“It is a fine thing to establish one’s own religion in one’s heart, not to be dependent on tradition and second-hand ideals. Life will seem to you, later, not a lesser, but a greater thing.” – D. H. Lawrence

Middlemen and Snake Oil Salesmen

“It is a fine thing to establish one’s own religion in one’s heart, not to be dependent on tradition and second-hand ideals. Life will seem to you, later, not a lesser, but a greater thing.” – D. H. Lawrence

I’ve been thinking about God and the great beyond these past few weeks folks. Nothing makes you consider the enormity or triviality of personal existence like death. “Let death be your advisor” spoke Don Juan to the young Carlos Casteneda. Whether or not Carlos was writing the truth about his sorcerer friend or spinning a grand yarn is a matter of controversy, but good advice, is good advice and letting death be your advisor is solid. I’ve written about it in an earlier entry, but I’ll repeat it here: everything’s value is judged best when balanced against death. Try it, your life will be richer.

Death may have spawned my theme today, but it is about religion. Since my dad departed this dimension for his next, I have been tasked with making sense of his vast collection of collections. You see, my dad collected EVERYTHING. Perhaps it was his poor upbringing, perhaps it was just his desire to not waste things (which he never did), but he collected everything. Things of value, things of perceived value, things that were useful, things that could be made useful and things which their usefulness had yet to be revealed. That is a lot of stuff folks and it all has to be gone through carefully.

While sorting through some of his more valuable keepsakes I came across a small stack of remembrance cards. You know those right? The little cards you get at wakes and funerals? As I was going through them, I saw some for people I recognized and some for people I did not. I read each one though. At the end of the stack I came upon one for monsignor of my family’s parish when I was a young child. He was also the administrative head of the Catholic School I attended. I remember him as a sweet old man whom loved children the way God meant him to. He was a great man, because since his death, many benevolent area institutions have been named for him. It was what was written on his remembrance card however that struck, and has stuck with me. It was a short biblical passage from the book of Micah:

And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly, to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.

Right off I want to explain that while I was raised Catholic, I’m no “holy roller”. In fact the definition of God that I take the most comfort in is the Lakota tribes’. Their word for God: “Wakantanka” means “the great mystery”. I like it because it doesn’t “define” “God” as much as it recognizes a God but kind of explains that we are of no capacity to conceive him, her or it. That makes me comfortable. That allows me to see God in more places. It allows me to accept things I cannot understand. It also fits extremely well with my understanding of Quantum Theory.

So, when I read Micah 6:8 I felt the same way. I like it. It’s simple and doesn’t require a great deal of thought or translation. Because for me, that’s where religion starts to go South. Religion begins to stumble when you find the translators or the “middlemen”. That’s a problem for me because I believe it’s the middlemen that really muddy the waters and give “God” the bad rap he currently suffers from amongst many people.

It’s the middlemen that will get you. It’s the middleman that screws the pooch. It’s the middleman that begins to complicate, corrupt and spoil. Think of used car dealers. Think of lawyers. Think of GOVERNMENT! Because you are going to find it all in religion. It’s the middlemen in religion that start to define the character, definition and limitations of “justly”, “mercy” and “humbly” and that’s where the trouble begins.

Some of those middlemen can start pointing out enemies.

Some of those middlemen can start persecuting “heretics”.

Some of those middlemen can convince people to do evil in the name of God, all under their twisted auspices of “Justly”, “Mercy” and “Humbly”.

How?

Why?

Because we let them.

Always question the middleman folks. Always question the middleman. Because many of them are the ones running the three card monty game in religion. They are the hustlers, the hucksters and the thugs.

In fact I think most middlemen have real problems with passages like Micah 6:8 because they don’t need translation. They’re self-defining and easy to understand and implement by anyone.

And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly, to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God. – Micah 6:8

It’s as simple as pie, it’s pretty and it’s not rocket science folks. I’m not saying it’s the answer, but it sure would be sweet if we could get everyone to do it for just a week to see what happens, maybe even a day.

Are you an atheist? A pagan? Do you believe God is a giant puffball mushroom? Fine, replace “Lord” with whatever you like. Use “humanity” or “life” even. It’s simple, it’s handy and it works.

There’s no money or power in it for the middlemen though. Lot’s of letters but no money signs you know? In the end, if you believe in a “God”, no one stands in your way of him/her/it. You don’t need middlemen. You don’t need translators, you don’t need a council or counsel, you don’t need men with great big beards or men in tall funny hats. You don’t need book thumpers, podium pounders, stage pacers or magical underwear. Because in the end, as it is in life, it is just you and your “God”.

I’ve seen it and it’s beautiful.

Now if I can just resolve my thoughts about middlemen and that kindly monsignor. : )

“The end of birth is death; the end of death is birth; this is ordained.” -The Bhagavad-Gita

Henry Krauzyk Sr. (born: September 28, 1938 - died: January 11, 2010)

Words
by Henry Krauzyk Jr.

I am told by those I trust that I have a way with words. Why then do words fail me now?

My father, Henry Krauzyk Sr. has passed on, and with what words and in what ways to use them can I express the life of this man?

He was a good man. He was an honest man. He was a man who loved hard work. He liked to laugh. What are those things though? How are they meant to represent his life?

I am in loss. I am in sorrow. I am a person of words whom is currently at a loss for them. My eloquence escapes me and my poet’s heart is vacant. Now, when my words and my writing are most important, most needed, they are not there. When I try to write, only one word comes to mind. That word is “hands” and with it come fleeting images.

Upon his hands were the two great fingers I held fast with my own tiny little hands when he let me walk along on his feet on Wilbur Street one bright sunny morning in the beginning of my life.

His big hands always tied my tiny shoes a little too tight.

His great gloved hands worked the snow shovel that cleared a road and piled the snow high in my yard so my friends and I could play on our own mountain.

His great large hand pointed the way to my bedroom when at about 6 years old I made the mistake of telling my mother to “shut up” not knowing he was sleeping in the next room.

His hands stopped the bleeding from my own when I had cut myself deeply with my Cub Scout knife.

His nimble hands were the ones that showed me how to safely pick up a sandworm and thread it on a flounder hook. How to clean a fish. How to safely, load, shoot and clean a rifle. How to find quahogs and clams in the mud.

His great powerful hands were the ones that held me fast to our front door while he reminded me that it was he, and not the police that I should fear most should I err in my “civic responsibility” and sully our good name.

His hands planted flowers in the shape of a giant heart that could be seen by my mother from our second floor apartment.

His thick and work-hardened hands swept tears from his eyes in an Aruban sunset when he was overcome with love for his wife and family at dinner one night celebrating his 40th wedding anniversary.

In amazement I watched those hands use a pry bar to crack a giant boulder in three pieces while he just sat and smiled-knowing.

His strong and gnarled hands sweetly, lovingly and delicately cradled his infant children and grandchildren.

His hands turned soil for his garden which he loved, his hands turned soil for the gardens of elderly friends, and for the small gardens he created for his grandchildren, each with a personalized trellis with their names written by his hand.

His hard hand held my mother’s softly when she needed him and when he needed her.

In the end his hands gripped my arms and shoulders for assistance and support when he wrestled with disease for his moments of warrior dignity.

His hand gripped my own small hand when we looked each other in the eye and I told him how proud I was of him and what a good man he was and that I loved him.

With my own hand and at attention I saluted him and said “Goodnight Marine” before they closed the van door and drove him away.

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Let Evening Come
by Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

KBHR State of Mind

The KBHR neon sign featured prominantly in Northern Exposure.

“Darn the wheel of the world! Why must it continually turn over? Where is the reverse gear?” – Jack London

Lately, I’ve been swarmed with feelings of nostalgia in general. Oddly, a Northern Exposure Archive sent me spinning into the early 1990′s. To work through that, I decided to create a new t-shirt and product design based on the KBHR neon sign from Northern Exposure for my online store. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to get it to look just the way I wanted and I was able to add a few details (adding a border and “Cicely, Alaska) to make it work as a good t-shirt and product design.

If you want all the details about how I did the design, you can find them on my design blog “Art Chute” by clicking here.

Let me know what you think.

Hello (again)

In 2006 and 2007, I wrote a blog on MySpace that was kind of loosely inspired by the “Chris in the Morning Show” from the Northern Exposure TV Series. At that time, not many people followed it and I kind of let it go.

Recently, I got an E-mail from someone in England, she had found a link to the blog from a Northern Exposure website but that she could not access the blog. While correcting that, I found out that others had been reading it or were interested in reading it. So, I decided to move it to a more public place for folks who may be interested and perhaps I will start writing entries again.

I have since loaded most of the original entries on this site now and I will be adding photos, links and generally dressing up the site in the very near future.

If you read it, I hope you enjoy it. I look forward to your comments, thoughts, and ideas.

Babies, Cabernet Sauvignon and Television Programs with Transcendent Themes

I’m sitting her by my wife’s hospital bed. It is 11:03 PM, June 25th, 2007 but you’ll get this much later because this hospital doesn’t have wi-fi. I’m sipping some cabernet sauvignon that some good friends had the generosity and presence of mind to bestow upon me in a place I could use it best: a small hospital room in a mill city on a Monday night. My new baby Lilah is quietly nuzzling her mom. My last baby is at my house with her grandmother waiting for our arrival in the morning. At such moments in one’s life you tend to let your mind wander, no? Kind of look for your place in what the Lakota Indians call “Wakan Tanka” or “The Great Mystery.” For me that has always been the best definition for God. No disrespect to the big three: Christianity, Judaism and Islam, but I’m comfortable with “The Great Mystery”, because it fits in perfectly with how I feel about God. I am insignificant and about as able to consider his/her/it’s plans as any small, single-cell bacteria that is living on me can contemplate what I am. It just suits me you know?

Why do I have to know God’s intention? Why would I believe I could even know his/her/its higher processes? Why, oh why should I ever insist that anyone else hear his/her/its song the way I do? Why would I strap bombs to myself, or put anyone else’s life to risk to prove my love, joy, or belief or his/her/its existence? Yeah, give me the “mystery” folks because the people who claim to know him/her/it personally seem to cause a lot of chaos, pain and sadness.

So I am sitting here, in this hospital, by my wife, overwhelmed with the miracle that is my new daughter Lilah and what do I find on my computer? I find a movie made by one of you fellow Cicelians. It starts off with Chris talking about the moon and one of the shots is a gorgeously long and wide pan of Cicely at night, with the dogs running down main street and then it closes with an old pickup truck that drives by the Brick. Do you know that one? I’m ashamed that I don’t know it’s author, but big props to you my friend. Props and thanks. It’s given me a moment of clarity and focus. A pause. Reflection, desire and hope.

Cicely, is everywhere you know? Sure it has its origins in the writers, then on the series from the actors and the combined suggestions that created the whole. A precarious harmony of intangibles if you ask me.

What made/makes it transcendent though?

It’s special. It’s weird for me to write that. It is weird for me to conceive even saying that, because I’m not the kind of person who looks towards fandom or anything like it with high regard. I am an artist and photographer and I’m supposed to be jaded and insulated from such things right? I’ve spent my life considering things from so many perspectives as to begin to see through them. I was trained to take things apart and witness the truth. Fandom is creepy. Trekkies are wierdos to me. Honeymooner’s fans – likewise. Even though I liked the movies, Star Wars and Lord of the Rings fans just seem strange. I won’t deny them their passion, God knows I have my own, I just don’t share or understand it. Do you know what I mean? I’ll bet you that some of the former actors of the series think that we’re an odd lot because we’re still fans. For some of them it was just a job, words on a page. Spat like tobacco juice for a moment in front of the camera – a paycheck. Weird huh?

Some of the “connected” probably don’t even appreciate where they were or what they were doing. I LOVE that irony.

Northern Exposure is different though isn’t it? There’s something there, something base, and rich and real, right? Something BIG.

I think that “something” is us. That something is me or you. It certainly was me, Henry in Fall River, MA and John, my friend from Pittsburgh who said “You have to check out this new program, it’s cool and different”. It is Moosechick (the keeper of the flame), and folks like Marie, Terry and everyone, everywhere. I can’t recall all of your names, but you’re out there! From Spain, Israel, Germany, the USA, Canada and all other places including I am sure, some aliens floating around the “neutral zone” (waves to Trekkie fans) that watched it and got themselves connected. Found themselves connected. Knew they were connected! Those who found something of themselves in the characters, town, concept, fantasy, philosophies, parables, fables and dreams of Cicely, Alaska. We found little pieces of ourselves in episodes, stories and characters. We found ourselves in the craft and musings of the writers, in the quirks and art of the actors and the vision of set designers, locations scouts and the countless others who added to that aforementioned precarious harmony of intangibles.

At its best and worst Northern Exposure always opened up that little door in my soul marked “Yes”. It is a door seldom opened and few carry the key. It did so with interesting story lines, quirky characters, beautiful scenery and music.

It wasn’t a mass phenomenon either and that comforts me. I like knowing its success was limited, its appeal wasn’t widespread. That is credibility to an artist or a thinker. Genuine vindication! It says “everyone DIDN’T get it”. It did float above the radar of the many people who made “Miami Vice” and “Madonna” smash hits. It wasn’t vanilla or chocolate ice cream. Instead it was Phish Food or Cherry Garcia and even then, instead of mass production it was hand-churned by virgins who used only the finest hand-selected ingredients.

Sure, Universal screwed us with the music edits and the inconsistently-authored seasonal releases. That is true, but you know what that says? You’re exclusive. You are small. Your numbers are not a critical enough influence. You are rarer individuals. You are not the drooling gape-mouthed masses of Miami Vice or Magnum P.I. fans (okay I liked Magnum but…) whom must be satisfied because of their influence ($$). Instead, you are among a smaller group that does not have to be worried about as much. They messed with you because they could. That is a badge of honor people. You were short changed because you are exclusive-small-different-selective-smart – UNIQUE.

We are Cicelians, which sounds uncomfortably similar to “Trekkies” for my taste, but I’ll take it because it is a bigger thing. My daughters are Cicelians as well. How can they not be? I found something in NX that was always in me long before the program’s developers ever even considered a place called Cicely. How can it not already be in my daughters? They have little doors in their souls that say “Yes!” as well. They may never see an episode or care about it if they do, but it has to be there. It’s a “thing” isn’t it?

IT’S A THING.

Everyone’s Cicely is out there, I want my daughters to grow up in mine. I want to look off my front porch and watch those dogs run. I want a Brick and a Theosophy Hall, a small main street, simple things. I want the quirkiness.

Spare me the stories about boyfriends killing their girlfriends and unborn children, keep them far, far, far from my doorstep. Give me a place where I can find moments away from the misery and suffering. I want long, unpopulated roads between my little town and the ever-more-depressing outside world of zealots, wackjobs and the intolerant. I want people around me who want the same. I want smiles, “how do you do’s”, “thank you’s”, “please’s” and “after you’s” spoken to my wife, children and myself. Yeah, I am a Cicelian. I guess I was long before NX. I’m guessing you were too.

I don’t know many of you, and there’s probably things I wouldn’t like about some of you, but there is something I like in each of you: You are a Cicelian.

A small thing I can trust.

A small thing that is a little piece of me.

A town that has never existed but always been there.

A state of mind.

Cheers to you folks! I have a beautiful new tiny baby girl that I want the world for!

I’ll swear to watch over yours if you’ll swear to watch over mine.

SWEAR TO WATCH OVER MINE!

Cheers and mysterybless to you friends. I’d like to buy you all a beer at the Brick.

- Henry

“Friends are the mirror reflecting the truth of who we are” -Anonymous

“Friends are the mirror reflecting the truth of who we are” -Anonymous

Hello Travelers! I have finished the first stage of a quasi-autobiographical portraiture project that I’ve titled “Mirrors”. It is a serious look at myself by studying my family and the people I call my friends. I did this by capturing their portraits and asking them to fill out a Proustian questionnaire. To make things fair for everyone, I used identical lighting techniques and the same questionnaire. You can learn more about the project by reading the introduction in the book.

As I wrote above, this is only the first stage of an ongoing project. I will continuously add to this book as the people I want in it schedule their shoots and interviews, or as new people come into my life.

I hope you enjoy it. Click on the image below to view the online version.

Click here to view Henry Krauzyk’s Mirrors project.

“You can be a rooster one day and a feather duster the next” -Frank McManus

“You can be a rooster one day and a feather duster the next” -Frank McManus

When I was a kid I spent a lot of time on my grandfather’s farm. My grandfather kept all kinds of animals. Meat rabbits, ducks, all kinds of pheasants, quail, hunting dogs, sheep, goats and a lot of other stuff. One of the animals that stand out vividly in my memory was a mean, old, tough and cranky fighting rooster.

That bird was just plain ol’ MEAN! If you got to close to him or whatever he declared his property he attacked. Anyone that’s spent time with chickens knows that that is no small thing. Roosters have sharp spurs on the back of their legs and let me tell you, they are not for ornamentation! There’s reason civilized societies outlaw cockfighting, it’s because of the bloody damage that the birds can inflict on each other during a match. I’ve seen films, read books and watched examples of cockfighting on television. Those birds are tough, but they had nothing on this devil in feathers!

All us kids feared it like the bogey man himself. We were all only 4 to 6 years old and it didn’t take much to scare us. It didn’t matter where you were in the farm yard, that thing would be eyeing you from the distance just waiting for you cross into its very-flexible-no-definite-bounds territory. The grandchildren never even tempted it. It watched us and we kept very wide and nervous eyes on it – always! The damn thing would chase away stray dogs, there was no telling what it would do to the soft pink skin of a child stupid enough to stray near it.

It wasn’t just the kids who were afraid either. All the adults except my grandfather were afraid of it. I think it only feared him because it “knew” who and what he was. The damn rooster even chased my mom across the yard once. Think about it, a chicken chased my mom across the farm yard. No one mocked her or poked fun at her, they knew better. They’d have run to. Even my uncle who used to have chores all around the farm took to carrying a fishing pole with him to protect himself from attack! This is a man who went on to the army and basic training and through the very testing and stressful training to become a Green Beret – had to protect himself from a chicken. A CHICKEN! I spent a lot of time on that farm and even as a little kid I knew it was a matter of time before I had my showdown with the Killer Rooster of Tiverton, Rhode Island.

It was a hot and humid summer day. The cicadas were ringing in the trees and the thunderstorms of early evening were hours away. My dad was with my grandfather helping him with some chores, my mom and grandmother were sitting under the tall, cool maple trees that lined the far side of the yard. I was on a small tricycle across the drive from them. I was watching the sand under the wheels as I slowly pedaled, mesmerized by the tired marks in the soft hot sand.

“Bwawk!” At first I hardly thought about the sound and took another half turn on the tricycle’s pedals. “Bwawk-reeeeer!” I felt a chill run from the crown of my head and down my face to my neck and shoulders from there it spilled down to the pit of my gut where it sat heavy like molten metal. I looked up and to my terror I fixed eyes on the devil rooster himself not 30 feet away. I had slipped up. In the heat of the summer sun, drunk on Koolaid and transfixed on the sand and I had let my guard down. I had failed myself. “Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaawk!” He looked me dead in the eye sizing me up. He leaned his head slowly toward me, he started to ruffle his feathers to make himself look bigger. I knew what was coming, I’d seen it before.

Slowly, I gathered my courage and rose from my seat. The tricycle creaked under me. I was a kid, but I watched enough Wild Kingdom to know my only chance was to stand my ground. “Bwaaaaaaaaaaawwk!” Went the Devil bird, then he scratched hard at the ground. “Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaawk-reeeeeeeeeeeer” he looked twice his size now as he tested me by slowly moving forward. Never for a minute did our eyes break from each other. I straightened out my body to appear bigger, I moved my arms out a little, I knew the ritual. We stared across the hot drive way each waiting for the other to make or not make the move.

The time I spent on the farm was magical to me then and even more so now when I look back. I learned so many things that I take with me in my life today. I remember the breakfasts, lunches and dinners my grandmother would make. Things like johnny cakes, rabbit pie, venison and all manner of great country food. On the farm with my grandfather and dad I learned to shoot and hunt. I learned some animal husbandry and butchering. They are moments that are fundamental to the person I have become and the potential I carry. Even moments like the stare down with the chicken taught me things. Moments like that can teach even a scared little boy about the man inside. Moments like that can teach a little boy just how stupid that man inside can be to try and stare down a crazy-assed devil chicken.

That chicken sprang on me like a hell-sent viper and I sprang for my mom and grandmother screaming like a fire truck siren with tears streaming from my eyes and a mad flurry of feather, beak and spurs in hot pursuit! My grandmother who was a peaceful and meek lady met me half way with a toy wagon in her hand. She got between me and that killer clucker and swung that wagon until that damn bird finally relented and retreated from whence it had come. I was somewhere deep in my mothers arms my cheeks cold with tears and my wrists and ankles trembling.

I am happy to say that was among that rooster’s last few days on earth. At my grandmother’s insistence my grandfather set ax to neck shortly after and that rooster made a tough and chewy soup. Serves him right too! That taught him not to mess with me (and my grandmother).