And then my mouse landed on a folder marked “SMA_VidCLIPS24.” I clicked open the folder and there was a column of files, none identified with anything more than “IMG” and a number followed by “.MOV.” So I clicked on one, just to see what would happen. And here’s what we got — a moment on the bus in San Miguel two years ago. I’ll continue in a minute.

But first, I want to describe what’s going on here in Evanston, 2026, in my house. In my gut. Before I’d settled on the above bus-riding busker.

I’d opened a couple video files from more than 15 years ago. One was me talking to camera about the “new” meaning of WILD. WILD was now an acronym, W.I.L.D., which stands for What I Love Doin’. Pretty nifty, right?

But, see, I felt this discomfort in my belly, coupled with a sluggishness at the prospect of writing about this video. I didn’t — and don’t — feel connected to it. It felt so performative (a word I’m hearing a lot of late.) I call it my…well, I don’t call it anything, really. It just struck me as trying really hard to look like I wasn’t trying really hard. And, in fact, the purpose of that video was to interest you in hiring me to make a video for you, or hire me to give a speech on “Living the W.I.L.D. Life.” To me it smelt like marketing, even manipulation.

Alright. I’ll show you the video even if it does make me feel squeamish.

(The physical store at 5357 N. Ashland Ave. closed in 2017, but the business continues to operate as an online shop focusing on sustainable and artisan-made gifts.)

Guess what? I just watched this video again and I liked it. What a difference a day makes, right? I made this one 15 years ago, in conjunction with Andersonville Chamber of Commerce. Anyway, there’s lots of fun here. Excellent editing, good use of music, and great customers ready to have a good time. I think the thing that I was queasy about was my intro. Supercharged energy. Something I learned in improv class back in the Stone Ages: If you’re ever a little nervous or afraid you don’t know what you’re doing, just turn up the volume and increase the energy! Within seconds you’ll feel great and up for whatever life throws at you. And those around you will just assume you know exactly what’s going on, that you’re fully in charge. It works! Even if it is “technique” of sorts. At least I can frame it this way today: that “technique” always could take me to a place that actually was real, was genuine. I took a leap and suddenly found myself having fun. And when I’m having fun, it appears everybody around me is too. Yippee!

What a contrast in energy on the bus in Mexico. I was actively trying to ing drawing attention! But what’s so funny is that, in order to not make anybody feel uncomfortable, I kept the camera trained on myself! So I’m the primary subject in the frame. Ha! Kind of a kick looking at this today, just two years later, and seeing myself in front of a video camera with nothing to say.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy these videos. As I reflect, I recall that, as a gringo in a foreign country, I was slightly insecure about shooting video on the bus. But, look — I did it anyway! Tastefully, I hope. And you know, I really had no idea whether the busker would have objected to being videotaped or not. Maybe he would have loved it. The point is: I (we) cannot know what’s going on in any given moment. I’m glad I shot the video the way I did. I did not cave in to fear. For me, that’s the big takeaway.

And this just hit me: this was a moment captured on tape of me living The W.I.L.D. Life! I didn’t even know it. What a trip!

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There’s no such thing as “making love.” Why? Because there is no love to be “made.” All the love that’s ever been made, ever will be made, has already been made.

I couldn’t have said this in 1993 when I shot this video in Cairns, Australia. I think I probably knew it inside, but I didn’t have the words for it. The video recounts the time I took in a lost cat for the evening, only to realize later that it was the cat who was comforting me, even delivering me to a deeper realization. More on that on that coming up. But for reference, do check out these two previous entries in The Ben Museum/One Continuous Take:

To bring this all right up to the present moment, this morning I emerged from my 30 minute quiet time with a realization that came in the form of a question. It went like this: What if that thing I keep hearing is true, you know, from spiritual teachers and AI YouTube non-human voice overs? What if the love I’m seeking is actually right under my nose? I pondered how I’ve spent so much time and energy in my life seeking “love.” Who hasn’t, right?

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But then a wise soul said to me, “Sounds like the kind of love and understanding and complete acceptance you’re jonesing for is the Love that only a Higher Power can supply. A Power like what many might call God.”

I knew he was right. And then I flashed on another truth I’ve often shared with you here. That is, my favorite travel companion is me. And, upon further examination, I have discovered that it is when I’m spending time with my “self,” traveling solo, for example, or even taking a little excursion down to Jackson Park Highlands (in Chicago) last Tuesday, just for the fun of it, I feel loved!

At that moment of realization, I began to write a list of moments when I felt deeply loved and accepted. Almost exclusively they were times when I was traveling solo. Like when I was in Cairns, Australia in 1993 and the adventure I had there, taking in little Allie the cat. In my Substack, “Allie, Part 2,” I discover that I was loving myself by loving Allie and giving her a place to stay for the night. Easy to miss that truth given how cute Allie was, with her magnificent purr and sweet sweet face. But, get this: on my list were other times when no wayward cats were involved. Like times as far back as when I was only 13 and slept under a tree one summer night in White Plains, New York, because I missed the bus to Vermont where my mother had planned to meet me. That’s a longer story, of course. But here’s what I want to get across to you right now: I distinctly remember that friendly, loving Presence that spoke to me, that kept me calm, guiding me to a spot among some pine trees, with lots of cover, and a bed of pine needles. A place where I felt safe enough to sleep for the night. (I had no money and my mother had no phone in the old house where she was staying, her parents old house that we were only visiting temporarily.)

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I had to ask myself, have a ever felt this kind of profoundly caring love and encouragement in my human relationships? I’ll keep an open mind on that, but in the moment I asked myself the question, the answer was no. Not like what I’ve felt when I traveled by “myself.”

It’s worth noting that the voice I hear in my mind that speaks to me kindly, lovingly, like a really good friend — sounds like my voice. And I do believe that my Higher Power speaks to me through my own voice sometimes. Coaching me. Encouraging me. Telling me when to slow down, when to change gears, go right, go left, sleep here, don’t worry, everything is going to be alright.

Sure, you can say that’s just me giving myself a pep talk. Maybe. And I think it’s way more than that. And why not believe that it’s a Power Greater at work in my life? Why not? Because let me tell you, when I put my faith in this idea, I don’t poison myself with the resentment and pain of that comes when I expect a certain kind of “special” love to come from other people and they don’t deliver. That resentment and disappointment breeds soooooo much ill feeling and meanness. Not to mention the nasty corner of victimhood it paints me into. When I’m in that place — I am not a kind person to be around. And just for the record, when I’m out of touch with this Higher Love I’m talking about, I look for special feelings of bliss or nirvana or “the answer” not only from people but also from places, practices, books, foods, weather conditions, cars and clothes. Feel free to add your own items to this list.

I’m going to embrace (for me) this truth: This Higher Power I speak of — is Love. And it’s All Powerful, All Knowing, Without Limits. Not like what pop culture is trying to push, even if they call it love. There’s no more “love” to be made by me. It’s already Been Made. By The Maker. I just need to wake up to the fact that it’s in me too. Always has been, always will be.

My last words?

“Accept no substitutes.”

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P.S. One last thing I’ve noticed while watching Allie again: she’s so relaxed! And so available for pets and cuddling. Even though she’s miles from home, miles from her people. Isn’t that amazing?! What a trouper!

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The film opened with a slow pan across old photos and baseball memorabilia, very personal stuff. The male narrator said something about the connection he felt with his now deceased male relatives, particularly around baseball. Inexplicably I began to shake. And I began to cry. This film had struck something deep in me. I thought of my grandfather and his love for baseball. And my father, who was still alive. The film was Field of Dreams. Hey, nobody warned me that this might be an emotional rollercoaster ride. Any of you remember?

This was a few weeks before my first wife and I separated, leading to divorce later that year. I think I knew we were done. I think I didn’t even care anymore if I cried in front of her at a movie. Four or five years earlier, I might have tried to hold back. But not this time.

Visiting this ballpark in Guanajuato, Mexico, also surprised me with its emotional impact. I didn’t expect my voice to crack before taking this selfie video. But when it did, I just thought, what the hell, it’s real, after all. I elected not to shoot another take.

A few weeks before this day in Guanajuato (3/18/26) I had received a text from a friend thanking me for “bringing me into your world.” Upon reflection I now realize that that is exactly what I am doing, have been doing. For years! It just comes naturally. I want to share my life with you.

That’s what Wild Chicago on WTTW was all about. So was Ben Loves Chicago on WPWR. I wanted to show you around, let you know how I’m seeing all this wonder, all this splendor I get to experience wherever I go. And now, here I go again.

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I thought it would just be a novelty to visit this ball park in Mexico. I’d heard you could just walk right in if there was no game that day. So I did. The gate was wide open. Nobody around except a couple of guys who I figured worked there.

Puedo ver…? I said in my handicapped Spanish. Can I see? (Oops. Forgot to use a pronoun!)

The guy gestured broadly with a sweeping, welcoming arm. Si, si, si, si.

Wow. I had the place to myself. Except for a guy running laps around the edges of entire stadium. And this little fella.

My grandfather Frank Hollis was a catcher in his youth. Amateur. But he had the great distinction of being on a team from Braintree, MA, that was invited to play in a tournament on the island of Bermuda! Also, his father, Albert, is recognized as the founder of what was called “Twilight League baseball” over a hundred years ago. Albert’s idea was to organize a league of local Braintree players to compete in the early summer evening hours, after work, when there was still light.

Plenty of light today. But, alas, no game scheduled. Saturday, though, there was going. to be some kind of big match between local powers. Dang. I was going to have to miss that one. Sounded promising.

EL DIA DEL IMPACTO! The Day of Impact. I tried to find the final score for this one, but I came up empty. Handicapped Spanish, don’t you know. Nonetheless, I had my own day of impact. An hour later, after wandering through the labyrinthine walkways and alleys of the city, I heard a beguilingly beautiful melody being played on a piano. It sounded live. I stopped and listened. Where is that coming from?

The melody was floating out a third story window right above me. Just gorgeous. I had to stop. And look — a perfect stoop to perch upon.

After about a minute I thought I’d get up and continue my adventures. But the tune had not yet finished. What’s the hurry?, I said to myself. No sufficient answer surfaced. So I stayed put. I can listen and wait until the song is over. I can relax.

Which is exactly what I did. Another five minutes of blissful listening followed. And when the tune was finished, I rose and walked to the little “T” in the road ahead. (A pedestrian-only walkway.) To my left I saw a barber’s pole, the classic “candy cane” revolving round and round. I needed a haircut.

Minutes later, my locks were falling to the floor. Twenty-two-year-old Paul was going to town as I soaked up the Steely Dan he’d arranged to play on his big speaker. A got a whole new look. And what do you know? I had my very own little Dia Del Impacto.

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Nearly 7 weeks with this fantastic view. Who cares that the Uber driver took me to the wrong address only minutes ago? So what if I had to lug my stuff another block and a half to get to the right place?

It didn’t matter at all, of course. I had arrived.

I was shown the bathroom, the kitchen, then the bedroom last. Serviceable. Hey, there’s even a window looking out on the street. Not much to see, but a window nonetheless. Good for ventilation.

By now, you’ve watched the 38 second video above. You likely have already caught my drift. On this evening, one of my last in this apartment, I appreciated this window and the view it afforded me in ways I could not have imagined on Day One. Interestingly enough, it was the sounds from the street that initially pulled me in. Not my visual curiosity. Those squeals of laughter — they were the teasers that took me to the window.

Just that evening, downstairs at Rich’s place (Rich was my “neighbor” on the ground floor garden unit), Rich told me stories of how much he loved those kids, and how during rainstorms he’d invite them in from the street to his indoor garage to continue their soccer game unabated, under cover. He added how they loved to help him cross the street, practically battling each other for his arm, to guide him safely over the treacherous cobblestone sidewalk on the next block.

The big panoramic views on the other side of the building were stunning, of course.

Even better from the rooftop terrace. But you know what? It wasn’t the scenery that I will remember most about the rooftop. I don’t think so. What I will most remember about my visits to the roof is hanging with Maya, the dog.

So full of life! So happy to have company. We’d play a bit, I tossing a toy and she chasing it down. She had such a sweet dispostion. She needed a bath too. I wish I’d taken that action.

Funny how both Maya and the kids made their respective presences known most prominently at night. When there was less to see and more to hear. Maya carried on long barking discourses with neighboring rooftop woofers. The kids played and laughed and shouted with glee until 10 or so.

You frequently hear people describe Mexico as being noisy. I get it. Noisy. As in full of life, alive.

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What occurred to me today walking home was something I’d heard Rupert Spira say regarding beauty in the world. He posited that the beauty I see and experience outside myself, via my senses,— the colors, the cobblestones, the sunshine, the friendliness of the people — these are reflections of the Great Beauty of Awareness, of consciousness, of the All-ness of “God’s Being.” Through the lens of my limited (imagined) human separateness, I perceive all these “things” in their dazzling multiplicity and variety as independent, autonomous entities.

However, I am now seeing a deeper truth, and it is this: There’s only One Being, and every “thing” I’ve mentioned so far is a reflection of this One Being. (Which, by the way, includes you and me.)

Thus, the wonder, the peace, the inexplicable and ineffable — it all is a reflection of this Being’s omnipresence. Yes, the sights and sounds of this place we call Mexico are a delight, AND I don’t have to be in a place called “Mexico” to experience the All-ness I speak of, or the fact that I’m a part of It too! The love I say I feel within is also a ripple of this Being, this “Is-ness.

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What occurs to me right now is this: living as a human being, limited in my ability to see the complete picture, can still be an amazing and wonder-filled experience when I use “my intellect” to see and perceive Being (or if you like, Awareness) in this way. Some of you will understand the reference when I say, “It’s the proper use of the will.”

I pause and look around the space. I’ve just come back from a visit to the local “fruteria” for fresh produce. Five carrots, a significant bunch of baby bananas, and one peach.

I’ve poured into a big, red, plastic bowl purified water in which to soak the produce, along with disinfectant drops. It’s what people do here.

The soak takes 15 minutes. I look around my place. Papers, receipts, notebooks are strewn about the coffee table in front of the couch. There’s an upside-down brown cardboard box upon which three books are stacked, and a small can of “Herdez Granos de Elotes.” (The books: “The End of the Affair” by Graham Greene, “Mexico” by Lonely Planet, and a nice journal of dreams and musings — a gift from my daughter Rebecca from two Christmases ago.)

This stack functions as a platform, an ersatz tripod for my phone when participating in Zoom meetings. Lots of clutter.

Couch cushions on the floor. A colorful green, white and orange handmade blanket lays unfolded in a pile of its own making. An empty plastic water bottle. A Mexico City transit card. A chaotic and deteriorating 8 ½ by 11” sheet of paper listing (handwritten) important websites and corresponding usernames and passwords.

The morning sun, now risen high, generates light and heat through the glass windows, illuminating the cream colored drapes.

I’m thinking I could go on describing every little detail I see here in this room. But that could go on eternally and I do mean eternally. Endlessly, without limit. Breaking down everything into smaller parts, then into smaller parts still. Which is what we humans do.

And then we get distracted by all the little “things” which must be catalogued, named, numbered. And we forget. We forget that it’s all eternal, infinite. Just like Being. We literally can not know.

What is the heartbeat? What is the whir and humming of everything happening all at once?

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Here’s one way. Blow town. Or wait for another miracle day like we had 16 years ago in November when the temperatures climbed into the 70s. It was a Saturday and I was going downtown anyway. So I brought my video camera, rode my bike along the Lake, and pulled together this sweet piece.

Today I’m in Florid…

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Pa first took me to the Greenburgh, NY public library when I was 8 or so. He’d noticed my passion for WWII movies (like Guadalcanal Diary) and comic books (Our Fighting Forces/Gunner and Sarge), and he wanted to show me the treasure trove available to me in books that could feed my fascination. Picture books. We’d call them “coffee table books” today.

On…

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By the way, I think it’s normal to feel angry, sad, upset, powerless and more whenever these killings happen. I feel all those things. And then I see a video from Australia of a man grabbing another man with a gun, stopping him from killing more people, risking his own life, grabbing the gun from the offender, and then choosing, as his next action, to not shoot the killer and be a killer too.

That’s where I need to put my attention. Just like these folks from Englewood in Chicago. There’s always plenty to be enraged or distraught over. Maybe the harder choice is to look for the good. I have faith that I’ll find it.

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And then there’s watching video of yourself. OMG, have I ever opened a can of worms here.

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I played this video for myself this morning, in search of finding something to write about. (Yes, writing is frequently a mirror too.) I clicked on this one, the file title pulling me in, something about there being a French TV crew involved.

In the first minute of the video I hear myself say, “I love mirrors!” And I get a shot of myself in a three-way mirror — a virtual menage a trois. That’s what sold me on going with this video today.

Regular visitors to this space know that I’m having challenges writing these pieces. I’m in a place today where I find there’s not much to say. And I’m increasingly less interested in writing about this place we call the past. As is, old videos. Even writing about what’s happening now is hard. What have I got to say? Who is this I, anyway? Hah! I could call him “The I Guy”!

But, you know, I do trust what’s happening now, and now I am sitting here at this keyboard and I’m writing stuff to put into this Substack, so this must be what’s supposed to be happening. Because it is what’s happening now. And Is-ness is my Business.

Back to avoiding mirrors. Can’t be done. Let’s say I decided I would avoid looking at mirrors today. And let’s suppose I managed to not look into a single one all day. Not even store window reflections, or rearview mirrors in cars. At the end of the day, it’s likely I’d say to myself, “Wow, you avoided mirrors today! Way to go!” And then I’d realize that, in speaking to myself, I was still engaged in mirror-izing. Using the mental mirror of my mind.

What I’m really hoping for (and hoping for is yet another way of engaging the mirror mind, dammit) is complete freedom from self-consciousness. Possibly even freedom from thinking. The real freedom is when I’m not thinking of anything. Including even noticing that I’m not thinking about anything. Maybe to know freedom is just a trick. Maybe the idea is to just Be. Without the thinking.

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So what does this have to do with the video I’m purported to be writing about? Hell if I know. All I can tell you is I really got a kick out of having this French TV crew want to do a story on me for their French television audience back home. They wanted to catch me in action. I told them I wasn’t on TV anymore, that I was doing videos for neighborhoods and independent businesses and organizations. Was I shooting anything this week? No, but I could arrange a shoot, I’m sure. And later I could show you Doggy Beach at Montrose Beach on Lake Michigan. Bon! It’s a deal!

I must say, I enjoyed today watching this video. Like any and all video of myself, this one is yet another mirror. Want to know a secret? (It’s hardly a secret.) From as far back as I can remember, I’ve always liked seeing pictures of myself. And when I got to do a TV show, I discovered, as I put it, how unabashedly, unapologetically enamored I am with looking at myself on the screen.

Today’s a bit different. I still enjoy watching these videos, and/but there’s a big difference between that experience today and how it was 30 years ago. Today, I don’t identify with the guy on the screen so much. It’s more like I appreciate what he’s doing. But this image on the screen, of the guy in the funny hat, it’s just that, an image, like in a mirror. I am the person watching, writing, today. A 71 year old guy who sees Life a lot differently than he did back in the late 20th Century. (And if you want to know the truth, even that guy watching and writing today is not really the entirety of what my identity is. Sheesh. I’m sorry if I’ve confused you.)

Time for the Big Mirror Wrap-Up/Conclusion.

I got nothin’.

Wink wink.

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Well, I’ll tell you straight up. I’m going through some stuff. I’ll try to explain.

See, I’m noticing that I’ve had a lifelong habit of trying to explain myself. I’ll try to explain.

Oops. There I go again. See, the thing is, I don’t really have to explain. But it’s a compulsion originating from way, way back. I just crave to be understood. Anybody relate?

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But what I’ve learned is that it’s enough to just know myself, to trust that it’s okay just to simply be. Be me.

Somebody in the Watergate madness of yesteryear testified that his code of ethics, his philosophy, was this: “Never complain, never explain.” He may have done despicable things, but at least he left us with some interesting ideas to ponder.

But to get back to having the courage to be, without insisting you understand. Let me explain.

Doh!

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In short, I’m discovering that the “me” I’ve been referring to over a lifetime may not actually be “me” at all. As in changing hats, I’ve tried on many ways of acting, speaking, appearing, thinking. All attempts at finding a way to be that will be agreeable to you, to the World. So I can feel safe and not be afraid of being abandoned. Deep action here, folks.

So today, I once again face a Monday and don’t know what to write about. Because I don’t want to go into performer mode again. (It may be too late.) Look, here’s the question: if this “me” is not really “me” but just a bunch of different appearances, skins, masks, conditioning…then who am “I"?

I’m at odds with “myself.” I want to be authentic. I don’t want to use this platform to just say, “Look at me, look at me.” But I still find I’m drawn to the possibility that I may have something to share here that may be of use to you. Something that may give you pleasure, or comfort. So I poke away at the keyboard a few hundred times and this is what you get. Plus a fun video from a few years ago that actually made me laugh 20 minutes ago.

I’m considering even changing the name of this Substack. The Ben Museum still has a kind of charm to it, but it may not honestly reflect the Truth of where I’ve been coming from lately. What if “Ben” is just a name, a construct, a creation of conditioning, habits, influences? The Ben Museum would be a house of cards.

Maya Angelou says in a recent commercial, “We are more alike than we are unalike. We are more alike than we are unalike. We are more alike than we are unalike.”

Hey, I’ll go Maya one up: What if we’re all One. With everything. One big Vibration. No separation. Just one unlimited, borderless hum of Is-ing, be-ing?

Hats off to that.

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                                         Junior Year Abroad

Up there, above South Ken Station

Drunk Diane danced

With such abandon,

Eyes clenched tight,

Whirling, flailing

By herself

Whirling flailing

1975

Testing …

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Juls and I were in San Miguel de Allende (Mexico) exploring El Charco del Ingenio, the Botanical Gardens and Natural Reserve on the edge of town. A kind of desert wilderness. Lots of cactus. And a gorgeous, surprisingly large canyon. Our visit was winding down when out of the corner of my eye, I caught some movement down on the ground, to my left. Ants! Busy busy ants, carrying little pieces of green leaves.

I instinctively knew I wanted to get video of this scene.

Think of that, just for a moment. I actually wanted to stop everything and shoot video of these little creatures doing what they were doing. Why?

I think I just knew this was something extraordinary. I mean, watch it again, if you like. These tiny creatures are engaged in an activity that is about will. It’s not idle action. They were doing something. A task. Work, for God’s sake.

Important to note that when I shot this video I had no idea how I might use it. I’d actually forgotten all about it. But two days ago, there it was again. And I knew what the topic would be: How there was something in these ants that I recognized as being present in myself.

What could that be?

How about this: Whatever it is that animates these little creatures is exactly the same as what animates me. Life Itself. (I experience this when I look at my cat too.) There’s a Life Force, and it animates everything. Without batteries, extension cords, USB cables or solar energy. And it’s fragile. No telling how long this body can retain it.

And here I am (the day I shot the video) in Mexico, where people celebrate something called “The Day of The Dead,” el Dia de los Muertos. A day to appreciate Life, to give thanks and recognition to deceased family and friends who’ve come before us, to appreciate and celebrate the short time we have on this earth before the Fickle Foot of Fate steps on us, wipes us out. (El pia voluble de la fe.)

Humility. There was a time when I had no idea what the word meant. I’m not kidding. My whole life, up until about 35. No idea. Maybe I’d heard it in Sunday school, or in a Leo Buscaglia talk on Channel 11-Chicago in the late 70s. The point is that these ants were all about humility. No stars here. Just getting the job done.

It was a different story in my 20s (and teens.) My life was propelled by dreams of being a star. One day, I thought, I’ll be discovered. Hard work be damned. I wanted it handed to me on a silver platter. It’s just a matter of time.

Many years later, on an extended stay in Mexico, I was swimming in a pool of humility. This country had some things to teach me. Like how to talk, how to hear. I didn’t know the language. Not only that, nobody knew I’d once been on TV, hosting a popular show, seen and loved by hundreds of thousands. In Mexico, it seemed like “going with the flow” — as opposed to “making it happen” — was how things happened here. People seemed to put family ahead of everything else. People took siestas. If a contractor said they’d be there mañana, that might mean the mañana after mañana. And nobody seemed to get bent out of shape over it. Experienced gringos just smiled and said that’s just the way things are here. A wise person once shared with me this: the definition of true humility is seeing things exactly as they are.

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I’m grateful to be able to take that in today. Not perfectly, of course. But it seems that God, The Universe, GOWYA. always has something to show me. (GOWYA? “God — or Whatever You Are.”) These ants, for example.

And then, this morning, as I began writing this piece, a Bob Dylan song pops into my head.

You may be a state trooper, you might be a young Turk
You may be the head of some big TV network
You may be rich or poor, you may be blind or lame
You may be livin' in another country under another name But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes, you are…

Who are these ants serving? I didn’t see it at first, but upon closer inspection, these ants were engaged in a job. They were carrying those little bits of green leaves somewhere. Was it for The Queen? I choose to think they were doing whatever they were doing for a greater good, for something that was going to benefit more than just the one ant carrying the load.

Not only that, I’d say these ants were just doing what ants do. It comes naturally to them. And it’s not a burden. Frankly, I don’t see them sitting around after work, drinking cervezas, watching the game and commiserating with each other over how hot it was out there today. Maybe these little beings aren’t laden with the unnecessary and incessant lamentations of the ego. If that’s the case, it makes sense: they just do the work. It comes naturally.

Could we humans do the same? I know in my recovery program, we have an expression that goes like this: we do service by staying abstinent (or sober.) Over time, just by doing what I do (daily surrendering my cravings for sugar, booze, lust, whatever, to a Power Greater than myself) I get free of the shackles of self and ego. The Power to not imbibe is there. Wow. Then something else amazing follows. I find myself doing service. It just comes naturally. It doesn’t feel so hard, so demanding. It’s actually a pleasure. I weigh and measure my food, I pray, I meditate, I talk to newcomers to recovery on the telephone, early in the morning, as early as 6:15 A.M. It’s just what I do and it’s not a burden.

What if that could be true for all of us? What if we could be satisfied with life by simply appreciating it, exactly as it is?

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But here’s the scene. I was to give two employees of my wife a ride back to the nursery, the home base of The Spirited Gardener, my wife's eco-friendly landscape design firm.

Nicole and Jen were my passengers, both 30 years my junior.

The topic? The Importance of Music in Your Life in High School.

Both women enthusiastically proclaimed, “Yes! It was huge.”

“Ani DiFranco was everything to me," said Nicole.

I was proud of myself for knowing who Ani DiFranco is.

“Indigo Girls and Melissa Etheridge too,” chimed in Jen. Then Nicole spoke passionately about how affirmed she felt listening to these artists back then. They helped these women feel okay to be who they were.

Right now, I’m reminded of a TV story I did at the club on Belmont Avenue in the 90s called “Berlin.” Back in ‘98 I’d heard about Prince Night at Berlin, once a month. All they’d play was Prince music and Prince lovers would pack the place. Purple was everywhere.

During the video shoot, enumerable young people recounted how Prince had helped them feel good about themselves in their early and mid teens. One guy said listening to The Artist gave him the courage to not commit suicide. I was moved. And, for a moment, humbled. For there was a power present here, a power being articulated by these people that I had previously not seen.

See, in my late 20s, I saw Prince as an interloper, a pretender, a lightweight. I was so judgemental. The guy sang too high. His music sounded tinny, not real. I didn’t approve of all the electronic effects he employed. You might say I missed the boat.

But at the ripe old age of 43, interviewing young people about Prince Night at Berlin, something opened up in me. I was genuinely touched. I didn’t fully understand it, of course. But something definitely was happening here. (But you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?)

I recognized in me an arrogance that had served to protect an image of myself as having it all together, a rebel who knew better how to live well, knew better what was good music, knew better about everything.

Yet here was this passion I couldn’t deny. I had no choice but to admit I didn’t know a thing about how these “kids” felt or what life must have been like for them or anyone born after 1959. I felt myself open up. And I could relate.

Listening to The Who in my room back in 1970 made me feel alive. It gave me the sense that I was gonna be alright. Listening to The Chicago Transit Authority (CTA, to be Chicago) did me the same.

My home life was fractured. Music was my refuge. I told my friends, “music is my life!” They rolled their eyes.

You know, I had a deep, teary cry the other day remembering – and actually feeling – what it was like living in that apartment from 1968-1972, just me and my two warring parents. I was afraid. I was angry. Rageful. And I didn’t dare upset the apple cart, didn’t dare express any of it to them. To them, I was quiet, never asking for anything. (No wonder my mother was freaked when she walked in on me having contortions, rolling around on the floor listening to The Who Live at Leeds.)

I’d swallowed the rage and, at home, laid low. In my room, though, behind that cheap, hollow door I could let ‘er rip. My school was also a place where I could explod with feeling, with wildness.

One day, maybe 20 years ago, somebody told me to check out a video of Prince playing a killer guitar solo on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

I was astounded. Jesus H. Christ! This guy could play. And clearly he’d been influenced by another larger-than-life figure who’d touched me too. The greatest guitarist of them all.

That sealed the deal. I became a fan of Prince too. The musical DNA that connected us?

Why, Jimi Hendrix, of course.

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And then the phone rang. It was my pal, Matthew. I told him about the video and what I just told you here in this posting. This morphed into a conversation about feeling a Presence of a Higher Power or God in a place, and had he ever experienced that. He said he had. Where? “Usually around life and death.” You mean, like, at funerals? “No, more like after the death.”

And then he said, “You should put the video up. Get it out there.” I knew he was right. I mean, isn’t that the point to doing these bits on Substack? To be brave, to take risks, to…Be Real? Of course it is.

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And then I started searching for other videos to share. Videos that are more “fun” or goofy. I found a great old “Lateral Movement” video, uncut, as is. Maybe another time.

Because today, I’m choosing to put this video up, and let the chips fall where they may. My turning on the camera that day was a very real, palpable moment. I could feel something deep there. This was an old fishing village on the Big Island of Hawaii, now identified as Lapakahi State Historical Park. People lived here. People died here. People who thought about stuff just like you and I do. Who laughed and farted and ate too much and found other ways to alter their moods (I’m betting that’s true.) Plus the sheer beauty of the site was arresting. And I immediately knew this feeling, this sense I had about there being a Presence there, was just like similar ones I’d had at Big Bend National Park in Texas, at an Indian Reservation in South Dakota, at The Acropolis in Athens, Greece.

As you can see, I didn’t have a lot to say at that moment. What I did say was honest, was what I truly felt. I was here. Followed by statements very much tied to the running theme of this Substack, One Continuous Take.

It’s paradoxical, anomalous. I wanted to say I was here. I’m still convinced that’s important. And it is, within the context of living in this earthly, material existence. And…at the very same time, I have an understanding that, on another level, there is no here, no there, no now. There isn’t even an I. As the title of the hit film by Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert puts it: Everything Everywhere All At Once.

Does any of this trigger a memory of a similar experience you may have had? I’d love to hear about it, and what it meant to you. Let’s talk.

And meanwhile, if all this was just a bit too outré for you, here’s the other video I was considering. Remember how I said Maybe another time?

How about now?

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This epiphany began with a cat, a creature I already knew I loved and felt connected to. And it’s broadened over the years. Today, everything is in the mix. Yeah, everything. Sky, ocean, wind, rocks, you, your in-laws, Charo…Everything. It’s all One Vibe.

My brain (my thinking) would have me believe that this is something new. But, of course, it is not. Yes, my thinking likes to remind me that I’m a Human Being, all powerful, conqueror, steward, manifesterer (my word.) As a human with a brain, I am smarter than everything else, it argues, and I have domain over it all. I built the pyramids and put a man on the moon.

Big whup.

Take a moment to reflect on some of the other delights we homo sapiens have brought to the party. Then listen carefully to the lyrics of this tune. Sure, it’s kind of kookie and krazy, but I invite you give it a chance. Just to see how your irony receptors are working.

And if you really need me to spell it out for you, I will. Here is the ending refrain of a witty ditty many would dismiss as being little more than sophomoric.

History shows again and again
How nature points out the folly of man

Speaking of folly, may our attempts to curtail the antics of the creature below serve as exemplary.

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Today, I would say the same thing to you. And we may not have even met. Let’s get into this.

You are me. Yeah, you.

Yes. Because, as Marianne Williamson once said, “Well, really, there’s only one of us here, after all”! Why would I say such a thing?

I’ll begin this way: If I asked you, “who are you?” you would likely reply with your name. “I’m Joe” or “I’m Tina.” When I asked myself the same question while making my film The Treasure (the 2021 origin of the above clip) I flashed on an idea once floated by Wild Chicago co-conspirator, Harvey Moshman. He said he’d always wanted to cut together a bunch of quick moments of multiple greetings from whomever was there to greet me. I’d say, “Tell us where we are!” and then Harvey would edit together 10 or more snippets from 10 different people naming 10 different Wild Chicago locations. You’re at The Get Me High Lounge/Margie’s Candies!/Graceland Cemetery/The J.I.M.I. Hendrix Information Management Institute/Babes With Blades! And so on.

We never did that, but I did suddenly think, why not cut together a bunch of “Hi, I’m Ben Hollis”es.

It’s fun, funny, bouncy, informative yet, ultimately, ineffective in getting to the answer of the question, “Who am I?”

Ben Hollis is a name. It was given to me. And everything else that’s happened to me since 4:15 P.M., March 15, 1954, has been laid on me, like lacquer on a piece of furniture. It’s all conditioning. Even the “hereditary” stuff. All applied from somewhere else. We’re talking parental influence, medical history, education, advertising, music, TV, movies, religion, Playboy, MAD, babysitters and more.

Ever ask yourself, “Okay, so who would I say I was before I was born, before I was given a name?” Oooooh! Verrrrrrry Scarrrrrrry! (Not really.)

See, I have come to find the truth is this: I am more spirit or energy or vibration than anything else. I am Be-ing. (Receiving the name “Ben” is pretty impressive, considering my true nature, eh?!) I’m not a thing. I’m a verb, an action, an undulation, ever vibrating. This body will dissolve. This spirit, this Vibration will not. And it’s not specific to me. The Vibration is Everything, All. It just keeps on Being, is infinite, limitless, without time or space. And we’re all in it, of it. That’s why you are me, and vice versa.

My ego hates this line of thinking. It wants to rush in to rescue my name, my Ben-Hollis-is-my-true–identity thinking. It’s threatened. But I don’t need rescuing. I don’t even know if there’s even any “I” there to rescue. In fact, I know there’s not! Nope. Because when I tune in to what I now know is my true nature, as just another ripple in the Cosmos of Be-ing, or “Is-ness,” all is fine, as is. Yes, I need to live in this earthly world, true. But given this more Eastern view of reality, I find a lot of freedom from the usual heaviness of thinking, worrying, striving, liking and disliking, and so much more.

So what is this thing we do every day here? The thing most of us refer to as “life”? Beats me. But I think it’s something like this…

Here’s what I see today: This “earth show” is more like a fun, extended improv game. And, yeah, there’s plenty of distasteful, unpleasant stuff going on here, but none of it will persist, will last forever. And none of it is going to keep me from celebrating all the pleasure and fun I’ve been afforded in this life on earth. I see, and experience, a Presence that shines in everything. It’s there, if I make an effort to find it. Try it and see for yourself. I dare you. I dare you to consider that there may be a seriously deep truth in the usually breezy “It’s all good” line. It’s all good. Imagine that.

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From as far back as I can remember, I’ve been enchanted with the idea of “The Common Man” (person) being worthy of celebrating. As opposed to the Famous Person. The Celebrity. Early on, I was drawn to TV programs, mostly talk shows, that highlighted “everyday” people. Like David Susskind’s shows. Later I discovered Dave Garroway. Even some of you will remember “Kup,” Irv Kupcinet. Yes, he interviewed celebs, sure. But his angle was different. He wanted to hear from big-time showbiz types on what they thought about, what their opinions were, in areas having nothing to do with the biz, or whatever milieu they were known to inhabit. You know, as if they were just regular people sitting around the kitchen table.

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Little surprise that my first big splash in TV turned out to be a show that celebrated “the unusual, the offbeat,” the people, places and things you wouldn’t find in the guidebooks.

But even before that was my non-broadcast talk show, “Not Late Night with Ben Hollis: The Talk Show That’s Not on TV.” I loved interviewing non-famous folk. Yeah, I sprinkled in a few local celebs to try to get butts in the seats, but my heart was in finding out what made “ordinary” people tick. Mike Adamle, Jonathan Brandmeier and William Peterson were great guests, but what got me most excited was talking with the “no-names,” the folks who just wanted to come on and talk about themselves. The folks who had no new show to promote, no press release.

Also before Wild Chicago (and Ben Loves Chicago, both multiple Emmy-Award winning programs) was my introduction to Spalding Gray and his Interviewing the Audience live performance he did at The Goodman Theatre in the early 80s. Wow! This guy invites people up from the audience and interviews them about their lives — totally unscripted!

And the crowd loved it. So did I. I felt I’d found my calling. With Gray’s blessing, I eventually presented What’s Your Story? and then What’s It Like to be You? And in 1986, I came out with Rent-a-Friend, the video. All pursuits built on celebrating, paying attention to, the regular guy, the non-famous person of every stripe.

Naturally, my interest in these kinds of productions trickled over to TV, with a heavy dose of improvisation. Hence, my Instant Talk Show!

Writing this intro for the video has been challenging. Every new chapter in my road to today triggers memories and things I want to write about. Some day. All I would say now is, please, enjoy this joyous bit of Ben-ness. I just adore the aliveness of it, the spirit. And to shoot on the ol’ Grid Iron before the Big Game (homecoming!) — fantastic! School Spirit! Friends and Family Spirit! And a dog! (Dogs always up the value of anything on TV. Everybody loves dogs.)

There’s so much to say about this one, but I’m rushing to get it out. Ha! Aint’ that America. Home of the … well, we’ll keep our eye out on that one.

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I didn’t always think that way. I held somewhere in my mind a subtle (sometimes not so subtle) belief that my kids would be fascinated with my old videotapes and letters and notebooks. How I’ve come to think otherwise is a mystery. Maybe it’s the wisdom that comes with age.

Even the title of this podcast betrays my shaky thinking. The Ben Museum. Guilty as charged.

But it’s not all black and white. There is value in claiming my work as worthy. But that doesn’t mean I need museums built. What if it’s enough just to feel good within myself about my work? And to what extent is my career of trying to get you to look at my stuff a reflection of a self-esteem deficit to begin with? Put another way, if I was solid in my view of my work (and my being) would I even be writing these words?

Okay, I gotta take a break here. I think I’m getting black and white again. Truth is, I do good work. And I’m beginning to appreciate it. Publicly. And if it lifts anyone’s spirits for just a moment, that’s great.

But even that is not necessary. Why? Because I’m getting pleasure from it, all by myself. Maybe I needed to do all this stuff just to get to this point, you know? Like, for me. Any of this stuff sticking?

So, no, I don’t think my kids will be thrilled to look through all my stuff once I’m gone. And why should I wait for that time anyway? Why not bring them the same kind of love and attention I always wanted for myself, right now, while I’m actually here in the flesh and blood?

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(To see more Good Mood Maker videos, go here: https://www.youtube.com/@GoodMoodMaker)