meanderings

Half-empty, but more than full

2011-10-03T14:36:00.000-07:00

I love looking at things in different ways. And the idea of looking through things to see recognizable forms in a different context. I look at life this way.

Reflections

2010-09-30T22:41:00.000-07:00

I continue to be fascinated by reflections. Because there are secrets contained within the image that reveal themselves and seem to change with the passing of time.

When I first looked at the photos, I thought I had taken the shots from outside, looking into the room through the glass and catching the reflection. Then I thought it must have been the other way around. In a way, it's like a puzzle. Certain clues, certain impossibilities.

And this one--a reflection of a fabric wall hanging superimposed upon my face so that it appears like a tribal mask and stripes (the slats from the balcony) painted on my body in silhouette.

Kauai

2010-09-29T20:15:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Reflections

2010-08-12T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm always taken by reflections. Maybe I'm drawn by the re-assemblage of elements as they exist in reality that create a reality of their own. A condition that is not unlike what we often see in our dreams--a re-assemblage of thoughts we've had, things we've perceived, etc. I shot these photos at SF MOMA. Because of the reflective quality of the glass, the light, and the angle--images that are not actually part of the framed photograph seem to be part of the composition. I need to return to MOMA, because I'm curious to see where the photographs that are reflected are in relationship to the ones that I focused on and shot.

Stop Before You Sip

2010-07-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

Before you take that sip of wine, you may want to check if it's made from organic grapes. Non-organic grapes, along with strawberries, blueberries, and celery (the worst), are among the most pesticide-saturated foods from the garden (or vineyard). When you consider the amount of grapes present in every glass of wine, you start to get an idea of the concentration of pesticides in each sip. Why does it matter?

Headaches are linked to pesticide consumption, along with a slew of other negative symptoms, including poor memory, lack of energy, and diarrhea. Obviously we can't nail these on pesticides alone, because like so many other ailments, they are not caused by only one thing. But it all comes back to this--pesticides are damaging to our ecosystems. And the incidence of cancer and other ailments among farm workers who live and work in pesticide-laden areas is an obvious and major indictment of pesticides. So bring in the ladybugs!

Wines made from organically grown grapes have been growing in popularity throughout the world. I’m lucky to live in Northern California, where there is a delightful host of wineries that produce their wine from organic grapes--Frey (America’s first organic winery, meaning not only do they produce their wine from organic grapes, but they do not add sulfites), Peju Province (where the wine tasting room looks like a medieval castle and the grounds are host to sculptures of some of the goddesses of Greek myth), and Frog’s Leap (vast organic garden, big house for wine-tasting, big old red barn where the wine barrels are stored), to name only a few.

If you’re in California and enjoy wine tasting, you may want to include some of these wineries on your list of things to do. You’ll learn more about sustainable farming, biodynamics, and why this makes sense for grapes, just like any other ‘food’ you put into your body. And you’ll have the opportunity to discover the often amazing architecture and grounds of these enchanting wineries. Look for wines made from organic grapes at stores like Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, Safeway, or your local market. Often you need to check the back of the label to see the information you need.

Remember that for a wine to be considered organic, no sulfites can be added in the processing. So even if it was made from 100% certified organic grapes, but sulfites were added--it is not an organic wine. Sulfites are used to inhibit or kill unwanted yeasts and bacteria, and to protect wine from oxidation. In fact, sulfites are formed naturally during the fermentation process, but most winemakers add sulfites during the crushing, fermentation, and the bottling stages as well.

Check out the wine list at your favorite restaurant. If you don’t see any mention of "organic," suggest adding some. And meanwhile, raise your glass and be sure you can really say, "A votre sante."

Silence

2010-07-25T20:10:00.000-07:00

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

Between the Hours

2010-07-25T09:03:00.001-07:00

Between the hours
I think of you
You touch me
through a memory
A whisper in the darkness
And I feel your hand
Just as it was
When first we met.
Our hands did all the talking then.

It's the beginning
I think about most
The way you looked on the street corner
When I suggested
We meet
To talk about
Old times.
I had no idea what I was saying.

You knew I was crazy
But then so were you
I smile as I remember this
It's like an old song
Always playing
Somewhere in the corner
Of my mind.

Alone in my room,
Sometimes I wonder if you hear me
I talk to you so often.
And then I feel your hand on my shoulder
Or I dream of you
And all the things I didn't say,
Are pouring out of me.
Like water.

And I'm so grateful.
Because if I had another chance
Or a million chances,
I would tell you what you already knew.
That I never stopped loving you
Either.

Silver Satin

2010-07-25T09:01:00.000-07:00

Did you love me then
When all the world was blue
And I danced in silver satin
Whispering ancient stories
Of things I didn’t know.

Or did you see me as what I was
A figment of your imagination
Treading lightly on your feelings
Afraid to make you cry.

I’m so much older now.
A version of what I used to be.
Remembering so vividly what it was like
To be so young and wise.

And where did you go
Mad lover of forever
Did you catch the rainbows
You vowed to find?

I still see you
Sitting quietly beside me
Or running breathlessly along the roads of time.
Your smile is so worn now
And speaks of countless journeys
In the desert and the forest
Of our dreams of yesterday.

Among the weathered furrows
That speak of things you've never spoken
Like all our conversations
Even now.

The Planet is Bleeding

2010-06-05T19:45:00.000-07:00

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

Harvey Milk

2010-05-13T18:55:00.001-07:00

I wrote this piece in one sitting (in about 10 minutes) in response to a posting on craigslist from thequeertimes.com. The request was for personal stories about Harvey Milk. The piece was featured on the homepage of the 5/22/10 issue. Here's the story:

I lived in the Castro when Harvey Milk had his camera shop there. I wasn't gay, but just about all my friends were. I loved basking in the adoration of all those gorgeous men. We had fun and fabulous conversations. In many ways, I derived way more satisfaction from those relationships than with any of my straight friends. The Castro was a mecca for self-expression of all kinds. No one was too weird. It felt good living in an environment of total acceptance.

Street life was prevalent in those days. A sunny day meant spending time hanging out on the street--coffee and a sweet at the Bakery Cafe or maybe a mid-day cocktail at the Elephant Walk, followed by walking around, looking around, maybe heading over to Buena Vista Park and back. But outside was the place to be. There was always a lot of activity in front of and inside Harvey's camera store. Political meetings or just people talking. And whenever you got a glimpse of Harvey, chances were good he was smiling. It's how he viewed the world and the people in it--with a big Harvey Milk smile. You can't fake that kind of smile. It comes from the inside. You either have it or you don't.

It was a street fair of some sort. Maybe Gay Pride Day, not sure. But in any case, I remember Castro Street swarming with people--from Market to about 19th or 20th. Street vendors, musicians, people talking, dancing, checking one another out. One of the activities was some sort of game where dunking Harvey Milk was the prize. I don't remember if it was a fundraising activity or just some random amusement park kind of thing, the purpose being just silly fun. In any case, I happened to walk by just at the moment Harvey was being dunked. He emerged with that big smile, laughing, wiping the water from his face, and then immediately got dunked again. Always in on the fun, Harvey just lapped it up--enjoying himself like everyone else.

The night of the candlelight vigil, I was there with my best friend, a guy I had lived with for three years. Both of us were so sad, we could hardly speak, which was the general mood of the night. Silence. Earlier, when we had received the news, we were stunned like the rest of the city. Of all the people. . . and by the hand of an insane, homophobic man, a man Harvey had tried so desperately to befriend. Who could believe it? Why?

The Castro or San Francisco, for that matter, will never be the same. It was one big party in those days. Before AIDS, before the murder of Harvey Milk, who was not only the King of Castro Street; he was the sunshine.

oahu sunset

2010-04-26T20:51:00.000-07:00

I drew this using pastels. The inspiration was a photo I took in Oahu. I began the drawing with a print of the photo taped to the easel. But eventually I put the photo away and began playing with colors and shapes--sometimes adding colors without thinking why. I found myself visualizing the piece when I was doing other things--riding my bike, writing, cooking, whatever else. I would think of something I wanted to do--change a color, a shape. So I was essentially drawing the way I write--adding, deleting, and changing things over a period of time.

And this is the photo that was the inspiration, although the real inspiration was what I saw--that evening in Oahu, from the balcony of my hotel room.

Instigating Art

2010-04-16T18:04:00.000-07:00

Jim Woessner lives and works on a houseboat called Casa de Amor on Issaquah Dock in Sausalito, Californa. The entire top floor of the houseboat (where you would expect to see a living room/dining room) is devoted to his art studio, save the small kitchen area that faces the dock. He lives there with no evidence of the fact that once he worked as a nuclear engineer and showed up everyday 9-5 and then some for PG&E on Market St. in San Francisco. That was before one sunny afternoon when in frustration Woessner suddenly threw his briefcase across Beale Street and proceeded to watch in amazement as the briefcase hit a fountain, broke open and all his papers were swept up and carried aloft by a sudden gust of wind. Witnessing this surreal display, Woessner realized he had just ‘let go’ literally and figuratively. Very liberating, as he tells it.

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A Fair Maiden and a King

2010-03-14T20:32:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading A Fair Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates, who continues to be one of my favorite authors. I'm convinced she is not of this earth. Her ghostly photograph haunts the book jacket with eyes that stare out from another century. And I wonder if she is a creature who sleeps. I don't know if there has ever existed an author so prolific or one so adept at being able to write from the inside of her characters--be it a girl of sixteen or a man in his late sixties who is obsessed by her.

This is not a book review. Although like most of her stories, A Fair Maiden captivated me by the middle of the first page. It's Joyce's magic--her ability to hypnotize us into surrendering to her stories. And it's a willing surrender. Her characters leap off the page. They smile and breathe and moan. We feel their sweat, their chills, their sexuality. We come to know them. They are real, so real in fact because we recognize their thoughts, their perceptions. They are our thoughts, our mothers' thoughts, the boys we were attracted to in high school's thoughts. It's as if each of Joyce's books is personalized to speak to something specific in each one of us. And yet it is the same book we hold in our hands that is read by millions of others. How does she do that?

All these people that speak through Joyce. As if she is a medium, a transmitter of lives that make themselves known through her stories. As if she is the purveyor of souls--from now and before.

In A Fair Maiden, what could so easily be construed as 'sick, perverted, unlawful' is instead something incredibly beautiful. It is a love story, in the mode of a fairytale, a story of old. Where a fair maiden and a beloved king interact in a storybook house to the backdrop of the sea and ocean birds. Where soul mates, art, and love intertwine in the rich fabric of something resembling a dream. And it all happens in New Jersey.

Buoyant Life

2010-02-01T21:05:00.001-08:00

Much more on: Buoyant Life. Articles about living afloat around the world. Good for the soul. Check out the article on Cosmic Muffin, a floating home that was once flown by Howard Hughes: Just Another Plane Boat Muffin.

Such a tactile thing

2010-01-14T22:26:00.000-08:00

Knitting is such a tactile thing--the feel of the yarn between your fingers, moving, gliding as the project evolves from a spool of yarn to a pattern that grows before your eyes into a dimensional shape. Weight, warmth, colors that please you, the feel of the knitting needles, the soft patter and clinking of them moving slowly or rapidly--it really doesn't matter. This is one of those many examples in life of something that is as enjoyable in the process as the completion. Perhaps even more enjoyable. Maybe it's the continuity, the comfort of this piece of craftsmanship that sits in your lap as it grows--like a soft, warm cat curled up in total contentment.

Buoyant Life

2010-01-13T15:22:00.000-08:00

Working on a new website called Buoyant Life--all about living afloat. Very exciting. Most recent article is about wine-tasting barge cruises through France. What's not to like?

Shadows and Reflections

2009-10-06T20:25:00.000-07:00

These have always fascinated me, because they are a door, a passageway to a more secret life, the other side--the stuff of dreams and the imagination.

The book that is your soul

2009-09-22T18:17:00.000-07:00

A new book, or rather an old one that has been stored away in a bank vault in Switzerland, is soon to make its appearance in the public marketplace. It's Jung's Red Book. The review in the New York Times is long and fascinating, and is less a review than the story around the book itself and its publication.

I'm only halfway though the review and found this passage particularly interesting. It is an excerpt from something written by one of Jung's patients. It was Jung's advice to her for how to deal with some of the more frightening things that went on in the far recesses of her mind:

“I should advise you to put it all down as beautifully as you can — in some beautifully bound book,” Jung instructed. “It will seem as if you were making the visions banal — but then you need to do that — then you are freed from the power of them. . . . Then when these things are in some precious book you can go to the book & turn over the pages & for you it will be your church — your cathedral — the silent places of your spirit where you will find renewal. If anyone tells you that it is morbid or neurotic and you listen to them — then you will lose your soul — for in that book is your soul.”

Salad

2009-08-19T19:21:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Feline

2009-08-12T19:26:00.000-07:00

I watched a TV show about domestic cats some time ago and remember being struck by something the narrator said--that part of our (human) fascination with 'domestic' cats is the idea of having something wild within our midst. . . The cat is unattainable in that way. Which makes her all the more fascinating.

This Is Not A Dress Rehearsal

2009-08-03T12:27:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Remember what I told you," she said.

"I will," I promised.

"What is it? Say it."

"This is not a dress rehearsal."

She nodded approvingly and disappeared among the shoppers.

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

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

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

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

Acres of Lavender

2009-08-02T22:31:00.000-07:00

A golden bush amidst a field of lavender at Matanzas Creek Winery outside of Santa Rosa, CA. God's country.

Sweater Girl

2009-07-28T22:21:00.001-07:00

One way to keep her from shedding all over the furniture is to put her in a sweater!

Poetry

2009-07-27T22:47:00.000-07:00

Poetry is the language of the soul, from that place where reason is not in power--where dreams, memories, sensations set the rules. For me, poetry is a way to express what I cannot otherwise, because everyday language as we know it isn't set up for it.

Silhouettes

Silhouettes
Of broken glass
Strewn about the floor
Remnants of our conversation
From ten years before

You dazzled me with romance
And told stories ‘til the dawn
But it wasn’t you there with me.
You were already gone.

Once I was a princess
In a far off foreign land
You traveled miles and miles
Through sleet and storm
Just to hold my hand.

But that was very long ago
Before the winds of time
Changed my tears to melodies
In the far reaches of your mind.

A hundred years from now
When we are old
Our dreams set out to sea
I’ll take your hand
And you’ll remember
The girl who wasn’t me.

Crying in the dust storm
Our tears falling in the rain
We’ll hold each other like children
‘Til we are whole again.

(appeared in Bewildering Stories)

Computer Literate

2009-07-27T22:09:00.000-07:00

Tweet-Tweet

2009-04-23T17:22:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

perception

2009-02-01T11:12:00.001-08:00

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

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

am i as beautiful as i think i am?

2009-01-10T18:13:00.001-08:00

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

I Was Dancing

2008-12-20T08:54:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riding in the Hills of China Camp

2008-12-20T08:45:00.001-08:00

[published in Cycle California, April 2008]

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

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

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

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

A New Day

2008-11-05T09:09:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wrath of John McCain

2008-10-08T13:51:00.000-07:00

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

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

Do we want a president who himself admits:

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

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

You Wonder

2008-09-25T11:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

The Shadow

2008-09-10T09:43:00.000-07:00

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

Obama and The Palin Effect

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

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

My reaction:

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

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

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

crossroads

2008-09-04T20:40:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Still

2008-07-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

And I think of Peter.

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

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

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

Just for fun

2008-06-21T09:41:00.001-07:00

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

Wild Ride to the Mountain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Double Life

2008-06-10T12:16:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riding with Sadie

2008-06-09T11:27:00.000-07:00

[published in Cycle California, June 2008]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails to you (and Fido).

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

He's gone, but he's still everywhere

2008-06-05T16:34:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

sadie in the V

2008-05-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

Mr. Bush's Weather Report

2008-05-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

aging brains

2008-05-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

out walkin' in the rain

2008-04-30T12:14:00.000-07:00

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

the fawn and her mother

2008-04-24T20:33:00.000-07:00

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

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

strangers on the shore

2008-04-23T11:07:00.001-07:00

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

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

strangers on a shore
strangers not so strange

talk to you

2008-04-22T20:11:00.000-07:00

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

mr. p

2008-04-22T08:29:00.000-07:00

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

mr. p

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tree in sedona

2008-03-12T12:57:00.001-07:00

Ira's fight with the man

2008-03-10T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

shadow cat

2008-02-11T11:51:00.000-08:00

Atonement

2008-02-10T09:24:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

shoes, honestly

2007-12-17T10:58:00.001-08:00

buying shoes is an ordeal for me. not because i can't find shoes that i like, or that there is a lack of available sizes. the thing is, i have 'issues' with my left foot: a bunion and hallux limitus. the later is a condition caused by running. it would have helped, i suppose, if i had replaced my running shoes more frequently than i did. and no doubt it would have helped if i hadn't run so much on concrete. but regardless of the causes, i'm stuck with a foot that is ridiculously difficult to fit.

two podiatrists have told me surgery is an option, but that unless my foot actually hurts, there is no reason to rush into it. one of those podiatrists did say, however, that not being able to find shoes that fit is a valid reason for surgery as well. hmmm. apparently the most stationary sole is the best, i.e. one that does not flex. so my search for shoes must keep these factors in mind: enough room for the nobby protrusion that is my bunion, enough room in the toe box so that there is no pressure on the bunion or the area around the joint, rigid sole, and of course--something that i like.

danskos work--in some styles. and recently i discovered MBTs, a technology based on how the masai walk. according to the creator of the MBT line, walking on sand or springy moss is ideal for the human body. it provides an exercise to many areas of the leg, foot, and even stomach. in addition, it strengthens the back and promotes good posture. MBTs recreate this "walking on sand" effect in a shoe.

i received my podiatrist's endorsement on MBTs and three people in my yoga class have a pair (one of them has two), so i decided to spend the $250. Gulp.

not the most attractive of shoes, i chose an athletic style in black. when i left the store, it didn't even occur to me that i may have chosen the wrong size. but after walking in them for an hour or so, i started to suspect that perhaps i had. they felt a bit too roomy. and they were sure to stretch. so, what to do?

i'm at a point in my life where even a small white lie can be cause for gnawing guilt. maybe it's the karma thing; maybe it's just that i'm a better person than the one who derived such delicious pleasure from lifting a dress, shirt, or a variety of other items from stores and then walking out with the new possessions hidden on my person, feeling the inimitable rush of success.

so now that i had worn the shoes and the outer soles showed mud and tiny stones embedded in the tread, what was i to do? easy--clean them as best i could and determine (honestly) if they 'look' new. then take it from there. . .

so with a screwdriver, an old toothbrush, a paperclip, and the outdoor hose, i went to work. diligent work, and for someone as meticulous (and yes-obsessive) in many ways as i can be, a definite degree of fun. the result was pretty darn close to perfect. i even managed a few impressive touch-ups with a q-tip soaked in alcohol.

so i returned to the store, told the salesman ( who i liked and trusted) that i felt i may have purchased the shoes in the wrong size. he pulled out a pair in the next size down and i tried them on. they felt better, but something inside me wouldn't let me exchange them. so i told him the ones i had purchased originally were probably better afterall, and i left the store. but the story was not quite resolved.

that night i became increasingly annoyed by the fact that the shoes i had in my possession were slightly too large. i knew they were the kind of leather that would stretch, which made the situation all the worse. so i could of course make do, by wearing a thicker pair of socks. but my god--$250 bucks. so i decided i would return to the store the following day, try the smaller pair on again, and 'wing it.'

by the time i got to the parking lot of the shopping center, i was in anguish. the idea of facing the salesman and pretending that the shoes had not been worn made me sick to my stomach. i simply couldn't do it. but the other half of my dilemma was the fact that i had spent so much money on a pair of shoes that were in truth too big. which was stronger? my need to tell the truth, or my need to make a good purchase (i.e. to not 'waste' money). i called my best friend, hoping she would somehow convince me that returning them would be "o.k.," even though i knew it wasn't. i called my mother as well, because i believed she may have had the magic word to make me feel o.k. about it all. the call to my friend went to voicemail. the call to my mom produced a busy signal.

in exasperation i took out the shoes from the box. i turned them to examine the soles--yet again. with very careful inspection, someone could indeed notice that they had probably been worn. it was then i knew what to do.

so i entered the store and the same salesman was there. i greeted him with, "so here i am again!" and laughed. "i'm going through hell with these shoes," i told him. "i think i really do need the smaller size. maybe i wouldn't find the need to fine-tune this purchase so carefully if they weren't $250, but they are, and i need to make it right."

so he went to the stock room and pulled out the smaller pair. "but here's the thing," i confessed. "i may may not even have an option here; i wore them outside and you need to know that."

"o.k," he said, taking the larger pair and heading to the stock room. i was walking around in the 9.5s when he returned, shoes in hand. "they're fine. a few things i can touch up 'in the back.' they're essentially unworn."

relief. so simple and so complete. i then told him of a memory from long time ago. my father, a retail store manager in baltimore, md., had the policy: "the customer is always right." he proved his adherence to this idea one christmas when a woman came to the store with a coat she had purchased three years before. she wanted her money back because she claimed the coat didn't keep her warm. my dad returned the full amount she had paid.

"i had to tell you the truth," i told the salesman. "maybe it's because i remember how angry i was with that woman who took advantage of my father's store policy so long ago." the salesman smiled. "the shoes are fine. don't worry."

as he was filling out the necessary paperwork for the exchange, i spotted a pair of jazzy socks for my daughter for christmas. so i purchased these and breathed another sigh of relief. shoes, honestly.

poetry

2007-11-13T12:51:00.000-08:00

poetry speaks of
what cannot be spoken
and captures
what cannot be caught.
we read it like a picture
with elements missing
that our minds fill in
to make the picture complete.

a feeling, fleeting and taunting
something that cannot sit still.
because as you try to name or
describe it, it moves
to a different place.
like a wave on a design
drawn in the sand.
so it changes, but
the essence of what you did
remains.

poetry is feeling,
or like my daughter, from whom i learn so many things
once wrote: poetry is like a memory.

oil spill

2007-11-13T10:34:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

BlackWater

2007-10-30T11:34:00.000-07:00

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

maman

2007-10-24T11:33:00.000-07:00

there was a time
when the whole world lived in you
when all i wanted was to sit in your lap
and look up at your dark eyes
and touch your chin
with my fingertips

i thought i could never be as beautiful as you
i didn't like who i was and pretended to be others
more beautiful and talented
anyone but me

as i grew up, you stopped seeing who i was
you were busy trying to mold me into something else
like a piece of clay that you soften and work
into a shape that reflects your thought

i pulled away from you. i was angry.
i didn't want to be someone else anymore. i wanted to be me.
i wanted you to see
and to love the person i was becoming
like a flower, with petals that unfold

but you compared me to other flowers
perhaps more fragrant or with colors
more vibrant
i struggled to be and to know who i was

you continued to love me and i to love you
but it was a pained love, full of frustration
and sadness
and then one day--instead of resenting
and pulling and pushing
i softened.

i simply let go to who i was, letting it unfold
like a flower
and you started to like me again
and i to like you

you finally accepted all those things you
wanted to change
and you started to see them in a new light
a bouquet of you and my father
with sprigs of my own
collected from deserts and hillsides
seashores and sidewalks, the wind and the rain.

i love you now like i did so long ago
when i fell asleep in your lap
in the backseat of the car
all cozy like a cat curled up in the warm
when everything was perfect, everything was calm
and you, after all these years, look at me and smile
you see who i am
and you love me more with all my imperfections
than the image all those years ago
you wanted me to be

pride in work

2007-10-17T21:56:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being Alan Conway Being Stanley Kubrick

2007-10-11T10:43:00.000-07:00

Here's the short version: total, unmitigated, brilliant fun from start to finish. John Malkovich as Alan Conway in Color Me Kubrick, the guy who pretended to be Kubrick in London for a number of years in the '90s (and got away with it!), is outrageously good. He plays his queenly character to the hilt. Every expression, every combination of purposely bad New York, British, and other accents that apparently Conway tried to do in earnest--all of these hit the mark. His walk, side-long gazes, flutter of those remarkable eyelashes caked with mascara--all the little touches that indeed pronounce him a Queen. In fact, Malkovich is so at home with this persona, you wonder. . . And wait until you see him in his fuzzy coat and gypsy scarf, a striking image reminiscent of Edie Beale in Grey Gardens, and only one of a rich assemblage of fashion statements he parades around in during the course of the film.

The story is quite fantastic. Apparently Conway managed to dupe people into thinking he was Stanley Kubrick, the famous and reclusive film director. He managed to get people to pay his hotel bills, lured young boys into sexual escapades, would pretend he lived in upscale neighborhoods by having a new acquaintance meet him in front of a posh address, to name only a few of his lavish and skillfully executed ruses. He even managed to fool people who knew the actual Kubrick. One of these people was Frank Rich, then theatre critic for the New York Times. It seems that one night he and a Hollywood producer who had actually met Kubrick - fell for Conway's act. As Kubrick, Conway gained entrance to exclusive nightspots, was invited to countless parties and restaurants. And he was forever adept at not signing a check or paying a bill. And perhaps the most amazing thing is, he displayed very little knowledge of Kubrick the man, or his films.

Conway manages to entice people by portraying himself as the recognized celebrity recluse "confiding" in just them. So the recipient of his "confidential ramblings" feels special, privileged in fact, and is only too happy to pick up the bill, because 'Kubrick' seems to have forgotten to bring any cash and has also managed to leave all his credit cards on his bureau. He drops names right and left, manufactures ideas for movies he will direct, confuses actors from the past and present. All this delivered in exagerrated language, accents, and the every-so-queenly flair.

Being Stanley Kubrick, John Malkovich has achieved what I truly believe to be his best role. What could have been a slapstick misery is a remarkable achievement. You don't dislike the man, you don't pity him. You're highly entertained by him. In fact, you're enthralled by him.

This story about a man who set out to be someone he was not, who played it with all the truth of what he wanted, and who managed to pull it off--in spite of incredible odds, is a delightful sojourn into someone else's dream. And as Malkovich brings it all so delightfully to life, we play along with him, willingly.

Directed by Brian Cook, who worked with the actual Stanley Kubrick as his assistant director in many films, Color Me Kubrick, released in 2005, is a fabulous ride.

Look for more of my movie reviews on Slick's Flicks

follow britain's lead

2007-10-08T13:16:00.000-07:00

just read that by spring of '08 britain will cut its force in iraq by one-half. nice idea. let's do one better. take all our forces out--right now. listened to seymour hirsh a few days ago, interviewed on NPR. as for what to do in iraq, his response was quick, to the point, and easy to understand. option one: get all the troops out by midnight tonight. option two: get all the troops out by midnight tomorrow. our presence there does nothing towards solving a situation that continues to exist in large part because we are there. six years is far too long for a war that has no basis. let's get out. now.

vietnam

2007-10-08T10:37:00.001-07:00

It’s about time
And wanderings
And grass that grows
Beneath your feet

when you smiled
And said i love you and
shared a summer peach

Forty years ago
i saw your father on the street.

his eyes were grey and

emptied of all his dreams.

you had died, he said simply

'over there' in a foreign field

i still see you

young and so believing

smiling in the wind that summer day

Searching for the answer to something
You didn't have the chance to ask

my camera

2007-10-05T15:36:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

getting there

2007-10-02T21:59:00.001-07:00

touching the sky

2007-10-02T15:16:00.000-07:00

a pueblo at the top of the mesa, without electricity or running water. the spirits that lived here long ago--perhaps when the world began, live here still. imbued with power and mystery, it's a sacred place. where the skies are ever changing. where the people pray for rain and when it comes, the land is happy and the people rejoice. the acoma pueblo is a place where the beauty of the earth is astonishing. unencumbered by the taint of modern civilization, its structures and its people can reach up and touch the sky.

an acoma man drove us up to the pueblo. his thick black hair was straight and touched his shoulders. his dark eyes large and smiling, he told us that each year he leaves his home on the flatter part of the reservation to live on the mesa for a awhile. his is one of the 15 families from the reservation that maintain a home in the ancient pueblo. at night, he climbs the ladder to the flat roof of his home and looks up at the stars. in the silence and the stillness, when everything in the world is in harmony. you can hear your self think. "there's nothing like it," he smiles. i imagine. perhaps he converses with his ancestors. but that's not something he told me. nor is it something i asked.

miles and time

2007-09-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

can souls speak to each other
in silence
can we believe the
voices we hear
are really each other's thoughts?

like after a dream
when you wake up and believe
the person you were dreaming about
had the same dream as you
or that it really wasn't a dream.
that the two of you were there
together

miles and time mean nothing
when souls can speak
because the truth
is in our minds anyway

we were soldiers

2007-09-24T22:36:00.000-07:00

watching ken burns' the war, i hook into a collective remembrance, a moment in history when america was strong and beautiful. i think of my father and the america he believed in. simply because that's how it was. my father was a jewish boy from a small town in pennsylvania. his parents had fled persecution in russia. and now he was fighting the war in france. an easygoing Gary Cooper type who loved kids and always had gum and candy in his pockets.

he saw the faces of the young boys leaving home for the first time. eyes wide open, hope in their pockets, and duffle bags in hand as they left for the train stations, the bus terminals, the darkened streets at the crack of dawn. he saw the soldiers who risked their lives for people they had never met. he saw bodies herded away in body bags by the thousands--ready to be transported back home to mothers and wives, children who didn't quite understand what it meant that daddy wouldn't be coming home again. he saw all that. and he came back.

there is a beauty in the boys who went over. no, i'm not painting pictures of invincible heroes, but they were heroes. scared as hell some of them, and they were heroes. every last one of them. they gave something of themselves to be over there. those who never came back gave all they had.

and there was a spirit of america. a beautiful spirit. as a country we all pulled together. we had a mutual goal. we knew what we were doing. we were fighting a war that needed to be fought, a war that meant something. we knew we had to win.

people pitched in for the war effort. businessmen, farmers, salesgirls, and secretaries. we worked in factories, managed with less of everything. so we could send more over there. because it was something to believe in. we watched the newsreels and read the reports from war correspondents and letters home. gut-wrenching images of the world at war. when for a time, the devil walked the battlegrounds. because the axis was winning.

but that changed. once our boys were able to let go of what they'd been taught in small towns across america--that killing was wrong. that's what it took. because at large, we were innocents. children with shining eyes and smiling faces, some of us shaking in our boots, but still smiling--headed across the sea. to fight wrong with right. it was a war we could win. and we did.

things are very different now.

klimt--going in circles

2007-09-23T09:26:00.001-07:00

i was looking forward to this film. the trailer held the promise of a fascinating, visually rich voyage into the mind and life of the painter gustav klimt, an Austrian Symbolist painter and one of the most prominent members of the Vienna Art Nouveau. the scenes previewed in the trailer give us brief, but tantalizing glimpses into the substance of his art--an image as reflected in the shards of a broken mirror, a beautiful woman who slams the door and leaves kimpt in a room swirling with little bits of gold leaf. but the promise was far better than the realization.

in a very early scene of the film the camera moves in a continuous circle as it pans a group of men and women at an elegant turn-of-the century gathering where klimt is being honored. we see bearded and mustached gents pontificating in stuffy sentences about what is art: what is beautiful, what is not, what is necessary, and what is not. klimt roams through the lot as if in some kind of parallel universe. and we, the audience, are subjected to the annoying circling of the camera. as if we are standing on the outer edge of a carousel watching the world from that perspective as it spins.

we're under siege. finally, long after it should have happened, the camera stops its roundabout movement and stays on klimt as he takes a piece of cake and presses it against the face of one of the pontificators. at last.

but unfortunately that was not a turning point in what had been such a tedious and annoying display of characters, most of whom behave in a way that is stagy, unreal, almost mad. eventually we understand the device. we are supposedly viewing the world from inside klimt's head, as he lies immobile in the asylum, uttering and repeating short phrases now and then, as if in a dream. consumed by syphilis, klimt awaits his death. and the visions we see are his.

what could have been a remarkable film about an artist whose work is sumptuous, with all the gilded elegance of the turn of the century in austria at the time (he even used small pieces of gold leaf in some of his paintings), is not. we see his models, the beautiful lithe creatures perched nude and unabashed on swings, willing participants in klimt's erotic fantasties. but such is not the case. it's a self-indulgent piece. a very good idea gone bad. if we could have seen some semblance of real events and situations, interspersed with klimt's ravings, the effect would have worked. as it was, we are annoyed, impatient, wanting the actors who seem to be acting that they are acting finally seqguey into some kind of truth. it never happens.

directed by raoul ruiz and starring john malkovich, klimt, the movie, is an utter disappointment, made more so by the astonishing beauty of the work of the artist and the romantic image most of us have of the time and place in which he lived.

check out more reviews on my movie review blog, Slick's Flicks

pnf

2007-09-22T15:06:00.000-07:00

it stands for proprioceptive neuromuscular facilitation (PNF), which involves both the stretching and contraction of the muscle group being targeted. my yoga teacher discussed it with us in class this morning as an alternative to the "pushing it" mentality that has been in vogue for quite some time--particularly in high-adrenalin sports like bicycle racing, running, etc. but interestingly enough--that desire to push beyond your limits has also been the cause of many injuries in what is presumed to be a far more benign mind/body activity--yoga. apparently many injuries that involve the separation of muscle from bone, tendon tears, sprains, etc. occur in yoga classes. provoked by an all too enthusiastic teacher making "an adjustment" (i.e. pushing the person's body more into position) or by the yoga student herself pushing her own body beyond what is her current limit. so the lesson here is clear: listen to your body.

back to pnf. the idea here is that all the muscles in the body, including the heart, are happier with warm up stretches, followed by a pause (relaxation), followed by activity, then pause, and the pattern continues. it's only logical when you think about it. if the heart is beating madly to keep up with your demands, it only stands to reason that it could "pop." and as a matter of fact, reports of heart attacks while jogging are not uncommon -even among people who have been running 20 or more miles a week for years. the idea of 'less is more' seems to apply. recent medical findings are telling us that the heart as well as the rest of the body appreciate the pattern described above.

my teacher (lynn) reported hearing about private sessions in NYC for pnf going for an impressive $250/hour. and what it's really about is "don't push it. relax." for now i'll give myself my own private sessions and continue my group yoga classes with lynn.

freedom of speech

2007-09-21T15:45:00.001-07:00

i just read that president bush condemned MoveOn yesterday, calling the organization "disgusting." And why exactly? Because it's a consolidated voice of america screaming for the return of our soldiers? Screaming in frustration, sadness, and anger because the war our soldiers are fighting and their very presence on those foreign fields are based on a false melange of fact and fiction engineered for a supposed truth.

Who is disgusting, Mr. President?

sadie chronicles

2007-09-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

she's a dog, a gargoyle, a goat, a newborn calf, a dragon, and undoubtedly one of the most adorable creatures on the planet. when i first spotted her at the marin humane society, she weighed a trembling 9 pounds. it was clear she wanted to go home with me right then and there, but i wanted to make sure i wasn't making TOO much of a hasty, impulsive decision (i'm no stranger to that). so i went home and spoke with the voice of reason--my daughter. her eyes lit up and she smiled in that certain way that made me know precisely where this would take us. but we went through the motions of sane, logical thinking and went to the humane society together this time.

sadie (she was scruffy then) took to the ball immediately. it's as if the two were made for each other. after my daughter saw her frolicking in the autumn leaves--retrieving her beloved tennis ball, she answered my question with, "mom, how can we not?"so there's the story in a nutshell.

she's gained nearly 10 pounds since then. still puppy size and is usually mistaken for one. she's a determined little thing who believes that other dogs are trespassing in her world. they are of course. and it's magnanimous of her to allow them there. she curls herself up on my bed in a little ball--easily mistaken for a black and white pillow. or she'll wedge herself lengthwise along the narrow space between the upholstered seats of my sofa.

the name sadie came to us in a flash the day we brought her home. she was such a slim little thing, and we thought of eminem's 'slim shady' and that turned into 'slim sadie' and then of course later the 'slim' was dropped. but it wasn't long before my daughter gave her the name that really fits--satan.

because in spite of being adorable (and she's a GREAT dog who understands a slew of commands and will kiss you incessantly and put her little face so close to yours as you snuggle on the couch together that it's almost obscene), there is a strong streak in her that is quite demonic. if a new person comes to our front door, for instance, and reaches out to pet the "cute little dog" (particularly if the person is wearing big clunky shoes), she is not beyond giving the hapless individual a very clear warning in the form of angry, loud, and incessant barking as well as the occassional "nip" on the shoe itself or even the back of the ankle. she doesn't like the sound of motorcyles and tries to outdo them with sustained verbal messages of her own. and even if her tail is wagging while a stranger is petting her, her patience (and trust) can wear thin and she'll snap angrily in defense. she used to chase after bicycles, but that has mostly stopped. she's still not fond of skateboards or little kids on tricylcles, but she can "deal."

there are ways around some of this behavior. one of the obvious ones is to tell strangers not to pet the "cute little puppy" who is wagging her tail and looking at this new potential ball thrower with those adorable saucer eyes (she sometimes looks like a baby gorilla). another one, saved mostly for people who come to the house the first or second time, is to throw a ball or one of her fluffy toys to her immediately upon entrance (being careful to avoid eye contact--apparantly, according to an animal behaviorist--this can "incite" her).'

whatever works' indeed.

the twig

2007-09-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

The leafy field
Where I found you
Wrapped in winter’s arms
Eyes as cold as the twig
wedged between your fingers
Is where i remembered my name

the sades

2007-09-19T13:58:00.001-07:00

book review--the road

2007-09-18T11:28:00.000-07:00

finding the words to describe the experience of reading Cormac McCarthy's the road is challenging, to say the least. because i find myself wanting to get into the same kind of rhythmic/hypnotic movement that captures you on the first page of the book and takes you through the story. you're a willing traveler, because it's more than a story; it's a vision. an astonishing vision of a world that is potentially and dangerously close. when the earth has died, when the few remaining people are scavengers with no taboos. when everything is grey and black. bleakness, smoke, decay for as far as the eye can see. and the characters--the man and the boy--are unnamed. it is only 'the man' and 'the boy.' they walk, trying desperately to walk faster than the oppression of death and surrender that pursues them. the love that is felt between the man and the boy is the purest of loves. they speak simply. so much of what they say is left unsaid, but understood nevertheless. there are no quotation marks throughout the book. and yet the reader always knows who is talking. 'okay.' 'okay.' and you know who said it first.

axis of aspartame

2007-09-17T16:30:00.000-07:00

so it seems that mr. rumsfeld has been involved in more than just world politics, although what i am about to say could be considered world politics--but just not the kind that involves the military. aspartame, known by the names NutraSweet, Equal, Spoonful, and Equal-Measure has been shown to be linked with as many as 92 negative symptoms exhibited by the human body. i can only imagine what appeared in rats. interesting to note that according to one source, the amount of aspartame deemed as safe is as much as 20 times SMALLER than what the FDA in the US has established as safe levels. a recent european report is now claiming that aspartame does NOT pose a threat, even in levels higher than the daily recommended dose. so what do we believe. here's a little tidbit that may sway you one way or the other: the guy who was at searle (the company that produces aspartame; in fact he was CEO) when aspartame was pushed through the FDA and was proclaimed as "safe" was noneother than our buddy donald rumsfeld. still listening? now what does that tell you? let's say you arch an eyebrow. let's even say you don't.

read these facts:

you'll find aspartame in any number of items you consume that are labelled, "sugar-free"--cookies, yogurt, chewing gum, soft drinks, candy, to name only a few.
a sampling of the 92 health risks associated with aspartame include blindness, tinnitus and hearing impairment, migraines, severe depression, insomnia, personality changes, asthma, hypoglycemia, severe PMS, brain damae, suicidal tendencies, and even death.
according to consumer advocate attorney jim turner, who was instrumental in the 1969 banning of cyclamate in the US for its link to cancer, Rumsfeld was hired by Searle specifically to obtain FDA approval for aspartame. there have been calls for the reversal of that approval ever since.

My feeling is this: I'll have my little piece of poison in the form of one stick of chewing gum here and there, knowing that it contains aspartame. When it comes to sodas, I'll skip it altogether. As for sweetening my cereal--as long as I am not diagnosed with diabetes, Ill choose agave nectar because it's delicious (and you can use less because it is actually sweeter tasting than any other natural sweetener), along with maple syrup, honey, and yes--a little bit of sugar.

A votre sante.