Kauai

It seems we are getting closer and closer to the reality depicted in Brave New World, where connection with nature is more and more fleeting. Where "soma" takes you to the last vestiges of our natural environment. And our lives are filled with pointless scurrying.

If we were to step back, way back, and view ourselves from miles away, we would indeed see the scurrying of ants amidst our fragile blue planet. But sometimes--if even for a moment, we remember who we are and what the world is really about. We must hold on to this, always. If we lose synchronicity with it, we've lost everything. Paradise Lost. No, paradise regained. . .

And here the moon is nearly full. No need for photoshop or other editing tools. The world is more beautiful than that.

Imagine ancient worlds when human eyes first saw such things as this. . . Did they feel joy or amazement? Or did they view it as we view a freeway--mindlessly almost, a way to get where we are going. I'd like to pretend they smiled and felt something wonderful in their hearts. I'd like to imagine that a man and woman held each other tight, their cheeks touching, as they watched the moon change shape each night. Filled with wonder, in paradise, our ancient ancestors.



(from Brave New World: "..there is always soma, delicious soma, half a gramme for a half-holiday, a gramme for a week-end, two grammes for a trip to the gorgeous East, three for a dark eternity on the moon...")

Silence

Amidst the red rocks of Sedona i found myself immersed in the power and beauty of silence. The rocks hold secrets within them--of the people and animals who lived there before, of the spirits that roamed and still roam the land. And other than the wind or the scurrying sound of a lizard, or shuffling sound of an occasional coyote, there is silence. And what happens then is an amazing thing. You hear the thoughts of your own mind. They talk to you in simple words and phrases. Or they just appear in the form of a bird or cloud and you have a new understanding.

The Planet is Bleeding

The planet is bleeding. The Gulf of Mexico, where oil is gushing out as if from a severed vein, is the site of a hideous wound. We wonder if the Gulf and even the planet itself can fully recover. The images of birds weighted down with brown syrupy oil, the aerial shots of the discolored, thickened water along Louisiana, Florida, and the rest--visions of a summer sci-fi movie, a blockbuster disaster flick. If only that's all it was. . . There is only one good that can come out of this. And that is an awareness so strong, a concerted effort so indelible that we finally focus our attention, our resources, and everything we've got on finding an alternative for our addiction to oil. Because it is an addiction--and it's something that with patience, resourcefulness, and resolution, we can overcome. But it must happen before it's too late, before the Gulf spill is our final epitaph. The plight of the animals is perhaps the most heartbreaking, because they are innocents trapped in it all. We have plundered their world, selfishly attacked their homeland as if we were at war. Perhaps we have been. The animals rely on us for a clean and safe habitat. They are not aware of this, although perhaps some of them are. Our planet is in jeopardy. We are bleeding. BP is trying to find the way to apply the tourniquet so that it will stop the bleeding--a condition the company caused through negligence and greed. But even now--a 'limb' is sacrificed. How many limbs before the entire body dies?

Salad

Salads are great. The variations are probably as infinite as melodies. I derive all kinds of pleasures from creating and eating them—from the delight of seeing the wonderful mélange of colors of the ingredients to the actual dicing, chopping, slicing and what have you that go into their creation.

And let’s not forget the health factor. Fresh, organic ingredients—rich in vitamins and nutrients. Extra virgin olive oil--green liquid gold. Vinegars and mustards with taste variations as distinctive as fine wines. Each bite of salad is different from the one before, because it contains a different mix of ingredients, or in different proportions. So that in one bite—the tomato dominates. In another—it’s the tantalizing flavor of the mustard-rich dressing that coats a piece of cucumber.

And then there is the way salad looks and feels—with its variety of textures, shapes, and sizes. The way the flavors combine to create new ones, especially as you get near the bottom of the bowl with all those ingredients basking in the goodness of your salad dressing.

I particularly like salad bowls made of wood, because the swirls of the grain can be so beautiful. At the local Farmer’s Market I saw one once that had a turquoise inlaid in the wood. What joy to eat from a salad bowl like that. A work of art within one.

This salad is made from Romaine lettuce, green cabbage, Navy beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, beets, garlic, and onion. For the dressing I used extra virgin olive oil, red wine vinegar, and apple cider vinegar, along with freshly ground black pepper, cayenne pepper, turmeric, cumin, and Dijon mustard. No salt. The bite from the peppers and the garlic and the vinegars give it all it needs. All this topped with a can of sardines and a generous squeeze of fresh lemon. Very Mediterranean. Very good for the heart. And let me tell you--deelicious!

This Is Not A Dress Rehearsal

A few weeks ago, I was shopping at Ross and came across a purple bag. Italian leather, silver chain. Chic as all get out. Not surprisingly, the price tag declared a rather alarming $149. Now when you consider that the original price was upwards of $250, this new price was quite a deal. But when you also consider that although I'm picking up some contract work these days, I am still without "the job"--this price made me start thinking all those things we think about when the price tag is daunting. "I don't really need it," being the most common and probably strongest of them all.

An elderly woman saw me looking at my reflection in the mirror, bag slung sexily over my shoulder. "That's a great bag for you. Definitely your color." I brightened. Here was a complete stranger who recognized the affinity I had with the bag.

"But it's so expensive," I replied, feeling somewhere around 16 years of age.

"If you like it, get it. This is not a dress rehearsal."

I nodded and smiled. I held the bag a little closer.

"Do you know what I mean by that?" I nodded again.

"I'm 81," she declared, and it's all downhill."

We both continued wading through the bags. She was toting a colorful striped bag, which she displayed proudly. "It's fun, don't you think?" I told her I did. She nodded and started heading off towards the next aisle.

"Remember what I told you," she said.

"I will," I promised.

"What is it? Say it."

"This is not a dress rehearsal."

She nodded approvingly and disappeared among the shoppers.

I've thought about that statement. It was especially meaningful for me, I think, because of my experience as an actress. Dress rehearsal was important, but never as important as the "actual performance" with an audience in attendance.

Yet how many times in my life had I lived through events, encounters with other people, or even my own soul-searching as if it weren't quite the "real thing," as if that were coming later.

The most difficult of all these was the terrible ordeal of my ex-husband's death. One of the haunts that continues to torment me is that on some level I didn't take his death as actually taking place. Perhaps it was my mechanism to cope with the whole thing, but somehow it seemed he was kidding--that he wasn't really wasting away to a fraction of himself, that he wasn't really disappearing each minute of the day.

The reality finally struck, of course, when I received the news that he had died. But even now, sometimes, it's difficult for me to believe that he isn't going to turn up somewhere--with one of his comic lines, telling me it was just a rehearsal, that for now he's still here. I wish that would be. But I know it's not the case. Another reason for grabbing every minute, every encounter, every opportunity that seems right. You never know about tomorrow. You barely know about today.

Tweet-Tweet

So after losing my job at a world-renowned entertainment technology firm recently (I worked there as a marketing writer for nearly four years), I joined the ranks of 'workers in transition' and began looking for ways to enhance my job-seeking skills. While signing up for unemployment insurance at the local EDD, a counselor told me about a group of professionals (white collar workers) who meet weekly to network, share insights, and benefit from the insights of an array of weekly speakers who focus on helping you find and get the job you want. This all sounded good, and I decided to attend.

As I was to learn, the first portion of each meeting is devoted to the elevator pitch. With 60 or more people in the room, this takes at least an hour. Each one of us stands up individually, faces the group, and communicates in a few sentences what we do and what type of job we're looking for.

It's interesting and often amusing to listen to the various types of elevator pitches--those that exude studied cleverness, phony enthusiasm, or glorified background and experience. But cynicism aside, most of the pitches are excellent and have inspired me to improve my own. The people with great elevator pitches share a set of characteristics. They have good posture and an open smile. They are obviously confident and relaxed. They manage to have eye contact with everyone in the room, and they manage to communicate, clearly and simply, exactly what it is they do and want. And perhaps more important than anything--you believe them.

Recently we had two speakers who discussed the wonders of social media and how we as job seekers could use it to our advantage. Now, obviously I have a blog. (As a good friend of mine says as part of her email signature, "I blog, therefore I am.") Well, until listening to these two speakers, I felt rather confident about my social media involvement. Besides having a personal blog, I'm on Facebook, LinkedIn, and have my own website, which includes an online portfolio. As a kicker, I created a blog devoted entirely to my movie reviews.

As I listened to the presentation, I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. For all my supposed Internet-savviness, I had apparently overlooked an essential--Twitter. I had heard of Twitter, of course. How could you not? And what I heard made me think it was utterly ridiculous. Do I really care if Stacey is having a latte at Starbucks while texting her boyfriend? No. I already resented the onslaught of idiotic 'updates' and group invitations from Facebook, so I really didn't want yet another distraction, not to mention time-zap.

But then they started talking about the network, in terms of the world-wide "web." And it made sense. Too much sense, actually. (Although I can't help but wonder what happened to the idea of privacy and seclusion, the idea of NOT sharing information about yourself to the world at large. Especially when you consider the prevalence of identity theft.)

I put these skepticisms aside, at least temporarily, and realized that to be 'aware' and ‘tapped in’ to this new society of social networking, I needed to use these networking tools in an entirely different way. No, I didn't care about Stacey having a cup of coffee and doubted if anyone cared if I was drinking tea. But what if I were to post a piece of valuable information on Twitter, say about job hunting, that linked to my blog? And what if interested job seekers started linking to it, even including a link to it in their own blogs, 'tweets' or whatever else? And what if potential employers searched for me and saw that I’m connected all over the place and that I supply fascinating links and information. . . This is precisely what the speakers were talking about. So I started getting excited about it. I suddenly saw the potential. I could be a part of this reinvented world wide web--talk about self-branding!

So now, yes, I'm on Twitter. And I chose a very cool background and have a unique and evocative Twitter name. And I'm writing tweets, and posting links, and being very networked in. And of course, I’m sure I could do even more.

But you know what? It still seems rather ridiculous. I feel coerced into a form a self-promotion that seems manipulative at best. I'm starting to long for those days depicted in old movies--when getting a job meant circling an ad in a newspaper, mailing a cover letter and resume, and waiting for a phone call inviting you to an interview. Doesn't that sound deliciously simple and straightforward? Maybe I'll mention that in my next 'tweet.'

perception

Things are as they are, but mostly because of the way we see them. The discoloration in the turquoise is something that appeared suddenly. It's not the way it was when first I received the bracelet. So, as far as I know, "It's not supposed to be there." But what if I were told that this is the naturally occurring discoloration in the turquoise and that its appearance adds to the beauty of the piece. Just as labels sometimes tell us such things as "the variances in shades in the fabric is due to the natural dyes used in its creation and are part of what gives the fabric its unique quality."

So it really is in the eye of the beholder, or more precisely--the mind. What we see is not completely what we see, but the collection of information that informs our perception.

am i as beautiful as i think i am?

Have you ever wondered if animals have any awareness of the way they appear to others? Small dogs are sometimes described as having the "Napoleon Complex" as an explanation for their occasional outrage when encountering larger dogs. Cats, known for their independence and apparent disregard for the rules and regulations of their households, seem to bask in their loveliness and aloofness. They call the shots after all. You get to pet them on their terms, not yours. When they've had enough, they let you know--sometimes with a bite, if you don't get the message soon enough. So, considering how self-absorbed these feline creatures that we so adore are, I doubt that the question, "Am I as beautiful as I think I am?" really enters their minds. It would be more likely, "I get more beautiful by the minute."

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.

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.

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.

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.

oil spill

the recent spill in california, and another in russia's black sea. across the world and yet only days apart. From the Hindustan Times: "greed and carelessness" say enivornmental experts about the tragedy in russia". . . "may be the worst environmental calamity since the Chernobyl nuclear accident in 1986." "Nobody thinks about safety in Russia," says Vladimir Slivyak, director of Ecodefence, a Russian environmental watchdog. "Everyone thinks about money."

and what about the one in california? "human error." that's the word so far.

for me, the saddest thing of all is the animals caught unaware. innocent victims of technology--yet another instance of our assault on the environment. oil, and the need for it, our collective greed in craving it--all things that make no sense in a world so fragile and beautiful. the animals have no understanding of what happened to them. the birds and sea creatures don't question why. they are not angry with anyone. they simply seek to survive. it's in their nature. just like us. but we've attacked them without cause. like the war in iraq. these oil-soaked birds who seek refuge on the shore are like the children of iraq. fledgling creatures who don't recognize the concept of hate or greed, who value life without even knowing why. i cry for them. my heart is broken.

BlackWater

Even the sound of it is evocative and eerily apropos. the image of black slime, oozing across the land-covering the innocent with an ever-moving, tarry black mass. so that one species is indecipherable from another in the steamy swamp. infested. toxic. which it is. and now the administration, in all its wisdom, has given those bodies who pollute the waters immunity from all wrongdoing. what land is this? what people are these? what conscience survives in a place that was once the beacon of hope to the entire world. what took us from the greatest country on earth to a twisted, sardonic effigy of those who once walked our land. what moment in time marked this outcome? the second that saw the step away from the light and into the dark?

pride in work

i sent my bracelet to m. frances, who lives in the santo domingo pueblo, about 60 miles west of Albuquerque, new mexico. i met her at the taos pueblo during the San Geronimo feast, an ancient ceremonial event celebrated near the end of the harvest season. This crisp day in October, over a hundred local Native american artisans brought their crafts to display on folding tables set up throughout the pueblo. amidst the sea of exquisitely crafted silver jewelry, pottery, and other wares, a necklace with a turqoise and fiery orange stone pendant caught my eye. i stopped to admire it and began a conversation with the woman who stood behind the table where it was displayed. i mentioned a bangle bracelet my mother had given me years ago. several turquoise stones were missing and i wondered if she could repair it. she suggested that i mail it to her. i agreed. so she took one of her fiance's cards and printed her name carefully in ink above the p.o. address: m. frances.

after i mailed the bracelet, several days went by without a word from her. i tried calling a few times, but no one answered the phone. eventually an automated message informed me that voice mail for this number hadn't been set up yet. i was slightly annoyed. more than a week had gone by since i put the bracelet in the mail. i knew that i had taken a chance, sending a bracelet to someone i barely knew, but in spite of no communication from her or her fiance, i was certain i would see the bracelet again.

finally, nearly two weeks after mailing the bracelet, frances answered her cell phone. she apologized for the delay, telling me that apparantly her fiance had picked up the package from the p.o. box days before, but had neglected to tell her. she works as a nurse, she explained, and often has extended shifts. By the time she gets home, her fiance is either asleep or at his job. As a result, she had barely seen him during the past several weeks. But she had finally spotted my package under a stack of other items on a bureau in her dining room.

as for the bracelet--frances informed me that the stones were imitation, but that if i liked, she could replace them with real turquoise. it would cost me eighty dollars for the stones and for her work. i thought about this for awhile--calculating whether or not i wanted to spend the money, realizing that the price was fair, but wondering if the money could be better spent. i thought about the lapidariest i had taken it to a few months ago, a man who told me he would charge me sixty dollars for the stones alone--and that they would be plastic, not real turquoise. i was processing all of this when suddenly she spoke in a different tone, as if she had somehow heard my conversation with the lapidariest in California. Her voice was soft and clear. She was telling me something straight from her heart.

"i don't use imitation stone or metal, because that is cheating. my grandfather told me a long time ago that you must be proud of your work, that that is important. you must always be proud of what you do and not cheat anyone. and then the person who wears your work wears it with pride as well."

i was struck by what she said, because she could have easily replaced the missing stones with more fake ones. and i would have paid her far more than what they were worth. but instead she chose to tell me the truth, knowing that I would probably choose not to have the bracelet repaired, especially because she had also told me that the band was some kind of metal, not silver.

so i chose not to have the bracelet repaired, but it doesn't matter. this woman gave me something far more beautiful than the bracelet and she gave it to me for free. she transmitted to me the spirit of her grandfather, who spoke of doing your work with pride. so that when you give or sell something that you have made--it is something of value, something from you.

i carried that into my workplace the next day. i thought of things i had written--too quickly perhaps, because they weren't that important and didn't deserve the focus of my time. but that day i decided to change that. so that whatever i do--i will do it with pride. pride in the work and pride in the giving, because of it.

my camera

I’ve been working on getting to the place where taking pictures is a natural part of what i do. No internal dialogue. Just shoot. So on a recent trip to New Mexico, I carried my digital camera with me nearly everywhere I went. The strap slung over my shoulder, or camera in hand, I was ready to go.

One evening for a reason somewhat unknown to me, I decided to leave my camera in the motel. I suppose on some level it was a matter of “one less thing” to lug around and keep track of as we zigzagged through the streets of santa fe. Maybe it was partly the idea of just living the experience, rather than tracking it. but in spite of that, it was a big mistake.

As we drove towards santa fe, the afternoon showers segueyed into rain. The sun kept its stronghold in the sky and the result was astonishing. Deep azure blue, ever moving and changing pale grey to charcoal clouds, areas of misty white floating across the sky, and amidst all this--like an ancient wisdom that broke through the chaos, the calm and gradual emergence of a double rainbow the likes of which I’ve never seen or imagined. Image upon image confounded my vision. The colors—not just of the rainbows themselves, but the sky canvas upon which they were painted were of an intensity that seemed almost impossible. This was especially true when the bands were superimposed on the highway or buildings--like a sheet of brightly colored cellophane. i had never seen anything like this--real or imagined and without sounding too pessimistic believe i never will again--at least not in this lifetime.

In some ways, I wanted the images to stop being so beautiful. So that I could justify my decision to leave the camera behind. And could even dismiss the beauty of what I had seen so far as being somehow part of my imagination. But I realized how ridiculous that was and gave in to the moment and lived it. I did manage to take pictures, countless ones in fact. I have no tangible record, of course. So you may not even believe me. But I can play them back anytime at all. The thing is--they're only for me.