I Was Dancing

[selected as an Editor's Choice, Bewildering Stories First Quarterly Review, 2008]

When my hand was in his, there was nothing in the world that wasn’t ok. His hands were usually cold, just like mine. Something that amused us both and made me happy, because I was “just like dad.” When I felt sad or afraid, all he had to do was tell me that everything would be all right, and I knew it would be. That big delighted smile of his whenever I entered a room was the same smile I would see all those years later. That smile that seemed to leap right out of his handsome face like a rabbit from the brush. I’ll never know for sure if he knew exactly who I was when I went to visit him that last time. I have every logical reason to believe that he didn’t. But somehow I know that he did. He recognized something that he had known and loved for more than fifty years—and no doubt the idea of me even before that.

The shock of seeing him the way he looked then—so thin and fragile, is something that haunts me still. It was difficult to even touch him. I was afraid I would bruise him, hurt him somehow. It was as if he were made of thin, delicate rice paper, and that he was hollow inside--like a paper lantern that floats effortlessly in the afternoon breeze. I feared crushing him.

He spoke to me conspiratorially about how they were rounding up all the Jews and he wanted to know how in the world I had gotten in. I told him it wasn’t like that anymore, that the world had changed and that Jews were safe in America. I even joked there were plenty of other problems here, but that wasn’t one of them. He asked me how I knew. I told him that what he was thinking about was another time, another place—when he had been a soldier during the second world war. He stared at me for awhile without speaking. His eyes, which used to be a beguiling shade of sea green, were dull and distant. I wondered if he had gone away, then suddenly he mumbled, “Well, look around you. Do you see any here?” There were no other people in the room except us.

We called my mother using my cell phone. If he had ever used one before, he made no appearance of it. After I had said a few words to her, I held the phone to his ear. He was delighted, just knowing she was on the phone. “Josette, your sister is here.” he said, smiling. My mother doesn’t have a sister.

When my mother entered the room about a half hour later, his eyes lit up—at least as much as they had when he saw me. “The belle of the ball,” he said. “Look at her.” She later told me that in the late afternoons when she would say goodbye before heading home, he would often blame her for leaving so soon. “You’re off to go dancing with your boyfriend.” he would say. But sometimes he simply said, “Please take me with you. I don’t want to stay here.” That was difficult. Because she wanted to.

He asked me what my father did for a living. I smiled and told him he knew perfectly well what my father did. He reminisced about an aunt I was supposed to remember, but didn’t. He was wearing a fleece vest I had purchased for him, a vest that he had pulled out of the closet that morning—on his own. I doubted that he realized it was me who had purchased it for him. I wanted him to know. My mother, as if sensing that, reminded him.

Eating was a struggle. And with him being as thin and weak as he was, it was important for him to eat. Both my mother and the nurse were urging him to eat. And now me. The food looked terrible. He didn’t want it, and what made it worse is that nearly every bite or swallow led to hideous coughing and choking. He asked for water, which the nurse explained would make him choke even more. I’m sure this scene had gone on before all too frequently. Finally someone brought him a small paper cup of water to which she added a powder that acted as a thickener so that he could swallow it more easily, without choking. He drank what amounted to a teaspoon or two. And then he looked at me like his very old friend and confided, “All I want is a drink of cool water.” He drew out the vowels in the word “cool” as if savoring the thought of it. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. The tears that had been there from the moment I first saw him were beyond my ability to hold back.

“Oh God, I’m choking on something,” I explained feebly, smiling through my tears. I got up and headed towards his bathroom, coughing several times as if trying to dislodge something. In his bathroom, still coughing, I ran some water in the sink. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyeliner was a bit smeared so I rubbed some of it off with my fingers. I saw the reflection of his bed in the mirror. The room was a dull wash of beige and white, accented by a streak of white sunshine that highlighted the particles of dust dancing above his bed. He would die here.

His face, which had been so handsome and strong, was now gaunt and feeble. A mean trick of time. If only I could reverse it. I thought of when his coming home meant hugs and laughter and sometimes even presents. I smiled, remembering. He taught me about honesty, about not taking things for granted, about not making assumptions. He taught me about driving defensively and thinking about the poor. He taught me about saving for a rainy day. He taught me about conscience.

But our ideas diverged. I was liberally minded and a free spirit. He was a child of immigrants. I was a child of a regional district manager for a highly successful retail chain. I had my own ideas, and he held on to his.

But on this day—when I watched his pained existence, I knew full well that all he wanted, even more than the cool drink of water, was a ticket out. And I wanted to give it to him.

When I hugged him goodbye, careful so as not to crumple him, I’m sure he knew it would be the last time. He looked at me as if he were seeing all the me’s that had been since the day I was born. It only took a few seconds, but I’m sure that he saw all that. And I saw the face of the man I had loved all my life, even though I’d forgotten about it for awhile.

“Goodbye, dad,” I said. He held me very tight and didn’t say anything at all. He didn’t have to.

A few weeks after he died, I had a wonderful dream. My dad, looking exactly as he had when I was sixteen and he was in his mid fifties, was standing in a room smiling at me. He wore a white suit and stood very tall and proud. His silver grey hair was slickly combed back. He was strikingly handsome and looked so happy. The room was something between a theater set depiction of the outdoor entrance to a club, or simply a big auditorium decorated for a festive event. Sparkly lights, moving spots. It felt nice there. He emerged from behind a door. Or maybe he just appeared. I don’t remember exactly. Dreams have a way of dissolving, even when you swear you’ll remember every last detail.

“I’ve been dancing. I’m happy now,” he announced—his sea green eyes flashing and that smile that swept my mom off her feet the first time she laid eyes on him in Paris. When she was interviewing for a secretarial job and he was the army colonel hiring.

I smiled back. There was nothing that needed to be said. I knew he was all right and he’d come back to tell me. Must be because he wanted to let me know—like he always had, that everything was all right.

Riding in the Hills of China Camp

[published in Cycle California, April 2008]

last night was the last of this year's wednesday night rides at china camp state park, home to a wondrous network of single track and fire roads which wind through the wooded landscape. the various trails are a perfect mix of technical, downhill and uphill, as well as just smooth sailing. sometimes so deep in the forest you forget where you are, sometimes breezing through rolling hills of green and brush and marshland overlooking San Pablo Bay. small lizards scurry across the path. and here and there you encounter a stag or doe grazing alongside the trails. china camp, named as such because a Chinese shrimp-fishing village of about 500 people thrived there in the 1880s. In its heyday, china camp had three general stores, a marine supply store and a barber shop. Today there is a small general store/'coffee shop' that is sometimes open (no schedule of any kind), a museum, and a few picnic tables on a very pebbled beach.

it was cold and windy last night. the kind of wind that knocks over potted plants and breaks off branches from the trees. i had spent the day, cozied up at home--drinking tea, working from home. perfect. so the idea of switching to mountain bike mode was not particularly appealing. but i hadn't seen lorna in a while and i missed her. plus i love to ride. and of course it's good for me, which gets me to do a lot of things. so after coming dangerously close to canceling, i decided to go.

the slate colored sky with areas of soft orange/rose clouds harbored hints of the rain that finally came this morning. although i was always the last one in the row of six mountain bike gals, it was a great ride. towards the end, as we were cutting through a shortcut trail that was steady downhill, i realized that the last time i had been on this dirt was with my daughter several months ago. the dramatic downhill, ruts, rocks, and dust had been enough to shake my self-confidence all to hell back then. so in spite of my daughter's encouragement and assurance that it really wasn't such a big deal, i was mostly off -bike, trying not to loose my footing as i held onto the handlebars and maneuvered (with trepidation) my bike and myself downhill.

but this time--it was different. i stayed on the bike, survived a few iffy spots and felt like i had really accomplished something at the end. and that was when i realized i had a flat tire. first one i've had in more than a year of mt. biking. that says something. not sure exactly what. but on the last wednesday ride of the season, i somehow like the symbolism.

A New Day

"It’s been a long time coming. But tonight, because of what we did on this date, in this election, change has come to America." - Barack Obama, Nov.4, 2008

it's the dawn of a new day in america.
where the sun we prayed for is streaming in through the dark clouds.
we have a new president-elect,
a visionary--smart, charismatic, aware,
a guy who's just pulled off the most amazing rise to office that anyone could imagine
an inspiration to all of us--
not only in america, but
for people everywhere in the world.
change has come. it's a beginning
of a process that is always evolving.

martin luther king was in chicago last night.
you could see him in jesse jackson's eyes.
you could hear him in obama's words.
you could see him and hear him in the jubilance,
the warmth, the celebration.
the dream is still alive.

with his eyes glistening and his gaze towards the future,
obama invoked the dream
and the work we need to do to get there.
we remembered that
america really is that place
where anything is possible.

what a wonderful thing just happened here.
change has come. we have a man leading us who is indeed a leader.
we awoke from the nightmare, and
the world is with us again.

black and white together. all races, all ages. all sexual orientations.
it makes no difference.
if that isn't beautiful--what is?

The Wrath of John McCain

There is no doubt that what John McCain went through on behalf of and for the love of this country during the war in Vietnam was horrendous. How many of us could have endured it--even a day? He is to be honored forever for this, and appreciated. He was a prisoner of war for more than five years, tortured, given inadequate care, confined to solitude for more than two years. He suffered physical wounds and humiliation. His hair turned white from the stress. When he returned home he faced months of physical therapy and his own self-torture from having finally given in to the waves of beatings by making an "anti-American confession." He is left physically marred, with limited movement of his arms.

What lasting effect could this have on a man's psyche? Could it be the reason for John McCain's self-avowed rage? We've observed it--sometimes very thinly disguised through clenched teeth, dark glares, pointed slurs. Rage in restraint. And regardless of the reason for it, even if it is indeed the result of his allegiance and devotion to his country, untempered rage can be a very dangerous thing.

Do we want a president who himself admits:

"I have a temper, to state the obvious, which I have tried to control with varying degrees of success because it does not always serve my interest or the public's."
- John McCain

* Watch this video, John McCain's Rage.
* And read Make Believe Maverick from Rolling Stone.

You Wonder

McCain's proclamation that he wants to cancel the debate in order to focus on the financial straits of Wall Street/this country/us is ridiculous. You've got to wonder if the American public at large can't see straight through the smoke and mirrors. The guy wants us to think he's so concerned with the big issues that he won't stoop to the lowly efforts of campaigning. When indeed his very overture is a political maneuver.

So does the American public buy it? I sure hope not. No one I've spoken with does, but of course I hardly know any Republicans let alone speak to them. . . ahem. What Obama says makes the most sense: this is precisely what a debate should be made of--issues that that the American public needs to know about. We need to be able to hear what the candidates would do in this crisis, if the crisis were in their hands. And as Obama has also pointed out--soon this and all other crises WILL be in the hands of one of them. And here's another thing Obama pointed out: a president needs to be able to do more than one thing. Multitasking is a major requirement for this job. "Non-multitaskers" need not apply. But apparantly one already has. . .

The Shadow

My yoga teacher emailed me a "posting" by Deepak Chopra dated Sept. 5, 2008 that had been forwarded to her. This is a portion of that posting:

Obama and The Palin Effect

"Sometimes politics has the uncanny effect of mirroring the national psyche even when nobody intended to do that. This is perfectly illustrated by the rousing effect that Gov. Sarah Palin had on the Republican convention in Minneapolis this week. . . .

"She is the reverse of Barack Obama, in essence his shadow, deriding his idealism and exhorting people to obey their worst impulses. In psychological terms the shadow is that part of the psyche that hides out of sight, countering our aspirations, virtue, and vision with qualities we are ashamed to face: anger, fear, revenge, violence, selfishness, and suspicion of 'the other.'. . . "

My reaction:

The woman and what she represents, along with the 'positive' reaction she's had from a large segment of this country is frightening as hell. She embodies the counter to Obama. Chopra named it perfectly--'the shadow.' All the elements are there, twisted and misused, even her frequent references to 'God's will.' How can anyone believe that it is God's will that McCain and 'the shadow' are in the White House. HOW can the American populace at large not see through the transparency of Palin in particular. The woman embodies some kind of manufactured entity--the result of a marketing focus group--made to appeal to 'the masses'. She uses her own Down's Syndrome child as a prop for "pro-choice." Same thing with the 17-year old pregnant daughter, who--because she is now getting married--is being embraced by that same populace and Palin is congratulated once again for her 'pro-choice' support of her daughter. And then of course--the beautifully timed 'going off to iraq'--of her 19-year-old son.

I've found myself wondering if she is even real--as in is she really made of flesh and blood. Or if we were to scratch away at her skin, would we perhaps find a wireframe and would we gradually come to realize that she is not human at all--but a fabrication of metal and rubber and an assortment of other materials--all in the guise of a human female.

We're at a crossroads and it is a very dangerous one, because the wrong choice is so wrong it can spell disaster for this country and the world. We have a reseponsibiity here. We need to understand the concerns/beliefs of the 'other side' in order to try to convince them. We need to vote for Obama. We need to try to get every single person we know to vote for Obama and to get others to vote for Obama. I've urged my daughter to vote, to tell her boyfriend to vote, to tell their friends at work, at school. . . and we need to visualize what we want, not what we don't want. We need to make it happen.

crossroads

We're at a crossroads. It will be Obama, or it will be McCain. Both claim to be the right choice, the only choice for America. We've lost our footing in the world. As a child I saw an America that led the world, that liberated the country my mother lived in and that my father fought in. America was right, always right. Or so it seemed. When I grew older, I saw America could be wrong. Vietnam.

We're at a crossroads. But of course we always are--not just in things as large as an election, but in the little things we encounter everyday. Decisions we make. Buying this or that. Saying yes to an invitation, no to another. But some things we recognize as important crossroads. Stepping into one life, while stepping out of another. A job, a relationship, a lifestyle.

Who will it be? Obama or McCain? Who will bring the change most of us agree is so necessary to this country? Global warming, healthcare, foreign policy, foreign diplomacy, education, hope, freedom, equality--black/white, male/female. War. Peace.

Who will it be? One hundred years from now, will they turn back to applaud us. Or will they wonder whatever were we thinking?

We're at a crossroads. The sign tells us we can go right or left. One thing we know. We cannot stay where we are. We must choose.

Still

I was listening to Tom Waits' Alice this morning--an amazing swirl of songs that tug at your feelings, drawing you into the misty cyclone of your memories. You're a willing victim, a captive of nostalgia--for things that were, for moments lost, even for things that perhaps never were. "Poetry is like a memory," my daughter once said. And who is to say that we are not allowed to reinvent our memories? Coloring them with shades of how we would write the play or play the scene. . .

"And I must be insane
To go skating on your name
And by tracing it twice
I fell through the ice
Of Alice."

Music conjures up feelings we usually come short of being able to fully explain, but we go on trying anyway. The missing notes or lyrics are like the missing elements in a line drawing, where we recognize the image in its totality--a result of magic that the brain is trained to perform. A kind of "connect the dots."

So I listen to Alice, full of love and longing for someone who is no longer there or even for someone who is still there, but out of reach.

And I think of Peter.

"You haven't looked at me that way in years
You dreamed me up and left me here
How long was I dreaming for
What was it you wanted me for

You haven't looked at me that way in years
Your watch has stopped and the pond is clear
Someone turn the lights back off
I'll love you til all time is gone

You haven't looked at me that way in years
But I'm still here."

Just for fun

Several weeks ago, a friend sent me an email telling me that I should submit something to a new column entitled "How It Is" in the Lifestyles section of the local paper. She claimed I had "tons of stuff" I could write about love, marriage, dating, etc. So within a few hours I wrote and emailed two pieces to the editor. One of the them was published (posted here June 5); the other was not. This is the one they chose not to publish--written about experiences from a few years ago. Although it may read like a piece of fiction, it is not.


Wild Ride to the Mountain

So there I was—with my photo and blurb up on match.com.

The good-looking mountain climber from New York, 25 years my junior, who flies out here a few times a year to climb Mt. Shasta sounds rather intriguing. Not to mention he’s hot. But let’s get real.

So I hook up with this real estate guy, who takes me to a party in the East Bay. I become increasingly aware that the oversized blazer I purchased at Ross the day before will be returned on Monday. I’m feeling awkward and looking forward to going home, alone. But when 'Jim' invites me to his hot tub, I feel the tantalizing electric charge of a “dare.” I figure at my age I can make reasonable decisions. Plus I’m curious about where he lives because everything about him indicates wealth and extreme good taste. So I say ok.

The house is Tudor style and gorgeous, surrounded by trees and flora. He gives me a quick tour, which includes three bedrooms and a massage room. 'I give great massages, incidentally," he states as an aside, as we pass the room with a massage table in the center and head up the stairs to his bedroom where he gives me a white bathrobe to put on and gives me the option to undress in the bathroom if I choose. I do.

Feeling self-conscious about being naked, I disrobe quickly and slide in. We proceed to have a vivid conversation about his life and times preceding our having met online a few weeks before, which includes a few marriages and many girlfriends. Then he suggests we go inside for a glass of brandy. After offering me a joint, which I turn down, he makes it clear (with his hands) that he wants to have sex. I don't, and don't.

Now he hits me with his proclamation: “If there’s no sex during the first date or two that’s ok, but if by the tenth date we're still not having sex--that's where I draw the line.” I announce I’m going home. Two days later he sends me an email with an attachment. When I open it (at work) I discover a chart composed of twelve color photographs of the most private part of the female anatomy, each decorated with flowers and jewels. "I thought you would enjoy this," he says in his email. Next.

The lawyer seemed interesting via email—intelligent, no-nonsense, and distinguished. We agree to meet at a park in San Rafael. ‘Sam’ invites me to his condo in the wooded hills of San Rafael for dinner. Shortly after finishing the overcooked pasta and tasteless mushrooms, along with a fragrant glass of Zinfandel, I thank him for dinner and conversation and say I’m heading out. He looks stunned, "What? No sex?” I give him the benefit of the doubt and laugh. Then he says, "I'm serious. I thought us ex-hippies would go for a romp in the bedroom.” I’m thoroughly disgusted and find my way to the door. Fast.

Now consider the "tea guy." He suggested Starbucks, but reluctantly agrees to my alternative. While I order a chai at the counter, he stands behind me. I beckon him to step up and order. He asks for a cup of hot water, and then quickly steps back while I pay the bill. After we sit down, I ask if he usually drinks his hot water plain. He smiles conspiratorially, removes a tea bag from his pocket, and plunks it into his cup. "See, that's why I don't like coming here. At Starbucks they give me hot water for free.” Let’s move on.

Finally, the mountain biker. I like his spirit, his mischievous smile, his British accent, and his intelligence. But I should have heeded the warning he gave me himself. During our first phone conversation when I asked him, "How are you?" he responds. "Horrible." Then he jumps into a lengthy monologue about a woman who had apparently led him through the mud and finally ditched him. He’s clearly obsessed with her.

I suppose I was playing out my desire to be a psychiatrist, because every time we talk by phone or get together, conversations invariably turn to her. If he doesn't bring her up, I do. 'So, Steve, how are things with “M”?' (He never spoke her name outloud; he refers to her only by her first initial.) Believe it or not, I see relationship potential here. We both like the outdoors, he’s teaching me to mountain bike. We adore good food, wine, feel the same way about George W. and other key issues. Plus we have a penchant for things European. But eventually, when I find out he’s been seeing someone for a month, along with me, and that neither of us knew about the other--I call it quits, and not without a bit of rancor.

Dating in your fifties. Wow. I may just switch to women. (Although there is that mountain climber. . . )

Double Life

That feeling of deja-vu. When it seems that the moment has happened before. As if time is playing a trick and has somehow revolved back to that original moment and we're living it again--with the same gestures and dialogue, the same sensations. Sometimes it feels as if the deja vu is itself a deja vu, that we're revisiting something that we've already revisted--sometimes even more than once.

In the film The Double Life of Veronique, directed by Krzysztof Kieślowski (who also directed the trilogy: Red, White, and Blue, we meet a young woman (Veronika) in Warsaw who has just left a music competition and finds herself caught in the turmoil of a political demonstration. She drops her portfolio and while retrieving sheet music that has been strewn about on the street, she observes another woman (Veronique) getting on a bus. The woman looks exactly like Veronika. Once inside the bus, Veronique begins taking photographs of her "double" in rapid succession. Veronique looks at her photographer in quiet fascination.

The story reveals a portion of the lives of both women. We see certain similarities--their interest in music, a certain naivete, closeness with their respective fathers. One of the personas tells her father she feels she is about to fall in love. But it is the "other" Veronique who falls in love--with a writer of children's books. She sees him performing one of his stories as a puppet show. Chroeographing the movements of a beautifully fragile female puppet, he tells the sad story of a woman who lives in a box, dies, and is transformed into a butterfly. Veronique catches glimpses of the puppeteer as he works in the shadows. At one point, for no apparant reason, his gaze falls upon Veronique. It's as if he had been drawn to her by invisible strings.

It's a strange and ephemeral story. The writer of children's stories tells Veronique about the new story he is writing and twin puppets he is making to bring the story to life. It is what he perceives to be her story: at precisely the same moment as a particular woman was born in France, another woman who looks exactly like her was born in Poland. Actions by one are often 'perceived' by the other as if it were part of their own lives. So the two are invisibly intertwined.

A fascinating possibility, which could account for some of what we perceive as deja vu. Or at least why we sometimes do things without knowing why, sometimes even things that don't make sense and don't even feel like the things we would do on our own; and yet we feel pulled by some unknown force to do them. Or it could be part of the phenomenon of parallel lives, a parallel universe. That perplexing reality of looking into the mirror and wondering who is on the other side. Alice in the Looking Glass.

For more movie reviews, visit my movie review blog, Slick's Flicks

Riding with Sadie

[published in Cycle California, June 2008]

Here's a canine who typifies the positive attitude we generally associate with dogs. Everything is her favorite thing if she is (or at least believes she is) the focus of attention. Therefore it stands to reason that if we pile the bikes, helmuts, ourselves, and HER in the car, something fun--something that is for and all about her and thereby her favorite thing, is about to happen.

Many of the great mountain bike trails in the San Francisco Bay Area are not dog-friendly. For the most part, this is for good reason. Singletrack is challenging enough sometimes, not to mention the uphill/downhill etiquette rule. So imagine someone's Fido running about, zigzagging up, down, and across your path while you're trying to keep yourself from plunging into a nasty patch of poison oak, or worse yet, headlong over the edge into a rocky drop. It's a safety issue not only for you, but for the friendly four-legged creatures themselves.

About a year and a half ago the guy I was dating and I thought it would be fun to take my dog Sadie along with us on a ride. Sadie is a little fireball--a mostly black and white terrier mix, with possibly some Border Collie thrown in for good measure. (The reason for the later is her rather obsessive interest and focus on "the ball.") She's a veritable tomboy at heart. To the point where anyone who meets her refers to her as "the little guy." It's not a guess; it's an assumption. Although a more feminine side can be perceived when she daintily prances through the grass, as if to avoid mussing her paws or her tail, all the while her vibrant orange vinyl collar gleaming against the wiry black fur. The sojourn was a magnificent success. It was an amazing ride through the rolling hills above Pleasanton (Oracle and wind power country). And the best part was watching Sadie having the time of her life--running like the wind, nearly always ahead of us, even racing downhill.

So on this sunny Sunday, I wanted to do it again. But somewhere different.(The guy from a year and a half ago is history, incidentally, but that's another story. . . ) So my partner and I, a guy who used to road bike 75 miles in one day, headed out for the Morgan Territory Regional Preserve, near Livermore, but high, high above.

It's a place of mostly wide track open dirt trail on rolling green hills, with occasional forays into more forested areas. A wondrous place to be on a sunny spring day. Expect spectacular views as far as 100 miles away to the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. Closer in are views of Antioch/Stockton, Los Vaqueros Reservoir, and the San Joaquin Valley to the East; Dublin/Pleasanton and the San Ramon Valley to the West. Getting to the parking lot at the begining of the trail takes you through ten miles on a one lane road that winds through an area of estates and stables. This is beautiful country and the perfect time to be here for a bike ride is a spring or fall day. Because in the full summer it can get dreadfully hot. And if it's a windy day in the winter--look out. The wind is fierce. So high up and so open. Nothing to brace it.

But Sadie didn't care. As we put on another layer or two before heading for the beginning of the trail, Sadie already knew that we had planned a wonderful afternoon for her. She picked up the nearest stick, tail wagging ferociously, and placed it at my feet. But we had better things to do. "Come on, Sadie. Let's go."



The entire three hours we rode, we ran into one other mountain biker and maybe as many as five or six hikers. That's all. Oh yes, there was one other dog. That's one of the many reasons this trail is so well suited to riding with your dog. As I've menioned, it's a wide trail. (Note: in dry weather the road is very, very rutted, partly because of the rains that came before and left their mark and partly because many of the grazing cattle that roam all along these trails have left their mark as well. So expect a lot of bouncing on your seat. Wear the best-padded bicycle shorts you have and remember to lift off your seat whenever it makes sense, which will be a lot.)

So even though we sailed through a few areas laced with poison oak, the trail itself is free of it. As long as your dog is under voice command (which is one of the rules posted), you're absolutely fine. The other rule is to have with you a leash that is no shorter than 6ft. You don't have to use it; but you need to have it with you just in case.

Be sure to bring water (of course for you, but I'm talking about your dog). A dog treat or two wouldn't hurt either. Our Fido ran like the wind and when we stopped in the middle of the ride and then at the end, she drank ravenously from one of those portable canvas bowls.

One thing about Sadie--not only does she like to run with the bikes, she insists on being in the lead. And if she isn't, she barks in protest. She also likes "the pack" to stay together. Once or twice, when i was off-bike and way behind my bike buddy, Sadie whimpered sadly, as if to say, "Wait, she's back there. Something is horribly wrong."

Bike riding with your canine pal is a wonderful workout for your pal (and you as well). But be careful. Just like people, every dog is different. So be sure to monitor if your Fido is happily running along or if he is panting, dehydrated, and keeping up with you only out of love, not enjoyment. It so happens that my Fido seems to have a self-rewind. She'll run to what seems like exhaustion, but then a rest of a few minutes seems quite enough for her to recharge, and then she's ready for more. But you be the judge. And you don't have to ride the whole trail. There are plenty of options, with an assortment of paths that wind around and rejoin. When you get to the parking lot, you'll see plenty of brochures available that map it all out for you.


Happy trails to you (and Fido).

From San Francisco, take the Bay Bridge to Interstate 580, continue to Livermore and exit North Livermore Avenue. Head north to the junction of Morgan Territory Road. Turn right, drive 10.7 miles (this is where it gets very narrow and winding)to the staging area, where parking is free.

He's gone, but he's still everywhere

[published in the Marin Independent Journal, June 3, 2008]

Peter died in April. We’d known each other for more than thirty years. We were friends, lovers, husband and wife, divorced. Sometimes we hardly spoke, so angry at each other that we needed to feel we were on the opposite ends of the earth. But in spite of that and surprising to us both in the end, the love we had was stronger than our ability not to feel it. It simply was. Like the air. How can the air be missing?

Painful, bittersweet and lasting--the sorrow you feel after the death of someone you loved stretches you. It’s an enrichment in that way. It has something to do with how all-encompassing the missing of that person is. How you look for him everywhere, because you sense him around you. How you see him at the steering wheel in the car behind you as you cross the Golden Gate Bridge or in the warm brown eyes of a mother deer in China Camp. You sense the movement of his hand in the wind at Rodeo Beach, or his breath over the horizon at the end of the day. And you feel yourself expanding because you're reaching in all the corners, farther than you've ever reached before. Wanting to touch what you know is out of reach, but looking for a way to do it anyway. Because you know, you simply know he's everywhere.

It has something to do with the depth of feeling, knowing that in order to survive you need to keep moving forward, to accept the sorrow as you would any imperfection in yourself or in others. Imperfections that you can do nothing about. And in that, you are perfect.

It's an exploration of what love really means. How it floods you with songs and lyrics, photographs of time you shared. Smiles and tears through the minutes and the hours. And the paradox of loving someone so much in spite of all the reasons not to. Loving unconditionally. Which is the revelation.

More than anyone it was Peter who urged me to write, who convinced me I was good at it, and who led me to believe in myself. Peter, wherever you are, find peace in your heart knowing that you'll forever be in mine.

sadie in the V

Mr. Bush's Weather Report

News from and about the Bush administration continues to astonish. In adherence to a law passed in 1990, presidents must submit a report to Congress every four years summarizing the status and latest findings re: global climate change and environmental problems. It comes as no big surprise that some of the latest findings tell us that an increase in temperature levels brings with it a host of problems for the elderly, the very young, the frail, and in particular the poor of these three groups. And it also comes as no surprise that the report itself was delayed--entangled in what Senator John Kerry called a realm that was "rhetorical, not real."

Hitler once said that if you are going to lie, tell the biggest lie. Because that is the one that people will believe. We've seen this with the Bush administration over and over again. Now, even one of Bush's own press secretaries, Scott McClellan, has emerged from the axis of deception to point the finger at the murky bed of lies--Iraq, Katrina. How much more can we take before these people leave the White House?

Obama is like a virgin spring running clear and free in the desert. From the realm of chaos and destruction, he emerges a man with a message. And the message is truth. The message is hope. And the message is now.

aging brains

i read two articles today about memory--one in the New York Times and one in Wired. one discussed a software program called Super Memo, created by Piotr Wozniak, that actually figures out how long the interval is between you first learning something and subsequently forgetting it. the idea is to 'remind' you of the new information just at the moment before you forget it. theoretically your interval of remembering the information gets longer and longer. so that let's say initially the interval is 5 minutes, the next one is 15, etc.

the other article was about the aging brain. aside from people who develop alzheimer's, which according to the Times article is an alarming 13% of americans 65 or older, peoples' brains behave in different ways as we age. they take in more information and 'stop to process' when presented with words that are out of place in a paragraph, for instance. whereas a young college student will no doubt keep reading as if the "distraction" didn't even exist. so what this says is that the older brain is processing more information. it may not focus exclusively on what seems to be the issue at hand, but by taking in more information may end up having a broader knowledge of the subject which could come in handy. as an example an older person may notice certain details in a speaker's presentation that convey as much or more information than their actual words. the details could emphasize certain beliefs or even belie what they are saying.

and there was this in the Times article: "A reduced ability to filter and set priorities, the scientists concluded, could contribute to original thinking."

So maybe that explains my 'creativity.' [smile]

and also that perhaps the taking in of more information from a situation (which is what the older brain does) combined with the array of stored knowledge results in what we call "wisdom." nice.

out walkin' in the rain

there's a tom waits song that you put on a compilation CD. you made so many of those for me. i've been wanting to find it, but putting off looking through all those discs and playing them to find it. remembered calling you one day to say how much i loved the compilation, in particular that tom waits song. and that your compilations are so incredible. you loved being appreciated that way. and like always--the music you chose to include was how you spoke to me. "i wish to god you'd leave me; i wish to god you'd stay." that was us all right. today i took a stack of those compilation cds, picked one at random, stuck it in the boom box and hit play. there it was. first one. and all i want to do is call you and hear you talk to me. about anything. music man. i miss you with every song that is me.

the fawn and her mother

today i rode in china camp. we were there together a month or two ago. as i rounded a corner i thought of that day and looked down towards the little beach where we sat. my thoughts spoke out loud, "show me you are here." and at that very moment i heard a soft rustle in the leaves and twigs. i turned quickly to see a fawn running after its mother. they both stopped to look at me for a moment before continuing on their way. then amidst a wash of sunshine, a song of insects. i don't even know what kind they were, but it doesn't matter. i heard you.

floating, gliding, sailing
with the wind, the ocean waves, your memories
you're finding your way home where everything is peaceful
just as you left it.
and i sense you through all the things
that are beautiful in the world
all the things you loved
and i dream them for you

strangers on the shore

when i touched you the first time
you shivered
a seagull passed
and you were gone

hello dreamer
i cry for you
sing songs for you
make love to you

strangers on a shore
strangers not so strange

talk to you

I just want to talk to you. About little things mostly. Observations. Things you would pick up on so easily. That certain laugh or smile of yours. Telling me you know exactly what i mean. How well you knew me. As i listen to the strange wailing sound of Tom Waits, I want to tell you that I hear something Eastern European in Alice. Something that reminds me of you. Your voice talks to me through music. I want to call you and tell you that I brushed the cat today. That she jumped on the bed while i was sleeping. That it's raining. And windy. That i took a walk. That I looked at pictures of you and me--pictures taken the day Zia was born. That I sense you--everywhere. You are in me.

mr. p

i wrote this for peter a few months ago, after he had been diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus. he died last saturday. i'll be writing about him in one way or another for the rest of my life. more than anyone it was peter who urged me to write, who convinced me i was good at it, and who led me to believe in myself. peter, wherever you are, read this poem again. and find peace in your heart knowing that you'll forever be in mine.

mr. p

thirty years ago
it was
when we met
at a street corner
and i said playfully
'let's get together and talk about old times.'
i was younger than you by eleven years.
you smiled and so did i
and so began our conversation.

although as you would tell it
it began in a slightly different way.
you saw me at my desk
wearing a danskin and jeans, seemingly focused on my work,
all the while looking very slyly at you.
you caught it and i knew it.
i was the girl for you.
you were a crazyman, somewhat disshevelled.
a missing tooth,
which was puzzling
for someone as handsome as you.
something cool and a shade of hip
energized, electric, yet a nuance of something tired and worn.
and i couldn't figure it out
how you, with your bagels and chinese food, your
bravado performance, and your sherman cigarettes, would
be the one to steal my heart.

but now i realize it had little to do
with the stories you told, how you made me laugh
your somewhat sleazy smile, your downright wizardry in the kitchen
or the fact
you had my father's nose.
it was something else, something
intangible, illogical, a fact of life,
which was simply
that you loved me and i loved you.
right then and there--forever.

and through all these years
spent together and apart-
laughing, crying,
shooting arrows through the mist
or holding each other in the storm
to brace against the cold,
the love we have
has laughed in our poor bedraggled faces.
for what fools we are indeed
to think we can decide whether to love or not.
love simply is, like the passage of time,
like it or not.

which is what we knew when first we saw each other-
in the shadows of a quiet building on vallejo street-where
we began our conversation.
not quite conscious a thought,
but a melody we both heard.
a recognition of someone
we've known and loved since the beginning of time
before the invention of the telephone.
remember when we talked for three hours?
before the invention of paper
remember the poem you wrote?
seven pages of thoughts, scrawled
on lined three-ring paper
telling me (and you) of feelings
you had stored away for
the winter, as you had
for so many seasons before.

the snow falling outside your window
so cold inside, you shivered
and then--from a time
you didn't yet remember --
my face appeared behind the frosted glass.

and our daughter--the best of both of us.
we dreamed of her.
christmas in july, remember?


i can't go away, nor can you
we're linked forever, we are.
you in me
and i in you.
mr p, i love you

tree in sedona

Ira's fight with the man

[I wrote this when Peter was dying; it wasn't a certainty then, but we all pretty much knew--inncluding Peter himself. When I originally wrote this post, I didn't want to use his name. Out of respect, even reverence for him, I suppose. At the time I still hadn't realized to what extent I loved him. Sadly, that didn't happen until the last few days of his life. He knew before I did. I believe he always knew. And beneath all of my convoluted masks, I suppose I did too. -fs, 8/7/10]

i don't remember exactly how long ago he told me he suspected something was wrong, seriously wrong. he'd been getting thinner and thinner over the last year. he is a man who has practiced denial as diligently as some of us practice yoga or eat a healthy breakfast. so in spite of sensing something was wrong, he did nothing to deal with it head-on.



we've known each other for more than 25 years. and through that time we've been lovers, friends, enemies, and everything in between. he's a self-avowed "tap dancer," a master in bullshit--not just to others, in fact primarily to himself. one friend described it well. "when he takes off the tap shoes, he's wearing another pair." and all his life he's talked about beating "the man." the same friend who talked about his "tap shoes" said that "the man" is really ira himself.


but ira is an enigma. there is a beauty that resides in him, something deep and soulful that is so strong that in spite of broken promises, money owed, manipulation, lying, cheating, and a slew of traits and events that no one wants to deal with, he has an assorted group of friends from many eras of his life who have managed to stick around. because somewhere inside him, all too often shrouded by the more acrid, ignoble parts, is a delightful person who views and appreciates the world with the same innocent delight as a wonderful little boy. the evening of the day that he was diagnosed with esophogeal cancer, i stood by the window of his hospital room that looked out into the Marin County, California hillside. The face of the pale yellow full moon hovered against the charcoal sky. I told ira to take a look. "Oh wow," he said. And he looked at that moon with the same wonder I had seen so many times during all the years I've known him--whenever he was appreciating the beauty in the world. He stared at the moon for what seemed like a very long time. And I fought hard to hold back the tears.



at least a year ago, it seems, his doctor had prescribed a series of diagnostic tests, none of which he had done. then, just a few days before christmas '07, i received a call from a mutual friend, stephen, who had made it a point to visit ira or at least check in by phone on a daily basis. he'd been doing this for several months, watching a gradual and very perceiveable decline. stephen called me from ira's house and spoke to me in a low, but urgent voice. ira was visibly dehydrated, despondent, and more than likely stoned out of his mind on pot and percoset, the later prescribed for pain in his foot, but to what degree had he abused it? stephen reported that ira was lying on his sofa in essentially the same position he had been in the night before--a small bowl of soup balanced perilously on his stomach, barely touched. stephen urged me to come over, to help convince ira he needed to go to the hospital. lynn, one of ira's neighbors and a long-standing friend, was there too. and now she was headed across the street to engage the help of her partner, a nurse who works with AIDS patients in correctional facilities in the Bay Area.



when i arrived, ira was still on the couch, in what had become a ridiculously disshevelled, dirty house. ira sat up and managed to walk to the kitchen, where he put his soup bowl in the sink. i tried to reason with him--as had stephen and lynn before me, that he needed immediate medical attention and that the best thing he could do for himself right now would be to go to the hosptial. he balked at the idea, lashing out with a sudden force that didn't seem possible, "not now. maybe later, but not now." by this time, lynn returned with her partner. with straight-shooting urgency, she assured ira she would help him seek hospice, if indeed he was going to die, and that she would help make certain that he would not die in a hospital--something he had long feared--that he would die at home. he agreed to go to the hospital.



rather than calling for an ambulance, lynn called the local fire station to request a fire truck. she asked that they keep it all lowkey. no sirens, no big deal. they agreed, but that's not how it happened. when the firetruck approached ira's house, it was with the usual fanfare we associate with big red fire trucks.



the crew was efficient and treated ira with patience and kindness. one of the attendants asked him a few basic questions, to make sure he wasn't being taken somewhere against his will. and he took his vital signs. then, bundled up in a goose down jacket, and wearing a beret and long, aviator-type scarf wrapped twice around his neck, a thoroughly weak, emaciated, desperate and frightened ira was positioned into a wheelchair and transported to the back of the fire truck.


and that's how it began. ira is a man who has lived his life as a charmer, a master of ceremonies, a raconteur. he was a talented music producer who tap danced his way in and out of alliances--professional and personal, managing to disappoint others nearly as much as himself. he's dug himself into holes of various sorts and relied on others to dig him out. and now--with all the good wishes, his promises of transformation and redemption, amidst owing money and trips to the pot store, ira is still ira, fighting the final battle against a ravaging poison that exists beyond the touch of his smiles or tears.

shadow cat

Atonement

I have not read the novel by Ian McEwan on which Atonement is based, so I judge the film solely on what I experienced in the theatre. From the very first moments of the film as we are led through the dark wooded halls of a stately mansion set in the soft green of the English countryside, we know we are embarking on a sumptuous visual feast. But it is far more than that. The stylishly studied stances of the characters, their dialogue, and the repetitious tapping of typewriter keys interwoven into a magnificent score all combine to create an unmistakable undercurrent that tells us something is looming, something is about to break, and we sense that we are not alone in our observations and interpretations. Someone else, someone who exists within the film is observing the events as well. It's as if the person is partly in and partly out of the story--interpreting what she sees and thinks she knows--chronicling the truth or other versions. . .

A crisp, very English girl of thirteen, Briony Tallis, (played so well by Saoirse Ronan) lives her life primarily through the stories she writes, crafted feverishly while remaining hidden in the tall grass of the estate. When we first meet her, she has just finished writing her first play. With purpose and determination, central to her character, we see her nearly fly through the halls and down the steps of the huge house as she proceeds to deliver it to her mother, who praises her for her accomplishment. Soon after, we find Briony in her room. She is standing by the window, gazing out onto the extensive grounds of the estate--observing, interpreting, and imagining. . .

The camera zooms in on her clear blue eyes as she catches a glimpse of her older sister, Cecilia (Keira Knightly) together with the housekeeper's son, Robbie (Jame McAvoy). Cecilia, in what seems like a dramatic gesture borne of anger and revenge, removes her dress and submerges herself in the water to retrieve a piece of broken vase. She emerges from the water with her sheer flesh-colored underthings stuck to her body--an image of striking beauty. There is a suspended moment when she and Robbie stare at each other with an intensity that is only partially masked by their actions. We suspect they are about to fall into each other's arms and give in to desires that are so near the surface. But instead Robbie gazes at her in a brilliant combination of raw desire and restraint. And we already know he's in love with her. Then she quickly steps back into her dress. Carefully evading his touch, she stomps away, apparantly still angry, as Robbie continues to watch her in fascination and desire. Briony takes in the scene. It is clear she is perplexed and troubled by what she saw, but not as much as she will later be by the scene she ferrets out in the library. Striken with adolescent love for Robbie, Briony's subsequent actions will prove doomful for all three. . .

The story captured me from the first moment. The cinematography was nothing short of exquisite, as was the acting, as was the direction--be it the intensely sexual scene (without nudity) in the library to the painful images of soldiers in the London hospital or the scenes of agonized, desperate, and confused soldiers on the beach in Northern France. Having not read the book, I don't know if the device of seeing the particular part of a sequence of events as Briony sees it, followed by our viewing of the sequnce of events that led to the moment was a directorial device, if it was the way it was written in the screenplay by Christopher Hampton, or if it was the way it was written in the novel. In any case, it's a fascinating way to see a story unfold--another way the film spellbinds the audience. I was hardly aware of real time passing by. I existed, for a suspended time, in the film.

Reviewer A.O. Scott of the New York Times may write intelligent, in depth reviews. But his review of this film is jaded at best. Rather than allow himself to enjoy it on its own merits, he finds it necessary to compare it to the novel and pierce it with his callous and academic criticism, refusing to be seduced by its beauty and its extensive merits. Out of jealousy perhaps. Somehow reminiscent of what the character Briony would do.

Directed by Joe Wright, with music by Dario Marianelli, and a spectacular cameo by Vanessa Redgrave as the old Briony, Atonement is surely headed for an assortment of Academy Awards. And I can't think of one it wouldn't deserve.