Big 7-0 & More

A Book of Luminous Things, Czeslaw Milosz

2012-03-20T17:24:00.002-07:00

This anthology of poetry was unlike any I've read before. Milosz introduced each poem and wrote short essays for several topical sections. His choices included many European poets unknown to me and quite a few Chinese poets, especially Tu Fu, who lived in the 7th century. I like to post poems every day of April for National Poetry month. But here's a taste from this book, a poem that surprised me in many lines and touched me as a whole, by a poet whose name we have but dates are unknown. Milosz tells us she was a serious Christian reader of the Old and New Testament. Her name was Anna Kamienska [Apparently Polish]

A Prayer that Will be Answered

Lord let me suffer much
and then die

Let me walk through silence
and leave nothing behind not even fear

Make the world continue
let the ocean kiss the sand just as before

Let the grass stay green
so that the frogs can hide in it

So that someone can bury his face in it
and sob out his love

Make the day rise brightly
as if there were no more pain

And let my poem stand clear as a windowpane
bumped by a bumblebee's head.

Quadruplets

2012-03-17T14:45:00.004-07:00

Four women were sitting in a bar -- this is not a joke, it's an anecdote -- just talking. All were between say 63 and 73 and all had hair various shades of gray ranging to white. They were casual friends and were talking animatedly. A younger woman from the other end of the bar was preparing to leave but came over to ask, "Are you all related?"

"No," the group said.

"You look like you could be, especially you and you, and you too, and maybe you."

"Well, we like each other," ones said.

The younger woman left with her companion. Said one of the four, "Over 60, everyone looks alike."

Said another, "Everyone between forty and sixty looks the same age to me."

I wrote about age and beauty a few days ago. This is not about that, this is about stereotyping and agism. The human brain needs to put things into categories, or so Darwinians tell us. We returned to talking about lectures on Islam and misunderstandings most Americans have. We're trying not to generalize or stereotype, if we can learn at our age ... perhaps there's some hope.

Ah, SPRING!

2012-03-16T04:54:00.003-07:00

As I became conscious after a satisfying night's sleep, I realized the sound I heard was birds singing -- or calling for mates -- possibly from the still nude forsythia bush just beyond the window. Spring is here although it's still chilly and not yet green outside. A wonderful way to start a day!

Last evening I read an article saying the only truly quiet place in America is in a wilderness in Oregon but that is not silent. The author meant quiet as being without man made sounds. In what he called the "last square inch" of quiet, birdsong mixed with raindrops on leaves, wind rustling leaves, and running water nearby. I believe that is hyperbole, that there are equally quiet places say in the Maine woods, the heart of the Adirondacks, many places in the Rocky Mountains, far from roads, not on airline flight patterns. But hype to make a point is the American way.

My birdsong can be easily canceled by the fans on the forced air blower that heats my apartment. I have lots of other man made noise as do most people: the refrigerator, the people upstairs walking around, water in pipes, my shower and toilet -- and those above me -- and all the appliances, vacuum, dish washer, microwave, telephone, hair drier, etc. Plus nearby is a stop light so I get not only vehicles from intersecting streets but the frequent sirens of police, ambulance and fire department. Happily I have no neighbors who play loud music or television. I have whole days when I don't feel like turning on my radio even though it's set to a classical music station.

The article emphasized how bad the ambient noise is for us both psychically and physiologically. Yes, I believe young people who listen to loud music on earphones [or buds as they now are sized and called] may be doing damage to their hearing. And I believe constant noise interferes with our concentration and serenity. I don't think this is such a new phenomenon although surely motorcycles and sonic booms, sirens and helicopters are more damaging than say the wooden and steel rimmed wheels and metal shoed clip-clop of horses drawing carriages, carts and wagons over cobbled streets in cites of the past. That kind of noise goes back to at least Roman times, maybe even ancient Egyptian times when chariots were first used. We are a noisy species. I find it sad that many, especially young people, seem afraid of quiet. Truly you cannot "hear yourself think" if your mind must mutltitask by filtering out the ambient sounds to make room for your thoughts.

Watching the Brain Work

2012-03-14T15:59:00.004-07:00

Links to TED TALKs are sent to me by friends every so often. Most are interesting, only a few have disappointed. The most dynamic one I have ever heard was sent to me last week by a woman in my writing class which I call "Writing with the whole brain." I am interested in how the brain works and have read a great deal in neurology and psychology. Also I've read a lot about what science is learning from the advanced Tibetan lama meditators who are seeking to control their brains so that they can enter a state of bliss at will and remain there as long as they choose.

This TED TALK by a woman neurologist who watched her brain divide is functions as she was having a massive stroke, is the most dynamic and thought provoking of the TED talks I've heard so far. Perhaps the stroke itself prevented her from acting rationally and seeking immediate help when she had an unusual headache, or she simply did not realize she needed help. She actually spent about four hours watching the ways her right and left hemisphere's perceived what was happening. When the logical side was entirely blanked out, she entered states of bliss - "Nivana" was her word - that I believe meditators work long years to achieve. They learn to move into that state at will and stay there as long as they wish -- or so I understand from what I've read.

The woman's experience affirms that the state of bliss is not supernatural, not bestowed by reaching some godhood, but a state that exist in the normal human brain although it is not accessible under normal circumstances. Yet, I think many, if not most, people have had moments of that bliss -- powerful moments sometimes occasioned by specific circumstances [perhaps like the so called runner's high] when brain chemistry triggers a kind of concentration that is not usual in every day life. I have experienced this strongly and at length at least three times, and more fleetingly several times. I do not think I am unusual in this way, although I may have looked at the experience more questioningly and been less inclined to attribute it to spiritual practice than others might. I have never experimented with mind altering drugs -- that is another area of inquiry and discovery.

I think science has only begun to understand the human brain but I'm happy they are trying and beginning to have tools with which to measure. I am discouraged that so many who are inquiring into these phenomena seem blindered to others who are looking at the same phenomena from other disciplines. Although segmented into right and left, ancient and "modern" and physiologically distinct areas, the brain is a whole and should finally be seen as one organ with many parts that interact.

Hey, you never know.

2012-03-12T04:26:00.005-07:00

On his way out the door to return to college after spring break, Noah's mother called to him, "Don't forget your box of matzoh." 180 degree turn, Noah went into the kitchen for his box of the Passover "unlevened bread" and headed out to meet his ride. So what? Before Noah was born his parents, one Jewish, one with no specific religious background, became born again evangelical Christians. Their church is still the lynchpin of their social and intellectual lives. So why is his mother sending him off with a box of matzoh? Why was it that a couple of days ago when I stopped at her house to pick up something she was making matzoh brei for lunch and told me of shopping a bit out of her way because she had a coupon for a dozen boxes of matzoh. [FYI: matzoh brei is a concoction of broken up matzoah and eggs. A bit like french toast, often eaten with butter and cinnamon or even maple syrup.]

As Noah's grandmother, yes, it was I who introduced this part of the family to matzoah brie, many long years ago although it was certainly my Jewish husband who inspired the whole thing. At Noah's age, I was almost entirely unconscious of all Jewish customs and had never tasted the peculiar flavor of matzoh. In truth, I did not grow fond of it and have long since moved into other phases of my life that include no Jewish rituals at all -- nor any Christian ones either.

What is the moral of this story: It's simply Hey, you never know what's going to be an influence. Yesterday afternoon was a birthday celebration. Akitchen conversation turned to the changing eye and hair colors of the children in the family. We older generation understand dominant and recessive genes but the conclusion about what the babies were going to look like concluded, Hey, you never know.

Forgotten Women

2012-03-08T15:24:00.003-08:00

Women writers' novellas is the subject of a course I am taking. The anthology we are using begins with some almost forgotten women -- or rather women forgotten until the women's studies became a part of many college's curricula. We have read authors I had not read before: Rebecca Harding Davis, Kate Chopin and, this week, Nella Larsen whose name was utterly unknown to me. (We also have read Gertrude Stein and Edith Wharton who have received attention continuously and the ones we will read during the remainder of the semester are more modern and more well known). Nella Larsen, in the photo above, was this week's writer. Her story Quicksand was judged by most in the class to be unsuccessful. I believed her character until the final section, many others in the class felt the same way. Apparently after this novella she stopped writing during the last 23 or so years of her life. We know that Kate Chopin also stopped writing at an early age.

I wonder did they really stop writing or did they stop trying to publish? Did manuscripts eventually become tinder for a fire? Nella Larson was a woman of mixed background, half black, half white, she wrote about trying to find her identity and being true to it. Kate Chopin wrote about seeking freedom of expression in a restrictive society. We have no idea how many women writers were never recognized. They may have published here and there in local newspapers, poems in this or that weekly publication, short stories in small magazines. Maybe many of them were not very successful. Maybe they weren't even very good. But we know, because historical societies have sought them out, that many women pioneers, homesteaders, wagon trainers, kept diaries that have become precious historical documents.

Until the women's movement of the mid-20th century women writers were more apt to disappear than be remembered unless they were lucky enough to play in "the big boys' club", as did Gertrude Stein, Edith Wharton, and a few others. Being taken seriously was especially difficult for black women -- and still is. Yes, we have Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou, and a handful of others. But I spoke to two knowledgeable women after the class yesterday and asked if they had ever heard of the playwright Adrienne Kennedy. No. She was a neighbor of mine and a friend in New York. The first black woman playwright to win not one but two Obies. Her work is well known in black studies but black studies is an invisible area doubled compared to women's studies which is semi-invisible to the great male establishment that still defines American literature. Being a woman is hard in the arts; being a black woman is harder.

We have just finished black history month and are moving into women's history month. Then comes April which is poetry month. Some groups have lobbied for recognition in some way -- but, in practice they are barely recognized at all.

A beautiful age

2012-03-04T16:08:00.004-08:00

The Style section in today's NYTimes had an article about cosmetic companies at last picturing women who are mature in their advertisements. The article specifically talked about Diane Keaton and Ellen Degeneris. We think often of beautiful actresses who are not just over 50 but over 60, like Judi Dench and the incredible Sophia Loren. We just saw Meryl Streep and Glenn Close looking wonderful at the Oscars. For we ordinary women who do not have to look smashing on camera and don't spend large parts of our day at spas, with stylists and make-up artists these images flit past our consciousness like pretty little birds outside the window. We aren't going to have face lifts and botox injections and don't have personal trainers. Their world isn't our world.
We look in the mirrors and see faces older than we think we are. We are so trapped inside our own images and ideas that we can't see our own personalities on our faces. But others seem them and many of us are lucky enough to be loved just as we are.

I am among older women -- over 50 but the average age, I'm told, is 73 at the Academy for Lifelong Learning where I take classes and teach a couple of writing courses. The women I see are a sample of women that can be seen almost anywhere in the US in the local supermarket or mall or high school auditorium watching grandchildren perform. They, perhaps, take a little better care of themselves than many for they are smart and attuned to things around them. Most wear make-up, but not so you'd really notice,they take care with their hair and clothes but It's mostly a do-it=yourself look. They look good. I can't think of any who are movie star beautiful, but, of course, they aren't movie stars, they are wives, mothers, grandmothers and some, like me, are even great-grandmothers. They are active and engaged in life, in learning, in sharing with one another,most are active in their community. They are beautiful in quiet ways. Scroll down a little and see how beautiful the poet Szymborska was in her 70s.

A small visitor

2012-03-03T14:31:00.004-08:00

This little bird, which seems to me to be some kind of jay, since it was a very dark blue and had a jay-like crest on its head, was on a bush just outside my sewing room window. I did not see him arrive but he sat very still, occasionally turning his head so I could see a big bright eye and the crest. I went and got my camera, took a picture, watched him a bit more, sewed a bit and he was gone as suddenly as he appeared. I do not remember seeing a bird like this before. But I have been hearing bird calls which tell me some spring birds have returned. Four Canadian geese are definitely back, they arrive for breakfast most mornings, stay an hour or so and then go on, possibly to their favorite luncheonette. But they come year after year and are very visible being so large. During the summer small birds of the LBB species [little brown/black birds] often visit that bush outside my sewing room window but they only rest a bit, hop from limb to limb and then go about their business.

Amazing Man on Wire

2012-03-02T15:03:00.003-08:00

About a year ago I saw the film Man on Wire on a friend's TV. This is the documentary about Phillipe Petit who tight rope walked between the Twin Towers in 1974. As a documentary film it is brilliantly edited, deftly told with many of the people who helped him sneak in and set up the wire, the background music has been laid in brilliantly -- Eric Satie and Vaughn Williams' Lark Ascending among others. It won an Oscar for best documentary.

I saw it again this afternoon on a larger screen and was even more moved than the first time. We see a driven individual with an great skill and intense passion to perform feats high in the air that become works of art -- more moving than most "happenings" because they are nearly superhuman. They touch an archetypal feeling, that we can walk on air, which is akin to the flying dreams most people have had. We see clearly when Petit finally walks out on the wire that that he is consciously defying death. Yet he is able to put himself into a meditative state that allowed him to walk back and fourth eight times, lie down on the wire, get up and dance on the wire -- proving he was in HIS element which everyone watching knew to be supernatural. The feat is thrilling. The man's spirit, intense and yet full of fun, is more elfin than human except that he is totally driven from the moment he saw in a paper that the the Towers would be built. He extended the definition of what is humanly possible as surely as have the astronauts, as have Beethoven or Vermeer or Shakespeare. Few people comprehend that, indeed, man is not limited by the forces of gravity. Only the fabled yogis have demonstrated this in the past and we don't have them on film.

The Academy Award

2012-02-29T14:16:00.001-08:00

Since 1989 I've been without a television and I have not watched an Academy Awards ceremony. I do not feel culturally deprived [as I sometimes do when listening to people I respect enthusing about Downton Abbey]. But I have just read Ronnie Barrett's assessment of the pervasive ageism displayed Sunday at this year's awards. Click Times Goes By in the sidebar here.

In general we know that movies are made for the young male audience between 12 and 22 -- that is a demographic that wants nothing to do with anyone of their parents; generation, let alone their grandparents' generation. Yet, many Oscar winners this year, including the indomitable Christopher Plumber were well into the senior years. And the joked, remarks, asides and implications throughout, which Ronnie points out, were ageist.

A certain part of the population doesn't want to hear about any "ism", most especially feminism, racism or ageism, but all are rampant in our society. Cultures do not change rapidly but our culture changed enormously during the last century, so rapidly that the populace contains plenty of laggards who still have strong biases but now know that admitting them is safe only in like minded situations. Among these "isms" ageism is the latest and it's going to be around for quite a while as the population tilts ever more toward those of us over 65.

Many people don't see it because they don't feel it. Most of my associations are with people over 50. THEY are close enough to where they're going that they can't afford to be ageist. But many haven't felt it's bite ... yet. They will. Mos don't want to listen for it's insidiousness, as in the jokes at the Academy Awards, maybe they still harbor the ageism of earlier years. It's time to smell the smoke. If you don't speak up and protest when you get that burnt scene drifting your way, it will be too late to put out the fire -- which is headed our way with cuts in Medicare and pensions and so on.

Wislawa Szymborska

2012-02-28T04:10:00.002-08:00

Almost since I read her for the first time I have been saying the Wislawa Szymborska is my favorite living poet. I read last night that she died early this month. I did not see an obit, but I get my daily NYTimes online and it is selected sections, no obits. For those who do not know of her, she was a Polish poet who won the Nobel Prize in 1996. She is witty, ironic, feeling, political, personal and writes without pretense. Her poetry is never obscure. Here is one that is appropriate today.

Seen from Above

On a dirt road lies a dead beetle.
Three little pairs of legs carefully folded on his belly.
Instead of death's chaos -- neatness and order.
The horror of this site is mitigated,
the range strictly local, from wenchgrass to spearmint,.
Sadness is not contagious.
The sky is blue.

For our peace of mind, the death seemingly shallower,
animals do not pass away, but simply die.
losing -- we wish to believe -- less of awareness and the world,
leaving -- it seems to us -- a stage less tragic.
Their humble little souls do not haunt our dreams,
they keep their distance,
know their place.

So here lies the dead beetle on the road,
glistens unlamented when the sun hits.
A glance at him is as good as a thought,
he looks as though nothing important has befallen him.
What's important is valid, supposedly, for us.
For just our life, for just our death,
a death that enjoys an extorted primacy.

I am reading a wonderful anthology of poetry which contains this and other Szymboska poems among poems from many countries around the world. Czeslaw Milosz has collected and the poems and introduces them. A Book of Luminous Things is the perfect bedside companion.

Met simulcast, Ernani

2012-02-26T15:13:00.006-08:00

Opera and I go way back almost 60 years when, as a young teen, I discovered the Saturday broadcasts on the radio and sat, many a winter Saturday afternoon wrapped in a blanket on my bed listening to the music and getting an operatic education from the intermission features. I had heard all the war horses at least once, sometimes more, by the time I finished high school. All I knew of how an opera looked was "the great gold curtain" that descended and sometimes the color of the women's gowns. The stories often confused me and I had to guess from the plot outlines what was happening as they sang.

In, I think 1956, I saw my first operas, two that summer at the opera in the Cincinnati Zoo [yes, that's where they were]; two totally different operas, Mozart's Marriage of Figaro and Pucini's Turandot. I did not understand the comic aspects of the former and was stunned by the costumed grandeur of the latter -- of course there were no subtitles so I still had to guess what was being said.
All these years have gone by and I have seen many operas and continued to listen to them on winter Saturdays as well. I developed favorites and ones I don't care for. I've become so enamored of La Traviata I have to sit in a seat near the wall so I can go through a box of Kleenex as everything in it makes me cry. I have a nearly similar reaction to Lucia de Lamamore and various arias, like the Casata Diva from Norma have the same effect. I enjoy other kinds of opera but bel canto singing is an emotional indulgence for me that happens with no other art form and with only a few wonderful pieces of orchestral music. My intellect sinks right down to my toes and emotions are at the mercy of voice and violins.
alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713586627555492706" /> I have seen actual Met productions -- but always from a balcony seat. Even with good binoculars the experience is very different from seeing the video simulcasts. I feel very lucky indeed that they are shown here in a theatre not too far from me, at prices that are reasonable. This has becomes another kind of opera experience. Yesterday I saw Ernani from the met. I have seen in on video once and knew I loved the lushness of Verdi's solos and duets and trios and the big choral pieces. Although the story does not make much sense -- all those old guys in love with one pretty young thing and she steadfastly holding out for the bandit Ernani who, of course, is really a count. The cast was brilliant, Angela Meade, young but with a powerful voice was the young woman. Usually it's the tenor who steals one's heart but in this case I fell for the baritone, Dimitri Hvorostovsky, who had magnificent arias as Carlos V of Spain and looked like a fairy tale prince all grown up (a white wig -- these days white hair can be a turn on) and the most gorgeous costume on stage. His voice, for me, was more wonderful than tenor or bass or soprano. This was a new opera experience, I am still moved by it. And I look forward to early April when they will simulcast my beloved La Traviata and I will go well armed with Kleenex or maybe even a couple of study cotton handkerchiefs.

Alice Neel, painter

2012-02-25T04:34:00.004-08:00

The biographical film about the painter Alice Neel was yesterday's documentary film. I loved it. She is not as well known as she deserves. Alice Neel was born just a few weeks after the turn of the 20th century. She lived into her late 80s. For almost all of her adult life she painted portraits, quite alone, piling them up in her homes, first for the WPA during the '30s, then in Grenwich Village and later in her Harlem apartment where she went to be able to paint the real people on the streets while the "big boys" among the artist of the '50s had totally given up all figurative painting for abstraction. She had two daughters and two sons, the first daughter died of diphtheria very shortly before a vaccine became available. The second daughter was left in Cuban with her father and his wealthy family because Alice could not care for her alone. The two sons came a little later, each with a different father, one of whom was very abusive, as a single mother Alice was always struggling to make ends meet but the two became professionals, one an M.D. and the other a lawyer. A grandson made the documentary which was very professionally filmed and edited.

Throughout her life Alice lived to paint and painted haunting portraits of people of every social layer. Her paintings emphasize personality -- especially in their eyes -- in her own style which is not "realistic" but deeply realistic in conveying the personality. Only in her last couple of decades was she recognized; the women's movement helped greatly to bring her to the art world's attention and she was given a one woman retrospective in the Whitney Museum in the mid-'70s. And inducted into the Academy of Arts and Letters. Recognition she relished after so many years of total neglect. I was lucky enough to see a reprisal of that first big Whitney show in the early '80s -- my introduction to her work. It was astonishingly moving and only the tiniest tip of the iceberg of the hundreds of portraits she painted. I am enormously heartened when I watch a film like this or read about someone (and especially a woman) who has worked with dedication in obscurity finally recognized. For every Alice Neel who is recognized how many are there who are not?

Cold but beautiful

2012-02-21T17:11:00.000-08:00

We've had a winter of high blue skies, minimal snow adn very, very chilly winds. Mostly I have been timid about going to the beach to walk -- my nose and cheekbone do not take well to very cold winds. But a couple of days I ago I wanted some photos so I went to the ocean. I was surprised that the wind was not quite as cold there as in my yard. I'm not sure whether it's because I know what the temperature was (about 38 degrees) or because it's actually evident, but to me this picture looks cold. The houses lined along the beach are all empty this time of year. They are all well over a million dollars each and I presume nicely furnished inside but there they are, unused six months of the year looking out on that blue sky and blue sea while their owners are in a city or perhaps in Florida or other warmer lands. I don't know if their owners consider themselves among the 1% so much in the news, I think they probably are in that blessed and accursed number -- depending, of course, who's thinking of blessing or cursing.

Sometimes I drive among the wealthier enclaves of large, gracious homes and see that most are empty half the year and have Puritanical feelings of embarrassment that I live in a place of such conspicuous consumption. I'm on the horns of a dilemma not truly begrudging people the fruits of their success which, I believe, is more often earned through honest work and intelligence than by greed and dishonestly. On the other hand I think of the many places in the world I have visited where people have so very little -- including a good many places in this country -- and then the display of wealth, of unnecessary and unused houses become obscene. Obscene because they suggest to me that the owners of such wealth think first of their wants and not of the rest of the world; chose an amount of luxury that probably does not substantially increase their personal happiness. I sense a coldness in the hearts of those who can choose to own great empty homes while people in the street shiver and line up at soup kitchens for hot meals.

Lastingness, Nicholas Delblanco

2012-02-18T16:22:00.000-08:00

Lastingness, a word Nicholas Delblanco may have made up, is absolutely the subject of this not very long book. To state the obvious, it is about creativity going on into old age. Refreshingly Delblanco covers the various arts well and with many examples of people he has known. He writes of writers, of course, also painters and musicians, some recently deceased and some giants of yore like Goya, Bach, Tolstoy. Sometimes I felt a bit at sea as he seemed to have no direct line of inquiry - do brilliant people just keep getting better doing what they do? Do they grow in unexpected directions? Some are stopped by physical deterioration. Musicians can continue composing but lose the ability to play as they once did, he mentions Liszt and Casals and his own father-in-law, Bernard Greenhouse, an eminent cellist.

Finally he reaches no overweening conclusion. Picasso's style changed constantly, Monet painted the same lily pond for the last 30 years of his life. If there is a final wrap up it's that individuals are all different. Guisseppi de Lampadusa who wrote The Leopard very, very late in life and never saw it in print although we now consider it one of the great works of literature said, about the time he started writing it, that he believes every aging adult should be required to write down his or her memories; that that is the only way history will remain known -- not the great history of politics but the history of ordinary people living ordinary lives.

Certainly many people do turn to writing memoirs, or at least recording their memories in some form. This week I am happy because a European woman in her 80s who was struggling to write her memoir that began just before WWII and recorded her experience as a young teen as a prisoner of war and then searching for her displaced family told me a publisher is interested in printing her work. I helped her edit it and put it into good English over several months of last year. It is a fascinating story that we Americans know nothing about. She is not a Jewish refugee -- they've told their stories -- her story is unique to me although not to central Europeans.

At her age, to have accomplished the telling -- and it is lengthy and wonderfully detailed -- was exciting, but to have it in book form and NOT self-published is a wonderful reward for her perseverance. That is lastingness as I am witnessing it. She was in a writing class I taught 18 months ago, others in my classes are also working on memoirs, all are senior citizens and many are fulfilling Lampadusa's instruction. They are recapturing years gone by that are unknown to their grandchildren's generation. Some will print their work, several will self-publish which is no disgrace any more. Lampadusa saw the world in the 1950s totally changed from the one he knew at the end of the 19th century as a young man, and my generation has even more change to deal with.

For those who don't recognize Lampadusa, you may remember the movie, The Leopard with Burt Lancaster as the nobleman -- that was, I think, in the '60s. A magnificent book, a great success only a few years after it's author's death, and a very fine movie.

Four generations

2012-02-16T15:59:00.000-08:00

For about an hour this afternoon, three generations of women played a spirited game of a new version of scrabble -- the literary one, a Christmas present that we are learning to play. We were three generation, me, my daughter, her daughter and the fourth generation was very much present in the form of a 22 month old who needed attention and his 2 month old baby brother contentedly being fed a bottle by his grandmother and burped by his mother. For the first time ever in a long series of weekly scrabble games I and my granddaughter tied.

We live within two miles of one another. Our competitive temperaments are somewhat different. I have never been a serious game player [except for crossword puzzles where I am the only player]-- so much so that in college when my roommate and two of our boy friends learned to play bridge, they gave up inviting me to play because I just didn't care enough about winning to keep other people's hands in mind. My daughter is marginally more competitive and granddaughter can be very competitive. But we have a give and take when playing, especially this new version in which knowing names of books and authors gives extra points. I've read far more than either but they have read kinds of books I have not so we give each other clues -- which is the same as giving extra points.

In short we spend a structured hour together, catch up a little -- there's not that much catching up to do, of course, and have a sense of togetherness that we know is very, very rare in a society where families seem to be more often widely scattered than living close together. It wasn't always thus for us, of course. I've only lived near-by for three years. We're a lucky family.

Valentine's Day - a poem

2012-02-14T12:48:00.001-08:00

A short poem, about as close to a love poem as I have ever written.

Smiling

I didn't mean to smile.
I didn't mean not to smile.
I was just waiting for you,
people watching
eavesdropping,
not worrying that you were late
that there was some confusion
that traffic was snarled,
just waiting for you.

When I saw you I felt my face
soften into a smile
and through me a spiral
of happy hormones felt good
for my health,
for my heart.

Living Aloners

2012-02-12T09:45:00.001-08:00

A new book, called Going Solo, by Eric Klinenberg is getting written up, as in today's Times Style Section. I've read other articles on the phenomenon lately. Sociologists are noticing that a high percentage of people currently live alone, young and old -- as might be expected -- and a higher than previous percentage of people in the middle years when the expected status is marriage and family. Over half the apartments in NYC are single apartments. Something I read about elders/seniors, whatever you want to call us, said over 65% of women over 65 years of age live alone. Today's article says 277 million Americans live alone.

Formerly such numbers would draw sighs of pity from the majority. No doubt many of those people would prefer to be living with a loving, congenial companion or mate. I think many share my feeling of comfort being alone. I have lived alone about half my life, and I very much like feeling free to do what I want to do when I want to do it. When I am with someone I can never forget their presence and get totally into what I want to do. I know many people can ignore others around them but something in my mind is always aware and, after a while, I miss the sense of freedom from being alone. In those middle years when I had been part of a couple and ceased to be I learned to go to events and gatherings alone. I overcame the sense that others would wonder why I was alone, I learned to go into restaurants alone and enjoy a dinner by myself. And I learned to travel alone -- but found that I preferred to be alone in groups which is possible and is exactly right for me.

To have lived alone for some period of time, I think, is an important part of learning who one is. Those who have always been part of a family or at least a couple, often seem to lack knowledge of their own strengths and sometimes their own opinions. I think of primitive rituals when young people had to spend a few days alone before being promoted by the tribe from childhood to adulthood. I believe there was wisdom in such a practice. And I think many young people undertake a period alone after their education because something in the psyche needs to be tested. Especially for older people there are negatives about living alone, fears of fall or a stroke cross our minds. Of course I know about the alarm pendants that many people buy and most don't use. I'm not at that point, I'm fully independent and intend to remain that way for quite a long time in the future.

Buck and The Horse Whisperer

2012-02-11T10:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's documentary film, in class, was Buck, which was among the top fifteen documentaries nominated for an Oscar this year. Buck is the horse trainer who was Robert Redford's consultant for The Horse Whisperer. He began at the age of three as a rope twirler/trick man with his father and older brother. His mother died when he was still pre-school, the father had serious anger problems and whipped the boys fiercely. Finally a coach at school saw the welts and saw to it that the boys were put in a foster home. Nothing in the movie says what became of the brother or the father. Buck became extraordinary.

Two older men, from whom he learned about handling horses were his role models teaching him to respect horses and think about their psychology and understand that the owners and trainers were often the horse's problem. He is shown working with horses and with people, he's respectful of the animal and straight taking to the humans. His foster mother is shown, she raised 23 foster boys. Somehow she gave a very scarred boy enormous compassion and knowledge of psychology. He was shown with his wife and his daughter, a loving family.

The movie, The Horse Whisperer was one I enjoyed but I would not have seen it three times except that shortly after it came out I went somewhere that meant a long overseas flight and, as it happened, the movie was shown on both the going and return flights. It was warm and moving enough that I actually watched those extra times. I think I was given brief rides on horses when I was small, nothing that would deserve saying I've ever ridden a horse. For a few years now I've been thinking I've missed something and semi-dreaming of a dude ranch vacation or one of the horseback trips guides arrange in the Rockies. I'd like to ride a horse. And even more so after this movie.

The movie was so simple and the people so good hearted that I don't think prize givers will rank as highly as something more dramatic. I'm glad such a movie has been shown widely and will be available for some time. Buck's method and the message of respect for an animal -- rather than the owner/slave mentality -- is a message that cannot be told too often or too strongly.

Like a Big Pizza Pie

2012-02-09T18:33:00.001-08:00

A stock image, like a cliche, is just that because it's so true. After a busy and varied day with some annoyances, I drove home from a painfully amateur student reading of a painfully amateur screenplay. The moon looked exactly like that image and was front and center for about two miles. I remember a song from long ago sung, if I remember correctly, by Vic Damone -- or maybe Perry Como -- with the lines "when the moon hits your eye/ like a big pizza pie. That's amore." Amore hasn't particularly been on my mind but a moon like that is sure to bring cliches and trite memories.

As for stars, I don't quite understand the phenomenon -- when I first looked up, from a place where a tallish building blocks the moon, I saw only a couple of very bright stars; but there were many trees overhead as well. Later on, out in the open, I still saw only the few very, very bright stars, not a sky full as I see in the summer. I know they don't go into hibernation in the winter. Maybe there were high clouds that I couldn't really see. It's a moon to write a poem about and I'm going to give that a shot before I go to bed this evening.

Enjoyment and Skilll at Your Work

2012-02-08T14:35:00.000-08:00

Yes, it's the Bard. He's a haloed figure lost to most of us as a real person. But not to all scholars who love his an have studied him for many, many years. I am taking a class that will discuss Pericles, Coriolanus, Merry Wives of Windsor, in the next month. No matter what play or plays of Shakespeare's we were talking about the professor who teaches the class -- a retired professor who is doing this gratis out of his great love for sharing the Bard's brilliance -- the classes would be a joy. Never heavy but always erudite, full of delight, ready to listen to various views, the teacher is a man doing what he loves most.

I wrote recently about Bill Cunningham as a person who is at one with his profession. Cunningham is more "one pointed," as the yoga meditators say, but Steve, the Shakespearean, brings to his classes the meaning of light in the word "delight". Someone who presents documentary films has a soul-deep joy in doing what she does. These people are rare and should be treasured when they are discovered. I sit through the Shakespeare class with a smile on my face and I leave the documentary classes smiling too. Oh, how I wish others had that light in them! Isn't sharing what you know well and love the ultimate reward of a long life well lived?

Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein. Stein, Stein, Stein

2012-02-07T04:03:00.000-08:00

I just finished slogging through Gertrude Stein's novella, Melanctha. I had many thoughts about it but most of them eventually fled my mind as the hypnotic, rhythmic repetition made me feel that I was running a marathon, physically capable of finishing [though certainly not winning], but having begun to wonder after the first few miles why I had undertaken such a truly pointless way to spend a few hours. The why of reading this novella is a course in Women's Literature and the why of not giving up after a bit is that I believe Stein deserves a place in such a course and deserves informed discussion. She was an important figure in her time and contributed to the experimental, and sometimes equally impenetrable writing, of her time and place. I'm thinking of Ezra Pound and James Joyce in particular.

But, Lordy, Lordy! it's boring and "slogging" is the only word to define the hours I've spent. Melanctha is a half black woman who is searching for a man in her life, one suitor spends a lot of time with her talking and talking and talking. Not only is it highly repetitious, Stein does not paragraph each change of speaker but runs great hunks of dialog on and on in page-long paragraphs. I am not a speed reader except in nonfiction, and very little of that, so I register every word.

Most of the characters are black people or people of mixed race. Stein defines them often as stupid, lazy, selfish, etc. She does not believe is letting the reader discover personality traits through action and speech -- at least not in this novella. She grew up in St. Louis in a well to do family and surely lived with black servants. She is disturbingly racist. If this had not been in the anthology and I had not felt compelled to read it, I certainly wouldn't have read more than a few pages. Of the many things to talk about in a discussion of Stein, very little of it is positive from my point of view.

Bill Cunningham's New York

2012-02-03T15:59:00.000-08:00

How rare is it to see a person who lives in the minute, loves what he does, is successful, happy, loved by people who know him and entirely without ostentation? Such a creature is almost impossible in our world today. If asked who might that be, what sort of person, I would say a very accomplished Buddhist meditator.

Bill Cunningham, who does street fashion photography for The New York Times, and has done fashion photography most of his life, is such a person. Last summer and again today I saw the documentary film called Bill Cunningham's New York. He's up there close to the Dalai Lama in my impression of his spirit of mindfulness -- which seems to have evolved, not out of meditation or planning, perhaps partly from his Catholicism, but simply from finding a creative niche for himself that brings him constant satisfaction and doing it in a way that give him complete control of his creativity.

I listened to a room full of smart and probably typical seniors discussing the film. Many psychologized, looking for roots in his family, wondering about his regular church attendance, about his long pause when an interviewer asked, "are you religious?" As one thoughtful woman said, "put that way, it is a difficult question." Since he was always honest, he spent a long time, probably asking himself, "am I what people mean then they say 'religious'?" Certainly I'd spend time thinking about it as would the person speaking. One does not need to be religious to live a beautiful, satisfying, meaningful life. One lives. A simplicity that boggles the minds of those of us who are constantly bombarded with psychobabble.

Seeing this movie again filled me with joy just watching his joy. The psychologist in the group assessed him as being uniquely able to sublimate any psychological problems (assuming, as all psychologists do, that everyone must overcome some psychological traumas just to get to adulthood.) Do we ask if a highly regarded lama was bullied as a boy or if he had sexual urges he's had to sublimate? It is not relevant. When a person reaches his late 60s or early 70s and lives the way Cunningham does, with equanimity and, again, that joy that is all the accomplishment we need to know. It can be done. We can aspire to it because there is a living example to prove it's possible.

The Past Comes Calling

2012-02-02T15:45:00.001-08:00

When we make major moves in our lives, we unburden ourselves -- at least I do. 30 years or so ago when I moved to NYC I happily responded to an ad in the NY Review of Books asking for diaries of girls who were in high school in the '50s. I sent several diaries covering age 12 to 22. They sat in the Schlesinger Library of Radcliffe College for some time. In the three years I've learned that a couple of Ph.D.candidates referred to my diaries in their theses. A couple of weeks ago a senior at Harvard emailed me saying she was using my high school diaries extensively in her thesis which is about how advertising and media, especially magazines, influenced teenage girls in the 1950s. I'm only 60 or70 miles away from Harvard so she came down to interview me last weekend. I've been partly processing the experience since then.

I realized before talking to her that I remember very little of my high school years -- it was about 55 years ago and I've experienced not just water under the bridge but floods of life experiences. What a strange feeling to talk with someone who knows me as a teenager --only-- while the teenager is someone so embedded, encrusted within me that I can barely recognize her -- for which I'm enormously grateful most of the time.
My teenage self was in many ways a loner, shy to the bone and yet paradoxically capable of public speaking, writing for publication and performing [very badly] on the piano. I have not yet dug up that long buried teen. I don't even want to sort through the artifacts in her tomb. But I cannot deny that, in fact, she is not dead and she is not a zombie or a ghoul, she is me -- or I am her. But covered by years of accretion -- mold and rust, but also gold and jewels. Somehow metaphors are the only way to describe the memories. I shall slowly come to terms with being reminded of those years. Never have I been nostalgic. Those years were always something to live through, an entrapment to escape. Escape I did, joyfully. Do the circus's tigers, when they are finally given the freedom of a large wild animal farm to live out their lives, remember performing to the crack of a trainer's whip, remember jumping through firey hoops? I think not. Metaphors again. The young woman was charming, professional and, of course, intelligent. She has no idea what psychic confusion she unleashed. Not a bad thing, probably a good thing, maybe integration is an important step at this age.

The Enlightenment, Kate Chopin

2012-01-31T04:43:00.001-08:00

The Enlightenment by Kate Chopin is on of several novellas I will read for a class of feminine literature. Written in the 1880s, this picture of Edna, a young wife of a wealthy New Orleans businessman, is, in fact, enlightening today for it's picture both of the emotionally innocent -- extremely childlike -- heroine and the world in which she lives. The strict social rules are taken for granted; when she begins to act on her impulses she is seen by husband and friends as simply a wayward child, In fact, to me, she never stops being a wayward child with the emotional maturity of a 12 year old although she has two small children of her own. The children are in the care of a nanny who has no name, she is simply "the quadroon."

Chopin tells the story in the leisurely way stories were written at that time, and her style is graceful. The reading experience is relaxing, the story unfolds without drama. A reader today, probably much more so than when it was written, will pay attention to the details -- for me the descriptions of life with servants who are usually known only for their color -- "the little black girl" "the mulata" -- is almost shocking, nearly disgusting. A scene in which Edna stays with a friend during childbirth never actually says the friend is having a baby; such things apparently couldn't be written about. The book is a time capsule. I was fascinated.

Want Creation

2012-01-30T03:56:00.001-08:00

How old were you when the anglers of Madison Avenue began to hook your insecurities and lure you to stores where you parted with your allowance, or begged your parents for specific items that you felt would make you happier, more attractive, more popular at school? Younger than you think, I'll bet, even if you are, like me, beyond the Big-7-0. It's popular knowledge now that even very small children are told by TV that they can have the newest toy or cutest clothes. If you follow a mother with a kid in the grocery basket through the store you'll hear just which cereal, juice, candy the child knows is best.

I had a nice talk with a young woman who is researching and writing about how advertisers and the media "created" the teen-age girl beginning in the 1920s--yes, girls specifically were called teenagers at first, they had passed from little girls to beings who needed to learn femininity and domesticity in order to become marriageable. Boys, back then, tended to move directly from boyhood to "youth" when many had to go to work and leave school and those in school were headed directly for a profession. Women's service magazines began to print columns for mothers about molding their daughters for the ideal domestic life. My mother swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker. In retrospect, I know that she was dedicated to giving me the skills, some of which she regretting not having herself, such as playing the piano and sewing. She actually gathered a few other mothers and started a chapter of the 4-H club so that I would have access to sewing instruction, Writing secretarial reports of those meetings and sending notices of activities to the local paper was encouraged as well as learning public speaking. I am grateful for all her efforts.

Meanwhile she educated me to a broader world via a subscription to American Girl [not part of the doll company as far as I know] and a bit later to Seventeen Magazine. Of course I read her McCalls and Lady's Home Journal. I saw the fashions in those books and the advertisements for cosmetics. I was so indoctrinated that when I had read a few times that nightly application of moisturizing face cream would insure a lifelong attractive complexion I developed a habit that has become as ingrained as brushing my teeth. I gave up on the Ponds face cream and moved to Avon and have since used nearly every brand on the market. And happily my complexion is withstanding some ravages of age but I don't know how much of that is genetic.

So my conversation gave me insight, not only into ways I was influenced by the, by then, rather robust advertising to girls, but into what motivated my mother's actions. Boys, said my friend, did not become the target of advertising until about the '60s. Of course we know now that, woebetide all of us, boys are the target of much of Hollywood's production. I'll return to this topic, the conversation gave me other things to think about also.

Older People Dream Too

2012-01-26T16:22:00.001-08:00

I read a lot but I have never read an article about older people dreaming. Do people think we stop dreaming when we eat our 65th birthday cake? In both senses of dreaming, the world at large seems to think we've lost that part of our lives as men lose their hair and women too often lose their waists. Well, it's not true. We keep on dreaming of things for ourselves -- and, no, it's not just that we should see our grandchildren married or spend days on a Florida beach. We dream of the things we have not accomplished and may yet have time to do. We dream as we always have done but the objects, I think, are now honed to a more realistic future. The world that thinks we don't dream but live in some TV or golf course fog has stopped seeing us as people with anticipations and aspirations. I find that insulting.

Likewise the world of psychiatry seems not to care what we dream about at night. If they ever ask, if they ever write about it, it's kept to the pages of obscure journals. I've never seen anything of the sort in a novel. What's wrong with writers that they think their 70- or 80-soemthing characters have no inner life? Speaking for myself, I've lately noticed a dream life that is different from my past dream live, more complex and often more dramatic.

Like many other people, at earlier stages in my life I kept dream journals. For a while I discovered that if I made a practice of writing my dreams shortly after awaking they began to multiple. At times dreams seemed to want to take over my waking life. But I was busy with many things. I couldn't let that happen. So I stopped writing down the dreams and, like bodies during a fast, they grew less robust. I reached a balance that worked for me when I wrote down especially vivid dreams and forgot the rest.

I don't write down the dreams these days, but some stay with me for many hours. Last night there were leopards, beautiful, sleek and silky. But then they came indoors and became menacing. I was not frightened that they would kill me, so they shrunk to kitten size and when I threw one out the door, I felt sad because I had endangered it.
What does that mean? I don't know. I never dreamed about wild animals in the psst. If I had a therapist would s/he care about that dream? Maybe not much if I went on to tell about another that came to me an hour later with people in it from my past whose ages and abodes changed almost moment by moment in the dream

These images have stayed with me today. Are they messengers or simple another of the several things that made up today? I think the later, a strange and peculiar part of life as I now live it. I wish someone with training in the field were writing about such things. I'd be curious what's happening in the lives of others whose life after the Big 7-0 is more complex than they ever expected it to be.

Another victory for women

2012-01-23T04:49:00.000-08:00

The women of Saudi Arabia who go out of their homes covered in abayas from head to toe, have in the past several years been allowed to go to school. The sheiks have realized -- possibly, I think, due to nagging from their teenage daughters -- that these women are going to want to have jobs. Times are a-changing which has to be pretty obvious to just about everybody in the Arab world.

It has now been decreed that women can now get jobs as clerks in women's apparral shops, especially those selling underwear. No longer will women who seem to have no bodies at all under all that cotton drapery have to buy their panties and bras from a shop full of men. Hurray. One small step for womankind ... Sometimes reading the small filler articles in the Sunday can really cheer me up.

Older woman on screen

2012-01-21T11:30:00.001-08:00

This incredibly beautiful woman is Meryl Streep made up to look like Margaret Thatcher at the height of her power. Maggie was never so beautiful, and her face was never quite so mask-like and I don't believe Street has ever before been so plastic-ly ideally beautiful. That is how she looked in about half the scenes of the movie, Iron Lady. Another actress played her in a few scenes when she was about 20.

The other half of the movie showed us Thatcher as she supposedly looked a few years after leaving office when she was struggling with grief over her husband's death and beginning to suffer from both forgetfulness [she now has severe Alzheimer's disease] and seeing hallucinations of her dead husband, sometimes knowing it was an illusion and sometimes not. In those scenes the perfect face and perfect coif are gone. She is always shown as dignified, even when hallucinating but the make-up artist has, it seems to me, exaggerated what a 75-ish woman's face looks like.

As the title of this blog admits, I'm more than 70. I am not happy that I don't look like I looked ten or fifteen years ago, but I'm not as changed as Thatcher was shown to be. I look around me at the senior women in classes I take and teach. I can see that they have changed from their younger selves; there are degrees of aging that is probably both genetic and a matter of care. Some women wear too much makeup or wear it badly, many eschew makeup entirely, sometimes I see a happy balance.

I believe the makeup artists for the movie over-reached themselves both with the powerful Thatcher and with the aged Thatcher so that both are grotesques of a woman who was, until disease intervened, entirely herself, never a mask and probably not the face that is all sags and bags and ropy exaggerated neck. As I think of that image and what the movie is trying to tell us, I am angry at the director for making those choices. I believe the director is not a young woman, but she certainly has a horror of old age -- a horror that I think is an unfair stereotype. I think of Angela Merkel, Madelaine Albright, not beautiful women, probably never beautiful, but older women with faces full of character -- real women with serious jobs like Thatcher's. I am not thinking of Betty White or Elaine Stritch who are actresses and have a vested interest in their face. I read that the Baby Boomer generation are horrified that they are pushing at the Big-7-0, and I believe they are horrified because they cannot break away from the extreme pictures that they see in entertainment like this movie. In movies about "ordinary" people the older women are usually caricatures of dotty grandmothers, whining, demanding, disappointed mothers, sometimes frail and needy, sometimes harridans.

Fine as Streep's acting is, and it is superb, she was handicapped with the faces she was given in this movie. Although I did not like the way the script was handled, it was the masks Streep had to wear that ruined the film for me.

Tired of Wraps

2012-01-19T15:09:00.000-08:00

A choice of six different kinds of wraps for lunch - it wasn't surprising. I was at an all day informative event about the arts on Cape Cod, lunch was included. For about a hundred people, the cafeteria prepared six kinds of wraps: egg salad, tuna salad, seafood salad, ham and cheese, turkey and tomato, and chicken salad. Each diagonally cut in half, served buffet style. Most people took two halves, each different. Mini bags of potato chips, spears of dill pickles and cans of soda on ice were available along with three kinds of cookies for dessert. A very light, lunch, each to prepare, choose, clean up after. I did not expect anything more lavish and didn't even desire anything more lavish, that was sufficient to my appetite.

But the truth is I've never thought wraps were a good idea and don't enjoy them. The tortilla like base is usually flavorless even when it is fresh and seems special because it's whole wheat or red [tomato?] or bright yellow. And there's just too much of it. I always tear away nearly half the wrapping. I strongly suspect this kind of sandwich was designed by someone with the motive of adding filling carbs while scrimping on the more expensive filling. I can certainly see the advantage of the wrapping method for keeping the filling from falling out onto a plate. It's neater to eat and I'm sure that makes many people happy. But I would work harder at keeping my food under control and appreciate an old fashioned sandwich with enough filling to actually taste and a minimum of the unnecessary carbs.

No, I don't long for the happily dead days of Wonder Bread sandwiches with a thin slice of ham and the artificial brightness of American cheese. I'm thinking of real sandwiches that I might make at home -- in fact, often do make at home. Not the stacked high deli sandwiches that certain NYC restaurants have made a reputation with and for which they charge extravagant prices, good old fashioned ham and cheese on rye with excellent mustard and maybe a crispy leaf of lettuce, of the beloved BLT.

I see in the wraps more all American calorie loading along with nutrition diminishment -- yes, wraps are better than Big Macs or Whoppers in the cholesterol area -- but really not so much. Eating healthily is not easy.

Where Have All the Johns Gone?

2012-01-15T05:02:00.000-08:00

I had the unexciting job of being an impartial person who pulled names from a basket for the lottery of next year's class at a charter school where my daughter is the secretary. Something over 500 applicants for about 240 places. I drew the card, someone wrote the number on it, my daughter read the name aloud -- to the room full of parents and some students -- and another secretary entered it into a computer. I listened to the names of these 14 and 15 year olds. Many Taylers and Tylers, Hannahs and Emmas. There were some ethnic names but our area is markedly Yankee so I was astonished at the end because among all 500 I don't think I heard a John, George, Edward, Charles, David or James nor did I hear a Mary [one Maria], Elizabeth, Anne, Margaret, Barbara nor any of those J girls so popular in my generation, Jane, Joyce, Joan, Jean and Jennifer.

Name popularity is trendy. Every now and then I come across lists of "most popular baby names this year". They reflect our demographics and they reflect popular entertainment stars. Nevertheless I remained amazed that in New England the solid names of 50, 150 and 250 years ago are rare. However, my daughter, who has had to file and deal with all the applications tells me that many of the old names, especially for girls, remain as middle names.

And isn't it wonderful that the possibilities are so great that even in some of the largest cities' phone books many names are oners. Mine is one of those combinations that a Google search tells me has no match in all their files. Isn't it wonderful that parents look at their tiny babies and expect them to be unique, give them unique names and watch them grow into unique individuals. And then it may happen that a time will come when they sit in a room where a lottery is drawn waiting to hear that name, hoping the boy or girl will get a certain kind of education. I was truly impartial but I couldn't help looking at the little girl whose eyes swam with tears when she heard her name among the chosen, and then later at the parents sitting stoically as they did not hear their children's names until the numbers were so high they could not possibly climb up that wait list.

What Happens in a World of Men, Without Enough Woman?

2012-01-12T15:35:00.000-08:00

An article I just read tells me: still-growing international predilection for sex-selective abortion is by now evident in the demographic contours of dozens of countries around the globe — and it is sufficiently severe that it has come to alter the overall sex ratio at birth of the entire planet, resulting in millions upon millions of new “missing baby girls” each year. In terms of its sheer toll in human numbers, sex-selective abortion has assumed a scale tantamount to a global war against baby girls.

This article from the New Atlantis says the phenomenon is prevalent all around the world. I wonder what will happen when we have a large part of the world over populated with young men with all their natural aggression and not enough young women, who at the same age are looking to find husband and start families. [I speak biologically, not culturally]. Does this promise a continuation of war which has always levened the balance by killing off man of the young men? Does it suggest some very different role being forced upon the women?

As soon as we start tinkering with the balance of mother nature, be it human or the introduction of kudzu bad things happen. Now I have something else to worry about.

Yoga American Style

2012-01-10T05:13:00.000-08:00

The dangers of yoga poses are discussed in last Sunday's NYTimes Magazine. Not surprising! I began doing yoga at age 29 because I read a small bit about it and began gathering what few books were available at the time -- over 45 years ago. Throughout "fly over" land yoga was unknown although some people on both coasts had begun practicing yoga. I understood it to be a meditative practice meant to make the body flexible and ultimately to allow one to meditate for long periods without physical strain or harm. I understood from the few books I read, that asanas were to be done with attention to both breath and what the body was capable of doing, never stretching to the point of pain, never holding a pose beyond your comfort level. I practiced that way, alone, at times I did not expect to be interrupted by my small children. I became flexible and I gained both patience with myself -- because daily repetition was necessary for gaining both flexibility and strength -- and also the ability to concentrate most deeply on whatever I was doing.

Then yoga exploded on the scene. Today millions of people carry their rolled up yoga mats around, attend class with all kinds of variation, teachers study in various schools. People do yoga in large classes or at home watching videos. Some do only the physical positions, some meditate before or after sessions. I have gone to less than half a dozen classes. In a class one follows the teacher's pace and instruction, in a class you are always aware that the person next to you is better [or you feel proud you are better] Competition, more reps, longer poses -- the American way -- endless ways to sell classes, clothes, books, videos, accessories.

I find it distasteful. No wonder the author of the article has seen, and also experienced, serious physical injury. As he points out, in India, the home of yoga, people traditionally sat on the floor, not on chairs. From childhood their bodies were used differently than we use our bodies today. Yoga was originally a practice for those seeking true discipline, not beautiful bodies, not bragging rights about how many difficult poses had been accomplished. I believe my many years of yoga discipline, eventually honed to only a fifteen minute routine nowadays and that modified due to a hip replacement [not the result of a yoga injury] have contributed to my ongoing good health and stamina. Yoga is not the culprit the author of the article claims, the American way of mutating practices into fads is at fault.

Farewell to a Favorite Store

2012-01-08T16:47:00.000-08:00

I learned about bargain shopping at Filene's Basement the day before I got married. I had been living in Boston a year and was daunted by the two messy below street level floors beneath the otherwise unexceptional, respectable Filene's Department store. But my about-to-be groom needed a tie. We went to The Basement. A serpent's nest of silk ties were in a bin. He recognized a respected label on many. They were something ridiculous like $1.50 each. He bought a dozen. I had never seen anyone shop like that. If he had bought two or even three, that would have made perfect sense. I pondered that purchase and, obviously haven't forgotten 50 years later.

We moved far away but occasionally when we were in his Massachusetts hometown we made a foray to Filene's Basement to see if they had anything special. They always did. I began to love the hunt for a wonderful bargain. A designer dress or coat, an incredible pair of shoes. No other store was like it. I was not familiar with the stores that were similar in New York City. Quite a few years later for some reason I no longer remember, I decided to make the 300 mile drive from our home in upstate New York to Boston with my teenage daughters for a shopping spree at Filene's Basement. We had a budget, we wanted to see how much we could get that we would love. In the afternoon we carried our shopping bags to the car and drove to the edge of the city where we got a motel for the night because I didn't want to drive all the way back in one day. We dumped our treasures out on the bed, got a pencil and pad from the desk and began reading "Original price." "Today's price." We did the math. Wow-wee! What a heady feeling of excitement! We felt like we'd robbed Tiffany's.

By the time I moved to NYC alone, Filene's Basement had followed many other businesses in expansion. They had a stand alone store. It was not very different from most other off price stores. I did not return to the original Filene's Basement in Boston. But I had learned to comparison shop. I had learned it's not necessary to pay full price unless you also think the newest fashion is necessary. For me, for my lifestyle, the latest fashion was not and never had been that important. But I still have a much worn red raincoat I finally found in a Filene's Basement and a few sweaters as well. I have a warm place in my heart for what I learned about bargain shopping. So do my daughters. I don't believe any of us have ever bought a dozen of anything all at once, however. Well, maybe underwear and socks.

Like so many other businesses Filene's has gone belly up. I'm sad for them. At this stage in my life I find my best bargains at what I sometimes call "My favorite boutique." A big, well organized, clean Goodwill store in our town.

Lucky but Skeptical

2012-01-04T16:28:00.001-08:00

Because I was married to an M.D. and most of our acquaintances were also doctors, I learned that the good doctor image is iffy. They are not gods, but a whole variety of people. In more recent years, as I grow older and have a few age-related medical problems, I have been lucky in my dealings with the medical world but retain an edge of skepticism.

These thoughts arise today because I am recovering from bilateral eyelid surgery yesterday. All is well as long as I don't look in the mirror at my red-rimmed swollen eyes. [I was warned this would be the case and am icing on schedule and it will go away.] Where does the skepticism come in? My doctor is part of a very large ophthalmological practice which I became acquainted with two years ago when I had cataract surgery that was thoroughly successful. Almost upon the first appointment the retina specialist mentioned that one eyelid was especially droopy while the other seemed fairly normal. This was mentioned on follow up visits so last summer I had a peripheral vision test that showed that indeed the eyelid -- in fact both lids -- interfere with my peripheral vision. So the surgery was eventually scheduled.
My skepticism arises from large medical practices that seem to gently push people toward procedures that are probably helpful but that they may not need in a serious sense. My hope is that I will see better and I have my own peripheral hope, which is that once the trauma to the area is healed I will look a bit more bright eyed and bushy tailed, that is to say a little bit younger.

This is not my first instance of wondering if I have had a procedure that was not strictly necessary. About 9 years ago my internist said my EKG was abnormal and sent me to a cardiologist who did a stress test and echo cardiogram in his office. He said there was some blockage and we should find out how much with an angiogram at a major hospital. It was scheduled, I was told very little but to bring overnight necessities in case ... The catheter was threaded up to my heart, the docs called my cardiologist and told him I had about a 60% blockage in the left ventricle, what about placing a stent? Do it, said the cardiologist who had not discussed this possibility with me, nor, as far as I remember did the hospital personnel although I think there was small print in a consent form I signed. The stent -- the latest version, of course -- was placed. It was a painless, short procedure, I was awake the whole time. I remained in the hospital, went home the next day with the need now to take the latest greatest blood thinner for three years.

It is my belief that in a smaller city I would probably have had angiography -- removal of the blockage--and no stent. And if a stent possibly not this super newest one. However, I did have a problem and it was treated and I've had no recurrence although I hated that blood thinner, especially as first the recommendation was one year and suddenly "new tests" showed that I should take it for three years. That seemed to me out and out manipulation by the pharmaceutical company. I feel much the same about the standard prescription for statins which every cardiologist now says I must take for the rest of my life. However, I happened to transcribe in the work I did a speech by one of two MDs who won a Nobel for discovering statins who said that he is still working on understanding them because all his data shows that only 17% of people using them actually from taking them. They have side effects, especially, for me, muscular fatigue when doing something like stair climbing. I believe I could keep my cholseterol at good levels through diet - indeed, I strongly suspect my diet and not the statin I take is responsible for my good statistics.

One other example of big city hospitals' possible over zealousness. [Procedures and devices are reimbursed by Medicare and are money makers for large institutions and doctors] When I broke my hip, the doctor explained afterward that he had implanted the latest and greatest artificial hip because, besides the actual break in the bone, there was some age related degradation of the hip joint. It is my belief that I probably didn't need an artificial hip and might have lived my entire life without problems once the broken bone healed. But I have my titanium joint and, happily, although there is widespread replacement of faulty artificial hips. this doesn't seem to be one of them.

I consider myself in good shape and have been treated by highly skilled physicians -- it is not they who make me skeptical, it is the medical establishment, big pharma and the device people who seem to overtreat when money is to be made.

Meanwhile my luck is holding out because this new operation was originally schedule for later in the month when I would have missed various activities because I don't care to be seen looking like I do at this moment. However I have over a week ahead with no appointments. I can say home and let nature take its curing course.

Perspective, 1-1-12

2012-01-01T13:25:00.001-08:00

I have just read Barbara's comment on the previous post and also just come back from a walk on the beach with my daughter. At this very moment the evening sky beyond my window is blue;pink/mauve -- incredibly beautiful above the umbrealla shaped branches of a huge tree across the street. And I am thinking of things that are truly real.

As we walked the beach we met many strangers who wished us a happy new year. We also met a young man and probably his father. The young man had been a student at the school where Rachel works and she said to me after we walked on, "his family are Luddites." They have no modern electronics; it caused the teachers a lot of problems because they had to see that material other students were accessing online was available to him in written form. The same problems arose with his younger sister in the same (charter) school but teachers and administration made adjustments. She does not know the story or philosophy behind the family's decisions. But clearly people can live without these modern conveniences which most people think of as necessities.

In William Least Heat-Moon's book The Road to Quoz: An American Mosey which I read last month, he describes among the many people he met in him meandering journeys around America, a woman who lives "off the grid" -- i.e., she is a senior but does not accept social security, lives in a formerly abandoned trailer near a town in one of the Western states, buys only the most basic food and gathers other food both wild and from stores and restaurant discards, walks wherever she goes, has no electronics either.

The point is, we do not have to be immersed in the things of the society around us. We can choose how we live. I think most people are unaware that they have more choices than society suggests. I do not yet own a cell phone -- and haven't owned a TV for more than 30 years. To most people that make me a Luddite. Actually I pick and choose what I think I need. A computer is something I need. I have my reasons.

New Year - 2012

2012-01-01T04:50:00.000-08:00

Happy new year and wishes for the restless parts of the world to settle into peace.

Ruminating last night, as I tend to do on New Year's eves, I considered how many things we all take for granted are only constructions of civilization. Perhaps, even, civilizations means having convinced large numbers of people, sometimes almost everyone in the world, that certain abstractions are realities. Time, for instance. Time exists, of course, the days go from morning to night and back to morning. In all but the equatorial parts of the world seasons also go through a predictable cycle. But that this is 2012 is a construction, such a powerful one that it overshadow the much older calculations of the Chinese and the Jewish and other calendars -- and they too are constructions. Likewise the division of days into hours. Hours exist only because we agree they do. These time divisions help us tie our lives and the past history into packages, give us tools for thinking and for getting along with one another.

And then there's money. Oh Boy! When simple barter ended and tokens began to be given value Pandora's dump truck spread a sticky mess of tar that stuck on all our shoes. Smple relationships between the haves and have-nots became more and more complex to the point where individuals are overshadowed by institutions which are over shadowed by countries and world organizations. I wonder what would happen if everyone in the world truly understood that money isn't real.

That's two biggies for a start. And just a little thing besides those: what about success, your persona success? Does that word mean anything? Then there's happiness and peace and love ...

These Things Happen

2011-12-30T12:24:00.001-08:00

All of us have experienced inexplicable small incidents. If we're superstitious we may attribute them to good angels, evil spirits, gremlins, leprechauns, or voodoo. Or we may just shrug and shake our heads. The slightly unstable may see signs they are becoming more unstable, the elderly can always blame incipient Alzheimer's.

Such an incident happened to someone I don't know yesterday and only I know that I caused it to happen. It's small, it's unimportant -- unless the person to whom it happened is in the unstable category. It's a small story.

In our town we have aggressive, dueling Honda and Toyota dealerships with an awful lot of both makes of cars on the roads and in the parking lots. I now have a gray Honda Civic. Although silver and white have been big best sellers, lately shades of gray have been strong. Yesterday I went to the town library and parked in one of two or three spaces marked "Library Parking - 1/2 hour". I also went next door to the post office and then came back to my car. When I got in I thought, hmmm, it seems like the steering wheel is awfully close. It must be because I'm wearing this bulky winter jacket. So I moved the seat back a fair amount. Then put the key in and it didn't start. What!? At about that time my eye fell on the side pocket and I saw some papers that weren't mine. I looked around a little more and saw an identical Honda Civic next to me. MY car!

Quickly as possible I got out of that car and into my own and drove away before someone accused me to trying to steal that other car. About a block later I realized that the owner of the other Civic was going to get in, find the seat too far back, wonder how on earth did that happen, have absolutely not a clue and go home feeling befuddle, cursed, or maybe just shrugging it off as not important. To use Kurt Vonnegut's line from Slaughterhouse Five -- so it goes.

Holiday Movies

2011-12-29T15:11:00.001-08:00

When I lived in NYC and knew every current movie was available to me I didn't go to very many -- rather like being at an "all you can eat" buffet and picking carefully. Here on Cape Cod where not many movies are available [except the Hollywood junk I never have gone to] I go to almost everything and I'm finding it wonderful. [Of course, any reader must remember that I do not have a TV, very much by choice.] So I have seen to holiday movies and enjoyed them very much. Truthfully, only The Artist is truly a holiday movie. And a delightful one. Since it's about a silent film actor it is largely silent [although there's a score] but it is in black and white. The acting and the story and the tap dancing and the dog are all charming. It's not froth, it's a serious movie making idea, but it's truly holiday fare. Enjoyable and I found Penelope Miller very delightful
This afternoon I went to see a more serious movie, The Way, with Martin Sheen and several not well known but very decent actors. The "Way" of the title is the Camino St. James, the pilgrims path over the Pyrennes -- 800 kilometers from France to Santiago, Spain -- which has been traveled for at least 1000 years. Casting was well done, characterization and stories were well told. As a person who loves walking in mountains I loved the scenery, and the shots of individuals on long paths.

While The Artist will be shown widely an has been nominated for Golden Globes, The Way will not be seen widely but it was very worth seeing. On the agenda for next week is The Iron Lady, Meryl Streep's latest coup.

Another Hell in a Hand Basket Observation

2011-12-27T11:53:00.000-08:00

Another Hell in a Hand Basket Observation
Talks with my daughter who lives in Marin County, California often hinge on the difficulties of her job which is strongly tied to the state budget. She works in a house where mentally and physically handicapped adult live. Yesterday she spoke of how California is trying to deal with their overcrowded prison system. Much about that seems that justice, especially for young offenders, is really going to hell in a hand basket as many of them will get no legal representation and many will be tried as adults. I am not a Californian so will just state those facts and not comment further. A further bit of information in the newspaper article she had just read states that something over $157,000 a year per prisoner is the cost to the state.

Her observation which is the true subject of this rant is that somehow the state is spending that much per year per prisoner while, she "get a miserable $300 a month, per client with which to feed them three nutritious meals a day." She does the shopping and supervises the cooking and the feeding, which in many cases involves individual dietary needs and/or one-on-one feeding. Something is very out of whack there!

I won't go into the very low pay scale for the workers in the homes or other cuts in services for the handicapped. I don't begin to understand how the prison system can cost that much but I have heard similar numbers for other states. I suspect similar imbalances exist in many other states. I can't give suggested fixes but it seems to me something very elementary in our value system and our priorities as a citizens is very wrong.

Christmas Day

2011-12-25T08:41:00.001-08:00

A respite from the mild insanity of a family opening all the gifts from under the tree, including a not-yet-two-year-old who loves ripping paper off presents. We are not a well-to-do family and these were not the kind of expensive middle-class toys people fight over on Black Friday, but the package were many and the room was a wreck of paper and boxes and ribbons for a while. Books multiplied as did miniature dinosaurs and and lovely things to wear. I am using my new external mouse as I sit here at the computer with it's sticky pad that often irritates me. Everyone is delighted and taking a breather. We had favorite things for brunch and will have a family dinner later when my oldest grandson arrives -- the owner of the only gifts left under the tree.

This scene in many variations is happening all over the country. We are all aware that many homes are not as comfortable as we are. We are aware that other families have fancier gifts -- we care about the ones with less and we don't envy the ones with more, we have enough. I am happy this is not a greedy family. I am happy we are not dissatisfied with our lot in life although it is not as affluent as many of our friends and neighbors. We compare ourselves to those who are less lucky, not to those who have more. That makes us very blessed.

Rejoice in the metaphors

2011-12-22T04:06:00.000-08:00

I was up at 5:30. Of course it was dark, now it's 7:00 and the sun is just above the trees, far to the south. From my breakfast table I almost always see the sunrise as the slider there is due east. That orange glow over the barren tree tops southeastward will sink no further -- today is the first day of winter. I will enjoy seeing the slow progression northward over the next six months. To me these observations are a lifelong habit but I wonder how many other people feel the cycling of seasons, the tilting of the earth is a stabilizing and important part of their lives. Almost none of my acquaintances now grew up on a farm as I did; few of their parents depended upon the weather to guide their daily lives.

When I think of winter I think of my father who was hardly ever in the house during the day, even in rainy weather, sitting at a card table through much of a winter day putting together a jigsaw puzzle. That was often the extent of his vacations. Of course morning and night there were the barn chores winter as well as other seasons.

Chanukah has begun, a ceremony that, forgetting it's traditional wartime/seige background, make deep intuitive sense to me this time of year. The lighting of Christmas trees is in the same category. The light in the sky has been disappearing, we long for more light, the most beautiful light we can make. I laugh as my daughter has taught her not-yet-two grandson to look at light displays in the yards of houses in our town and say "tacky lights." It's her aesthetic, certainly not his. When I asked him, "do you like tacky lihts?" his answer was a shout, "Yeah!" Of course we have many over enthusiastic lighting displays in town but we also have beautiful and tasteful decorations.

Many things are celebrated in this season, different people, different religions, including the "religion" of too much spending on too many toys and too much food and drink. Underlying all those celebrations, I believe, is the knowledge that darkness has limits. The sun will not disappear -- we can rejoice in all the metaphors that brings to mind.

Two Leaders' Obits

2011-12-19T10:47:00.001-08:00

Coincidence of course -- but the mind is a meaning-seeking instrument. an irrational one that wants coincidences to be meaningful. Today's NYTimes had stories about the deaths of Czech Vaclav Havel and North Korean Kim Jong II -- both of whom have just died. Different sides of the world, entirely different men but both leaders of their country. Havel, a playwright and activist, was instrumental in the downfall of Communism in Czechoslovakia and became it's President. He also became president again when the two countries split. He ha written, spoken and helped restore democracy to his country.

Kim Jong Il was an iron fisted Communist tyrant and passes the leadership of that bleak country behind it's own iron curtain down to his son. This coincidence cannot mean only that the world remains divided. Those are stark contrasts but much else I read in the paper portrays other countries in various shades of murky gray: Myanamr's generals are softening their stance toward the rest of the world, Pakistan is a conundrum, and even great China with it's authoritarian rule from the top, suggests an editorial today, may be largely impotent to maintain the order so precious to them largely because graft is so omnipresent at lower levels the dictates from the top do not get carried out -- and yesterday's paper mentioned several dozen, if not hundreds, of small scale revolt's through out the country every week! We are we to think? For the most part I only read, wonder and make very little sense of it all.

Great-grandparenthood

2011-12-17T11:15:00.000-08:00

Once again I think of Stanley Kunitz's line "I am not done with my changes" [see sidebar] which he wrote when he was about my age. Indeed he kept changing his poetry and personal life right into his 100th year. Of course, whether I might look forward to such a long stretch of years remains to be seen, but certainly I know what he was talking about.

Not so very many people have the privilege of being great-grandparents. Standing at the head of such a line of descent is a thought provoking experience. The photo above is my granddaughter with 19 month old Finn an his new little brother, Cole, who was born Wednesday night - just a couple of days past his father's birthday and a few hours ahead of Beethoven's birthday. Seems auspicious to me! At this point I do not have a large role to play in these babies' lives. Finn knows me, of course, knows where I live when he passes, know what play things he will fine at my house. What more would one expect such a little boy to know?

Both babies have four living great-grandparents, I hope we will all survive long enough for them to get to know us and even remember us when they are older. Given a world in which the majority of people do not live so long, a world in which, in fact, it is predicted the life expectancy will decrease [because of both environmental degradation and a population squeeze for future resource] this is an awesome wish and even more awesome that it could come true since we all are, so far as we know, healthy 70-somethings.

Some people who worry about the environmental problems write or speak of fearing what today's children will face as they grow up. I share many of those concerns. I am especially concerned about the constancy of war -- some of it seems arbitrary. Yet I am also aware of increases in movements toward personal peace and deeper awareness that something must be done to change the course the alarmists chart for this century. To get into these considerations is to wade into a great thorny tangle -- the "dark wood" of poetry. I am aware of it but also aware that we must each live as best we can, that what our great-grand children will experience is mostly beyond any power an individual has. So we welcome the spontaneous laughter of the little ones and soothe their crying and try to do the same for all those we meet of whatever age.

George Clooney's Desccendants

2011-12-15T08:08:00.001-08:00

When movies arrive with lots of talk of Oscars, at this time of year, one takes it with a spoonful of salt. However, I think, Oscar nominations are inevitable for George Clooney - who showed more variations of emotion in his close ups than I've seen in a long, long time, and probably for the scriptwriter and directors. It's a family movie with a dying wife, complex discoveries, a batch of cousins eager to get rick off the last remaining wild tract of one o the Hawaiian islands -- they are all descendents of Hawaiian royalty several generations back. It's a pleasure to see a modern drama on Hawaii, and this family is beautifully cast, the daughters are excellent and the awkward boyfriend has his place also, So do aging parents, a vital and feisty grandfather and grandmother with Alzheimer's. It's all there in brilliant tropical paradisical splendor. Golden Globes have already given out nominations to Clooney and the movie. Actually awards are simply trimmings -- it's a well told story with, finally, an emotional equilibrium that is rare on screen.

Some of the parts

2011-12-12T16:23:00.001-08:00

In the human body, as sometimes around the house, it seems repairs come in bunches. I'm in one of those phases and I feel reluctant to tackle more than one problem at a time. In the past couple of weeks the teeth have demanded attention. A root canal and now I'm living with a temporary crown and avoiding chewing anything crunchy on the left side. Not much pain has been involved, even before the root canal it was only a dull ache but clearly one in need of attention. Another week or so until the permanent crown is ready. Just a matter of time.

I was a bit annoyed at my tooth for deciding to act up just now. I wish it would have waited a few months so I could give it undivided attention. Because I've long planned to take care of another part of my head -- my eyelids. I have an appointment for very early in January to have them lifted enough so that the peripheral vision that they partially obscure will be returned. NO! emphatically NO! this is not considered cosmetic surgery. ...[wee small voice] but if it should improve my appearance when my eyelids are not permanently droopy, I won't complain.

And the dear old ears have been patiently sitting there on either side of my head trying their best. But their best waivers, partly because of water sloshing in with shampooing, partly because of wax and probably more than I want to think about, because years of work as a transcriber of audio recordings and plain old aging have made me somewhat hard of hearing. In fact annoyingly deaf lately so that I'm always saying "sorry?" or "huh?" And I HATE not hearing what's going on. So they have to be taken care of once the teeth and eyes are tended to.

As long as it's the peripheral organs and not the brain back there behind them, I guess I shouldn't complain. They've served me well and time has taken its toll. Such is life after the Big 7-0.

FAUST simulcast Metropolitan Opera

2011-12-10T16:11:00.000-08:00

Classical grand opera stories have very little to do with modern life. A boringly larger percentage feature the worst of a defunct patriarchal society. Even Gounod's Faust, once so highly regarded it was chosen to be the very first production of the Metropolitan Opera in NYC, has a righteous, unloving brother who curses his sister for being pregnant out of wedlock. He joins a vast array of operatic fathers and brothers who care more for a code of honor than for their families -- it raises my hackles to such an uncomfortable level I feel like a stegosaurus trying to lean back in a narrow theatre seat.

That is only a small irritation I felt at today's simulcast of the Met's new production of Gounod's Faust designed by Des Macaluf [perhaps spelled wrong] When stage directors are offered a chance to spend a lot of money on a production of a very aging warhorse they generally decide to set it in a more modern time period irregardless of the ethnos that informs it. So this Faust was set approximately 1930 with a nuclear physics lab, lots of steel framing the stage and a mishmast of costumes from early 20th century. Nothing made any sense. The story is medieval and hasn't been relevant for several hundred years. I hated it from curtain up to the end. There are many glorious arias and dance tunes, voices of the principals were as find as expected -- that was enjoyable.

The pretentiousness of the production was appalling and the lighting was always dim. I can understand the logic for that, as I understood the logic for the dimness of the National Theatre's Collaborator production a week ago. But I think it's grossly arrogant for a director to dim the lighting as a metaphor for the darkness of his subject matter when it means that the audience who paid handsomely to see a live performance, can't see what's going on on stage. This was corroborated by the woman who went with me when she said she had spoken to someone at intermission whose wife had just seen the Collaborators in London and complained of being unable to see the actor's faces. I would vote for retiring this opera from the repetoire.

The Elephant and the Dragon

2011-12-08T11:42:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I finished a twelve-week discussion course about the book The Elephant and the Dragon, a Pulitzer Prize winning discussion of the rise of China and India as economic powers by Robyn Meridith. The book was well researched, rather ploddingly written and is already dated since it was published in 2007 and most of the research is from 2005.

This was the first time I've taken a current affairs/politics type course at the Academy for Lifelong Learning. As someone pointed out to me, the approximately 750 students fall into camps with little cross over: literary, political and science. I found this roomful of politically minded people thoughtful and some very well read. But I will not be taking another political type course. Politics of all kinds fill me with despair most of the time. In general individuals are ignored and overarching ideas prevail. People give to ideas, of which economics is a weighty one, an importance that overlooks ordinary people, that generalizes the life blood out of public life. I grew especially unhappy the day the emphasis fell on competitiveness and the room was full of people insisting American MUST maintain it's preeminence in the world. "We must dominate," said the woman next to me as military budgets were discussed.

Shakespeare said simply, "there is a tide in the affairs of men" ... In his day Spain was the richest and most powerful country in Europe. Soon England became an empire and "Britianica ruled"... Until it lost it's jewel in the crown in 1947 and America stepped up to dominate. We've seen the vast USSR crumble, we've seen the vast China puff up like a mushroom after a rain [or a mushroom cloud after an A-Bomb] and we don't want to admit that the tide has turned. I don't want to argue with my colleagues, friends and neighbors about a difference in philosophy about what is important. Oh, they'll all agree that individuals are important and the health of the globe is important, but they are distracted by the news, by their educations, by American political jingoism and think politics are of equal importance. I don't think so.

On a personal level, I loved and admired all the elephants I've encountered both in the wild and tame ones. I found India a beautiful and astonishing country. I've never run into a dragon, I did not like Chinese cities, I passionately hate the Chinese domination of Tibet, but I enjoyed seeing tribal people in Yunnan and deeply admire the Tao and Confucius's commentary on the I Ching which I consider the most useful book of ancient wisdom that exists. These obsevations would not have been appropriate in this class.

HELL IN A HAND BASKET. obsevations

2011-12-05T03:57:00.001-08:00

After the Big 7-0, I believe, I have not only a penchant but a right to observe the way the world as I once knew it is going to hell in a hand basket. As of this morning I am going to institute the topic as one to which I will return now and then.

The photo suggests today's topic. I bought a couple of beautiful tangerines a few days ago. I ate one yesterday -- most of it only because I always hate throwing out food that some might consider good. It was sour, somewhat dried out [although it looked perfect[, it had no tangerine flavor.I recently discarded one of two grapefruits I purchased because the first could be eaten only when liberally sprinkled with artificial sweetener. Most people today believe grapefruit are naturally sour. Yes! Before they are ripe all citrus are sour. But only lemons and limes remain sour when they are ripe.

I read a business note in The Times recently{ an entrepreneur who developed an artificial flavoring business wanted to manufacture China but was stymied because the Chinese insisted the secret chemical concoctions of the flavorings must be revealed to the producing plant. The American inventor was unwilling to share his so called "intelectural property." Aren't we going to hell in a hand basket when natural foods -- say strawberries and tomatoes (victims long ago who lost all favor as they became more beautiful in the produce parade for Miss Raw America) now can have their flavor restored artifically? Perhaps some people lack taste memory as I lack musical ear but I have a strong taste memory for the strawberries and tomatoes of my youth -- and for the few truly ripe, sweet grapefruits I've eaten.

Growers, gene splicers, and refrigerated transporters have robbed us of flavor -- now we can add unknown chemicals on top of all kinds of unknown chemicals used to produce and beautify our food, to give it an approximation of the flavor that was once naturally provided by sun and rain. What are all those chemicals doing inside of us? I have inklings when I read about the increases in cancer, autism, asthma and a plethora of undiagnosable ailments.

Collaborators, National Theatre, London

2011-12-02T15:58:00.001-08:00

A simulcast yesterday, of a new play, Collaborators, from the National Theatre of London, shown here at 2:00 in the afternoon [it was 8:00 in London] was a very fine play brilliantly acted, especially by the actors who played the novelist, Mihail Bulgakov, and Stalin. The in-the-round production at the Cottesloe, the smaller space in the National Theatre complex was probably seen more completely and even more intimately by the distant audience than by the inhouse audience. I could only imagine as I thought of what I had seen while driving home, that the video work had surely been plotted out by a brilliant editor/director. I have always found live in-the-round interesting but somewhat distracting as no matter where one sits, one misses a portion of the visual impact of the actor's work. When the lighting is purposely dim, as this was, and very appropriately so for the mood and setting, seeing is even more difficult for the inhouse audience.

I felt very sad and annoyed that the event was badly attended, maybe 50 or 60 people, whereas for a performance I found highly mannered and often distasteful of Hamlet the local theatre was very full. People seem to think that a famous old warhorse is a better bet than something new. Very often that is absolutely wrong. When a theatre with the resources of the National -- in terms of actors, designers, directors -- mounts something new it will be done so well that even if it's not destined to be a classic, it will be brilliantly done.

In Collaborators Bulgakov is asked to write a play for Stalin's 60th birthday. He cannot, in good conscience, write something positive about a man he loathes. The playwright's conceit is that Stalin actually writes the play himself while foisting off his pile of official documents for Bulgakov to read and initial for him -- which means Bulgakov is signing orders for murders, mass starvation in the Ukraine, deportation, etc. Bulgakov begins echoing some of Stalin's equivocations. When he finally breaks and refuses to sign more papers Stalin says, "It's man against monster, and the monster always wins." A political truth we've seen time and again in the last 100 years in so many different tyrannical states. Not a happy take home message but certainly one to ponder.

Super plumber at work

2011-12-01T05:00:00.001-08:00

A mild discomfort that I ignored for some time finally led to a dental exam, specifically an x-ray that showed clearly -- clearly enough for even the untrained eye like mine to see -- that tooth #18 was in trouble. If I didn't have a root canal it would have to come out leaving a gap in my lower left jaw.

I've had a couple of root canal operations in the hazy past. I remember they caused little pain and cost much money. So it was to be with this one since, when I called the recommended endodontist, he had a cancellation yesterday morning. So it was done quickly and fairly painlessly -- painless after five or six injections. I do not know why, when I am sewing and frequently pick up a pinned piece of fabric, sticking myself, the pain of that pin prick doesn't bother me, but a hypodermic needle injecting novacaine or stuck into a vein to draw blood is a mini trauma.

As I lay back with my mouth open and a rubber dam isolating the tooth for the dentist's drills, I picturedd that x-ray showing the nerves inside the tooth where I knew that drill was aimed. Apparently there was calcification around the nerves that had to be dug out. I knew that what I saw on a screen at least 12x12 was far larger than what the good dentist was working on. I distracted myself by thinking of his work as exquisite plumbing. Cleaning out a tiny conduit of unwanted blockage, and stopping it up when he was done so it could exist there in my mouth available for a kind of passive use, as all teeth are when we chew. The mind after all, has to do something when the body is immobile. I thought of various sinks, kitchen, bathroom, I have had and either unstopped myself or had to have unstopped by a professional. Plumbers are an important group of tradesmen within our world, they are paid well. And endodontists are not necessarily more important but far more delicate in what they do, their instruments are very complex. This particular endodontist was personable, informative and, best of all, worked without causing pain. I wish all people everywhere could have access to such skill when they have the need.

Distant, Nuri Bilge Ceylon

2011-11-29T18:01:00.001-08:00

The penultimate foreign film of the fall series -- a series without a lightweight film in the bunch, was Distant by the Turkish director Nuri Bilge Ceylon. A young man leaves his village where the local factory has shut down to go stay with a relative of some sort in Istanbul. The relative is about 20 years older, a professional [but not very busy and probably not very successful] photographer. The young man can't find work and doesn't try very hard, the older man tolerates the younger. They talk very, very little. The older man's wife has left him and is immigrating to Canada with a new husband. Nothing really happens, the dialog is minimal, there is no background music, we see some attractive scenes of Istanbul but not the touristy ones except for a few instances of the Hagia Sophia through the fog.

This film was likened to another we saw earlier called What I Did Last Summer, a Russian film with only two actors who were alone at a weather station in the Arctic -- but there was dramatic action in the Russian film although the landscape was barren and the men mostly silent. When the film was over a woman near-by said that it reminded her of the only Turkish book she ever tired to read, Orhan Palmuk's Snow. I laughed and said I know several people, myself included, who were unable to finish it and not one person who actually finished it.

And yet, I do not believe the the Turks are a morose and boring lot. I saw another Turkish film, the name of which escapes me, a few years ago that I liked a lot -- it was a sweet romance but I do not mean schmaltz. True I couldn't read Palmuk's Call Me Red either -- and frankly I read a lot of difficult books. However when I traveled in Turkey I liked the people. Our Turkish guide was the very best one I dealt with in four continents. When we were on a gulet for four days along the Turquoise coast, the four-man crew were very personable and talkative guys. Needless to say, the salesmen in the souk's poured on the charm -- the Turks have been master traders for at least 4,000 years. So why this 20th century literary and filmic dourness? I don't know.

Stop and Look - Monday morning

2011-11-28T05:17:00.001-08:00

Some mornings, like today, I am focused on email but lift my head just enough to catch a glimpse of brilliance outside the window -- DAWN in all its variety. Unlike any other before. Always different thanks to the clouds.

This was there in these tones for only a few seconds.

Curses on you, Norman Rockwell

2011-11-24T08:08:00.001-08:00

Norman Rockwell ruined many a holiday for me, starting with Thanksgiving. Look at that family, all having a wonderful time together. Look at lovely Grandma and handsome Granddad and the SIZE of that turkey. Look at the "good" china, the silver and the brilliant white damask cloth on the table.

Maybe there are families like that; although I know now Rockwell posed many a scene, took a photo and then painted it for Saturday Evening Post and various other publications. They bear some of the blame too -- yes, you, Henry Luce. Maybe somewhere a family, even as I type more than half a century later, is planning a Thanksgiving just like this. Maybe ... but not many. Many, I hope, are having their own kind of Thanksgiving day. As a very impressionable adolescent I thought that was "how it should be." By then I had only one living grandparent, a very bad cook who lived in a very tiny house where family dinners were never held. No one in the family had good china let alone silver ware. The white table cloths were more likely new vinyl with a flowery pattern. The family was a boring assortment of aunts, uncles, and bratty little cousins. I will say the food was good, much of it was home grown, the turkey was from a near-by poultry grower -- using none of the factory type methods used today. We didn't know there was anything except "free range"

What adolescent appreciates the apple pie she helped make when she knows that once it's all gone she is expected to join her mother and the aunts in the kitchen doing the dishes -- while those irksome little cousins run around outside playing tag and shrieking like banshees. None of the family conversation ever is so humorous that everyone grins with true happiness like those in Rockwell's painting.

Between Rockwell and Luce my brain was imprinted with perfect holidays and the need to acquire china and silver and to regret gravy stains on my white table clothes. Those images were set in concrete, if not marble, in my brain at that age -- an age before [yes, friends there WAS a before] television came to the rural boonies. The damage done took decades to be undone. It took thought, reading, and traveling to many other countries to realize this image of the happy, well accoutered American family with their super sized turkey was all a lie -- except for the super size of any food any time -- but only in America where so many of those people are also now supersized.

I am thankful I have lived long enough to destroy that concrete image and thankful I remember that apple pie, those home grown tomatoes, the other vegetables and fruits that had real flavor and no chemicals -- although often in our kitchen, too much salt and more pepper than necessary was dumped on already delicious food. I am fretful about much that has happened to Thanksgiving in the last half century. I know Norman has been replaced with endless visions on television to unsettle the minds of adolescents perpetually dissatisfied with their families. I knew then and know now that whatever was lacking at our Thanksgiving dinners we loved one another and were that rarity, a "functional" family. Those cousins grew up to be good, honest people with their own functional families. Today I am especially thankful for a dishwasher.

The Force of Truth, Satyagraha

2011-11-21T15:32:00.001-08:00

The opera, Satyagraha, is as theatrically amazing as this still with puppets suggests. Philip Glass wrote the opera in the 1980s. The Met's new production which was simulcast on Saturday was an astonishing, moving and unforgettable experience. The story, such as it is, shows Gandhi during his years in South Africa -- the formative years during which he began his leadership of nonviolent protest.

Without dialog, but with brilliant staging, program notes and a few date and event subtitle, the story is nevertheless told powerfully to Glass's insistent music which underlies the singing of verses from the Bagavadgita all in Sanskrit. Although the music was never static, it was repetitious but the events moved along, sometimes because the twelve-person special effects group did amazing things with the many puppets, with simple newspaper, cellophane tape, actual fire on state. Robert Croft became Gandhi although he is far from a tiny little Indian man with big ears. Through acting, clothing and the audience's willing suspension of disbelief, Croft and the large chorus became a morality play.

Driving home I thought what a rich, varied, thought provoking, wonderful life I have found here where I thought there would be little compared to the richness of New York City. I planned to see the opera on my own, but, in fact, Rachel was given a pair of tickets by a season subscriber who was possibly afraid to venture into something new. His loss, our gain. It was Rachel's first opera. She enjoyed it. She is both socially conscious and theatrically knowledgeable and open to new music. This was a far cry from my hope to introduce her to opera with, possibly The Barber of Seville or The Magic Flute.

Gandhi's example lives in the current "Occupy" movement that has sprung up and that is currently in danger of being crushed by various municipalities. The needs of the many continue to demand attention in the face of the greed of the 1% just as was true in the beginning of the last century. 4,000 years ago the Bagavadgita spoke of truths that have endured despite all the wars and massive injustices that have characterized what we call civilization. Wisdom exists, but so few look for it and act on it.

Dire Prediction

2011-11-20T04:13:00.000-08:00

Steven Hawking, the astrophysicist who keeps going despite extremely debilitating Lou Gehrig's disease said in an recent interview:

"Our population and our use of the finite resources of planet Earth are growing exponentially, along with our technical ability to change the environment for good or ill. But our genetic code still carries the selfish and aggressive instincts that were of survival advantage in the past. It will be difficult enough to avoid disaster in the next hundred years, let alone the next thousand or million."

We could say it metaphorically -- we outgrown the nest that we have fouled terribly. We apparently have no ability to find a way to live sustainably on this planet. He says the only hope for humanity, qua humanity, not individuals specifically, is to colonize another planet. That, of course, leaves the vast, vast majority of humanity on this planet facing, the implication is, extinction in what would be a short ecological time ahead.

It's interesting that he cites our aggressive and selfish genes. Indeed, those are the traits that are causing destruction and wars instead of cooperation and effecient working together to steward the earth's resources and to limit population growth so that this Earth can sustain life.

As we go into the annual consuming frenzy in the US that occurs over the holidays, we enact that selfishness and thoughtlessness that leads to depletion of resources. And we are egged on to do so, of course, by those who stand to reap short term gains at the expense of the future. Hawking is a man with both great intelligence and a personal reason [his almost inconceivably difficult physical condition] to be pessimistic. Often pessimists and depressives are the ones who see most clearly the state of affairs.

Taxi to the Dark Side

2011-11-19T15:29:00.000-08:00

This Alex Gibney documentary film begins with an innocent taxi driver being picked up in an Iraqi road block, taken into detention in an infamously horrible prison, tortured, battered, so badly that he died on his fourth day there. The documentary goes on to Abu Ghrabe and to Guantanamo Bay. It puts the responsibility for America's immoral, illegal by Geneva Convention, abuse and torture of prisoners squarely on the shoulders of Dick Cheney and Dick Rumsfield and the top military officers who gave the men in the field neither training or minimal guidance about how to treat prisoners. It's clear that an "anything goes" attitude started with Cheney. If I believed in the Antichrist is would say he is Dick Cheney.

The film makes me all but physically sick. It serves to emphasize my long term feelings about the culture of fear that was taught the American people after 9/11 -- the ugly recourse to the most primitive, childlike reactions, irrational, extreme and ineffectual, not to say unjust, inhumane and too ugly, disgusting and stomach churning to be borne. If there were justice in the world, and mostly there isn't, Cheney and gang would be in The Hague in detention for crimes against humanity. They deserve to be brought to justice as surely as Adolph Eichmann. 9/11 was a horrible atrocity but the reaction of America's top executives [puppet mouth GWB an puppet master Cheney] was so psychotically irrational, that I have been repulsed by even a photo of Cheney in the same way I am by a close up of a poisonous snake. This is a movie that is probably seen only by those like me who don't have to be convinced.

Pictures of that which cannot be seen

2011-11-17T14:25:00.000-08:00

What is this picture? It is inside the heart -- seen from the outside. Impossible? Not. It boggles my mind. This is one picture from an ultrasound scan of the inside of the heart... some specific heart. Not mine.

But I had many pictures taken today of my carotid arteries and heart. They were taken by different instruments, not only ultrasound -- which in process of doing its job growls, squeeks, whoozhes and sometimes sounds like angry territorial monkeys. Also silent pictuees taken of my blood glowing with radioactive isotopes taken by a moving machine that poised itself over my chest and inched it's way up, like a dragon opening its mouth having found me a most unappetizing morsel.

All this high tech imagining is done in order to see if my arteries are open and clear of plaque which is the result of accumulations of cholesterol -- to put it in the plainest and least precise way. Except for the placement of a IV in a vein in my inner elbow -- and the technician was so skilled I didn't feel the needle pierce my skin -- nothing is invasive. Since the women in my family die of congestive heart disease and I had a partially blocked artery six years ago and a stent was placed in one artery of my heart, I qualify for these high tech very expensive exams.

I do not like medical interventions, I feel fine although there is a shortness of breath when I climb many steps. But I welcome these tests which have become biannual; I am happy that the state of my arteries can be ascertained. Chances are the plaque will not build up suddenly so that I would have a heart attack as my mother and aunt did. Times have changed. They had no such tests; my mother had radical heart surgery two days after the doctors had thought she would die within the hour. She lived another seven years. I sincerely believe too many tests are ordered today and freely admit that I am happy these are done on me. And I am doing my part: I exercise, I avoid fats [reasonably, not fanatically] eat lots of fruit and vegetables. Often I think of my grandmother who also died of congestive heart disease who, at my age, could not walk fifty feet without wheezing and gasping. It's possible I will die of a heart attack, but I believe it's equally possibly I will avoid it and live long enough to get some form of cancer since so many environmental pollutants exist against which I have very little recourse. I am old enough to think often about dying. The certainly that it will happen in one way or another is a constant reminder to enjoy every day. I try and largely I succeed.

Confucius say ... huh?

2011-11-16T16:18:00.001-08:00

The Confucius Peace Prize was awarded by the Chinese to Vladimir Putin. Why Putin? What's he done for peace? Well, the NYTime today reports that it was for his decision to go to war with Chechnyea in 1999. The citation read, in translation by the Times as "His iron hand and toughness revealed in this war impressed the Russians a lot, he was regarded as being capable of bring safety and stability to Russia." This is a peace prize, remember. Is anyone else made more than a wee bit woozy about this line of thinking?

Seeing Angels

2011-11-10T05:26:00.001-08:00

Angels are appearing in the streets of Cuidad Juarez, on the blocks, on the corners where drug world murders have taken place. These white robed, ten foot tall angels carry cards saying [in Spanish] Murderers Repent according to an article in today's New York Times. They are actually teenage boys from an evangelical church carrying the angel figures and placards. This is a very brave thing for them to do, and they well know it, but they persevere.

I find this a moving and very brave thing for them to do. It may be foolhardy, they are young. Like most young men they do not fully comprehend their own mortality, akso their religious faith is important in making them so fearless. We human beings create art by our metaphoric acts. I would rarely be one to say angels walk among us, but in this instance, yes, they do.

Sky, sea, rocks

2011-11-08T17:19:00.001-08:00

This ring of stones is one of the enduring artifacts spontaneously build at the end of the mile long spit of land where I like to walk. This photo was taken a year or so ago; over the last few months the ring has become more distinctly architected (if that's a word). The outer larger stones are more even and the inside is "paved" with smaller stones, the majority of them white or light gray.

Today was a gift of Indian summer, mid-60s, a perfect blue sky, a calm sea, a few boats near the horizon. I walked out to the end of the spit and sat on the edge of the ring of stones. In such a place, even with a few others walking about, I feel in touch with archetypal peace in nature. I have no enemies to fear there. A gull stood at the edge of the water possibly contemplating me, possibly oblivious. I'm told in a class with a psychologist that even infants at 4 months have a sense of numerosity. I think all people respond to circles, be they stone, glens in the forest, wooden corrals or other structures. The impulse to make the circle of stones and the nearby cairn of which I've written several times, is very basic. A circle, of course is a metaphor for completeness ... I am, thanks to the course, unsure of the difference between a literal thing and a conceptual metaphor. The circle is literal, of course, but I think the conceptual part has to do with the feeling engendered sitting there.

I noticed that the stones were various, six or eight different kinds. All of Cape Cod is glacier-built, its composition is a composite of debris gathered and dumped by the last ice age so these stones came from a variety of places. They are probably different ages, differences of a millions of years. I only know enough to know they weren't originally all mixed together; that they are is a gift -- the circle a kind of jewel box of the history of the earth. While I sit on a fairly recent and certainly fragile small bit of land. I, of course, am far more fragile than the land. But I can touch vast history in my circle of stones, while beyond I am encircled by blue sea and sky. A lovely, lovely day to remember when the gray rains and snows of winter discourage me from walking that mile to the circle of stones.

Contant Change

2011-11-07T03:25:00.001-08:00

Biannual clock adjustments have stopped annoying me as they once did. I think it takes my aging internal clock a bit longer to adjust than it used to but that's not important. I rarely have a hard and fast schedule anyway these days.

What the changes mean is that, now that I live in an apartment with a fine view toward the east, I see the sunrises every day ... every day of course when the sky is at least partly clear. A few clouds reflecting orange or pink on their undersides adds to the drama. And, of course, every dawn is different as is every day. I am not a person given to rituals, but I believe in paying attention so I take time to look at the changing colors and the gradual emergence of the Aton, the golden disk worshiped by the ancient Egyptians. At this moment it's behind a tree [well, it seems to be behind a tree] its edges scalloped with leaf and branch obstructions.

Noting the start of every new day should not become a formula. The variability of each dawn reminds us that predictable as night and day are, within the sameness is constant variability. The only constant, as the I Ching long ago recognized is change. "Constant change", an oxymoron that governs our lives.

Movie Overload?

2011-11-03T15:40:00.001-07:00

My diet of visual entertainment is much more restricted than most people's. I do not own a television and I choose the movies I see with care -- which includes the documentary film class I am taking which I have chosen as a potpourri with individual films selected by the coordinator whose taste I trust. I chose art films, some old, some new. I am rarely disappointed and usually somewhat stunned for several hours afterward.

Last night I saw The Mill and the Cross a recent film by the Polish film maker whose name I cannot at the moment pronounce or spell. The film is a technical tour de force. He has brought alive Peter Bruegel's painting by that name both by using the actual location and via new cinematic magic that I cannot hope to understand. He gives Bruegel himself [looks very true to life] the role of narrator. There is very little dialogue, most of the scenes are spacious outdoor ones and the many indoor scenes have hardly any speech. There is some music, but little, and children shouting, animals making their noises. But the action which has the soldier of the Spanish Inquisition arriving to root out heretics and finally to enact, almost silently, but very completely the crucifixion, with the miller on his mill high on a hill looking down, apparently unperturbed by the violent as if he were an uninvolved God. If the story were being dramatized in a more usual way it would have been unbearable to watch but as it was, although the people were very real, the viewer remained detached in a way, intellectualizing the allegory and the horror, almost as uninvolved as many of the citizens of the town who continued to go about their daily life as, indeed, the citizens of Jerusalem must have done when the event actually happened. It is visually unforgettable, as If H traveled to 15-- whatever Flanders.
On Tuesday of this week, I saw the film Mephisto, which won the Oscar for best foreign film in 1981, by a Hungarian director but very much a German film with the central character (almost always on screen) as an actor known for playing Mephisto [in white face) although he is the one who actually sells his soul to the devil in order to continue working and rising in his profession at the beginning of the Nazi era, pre-war but when Nazism was taking control. The film was full of the glitz and grotesques of the German theatre of that period, full of beautiful blond women (and the actor's beautiful black German mistress). It was a very in-you-face story of compromise and ego.

I am feel somewhat overwhelmed. Saturday the local movie theatre is showing a simulcast from the Metrpoloitan Opera of Seigfried. I think that is more Germanic/ Eropean culture than I can handle in one week.

7,000,,000 -- Wow or Ow?

2011-11-01T17:06:00.000-07:00

Seven Billion people now exist upon this little "third rock from the sun". Is that cause for amazement and wonder? Or is it cause for alarm?

Most of us reading bogs are comfortable people, but we're only a very tiny fraction. At least 80% of that huge number live in poverty. They are hungry, often sick, often too cold or too hot or covered with insect bits, they are ill educated and wonder what struggles they must face tomorrow, they have little hope ... but some because those without any hope commit suicide so there is or has been something of worth and pleasure in their lives. Ponder this huge number of people who have so much less than you have. Ponder how it is that you have so much to eat, so many clothes to wear and they have almost nothing. Ponder what it means to the forests, rivers, oceans, animals and birds of this work that so many people now live on it.

To me this is awesome and very, very scary.

Everything is in flux

2011-10-30T12:57:00.000-07:00

Luckily, the long-to-be remembered snow storm of October '11 was apparently deflected from Cape Cod and the Boston area by the relatively warm waters of the Atlantic. Now I sit looking at still green leaves tossing in what I know to be a very chilly wind but beneath a sky of slightly dirty looking cotton clouds with snippets of blue in between while 75 or so miles to west and north heavy deep snow has brought down limbs and turned off electricity and caused consternation and havoc. The second highly unusual storm in two months, counting hurricane Irene, for those parts of New England. Yes, the climate is in flux.

Reading the newspaper I find that the whole world is in flux, politically. Things seem rather quiet down in Australia and New Zealand and those Pacific island nations although it may just be that their quieter flux is ignored by the news because so much else is happening. Not only has the Occupy Wall Street movement spread to other US cities and to cities in Europe, but we've just seen the paroxysms of the "Arab spring". I read today that middle class Indians are shedding their usual political apathy and both demonstrating and voting to stop the endemic bureaucratic corruption. China is terrified by their own almost daily demonstrations which, with current media communications, could grow massively, so they are cracking down on both Internet and television. Things are always unsettled in various parts of Africa, Mexico is in the throes of serious drug wars, parts of South America are unsettled ... and so it goes ... everything in flux. A period of instability physically and politically.

I am a watcher, I've learned that knowing is a good thing, being aware is grounding, but worrying in a waste of time when I could be quietly finding the good and creative things I can do to be happy with my life and perhaps contribute a bit to the small world around me. An hour spent wringing my hands about global warming or the greed begotten by capitalism is an hour I cannot enjoy the limited hours that remain in my life -- which I hope are a great many but when you've hit the Big 7-0 you're an ostrich with her head in the sand if you don't give a little thought most days to the limits of life. But if you're reasonably balanced, you use the time as consciously as possible.

Occupy Wall Street

2011-10-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

Uploading videos is something I haven't learned to do so I will direct you to the sidebar on the right and the blog called Time Goes By. Today's post includes a video from an Occupy Wall Street gathering at Columbus Circle in NYC last night. It's dark so it's hard to tell how big the crowd is but it's big. The video features Pete Seeger [age 92 and going strong], Arlo Guthrie and Tom Chapin and many others, playing guitars, flutes, etc and all singing "The Little Light of Mine, I'm going to let it shine>"

And I have a fit of nostalgia for protests I didn't take part in back in the '70s because I was on my Mommy track in a staid small town in upstate New York. But I had been with the civil rights people in the '60s and was with the anti-Vietnam people in the '70s. Watching this four minute clip and hearing the familiar song, I'm once again with a protest in my heart.

Yesterday's documentary movie was Food, Inc. which emphasizes the hydra-like reach of big corporations controlling what we American eat -- what is in our supermarkets and why junk food is actually cheaper that "real" food [the answer is partly government subsidies that benefit the big corporations].

While the "serious"people complain that the Occupy Wall Street people don't have an agenda and don't stand for anything concrete, they are wrong. The movement stands for the extent to which our choices, even of what we have available to eat in this richest of nations, is controlled, what we see on television and read in papers, what we are charged for for health care, how our schools are run, on and on and on ... are all controlled by corporations who are now defined as "People" by the Supreme Court. But these "people" are essentially robot without a heart or even a head, merely a counting system ruled by bottom line numbers. Many of the most basic choices humans have always had are severely limited by what Wall Street stands for. No, it's not as simple as saying "stop this war" or "give black people equal rights" -- it's become too invidious to define in a few words. We know we are controlled, we are constantly spied on, we are overcharged for inferior services and goods and we are being milked like docile cattle of our savings so that a few rich people can grow richer and richer.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

2011-10-28T15:19:00.001-07:00

This giant pumpkin is 1810.5 pounds and was grown in Stillwater, Minnesota I've never seen one this big but in the part of Indiana where I grew up, we had an annual Pumpkin Show [a month ago this year and I wasn't there]. I think of jack-o-lanterns second, really third, after thinking of that annual Pumpkin Show [which was the only event in our area that offered carnival rides]. I couldn't have cared less about the pumpkins.

Second, I think of James Whitcomb Riley [1851-1916] a Hoosier poet who wrote in dialect and wrote a poem that was probably taught much more enthusiastically in Indiana than elsewhere in the US. This is it:

"When the Frost is on the Punkin"

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, 5
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here— 10
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock— 15
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; 20
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps 25
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be

[Sorry I cut off the last line but I think you've had quite enough by now]

Fun Fashion in L.L. Bean Land

2011-10-27T11:33:00.000-07:00

At my quilt guild's meeting yesterday I had an opportunity to sit and watch the 130 or so women chatting and finding seats before the meeting and during the break between speaker and business meeting. Here on Cape Cod we are mostly in the casual Friday every day of the week mode -- I speak not of working people, that is an area I've graduated out of. I mean, for the most part, the senior population intertwined somewhat with young mothers. Casual, of course, is heavy on denim but here in New England a lot of khaki is worn and other quiet colors, especially in the winter. I overheard a woman in a old rose colored corduroy shirt jacket say to another who was wearing dusty blue -- "mine's L.L. Bean, yours is the same, right?" Right.

I also do a lot of people watching at the Academy for Lifelong Learning at the community college and have decided that by and large those in this semi [sometimes demi] intellectual atmosphere dress a bit more stylishly and brightly. They are more apt to add a nice scarf, a brighter color. This is a long, long way from the ladies I love looking at at the advanced style blog, those ladies are in NYC and would certainly be conspicuous here on Cape Cod. The woman in the photo was the only person at yesterday's meeting whose clothing was memorable - a bit of an Eloise-grows-up attitude. Good for her.

This, of course, is the place where the Pilgrims first settled and they were plain dressers, certainly. I find a bit of that attitude still pertains here. Other parts of the country have their special styles too. Florida brings out the bright colors even when they are pastels, California has its own variation of that Florida feeling. The West is a land of cowboy boots and Stetsons (sometimes on women as well as men) and the South still has a bit more formality about clothing than the rest of the country. Wherever I am, I am a dedicated people watcher. (Sometimes I deeply miss the streets of NYC)

Autum's touches

2011-10-23T15:54:00.001-07:00

Just now, and until the clock gets reset in a week or two, the dawn comes up in full view from my patio doors while I am eating breakfast. On clear days it is magnificent and changes colors, catching different cloud groups minute by minutes. Maybe I will have to start getting up a bit earlier for a while to continue to have coffee and toast with sunset on the side. Gradually it will become later until the end of December.

Here on Cape Cod autumn is parsimonious and later than on the "mainland" -- the ocean keeps us a bit warmer and I have no quarrel with that. I have in my memory bank some upstate New York autumns when whole hillsides were so brilliantly colored under the purest of blue skies that I could hardly breathe, so awed was I. Sometimes I stopped a car on the shoulder of a country road to sit and gaze.

Having had those autumn scenes, I do not feel deprived by our little touches of color and the late occasional blaze among the browns and fir tree greens. One of the rewards of living in awareness as I have mostly tried to do is that, just as I have collections of rings, bracelets, earrings, [none precious stones but mostly semiprecious] which I collected on travels, I have heaps and reams and collections of memories -- a richness I enjoyed at the time and can continue to enjoy many years later as I'm reminded by a little bunch of leaves or a spreading sunrise.

That Old House

2011-10-20T15:37:00.001-07:00

This little house in Woods Hole, on Cape Cod was across the harbor from a portion of the Oceanographic Institute. The town was originally a whaling village. Many old houses from that era still exist there. This three story one with it steep pitched roof looked, on a gray misty day from a fair distance away, like a fairy tale house. I felt that if it were in a forest Hansel and Gretel might live there. I know absolutely nothing more about it but I was enchanted.

October poem

2011-10-17T15:43:00.001-07:00

An October dawn seen from my breakfast table.

Since the beginning of April I have been writing, instead of a diary entry, something that vaguely (sometimes more closely) resembles a poem. This is one about a dawn I wrote a few days ago.

The precious Indian summer days

slipped away under cover of a near full moon night

leaving behind a gray morning

without

the peach, orange, tangerine dawn

clouds

of my last few breakfasts.

Woods Hole, Massachusetts

2011-10-13T15:46:00.001-07:00

Wood's Hole, on "lower" i.e,the southwest end, Cape Cod began as a whaling town. today it is world famous in particular for two institutions: the Wood Hole Oceanographic Institution, a foremost center for the study of the all things marine where the depths of the oceans are studied both by manned crafts and by a variety of robots -- all of which are one-of-a-kind, all of which are designed and manufactured and maintained right there. The harbor, even on a very drizzly, gray day is a lovely sight.
The Marine Biology Labs is an independent institution which has the world's finest laboratories for the study of marine life with the goal being contributing to the understanding and betterment of human life. This institution has provided workspace for 54 Nobel Prize scientists as well as hundreds of others. The numbers of scientific papers published are vast.

A group of 55 seniors from the Academy for Lifelong Learning were given tours of both institutions with lectures by well trained volunteers. Some had been on such a tour previously, I had not. I had merely spent a couple of hours in the town and had no overview at all so I learned a lot. Below is the manned capsule from Alvin, the deep sea going sphere designed to hold three scientists, sitting very close together. It has made 4600 plunges to the bottom of the ocean. At the moment the capsule and the structure that allows it to be lowered and raised are being reconstructed in a somewhat larger size. As can be seen in the photograph, the two people standing in front of it would barely fit inside. I get claustrophobia just looking at it.

One of the most renown accomplishments of a WHOI scientist was the discovery of the location of the Titanic. That was news making but the ongoing and extensive data gathering about the sea, the underwater volcanoes, the sea creatures unknown before being discovered by WHOI scientists is far important. The enormous amount of information that has flowed out of this small town over the past 50 or so years as more and more instruments have been designed, contributes enormously to our understanding of life on earth.

Two Movies in less than 24 hours

2011-10-11T16:11:00.000-07:00

Two movies in 24 hours. I have an openness to stories, especially visual stories makes this a heavy trip along with what I'm reading. Now and then I've read of movie lovers who go to three or four movies ion a kind of orgy, say on a dreary Sunday in NYC -- with many theaters close together in some areas and showings running from about 11:30 a.m. to 11:30 p.m. that is entirely possible with time out for a meal somewhere in the middle. Those film lovers are not people who go to every bit of drek, they try to see decent movies. Doesn't work that way for me. Two in less than 24 hours makes me feel somewhat bludgeoned, largely by myself.

Last night's movie was Mozart's Sister, in French at the nearest art film theatre. I always go to movies that have something to do with classical music. Of course, I knew that Nannerl was very talented and denigrated by Papa Leopold who used the two children like performing ponies to earn his living. This movie focuses on Nannerl's relationship with members of the Sun King's family, a princess and the Delphine, both of whom are enchanted by Nannerl. The story seems to be mainly fictional. The actress looks too old for the role but she is the daughter of the director. Most scenes were mediocre and the story light. But I loved a scene in which Nannerl starts singing one morning, Woflie joins in, they begin singing counterpoint. "A keyboard!" Wolfie cries. They run to a harpsichord, she playing the lower keyboard and he the higher. They compose together, apparently reading one another's minds as jazz musicians do, and both in a state of contained ecstasy. Beautiful!
Today's movie was made in Belgium called Illegal. It was about a Russian woman who is an illegal alien and is picked up on the street in a routine document search. She is put in a detention camp and won't talk. She has a 12 year old son who is being taken care of by a friend -- sort of. She's spunky and determined and she's befriended by a black woman who regularly gets beaten up by the guards [unpreachy reference to racism, of course]. When our heroine is to be deported she fights hard and causes a riot on the airplane, then is beaten badly, but sneaks out of the hospital ward and managed to get home to her son.

Such detention camps exist, not only in most European countries for illegal aliens, they exist in America also. People all over the world are moving from country to country seeking safety, work, a better way of life and countries are handling it with bureaucratic ugliness everywhere. This movie won a major prize at the Cannes Film Festival. The consensus was that it won not because it is fine film making [the critics think it's too much like an American TV special] but because this is a political problem that needs to be addressed.

Hello, Indian Summer

2011-10-09T15:30:00.001-07:00

After looking at a show of 51 small quilts at the National Seashore visitor's center in Eastham, Rachel and I walked on the one good trail that starts from that center. The first third or so was beside what is called Salt Pond, a graceful inlet pond. Twelve swans were swimming on it. I don't believe I've ever seen twelve all at the same time before. Here are a couple of pictures -- they were spread over the fairly large pond, but four or five were gathered in one little inlet area. They are so elegant and seem so serene.

From the pond, we briefly had panoramic view out to a sand bar with the ocean beyond. The view was a little ruined because there were a dozen or more all terrain vehicles out there, so the natural grace was compromised. The remainder of the trail wound through a mixed forest. The shade was actually quite welcome on this very, very warm Indian summer day. Happily Rachel knew of a wonderful ice cream place in Orleans -- what better way to end such a lovely day?

Serious Things on my Mind

2011-10-07T17:04:00.000-07:00

So many serious things are on my mind tonight I almost don't know where to start -- in a sense none of it is personal, and in a sense all of it is personal. I will only mention three.

To begin with the ugliest: I say the documentary film about Emmett Till this afternoon. I had known the story that was a catalyst in the civil rights movement but this documentary showed a picture of him in his casket after his mother was heard describing many of his wounds. The extreme brutality was shocking. I know brutality goes on at all times somewhere in the world but my imagination cannot manage to understand how anyone can so mutilate another person. His murderers did not even know the boy. What they did was from some blood lust, some massive perversion of humanity. And they were acquitted by the jury and eventually died "natural" deaths of cancer. I find some consolation in knowing that the civil rights movement gained many victories although prejudice still exists in this country even in this liberal area as some people in the audience recounted.

The most exciting is that I just watched the You Tube video reading of the statement of the protesters in the park on Wall Street. I signed the solidarity petition yesterday for what tiny bit that is worth. I am delighted a movement has begun to protest and hope it will be picked up all across the country. The statement is very inclusive; I'd be happy if this turned into a movement as big as the anti-Vietnam war movement of the '60s. It's way past time to push back at the corporations and financial institutions.

The saddest was Steve Job's death at such a young age. Almost since I have began working on a PC I have been aware that Mac computers inspired a special fanatical devotion among their users. I did not get one until about five years ago but I have become a dedicated fan as well. I copied a part of the address Jobs gave at Stanford in 2005. I don't know if he already knew he was fighting cancer, perhaps not, but he was a serious man, focused on individuality. This is some of what he said:

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.

“And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

The Elephant and the Dragon

2011-10-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

I am taking a discussion class based on the book The Elephant and the Dragon by Robyn Meridith, a writer on economics. The subject is the economic rise of India and China, with China predominant. Economists make me profoundly uneasy. They see the world in terms of money, and I realize that money is powerful. But economic discussions are always abstract and these discussions talk only about manufacturing and trade balances. Economists concentrate on that portion of the population who work for big corporations whatever country they're talking about. But the truth is only a small percentage of the people in any country actually work for big corporations. Furthermore everything else is generalized. Saying that 4% of Americans control over 40% of America's wealth means nothing. The same is true in China or India. I have a deep distrust of thinkers who don't factor 96% of the people into an equation. The statements that people make in the class are essentially meaningless to me.

As a product of a "fly over" state [Indiana] where no one I knew worked for a large corporation, or had a bank account in excess of $10,000 [if ever that!] or an education much above high school, I think of the vastness of China [and India] and all the "fly over" land there and the millions of people who are not taken into the abstract patterns of economists except when they mention that rural people are moving to the cities at greater rates than ever because they hope to find jobs in those factories. But that is so simplistic, so inhuman and finally so meaningless. I am frustrated as I read the book -- which was published in 2007 and so is already five years out of date -- and I'm even more frustrated in the class as a room full of well meaning, curious, intelligent senior citizens tries to understand something about the world they hear about on TV and read about in newspapers. It seems to me they haven't the tools to understand another country if they have only economic abstractions. I'll revisit this subject in a couple of weeks when I have an opportunity to speak to the class about what I know and feel about China having been there more often than anyone else in the class [4 times although two of those times, to me, were not to China but to Tibet -- no matter what my passport says.]

A panoramic view

2011-10-04T16:10:00.000-07:00

Just thought I'd do a panoramic view of the beach I walk on. Above is looking east which goes on for about two miles at the very tip [on the right] is the Kennedy Compound which is really not visible from where I was standing.

Below is the beach I walk on. The picture is a little deceiving because the end is a blend of another land mass across a small inlet area

The whole thing is very peaceful -- especially in the quiet hours of morning when I sometimes see only one or two other people, and perhaps a dog or two. Then it feels like my private world with nice wide perspectives. On the watery horizon I can see something tall on Martha's Vineyard and at night a lighted beacon. Often I see the ferries cross the eastern horizon going or from the Vineyard. And of course many smaller craft, from kayaks and rowboats [like the one in the picture, to graceful sail boars and all sizes of motor boats. Lately there have been quite a few fishermen out there and I was told they are catching tuna -- smallish, but, surprisingly, tuna.

Word Play, a film about cross word puzzles

2011-09-30T16:08:00.001-07:00

Today's documentary was the delightful film about New York Times crossword puzzles and the annual contest for puzzle solvers, Word Play. I saw the movie three or four years ago when it was first out in NYC because I have been a puzzle addict for a very long time and feel deeply deprived if for some reason I don't get my Sunday Times magazine with the puzzle. I rarely want to watch a film twice but this one was so much fun I totally enjoyed watching it again.

Not surprisingly many people in the documentary class were also puzzle addicts. I especially loved the part of the conversation afterwards that talked about Howard Gardner's book about different kinds of intelligence. Within verbal intelligence Gardner describes 3 or 4 subsets, as he does within musical intelligence and scientific intelligence. Clearly puzzle solvers have some of that verbal intelligence and using it gives them great pleasure. A man brought up the subject but a woman who has been taking the class several years, actually knows Gardner personally and suggested that, since writing his book 25 or so years ago, he has added a couple of other "intelligences." The woman suggested that he should also add culinary intelligence for the people who can cook anything without recipes and it's always delicious. I love when the conversation ranges so freely from the original topic.

In fact, it was a day of connecting with people's ideas which has left me in a great mood this evening. In my writing class we had some brief but thoughtful/thought provoking discussions and at lunch with three of the writers, more discussion. Then in the late afternoon a friend stopped by and we had a good conversation ranging over a number of topics. At least for me, at this stage of life, my greatest and most satisfying experiences are discussions. It's been a most satisfying day.

Horseshoe Crab remains

2011-09-29T15:39:00.001-07:00

Last summer especially and this summer less so, I have habitually picked up the horseshoe crab shells, some young and small, 3 to 5 inches, others ancient, 10 to 12 inches and much darker than the young ones, and lay them in groups high up above the tide line because I feel such ancient creatures deserved reverence.

About the first of August there was a huge die off. One morning I counted over 65 shells washed up along the mile long beach, mostly relatively young crabs. [It might have been a molting instead of a die off. I hope so. I'm ignorant bout how to tell the difference.] After that the numbers have decreased, and are fewer than last year. A few times I've come across huge shells that I think of as the remnants of Methusalahs, perhaps 50, 60 years old, often with a covering of barnacles, and very dark in color. Those I've put in prominent places high up on the shore so others can see them and be amazed as I am.

The last two week there have been a scattering of shells, mostly within a fairly short stretch of the beach, perhaps where the tide comes in at a different angle than elsewhere. I noticed that someone else had taken my hint and gathered a great many together in one group, 17 shells one day, over 20 another. The picture shows them one morning this week. The tide may reach them, perhaps walkers come by paying no attention, or dogs being walked nose around among them. But I was touched to see that my respect for the shells, which I always turn up so the messy, semi-empty internal structure is covered, is shared by others. Perhaps they only need a small hint -- or perhaps it was an original impulse of their own.

Horseshoe crabs were around when the dinosaurs were, they have persevered through enormous geological changes. They deserve respect as do all living creatures but they deserve an extra degree of respect for the connection that goes back to such an early part of earth's history.

How I Ended My Summer

2011-09-27T16:04:00.000-07:00

How I Ended My Summer is a Russian film -- all 132 minutes of it -- with only two characters in a tiny bit of the Arctic, at a weather station. Claustrophobic? No, the scenery goes on forever with full knowledge that they are the only two people for miles and miles. There is a rabbit, a polar bear and some bird, an older man and a younger man. The younger man makes a youthful, cowardly choice not to pass on a message to the older man which eventually leads to a nearly deadly feud. The movie has no music until the lsat 3 or so minutes, we see long minutes of inaction. The two actors shared a best actor aware at the Berlin Film Festival because they WERE the film.

I feel as if I have been in the Arctic for a long time because this movie comes on top of finished T.C.Boyle's Drop City, the final half of which takes place above the Arctic circle in Alaska. I have been above, by a matter of not may feet, the Arctic circle in Finland, in August. but extreme places fasciante me. This movie however worked on our nerves with its slowness. The feeling of being trapped and in danger was nerve wracking. I am not sorry I saw it and I will not forget it.

Catching the DAwn

2011-09-25T10:51:00.000-07:00

This was the sky at 6:00 this morning. I've been up before dawn every day this week but this morning was the most dramatic dawn. I purposly chose an eastward facing apartment because I wanted to see dawns. Ideally I'd have another room that looks west for sunsets but that's not the architecture of this apartment complex so dawn it is and who can complain? I'll be seeing dawns for the next six months because I am a morning person and often am awake by 5:30.

What You Don't KNow May Kill You

2011-09-24T10:47:00.000-07:00

What you don't know may kill you -- and thousands of others. Perhaps one way to avoid the problem of aging Americans is to kill off vast numbers before they reach old age. How? It's being done by polluting most of America's major waterways and aquifers with a cocktail of poisons, mostly colorless, odorless and tasteless that are used in the production of natural gas in an operation called fracking.

I've seen a number of problem revealing documentaries in the last couple of years and I've been outraged at Wal-mart and Monsanto and other industries. But I have never been so horrified as I was watching Gasland made by Josh Fox which shows that natural gas [advertized as "the clean fuel"] companies, when the boom began were unilaterally exempted from oversight by the EPA in a sneaky little law master-minded by Dick Cheney [only recently, at that time, retired from Haliburton, one of the biggest natural gas producers. The fracking process puts a toxic cocktail of over 500 chemicals into waterways and aquifers that affect people in 32 states. People near these gas wells find that the water coming out of their faucets not only stinks, tastes terrible but BURNS -- literally burns if a match is struck to it coming out of the tap. There were scenes in several homes where that was demonstrated.

Not surprisingly the people who have used that water are sick. Their pets lose their hair and die. Imagine living in a house where the water in your pipes could catch fire! The industry is essentially unregulated, they have deep enough pockets that when people hire lawyers and complain, they are paid a bit, big plastic cisterns are provided for them so they can buy water elsewhere and truck it to their homes and farms. But where does that water come from? Utter and complete disregard for the environment is so mind boggling it makes me feel sick at heart. We can see the pollution that causes smog. We cannot see the underground pollution that ruins our water. The industry is so unregulated managers at many levels do not know what is happening, probably only a few chemists have any idea how dangerous the stuff they send by the tanker -- dozens of tankers -- to start each well is so toxic. The workers who handle it are not protected. Over and over again in the history of industrialization companies have done whatever it takes, disregarding both workers and those downstream, downwind, i harm's way. We have the EPA and it has been utterly declawed in this instance and is being gutted in may other instances by funding cuts. As a country, as a voting populace people are essentially committing murder and suicide in utter ignorance. Thank you, Josh Fox! It's a lonely voice but I'm glad someone has done something. It's a start.

Autum begins, summer end

2011-09-23T05:16:00.000-07:00

Autumn begins this evening at 5:05 on the East Coast -- does it roll around the globe [or has it been rolling around the globe for a few hours now, always arriving at 5:05 in the evening of Sept. 23rd, this year? Our way of telling time always is a kind of glitch in my rational [I think it's rational!] mental picture. For instance, all of India is on a time zone that's a half hour out of sync with all its neighboring countries so autumn will arrive there either at 4:35 or 5:35. I wonder if I'm alone in amazement at the things we rational [we think we're rational] human beings have chosen to live with in order to make our civilizations run in a regimented way.

For now never mind those spacy considerations. The weather has suggested autumn's arrival for the past couple of weeks. Cooler temperatures, days of gray dampness with occasional return of beautiful sunny warmth. We don't need the artificial calculations of those who determine the precise minute of the equinox [when curious kids try to stand eggs on their end]. I can feel it on my face when I open the patio door and step outside while my coffee pot heats up. The human skin is a good calculator if you've been in the habit of paying attention.

Summer was lovely; to me summer is always lovely. I literally love those warm, even hot, days; love when I am walking barefoot on grass or sand or wading in water. Always have, I think, since I was quite small. And many, if not most, other people feel the same. But I also love the crisp coolness of an autumn morning or afternoon when a sweater is just the right amount of protection. Gray, damp mornings such as today is have a sensual velvety-ness that kisses the cheek like an old friend who may have once been more then a casual friend. I like the instances when I can stop and think for a few minutes about these usually taken for granted senstions.

The Human Resources Manager, a film

2011-09-20T16:34:00.001-07:00

I am enjoying a series of foreign films shown at the the Cape Cod Community College, a free course that is open to regular students and we over-50s it the Academy for Lifelong Learning. Last week's film was a sad and moving story of a peasant in Bolivia and his family trying to simply life their lives in the mountains while the guerrillas were trying to take control of the area by intimidation that did not stop at murder. Colors of the Mountain was the English title.

Fewer people were at today's film possibly because they do not wish to see serious foreign film that touch the heart in a way very few American films do. Film makers in other countries are not slaves to the "entertainment" ethos but have the freedom to express themselves in an artistic and serious way. Today's film was The Human Resources Manager, an Israeli film which was actually set mostly in Romania. The HR manager of a large bakery finds himself reluctantly accompanying the body of a Romania employee who was killed in a suicide bombing attack back to Romania where everything that can go wrong goes wrong. The divorced husband is estranged from the punk son. Son insists mama should be buried in grandma's town which is in the far boonies, grandma doesn't want her buried there. The HR guy has many personal troubles as well as accompanying the body -- and he is dogged by a nasty little newspaper reporter. Everyone gets marginally humanized in the course of the film. This is a 2010 movie, for those who wish to trace it for rental or viewing.

The dean of the college who introduced the film said that traveling in the Central Europe with a body to be buried is so grim she wouldn't give us the whole story but her grandmother's body was being smuggled across borders in the trunk of a VW which got stolen and the body totally disappeared. She then talked a little bit about the theatre of the absurd and we understood that indeed much in life is absurd.

People who avoid films, books, whatever that might be a bit uncomfortable are depriving themselves of a depth of experience that could make them stronger and even happier people. By dealing with difficult emotions vicariously through art, especially good, complex art, we are better prepared when we face difficult emotional problems.

My Google Search vs Your Google Search

2011-09-18T05:34:00.001-07:00

Ronni Barrett at "Time Goes By" [see side bar and click on it] does a collection of interesting stuff on Saturdays. Yesterday she had a wonderful, very short clip about dog wrapping himself in a duvet, a stunning 101 year old lady who drives an 81 year old car, and a Ted Talk that I highly recommend listening to. This is the introduction:
GOOGLE CENSORS OUR SEARCHES
Not just Google – other search engines too. You and I can search the same word or phrase and get entirely different returns depending on what the search engine knows about us from our past searches and other information.

Google is not the only search engine, or large internet site, that filters the information that comes to you. Facebook does, says the speaker. I don't do Facebook but I do buy from Amazon and was immediately aware of their "you might also like" messages based on things I've bought from them. In that case,I actually like the filer, they let me know of books I don't know exist and sometimes, yes, I might also like that, and I order them.

The information filters are scary. I don't know if my AOL homepage filters the "news" that pops up, I think it's possible. At any rate it seems to me what's happening is a kind of Orwellian Big Brother. This BB is without an agenda beyond sales [in Amazon's or NetFlix's case], and it is without morals, it is an algorithm of our own habits. It re-enforces our bad habits [yes, sometimes I wonder about who George Clooney is dating] and doesn't tell us things we probably should know [a recall of E.coli tainted foods?] Happily I get a lot of information the old fashioned way, through reading, but fewer and fewer people get any amount of real information at all. If we are being dumbed down, in a sense it's our own fault. I strongly recommend looking at the TED talk on "As Time Goes By".

To Hell in a Handbasket

2011-09-14T15:37:00.000-07:00

Thomas Friedman [I believe] had an editorial page piece yesterday about American students' moral sensibility. He quoted a psychological study that interviewed many students on many campuses asking questions to assess their moral sense. Most asserted that killing as wrong. Otherwise they had very little to say about moral issues, often they said, "I don't really deal with that." They were asked about cheating, lying, stealing, various other matters and were wishy washy about most of them.

Today in the context of American economics and how American can compete with China and India, I raised the question of education. It's been a supposed knee jerk priority and yet I saw a young woman in a fast food restaurant this summer who clearly could not make change from a $5 bill. I have seen community college students who clearly did not understand sentence structure, the need for paragraphing and did not know enough, or care enough, to turn on a spell and grammar check program in order to present a readable paper. If American students don't know enough basic math to make change how can they become a part of a technological workforce? And if they cannot write and don't care about their communication skills enough to use a computer program how can anyone imagine they can succeed in a service industry that require interpersonal skills. And if they have no concept of right or wrong who can trust them in any kind of job?

I am taking a course that will talk about the economic rise of India and China, in a comparative sense, but it will hark back to American economic repeatedly. I get very tired of people who talk about creating jobs for Americans when they have a workforce that is almost subliterate. Whatever is going on in schools it's not basic education; whatever is going on in homes, it seems to have nothing to do with instilling vales and ethics. Oh, I know that's a broad brush generalization ... but so it that supposed panacea for maintaining the beloved "American way of life" which is jobs creation. This is a three-month course, I'm sure I'll return to this subject.

Only Three of Many Memories

2011-09-11T05:07:00.000-07:00

[The Memorial Quilt for 9/11 - partial view]

My job at a transcription service gave me a compendium of information. I was the one who most often transcribed tapes with foreign speakers/ I had listened to a Japanese, or perhaps a Singaporean businessman, speaking about "the world trade center" in Singapore, thus learning that the one in NYC was not the only one in the world. When the owner of the company sought me out in my little cubby-office, since I was usually the first to arrive and he often second, he said, "An airplane has run into the World Trade Center." I asked "Which one, where?"

"Here. Ours," he said. A little later he came to tell me it was not an isolated accident.

Several hours later I walked three miles north, alone. The streets were nearly empty, Times Square was strangely desserted. Two tourists were staring at the lighted news strip that usually gave stock market numbers. It gave the planes' number and number of passengers. An evangelist thrust a tract at me, I gave him a fiercely cold stare and walked on through the eerie emptiness and quiet that occasionally carried a distant siren wailing its way to a hospital.

Days later, when the subway was running again, people made eye contact with strangers and began telling their stories, "I was on my way to work..." "My wife called me to say ..." Small memories -- even those with mere crumbs of memory, like mine, wanted to testify that they, too, were touched.

Calling Ourselves By Another Name

2011-09-09T11:52:00.000-07:00

I just had lunch with a largish group of people and met a couple or three people I had never met before. We all had name tags. One very dignified, very well put together woman [maybe the best dressed in the room] had a name tag that revealed her first name is "Fuzzy". We were all teachers in the Academy for Lifelong Learning, nearly all over 60. This woman was 70 or more and, as I said, very well kept. I had seen her name in the course listing and had formed a [you'll excuse the irresistible pun] fuzzy impression of what she might look like. Of course I know that guessing what someone will look like is impossible. She told me, "That's what my father called me the second day of my life." We were interrupted before I could ask what her actual name is.

Most people would have dumped a baby name like that before grade school, and certainly after graduation. Why would a person take a name like that to college? Or like Muffie, Sparky, Bunny, Jimbo, Mags ... I could go on. A high school reunion is upcoming and, the times I've joined these events, I've had difficulty calling Lindalou, Lynn which she used from College on, two Eddie both became Ed, two Bobbies became Bob. That makes perfect sense to me, they grew up, they got rid of the childish diminuative. I think mostly women maintain their nicknames. I hate stereotyping, especially women as a group, and I can say that in the brief time I talked to Fuzzy nothing about her seemed childish, but I think women are [or were in my generation] more inclined to continue the child-like role than were men.

For my part, I've never really had a nickname. My name, in fact, doesn't appeal to me very much and it has seemed not to appeal much to the men in my life. I was more often called Honey or Darling or by my last name. I've never thought I was a June and always wished I were something else, but what? ... well, Honey and Darling were satisfactory, also Mom, Mother, Grandma and Greatgrandma -- although I averred only yesterday that I'd be happy to respond to simple Great. The child to whom I said that only has about 12 words at this point, maybe "The Great" will stick.

Will Power, Ray Baumeister

2011-09-06T15:15:00.000-07:00

Will Power: Rediscovering the Greatest Human Strength, is reviewed in this week's NYTimes Book Review. The author is Ray Baumeister, a psychologist, and the reviewer the almost omnnipresent Steve Pinker. The book discusses an experiment from the '60s by psychologist Walter Mischel in which, as Pinker puts it, he "tormented preschoolers with the agonizing choice of one marshmallow now or two in fifteen minutes." Decades later the now grown children were interviewed. The children who had the foresight and will power to wait for fifteen minutes had, in almost every way, fared better in their lives than the ones who took the immediate reward. They were more successful in their studies and their jobs, had more money, and were happier.

I don't know if Baumeister writes about whether it seems that children are born with or without "will power" or if they had learned it before the age of four from their family situation. I would guess the latter. The subtitle of the book tells us it's message. I think of all the times I've had dessert when someone mentions "saving the icing [or heart of the watermelon} for last versus eating it first. I'm a saver 'til last and have always been. Intuition has always told me that saving the best part last says something about our outlook. But questions arise about whether that's necessarily the best approach. Too many people defer their dream vacation, deprive themselves of some pleasure for this reason or that [good sense financial reasons or from fear of daring]. Few things are either/or. Yes, I believe will power is good, especially when more appropriately called "self discipline." Put money in the IRA but go see the pyramids too. That has been my method and, yes, I'm happy about it -- but no one offered me either one or two marshmallows. I don't remember any discussion in my family about discipline or eating the icing last. My brother eats it first. Maybe the tendency is inborn along many other personality traits.

Birds Harvesting -- what?

2011-09-04T16:15:00.001-07:00

The Canadian geese have been back for a few weeks. This year they arrive in gaggle of 8 to 15, browse the lawn for about an hour and take off. I assume they are stopping by here for a while, perhaps another month or so, until they go further south where snow is rare.

The last few days I have noticed this infestation [is that the word? seems right] of starlings -- a flock of several dozen that arrive in the late afternoon, and do not stay long. I watched them today, since it's Sunday and I was wracking my brain over the Times crossword puzzle as I sat on my mini-patio. They arrived from the north, settled in the middle of the sizable lawn [photo shows the south end which is less than a quarter of the entire lawn] they browsed for about five minutes then gradually individuals flew a few feet further south, others followed suit until the whole group had moved forward about ten feet, then they repeated that process a coupe of times until they reached the edge of the lawn, then some individuals [the leaders?] flew back ten feet north and the rest gradually followed, this was repeated a few time and then they were up and off as a group.

I don't know what they are eating, but they obviously are. Are there seeds from the grass or are there insects. I believe the geese actually eat the grass although they don't make an appreciable difference in its appearance except for their piles of droppings.

My botanical ignorance has been bothering me lately -- but not enough to do serious research. When I walk on the beach I watch the tiny sand pipers [or maybe baby sanderlings] running along at the very edge of the tide, pecking at something. I suppose it is small insects, what else is there? I can't see anything but they clearly find things that they eat. They are all fascinating, I think of Mary Oliver's line in her "Summer Day" when she says she has been watching a grasshopper which she describes exquisitely, and asks, "What else should I do?" Indeed.

After Irene

2011-08-30T10:19:00.000-07:00

Simply by being there several times a week I become a shoreline expert -- sort of. I seethe changes. I was eager to see what Irene's winds did to "my" beach. We had almost no rain here but a day of continuous wind, which didn't seem to me to be especially violent. Yesterday I did not take my camera but today I did. I was there before 9:00 when almost no one else was around. The above picture is the shore, swept clean of nearly all loose sand. Most of it seems to have landed on the other side of the spit. It buried some of the dune grass closest to the shore. Today I notice that the tide has dub 3 or 4 inch deep trenches halfway up the beach. At that hour tbe tide was about as far out as it was going to get. So the beach was at its widest.
The top photo was taken from near where the public access is. The distant view is toward the end of the mile-long spit of land - with a fresh water inlet on the other side. It's only 50 to 100 feet wide until 3/4s of the way out where the seashore curves and the back side widens into a small marsh with several little kettle ponds. At the very end is a rocky area that is under the tide about half the time.
Out where the marshy part is the sand was deposited in the grass, very deeply in some places. Here are two pictures of new dunes covering the grass. Also the shore of the inlet side is much narrower suggesting some of this sand is from there also.
The rocky area is a sort of fat period at the end of a bent exclamation mark. Last year it was bordered with gnarled little trees, all living and apparently healthy. Over the winter most of those trees disappeared. Apparently the sand beneath their roots was eaten away and then they were carried away by the tide. Only one, the largest, of those gnarled trees was left this spring. But its roots were exposed and it did not sprout leaves. People used it to hang broken sea shells on which became plentiful as much as a month ago. Now this tree has been much broken -- the remnants of a bonfire on the very end of the spit shows lots of twisted limbs from this tree that apparently didn't burn well. Since Irene it's roots are almost all exposed and it's this sad wraith of what it was a year ago.
A short distance before the dead tree is this larger, still healthy one. Until Irene it was back from the shore a couple of feet, one had to climb a low bank to get to it to hang broken seashells on it's lower branches which were without leaves although the upper ones had and still have leaves. Obviously it is the next one that will be deprived of its footing and may follow the fate of it's neighbor by next spring.

A woman I often chat with on the beach -- she comes possibly more regularly than I -- said she thought the "period" part of the spit might become an island. That makes sense to me. It will be interesting to see. As can be seen in these pictures, this is a lovely and usually peaceful place for an early morning walk. It was a very beautiful morning beneath that sky where the temperature was about 70.

Too Good Not to Pass On

2011-08-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

Let us put our old folks in prisons and the criminals in old folks' homes! This way the elders get daily showers, exercise and fresh air. No one can steal from them... and they receive money instead of having to pay for everything. The criminals get cold food and have to stay in their rooms all by themselves. No money is given them, the lights go out at 20.00... and showers only once a week. Copy this and watch how far this travels.

The above was quoted on a blog, not attributed except to say it was originally in Finnish. Think about it. Our prison population and our elderly population must be approximately equal. Where do we put our money?

It came, it went

2011-08-29T05:04:00.001-07:00

Hurricane Irene came, huffed and puffed, left a mess like a two year old having a tantrum and left.

We on Cape Cod got only wind. Of course, since the place is full of trees, limbs, big and small, came down, so the electricity went off -- about 2 P.M. and came on at 5:30 A.M. That's it. A dim night, candles and book light did the trick but it was an early to be night. Which meant a early to wake morning -- very early. At 3 A.M. the silence was profound, the darkness deep, and when I went out to see if I could see anything amiss what I saw was a sky full of brilliant stars -- even a quick glimpse of a shooting star. With no ambient interference I could gaze at the sky in its magnificence as people used to see it before electricity.

I went back to bed and lay awake some time pondering a morning headline, "Thousands lose power." By then it was hundreds of thousands ... Power became metaphor as well as technological fact. Power to see in the dark, power to cook, to keep food cold, to entertain themselves at home [except for the many battery run gadgets] And many other kinds of power that are taken for granted. A so-called "life style" we think we need but which our ancestors lived without. We regained power to see the stars, hear crickets, know silence. Forced out of routines, some of us reflect on essentials and that we are powerless to live the life we think is ours without the power of electricity.

Technology and Me

2011-08-26T07:53:00.001-07:00

The old dog new tricks thing -- I am a slow adopter of new technology. I don't yet have a cell phone. Not because the technology is a problem but because I surmise, so far, that I don't need either that constant contact[ability] [I don't like any phone very much and tend to procrastinate about making calls] or that amount of extras geegaws. Yes, there are times it would be marginally more convenient to call someone when I'm not at home and even less marginally more convenient to receive calls. And I'll get one some day, who knows when?

I'm a bit famous in my family for having an ATM card so long before I tried to use it that it had expired. Now I use an ATM for nearly every banking need, but I still don't pay bills online. When ALL bills can be paid online I supposed I'll do it. I didn't use the Internet for a long time, now I can hardly imagine not having that convenience, likewise the microwave. I AM adaptable. But I still believe many technologies are more trouble than they are convenience. And I like writing and receiving real letters.

This new car won my heart when I got home with it and had trouble taking the key out. A little message appeared on what I call the supra-dashboard that read, "to remove key, push inward, turn left and pull." Viola!! I was so impressed that it immediately responded to my problem I wanted to kiss it [but didn't]. It will, the manual says, tell me many other useful things, like how many more miles I can expect to drive on the amount of gas in the tank. It will tell me how ecologically I am driving, when the tires need more air. Will it tell me when to put on lipstick and comb my hair before getting out to go to meet someone? That would be nice but I guess personal grooming is my own problem. So I have a love-em and sometimes leave-em attitude about technology, I'll never be a total convert, I'm too stubborn for that.

Did It!

2011-08-23T15:34:00.001-07:00

Okay, so I did it, I gained a few dollars in the dickering and I leased a 2012 Honda Civic which, contrary to the way this picture turned out, is not blue at all. It's charcoal gray with a bit of opalescence -- and that opalescent paint picked up the color of the sky and trees above. I like this blue a bit better but it wasn't an actual option.

The deciding factor was the configuration of the interior -- especially the way information is displayed in an extremely easy to read way. With all the digital wonders in other areas, the info age is moving into automobiles, in this case, in a way that I find very helpful. Approximately how many more miles I can travel on the amount of gas in the tank, my exact speed [in LED digits] as I drive are only two examples. Love both of them. I think I am going to be quite happy with this car. And, of course, I have the option to buy it when the lease is up. Meanwhile I have a peace of mind I did not have with the former 4th hand car that had done a good job but was totally wearing out. So I have a sense of satisfaction this evening and I think I'll sleep well now that I'm no longer mulling choices awake and asleep.

Rite of Passage

2011-08-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

Buying a new or used car, or leasing one, is a rite of passage for many young people, their wheels to freedom. If they aren't among the fortunate whose parents gift them a car as a graduation or birthday present, buying their firs car is a very significant indicator of adulthood.

Many women of my generation, including myself, have a some time bought a car. But I feel that women of my age [and generation]are unlikely to be buying [or leasing] cars since many have husbands who are happy to undertake that task as cars have always seemed to us "Men's" prerogative. And others of my age have sons or sons-in-law or daughters who do the dirty work. I had a talk/consultation with Son-in-law yesterday with many of hte cliches about bargaining points. Says he, it's not greatly different than bargaining with that sales man in Turkey for a leather coat, the same ploys are useful.

However I talk ed to a no pressure salesperson who wasn't concerned that I said I needed the numbers and time to think about them. That was this morning, I think I'll go to another dealership shorty and see what the offers there are. I'm a little disinclined to comparison shopping when I liked the first guy's approach and numbers But self-respect says I really should or I'll feel a bit chump-ish. Of course we can be slaves to the cliches about comparison shopping too. A few dollars difference may be offset by a different color paint job. The time is here for a decision and it will get made, perhaps in the wee hours of the night.

It Wouldn't Happen Here

2011-08-20T04:33:00.000-07:00

"In the five months since the disaster struck, people have turned in thousands of wallets found in the debris, containing $48 million in cash.

More than 5,700 safes that washed ashore along Japan's tsunami-ravaged coast have also been hauled to police centers by volunteers and search and rescue crews. Inside those safes officials found $30 million in cash. One safe alone, contained the equivalent of $1 million.

The National Police Agency says nearly all the valuables found in the three hardest hit prefectures, have been returned to their owners."

The above quote is from a Japanese newspaper. I'm sad that I know this would never happen in the US. I think also of the reputed million [or is it billions?] of dollar in paper money that were said to have disappeared in Iraq just after our invasion there.

Yes, I've heard some anecdotal stores of lost wallets being returned to people I know, but these true stories were related with surprise, awe and almost unbelieving gratitude. I read no such stories after hurricane Katrina or after the terrible tornadoes last spring. What about the safes in Joplin, MO?

Perefction

2011-08-18T16:17:00.000-07:00

The broken shells, especially these which, I think [I know my profound ignorance about sea creatures] are whelks, always fascinate me with their beautiful spiral structure and the pink-coral-orange interiors. I can't resist picking them up and walking down the beach with the beautiful ones in my hands. Only at the last minute do I come to my senses and remember I have lined my books shelves with them already and as they got drier over the winter they rained small puddles of sand around themselves. So I leave the latest find on a post beside the beach path for those who are more rushed to find and perhaps wonder at, if only briefly. [I do not have great confidence in my fellow humans, most are so distracted by things they find more important than tiny bit of perfection.]
The season is winding down and we are all aware of it. Soon the tourists will mostly have gone home and the small parking lot near my favorite beach will have space for me to park in the middle of the day; I can take a chair, a granola bar and a bottle of water along with my book and read in peace for a while. The weather will remain beautiful through most of September, barring nasty wind and rain from hurricanes roaring up the Atlantic coast.
All people in the higher number decades talk about time flying faster for us. Strange how that happens as many of us, I speak for myself mainly, actually have more time for enjoying, fewer commitments, less hustle and bustle. Yet the time flies. Is ice cream more wonderful because you can't dawdle too much while eating it because it will melt? Does anyone think about that except a septuagenarian? Or does everyone else take the ice cream for granted -- there'll always be another summer? Well, not ALWAYS ... as Hamlet says, "ah, there's the rub."

Amazing Nature

2011-08-13T15:26:00.001-07:00

Links are in the sidebar because sometimes there are absolutely amazing things -- today it's The Big Storm Picture. I urge anyone who reads this to click that link. I've never seen a cloud formation like that. Maybe you have to live in Nebraska. Even if you live in Nebraska you might be as stunned as I am.

"Enjoy Your Day"

2011-08-12T09:59:00.001-07:00

By 9:30 this morning four people had said to me "Enjoy your day." And I answered, "I will. You too." Yes, it's empty repartee. But, yes, I am enjoying my day. What does that mean?

Today it means the summer weather is as perfect as possible: awoke early after a good night's sleep to bright sun, more softy warm than broiling. A touch of breeze that will increase a little later in the afternoon. Abundant flowers on all the streets I drive, a long walk on the beach very early [two of the "enjoys" offered in the course of the walk], Early trip to the grocery when it wasn't very crowded, easily finding the items I wanted. And now a quiet day doing things I enjoy doing, reading, quilting, baking a dessert for dinner, my own iced tea concoction with fresh mint from my yard, no bills in the mail, blog writing, a family dinner later on. What's NOT to enjoy?

Poets and philosophers remind us that we rarely understand happiness [or even enjoyment] until after the fact, often long after the fact when we have a spell of nostalgia or a period of melancholia as we wish for the former happiness, enjoyment, serenity. I recently read that for younger people happiness/joy/delight is a matter of excitement, of doing something specific [playing tennis, partying, going to a concert, etc] but for older people happiness more often comes in the form of contentment which may be passive, contemplative, quiet -- although we never lose our ability, I think, to enjoy a party or visit with friends, a good concert, movie, play, meal.

Yes, I'm enjoying my day, just like I was told to do.