Yesterday, my wife was caught in an indiscretion. She was visiting her friend Daniel at his store, which offers finely made unpainted, wooden bookshelves, racks and tables, along with books, cards and common sense. At least once a month Daniel also hosts a small poetry reading. The quality is uneven, and the store has no heat, but once in a while a faint illumination occurs.
If it doesn't, no matter, out of nowhere an anxiously sincere someone or other always appears offering a bottle of cheap Trader Joe's-Merlot, and a story. These are all women. The story is always the same, how speaking of poetry they slept with such and such a famous poet in college, or else how their husband recently ran off with a "promising" new novelist. "Excuse my French but what an asshole he is."
"By the way, you wouldn't be interested in seeing my chapbook, would you?"
No matter how promising the invitation, no matter how lonely you might be, you would not.
So this is Daniel's world, and also my wife's, and one afternoon he's explaining to her his dream, which is to buy property in Wyoming, assemble some small pre-fab cottages, and start a writer's retreat. This is something he's been thinking about for a long time and he's actually received a number of brochures filled with photos of land for sale. But he has to do all this behind his wife's back. She has the fury of a woman scorned for poets and readings and anything to do with literature or literati.
She is from Thailand and has an amazing story. The short version is that she grew up in a modest family, got married at a young age and suddenly found herself living in America. Her husband was a beast. He beat her, raped her, humiliated her but, thank God, didn't get her pregnant. The one good thing he did was to bring her to Oakland, to an apartment just down the hall from Daniel. The two became friends and probably not lovers but the point was moot when her husband caught the two of them together in Daniel's apartment, and took out his gun.
But at the last moment the man released the trigger, made some outrageous threats and took his wife back to their apartment by the scruff of her neck.
Daniel did the right thing. He's a man who always does the right thing. He got the woman out of her marriage, married her himself, and together they had four children, who are all brilliant and go to the top schools in the city. My wife helped him during the time he was trying to get his marriage up and running, and he has always been very grateful.
You would think Daniel's wife, having the life she did and been saved the way she was, that she would be eternally grateful but she is not. She has made it a point to oppose the world of poetry, and all that goes with it. What Daniel tells my wife is that this woman has but one interest and that's getting more material, more stuff. More of whatever America can give her.
And so yesterday, one of those moments when you get snake eyes and you didn't even know you'd rolled, along comes the wife, blowing in with the draft and the bells above the door, another customer so her husband doesn't look up right away, and suddenly she is approaching just as he is showing my wife some pictures of property he intends to buy, and he is explaining that one cottage will go here and another there.
His wife realizes vaguely that she's come upon something, but what is it? She tries to calculate the scene, her husband with this woman and these photos that she can't see, even as her husband puts them away. Something going on but there are too many variables. And so what else is there to do, how else to forestall what might be a calamity, than to say simply, "Hello. I'm Daniel's wife."
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 27, 2010
Last night Lorna V.L. jumped out of one of the upper stories of 101 Alma Street. The building, which was completed in 1960, has 14 stories, not counting the ones in each apartment. It's among the most prominent buildings in north Palo Alto.
The condos are expensive and the dues are a pretty penny. But you get spectacular views of the university and the hills to the west, or the wetlands and the bay to the east. There's a pool and a gym and 24-hour security. Tenants who've lived in New York City will tell you the building — despite the five-story palm tree out front and the glassed-in balconies — reminds them of New York.
There's even a green awning out front, the kind you find outside most brownstones in certain parts of Manhattan.
At around 10 o'clock last night, in 48 degrees and drizzle, Lorna jumped to her death. She was 77, suffering from kidney ailments and, above all, from depression. She was on oxygen and endlessly uncomfortable.
That she jumped at night is perhaps significant. It afforded her some privacy. Also, there was no reassuring view; hardly any lights, no metaphor to keep her going. In the end, the view and being above the world, was no comfort. And so you wonder, had she been living without the opportunity, had she and her husband not moved into that building, would she have decided to go on struggling?
And how was it that she and her husband decided on this building in the first place, how did each step lead to the next, and when did it first occur to her that she could use this venue to be grounded as it were, to get closer to something more concrete and at the same time, less.
When was the moment she was looking out at the view and then down and thought to herself, 'yes, I could do that. That would work.'
Her husband, of 54 years, was quoted in the local paper to say, "She was tired of the pain, tired of not being able to do anything. We’ve had a wonderful life together, and now it’s over.”
The condos are expensive and the dues are a pretty penny. But you get spectacular views of the university and the hills to the west, or the wetlands and the bay to the east. There's a pool and a gym and 24-hour security. Tenants who've lived in New York City will tell you the building — despite the five-story palm tree out front and the glassed-in balconies — reminds them of New York.
There's even a green awning out front, the kind you find outside most brownstones in certain parts of Manhattan.
At around 10 o'clock last night, in 48 degrees and drizzle, Lorna jumped to her death. She was 77, suffering from kidney ailments and, above all, from depression. She was on oxygen and endlessly uncomfortable.
That she jumped at night is perhaps significant. It afforded her some privacy. Also, there was no reassuring view; hardly any lights, no metaphor to keep her going. In the end, the view and being above the world, was no comfort. And so you wonder, had she been living without the opportunity, had she and her husband not moved into that building, would she have decided to go on struggling?
And how was it that she and her husband decided on this building in the first place, how did each step lead to the next, and when did it first occur to her that she could use this venue to be grounded as it were, to get closer to something more concrete and at the same time, less.
When was the moment she was looking out at the view and then down and thought to herself, 'yes, I could do that. That would work.'
Her husband, of 54 years, was quoted in the local paper to say, "She was tired of the pain, tired of not being able to do anything. We’ve had a wonderful life together, and now it’s over.”
Jan 24, 2010
Frank Rich made the point ("After The Massachusetts Massacre") that when President Kennedy went after U.S. Steel in 1962, by name, he showed his willingness to battle people from his own class — patrician and intellectual elites alike. President Obama has not seemed willing to do that and has entrusted financial reforms, which is the only reform people care about, to the very supercrats — Rubin, Geithner, Summers and the like — who should be sent to Devil's Island.
Of course Obama doesn't come from the patrician elite and perhaps there's some reticence on his part to stare down, to disrespect the country's true oligarchy. An oligarchy that imagines itself as an aristocracy of imagination and drive. Perhaps, it's the one mind game Obama cannot quite master.
But the real problem is that Barry is finally a community organizer by experience and by nature. It makes the utmost sense to him, it's the real American way, to gather people around, let each of them have their say, no matter how idiotic, and ever so gently if relentlessly push them and pull them to a consensus. That would also appeal to his intellectual respect for the basic process of critical thinking. You gather all points of view, study each, weigh each, go back and forth on each, and then a shape appears and, as though you were a sculptor, you refine the shape.
But that's not what's required now. The public will not have it. The lynch mob in the street, and now in the townhouse windows, doesn't want artists or artistry. They don't even want a president, they want s tribal leader. You think of that scene in Lawrence of Arabia when confronted with the choice of whether to go around a retreating Turkish column or indulge in revenge, the Oxford graduate rejects reason and efficiency and leads the blood lust.
That's where we are now.
Or remember Gov. Dukakis's answer to Bernard Shaw's question — if Kitty Dukakis were raped and killed, would you still support the death penalty? "No, it wouldn't change mind,' replied Dukakis without a pause. "I think you know Bernie I have always opposed the death penalty...."
And so the end of Michael Dukakis. We've been here before.
It is a personal tragedy that such a reasoning man as Barack Obama should be asked to discard everything he has learned, and surrender everything he believes in to the drooling, snarl-faced beast in the streets. To the baying below, which comes from right and left. It's as if even they're all whispering in his ear, in Southernmost tea-klux-klang: 'Don't you tell us what you think, boy, and don't give us no more pretty words. Don't you try to elevate us; we don't need your inspiration. Just your anger will do. We know you can do it, boy. We countin' on you.'
And Barry can do it. He showed he could when he ran the Harvard Law Review, a tiny but telling example. And he will do it again. No, we haven't seen Barry's real anger. Sure enough he'll show some fang, no doubt beginning in the State of the Union address next week. But will it be impassioned enough? No, probably not. But later, when he leads the real blood lust, he'll do it in his own way, he'll be cold and quick and dead-eyed.
Is there a defense of giving in to the mob, even in the face of such utter unfairness and the desolation growing for tens of millions of people? No, there is no defense, only a political rationalization. Still, you see how the rebellion against intellectuals flourishes when you look at say, Ted Olson, arguing simultaneously on behalf of gay marriage and Citizens United. These are not equal cases. Gay marriage is coming sooner or later. The corpocracy of America is here now, fully blown, and becomes the mother engine of destruction for all progressive movements. So you wonder how such a gifted mind could be so wise and so stupid at the same time. It's as though Ted Olson doesn't have any moral compass, only an obsession with the glittery little facets of argumentation.
It's one more measure, a throw away revelation, of how America cannot loose itself from its true, base nature. Even the serene, pragmatic and noble Barack Obama cannot pull us up out of that. Here is a country that endlessly prides itself as a peacemaker and the great savior to match great satans, the country of restraint and reason and thoughtfullness ad nauseum. But underneath that we're tied to the extremes. We're out of balance, although not out of character. The worst of it is that just when we need a moral instinct to guide us we find ourselves to be amoral and sentimental, and we've lost trust in the one leader who does have a moral instinct.
As citizens we imagine ourselves as powerless and impotent and now we have become that and drown in the effect.
Of course Obama doesn't come from the patrician elite and perhaps there's some reticence on his part to stare down, to disrespect the country's true oligarchy. An oligarchy that imagines itself as an aristocracy of imagination and drive. Perhaps, it's the one mind game Obama cannot quite master.
But the real problem is that Barry is finally a community organizer by experience and by nature. It makes the utmost sense to him, it's the real American way, to gather people around, let each of them have their say, no matter how idiotic, and ever so gently if relentlessly push them and pull them to a consensus. That would also appeal to his intellectual respect for the basic process of critical thinking. You gather all points of view, study each, weigh each, go back and forth on each, and then a shape appears and, as though you were a sculptor, you refine the shape.
But that's not what's required now. The public will not have it. The lynch mob in the street, and now in the townhouse windows, doesn't want artists or artistry. They don't even want a president, they want s tribal leader. You think of that scene in Lawrence of Arabia when confronted with the choice of whether to go around a retreating Turkish column or indulge in revenge, the Oxford graduate rejects reason and efficiency and leads the blood lust.
That's where we are now.
Or remember Gov. Dukakis's answer to Bernard Shaw's question — if Kitty Dukakis were raped and killed, would you still support the death penalty? "No, it wouldn't change mind,' replied Dukakis without a pause. "I think you know Bernie I have always opposed the death penalty...."
And so the end of Michael Dukakis. We've been here before.
It is a personal tragedy that such a reasoning man as Barack Obama should be asked to discard everything he has learned, and surrender everything he believes in to the drooling, snarl-faced beast in the streets. To the baying below, which comes from right and left. It's as if even they're all whispering in his ear, in Southernmost tea-klux-klang: 'Don't you tell us what you think, boy, and don't give us no more pretty words. Don't you try to elevate us; we don't need your inspiration. Just your anger will do. We know you can do it, boy. We countin' on you.'
And Barry can do it. He showed he could when he ran the Harvard Law Review, a tiny but telling example. And he will do it again. No, we haven't seen Barry's real anger. Sure enough he'll show some fang, no doubt beginning in the State of the Union address next week. But will it be impassioned enough? No, probably not. But later, when he leads the real blood lust, he'll do it in his own way, he'll be cold and quick and dead-eyed.
Is there a defense of giving in to the mob, even in the face of such utter unfairness and the desolation growing for tens of millions of people? No, there is no defense, only a political rationalization. Still, you see how the rebellion against intellectuals flourishes when you look at say, Ted Olson, arguing simultaneously on behalf of gay marriage and Citizens United. These are not equal cases. Gay marriage is coming sooner or later. The corpocracy of America is here now, fully blown, and becomes the mother engine of destruction for all progressive movements. So you wonder how such a gifted mind could be so wise and so stupid at the same time. It's as though Ted Olson doesn't have any moral compass, only an obsession with the glittery little facets of argumentation.
It's one more measure, a throw away revelation, of how America cannot loose itself from its true, base nature. Even the serene, pragmatic and noble Barack Obama cannot pull us up out of that. Here is a country that endlessly prides itself as a peacemaker and the great savior to match great satans, the country of restraint and reason and thoughtfullness ad nauseum. But underneath that we're tied to the extremes. We're out of balance, although not out of character. The worst of it is that just when we need a moral instinct to guide us we find ourselves to be amoral and sentimental, and we've lost trust in the one leader who does have a moral instinct.
As citizens we imagine ourselves as powerless and impotent and now we have become that and drown in the effect.
Jan 19, 2010
Fifty-eight percent.... What is it about this percentage lately? What's behind such a coincidence?
58 percent of those polled oppose Obamacare (a new high).
58 percent of US voters want to waterboard failed Christmas bomber, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab.
58 percent of GOP voters aren't sure if Barack Obama was born in the United States.
58 percent of Americans believe climate change is a "minor threat" or no threat at all.
58 percent of voters polled oppose further investigation of U.S. torture allegations.
58 percent of Republicans answered 'no' when asked if they believe their state should secede from the Union. (And so 42 percent believe their state should secede?)
58 pecent of Republican respondents in Minnesota said they were proud of Michelle Bachmann.
And then...
58 percent of those polled by CNN will not donate money toward the Haitian... what would you call it? Cataclysm. 'Disaster' is too light a word.
According to Wikipedia, although no source is provided, the mythological significance of 58 is that it was "commonly associated with misfortune in many civilizations native to either Central America or Southern America. Due to their beliefs in the original 58 sins, the number came to symbolize curses and ill-luck. Aztec oracles supposedly stumbled across the number an unnaturally high number of times before disaster fell. One famous recording of this, though largely discredited as mere folktale, concerned the oracle of Moctezuma II, who allegedly counted 58 pieces of gold scattered before a sacrificial pit the day prior to the arrival of Hernan Cortés."
Fifty-eight is also the minimum wind speed (mph) needed to issue a Severe Thunderstorm Warning.
And then there is Isiah 58, which by one translation begins....
"Shout it aloud, do not hold back.
Raise your voice like a trumpet.
Declare to my people their rebellion
and to the house of Jacob their sins.
A song based on Isiah 58 uses this question as the refrain, "Am I worshipping God, only for me?"
Isiah 58 offers a fitting commentary on the poll results, and brings to mind H.L. Menchen's observation, "Democracy is a pathetic belief in the collective wisdom of individual ignorance."
If Scott Brown wins a ticket to the U.S. Senate today, it will not be a political debacle for Democrats, contrary to some predictions, but it will bring Democrats to their senses. Whatever effect it has, it will be an unnerving reflection of how this country has come to resemble Germany in the 1930s. Not in full scale, but as a hint, a miniature, a diorama, a moment, like a old smell you'd forgotten.
Imagine them as beer swilling, brown shirts: Limbaugh, Levin, Beck, O'Reilly, and that political cabaret star in Nazi cap, Ann Coulter. And so many others.
And now just this afternoon, on a tip that Brown will win or sufficiently undermine the healthcare bill, the stock market has gone up 116 points. The boys at the Bull 'n Bear are burping with joy that the healthcare company stocks won't take such a hit.
It's no longer a joke. It's that gravity effect of fear and hatred that most people in this country have never noticed, have never known. How could this happen, so easily, like gas coming in under the door.
No matter. However it happened, the thing is here.
58 percent of those polled oppose Obamacare (a new high).
58 percent of US voters want to waterboard failed Christmas bomber, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab.
58 percent of GOP voters aren't sure if Barack Obama was born in the United States.
58 percent of Americans believe climate change is a "minor threat" or no threat at all.
58 percent of voters polled oppose further investigation of U.S. torture allegations.
58 percent of Republicans answered 'no' when asked if they believe their state should secede from the Union. (And so 42 percent believe their state should secede?)
58 pecent of Republican respondents in Minnesota said they were proud of Michelle Bachmann.
And then...
58 percent of those polled by CNN will not donate money toward the Haitian... what would you call it? Cataclysm. 'Disaster' is too light a word.
According to Wikipedia, although no source is provided, the mythological significance of 58 is that it was "commonly associated with misfortune in many civilizations native to either Central America or Southern America. Due to their beliefs in the original 58 sins, the number came to symbolize curses and ill-luck. Aztec oracles supposedly stumbled across the number an unnaturally high number of times before disaster fell. One famous recording of this, though largely discredited as mere folktale, concerned the oracle of Moctezuma II, who allegedly counted 58 pieces of gold scattered before a sacrificial pit the day prior to the arrival of Hernan Cortés."
Fifty-eight is also the minimum wind speed (mph) needed to issue a Severe Thunderstorm Warning.
And then there is Isiah 58, which by one translation begins....
"Shout it aloud, do not hold back.
Raise your voice like a trumpet.
Declare to my people their rebellion
and to the house of Jacob their sins.
A song based on Isiah 58 uses this question as the refrain, "Am I worshipping God, only for me?"
Isiah 58 offers a fitting commentary on the poll results, and brings to mind H.L. Menchen's observation, "Democracy is a pathetic belief in the collective wisdom of individual ignorance."
If Scott Brown wins a ticket to the U.S. Senate today, it will not be a political debacle for Democrats, contrary to some predictions, but it will bring Democrats to their senses. Whatever effect it has, it will be an unnerving reflection of how this country has come to resemble Germany in the 1930s. Not in full scale, but as a hint, a miniature, a diorama, a moment, like a old smell you'd forgotten.
Imagine them as beer swilling, brown shirts: Limbaugh, Levin, Beck, O'Reilly, and that political cabaret star in Nazi cap, Ann Coulter. And so many others.
And now just this afternoon, on a tip that Brown will win or sufficiently undermine the healthcare bill, the stock market has gone up 116 points. The boys at the Bull 'n Bear are burping with joy that the healthcare company stocks won't take such a hit.
It's no longer a joke. It's that gravity effect of fear and hatred that most people in this country have never noticed, have never known. How could this happen, so easily, like gas coming in under the door.
No matter. However it happened, the thing is here.
Jan 11, 2010
So you turn a corner, your age is a different number. Now everything is in shambles: you haven't done anything in half a century, you're a glistening failure, oh what you could have done with your life, oh who you could have been, oh who you could have been with. Oh but for the grace of a graceless god. Isn't regret the oldest unpaid profession, and beating yourself up, the one true love. And why not. In such a fast, steel-hulled world you ought to be able to jump off once in a while, languish in the horse latitudes of a good long lament.
We are just passing half serious, if you look out of the right side of the aircraft. As if to say, 'well isn't the whole world in menopause'? It depends on the time of day. But it's not just the jack-boot step of time, is it, it's a sign of the times. Emotion is on high alert these days. Islamic extremism, it turns out, is a very real illness, the H1N1 of the psyche.
Think of Iris Robinson, for example, the wife of Northern Ireland's First Minister, who at 58 had an affair with a 19-year-old. Not so unusual and of no account but then she helped him raise some money to open a restaurant. His dream was to open a restaurant. She had everything, you name it she had it, and it was too much. Everything is always the same as nothing. Don't we suppose that all she wanted was something less powerful, a little lighter, a little less abrasive. So she went looking for a thrill and it was his innocence. But her goal was not to catch a butterfly, not to violate anything or tack anything up, simply to experience innocence herself, one last time, to feel it inside one last time.
Then it all came tumbling out. Then she tried to kill herself.
That there are no secrets anymore is the great shame.
* * * * *
In San Francisco, suicide is relatively common. The city has the highest 19-24 age youth suicide rate in the country. More people jump off the Golden Gate Bridge than any bridge in the world. Veterans, and now men in middle age, they're all killing themselves. Middle aged men, that's the new mystery.
Interestingly, in San Francisco, the attempted suicide reports tend to come in the late afternoon and early evening. From 5 to 7 p.m.. Vodka martini time, in the old days. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe vodka and gin martinis saved more people than we knew. And so now what? You're sitting there, the sun is turned off, the fireplace is black, you haven't had a happy thought in five years, more than that. And all of a sudden you're in the dark place and you cannot calculate the distance to daylight.
And then maybe you went to see Avatar last weekend and something happened. You saw a utopia, which you hadn't seen in years, maybe ever. And now you want that and you wish your life was just like that, full of fabulous creatures and endearing native people. If you could just have that innocence once more. This is true: A growing number of people report feeling depressed after seeing the film because the depiction of earthy and earthly paradise is so compelling.
* * * * *
When facing the end, generally beautiful scenes appear. According to your mental inclinations, the most impressive are experienced first. If you do not do bad things right now, then there will be no unpleasant scenes when you face death. Even if there are some unpleasant scenes, they too will change into pleasant scenes.
- Pai-chang
We are just passing half serious, if you look out of the right side of the aircraft. As if to say, 'well isn't the whole world in menopause'? It depends on the time of day. But it's not just the jack-boot step of time, is it, it's a sign of the times. Emotion is on high alert these days. Islamic extremism, it turns out, is a very real illness, the H1N1 of the psyche.
Think of Iris Robinson, for example, the wife of Northern Ireland's First Minister, who at 58 had an affair with a 19-year-old. Not so unusual and of no account but then she helped him raise some money to open a restaurant. His dream was to open a restaurant. She had everything, you name it she had it, and it was too much. Everything is always the same as nothing. Don't we suppose that all she wanted was something less powerful, a little lighter, a little less abrasive. So she went looking for a thrill and it was his innocence. But her goal was not to catch a butterfly, not to violate anything or tack anything up, simply to experience innocence herself, one last time, to feel it inside one last time.
Then it all came tumbling out. Then she tried to kill herself.
That there are no secrets anymore is the great shame.
* * * * *
In San Francisco, suicide is relatively common. The city has the highest 19-24 age youth suicide rate in the country. More people jump off the Golden Gate Bridge than any bridge in the world. Veterans, and now men in middle age, they're all killing themselves. Middle aged men, that's the new mystery.
Interestingly, in San Francisco, the attempted suicide reports tend to come in the late afternoon and early evening. From 5 to 7 p.m.. Vodka martini time, in the old days. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe vodka and gin martinis saved more people than we knew. And so now what? You're sitting there, the sun is turned off, the fireplace is black, you haven't had a happy thought in five years, more than that. And all of a sudden you're in the dark place and you cannot calculate the distance to daylight.
And then maybe you went to see Avatar last weekend and something happened. You saw a utopia, which you hadn't seen in years, maybe ever. And now you want that and you wish your life was just like that, full of fabulous creatures and endearing native people. If you could just have that innocence once more. This is true: A growing number of people report feeling depressed after seeing the film because the depiction of earthy and earthly paradise is so compelling.
* * * * *
When facing the end, generally beautiful scenes appear. According to your mental inclinations, the most impressive are experienced first. If you do not do bad things right now, then there will be no unpleasant scenes when you face death. Even if there are some unpleasant scenes, they too will change into pleasant scenes.
- Pai-chang
Dec 25, 2009
The caretaker from down the road, an old surfer, suggested we all go out to the point, to look at the sunset. My wife has been in love with this man off and on for many years and so off we went.
We passed the cottage where big-wave Dave used to live, until he did what he always said he would — he finished his 40-foot sloop and set sail around the world. We walked past the pool where the wealthy heiress, now in her 70s, swims nude on full moon nights with lovers she finds among the local tradesmen. We went past the caretaker's own house, which has been condemned because it sits on 60 feet of mud and is gradually sliding off the hillside. "Like ice cream slipping out of your palm," as the caretaker put it. His face is volcanized and red as corundum. Even his voice is sunburned.
The others went on through the gardens and up the path to the point beyond. I stayed back, by the caretaker's house, to see where the shifting has caused door frames to slant, picture windows to break, and a stone fireplace to crack; and to consider a soil expert's conclusion that even without an earthquake the whole property would slide away within 10 years. And when it happened, not over weeks or days but with no warning, in minutes. The caretaker has refused to move; his wife and son have left. Now he's weighing whether to follow them to an apartment up in Carmel or else ride the fault line.
Of course he'll stay. After all these years he has no choice. Otherwise, he would have no identity. The hillside is his, the trails down to the beach — he built them all, along with fir patches and the lean-tos where he keeps his kayak and surf boards. The beach itself is his, the kelp beds, the rocks, the abalone, even the spectacular view. It's all his. Asking him to give that up would be as though you asked a millionaire to give up every last bit of his fortune, along with the ability to make more.
Eventually, I followed the others along the path, which runs through a small eucalyptus grove and a lemon orchard, and then up a steep angle to a fork. I had forgotten the way and went to the right, through a gate. The path is well supported, edged with large stones. It's all the caretaker's art. At the top of the ridge the main house stands, a simple boxlike design in the 'barn tradition' you find here. The place belongs to one of the country's great entrepreneurs and sportsmen but he hasn't stayed here in many years. Instead, he gave it over to a one-time mistress.
She lives alone and everyone on the point will tell you she is 'strange fiction.' She was once her lover's pilot. She raced cars, sailed boats and took up surfing in her 30s. Her father was the president of an Ivy League university. She majored in physics. Meanwhile, her sisters are rumored to be insane. She herself is schizophrenic and last year changed her name to include the words, "Aphrodite Mary harmonic." She has told people that she is now a Baptist fundamentalist. Someone else told me she had become a Mormon.
She has no children and rarely sees another person. I have seen her perhaps three times in 16 years and not for a long while. She came across as very polite but distant.
I reached the top of the path and stopped to marvel at the simplicity of the house and imagine what the views must be like. All the windows were covered with curtains. You wouldn't think anyone lived there. Then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something: a figure. A woman. I thought it was a statue. It was nearly transparent. For a moment I wondered if it wasn't a hologram, or one of those street magicians that stand stock still at Fisherman's Wharf, waiting for a passerby to trick.
It was as though you came across a deer in a clearing and didn't know if you'd been seen. We both held absolutely still. Perhaps, we were each other's apparition.
She wore plastic surgical gloves, a plastic smock with a hood, white pants covered in a smokey plastic, clear goggles. She held a book in her right hand. It looked like a bible. Her left hand hung in mid-air as though about to turn a page.
She stood on a deck, outside a sliding glass door. The door was closed. I remembered that someone said the house smells like cleanser. She is terrified of bacteria.
She and I remained absolutely still. For a minute, then two. A long time. Long enough to take her in, long enough to be taken in. Long enough to feel comfortable in the not-knowing, to become as familiar to each other as two statues on a rampart. Finally, I called out, "I'm sorry to disturb you but did some people come by this way?"
She looked up. Very calmly. She pulled up her goggles. I thought of Amelia Earhart. "I haven't seen anyone."
Thank you, I said.
"Merry Christmas to you," she said and then regained her pose.
We passed the cottage where big-wave Dave used to live, until he did what he always said he would — he finished his 40-foot sloop and set sail around the world. We walked past the pool where the wealthy heiress, now in her 70s, swims nude on full moon nights with lovers she finds among the local tradesmen. We went past the caretaker's own house, which has been condemned because it sits on 60 feet of mud and is gradually sliding off the hillside. "Like ice cream slipping out of your palm," as the caretaker put it. His face is volcanized and red as corundum. Even his voice is sunburned.
The others went on through the gardens and up the path to the point beyond. I stayed back, by the caretaker's house, to see where the shifting has caused door frames to slant, picture windows to break, and a stone fireplace to crack; and to consider a soil expert's conclusion that even without an earthquake the whole property would slide away within 10 years. And when it happened, not over weeks or days but with no warning, in minutes. The caretaker has refused to move; his wife and son have left. Now he's weighing whether to follow them to an apartment up in Carmel or else ride the fault line.
Of course he'll stay. After all these years he has no choice. Otherwise, he would have no identity. The hillside is his, the trails down to the beach — he built them all, along with fir patches and the lean-tos where he keeps his kayak and surf boards. The beach itself is his, the kelp beds, the rocks, the abalone, even the spectacular view. It's all his. Asking him to give that up would be as though you asked a millionaire to give up every last bit of his fortune, along with the ability to make more.
Eventually, I followed the others along the path, which runs through a small eucalyptus grove and a lemon orchard, and then up a steep angle to a fork. I had forgotten the way and went to the right, through a gate. The path is well supported, edged with large stones. It's all the caretaker's art. At the top of the ridge the main house stands, a simple boxlike design in the 'barn tradition' you find here. The place belongs to one of the country's great entrepreneurs and sportsmen but he hasn't stayed here in many years. Instead, he gave it over to a one-time mistress.
She lives alone and everyone on the point will tell you she is 'strange fiction.' She was once her lover's pilot. She raced cars, sailed boats and took up surfing in her 30s. Her father was the president of an Ivy League university. She majored in physics. Meanwhile, her sisters are rumored to be insane. She herself is schizophrenic and last year changed her name to include the words, "Aphrodite Mary harmonic." She has told people that she is now a Baptist fundamentalist. Someone else told me she had become a Mormon.
She has no children and rarely sees another person. I have seen her perhaps three times in 16 years and not for a long while. She came across as very polite but distant.
I reached the top of the path and stopped to marvel at the simplicity of the house and imagine what the views must be like. All the windows were covered with curtains. You wouldn't think anyone lived there. Then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something: a figure. A woman. I thought it was a statue. It was nearly transparent. For a moment I wondered if it wasn't a hologram, or one of those street magicians that stand stock still at Fisherman's Wharf, waiting for a passerby to trick.
It was as though you came across a deer in a clearing and didn't know if you'd been seen. We both held absolutely still. Perhaps, we were each other's apparition.
She wore plastic surgical gloves, a plastic smock with a hood, white pants covered in a smokey plastic, clear goggles. She held a book in her right hand. It looked like a bible. Her left hand hung in mid-air as though about to turn a page.
She stood on a deck, outside a sliding glass door. The door was closed. I remembered that someone said the house smells like cleanser. She is terrified of bacteria.
She and I remained absolutely still. For a minute, then two. A long time. Long enough to take her in, long enough to be taken in. Long enough to feel comfortable in the not-knowing, to become as familiar to each other as two statues on a rampart. Finally, I called out, "I'm sorry to disturb you but did some people come by this way?"
She looked up. Very calmly. She pulled up her goggles. I thought of Amelia Earhart. "I haven't seen anyone."
Thank you, I said.
"Merry Christmas to you," she said and then regained her pose.
Dec 19, 2009
Jason Reitman, who you would think had made Up in The Air all by himself, was on Fresh Air the other day talking about the enormous attention to detail he had demanded while making the film. He sounded like the young writer who fiddles endlessly with the form of a first paragraph and never develops the substance of a worthy conclusion.
That's the one problem with Up In The Air. Form doesn't quite lead to substance. It's a brilliant film in many so many ways, albeit a little movie in big pants. Clooney is great. Farmiga is even better. She is one more proof that there is nothing sexier than a mature woman. And there are several scenes that make you proud to be in middle age in general.
All that and a fresh eye, but in the last frame the engine cuts out. It made me think of the very last bit of voice over in American Beauty.
Perhaps, it's the fault of the novel that the film is based on, although in that case Mr. Reitman should have come to his own conclusion. As it is the ending leaves the dialogue between artist and audience unfinished and yes, contrary to the la mode need of anything unfinished and unresolved, that ending doesn't suffice.
The problem with Clooney's Mr. Bingham is that he is never able to land, even in the end when he needs to refuel himself, and become something other than a pretender in his life. This is not The Wings of Desire: this is a hero who cannot overcome what, at his point in life, should be an easier obstacle to overcome. And so without character becomes caricature.
That's the one problem with Up In The Air. Form doesn't quite lead to substance. It's a brilliant film in many so many ways, albeit a little movie in big pants. Clooney is great. Farmiga is even better. She is one more proof that there is nothing sexier than a mature woman. And there are several scenes that make you proud to be in middle age in general.
All that and a fresh eye, but in the last frame the engine cuts out. It made me think of the very last bit of voice over in American Beauty.
Perhaps, it's the fault of the novel that the film is based on, although in that case Mr. Reitman should have come to his own conclusion. As it is the ending leaves the dialogue between artist and audience unfinished and yes, contrary to the la mode need of anything unfinished and unresolved, that ending doesn't suffice.
The problem with Clooney's Mr. Bingham is that he is never able to land, even in the end when he needs to refuel himself, and become something other than a pretender in his life. This is not The Wings of Desire: this is a hero who cannot overcome what, at his point in life, should be an easier obstacle to overcome. And so without character becomes caricature.
Dec 15, 2009
And so the health care debate has become the symbol of the nation's dysfunction. All the branches of government have been implicated, along with the media, political parties, the unions, the special interests, the Catholic Church, Rick Warren's church, the education system, liberals, and the economy.
But isn't the real culprit here the American public itself. You. Us. That man in the street. That woman in the next car. The clerk, the mechanic, the doctor, the insurance agent, the captain, the neophyte, the man with the gold watch, the intern, every last one of us. To blame. Why? Because we cannot think critically, cannot focus, cannot separate ideas, cannot look at the problem from a distance. We are finally selfish, lazy and good for nothing. Tuned to the sound of nothing at all.
And so now you have this horde lynching the president, from a cherry picker in the square, the way they do with pickpockets in Iran. Because he's not Christ, because he can't do everything himself. It's disgraceful what we've done. It's disgusting what we've become.
But isn't the real culprit here the American public itself. You. Us. That man in the street. That woman in the next car. The clerk, the mechanic, the doctor, the insurance agent, the captain, the neophyte, the man with the gold watch, the intern, every last one of us. To blame. Why? Because we cannot think critically, cannot focus, cannot separate ideas, cannot look at the problem from a distance. We are finally selfish, lazy and good for nothing. Tuned to the sound of nothing at all.
And so now you have this horde lynching the president, from a cherry picker in the square, the way they do with pickpockets in Iran. Because he's not Christ, because he can't do everything himself. It's disgraceful what we've done. It's disgusting what we've become.
Dec 14, 2009
He's 15. I'm thinking, he should be a bookie, but how the hell's that gonna work. I give him the $127. He won it in a pool they hold down at Steve's cafe in Redwood Shores. The kid doesn't really care. I bring home the sheet every week; he picks winners; I take it back. Two weeks ago he was tied going into the Monday night game. He would have won $150 if the Saints' field goal kicker hadn't missed late fourth quarter. Ball sailed right, from 35 yards, and we're saying to each other, "how the fuck do you miss from 35 yards. I could fucking kick it from 35 yards." Then this week he wins it clean, but close. The way the card works is if you're tied after Monday night then the one that comes closest to the total number of points in that game wins. Final point total, this was the Cardinal-49er game, was 34. Kid had 37. Next closest had 38. I get my chicken teriyaki sandwich and Rich asks me if I'll take a hundred dollar bill or do I want it in 20s. I take the C note. I bring it home. The kid is happy, but not jumping up and down. He's into a Warrior's game, somebody on his fantasy team. I'm thinking, you know what, he doesn't give a damn about school; you have to hook him up to battery cables to get him to study for 10 minutes. He could care less. So what the hell. We'll go Vegas. We'll try it for a year. Rent one of those empty ass condos in the new MGM Grand. They got rooms where the shag is lonely 'cause no one is ever gonna stay there. Not in this life. The cockroaches 'll come home before that happens. It's all over-built so we'll just take up some headquarters. Do a lot of pool time, babe time. I knew a guy once who was a doorman at the Grand. Earned $175K a year — opening doors. He loved it. Loved the life, the sodom and gomorrah of it, the whole thing. We could do it. Plus the kid's brother is becoming a sports writer. He writes great and he knows more about football than anybody. So we'll all go. Hang out. Maybe do some college games. Maybe get into the ponies. Do the over and under on hamster races, who gives a shit. Hell, we're packed. We're gone.
Dec 9, 2009
This morning, on a crumb-filled table in a Pete's Coffee, in Burlingame, there was a Daily Post. The lead was, Parents Come Out Against Trick Play. The story was about a Pop Warner football team in Palo Alto that won a championship game by a strategy on a par with asset swaps. In this case the exchange was dishonorable play for a win.
Here's how the play works. From the sidelines the coach calls out to the quarterback that the ball needs to be changed. On a perfectly sunny day, no less. Now there's a moment of confusion. But since it's the coach calling who is to be respected by definition — and because a good coach, the likes of Vince Lombardi or Red Auerbach, demands honor above all — the boy comes toward his coach.
Remember that these kids are 11 or 12. And remember that this would demand some practice and indoctrination. Here's what happens....
Dishonorable play for a win... Some parents were outraged. But they were quickly dismissed, with these kinds of arguments...
"This program has been going on for 56 years. What's the problem? Nobody's ever said squat about anything we do here."
"Parents that object don't understand the game and their kids aren't any good anyway. This is a competitive league; they oughta just go play soccer."
"Do you know what Al Davis would say? He would say, 'win, baby, win.' So what's your problem?"
Dishonorable play for a win... But then this is one of those places where, roughly speaking, cleverness has no limits, moral imagination has no cache, and winning something even so minute as this is the only salve for success in the material world.
All I could think of was Coach Greg. Greg Isom who took the San Francisco Seahawks to any number of championships. You could say he's the Tony Dungy of Pop Warner in the Bay Area. It would break his heart to see such a thing, to think that kids would be taught how to win like that, to think a coach would humiliate a player like that.
*****
Below that story, there was what sounded more like true-crime: "Stolen RWC limo becomes doctor's home." RWC is Redwood City.
The story was about a stretch limo that appeared to have been abandoned. Police were called, came to investigate and saw through the window a bag of groceries, a sleeping bag and a manuscript. An officer was able to read a name and telephone number on the ms. He took out his phone and called.
Suzanne Caadium answered and said she would come for her belongings. She arrived shortly and when asked how she got in and out of the limo explained that she had found the car, with the keys in it, on October 24th, the day that the limo had been stolen. It appeared stolen and she used it temporarily for shelter. It also came out that she was a Stanford grad.
Ms. Caadium was arrested. But then what happened and who is Suzanne Caadium?
It is Dr. Caadium and she's 32 according to her website, which includes a photo of a girl who looks younger than 32, with short brown almost curly hair, full lips, and a mischievous smile. She looks smart but not from Stanford. I think of Stanford women as blond with thighs from race horses, and always a little naive. Always a little gee-whizzed by life. This girl does not look naive. Sweet but not naive. Her blog begins with this autobiography...
I have a rich life story along with a strong education and a high creative drive, all of which allow me to provide consultation in a number of areas. Ultimately, I play the roles of healer, teacher, and philosopher in my work.
I call myself a consultant, from the Latin consultare meaning "to discuss" from which we also derive words such as consul and counsel. Otherwise known as a Professional who provides advice in a particular area of expertise. I offer holistic advising and support in matters of political policy, medical education and other industries who seek the truth. By holistic, I mean that I use a broad perspective and a synthetic understanding of human nature in all of my work.
She lists her educational background....
Stanford University School of Medicine
Doctor of Medicine, June 2006
University of Nevada, Reno
Bachelor of Science, Dec. 1999
Major: Cell and Molecular Biology
World School of Massage and Holistic Healing Arts
Individual modules in massage therapy and communication
And then her professional positions....
Resident Physician, Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Science,
University of California, Davis, Sacramento, CA
And then there are awards and publications. But no indication of how she might have wound up in a stolen stretch limo in RWC, which is neither upscale or down, but a 'tweener of a suburb.
Dr. Caadium's website also includes a screenplay proposal. Here is part of it.
Screenplay Proposal: “2/5/8: my stint as World Leader Pretend”; 6500 word raw outline
A story about a revolutionary physician who took a militant stand against conventional medicine in order to explore more meaningful concepts around healing as a shaman. In the midst of her consciousness-raising, she becomes astrally attuned and links consciousness with a lot of people in high circuits. With her unique philosophic approach to human cooperation and conflict resolution, she becomes involved with political matters on a surprisingly high level for a young mother at 31. In 3 short weeks of psychically consulting everyone from Hillary, Obama and Ron Paul she gets linked with high officials in nations throughout the world.
Over a matter of days around February 5, the heroine makes a mad dash to save her children from an abusive step/father while running from renegage forces in the police and military who stand to lose power from the negotiations, while working through divinity training through her shamanism. The effects of exposing those waging the war as fundamentally opposed to world peace when it was completely worked out otherwise has been severe. What does the government do with a political rebel preaching logically about ecohappiness and getting the Resignation of George W. Bush. Subsequent weeks were spent fervently creating policy for a new world based on sustainable ecologically sound human coexistance while trying to escape persecution by a psychotic ex-husband, jealous ex-boyfriends, sadistic family member and crazy house mates.
more to come, perhaps. (For more information, I would contact the Daily Post newspaper, or the Redwood City Police.)
Here's how the play works. From the sidelines the coach calls out to the quarterback that the ball needs to be changed. On a perfectly sunny day, no less. Now there's a moment of confusion. But since it's the coach calling who is to be respected by definition — and because a good coach, the likes of Vince Lombardi or Red Auerbach, demands honor above all — the boy comes toward his coach.
Remember that these kids are 11 or 12. And remember that this would demand some practice and indoctrination. Here's what happens....
Dishonorable play for a win... Some parents were outraged. But they were quickly dismissed, with these kinds of arguments...
"This program has been going on for 56 years. What's the problem? Nobody's ever said squat about anything we do here."
"Parents that object don't understand the game and their kids aren't any good anyway. This is a competitive league; they oughta just go play soccer."
"Do you know what Al Davis would say? He would say, 'win, baby, win.' So what's your problem?"
Dishonorable play for a win... But then this is one of those places where, roughly speaking, cleverness has no limits, moral imagination has no cache, and winning something even so minute as this is the only salve for success in the material world.
All I could think of was Coach Greg. Greg Isom who took the San Francisco Seahawks to any number of championships. You could say he's the Tony Dungy of Pop Warner in the Bay Area. It would break his heart to see such a thing, to think that kids would be taught how to win like that, to think a coach would humiliate a player like that.
*****
Below that story, there was what sounded more like true-crime: "Stolen RWC limo becomes doctor's home." RWC is Redwood City.
The story was about a stretch limo that appeared to have been abandoned. Police were called, came to investigate and saw through the window a bag of groceries, a sleeping bag and a manuscript. An officer was able to read a name and telephone number on the ms. He took out his phone and called.
Suzanne Caadium answered and said she would come for her belongings. She arrived shortly and when asked how she got in and out of the limo explained that she had found the car, with the keys in it, on October 24th, the day that the limo had been stolen. It appeared stolen and she used it temporarily for shelter. It also came out that she was a Stanford grad.
Ms. Caadium was arrested. But then what happened and who is Suzanne Caadium?
It is Dr. Caadium and she's 32 according to her website, which includes a photo of a girl who looks younger than 32, with short brown almost curly hair, full lips, and a mischievous smile. She looks smart but not from Stanford. I think of Stanford women as blond with thighs from race horses, and always a little naive. Always a little gee-whizzed by life. This girl does not look naive. Sweet but not naive. Her blog begins with this autobiography...
I have a rich life story along with a strong education and a high creative drive, all of which allow me to provide consultation in a number of areas. Ultimately, I play the roles of healer, teacher, and philosopher in my work.
I call myself a consultant, from the Latin consultare meaning "to discuss" from which we also derive words such as consul and counsel. Otherwise known as a Professional who provides advice in a particular area of expertise. I offer holistic advising and support in matters of political policy, medical education and other industries who seek the truth. By holistic, I mean that I use a broad perspective and a synthetic understanding of human nature in all of my work.
She lists her educational background....
Stanford University School of Medicine
Doctor of Medicine, June 2006
University of Nevada, Reno
Bachelor of Science, Dec. 1999
Major: Cell and Molecular Biology
World School of Massage and Holistic Healing Arts
Individual modules in massage therapy and communication
And then her professional positions....
Resident Physician, Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Science,
University of California, Davis, Sacramento, CA
And then there are awards and publications. But no indication of how she might have wound up in a stolen stretch limo in RWC, which is neither upscale or down, but a 'tweener of a suburb.
Dr. Caadium's website also includes a screenplay proposal. Here is part of it.
Screenplay Proposal: “2/5/8: my stint as World Leader Pretend”; 6500 word raw outline
A story about a revolutionary physician who took a militant stand against conventional medicine in order to explore more meaningful concepts around healing as a shaman. In the midst of her consciousness-raising, she becomes astrally attuned and links consciousness with a lot of people in high circuits. With her unique philosophic approach to human cooperation and conflict resolution, she becomes involved with political matters on a surprisingly high level for a young mother at 31. In 3 short weeks of psychically consulting everyone from Hillary, Obama and Ron Paul she gets linked with high officials in nations throughout the world.
Over a matter of days around February 5, the heroine makes a mad dash to save her children from an abusive step/father while running from renegage forces in the police and military who stand to lose power from the negotiations, while working through divinity training through her shamanism. The effects of exposing those waging the war as fundamentally opposed to world peace when it was completely worked out otherwise has been severe. What does the government do with a political rebel preaching logically about ecohappiness and getting the Resignation of George W. Bush. Subsequent weeks were spent fervently creating policy for a new world based on sustainable ecologically sound human coexistance while trying to escape persecution by a psychotic ex-husband, jealous ex-boyfriends, sadistic family member and crazy house mates.
more to come, perhaps. (For more information, I would contact the Daily Post newspaper, or the Redwood City Police.)
Dec 2, 2009
The better part of midnight, I'm coming home with wine and bread. For those in need, on a drizzly night and drear. I step over the legs of a man asleep under a bus shelter bench. You wouldn't come outside unless you had to. I cross the street. The blinds on the crab restaurant window are falling. Everywhere curtains are drawn. I walk on.
I notice a woman in the distance, walking toward me. Same side of the street, a hundred yards away. She's screaming something. I walk faster. At 40 yards, she's blonde, shirt no sweater, hair tied up, in her 20s maybe. Just out of graduate school, I'm guessing. And before that, private college. Private everything. It's in the way she walks, the way she screams, the tone of voice, she's heard powerful authority figures up close.
She stops by a man sitting on the curb. Now I understand: they're together. He's wearing a white button down shirt and jeans. He's long legged, hair cut short. Like the nerd babies down at EA Sports. He's sitting on the northwest corner of Kirkham and 46th. Under a street light thick with mist and moths. I slow down to take in the drama. “What are you doing?” She's screaming. Over and over. “What are you doing?” The emphasis is on doing. “What are you doing?” The man doesn't answer but the body language says, “I’m leaving you. I’m done.” His head is bent over, legs spread, arms resting on his knees, fingers clasped, as though an IED just went off. He's trying to figure out who lived, who died.
And you know right away from looking at them, from hearing her screaming and his anger. His horror. You know what must have happened. He was betrayed. That was the IED. The images of her, maybe just in his imagination, have detonated. He has seen her underneath her lover, he has seen her responding.
Do you remember that scene in Visconti's 1960 film, Rocco And His Brothers? Alain Delon and Annie Giradot. Do you remember the scene when Rocco finds his mistress in the arms of his younger brother, Alain Delon. Rocco takes immediate revenge. While hoods hold Delon, Rocco takes the girl, by force, but there is a moment, more nuanced in some film versions, where after resisting the Giradot character gives in. She responds to Rocco. Fully. Delon is faced with the cruelest fickleness and promiscuity. He is condemned to hopelessness and cynicism forever....
I'm thinking of that as I approach the couple. The girl notices me and says something. He looks over his shoulder and says it doesn't make any difference who hears since, 'you've already woken up half the neighborhood'. I walk past, I don't look at either of them. 'I don’t see you', I'm thinking. 'I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t want to know.'
And yet I do. I want to know everything. I want you to tell me everything, from the moment of conception. I may be able to help. I've played all these parts myself...
But of course we let people have their dramas by themselves, even in a public place. Still, I would like to make a stage play out of it. Improv Everywhere. Actors popping out of trunks, appearing out of the shadows, coming up out of the manholes, like they did in those train stations in Europe. But these are twilight zone actors. They can actually play the different roles in these people's lives. Including the lover. And Nina Rota in the background.
Act 3 will be years later. They'll see each other again and they'll remember that night on 46th and Kirkham, in the damp and drear. "Was it 46th or 45th?" "No, we lived on 46th..." It will be awkward to remember such a thing. There'll be regret. Each will remember it differently. One or the other will be defensive. She will apologize still again, even as she wonders about his secrets. They will agree it was an untimely end. They will finally agree it might have been a mistake to react so definitively....
So I cross the street like a whippet on a leash and head down toward the ocean.
“I didn’t do anything,” she's saying. Over and over and over. “I didn’t do anything.” The tone is so plaintive, so genuine with apology. And every other word is 'think' or 'want.' ‘I wasn’t’ cheating on you,' is what I'm hearing. 'Not like you think? Did you think I wanted him? Did you really think that? Yes, I was lonely and you were off in your anger and who knows where were, where have you been, there are questions I could ask you.... but I didn’t want him. I don’t want him. It was nothing. It was just something that happened. I didn’t care about him. I don’t care about him. I’m sorry. Just stop for a minute.’
All of a sudden, he starts yelling. And now you can hear the wound itself. I linger by a parked car to hear better. I try to see through the car, but the windows are tinted. I go back a few yards in their direction. I'm thinking, 'well maybe I can do something'.
But what?
I could go up to them. I could say, "Do you know anything about the blue Morpho butterfly? Yes, well it lives in the Amazon rain forest. It's the most beautiful butterfly you've ever seen. The shade of blue is exquisite, unimaginable. If you saw it it would take your memory away. Literally, it does that. Here's something else. It defends itself by having such a bad taste that all its enemies know to avoid that taste. it's in their genetic memory. And here's something else, the Morpho lives for just a month. That's all. One month. All that beauty for just one month."
"And that about sums it up," I would say to them. "Just a different shade of blue. Don't you see. You're on the flip side of something fabulous. Don't give it up. That's all. Okay, then. Back to your fighting. "
I notice a woman in the distance, walking toward me. Same side of the street, a hundred yards away. She's screaming something. I walk faster. At 40 yards, she's blonde, shirt no sweater, hair tied up, in her 20s maybe. Just out of graduate school, I'm guessing. And before that, private college. Private everything. It's in the way she walks, the way she screams, the tone of voice, she's heard powerful authority figures up close.
She stops by a man sitting on the curb. Now I understand: they're together. He's wearing a white button down shirt and jeans. He's long legged, hair cut short. Like the nerd babies down at EA Sports. He's sitting on the northwest corner of Kirkham and 46th. Under a street light thick with mist and moths. I slow down to take in the drama. “What are you doing?” She's screaming. Over and over. “What are you doing?” The emphasis is on doing. “What are you doing?” The man doesn't answer but the body language says, “I’m leaving you. I’m done.” His head is bent over, legs spread, arms resting on his knees, fingers clasped, as though an IED just went off. He's trying to figure out who lived, who died.
And you know right away from looking at them, from hearing her screaming and his anger. His horror. You know what must have happened. He was betrayed. That was the IED. The images of her, maybe just in his imagination, have detonated. He has seen her underneath her lover, he has seen her responding.
Do you remember that scene in Visconti's 1960 film, Rocco And His Brothers? Alain Delon and Annie Giradot. Do you remember the scene when Rocco finds his mistress in the arms of his younger brother, Alain Delon. Rocco takes immediate revenge. While hoods hold Delon, Rocco takes the girl, by force, but there is a moment, more nuanced in some film versions, where after resisting the Giradot character gives in. She responds to Rocco. Fully. Delon is faced with the cruelest fickleness and promiscuity. He is condemned to hopelessness and cynicism forever....
I'm thinking of that as I approach the couple. The girl notices me and says something. He looks over his shoulder and says it doesn't make any difference who hears since, 'you've already woken up half the neighborhood'. I walk past, I don't look at either of them. 'I don’t see you', I'm thinking. 'I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t want to know.'
And yet I do. I want to know everything. I want you to tell me everything, from the moment of conception. I may be able to help. I've played all these parts myself...
But of course we let people have their dramas by themselves, even in a public place. Still, I would like to make a stage play out of it. Improv Everywhere. Actors popping out of trunks, appearing out of the shadows, coming up out of the manholes, like they did in those train stations in Europe. But these are twilight zone actors. They can actually play the different roles in these people's lives. Including the lover. And Nina Rota in the background.
Act 3 will be years later. They'll see each other again and they'll remember that night on 46th and Kirkham, in the damp and drear. "Was it 46th or 45th?" "No, we lived on 46th..." It will be awkward to remember such a thing. There'll be regret. Each will remember it differently. One or the other will be defensive. She will apologize still again, even as she wonders about his secrets. They will agree it was an untimely end. They will finally agree it might have been a mistake to react so definitively....
So I cross the street like a whippet on a leash and head down toward the ocean.
“I didn’t do anything,” she's saying. Over and over and over. “I didn’t do anything.” The tone is so plaintive, so genuine with apology. And every other word is 'think' or 'want.' ‘I wasn’t’ cheating on you,' is what I'm hearing. 'Not like you think? Did you think I wanted him? Did you really think that? Yes, I was lonely and you were off in your anger and who knows where were, where have you been, there are questions I could ask you.... but I didn’t want him. I don’t want him. It was nothing. It was just something that happened. I didn’t care about him. I don’t care about him. I’m sorry. Just stop for a minute.’
All of a sudden, he starts yelling. And now you can hear the wound itself. I linger by a parked car to hear better. I try to see through the car, but the windows are tinted. I go back a few yards in their direction. I'm thinking, 'well maybe I can do something'.
But what?
I could go up to them. I could say, "Do you know anything about the blue Morpho butterfly? Yes, well it lives in the Amazon rain forest. It's the most beautiful butterfly you've ever seen. The shade of blue is exquisite, unimaginable. If you saw it it would take your memory away. Literally, it does that. Here's something else. It defends itself by having such a bad taste that all its enemies know to avoid that taste. it's in their genetic memory. And here's something else, the Morpho lives for just a month. That's all. One month. All that beauty for just one month."
"And that about sums it up," I would say to them. "Just a different shade of blue. Don't you see. You're on the flip side of something fabulous. Don't give it up. That's all. Okay, then. Back to your fighting. "
Nov 10, 2009
I hadn’t heard from him in years but then one day an email appeared. He started right in with his health. “I’m taking some new medicines for my heart,” he wrote. “Last year I was also diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. I'm feeling better now. The cardiac and Parkinson's medicines agree with me and are keeping things in control. When I'm sick or have symptoms, I never know what causes it. Is it my heart? Parkinson's? Old age (72)? I've always been interested in politics. In January Nancy Pelosi invited me to Washington for her swearing in. Washington was exciting. February 23 I met and talked with Hillary Clinton. She has an outstanding intellect. I also met Senator Dianne Feinstein, who was delightful. I met John Edwards three years ago. I liked him. I'd like to meet Obama.”
He suggested we have dinner, just as we used to do once a month. “I’m free on Tuesday for lunch, or Thursday, or Wednesday for dinner.” I told him I’d come get him on Friday but then at the last moment I couldn’t, I said I would reschedule but didn’t and half thought that might be the end of it.
Then two weeks later he sent another message saying he was free on the following Friday. I wondered why he cared so much. We had had a minor argument a few years ago, I can barely remember what it was, but I wondered if he wanted to resolve it. I resigned myself and got him. He was standing outside the parish as always, in an A’s baseball cap, his ancient windbreaker, talking to one of one of the homeless people In line for food at St. Anthony’s.
The neighborhood looked worse since I’d lived there, 15 years ago. The new apartment buildings then now looked worn, their prefabricated fronts looked prefabricated, the seams and joints all showing through, the color fading, dripping away. The mask was coming undone. When they first opened, designed as low-income housing, those buildings held such promise; just the look of newness in that part of town, held such promise and all the politicians foretold a new day.
Once on a campaign tour with TH we walked down Eddy Street; the cops pointed out this improvement and that safe street corner. A new day they told him, but privately they sneered, at him and at optimism. “It’s bullshit, the crime is worse than ever,” a patrolman told me between smiles. Still, you thought it had to get better. How long could the poor hang on in the second or third most expensive city in the country. There would be no market for drug dealers....
Plus the faux gentility is all sweated out. This city loves to say it loves the poor “we love you, poor people, and we have every program for you, every good intention, right up to the Speakers door, but you need to be heard not seen. See that’s the way we can all get along. Yes, let’s play a little game. Hide and seek. You hide and we’ll find you. Go along now.”
But 15 years ago the Laotians and Cambodians and Burmese were all moving in. They were filling up the schools in the Tenderloin and they didn’t tolerate crime, to the extent they could resist. But apparently the promise could not be kept, can never be kept, only the endless programs for the heavily laden, those fly traps for hope, and so the neighborhood remains rich in crime and loss.
* * *
My friend got in the car and right away confirmed it all. “The cops think of it like sand and whatever you make better falls away, the SROs are jammed, there are more stabbings and murders and assaults than ever.”
He looked gaunt; I didn’t want to look at him closely. And there was a familiar smell around him that I couldn’t identify at first. We drove into the Mission, and on the way he told me about his graphologist, who had examined his handwriting, and how he was this on the Miller Briggs and that on the Ennagram test. I’m a number 3, he said conclusively, as though he were in line at the sandwich counter. I want to be judged by my appearance but I’m also a leader.
He’s always loved to tell the truth about himself, and startle you with self-criticism. I’m a compulsive truth teller he said and I remember that the very first day I met him he confessed he was having a sexual relationship with a African America over in Oakland. The man worked as a blood taker at a local hospital. He showed me pictures of him.
I can’t believe I’m telling you this, he said. You won’t print it will you? No I said and I didn’t. Nor when he told me later about his adventures down in San Carlos at the gay movie houses where he could slide in during the middle of the afternoon and get a blow job in the dark and anonyme....
The bishop is a number 7, he went on. Father F. is a 1. He added that F. had gone to Rome and become a huge success.
How is your faith these days, I asked.
“Never been better, Brother. I feel very close to God.” And he added, “He has not forsaken me, after all...”
His is a simple faith, no more than an acquired conviction that the voices he hears are His and correct and when he needs reassurance he hears them. But this faith gives him no self knowledge. A why but not a who. So he finds refuge in the ennagrams, the graphologist, hazel-eyed seers in the street, his psychiatrist — a Norwegian who tells him how to deal with say, his brother’s death, but also how to think about death.
We stopped at a Tea House he used to go when he lived at St. Anne’s. I dropped him off, parked, and returned. He was seated on the banquette, his back to a mirror that stretched the length of the restaurant. He’d taken his cap off and scanned the room with the air of a man accustomed to being not just regarded but honored. His greatest hope has always been that he would be beloved by this city to which he has given so much. But no one notices him anymore, no one knows who the man is, and his anonymity sometimes hurts him....
There was a family at the next table, no doubt from Bernal, the man showing his kids a new i-phone, which had come to stores just the day before. They were chattering on about the coming week at Camp Mather, the city’s gift to the upper middle class, a lodge and lake near Yosemite.
My friend went on about the mayor, the new DA and the police. The gossip about Supervisor Jew lives. I asked about the mayor’s scandal, sleeping with his campaign manager’s wife, his best friends’ wife, the stories of his cocaine use, and still the people love him, seventy percent of more. How is it possible that character isn’t any issue?
“It never was,” he said. “Not here. The people love him. When he opened City Hall to gay marriage he could do no wrong. But that’s what cost the Democrats the election....”
I was surprise to hear him say it. I always imagined him tied to the establishment but he seemed genuinely offended that the mayor had slithered out of his scandal. “Something about this town,” he went on. “Character has never counted for much, it’s the nature of seaports.
The conservation turned to the Church and how it had become so rife with pederasty. I didn’t know it was as bad as it was, he said.
I didn’t believe him, but he said it so sincerely that it occurred to me that whatever he knew or might have known he believed it was all new knowledge. We tried to remember when news of the scandals began. He told me how bad it was still in LA. “There are 200 or so bad priests that we know of.”
How many here? I asked.
He looked at me and shook his head, as if it suddenly occurred to him that I might write about it.
I’m a compulsive truth teller, he said to me once and he said it again on the way to the restaurant.
He also wanted to tell me the five top women he hated. Kid stars mostly. Paris Hilton was at the top of his Five although he told me that someone had suggested he show true compassion and send her a note. He did, a few lines about how she was a good person and should not let herself get down about being in jail. "She didn't write me back," he said
He ate slowly. From time to time he looked off, his eye followed someone and then just stopped. I noticed the terrible bruise spots on the underside of his arm, from his illnesses I assumed. He went on about that again and then the waiter asked he wanted desert. No, he didn’t want any but could they wrap what was left on his plate. He looked out of breath and owl like in his oversized glasses. He looked frightened and suddenly I remembered that scent, that smell my father shortly before he died.
I got the car; we drove back down mission street. I asked if he seen his old lover, the man he told me about the very first time I met, in the fall of 1985. The lover was African American and lived over in Oakland. Took blood at a local hospital. They were happy for a year or two. No, he hadn’t seen him, but had heard the man moved into a retirement home.
We were back at the end of the world. People were literally piled up on his doorstep. It took him a while to get out of the car. He was gracious as always, summed up his impressions of me, always in a positive light, always a father doling out the good news, even when there isn’t any. He made his way to the gate and stopped to chat with the people preparing for the night. ‘The coldest winter I ever spent’. But he didn’t just chat, as if to pass the time, but he asked them what they needed and could they make until morning and did they know of the free beds over on Leavenworth or others over at Episcopal Sanctuary. He was in no hurry. The good Franciscan was doing his work say what else you will.
He suggested we have dinner, just as we used to do once a month. “I’m free on Tuesday for lunch, or Thursday, or Wednesday for dinner.” I told him I’d come get him on Friday but then at the last moment I couldn’t, I said I would reschedule but didn’t and half thought that might be the end of it.
Then two weeks later he sent another message saying he was free on the following Friday. I wondered why he cared so much. We had had a minor argument a few years ago, I can barely remember what it was, but I wondered if he wanted to resolve it. I resigned myself and got him. He was standing outside the parish as always, in an A’s baseball cap, his ancient windbreaker, talking to one of one of the homeless people In line for food at St. Anthony’s.
The neighborhood looked worse since I’d lived there, 15 years ago. The new apartment buildings then now looked worn, their prefabricated fronts looked prefabricated, the seams and joints all showing through, the color fading, dripping away. The mask was coming undone. When they first opened, designed as low-income housing, those buildings held such promise; just the look of newness in that part of town, held such promise and all the politicians foretold a new day.
Once on a campaign tour with TH we walked down Eddy Street; the cops pointed out this improvement and that safe street corner. A new day they told him, but privately they sneered, at him and at optimism. “It’s bullshit, the crime is worse than ever,” a patrolman told me between smiles. Still, you thought it had to get better. How long could the poor hang on in the second or third most expensive city in the country. There would be no market for drug dealers....
Plus the faux gentility is all sweated out. This city loves to say it loves the poor “we love you, poor people, and we have every program for you, every good intention, right up to the Speakers door, but you need to be heard not seen. See that’s the way we can all get along. Yes, let’s play a little game. Hide and seek. You hide and we’ll find you. Go along now.”
But 15 years ago the Laotians and Cambodians and Burmese were all moving in. They were filling up the schools in the Tenderloin and they didn’t tolerate crime, to the extent they could resist. But apparently the promise could not be kept, can never be kept, only the endless programs for the heavily laden, those fly traps for hope, and so the neighborhood remains rich in crime and loss.
* * *
My friend got in the car and right away confirmed it all. “The cops think of it like sand and whatever you make better falls away, the SROs are jammed, there are more stabbings and murders and assaults than ever.”
He looked gaunt; I didn’t want to look at him closely. And there was a familiar smell around him that I couldn’t identify at first. We drove into the Mission, and on the way he told me about his graphologist, who had examined his handwriting, and how he was this on the Miller Briggs and that on the Ennagram test. I’m a number 3, he said conclusively, as though he were in line at the sandwich counter. I want to be judged by my appearance but I’m also a leader.
He’s always loved to tell the truth about himself, and startle you with self-criticism. I’m a compulsive truth teller he said and I remember that the very first day I met him he confessed he was having a sexual relationship with a African America over in Oakland. The man worked as a blood taker at a local hospital. He showed me pictures of him.
I can’t believe I’m telling you this, he said. You won’t print it will you? No I said and I didn’t. Nor when he told me later about his adventures down in San Carlos at the gay movie houses where he could slide in during the middle of the afternoon and get a blow job in the dark and anonyme....
The bishop is a number 7, he went on. Father F. is a 1. He added that F. had gone to Rome and become a huge success.
How is your faith these days, I asked.
“Never been better, Brother. I feel very close to God.” And he added, “He has not forsaken me, after all...”
His is a simple faith, no more than an acquired conviction that the voices he hears are His and correct and when he needs reassurance he hears them. But this faith gives him no self knowledge. A why but not a who. So he finds refuge in the ennagrams, the graphologist, hazel-eyed seers in the street, his psychiatrist — a Norwegian who tells him how to deal with say, his brother’s death, but also how to think about death.
We stopped at a Tea House he used to go when he lived at St. Anne’s. I dropped him off, parked, and returned. He was seated on the banquette, his back to a mirror that stretched the length of the restaurant. He’d taken his cap off and scanned the room with the air of a man accustomed to being not just regarded but honored. His greatest hope has always been that he would be beloved by this city to which he has given so much. But no one notices him anymore, no one knows who the man is, and his anonymity sometimes hurts him....
There was a family at the next table, no doubt from Bernal, the man showing his kids a new i-phone, which had come to stores just the day before. They were chattering on about the coming week at Camp Mather, the city’s gift to the upper middle class, a lodge and lake near Yosemite.
My friend went on about the mayor, the new DA and the police. The gossip about Supervisor Jew lives. I asked about the mayor’s scandal, sleeping with his campaign manager’s wife, his best friends’ wife, the stories of his cocaine use, and still the people love him, seventy percent of more. How is it possible that character isn’t any issue?
“It never was,” he said. “Not here. The people love him. When he opened City Hall to gay marriage he could do no wrong. But that’s what cost the Democrats the election....”
I was surprise to hear him say it. I always imagined him tied to the establishment but he seemed genuinely offended that the mayor had slithered out of his scandal. “Something about this town,” he went on. “Character has never counted for much, it’s the nature of seaports.
The conservation turned to the Church and how it had become so rife with pederasty. I didn’t know it was as bad as it was, he said.
I didn’t believe him, but he said it so sincerely that it occurred to me that whatever he knew or might have known he believed it was all new knowledge. We tried to remember when news of the scandals began. He told me how bad it was still in LA. “There are 200 or so bad priests that we know of.”
How many here? I asked.
He looked at me and shook his head, as if it suddenly occurred to him that I might write about it.
I’m a compulsive truth teller, he said to me once and he said it again on the way to the restaurant.
He also wanted to tell me the five top women he hated. Kid stars mostly. Paris Hilton was at the top of his Five although he told me that someone had suggested he show true compassion and send her a note. He did, a few lines about how she was a good person and should not let herself get down about being in jail. "She didn't write me back," he said
He ate slowly. From time to time he looked off, his eye followed someone and then just stopped. I noticed the terrible bruise spots on the underside of his arm, from his illnesses I assumed. He went on about that again and then the waiter asked he wanted desert. No, he didn’t want any but could they wrap what was left on his plate. He looked out of breath and owl like in his oversized glasses. He looked frightened and suddenly I remembered that scent, that smell my father shortly before he died.
I got the car; we drove back down mission street. I asked if he seen his old lover, the man he told me about the very first time I met, in the fall of 1985. The lover was African American and lived over in Oakland. Took blood at a local hospital. They were happy for a year or two. No, he hadn’t seen him, but had heard the man moved into a retirement home.
We were back at the end of the world. People were literally piled up on his doorstep. It took him a while to get out of the car. He was gracious as always, summed up his impressions of me, always in a positive light, always a father doling out the good news, even when there isn’t any. He made his way to the gate and stopped to chat with the people preparing for the night. ‘The coldest winter I ever spent’. But he didn’t just chat, as if to pass the time, but he asked them what they needed and could they make until morning and did they know of the free beds over on Leavenworth or others over at Episcopal Sanctuary. He was in no hurry. The good Franciscan was doing his work say what else you will.
Nov 4, 2009
"You want to know how I know I'm reaching menopause?" asked a friend the other day. She was angry as hell. "Now that my husband is ill I'm taking the trash out every week. I've noticed I'm the only woman who does that. And so then I yell at these men whenever I see them. "Make your wife do it. What kind of feminist are you? Don't you see you're just enabling. Is this what you're down to?" You know what I mean? It's just sick. What are women coming to, that's what I want to know."
Nov 2, 2009
In the context of pressure put on young Chinese students by their parents at Gunn High School in Palo Alto, a teacher in another school, a small private school on the peninsula, told me these anecdotes from a teacher-parent conference. The teacher is not Chinese; the parents are.
The mother of a 7th grade boy was upset that the teacher had given students this weekend assignment: prepare for a quiz on Monday. "You need to give us two weeks notice for any kinds of test so we can prepare," said the mother. "We need to calculate the number of minutes required to study each day."
The parent of another 7th grade student said, "You want my son to learn how to read 'for fun?' We don't believe in that. Reading is not for fun."
In fact, there is no character in Mandarin that quite connotes, 'fun'.
The mother of a boy in this same class takes her child once a month to a psychiatrist, who charges $250/hr. The psychiatrist claims the child has issues and prescribes various medications.
The teacher disagrees. "There's nothing wrong with the boy. He's fine. He just likes to move around a lot. He has relentless energy. The problem is that he's told he's got a problem. His mother is always telling me, 'there is something wrong with him, you just can't see it.' It's heart breaking to see a child in effect brain-washed into thinking he's ill when he's not. And heart- breaking to see a child who is gifted and smart put under great pressure to appear in a certain way, to display the same kind of academic prowess as other children. This boy has great potential but he's not going to reach it in a conventional way. This is what drives me crazy: this mother, who is very smart, will not acknowledge any way that is not conventional."
And finally a revelation from the Chinese principal of still another school on the peninsula. She noted recently, "I see all these Chinese parents doing this to their children, putting them under so much pressure to succeed. I think it's stupid. I can't even talk to them. They don't understand anything about education... But I am doing the same thing to my daughter. I know it's wrong and hypocritical but I can't help myself."
The mother of a 7th grade boy was upset that the teacher had given students this weekend assignment: prepare for a quiz on Monday. "You need to give us two weeks notice for any kinds of test so we can prepare," said the mother. "We need to calculate the number of minutes required to study each day."
The parent of another 7th grade student said, "You want my son to learn how to read 'for fun?' We don't believe in that. Reading is not for fun."
In fact, there is no character in Mandarin that quite connotes, 'fun'.
The mother of a boy in this same class takes her child once a month to a psychiatrist, who charges $250/hr. The psychiatrist claims the child has issues and prescribes various medications.
The teacher disagrees. "There's nothing wrong with the boy. He's fine. He just likes to move around a lot. He has relentless energy. The problem is that he's told he's got a problem. His mother is always telling me, 'there is something wrong with him, you just can't see it.' It's heart breaking to see a child in effect brain-washed into thinking he's ill when he's not. And heart- breaking to see a child who is gifted and smart put under great pressure to appear in a certain way, to display the same kind of academic prowess as other children. This boy has great potential but he's not going to reach it in a conventional way. This is what drives me crazy: this mother, who is very smart, will not acknowledge any way that is not conventional."
And finally a revelation from the Chinese principal of still another school on the peninsula. She noted recently, "I see all these Chinese parents doing this to their children, putting them under so much pressure to succeed. I think it's stupid. I can't even talk to them. They don't understand anything about education... But I am doing the same thing to my daughter. I know it's wrong and hypocritical but I can't help myself."
Oct 26, 2009
On the Bryan Sussman radio show the other day a caller suggested the reason President Obama is closing down Gitmo and transferring some prisoners to the US mainland is because he wants the prisoners eventually released so they can commit crimes, which will enable the president to suspend more basic rights and erect a dictatorship. An Islamic dictatorship.
Good call, said The Suss.
Good call, said The Suss.
Oct 18, 2009
I pay the gas cashier. She drops change in my palm, ever so careful not to touch me, even with her hand in a surgeon's glove. I get out the door, not wanting to touch the door handle. To my left a lady in a van spots me. "Like to make your marriage better?" she calls out and motions me over.
I keep walking, watching her as though she's a buffalo out the train window. Big dark glasses, tall face, red lipstick, chubby fingers, a bible with the worn-to-yellow leather cover, kids in the back seat.
"Would you like to make your marriage better?" She keeps asking. "Would you? Wouldn't you like it to make it better?"
Okay, I'm thinking: she's on her way to Fort Worth to catch the Get Motivated seminar with George Bush and Rudy Guiliani. I'll contribute to Route 66. I go over.
Five minutes later I know all about her deadbeat alcoholic husband, how he beat her, berated her, belittled her, befuddled her, bitched at her, bamboozled her, baited her, bombed her with abuse, and finally she said, 'that ain't me babe.'
Then she became a JW. And happy being single. 'Okay,' I say. 'That's all good and just listening to your story makes my marriage feel better.'
No, no, but that's not all, she says. She wants to read me something from 2 Timothy and opens her bible. I don't remember a Timothy. Later, I look him up in The International Standard Bible Encyclopedia. Timothy was the son of heathen Greek and a Jewish mother named Eunice. His grandmother was named Lois. Tim became Paul's assistant. Here's a description of how they met.
"On this 2nd visit to Derbe and Lystra, Paul was strongly attracted to Timothy, and seeing his unfeigned faith, and that from a child he had known the sacred Scriptures of the Old Testament (2 Timothy 3:15), and seeing also his Christian character and deportment, and his entire suitability for the work of the ministry, he would have him "to go forth with him" (Acts 16:3). Timothy acquiesced in Paul's desire, and as preliminaries to his work as a Christian missionary, both to Jew and Gentile, two things were done. In order to conciliate the Jewish Christians, who would otherwise have caused trouble, which would have weakened Timothy's position and his work as a preacher of the gospel, Paul took Timothy and circumcised him."
Who writes this stuff, I'm thinking. And is the author suggesting that Tim and Paul were lovers?
"This know also," my van lady teacher begins, in a deep manly voice, "that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves." She reaches out, takes my right forefinger and guides it along the line, following each word. "Covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy. Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God...
She stops there and taps my finger on the word, pleasures. "That was my husband," she says. Then she taps my finger on Traitors. "That was my husband." Then, incontinent. "That was my husband."
"Really," I said. "All that and he was incontinent?"
"That was Tim," she says.
"You mean Timothy? Not Timothy..."
"No, no, my husband, Tim."
"Oh," I said. "Well that's terrible. No wonder you left."
She wants to go further, go through each word again and how that describes her husband exactly. Meanwhile, I'm flipping through the most recent Awake, which has stories about "Living With Albinism" and "What if my sibbling has committed suicide?"
"Don't you feel better now?" she asks, as though I've just been exposed to a transformation? "Do you see now how to make your marriage better?"
I walk away repeating to myself, I am not incontinent.
I keep walking, watching her as though she's a buffalo out the train window. Big dark glasses, tall face, red lipstick, chubby fingers, a bible with the worn-to-yellow leather cover, kids in the back seat.
"Would you like to make your marriage better?" She keeps asking. "Would you? Wouldn't you like it to make it better?"
Okay, I'm thinking: she's on her way to Fort Worth to catch the Get Motivated seminar with George Bush and Rudy Guiliani. I'll contribute to Route 66. I go over.
Five minutes later I know all about her deadbeat alcoholic husband, how he beat her, berated her, belittled her, befuddled her, bitched at her, bamboozled her, baited her, bombed her with abuse, and finally she said, 'that ain't me babe.'
Then she became a JW. And happy being single. 'Okay,' I say. 'That's all good and just listening to your story makes my marriage feel better.'
No, no, but that's not all, she says. She wants to read me something from 2 Timothy and opens her bible. I don't remember a Timothy. Later, I look him up in The International Standard Bible Encyclopedia. Timothy was the son of heathen Greek and a Jewish mother named Eunice. His grandmother was named Lois. Tim became Paul's assistant. Here's a description of how they met.
"On this 2nd visit to Derbe and Lystra, Paul was strongly attracted to Timothy, and seeing his unfeigned faith, and that from a child he had known the sacred Scriptures of the Old Testament (2 Timothy 3:15), and seeing also his Christian character and deportment, and his entire suitability for the work of the ministry, he would have him "to go forth with him" (Acts 16:3). Timothy acquiesced in Paul's desire, and as preliminaries to his work as a Christian missionary, both to Jew and Gentile, two things were done. In order to conciliate the Jewish Christians, who would otherwise have caused trouble, which would have weakened Timothy's position and his work as a preacher of the gospel, Paul took Timothy and circumcised him."
Who writes this stuff, I'm thinking. And is the author suggesting that Tim and Paul were lovers?
"This know also," my van lady teacher begins, in a deep manly voice, "that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves." She reaches out, takes my right forefinger and guides it along the line, following each word. "Covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy. Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God...
She stops there and taps my finger on the word, pleasures. "That was my husband," she says. Then she taps my finger on Traitors. "That was my husband." Then, incontinent. "That was my husband."
"Really," I said. "All that and he was incontinent?"
"That was Tim," she says.
"You mean Timothy? Not Timothy..."
"No, no, my husband, Tim."
"Oh," I said. "Well that's terrible. No wonder you left."
She wants to go further, go through each word again and how that describes her husband exactly. Meanwhile, I'm flipping through the most recent Awake, which has stories about "Living With Albinism" and "What if my sibbling has committed suicide?"
"Don't you feel better now?" she asks, as though I've just been exposed to a transformation? "Do you see now how to make your marriage better?"
I walk away repeating to myself, I am not incontinent.
Oct 16, 2009
Balloon boy was in the attic all along. When asked by cops why he hadn't revealed himself earlier, he replied, "We did this for a show." Then the boy threw up.
But maybe the boy was misunderstood. It's not clear. Let's say, it was a show. The family from Wife Swap went to the Fame Shop. It was all a hoax to get publicity for an alien-watching, storm-chasing family with an fish eye for recognition. So what.
But this hasn't gone down well with a lot of people. I overheard this kind of comment more than once. "Yes, but after watching that story for nearly all afternoon what you wanted was that either the boy was found dead, or better, alive, of course. But not hiding in the attic."
Dead or alive — you could feel horror or you could sigh a great sigh of relief. You could feel clear about what happened. But the boy curled up in a basket in the attic above the garage was a rude ending: a little too human. Too ambiguous.
It would be like giving a young president in his first term a Nobel Prize. It would be like letting Ken Lewis resign from Bank of America — instead of giving his head to Madame Lafarge. It would be like finding out that it wasn't the NFL players union that undid the deal with Rush Limbaugh, it was the powers-that-be at a New York Law firm, whose partners once included Rudy Guiliani and whose clients include many Republican candidates.
And then what if we never find out whether this was a hoax? What if that's the real ambiguity? What if we're left with our suspicions, which in turn are tied to how we view children in general and our own children and our own flights of ambition?
.
But maybe the boy was misunderstood. It's not clear. Let's say, it was a show. The family from Wife Swap went to the Fame Shop. It was all a hoax to get publicity for an alien-watching, storm-chasing family with an fish eye for recognition. So what.
But this hasn't gone down well with a lot of people. I overheard this kind of comment more than once. "Yes, but after watching that story for nearly all afternoon what you wanted was that either the boy was found dead, or better, alive, of course. But not hiding in the attic."
Dead or alive — you could feel horror or you could sigh a great sigh of relief. You could feel clear about what happened. But the boy curled up in a basket in the attic above the garage was a rude ending: a little too human. Too ambiguous.
It would be like giving a young president in his first term a Nobel Prize. It would be like letting Ken Lewis resign from Bank of America — instead of giving his head to Madame Lafarge. It would be like finding out that it wasn't the NFL players union that undid the deal with Rush Limbaugh, it was the powers-that-be at a New York Law firm, whose partners once included Rudy Guiliani and whose clients include many Republican candidates.
And then what if we never find out whether this was a hoax? What if that's the real ambiguity? What if we're left with our suspicions, which in turn are tied to how we view children in general and our own children and our own flights of ambition?
.
Oct 15, 2009
Oct 14, 2009
Capt. Chignell has reported these events in the Outer Sunset district in the last 24 hours:
300 block of Ashton — Missing, 39-year-old woman
1500 block of Brighton — Found, elderly icon walking on the beach
200 block of Chester — Unfounded suspicion, released on its own recognizance
First block of Granada — Apathy overdose, dragged downtown for questioning
Second block of Sevilla — 30-year-old hope, abandonned
200 block of Harold — Criminal assault on intelligence
First block of Lomita — Found in trash, 2004 promise
Second block Lomita — Unacceptably dark countenance reported
3100 block of San Jose — Fraudulent use of the word, love
700 block of Taraval — Graffiti, displayed on victim's remorse
2700 block of Taraval — Code violation of sincere apology policy
3700 block of Taraval — Blasphemer shouting at the moon
Ulloa and 27th — Kiss gone awry
First block of West Portal — Discovered, 20 pounds
300 block of West Portal — Remains of the day, cited & released
1800 block of 9th Avenue — Death/85-year-old woman (rebirth/her 50-year-old son)
1800 block of 19th Avenue — Fraud/vanity unknown
2500 block of 38th Avenue — Unleashed emotion (had to be put down)
1300 block of 43rd Avenue — Wife taken in, over husband's dead body
2400 block of 44th Avenue — Hate-radio, reported stolen
2200 block of 46th Avenue — Lost, desire (last seen under a country moon several years ago)
1500 block of 47th Avenue — Mediocre middle-aged male mind, vandalized
2200 block of 48th Avenue — Found, 13-year-old runaway ambition
300 block of Ashton — Missing, 39-year-old woman
1500 block of Brighton — Found, elderly icon walking on the beach
200 block of Chester — Unfounded suspicion, released on its own recognizance
First block of Granada — Apathy overdose, dragged downtown for questioning
Second block of Sevilla — 30-year-old hope, abandonned
200 block of Harold — Criminal assault on intelligence
First block of Lomita — Found in trash, 2004 promise
Second block Lomita — Unacceptably dark countenance reported
3100 block of San Jose — Fraudulent use of the word, love
700 block of Taraval — Graffiti, displayed on victim's remorse
2700 block of Taraval — Code violation of sincere apology policy
3700 block of Taraval — Blasphemer shouting at the moon
Ulloa and 27th — Kiss gone awry
First block of West Portal — Discovered, 20 pounds
300 block of West Portal — Remains of the day, cited & released
1800 block of 9th Avenue — Death/85-year-old woman (rebirth/her 50-year-old son)
1800 block of 19th Avenue — Fraud/vanity unknown
2500 block of 38th Avenue — Unleashed emotion (had to be put down)
1300 block of 43rd Avenue — Wife taken in, over husband's dead body
2400 block of 44th Avenue — Hate-radio, reported stolen
2200 block of 46th Avenue — Lost, desire (last seen under a country moon several years ago)
1500 block of 47th Avenue — Mediocre middle-aged male mind, vandalized
2200 block of 48th Avenue — Found, 13-year-old runaway ambition
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