The Paper Garden

Things That Take a Piece of Your Heart

2009-04-27T23:43:00.001-07:00

(Phoebe Langley, age 13, December 2008)

The pup that chose you nearly 14 long years ago, who must have been in pain, but never let on. The pup whose tail never stopped up until the very end, who never growled, or snapped or ever entertained a bad mood. The dog who followed you from room to room for so many years that you stopped noticing it until today ... when you no longer heard the click, click, plunk that you had grown so dependent on. The smart and intuitive dog whose soft brown eyes were the first waking thing you've seen every day except when you were away. The dog your friends said was uncanny in her similarity to you. The dog you named Phoebe after the songwriter Phoebe Snow, and the Greek word for "bright" or "radiant," and who honored the name with every silvery hair on her body.

Good-bye my little love. There won't be a day that passes when I won't remember the way you made me feel so unconditionally loved.

Also in the past year ...

2009-03-16T19:35:00.001-07:00

The Portland Zoo got a new baby elephant, it's a boy, and he's absolutely charming.

HOW MY FURY WITH AIG ENDED MORE THAN A YEAR OF BLOGGING SILENCE

2009-03-16T19:03:00.000-07:00

Damn, one minute you think blogging is Miss Thang, and the next thing you know Facebook is the new girl in school, and even that is being superseded by Twittering. During that time, friends have had babies, and the earth turned on its axis and the US elected a stellar President for the first time in 8 years, and many of your friends are in fear of being laid off from their jobs, and entire industries, as well as Wall Street in general, look like ghost towns. It's been over a year, folks.

Still, you’re sort of into epinions.com, and what is there new to say really? Then you wake up on a rainy Sunday morning and read this headline which for obvious reasons raises your blood pressure way up high when you consider the depth of the injustice: "AIG says it will try to restrain future bonuses: CEO says despite $170 billion bailout, ‘hands are tied’ and can’t cut them."—and suddenly you know exactly what you want to say! And to make matters worse you're linked to an older headlines,“$619 Million Paid to Keep A.I.G. Staff”—this one didn’t get nearly as much press back in January when it headlined right around the time of the inauguration.

Here’s more: “The American International Group, the insurance company, is giving executives and employees at least $619 million in retention pay, $150 million more than previously disclosed.

A.I.G. is spending the money to prevent about 4,200 employees from quitting, the insurer said in a document given to Representative Elijah Cummings. New York-based A.I.G. disclosed in a November regulatory filing that it was paying $469 million for at least 2,231 employees. Edward Liddy, the chief executive, is trying to dissuade employees from leaving. “ (source: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/16/business/16aig.html?_r=1&dbk)

The gem in that paragraph above, AIG used OUR money, the money your children and grandchildren (I’m childless) will be paying off, to KEEP the very idiots who led them down a path of financial ruin and inexplicably stupid speculation (see the experts—I’m not one, but I have been doing my homework and trying to understand). They not only “enticed” these same rotten employees to stay with taxpayer money, but now they are paying them bonuses. Un-freakin-believable. Yeah, you've got PLENTY to say.

Who here has ever been paid a bonus that exceeds $115K for royally screwing up their jobs? Who here defaulted on all their creditors, then asked the neighborhood to put their children into hawk so that you can be sure to maintain a lifestyle that NONE of those neighbors enjoys!?!?! This CANNOT be America, can we be so apathetic as to allow this?

Here’s what I wrote to AIG by using their “contact us” module on their website.: “I read this morning that you are going forward with paying outrageous, incomprehensible bonuses to the top brass in your floundering company. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES! How on earth do you sleep at night, knowing that the taxes of folks throughout this country who have endured pay cuts, lost jobs, soaring prices, plunging values of their homes, and a host of other difficulties, are PAYING FOR BONUSES which you categorically do not deserve.

The assertion that your "hands are tied" is ludicrous, you really must take most of us for fools. I certainly feel foolish for providing bailouts to you, when each day working for a non-profit I see families struggling to keep their children clothed and fed, all too often as a direct result of AIG, and other unethical financial institutions' failures.

I will always, through the rest of the days of my life, avoid any AIG product. I will encourage anyone I know to do the same, it seems likely they'll share my disgust. You surely know that the word gets out through the reproductive channels of the internet. The utter arrogance of your company executives paying themselves for not only FAILING IN AN ABJECT WAY, but BRINGING A COUNTRY OF TAXPAYERS DOWN WITH YOU, is impressive-and not in a good way!

I can only hope that there truly is such a thing as karma, and that each of you who accepts your unconscionable bonuses, will experience your comeuppance. You are a shameful lot, and will surely go down in history with a big, black blot by your contribution to the financial disaster this country is in.

Shame on you, each of you! You exemplify the utter worst of unbridled greed and absence of ethics.”

Did I mention that AIG just posted the largest one-quarter corporate LOSS IN HISTORY! I’m aware that it is not just AIG abusing this bailout, but they specifically hit a nerve.

Has anyone felt any relief? I worry about my job security every day. There is a system that is very broken when people are culpable and without recourse, but people operating under the umbrella of corporate welfare are given breaks the rest of us would never get.

I’m thinking that no one comes here anymore and I’m just preaching to the universe, but that’s OK. I had to vent. Any of you have any thoughts? Are you as incredulous as I am? Do you want your freakin’ money back? I wrote Nancy Pelosi as well.

As they say over at Margaret and Helen’s blog, thanks for playing in the garden. REALLY.

Denial

2008-02-24T10:12:00.000-08:00

(photo courtesy of Stephanie Williamson ... I'd call it "Tangled in Chill")

Simple and direct today. I watched two intense, interesting films this weekend: Michael Clayton and A Mighty Heart (unfortunate title). It's good to see American, mainstream filmmaking tackling the crises of our individual and collective souls in such sublimely-crafted projects.

Roger Ebert had this to say in reference to the tragedy of the Daniel Pearl murder, and I copy it here with a touch of defiance, because I do think it can be a serious mistake to "avoid news" and the "political."

Ebert notes: "The Americans who complain about "negative" news are the ideological cousins of those who shoot at CNN crews. The news is the news, good or bad, and those who resent being informed of it are pitiful."

Not Big in Japan, But Banned in China

2008-02-12T20:11:00.000-08:00

(The beauty above is Tino--my pal Randine's new love)

I know, it’s been a long time. The garden feels strewn with dead weeds – parched invaders. It’s deceitful to call oneself a blogger and disappear, but I justify my silence by considering my presence as that of a teeny, ordinary pill-bug in the vast universe of definitive blogging insects.

During my time off, I’ve thought about the Paper Garden. One of my goals is to really institute a graphic face-lift here at the garden, and to define a more particular trajectory for this blog. I need a makeover … Emily, help!

The musing blog isn’t one that gets much loyalty, so if you’re still here and reading, my deepest appreciation to you.

On a somewhat regular basis (usually after re-reading one of my so-called creative pieces and cringing) I wonder if I’m marginally interesting to anyone but me and my mother? I consider motivational, creative, entrepreneurial and inspirational bloggers such as Andrea over at Superhero Journal, or provocative whatshisname at the ever-popular waiterrant, or the exquisite cynicism and hip sensibilities of the Go Fug Yourself girls (all smart-assy and connected as they are), or the savvy and sophistication of the sartorialist, and I wonder what I’m still doing in the blogosphere.

And then I get an e-mail from a friend teaching over in China and I hear from him that THIS BLOG IS BLOCKED IN CHINA!!! And hot-damn, I’m pumped! Somewhere, in some bureaucratic cubicle or basement, some pencil-chewing tool decided that I’m controversial enough to ban, and that only serves to validate my project here (that’s right, this is all very intentional and influential)! I’m not sure what aspect of this blog prompted the banishment, but I imagine I may have ranted about the dog-fur as “faux fur” fiasco, or perhaps I complained about lead-based paint in children’s toys or something (if you think you know, clue me in). At any rate, I’m apparently subversive! Do you think they would deny me a VISA into the country?

Wow, it’s now official—I’m a radical!

Why the Hell did I Buy a Dell?

2007-12-01T14:15:00.000-08:00

Historically I was a big fan of Dell Corporation. I'd heard a number of rumblings out there, but when I ordered my first set of Dell's for the Design-Build architecture company where I worked for 8-9 years ago, the transaction was seamless. Just under 5 years ago I ordered my first personal Dell, a Dimension 4550, and it was really a solid PC--although there were some initial issues with Roxio and the CD RW drive. After a few phone calls with no results, Dell sent over a tech who replaced the drive. I've recommended Dell to hesitant friends, in short--I've been a fan.

So when my Dell sadly pooped out at the end of October, I went back to Dell--although HPs were cheaper for similar equipment.

What a difference a few years make. I sensed that the salesperson was a bit of a scheister, and worse yet, I didn't feel confident that he knew his product the way the salesperson 5 years ago did. Back then the salesman talked me through the whole order, this time I had to present the goods and he really just wrote the order.

The number of issues I have had exceed anyone's patience to read them, but suffice it to say that from the initial order there were problems. Once you give Dell payment, the engine has been ignited. You CANNOT change anything. Despite the fact that I began to learn how complicated Vista was in terms of software and peripheral compatibility prior to the unit shipping, I could not get Dell to respond to my own research that indicated the tower would only present me with a plethora of problems. They are absolute, one the order is made, that is the unit you get, NO CHANGES. When the unit arrived, my wireless keyboard and mouse were incompatible. I ordered an expensive MICROSOFT keyboard from them. This keyboard did not work properly. I phoned for tech support. They decided to send me a different keyboard. No one bothered to check if the new keyboard was compatible with Windows Vista--it is not.

Meanwhile the tower was troubled. Lots of error messages occurred, ultimately the tower CRASHED (after 6 days of miserly use). I was told I would have to send the tower back on my dime (to the tune of almost $50). I was also told I could order another one, but I would have to pay in full. I was now out just under $2,000 to Dell, and I had no usable PC.

The issues went on and on. Software incompatibilities for which Dell would offer no solution. Dell's suggestion: pay full retail price to purchase it from them (normally when you buy a new PC with Office loaded, it is quite a bit cheaper than buying it after the fact--a reality which was never conveyed to me by my Dell "expert"), or purchase it elsewhere.

One month later, after at least 25 phone calls and as many case numbers, at an average of about 1 hour/call ... I am trying to find a wireless, ergonomic keyboard that is Windows Vista compatible. Dell can't help me. Everyone I have spoken to outside of the initial salespeople have been non-American, and many of them clearly do not have a clue as to what I am asking. The keyboard issue was complicated by my unearthing that the Customer Service rep has never even SEEN a wireless keyboard. The software sent with my new monitor which I did not need, but was sold as a "package" only to realize when I got the acknowledgement that the monitor was indeed sold separately, was not Vista compatible. All my onscreen images are stretched as in a funhouse mirror. Have not even received a response to that concern.

At the moment Dell has +/- $2,200 of my money. They recently told me they are "processing" a $200 credit. I have 18+ e-mails from them in my current in-box, which doesn't include the massive e-mailing I did with them on the first new tower which CRASHED.

Let's just say I'm in Dell Hell. Lots of folks I know have not had this problem. I wonder what would have happened to someone who didn't have enough credit on their cards to buy two PCs at once?

I plan to be back in the saddle here very soon. The blog remodel is still being discussed, but now that I'm a working woman I have less time for the aesthetics of life. The Garden needs an overhaul for sure, though.

Things I've been enjoying:

Goodreads - check it out and let me know if you'd like to be my reading buddy.

Yelp - for general feedback

Project Runway - I've been obsessed with this show from day one!

Andrea over at Superhero - her baby, jewelry and joyful heart inspire me.

Body-Crushing Worlds

2007-10-07T14:06:00.001-07:00

Image from OMSI publicity webpage

I need to come clean here and now, before I start in—this is going to be a bit of a bitch-fest.

You know, I don’t get out much. First of all, it’s football season. Peeling Aaron away from one of the two constantly-running televisions any weekend between the end of August until the Superbowl is a feat in and of itself! But with a little guilt and manipulation I convinced him that he owed me a date night, which consisted of dinner at Giorgio’s in the Pearl, and a somewhat pricey but much-anticipated viewing of BodyWorlds III.

The dinner was this side of sublime, flavors straight out of Top Chef. We had a grilled walla-walla onion “tart” salad which was a taste sensation, and my homemade spaghetti with fresh Manilla clams was lovely, paired with a by-the-glass Barolo and Aaron’s tasty wild boar, the night started out well.

But BodyWorlds III was a colossal dud—not because the exhibit was lacking in some way (from what I could see the plasticized bodies were riveting), but because OMSI oversold and under-organized this event to such a degree that moving within the confines of the space would render a claustrophic catatonic! My irritability mounted when considering the $50 spent for a view of artistically-presented cadavers, did not include the extra $4 for a pretty-much mandatory audio tour. The night plummeted downhill as I was swarmed by unruly children, wayward strollers, teenagers gabbing on cell phones, and generally was only be able to view the displays from about three rows back, on tip toe, while desperately attempting to see the number that corresponded with the audio. Because of the overcrowding and lack of directionals, people were bumping into others, and everyone was looking annoyed and generally unhappy.

In short, I was able to comfortably view about 20% of the exhibit. It was insane. It was like a rock concert, only less organized (and with less intimacy). There was a line about ½ mile long to view the neo-natal display, which we ultimately abandoned. The glass cases were filthy with fingerprints. Children were running all over, there were screaming infants, and toddlers complaining that they needed to go to the bathroom (which one couldn’t do because once one left the exhibit—one could not return). It was a nightmare and a huge disappointment. All the publicity featured a magnificent man on a rearing horse display, which I was informed was in BodyWorlds I. The progression of displays and accompanying text was pretty haphazard. I felt like I was in some sort of surreal, manic morgue.

So in the end I’m left wondering why a well-funded organization such as OMSI would allow strollers and infants into an event after 8PM, an event that was already excessively over-crowded? If we can’t insist on an adult-only timeslot, whatever happened to babysitters? This bodes another examination of the touchy topic of how much adults with the inclination to do so should be able to attend events that seem to be adult-oriented without the experience being ruined by the natural behavior of children (hate mail is going to come). Further, why wouldn’t OMSI include the audio tour in the price of admission, thereby organizing the event by somewhat by guiding people through the displays (and keeping the children occupied by audio)?

On a positive note, the elements of the exhibit that I could really engage with were utterly fascinating, leaving one with a distinct respect for the functions and complexity of our bodies. Additionally, one gets several intimate views of a variety of sphincters, and men can duly demonstrate the principles of shrinkage! ;-)

Lyricism

2007-09-09T12:45:00.000-07:00

(In Manassass with a very big gun)

I’ve previously mentioned my love of music and lyrics on this site. I’ve talked about theme songs and lyrics that circle a theme, namely breathing. But in an effort to hear from (and to determine if I have one) the blogosphere community at large, I’d like to talk about our favorite lyrics.

There are so many standouts that have textured my musical experience. One of my first musical preferences was for the songs of Cat Stevens. In addition to his evocative acoustical guitar (and pleasing physique), his lyrics often resonated with or haunted me. The irony and playfulness of Queen’s lyrics made me a rabid fan in my early to mid-teens. Lately The Decemberists, Dishwalla and Blue October keep me listening with their surprising takes. I’m always in wonder of the songwriter—that most elegant of craftspeople who can not only write poetry, but weave it into the entirely other world of sound.

Yesterday I was listening to Ani De Franco’s Untouchable Face, a favorite tune of mine, when I remembered how this section of the song always makes me hold my breath—the picture is so clearly drawn:

“2:30 in the morning and my gas tank will be empty soon

neon sign on the horizon rubbing elbows with the moon

safe haven of the sleepless where the deep fryer's always on

radio is counting down the top 20 country songs

out on the porch the fly strip is waving like a flag in the wind

you know i really don't look forward to seeing you again soon.”

When I hear Al Stewart’s song Year of the Cat this perfect lyric transports me back to my freshman year in High School and the colors, smells and sensations that surrounded me at age 14:

“On a morning from a Bogart movie, in a country where they turn back time,

You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre contemplating a crime.

She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a watercolor in the rain.”

From Momus’ Marquis of Sadness (thanks Meredith), for anyone who KNOWS this professor, or has been captive of the impulse to categorically please:

“They've announced the new writer in residence
And the cleverest girls in the arts faculty
Must read poetry in his presence
And if our poems are bad
They'll still be evidence
Of our desire to make him desire us.”

And, from The Decemberists brilliant 16 Military Wives, utter tragedy juxtaposed against an upbeat tune that makes you want to dance:

“Seventeen company men
Out of which only twelve will make it back again
Sergeant sends a letter to five military wives
His tears drip down from ten little eyes
Cheer them on to their rivals
Because America can
And America can't say no
And America does
If America says it's so
It's so
And the anchorperson on TV
Goes la-di-da-di-da”

So I want to hear from you. Share some of your favorite lyrics. Why do you remember these particularly?

On Reading and Libraries

2007-08-12T11:07:00.001-07:00

(Across from Humbolt University in Berlin, this monument memorializes the tragedy of the atrocious buring of manuscripts by some of history's most skilled thinkers and writers by members of the Nazi party)

I’m currently reading a book I borrowed from a friend. It’s a Cormac McCarthy novel called No Country for Old Men. The movie version has just been released, directed by the Cohen brothers whose work I greatly admire. To me, McCarthy always feels keenly aware of what his writing is meant to accomplish, terribly keyed into his maleness, a new-millenium Hemingwayesque character—which is a compliment to his skillful writing, particularly in re dialogue—but I suspect he might privately rejoice in the comparison. From my perspective he’s a “man’s writer,” and his fantasies don’t intersect with mine.

My preliminary opinion of this writing aside, it's wonderful to read a book! To sit with the tangible manuscript and know that when you open it, you will be entering into someone’s imagination. Isn’t this just the most incredible thing about language, how we have the gift of being able to reconstruct what someone has imagined, add our individual interpretations and visualizations, and read this person’s story without ever having to be near the storyteller.

I have always loved books and stories; was a voracious reader who couldn’t be separated from a book. I got in trouble for reading during class discussions. Reading is immersion—escape. I know I’m not alone in this worship of the story. Let’s face it, books were the original video games, our mind’s eye was the matrix.

Contingent to the book lover’s devotion to the book comes a love for libraries. Recently Meredith shared with me a Garrison Keillor reflection on libraries, you can read it here. And I wrote a response that she suggested I post, so I shall:

“Just to expand on this for a moment, because the love of libraries is something that commences when one is young and inscribes the subject with the smells, subtle rustling noises of pages turning, chairs scooting, rumps shifting, and access to imaginative worlds that seem to roil in the atmosphere of those exalted buildings. As the child of parents who barely spoke English, the library WAS America for me. In tangent with school, it taught me everything. I lapped both vehicles for learning up like an eager puppy, realizing that with these resources I could find my own way—I wasn’t stuck turning my curious face only to my parents for the secrets to the ways of the world. This, I think, was how a girl who might have tended to be a bit too dependent, learned the thrill of self-determination.

"My library, like Keillor's, was beautiful. Even in the sterile, pre-planned landscape of Westchester, California, it felt like history resided there. The structure was stately and the librarians were my heroes. I remember the look of the worn wood shelves, and the typeface of the labels that faced out from each row of books, and the mystery and subsequent mastering of the Dewey decimal system. It was a place that surely supported the basic ideals of quantum physics (that you can beckon, on a molecular basis, some sort of atmosphere that you desire).”

Back in Blog

2007-08-03T01:08:00.000-07:00

I’m slowly going to project my voice--which has been reverberating through the universe with no purchase—back into the blogosphere again. I thought if I left the garden for long enough, I could force the redesign, but at the moment the time and resources are simply not here.

Please bear with this overused template for just a bit longer.

So in a nutshell there have been weddings, and accidents and offers and allegations. Life has been churning by. The telling shall come to you in pieces and stories, remind me if I forget. Meanwhile, I have had one of those metamorphoses that hit you every so often. You have them as you traverse life, you think you feel something when they occur, the shudder that trembles when we bump against time and our humanity for a moment—and leave the collision changed. You feel the shedding of the old skin as it peels away—you stop to stare at the old hide, wondering how it ever fit you. Sometimes you’re not entirely sure the whole thing has peeled away, you’re sure some bits are left stuck to you, scales that give away to the world that you’ve let something old strip away.

But you feel the change, a way of being that isn’t radical or even terribly new, just different, as if you’ve wiped some very foggy glasses you hadn’t realized needed cleaning.

And speaking of foggy, I’m surely speaking in my little metaphorical riddles, but you know what I’m saying, right?

I’ve got some thoughts, some stories and opinions, and I’m looking for yours too. I’ve got a meme to answer (courtesy of Deb at Stoneymoss—check her out, she’s on a roll over there, haha), I’ve got photos to share. I’m hoping my pal, Tom, shall soon begin his blog from Mongolia (I’m not joking), and I’m watching Sarah over at Kiss Me Goodbye as she teaches me so much about Japanese culture. And, finally, I yearn to write some pieces injecting myself back into the fray. Stay with me …

My Hippie Manifesto

2007-05-02T10:23:00.000-07:00

If the movement had just been a tad more fashionable, and had encouraged just slightly more bathing on a regular basis, and been friendlier to the concept of make-up (at least on special occasions), I SO would have been a hippie. At the very least, I’m an undeclared, undercover example of one.

I’ve been organic since I was a kid. I’m serious, this is the good thing about having parents from other countries who pretty much believe that eggs are meant to be fresh and they shouldn’t emerge by way of growth hormones, and that preservatives are bad because they weren’t there in the first place, and that if you can make it at home, why not blend your own smoothies or toss your own salads at home? Today, I buy local whenever possible, avoid additives and pesticides, and am looking to find a co-op that is close to home. I clean my home and wash my clothes almost entirely with biodegradable, natural products. Lemon and vinegar are such versatile things. Right now I do 99% of my shopping at Trader Joe’s or New Seasons markets.

Plus, and this may lose me one of my eight readers, but I really have a thing for astrology, and although it entirely bucks any rational explanation for why on earth it might have a real-life impact, I’m telling you that my chart is spot on. In case you’re wondering, I’m a Libra with an Aries moon, Leo rising, Mercury in Libra, Venus in Scorpio (ouch), and Mars in Leo. If you’re really interested, I’ll tell you about my house placements and outer planets. I think I can feel people’s energies, and I have an aversion to men that even remotely resemble Dick Cheney or Rush Limbaugh (see below), or who feel they have any right to dictate what goes on with a woman’s body.

Additionally, I believe in karma, treating animals (and to the best of my ability other people) with kindness, dignity and respect—which does not mean that I won’t eat them (the animals) at all, I just cut down on my consumption, insist that they’ve lived a decent life where they’ve seen the light of day and been humanely treated up until the very end--to the tune of paying a whole lot more than most people for my meat, but then feeling pretty confident that it is healthy and untainted.

I saw the Grateful Dead when Jerry was still alive, and was a fan of folk rock before I reached double digits (thank you Donovan and Cat Stevens). I feel renewed at the beach and am committed to saving habitats like the rain forests, wetlands, the forests, and roadless wilderness--not because I "hate progress" but because I feel strongly that a bulldozer does not always define it. I’ve always recycled, never, ever litter, despise Hummers, and believe there is no single alternative energy source that should replace oil, but that the key to future sources lies in diverse sources that adhere to the topography/demography of an area.

I think we should all try much, much harder to do better than our parents and their parents did to steward this earth. I think it's time to look long and hard at what our hero worship of the bottom line and standardized physique has done to our souls. I think we could all use a little more humility and spiritual development (nothing to do with religion and more to do with accessing our inner selves and the rights of others). I don’t really care what floats my neighbor’s boat, but hope that s/he can accept what floats mine. I care that most Americans don’t harbor compassion for others, and envision a way that we can instill community while realizing we’re not all going to join hands and sing a song about Coca-Cola.

In short, I’m a closet hippie who is choosing to finally come out. Call me a liberal, call me a leftie, I’m A-OK with that. I'm not trying to congratulate myself, I'm trying to admit something that has somehow taken on a sadly tainted air in our culture--that of a peace-loving, environmentally conscious, not ferociously ambitious, not "I win-you lose" oriented, I support our troops by not needlessly, arbitrarily putting them in harm's way, kind of person. In short, I’ll take this:

Over this:
(photo of Rush courtesy Vanity Fair's 2007 Green Issue)

ANYDAY!

** Piece inspired by Mark Morford’s column, The Hippies Were Right!

Move-on is Getting its Groove On!

2007-04-11T12:10:00.000-07:00

(Banner Removed -- see Moveon.org for further information)

From its inception, I have participated (from the whimpy comfort of my computer) with the efforts of Moveon.org. What they do (grassroots mobilization and information dissemination) is of such great interest to me that my Sr. Thesis centered on the concept of the potential for activism in the cyborgian human (cyborgian because of the extended reach of our being into the world of cyberspace). When I move this blog, I shall provide a link to my vastly scintillating, incredibly riveting Sr. Thesis … stay tuned!

Anyway, recently Moveon.org queried their constituency to see who among the list of current candidates they would like to hear speak at a virtual “townhall” meeting on the topic of Iraq. Next they invited members to host house-parties where people could gather in community to hear the candidates views. Then they sent around invitations that included links to the house-parties nearest you.I really wanted to attend a house party, and intend to do so next time, but my demanding social schedule (ha ha) prevented it!

I don't know why the Republican candidates did not opt to be involved in the townhall meeting, because Moveon members indicated that they were very interested in hearing what most of the Republican candidates had to say. According to Moveon’s transcripts, five Republican candidates were invited, and none participated—how very tragic that not a single one agreed to join in the dialogue, when perhaps they might have presented some interesting diversity to the conversation.

For a complete run-down on the events, Q & A, and structure of the virtual townhall meeting that was held on 4/10/07, please click on the banner provided by Moveon.org above, and read the transcripts and/or highlights.

This effort on the part of Moveon.org is tremendously momentous to me. In my recent travels abroad, the most common impression that was conveyed to me was that the average American either does not care about issues that do not correspond to their own lifestyles, or that they were arch-conservative, religiously zealous power-mongerers. We know better than that, but in this election it becomes critical that we convey that outside of the boundaries of our own tendency to isolationism. Therefore, 1,000 host homes with probably close to 10,000 participants across the nation (probably more after the transcripts were made available today), speak vigorously for our renewed commitment to involvement and change.

Please take a moment to see what the Democratic candidates had to say at the townhall meeting. If you have a chance, listen to their voices and search your gut for content and an authentic response. And as the elections draw closer, if you feel as strongly as I do that Moveon is providing a service that intersects with your own vision of politics, then donate what you can to help them continue to provide us with these forums for socio-political discovery!

(photo by Aaron Langley, all rights and wrongs reserved)

To What End?

2007-03-27T13:26:00.000-07:00

(look closely and you will see two bald eagles snuggled in the branches on the left-hand side. Photo by Aaron Langley 1/07)

I presume everyone here knows I am now, and have always been, against the War in Iraq--for myriad reasons. When the war began, my limited knowledge of history, culture, and politics suggested that the result of our invasion would be pretty much as it has turned out to be. That powerful, highly-educated people with far greater access to the nuances of foreign policy could not see the writing on the wall if we went forward with this invasion and subsequent US-centric blueprint for "rebuilding" Iraq, baffles me.

I don't really want to engage in a dialogue about the war, though. I am more interested in examining the fallout. Therefore this article regarding the suicide of Colonel Ted Westhusing has greatly impacted me--it is rife with the Greek elements, ethos, pathos and mythos! A quick synopsis of the story is of a man of lifelong steel-clad values; not only a true soldier, but an intellectual (professor of English and doctorate in Philosophy teaching at West Point Academy), a father of three children and a staunch supporter in not only the war, but our post-invasion techniques, who took the call to service, and then became so utterly disillusioned with what he observed in Iraq that he committed suicide. The burden of contradiction of reality with his idealistic vision was far too great for him to bear.

The article tells the story far more meticulously than I can, but crediting alternet.org and Robert Bryce of the Texas Observer with source citation, I will simply quote and copy the Colonel's suicide note here for you to ponder:

"Thanks for telling me it was a good day until I briefed you. [Redacted name] -- You are only interested in your career and provide no support to your staff -- no msn [mission] support and you don't care. I cannot support a msn that leads to corruption, human right abuses and liars. I am sullied -- no more. I didn't volunteer to support corrupt, money grubbing contractors, nor work for commanders only interested in themselves. I came to serve honorably and feel dishonored. I trust no Iraqi. I cannot live this way. All my love to my family, my wife and my precious children. I love you and trust you only. Death before being dishonored any more. Trust is essential -- I don't know who trust anymore. [sic] Why serve when you cannot accomplish the mission, when you no longer believe in the cause, when your every effort and breath to succeed meets with lies, lack of support, and selfishness? No more. Reevaluate yourselves, cdrs [commanders]. You are not what you think you are and I know it.

COL Ted Westhusing

Life needs trust. Trust is no more for me here in Iraq."

I can think of no better narrative by which to illustrate the more subtle ways in which the reckless actions of our administration will initiate residual tragedies for decades to come.

Breathe Me

2007-03-22T00:17:00.000-07:00

(photo by Aaron Langley, 2/07)

The Paper Garden will be undergoing some changes soon … once I get my redesign organized it is my goal to truly own the project of this blog by posting on a regular basis—really! Pretty soon I’ll be moving to my own domain (I will be posting the new link here when the move has been made). Early thank yous to the amazing Emily for all her help and patience as I learn a thing or two about becoming a more savvy internet user.

Anyone else out there listening to the music of Sia? (That I live with some form of depression seems to be reflected in my current obsession with Sia and Blue October) I’m a latecomer to this Australian’s music—I’m hooked, particularly to her song, Breathe Me. Sia sings this ethereal song which plays during the final moments of the season finale of Six Feet Under, as former art student Claire drives out of Pasadena and into her new life.

I have spent the late night hours of the first part of this year watching seasons 1-5 of this show. Through the sophisticated themes I feel like I've lived right alongside of the Fishers & friends--I'm as emotionally wrought as they all are!

I've read the message boards, watched all the extras ... I'm way behind the times in terms of fandom, but this was an extraordinary show. I love the boundaries the creators challenged, I wallowed in the repeated explorations of death and how, in the innate wisdom of the character Nate, death makes life important. I loved the opening sequence and watching a show that presented movie-style camerawork. Why isn't TV always this good?

Should you be interested, you can find the simple, but wrenching lyrics to Breathe Me here courtesy of lyrics mania. And check out other songs of Sia's, she's intense!

Mirrors

2007-02-26T15:30:00.000-08:00

My husband took this photo during a recent business trip to Washington. The extraordinary glass of the lake creates a mirror image that can be viewed with equal awe both right-side up and upside down!

When I was a kid, sometimes I'd consider the possibility that a whole parallel universe existed on the opposite side of the mirror.

What do you see when you gaze into a mirror? I'm always perplexed. There is hardly a time when I view images of myself without feeling unsettled. Who is that person that is occupying my body, I wonder. Why does she carry herself in that manner, why does she appear to be angry or why does she look sad? Viewing our image in a mirror commutes our consciousness from something that we presume is intrinsic to being IN our bodies, to something that can apear and feel so alien from withOUT. Therefore mirrors are almost like peanut galleries, mocking our perspectives, calling into question things we presume are critical aspects of our identities. You have become a stranger to yourself, no longer buoyant or resilient, the mirror might suggest, or simply different than you imagined yourself to be.

Piggy-backing onto my recent shopping reflection, I can say that mirrors are recently responsible for my sense of mortality. We are always told that life is short, but when we're young it can seem endless. My mirror reveals to me that despite my best efforts--I am aging, and life passes you by like that commercial where Fabio morphs into an ancient old man in the time it takes to pass beneath a Venetian bridge.

Jacques Lacan used the representation (both literal and metaphorical) of a mirror to mark the time in our infancy when we recognize our image and it suggests to us a certain lack, or "otherness." I think Lacan skewed many aspects of this mirror stage, but in basic theory he got it right. We never truly can SEE or objectify ourselves--we are innately situated in our personal bias--and thus the profound misunderstandings that keep repeating themselves historically on this human-occupied earth. We feel so invested in what feels like the truth of our knowledge of ourselves.

Still, sometimes maybe we can use the concept of the reverse image to finally recognize just how beautiful things are--including ourselves--in all their innate positive and negative embodiments. I suppose when I consider the level of consciousness I gain as I traverse through life, I can presume that in having lived, weathered, and experienced the stuff of living, in the end that newborn baby I began as, and withered old woman I'll end up as, were equally beautiful in that they were one and the same, wholehearted life.

Can I Get You a Larger Size in That?

2007-02-08T14:42:00.000-08:00

I used to love shopping. In fact, the day after Christmas we had a tradition—Stephanie and her mother would join my mother and I for a day in some ritzy part of Los Angeles (Beverly Hills, the Wilshire District, Newport Beach) and we’d get bonafide good bargains and a memorable lunch at some chi-chi place like The Egg and The Eye restaurant across from the La Brea Tar Pits. Neither of our families had much money (my mother sewed many of our clothes), but after Christmas one could procure nice things at a reasonable price. I usually got a dress from Saks Fifth Avenue, slashed down half price or more, or a pair of slacks. These trips were rituals, with attentive saleswomen treating us as if we mattered. Shopping was an event, and the few things we could afford to buy were carefully considered, later cherished. The memory of shopping back then still elicits a series of pleasurable images.

But these days shopping is a real drag. Underpaid, overworked salespeople seem to hate their jobs. They talk loudly about their rotten schedules or how much they hate sorting the shoe section, or complaining that they haven’t had a break yet--with you clearly in their sphere of being. They make it clear that they don't much like what they are doing. At Sephora they pass right by me hovering indecisively over expensive anti-aging product for which I crave some information, settling instead on the 18-year old who rarely ends up buying anything, or leaves with a pot of lip gloss. When demonstrating Bare Minerals (although I twice explained that I already used them and just had a simple question) to me and a lovely young woman of 20ish, the Sephora salesgirl assured the young woman that the minerals behave differently on “young skin” than they do on older skins like mine which require more moisturizer for the minerals to adhere. Ahem. Entering a dressing room at Nordstrom Rack or Marshalls, the women handing out garment numbers don't make eye contact with me, or interrupt their personal conversation with a co-worker, reaching the garment number plaque toward me from extendor arms indifferently.

I’m a music enthusiast, and I listen to a lot of edgy stuff such as Blue October, or Nine Inch Nails or old Faith No More, in addition to mainstream fare, but when I’m shopping, I’d rather not have music blasted at me at concert-level volumes. Walking into Banana Republic recently, I literally felt the music permeating my chest wall—incessant house music decidedly kills my desire to buy, and many of my friends second that notion. Note to apparel store CEOs: The demography of women with dollars to spend would prefer not to be assaulted by second rate pop or full-volume hip hop when trying to determine whether or not a pair of pants makes their butt look big or not. I’ve taken to walking out if a store’s music caters to a demographic to which I don’t belong—I figure if they’re making a suggestion (you don’t belong here), I should respect that!

But it’s not just the act of buying and selling that has lost its gloss. It’s my general feeling about me versus the attire that no longer looks good on me. Take for instance trying on bathing suits last summer. It was the first year that I could clearly tell that my body had changed from the one I blissfully counted on to fit seamlessly into things during my youth. I never understood why women complained about bikini shopping until this shopping incident. It had been my habit to buy a bathing suit to cheer myself up, so when I began to pull suits on in anticipation of lying beside an Italian pool last spring, I was horrified to realize that my hips had expanded exponentially, my skin lacked that glorious smooth tautness of youth (sagging and puckering in previously unimagined ways), and that the general condition of my upper thighs was something akin to Jell-O. We take our young bodies for granted. I must have tried on a dozen bathing suits, one pieces being no more flattering than bikinis. At a loss, I settled for one for which I could buy a matching sarong.

But it gets wors--this shopping humiliation. That little, formerly flat belly that I simply counted on, has taken to folding right over the waist of all those low-slung jeans that are so in style. Then the rice-paper thin, body-hugging tops that are currently in vogue, not only reveal aforementioned, disgusting belly flap, but also the distinct waistband of the jeans digging into said fat. Jeans shopping is right up there with finding a bathing suit that doesn’t look like a collection of tight rubber bands wrapping around my mushy body. My happiest day this year was hearing that high-rise trousers are making a comeback.

I’m not a large woman. I’m about 5’4” and around 120 pounds. This seems relatively average to me after a lifetime of being too skinny. Yet young salesgirls are robbing me of my confidence. Yesterday I ventured into Victoria’s Secret—a horrible, overpriced, poor quality store, which bangs out that incessant house music at an offending volume, and which I only entered because I had a gift certificate. The indifferent salesgirl, who I had to flag down and drag away from a personal conversation (arms folded, giggling and leaning against a wall), displayed unabashed dubiousness at my bra size, eyes searching up and down the front of my raincoat. She then announced that they only carry one bra style in that size. This is 32-C people, NOT some custom EE or FFF!?!?! The singular bra they carried, by the way, was black satin, heavily padded, underwired with what felt like industrial grade steel, and featured a rhinestone decal that was completely unnecessary and showed through any cotton top (something I abhor). The salesgirl handed it off to me without glancing at me while chatting with the friend I’d previously pulled her away from.

The bra was like a torture device, ridiculously designed presumably for costume purposes during sex. I guess if you’re a 32-C, you only wear bras as an accoutrement? The miniscule underwear scattered around the store was ON SALE for $25/3 pair, all tiny laser-cut scraps (without any seams) which together added up to the equivalent amount of fabric in a tank top. All around me teens were being happily assisted in selecting thongs or body lotion, but I couldn’t get someone to help me find a serviceable bra, the salesgirl now avoiding me like the plague. Eventually I settled on the underwear and a bra that came in sizes 1,2, 3, etc. I had a coupon for a free thong that had come in the mail. When I asked the cashier about it, she told me that the mediums were all gone, but they still had some larges!!! She acted as if having size large left was a coup for me! I was floored. I just recently moved up from XS to S. What the hell!?!?!

I’ve decided it’s a conspiracy. Young women with the intellects of Paris Hilton, and style sensibilities that translate to a worship of bling and “Baby Phat," are scheming to rob me of my happily confident sense of self--a self committed to a compassionate, reasonably ethical, intellectually curious core. I care about world peace and hunger over a need to spend $225 on blue jeans or $60 on a demi-bra.

It’s rough, being a woman of 40-something in this new millennium culture of youth. It’s rough recalling what a pleasurable experience shopping was in the days when many salespeople sold garments as a profession and stores paid them (and treated the) as professionals rather than expendable robots. I grow nostalgic remembering lining in suits, clothes cut to fit specific sizes not just an elongated Giselle-like ideal, substantial fabrics and threads that didn’t disintegrate upon first washing. I miss walking into a store and being able to focus on the clothes rather than the need to purchase ear plugs.

So I make this call to apparel vendors everywhere, “where’s the beef?” Remember, the commercial where the woman buys a bargain hamburger but it contains no substance … make the shopping experience more pleasurable for everyone, not just teenagers, OK? They don’t have to be convinced to part with their money nearly as much as more mature women do, yet we tend to have more to spend! The cat is out of the bag vendors, WE ALL AGE. We can’t all wear one style of clothing--pay attention to designing and manufacturing for all of us. And salespeople out there, I implore you, remember that you, too, will one day be past your sweet bloom of youth—be kind to us. Even if it seems that anything above a size 2 is large, humor us and bring us the medium, OK?

Running Like the Wind

2007-01-29T21:23:00.000-08:00

(Image of Barbaro copied from ad courtesy www.eleganthorsepictures.com/tomchbadoind.html)

I tried very hard not to write this post as I feel I’ve talked so much here at the Garden about my commitment to humane treatment of animals, and quite honestly I don’t wish to be perceived as someone who anthropomorphizes (a curious term as we are all animals rather than vice-versa, and sentience is, IMO, a relative term) and obsesses—but I can’t let the euthanasia of the great horse Barbaro go unmentioned.

My mother says I blurted out the word “horsey” before any others … I think my greatest moments of happiness as a child occurred on the back of a horse. Later, when dealing with the disappointment of divorce, I was restored by the affections of an Arabian mare who would nicker and softly whinny as my car approached the stable. She allowed me to float through the air on the wings of her efforts, and she’d work very hard to do as I asked. At the end of a good ride, I’d carefully groom her, then she’d rest her gorgeous little head in the space between my neck and shoulder.

Back in 1970something I recall the breakdown while racing of the unparalleled filly, Ruffian. Unlike Barbaro, Ruffian continued to run through the break, and was euthanized the following day. But these are high profile instances, ones we actually hear about. The statistics on how many horses break down either while racing, or training, is heartbreaking. Even famous racehorses have ended up in slaughterhouses, or worse (Google Alydar). If they can no longer race or breed, they become expensive pets in an already costly business.

Barbaro was a beautiful creature, vibrant and dynamic beyond belief. I believe he was bred to run, and that the main factor that hastened his demise was haste itself—they start racehorses far too young. If they are racing at 2, they are training long before that. Barbaro fought so hard to overcome his dire injury. After earning more than $2million for his owners, I respect all the work, money and apparent love they put toward saving his life, but the fact remains that if he had been allowed to live as a horse is meant to live, the chances for this kind of injury would have been much lower. Although I am a former horseracing enthusiast, I find myself rescinding my support of the “sport” as it exists today. The fact remains that while horses love to run—most often in short bursts, or at a canter if they must run for longer distances (as when being chased by a predator)—the racetrack is a highly-charged, artificially dangerous forum for gambling that has very little to do with whether a horse wishes to run that day, at that moment, under those conditions—is it worth it?

This excerpt regarding Thoroughbred race horses from Wikipedia sums up my point well:

“Modern thoroughbred racing involves a science dilemma. The horses are bred for extreme speed, and a primary goal of this breeding has been to decrease bone mass while raising muscle mass, as a horse "carrying" a light skeleton using abnormally strong muscles will travel faster at a gallop than one with a heavier bone load. As a result, modern thoroughbreds are muscularly powerful but osteologically delicate creatures. Three out of every 2000 races result in a career-ending injury to one or more racers, typically due to broken leg bones; a ratio far in excess of almost all other human and animal sports. Of those injuries, more than 60% result in the horse being euthanized. Leg injuries, though not immediately fatal, are life-threatening because a horse's weight must be distributed evenly on all four legs to prevent circulatory problems, laminitis and other infections. If a horse loses the use of one leg, it cannot function; its other legs will quickly break down as well, leading to a slow death.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thoroughbred)

Music, the blues, and Donald Trump

2007-01-29T00:25:00.000-08:00

Recognizing that at times music profoundly impacts my mood, I recently googled whether music can treat depression and came upon an interesting article about research into creating a perfect “brain music” based upon algorithms of the personal music emitted by one’s brain. Supposedly the conversion of certain brain waves into music can be used to treat insomnia, depression and anxiety. The cost for the process: $500 (beats the cost of therapy!)

So January is just about finito, and the black cloud that hovered over my creativity (and mood in general) for the past few weeks has abated like the incessant drizzle and chill that characterizes Nov.-June in this capricious Portland, OR. I was born in the dark north of Germany, but my genes must have favored the Mexican half of my ancestry because when weeks go by without sunshine, I wither. In a November Vanity Fair article by James Wolcott—centering around a red state/blue state comparison on crime, incarceration, etc.—Wolcott noted that Oregon was the only blue state represented in the 15 states with the highest suicide rates. Go figure.

Like many of us here (apparently), I undoubtedly suffer from seasonal affective disorder, which spells the appropriate anachronism of "SAD." I had never heard of a SAD therapy lamp until I moved to the PNW—they should issue all those crossing the border from the south one of these lamps upon entry, although I suspect the natives prefer that transplants feel the full effects, and hopefully return home! (No love is lost between the Californian and the native Oregonian)

Maintaining the theme of winter blues ... what was all that going on between Trump and Rosie O’Donnell? What an ugly fiasco. I wish I could merely say that Trump hit a new low by publicly eviscerating Rosie’s physical components and be done with it, but both of these media giants used their public clout to sling arrows the like of which I haven’t seen since my days in a High School Girl’s locker room. I admire Rosie’s willingness to be forthright about her opinions, after all she’s a comedian and paid commentator, but I think she may have made a better case for herself after the fact by taking a higher road—perhaps by suggesting her personal self-esteem is not dictated by Donald Trump’s assessment of her attractiveness quotient. Instead I found the volley of insults sadly indicative of the kinds of lows that public figures in this new millennium will stoop to.

And speaking of Trump, does anyone else wonder how Trump seems to completely miss the irony of using the O’Jay’s song “For the Love of Money” as a theme song of The Apprentice? A show in which young, successful individuals happily allow Donald Trump to shout at them, treat them like dirt, and judge them based on a series of unrealistic tasks--which generally involve a giant commercial for one of his products, or media placement for some national brand (can you say Ed TV?). Recently Trump and his two offspring, who were "board" members, reamed a woman who politely quit the show, calling her a “loser,” a “quitter,” and disgustedly indicating (after she QUIT) that "quitters" weren’t what they were looking for. In other words, "you can't quit," we'd have fired you once we found out you were a quitter, ha ha.

The O’Jay’s song is so counter to the project of The Apprentice, specifically lamenting the effects of accumulating capital at the cost of core human values and dignity--a word that seems to have completely disappeared from our current culture. Here are some excerpts from the song (thank you stlyrics.com):

For the love of money
People will lie,
Lord, they will cheat
For the love of money
People don't care who they hurt or beat

AND:

Don't let,
don't let, don't let money rule you
For the love of money
Money can change people sometimes
Don't let, don't let, don't let money fool you

Final thought: On a recent promo for Bravo's The Real Housewives of Orange County (how are they real?!?) one of the wives (who is actually a not, at the moment, a wife) who has just hooked up with a loaded land developer whose character is defined by what he buys her, notes that having lots of money is "just easier." Mull that one over ...

In the meantime, I'm going to find a way to make some money so that I can purchase some brain music!

The Year of the Boar

2007-01-10T13:23:00.000-08:00

Here it is, a good way into the New Year, and I’m penning my first post!?! Pathetic, and hopefully not an indication of my level of discipline this year. Many things have been churning in the world of late—friends are living abroad, the euro continues to gain on the dollar, the new congress has taken hold (yes!), animals are beginning to “talk” to us, and throughout this planet weather patterns have been highly unusual.

There are many topics a woman of opinions could take on—and I’ve got a serious one in the pike—but here and now I’d like to share with you a variety of happy links to topics that have been occupying my thoughts.

For instance, over the holidays I watched a show on Animal Planet called When Animals Talk. Hosted by the magnificent Jane Goodall, this program really blew my mind. I’d recommend you watch it if you have access to Discovery or Animal Planet, but in the meantime I’ll share my wonder at stories it told such as these: The wild pod of Orcas that were being filmed and photographed by a Spanish photographer, which day by day drew closer to the photographer standing at the edge of the seashore. These happen to be the same pod of Orcas which have learned to beach themselves in order to grab their sea lion prey. The photographer eventually got into the water with the whales, who allowed him to pet them and learned to respond to names that he gave them. The film of the Orcas swimming around his knees as he plays the harmonica for them is quite incredible. Or the parrot who not only has such an incredible vocabulary that he can speak with his owner in rather sophisticated sentences, but he also exhibits a distinct personality—like when Jane Goodall came to visit him he greeted her heartily, and then said to her: “Hey, where’s your little toy?” while making mocking monkey noises! Amused by his humor, he laughed at himself. He also asks his owner for kisses, and asks her to, “Get closer, I can’t reach you.” Or this one about the pair of pooches that seem to instinctively know when their owner approaches, although he returns at varying times on varying days, and often doesn’t return at all when he travels. No matter how variable his schedule, and long before they could conceivably hear the engine of his car or smell him, the dogs settle at the door of their home and wait for their owner’s return.

If humans evolved into sentience and ethics, is it inconceivable to think that animals might be doing the same thing?

Speaking of things that evolve, how about Mike Sherwood’s extraordinary virtual project, Sub Rosa—a virtual restaurant he has created on the internet. You can have it all at Sub Rosa, incredible meals at no cost, accompanied by hand-selected music to help create a mood. Check out some of the very cool Indian tunes he has uploaded (for sharing only), particularly my two favorites, Within You Without You and Mausam. I love Mike’s restaurant because you can eat without gaining weight, you can download some of his wife’s incredible recipes, and because Mike has an extraordinary talent for artfully blending the best elements of dining. If only Sub Rosa were a material place, then again some things are best when held in our imaginations, don’t you agree?

In reference to my discussion of animals above, it’s the Chinese year of the boar this year. Boars are honest, indulgent, eager to gain knowledge and logical. To celebrate this animal representation, Aaron and I saw “Charlotte’s Web” on NYE—very cute! Some people were surprised that I could rope my football-obsessed husband into seeing a children’s story starring Dakota Fanning on such a party night, but we didn’t have any exciting invitations this year. I have a very soft spot for the story of Charlotte and Wilbur (I remember the librarian at the Westchester Municipal Library recommending it to me), and thusly pigs in general. Boars are evidently compatible with tigers, which is my Chinese birthyear. What Chinese year were you born in?

Finally I’ll leave you with this image of our celebration the final night we were in Bavaria last summer. Notice the copious amount of amber-toned beer!

The Politics of Image

2006-12-20T13:43:00.000-08:00

(Photo from Portland Japanese Garden)

Generally the holidays eclipse any impulse I have to follow politics. Despite my initially idealistic nature, I spent much of my 20s and 30s denying that I had strong political inclinations. I used to tell people who asked (and this makes me cringe) that I selected the Commander-in-Chief based upon the image s/he presented to the world. While this is a valid element of leadership, image is hardly the total package.

Many of us in the U.S. (in my opinion, particularly women) tend to adopt this strategy of political laissez faire because for some reason politics in our culture is associated with stodginess, dogmatism, or something best left to someone who “knows about these things,” someone always other than ourselves. It seems that the idea of politics has become stitched to the idea of something that cannot be understood by those of us outside of the realm.

I have come to believe that this is in exact opposition to what politics should be, which is a community-oriented, community-benefiting endeavor, and that indifference, aversion and apathy can have tragic consequences. To this end, I’ve been more political this year. I want to add a caveat here by asserting the notion that political doesn’t necessarily mean that one is immersed in the world of lobbying, parties, and negotiations—in my opinion it should be much more closely aligned with the realm of ideas, activism, and compassion. Wikipedia states that the definition of politics is: Politics is the process and method of making decisions for groups. Although it is generally applied to governments, politics is also observed in all human group interactions including corporate, academic, and religious. IMO politics is about being communal, how we interface and define our boundaries with others. It should not necessarily imply that we must gain power over others; compete for the lion’s share of financial resources (hording for ourselves more money than we can figure out how to spend while others struggle to eat or preserve their health); demand that others adopt our perspectives on religion; or dictate how people should express their personal outlets such as love, creativity, physical inclinations, etc.

With much soul-searching I conclude that as humans in this world we have an obligation to pursue our lives without ever intentionally causing physical (or emotional) harm to others or the environment. Other than that, I do not believe we should be dictated to in how we express our individuality. Referring back to my opening notion about image and politics, I recall a day in the not too distant past when I visited the Portland Japanese Garden. As I approached the entrance to the garden a woman came toward me, walking with an extraordinary sense of purpose. She wore a lovely hat, gloves, a finely-tailored, spring-weight suit, and clutched a handbag that reminded me of one my mother might have worn. She tottered just a tiny bit on her sturdy pumps, and as she drew nearer to me I could clearly discern that she was a man. We smiled pleasantly at each other as we passed, and I presumed by his expression of resolve that this was one of his first days out as a cross-dresser, and that he was exalting in his claim to be able to express this impulse. He made me happy; he was so free and exuberant in his embodiment as a mid-century woman. He was friendlier than most people I encounter. Unfortunately, instead of reciprocal smiles and greetings, I could see that everyone around me craned their necks, tripped over themselves, gawked in more than curious ways.

My group instantly launched into diatribes about how bizarre and unnatural this was, how creepy he was. They made fun of him, but I retorted that I thought he was wonderful, that his freedom of expression released his inner desire to connect, and that he walked prouder and smiled more than anyone I had encountered in public for quite some time. Why should it matter to me what someone wants to wear? Why is it a human impulse to insult, isolate and condemn unusual people rather than celebrate them?

This post was going to be a post about the President’s news conference last night, but I’ve happily digressed. Here is a link to the President’s sadly vapid address, chalked full of the usual inanities, the tired talking points, the redundant 2nd grade catch phrases like “it’s tough work,” “this is a tough job,” “the enemies of liberty,” or “it isn’t easy.” Read it, ponder, consider being more political. Although now he suddenly professes to a willingness to "listen," he still peppers his address with absolutes. The leader of our country is still drawing his line in the sand—it’s us and them. You know everyone outside of America, especially all those Islamic folk, just hate our love of freedom. We are lovers of freedom, and anyone who opposes us just hates our love of freedom. Toward the end of his speech he says, "And I encourage you all to go shopping more."--priceless!

I’d rather encounter a newly discovered cross-dresser expressing himself with originality and joie de vivre any day!

Puppy Love

2006-11-26T18:17:00.000-08:00

There are some days when it takes something like a puppy to encourage a little "lightening up." Today was one such day. Too much turkey, too much family dynamics, too many holiday demands. The unconditional affection, playfulness and general optimism of a puppy is extremely therapeutic.

Above is my friend Najwa's new angel, Mavis.

Among the list of good things of this world, a puppy resides very close to the top.

Postscript on Mavis: Najwa says she's now twice this size. BTW this is that quintessential puppy post that anti-bloggers always cite as reasons why blogs are not to be taken seriously!

Postscript Re: Charity

2006-11-17T10:40:00.000-08:00

Please read Linda's very well-articulated comments regarding the Dixie Chicks/Red Cross controversy in the comments section of that post. I want to encourage anyone with knowledge or opinions on anything I "rant" about to please respond--it is my desire to always continue dialogue and to hear information I may have missed or not been privy to. I thrive on passionate rebuttal, but as I've noted here before, I remove abusive comments (ones with personal insults)--which luckily have rarely occurred here.

I want to address something that Linda mentioned regarding my probable withdrawal from Red Cross donations. If I choose not to donate to the Red Cross, it does not mean that I would not find another way to process my charity. I have always tended to focus on smaller, more locally administered charities anyway, with the exception of the HSUS and the Democratic party. When Katrina hit, I sent my money directly to Noah's Arc Animal Shelter to help save abandoned animals. It is my feeling that the larger a charity gets (and this refers more to scope of services), the more difficult it becomes to administer aid, and to avoid political issues. One of my favorite charitable ventures is Pasadena Presbyterian Church's annual Alternative Gift Market, where people can select a charitable venture, such as building a well in an African Village, or purchasing clothes for women in battered shelters, or any number of 100% vested donations. I am looking into starting a market like that here in Portland.

Although I don't have the kind of cash I wish I did for charitable work, I would never cease to donate, but would merely find another venue to provide help to people in need.

Dialogue with the Red Cross

2006-11-16T10:52:00.000-08:00

After hearing that the Red Cross refused a donation from the Dixie Chicks I wrote them a note voicing my opinion about that, and declaring that I would not donate to them in the future. They responded to me with a standard statement, and I responded to their response (conversation below).

I didn't expect to hear from them again, but this morning I found this little gem in my In-Box:

Pamela -- Decisions like yours should be based on facts, and not your assumptions based upon your residence in Hollywood. There was no offer of an unrestricted gift to support the lifesaving mission of the Red Cross. Should the Dixie Chicks ever decide to join most of our donors and make an unconditional financial donation to the American Red Cross, we would gladly accept it and put it to work towards our lifesaving mission.
Sincerely,
American Red Cross Public Inquiry

This response, possibly written by an intern or someone who makes broad leaps in logic that indicates similar reasoning to that which a) refused a $1,000,000 donation, and b) accused me of ignorning facts even as they make an assumption that I lived in Hollywood (!?!).

It's always fascinating to see what button can be pushed to drive someone operating behind a curtain to lose his/her cool. In this case, as soon as this "representative" presumed my opinion would not be swayed, he/she lashed out.

Here's the preceding correspondence:

Contact Message:
-----Original Message-----

Subject: Future Donations

I have just learned that the American Red Cross refused a $1,000,000 donation from the Dixie Chicks for voicing an opinion about the President and his war policy. This inexplicable gesture on the part of the Red Cross absolutely floors me, and indicates to me that there is a clear partisan agenda that powers the charity of the American Red Cross.

Bearing in mind that the Red Cross apparently picks and chooses who is allowed to donate to them, and bearing in mind that the generosity of three intelligent, tax-paying, and law-abiding women would be denied charity based on their political beliefs-beliefs supported and encouraged by the very foundational principles of this country--I will never donate another cent to the American Red Cross. Not only have I, and my family, donated money to the Red Cross in the past, but my brother has donated his time and talent on various occasions.

By the way, I am aware of the so-called "conditions" that the Red Cross claim the band requested, and I am aware that you have instituted "sweeping changes" to the way you "allow" donations to be filtered. It all reeks of politics and partisanship, which is not only entirely counter to charitable work, but suggests a pernicious systemic dogma on the part of the Red Cross.

I trust this decision on the part of the Red Cross, made at a juncture when the popularity rating of the current administration was high, will have far-reaching implications as to whether people from the U.S. and abroad donate to the Red Cross, or whether they will select another organization which does not incorporate politicking when deciding whether or not to accept a donation.
Disgusted,
Pamela _____

They responded with:

Dear Pamela:

Thank you for contacting the American Red Cross to share your concerns. Please read the STATEMENT OF THE AMERICAN RED CROSS CONCERNING THE DIXIE CHICKS' MOTION PICTURE below: Shut Up and Sing', a documentary about the Dixie Chicks currently in limited release in theaters, chronicles the controversy and aftermath instigated by the comment made by lead singer, Natalie Maines, about being "ashamed" that President Bush was from Texas. During the film, there is a brief assertion that the Red Cross did not take a "million dollar donation" from the group with an observation that the President of the United States is our Honorary Chairman.

Here is the whole story: In 2003, following the controversy that erupted on a London stage, The Dixie Chicks' management approached the American Red Cross, asking for a promotional partnership for their forthcoming summer concert tour. There was no offer of an unrestricted gift to support the lifesaving mission of the Red Cross, as is customary with most donors. The Dixie Chicks' "offer" was actually in the nature of a business proposal, which called for the American Red Cross to publicly embrace a group of entertainers under fire during a widely publicized controversy of a political character. Since the American Red Cross-like other national Red Cross organizations around the world-- must operate within the bounds of its founding principles of impartiality and neutrality, the ongoing controversy made it impermissible for the Red Cross to associate itself with the band. The President's status as the Honorary Chairman of the American Red Cross was never a consideration in our decision. While the Red Cross maintains a National Celebrity Cabinet made up of 44 individuals, views expressed by our celebrity volunteers are those of the individuals and do not necessarily represent the views of, and should not be attributed to, the American Red Cross. We have never engaged in a promotion with a celebrity during a widely publicized controversy. It is also worth noting that, prior to the controversy, the Chicks' management ignored two successive invitations from the American Red Cross to join the Red Cross National Celebrity Cabinet. Notwithstanding all the above, should the Dixie Chicks ever decide to join most of our donors and make an unconditional financial donation to the American Red Cross, we would gladly accept it and put it to work towards our lifesaving mission.

We hope this information is helpful.
Sincerely,
American Red Cross Public Inquiry

And I said:

Dear Unnamed Red Cross Respondent:
While I certainly appreciate your explanation below, my critical thinking background sniffs out a good amount of equivocating and inference below. I cannot speak to whether the Red Cross extended an offer of membership in your "Celebrity Cabinet" to the Dixie Chicks' MANAGEMENT prior to the "controversy," but I can suggest that this fact would be erroneous to accepting or not accepting a donation at a later date, and seems to be somewhat of a diversionary tactic--something many Americans have come to know as characteristic spin.

You Say:
"There was no offer of an unrestricted gift to support the lifesaving mission of the Red Cross, as is customary with most donors. The Dixie Chicks' "offer" was actually in the nature of a business proposal, which called for the American Red Cross to publicly embrace a group of entertainers under fire during a widely publicized controversy of a political character."

My Response:
It seems entirely out of character for the Dixie Chicks particularly, or any other entertainer (particularly ones who had the savvy and exposure of the Dixie Chicks) with even the most minute knowledge of the entertainment business, to suggest a donation to the American Red Cross attached to some sort of business partnership or "endorsement." I grew up in Los Angeles and know something about entertainment, and I imagine that the gift might have been extended with a note that the American Red Cross could display their logo at Dixie Chicks concerts, which is a standard courtesy. But to suggest that the Dixie Chicks management demanded a literal endorsement from a Non-Profit Organization, one which featured the object of their controversy as Honorary Chairman, simply doesn't ring true. When one carefully reads your words, one notices that you use innuendo here: "... offer was actually IN THE NATURE OF a business proposal ..." I suppose you could inject that intent into any transaction with impunity. The remainder of that sentence reveals the subtext of your response.

Finally, I wonder if the Red Cross refuses to take donations from 99% of America's comedians who regularly enjoy profits from mocking the G.O.P. and the realm of politics in general, or from football teams that have players involved in legal actions (or even convictions) against them, or from corporations who pollute the environment or hire unskilled labor in third world countries and pay them substandandard wages? I wonder if your ethics extend into these gray areas, or if you just jumped on a hotseat bandwagon and decided to play it safe.

When a situation begs for financial relief, I will donate my money elsewhere, and will encourage my friends and family to do the same. Thank you for your time.

And their final note is the one captioned at the top of this exchange.Thought some of you might find this as interesting an exchange as I did.

Conversations

2006-11-14T12:05:00.000-08:00

(above, cattle graze on grass)

I’m back to making an attempt at finishing my Sr. Thesis so that I can actually receive my diploma. In the meantime I’ll just link you up to some stuff I’ve been looking at that I have found interesting.

In regard to the recent election and the atrocious media spin. Read this and tell me that there’s a “liberal media bias” in this country! Sounds more like corporate sycophants plugged into the corporate-run major media outlets to me.

Found a little article on Comcast’s homepage which had some far-ranging implications. Tyson Foods, apparently the “world’s largest meat processor” was complaining about their really bad fiscal year, suggesting that it all has to do with the rising price of corn and suggesting that: “Quite frankly the American consumer is making a choice here. This is either corn for feed or corn for fuel, that's what's causing this." I sent out the link to a few folks with queries as to why cattle MUST consume corn and corn only (I always thought of cattle as grazers), wondering how many bio-fueled vehicles one is seeing on the road these days, and also wondering why corn has suddenly been defined as the only source of bio fuel. Here’s what we learned about corn—a highly subsidized farm product that often rotted away in silos—as feed:

http://www.ewg.org/farm/whatstheplan.php --on farming subsides.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/graphic/2006/07/02/GR2006070200024.html --more on farm subsidies
And this article speaks specifically to the year 2005, the largest corn crop in history.
http://select.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=FB0817F93E5A0C7A8CDDA80994DD404482

One article on cow feed. And another on the corn gluten feed that eerily seems as if an attempt at convincing the farmer is being made.

And here’s an article on just one of a number of alternative ways to create a fuel source (thanks Marco). Imagine, too, that if it can be done with pig poop, human waste might work just as well.

In other words, there seems to be plenty of corn to go around, corn needn't be a cow's only source of nurishment, and Tyson is creating a spin (one which I suspect will be seeing a lot of in the very near future) that an alternative fuel source will create higher food prices. Google Agri-business profits and read about the record year many outlets have had. Maybe Tyson is feeling the effects of the movement to fresh, locally-grown foods.

The bottom line, as my little focus group concluded, diversify, diversify, diversify. Depending on one source of fuel, feed, hell, happiness, is patriarchal and foolhardy. As my brother, Marco, stated, “If there is only one important point to make about alternative (low or net zero carbon emitting) energy it is that no one source will or should ever replace oil and coal. Many sources, most efficient and appropriate for specific location, will eventually replace most oil and coal.”

Check out the utter blather over at this blog. This post title: “Death to Germany,” and assorted babbling about the nerve of Germany calling US methods of torture into question, makes me wonder what is operating inside the skull of this particular blogger--all of it very ugly and aggressive. And to think this woman is named Pamela, UGH!

Just Stuff

2006-11-09T11:53:00.000-08:00

More voter irregularities and ugly politicing--read how homeless people were coerced into representing a Republican candidate as a Democrat (thanks for this link, Don): http://www.philly.com/mld/philly/news/15966909.htm

The elderly woman who lives across the street from me has put her house up for sale. Last week a moving van pulled up and I saw her standing there, very small and lost, watching the van pull away. Later that day, a Century 21 sign went up. Since then I haven't seen her, but have watched pieces of her life being examined by interested buyers. They pull up and read the color flyer. Dumpsters have come and gone, and gardeners have trimmed her vegetation. There is a young couple peeking around her premises as I type this. Their realtor drives a gold Cadillac, and they stand in the driveway in earnest conversation. Now they look toward my house and point around the neighborhood. I'm sad to see the old woman go--she's a writer and has this great east-coast accent. A few years ago her cranky husband passed away, and she's seemed sort of unleashed since then. Here's a prose poem I wrote about her:

AGNES’ EMANCIPATION

When Agnes across the street gets a ride somewhere, she’s greeted by prolonged honks that bully her feeble frame out the door. Nearly every day it’s either the burgundy Buick Rendezvous, the gold Chevy Malibu, the dial-a-ride bus, or occasionally a cab (her splurge) summoning impatiently, let’s go lady!

Merle never let her drive his black Cadillac, proclaiming her hand-eye coordination inferior. When he died last year, she initiated her emancipation by unloading that car along with the cocker spaniel Merle used to fondly lead around on a ribbony pink leash. A former marine sergeant, Merle would report Agnes’ shortcomings as they strolled, periodically tugging at the dress socks that slunk down his angular calves. Agnes would mope along behind them, chastised, her head parallel to the sidewalk.

But after Merle’s wake we noticed her out more, registering the amplification of her presence, as if she’d been charged overnight—a diminutive lady-Prius. Her liberated smile reflected up and down the street. That’s when the reveille began. She bought something from all of us at the annual Four Seasons Homeowner’s Association Garage Sale—an astrology primer, commemorative bicentennial shot glasses, a bedside reading lamp—giddy-drunk with her own permission to do so, tossing out her dollars and quarters like confetti.

Agnes refuses to leave her 2,500 square foot house for a smaller place. The aqua paint has faded like her hair, but the small porch out front is adorned with valiant flowers in terra cotta pots. She hobbles like a wounded wren, scooting out the garbage cans midday every Thursday—although we’ve all offered to do it for her.

Several months back I noticed a robed man plucking at her landscaping. I phoned a neighbor, “there’s a man poking around Agnes’ front yard.” Then he reached for a newspaper and headed for the open front door. Agnes, it appeared, had taken up with someone.

I ran into her last August as she walked to the community pool, startling at my reflection in her bottle-fly sunglasses. She wore flip-flops with plastic daisies, pedals spread over her pruny toes. A Ralph Lauren one-piece under a terrycloth cover-up cradled her drooping breasts and falsely pregnant-belly. She lifted the glasses with a gnarled index finger, looked me in the eye and declared that she’d pre-paid her pool dues for ten years, had nine more left! Then she laid a bat-wing hand on my arm and asked if I’d join her sometime.

About a week ago the customary Agnes-honks rang with an insistent urgency accompanied by an ominous churning engine. Outside we saw the hulking red of an emergency vehicle, which instigated a concerned surge of us across the street. Grinning when she saw our clutch, she mocked our meddlesome concern: “You all thought I’d died, didn’t you?”

Postscript

2006-11-08T17:05:00.000-08:00

Postscript:

The Republican incumbent in Virginia is refusing to concede his senatorial race (surprise!). I see his point, he's the lone holdout for a Republican majority in the Senate. This quagmire is ironic on several fronts. One, oh how the Elephants bitched about the Dem’s call for recounts in Florida after the 2000 Presidential election. What with hanging chads, allegations of voter intimidation and fraud, and two outrageously obvious cronies (the Prez’s brother and Katherin e Harris, ambitiously salivating for a D.C. appointment) basically policing the recount, the Dems had some pretty good reasons to suspect favoritism if not out-and-out fraud. And remember how so many of us felt that electronic voting machines providing absolutely no paper trail were a really bad idea? Well, here we go. Since the G.O.P. won’t concede this race, they’ll need a recount.

But first, let’s notice something about this Virginia Senate loss (yup, I'm calling it a loss)s—the Republican incumbent is the "gentleman" who referred to a Webb (his opponent) campaign volunteer as “macaca over there” (source: TheStar.com - GOP won't concede Virginia). Oh, and Allen is also the guy whose Jewish grandparents were a family secret, only revealed to him this year! Ouch, the karmic backlash of racism! Anyway, there is a 7,200 vote lead in the Virginia contest, a narrow margin yes (what is the matter with Virginians—they passed the ban on same sex marriage and domestic unions), but a margin that still, according to a CNN analyst last night, has never been made up in a state recount.

I’m not sure how much, if any, of Virginia polling locations utilize electronic machines, but my question is, how do you recount in the instance of electronic voting? Word is that the lack of a paper trail in electronic voting (you know they could provide a trail if designed to do so) was a budgetary concern, the machines simply don't accommodate this. Check out this link for some reported problems with electronic voting during this election, and then think back to 2004.

I, for one, am glad to live in a state that votes with mail-in ballots.

It Was a Thumpin'

2006-11-08T12:56:00.000-08:00

When I woke up this morning, I turned on the television, already feeling warm and fuzzy from many of the election returns the night before. I fixed my coffee while banter from CNN droned in the background. Suddenly, there seemed to be a glow of sunshine mounting in the Portland skies, skies that haven’t seen one iota of light for 8 days now—at that instant I turned to the television to see RUMSFELD RESIGNS sprawled in a lovely banner across the set! Were the heavens actually breathing a sigh of relief? I know I was. And wasn’t it merely days ago that the Prez spit that there would be categorically no changes to his cabinet? Ah, the vicissitudes of politics.

The Commander in Chief conceded this morning that, although the individual races were close (as close as they were when the Republicans declared resounding victories in 2000 and 2004?) “it was a thumpin’” at the voting boxes last night. I feel giddy knowing that the House, and probably the Senate will return to at least moderate Democratic control—which, while far from perfect, feels hopeful to me.

The results of the election indicate to me that certain Americans have finally taken notice of the unprecedented “untruths” and scandals that have dogged this administration. Even the most stubborn conservative cannot deny the continual exposure of neo-con double-speak (we never used the phrase “stay the course!”). How much hypocrisy does it take before humans search their souls and examine what it is they believe in? Does it matter who someone loves, or how he/she express his/her sexuality as long as it is contained between two consenting adults? Does it ring profoundly false when so-called ministers of the Bible, ministers who have a direct line to the President and actively lobby against gay rights initiatives and drug intake, are revealed to use drugs and engage in gay affairs? Or when politicians from one party are again and again revealed to be engaged in sordid activities that are precisely counter to the politics and ethics they espouse? Sadly, the folly of dictating some sort of singular “morality” that delineates a narrow definition of acceptable expressions of love and sexuality, was not reflected in the initiatives of states who passed bans on not only same-sex marriage, but also same-sex domestic unions (allowing certain rights to domestic partners). How unfortunate that a perpetuation of rigid, trespassing dictatorial ethics remains active in certain parts of this country!

Doesn't the Republican party call itself the party of individual freedom and individual responsibility? I see that my definition of "individual" must be incorrect, that individual apparently means, "a person whose conduct we must rubber stamp."

My biggest pet-peeve initiative that thankfully did NOT pass: Letters home to parents of teens seeking an abortion. What an abominable infringement on individual rights. In a perfect world all parents are loving, supportive, and forgiving, and pregnant teens can turn to their family in a time of crisis to find a cocoon of understanding and assistance. That world simply is not an accurate depiction of how many families, including my own, work. Do we really trust all parents to be so kind and fair-minded that a letter home will create a warm and loving bond in which a teenager is encouraged to decide for herself to make a decision that is right for her? Are you kidding me—in my household a letter like that would have created havoc, incurred a scene of extraordinary drama (and worse from my father), and been entirely devastating to me. And I knew of many real-life pregnancy dramas that suggest a letter home to the folks is often not a good idea. And since when should health-care professionals become arbiters of some sort of state-dictated moral compunction anyway?

So, let’s see what is to come. Rummy is out. Katherine Harris (the madwoman from the hanging chad debacle in Florida) is big-time out. Nancy Pelosi is in, and while the sunshine only lasted for a brief period of time this morning (it’s hailing as I speak), there was a definitive glimmer of light when we needed it most!

The Power of the Box Office

2006-11-03T16:09:00.000-08:00

Toward the end of September of this year I purchased four tickets to the Dixie Chicks who are playing in Portland’s Rose Garden on 11/9/06. It was a bad time for such an extravagance—hot off of an expensive journey around Europe—but I went ahead and forwarded the money to be sure we got the best seats possible, because I enjoy the Chicks. This was to be my husband’s big birthday gift. The seats were not very good, and I was disappointed that they were located where they were, while still considered “top dollar” tickets.

Today, by chance, I checked the Rose Garden website only to find tickets for the same price as ours, in a far superior location. Puzzled I phoned the Rose Garden box office and was unceremoniously told that these were newly released tickets. When I questioned what that meant I was told that it is “industry standard” practice for promoters to release better tickets close to the date of a show, and to sell them to the lucky folks who hold out. As I maneuvered the site I discovered a large block of tickets (8 seats several times over) of these so-called special releases available. It seemed unbelievable to me that such a large amount of superior seats would suddenly become available to the general public rather than people who were forced to purchase inferior seats beforehand. Shouldn’t, at the very least, an exchange policy be in effect?

When I protested that it was unfair not to provide people who had previously purchased tickets— people whose money the venue was able to sit on and utilize for well over 6 weeks—the opportunity to switch out their lesser tickets for the far superior ones now being sold for the same price, the lady at the box office laughed at me. She told me in no uncertain terms that this was just the way it was, and I could buy the better seats, but they would not credit my other tickets back.

Does this seem unfair to you? I mean, should the best seats be held back for promotional purposes, and then released to fill seats that true fans were unable to procure?

I’m eager to know how any of you feel about this, and whether this has happened to you before. Why does the overpaid entertainment industry treat its customer this way? I have grown weary of the hassle of purchasing tickets to live shows (all this work to keep scalpers from getting tickets, even while they hold back tickets for their own use). As a fan of music, the energy of a live show is fast being overshadowed by substandard acoustics, ridiculously rigid and self-serving policies such as the one outlined above, and a lack of ability to negotiate the exchange that is standard in nearly every other market industry—namely being able to fairly purchase the best product at the best available price when you make the best effort to do so.

As I understand it, the artist isn’t getting the money for these promotional tickets, the venue and the promoters are. Does anyone know the mechanics behind this process, because I’m eager to understand it.

In conclusion, as a consumer, my experience with the Rose Garden, and unfortunately the Dixie Chicks, has been seriously compromised. If I fork out over $300 for tickets to a show only to find out far better ones become available to someone who buys their ticket 6 weeks after me because the venue has decided to release them for any reason, then I just won’t support the venue (and therefore any artist I admire that plays there). A live show is a big luxury in today’s economy. And if this is how all venues work (as the Rose Garden stated to me), then I’ll go to small shows with up and coming artists—artists who will better appreciate my presence. Bye bye Rose Garden, you clearly can’t live up to the promise of your “best available” tickets, so I’ll settle for listening to my music on my iPod and watching for televised performances by my favorite artists.

Disgruntled.

PS. I should clarify that these tickets that have been released are not "kill seats," tickets held until almost the time of a sold-out concert (generally with compromised views).

Beautiful People

2006-11-02T14:34:00.000-08:00

My dear friend, Randine, and her daughter, Sigi. Check out Randine's art at www.randinedodson.com.

Olbermann and Me

2006-10-29T12:04:00.000-08:00

Because I’ve never wanted to invite a bevy of neo-conservative (or simply confrontational) trolls to descend upon my generally peaceful little garden hurling characteristic insults, I tend to avoid hot political topics here in my “space.” But the world seems as if a metaphorical screw is tightening down on its throat, and fear seems to have crept into our souls on a level I can’t recall happening during my lifetime. I’ve noticed that there is a renewed interest in the superhero (Heroes, V for Vendetta, the proliferation of the graphic novel), which seems to indicate that the despair is palpable, and we are yearning for some magic bullet. It’s no mystery that we are dividing along absolute lines in the sand. And it’s no mystery to those that know me, where I lie politically—that I proudly characterize myself as a liberal (as much as I hate labels, and as much as I also tender some moderate personality traits).

So, while I’d like to remain personally and intellectually appealing to a broad spectrum of folks, I’m tired of being nervous about the potential fallout from expressing my true beliefs, the ethics that drive me. I want to utilize what I’ve garnered from an education in critical thought, and project my assessments into the gathering storm of what I hope will be change in both this election, and the big one in 2008.

Therefore with this, my first blog post in many weeks, I’m going to lay down a few elements of my opinion as spoken by my new personal hero and object of adoration, Keith Olbermann.

I like Olbermann because he has a history of documented blunders, in addition to a multitude of extraordinarily brilliant commentaries. I like him because he is of my generation and wears extremely cool ties. I like him because he’s tall (has an extra lumbar vertebra), passionate and unafraid of the fallout of his pointed, unapologetic commentary. I admire him because he engages in a public feud with that uber-moron, Bill O’Reilly, and calls out the powerful men and women of the radical-right with extraordinary courage. I find him appealing because he seems relevant, irreverant, multi-faceted, brilliant and flawed. It is my opinion that Olbermann is one of the most eloquent speech-writers and readers of our generation. His recent commentary on the death of habeas is, in my opinion, one of the most elegant pieces of rhetoric since MLK’s “I Have a Dream” speech, and Barack Obama’s address at the 2004 democratic national convention.

If you don’t know about Keith Olbermann, check out this link to his MSNBC show, Countdown: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/3036677/
Links to various commentaries of his are available here.

It’s easy to love Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert, they couch critique in humor and are skilled mockers. I believe it is more difficult to take on controversy from a front and center standpoint—this is what Olbermann does.

I believe we have made a mess in Iraq, and I never supported this war. It was easy to dismantle the false WMD intelligence if you were reading alternative media. (Don’t stick to the mainstream narratives my friends, it is watered-down journalism, try to unearth the stuff they don’t want you to hear about. Read more radical journals, from the right or left, whichever floats your boat) I thought Mission Accomplished was a performance and a joke. I feel this current administration is chipping away at the fundamental components of not only humanism, but the so-called freedom they profess to protect. I believe they have their own capitalistic and immediate interests at heart. I believe in the many courageous intellectuals from all walks of life (who have systematically been ridiculed and diminished by this administration), who have provided analysis and critiques of our current American way.

I encourage you to listen to what Olbermann has to say, and like him or hate him. But I presume if you are here at my site, you’re someone who harbors curiosity. I hope Olbermann—or the topics he addresses—touches even one person because they learned about him here. I hope that someone listens, processes, and finds his/her own means of critique—it is categorically what we stand upon as thinking beings.

** I will state right here and now that any reply to this post that I find offensive will unapologetically be deleted—this is my blog and while I’m open to criticism, I’m not open to personal insults on my own space. If you grafitti’d my house, I’d paint over it. If this bothers you, I suggest you author your own blog and blast me there if you’d like.

Me

and Keith Olbermann (courtesy free image from Countdown MSNBC website)

I Shall Return

2006-10-23T15:39:00.000-07:00

I am working on several ideas for new posts. I apologize for my lack of presence, but it is merely the calm before the proverbial storm!

Should have a new post done by the end of this week.

All Good Things Must Come to an End

2006-08-26T12:13:00.000-07:00

Right now the final moments of twilight are drifting by, floating downstream along with the current of the Neckar river that runs beside Heidelburg. The lamps that flank the banks of the Neckar cast an undulating glow on the rhythm of the river, as if the city is swaying toward sleep. It is our final night in Europe and I watch the light fade with a large degree of pensiveness. When Aaron and I were first married we always spoke of his sabbatical with reverence, and we crafted several scenarios of what we would do. At one time we thought we’d go to Bora Bora or Brazil. But in the end I persuaded Aaron to embark upon this journey of exploration of the way of Western civilization. We wandered up the spine of central Europe, from Rome to Berlin, and then down again to Austria, then up again to Frankfurt. We’ve missed a huge chunk of the continent, of course—one must visit so many other seats of seeds of our civilization, and I’m not convinced that there isn’t a vibration that circles the earth from every corner of humanity—but we’ve seen a good deal. A lot of art, a lot of nature, a lot of folk craft, culture, regionalism. I think we’ve been deeply enriched.

And now this thing that we looked toward for years has come to its completion. This year has already been fraught with endings and good-byes for me, so perhaps this evening carries the baggage of my fear of the milestones that have mounted in this my 43rd year. My life’s milestones tended to previously contain negative connotations such as divorce, or infertility, or debt. This year they have been sublime, yet the emotions they evoke still contain the residual panic I cultivated upon my old failures.

So tonight we sat and sipped wine and watched the fading day while we reflected on how much this trip has impacted our outlooks, how it has bonded us and challenged us and given us the precious gift of fond memories, and maybe better yet, the knowledge that on the worst of days, in the most seemingly insurmountable circumstances, we could rally ourselves (and each other) and find the light or the lesson as necessary. I’m a bit closer to a sense of understanding about my roots, which was very important to me. I have never had any sense of how place and ancestry has factored into my being in this world. I often feel very alone, ungrounded for the lack of connection to my roots. Wandering around Berlin with my mother, having her show me the modest apartment where she grew up, the places where she once danced, or where she pushed my baby buggy, was good for me.

Unfortunately I am no closer to understanding the holocaust, but I will write about that in another post with our photos of Dachau.

Europe is a fascinating, complicated continent. The initial gilding faded somewhat for me as our trip wore on, stripped away by a more clear perspective on things like local suspicion of outsiders, regional cynicism (aka nationalistic tendencies) and historical truths. But today, as we traversed up a steep incline called “Philosophiger’s Weg” (philosopher’s way), which culminates in a spectacular view of Heidelberg surrounded by wild and tame gardens, with wonderful friends who drove 200+ kilometers to see us before we left, I experienced a supreme satisfaction and sense of wonder about this trip. We were so fortunate to have had this opportunity. I wish I could confer it upon everyone I know, as I think it was mind-expanding (or maybe that was the absinthe I had again last night!).

I have many, many stories to tell in the next few months. I wonder how I’ll ground them all as they swirl around me in the postcard images that occupy my newborn memories.

It’s time to finish packing and sip the last of our wine which we purchased in a small market in Ruhpolding, Bavaria. Wish me well as I fly home—I’m a big chicken when it comes to tons of metal hoisted up into the sky. As they say in my beloved, albeit sometimes obnoxious, home country, auf wiedersehn, chuss, servus!

In front of the bulky and ostentatious Berliner dome (in the former east Berlin)

More Pictures, Yada Yada Yada

2006-08-18T07:44:00.000-07:00

Back again. We must buy internet access at this hotel in Munich where we are staying. It costs 12.50 euro/day, making connecting a bit of an expensive luxury at this juncture of our trip. I have reached the point of looking forward to coming home, having not bonded with Bavaria on a level deeper than superficial enjoyment of a place with attractive surroundings. Maybe it is unfair, as poor Munich has come at the end of our trip, and it's not a particularly characterful city.

In an attempt to catch you up with our travels, I post the following photos:

This is the main square in Zagreb, Croatia. I am the white-panted girl standing before the statue of a man whose name I no longer remember. Statues of men on horses are big in Europe!

A small street leading to the cathedral in Zagreb.

Aaron standing by the traditional statue of a woman at market, designating (surprise!) the market area. We bought a big wheel of sheep's cheese and bread there.

SOME VIENNA:

Schonbrunn Palace, rear view.

Marble god, vigorously riding horse in Schonbrunn's "backyard" fountain.

Our Amateur Shots of Venice

2006-08-15T15:00:00.000-07:00

Posting pictures on the internet, this forum for such artful photography, can be somewhat humiliating. My explanation is that Aaron and I take pictures with a low-end, digital camera with an eye for what we are doing and seeing from the most novice of perspectives. At the moment we know no tricks, and just take honest pictures--we hope to improve someday! :-)

I think that anyone who has been there will agree that you don't forget the first time you lay eyes on St. Mark's Square. This photo doesn't do it justice, but I remember how inspired I felt when I first saw this magical place, and I also remember how uncharacteristically uncrowded it was (for a summer afternoon)--therefore I've included it.

The weather worked against us in Venice--that kind of heat tends to render the vibrant colors and symmetrical architecture harsh. Nevertheless, our pictures of Venice already make me happy.

St. Marco's Square, late afternoon

facing out to the Adriatic from Venice

Empty gondolas flanking the grand canal, white heat again.

The palette of Venice, and the wilting of tourists during July, 2006

Less Words, More Pictures

2006-08-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

(Boboli gardens, Florence. The Medici family villa's "backyard")

Since we arrived in Prague at the end of July, our trip has been plagued by rain and cold weather. In fact, the conditions are very reminiscent of Portland in the fall. Last night I shivered all the way to the restaurant on our way to dinner. It's been somewhat disheartening to go from scorching, hottest-summer-on-record weather, to this unseasonably cold stuff. We simply haven't the clothes for either extreme.

The new airline regulations will pose a problem for us, since my carry-on will have to be checked (aren't carry-ons for cosmetics and a change of clothes?), and we've of course accumulated some new stuff. Although we only checked two pieces of luggage originally, we were assessed a $50 fee because each piece exceeded 50 lbs. (you try traveling in all this different weather for 8 weeks !).

So here are more photos from Italy. We won't have wireless again for a while, but maybe we'll make it to an internet point and move my blog up closer to real-time journaling!

(a view of Florence from Michelangelo point)

^ (In front of our agriturissimo, Podere Marciano)

(The extraordinary pool)>

(The colors at sunset)

(bicycling around the former rampart that surrounds the lovely town of Lucca)

(The tower, it is a-leanin'!)

Finally, some photos

2006-08-13T08:33:00.000-07:00

(Temple ruin in the Roman Forum, and view of the forum)

We have nearly 300 shots of Europe from Rome through Regensburg! And, as always, we look at the slideshow of our shots so far and wonder how we failed to capture the color in this shot, or the heat in that one, or the utter beauty of another. One must settle for the artistry of one's own mind when recalling experience I guess.

I'll just splatter a few from Rome here and there with brief explanations and hope you enjoy them for starters.

(Interior of the Collesium)

(View of St. Mark's Square from the Vatican cupola, and interior of vatican dome taken by Aaron--I made it up to the dome interior and then plastered myself to the wall until he came down again! Fear of heights was reaffirmed)

(Leaving the wonderful Suite Oriani, Alessandro, the owner, is on the right.)

If It's Tuesday It Must Be Zagreb!

2006-07-29T14:53:00.000-07:00

More about the journey to Croatia: Zagreb is probably the most enigmatic place I’ve ever been. We crossed the border just outside of the port town of Trieste (pronounced Tree-ay-stay), Italy, a charming, blue-collar ocean resort/port that grips cliffs sloping toward the sea. Trieste was the first town we encountered that did not feel Italian—there was a new influence here, something more Slavic, more Greek perhaps.

When we crossed from Trieste into Slovenia the atmosphere changed physically and metaphorically. The skies opened into torrential rain, thunder and lightening such as we hadn’t seen since our first day in Rome. Our GPS went blank (apparently they did not load this leg of our trip into the computer, a rather inconvenient mistake). The countryside turned clean, green, rugged, and untouched by the passing of time. We passed village after timeless village … it could have been a place from the Renaissance, or a place from today, the architecture was simple, rustic. The border guards were unfriendly, suspicious—they simply stamped our passports, barked out a question or two and waved us along. I thought about the reverberations of the civil war, not too much more than a decade ago … felt the scars, the legacy of ethnic unrest. Everywhere we passed there were villages, almost pristine, but echoing hollowly in the distance. I swear you could still feel the death that we later heard from the few people we engaged in conversation in Zagreb. Finally, after spanning the length of Slovenia, we crossed into Croatia (another tense interchange as Aaron accidentally blew past the second border guard) which is not as physically beautiful as Slovenia, but seems a tad less somber.

One of the strangest things about Zagreb is its utter pride in maintaining inner-city cleanliness (cleaning teams everywhere), this juxtaposed with arms-reach high graffiti on even the loveliest of buildings. There is graffiti nearly everywhere. I asked a young Zagreban in our hotel about this and she shrugged and told me it is really cultural … pop cultural she asserted when I pressed her. Zagreb (accent on the Za) has a comprehensive tram system, and is lined with boulevards of buildings/townhouses of nearly uniform height (just varying slightly in color or architecture). The layout (and echoes of a recent war) reminded me of my young memories of Berlin.

I confess that I felt uneasy in Zagreb. It took a concerted effort to move myself out into the streets. Aaron seemed fine, in fact he says Zagreb might have been his favorite city so far, but I saw something in the faces of the citizens that indicated trauma to me—perhaps I’m being overly dramatic. We spoke to a few people, waiters and such, and they all spoke of the war as more of an inconvenience than an historical legacy—in other words, they seemed eerily “over it.” Most people said the killing never really permeated Zagreb, then they would qualify this assertion saying "yes, there was murder, but not like elsewhere, like in the smaller villages." Our general impression is that people would rather not talk about it, so we were very careful about how we engaged the topic--couching it in other observations, for instance.

In the old-town section of Zagreb there are narrow, winding streets that creep up the hill above the main square. Some buildings are clearly ancient with peeling, faded stucco and old-style roofing or windows. According to the literature we read, the old-town area dates back to the 15th century. We walked up the old town and to the Cathedral which had remnants of its most ancient 12th century foundations. We wandered through the market and bought fruit and cheese, then shopped along the main boulevard. This area of Zagreb is extremely charming. We bought bread at a tiny bakery where women of all sorts lined up behind us … this is clearly what happens in the afternoon in Zagreb, the women buy their daily fresh bread.

Our hotel, the Regent Esplanade insists on an antiquated interpretation of hospitality. There was an effected snobbery everywhere (we got a great rate on Travelocity), and an old-fashioned “sir, madam” interaction. Apparently a good number of governmental officials from the world over stay at the Esplanade—it felt that stuffy. It bothered me when our waiter referred to the civil war as an economic disaster. He affirmed that the conflict was ethnic, stewing resentments set free upon the occasion of “democratic reform.” But his big irritation seemed to be that the war cost so much, that opportunities to make money were lost in the conflict. I was interested in how a fervor for capitalism (the young people were quite fashionable and adopted a certain gothic/fashionable angst).

We are now in Vienna, a city which I love. I hope to write about my afternoon at the art galleries of the Belvedere Palace—where I was so overcome with emotion at seeing the original canvas of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss, that I teared up! This museum housed works I’ve read about and admired since I first nurtured a clumsy art sensibility. I felt many emotions today, have much to express, but I’m going way long here. More to come ...

Gelato is Not My Friend

2006-07-26T00:37:00.000-07:00

We have arrived in Zagreb amidst a day of confusion, cloudbursting thundershowers, and stress. We weren't prepared for the profound difference (otherness) of a former eastern-block country.There is undoubtedly still a haunted sensibility about this area. It is well-traveled and safe now, but the memory of how violently the Yugoslav Republic splintered is still echoing through this country, I can distinctly feel it—and you can see it in the torn balconies, bullet-ridden barns of the countryside, and wall-to-wall graffiti throughout the city (and in the stone-cold faces of the Croatian border patrol). There is so much going on in the world right now that I can’t ignore. The conflict in Lebanon, and our “official” US response to it is extremely distressing. Aaron’s brother in law is Lebanese, and I have learned that one of my friends had family in Lebanon at the time the conflict began (good luck in reaching your aunt, Sam). When we were in Tuscany an Israeli family was staying at our B & B. The two young men we met had already served their mandatory stint in the army, and were telling us how they had explained to their younger sister during dinner the necessity of the invasion (which no one is calling an invasion). They were so earnest, so sure of the righteousness of all of Israel’s moves. It wasn’t the time or the place to attempt to unravel or argue with them, but it was difficult for me not to.

On a lighter note, can we spend just a minute talking about food? I must reiterate that the Italians know how to eat. The food there is flavorful, simple and generally local. We had a good meal every time we ate with only one exception. The tasty meals have taken their toll on yours truly because suddenly none of my clothes are fitting me. When I tried on a dress at a small boutique in Venice, I emerged from the dressing room patting my protruding belly, when the proprietor of the boutique chuckled and muttered “gelato” in a knowing sort of way. I wouldn’t mind so much if we were all in it together, but these young, gorgeous Italian women chow down on gelato or a panna cota while sipping on hot chocolate and still somehow remain bone thin. The Italians really get what it means to have sex appeal, it isn’t obvious or surgically obtained, it’s internal, embodied in movement, style and confidence. Anyway, in the extraordinary heat that persisted during our time there, clothing was necessarily minimal and unforgiving.

But back to the food for a moment. Here are our hits and misses:

HITS:
* Wild boar, delicious (a tad pungent, but really lovely when prepared well).
* Sheeps cheese, creamy, flavorful, wonderful.
* Panna Cota, a simple milk pudding which—when prepared properly—is a textural and tasty sensation.
* Truffles—America needs to adopt this fungus in our cuisine, it rocks!
* Prosciutto, this is in everything, from sandwiches to breakfast platters to pizza, for good reason.
* Good, hard, shaved parmesan cheese—ours comes close, but not quite.
* Smoked goose breast … from La Vigne, served in truffle pasta, yummmm.

MISSES:
* Squid ink pasta—I’m an open-minded eater, but I couldn’t fault Aaron for leaving his charcoal-toned platterful viritually untouched. This is one Venetian delicacy I could do without.
* Uncertified chianti wines. You know, the ones that come with baskets attached to the bottom of the bottle … there’s no need to buy this swilly wine when certified chianti, which is far, far better, and can be just a euro or two more.
* Raw, shaved goose breast. Fatty and soft, not a good version of the goose.
* Buffalo mozzarella, I just don’t get it, it’s lumpy and nearly tasteless—one must soak it in olive oil and seasonings to give it some umph. In my opinion it is basically Italian tofu without the positive protein quotient.
* Lettuce in panini sandwiches. They do this all the time, and then grill it! Warm lettuce, bad!
* Mint Italian ices, if you like the taste of toothpaste, you’ll enjoy this unhappy flavor choice for a refreshing snack--I found it unpleasant (and the Kelly green color stains your mouth). BTW, I switched to ices after the gelato weight-gain was revealed.

Our only two rip-offs so far occurred in Venice, so we weren’t too broken-hearted when we left. We were charged about $35 for a carafe of some really awful house wine at a grimy, sub-standard restaurant (our one bad food experience in Italy), and 65 euro (about $90) for a 15-minute water taxi ride to the parking structure as we were leaving. You live and you learn. Between the toll roads, the price of petrol, and service charges, we are definitely doing our share of learning. Venice is truly something to see, however, and I recommend it--but prepare for the onslaught of fees.

I’ll be back with more on Zagreb soon. It’s 90 degrees out, with moisture in the air so thick it’s like walking through a steam sauna. Should be an interesting day of sightseeing … I’ve barely anything left to wear, but laundry in our hotel is charged by the piece, shirts costing nearly $3.00, trousers $5.00! Don’t think I’m not learning to appreciate our economic heft in the US as I continue my travels!

P.S. Official dolce (sweets) count after leaving Italy, 6 gelatos, 3 Italian ices, 2 cheese cakes, 6 panna cotas, 2 tiramisus, 1 strawberry cake thing, 3 fruit tart things, 1 pear tart. I may have missed something, but you get the drift! Add sweet breakfast croissants every morning and there's no surprise as to my new dolce bulge.

The Passion - Venezia

2006-07-22T09:07:00.000-07:00

I write to you from our charming room at Al Teatro B & B in Venice. As my fingers tap the keys, gondolas are passing below me. They are cliché, yet slightly individualistic, some hosted by accordion-playing Venetians, some navigated by quite talented operatics, others by serious Venetian history buffs (or bullshitters depending). Venice is another of Italy’s sensual feasts. What a culturally rich country Italy is! Each locale we’ve visited with its own nuances, its singular tone.

Yet today I found myself both charmed and disgusted by the Venice that is presented for (probably demanded by) the tourist. I wonder what I can do to try to sit within the experience, rather than observing it from the vantage point of a spectator at a zoo. My sardonic impulses suggest that colonizing countries (the ones most predominantly representing the tourist, the U.S., England, Spain, Germany and Japan) are programmed for a sort of “experiential presentation.” The performative aspect of that “charming” expectation of touring a country is sought and fulfilled. And I, too, often find myself “ooohing” and “ahhhhing” at the theatrical. But I have learned to step back occasionally and contemplate the themes … I turned to Aaron this morning from our open French window where a gondolier was regaling our small rialto with a standard Italian opera tune, and said, “isn’t it lovely?” We both paused for a moment, and then I said, “but it feels a tad like a dog and pony show, doesn’t it?” He agreed.

That said, Venice is wonderful. It must be seen, because it is, as Rick Steve points out, a precious, enigmatic, one-of-a-kind city in decay. The city is being reclaimed by the Adriatic, and nearly all literature you receive makes this notation. Our B & B has only three rooms to let, and the owner, Eleanora, tells us the building has been in the possession of her family for at least 600 years! This can be ascertained partially by a lovely fresco that we eat beneath every morning at breakfast.

As we wander through the narrow alleyways and over bridges curving us into areas we have to chance out of, I think of Jeanette Winterson’s evocative historical fiction novel, The Passion. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it. The setting is Napoleon’s Venice, and I am reminding of the heroine who viscerally knows the ins and outs of the labyrinth that is Venice.

Speaking of labyrinths, we arrived yesterday in approximately 103 degrees heat, with about 80% humidity, and toting a good amount of luggage (although we merged two suitcases into one). We had no idea how to catch a vaparetto, or really how to get to our lodging. To give you an idea of the chaos—paying our toll to exit the expressway toward Venice took over 30 minutes, and once that was accomplished one had to weave through a wall of cars, trucks, vespas and tour buses all aiming in opposite directions. At that point I found myself praying, and I’m not a religious girl! Then we had to queue at the parking structure and watch a man who looked like an escaped inmate of an insane asylum direct you to a parking spot and eyeball you eerily. Aaron, ill-advisedly, asked the guy for information on public transportation, and he immediately launched into the line of B.S. that every travel book warns you about, suggesting that you must take a “water taxi” which costs about 50 euro a person and 5 euro for each bag (and he counted my purse as a chargeable bag!).

• sidenote: Aaron just told me that 7 gondolas are backlogged waiting to get through our rialto, and I just heard an accordion start up, playing at a rather frantic pace. Later I’ll tell you about the way the vaparettos and water taxis drive—just think Roman drivers on the water!

Anyway, after realizing that we were parked as far from the vaparetto stop as we could possibly have been, and trying to decipher the vaparetto map which brought to mind the algorithm problems I had to solve in college algebra, we finally boarded the correct line. It should have been a relatively simple excursion, but apparently every so often, the vaparetto simply does not go all the way. Before our destination we were all shuttled off the vaparetto, and then the trouble started. Suffice it to say that Aaron and I saw the same section of the Grand Canal about 3 times, and that by the time we arrived at our B & B, we had each unwittingly participated in the ritual the American Indians call “a sweat.” We were literally devoid of any remaining bodily fluids.

But then the universe shifted and we got cleaned up and went out into the cooler evening bustle. It was wonderful, vibrant, invigorating. The shopping is pretty spectacular with most of the finest stores of the world represented. We passed all that (although I made a few yearning stops—Missoni, Valentino, Frette) and headed toward a small, charming, off in some alleyway little bistro recommended by Eleanora and had a wonderful, reasonably-priced dinner. Better yet, Aaron befriended an Italian from Milan who was dining alone next to us. He was a fashion merchandiser for Gucci, and a wonderful font of information about European fashion (up my alley) and Italian culture. Aaron got a big kick out of asking the waitress in halting Italian if it was OK if we washed the dishes when she presented the check. This sent our new friend, and the waitress, into peels of laughter.

These are the evenings you cherish as you travel. Chance meetings, good food, universal humor. We’ve met some people I hope to hear from again. Every day is an adventure, every challenging (stressful) experience a chance to use one’s facilities and problem-solving skills. And there are so many surprises—small moments of kindness or extraordinary patience in explaining the everyday or obvious.

I feel continually stimulated and full. But I also feel small and finite … a miniscule speck in some infinite continuum (is that an oxymoron?). But more about that later, we must go seek out some dinner!

So much to tell, so little time. I so wish I could download some photos, we’ve taken some beauties.

The Hill Country of Toscana

2006-07-14T09:08:00.000-07:00

Must keep this short as this internet point is strange, and I have no options for color or even an English oriented keyboard. A contingent of Russians have used this prior to me, and I cannot get any of the symbols as they are presented on the keyboard! Well, there is one that worked, but dashes, parentheses, hyphens, at signs, etc., are impossible.

Since I last checked in we've seen a number of the fascinating hill towns that characterize this region. We like to skirt the city centers and walk around the perimeters, far more interested in architecture and city geography than we are in the multitudes of tourist oriented shops and cafes. Although we did have the best gelato I've ever ingested in Volterra, pistachio for me, peach for Aaron. In addition to Volterra we've been to Radda, Castellina, Greve, Panzano, and Florence...as beautiful as it looks in pictures, but extremely crowded and the weather did not cooperate, hovering around 100 F! If the food was not so extraordinary in Italy I think I'd have lost 25 pounds by now, at times I've been so saturated by the heat I felt like I'd just stepped out of the shower (hey just found a few symbols!).

We did not go to the Uffizi, as precious as it is. Perhaps we'll go next week. Instead we opted for a more unique experience at the Palazzo di Pitti apartments, and were happy that we did. It is so authentically unpreserved that it felt a bit like wandering into a Great Expectations experience ... I half expected an Italian Medici-related (found some more) Mrs. Havisham-type to wander through the palace as we gazed at paintings hanging askew from old ribbon-style bands. Did I mention that there was NO AIR-CONDITIONING!?!? Good God it was sweltering.

Later the views we saw from the Piazza Michelangelo were beyond translation. The sounds of the city wafted up, muffled by the thickness of the summer air, and the Arno river seemed as if it were a river of olive oil, so thick, green and languid. Really, so many of our experiences evoke some painting, or some moment in literature--we are constantly inspired by our intersections with history.

It is so good to get some e-mails from home (thank you friends!), and good to know that my adventures are being processed by minds more focused than my own!

Some final impressions to leave you with:

* One can really understand the color inspirations that typified the paintings of the Italian Rennaisance. There is a contrast and pastel undertone that tones everything in a very particular way ... clouds have an ethereal quality, smudged by soft peachy, cream, and aqua tones.

* The food in Tuscany is relatively simple, but wonderful. I have eaten a pasta with a black truffle component twice now. Why don't we use those more in American cuisine, they are DELICIOUS. The cheesecake with fresh berries I had for dessert last night was served warm, and with a fluffiness that even beats my mother's.

* On one night we experienced an orange moon rising, which is not like anything I've ever seen. I mean orange, like a huge pumpkin in the sky--quite amazing.

* I feel good in Europe, there is something here ... something vaguely familiar-an ancestral memory perhaps?

* It is clearly impossible for me to keep anything "short," isn't it? :-)

I dearly miss you, all my friends, and cannot wait to host the end-of-summer bash when we return!

P.S. The Russians (I'm talking 16 of them) have taken over our agriturissimo. They are raucus and surprisingly unfriendly, and this will make leaving here on Sunday a bit easier. Other than that, and the nasty wasp sting/bite, this place has been heaven.

La Dolce Vita

2006-07-10T14:19:00.000-07:00

Yes, Rome still has vestiges of that Fellini sensibility, yes there are streets one can wander and begin to feel that sense of lightness of being in the midst of such history. Personally I have a bias toward a lesser-known Italian expression, “il dolce far niente,” which means, “the sweetness of doing nothing.” This is not to say that Italians are lazy, and anyone who might assert this ought to watch an Italian waiter working, or get a load of how far the Italians walk (and at what pace) each day as Americans, such as myself, whine about walking from the Marylhurst’s parking lot to a third story classroom on a rainy day. These people are full of life and energy, warmth and temperament.

This is what I wrote in my travel journal on 7/9: Have fallen head-over-heels in love with Rome, in the same vein that a teenage girl falls in love with a sexy, bad-boy, rebel who her mother cautions her against. Italy has just won the world cup and the city has come unglued. After four hours of pre-game coverage, Italy beat the rather ungentlemanly game played by the French, and bid adieu to the French team in a nail-biting, kick-off final. An explosion of fireworks, horns, whistles, car horns, and shouts instantaneously filled the streets. It sounded like shock and awe, only without the eventual political and human life ramifications. We were many miles from the city center, but all around us people were on their balconies and running in the streets in celebration. What a stroke of luck to be here during this monumental event! Italy’s win seemed to extend the run of celebratory sentiment that has followed me since I was inducted into Mu Omega. The world feels so alive to me. What a summer this has been.

We’ve seen the most exquisite sculpture I’ve ever seen at the Villa Borghese Gallery (all I can say is Bernini was definitely channeling the sublimity of the muses), we walked amongst ruins and over stones that Julius Caesar wandered through, we viewed the rooftops of Rome in a nearly 360-degree panoramic from atop Palatine Hill. We rested on marble slabs so eroded and weathered they looked like foam set pieces, we sat in the center of St. Peter’s Basilica and contemplated the almost profane grandeur of the papal tradition. History, and a feel for the evolution of culture, is slam-banging me everywhere,

Today Rome was uncharacteristically sedate, as if there was a collective hangover, and I suspect there was. Half of Rome was in slo-mo, and the other half was queued, along with us, in the Vatican city. Imagine 87 degrees of direct sunlight reflecting off of marble pillars the size of Godzilla, then imagine slipping a hoodie over shoulders so drenched with sweat that it stuck to you in small glumps. The art and treasure of the Vatican is mind-boggling, the Romanoff’s had nothing on the Papacy. And there is such an interesting, paradoxical game of one-upmanship from Pope to Pope. Nevertheless it has become one of the memorable sights of my life, the Vatican reverberates with power—it’s palpable.

A few miscellaneous highlights of Rome:

- an elegantly beautiful young cat walking out from among remnants of antiquity, sitting in front of a group of us in order to casually clean herself and then return into the ruined bits of columns and tablets.
- The eerie sensation, almost like echoes of screams, that blows through the colloseum. I know I wasn’t the only one to feel it, several of us stared into the slave and gladiator pits with utter revulsion.
- Viewing various likenesses of Sophacles, or Sappho, or Euripedes, or Calliope, and being aware of their stories. As my professor noted, Sophacles was a physically unattractive man, and I was struck by how similar the likenesses were—I presumed therefore that the likenesses were accurate.
- The sense of accomplishment Aaron and I had upon conquering the Roman metro system, very easy, very fast, very smelly endeavor!
- The view from the cupola (I did not partake of the 323 winding, narrow stairs it took to get up there to view Rome from a vantage point not too different from God’s)!
- The Duomo and its magnificent mosaic adornment.
- Aaron watching the World Cup in the kitchen of our favorite north Rome restaurant, La Scala, with all the chefs and waiters who he befriended. Tonight they greeted us back into the restaurant like old friends.

Tomorrow we leave this city with heavy hearts and aching feet. I am ready for the serenity of Tuscany—Rome could undo you after a while. But this is a city to be seen and pondered. A molto buono beginning to our trip.

Hello Moto!

2006-07-10T00:39:00.000-07:00

Days 1-2 (Rome): What can one say about the tidal wave that is Rome Italy? Rick Steves characterizes it as both great and brutal. I think he nailed it. It’s like a movie set, or a large, pulsating, breathing, kicking metaphor. It is antiquity at its most sophisticated and decadent, it is now at its most elegant and chaotic.

There are continual juxtapositions here: certain antiquities marred with graffiti, a store that sells uniforms bearing a most elegant, meticulous storefront window. There is graffiti everywhere, we are in the embassy district and it mars to front of multiple outer walls of elegant residences. But the Romans revere their treasures as well, because at the Villa Borghese Gallery yesterday (truly one of the world’s great museums) the majority of viewers were Italian. http://www.ticketeria.it/ticketeria/borghese-eng.asp .

The young Italians are a lithe and frantic bunch. They walk around with their cell phones affixed to the side of their faces, while smoking a cigarette and steering a Vespa. Stephanie warned me about Roman drivers, and she wasn’t exaggerating! “Always listen for a motor behind you,” she suggested, “and if you hear one approaching, get out of the way as soon as humanly possible!” Aaron and I are both quite aggressive drivers but nothing prepared us for the gauntlet of walking, or being driven, around Rome!

This is an elegant people—they are extremely well-dressed. Their clothes and leather goods are exquisite. The side of me that is driven by consumeristic impulse was lathering at the mouth yesterday walking along the streets of the fashionable districts and staring at gorgeous, meticulously-constructed leather shoes of a type and quality we rarely see in the US. The small, local store is alive and well in Rome. As I noted, store windows are often works of art. Shopping does not seem to have an American mall influence, thank God.

The Italians know how to eat, and laugh, and argue. They are not driven by time issues, they will talk to you at length IF, and this is a big IF, they like you. Aaron and I were walking on air yesterday when twice we were spoken to in Italian. OK, it was perhaps just a gesture on the part of a kind Italian waiter, but Aaron has been dressing somewhat like a local, and we’ve both tried to adapt to the culture as best as two floundering, intimidated, exhausted Americans can.
On Sunday we headed out toward the ancient city, requiring for the first time, a metro ride. This was an interesting endeavor, as we were public transportation illiterates. I’ve used the metro when I traveled in the past (over 20 years ago), however not the Italian metro, so it was an interesting experience. In the end it was quite doable, and we now feel ready to conquer the city.

I’ll complete this entry at that juncture, and comment that yesterday afternoon, just before Italy won the world cup, and the city literally EXPLODED with the ecstasy of a once-in-a-lifetime celebration, Aaron turned to me and told me he could live for a while in Europe. There is a world out there, a world of people who decidedly aren’t frothing at the mouth to move to the U.S—who don’t live in utter awe and envy (our culture is so motivated by a desire to enact covetousness of what we “have” in the other) of us and don’t mourn on a daily basis that they weren’t born American. I have heard this statement a multitude of times in the US, “everyone wants to live here,” or “at least we are the only place in the world that is free.” This sort of ethnocentricity does not serve us, as it fundamentally suggests an inherent lack in all non-Americans.

We sat in a restaurant on the second night, a phrasebook clutched in our hand. The waiter was so patient with us, helped us and spoke relatively decent English. Next door sat a table of four Texans. They never once even attempted a word of Italian. Not even a polite “Buono Sera” greeting, or “grazie” thank-you. On another occasion a local Italian addressed a table of Americans and an older man in the group barked at her “speak English.” The point being that out here in the big, magnificent world, it is distressing to see how our indoctrinization of national arrogance does not serve us, exposes an element of the US that can be ugly, and so isolationist. Community should be both locally and globally expressed in my opinion.

Anyway, tune in soon for a second installment on Rome. Wireless access is sporadic, and tomorrow we head out to Tuscany where I suspect it is non-existent. That will be a 10-day span, but I will check in again in Venice (Venezia) as I know we have wireless access there.

Ciao bellas!

Pomp and Circumstance

2006-06-28T00:27:00.000-07:00

(me, my bro, and his fiancee')
It happened! I have graduated from my beloved Marylhurst, and am proud to say that I went out with a bang, having the great honor of being one of three student speakers at the event held at the Arlene Schnitzer Hall in downtown Portland. Giving this speech was one of the most memorable events of my life. There before me was a full house at the "Schnitz"-- as full as it was the night David Sedaris gave a packed-night's reading, as full as it was when I saw Chris Isaak there a few years back, let me tell 'ya, it was full! ... yet when I was in the glare of the lights, I felt something take over (my alter-ego? nerves beyond the bearable?). I saw the faces of all the people who came to celebrate with me, and felt utter support and love, and it was all good. The speech, the day, the almost unbearable amount of praise and pride ... I was walking on air. It occurred about 20 years later than it should have, but therefore was infinitely more rewarding.

When I was in my mid-20s I worked at a downtown Pasadena church. A woman there (who died more than a decade ago now) took a liking to me, insisted I had intellectual potential and would often badger me about returning to college. She'd shake her head at my excuses, argue with my protestations that I was "too old," assert that I was aging whether I returned to school or not. I'd convinced myself that college was merely "a piece of paper," and I felt I couldn't swing being good at my fulltime job, and good at my studies. She'd gaze at me wisely and explain that an education was much, much more than a degree. That it had to do with something she sensed inside of me, a way in which I was avoiding challenging my own intellect. It was a challenge, a goal to chip away at in order to find the treasure trove. I've never had the patience to set or reach long-term goals.

I'm not saying that I haven't learned oodles simply from living, and I know people who are fiercely intelligent and competent without anything in the way of a formal education. Some people don't need college, but we all need to reflect, reassess, and strive for something with fortitude.

As I suggested in my graduation speech, there is something in the way of permission to contemplate which occurs in the engagement of college-level material that gives us a bit of a pause ... encourages a place of patient recognition of diversity and options. I have grown, and continue to grow, toward a much more reflective thinker, and a more compassionate person.

So Alice Kenison, whose daughter tragicaly died very young (and who hoped for me as I suspected she would have hoped for her own daughter), and who never saw the fruits of those seeds of ambition she planted in my head years and years ago at Pasadena Presbyterian Church, thank you for believing in me when I had no faith in myself as anything more than an attempt at eye-candy. You wedged something in there, and now the accomplishment of Highest Honors and that coveted B.A., has helped me recognize that the heart of this woman was always stymied by the lack of confidence in my forgotten head. This one was for you, Alice!

In the Mighty Month of May

2006-05-30T16:49:00.000-07:00

(click on cartoon to see a more readable version)
Wow, only two posts this month! The cartoon tells my story ... don't do it! Hell cannot be this bad ... I've nearly gone mad this month--not one word of my Sr. Paper has been typed as I've suddenly become an architect, a finish carpenter, a project manager, and a raving bitch! I have never had more disagreements and aggravation in my life, not even during my first marriage, which at the time seemed unbeatably hellish! :-)

From mismeasurements by my contractor and the "cabinet designer" at Lowe's (and one by my husband) causing a new window and creative cabinet-swapping to be necessary, to a mutitude of mistakes made by American Woodmark (wrong cabinets and glass again and again), to dropped and broken island granite, to tilt-out tray drawers that everyone refuses to install, to appliance mishaps and scary repairmen who reminded me of the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld--I have been through the mill people!

Twice I actually found myself balled up in stress-related tears. I've had to beg to get things that were incorrectly ordered and shipped replaced, I've had to deal with "templates" that did not match sinks, faucets or other facets of the remodel which caused grave delays and cranky contractors, or contractors who left on vacation, or felt their teenage sons were adequate labor, etc. etc. I've put on a heretofore unknown little-girl-soft voice in an attempt to get people to take pity on me, and do what they should have done, and were paid to do!

In the end, we finally sit with a lovely, albeit as-yet-incomplete kitchen. Our granite island slab is a broken mess with globs of epoxy holding it in one piece (the contractor swears he's returning any day now with the replacement slab). I'll post photos just in case anyone is considering taking a project like this on. Let me close by saying that I don't understand why contractors don't make money ... we paid out twice what my husband makes a month, yet both of our contractors complained to us (enumerable times) that they "didn't make any money off this job." Why? I ask. We paid for all the materials, they arrived no earlier than 10AM every morning and tended to work a solid 5 hours ... so why no profit? I'm thinking I should look into getting a contractor's license!

Anyone out there have any remodeling stories they'd care to share?

The Sun Goes Down on Kaavya

2006-05-07T01:08:00.000-07:00

Aaron took this gorgeous photograph earlier this spring. I used to think California had sunsetting superiority, but I find that in the spring, Portland, OR has more vibrant color than a Rousseau (Henri) painting. Our camera is average at best, yet it did justice to this moment.

Further revelations about Kaavya Viswanathan sadden me. I have been forced to admit that it seems she deliberately plagiarized, there are just too many coincidences from too many texts. I cannot fathom why someone with so much to look forward to would resort to such blatant plagiarism. Perhaps she felt that splicing from so many sources would cleverly mask her deception ... I don't know. I do know that she is young, and maybe the pressure to produce a manuscript fuzzied her integrity. I feel for her, though. Incidently, if you do access the link above, get a look at some of the comments--this incident has engendered some pretty intense responses.

Duck Duck Goose

2006-04-26T11:33:00.000-07:00

Look at these brand-new little goslings! The Canada geese honk like bumper cars as they fly overhead toward the little pond in our neighborhood. They are vigilant parents. I've seen males valiantly holding off oncoming cars to protect their little family while crossing the street. For anyone who hasn't done so, I strongly recommend watching Winged Migration, the film will deepen your appreciation of the complexity of birds.

The ducks continue to demand our hommage. If there isn't any food left about for them, they quack loudly and wiggle their bums in annoyance. Particularly important to them is fresh water. When I bring them a bowl they promptly dump sand and bark dust into it. Then they rinse their little bills with vibrating back and forth motions. They are such characters!

Conjuring Up the "Original" Story

2006-04-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

I saw this article regarding a young author accused of plagiarism on Comcast’s homepage, and it unsettled me in the same way that the James Frey debacle did. I do not, and cannot, know if Kaavya Viswanathan's book was in any way plagiarized, but as a hopeful writer myself, I know that there are no more original stories. I know that sometimes in writing class two of us approach a prompt in strikingly similar ways.

I know this too: there have been times (a good number of them) when I have found passages and themes eerily similar to “mine” in published books, sometimes in good books, ones critically acclaimed or even canonized! So similar, one might wonder …But you see, the books preceded mine, or my stories preceded them sometimes separated by generations. This means I either plagiarized these authors, channeled them through my mystical powers, or that a creative idea occurred in more than one person at different times.

Something tells me I’m not alone in this experience, that writers find this sort of creative overlap quite often. You admire a writer, or a writing style or genre, and you’d be surprised at how easy it is to find your mind manifesting similar ideas—your word choices (being somewhat limited by the options in language, and ours is not one that is gifted with as many options as some) might have a similar “ring." Or maybe you startle when you read something by Julio Cortazar or Charlotte Bronte, and find a passage straight from what you thought was your own pen.

The example set forth in the AP (I’m beginning to dislike and distrust the associated press) article is not convincing to me, as the passage describes a common scenario. Accusing someone of invading your personal space is a regularly utilized phrase, and sticking to leather has, I bet, been documented in more stories than these two.

I haven’t seen further "evidence,” and maybe the author did plagiarize as Tobiass Wolf’s character did in Old School. But in a Foucaultian sense, I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with this industry of comparison and exposure. More and more there seems to be a DEMAND that we prove our authenticity as artists—that all our expression is to the core gen-you-wine. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it’s as if the anti-art institutions out there are slashing away at the credibility and worth of artistic endeavors. As wordsmiths authors are particularly subject. One of the ways one learns how to create art is via imitation … it’s necessary to find your own groove. Why are we so rabidly seeking to undermine the author these days?

Any thoughts from out there?

Johnny & June

2006-04-22T14:34:00.000-07:00

Last spring an amorous pair of ducks wandered into our garage. Against H.O.A. warnings, we fed them. This year they've come back! Quacking, and waddling, and demanding a welcoming feast. They are exceedingly friendly and bonded, and we are calling them Johnny and June after Johnny Cash and June Carter. They enjoy chattering, drinking clean water, and napping under our rhodedendron bush. Spring always brings to me a sense of continuity and ritual. Welcome back to all our resident birds!

Animal Crackers

2006-03-31T13:07:00.000-08:00

You’ve all heard me wax on about Mark Morford, editorial columnist of the San Francisco Chronicle extraordinaire, whose ability to articulate superbly while always maintaining a subtext of vehement irreverence, just blows me away. And you’ve all heard me express my fascination with animal intelligence and emotional landscape—yeah, that’s right I said “emotional landscape” and I stand behind it.

Many philosophers, farmers, agri-business, and a good portion of the human population all claim that there IS no emotionalism in animals. I’ve already recommended a book or two on the topic on this site, so I’m not going to regurgitate my arguments and scientific citations which bear a good amount of proof of animal behavior that deviates widely from mere instinctual response, and suggests an emotional sensibility in animals. Like how elephants visit and revisit the bones of their dead ancestors.

The reason understanding this concept of animal emotionalism and some level of awareness of impending death, pain, or even a sort of "heartbreak," is infinitely important to mankind is so that we might consider how we use and abuse animals, and revise our assumptions that live vivisections, cruel slaughter, and cruel testing is perfectly OK because animals are merely pre-programmed instinctual product-bots, put here for our use and consumption.
(photo from harpseals.org)
These notions seem ever more important as Canada once again heads into its despicable baby harp seal hunt. It seems ludicrous to read how activists protesting the hunt were arrested because they got "too close" to the hunters. "Rebecca Aldworth of the HSUS told Reuters by satellite phone that angry hunters had also thrown seal flippers and carcasses at the activists." It's a lovely world sometimes. I'm not a Pamela Anderson fan, but I commend her for taking a stand against this deplorable money-making venture.

But that’s all a tad heavy-handed above, because all I really wanted to do with this post was point you to a hilarious piece that Morford wrote about his significant other’s African Grey Parrot: My Parrot Screams Like a Girl. Morford is usually a pop-cultural or political satirist, so it is interesting to see him write with a small tinge of … well, warmth.

This little bit by Morford is both hilarious and revealing, in that, as I mentioned, he’s not a terribly sentimental guy—and yet you can see he has learned much from this bird.

Enjoy the article, let me know what you think, tell me what your personal philosophy about the “nature” of animals is. And please, if any of you out there are as horrified by this ongoing crap in Canada as I am, participate to the best of your ability in ending this wasteful and cruel slaughter.

Unhappy Anniversary

2006-03-20T16:19:00.000-08:00

And while a good number of Americans are concerned about how to afford Prada while fueling up their Hummers, keeping their iPods current, or paying to vote for their favorite American Idol contestant, I'd like to acknowledge the unhappy 4th anniversary of our invasion on Iraq, which marked it's rollover yesterday.

Please consider the humanity of these Iraqi people, people that were perhaps at one time largely hopeful for the turnaround the U.S. might provide. Two years ago I wrote a commentary based upon Naomi Klein's article, "Baghdad Year Zero," called "Operation Iraqi Pillage." Naomi Klein delineates a blow-by-blow analysis of what went wrong in the capitalistic utopia that was supposed to be Iraq.

It's a big risk for a blogger like me to claim a particular political perspective, the backlash can be unbelievably ugly, but I simply can't sit by silently--which bodes the question, where is the activism of the young? My observation as a belated collegiate is that there is an incredible disconnect between youth culture and the state ... how might that play out in the future?

James Wolcott writes an excellent commentary that calls this "insurgent" activity what it is, and what the pundits were warned about from the start: CIVIL WAR IN IRAQ.

I encourage everyone to take the time to soul-search about the meaning of our actions in the middle east. Watch the film Syriana, or read some reasonably unbiased material about the history of the area, research our revolving door of allies and enemies. It is, in my opinion, the most American thing we can do.

Arachnophobia

2006-03-19T19:23:00.000-08:00

(from free spider images)
I have effectively conquered my fear of spiders ... they are good creatures that eat the dreaded fly--that revolting thing that lands and vomits everywhere, leaving behind legions of ways to sicken humans.

But the spider is Charlotte who saved the pig, and the spider is the creature that in the book, When Elephants Weep, which (I learned) folds her delicate, long arms around her brood to protect them from encroaching formaldehyde.

But do we ever really overcome the sensation of dread and vulnerability that occurs when we believe we're experiencing an itch, only to find it is one of them upon us? The metaphor is far-reaching, from the depths of our primal, instinctual fears and into what we learn is a good thing, but which initially repulses us.

In consideration of this fear we have of the other, of the thing that we assumed we must squashI wrote this small poem.

SPIDERROBE

She swung her bathrobe over her shoulders like she’d swing a cape before a charging bull.
At the moment just before the terrycloth married the skin,
she felt the skip of eight legs down her spine,
like water trickling to her feet,
then running for its life away from her jintsu-knife shrieks.

Logjammed at the origin of a convulsion, that moment of springloading
prior to the traumatic spasm,
she realized that she would never feel safe putting on her bathrobe again.

The 8 Ball Says ...

2006-03-12T23:58:00.000-08:00

Had so much fun reading my dear friend Sarah’s answers, over at Dusk in Dendera, that I thought I’d give it a try. If you try it, let me know your results!

Musical Magic 8 Ball
Go to your music player of choice and put it on shuffle.Say the following questions aloud, and press play.Use the song title as the answer to the question.NO CHEATING.
1. How does the world see me?
"All Love Can Be” by Charlotte Church, from A Beautiful Mind soundtrack. Can I be any more sheepish that I, in fact, do have Charlotte Church on my iPod? My pathetic romanticism is unveiled.

2. Will I have a happy life?
"The Big Sky” by Kate Bush. LOVE this song, and sort of love/hate/identify with what this ”answer” suggests, “I’m looking at the big sky, you never understood me, you never even tried.” Or “walking onto those big, big clouds, walking onto a big, big sky.”

3. What do my friends really think of me?
"Jennifer Juniper” by Donovan. Jennifer Juniper rides a dappled mare with violets in her hair. I’m sort of shrinking into a corner, realizing that I’m having to admit that I have utter pop crap in my iPod shuffle!!! And this personification of the “object” of romantic fantasy from the old, old Donovan song hardly seems to apply to me.

4. Do people secretly lust after me?
"The Wind” by Cat Stevens. Can’t make any sense of this one.

5. How can I make myself happy?
"Under the Milky Way” by The Church. Is that where I must go to finally make myself happy? Figures.
“I got no time for private consultations under the Milky Way tonight. Wish I knew what you were looking for, I might have known what you would find. And it’s something quite peculiar, something shimmering and white, it leads you here despite your destination, under the Milky Way tonight.”

6. What should I do with my life?
"Resignation” by Reef, Great Expectations soundtrack. Unbelievable! What more can I say, this sounds just about right!

7. Will I ever have children?
"Desire Lines” by Lush.
"It's raining in this room, And it's so hot outside this room, I don't know no one here, I don't want to be here In this room."
Yup, just something you stay inside yourself about. We know the answer to that question, don’t we?

8. What is some good advice for me?
"Why Can’t I Be You” by The Cure. Yeah, now see this questionnaire isn’t going so well for me, is it?

9. How will I be remembered?
"The Power of Goodbye” Madonna. Whhhoooah hoah.
“Your heart is not open, so I must go. The spell has been broken, I loved you so. You were my lesson I had to learn, I was your purpose you had to burn. There’s nothing left to lose, there’s no heart left to bruise. … I wanna go higher, there’s nothing left to try, there’s nowhere left to hide, there’s no greater power than the power of good-bye.”

10. What is my signature dancing song?
"Bathwater” by No Doubt. Fun song, I'll dance to it more.

11. What do I think my current theme song is?
"In the End" by Linkin Park. An answer that really … sort of breaks my heart.

I kept everything inside and even though I tried / it all fell apartWhat it meant to me / will eventually / be a memory / of a time when I triedso hard /And got so far / But in the end /It doesn't even matter / I had to fallTo lose it all /But in the end / It doesn't even matter / One thing / I don’t know whyIt doesn’t even matter how hard you try / Keep that in mind / I designed this rhymeTo remind myself how / I tried so hard

12. What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
"Lightening Crashes" by Live. Damn, I’m getting depressed. And yet, isn’t there hope when the new baby takes the place of the old woman who has died?
“oh now feel it comin' back again / like a rollin' thunder chasing the wind / forces pullin' from the center of the earth again /I can feel it.

13. What song will play at my funeral?
"Home” by Dishwalla. I love, love, love this song, go ahead y’all, play it at my funeral, and then celebrate for me!

14. What type of men/women do you like?
"Good Riddance” by Green Day. Well, that explains a lot!

15. What is my day going to be like?
"Come Undone” by Duran Duran. Yeah, this has been loads of fun! This is why I avoid psychics! I think this was what YESTERDAY was like!

* All right, remind me to not mess with the supernatural the next time I have an inclination to do so. In the meantime, thanks for visiting!

And I Quote ...

2006-03-06T20:28:00.000-08:00

Do you enjoy quotes?

I have no time to construct my own creative product today. All is encroaching—an incomplete Sr. Project, a huge trip that demands my attention and planning, an “ethics bowl” I agreed to participate in which is crushing me!

Here are some quotes I love:

“We are in awe precisely of the human power to frame ideas which cannot be intuited. Imaginatively we stretch out towards what imagination cannot apprehend. We realize that there is more in what we see than meets or can ever meet even the inner eye.” Catherine Warnock (literary critic)

“Reason is to imagination … as the shadow to the substance.” Percy Bysshe Shelley

“This spiritual love acts not, nor can exist/ Without imagination, which in truth/ Is but another name for agbsolute power/ And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason in her most exalted mood.” Wordsworth (Prelude)

“Poetic testimony reveals to us another world inside this world, the other world that is this world. The senses, without losing their powers, become servants of the imagination and let us hear the inaudible and see the invisible. … The senses are and are not of this world. By means of tehm, poetry traces a bridge between seeing and believing. By that bridge, imagination is embodied and bodies turn into images.” Octavio Paz (The Double Flame)

And then just some beautiful quotes from Brokeback Mountain:

“There were only the two of them on the mountain flying in euphoric, bitter air, looking down on the hawk’s back and the crawling lights of vehicles on the plan below, suspended above ordinary affairs and distant from tame ranch dogs barking in the dark hours.” Annie Proulx

”The mountain boiled with demonic energy, glazed with flickering broken-cloud light, the wind combed the grass and drew from the damaged krummholz and slit rock a bestial drone. As they descended the slope Ennis felt he was in a slow-motion, but headlong, irreversible fall.” Annie Proulx

Say Anything

2006-02-25T22:57:00.000-08:00

Recognizing that it just isn’t nice to leave anyone who might be stumbling upon my blogospot with that eerie image of our current VP, and my unapologetic commentary on his latest evil deed, dangling like a dislodged earring, I've decided to say anything. (Oh, how about that sweet little shooting victim anyway, apologizing for all the pain and scrutiny that he caused the Cheney family. I find some things inexplicably ironic.)

So, I’ve resolved to write something, anything to introduce a kinder, gentler Paper Garden to my 2-3 potential viewers. And to leave you with an image that is nothing if not the anti-Cheney, my mother at age four. I have always loved this picture of my mother.I begin to think about history.

I look at this picture, a photo that in itself carries some irony, and wonder about image. This picture was taken, according to an ancient notation on the back (made no doubt by my grandmother who died in 1983), in December of 1943 in Berlin. It may have been a birthday picture. It surely was a time of critical stress in my grandmother’s life, as her husband would be killed less than a year from that date. My grandfather fought in German uniform. Everyone said he was a lovely man, a gentle soul whose wife and daughters were his world. He was forty-four, and sent to the front lines because he did not belong to the Nazi party. Many people don’t realize that not all Germans were Nazi’s. However, my grandfather, a former mounted policeman, was drafted and died for der Fuherer … the lunatic who, it is difficult to believe, actually impacted my own life via my mother.

I look at this photo of my mother and think about the children of war. Today I read about raids in Iraq. Every day we read about bombings and children trekking to find safety from the dangers our world presents, dangers manufactured by other people who have been, first and foremost, children.

I’m about to graduate with an undergraduate degree, and yet I have none of the answers I’d hoped I could learn to reason out of this kind of socio-political chaos. I am no closer to understanding it all. Sometimes, because my parents actually knew suffering, I stay up at night and wonder how I was to be so much luckier.

So when I read about the bombings, and the women and children who die in the middle east, or Africa, or South America, I think directly of my beautiful mother, my childish mother so subject to nervousness, so scattered and friendly, so energetic, but so increasingly afraid as she grows older. I think of what she has seen and what she has never told me.

Look Out Bambi (and anyone near him)

2006-02-13T12:07:00.000-08:00

V.P. Cheney has shotgun blasted another hunter. The comcast homepage story said that he "didn't hit the man's eyes or anything." ‘Nuff said. If you’d like to read more about it, I’m sure you can have a heyday with an appropriate Google search. Oh, the suppression of the story for 24-hours is worth mentioning. Guess there were no bloggers around! :)

I’m very perplexed by those who hunt for the pleasure. While I’m all about a lovely, fresh, fly-caught trout brought home by my husband (whose fly-fishing skills were one of the qualities that made me fall in love with him), I do not get shooting things for “fun,” or so-called sport. Where's the sport? Not really a fair matchup in my opinion. I’m confused about shooting birds with shotguns. If you hit them dead-on, they practically explode. The purpose of shotguns is to spread shot widely, you know, so your aim needn’t be so good. Sheesh.

I’m just going to say it, and agree with me or not … well, it’s my blog! Dick Cheney has a mean face, and I don’t trust him one bit, and the fact that he shoots birds that he doesn’t eat further repels me from him. He makes my skin crawl, he feels viscerally evil to me—that coupled with his appalling record on nearly everything that is near and dear to me just makes me wonder what it is about him that I’m missing. Any takers out there? Anyone want to tell me why I should like this man?

In the meantime, my pal James Wolcott has linked to a similar incident that occurred with the prez himself! OK, well, he didn’t shoot another person … rather he blew an endangered bird to smithereens! Read the story, friends, at the very least you’ll get kick out of Bush mistaking a mourning dove for a kildeer. Why kill a mourning dove?

I’m thinking we should take the guns away from these two men. I'm thinking perhaps they should question a compulsion to hunt when they've got a war that should be fulfilling any bloodlust. In fact, I’m seeing a suggestion here between the need to shoot things and our current foreign policy.

THESE ARE THE MEN WATCHING OUT FOR OUR COUNTRY PEOPLE!!!

The Scream

2006-02-12T23:40:00.000-08:00

Beloved dog ruptured other anterior cruciate ligament (last year the first was repaired to the tune of about $3,000) while you take mandatory computer test. Test takes countless hours over two days due to glitches in the compatability of their requirements and your computer system. You get creative on test, try to reach someone to see if It’s OK, no one will return your calls. Passing the test is necessary in order to graduate.

Beloved dog has been found, during blood-work resulting from aforementioned injury, to have urinary, and potentially kidney, problems. Sweet thing must now exist on a pricey diet of purely Science Diet products. No more treats, period. More tests to come, appointment with surgeon on Wednesday. Love her, but panicked about expenses and time needed to follow-up on problems. Feel like screaming ...

Throw out back lifting pup in and out so that she can perform her normal doggie functions. Pain only slightly dulled by Ibuprofin. Find out that Ibuprofin can be deadly to dogs--your husband gave beloved dog some to ease pain as you screeched through computer exam.

Short-term lease company politely insist they can no longer extend deadline to pay deposit for this summer’s European car lease … please pay now … cha-ching.

Refrigerator dies. Should have died years ago. Immediately needed to find a new one, took 5 stores and much research to decide upon correct, affordable model. By the time decision is made, store is closed until Monday. More cha-ching.

An elderly neighbor drops by to “help fix” burned out house lamp, creates havoc that requires 2 hours of no electricity. Kitchen smells like rotting food, computer unusable despite 2 looming papers. Light remains unfixed. Want to scream …

Other neighbor calls to ask for help with a stray pit bull she has found. Give necessary moral support and pep-talk when it becomes clear dog will need to go to shelter in order to prevent consumption of her smaller pugs.

Grad school research, associated deadlines, bills, due dates on library books needed for project but as-yet unopened due to pressure and immediate crises!!! One Grad school sends 5-page form to prove residency, scream rises in your throat …

Laundry reclines in 6 loads on the floor of hallway. Cat skids around sock pile like a hockey player in the wee morning hours.

Husband demands you take over kitchen remodel project which has no budget and should be completed before June. Shows you where he has used blue painter's tape to suggest a scheme. Walk away.

Tuesday, Valentine’s Day, make husband agree to only buy cards.

Your turn to host writers' group. No groceries, no frig, kitchen deconstructing itself.

Papers due, agree to participate in “ethics bowl” --totally stresses you out, Sr. English portfolio due, 10 pages of workshop fiction, 6-8 pages of new fiction, Foucault, Debrah Eisenberg, Katherine Hayles. Inhale for huge, guttural, unabashedly primal SCREAM …

Sleep quite impossible.

Links und Rechts

2006-02-09T11:52:00.000-08:00

As the original bloggers did, today it’s just the links, ma’am …

Since I’m struggling through a growing avalanche of commitments, I’m going to have to turn the creativity over to others.

Regarding the recent state of the union address by our fearless leader, follow this link to S. Rowan Wolf’s Radical Noesis for how the spin doctors revised Bush’s assertions the following day. While you’re there, take a look at some of Rowan’s other posts regarding the efforts of the third world to reclaim the profits of their natural resources.

At Andrea’s Superhero site, she is sharing her gorgeous photography and energy for creative inspiration.

For those who would like to read more about the controversy over the Danish cartoons, Rowan has written an interesting conversation regarding suggestion on the timing and potential subterfuge involved in publishing the cartoons.

James Wolcott’s irreverent, smart, combative blog is always fun to check out, or for a hilarious account of the first 24 hours of Heather’s (Dooce) trip to Amsterdam, follow this link.

I’ll be back.

More on Win-Frey

2006-01-29T13:11:00.000-08:00

(photo from oprah.com) Over at Huffington Post they're hotly debating the James Frey on Oprah moment. Who knew I was watching a moment of pop cultural history last Thursday!

This commenter concisely articulates the bottom-line of my response to the show:

"I think Oprah is a basically a wonderful person and if she wanted to express her anger at James Frey's deception and his intentional use of her show to promote what he knew to be fiction, that's fine. But I wish if using her show to promote a lie merits a public flogging, why doesn't she apply the same standard to Judith Miller, Condi Rice and Colin Powell. They all used the Oprah show to disseminate known untruths and thousands of people have died as a result of their fraud. Compare that to what Frey did."
Posted by: dcbs on January 27, 2006 at 08:04am"

As for James Frey, there seems a moment in our public lives when, anyone who is living vibrantly at least, is called on a mistake, or something more momentous than a simple mistake--say a bald-faced lie for instance. At that moment we have an opportunity to define ourselves. We acquiesce to our weakness or fear or insecurity. We admit our fallibility or defend the lie if there was some creative reason we felt it had to be told. We explain our definition of genre, back our asses up! Or we border on defensive or catatonic like Frey did. There was very little likable about him that day, as he was being systematically lampooned.

I believe it is precisely at those moments--when we are being "attacked"--that we most eloquently live and express our humanity by staying engaged in it, good or bad. That we open to that space of vulnerability (Judith Butler's Precarious Life). This is how an epiphanel shift occurs, either individually or societally. In Frey's case the question seems to be the ethics of a former addict's inflated story.

I would have loved to hear Frey fully explain why he altered facts. It would have been enlightening to hear him explain that no one was buying his book when he shopped it as a novel. That only when the publishers saw it as a voyeristic expose' did it have the final element of sordidness necessary for mass appeal.

The Evil Memoirist

2006-01-27T18:09:00.000-08:00

By coincidence yesterday I turned on the television to find James Fry being publicly dismantled over the subject of untruths in his memoir A Million Little Pieces. His spacey stare and inability to sometimes even formulate an answer to Oprah’s barrage of accusations, indignations and proclamations of betrayal, suggested that maybe he’d been sedated. It was a freak show, really, with the audience moaning as if on cue, and the author staring to either side of the camera— booed mid-sentence and looking as though he’d bolt if he could stand firmly on his feet and find the exit! There were clips of top-notch journalists espousing their various ideologies on the importance of “truth,” and the degeneration of our society into one of artifice and lies, evidently spearheaded by James Frey. There was a panel of so-called thinkers (one guy was a total joke, actually suggesting that memoirs should include a “truth barometer” at the beginning indicating how close to reality it is—as if this can ever be accurately determined, a person’s experience judged against “truth”).

And although I think Frey was, at the very least, stupid (I mean jail records are easy to check), I was just floored that this man who wrote a memoir not an autobiography or even a creative non-fiction account of his life, was being so publicly humiliated for nearly an hour, while men in power are continuously exposed for lies and never made to bear any burden for the harm they’ve caused. Can we say, various U.S. presidents? Newt Gingrich, James the preacher Baker, Kenneth Lay, a good portion of corporate America (special kudos to the multi-national corporations), to name a few?

The harm Frey caused—he misled his readers. He was not in jail for 3 months like he asserts in his book, he was there for about 3 hours. His friend, Lilly, did not hang herself, she slit her wrists. He may or may not have suffered through a root canal without anesthesia. There is question as to whether he was suspected by the police for contributing to the death of a woman (as he asserts), and he left the rehab clinic with one person, not two. He definitely embellished circumstances and fabricated a person or two. And to make matters worse, he was anything but contrite with Oprah.

Still, it is amazing to me that anyone would demand that the creative arts be literal. How accurate are our memories? I clearly recall my childhood one way, and my brother recalls it another. Our personal agendas surely intervene. My husband argues over the validity of my impression of an event or remark that happened moments before—and there is never a resolution. I had an accident with a white van last summer that I would have sworn in court had no side windows, but apparently it did.

As Donna Haraway so eloquently illustrates in her essay “Situated Knowledges” our outward gaze is embodied, always already (as my professor says) subject to the space of “real” that exists between us and the other, and the subjectivity of existence. If the experience is subjective, how can the memory not be subject to further tainting? Do we demand that a book, a thing that first and foremost tells A STORY, be utterly subject to facts pertaining to personal truths? The essence of A Million Little Pieces (which I have not read), seems to be the struggle and eventual exorcism from the demons of addiction. Period.

Why has everyone so rabidly crucified Frey (who by the way seems a bit unlikable to me)? Is it really due some particular indignation when the creative realm shatters our fantasy about the real? Fiction, memoir, and creative non-fiction have different standards and I don’t mean to dismiss them. But in a society where lies and half-truths are told publicly on a daily basis (no weapons of mass destruction, no sex with Angelina, our marriage is solid, etc.), do we actually hold a formerly-addicted memoirist to the standards of an historian? Is our indignation at our own willingness to believe, or do we gain an ugly momentum when one of our own is offered up for an ideological sacrifice?

I’m very interested in anyone’s perspective on this. I don’t mean to indicate that I have no respect for the truth--I actually am pretty committed to it in terms of truth as ethics. I have a certain empathy for Oprah’s position, since she stood by this author based on his reassurances that his memoir was truthful. Are any of you out there outraged at Frey? If so, tell us why, tell us what you expect when you read a memoir, and what it means if certain recollections turn out to be untrue. Maybe my liberal arts education has led me to feel that there is no memory that is not subject to some imaginative “hole filling,” or altering of events to suit the psyche.

Finally, I think Oprah’s show would have been far more important— and far less of a spectacle and public flogging—had she presented an examination of image and perspective in the realm of truth. Or had she deconstructed the lies of a person who we’ve entrusted with a sort of truth, and who makes decisions that effect whether people live or die.

From an excerpt of Dave Eggers at amazon.com:
“"For all the author's bluster elsewhere," Eggers archly writes, "this is not, actually, a work of pure nonfiction. Many parts have been fictionalized in varying degrees, for various purposes." Eggers then proceeds to list a number of these parts, some of which don't actually appear in the book. Later, in his acknowledgments, Eggers is more pointed: "Besides, if you are bothered by the idea of this being real, you are invited to do what the author should have done, and what authors and readers have been doing since the beginning of time: PRETEND IT'S FICTION."”

"We initially shopped the book as a novel, and it was turned down by a lot of publishers as a novel or as a nonfiction book," Frey said. "When Nan Talese purchased the book, I'm not sure if they knew what they were going to publish it as. We talked about what to publish it as. And they thought the best thing to do was publish it as a memoir."

Thou Shalt Not Love

2006-01-21T23:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday a group of us went downtown to see a mid-afternoon showing of Brokeback Mountain. As a devout Annie Proulx disciple I have been anxious to see this story come to life—although amidst the hoopla and broad-ranging attention, I admit I was worried. If a film is universally accepted, I am often suspicious that it might be pandering to (and I’m sorry for sounding like a stuffy academic here) the lowest common denominator. I hoped Brokeback would avoid sentimentalism or manipulation.

But the hoopla around this film is warranted. Brokeback Mountain is simply unforgettable—filmed with such sensitivity and insight, and of course written with a poignant, authentic voice and believable pathos. I loved it. I haven’t seen a film that placed me so close to the breath of its subject in a long time. I haven’t stopped thinking about it, or hearing Gustavo Santaolallo’s evocative soundtrack all day.

Why is this love story so compelling, even for an unexpected element of our social demography (the man buying his ticket in front of me painted an entirely conservative picture—I was so happy to see my stereotype shattered!)? Why do we ache for stories like Romeo and Juliet, Heloise and Abelard, Thelma and Louise? According to many classical philosophers, love is inherently suffering. On many levels, the love-as-heartache of Brokeback is familiar to us.

But in the case of Brokeback Mountain, love is socially restricted; an emotion monitored, compartmentalized, and moralized by an invisible, disciplining entity. The suffering is imposed, the result of dogma. A perceived order is imposed by restricting difference. Why, why on earth, do we care who people love? Why do we accept an 80-year old billionaire marrying an 18 year old, but two adult same-sex lovers are still stigmatized?

If you might think (as I tend to) that society has accepted the presence and rights of same-sex partners, take a look at these vitriolic reviews from customers of Netflix.com. I’ll mention that these are quite the exception to an amazing number of positive responses, but still are a sample of a good number of nasty responses:

“These days you turn on the TV and it seems like every station has a couple gay guys lisping and flitting around. One time I actually turned the channel and found six stations in a row featuring gay guys... hair dressers, decorators, etc. Gay Hollywood would have us believe that most of us are gay and this movie just goes along with that idea. This movie was sickening. The people raving about it hear are probably pole-smokers too.... not that there's anything wrong with that.”--notice the typos and logical fallacies.

“Hollywood keeps finding new ways to try and force homosexuality into mainstream acceptance. This time they do it by ramrodding the subject into the most heterosexual genre of all... the western film. The Duke is certainly turning over in his grave now. The Lone Ranger is behind a big rock on the prarie puking his guts out right now. Sickening. Seriously... what I find interesting is that the Hollywood top brass have been sitting around for the past few weeks trying to figure out why 2005 was such a down year. Well, here's a hint fellas. When the "best" movies you turn out in a given year are about a couple of sodomite cowboys, a third remake of King Kong, and yet another Star Wars prequel with the script apparently written by a third grader.... well, what do you expect?? You are not appealing to a broad audience with this crap. Go check out Rocky Horror Picture Show instead.”--again, incorrect spelling, and what is that end bit about RHPS?

“Crap like this is just what the whole michael moore relgion is forcing on everyone! And GOD forbid if someone is against it...oops, I said GOD!”--yup, you said it twice in one small sentence, and look at that, you misspelled religion!

Very sad, indeed. There always seems to be a direct correlation between poor articulation and paranoia, fallacious logic and this kind of small-minded prejudice, doesn’t there?

My Big, Fat, Greek Epiphany!

2006-01-16T14:43:00.000-08:00

(Photo of Plato from www.philosophypages.com)

Oh, how learning is the nutrition of living!!

I’ve not much time today, I’m trying to wrap my mind around the entire Symposium written by Plato. In my earlier ignorant bliss, I delighted in avoiding the ancient Greeks (the classics) because I really viewed them as the seat of patriarchy. Socrates this, Aristotle that, Plato the great, great dominant-male mind.

Well, guess what? I forgot all about humor, and irony and satire—of which the ancient Greeks were glorious masters, and missed out on the chance to embrace brilliance early! Perhaps as subtext to much classical, masculine posturing, I find a direct connection between Platonic reasoning and the foundations of feminist theory. Additionally I find a resonant concept of the boundaries of both empirical thinking and reasonable argument in this unbelievably sophisticated, glorious text—text written thousands of years ago!

I am particularly interested in this section from Diotima’s questioning of Socrates on page 46 (of the Nehamas and Woodruff translation) of Symposium:

‘“She said, ‘Watch your tongue! Do you really think that if a thing is not beautiful, it has to be ugly?’ … ‘If a thing’s not wise, it’s ignorant? Or haven’t you found out yet that there’s something in between wisdom and ignorance?’ … “It’s judging things correctly without being able to give a reason. Surely you see that this is not the same as knowing—for how could knowledge be unreasoning? And it’s not ignorance either—for how could what hits the truth be ignorance? Correct judgment, of course, has this character: it is in between understanding and ignorance.’ “

This argument is exquisitely elegant. What could translate more clearly the tenets that many feminists (Donna Haraway and Judith Butler come to mind) go to great lengths to demonstrate? Diotima (how utterly feministic of Plato to cast this fictional character as a woman of infinite wisdom) presents—HURRAH!—the “grey zone” or the ways in which the world is not binary. This is so relevant in today’s political landscape—which, in a historical way, is bifurcating along a dichotomous template. I’m A-1 guilty of this. I’m leaning left I say to anyone who cares to hear, yet I believe that we must always, always, always strive to find the overlaps—or as Donna Haraway calls them, “the borderlands.”

This is how I believe feminist theory can save us—in the “third, fourth and fifth” ways. Any thoughts from anyone out there? Has anyone else ever viewed Plato as an “accidental” (or maybe not so accidental) feminist? It is so difficult, in our warp-speed world, to take the time to encounter things at a deeper level than face!

I’ll depart with these final words of simple rhetorical wisdom by Diotima:

"'Then don't force whatever is not beautiful to be ugly, or whatever is not good to be bad. It's the same with Love: when you agree he is neither good nor beautiful, you need not think he is ugly and gad; he could be something in between.'"

Moments of Abandon

2006-01-11T20:16:00.000-08:00

Nothing like a little "letting go!"

<---- I'm in the middle

V

At age 4, the seniorita

Just Breathe (are we suffocating?)

2006-01-11T19:38:00.000-08:00

“2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to”
--Anna Nalick, Breathe (2AM)

3AM and I toss restlessly in bed. I can’t fall back asleep. The covers are closing around my neck, as though they have a savage purpose of their own. The night that wraps around me activates my thoughts—sparks of ideas firing around in my brain—ideas I’ll never retain until morning. I try my usual repertoire of mental sleep strategies, no luck. Over and over in my head the chorus of Anna Nalick’s Breathe whispers in my head.

I finally get up; Aaron remains breathing peacefully, rhythmically—despite my repeated surreptitious attempts to rouse him. The dogs follow me into the den, their feet padding like little tap dancers behind me. I fire up the computer—maybe I’ll write. I want to hear Breathe so I access iTunes and search for the song. There are currently well over 50 songs with the word “breathe” as the title, or factoring strongly into the title. There is also a group called Breathe.

This gets me wondering about all these poetic attempts to encourage breathing, to remind us of this basic function. Are we all suffocating? What is constricting us? What makes my life so much more animated at night, in the confines of my over-burdened imagination? How many times a day do I realize that I am holding my breath, that I must make a concerted effort to release the holding? Do we do this less when we’re children, when we lack adult self-consciousness?

Anna sings:
"'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe"

I download the song, beautiful songwriting, beautiful singer. She’s living her art. I want to live my art, but the risk makes me store it instead in my head—maybe to be intentionally forgotten. What hurts more, singing out loud off-key, or just listening to the music in your head? My ex-husband used to sing off-key in church, loudly, proudly. I remember hating him, rather, for his healthy abandon as I just mouthed the words.

For complete lyrics to Breathe follow this link.

Aspirations

2006-01-09T00:38:00.000-08:00

No real time tonight. I've begun a post about the Hilton sisters, but then I realized as culturally symptomatic as they are, they remain too boring to really talk about.

Instead, I decided to share a wonderful E.M. Forster quote from Howard's End (not really a favorite novel of mine, but sublime writing nonetheless), a quote which has resonated in me through the years--a quality I often try to aspire to when I imagine myself from attempted objectivity (the me I try to fantasize myself into):

"Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities -- something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life."

P.S. Is anyone else out there listening to Damien Rice? Blower's Daughter and Cold Water are my current musical obsessions.

I'm sure I'll have much to say and not enough time to say it in the coming weeks--but I will try! :-)

Morford's Take on New Year Possibilities ...

2006-01-06T19:14:00.000-08:00

Just because I had my own rant below, I had to chuckle when I ran across another energy-laden, near-rant-but-actually-close-to-poetry piece by my beloved Mark Morford. Check out his take on what his hopes for 2006 are.

Morford is rash and brazen and no-holds-barred. Sorry if anything he says offends you, but for me, he is so tragically spot-on that I can't laugh at his humor for the sad truths he unleashes.

Let's forge another scenario, shall we?

Everything Old is New Again

2006-01-06T16:35:00.000-08:00

Ah, a new year! I’m somewhat addicted to change, so new years always present themselves to me in much the same way as a blank page—rife with possibility. I’m in love with dynamism, even as I wax nostalgic sometimes.

2005 was a complex year, presenting good (my first A+, my first literary contest win, my growing confidence in a career trajectory and social consciousness) and stressful (a lawsuit, a car accident, creative uncertainty, a realization that I’ve chosen an unprofitable career). Despite the periodic angst of some rather unpleasant occurrences, I loved 2005—it felt like I was there, it never shrunk away from making itself known to me! And for the first time in quite a while, I felt that I didn’t hold back as vehemently as I tend to do when I’m feeling insecure. I’ve come to realize that for some of us life feels more manifest, more animated and tangible, when it arrives in experiential peaks and valleys. Some of us actually crave variety with all it’s implications of tension and necessary adaptation. It’s all part of what social philosopher/theologian Eric Santner calls “turning into the midst of life”—in a nutshell, getting engaged with a world outside one’s safety zones. This sort of embracing the world of the unknown, variable, and the so-called “real,” opens us to experiencing our emotional scope, beauty being emphasized and heightened by the presence of the ugly and gruesome as contrast.

But life is surely easier when we strive to weed out the complications that are part of what is real. This would include shielding ourselves from the inequalities we know exist outside of our protected realms, ignoring a seemingly ethical call to engage in the tougher stuff. This means taking the time, and expelling the energy necessary to recognize the mechanisms of our social order which exclude many people from—at the very least—a decent form of life. It means recognizing how even our apathy (or denial) does not preclude us from culpability. The need to filter unpleasant truths is a natural compulsion, and I’m particularly guilty of strategies such as retail therapy, isolating myself from certain endeavors that require obligation or commitment, and escaping reality by way of the imaginary. I think it is OK to do these things occasionally to give our spirit a rest. But I also think we can become walking zombies (Santner calls it the “undead”) when we perpetually exist in a state of denial and self-protection.

This bracing is manifest in so many ways … namely in our utter worship of consumerism and wealth. We think getting material things equates enjoyment. Anyone who has watched children power through endless gift-opening with barely a fluctuation in emotion, knows how untrue this is—particularly when so much stuff seems infinitely accessible (instant gratification). I believe that we value the small thing earned so much more than the things that are massively availalbe.

Scholar and philosopher Todd MacGowan presents a theory that suggests we’ve turned from a society based on a prohibitive mandate, to one that is driven by a command to constantly experience “enjoyment.” This is really a provocative assertion, and it rings true to me. For those of us who were late baby-boomer/borderline Gen-Xers, we can palpably recall the shift from discipline to indulgence, we realize how lifestyle and social consciousness has radically changed. It was “cool” to be socially aware and engaged when I was young; it is now “cool” to be indifferent and carting around a multitude of toys. I’m not saying one is necessarily a better way to exist than the other, but enjoyment that is commanded can never be authentic—in fact, MacGowan argues that accumulating things or experiences are an illusion of enjoyment, that true enjoyment (jouissance) is never achieved by a concerted effort toward it. It is elusive and requires engagement of the unconscious.This is why, I think, so many of us feel empty even though we “have” so much more than our parents ever did.

I would like to view 2006 as a year in which I begin to take creative and ethical chances, even if they require a certain sacrifice (monetary reimbursement for instance). For the past few years, Aaron and I had to radically change our lifestyle to extricate ourselves from debt. We aren’t totally out of the woods, but we feel the freedom of living in a tangible way (cash for nearly everything). In fact, downsizing is the best thing we ever did. I just want to call anyone who has been teetering with dissatisfaction to try to determine the origins of your discomfort. Are you avoiding “being political?” Are you happy to let “the experts” determine your ethical compass? Are you buying things to feel better?

I’m all for celebration, the expense of artistic gratification, and the dignity that accompanies taking care of oneself. We still need to experience a decent amount of glorious squander (that, too, I believe helps us to feel alive). I just suggest—to myself most of all—a realistic view of determining where enjoyment (jouissance) really originates. I have never felt better than after showing an underprivileged child something s/he has never seen. I’ve never been more rewarded than when saving an abused animal (my days with Sheltie rescue). If you haven’t made time for it, please consider philanthropy in your plans for 2006—and definitely support ventures (corporations) who make this part of their ethic.

Cooking Up Literature

2005-12-29T15:04:00.000-08:00

Good blogging is supposed to include photographs -- they grab visual interest. I rarely take pictures, although I am as impressed by a good photo as I am with a good painting. I guess this is a vestige of my days prior to PRK surgery -- when my thick glasses prevented close contact with a camera lens.

So in the interest of maintaining a potential reader's curiosity about my blog, I give to you a tongue-in-cheek picture that I took for a hypertext project called Word of Mouth.

You can see that I am serving up some of my favorite poetry--works I think everyone should delve into: Frost, Plath and Rilke. Enjoy a little bite today!

Runny Noses and Cottony Ears

2005-12-29T14:55:00.000-08:00

I am here in my den, gazing out through swollen, watery, dull-brown eyes, at the dreariness that characterizes Portland, OR at this time of year. The forecasts say rain for the next 5 days, which has been pretty much it since … oh, I’d say the middle of October (yes, we did get a few lovely days in November but that’s only a fleeting memory in the scheme of Portland winter).

Around me lie wads of Kleenex, little goopy clouds of safety that I hold to my periodically bleary eyes and faucet nose in some futile attempt to stave my body’s drippy revolt. I am in the miserable throes of a nasty head-cold. If you’re trying to tell me something, I can’t hear anything that isn’t muffled by the pressure that is lurking behind my thick eardrums. And just now I felt the onset of those icky chills that plague you in that relentless low-grade way. And all I can claim is a cold so real sympathy is hardly forthcoming.

And I blame all this on the pre-teen who sat across from me at a Christmas dinner last Sunday—a surly little guy who wiped his running nose from elbow to wrist on several occasions, in addition to open sneezes and coughing with no attempt to cover his mouth. Had he been charming, this may have been worth it, but he embodied much of what I feel is wrong with today’s youth—innate boredom, indifference and lack of personality probably due to a lifetime of indulgence and video virtuality (if his conversation was any indication). He really alienated me when I inadvertently used the word “damn” and he chastised me as if he had some kind of authority over me—I mean ten full minutes of telling me to “watch my mouth”—so you can see that in addition to being germy, he was also self-righteous.

At any rate, the good thing about being sick is that it slows you down. You have time to sort of wallow in reflection as you tend to your misery.

I’ve been reflecting on the future. These are the things that are on my fuzzy brain:

* I can’t imagine 3 more years under our current administration.
* I worry about the weather—things do seem different, and I believe there is significant global warming, and therefore we should be very concerned.
* What am I going to be when I grow up? Or more relevantly, why don’t the arts offer better financial opportunity?
* Why do I harbor such a love/hate relationship with Oprah? I love her compassion and creativity, but hate her propensity for buying into the materialistic status quo (if everyone gets a car, the world will be happy).
* Why don’t more people read?
* How do we stop the rampant suffering of children?
* Why is unadulterated greed so rewarded in our society?
* Why do we presume that there must be a winner and a loser in most endeavors? Can we conceive of a paradigm in which people offer various creative or physical options and we don’t determine a grand-prize financial caveat of which will be valued to the exclusion of all others?
* If there are people scattered all around the US who have converted their cars to running on vegetable oil, why isn’t the government subsidizing a conversion rather than frantically drilling for more oil?

These, and other conundrums plague me as I type my final words before heading into a steamy shower in an attempt to obtain nasal, and intellectual, clarity!

Bless the Beasts and the Children

2005-12-23T00:39:00.000-08:00

In Uganda the children of outlying villages trek miles and miles every evening, to reach the cities where they might be safe from the vile L.R.A. (Lord's Resistance Army), who seeks to kidnap the young ones, subjecting them to atrocities beyond our western imaginations. This kidnap and torture creates an obvious, violent cycle.

They become, as Christopher Hitchens reports in his Vanity Fair article, "Childhood's End," haunted, "feral-child terrorist[s]."

If you can pick up a January issue of Vanity Fair, I suggest you read the article. It is ugly, almost unbearable, but not knowing does not make it not so! I vehemently believe that avoidance of truth breeds indifference.

Hitchens recalls a W.H. Auden Poem, September 1, 1939:

What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

In the same issue, a pictorial nod to Bob Geldof and Bono who labored to achieve a $25 billion promise from nine world leaders (I do not know if Bush was one) in aid to Africa. Geldof purportedly wandered into a garden, knelt and sobbed.

At the end of Hitchens' article, he notes that he provided aid for one child who informed his research, even as he "tried not to notice the hundreds of other eyes that were hungrily turned to me in the darkness"--later that night, after he had left, the encampment was hit by torrential rains that "washed most of the tents and groundsheets away."

I turn to sleep this night with an aching heart.

I hate to ask -- But Are 'Friends' Electric?

2005-12-22T00:41:00.000-08:00

Last night I was playing around on the iTunes music store. I don’t recall just how, but suddenly I fumbled upon a song and artist that transported me to the 80’s with the efficacy of Proust’s Madeline. The artist was Gary Numan, the song was “Are ‘Friends’ Electric,” (anyone out there remember Gary?) and with the reminder flooded back memories of the movement of synthesized pop, Goth, and techno of the 80s and 90s. Stephanie brought the album “Replicas” back with her from England when she returned to California in 1979. She used to sing it, imitating the heavy British accent that characterized Gary Numan. Back then in our crowd we shunned big hair and any vestiges of the big stadium rock of the 70s; we were all about Kate Bush and Gary Numan and Ultravox and X—anything new and stated differently. We liked to think we were forging some new sensibility, but were a bit uneasy about fully investing in punk.

I remembered the dance that Lia and I did to “Are ‘Friends’ Electric” in front of the whole High School, and how it bought us some purchase with the more progressive, artistic students at Walnut High (all 5 of them—Walnut was way out of sync back then). We thought we were pretty cool, dressing and copping attitude in the suburbs like we had some knowledge of a metro pulse or Gothic sensibilities.

More importantly, stumbling across the yearning synthesizer, post-modern, referential lyrics, and echoing pain of the song, reminded me of how much music meant to us back then, how it would flood your consciousness like the water from a bath, how songs could make you laugh or cry or ache. I was stunned at how I could recall nearly every word of “Are ‘Friends’ Electric”—a song I haven’t heard in probably 20 years, even while I’ve tried five dozen times to memorize the lyrics from Green Day’s recent “Holiday” with next to no success. Why is that, why do the songs we learn young stick with us forever? Is it because emotionally we are still impressionable in the midst of those early favorites? Is young music like young skin, taking on the wear we give it with each heartbreak, each bad decision, or profound indecision that costs us adventure, in the same way as sun-exposed skin does--eventually unable to maintain it's elasticity?

I love music still, and for a 40-something broad I stay reasonably hip. But the passion is somewhat dulled until I stumble upon that almost-forgotten favorite. Then I'm surprised by the way I can drum up feeling, the sensation of still being that newer person. When I flew around my living room last night, trying to remember the dance steps that Lia and I choreographed all those years ago, I didn't feel a day over 17. This is why life can be beautiful and why music is such an intangible enhancement to living.

“Now the light fades out
And I wonder what I'm doing
In a room like this
There's a knock on the door
And just for a second I thought I remembered you”

p.s. Check Gary’s newer stuff out, it’s very moody and has definitely evolved from what he was doing in the 80s

I've Come a Long Way, Baby

2005-12-20T00:52:00.000-08:00

Today— merely random thoughts.

I completed my fall term with pride, felt I turned in some really thoughtful, engaged, mature work, and I guess my professors concurred with me. I worked very hard. One told me that I’ve come a long way, and those words reverberated in me. I’ve come a long way. I think that, in my realm, this is one of the most momentous things someone can say about me.

I’ve come a long way. I remember being a kid who felt “different,” my ex-farm-worker father and heavily accented German mother didn’t make fitting into elementary school—or the general neighborhood—in the white-bread 60s, very easy. My parents paid for everything with cash only, hence, we didn’t have much materially. Or, we didn’t think we had much because it didn’t measure up to the accoutrements that can be accrued on credit. I felt so different … wished to feel so “same.”

I’ve come a long way. The kids used to have a hey-day with my clothes. I wore clothes that my grandmother sent from Germany: orange, suede shoes, little blouses with hedgehogs or lady bugs all over them (for some reason these are popular creatures on children’s clothes in Germany). Sometimes I was indulged and I’d talk my mother into a brightly-embroidered peasant blouse hanging from a booth at Olvera Street in Los Angeles. My clothes left my classmates anything but speechless. I’d dress in the morning feeling so pretty, and return home in the afternoon ashamed at my missteps. Whether it was the home-made liverwurst sandwiches, or the thickness of my pink, cat-eye glasses, I had a lot to overcome.

I’ve come a long way. I’ve learned to listen. As a kid primed to shamelessly revise myself, I was a reactive creature. Always looking for the way in, a proverbial chameleon that soon developed an instinctive barometer for adaptation. This conditions the act of listening to a self-oriented art. How can I fit in? How can I succeed? How can I gain entry? How will they accept me? For years, when I tuned into people, I invested myself in what they were saying in relation to my awareness of myself. But lately I find myself divested of any personal stake. I have learned to listen with an open mind. I hear the Other (CHS speak), and I open myself to the space that neither of us can adequately define.

I’ve come a long way. After 20+ years of feeling an intense pang when I would think of my missed college education, I’m very nearly done. I never thought I’d make it, let alone take to the process like a bird dog to water. I’ve run my own rigid gauntlet, stayed 4.0 only because I wanted to prove to myself that I could earn it. I used to think a degree proved nothing, and I wasn’t entirely wrong. Learning is what you make of it. I’ve seen more students fake their way through the process than not. The "degree" is the goal, the thing that is supposed to say something about you. I can’t buy into that—and an English Literature & Writing degree rarely buys anyone a ticket to “success” because they have one. It's the process. When you're there for anything else, it becomes a dog and pony show, rather than an introspective, mind-expanding endeavor.

It’s the way of thinking that you learn with a liberal arts education. The way you recognize how easy it is to be fallible, illogical, reductionistic, or dangerously idealistic. Critical thought is a gift. When you develop it, life takes on another dimension, like the difference between walking and ice skating, or roller blading. Our feet propel us forward, it’s true, but the blades or rollers make movement so much more dynamic, so much more artful.

Yup, I feel today, like I’ve come a long way.

Finding the Perfect Tree

2005-12-04T19:52:00.000-08:00

My goddaughter's mother and I have been "soul sisters" since we were 5, actually just slightly longerthan that.

Every year her family drives to Wyoming to cut their own wild-growing tree. This year was challenging. To put it in perspective, my goddaughter is taller than me! She's nearing 5'6" now, and she's waste-high in powder.

The scene makes me think of the snow that covers the ground at the end of James Joyce's story, The Dead: "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow faling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

Thanks, Mom!

2005-11-24T11:00:00.000-08:00

Later on today I’ll be carting out a lovely batch of my esteemed gorgonzola mashed potatoes, made with two kinds of local-grown potatoes, all organic ingredients, and mashed into lovely mouthfuls of fluff (not soup) over to join some friends in Milwaukee (we have one in Oregon). Along with the potatoes, I shall carry a nice portion of my apricot-glazed baby carrots—tiny, organic carrots so orangy they look fake, and glazed with Plugra European style butter, apricot preserves, Duchy brand organic lemon curd shipped to me by my lovely friend, Stephanie after a recent trip to Fortnum & Mason's in London, fresh-grated orange peel, fresh-squeezed Meyer lemon juice and a few secret seasonings to make them more in demand than yams.

I love good food. When one of my professors innocently asked me if I was making the turkey dinner this year, I launched into a lengthy monologue recounting all the turkey dinners I have conjured through the years, how I procured the best bird I could, how I learned to make him (or her) as splendidly golden as possible, how to make cranberry sauce as interesting as a good chutney, etc., etc. Turkey can be so much better than the standard, hormone-laden, shortening-injected, (Butterball, a product of ConAgra foods), previously frozen, stringy, dry bird we are so often faced with.

This love of food, this homage to the depth and breadth of culinary adventure is a gift from my mother who taught her family the joys of fresh, local-grown, organic (for the purity and logic, not the politics) ingredients. As I’ve mentioned, she was born during WWII and raised in a working-class area of Berlin, and sometimes found herself bound with her sisters toward Switzerland to escape the bombing. I think it is here (just like Heidi) that she acquired her taste for the finest dairy, for creamy goat cheese, for eggs still warm from the chicken, and mounds of homemade preserves. For mom, a good portion of the trick to her amazing baked goods is in the best butter money can buy. All this sounds like a recipe for gaining weight, but I’ve never been overweight in my life, and I was raised on ranch fresh eggs and plenty of butter. I think it’s due to moderation and appreciation for the product, as opposed to the standard American ethic of huge portion and gorging like life is just a series of Big Gulps.

We weren’t permitted to waste much at our home table, and food was honored since both my parents knew what it was like to be without it. When my grandmother and aunts would appear on our doorstep from Mexico, they’d bring bags of homegrown corn and primitive grinding tools. They would lovingly grab the kernels of golden corn, spinning a particularly good handful between their cocoa-brown fingers. They’d grind it to masa, focused, short-limbed little experts who made tamales that were to die for, and ate each and every one of the small packets with utter devotion. The work that went into growing or acquiring food, made them honor the gift of it.

Today we’ll feast and celebrate and complain about drum-tight bellies and too much food. Too many will be taking whatever food they can get at shelters manned by amazing, undervalued volunteers who truly comprehend the meaning of thanks. At my dad’s house his second wife will dig the can-opener into a can of Swansons’ cranberry jelly and plop it onto a paper plate. My mother, despite a 45-hour work week at age 65, will cut celery, chop parsley, and tear premium bread for the homemade stuffing that she’ll serve up to just a few this year. I'll miss her. I am so thankful to her for teaching me the sublimity of a meal that gives life instead of merely sustains.

Oh, and I’m thankful to any of you who might be reading. Happy Thanksgiving!

Absent But Definitely Not Gone

2005-11-16T19:20:00.000-08:00

Just in case there is anyone out in the universe that pays some mind to my little weblog, I'm popping in to say, don't despair! I'm not gone, just missing and definitely in action. Classes have been demanding, and there are decisions and preparations for graduation and the subsequent grad school trajectory, and there's this big sojourn to Europe next summer ...

I was born in Berlin, Germany. Therefore I'm very interested in going back there and learning something about myself. My mother's family can be traced back there at least 6 generations--can you imagine, 6 generations in the same city! In the next few months, I suppose you'll see a lot about my upcoming trip--7 whole weeks on the European continent, I'm hoping I'll find fodder for many interesting stories.

I'm in search mode these days, a deep existential search that has been prompted by such foundational thinkers as Freud and Lacan, and some new folks like Eric Santner and Todd McGowan. Generally I'm suspicious of all these thinkers coming from one gender, but in this line of inquiry it's OK. I'm interested in generational legacies, master signifiers, and the concept of genetic memory and collective trauma. I'm interested in understanding the repetitive nature of societal mishaps.

So you can see, I'm not just out here kicking it up and partying. I'm working people! I'm attempting to become interesting enough to have something to say, something to write.

So, please don't give up on me--I'll be back.

Vanity Fair is not in Vain and Other Fall Musings

2005-10-31T11:50:00.000-08:00

October was a slow blogging month, only three posts from the birthday gal (10/14 in case you missed it elsewhere)--though I thought of the Garden often, couldn't streamline my time.

Lots going on in my world. Major Libran indecision on whether to go to grad school, and if so, where? Why? Do I rate in any way as a writer? The downside of going back to school as an old, married broad is that I’m not mobile. I have pipe dreams about the Iowa Writers program, or University of Montana’s Mountain Writers program—but no can do, the husband is pretty much rooted in Portland.

My pseudo-mentor (pseudo only because she doesn’t know I’ve designated her as such), suggested to me the other day that I consider magazine work—that I maybe focus my goals on being a regular writer for some monthly journal (since she probably realizes that long-term focus, such as that needed to write a novel, is not my forte’). Upon which I began to daydream and think about my name on a byline at, oh, let’s just say “Harper’s” or “Atlantic Monthly,” or … dare I wish it, dare I dream this big? Vanity Fair, the hip-chick of commentary and social irony!!!

Vanity Fair has an unfortunate title, particularly for those who have never read Thackeray and are therefore not privy to the reference. VF is truly not frivolous at heart, regularly publishing well-written, well researched, long articles about current political issues (national and global), social issues, cultural trends that impact our daily lives, and yes, Dominique Dunne-style name-dropping, New York social-scene crap. And there’s a celebrity profile every month. It was quite apropos that October’s issue featured that representation of all that is wrong in America today, my personal buzzing gnat, annoying mosquito—Paris Hilton, as if to say, don’t forget, Pamela, we’ve gotta make a buck ... but you know, as well as we do, there's a subtext in all this.

Despite that, I think in many ways VF is a most intelligent mainstream publication. James Wolcott is probably my favorite VF writer. He’s got a fabulous blog that I check weekly. It’s there on my sidebar. Recently he paid homage to the Village Voice’s 50th anniversary (can you believe that, 50 years of America’s youth/beat pulse gone by), and wrote a spot-on scalder about that yahoo Victor Davis Hanson. You know, the moron who had this to say about the vicious backlash from the frothing, extremist left (I just love that, the extremist left and their rhetoric of hate—does everyone in this administration have the same speechwriter?):

"George Bush also should begin addressing his most venomous critics at home, by condemning their current extremism. He must explain to the nation how a radical, vicious Left has more or less gotten a free pass in its rhetoric of hate, and has now passed the limits of accepted debate."

What did my man Wolcott respond with? Check him out:

“This will no doubt pass the limit of accepted debate, but allow me to part with the following sentiment: Fuck you, Victor Dave. The limits of accepted debate have already been trampled into mud and splinters by Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter, Michael Savage, David Horowitz, Michelle Malkin, and the Swift Boaters, among others, about whose rhetorical extremes you've never made a peep. Moreover, this conflating of Howard Dean Democrats with Islamofascist hate speech is McCarthyism at its most unrefined. Truth is, Democrats have been remarkably watery and ineffectual when it comes to the Iraq war, as Arianna has lamented (and when a Greek goddess laments, it's like thunder from the mountaintop). "

Hanson's use of the phrase "the limits of accepted debate"--he probably meant acceptable debate--has the authoritarian ring we've become used to on The O'Reilly Factor and other Fox news shows, where the word "treason" is thrown at every sharp note of dissent.”
Love him, love VF and their mutual adherence to a position that caused them an elitist uproar from a good segment of their readership.

************************************

Good-bye, October. In California you always meant hair whipped electric by a parched Santa Ana roaring through the valley and ripping off any misplaced deciduous leaves or the fabric of a thrown-together costume. A Halloween costume there didn’t have to be designed around an ability to ward off drench, as it does here in Portland, where rain has pattered for 6 days, and is predicted for 6 more (to date).

New Millenium Prom Night

2005-10-16T21:26:00.000-07:00

I remember my prom night. I went with Wayne B, a hunk who graduated a couple of years before me. Prior to prom, Wayne and I had exchanged maybe ten complete sentences. We arranged things at a party— the motivation for pairing up coming in the wake of my former short-term boyfriend reconciling with his ex. I bought a dress from a retail store called “Judy’s,” I think it cost $80, maybe $100 tops. I bought a pair of agonizing shoes from a cheap mall store, and my big extravagance was spending the time to tan and put mayonnaise in my hair (for shine). We drove in his El Camino, and ended up meeting some friends at the beach afterward. We were home by 4:00AM or so, and while there was some alcohol, and probably other minor recreation, it was pretty tame by today’s standards. Wayne and I didn’t hit it off in any kind of meaningful way.

Why am I reminiscing? An article about an east-coast principal who cancelled “prom night” has caught my eye.

The principal cancelled the prom mainly in response to (and I love this) “the flaunting of affluence” that has come to characterize a large constituency of students who attend prom. Last year some students of this school in Long Island had pooled together a $10,000 down payment (total rental of $20,000) for a house in the Hamptons in which to host an after-prom party. What the f*@#$???? One student interviewed noted that it was not uncommon for $1,000 to be spent on a dress. This is a dress that for all intents and purposes is worn for one night. The principal noted in his letter to parents that students often arrived shnockered after being treated to booze-cruise rentals and fully-stocked limousine rides.

The principal noted that: "It is not primarily the sex/booze/drugs that surround this event, as problematic as they might be; it is rather the flaunting of affluence, assuming exaggerated expenses, a pursuit of vanity for vanity's sake — in a word, financial decadence."

The backlash from the cancellation has made national news. What possesses the parents of these students? I think of the disasters that have plagued this year, the tsunami, Katrina, the recent earthquake in Pakistan. What about marking the rite of passage of a prom night by wearing a nice, but reasonably-priced outfit, meeting in a designated after-prom hall, and donating the atrocious party fund on some social action?

Some parents are indignant: “I don't think they have a right to judge what goes on after the prom,” says one. Others admire the principal’s perspective: “It's just what it's evolved into. It's not what it was 20, 30 or 40 years ago. It's turned into something it wasn't originally intended to be."

I admire the principal and what he is trying to say to the community. American education is funded by tax dollars (a flawed system based on property taxes and assessments), and I don’t think conspicuous consumption, hierarchal displays and a culture of waste should be underwritten by an institution that is so maligned by today’s parents. I’ve heard a number of adults complain today that “the teachers just don’t teach,” or “if I had as low a success rate in my job as teachers do with their students, I’d be fired.” And yet one looks at today’s youth, and the undeniable focus on image … the necessary “gadgets” like cell phones (the teeny, expensive, camera ones with color display), iPods, portable DVDs and laptops, clothes from Nordstrom or J. Crew, and you wonder what we’re formulating in the minds of our youth.

Is consumerism the only mark of “cool” these days? Hey, I haven’t forgotten the stress of fitting in, or wearing the right clothes, but the ante has been upped exponentially. The saying goes that children learn what they live … what is being lived in America’s homes?

Wiley's Got it Going On

2005-10-11T00:02:00.000-07:00

Wiley lives in a cabin up in the Angeles Crest foothills right off of Cheney Trail. He can stalk the chipmunks and lizards that dart in and out of stones that line a small creek. He's often petted by friendly strangers who are picnicking or hiking up to a small set of waterfalls.

He's unaware of most everything except the bliss of a cat-shaped container. Wiley isn't really wiley, he's that elusive thing we signify with the word content.

Mystify Me

2005-09-26T15:27:00.000-07:00

Today:

* Start of a new term, I'm twitchy in anticipation and foreseen pressure

* Vestiges of a beautiful weekend ... remnants of leisure in the serene air of an unseasonably temperate day

* Support from unexpected sources--kindred spirits justify expression

* Fighting with only words in an attempt to reconnect people to their humanity

* Encountering the stonewall of privilege, elitism and rigidity

* Seeing the word "gay" once again used as an expletive, wielded as an insult against an invisible concept of "normal," feeling ill at the nasty judgmental side of society.

* Disenchantment by noon--we are islands of compassion

* Intersections of hope, nostalgia, despair, visceral reaction to music, poetry, individuality all meeting at the pinpoint of my mood

* * * *

In the midst of the confusion I've experienced over the unbridled anger, apathy, and vitriole from the right-wing response to Hurricane Katrina (see www.waiterrant.net, Been Away post), I feel vacuumed dry emotionally. I'm posting there as Lilly if you check it out.

I only feel like getting lost in music and sunlight today, so I'll leave you with:

Mystify - INXS

All veils and misty
Streets of blue
Almond looks
That chill divine
Some silken moment
Goes on forever
And we’re leaving broken hearts behind

Mystify
Mystify me
Mystify
Mystify me

I need perfection
Some twisted selection
That tangles me
To keep me alive
In all that exists
None have your beauty
I see your face
I will survive

Eternally wild with the power
To make every moment come alive
All those stars that shine upon you
Will kiss you every night

All veils and misty
Streets of blue
Almond looks
That chill divine
Some silken moment
Goes on forever
And we’re leaving
Yeah we’re leaving broken hearts behind

You’re eternally wild with the power
To make every moment come alive
All those stars that shine upon you
And they’ll kiss you every night

Blogging, Reading, Saying

2005-09-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

Most successful blogs have an identity. They run the gamut from socio-political orientations to photologs to fanciful, imaginary worlds. I participate in several blogs as a regular comment poster or as a guest author (if you care about the environment, please visit Radical Noesis listed on my sidebar, if you are galvanized by social issues check out Uncommon Thought).

If there is a heart to my blog, it is meant to be an exploration of the signifed as expressed through my favorite signifier--the written word. I stray here sometimes, but I want to send out (on a semi-regular basis) a dialogue about literature and what is being artistically expressed, via words, in today's print media.

To honor that intent, I often weave written passages I've lifted from literature with either something happening in my life, a current event, or a pop-cultural trend. I hope if I have any regular readers, they share my passion for both classical and current lit.

Today I'll keep my entry pure. I'm reading Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, a novel I recommend to anyone who has, or can appreciate the dynamics of, a dysfunctional family (and its metaphorical relevance to society as a whole). I was moved by this section:

"One by one the lights of St. Jude were going out.
And if you sat at the dinner table long enough, whether in punishment or in refusal or simply in boredom, you never stopped sitting there. Some part of you sat there all your life.
As if sustained and too-direct contact with time's raw passage could scar the nerves permanently, like staring at the sun.
As if too-intimate knowledge of any interior were necessarily harmful knowledge. Were knowledge that could never be washed off.
(How weary, how worn, a house lived in to excess.)"

I feel that way, sometimes, about this my formerly beloved United States. As if I have sat at its table, trying to partake in the feast set before me, but only able to gag on the spongy, overcooked vegetables.

When you're in California ...

2005-09-20T14:24:00.000-07:00

Wear your sunglasses! This is a shot of (left to right), my bro, Holly, me and Aaron. We're on the grounds of our oceanside hotel at Mandalay Beach, Ventura.

The concept of Califronia Dreamin' was resonating that day.

In the Wake of a Long-Anticipated Disaster

2005-09-02T13:44:00.000-07:00

I'm too angry and disgusted to speak about the results of Katrina and the inexplicable incompetence of our Federal Response yet. After the tsunami, I wondered how a disaster of similar proportions could be handled here. Now we know. The bottom line is resources, where they were and how our former surplus has been squandered in a never-ending war that which has helped create another extremist Muslim state ...

I am too sad for the people, traumatized, virtually abandoned throughout the formerly vibrant city of New Orleans. Sometimes it feels like we are coming undone, that our American party of consumption and indifference is being crashed by the reality of the waning days of empire ...

I will reflect my bitterness by posting a sardonic letter composed by Michael Moore. Yes, it is skewed, yes it points blame--but this kind of neglect, or lack of preparation and foresight by entities that are supposed to exist for these situations (and I'm sure much of it boils down to funding), in my opinion calls for such finger-pointing:

"Subject: Vacation is Over... an open letter from Michael Moore to George W. Bush Friday, September 2nd, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush:

Any idea where all our helicopters are? It's Day 5 of Hurricane Katrina and thousands remain stranded in New Orleans and need to be airlifted. Where on earth could you have misplaced all our military choppers? Do you need help finding them? I once lost my car in a Sears parking lot. Man, was that a drag.

Also, any idea where all our national guard soldiers are? We could really use them right now for the type of thing they signed up to do like helping with national disasters. How come they weren't there to begin with? Last Thursday I was in south Florida and sat outside while the eye of Hurricane Katrina passed over my head. It was only a Category 1 then but it was pretty nasty. Eleven people died and, as of today, there were still homes without power. That night the weatherman said this storm was on its way to New Orleans. That was Thursday! Did anybody tell you? I know you didn't want to interrupt your vacation and I know how you don't like to get bad news.

Plus, you had fundraisers to go to and mothers of dead soldiers to ignore and smear. You sure showed her! I especially like how, the day after the hurricane, instead of flying to Louisiana, you flew to San Diego to party with your business peeps. Don't let people criticize you for this -- after all, the hurricane was over and what the heck could you do, put your finger in the dike?

And don't listen to those who, in the coming days, will reveal how you specifically reduced the Army Corps of Engineers' budget for New Orleans this summer for the third year in a row. You just tell them that even if you hadn't cut the money to fix those levees, there weren't going to be any Army engineers to fix them anyway because you had a much more important construction job for them -- BUILDING DEMOCRACY IN IRAQ!

On Day 3, when you finally left your vacation home, I have to say I was moved by how you had your Air Force One pilot descend from the clouds as you flew over New Orleans so you could catch a quick look of the disaster. Hey, I know you couldn't stop and grab a bullhorn and stand on some rubble and act like a commander in chief. Been there done that.

There will be those who will try to politicize this tragedy and try to use it against you. Just have your people keep pointing that out. Respond to nothing. Even those pesky scientists who predicted this would happen because the water in the Gulf of Mexico is getting hotter and hotter making a storm like this inevitable. Ignore them and all their global warming Chicken Littles. There is nothing unusual about a hurricane that was so wide it would be like having one F-4 tornado that stretched from New York to Cleveland.

No, Mr. Bush, you just stay the course. It's not your fault that 30 percent of New Orleans lives in poverty or that tens of thousands had no transportation to get out of town. C'mon, they're black! I mean, it's not like this happened to Kennebunkport. Can you imagine leaving white people on their roofs for five days? Don't make me laugh! Race has nothing -- NOTHING -- to do with this! You hang in there, Mr. Bush. Just try to find a few of our Army helicopters and send them there. Pretend the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast are near Tikrit.

Yours, Michael Moore"

Viva Las Vegas!

2005-08-26T21:18:00.000-07:00

My soul-sister, Stephanie, has known me since kindergarten. Actually our mother's claim we met shortly before kindergarten and have been friends ever since. Although we had boyfriends at one point who almost tore us apart, our friendship has mostly been unwavering.

She lives in SLC, UT, and I'm here in the city of coffee and book stores, Portland, OR. Tomorrow we will meet each other in Las Vegas, which is an odd junction for each of us, since we both are relatively environmentally-oriented, lovers of the outdoors and all things genuine, travelors who generally prefer someplace like San Francisco or San Diego as a meeting place.

But Stephanie has a business meeting there next week, and we decided to meet, go see a show and generally whoop it up for a few days. I'm done with summer term, and have sighed the exhale of no deadlines for at least a month!

We called each other about half a dozen times today to see what the other had packed. We've strategized on where to meet at the airport. We've run outfits by each other, scheduled certain indulgent spa-type endeavors and giggled like teenagers on the phone. We're over (gulp) forty now, but interorly, it seems like we have never aged a day with each other. We're really most eager to sit beside each other and catch up on life without the interruptions of life to stop the momentum.

Friendship cannot be underestimated. Youth is a state of mind, and life--even upon reflection--is really the best of things.

I thought about being alive today, and the complexities of staying true to one's ethical core, while balancing the dark side of indulgences. Las Vegas is, in many ways, an abomination to me. When I'm there, it feels like a dark--but eerily pleasurable--dream. The overstatement, the waste, the complete hedonism is at once hellish and heady. I am interested to see what my feeling will be, since it has been over ten years since I've been there--and that visit was to go with a group of friends to a Grateful Dead concert (an entirely other post!).

So I'll be offline until at least Wednesday, enjoy the summer breeze, wherever you are!

From the File Marked ...

2005-08-21T23:39:00.000-07:00

People I love ...

We Are Nightingales

2005-08-21T23:32:00.000-07:00

Because it’s simply inexcusable to call yourself a blogger and disappear for ten whole days, I offer my apologies and the collective excuse of procrastination of schoolwork, the crunch of family obligations, and the adoption of a new iPod mini which became my little darling while I spent nearly 3 days downloading songs from my eclectic CD collection, downloading some things from iTunes and finally importing it all with appropriate playlists etc. God those little buggers are a blast. Babies should get one at birth! I’m not normally one for stereophonic/earphone music, but having nearly every piece of music I adore at my fingertips is sublime. I’ve got the starter mini, but I’ve already got my eye on a bigger model engraved with some little bit of existential brilliance.

It occurred to me that if anyone found my iPod, they’d probably conclude that I’m schizophrenic. I’ve got stuff on there from Rage Against the Machine to Mazzy Starr to Portishead to Siouxsie and the Banshees to John Freakin’ Denver!!! I’m not going to lie to you, “Sunshine” (on my shoulders) still brings tears to my eyes, when I recall that movie about the mom who left tapes for her infant daughter to hear after she died of cancer …

So, blogging shall be sparse for a while as I maneuver through my last week of class, then run off to a completely out-of-character trip to Vegas, return just in time to turn around and head to California with an aching in my heart (I’ve definitely been listening to too much music from the 70s).

If someone had given me one of those hypothetical little quizzes last week, you know the ones where you’re asked to list the 5 people living or dead you’d like to meet, one of my top picks would have been Percy Bysshe Shelley, whose “A Defence of Poetry” (yes, spelled just like that), made me feel intellectually dwarfed and infinitely inspired. I am forever floored by the brilliance of these canonical writers who formulated these amazing treatises before their 30th birthdays. I don’t get it, before I turned 30 I was primarily interested in the firmness of my abs and where to get discount designer-wear! That’s not entirely true, but let’s just say that the level of my philosophical transcendence was stunted.

I will leave you with some lovely Shelley quotes: (He considered everyone with the inspiration to imagine and formulate art poets)

“A Poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.”

“The great secret of morals is Love; or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own.”

“But poetry defeats the curse which binds us to be subjected to the accident of surrounding impressions. And whether it spreads its own figured curtain or withdraws life’s dark veil from before the scene of things, it equally creates for us a being within our being … it reproduces the common universe of which we are portions and percipients, and it purges from our inward sight the film of familiarity which obscures from us the wonder of our being.”

Foibles

2005-08-12T11:30:00.000-07:00

Over at one of my favorite blogs, Superhero Journal, Andrea has tagged cyberspace to list 5 personal idiosyncracies.

I'm a strange bird, ritualistically-oriented you might say, so narrowing it down to five might prove challenging. Here's what comes to mind:

1) I can never purchase the first package of anything. In other words, when I reach for a bag of Pirate Booty, I have to take the bag behind the one in the front. When I buy milk, it must be the carton behind the one everyone has touched. If there is only one left of the item I want to purchase, it stresses me out.

2a) I get a real thrill when I finish something off -- like the last bit of shampoo or the last drop of lotion, or the final drop of orange juice, etc. This is because I am a little stasher, and always have a replacement waiting in the wings. But I can't open the new thing until the old one is completely finito (which is a major conflict with my husband who can open multiples at the same time -- imagine that!).

2b) I don't know if it is because of my dad's roots in poverty or mom's in the scarcity of post-WWII Berlin, but I am deathly afraid of running out of anything. Toilet paper and toothpaste are the two most critical. When I was living paycheck to paycheck, this was difficult to avoid, but generally I have a back-up of anything I use on a daily basis.

3) I loathe early morning (despite my knowledge that it can be serene, etc.) and am a true night person--almost always staying alert well past midnight. I've been known to vacuum and clean toilets at 11:00PM. The idea of having to be awake before 7:30AM sends me into convulsions, and I have a real problem with having to wake up and hit the floor running (an early appointment)--it can ruin me for the rest of the day. Oh, and I hate the sound of all the cars rushing around between 7:00-9:00AM.

4) Even if I'm not going to read, I must have a book or some kind of reading material by my bed before I can go to sleep. When I've tried to do without, I've ended up having to crawl sleepily out of bed and find something to place on my nightstand.

5) I have always had a special attachment to my birthday, October 14, and delight in finding out that cool people were born on this day. I often find that someone I like or admiresuch as e.e. cummings, Ralph Lauren, Natalie Maines (Dixie Chick), Winnie the Pooh (it's official), or Katherine Mansfield, share my birthday, and this inexplicably makes me feel special--as if we belong to some sort of Libran club. I also consistently check the time to find it is 10:14.

I know I'm missing other wierdnesses, like my need to carry chapstick with me wherever I go, or my compulsion to end up rushing even if I've given myself plenty of time to get ready. But this should suffice for the tag.

So one good tag deserves another, tell me your idiosyncracies.

Weekend Warriors

2005-08-08T00:08:00.000-07:00

On Friday afternoon we were advised that we were ripped off last summer when we paid a roofer (who has disappeared) nearly $900 to wash, repair, and condition my cedar shake roof. I trust this new information because the shake shingles reclining atop the mock-pagoda slope of our roof are showing a dingy grey through the copper “treatment” from last year, curling inward as if they are hugging their bosoms, and in many cases just breaking apart like abandoned lovers. The lovely coppery sleekness they displayed last summer was only temporary--accomplished, I’m told, by mixing cedar-toned stain with a tablespoon or so of linseed oil, and lots and lots of water.

This is apparently a popular con in the Pacific Northwest where many homes are graced with the beauty, but utter impracticality, of shake roofs. The new roofer shrugged his shoulders at my obvious dismay and assured me these things happen, “you live and you learn,” he intoned as he tore off and handed me his estimate.

I all too often find myself getting an unsolicited education.

* * * *

My dog Phoebe is ill. She seems to have a cold. She is unable to breathe through her perky little nose, and last night she panted, gurgled and wheezed through her sleep. This morning, although she ate, drank, and seemed upbeat, I decided to call our regular vet for advice. She would not see us, instead recommending another clinic, because, she explained, Phoebe might need “oxygen therapy.” My dog needs oxygen therapy? I need oxygen therapy! I phoned the clinic for an estimate on costs for a check-up and this oxygen treatment, and the curt woman advised me that examining the dog is $62, and if she required the oxygen therapy, it could cost “several hundred dollars.”

In the meantime, a neighbor (who is a nurse) recommended children’s Benedryle, which seems to have cleared her nose swimmingly for about $6.

* * * *

Yesterday Aaron and I went with a couple of friends to float the Clackamus River. This was a new experience for me—an afternoon of genuine blue-collar fun. Floating the river is a sort of pared-down version of an afternoon aboard a yacht. Only the yacht is a $60 Coleman blow-up raft, outfitted with an ingenious attachable cooler float. We received lots of appreciative smiles and nods, and more than a few inquiries about the cooler float. Here are some things we observed as we rode the wild rapids of the Clackamus:

* Lots of empty beer cans thrown to the bottom of the river (we gave up trying to fish them all out)
* A grandmother, her granddaughter and a black dog happily floating in a two-person raft
* Two gonzo youth sliding kayaks down a 50-foot rock face
* Huge ospreys circling overhead, the sunlight shining through their white-tipped wings
* Three eerie rows of crackling power lines, looming like the skeletons of giant suma wrestlers poised to grab us. They hummed and sputtered as we dug our oars into the swampy river to get past them.
* The zen-like sounds of water flowing over shallow rapids.
* A bright-orange craw-dad skittering across the polished rocks of the shoreline
* The afternoon sun ducking behind a ridge of fir-trimmed mountains, casting a sort of lamp-light over the waning day.

The Politics of Trampling

2005-08-01T10:29:00.000-07:00

Warning: This post does not pull any political punches.

This just appearing on Comcast's homepage, release credited to Terance Hunt, AP White House Correspondent:

"WASHINGTON - President Bush sidestepped the Senate and installed embattled nominee John Bolton as ambassador to the United Nations on Monday, ending a five-month impasse with Democrats who accused Bolton of abusing subordinates and twisting intelligence to fit his conservative ideology.

"This post is too important to leave vacant any longer, especially during a war and a vital debate about UN reform," Bush said. He said Bolton had his complete confidence.

Bush put Bolton on the job in a recess appointment - an avenue available to the president when the Congress is in recess. Under the Constitution, a recess appointment during the lawmakers' August break would last until a newly elected Congress takes office in January 2007."

bold [italics in first paragraph are mine]

Another option that would have filled the post, Mr. President, might have been choosing another candidate that appealed across the board.

Each day the policies of our current administration bring me to new heights of incredulity. Bolton is, simply stated, the wrong man for the job. Why would anyone appoint an ambassador to the U.N. whose past record of disdain for the institution isn't even in dispute? It can easily be argued that Bolton's disposition has no business in diplomacy at all. Bolton has a reputation of displaying a nasty temperament when he is crossed, and his questionable tactics include attempting to attain the names of individuals who disagreed with him (Comcast article).

This leads to further speculation about the nature of our country at this time. The way our current administration uses loopholes, bullying and domineering tactics to shove through its agenda. It is time to call a spade a spade--there is no attempt being made to join this country or to respect opposing points of view. All Bush's claims are pure rhetoric, the sort used by his buddies Kenneth Lay and Carl Rove.

That a man with Bolton's record should never have been considered for this post seems quite obvious to me, yet again and again the president displays an unprecedented arrogance because he isn't interested in accommodating any agenda but his own.

The Senate response?

"Sen. Edward M. Kennedy, D-Mass., sharply criticized the move.

"It's a devious maneuver that evades the constitutional requirement of Senate consent and only further darkens the cloud over Mr. Bolton's credibility at the U.N," Kennedy said."

"Sen. Christopher Dodd of Connecticut, a senior Democrat on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, said, "The president has done a real disservice to our nation by appointing an individual who lacks to the credibility to further U.S. interests at the United Nations."

------------

More on Bolton:

Bolton v. Democracy

Bolton Often Blocked Information, Officials Say

Good-bye to Intelligence

Oh, and here is an "article," which I found on the ultra-right-wing WorldNetDaily site--actually stating the case against Bolton more eloquently than I can:

Bolton's Legacy

Everything is Beautiful ...

2005-07-24T13:56:00.000-07:00

"Without a foundation of principles taste is superficial, grace must arise from something deeper than imitation." --Mary Wollstonecraft

My feeling today may be a timeless lament ... a sensation that currently there is more interest in fashion trends and cell phone cameras and the latest "cool" trainers, than there is in heartful social engagement. Than there is in creative genius or originality, service or examples of humanity in action. Than there is in the (human and environmental) cost of producing the extraneous things we are compelled to buy.

There is an idolatry of the heightened image, and the image has nothing to do with authenticity, creativity, integrity, intelligence or accomplishment. It has to do with the right clothes, a "rockin' body," or a one-dimensional face. I am astonished at the amount of money tossed to the glamorous, merely for being "pretty." I am sad at the amount of money and attention that (especially those with oodles of it) won't contribute to issues like third world debt, alternative forms of energy, etc.

Aesthetics is a philosophical area of interest of mine. On a basic level, many of us are drawn to beautiful things, many of us propose that there are movements and content that are innately lovely. What those things specifically are, become the landscape of the Arts. There is good argument made that beauty can be evoked merely by form. But more profoundly, I agree with Mary Wollstonecraft--beauty is hollow without content. I cannot speak to relative intelligence of the myriad entertainers that are considered "beautiful" today, but my imaginary "list of three" is blank. Men and women are uninteresting to me unless they are both true to themselves, compassionate, and intellectually engaged on some level.

That said, I ponder beauty today and some images have floated into my mental camera. I have encountered several beauties in the past week or so:

* The young man with severe cerebral palsy, who patiently crossed a busy intersection in downtown Portland.

* My cousin's new wife playing guitar in my backyard on a pristine summer's evening.

* My cat, curled into my belly, glancing up at me with sleepy, almond eyes. (A rare treat because Aaron is away)

* My neighbor's Pugs running toward me with bodies wiggling in happy greeting.

* My friend, Najwa, proudly displaying to me her crystal collection (her prized possession) with stories to match each piece.

* Two small bats cavorting around my yard shortly after sunset yesterday.

* A peanut-tiny girl I saw in a store yesterday, dressed up and sporting a huge straw hat.

* The extraordinary pathos of the mother of young Samantha (who was kidnapped from her Stanton, CA home, and then killed, about 5 years ago) as she addressed her daughter's killer in court.

* An elderly couple I saw walking hand-in-hand, swinging their arms like teenagers.

Can you add to my list?

Guilty Pleasures

2005-07-20T18:47:00.000-07:00

On Monday I felt I’d hit my emotional limit. You know those days when just one more thing will make your head implode or your eyes whirl madly and a train-engine noise emerge from your smoking ears. Yup, that’s where I was—in the same state as a balloon inflated so tightly that you just know one more breath will blow it to smithereens.

My horoscope erroneously advised me that this was to be a tranquil day, a day of particular good will with women, and one where decisions I made would have fortuitous outcomes in the future. With that in mind, I came unglued by a small infraction on the part of my husband and then headed out in my car for one of my guiltiest coping strategies … shopping therapy. If my horoscope couldn’t soothe me, a good bargain was sure to do the trick.

For all my sincere social consciousness, for all my anti-consumeristic, don’t-succumb-to-the-pressure-of-the-market, recycle and reuse jargon, I can’t lie to you—I like pretty things. And when I'm feeling very tenuous, I like acquiring things that I didn't previously have. At those times, I seem to enjoy indulgent things. I like scented lotions and pedicures and a full-priced, newly released book. On a bad day, a new bra can really cheer me up. Or a summer blouse, or new shoes ... OK, you get the picture.

I want to reject this superficial bandage/bondage during times of stress, but sometimes I simply can’t resist. So, last sweltering Monday the air conditioning in TJ Maxx and Marshalls beckoned to me (our house has no AC) with promises of cheap BCBG and DKNY, so I abandoned the cocoon of my humble abode and delivered myself into the sanctuary of the true American drug problem … endless shopping/consumer options.

And, as I drove home with a bagful of my comforting stash (Oh, I was relieved), I felt extraordinary guilt combined with oodles of pleasure. Which led to musing about guilty pleasures, and how indulging them is so therapeutic when you feel your shoulders up around your ears and your neck as tight as steel cables. When I'm still sane enough to do so, I'll generally do some yoga or meditate or take the dogs on a walk, but at times this is simply not enough.

What are your guilty pleasures? Here are some of mine:

* Harry Potter (anything relating thereto, books, movies, candy)
* Sunglasses (this is almost comical during a good portion of the year in Portland, nevertheless I usually own at least 5 pair that I find nice and cheap at my discount stores)
* The Aztec hot chocolate from Moonstruck Chocolate Bar (requires no explanation)
* Expensive ice cream, especially gelato
* “Designer” hair care (I’ve convinced myself it’s better)
* Organic fruit at ridiculous prices, like $1.50 for a single peach
* Things that smell good—candles, lotion, bath products
* Skin care: preferably with a gimmick, whatever is the newest, latest thing
* Dog shows (I hate what they do to those dogs, but I love watching the proud pups with their freaky handlers)
* Reality TV: Rock Star INXS, Survivor, Project Runway … I know, I know
* Testers and Free Samples: food, perfume, lotion … I may not even want it, but I’ll try it
* Luxury linens, thick soft towels, cool Egyptian cotton …
* Things which impact the house (small statues, vases, pillows, new dish towels)

Sunlight, Dogs and Friends

2005-07-13T12:44:00.000-07:00

My friend Cristin is amazing. She works each week with ESL students in the Portland school district. She is beautiful and can run like an antelope. She sees the best in people and works to make the world a better place by way of her presence.

Thought I'd share this moment we had at the Columbia River Gorge last summer.

On What Matters ...

2005-07-12T14:33:00.000-07:00

From the preamble to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner comes this excellent quote:

"Meanwhile I do not deny that it is helpful sometimes to contemplate in the mind, as on a tablet, the image of a greater and better world, lest the intellect, habituated to the petty things of daily life, narrow itself and sink wholly into trivial thoughts. But at the same time we must be watchful for the truth and keep a sense of proportion, so that we may distinguish the certain from the uncertain, day from night" (adapted by Coleridge from Thomas Burnet, credit to the Norton Anthology of English Literature)

What encourages me to share this lovely quote? The following headlines streaming through the homepage at Comcast.net:

"Bush has 'confidence' in Rove"

"Tom Cruise starts filming latest movie"

"Harry Potter springs a leak" and "Judge imposes gag order" (on what? the contents of a book until it is appropriately marketed? the secrets of an imaginative franchise?)

"Pitt hospitalized with 'flu-like' symptoms" (my best to Brad Pitt, but who freakin' cares?)

"P. Diddy Resolves Random House Suit"

On the endless barrage of Brad Pitt news, the story copy reads that the name of the hospital has been withheld for security reasons ... it is so surreal to think that someone might try to disturb a hospitalized celebrity ...

... wholly trivial thoughts ...

How To Be A Good Listener

2005-07-11T01:03:00.000-07:00

After three days, eight hours each, of an Effective Listening course (a Marylhurst U Liberal Arts requirement), I emerged into the cool mist of this mid-July evening feeling drained and resentful about the deluge of homework still required to complete a course I view as “How to be Human 101.” I wasn’t down with the book the instructor chose, The Zen of Listening, which cannot be unaware of the pretensions of its title. In my modest opinion it is an uneven, repetitive and slightly simplistic book that indicates a form of engagement which employs a heightened state of being called “mindfulness.” I appreciate the concept of mindfulness, and the book does have some excellent moments, but I feel mindfulness is intuitive for any sensitized and curious human. Therefore I felt almost offended at the author’s assumption that most of us wouldn’t have the vaguest clue about characteristics such as compassion, sensitivity, or selflessness without a self-help manual to guide us through the process. I’m sure the author would have something to say about my” barriers” and “internal noise” which prevents me from wholeheartedly embracing the wisdom of her enlightenment.

After a careful delineation of how to ensure a state of mindfulness Rebecca Shafir, then suggests the reader, upon each listening opportunity, should attempt to “get into the speaker’s ‘movie,’”—which carries a world of chaotic possibilities. I’m picturing an average day of bounding from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, to Apocalypse Now, to This is Spinal Tap. I’m pondering the potential for utter confusion as I engage in my mother’s movie, potentially anything from Georgie Girl to Dog Day Afternoon . Or how about entering my husband’s movie, which might be some version of Blazing Saddles, Shrek or Rambo. I mean, picturing someone trying to be present in my own movie is laughable, my scripts are Coen-Brothers oddball.

I just see the whole technique as driven by jargon … and I acknowledge my strong resistance to formulas of any type as part of the backlash of a long-term, as-yet-unresolved teenage rebellion. Don’t even get me started on how I feel about books like Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus

Speaking of movies, I watched one after each long day of class. I watched The Barbarian Invasions, Lost Boys of the Sudan, and Some Kind of Monster. Each movie had its value. Perhaps the most brilliant aspect of The Barbarian Invasions—which I highly recommend to those that enjoy quirky, independent films which reference to social theory and political ironies—was the conversation held by the actors in a special feature separate from the movie. It struck me how intelligent, thoughtful and relevant these foreign actors are—so different from the majority of American entertainers today.

Lost Boys of the Sudan was simply a poignant film I think everyone should see. Completely low-budget and subtle, it broke my heart—not because of the tragedy of the early lives of these men, but because of the sincerity and earnestness of their day-to-day existence. Their awareness of the essential, and their unbelievable resilience is inspiring. No “mindfulness” exercises necessary for them, the simplicity of their needs and earnest sense of hope makes mindfulness intrinsic to their psyches.

* * * *

Sometimes Aaron floors me. He was moved by the stories of the men from the Sudan. Tonight as we trudged through the self-indulgence of Metallica in Some Kind of Monster, which is in no way to indicate that Metallica is singular in this characteristic rampant among modern-day superstars, there was a moment when James Hetfield was exhibiting an annoying level of self-pity. To James Hetfield’s lament that he can’t show emotion because he was never properly taught how to show love, Aaron exhaled loudly, shook his head and commented that maybe Hetfield should talk to one of the Sudanese refugees. I loved that he said that. After all the refugees went through as children (including seeing friends eaten by lions, crocodiles, shot, or kidnapped by mercenary soldiers) they don’t seem to have a similar block to expressing or showing affection or compassion for each other. In fact, they had to learn to refrain from overt physical contact in the United States because of the danger of attack. In the film the group of refugees discusses how they cannot exhibit any physical affection, such as holding hands which they happily did in the Sudan— a gesture which men cannot safely employ in many parts of our country.

Watching these films back to back brought new meaning to my perception of Western self-indulgence. (By the way, one of the few interesting moments in Some Kind of Monster is when Lars Ulrich calls Hetfield on this very quality)