation. He is able to assert, for his benefit as well as our own: "We're not our skin of grime ... we're blessed by our seed." He sees "golden hairy naked accomplishment bodies" albeit "growing into mad black formal sunflowers." The insight of this perception changes the tenor of the poem. The depleted, futile atmosphere of the poem's beginning has gone. The static, disheartening quality of "we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery" has given way to an energetic vibrancy. Ginsberg's heroic declaration of life has strengthened him, and the closing image is tight, coherent and powerful: "... spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision." He has made the enlightened gesture, or as the Chinese Master, Lin Chi said, "He has spoken a good word." And that is all one can ask of a Sutra.

1979, Charles Carreon

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MY FAVORITE EPIC, AKIRA KUROSAWA'S "KAGEMUSHA, THE SHADOW WARRIOR", by Charles Carreon

Kagemusha, The Shadow Warrior, like much of Kurosawa Akira's work, is a film about feudal Japan. In this, his most recent work, the action centers around a political ruse in which the warlord Shingen, head of the Takeda clan, is impersonated for three years after his death in order to stave off attacks which might befall a leaderless state. The man who impersonates him is a nameless thief, whose physical resemblance to Shingen is his only qualification for the job, aside from his basic ingenuousness.

Kagemusha is a study in contrasts. It is a story about a very small, very simple man who is forced to assume the character of an immensely powerful warlord. The film explores the many contradictions and paradoxes which arise from such a situation, and, in the course of the story, gives us a deeper look at the meaning of leadership and power, and its relation to loyalty and faith. For the thief, unwilling at first to go along with the plan, ultimately gives all of himself out of loyalty to the deceased lord.

In the opening scene of the film we see three men sitting in an austerely elegant Japanese room finished in dark wood. Lord Shingen is sitting in the center; above him is the plain floral emblem of the Takeda clan. On his right sits his brother the adviser, on his left the thief. All three men are dressed in identical robes of grey silk. They are all slightly bald, and their black beards, streaked with grey, are all trimmed in the same distinguished style. The two nobles, Shingen and his brother, appear dignified and somewhat tired; the thief is the picture of dejection, appearing utterly disconsolate but for the resentment which tightens his body like a tensed spring. When Shingen makes a remark about the unsuitability of allowing a thief to impersonate his noble self, the little man explodes in fury. Wildly gesticulating, he roars, "I steal a few coins and hurt no one ... you kill hundreds and steal whole countries! Who is the greater thief?" Though the brother-adviser moves to draw his sword, the warlord, undisturbed, admits the accusation is true, and goes on to say that having banished his father and killed his son, he will do anything to rule. After this scene the credits begin to roll, and one realizes that a sort of magic has already begun.

The next phase of the film seems to move extremely slowly by ordinary cinematic standards, which require sustained tension as a basic element in any film. Kurosawa has rarely concerned himself with such standards. His directing is fearless in the sense that he is not afraid to let the camera linger over images long after the basic image has been established. The viewer spends a lot of time watching soldiers, in beautiful lacquered armor, marching over fields, up hills, and across ridges. With many directors this sort of footage is the result of failed attempts to achieve epic scope. Not so with Kurosawa, who somehow manages, without tricks, to inspire us with patience, encouraging us to take a second look, and a third, at what we think we have seen before. And there are rewards. An indescribable scene of a column of soldiers, passing before the setting sun, breaking its rays into a flowing display of crimson and gold, till one cannot decide what to look at -- the soldiers, the sun, or both.

Many scenes in the film examine the impact of European muskets on traditional Japanese warfare, marking that moment when technology eclipses heroism in importance. Shingen himself is killed by a sniper, and the film ends with the annihilation of an entire army by a coldly calculated barrage of musket-fire. The tone of the battle scenes, however, is reportorial, and there is no overt attempt to spark a reaction of revulsion towards violence. Kurosawa's simple style presents the mechanics of war without flinching or gawking, and saves the film from becoming stuck in easily evoked emotional patterns but limited in scope.

The thief is the focus of the film. The film helps us to see what happens to a little man who is asked to appear powerful, to seem like the very son of heaven, and who is yet granted no real power to command or initiate. His job is to deceive, and leave the ruling to the retainers. He has to deceive his grandson, a beautiful five year-old with black hair in a blue kimono who runs to his "grandfather," and after examining him briefly turns to the court and says brightly, "This is not my grandfather!" He has to fool the concubines and the horses. (The Master is ill and cannot ride.) He is surrounded by guards, at least one is always by his side, and it is his luxury to be himself whenever he is alone with one of them. In a superb cinematic moment, the thief, who has just met his guard-advisers, tries on an imposing look. The guards warn him not to get cocky, and relax into easy postures. Then, by some strange alchemy, the thief takes on the imposing, introspective look that earned Shingen his nickname, "The Mountain." The guards stiffen; unable to prevent themselves, they return to postures of perfect attention.

The imposter lives on a razor-edge. Whenever he must face those who were familiar with the lord, the retainers try to set up the situation to avoid every difficulty. But facing the concubines his composure disintegrates entirely. He cannot maintain the facade, and attempts to declare himself an impostor, but the two beauties think this is very funny. The more he protests the more they laugh, till at last he gives in and it all becomes a fine joke. One comes to realize that every day is filled with this sort of painful interaction, as the Shadow Warrior attempts to conceal his insubstantiality, or to add to the seeming substance. Only with the grandson, Takemaru, does he acquire a real personality. The two play together daily, and their love for each other is obvious. When at last the deception is ended, it is these two who suffer, and the thief will suffer more for the loss of Takemaru, it seems, than for anything else. One cannot but wonder if the warlord himself could have even approximated the sort of fondness which the thief possesses for this child.

The painful tension within the thief culminates in a dream sequence of surreal intensity, done not with camera tricks but rather, as the Japanese seem to prefer, with an unearthly stage setting. Dressed in fierce battle-armor, his face gleaming with burial oil, the warlord shatters his burial-urn from within, and emerges in awful glory. The thief, terrified, runs from him, staggering across dreamlike sand dunes of different colors. Then, suddenly, the warlord is gone. Searching for him now, the thief stumbles into a shallow pool, and the sound of his feet splashing reverberate like the roar of mighty waves. This scene symbolically crystallizes the relationship between the warlord and his shadow.

The climax of this paradoxical situation comes in battle. Shingen's son, who is too ambitious and jealous of his father's fame, is not reconciled to following this strategy of deception. He fears to live in his father's shadow, and living in the shadow of a shadow is intolerable. He ventures forth with his army, but so recklessly that the main force of the Takedas must move to protect his rear. Led by the thief, surrounded by his adviser-guards, they enter the fight. The battle continues into the night, and the Shadow Warrior has nothing to do but sit, impassive as the Mountain himself, while young boys shield his worthless plebeian self with their own bodies. The deception is successful, and the attackers, cowed at last by the Shadow Warrior's immovable presence, retreat. The thief cannot help but be pleased, almost as if he had done something.

The film ends tragically because the shadow can never become the substance. The aggressive stupidity of Shingen's son undoes all the posthumous effort of his father, and the end of the Takeda clan is as swift as water going over a cliff. There seems to be an element of fate here, for the thief's efforts held back disaster, but only for a time. The shadow could only forestall the destruction which the lord himself would have averted entirely.

The thief, for his own part, becomes one of the warlord's true servants. His final sacrifice is touching to the point of being sublime. He dies in the waters of the lake where Shingen himself was buried, reaching for the Takeda banner, which floats in the water, just out of reach, as the current bears him by.

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ON BODHISATTVAS AND BLACK MAGICIANS, by Charles Carreon



[Perhaps one can never recapture the splendor of one's youth, but when I read this naive essay, crafted no doubt in the midst of some icy winter, marooned in the middle of a field of mud and frozen teasle, living in a house made with your own hands, and those of your wife, tending little kids who never-endingly have to shit in the outhouse that is no short walk away in the driving rain, then I know what folly is. There, nurturing literary illusions, did I find myself, a noble essayist for "More Than Food," the literary organ of the august body known as Ashland Community Food Store. From such a sturdy soapbox did I proclaim my outhouse sutra.]

I. Love

If we examine our closest relationships, we will see how far they remain from any sort of total devotion or love. No matter how "much" we love someone, we still are capable of turning it off or on, depending on our mood or their behavior. This is because we "love" people as long as it serves our purposes. We "love" in order to manipulate them. We rarely conceive of expanding our love around others as a nurturing, allowing space. We keep our love inside, and control the flow in accordance with what we wish to effect upon others. This can even be considered very sophisticated and clever, but actually it is quite sterile. At this point "love" has become a medium of exchange, and the more we "love" someone in this way, the more they are in our debt. If we are discommoded by the behavior of someone we "love," we feel as if we are extending credit upon which we shall collect in due course.

Exchange oriented loving arises because love does indeed have great value. It is the most valuable thing we can possess. Ah, there's the rub. For we believe we can possess it. But love is not possessable. It is the wealth of a heart that has no gates or walls, no inside or outside. As soon as we regulate the flow of our affection, it becomes something a little different. It is no longer the pure and delightful substance it was. It still has value, but its value is now relative. We can use it to buy what we need, like dollars, but, like dollars, the value is ascribed rather than intrinsic. A dollar has not the loveliness of gold, or a diamond, nor does it contain nourishment as does a slice of bread. A dollar, by itself, without a government behind it, is nothing but a rather ugly piece of paper. It is of no use to the possessor if there is nothing to exchange it for. This is why regulated, conditional love does not nourish the one who gives it. It is also frustrative to the receiver, for it is never total, like a river flowing to the sea without restraint. It is rather a spigot which can easily be switched off. Pure love never has this quality of holding back or controlling. It is as vast as the sea, as unchanging as the sky. You cannot hold it or use it for selfish ends, but it nourishes the whole universe.

II. Growth

The saddest thing about the human condition is that this completely perverse state of affairs is taken as normal. A person who transcends these boundaries is either a fool or a saint. In most spiritual traditions there is the notion of a "transmission of wisdom" which comes from the enlightened source, and transforms the very basis of the aspirant, making possible a relationship with life which was previously unreachable.

What is often not mentioned is why this transmission is necessary. Why do we need a key to unlock the door to our hearts, if the nature of love and openness is unobstructible. The reason seems to be that humanity as a whole is also the keeper of a certain esoteric tradition. Unfortunately this tradition is more after the manner of a black art. The members of this cult are all our fellow beings in delusion, recognizable by the veil which cloaks their eyes and the shield which covers their hearts (and other soft spots). Together we perpetuate upon each other and upon our children a transmission of ignorance. There is no doubt that this cult uses brainwashing and coercive techniques, but all these things may be forgiven them, for at heart "they know not what they do." "They know not." We know not. To not know is ignorance, and ignorance is the path of the unfree.

When the ignorant initiate others into ignorance it must of necessity be a sort of spooky thing. "There is something which it is dangerous to know." "Do not look behind that door." "Here's your blindfold. Don't take it off or you'll go insane." If you ask why you cannot know, or the door cannot be opened, the blindfold removed, you hit a rut of circular reasoning, a blind reliance on authority and tradition, or a semi-rationale propped by assumptions which are no more sound than the attitudes they claim to support. And all of this, of course, because, since the unexplored territory is forbidden, the authorities, on the one hand, cannot have knowledge of it, and explorers on the other hand, may often have to operate in secret. So the aggression of these black magicians of stupidity makes the situation even stickier. And as long as we shore up our shortcomings by means of aggression, protecting ourselves from openness by means of obstinate close-mindedness, we too are black magicians.

When one of these unfortunate sorcerers of stupidity begins to become disgusted with the dark and delimited environment of ignorance, the process of transmutation may have begun. Most likely, he will begin to seek others with a similar attitude, and perhaps will in time meet with a white magician. The white magician is an unveilment of possibility. His openness is extraordinary, and, to the aspirant, he seems to see things that are "invisible." The first thing this luminous sorcerer will do is to make the potential pupil aware of the fact that he is still carrying arms and protective gear. He will explain that it is impossible to learn the way of the white magician when one is still involved with defense of self. If the pupil can learn to dispose of his weapons, it may be possible for him to begin the path of unveilment.

So here we have the picture of a true beginner. Such a person still may not see very well, but they have lain down their weapons and are working on freeing themselves of their armorplate. They do not fight to preserve their delusion. They may even gain a certain sense of dignity, of decorum, because their humility and openness makes them more magnanimous, less petty. Since they do not constantly have to attend to myriads of defensive mechanisms , they develop a stillness, a sense of composure that is quite dignified. On the other hand, they are aware of their limitations, and do not try to do more than they can. Because they realize their state of partial blindness, they do not move too impulsively, lest they bump into something. Because of this they work right with a situation, closely and precisely. There is a complete lack or arrogance, since such a person is always aware of the fact that they are beginners.

Slowly such a person's vision gradually improves. The self-interest that clouds over situations is seen more and more dispassionately. Eventually, they can reach a stage where they cut down self-interest mercilessly the instant it appears. The Buddhist tradition of the Mahayana characterizes such a person as a Bodhisattva -- a hero of light. Lao Tzu says, "The sage has no mind of his own -- he is aware of the needs of others." and, "By selfless action, the sage achieves fulfillment." When this style of action becomes firmly established, the aspirant is becoming a white magician, but does not notice it. From their point of view, they simply are living in an open environment which they take to maintain in its original state. There is no possibility of exhaustion or weariness, because there is no attachment to standards of achievement or progress. It is a situation of knowing one's job and doing it well.

As the handling of energy becomes increasingly fluid and spontaneous, the magician is less and less hindered by the limitations of self-impurities. As wisdom dissolves all apparent dualities, which are increasingly subtle, the practitioner moves toward the level of a siddha -- an Accomplished One, able to play with paradoxes and contradictions skillfully without being burned or entangled. No mere cleverness is involved here, but a real mastery of the elements of consciousness, and hence, matter. Such a master bends all his power to the service of fellow beings, and thus develops space to a level of keen precision, imbuing it with a quality of crystalline luminosity. The wisdom of such beings is so penetrating and incisive that it takes cuts on the armor of ego that cannot be healed. Likewise it is able to mend the fragmentation of mind with such skill that it will never again give way to the forces of chaos. It is said that the Siddhas use the power of chaos itself to destroy it, short-circuiting the elaborate weapons system of the self.

Beyond this level it is impossible to describe the vastness of such compassionate activity. It has been called "Light Everywhere." Such activity is as purposeless and effective as the power of the radiant sun, as unshakeable as infinite space, as supportive as the fertile earth. Bodhisattvas and novice white magicians grow on this vast expanse like numberless blades of grass, as rusting swords and moldering armor fertilize the rich soil.

Afterword: I am indebted to Carlos Castaneda for relaying Don Juan's description of our fellow men as deluded black magicians, and to the Venerable Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche for his vivid descriptions of the Buddhist path. Also, for those who may be interested in seeing a teacher who is said to have achieved the level of "Light Everywhere," be sure to watch for the visit of His Holiness Dudjom Rinpoche, the head lama of the Nyingmapa tradition of Vajrayana Buddhism.

(May, 1980, Issue 20, "More Than Food," Ashland, Oregon)

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PONTOON!, by Charles Carreon

[This is an imaginary book review of a book I didn't have time to write, from the era of the "towering blockbusters" with one-word names like "Inferno." My apocalyptic vision was tamed by the idea that "it is an ill wind indeed that blows no good for anyone." The greenhouse effect was talked about 22 years ago, although its scientific credibility was questioned as part of the delaying action to forestall positive environmental change. Thus, it seemed likely (and still does) that at some point humans will become much more interested in the ocean, particularly as it swallows up land-based encampments. I have always had a fondness for female heroines, and thus chose Naia Oceanfoam as my protagonist, borrowing her name from the famous Diana Naiad, who had just swum the English Channel, and unbeknownst to me, was being repeatedly challenged to a wrestling match by the increasingly deranged Andy Kaufman on SNL. The only thing I didn't like about Andy. So if anybody wants to write this book, have at it. I waive all claims.]

What happens to human society when the greenhouse effect melts the polar icepack and the rising oceans drown the world's coastlines, reducing livable areas on an already crowded earth? People build floating cities that span the seas, and harness the tides as their central source of energy. Whaling comes to a complete halt, and inter-cultural interchange with dolphins becomes commonplace, as people with audio implants in their scuba gear float in underwater amphitheatres while enjoying Cetacean operettas. Children learn to swim at the age of six weeks, get strong on algae steak and whale milk (obtained by the tankerload from mothers who lose their calves). Sound too good to be true? Don't worry, there's a hitch.

Some unknown force is destroying these floating utopias, leaving behind little more than wave-borne debris. The world government has no leads on the culprits at all; nevertheless, pockets of anti-cetacean bigotry are flaring up among groups of homosapien right-wingers. Naia Oceanfoam, a genetically engineered, amphibious woman and an agent for OCIS (Ocean Intelligence Service, a super-secret arm of the World Government) is given the job of uncovering the evidence that will bring the culprits to justice. In the company of her dolphin friend, Kirikitik, she sets out from her lagoon chalet on the island of Maui, hot on the trail of the saboteurs. It's a tricky job for Naia and Kirikitik, and a thrilling ride for readers as we follow them through their watery world on the trail of a gang of sinister terrorists, whose goal seems to be to destroy cooperation between water and earth-borne mammals.

(June/July, 1981, Issue 31, "More Than Food," Ashland, Oregon)

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THE BRANDON MAYFIELD CASE ESTABLISHES THE OBVIOUS UNCONSTITUTIONALITY OF PATRIOT ACT SNEAK-SEARCHES, by Charles Carreon

04/10/05:



During early 2004, a young Portland Oregon lawyer named Brandon Mayfield had his life turned upside down when the FBI arrested him and put him in secret confinement for a couple of weeks, until it finally allowed his wife to know where he was. The charges were "terrorism," and the grounds were that the FBI, in responding to a Spanish request for assistance to seek a digital match of a fingerprint found on a piece of plastic connected to the Madrid train bombings, had discovered a match with Mr. Mayfield. Supposedly they then discovered that Mr. Mayfield was married to a Muslim woman, had converted to Islam, and had represented Jeffrey Battle, one of the poor dunderheads who got thrown in jail as terrorists because their blood got hot and they went off to Pakistan to pretend to do jihad. Battle went to jail, but Mr. Mayfield had nothing to do with that aspect of Battle's life -- he had represented Battle only in a child custody dispute. The FBI plowed ahead with its case, even though Mr. Mayfield was a former Air Force JAG Corps lawyer, had never been to Spain, and the Spanish police were not supporting their forensic analysis. Shortly after the election of Zapatero as the new Spanish President, the government released Mr. Mayfield when the Spanish announced they had arrested the man whose fingerprint the FBI claimed was Mr. Mayfield's.

Eventually the charges were dropped and Mr. Mayfield actually got an apology from the FBI. During his confirmation hearings, Alberto Gonzales admitted that the Patriot Act provisions had been used in Mr. Mayfield's case.

As an Oregon lawyer, the case scared the bejeezus out of me, especially when I learned that one of the facts in the affidavit true of Mr. Mayfield was also true of me! For Mayfield's wife had once made a phone call to an Ashland man named Pete Seda, a long-time Ashland resident who was my friend dating back to 1982, when I tutored him in the English lab at SOU. He was a dyslexic Arab, which is really difficult, since they read their books from back to front. So reading English was hell for him, and I'd sit and compose his essays on the typewriter while he talked out his thoughts. It was fun, and he was very intelligent and unconventional. Well, Pete is now being charged, much to the disgust of all of us in Ashland, with some kind of terrorist claim involving his receipt of funds from a now-denounced Islamic charity. So I knew Pete well, and talked with him about his fear of persecution after 911. Indeed, I went to a redneck gas station with him one afternoon in 2002, and we collected some nasty glares. Bottom line, though, Pete Seda had been a forest protection activist back in the eighties and nineties. Then he became an Islamic peace activist, and never advocated or contemplated violence for an instant. He worked day and night at his business, The Arborist, and loved his work of caring for trees. The fact that he has had to leave the country with his family is really just a pogrom in our little town.

But back to Mr. Mayfield. Obviously, if they bothered to add the fact that his wife once called Pete Seda to the affidavit they submitted to Federal Judge Bob Jones to justify secretly jailing Mr. Mayfield, then two things must be true: (1) The US Attorney engaged in a huge slander of Pete Seda in order to imply that Mr. Mayfield's wife's call to him was in any way inappropriate, and (2) The US Attorney must have been might short on real evidence to justify the secret arrest, because calling Pete Seda is something that thousands and thousands of people have done without criminal intent. Nevertheless, Judge Jones signed the order, and directed that a man be delivered to the tender mercies of the government "intelligence" apparatus.

Looking back at fact number two -- the lack of evidence to levy against Mr. Mayfield that is implied by the use of flimsy slanders against an Ashland Islamic peace activist to suggest wrongful conduct on the part of Mr. Mayfield – we might consider what they had access to. Well, most cops don’t get to search someone’s house at all, but under the Patriot Act, they can do it secretly. This creates potential for a conversation like this:

Mr. Mayfield: (Dialing 911) Hello, 911, I have a crime to report.

911 Operator: Allright sir, where is it taking place?

Mr. Mayfield: Someone has ransacked my home and office at such-and-such location. Things are missing, and out of place. There’s no sign of forced entry, and I’m concerned for my family’s safety.

911 Operator: Oh, sir we can’t take a report from you about that.

Mr. Mayfield: Why is that?

911 Operator: Well, you see, it was definitely not criminals who went into your house.

Mr. Mayfield: How is that?

911 Operator: Well, sir, I can’t tell you, but we cannot take your report.

Of course, this is absolutely not a joke, although it provokes some people to laughter. This is really horrific, and the sort of privacy invasion that is currently apparently considered constitutional by Judge Jones. As a matter of fact, since every Federal Judge has sworn to uphold the Constitution, I think they should resign before they sign even one secret search or secret arrest order.

So after getting the secret search order, what did they get from the search? Zip. Nada. Nothin’. Zero. Just his family DNA, copies of all his computer hard drives, a few cigarette butts that had already been smoked, etcetera. Then, the FBI apparently just put this data out for its people to share, distribute, examine, and spread about freely with no accounting whatsoever for that dissemination, or thinking that somehow this vast, unwarranted privacy invasion of a single man’s life would ever be unraveled.

The provisions of the Patriot Act permitting these judicially-assisted invasions of privacy, will ultimately be determined to be totally unconstitutional when the Gonzales-Ashcroft school of civil liberties is felled like the misbegotten Philistine Goliath that it is. Who will be the David who brings down this cruel, brutal, senseless enemy of freedom? Well, since we are past the days of fighting through champions, those Davids must be ourselves. If all that is required for evil to prevail is the silence of good people, then we should speak up now, before some FBI agent learns that we’ve been talking to peace activists.

The article from the Oregonian provides a smoking gun (in blue below) from the FBI’s own vault. Please note that the FBI confession is, by its own terms, incomplete, as it admits that it also conducted wiretaps and other physical searches of his life.

Bottom line – how can you protect yourself against sneek-and-peek searches? Same way you can protect yourself from thieves – covert video surveillance of your own home. In other words, we now have to protect ourselves from the government as if it were a criminal. I tell you – if Mr. Mayfield had known that Men In Black had pawed through his office, copied all his documents, disk drives, and bagged up the contents of his ashtrays, what do you think he would have done? You know, Portland is not that far from Canada, and I think sometimes the cold air up there is a good thing. Clears the head.

David Sarasohn, for The Oregonian wrote:
A new word on Mayfield, the Patriot Act
Friday, April 08, 2005

A year after he was released from prison with an FBI apology, Brandon Mayfield recently learned some more things about his arrest as a terrorist.

At the same time, Congress -- holding hearings on the reauthorization of the USA Patriot Act -- learned a little more about the act, and about what happens when Congress gives government vast new powers without stopping to think about it.

Ever since the arrest and awkward release of Mayfield, on the mistaken grounds that his fingerprint was found on an item connected with the terrorist train bombing in Spain last March, the Justice Department has insisted that the Patriot Act had nothing to do with his arrest. That insistence continued through the opening of Attorney General Alberto Gonzales' testimony Monday to the Senate Judiciary Committee -- and then ended a few hours into the testimony, when Gonzales said that, well, yes, a couple of the Patriot Act powers had been involved.

Gonzales told the senators that the FBI had indeed used new powers of electronic surveillance, as well as another section of the act, in its investigation of the Beaverton lawyer -- based on a mishandled fingerprint and, implicitly, his identity as a Muslim convert. Agents collected quite a bit.

At the end of March, as part of his lawsuit against the federal government, Mayfield's attorney received a statement:

"Mr. Mayfield is hereby notified that the following property was seized, altered or reproduced during (Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act) searches of his residence: three hard drives of three desk top computers and one loose hard drive were copied; several documents in the residence were digitally photographed; ten DNA samples were taken and preserved on cotton swabs and six cigarette butts were seized for DNA analysis; and approximately 335 digital photographs were taken of the residence and the property therein . . . Mr. Mayfield is also hereby notified that he was the target of electronic surveillance and other physical searches authorized pursuant to FISA."

Nobody at this point thinks any of the material seized has any national security significance. Nobody now thinks the secret evidence behind the search meant anything.

People do know that anything collected can now be widely shared.

"There is no idea," says Steven T. Wax, federal public defender who first worked with Mayfield, "how many hundreds and hundreds of people, in intelligence offices around the world, now have access to private materials on Mr. Mayfield, his children and perhaps some of his clients."

Plus his family's DNA.

In fact, Mayfield can't know exactly what's out there.

"Worse still," says Rep. John Conyers, ranking Democrat on the House Judiciary Committee, "the department still refuses to give Mayfield a full accounting of what searches were conducted, when they were conducted and what exactly was seized. When an innocent man can't even find out the extent to which his rights have been violated, something is very, very wrong with our system of checks and balances."

That fear, that something has gone off the rails, is why Gonzales was called to testify this week before the Senate and House judiciary committees, considering whether to reauthorize or amend the Patriot Act. It's why a bipartisan group of senators, led by Larry Craig, R-Idaho, has reintroduced the Security and Freedom Ensured Act, which would limit the government's powers to make secret searches without showing probable cause.

"I think we've got a chance to get some of it done," says Sen. Russell Feingold, D-Wis., the only senator to vote against the Patriot Act in 2001 and now a SAFE Act co-sponsor. Feingold notes that now even Gonzales is open to some limits -- although the administration also wants other changes to expand its powers even more.

The Mayfield case, Feingold says, "had a big effect on the whole attitude that anybody who criticized the law really wasn't concerned about terrorism." When Gonzales changed course and admitted a Patriot Act role in the case, "That was noticed at the hearing."

The case resounds in other places. In Salem this week, a Patriot Act-driven House bill to require state employees to stay within the Oregon Constitution was referred to committee. Last session, the state Senate passed a resolution calling for changes in the act, 23-2, the most bipartisan thing that happened there all year. Last month, the Montana House passed a similar bill, 88-12.

"The Mayfield case certainly does touch a red button for people here," says Rep. Peter Buckley, D-Ashland, co-sponsor of the House bill. "It's one way we make the case that the Patriot Act has led to actions unacceptable to the state."

Last week, we learned more about the Mayfield case.

And just how far the Patriot Act can go.

David Sarasohn, associate editor of The Oregonian, can be reached at 503-221-8523 or davidsarasohn@news.oregonian.com.