If A Woman Were President

If a woman were President, she would slap the "Drill, Baby, Drill" Bitches and send them to their room. Sorry Mr. Obama, you were my choice, and I respect you immensely, but if a woman were in the White House, the oil spill would be cleaned up by now or BP’s assets would have been seized. Do you think putting 10,000 boats in the water to clean up the spill is unreasonable? I think the spill lasting for 59 days is unreasonable. What do you mean you don’t have the technology? Then why were you drilling that deep in the first place?

If a woman were President, the oil would never have made it to shore. She would have collected it before it ever got close. Let’s talk about low ball, flow rate, educated opinion guestimates. Expert, who? She would have called Joe The Plumber! Everyone knows that a good plumber is worth his weight in gold. In this case, it’s liquid gold in the form of black, ugly crude fowling our shores, beaches, and waterways, and killing our beloved sea creatures. She would have had compassion for the hard working men and women crying on camera over the loss of their heritage and livelihoods. She would have massively fined BP for every second past 48 hours that the leak continued making it economically prohibitive to allow the oil to continue to spew into the ocean. She would have never allowed them to use a chemical dispersant that hangs like large gobs of snot at the bottom of the ocean again killing all the bottom feeding creatures (especially since that chemical makeup is a mystery to everyone except BP.) I’ve heard the story before, proprietary blend in the natural gas drilling industry with the fluid used for fracing. Many women in my neighborhood came down with never before seen forms of Adrenal Cancer.

The spokespeople for BP are liars, and yes, they do have an English accent. If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, you get the inference. If a woman were President, she would have the nerve to tell them we don’t want you here befouling our shoreline. Her rallying cry would be "America for the Americans." She would usher in a new period of isolationism and self-reliance on renewable energy.

A Woman President wouldn’t have gone to bed with the oil companies in the first place. She would have been held accountable to a higher standard for a lot less money. No, I am not referring to that “Drill, Baby, Drill” trailer bitch from Alaska who is rumored to have spent her publishing windfall on new boobs for Trailer Hubby Todd, I’m referring to a real woman President.

Are You Willing To Do Whatever It Takes?

The answer is a resounding yes! It wasn’t always that way for me where writing is concerned. I expected success without being willing to contribute the time or effort. I had many mentors when I was a ski bum. The world’s greatest mentors, I boast. I have always related skiing to writing. There is a similar flow to both when you are performing well. Dropping into a deep powder run is treacherous. There is always the possibility that the mountainside will slide. I stood atop many a knarly Utah ski run with my good friend, Touloose, a ski patrolman. I learned how to probe the snow with my pole, or make a long traverse across the run to test the consistency and stability of the run. Many times, after climbing for hours into the back country of the Wasatch National Forest, we would each take a turn skiing a steep and deep slope and critique the others skiing ability. We would say, “You have got to commit to the mountain, stay forward, stop sitting back, gravity is your friend.”

Perhaps the most applicable lesson that skiing taught me where writing is concerned, is that often we would ski up to a particularly challenging ski run and stop. Big mistake, never stop at the top, it gives you time to look down in to the face of certain death. You freeze. You stop, sometimes your knees knock together and your body involuntarily shakes. I mean, we arrived at places where if you missed the first turn as you dropped in, you would likely die. It generally included big ugly rock faces and narrow chutes, steep mountain sides, deep powder snow. There always seemed to be a giant tree right in the middle of the chute. It was always at your second turn, so the entire time you are trying to concentrate on your first turn you are preoccupied with that damn tree and the second turn. It taught you to live in the second, and not to get ahead of yourself. Unless you made the first turn, there would be no second. So when you would stop, it would give you all the time in the world to think about how you were going to miss that first turn and crash into the tree and hit your head and careen down the hill bouncing off the rocks of the steep chute until you were history. It is where having a companion skier was the key. I remember vividly looking at Touloose at those difficult moments and he would smile from under his Sherpa hat. In his all too familiar cackle he would say, “The Lord hates a coward!” He would smile, and drop in. I, of course, had no choice but to follow.

The point is where writing is concerned, I have always written up to the lip of the steep, and stopped. I have never been willing to let myself go. I have never been willing to pull the writing trigger, to drop over the edge and noodle up the writing run.

Some people read the end of a book first- so this is for those who like a happy ending.

Act III
Scene III

Setting: University of Oregon, Eugene, Oregon, evening poetry writing workshop.

Enter: Writer with backpack. He sets the backpack next to desk at the front of the classroom. He takes out several books and sets them on top of the desk. He turns and writes his name on the blackboard. Turning, he faces the class and smiles as he unbuttons his sports jacket.

The Teacher (ME) says: “Good evening class. Before I begin, I would like to invite you all to the McKenzie River Lodge this weekend. We are having a get together to celebrate my new book contract. I have been fortunate enough to have received a contract for my Historical Novel, the corresponding film, and the music score! There will horseback riding along the Pacific Northwest Trail, and a vegetarian picnic with our own organic vegetables.”

A loud crash is heard as the classroom door hits the wall. A dazed student with dread locks and a rainbow colored knit hat stands in the entrance.

“Wow, sorry for being late man. I spaced out and didn’t realize the time,” he says turning to the teacher.

“Good evening Brian, how good of you to join us,” the teacher smiles. He looks sideways knowingly at the young man. He reminds him a lot of himself as a youth. He was inappropriate, loud, and abrasive. Brian doesn’t quite seem to fit in. Perhaps he never will. There is wisdom in knowing that he gave up fitting in many years ago. Some of the best writers are those that are the outriders of society.

“As I was saying, you’re invited to join us for a celebration of our WRITEMYFIRE contract.”

He turns and walks to the front of the classroom.

“Let’s have some writing fun.”

--- Albert Bianchine

Emerald And Pearl ~ Miracles At The Ranch

I love writing about our years at the ranch. Miracles appeared in the oddest of places at the oddest of times. Our two white baby kittens, Emerald and Pearl appeared in a trailer load of alfalfa hay one hot summer afternoon. We had loaded the trailer ourselves with freshly baled hay directly from the field. The trailer was packed, front to back. We closed the back doors, and drove over 30 miles to our little ranch. When we unloaded the trailer, there, among the bales of hay, were the two most adorable long haired gems of kittens. Emerald and Pearl were perfect names for the two females. They immediately became the queens of the ranch.

We already had a huge brood of ranch cats. Our Queen Bee, Betty (“You can call me Elizabeth”) had just given birth to Rastus, Alvin, Calvin, Marion, Brother Pete, and my good friend, Dom (Domnick) Big Mike’s Boy from another Mom, and Mike himself. They rounded out the gender balance at the ranch.

They were lovers, and lounged in the hay where I had built a little shelf out of bales for them to eat and sleep. Pearl became every one’s little Pearly Girly. Early mornings on the ranch were cold and often windy. I remember one particularly cold morning (as I was bending down to pick up several flakes of hay) when Pearl jumped up and wrapped her furry little self around my neck. It would become our morning ritual. She would purr in my ear and keep my neck warm as I would walk the fields and hay and grain the horses and goats. Pearl was the girl of the ranch, and even Emerald adored her sister. There was something special about them both, but Pearly Girl was the Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Students fell in love with her, and she would stay wrapped up in Kathy’s Jacket while she taught all morning.

Her blue eyes were alluring and deep and she held court with her fellow creatures at the food bowl. I had to buy metal cages to trap her pet skunk that would eat with her early mornings and had to move her cat food from public access because she liked to share it with the goats, Jack London, his wife Daisy, and his daughter, Justin’s Little Rose. They came one and all. As Emerald and Pearl grew older, it became apparent to us that Emmy wasn’t Emerald, but she was Tom. We had Tom fixed for every one’s comfort.

Tom and Pearl were inseparable and endlessly basked in the afternoon sun. Sadly, our Pearly Girl left us all too soon. The ranch was saddened beyond belief but none more than my friend Tom. He was inconsolable in his grief. He was depressed, hardly ate, and became a grouchy and sad loner.

We soon moved to our new ranch. I loaded Snowy, and Buddy in the trailer and put Dom and Tom in a cat carrier. Traveling down the windy Dry Hollow Rd., I looked in the rear view mirror of my Ford flat bed to the horse trailer just in time to see what I thought was a white sheet of paper blowing away. It was my friend Tom. I believe his grief was too great, unlike Humpty Dumpty, my Tom jumped instead of fell. We searched the roadsides for days to no avail, Tom (Emerald) and Pearl had disappeared as quickly as they had appeared.

Miracles. Albert Bianchine

Having The Heart For It

Great racehorses are said to have great hearts. The average size of a race horse’s heart is 6lbs. The Veterinarian that performed the autopsy on Secretariat estimated that his heart was three times the size of a normal horse’s heart at about 22 lbs. Secretariat’s large heart is from the x-chromosome received from his Dam. It is called the x-factor and was traced to the Dam, Pocahontas. Her lineage is traced back 200 years to the Great Eclipse who had a heart that weighed 14 lbs. It is why Secretariat was able to win the Triple Crown and the Belmont Stakes by 31 lengths establishing a new track record that still stands today.

Several years ago, we were living on a ranch south of the Town of Silt, Colorado along County Rd. 331 or Dry Hollow Road. We lived in a log home built in the late 1800’s, a home that had a Sears Kit Home shell built around the logs in the early 1900’s. It was on a twenty five acre parcel with a large stream running through the property at the base of a 100acre Mesa. It had great character. It once was the center or hub of activity because it had the only water and well. Ranchers and farmers would bring their livestock and horses there to refresh and nourish. It had the feel of antiquity. The bluffs above were inhabited by hoot owls, nesting red tailed hawks, and bald eagles. We found out quite by accident that a large mountain lion called the ranch and the bluffs home. My good cat friend, Big Mike, disappeared our very first night there. He was the man. Unfortunately unknown to us, the big, big cat was THE MAN. We never saw Mike again.

Welcome to “The Hadios.” Life was hard but wonderful. Only Big Mike’s son Dom, a more timid version of his dad was able to survive. Our rescue ranch had grown and we needed the extra land for the horses and for our school. Students were coming to Kathy’s classes from all over the world. It was great enjoyment filled with learning, healing, and miracles.

The geological structure of the semi-arid landscape, and rocky formations also lent itself to natural gas drilling. The large gas companies did just that. We often joked that it was Saudi-Silt. The regulations on the number of gas wells that could be drilled in a certain area were deregulated under George Bush’s Administration. Everywhere you looked at night you saw miniature Eiffel Towers lit and working. The support crews for wells are tremendous and the flow of traffic and trucks were at times almost unbearable. So were the accidents, too numerous to mention. The current catastrophe in the Gulf is not an isolated incident. It is business as usual.

One particular full moon evening I was awoken by Kathy who was sitting beside our bedroom window. Our little ranch house was surrounded by a massive herd of Elk. She was quietly listening to them communicate. We had no idea that they clicked, whistled, grunted, and talked so much. It was a moving experience. We at first thought how blessed we were, but soon realized that they weren’t there because we had a particularly good aura about our ranch. They were there because it was the only safe haven amidst the drilling and fracing the goes on 24 hours, seven days a week. The poor animals habitat had been filled by brightly lit towers with drilling equipment and trucks that are never ending. They were dazed, confused and milling about because their migratory paths and grazing grounds were no longer.

We operated a healing ranch where amazing therapy was given to wretched animals who desperately needed it. There was nothing we could do for these creatures. We went to bed saddened beyond any grief we had ever known. They were gone in the morning. Only the big cat was there, out in the tree, calling out my friend Dom, but he was always too smart to fall for his ploy.

These days, I live in a wonderful home in a beautiful community, and I write. I think often of the days on the ranch, hearing my cell phone ringing and not being able to find it. Only to discover that my trickster Appaloosa Snowy was on the other side of the enclosure with it between his lips and shaking his head up and down. Laughing at me because he had stolen it from my pocket while I was mending fences, I got pretty good at mending fences after the herd of Elk would come and huddle at our little refuge. I never minded.

It brings me back to having a heart, a big one at that. I don’t write now because I have the heart to, the truth is, I write because I don’t have the heart not to.
Albert Bianchine

The Beaten Path Is For Beaten People

 I want to be a hippie again, and walk the Rio Grande Trail In Aspen again. I want to walk in the Aspen Mountain Meadows, and picnic with my wife Kathy among the blossoming wild flowers. I want to write poetry and prose. Perhaps some of it might be good. I want learn to write sonnets, and to play a guitar. Maybe I will refine the words to The Ballad of Tom Dylan. It will be the last song in the CD entitled Living the American Dream. It is the music score for my screenplay about the history of Arapahoe Basin in Colorado. It includes a rousing remake of the song I had too much to dream last night. It will be the song that will be playing when the credits are rolling and all the movie goers are beginning to leave the theatre. They will be talking about how breathtakingly beautiful the mountain is that sits just below the Continental Divide, and how dastardly the Senator who owned Ralston Purina was that bought the mountain in 1978. They will remember what it was like to be a carefree hippie in blue jeans with long hair and a beard and to have people say things like, “Who does he think he is, Christ?”

My movie will remind everyone what it was like before you realized that nothing ever changed. The revolution of the 60’s came and went, and we fought in the streets. The Senators and Corporations had an iron tight grip on America, and the progress of it. The words of Paul Simon were true, “All the people bowed and prayed to the neon Gods they made … And the sign flashed out it’s warning, left it’s seed while it was storming … And the sign said the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls, and tenement halls.”

I started the project when I was living above my musician friend Gordon Grey on Van Antwerp Rd. in Niskayuna, New York and taking writing classes with the Poet Lyn Lifshin.  Over the years, my interest in song writing, poetry and prose slowly faded. The glimmer of light in my soul was almost extinguished. Oh! I made the occasional rumblings, something about writing the great American Novel.

I then went to work in a wealthy Colorado ski resort where I was called upon to design expensive systems to melt snow and ice from sidewalks and driveways. The fabulously famous and wealthy individuals had endless dollars to spend on the conveniences. They didn’t want to get their Apres Ski Fur Boots wet when leaving their ski vacation home (one of their six vacation homes.) Their Range Rovers or H2 Hummers just couldn’t get close enough to the marble floors that lined the entry way.

I became very good at it (and wasting millions of BTU’s of heat doing it.) Maybe BP should have called me to solve their ice crystal problem in the containment dome. I have been a plumber for thirty years now. I can run a pipe anywhere and automatically melt anything and waste a tremendous amount of natural resources doing it. I’m that good. I might have even checked the backup battery on the "fail safe" device, had I been called upon.

President Barack Obama is a hero that I admire greatly. He has inspired me to write again. I don’t have many men-hero’s anymore. They have all been such a disappointment. The real reason I am writing again is because of something my wife Kathy said to me in passing. She was discussing writing a blog. “You know Al, you could be the next Kilroy, the face and hands on the freight trains years ago that said “Kilroy was here.” The hippie in me liked that.

Maybe I’ll be the next folk hero like Johnny Appleseed. The difference will be that I will write blogs that go viral. Then I’ll move to the Monastery and work with horses and help teach writing conferences and healing arts. I’ll invite all of the children to fill empty auditorium seats to enjoy my work. Everywhere I go I will leave people with little pieces of paper filled with poetic prose to give them all something to think about when I’m gone.

Sometimes when I’m driving in my work truck to install another incredibly expensive snowmelt system, in the shadows of my nemesis, a large Oil and Gas Company, I try not to resent them for single handedly driving us from our ranch. Natural gas was bubbling up from the creek. They installed a gas sensor near the crawl space of my house, even though there was “nothing to worry about.” And even if there was, the gas bubbling up in the creek near where my horses drank was not their fault.

If I’m really quiet, and I am meditating, I can almost hear the song. My soul wants to be a hippie again, because the beaten path is for beaten people.

Miracles Of Babaji

I was once a Godless cretin, carving a path of self serving destruction and manipulation of people, places, and events for my own benefit. The life that I led ended badly for me and I had to change. It was at that time that I discovered Autobiography of a Yogi, by Paramahansa Yogananda. It was a book destined to rewrite my life, and introduce me to Mahavatar Babaji.

Babaji is a timeless Saint considered to be a Yogi-Christ of Modern India. Paramahansa Yogananda describes him as a deathless Avatar. An Avatar is unsubject to the universal economy. His pure body, visible as a light image is free from any debt to nature. He is solely responsible for bringing Kria Yoga back to humanity. This is a scientific method for achieving Nirbikalpa Samadhi, a state of changeless God-consciousness. The lineage of the Self-Realization Fellowship began with Babaji. He was guru to Lahiri Mahasaya, who became guru to Sri Yukteswar, who became guru to Paramahansa Yogananda, the final guru and founder of the fellowship.

I became a yogi of the order through initiation, and meditate and perform Kria Yoga daily. There have been a multitude of miracles in my life since enrolling in the fellowship. I would like to share them. Upon receiving a letter from The Self-Realization Fellowship, my then Property Manager (and boss) who grew up surfing on the beach in the shadows of the Encinitas, California Ashram took a second look at me and later became my wife.

Together we started a rescue ranch for horses and I learned Equine Massage. I became a healer instead of a plunderer. We rescued a two day old colt with Congenital Flexural Deformity who was about to be euthanized. Through aggressive manual therapy, we straightened his crooked legs, and in time, he grew strait and tall. Unfortunately, he was taken from us in a horrific accident. We were devastated. Although our loss was great and our hearts were heavy, we moved forward with our mission to heal.

In the past, it would have served to close my heart and harden it. Instead, through Kria Yoga, my heart seemed even more open and full of love. I realized it was my mission to help ease the burden of these poor, tortured, and wretched creatures. The miracles came to us in all sizes, shapes, and needs.

Robin, a paint horse who fell seventy feet from a cliff and survived, her right leg was turned and bent. It was scarred, and practically frozen. Her body was lame, and she was being used as a brood mare. Her hooves were overgrown and splitting.

We watched our massage students work tirelessly to break up the scar tissue and stretch her stiff and sore muscles. Their efforts were rewarded when during a class session we looked out of the windows into the arena to see Robin loping around it.

Sid and Sam, a Percheron pair of behemoth brothers appeared. They were in excess of 2000 lbs a piece. Sid, the older brother, so overworked, had laid down on the trail while pulling a sleigh. I was to revel in the sound of his thunderous hooves as he and Sam would gallop to their grain in the morning.

A quarter horse mare named Sister stood over her lifeless foal. She was moaning and sighing. She turned and placed her giant head against my chest. My natural instinct was to cradle her as she stood and moaned. We found out later that the local vet had inadvertently taken a blood sample from her twin sister by mistake. His misdiagnosis allowed Sister to go untreated for Fescue Grass poisoning.

An unnamed horse came to us through the Silt, Colorado auction barn. Thin and frail, she collapsed as the arena gate was closed. We stepped in and purchased her before the killer bought her and we named her Tahoe, after where we were married. A wretch of a creature with open sores on her legs, and ulcerated nostrils causing nose bleeds. I labored constantly cleaning the water troughs because the other horses wouldn’t go near the bloody water. There was nothing that we could do for her. We comforted her with Veterinary Care and all that she could possible eat, as she hopelessly lost weight and wobbled around our fields. When the quality of her life became unbearable, we called the vet to euthanize her. We humanely ended her pain and suffering and it was at that time that my heart truly began to open and the years of bitterness disappear. I realized my calling was to help these creatures move on to a loving God.

Over the remaining years of the ranch, we had many tragedies as with Tahoe, and each one opened my hardened heart further. I didn’t think I had the capacity for any greater love and compassion. We always found the room in our hearts for more. We reveled in each individual success. Dreaming Doc, a double bred Doc Bar Quarter horse, was so special that we gave him to a young girl nicknamed Whistler, who had witnessed her own horse’s death. She renamed him Bullet. Whistler and the Bullet went on to win the Junior National Christian Rodeo Championships.

Our rescue ranch ended with our old quarter horse couple Kota’s Rookie Page, (Buddy) a grandson of the great Poco Bueno, and his wife Sage. Buddy was our first rescue from a wilderness outfitter. He was lame in his left front shoulder. Sage, an unwanted red dun quarter horse was rescued from the dark recesses of a breeding barn for miniatures. She was lame in both front legs. They lived out their golden years together, and were euthanized as a couple when the Vet advised us they could no longer survive another winter. This was a particularly difficult and heart breaking passage.

The final chapter to our rescue story was an E-mail from the woman that fell in love with and bought my Appaloosa named Snowy. He was a gray horse that succumbed to the skin cancers we so valiantly fought. My Pegasus finally got his wings.

Perhaps you are wondering why I’m telling you these stories of love, compassion, ignorance, and cruelty. The veil of Maya was lifted from my eyes and I am one of the world’s wretched creatures bathed in the light of Babaji’s saving grace. I am one of his miracles.

I ask for your help in saving the Haidakan Ashram in India. It is threatened by the Indian Government. They are planning to build a large dam at Jamrani near Haldwani in Uttarakhand. It will flood the valley and destroy the temple built more than 100 years ago with the hands of the spiritual saint It will destroy his Ashram, a Mecca to thousands of devotee’s. If you are not familiar with Babiji, I would recommend that you read Autobiography of a Yogi, by Paramahansa Yogananda.

Please help by going to http://www.petiononline.com/Ramjani and signing the petition to save the Ashram. Albert Bianchine

Don't Let The Gate Hit Your Butt

Cowboy wisdom comes at a stiff price. My Equine career consisted of working for fifteen years in a Rescue Ranch and an Equine Massage School. I made all the novice mistakes. I was a true green horn and paid dearly. Real life consists of people who make mistakes every day.

One of our early rescues was a fifteen year old gray Appaloosa named Snowy. He was not able to be ridden and had a bad attitude. We would soon find out the cause. A local rancher explained that the outfitter had a problem with him not responding to the reins when they tried neck reining him. Their solution was to put large pointed tacks in the reins so that when they laid the reins over his neck, they would stick him. He would eventually learn to move away from the reins. They didn’t take into account how stubborn an Appaloosa really is. This just served to ruin him. They ended up packing him between the mules and he spent his career there.

My wife Kathy, being an English rider, suggested that I mouth rein him. I tried it, and Snowy responded well. He resisted when urging him to move forward, especially at a speed greater than a walk. I remember clearly saying to Kathy, “Open the gate to the big field, I’m going to teach him to run.”

“Perhaps that’s not a good idea Al,” was her response. “Just open the gate,” I replied curtly. She smiled, opened the gate, and stepped aside. At the same time she opened it our other horse Buddy rushed out to get to the fresh grass. The gate hit Snowy in his butt. I got my wish. Snowy bolted like a shot. He was bucking with both feet like a bucking bronco. I am a novice rider and after the third buck I remember seeing my feet out in front of me above my head.

I hit the ground hard, very hard. The vision of Snowy bucking off across the field without me still lingers. I became a Cowboy that day. A true Buckaroo. I was to eventually make peace with Snowy, and gain valuable Cowboy Wisdom. I learned gentle training, and not only to lead a horse to water, but also how to get him to drink.
Albert Bianchine