A blog by Paul S. Cilwa, writer, instructor, traveler, photographer, singer,
and all-round experiencer. A place where I can ruminate at will on politics,
religion, spirituality, sex, and my private life...You know, all those topics
we aren't supposed to discuss in public!
Okay. I've finally done it. Started a blog, that is.
The name of this blog comes from a bit of current-event trivia that will undoubtedly be forgotten
within six months. A Million Little Pieces is a book by James Frey that has gotten him
and his publisher, Random House, into a bit of trouble. It was sold as non-fiction and picked up by
Oprah's Book Club and so sold millions of copies. There was one little catch. It turns out it didn't really happen. It was a novel.
Yesterday afternoon I went to the dentist. More specifically, I went to the Arizona
School of Dentistry, where I get cut-rate dental work done by students. This sounds scary, but I had an emergency
tooth-pulling done there and it was a lot less painful than the teeth I had pulled when I was in Navy boot
camp.
1882 was far from the world of Lois Lane. It was considered "unseemly" for a woman to use
her private name in public. Elizabeth Cochran's editor chose "Nelly Bly" from the Steven Foster song. We don't
know if Elizabeth took her cue from her namesake's broom, but she got busy cleaning up Pittsburgh
by inventing investigative reporting.
An Italian court is about to decide whether Jesus of Nazareth is an historical character,
or a fictional one. Italy has a law against "abusal of popular belief" and the plaintiff has
accused his ex-friend, a priest, of conning the public. The trial has sparked the usual
division of people into "believers" and "non-believers". The believers have faith on their side. The non-believers have facts. Unfortunately, faith usually trumps facts. Otherwise, why would fundamentalist Christians still believe that gay marriage would destroy the world as we know it?
The United Nations allows about 3000 groups to come before it and speak on subjects of concern. These groups include the International Red Cross, for example.
Which groups can be heard by the Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC) is controlled by the NGO
(Non-Governmental Organizations) committee. 18 nations are on this committee, including the United States.
I remember a kid from the schoolyard playground. Danny loved to play King of the Mountain. He loved it, because he always managed to be king. Our "mountain" was a one-foot high lump in the playground, and he would gleefully, and with excessive force, push anyone who tried to replace him there.
However, when one of the kids got hurt by this shoving and complained to the playground nun that he'd been pushed,
Danny got very upset. "I did not!" he cried. "We were just playing!" And then, in a flash of brilliance, he added, "That
kid just doesn't like me! He's trying to get me in trouble! He's always trying to get me in trouble!"
The teacher, whose only goal was to keep things quiet for three more minutes until the bell rang and these hellions would return to their classrooms and out of her
hair, was neither convinced nor incensed by Danny's argument. But he learned plenty from it. And the next time we gathered for King of the Mountain, before we could play he made us all promise not to complain if we got pushed too hard—otherwise, we couldn't play.
As a nation, we are currently living in a shadow world where
suspension of disbelief is the only ticket in. In this world, Muslim
terrorists attacked the United States in 2001, leading to a
justified "war on terror" and invasion of two sovereign
nations to prevent their attacking us with weapons of mass destruction.
Leading us in this fight is the brave and noble George W. Bush, winner
of two elections and possessor of a mandate to right wrongs and bring
safety to the American people, in spite of the best efforts of liberal
scum to thwart him.
Whenever I find the mass media monopolizing its airwaves and headlines with the same story, hammered over and over, it makes me wonder what they're trying to hide.
As most people know, magicians do their tricks by a technique called "misdirection." That is, if the
magician's right
hand is about to grasp a card or uncage a dove, the audience will have their attention riveted to the magician's left hand or
foot or something, anything, but his or her right hand.
For almost six years, George W. Bush, fighting his ill-defined "war on terror," has made vague claims that
this "war" is succeeding; that his tactics have saved American lives from attacks by terrorists.
Conspiracy theorists are a strange bunch.
They see what any normal person would identify as simple coincidence, and
perceive a conspiracy. Here are some facts regarding the 9/11 attacks,
and their simple explanations...
There are several levels of ghostliness if you will. The shallowest level is merely a shadow of a tragic event, imposed upon space-time. Such a ghost is a loop, running over and over, like the apparitions you hear about of a woman falling downstairs. There is no intelligence to that kind of ghost, same as there's no intelligence in one's shadow.
At deeper levels, some ghosts really are the spirits of people who don't understand their own condition—they may not understand they have died, or may have refused to "go to the light" for whatever reason; may even have insisted on staying for revenge or devotion or babysitting or whatever. These entities do have intelligence, but are confused; and we can help them if we will.
It was 1970; I was nineteen and had maintained a friendship with Don and Margaret
Speck since my high school days. Margaret had been a waitress at the restaurant at
which I had been a busboy, and her husband, Don, a night clerk at a local motel.
However, he had once been a professional hypnotist and the three of us shared mutual
interests in UFOs, ghosts, and reincarnation. In fact, it was Margaret who had
recommended and loaned me the first books I'd read on Edgar
Cayce:
There
Is A River by Thomas Sugrue, and Many Mansions
by Gina Cerminara.
Don and Margaret decided to join the
Spiritualist Church officially,
and to that end moved to a "Spiritualist camp" in the central Florida town of
Cassadaga. There they got a 99-year lease on a great,
old house, and I visited them there several times.
"Do unto others what you would have them do unto you." A lot of people think Jesus said that, because it is so much the sort of thing Jesus liked to say. But it was actually said by Confucius, a Chinese philosopher, five hundred years before there was that greatest and most humane of human beings, named Jesus Christ. The Chinese also gave us, via Marco Polo, pasta and the formula for gunpowder. The Chinese were so dumb they only used gunpowder for fireworks. And everybody was so dumb back then that nobody in either hemisphere even knew that there was another one.
In colonial America, tomatoes were thought to be poisonous and were grown as an ornamental plant called the "love apple." The odor of the leaves made people think it was poisonous. It wasn't until the 1800s that tomatoes made their way into American cookbooks, always with instructions that they be cooked for at least three hours or else they "will not lose their raw taste."
Personally, I am not a big fan of tomatoes. But considering that I recently co-authored a political thriller in which the major characters grow medical marijuana (and smoke a little, too), one might assume that I am an experienced user of this other, so-called, "poisonous" plant. I am not. But marijuana's press has been just as misleading as that of the tomato once was.
The reason we are told that religion and politics are topics to avoid, is obvious once one attains adulthood: Of everything one might discuss, these are the only two subjects on which people are so unreasoning, so illogical, as to come to blows over a disagreement.
Why is it that there should be such a fundamental difference between these two topics and any other—for example, the cross-pollination of roses or whether Canada should be sanctioned for exporting
Celine Dion or whether Chevy trucks outperform Ford? That last example shows it isn't just because there are no clear answers. There's no clear answer to the question "Do we really need another reality show?" but people don't actually wrap their fingers around each others' throats and squeeze until the last vestige of life has evaporated over that, either.
It was almost a year ago that Jennifer Wilbanks, a young woman who was about to get married, instead embarked on a cross-country journey on which she claimed to have been abducted, but in fact had merely freaked out over her impending wedding. Worse, she didn't do this on the spur of the moment; she had purchased a ticket to Las Vegas several days before and had even arranged for a friend to drive her to the bus station.
Most of us, when we heard the whole story, could have easily ticked off more rational solutions to the problem:
In myth and in kids' cartoons we have all seen the image of the wolf who disguises himself as a sheep to infiltrate the flock and turn it into a fast-food buffet. We even use the phrase, "Wolf in sheep's clothing" to describe a person who presents himself as one thing but is, in fact, another. However, we think of this as a rare occurrence and one that is usually quickly recognized.
When that belief is held by the sheep it is almost always fatal...for the sheep.
Does this ever really happen? On a crowded sidewalk,
a thief snatches a woman's purse and dashes away. "He stole my purse!"
the woman cries, and some hero takes off in pursuit, tackles the would-be
villain, and rescues the purse to the applause of onlookers who, despite
not helping, are pleased the woman got her purse back.
As you drive from Miami to Key West, down around the swamps and cypress islands of Key Largo, there's a place where the road is a causeway with water on each side . The most stunning thing about this causeway is the difference between the east and west sides. Both sides are viewed through thickets of scrubby bushes; both bodies of water are dotted with palm tree-bearing islets and, if the wind is blowing, saucy little whitecaps. In fact, it is the same body of water, or should be; occasionally the causeway gives way to a drawbridge and the water flows freely between.
Take all this fuss over gay marriage. Christian extremists who want to impose their own lifestyle and beliefs on me insist the Bible defines marriage as being between "one man and one woman" and that is their basis for the oppressive laws they propose. Well, even if true, that shouldn't matter because the Constitution of the United States is the basis for our law, not the Boy Scout Handbook, Redbook, and certainly not the Bible.
Even so, they're still wrong. The Bible isn't nearly as clear-cut as fundamentalists would like to think on the subject of marriage. In fact, it describes eight different types!
When I was growing up, I learned to identify previous decades by
the epithets that had been assigned to them by the Columbia Record
Club. "The Gay Nineties", "The Roaring Twenties", "The
Swinging Forties" and so on were both names of record collections and
descriptions of life in those long-gone eras.
As you must have heard by now, yesterday's tragic shootings at Virginia
Technical Institute claimed the lives of 33, including the shooter.
Unsurprisingly, some mainstream media pundits were already
calling this the "worst
mass shooting" in the history of the United States, although
a few of those outlets qualified it as the worst mass civilian shooting,
which conveniently brushes aside various massacres of Native Americans such as
those at Sand Creek, Wounded Knee, and Marias (and others). In those massacres,
the shooters were Army soldiers and the victims were people of color, and the
media tends to ignore the entire act of genocide of this nation's first inhabitants,
except for the occasional blockbuster movie.
Arizona Republican Congressman Rick Renzi has introduced
an
amendment into the bill authorizing intelligence programs for the coming year,
that makes it illegal to leak secret information to the press. The amendment is
non-binding, but urges the White House to take "firm action" against
government employees (and ex-employees) who leak secrets to the press.
We watched the new movie, The Celestine Prophecy, yesterday.
By "we" I mean Michael and I, my ex-wife Mary, daughter Karen, friends
Barbara and Peter, and Michael's sister Surya. The movie is still in limited release,
so we had to see it in Tempe; and afterwards we gathered at Islands, an adjacent
restaurant, to have dinner and discuss the movie.
It was a small class, with no more than 20 students. One of them was named
Gerry. He was slightly older than the rest of us, probably 22 to our average of
18. He was very good at appearing cool and at being the center of attention.
However, for some reason, he took an instant dislike to me—and I'm talking about,
before I even met him. Moreover, he decided to do something about it.
It may be that the ordinary person is
the most likely to cause mayhem on behalf of dearly-held religious principles;
note that no Pope ever got on horseback to lead a crusade; and not only has President
Bush not fired a gun in Iraq—or in any other war—not a single member of his
extended family has, either.
So now that we know the NSA is building the "world's
largest database" of all our phone calls—from all time,
according to the source who leaked the story
to USA
Today(presumably not over the phone)—many of us are mentally reviewing
every phone call we've ever made, wondering if one of them will eventually come
back to haunt us.
We decided to celebrate my grandson Zachary's birthday with a trip.
The original plan was to rent a motor home, drive it to California, spend Saturday
at Disneyland, Sunday at McGrath State Beach, and return in time for work Monday morning.
I did the math about six weeks ago, and started putting aside the money for it, paying
in advance where possible.
A cute series of ads running on TV these days shows a regular
person—a guy at the gym, or a barber, or a housewife—speaking in a voice that
clearly doesn't belong to that person. A black guy at the gym will have the voice
and accent of a Valley girl, or a white housewife will sound like a Japanese teenager.
The ads are intended to raise awareness of the new phenomenon of "identity
theft" and a particular credit card that claims to insulate its customers from
such a crime.
To understand life to this depth does require a degree of spiritual
enlightenment, I think. It's hard for me to picture an atheist who could put death into this perspective, which may be why my atheist friends include the most compassionate people I know. For them, death is always a tragedy,
the end of a story with no postscript.
Is being a Democrat a result of nature
or nurture? Tonight's guest is Richard Gone, founder of the Ex-Dem Reparative
Therapy movement, which claims over twelve former Democrats as members. Mr.
Gone, your therapy is controversial at best, and many psychologists say you are
trying to cure a condition that isn't an illness."
I saw black people for the very first time when I was about
five years old. We lived in New Jersey, and once every few months my parents
would go shopping at a department store called "Two Guys." I say
my parents went shopping, because they always left my sisters and me
in the car for the hour or two they spent inside.
My spouse, Michael, first started talking about getting an
above-ground pool when we moved into the new house in April. Actually,
he first started talking about an in-ground pool; but after I
repeatedly pointed out how that wasn't practical when one rents one's home, he
relented and began pricing above-ground units at Costco and Sam's Club.
This past Thursday, our daughter, Dottie (who prefers to be called Elizabeth
but so far that hasn't happened at our house) came, with her five-year-old daughter
Cailey, for a three-week visit. So, this weekend, we made two trips to
the river.
In the 1950s and 1960s, in New York, there was an uneasy
balance struck between gay people's need to socialize and the preference of straight
society that there be no gay people. A result was the gay ghetto of Greenwich
Village, with its multitude of gay bars, and periodic raids by the police of these
bars. The feeling was not unlike that of a Russian Jew at the end of the 1800s,
trying to live a normal life in a usually peaceful village, never knowing if this
would be the night the Cossacks would come through and imprison or kill him and his
family.
In 1999, the prestigious
journal Archives
of Internal Medicine published the results of a double-blind study
in which it was shown that coronary patients who had been prayed for—even
though they didn’t know it—were more likely to recover than those who were not.
One day, as I sat waiting for my piano lesson, my
classmate Patsy, the most popular girl in the class (as she
had described herself to me) came out from her lesson and had to sit with
me on Mrs. Capella's porch to wait for her mom. And she wasn’t reticent to
talk to me. She had a long list of my shortcomings, and was eager to share them.
In other words, she spent
the next twenty minutes telling me exactly why I was a creep.
A few days
ago, Dear
Abby printed a letter from a man who was about to be married, and who had asked
his gay brother to be his best man. The brother refused, on the grounds that,
since he couldn't legally get married, he couldn't in good
conscience attend a wedding until the discriminatory laws are changed.
Independence Day does not celebrate "God and
Country." It celebrates "Independence," specifically, the
independence from Great Britain declared by the American colonies in 1776.
Whenever I mentioned to anyone that Fiedler was deceased,
they would be surprised. Apparently, I was the only person who'd actually
heard his obituary. But given that I was in my early twenties and my friends
were the same age and also pest control technicians, this wasn't too surprising
Although we live in the Phoenix area, some friends who are going to
stay in Sedona soon have asked me to compile a list of things that might be fun
to see and do while they are there. Since Sedona, and Arizona, are so awesome,
I thought I'd share that list with everyone.
Predictably, organizations that support gays and lesbians
also support the idea of disallowing a defense plan that makes the victim's sexual
orientation the centerpiece of the trial. But I disagree. I just don't think
we have enough panic defenses. I would support keeping the Gay Panic Defense
as long as we also pass a Federal law to allow these additional panic defenses:
These people cannot think for themselves.
As children, they were punished when they tried. Like Pavlov's dog salivating
when a bell rings, these people cringe at the thought of thinking
independently. They require the approval of a group, such as their church or a
named political party or a charismatic president or a
self-described "jealous god."
How did this happen? I've known quite a few old people through
the years. They eat mild foods to avoid upsetting their ulcers; have screen doors on
their homes so they can leave the solid doors open; they know the names of the parents
of the Lennon Sisters and have opinions about the young men they married. They do not
listen to, or understand, rock 'n' roll. So how can an official old person be Paul
Simon, the writer of The Boxer, The Sounds of Silence, Mrs. Robinson, Bridge Over
Troubled Water?
We've been told for at least three decades, with increasing stridency,
that "intellectual property" is entitled to government protection; that
corporations are entitled to hoard ideas, and that promoting this concept is
the only path to innovation and prosperity that can be enjoyed by all. However, the
story of the invention of sound recording tells quite a different story.
Early phonograph records were certainly interesting, but as an artistic
medium they left much to be desired—specifically, decent sound. Records
played on the first Gramophones sounded as if someone were singing at the end of
a long pipe, from inside a sealed box. And, as long as the recordings were made
acoustically—that is, mechanically—there wasn't much to be done to improve the
quality of the recordings.
My goodness, such a fuss they're making! It's been a week since Pluto was
demoted from Planet to Dwarf Planet, and this morning while riding in to work
NPR had yet another essay—this one linking Pluto's downgrade to unsuccessful
sports teams.
The
mid-thirties saw the introduction of improved record players.
Although gramophones and Victrolas, which had been built to last, remained
in use, new players were introduced that could play several discs sequentially,
without user intervention. They were called "record changers" and
suspended a stack of records—typically
six or more—above the turntable on a tall spindle. When the user started playing
a stack, the spindle would allow a single disk to drop to the turntable, where it
would gently fall on a cushion of air created by the falling disk itself.
A mechanism would then place the tone arm at the beginning of the record. When
the record ended, the tone arm was guided by the record's groove into a center
area that signaled the tone arm to rise and return itself to its resting place
while the next disk dropped on its own cushion of air atop the disk below, and
the process was repeated. The spindle was designed to sense when no records
remained, at which point the record changer would turn itself off.
But first, I had to be identified. Arizona recently passed a
controversial "voter identification" bill, which means a voter
registration card isn't enough. So much for the American Constitution's declaration
that a "universal ID card" will not be required. "May I see your
papers, Herr Citizen?"
On every side, we find evidence that suppressed sexuality erupts in perverted
sexuality, just as people who starve themselves dieting usually wind up binging.
What would you expect? As human appetites, neither will be denied. Yet powerful
churches continue to demand such repression.
However, the argument that “marriage” has always
meant “a man and a woman” is false. In pre-Communist China’s Fujian province,
up to the second century in Europe, in ancient Rome and Greece, among
Native North Americans, and in several African tribes, male-male marriages
were common enough to be ritualized and documented.
So that you can enjoy these, too, I am going to include links to MP3s (or, in a couple of cases, MIDI files). In most cases, the MP3 was made from the original record, following the
laws in effect when they were pressed. In other words, listen and enjoy but you may not use these recordings for commercial purposes.
Prior to moving to Vermont, my Dad, a true music lover, had always made sure I had a working phonograph and a supply of records to play on it. One time, exploring the house in that way only a six-year-old can do, I discovered a stash of 78s in his bottom dresser drawer. I was very excited, but he told me he intended to dole them out a few at a time, to make sure I wasn't overwhelmed with too many new songs at once. To ease my disappointment, he gave me the album at the top: Act 1 of Verde's Aida.
I hate making out these lists. Frankly, it seems like anyone who knows me well enough to be giving me a gift, should know what I might like. However, everyone who does know me, says they need a list. I do have a wish list at Amazon.com:
When I was a kid, Mattel sold these dolls called Chatty Cathy. You pulled a string in the doll's back, and it would say something, like "Would you play with me?" I think there were eleven phrases or so, played back randomly, in June Foray's voice. (June was also the voice of Rocky the Flying Squirrel.) You couldn't have a real conversation, of course, because it's "response" had nothing to do with what you said to it. Exchanges went something like this:
As early as 1398, the word "royalty" was borrowed into English (from the French
roialte) to refer to the "office or position of a sovereign". In those days,
the King owned everything. If you wanted to live on a bit of property, or cut down a
tree, or hunt for a rabbit—you had to pay that royalty for the privilege. As centuries passed,
people accepted "paying the royalty" as a fact of life. By 1839, the word was used to
refer to paying any landowner (not just a King) for the use of a mine, and by 1857, payment to
an author or composer for the use of his work.
Mary's Rock is a favorite hiking spot in the Shenandoah National Park. Its popularity is partly because it's a fairly easy hike, partly because it offers a spectacular view from its summit, but mostly, I think, because it's so easy to get to. The trail head begins at the parking lot of the concession right at the entrance to the park, where US 211 crosses the Skyline Drive.
In 1984, I took my then-wife Mary, our four kids, and my Mom on the hike. Mom was 72 at the time, in good health, but, let's face it—she was 72. Nevertheless, she completely the hike successfully. Actually, she seemed in less discomfort at the hike's conclusion than I was.
Fundamentalists want a simple universe in which everything happens at a level of
their understanding, or it doesn't happen at all. New Agers appreciate a more
sophisticated view in which an underlying,
immanent divinity gives rise to a Universe in which the mechanism of
evolution is the action of that underlying divinity.
My oldest daughter, Dorothy, has informed us she's going to be married. (She got engaged two or three years ago—I've lost track.) And, she's going to be married on a cruise ship. Since I haven't yet won the lottery, I can't afford to load all her friends and our family on board the cruise ship. Not, that is, as anything but galley slaves. So we're each paying our own way and thanking our preferred deities that she decided to cruise to the Caribbean, and not around the world.
Originally, based on studies of contemporary indigenous peoples, mankind
lived in smallish groups in which each person contributed to the welfare of all.
We know from fossilized burials that our cousins, Homo Neanderthalensis, as well
as our own ancestors of 50,000 years ago and more, cared for sick and injured members of
their tribes. (Some fossils show
evidence
of serious, but mended, injuries.) In other words, cavemen had access
to free health care.
Why can't I just keep using the copy of FrontPage that I own, you ask?
Because FrontPage isn't a stand-alone product. In order to use most of its features,
the server that hosts the site must be running FrontPage Extensions.
And with the death of FrontPage, so die the extensions.
With no updates to the extensions, servers running them will become increasingly
subject to hacker attacks as more vulnerabilities are discovered.
We celebrated New Years' Day by going on a short hike. Not only was the hike short, but also most of the hikers. Present were Zachary, my grandson, his friends Lane, Brittany, Ashley and Billy, and me. The youngest was Ashley (6); the oldest was her brother, Billy (11). I decided to head out along the Apache Trail into the Superstition mountains, which begins not far from our house.
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far, away, there was a world that turned in natural balance, its sustainable tool-using population fed, clothed and housed in a simple manner that left much time for contemplation, artistic pursuits, and the enjoyment of life.
As years passed, these people invented government as a way to build works for the common good, like roads and medical schools and hospitals. But then, to enforce the rulings of these governments, religions and police departments and judges came along. And banking and business was not long in following, taking advantage of the opportunities the new government presented.
Among these people, four came up with an idea. One of them happened to be a judge, and another was a businessman, and one was a doctor and the last was a priest. And, by chance, each of them had been born without a conscience.
33 years ago today, dawned with the air of expectation that marks a "special" day...because we knew, even as we awakened, that our second child would be born that day.
As an evolving language, new words get added to English all the time.
One of the more recent is glurge, defined
by Wikipedia as "describing
a certain kind of melodramatic, saccharine story. The defining characteristic of
glurge is that, while its purpose is to make the reader happy, the feel-good aspect
is so overdone that some readers are likely to be nauseated rather than
inspired."
One night a number of years ago, I was driving along a New Hampshire highway
and found myself behind another vehicle. I was just beginning to pass it, when from
my vantage point slightly to the other driver's left I saw—something—in
the road ahead of him, dimly lit by his headlights. It was a pair of raccoons
crossing the road from right to left. One was safe, almost all the way to the
shelter of the forest on the left. But the other was confused by the headlights
of the oncoming car. The driver swerved, but so did the trailing raccoon, who was
struck by the driver's left front tire, and then his back tire, bouncing lifelessly
into the air and dropping into the space between his car and mine.
The weeks leading up to the birth of our first child can
best be described as unsettled. Mary and I lived in a room rented in
the home of an older widow, who had fixed up this room, with a lock on the
inner door but access to the outside through its own exterior door,
for the purpose of renting it to young couples like us. Or, so we presumed.
Mary was gargantuanly pregnant, and it's possible I never
actually said, "This is my wife, Mary, who is great with child."
But it wasn't something a person could miss.
A few days ago I
said: "It must be that Frank Millet doesn't know we are in Germany, or he
would have written long before this. I have been on the point of dropping him a
line at least a dozen times during the past six weeks, but I always decided to
wait a day or two longer, and see if we shouldn't hear from him. But now I will
write." And so I did. I directed the letter to Paris, and thought, "Now
we shall hear from him before this letter is fifty miles from Heidelberg—it always
happens so."
Clemens talks about "accidents"—what
we, today, call coincidences or synchronicity. The science of statistics wasn't
well-established in Clemens' day, but today's statisticians try to tell us
that "coincidences" are meaningless; that they are the result of the
patterning human mind imposing seeming order on what is actually random chance.
At the end of yesterday's guest blog, Sam Clemens described an odd circumstance
which, while not exactly an example of his "mental telegraphy," nevertheless
qualified as what we, today, would call "high strangeness." As he watched a
stranger approach his house, the stranger seemed to disappear. When Clemens found the
stranger had, in fact, rung and been admitted through the front door, he concluded
that he must have unknowingly fallen asleep, or unconscious, for the sixty seconds
(minimum) that it took the visitor to walk past him, ring the doorbell and be
admitted.
Rebates are a marketing gimmick that has spawned a
mini-industry of its own. Like any marketing gimmick, they are designed to modify
the behavior of consumers; and since they arise from the coordinated actions of
manufacturer, retailer, and rebate fulfillment house, they are by
definition a conspiracy. (Remember, the word "conspiracy" is morally
neutral; it doesn't have to be for evil ends. If you and your pals plan a
surprise party, that's a conspiracy whether you intend to kill the guest of honor
there or just present her with gifts.)
We know that all the TV networks, and virtually all radio stations and newspapers,
are owned by the same, small number of global corporations—and these corporations
own stock in each other, making them more inbred than any family of Ozark
mountaineers. The same corporations also own major defense contractors
(the guys who make money from war), major pharmaceuticals, and Big Oil. It's far
more in their interest that they suppress a free press than risk exposing
their own schemes.
I was in a Catholic school; so
there was a vague understanding that, at the beginning of the world, there had
first been Adam and Eve and sometime after that, Rome and Jesus (who hadn't gotten
along well). But then there was Columbus, with an origin point of Spain, and the
world suddenly blossomed into the United States and things really started
happening. Yes sir, Americans invented everything worth inventing, and everyone
else in the world wanted to be just like us.
It wasn't that long ago—two centuries or less—that ordinary people simply had to
rely on their memories to recapture their pasts. Prior to 1790, anyone who wanted a visual
representation of a person or event had to commission a painting of it—a relatively
expensive proposition, and one which did not guarantee accuracy, if the artist had not
been present
at the event or did not personally know the subject.
Chances are, somewhere in your home, you have a row of photograph albums on a
shelf containing photos of your childhood, the births of your children,
your vacations and graduations and proms—and that haven't been opened in years.
Or you may have box after box of color slides, carefully inserted into slide trays
even though you couldn't put your hands on the slide projector if your life depended
on it.
Okay, so you've got piles of photos at one end of the table and a
computer at the other. Today we're going to look at how to get your images from
the one to the other.
The religious extremists who have appropriated the previously-respectable
label of "conservative" insist that they
are at
war with the "Godless" remainder of humanity.
It isn't unusual to hear their spokesperson, Ann Coulter, say that homosexuals
or liberals or
even Supreme Court judges should be
killed. While she has not yet been convicted of one of these murders herself,
one doesn't have to look far to see the results of such hate speech: Matthew
Shepherd's murder was the tip of the iceberg;
the FBI estimates
that 15% of all murders are hate crimes committed against homosexuals,
making gays the third-most-frequent victims of such crimes. Many more gay
people are merely beaten; and many of those crimes go unreported because
often the local police are disinterested in pursuing the perpetrators.
Resolution refers to the number of pixels, or dots, into which your photo is broken.
The more pixels, the smaller they are; the fewer, the larger.
If you have large pixels, the resulting computer file will be smaller,
because you will have fewer pixels to store. However,
if you try to enlarge your photo, it will get blurry because bigger pixels
mean fewer pixels, and that means less information to go around.
In previous posts, I've vaguely described digital photographs (including
scans of traditional photos) as being broken into a great many pieces, with a
numeric color value assigned to each. That's the substance of a digitized photo.
But since you are going to need to deal with computer files containing these photos,
and there are several popular formats for these files, we're going to have to
understand what forms these files take, at least, at a high level. I could simply
list the file formats and ask you to trust me. But I think it's a lot more
interesting if you know—at a high level—what's going on inside.
Automatic writing gets interesting when the writing claims to come from some
source other than the wielder of the pen. There is a long history of this.
Over 125 years ago, a Boston dentist named John Newbrough found himself automatically
writing "new revelations from God" on the newly-invented
typewriter. Oahspe: A Kosmon Bible
in the Words of Jehovih and his Angel Embassadorswas published in 1882
and contains information remarkably consistent with today's New Age beliefs.
In fact, whenever entities claiming to be "God" communicate via automatic
writing, their teachings are amazingly consistent, especially considering the
differing core beliefs of the persons holding the pen—William Moses, for example,
was a respected priest and teacher who experimented with automatic writing. His
beliefs were orthodox Christian, but the messages from his automatic writing took
a more open, undogmatic view.
And Edgar Cayce was a
Christian fundamentalist who, when in trance, spoke of reincarnation and other
beliefs that the waking Cayce wouldn't have been able to pronounce, much
less promote.
A bill was passed before the 2006 elections to erect a 700-mile
fence along our southern border, to keep out "illegal immigrants".
The efficacy of such a fence aside (the Great Wall of China failed to keep out
the Mongols, and it was almost 4000 miles long), we again see the parallel
to the walled city that buys its groceries from outside. If we are so afraid of
human immigrants we want to wall them out, how much more cautious we should be
about the microscopic immigrants that we welcome, via a hundred interrelated
multinational corporations, from overseas with open arms.
Back when the kids were little, each Easter I would find some
hopefully-photogenic place to take them on Easter, where they could hunt Easter
eggs in their spiffy, new Easter outfits and I could take their pictures.
When Benjamin Franklin invented lightning rods, it was
the churchmen of Boston
who protested that using lightning rods "thwarted the will of God"
who presumably used lightning to mete out punishment to those who particularly
annoyed Him. (And what a feeble god they must have worshipped, to think He would be
unable to work around a lightning rod!) Lightning strikes were the primary cause of
house fires, in those days, and so most people ignored the injunctions of their
preachers and mounted lightning rods anyway. Soon, it was noticed that churches,
with their high, pointed steeples and metal bells, were the only remaining targets
of lightning; suddenly, lightning was no longer said to be the sign of God's wrath—and
churches began mounting lightning rods of their own.
I find it interesting that the conservatives, who want the law to regulate pretty
much every part of my behavior (especially my love life) want no
government interference in their ownership of guns. I find it interesting that the
liberals, who want people to be free to do what they want, insist the government
interfere in that same ownership. Am I the only one who finds this odd?
I am not really an opera fan. I love musical theatre in general,
but I prefer happy endings so I favor musicals (like Oklahoma!) to operas
(like, any of them). We have a friend named Willis who is single but doesn't like
going to the opera alone. So, once a month, Michael and Willis make use of Willis'
season pass and listen to mezzo-sopranos sing themselves to death.
A little over 1½ million years ago, when the continents of Earth had drifted to
almost their present locations and the very first hominids (our oldest recognizable
ancestors) had appeared, a group of bright stars called the Scorpius-Centaurus OB
association, passed within 150 light-years of Earth. Although the sky appears to
be the same night after night (with the exception of the locations of the Moon
and planets), astronomers know this is not so.
So, you're thinking of having your own web site? Good for you!
Everyone deserves a voice and, thanks to the Internet, you are no longer
limited to the "15
minutes of fame" promised by Andy Warhol.
It seems like every spring, my husband Michael has a graduation.
Actually, he's had them in the fall, too. He had one last year, and one the year
before. Or a few months before, I forget. Two of them were for Associates' degrees,
obtained from Glendale Community College. This was a bigger deal,
his Bachelor's degree
from Arizona State University.
The shuttle took us to the same little place at which we'd dined
the night before. This time, however, there was something different:
A huge ocean liner rose up behind the shops and restaurants and towered
into the sky. Our ship: the Carnival Legend.
Karen has developed a taste for room service, and talked Michael into
trying it, as though the one thing he needed was
additional way of obtaining food.
Our stay at Grand Cayman was destined to be a short one. To start with, Michael
had pre-booked an excursion called the Trolley Roger which lasts an hour.
But he didn't want to go alone, and I didn't want to go at all,
since I used to give that sort of tour in St. Augustine.
But I did think Mary would enjoy it, and she agreed—but she had neglected to pre-book it.
Now, as we stopped by the concierge's desk in the morning, we learned
that the Trolley Roger was booked up.
The ship arrived in Cozumel about an hour and a half later than planned,
due to our having to return to Grand Cayman the night before with the suddenly
stricken patient. That was okay with me, as we all had early excursions and,
this way, we could sleep in a little longer.
Belize, which used to be called British Honduras, is the only
English-speaking country in
Central America. Actually, the people there call themselves trilingual,
as all citizens grow up
speaking English, Spanish, and a Creole that includes snatches of Mayan and
other Indian
tongues on an English base. Like all the places visited by the
Carnival Legend,
Belize City is a tourist-centric place with a gorgeous beach and crystal
blue water.
Once upon a time, ocean voyages were prescribed to patients suffering from stress,
because the pace was so slow, so relaxed. A cruise is now the last thing
you'd want to do to relieve stress, because the pace is nothing short of frantic
(except during mealtime) and it must take a special kind of person to say "No!
Enough!" when a dozen things are competing for your attention.
If you don't want to attend a karaoke show, you might instead swim in one of the
ship's three swimming pools or soak in one of the five Jacuzzis; you could watch a
movie in one theatre or a Vegas-style show with live orchestra, dancers, and awesome
singers in other. You can gamble in the casino or have a professional portrait taken
or get a massage (these three cost extra, but the other choices I described are
included). There's also ping pong, tennis, jogging, basketball,
and "gimmicky" entertainments like Hairy Chest
contests and Survivor-type challenges.
I have no idea why the people who run Carnival Cruise Lines
think its appropriate to stuff their passengers the way the witch stuffed Hansel
and Gretel. I have no idea why people would want to be stuffed that way.
And I have no idea why anyone would think it was cool to carve food into
unlikely shapes and admire the sculptures before eating them. But I have to tell you,
I was as admiring as anyone when the chefs on the Legend went all out
and created a monster buffet with enough food to end hunger in Somalia once and
for all.
There was a break between "Jailhouse Rock" and the second song in the
medley, "You Ain't Nothin' But A Hound Dog" during which the dancers were
supposed to surround me and do the Twist. I was encouraged to join them. But now my
torture shoes reminded me why I never wear them. Every time I tried to pivot my
left leg, it felt like a hot screw was being driven into the knuckle of my big toe.
Karen later said it looked like I was surprised the dancers were there, but actually
I was surprised to find my left foot in an S&M device more suited to the Marquis
de Sade than to Elvis Presley.
We were supposed to know what color our Carnival luggage
tags were, because that would signify where our luggage was placed for pickup
when we got off the ship. Unfortunately, no one ever actually told us
this until we were in that warehouse, looking for the luggage. And the
difference between the memory of brown, tan, gold, orange and yellow isn't
actually as vivid as you'd think.
The first I knew of it was when a parade entered the house: Karen carrying
a kitty litter tray, Michael carrying a bag of kitty litter, Mary carrying a
semi-enclosed, fleece-lined kitten bed, and finally Zachary carrying a cardboard
box with a handle on the top and air holes on side, saying, "Guess
what we got?!"
Apparently he did not notice the sudden drop in speed as the
top of his trailer contacted the roof of the tunnel. Apparently he didn't hear the
tortured screams of metal-against-decorative ceiling tiles as the top of his trailer
peeled off as he proceeded. The tunnel is a mile-and-a-half long. Surely in New
York, someone in the tunnel tried blowing a car horn to warn him things
were awry?
However, when we arrived, Maurean was upset. Now, you'd have to know Maurean
to understand that this utterly kind, capable, and powerful woman
is never upset. She has a calming influence that could bring peace to
the Middle East if only it could be bottled. So it was quite unusual to see that
something had her frazzled.
There's an urban legend that, in the days of World War II when radar was first
being developed as a defensive weapon, Hitler might have had it first.
His scientists on both sides were working on it. But Hitler had a lot of
strong metaphysical beliefs, largely influenced
by Theosophy, that, besides
the certainty that Germans comprised a superior form of humanity (which was used
to justify the extermination of "inferior" forms), included the belief that the sky
above us was, in fact, a star-studded dome suspended just a few miles above the
surface of the Earth. When his scientists sought to demonstrate the power of
radar to detect distant objects before they could be seen, Hitler had them direct
their radar devices upwards, in order to determine exactly how far overhead
the dome of sky was located. The radar, of course, detected nothing—no dome.
To Hitler's mind, this proved that radar was useless. He therefore refused to
make use of it, which gave the Allies a tactical advantage as we could detect
the Nazi planes and ships at a distance, while he was unable to detect ours.
Dennis Hope is a pretty happy guy these days. In 1980, it occurred to him that there
were, literally, trillions of acres of unclaimed land in our solar system alone:
On the Moon, on Mars, and on the moons of Jupiter and Saturn, not to mention on the
hundreds of thousands of asteroids whizzing around in orbit. And that's only
in our solar system—hundreds of planets have been discovered orbiting stars
other than our Sun.
Just before leaving on our historic
Caribbean cruise,
I realized I was just about out of contact lenses. So I ran to
the store to pick up a pack of them—and ran smack dab into the
government's latest foray into my personal business and none of
theirs.
We made our third, weekly, Salt River float
this past Saturday.
Attendees were your blogger, your blogger's daughter Jenny, her
son Zachary, and Zachary's friend
Brittany.
By 1970 the urge to fly was so commonplace that even my
grandmother, Dorothy Weems Brown, was ready to go. She had been
thinking of taking a trip to New Jersey to visit her friends up
there but a journey by train/bus/car seemed just too tedious to
consider. Now there was the opportunity to go by air, and no
reason not to.
You won't be surprised to hear that I never intended to go to
Tempe for fireworks again. But then Karen found herself spending
the day there to work, and Zach wanted to watch the fireworks
where she was, and besides even though it would be hot, they now
have a splash park within the grounds and there would be
inflatable kiddie bounce things and if we got there early
enough, there shouldn't be an issue with parking.
The summer of 1968, I had left high school a junior and would return a senior. We
had moved from St. Augustine Beach to St. Augustine itself, into a house on
Sevilla Street that, coincidentally, had previously belonged to my classmate Joe
Oliveros and his family. (To further illustrate the coincidental nature of this
relationship, the Oliveros family moved into a house two doors down from my
girlfriend and future wife, Mary Steinberg. It is, as they say, a small world.)
Back at the beach was my sister Mary Joan's boyfriend, Joe
McGrath. He was also my best friend for the year or so his family lived there.
He and I thought
it would be fun to make a summer trip for a few days, and to my
amazement, Joe's parents made their Volkswagen microbus
available for the purpose. I would have to drive, as Joe was a
year younger than I and didn't yet have his license. But that
was no problem; and we put our summer job money together and
began pouring over maps.
On Saturday, June 8th, 1996, I got a call from a friend, Tim. This was a very
unusual call, because Tim had never before initiated a phone conversation
with me. I had no way of knowing that, by that time tomorrow, he would be dead.
There's a telling scene in the brilliant film Thank You For Smoking,
where tobacco lobbyist Nick Naylor, whom Newsweek has called "The Sultan
of Spin", is trying to explain to his son, Joey, what he does for a living. As
they sit having ice cream at a crowded carnival, there is this exchange...
In my previous post I discussed Bridey Murphy and demonstrated that a huge
and concerted effort was made by the media to discredit Bridey. Some might
wonder how the various media outlets could get together to make a concerted
effort over anything. After all, aren't they competitors?
At the phenomenal web site WikiHow,
which contains instructions for doing just about anything you can imagine,
there's a page entitled "How
To Keep An Open Mind." Basically, to keep one's mind facile, we are told to
never stop doing things we've never done before: New crossword puzzles, listen
to new kinds of music, watch TV shows we think we wouldn't like (or, if we
love TV, turn it off!). The premise is that doing or learning anything
new causes new neural pathways to form in the brain, which in turn enable
one's mind to open to further new possibilities.
But what if you already have an open mind? If there
are no TV shows left to watch, no music you haven't heard, no
ethnic restaurants left to eat at, what then? Well, here's my
contribution: Ten things you almost certainly haven't done or
thought of doing, that, in the doing, will help form new
pathways in your brain.
In 1990, when I lived in Virginia and was still writing Midnight
Harvest, I took the kids to the
National Zoo in Washington.
It was a drizzly Wednesday, and the place was almost deserted,
with far more animals present than humans. The primate house has a great area
in the middle surrounded by the glass-walled cages. The only
visitor other than us, was a woman sitting on a bench, making odd motions
with her arms. The orangutan on the other side of the glass
watched her intently, then made gestures of his own. I had seen
enough deaf people in Georgetown (Gallaudet University is there)
to know I was watching two beings communicate in ASL (American
Sign Language). I knew about the experiments with Washoe the
chimp and Koko the gorilla, but this orang seemed to be an
ordinary primate in an ordinary zoo.
This is the first time I've posted twice in one day, and I apologize for the
overload...but this post is time-critical. The bottom line is, set your alarm
clock for Tuesday 11:11 AM GMT (which is tomorrow morning at 7:11 AM EDT, 6:11
AM CDT, 5:11 AM MDT, and 4:11 AM PDT (and here in Arizona, which doesn't do
daylight savings time). When your clock goes off, spend the next 60 minutes
doing whatever it is that means "being" to you: pray, meditate, sing, exercise
at the gym...whatever. But do it with purpose...and the purpose is to
re-energize the Earth with love.
The Search For Bridey Murphy by Morey Bernstein was originally published
in 1956. The last time it saw print was almost 15 years ago, in 1993. The
original is now out-of-copyright; and since copyright law was intended to
protect the rights of a work's author, and not to suppress the work, I feel it
is morally right to make at least parts of it available here.
This continues the e-presentation of
The Search For Bridey Murphy appendices with this essay,
originally titled "Why Isn't Hypnotism More Widely Used"
and subtitled "A History of Misunderstanding and Prejudice".
It was written by Morey Bernstein; the additional comments are
mine.
1994: St. Joseph Academy Class of '69 25th Reunion
In 1994, shortly after the finalization of my divorce, I was invited to my
25th high school class reunion. So was my ex-wife, Mary, who graduated with me.
It was a small class in a small school, with only about 40 students; and the
fact that Mary was going to be there potentially made it a bit awkward. But, I thought,
what the heck—I hadn't been popular in high school, anyway.
Liberals like to think that they have "truth" on our side, and
can't understand why that isn't enough to make conservatives see
the light. But the fact is, these people don't understand what
truth is. To them, truth is agreeing with what they
believe should be, not acknowledging what is.
Conservatives cannot bear the thought of a reality with sharp
edges, and they'll do anything—including lying to themselves
and others—to avoid it.
How in 1969, I managed to embarrass myself and disgrace my family name for generations to
come...all during a 20-minute jet flight from Jacksonville to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
In mid-September, 1969, in accordance with the plan we'd made during
my visit
to him, my friend John and I carefully
saved our money until, in September, 1969, we were ready to
make the journey of a lifetime: From Florida all the way up
to Vermont.
A couple of years before my Mom passed away, she and I spent some time
rummaging through her old photographs. She'd lost a lot of them when we lived in
Florida; despite the fact that she'd wintered there as a girl, she was unaware
of the voracious and wide-ranging appetite of Florida cockroaches—especially as
regards to paper. They literally ate hundreds of her precious photos before she
discovered the damage. We were able to preserve some.
My son's girlfriend, Rachel, is from Texas and wanted to see
Sedona. So we arranged to make the expedition yesterday.
This was the day after Saturday, when daughters Jenny and
Karen and grandson Zachary and I did a Salt River float that
somehow resulted in my getting a sunburn on the top of my head
and my chest and stomach. I used sunblock, too. Even Zach
got a light burn on his back, and he never burns.
We intended to leave around 9 am for Sedona. We did,
too—that was a surprise! But then we left half of what we
intended to bring, including bottles of water and a dry towel
and shorts for me. Because, we intended to swim.
We managed to go on our almost-weekly float down the
Salt
River again this Sunday, despite a very busy weekend for all of us. But
Jennifer really enjoys it; Zachary likes to bring his friend Chris,
and of course, I love it. Michael's been a bit under the weather and hasn't gone all
summer; Karen is somewhat indifferent but decided to go. And even Mary, who's only
gone with us once (last year), decided she would go, too.
Having had her appetite whetted by our cruise last May in the
Western
Caribbean, my daughter Karen has become a cruise aficionado and
is already planning our follow-up cruise. As in, she's made reservations and
put down a deposit.
I'm one of those people—I
assume not the only one!—who, every now and then, simply must return to a
natural setting to reconnect and regain my balance.
I was going to say, "recharge my batteries" but that would be an
inappropriate metaphor, because for me to reconnect (another electrical term!)
I have to get away from batteries, television, computers, cars, carbon
monoxide, and the other trappings of our self-congratulatory,
so-called "civilization."
I'm inaugurating a new series for this blog:
The 3 Most Beautiful Places.
In this series, we are going to take a fantasy tour of the United States,
starting with the westernmost and working our way eastward.
In each state we'll sample the three most beautiful or otherwise special
places that that state has to offer. These will not be cities,
commercial tourist attractions, or overcrowded parks (though we will be
visiting some national and state parks that are not overcrowded).
This will not be a don't-miss restaurant listing, a visit to
the
Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota, or a tour of
Disneyland.
It will be an armchair tour of the three places in each state you'd most
like to photograph, meditate at, or hike through.
The assumption is that money and time do not constitute obstacles;
we can travel in comfort and spend as long as we wish.
Since our westernmost states are Alaska and Hawaii, that's where we'll start:
on our cruise of the Hawaiian Islands that will later take us to Alaska.
Men, women, boys girls, cops, even mules—is there
anything a Republican won't screw in between "defending marriage"
and sending the sons of Democrats to die in Iraq for Bush's oil war?
I don't usually like to do anything far from home
on "official" three-day weekends, because the traffic's usually too dense.
But the section of the Salt River we like to float is only about twenty minutes from
the house. And so we made (what is likely to be) our last float trip of the season
on Sunday, and were rewarded by a rare and special visit from a herd of wild horses
that lives near the river bank.
Today is the thirty-second anniversary of the birth of my
third daughter, Jennifer Ann Cilwa. It's also the first time in a couple of decades
that we truly have something to celebrate.
A song in the forties used to begin, "It's always fair
weather when hep cats get together." Here in Arizona, it's always fair weather
even when storms approach, because they provide such beautifully spectacular
examples of rainbows and sun-hearted clouds that there's just no element of
depression about them. (As opposed to, say, Manchester, New Hampshire, where
the entire winter is one gray mudball.)
This time of year, especially, yields some amazing photos, even when taken with no more
than a cellphone camera.
This past Saturday, the substance
abuse recovery home at which my daughter,
Jenny, is program manager,
sponsored a Recovery Walk down Mesa's Center Street, accompanied by food, games,
an inflatable bouncing thing and piñatas for the kids.
Something that might be viewed as a somber and solemn occasion was instead a
lighthearted and joyous one,
thanks in part to Jenny's contribution to putting it on.
Last night we had dinner with a friend from back East
(actually, it's Ohio which she thinks of as the "Midwest") and the
topic turned to Internet dating. Is it possible, we discussed, to meet a quality
person on the Internet, someone you'd want to be friends with if not married
to?
One of my two sisters-in-law, Dorothy Ann Zembruski,
died unexpectedly September 19. She was 68 years old, and should have had many more
years ahead of her.
Last year, I was so busy during the month of October that I didn't have
a chance to blog at all. Near the end of the month, I began to receive emails from loyal readers
I've never met, wondering if I was all right! Since this month promises to be as busy as October
of last year was, I figured I would apologize in advance. But, this is October 1st; so at least,
no matter how bad it gets, I will have blogged at least once in October! And the topic
is, The Return From The Funeral.
In working on the photos I had taken when I was nine
years old, I had some real
challenges trying to restore them. After all, it's been almost fifty years; for much of that
time I had no idea how to store negatives safely and when I did learn, it was too late--they'd
already been scratched. Add to
that the fact that even black-and-white negatives deteriorate with age, and you can see that I
would be lucky if I could even make out some of the images.
After he'd spent four hours or so playing video games on a beautiful
Saturday, and insisted there was "nothing to do" outside, the entire family was forced
to rouse itself up off the sofa and go with Zachary to the neighborhood basketball court to
shoot some hoops with him.
For millennia, Arizona's Sonoran Desert has consisted of trackless miles
of scrub, cactus, and bare patches of sand punctuated by the occasional upthrust of rocky crags
like the Superstition Mountains and Mount Lemmon and, more recently, little towns with names
like Globe and Oracle. However, between 1987 and 1991, a structure arose in the Sonoran so
unusual in both appearance and purpose that over 100,000 visitors have come to see it, not to
mention the hundreds and hundreds of researchers and students who have flocked to it for more
extended study. This structure is known as Biosphere 2, and on this past Saturday I took the
family to see it.
This past weekend, Zach spent at his first-ever Cub Scout camping trip.
Unlike Boy Scouts, where the members of a troop camp under the watchful eyes of a scoutmaster
and maybe one or two assistants, younger Cub Scouts go to a common area and camp "with
their families" but spend the days in activities with their pack. That leaves the parents
free to do parent things...which, in my case, meant a planned weekend of sleeping.
A British reporter came to our shores and located the final 24% of
Americans who think George W. Bush is doing a good job. You've seen them (they can be spotted by
the Bush/Cheney 2004
bumper stickers on their 4X4s); you know they exist; but you still haven't wrapped your
head
around the fact that anyone could truly be that ignorant.
This YouTube video will help. It begins
when the reporter asks pedestrians to name a country whose name begins with
"U".
Because my grandson Zachary lives with me, he gets a lot more
attention in my blog than my other two grandchildren. Max, unfortunately, lives in Europe with
his mother and we never hear from either of them. But Cailey, though nearly 3000 miles away,
lives with my lovely daughter Dottie and her daddy Frank, and I do get photos and frequent
updates of how she is doing. So I thought I'd share a few today.
If you "don't text," as Michael says, but have received a text
message on your phone that you want to answer, what can you do? One possibility is to use your
regular email service to reply.
There's a hilarious new product coming soon to your Costco store
shelves. It's called Batter Blaster™; and, according to its
web site,
"it makes organic light and fluffy pancakes and light and crisp waffles in
minutes!"
Last night I took Zachary to the Superstition Farm, a local dairy farm that gives
tours, on a Cub Scout function. I lived on a wannabe farm in Vermont when I was Zach's age, but
since we never actually grew anything while I was there, or milked anything but Nanny the
Goat, I found the workings of a real farm to be fascinating. And the best part was, the farm was
no more than ten minutes from our house!
"An accident is something that you wouldn't do over again
if you had the chance. A surprise is something you didn't even know you
wanted until you got it." So said "Roseanne" to her youngest
child and only son, "D. J." on her self-titled TV show.
The conception of my son, John, was certainly no accident, though it seemed
like one at the time. It definitely proves, though, that humans cannot thwart
the Will of God (no matter what the fundamentalists seem to believe).
And, also, that our God-selves know far better what we need and want,
than our Earth-selves.
A few months ago, my sister Louise sent me a box of my mother's things, things Mom had saved for decades.
Some things are merely of interest like the hand-written receipt for our property in Vermont, while others
are real heart-tuggers, like the hand-drawn birthday and Mother's Day cards I had given her and which
she had carted around the country since my childhood.
Among the treasures I've found—and I have not yet made it all the way through the box!—are
a few of her poems, including some I'd never before read. Louise was considerate enough to
type them up from Mom's faded and old-fashioned cursive.
I can't promise to have time to do any real blogging this week, except maybe for the day after Thanksgiving.
So here to tide you over, is a piece of music I wrote in 1969, arranged in 2003 (while driving my big rig!)
and finally orchestrated last week.
The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself: "God, I thank thee, that
I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this
'publican."
While I, too, am grateful to not be a Republican, the Pharisee's approach to thanksgiving
is generally presented as being a poor one. Nevertheless, as an "attitude of gratitude"
is supposed to be good for the soul, not to mention the blood pressure, I'm going to highlight just
twelve of the many, many things for which I'm grateful and make them public right here.
Ernest was a young, somewhat overweight,
turkey who was beloved of his few friends and whose death shortly before
Thanksgiving of 2007, while not unexpected, was still a tragically beautiful
footnote to the whole Circle of Life.
Muslims believe that it is
a sin to take a life
under any circumstances, which is why they never engage in terrorism or suicide bombings.
Hindus believe we are all One in Brahman
(and therefore of equal importance) which is why they never developed a caste system.
Christians believe in
forgiveness,
which is why none of them ever sue a pedophilic priest or minister.
Oh, wait. Some Muslims do become suicide bombers.
Hindus do have a caste system.
Christians do sue their leaders, and not just for serious offenses like pedophilia.
In October, one Chicago area Catholic has just sued his parish priest over a sermon he didn't like.
Now that President Bush has declared martial law,
it will be illegal to own precious metals after the first of the year.
Here's a sneak peek at the newly proposed currency denomination...
Biblically speaking, nothing seems to piss God off more than members of the faithful
who refuse to heed prophecies.
For example, the prophet Jeremiah,
who continued to warn his fellow Israelites that God would punish them
if they didn't "turn away from their sins"
until he was completely ignored, predicted that if they didn't heed his warnings,
the Jews would be scattered from their homeland and persecuted.
As you must know, the Jews continued to ignore Jeremiah and,
sure enough, they were scattered from their homeland and persecuted.
Repeatedly.
This coming May, my daughter Karen graduates from Arizona State University.
As her graduation present, she wants to go on a trip.
(Obviously, this is a young woman modeled after my own heart.)
Moreover, she wants as many people to be a part of a this trip as possible.
So here's an invitation to all the members of our extended family, including friends, to peruse the
itinerary following and see if it sounds like something you'd like to do.
In November, 1996, I helped some friends move from Connecticut to
Washington state by driving one of their vehicles. When the job was done,
I had to get back home to New Hampshire, which I decided to do
by taking Canada's Via Rail home through the Canadian Rockies.
I didn't make the trip straight through, however; I got off at Jasper,
rented a car, and made my first visit to Banff by driving through the
Jasper National Park and along the Promenade of Glaciers.
Here are the photos of that breathtaking trip.
Our house looks like a mall exploded in it, and our
family has eaten itself into a stupor.
That's right, it's the day after Christmas and all through the house we've all
overeaten, including my spouse.
A week ago today (December 20), Michael went into the hospital to have a "procedure" done.
That procedure is called a lithotripsy
and its purpose was to blast, with ultra-sound, an unpleasantly large stone that had formed within
his left kidney.
Is one day long enough to
prepare for a cruise? —But I won't even have a day. I have to work and won't be able to
pack until afterwards, maybe an hour. Is that long enough? Maybe it's too long...I
wouldn't want to start stressing over it. After all, it's a vacation; which is supposed to be
the antithesis of stress.
Now that we have become accomplished cruisers (having just completed our
second cruise) we find we cannot help compare the two cruise lines based on our admittedly
meager experience. I also must admit that my judgment may have been colored by a couple of
negative experiences on this latest vacation. Still...you are expecting a complete report and
you shall have one!
Zachary woke us early, but then decided to remain in bed while Michael
and I went to breakfast. At 8, Zach probably spends too much time closely supervised by one or
more of the five adults he lives with; so it was a big deal for him to be left alone even for a
half hour.
We ate in the casual buffet restaurant called Windjammers. I loved the decor. The
restaurant is on Deck 11, all the way forward, and has full length windows all the way around. I
had the "omelet of the day" (which was very much like the omelets of all the other
days), a big mess of bacon, and some guava juice that was delicious. Michael had much the same,
plus a generous sampling of the pastries. As we ate we watched the rain-shrouded hills of
Ensenada slide into view.
When I woke in the morning, Michael was the perfect picture of misery. Again,
he hadn't slept; he had a headache and a pain in his kidney (where he'd
recently had surgery)
and his sinuses were killing him. It seemed like we'd have to go to the
infirmary.
Our ship docked at San Pedro before we woke up. When we did wake
up, it was to a shocking surprise. Michael's infirmary bill, which the nurse had told us would
run $108 dollars plus a little more for any medicine administered, was just shy of $1000...and
it was going to hit my bank card, which didn't have a balance anywhere near that, as soon
as we got off the boat.
Our cruise over, and Magic
Mountain closed, we packed the rented van
for the last time and headed back south for Hollywood. Mary wanted to see the
homes of the stars, so Karen had spent an hour on the computer copying down
addresses. With the GPS, all I had to do was enter in the destination
address—the GPS "knew" our current position—and tell it togo.
Almost instantly, it would display a map andrecite directions, turn by
turn. If I made a mistake, it would say, "Recalculating!" without a trace of
frustration and gently prod us back onto the correct route.
Our first destination: Alfred Hitchcock's home in Bel Aire.
Today I found myself with an unexpected (and enforced) day off. Not every
business closes shop for Martin Luther King's day, so I was surprised to find
that mine did (especially since we'd just had both New Year's Eve and New
Year's Day off). Even so, I would have gone into work because, as a "temp", I do
not get paid for holidays. But the building was closed.
And so, being that the day was exquisitely beautiful, the kind of Arizona
winter day that we recall in the summer as why we continue to live here, I
offered to take Zachary and his friend, Lane, for a hike in the nearby
Superstition Mountains.
The man who was martyred on April 4, 1968, for his activism in trying to end
the de facto slavery of America's largest (at the time) minority couldn't be
silenced by death. You might think that creating a national holiday in his honor
would be proof of that; but it's quite the opposite. The man who once "had a
dream" now is used as an excuse for three-day-weekend sales. Don't believe me? Here's a full-page
ad from the L.A. Times:
Today is Karen's 34th birthday! She is my second child, my second daughter,
but her birthday comes first in the calendar year. (Her oldest sister, Dorothy
Elizabeth, will have her birthday in three weeks.) Last year at this time, I
wrote about Karen's
birth. This year I would like to celebrate by presenting a living portrait of
this lovely young lady as she has grown from infancy to adulthood.
This weekend's adventure occurred Saturday when I drove Zachary to his Cub
Scout pack's annual rocket launching.
The rockets were assembled from simple, inexpensive kits at the kids'
Wednesday night meeting, two weeks ago. Last weekend, Michael guided Zach in
painting his 12-inch rocket. And today, the rocket was launched, not once, but
three times.
NASA can only dream of such durability in its fleet.
One of the most beautiful stretches of road, and one of the most
underappreciated, in Arizona is state road 64. This delightful ribbon of
concrete runs from the end of US 180 right in Grand Canyon Village, and extends
eastward, mostly following the South Rim of the Canyon, for just about 60 miles
where it T-bones into US 89 at Cameron. From there you can head north to Tuba
City or Page, or south to Flagstaff.
I was last on this road with my son, John, and his then-wife as a side trip
while taking them to Minneapolis. It did not impact the trip length by more than
two hours, and was well worth the small amount of extra time.
Today is Dorothy Elizabeth's 35th birthday! She is my first child, my oldest daughter,
though her birthday comes second in the calendar year. (Her younger sister, Karen, had her birthday three weeks ago.)
Last year at this time, I
wrote about Dottie's
birth. This year I would like to celebrate by presenting a living portrait of
this lovely young lady as she has grown from infancy to adulthood (and from baby
Dottie to Dorothy to Elizabeth, as she now prefers to be called).
The significance of the stork mythology to us is that it vividly portrays an
example of eagerly well-meaning parents telling lies to their children on the
assumption that the child doesn't need to know the truth. (How many
Victorian girls found themselves pregnant, with no idea what was happening to
them, since they hadn't been near a stork?) These same parents, of course, would vehemently deny the same kids the
right to withhold truths from themon the basis that the parent
didn't need to know! Yet we adults find
ourselves living beneath a paternalistic government which believes we
should be "protected" from truths we don't need to know. And, as with the stork,
the consequences of living with false information are hard to gauge but should
not be ignored.
On last night's American Idol, Simon Cowell mentioned not once but
three times that we Americans are in the grip of the "worst flu season in
history!" This had, apparently, come to his attention because a number of the
contestants had come down with the flu that week and the sickness had affected
their performances. He also claimed to have never heard the
Spiral Starecase
song, "More Today Than Yesterday", or, for that matter, of the group itself.
Today, February 25, is Michael's birthday. And since I have no stories of
Michael's birth to share (those are his stories, not mine) I will
use the occasion to describe our first day together, and how Michael met my
family.
I am perhaps halfway through digitizing my rather large library of CDs, LPs
and tapes and have gotten well past 10,000 MP3 files. When visitors see this,
their first reaction is usually, "Oh...my...God!" Their second reaction is
usually, "But how can you find what you want?" The answer, of course, is
efficient organizing, just as it was when I kept all my CDs alphabetized in
plastic racks mounted on the wall next to the CD player. But how to do that, you
ask? Well, that's the subject of today's blog.
Yesterday I reported the basics of using Windows Media Player to rip MP3
tracks from your CDs. Today I'm going to cover ways of finessing your MP3 tracks
so that you can get the most out of them.
Today I'll conclude my series on the basic care and feeding of MP3s with my
suggestions as to how best to organize your MP3 files on your computer so you can
find them!
Last Wednesday I bought a New Car. (New to me; not to the world. It's a 2004
Ford Expedition.) So, of course, we had to take it out to stretch its tires this
weekend, even though simply owning it is enough to melt Greenland, not to
mention actually driving it. Our destination: the snow I hoped was still
lying on the ground at the top of the Mogollon Rim. Our purpose: to let Zach and
his friend Chris play in the snow for a couple of hours. (Yes, there are
pictures!)
My last serious attempt at dieting was the Atkins Diet, two Januarys ago, in
preparation for "looking good" (a lost cause at best) on our May cruise. I did
lose some weight. But of course the diet ended when the ship left Tampa, because
the real purpose of a cruise is to provide a venue for conspicuous
overconsumption of food; and it never resumed.
I've been getting little hints that I need to do something about my weight.
For one thing, Milton, our kitten, comes over to me while I'm watching TV and
curls up on the shelf that has materialized between my solar plexus and my
navel. I hate to make him move, even when it means I can't put my desert plate
there.
I decided I couldn't let April Fool's Day pass without posting a blog entry,
no matter how busy I've been. So I decided to list a number of bizarre
current events, making one up, and you can decide which paragraph in this post
is the one that isn't true. No fair Googling before you guess. I'll post the
answers, and links, tomorrow. (And my little joke endings to each article don't
count.)
In yesterday's post, I present a number of news articles and challenged the
reader to guess which paragraph in the post was not true. Here is the
answer to that challenge.
So, my birthday has come and gone. We had a nice family dinner to punctuate
the fact that I am now 57 years old. But it really was a nice celebration. I got
a pair of gym shorts and an exercise shirt from Jenny (she really wants
me to keep working out) and a GPS and mount from Michael, Karen, Mary, John and
Rachel so I won't have any trouble finding the gym.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again. When sex is forbidden, sex is
hidden. Forbidding it only pushes it below the surface, where it frequently
becomes perverted as it inevitably is expressed anyway.
Okay, here's the dealio. I'm still trying to decide on a name for my
new novel. The problem is, its original title, Avatar, is already in use
for dozens of books, games, and so on. So I've tried several others, going so
far as to make covers for some of them just to see (for myself) how they would
look on a book. I tried Joshua Rising (I liked it, but no one else really
did), When Falls The Sky (even I didn't like it) and Hejira (which
I really liked for about 48 hours, then hated). So I have a new title, and I'm
trying it out on a cover but of course it has to have just the right font
to sell the name. So below, please look at the five versions of the cover and
let me know which you like best. (Or, if you hate them all, or think it's a
dorky title for a book, that would be useful information as well.)
They grow up so fast. This past weekend, Zachary graduated into his Orange Belt in Karate.
(The progression is white-yellow-orange). At this stage, he is actually "tested"
in class, with his classmates, as they go along and orange "tips" are added to
their yellow belts. Then they have a graduation.
Yeah. We all know the obvious things to worry about, like losing your house
to foreclosure (up 57% since last year), being unable to afford the gas to drive
to work so you can buy gas to drive to work (average price is now $3.50 a
gallon), global warming raising sea levels so that your land in Florida will be
underwater (even if it wasn't before). But that's just the tip of the
melting iceberg. There's lots of things to worry about you may not have suspected. And
as a public service, I'll let you know what a few of them are.
I attempted to implement an RSS feed on my site
once before.
That "didn't take", as they say. I had to maintain the RSS file manually and it
was just too much trouble. But now I've managed to automate the creation of this
file so it should work with no problem to you or me.
One day in 1926, retired lawyer Max Ehrmann awoke in his quiet home in Terre
Haute, Indiana, with the idea that he should do something, create
something new, and yet not new. He had awakened with notions in his head that
seemed ancient and true, yet forgotten; and it seemed he might be able to return
them to the public consciousness if he only tried.
You might remember, gentle reader, that I and my family took a cruise on a
Royal Caribbean ship this past January. During the trip,
Michael became ill and
we were charged $1000 for his medical care onboard ship. Supposedly the trip
insurance was going to cover that, although we have yet to see a check. Now it
looks like we were lucky to be kept on board. The Luis Cortes family of Orange
County, Florida,
wasn't
so fortunate.
We lost one of our three dogs today. Astro, the runt of his litter, passed on
after a couple of days of being "under the weather". He was over 10 years old.
Previously, I described my main job in June of 1972, that of radio station
disc jockey for WAOC radio. But I also mentioned that that was not quite a
full-time job. And, in fact, I had another job that summer. I was an
actor in Cross and Sword, Florida's "Official State Play." But
to tell you that story, I have to backtrack and share with you the previous
years I was also in the show.
For a guy who loves whitewater rafting, I sure haven't done much of it in the
past few years. But I did get to go yesterday, on the Upper Salt River,
and worked in a little camping with a new friend to boot.
It's May, so we have another graduation! This time it's my daughter, Karen,
who got her bachelor's degree in Anthropology from Arizona State
University this morning. Despite the fact that sitting in a sports stadium for
three hours listening to unpronounceable names being, against all odds,
pronounced as a thousand purple-robed graduates gavotte from chair to educator
to educator and back to chair was considered too severe a torture for even
Condoleezza Rice to order for Guantanamo Bay prisoners, it was a wonderful
experience to be there for my little girl as she takes that magical step from
childhood to employability.
Today, May 10, my firstborn Dorothy Elizabeth Cilwa became married to Frank
Lee Kinder, in a ceremony performed at Sedona's Red Rock Crossing. My
granddaughter Cailey and grandson Zachary were ring-bearers. The ceremony
was attended by immediate family members, and was followed by a short swim and
then dinner at the Red Planet Diner.
There's a question that's been running through my mind for some time. A number
of news articles have come along—a girl who died, untreated, for diabetic
acidosis because her parents believed Jesus would heal her; the child brides of
the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints; and
more—suggesting that parents don't always know what's best for their
children. But who's to say they don't? Does the government know better than the
parents? Does the minister? Who owns our children?
Today was the last day of school for Zach, our only grade-schooler. That
means he is now ready for fourth grade, which he will be entering in the fall.
And he got an award!
We're back from camping at Bear Canyon Lake up on the Mogollon Rim, a little
northeast of Payson. By "we" I mean me, my grandson Zachary, and some 15 other
Cub Scouts and their parents and families. And other than a little car trouble,
the weekend went perfectly.
I am frequently asked to repeat a technique that I first wrote about in my
Truckin' Journal of
May 20, 2003. It's how to minimize the feeling of
devastating loss when a loved one has passed away by connecting with that person's
spirit or essence. I'm not talking séance here; rather, this is about reaching
into oneself to find the connection one had, and will always have, with another.
Rather than pull all the narrative out, though, I will simply repeat that
part of the original essay, because I think it puts a face on it.
Today we went on our first Salt River float of the 2008 season. Participants
were myself, daughter Jenny, and grandson Zachary. Also, half the population of
Phoenix, as far as I can tell.
Humans are not the only creatures on Earth that build bridges, but we are the
only ones who build bridges intended for more than a single use. Bridges have become so ubiquitous
in human culture that, in addition to being used as metaphors ("We'll build a
bridge of love and kindness reaching to the other side" as Olivia Newton-John
sang in "The River's Too Wide") they have spawned unique fears (gephyrophobia,
the fear of bridges), a genre of photography and of course an engineering
specialty.
It's getting hard to continue being creative with names for Salt River float
trip posts, since we do them so often. Yet, every one is unique and so are the
photos!
I apologize for not posting in so long. I have been very busy (!) at work,
with a major modification to an existing report, as well as at home with a side
job web site.
However, I have something to share with you. It's a video by another blogger,
a guy named Matt Harding, who posts at
WhereTheHellIsMatt.com. Matt is
a former video game designer who retired in his twenties to see the world. Of
course, he shot video along the way; and a friend suggested, just before Matt
left on his journey, that Matt do a little dancing in each place he
videoed. He did so, and when he returned from his first year's trip in 2005, he
strung together the dancing clips, added some cool music, and posted the result
on YouTube.
Here's a cute one. A website, Wordle.com,
exists solely to allow you to build "word clouds" in which the non-trivial words
in a block of text are displayed with the most-frequently used words appearing
larger than the less-frequently used words. The above, for example, is the
Wordle version of my posting on
the last Cub Scout camping trip I made with my grandson, Zach.
This weekend's adventure was a solo camping trip to Verde Hot Spring,
enhanced with a determined yet wrong-headed GPS, a new route, a car turned into
a bedroom, a couple of treacherous trees, and a totally excellent digital
camera.
It's time to consider whether we really have
independence. What are you truly free to do? Can you go where you
want? Not in theory, but in reality. Can you do the work you want to,
that you love? How many compromises have you had to make in your life in order
to keep yourself fed, clothed and housed?
If the answer is more than none, you are not truly free.
On July 4th, the members of our extended family were scattered. Michael and I
attended a terrific pool party hosted by our friend, Jay, which included the
most divine pasta dishes (which I shouldn't have eaten, but did). Zach and his
Mom and grandmother went to Zach friend Chris' house for barbecue and to watch
the fireworks (though Zach pooped out before the fireworks started). Karen
continued to house sit.
But,
on July 5th, Michael and Jenny and Zach and I loaded up the Expedition and
headed for Oak Creek Canyon.
Oak Creek Canyon runs from a few miles south of Flagstaff to Sedona. Lots of
tourists visit Sedona for its famous red rocks walls and barely notice Oak
Creek, which formed those walls. By the time the creek gets to Sedona,
the walls are far apart and the canyon opens up. Further north, though, where
the walls narrow, there are no T-shirt or crystal shops and true nature lovers
like myself can better appreciate the rocks, the energy, and the scenery.
What should be taken on a camping trip? What's essential, and what can be
left out?
For my own convenience as much as anyone else's, in this post you will find a
printable checklist of stuff I take when I intend to go out into the
wilderness for an overnighter.
This weekend's camping trip was in the Sierra Ancha Wilderness, in the
mountains east of Roosevelt Lake. I went with a new friend, Wade, who hadn't
been camping since he was a kid and had asked to be taken some place isolated
and quiet...which I completely understand, because I am so over the noise
and crush and pollution of the city.
It's inevitable that, as I travel to campsite after campsite and see each of
Arizona's natural wonders, great and small, I develop some favorites to which I
want to return. One of these is
Verde Hot Spring.
Almost any excuse will do, as when my friend and rafting buddy
Frank wanted a place to
unwind after one of his grueling multi-continent series of flights. And so, back
to Verde I went with Frank in tow.
The reaction of my dear readers to my last post was, by and large, this:
"Well, what happened after you left Verde Hot Spring? Did you spot another UFO?
Whatever happened to Truck Guy?" But my readers were just echoing my own
thoughts. And so, when I got off work Friday without having already planned a
trip, and in fact I thought I'd just stay home and relax for a change, I felt a
compulsion to return. Not to see a UFO, because I've already learned that they
never show up when you're looking for them, but just because I had this nagging
feeling of unfinished business. There was...something...going on at Verde
Hot Spring, and I did want to figure out what it was.
Brains Being Rushed To Few Remaining Bush Supporters
As news of President George W. Bush's continued approval by fewer than one in
five Americans makes its way around the world, an outpouring of generosity has
resulted in the Brains For Americans campaign to donate unused brains to the 18%
of the American population who have been doing without.
This past weekend marked my fourth time camping at Verde Hot Spring. Sadly,
it will be the last weekend I do so. This gorgeous, remote spot has become a
weekend party place for rowdy teenagers and twenty-somethings, to the point that
no one else can enjoy the place on weekends. Too bad. Still, that didn't stop
Michael and me from having a very nice campout with our new friends Eddie and
Carl.
Today is Michael's and my wedding anniversary. We've now been married for
eight years.
What's that you say—how is it possible? Massachusetts, the first state to
allow "gay marriage", only did so beginning in 2004. So how could we be married?
Simple. We said, "Fuck the government. Marriage is a statement of commitment to
ourselves and our friends and families." We got married in the
Unitarian Universalist Church of Surprise,
Arizona on August 12, 2000.
The Cathedral of St. Augustine, now officially named the Basilica-Cathedral
of St. Augustine, and informally known as Cathedral Parish, was, since its
inception in 1565, the social and religious center of St. Augustine. It served
the same purpose during most of my growing up there.
One of the things my grandson, Zachary, was most looking forward to about
being in fourth grade, was the annual trip the local fourth graders
traditionally make to Grand Canyon. This trip isn't just for fun. Grand Canyon
is a living example of geology, ecology, the protection of endangered species,
and more; and fourth grade is about the time most youngsters have grown aware
enough to appreciate and understand it. Unfortunately, since our president has
chosen to spend trillions of dollars fighting an un-winnable war against an
enemy that didn't exist until he invaded their countries, there isn't enough
left for the local schools to make the trip. And so, Michael and I took Zach and
his friend, Chris, ourselves.
Today is Jenny's 33rd birthday! She is my third child and my youngest daughter. Last year at this time, I
wrote about Jenny's
birth. This year I would like to celebrate by presenting a living portrait of
this lovely young lady as she has grown from infancy to adulthood.
I just finished Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle's novel, The Gripping Hand,
a sequel to the science fiction masterpiece they wrote 18 years ago, The Mote
In God's Eye. Both books were very good (the first a little better) but
today's blog post isn't about either book. It's about a short verse on The
Gripping Hand's last page, from poet Alexander Pope's An Essay On Man.
Last night, Zachary informed us that he really wanted to take the dogs
for a walk. His mother is very strict about adhering to his bedtime, so he had
to elicit a promise from Michael and me that we would leave at exactly
8:00 pm. We agreed.
At 8 o'clock, we were able to put Cirrus' 24-foot spring-loaded leash on him,
but could not find its mate for Amber. So, in order to adhere to our promised
departure time, we had to settle for the six-foot leather leash that has been
Amber's since she was a puppy.
I really needed to get away and be by myself this weekend. Nothing was wrong;
it's just that I had spent the four previous weekends at home with the family and needed some "me"
time. I intended to go to Lockett Meadow on the San Francisco Peaks north of
Flagstaff; I've never been there, and it's supposed to be lovely and I thought
the trees might even have turned color. But the weather forecast predicted rain
and possibly snow up there; so by the time Saturday morning came around I
had decided to visit my old favorite, Verde Hot Spring, where rain was
less likely and the temperatures wouldn't be so low.
Unknown to most people, there is an undercurrent in the Internet in which
very unusual people carry on very odd conversations. No, I'm not talking about
mechaphiles or child porn devotees or anything else as unsavory as that. I'm
talking about people who spend at least part of their time communing with
non-Earthly beings and passing on what they say. And what they've been saying
for the past few months is very interesting, because if it works out
we'll all know about it. They've been saying Earth is about to be visited
by a giant UFO that will be so undeniably present that the government
will, at last, be forced to acknowledge the reality that other
intelligent species exist, besides ours.
Many years ago, when I was married to Mary and we and the kids lived in
Omaha, I was up late one night composing a song while everyone else was in bed.
I finally got to the point where I figured I'd join them, and as I was packing
my guitar back into its case, an odd thought crossed my mind. What if I got an
obscene phone call?
I'd had never before gotten an obscene phone call, and in fact had
never had such a thought pop into my head before. But, since it was there, I
followed it through. What, in fact, would I say to an obscene phone caller that
would immediately make him feel bad and me feel clever?
I crept into bed without waking Mary, closed my eyes, and was just about
sound asleep when the phone rang. I picked it up and said, sleepily, "Hello?" I
was immediately blasted by a stream of filth that would make a busted sewer
look like it was gushing Evian.
"Channeling" is done by many different means. A simple one is called
"automatic writing". You sit with a pen in hand (or hands on the keyboard, which
works better for me), adopt an open attitude, and request that contact be made
with whomever you want. You then ask questions and let your fingers type the
answers as they arrive. You can recognize that you didn't "make it all up" by
two means. First, the words come faster than you could have thought of them
yourself, and they don't feel like your words. Second, they
present information that you, yourself didn't know but can verify later.
Anyone can do this. If you think you can't, you're wrong. (Except that
being sure you can't, is enough to prevent it! Fortunately you don't have to be
certain you can in order to successfully try it out.)
So, with this prediction of an October 14th appearance of a giant UFO having
originally come in the form of channeled information, I figured I would try to
channel these same guys from the "Federation of Light" and get a little more
information regarding the predicted event. After all, as I said...anyone
can do it.
Thousands of people around the world looked up to the skies October 14 and
wondered...Where is the giant UFO that was
predicted?
Where, indeed. The reaction was almost more interesting than the actual UFO
would have been, ranging from a few "It'll be all right" to massive bitter
retorts, swearing at the woman who made the prediction in the vilest of terms
and denouncing her, basically, for getting their hopes up.
As an author myself, I had to laugh at the people who accused Ms. Goodchild
of making "millions" from her books and the publicity and laughing all the way
to the bank. If this had been a hoax of her making, she certainly hadn't planned
it well—it's easy to figure that not predicting a particular date would
have made much more money over the long haul than predicting a date that would
fail.
Another weekend, another trip to Verde Hot Spring. This time it was for the
occasion of my friend Carl's birthday, even though his birthday was actually last
week. Verde Hot Spring is also a favorite place of Carl and his partner Eddie.
In fact, it's where we met. And spending five days there was Carl's birthday
present to himself.
Of course, I couldn't take a whole week off from work; so I drove up on
Saturday. Michael was supposed to come with me but backed out due to a sore
knee. (The doctor told him to put hot compresses on it all weekend, which of
course could not have been done in camp. And hiking to the spring itself would
have been out of the question.)
My, how the year flies! It's Halloween already. Michael has purchased enough
candy to fill Fort Knox, got himself and Zachary outfitted with costumes and
even bought me one, knowing that I don't usually have the time or energy to
devote to the holiday, myself.
It's another beautiful day here in the Greater Phoenix "Valley". The air is
cool and dry; the sun is shining, the smell of freshly cut grass fills the air.
It's the kind of day that would spell "spring" most anywhere else in the
country; but here in Central Arizona it's not only fall, but late fall.
In the central portion of the country they are having sleet, snow, blizzard, and
severe thunderstorms.
Some months ago, my daughter, Karen, was accepted for training as a flight
attendant for regional airline, Colgan Air. She passed at the top of her class
and is now, indeed, a flight attendant. And, as you may know, this has a direct
application to me: I can now make flights for (almost) free, as can Karen's
mother, Mary.
There was a delay while Colgan made certain Karen wasn't going to quit in the
first month of working. But that delay finally passed, and we then attempted to
schedule our first flight. I wanted to make it an "easy" flight as a sort of
test run. By "easy" I mean that:
Not too far; I would have to be able to go and return without taking
more than a weekend
Not too complicated an itinerary
Not too important; if it didn't work out, I didn't want to be devastated
by disappointment
I therefore settled on flying to Virginia, where Karen now works and her
older sister, Dorothy Elizabeth, lives with her husband and their little girl,
my only granddaughter. We started about three weeks ago trying to make the
arrangements.
So now, less than eight hours after our arrival in Virginia, we are ready to
start our mini-vacation, "we" being Mary, my ex-wife and present friend, and
myself.
Our short, low-cost mini-vacation in Virginia was about to come to a close.
The original plan was for us to have dinner with Frankie's parents, Joe and
Kathy Kinder, and then to run back to the airport in time for our 5:30 flight
back to Phoenix. But two things happened: First, yesterday Joe came down with a
nasty infection that sent him to the emergency room. Although he was now back
home, of course neither he nor Kathy, who'd sat with him all though hours in the
ER, was quite up to entertaining. Besides, the doctors wanted him back in
the ER to check how his antibiotic was working. Second, a change in Karen's
schedule placed her unexpectedly in Dulles Airport for about three hours
prior to our departure. So we would be able to visit her, after all!
In perhaps the most depressing song ever written, "Is That All There
Is?" written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller and recorded in 1969 by Peggy Lee,
the singer laments that the various events that should have defined her life,
such as a house fire, going to the circus for the first time, or falling in
love, instead left her feeling empty and disappointed. In the song, the singer
announces that she won't kill herself, only because she's certain that even
death will be "that final disappointment".
My initial reaction is, "Suck it up, lady!" But I do appreciate that
many people do, indeed, feel that something
is missing from their lives; and for all their attempts to fill that void with
food, fashion, TV or religion, nothing they've tried seems to really
bring them happiness.
And that, of course, is the key: Nothing they've tried. They've
been following our culture's suggestions on how to find happiness; but our
culture isn't in fact qualified to offer advice on that topic, based as it is
entirely on moving money from the pockets of workers to the off-shore bank
accounts of the very rich. (Which, by all accounts, doesn't even bring happiness
to the very rich! —Though it probably doesn't make them miserable, either.)
Let's pick up where we left off, with
people who are vaguely dissatisfied (or, possibly, absolutely miserable) with
their lives but
unable to figure out what's missing. Often, they've tried religion to no avail;
they may have tried rampant materialism as well. They may even have given away
all their earthly goods and tried asceticism! Yet, neither wealth nor poverty
nor church has filled that inner void—and, what's worse, whichever path they've
tried, doesn't support dissatisfaction very well. Other proponents always
suggest an increase of whatever that path is: even more things (a
newer car, a larger flat screen TV), even fewer things (try a 40-day
fast), even more Jesus (a retreat where we talk about Jesus all weekend!).
The problem is, the thing that is missing, that void, is within your
deepest being. You can't fill a void there with anything
external. No round-the-world cruise, no bed of nails, no rosaries or festivals
or contortioned postures can, of themselves, fill that innermost void. At best,
they can only distract one from feeling that void for a short time. But when the cruise
ends or one rises from that bed of nails, or, yes, one emerges from the
Wednesday night prayer service, one finds the void is still there.
I am not the world's biggest opera fan. I love classical music, but I'm
afraid I'm one of those Philistines who prefers his entertainment in English.
When I see an opera in German or French or Italian, I keep reading the subtitles
projected above the stage and miss most of the action. I know, I should just
learn German and French and Italian. I'm always meaning to. But I've been
busy.
Those TV shows won't just watch themselves, you know.
As regular readers of this blog know, my daughter, Karen, recently became a
flight attendant which means I can fly for free (or nearly free) anywhere her
airline or its partners go. So, this weekend, I decided to spend a day in New
York City.
Oh, my, oh my...what an amazingly full year 2008 has been! Complete with cast
changes and changes of scene, it seems appropriate at this time of year that I
recap the doings of the residents of 10143 East Lobo Avenue and share them with
you, our dear friends and extended family.
We all have certain minor rituals, I guess, which are incorporated into the
whole of the rituals that are major holidays. Thanksgiving has its shopping for
turkeys; Easter has the dyeing of eggs. For Michael and I, Christmas has come to
include going to the Christmas concert of the Handbell Ringers of Sun City as
guests of our friend, Willis, with dinner to follow.
About 30 miles east of where we live, along US 60, lies the little mining
town of Superior, Arizona. It's a relatively unremarkable place, but just a few
miles past it US 60 winds its way into a gorge dug eons ago by Queen Creek,
which eventually winds its way into the Valley and gives its name to a
smaller housing development that is one of the dozens of Phoenix suburbs.
I've passed through Queen Creek Canyon probably a dozen times, and every time
I wanted to take pictures. But either I didn't have a decent camera, or the
light wasn't right, or I was in a hurry to get somewhere else. This morning I
got up early for the express purpose of running out there in the SUV and getting
a few shots of this exquisite bit of Arizona that is largely unknown to most
people, other than those who live in the immediate area.
People who know both me and my husband, Michael, know we are opposites in
many ways. Anything he does, Michael does with precision and intention. If it
doesn't come out the way he wanted, he'll do it again. I'm a lot more relaxed.
Michael thinks I "settle" for less than perfect, but that's not it. Rather, I
hold a looser view of the outcome and enjoy being surprised by whatever it turns
out to be.
I imagine either approach could work with Christmas tree decorating. But I
must say, when Michael decorates a Christmas tree (and he has done
Christmas decorating professionally, as well as for his family) the result is
never anything short of exquisite.
Each year on Christmas Eve, Zachary, who is nine-going-on-thirty, places a
plate of Christmas cookies he's baked himself (under guidance, of course) and a
glass of milk on a tray table near the tree for Santa. Since he's been able to
write, he's also written Santa a note. Santa always leaves a reply. Zachary's
note this year was so sweet and sincere, and Santa's reply so insightful, that I
thought I should share them with you.
Here was my intention: To make a quick, overnight visit to Florida to visit
my sisters, Joni and Louise, and their families at their post-Christmas
get-togethers. Even my nephew, Tim, was flying in from California.
Now, the thing is, I had a feeling this wasn't going to work out.
There was no rational reason for this feeling. I fly standby, because of my
daughter, Karen, being a flight attendant. But I checked and there were plenty
of empty seats. In fact, despite the storms of a couple of weeks ago, it seemed
as if the planes were running fine. Still, I had this feeling, and I
tried to postpone my trip. But the moment I called Louise and identified myself,
she said, "Don't tell me you're not coming!" I have an issue with disappointing
people—I can't stand doing it. So I replied, "Of course I'm coming!"
Hey, what better way to start off the New Year than with an easy hike? It
sure beats hanging around all day nursing a hangover! This year, Michael, Mary,
Zachary and I decided to challenge the Piestewa Peak Circumference Trail. We got
the exercise, sunshine, and above-the-pollution-line fresh air; you get the
photos.
The entirety of human misery is built on a bed of twelve lies.
These lies are
disseminated so subtly that often they aren't even stated outright.
Nevertheless, they so permeate our culture that they are almost universally
believed by people who have never even given them a second thought.
And yet, these twelve lies have taken away from you the power your Creator
intended you to have, to the benefit of a handful of obscenely rich men and to
the detriment of the remainder of the human race.
Today I want
to expose each of these lies, and show how, by simply seeing through them to the
underlying Truths, you can instantly and pretty painlessly transform
your life into one that is happy,
uplifting, and on the road to Enlightenment.
On Christmas Day, Michael opened his present from me, an oddly light-weight
box. It contained a custom-made travel brochure that read, in part,
On Friday, January 16, 2009, you will be flown to the Mexican resort town of
Cabo San Lucas, in Baja California Sur, where you will meet your husband
(flying on a different flight), rent a car, and spend Friday and Saturday
nights at the Posada Chabela bed and breakfast, with three days’ exploring,
before returning on Sunday January 18, 2009, to Phoenix.
The day before I left for Cabo San Lucas,
I received in the mail a brown envelope from Virginia. Two of my
daughters, and my only granddaughter, live in Virginia; but not at the address
on the envelope. So I almost didn't open it until after my trip. But I
did, and it turned out to contain
Flat Stanley, a cutout character my
granddaughter, Cailey, had made in school. Her teacher had sent Flat Stanley to
me, along with a letter from Cailey asking that I allow Flat Stanley to
accompany me for a week or so and then to respond by telling his adventures.
This blog entry is for that purpose.
This month's trip, just completed, was to St. Augustine, Florida, where I
grew up. Unlike several previous trips, this one went without a hitch. Which
means my story about it may be less fascinating! But I do have pictures.
In the 1920s, my Mom and
her mother made several winter trips to St. Augustine,
Florida (without her father, who remained in Bloomfield, New
Jersey, to work his optometry practice). Mom liked it there,
especially the mild winters and laid-back attitude common to
many Southern towns of the period.
Saturday morning I set out to hike in Boyce Thompson Arboretum State Park, which
is located about four miles west of Superior, Arizona, about 35 miles from my
house. I had thought it would be a small place (I didn't realize it was an
actual state park until I got there) but it wasn't; it contains many paths and
trails and is suitable for anyone who wants to get out in the fresh air for a
bit. It also happens to be breathtakingly beautiful. So, of course, I took a lot
of photos.
It used to take a few weeks for a fad to sweep the nation. "Sorry about that,
Chief!" needed at least three episodes of Get Smart! to air before
everyone in the country was repeating it. (My mom was still saying it the day
she died.)
But now, thanks to the Internet, a fad can sweep the nation in a day or less.
For example, the "25 Random Facts" meme that urges people "tagged" to write down
25 facts about themselves that aren't generally known. I tend to resist these
things—I was the last person I know to join Facebook—but since I now know more
things about my friends than I ever wanted to, I feel compelled to get even by
adding my own 25 facts to the mix.
Maui, like all of Hawai'i, has two seasons: Summer and Winter. Winter, which
runs from October to April, is when most of the rain falls. But it's not a solid
rain like some places get; it tends to come down in sudden light showers. And
so, when I had a chance to fly to Maui, said by many to be the prettiest of the
Hawaiian islands, even though it was in winter, I took it.
Every turn—and there were many—revealed some new wonder: A waterfall, a
gorge, a flowering tree, a breathtaking seascape. The top speed limit was 20 mph
and in many places was 10 mph; rather than holding me up sometimes I went slower
for safety. There weren't many cars on the road but the ones that were there
seemed to belong to tourists who were also looking more at scenery than for
other cars. Fortunately, there were a lot of turnouts but if there had been
more, I'd have taken more pictures.
The town of Hana is an artist colony and unspeakably laid back, nestled in
this rain forest. It was like a cross between Bar Harbor and Jurassic Park.
Someday I would like to spend more time there but today, I needed to keep moving
to get to my campground before dark.
The Seven Sacred Pools of Hana and the Pi'ilani Highway
I had camped at the Haleakala National Park's Kipahulu campground on the Hana
Coast, I of course had to visit the Seven Sacred Pools which is part of the
park. There are, in fact, many more than seven pools; there are dozens of
various sizes and in the summer are popular swimming spots. Because of the storm
still raging atop the volcano, however, there was flash flood danger and so the
pools were closed to swimmers. The trails leading to them were open, however, to
photographers and non-swimming hikers.
I awoke in my camper on the beach, to the first blush of sky and the soft
rush of waves lapping the shore...and a handsome young man just outside the
camper window. He wasn't looking in, but seem to be tugging something. I lifted
myself up on one elbow and saw that he was pulling a sea kayak out of a trailer
loaded up with them.
So here we are on Catalina Island, and I am hardly a novice camper, but last
night was something out of a medieval torture manual.
The problem was that Michael and I didn't have any kind of padding for our
sleeping bags. We had brought the air mattress that I keep in one of the
pre-packed camping crates we brought; and it's a good one, too, one you'd be
pleased to offer guests in your home to sleep on. In fact, to me it's more
comfortable than our very expensive bed at home. But the pump for it runs
on 12-volt electricity from the car, and we had neither car nor electricity at
our campsite.
Today I reluctantly left Michael and the rest of the family on Catalina
Island, as I made the journey back home so I could get to work tomorrow...a trip
that involved almost every mode of transportation known to man except hot-air
ballooning.
There's an old story, attributed to Jesus, that "he"—that is, God—might
show up in unexpected ways: as a beggar, or a lame person. The moral of the
story is generally taken to mean that we should treat such people as we
would treat a deity, should one drop by. However, I prefer to take the story
literally.
Today I had my first colonoscopy. When Mom had her first one, maybe 20 years
ago, it was a miserable experience for her, one which not only hurt as it was
happening, but for weeks afterwards. People are supposed to have a colonoscopy
performed at 50 years of age, which for me was 8 years ago. But Mom's experience
caused me to hesitate. Still, we've had a number of family members succumb to
colon cancer. So it seemed like I really shouldn't put it off any longer.
My new Canon Powershot G10 camera that I got from my daughters Jenny and
Karen for Christmas, has so many features that I haven't yet learned to use them
all. But I am trying to pick up a new technique each week. And this week, I
discovered a couple of features that I would never have guessed a camera has, or
needs. They are called "Color Swap" and "Color Accent".
Today was Gay Pride in Phoenix (we have it early because of the excessive
June heat) but Michael and I didn't go. That's because we were at Grandpa Pride:
Our grandson, Zachary, won First Place at a karate sparring competition, the
East Valley Classic, and we were there.
About a week ago, our friend Willis Frye passed away. He was found in his
apartment by cleaning people, having had a stroke, and taken to the hospital.
The next day he was transferred to hospice, an MRI at the hospital having
discovered that, in addition to his diabetes, Chronic Pulmonary Disease, and bad
heart, he also had a massive brain tumor and another tumor in his liver. Michael
was able to get over to see him, and though he couldn't speak or even open his
eyes, he was able to let Michael know that he knew Michael was there.
Willis died that night.
Yet we weren't really sad. Not only because both Michael and I are well aware
that "death" is an illusion and those who have passed on remain a part of our
lives, but also because Willis should have died six years ago; and he
spent those "extra" years living life on his own terms.
An ancient Chinese curse is said to translate, "May you live in interesting
times." It says a lot about the people who thought such a fate would be
undesirable, and a lot about the people through the centuries who have repeated
the "curse" believing it was one. It also says a lot about us, that so many of
us no longer think that "interesting" times must, necessarily, be bad.
And it also says a lot about our mass media, that its constant puking of what
it finds "interesting" is, indeed, unpleasant, when so many wonderful things are
happening that are even more interesting as well as joy-making.
This evening Michael and I attended a free show by a new friend, singer Fox
Elipsus (his professional name). Fox is not from here. He is, in fact, from
Britain though his home is currently in Buffalo, New York. But since January his
home has been his car, as he has been touring the United States and Canada
promoting his new, independent-label double-CD Momentum. Since Fox is not
part of the mass media, he is free to write and perform songs of joy, of
meaning, of political import, as well as of love. And so I was happy to open our
home to him for the several days he will be in the Valley. I knew we weren't
only supporting "indie art", but also the high frequency vibration of Love.
My friend, Jason, told me he used to go camping a lot but hadn't in
years. So, of course, I invited him to accompany Michael and me to Verde Hot
Spring. What I failed to consider is that Jason is a genteel young man who might
not be ready for the free-wheeling hippies who camp out there. After all,
camping in a genuinely remote area is a lot different than camping with one's
parents at a KOA.
It's been a year since my friend Frank and I went
whitewater rafting on
the Upper Salt River. It was his first time, and apparently established a
tradition, as he called me a few weeks ago to arrange for a second trip. That's
okay with me; the Upper Salt is awesome and I am always up for a bit of river
time.
I very seldom post videos on my site, especially videos I didn't create. And
anyone who knows me knows I am far too cynical to enjoy
glurge. But this
video doesn't fit into that category. It's genuinely uplifting and guaranteed to
bring a smile to your face. It's only 5½ minutes long; so
put on your headphones or turn up your speakers and enjoy!
My Grandson, Zachary, has been hearing me tell river tales all his life.
That's because what happens on the river, seldom stays on the river—it's too
interesting not to share! Consequently, Zach has asked to go rafting since he
could talk. But you can't take babies on a raft unless you are trying to escape
the sinking of a luxury liner. So we had to put it off. Until...today!
I'm the kind of person strangers feel they can tell anything to. I base this
on my experience: almost every time I enter a Wal-Mart, Target, or grocery
store, some other customer will approach so they can keep me apprised of their
drug problem, affair, kidney disease or crisis of faith. Other people get asked
to buy Girl Scout cookies. I get told that by a middle-aged man that there's an
injunction against his approaching within 100 feet of Girl Scouts.
But of course my friends also confide in me. I normally keep these
confidences to myself. But recently I have heard the same thing from so many
different people in the last couple of weeks that I can safely talk about it
here without revealing any secrets. Seriously, if you, one of my personal
friends, think I am blogging about just you, you are wrong. I've heard
the same complaints about depression, loss of faith, and weird or bad dreams,
from over a dozen people in the past few weeks. And so I am using this forum to
discuss the issue with all of you, plus anyone else that somehow managed not
to tell me, at once.
How I came to be invited to ASU to hear President Obama's speech, how I heard
it, and how I left the Sun Devil Stadium afterwards: A blog post in three acts.
I've written before about the "annoying
power of prayer". Annoying, because the studies that proved prayer works
offended both atheists and Christians. Atheists, because the studies showed that
something they couldn't put in a jar seemed to exist; and Christians because the
studies showed it didn't matter to whom one prayed: Prayers to Jesus were
neither more or less effective than prayers to Buddha or Ed McMahan.
However, once one accepts that prayers do work—something that billions of
people take as a given without a need for studies—one them comes right up
against this brick wall: They don't always seem to work. Science likes
repeatable phenomena, like the way a magnet always attracts iron filings,
or the way a slice of bread always falls butter-side down. While it's
nice to know that praying for the health of a cardiac patient
improves his or her chances of recovery by 11%, wouldn't it be even nicer if
we could goose the odds a bit? I mean, if we are going to spend time praying for
something, we'd like to achieve at least a 90% success ratio.
In today's post, I offer some suggestions for praying more effectively. While
I can't promise 90% success, I do propose that considering these ideas may prove
helpful to you.
It wasn't that complicated an idea: Travel to Alaska on an (almost) free
ticket, stay at the lodge of a friend of a friend's, go whitewater rafting. My
friend, Frank, had been urging me to join him in visiting his friend Brad's
lodge for over a year; and we had been whitewater rafting together twice so it
made sense to do an Alaskan raft trip while there. My husband, Michael, was
adamant about going with us...he was not going to miss out on a trip to
Alaska! I made detailed plans, made reservations and pre-bought various tickets.
Frank, a flight attendant, used frequent flier miles to obtain his
transportation and arrange our first night's stay in Anchorage and car rental.
Michael bought his own ticket through
Priceline for some 30% off (by bidding on it). It was my own ticket that
nearly turned the trip into a disaster.
Some years ago, I visited Cicely, Alaska, the fictional town featured in the
1990s TV series
Northern Exposure. I was able to do this without actually going to
Alaska, because "Cicely" was actually a side street in the town of
Roslyn, Washington.
The TV series, however, had renewed my interest in
visiting
Alaska, which had become a
state in 1959 when I was in 3rd grade. My visit to "Cicely" only strengthened my
desire to visit the 49th state someday. Now
I was here, not only in Alaska
but over 300 miles from Anchorage in the little town of McCarthy, which could
have served as the template for fictional Cicely. Remote, quaint, set amid
pristine wilderness and populated by quirky yet friendly characters, I couldn't
help but draw comparisons even as my husband, Michael, and our friend, Frank,
and I prepared to go rafting down the Nizina River.
I didn't want to spoil what had been a terrific trip for Michael and Frank by
openly freaking out, but I was freaking out, quietly, nevertheless. I had no
wallet and therefore no identification and therefore would surely not be allowed
through security at the airport and so wouldn't be able to go home at all. I
might have to stay in Anchorage, but only as a homeless person as I wouldn't have the
money for shelter and without an ID I wouldn't even be able to get a job.
In these times of increased quantum vibration and resulting odd mental,
physical and emotional ups and downs, many are turning to metaphysical sources
for guidance. That's because, throughout Earth's history, we have always been
taught to look outside ourselves for guidance. It doesn't even occur to most
people to do otherwise.
My friend, Chris, recently drew my attention to a new networking web site. I
know, I know; MySpace and Facebook and Twitter, oh, my! Do we really need
another one? But this new site, Scribd,
specializes on "people who like to read". So, right there, instead of having
another site that tries to be all things to all people, Scribd has eliminated
all but the 12% of Americans who actually like to read. So, that's a
plus. It also allows members to post documents like ebooks, and actually sell
them. That's another plus. And it allows the creation of groups who can then
share documents. That supports an idea I've had for some time: A way for
Lightworkers to share thoughts, which tend to run for more words than the
120-character limit on Twitter allows.
When the 4th of July approaches, my thoughts turn to celebrating it anywhere
but Phoenix. It's too hot, too crowded, and too expensive. So, this year,
when Michael and I were invited by our friends Eddie and Carl to visit them in
Prescott, we took them up on it.
We left for Prescott on Friday, which I had off from work. We did
not take the shortest route there. Years ago, I drove north on State
Road 89 to Prescott, on a very curvy, mountain road. I didn't get to see
the view because it happened to be about 2 am at the time. I've always
wanted to take that road in the daytime, and this trip we did. So our
route went through Wickenberg and some impressive storm clouds that
never actually rained on us. From door to door, the drive took us
about 3½ hours.
Our first flight left early this afternoon, on US Air from Phoenix to
Charlotte, North Carolina. Michael, Zach and I each crammed all our stuff into
carry-ons, because our cheap tickets would require us to pay $20 for the first
checked baggage for each passenger, and $25 for each additional bag. So I
managed to fit into my soft travel bag, not only enough clothes for a week, but
my camera, GPS, a 12v DC to 110v AC inverter, a laptop computer, a Pocket PC,
and all my medicines. (Now that I am nearing 60, I find my medicines could just
about require a suitcase of their own.)
For those of you who may be from other parts of the country, please note that
it is considered good manners in Florida to greet visitors while shirtless. At
least, if you are a man. Especially in the summer it is entirely too humid and
hot to wear even a square inch of unnecessary cloth.
Occasionally
a man might don a shirt to go to church or a fancy restaurant. But he might not,
and no one will give him a second look. Women are more modest, but two-piece
bathing suits are seen pretty much everywhere. They are certainly not
limited to the beach!
Yesterday when we were visiting my sister, Mary Joan, I mentioned that today
we planned to visit Alexander Springs and would she like to come with us? "Oh,
we don't go to springs," she replied. "They have amoebas in them that get
into your head through your nose and eat your brain."
When I pointed out that I've been to Alexander Springs, and other springs,
many times before without my brain having yet been eaten, she added, "Well,
anyway, there's a storm coming down from the north. It's not like our usual
Florida storms that come from the south. It's going to rain all day. Hard.
You'll have a terrible time."
When San
Lorenzo was opened in 1892, many families moved their deceased from the
Mission to the new cemetery...because they didn't want their families to be
separated in death! You would think that Catholics, of all people, would
be aware that there is no separation in death and that it completely doesn't
matter where the bodies are buried.
Leaving our grandson Zachary with his aunt and uncle, Michael and I went
directly from the cemetery to the final event of my 40th high school class
reunion, to be held at Zhanra's Arts and Eats,
a bar sort-of-place on Anastasia Island just across the bridge from downtown.
We'd been told there would be "heavy hors devours" which was pretty much exactly
what I should not be eating. And they were to be served in a "cigar bar"
which is apparently still legal in Florida. I assume the Orgy Room was already
booked.
Today was a driving day, spent in the rental car driving from my sister's
house in St. Augustine, Florida to our hotel in Herndon, Virginia. That's me, my
husband Michael, and our 10-year-old grandson trapped in a car for twelve hours.
Today is the day Michael and I took two daughters and two grandchildren to
the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, DC. The daughters and one grandchild
live in Northern Virginia, so we took the Metro into town. What could possibly
go wrong?
Whoever thought that waking up in a motel room with five people who all
needed to shower and dress and have breakfast would allow for an early departure
must have been clownishly naive. Oh, wait...that was me.
We arrived about 1 this morning at the home of my friends, Chris and Kim
Renzi, and their daughter, Miranda, in Greenville, South Carolina. Chris and Kim
had graciously offered to put us up for the night when they learned we would be
passing through the area.