Conversations For Transformation: Essays Inspired By The Ideas Of Werner Erhard

Conversations For Transformation

Essays By Laurence Platt

Inspired By The Ideas Of Werner Erhard

And More

A House On Franklin Street

1945 Franklin Street, San Francisco, California 94109-3414, USA

April 16, 2008

This essay, A House On Franklin Street, is the companion piece to

in that order.

It is also the tenth in an open group Encounters With A Friend:

so far, in that order.

It is also the fifth in a septology on Homes:

in that order.

It is also the prequel to Accompanying Narrative .

It is also the sequel to Birth Of A Monastery: The Background On The Franklin House although it was written before it.

I am indebted to Arnold Siegel and to Beverly Prior and to and to Catherine Place and to Charlene Afremow and to Chauncey Bell and to David Granados and to Dennis Tyler and to Don Cox and to Doug Bell and to Dr Robert Lee "Bob" Culver and to Edward "Ed" Forbes and to Ed Gurowitz and to Emy Ceglia and to Francine Epstein and to George Elkins and to Gonneke Spits and to Hap Maxwell and to Helen Gilhooly and to Jack Rafferty and to Jayne Sillari and to Jeff Galbraith and to Jerome Downes and to Jim Adams and to Johnny Wiley and to Joseph "Joe" Gerbosi and to Josh Liebner and to Karen Beebe Gerbosi and to Kenneth Yamamoto and to Kent Knight and to Lawrence Eugene "Larry" Bangs and to Laurel Scheaf and to Linda Leyerle and to Lew Epstein and to Mac Carter and to Maxine Mandel Potts and to Michael Bromberg and to Michael Reid and to Michael "Mike" Wick and to Missi Gillespie and to Molly Partridge and to Nadja Krylov and to Nancy Scott and to Palmer Kelly and to Pat Campbell and to Pat Shelton and to Patty Hatfield and to Peter "Squirrel" Sillari and to Charles "Raz" Ingrasci and to Richard "Rick" Aikman and to Ron Mann and to Steven "Steve" Jaber and to Stewart Campbell and to Susan "Susie" Fitch Kralj and to Vic Gioscia and to Wayne Terry and to Wernher Krutein who inspired this conversation, and to Palmer Kelly and to Nancy Scott and to Francine Epstein who contributed material.

Photograph courtesy Google Earth - Collage by Laurence Platt

Franklin House
Satellite View

I speak with an interesting accent. Or so I'm told. To me it's just the way I sound. To others it's an interesting accent.

I began life by being born in south London surrounded by the cockney accent, one of the most recognizable accents in the world. Next, my parents took me to Cape Town in South Africa where, for the most part, I learned to speak.

My base accent, therefore, is South African. But by now it's layered over with various accents from various countries in which I've stayed long enough to accumulate an accent. It's a blend of South African, British, French, Kiwi ie New Zealand, Aussie ie Australian. It certainly has a lot of Californian pronunciations with traces of Fijian thrown in to the final mix. Its origins, while intriguing to people, are not immediately recognizable, and the original cockney is totally bleached out by now.

Given my accent, I'm often asked "Where are you from?", and I often counter-ask "Do you mean where was I born? or do you mean where did I grow up? or do you mean where did I immigrate from?" (the answers are London England, Cape Town South Africa, Nadi - pronounced Nandee - Fiji).

That's how I've learned almost everyone who asks me "Where are you from?" really wants to know where I grew up. So I tell them I grew up in Cape Town South Africa. And that's true - interimly. But ultimately I grew up - in the Zen sense of the words - in a house on Franklin Street in San Francisco. Really.

The house on Franklin Street in San Francisco where I grew up in the Zen sense of the words, was a house with no name - just a number: 1945 Franklin Street, San Francisco, California at the corner of Washington Street in the 94109 zipcode. It was Werner Erhard's home. He referred to it, appropriately, as the Franklin house.

The Franklin House, from the outside, is just another house on Franklin Street, just another ordinary Victorian house on Franklin Street, perhaps just another ordinary gothic Victorian house on Franklin Street painted rich, dark forest green (today it's repainted a cream color). No pedestrian walking by, no commuter driving by would be unimpressed with its elegance, with its perfect neatness and tidiness, with its consciousness. Extraordinarily, the public sidewalks outside the Franklin House on both Franklin Street and Washington Street, were swept and scrubbed clean by the Franklin House staff and assistants. It was a routine item of maintenance. It was both a statement and a gift to the community. It was the way Werner intended it.

Werner, when asked "Have you ever lived in a monastery?", responds "I do live in a monastery. My monastery is the whole world.". In Werner's whole world which is a monastery, the Franklin House is a totally extraordinary monastery within a monastery. When meals were prepared in the Franklin House kitchen at a breakthrough, impeccable, immaculate pace, the likes of which aren't seen anywhere else even by royalty, the saying "If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen!" is fitting, apt, and appropriate.

It's been said you can get enlightenment by coming to terms with surfaces. In a Zen monastery, once you know what's available, one of the most coveted jobs is cleaning the bathrooms - with a Q-tip and a toothbrush.

I mastered cleaning bathrooms at the Franklin House. Then I upped the ante to cleaning fireplaces. When I refer to cleaning a fireplace, I'm not simply talking about sweeping out ash and wood debris and re-laying a new log arrangement just so. I'm talking about stripping down to a used pair of Levis, removing my shirt, clearing out the hearth, and sitting in under the chimney which is a good position to get into to really clean a fireplace, immaculately, impeccably, from the top down ...

Thumbnail sketch. Werner enters the Franklin House through the front door. Sitting cross-legged in the fireplace, back to the back wall, shoulders, arms, and upper torso out of sight up the chimney, an array of brushes and cleaning material at my feet, I sit, grabbing the items I need, sight unseen. "Who's cleaning the fireplace?" Werner asks. From where I sit, I only see the hems of his crisply pressed tan slacks, and his just right brown Ferragamo loafers. "Lar, Werner" responds the amazing Susan "Susie" Fitch (now Kralj), the Franklin House cleaning manager (Lar is Werner's term of endearment for me, from the Roman god of the house). "Lar, Thank You for cleaning the fireplace" Werner says. "You're Welcome Chief" I say, shoulders, arms, and upper torso still out of sight up the chimney.

Those are my credentials. Those are my qualifications. I want for none other. That's my Zen training right there.

Photography by Laurence Platt

2:10pm Wednesday April 16, 2008

Franklin House (repainted cream from forest green)
Street View

The house, aside from its roof, walls, floors, and foundation appears to have no fixed form. One day a room is set up as an office, a space for executives and directors. The next day it's a conference room, abuzz with visiting managers reporting in, planning ahead. The next day it's an elegant dining room serving mouthwatering gourmet cuisine to family, friends, and recipients of various honors and acknowledgements. And yet the day after that it's a Las Vegas casino, replete with tuxedo clad croupiers, roulette wheels, and black jack tables. Ironically this latter incarnation is perhaps its most apt, given this is Werner's home after all. What it says, what it stands for is this: if you're going to play with any chance of winning at the tables of Life, you've got to have something at stake.

In place of introverted modesty here, there's full blown Self expression. And that's just the Franklin House itself I'm talking about - we'll get to its people in a moment. A large Douglas Fir is transformed into an extraordinary Christmas tree. It's lit to the point of not merely twinkling like a traditional Christmas tree. Rather, it emits dazzling white light. Even more remarkable is its main set of decorations aren't traditional glass orbs. They're Japanese Geisha fans. They're not merely hanging decoratively on the tree, splayed wide open, symbolically representing Christmas like ordinary ornaments. They're fanning the Spirit of Christmas from dying embers into a roaring blazing empassioned fire.

Outside the main upstairs suite window, three single lights in formation are clearly visible from Franklin Street below. This audacious display evokes the three wise men, Gaspar, Balthasar, and Melchior, the magi arriving to celebrate the first Christmas. It's brilliant. It's evocative. It's bound to be controversial. But then again, Werner Erhard's not exactly known for meekly kowtowing to the status quo. If anyone else did it, it would reek of false bravado and inauthenticity. But when Werner does it, amazingly it raises the consciousness of everyone and anyone fortunate enough to be in the vicinity of the experience. If anyone else did it, it would be a self aggrandizing boast. But when Werner does it, it's a breakthrough for humanity, amazingly it's a new possibility of being for human being. And even after the amazement wears off, what you're left with is its obviousness. You're left with "Why didn't I think of that myself?".

A staff meeting is in progress. A complicated, complex set of plans is set in motion for activities which will occur in the Franklin House over the next few days. Everyone gets to input what's wanted, what's needed, and in what sequence things must happen to expedite these impossible plans, these sheer grandiose conjectures that you have to be so far out there on the edge to even give them the tiniest chance of succeeding.

Showing up almost as a distraction to the enormous minutely detailed agenda at hand, is a light in a tool closet which isn't working. They could be talking about the hundreds of expected guests and related logistics. They could be talking about the teams of drivers who'll park cars. They could be talking about the nine course meals which will be prepared and served from the Franklin House kitchen by an army of sharp as a whip culinary assistants. Incredibly, no one has any doubt whatsoever that the big stuff will get done. But what grabs everyone on an unconscious, subliminal level is the little stuff. The unasked question, the unspoken concern which hangs like a fog in the room is this: will the little stuff get done? Or will it be glossed over, unconscious, "Who cares?", business as usual?

The days fly by. At the end of the series of events, a completion meeting is held. The sharing is electrifying. The events succeed beyond everyone's wildest imaginings. All guests are totally and completely taken care of. People attending the events are utterly blown away by the brilliance of the production and by the workability of it all. All intended and expected business is accomplished. The meals roll off with exact precision like timed commando operations. The gourmet food served, rivals the finest restaurants'. Not one thing doesn't work. Everything is impeccably and immaculately cleaned and put away afterwards. The place is ready for the next intricate, interwoven set of operations manifesting Werner's intention. The participants in the meeting are satisfied, happy, and ready to do it all again in a heartbeat. But they haven't really let loose yet.

Then, in the silence of the end-game of the meeting, an assistant who works closely with the Franklin House electrician says in an almost chance, offhand comment "By the way, the light in the tool closet is fixed.".

The silence suddenly gets deeper. One or two people gasp audibly and turn around. Then, slowly at first, the applause begins. Then the cheering. Then the laughter and even some tears. People are shaking hands. Some embrace. This is true completion. Even the light in the tool closet is fixed! It's disproportionate to the massive accomplishment of the series of events just completed. But it represents 100% total, whole, nothing left out, no-detail-too-small-to-spare, absolute completion.

There's nothing like this anywhere. This is the magic of the Franklin House, Werner's monastery within a monastery, just another house on Franklin Street.

Communication Promise

E-Mail | Home

Permission