AN IMPEDIMENT OF SPEECH

     Each Sunday the group would meet for special projects. It was a
spiritual group interested in learning to work harmoniously together.
This particular Sunday they met at Claymont Court, a colonial estate
that was part of an historic tour in the Shenandoah Valley. There were
12 participants on this occasion and after all had arrived, Pierre,
who would conduct the excercise, led them down a narrow two-track road
to a clearing where there was a gazebo resting on un-level ground and
behind it a greenhouse.

   "Now, everyone, from this moment I would like you to all cease
talking. You will work in silence. First, everyone walk around the
area and see what we have here." Pierre swept his arm, inviting them
to inspect the premises.

    All began to wander around in random directions. The gazebo was
fairly large, intact and constructed as an independent and moveable
unit. The greenhouse itself was about 40 feet long and perhaps 18 or
twenty feet wide. There were some broken glass panes that had been
covered with Visqueen. There were a half dozen tables inside, strewn
with soil, dead plants, shards of flower pots, knots of twine, garden
spades, seed packages and plastic icecube trays. On the dirt floor
were partial sacks of potting soil, fertilizers and spray bottles.
Various garden rakes and shovels and such were scattered about.

    Outside the structure were wheelbarrows, more shovels, plastic
pots half filled with dirt and dead plants with vines curling
everywhere, around everything, climbing the glass and its metal
framing. A small garden was overgrown with weeds. The shrubbery was
encroaching upon the entire area. Complete and maturing neglect was
its proprietor.

    Walter and Lucy were the first to return to where Pierre was
waiting. They exchanged smiles and rolled there eyes. Walter filled
his cheeks with air and released it slowly, his eyebrows raised,
suggesting how formidable the task seemed. As each returned a similar
expression was repeated.

    Pierre said, "Sit down."

   "Everyone, take a few minutes and close your eyes and picture how
you think the area should look when you are finished. You have one and
a half hours before I will tell you to stop."

    Walter saw in his mind a complete clearing of everything, with
organized tools and tables ready to begin a fresh start with new
seedlings. Outside, the garden was weeded and the soil turned over,
the vines cut down and the shrubbery pruned back. But an hour and a
half seemed not nearly enough time. He figured to accomplish that
would take at least two afternoons. If it took longer, he was willing
to come back. He focused his mind on the image of the project
completed.

    Pierre said, "O.K. begin."

    Walter got up and went immediately to a wheelbarrow and rolled it
inside. He parked it near a table and looked around. He began
gathering the shovels and rakes and garden tools and brought them to a
corner and leaned them neatly in a row. He picked up the broken pots
and any debris and loaded it all into the wheelbarrow. He toiled at
this for what seemed a long time. Several of the others were in there,
also, going about cleaning off the tables and taping the loose
Visqueen. Outside he could see everyone working steadily like ants.

    He started examining the partial sacks of fertilizers and top soil
and potting soil and insecticides. The partial sacks puffed clouds up
into his face as he rolled them closed with the excess paper. He
carried them to the wall and organized them. The dirt in the air was
claiming his sinuses. He used an index finger for emunction*. He was
watching Lucy through the glass outside, clipping vines above her
head. His emmetropia played tricks on him. Lucy seemed to be doing
jumping-jacks. The deeper he probed the more distorted she appeared.
He laughed at himself and looked about, hoping no one had noticed.

     Walter finished organizing the sacks then looked around to see
what else could be done inside. Everything was completely in order.

     "Stop," Pierre shouted from the gazebo.

     Walter went outside, looking around as he walked toward Pierre.
Everything, all around, looked just as he had pictured it in his mind.
When everyone was there Pierre said, "It's been an hour and 15
minutes. There is one last thing. The gazebo needs to be moved to the
back lawn of the mansion. You can see from here, there, through the
trees, is the lawn. The mansion is behind that thick tree stand." He
pointed toward where the trees were not so dense and everyone could
see the clearing beyond.

     "You may talk now, if you wish." Pierre sat in the gazebo and
observed.

     "Wow, I can't believe we did all that so quickly," Walter said.

     "Really."

     "Yeah, wow is right."

     "No kidding."

      Everyone had something to say in agreement.

      "This thing looks pretty darn heavy," Lucy said.

      Walter tried lifting up on the gazebo. It barely budged. A few
of the others tried. No one could lift it more than a few inches.

      "With all of us we should be able to move it a little at a
time," Alfred said.

      "We can roll it if we can find about four logs. Did anyone
notice anything around here we can use as rollers?" Lucy said.

      "How do you mean?"

      "Put it on three rollers and roll it on to the fourth and bring
the rear one around and so on. That's how they did it, like on Easter
Island."

      "I didn't see anything that would serve for that," Alfred said.

      "Which way should we take it," Serena said.

      "The road."

      "I don't know," Walter said. "The road goes way around. Through
there is open except for those two trees."

      "I don't think it will fit between them," Robert said.

      "It looks pretty close," Lucy said.

      "No one has a tape measure or saw one around did they?" Walter
looked around at everyone shaking there heads.

      "Well, if we get it that far and it doesn't squeeze through we
will have wasted a lot of effort." Alfred said.

      "I'm going to walk the road to see how far it is that way." Eric
took off walking down the two-track.

      "If we take our time and move it along the road we know there
are no obstacles. Through the trees, if it doesn't fit, means we have
to bring it all the way back here and start over," Alfred said.

      "I agree," said Serena.

       Robert walked to the two trees and paced between them. He came
back and paced-off the gazebo.

      "I know it's not exact at all, but they both pace-off the same."

       Eric came back and said that it was quite a bit further going
down the road.

       "Sounds like a tight fit between the trees. I say we take the
road," Alfred insisted.

       "I don't know, Alfred," Serena said. "I've changed my mind. I
think we should try it through the trees."

       "If we take the longer way down the road, I think we will have
to have some rollers," Lucy said.

       They had been debating for at least 15 minutes. Pierre stood up
and walked a few paces toward the trees.

       "Pick it up and follow me," he said.

       They all looked at each other then began spreading themselves
evenly around the gazebo.

       "Pick it up," Pierre said.

       They lifted. Between the twelve of them it was not at all very
heavy.

       Pierre began walking toward the two questionable trees. They
followed him, easily managing the gazebo.

       When they came to the trees they walked right between them.
Pierre continued toward the back lawn. They followed with no one
asking to stop for a breather.

       Pierre stopped, centered-off from the mansion, about 50 feet
from the veranda.

      "Here," he said.

      They set it down and Pierre walked away, disappearing around the
side of the mansion.

      "Wow," Walter said.

      As did they all.

                         - G. Frankfurth

   *Emuncton is not in Mirriam-Webster, but can be found in Webster's
unabridged dictionary: To wipe the nose. e + mung(ere), Latin. Akin to
mucus.

   Samuel Beckett, in his novel 'Molloy', used the phrase: 'digital
emunction'.

            "

                                    AN IMPEDIMENT OF SPEECH

     Each Sunday the group would meet for special projects. It was a
spiritual group interested in learning to work harmoniously together.
This particular Sunday they met at Claymont Court, a Colonial estate
that was part of an historic tour in the Shenandoah Valley. There were
12 participants on this occasion and after all had arrived, Pierre,
who would conduct the excercise, led them down a narrow two-track road
to a clearing where there was a gazebo resting on un-level ground and
behind it a greenhouse.

   "Now, everyone, from this moment I would like you to all cease
talking. You will work in silence. First, everyone walk around the
area and see what we have here." Pierre swept his arm, inviting them
to inspect the premises.

    All began to wander around in random directions. The gazebo was
fairly large, intact and constructed as an independent and moveable
unit. The greenhouse itself was about 40 feet long and perhaps 18 or
twenty feet wide. There were some broken glass panes that had been
covered with Visqueen. There were a half dozen tables inside, strewn
with soil, dead plants, shards of flower pots, knots of twine, garden
spades, seed packages and plastic icecube trays. On the dirt floor
were partial sacks of potting soil, fertilizers and spray bottles.
Various garden rakes and shovels and such were scattered about.

    Outside the structure were wheelbarrows, more shovels, plastic
pots half filled with dirt and dead plants with vines curling
everywhere, around everything, climbing the glass and its metal
framing. A small garden was overgrown with weeds. The shrubbery was
encroaching upon the entire area. Complete and ...

read more »

On Nov 7, 1:34 pm, "g.frankfurth" <garyfrankfurt...@gmail.com> wrote:

I've read your piece here, Gary in it's entirety, and here's the
upshot . . . .

You are going back to a time in your life which seems above all most
worthy of recall; a time of rich and meaningful experience and
relationshp. Okay. That's totally something worth writing about.

But here's the thing; as per it's uses for literature -- it cannot be
treated as sacred, much as that may be the way, most understandably,
you may choose to remember it. There was bullshit going on there, you
know it, and you remember it; and this bullshit must also be included
in your memoir -- something so silly as this:  how come Walter, after
working in the goddam greenhouse, for the crissake, especially him,
working with the garden tools; how is it he doesn't have the presence
of mind to think of using a bleeding axe or shovel handle to measure
the distance between the trees, or the goddam diameter of the goddam
Gazebo?

I'll tell you why.  It was all on account of that great dope they were
smoking. Call it "Gurdjieff" or call it "Panama Red", it's all the
same thing: We were all OUT OF OUR MINDS, totally, during those years.
It was great, and so okay, fuck the axe-handles, but now, by
retrospect it is funny and risible, no different than a foot-long
thumb stuck out in the direction of the Best Little Whorehouse in
Texas.
--
You totally got something to be writing about here; you just got to
include it all, is all.
--
JM

On Nov 9, 4:46 am, Just Me <jpd...@gmail.com> wrote:

JM - With these stories, I am not attempting to 'spread the word'. Yes
it was a very intense and rewarding and fullfilliing time in my life
and I am gleaning from it these stories of which the events are the
subject, not the teachings. The only reason Gurdjieff is even mentioned
(as you notice, he is not mentioned in this one) is to give a
framework, a setting, a location for these events to occur.

   To be honest, this story is absolutely as it happened,
(though,Walter, who is of course, me, did not pick his nose so deeply
it pushed on the shape of his eyeball, distorting his vision.-ha)
Given a few more minutes, perhaps some yardstick method may have been
employed.

   There was no (dope) used at this place at all. And the ideas that
were being investigated are all ancient and without any illusions. The
16,(actually there were 20) students were screened carefully : it was
essential that each were ready to investigate, and not just accept,
what was set before them. We studied  with seminars given by high
seated leaders of every faith. One of Gurdjieff's premises is to not
accept anything that you cannot verify within your own experience.
P.D. Ouspensky said "Anything that interupts the movement of thought
is false."

    I have many experiences : my life has been very rich and multi-
faceted. I have never written about Claymont Court, for some reason
after 25 years it seemed time. But, as I said, the stories are meant
to stand as tales in  their own right, with no intention to teach or
even inform. If someone is curious enough to investigate more about
Gurdjieff, then  they only stand to benefit. The Fourth Way teachings
are not for everyone, which is a good thing. J.G Bennet said " If you
are ok with your life as it is then you do not need to bother yourself
at all with this."

   The Fourth Way teachings have been around since the beginning and
will be around long after you and I.  Gurdjiefff is the man who
gathered much and brought it to the West in a form suitable to the
West.

   But here, my stories, are attempts at entertainment.  I hope some
humor and maybe a little thought comes to those who read them.
Perhaps you can tell that you got a rise out of me. Ha Ha , it is
important that I know where I stand and remember what it is I am
trying to do. For that :

Obligado, mi amigo.

On Nov 9, 6:34 am, "g.frankfurth" <garyfrankfurt...@gmail.com> wrote:

One other thing,JM.

No, were not thinking, we were too busy talking, spewing out the
energy we had recieved working in silence.

If there is anything to be learned here it is : too many cooks spoil
the soup.

Vigia para tu en las paginas comicas....

Amigo -

--G

On Nov 9, 5:34 am, "g.frankfurth" <garyfrankfurt...@gmail.com> wrote:

Amigo. Si! Yo muy mucha esperanza tan. Had I waited till a week night
to write that critique, you might have got it much nicer, with a grain
of salt and a squeeze of lime, and not the unadorned 80 proof kick of
the 100% pure blue agave. This does not mean that my overall take on
this piece would be different, just that it would have been stated, I
hope, with a bit more tact. The comment questioning why nobody had
thought of using a shovel or axe-handle for a measuring instrument?
With all the tequila-fired "goddams" connected to it? That thought had
occurred to me, without the goddams, not long after reading the piece,
in a perfectly sober state. And the thought was purely this: what a
great illustration a story like this could be of what happens when
people place their minds, their will, their basic human dignity into
submission under leadership of a guru, who paradoxically purports to
be there teaching them to think for themselves.

But really? Surprise! Guess what? The exact opposite has to happen,
and does. Had these people been thinking for themselves, the last
place they'd be is where they are, at the ashram or institute of this
guru. That's for starters. But now, in being there, they are all
saying to themselves, "It is not I who thinks and knows, it is the
guru." I am here to learn how to think and live. If these things were
known to me, I would not be here. I am the humble servant." Their
dependence on the mind of another increases, as their ability to act
and think in and for themselves decreases.

And what of the deputy guru, Pierre? Does he re-invent the yard-stick
for these poor helpless people by showing them the handle of a garden
hoe, a hank of rope, a piece of string? No, because either he's done
this before as a 'thought exercise' so to speak, for other groups of
humble servants, and already knows the gazebo will fit, or all he
knows is that it won't be Pierre, the deputy guru carrying the damned
thing, and he doesn't care. The one thing he is able to show them is
something that every slave-driver since the dynasties of the Middle
Kingdom in Egypt knew, something anyone in this group should have
known, had any of them known the power in themselves existed to tell
other people what to do, i.e. to "Pick it up."

But it's not the sort of thing that a person not in power to tell
others what to do is apt to think up in absence of having that power.
Given that power you can think of it. Give that power to the guru and
you can't think of it, because you have given the power to think of
that to him. Instead you think "Soon the Guru will be here to think. I
am here because I am helpless and need someone to show me. How can any
idea of my own be of any use--and why would I be here if it were
otherwise? I am here to glorify the thoughts of the Guru, not any of
my own." And though nobody is thinking or talking like that right out
loud, so to speak, it is what the inner voice, the mind of their
existential condition is deciding for them in their status as acolyte,
apprentice, servant and slave.

This is what moved me to refer to Gurdjieff as "that great dope you
were smoking" and that's why I say Gurdjieff is doing for Walter what
Panama Red and the Mescalito was doing back in those days for me. You
say you weren't smoking any dope there, while I say there is no
difference whether your dope of choice is Gurdjieff or Thai Stick,
L.S.D. or L. Ron Hubbard. It's all great dope, and there's always a
time in the world and in our lives for it. And so long as it doesn't
send us back into the world of real economic, political, moral and
technological concerns thinking we now have the power to move
mountains or gazebos by it, then we don't end up like Alan Greenspan
being blamed for wrecking a worldwide economy on account of all that
great Ayn Rand dope he'd been smoking. Poor Alan, he loved that really
great dope (and it is some really fine stuff) so much that he couldn't
see it was only good for a laugh, took it all real serious with a
great, long, dour straight face.

I'm sure you get my drift, compadre. ;-)
--
JM http://two-candles.blogspot.com/

On Nov 9, 10:03 pm, Just Me <jpd...@gmail.com> wrote:

    Jm--

I guess that I have failed then.

A writer is wise to write about things he knows. The criteria for the
challenge stories brought out the two pieces because they fit. I would
have done so if I could have figured a way to tell them without ever
bringing out any sort of "guru, cult connotations'. My intention was
to tell a story and by so doing to excersise my writing chops, which
is something I have not done for about 17 years. Or maybe I haven't
failed; I don't know yet. What I was hoping was that the feedback
would be directed toward the writing and the narrative itself. What if
I had written that these events took place at a U.S. Army bootcamp,
that our drill seargent was a bit Kookie about having song and dance
and circuses on Saturday nights?  And that on Sundays he liked
everyone to shut up and clean up the west 10,000 acres at Fort Benning
and then relocate the antique howitzer displayed on the lawn at
headquarters and now you can talk, because you grunts are gonna have
to figure out where it is that I want you to move it.

"I think he wants it put in front of the Ranger's mess-hall."

"No, no, he is thinking of INSIDE the gaurd shack at the Victory Dr.
entrance."

"But I don't think that howitzer will fit in there."

"No, no, you idiots, just grab the tongue and spin it 18 degrees, so
if anything happens we can take out the

Dillingham Bridge."

"Yes, Master Seargent, Sir."

At any rate, I do not debate my spirituality, it is personal. You
either get it or you don't; it makes no difference to me. If you
believe that Gurdjieff was a manipulative, charleton guru, then it
would behoove niether you nor myself to attempt to change your
opinion. But I warn you: the road to ignorance is paved with fixed
opinions.

I am certain that there are more than a few presently studying Fourth
Way teachings that are somewhat fanatical, but I have not met them.
Any person who latches on to ideas and becomes identified to them is
not stable in the head to begin with. Unfortunately this is the rule
rather than the exception in the congregations of all religions. I
would go so far as to say, and this will be the end of it for now:
Those who continue to study The Fourth Way after an initiation period
of a couple of years are an excepton to the afore-mentioned rule.

The debate of the gazebo is not verbatim by any means and, as short
and concise as it  was, the dialoge was constructed to illustrate how
dificult it is for a group to agree. From real experiences I have
learned that working hard and efficiently creates energy. I was at the
gazebo, and I witnessed a task completed in less than half the time I
would have estimated. When speech was re-introduced that energy came
spewing out mindlessly. Much can be accomplished when one learns how
to store energy. But first you have to discover for yourself wnen and
how you are wasting it. But that was the esoteric point of the story,
similar to a Mullah Nassridin parable. Outwardly, it is just a story.
Know thy self. A corner stone of all religions. I am sure Pierre's
point was not to show us how much smarter he was but to show
us....something else.

Fanatics can be found not only pushing their 'truths' upon others, but
can also lock their minds to things they have not yet verified for
themselves as being false. Both are conditions known as the 'confusion
of tongues' belonging to the 'mesoteric' circle of humanity.
Unfortunatley, this is the overwhelmingly largest portion of
'intelligent' life on earth.

Re-reading my first reply I see that the ridiculous comment about
being well traveled had no bearing on anything except to contribute to
the notion that this joker thinks he's superior. I have only
discovered that, the older I get, the less I know.

The comment about the funny papers was meant as a jibe between
friends. I have read much of your stuff, fiction,  essay and opinion
and have nothing but respect for your superior knowledge of many
things.

Finally, I am just trying to write a good read.

--Tu Amigo,
G

On Nov 7, 2:34 pm, "g.frankfurth" <garyfrankfurt...@gmail.com> wrote:

...

read more »