Art & Literature Through Our Ages

A truly great book should be read in youth, again in maturity and once more in old age, as a fine building should be seen by morning light, at noon and by moonlight.  --Robertson Davies

[repost from July 2011]

I'm going to tell a little story about art and then I want to ask you a question about books. Both of which flow from the idea expressed in the quote above. Simply put; we see, feel, sense, appreciate art and literature differently at the various stages of our life. We bring different experiences to the works and take away quite different lessons and visions.

In 1968 I was studying in Germany. I spent Easter weekend in Paris with some fellow American students. Late on Sunday afternoon we were to catch our train back to Muenster but I just had to see one more museum. The treasure of impressionist art, now residing in Musee d'Orsay, was in a different space back then and was my last stop in Paris. Fortunately, I took a friend with me because in the final room I visited were five of Monet's Cathedral Rouen paintings. He painted more than thirty of these works done at different times of day and year to catch the cathedral in different lights.

I was transfixed. To get me to leave, it took Steve actually stepping between me and the paintings, literally blocking my view and then moving me out of the room with his hands on my shoulders. We not only would have missed our train, I might still be standing there.

Some art is just that powerful. 


So to my question: What books have you or will you read in your youth, maturity and old age. I myself am not a big re-reader of books and have often times regretted taking up an old favorite that did not age well (or perhaps it is I who was showing the signs of age) but in any case. Which books do you return to?

My own list:

Lord of the Rings (3 times, every 12 years)

Catch-22 (3 times, but long ago)
Red Mars, Green Mars, Blue Mars (2 times)

Burmese Supernaturalism (twice)

The Heart Sutra (five or more, but it's short and available in several translations)


You? The comment section is open.

Centennial

Borobudur

Back in 1996, I traveled to Bali with a small group of like-minded individuals. It was truly a magical journey. After several weeks together, the travelers dispersed to their own private adventures, I hopped a plane to Java to visit the Buddhist temple at Borobudur. This photo snapped at dusk remains the enduring image of myself from all those years ago. Next year I plan to seek another iconic photo or two.

22 Years Ago

I am not one who believes time flies. I don't think everyone at the reunion looks old. Each day follows the last and yes they do build up into years and eventually decades. I guess you could say I am just not attached to calendar. However, there is one segment in my life that does give me twinges of "where has it all gone."

Twenty-two years ago this week I landed in San Francisco with two cats and my condo on the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park. I spent the next nine years getting a Ph.D. and changing my consciousness forever once again.

I have been back in the Bay Area for nearly four years now but it isn't the same. Well, of course it is, I'm clearly the entity that has changed. For all my equanimity and general aura of peace, I am troubled by what time and I have done with ourselves these last couple of decades.

Clearly more pondering is called for.

Change

"To change our life; 

Start immediately 

Do it flamboyantly 

No exceptions" 

--William James

Psychologists are divided in opinions on whether we should share our life changing resolutions. Certainly if you tell someone you are going to quit smoking or go on a diet, they can provide support and encouragement. On the other hand, truly life altering changes happen so seldom that we might want to wait and see if our old ways are not indeed our true ways. How many new year's resolutions fail before the light of spring or the gold of fall for reader's in the southern hemisphere.

I choose to wait until my life changes had taken hold. I'm sure someone will tell me when that occurs.

Power-less-ness

A couple of months back we had a power outage. No big deal it was basically five hours and lasted only into the early evening. I know where my candles are, right up there on the mantle with matches right next to them. So I was prepared. I mean this wasn't Sandy or Katrina. However, the experience left me with some questions and a few answers that all pointed to being not very well prepared.

How good was that full charged laptop? Sure the little battery up there in the corner of the screen looks full, but is it? When was the last time you pulled the plug and tested how long the battery actually will run your computer. Mind you, I hope you understand you will only have access to what's on your computer not the internet. You knew that right?

Got a Kindle or other ereader? When was the last time you charged that baby up? As the sunset I was all ready for an evening of Kindle reading, with my handy dandy lamp accessory, now where were the spare batteries for that? And thinking of batteries, why isn't the big flashlight where it's supposed to be? And what about batteries for that one, if I can find it by candle light.

As I mentioned the outage began mid-afternoon but you know that makes no difference if your bathroom has no windows. Think about it.

There's no light in the refrigerator and the longer you stare into it using a candle or the light on your Kindle, well all of that coldness is getting away. Did you really just put that cold cup of coffee in the microwave. No sure, you're right, microwaves aren't the same as electricity.

How about that garage door, you got a back-up battery unit on that? No, well don't worry there's bound to be a hand release lever. You can find it in the dark can't you?

Might I suggest an interesting test for those who Mother Nature has not already gifted with the experience. Get up one weekend morning and pull the main breaker switch. Do it for at least four hours. Try it when the sun goes down. No cheating, if you don't know where the candles are - find them in the dark. Make some notes on what you need to do to be better prepared, you've got one of those pens with a light in it, right?

Don't forget the whole battery situation. Where are they? Are they fresh? Can you change them in the dark? What needs back-ups batteries? Are you in an area where a back-up generator might be a good investment?

Now I know I have readers who will find darkest a good thing, shed the cares of the world. Put aside the to-do list, you can't read it anyway. You're sure you can find things to do without electricity. Can you find the condoms in the dark?

"God made a big deal about the underwear . . ."

These words from an old friend I have not seen in nearly fifty years. Via Facebook we have in some small cyber way reconnected.

"God made a big deal about the underwear of the Old Testament priesthood. There were literally pounds and pounds of embroidery and precious materials...hats and ephods and robes and belts. But under all that decoration and symbolism was a pair of linen boxer shorts. And God said..."Make sure you wear those linen breeches...or else." We like the idea of being "God's man". Preachers like to stand up front and tell the folks what's what. But behind all that loud talking and finger pointing there are supposed to be some private and sacred responsibilities. While you're drawing lines for other people to toe don't forget to toe the line for yourself. Those "boxer shorts" in Exodus 28 have to do with that private and absolutely critical personal heart preparation. I've let that slip before. I've been up there with guilty conscience or an empty heart. I don't think anybody noticed...except me...and of course God."

Old Friends - Simon & Garfunkel

Technological Tsunami

Some things really are out of our control. It really shouldn't be difficult to accept that nostrum - we can't hold back a hurricane, sharks will continue to nip at random surfers and people will still plant lawns instead of gardens. But sometimes things happen we can control but the universe presents them in such a way that we fold to the inevitable march of progress.

Here is my story.

I am neither a Luddite nor am I opposed to technological progress. I do however choose to not participate in each and every 'new' tech innovation. I judge such advances based on a simply credo - does it help me in any substantive manner. I don't adopt based on availability, I am a function over form guy.

In that late 90s I resisted the absolute imperative of the cell phone. Eventually I got a standard 'call only' model. My second phone had text capability because phones simply did not come without it and I found some circumstances did arise where texting was useful even advantageous. But I was a limited user, I always bought the cheapest plan with the fewest minutes and piled up hundreds of carryover minutes.

Recently I found it necessary to change my cell phone carrier, I specifically needed a mobile Wi-Fi unit that would work in a remote northern California area and Verizon seemed to be the only reliable service in the vicinity. I went to the local Verizon store to obtain my new mobile unit and asked: "Is there a better deal if I also switch my cell phone service?" The answer of course was Yes! So the paperwork began then came the selection of the new phone (and the point of today's story).

I had been warned by a friend but needed to verify for myself the truth of my next techno leap into the future.  So to the helpful young man I said: "I only use my phone for calls and perhaps half a dozen text messages a month. How much is your bottom of the line phone unit?"

"Seventy-nine dollars," he replied.

We were standing directly in front of a wall full of iPhone 5's, a huge display with lights and lasers, bell and whistles, circles and arrows with a paragraph on the back . . . but I had to ask because M had warned me of what came next.

"I see the iPhone 5 is under $200 but I hear you have a deal on the iPhone 4."

"Yes sir we do, they're free."

There was a long silent pause as I was inexorably drawn into the next ring of technological hades. I could pay $79 for a basic phone or they would give me a smart phone for free. Apps would be preloaded. GPSesses would follow me throughout the land. Whole Foods could text message me when ripe guavas were delivered. I could review data plans more complicated than Medicare supplement policies.

So it came to pass on a crisp Tuesday in December, yet another resistance to the rise of the machines fell by the wayside and I recalled the infamous epigram of all pushers down through the ages - 'the first one is always free.'

Oh Canada

Last month the movie Argo was  released. Purportedly the movie depicted the smuggling of six Americans out of Iran by the Canadian government and the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. 

I use the term purportedly because as the star of the film Ben Affleck has noted, "Because we say it's based on a true story, rather than this is a true story, we’re allowed to take some dramatic license. There’s a spirit of truth."

I'm not going to quibble about how true to life the motion picture is, I mention it only because I had my own personal experience with the events of January 28-29, 1980 and that is the story of today's blog. 

Back on  November 4th of 1979 a group of Islamist militants took the the U.S. embassy in Tehran, Iran taking 52 Americans hostage who would remain captives for 444 days. During the initial attack six embassy staffers escaped to the Canadian embassy and were later smuggled out of Iran by the Canadians. For the nearly factual details of the "Canadian Caper" see the movie or try Wikipedia.

My story takes place in Los Angles on the day after the daring escape/rescue. I found myself with three tickets to the Los Angles Kings hockey game that Sunday evening and all of my usual hockey friends otherwise engaged. 

I called one of my buddies girlfriend who I knew was a hockey fan and asked if she wanted to go to the game and if she had anyone else who would want the third ticket. She laughed and told me that her best friend has just shown up at her front door with three hits of acid and two questions:

"What are we going to do?" and "Know anyone who would enjoy the third hit."

We all decided it was too serendipitous to ignore so we dropped the acid on the way to the Forum, where the L.A. Kings played in those days. We were coming on to the acid as we got to the stadium and managed to find our seats despite the mental alterations. Sixteen thousand fans had turned out that evening to see the Kings take on the visiting Montreal Canadiens.

As is the tradition in most NHL arenas when Canadian teams visit U.S. cities and visa versa, both national anthems are played. So we began the festivities with a rendition of 'Oh Canada.' What happened next is why we have a story to tell.

As the final refrain of the anthem died out the Forum erupted with cheers and a prolonged standing ovation. All the Sunday papers had led with the events in Iran the day before. Everyone in the house knew the Canadian embassy staff had risked their own lives to smuggle the six Americans out of Iran to safety. The moment was electric, particularly to my electrified brain. The organist at the Forum waited and held the playing of the American National Anthem until the tribute had died down.

It can be hard in these times to feel outpourings of spontaneous patriotism, it helps to have neighbors like Canada.

The Stranger

"Mother died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; 

I can't be sure."

A good friend mentioned last week that he missed the personal stories I have in the past told here. My political focus of late was 'interesting' to him but he kindly suggested that my voice was more engaging when not mired in the fallow fields of american politics. So today a story of the present and of a fine spring evening in 1966.

It was Thursday night of finals week. The campus was nearly empty, most students had already fled after taking early exams. A few stray pre-meds hung about the dorms awaiting the Friday lab finals. There were also several lingerers who had gone down to the penultimate night to finish a project or paper, I was one of those.

The assignment was straight forward - a paper on Albert Camus' The Stranger. The story was twenty years old in 1966, I was eighteen. The weighty tome stared up at me throughout that long night. The illustrated cover exactly as pictured above. I found three images on the web in that early paperback style; one for sixty-five cents and another at a dollar seventy-five but I remember the buck and a quarter edition. I remember because I had that same copy on my shelf for nearly thirty years. I never reread it until this week when I came across a copy while boxing books for a friend, it had been now forty-six years since my first encounter with Camus.

You see on that warm spring evening of 1966 I did not 'get' existenialism. I didn't get a lot of things. My first year of college had been a shock for me; so many possibilities rushing towards me all at once. And there was the inbred, midwest, just turned 18, need to be knowledgeable and right in the face of this tsunami of potential knowledge, I was lost.

So I sat in that empty corner dorm room. A single incessantly buzzing neon overhead crisping my brain as the night wound down. My single bag was already packed and stored in the closet. Both beds were striped, sheets were already turned in to laundry services, I didn't want to be tempted to 'just a short nap.' My roommate had left two days before, I was alone with Albert Camus and he was not speaking to me.

If you remember the story, early in the novel the main character spends a long night in a stark, white room holding vigil beside his mother's coffin. Inside the room is too warm, he and the few elderly mourners drift in and out of sleep. Outside an inviting spring evening beckons but demands of duty and fealty keep him locked in that overly bright, oppressive room.

The obvious parallels with my own situation that fine spring night were exactly the stuff Professor Bogart would have reveled in. But such fine observations on my own human condition were not within this eighteen year olds grasp. I took another ten years before I was able to openly contemplate that someday I wanted to 'be a writer' - someday.

Upon Giving Up Professional Sports

In celebration of today's National Football League Super Brawl I offer this memoir of my personal disenchantment with professional sports at all levels. I was born and raised in the midwest. I played sports as a kid, not very well until my growth spurt in high school. Then I was All-League in football, an average basketball player and even tossed the shot put my senior year. All of my brothers were football players, each of us lettered in at least two sports every year. We all dutifully followed the Detroit professional sports teams and in the 50s & 60s there were some teams worth following back then: Bobby Layne, Gordie Howe, Al Kaline.

But sometime in the 60s I began to lose interest in professional sports. There were too many other things to follow with real world consequences and then came the escalation of sports salaries that began in the 70s. By then I was watching the Super Bowl only for the commercials and found the glacial pace of baseball to be somnia inducing. By 1975 I was living in L.A. which had the Magic Johnson-Kareem Abdul Jabar Lakers and soon the Wayne Gretsky led L.A. Kings. I hung out at several local taverns with sports connections and got back into following some professional teams but I remember the moment it all ended.

In the 1983 NBA finals the Lakers met the Philadelphia 76ers. Someone scored tickets to game four at the L.A. Forum, it turned out to be the final game of a Philadelphia sweep of the Lakers. The lady I was dating was friends with the Forum's public address announcer who sat court side at the scorer's table and made all the the player introductions and game announcements. We walked down to see him after the game, he was devastated. I had never seen a non-participant in a game that upset over a loss. I'm sure he had a bundle bet on the game but it was after all just a game of basketball and wasn't real, they made it all up to entertain and distract; not to mention to make money. Well paid gladiators and their plutocrat owners.

Periodically I am reminded why I don't follow and don't care about professional sports. The latest reinforcer was this past fall when the NBA player's representative said that in the collective bargaining agreement negotiations the owners were "treating the players like slaves." Yep, slaves! Slaves who make an average of $5.2 million dollars a year.

Nevermind that sports franchises routinely holdup city, county and state governments for huge subsidies to build new stadiums. Studies have shown over decades that professional sports stadiums cost local governments tens of millions of dollars in bond costs and loss revenue while returning to the community income as few as eights days a year in the case of an NFL team.

To be honest, I do have one very positive comment on professional sports - on any given Sunday restaurants, theaters, museums and hiking trails are nearly empty during the "big game." I think a movie for me this afternoon, Go Bears!

The Hour After

Photographers call the light just before sunset - "the magic hour." The low, saturated illumination makes for memorable images. From my perch high above Berkeley with the panoramic view of San Francisco Bay I have a slightly different take on the lights of the evening. I often walk in the neighborhood during that last hour of waning light at sea level but I like to get back to the eighth floor for the view that follows.  You see after the neighborhood down below falls into darkness the sky is still bathed in color up here. Sure sometimes the fog blots out the light or the sun sets into a marine layer but tonight was one of those meteorologically perfect combinations of light and high cloudless sky.

At this time of year the sun sets directly behind the skyline of San Francisco. For a time the city is backlit in brilliant orange that slowly darkens to blood red. The skyline appears as if cut from black silhouette paper and the bridges stand out with only their lights to define them.

Tonight the air was calm making the clarity of the scene so acute, as if an opthamologist were flipping another lens tweaking ever more intensity into the picture with each passing moment. At times like these I feel a strong sense of loneliness, not so much that I am alone in the world but rather that there is no one sharing this brilliant visual sensation. As if the sight were really too much for one person to behold. Shared vision, shared awe.

--

these are not my droids, nor my photos

Taking the Temperature of a Writer

Yesterday's writing task was to rework the opening chapter of the novel I am working on. Capturing the reader's attention quickly was the order of the day. I began the rewrite with the image of a icy drinking fountain, you know the ones that can make the water almost too cold to drink. The chapter is set in the early morning just after dawn on a crisp spring day. I struggled with that image and the fifteen hundred words that followed for most of the daylight and into the early evening.

Yesterday in Berkeley was a warm day, September is often the hottest month of the year here. Now by hot I mean maybe a couple of days of 90, but more likely some mid-80s. Officially it reached 84 yesterday. As I have oft mentioned in the past, my wall of windows faces due west, which means that around two in the afternoon the sun has begun to blaze into my nest. I tweak the blinds and switch on my fans but for a few days each year it gets downright uncomfortable in here. Yesterday was a borderline day, as long as I kept a fan directly on me as well as minimal clothing I was within my tolerable range of heat/mass/body index. So I sloughed on with the chapter.

By early evening my creative energies had been drained and with mild dissatisfaction I put the chapter to bed for the night. I slipped in the land of Morpheus sometime after midnight with the windows wide open, I didn't pull the comforter over me until sometime in the wee dark hours. This morning I opened my eyes to a grey day outside my windows, the marine layer had moved in overnight and temperatures had plummeted. After pulling on several layers of cotton I was at my desk reediting the chapter.

Metaphors and images that had hidden from me yesterday snapped into view. In a scant hour I had reworked the entire piece and captured the words that should enrapture an audience. It's still well short of noon and chapter two beckons. What a difference a day makes.

Today's lesson: If you are going to write about the Sahara Desert, better not to attempt it from Boulder, Colorado in February.

Camouflage

From 1975 to 1990 I lived in and around the South Bay neighborhoods of Los Angeles (Manhattan Beach, Torrance, Redondo Beach, Palos Verdes & Hermosa Beach). One of my friends then was an older gentleman who hung out at the beach bars I frequented. Charles was a storyteller, he was also a kind and gentle alcoholic. Nearly all of the beach bar denizens knew him as a regular but most thought his stories came out of the bottle. I learned that Charles had a really tough time in his golden years but I also discovered that he had a Ph.D. in literature that he got after first earning two engineering degrees. I liked to listen to him and didn't much care about the "truth" of his stories.

One day I took Charles down to Long Beach to visit his daughter. On the drive down he said: 

"You know during the war if you took this street south you could drive right under the camouflage netting the defense department put up to hide the airplane plant from Japanese bombers."

"That must have been a lot of netting," I said.

"Oh yeah it went on for several miles," he replied.

This must have been 1982 or thereabouts when I heard this tale, no internet to go look up the veracity of the many tales he told. Besides I wasn't at all interested in proving him right or wrong. So imagine my surprise when I got these photos from a friend a few days ago, showing the vast camouflage netting the military put up in Long Beach to cover the Boeing plant. The shot above is the before photo, this next one is the after.

Here are a few more shots.

Underneath the netting

Treetop level

Hangar below

In one of the articles I read I found this line: "you could head south down Carson St. and drive right under the huge canopy." It was that same Carson St. forty years later that Charles and I were driving on the day when he told me the camouflage story.

Addendum: I am told that there was a similar camouflage set-up in Pasadena at the Lockheed plant and that some of these pictures might be from there. But who cares about a little mix-up in a good Charles story.

Medical Marijuana (7): Dosage

As I explained last week, I have as yet been unable to balance the palliative benefits of pain reduction with the side effects of being high, baked, wasted, buzzed, ripped, faded and/or stoned. You see, as with most prescription drugs, "effects may vary." The problem is dosage. We humans are not the same, we react differently based on age, weight, metabolism, contents of stomach, amount of sleep you got last night, stress, the phase of the moon.

You get the idea, we do not react the same to any stimuli, we are unique creatures. So with Medical Marijuana the prescribed "dosage" is a bit of a guessing game. Let me give you a most recent example:

I bought a six ounce Chocolate Peanut Butter Hash Bar (product review below). Yesterday I split the bar with a friend, he has less acute pain than I and he is a long time recreational pot user. So we had two levels of discomfort and two very different histories of functioning while under the influence. Adding these additional variables would provide more data for my experiment.

But with Medical Marijuana there is a second issue regarding dosage - there is no standard for what constitutes a "dose". I can report without fear of contradiction that one patient's 1/2 dose is another person's full dose or quarter dose or double dose. Here is yesterday's dual test subject report.

The effects began fairly quickly (30 minutes) for both participants. Pain was effectively reduced for both in the one hour to perhaps mid third hour after consumption. However, the bar was labeled as being 1/4 to 1/2 dose and we split the bar equally. So according to the manufacturer we each had 1/8 to 1/4 of a full dose.

By late in the fourth hour I was supine in a cool, dark room contemplating the nuances of string theory as it applies to snack cheese. Somewhere in the fifth hour my friend found me and suggested that the dosage disclosure on the packing had clearly been set for elephants or small cetaceans.

So as for dosage - you will have to learn to titrate any Medical Marijuana products to your unique physiology and to the wildly inconsistent labeling of the various products. Also recommended in the early testing stages - stay home but pre-stock the kitchen with chocolate.

PRODUCT REPORT: Chocolate Peanut Butter Hash Bar

Ingredients: Sugar, Peanut Oil, Flour, Milk, Salt, Hash.

Notice the absolute absence of chocolate in the product. Clearly bad labeling, however, it was wonderfully peanutty; in fact, this is the best tasting product so far in the experiment. As noted above the package dosage disclosure is obscenely low and should be adjusted in line with other competitive products. On a cost per dose basis, this is an exceptional value. My next test of this item will involved dividing the bar into eight doses.

Previous posts in this series:

Medical Marijuana (6): A Conundrum

Medical Marijuana (5): The Patients

Medical Marijuana (4): Botanical Chemistry

Medical Marijuana (3): Human Experimentation

Medical Marijuana (2): The Dispensary

Medical Marijuana (1): An Inquiry

Osmose

Osmose - to gradually or unconsciously assimilate some principle or object;


Have you ever stopped to consider how many of your deeply held "beliefs" are not actually yours? Most of what we "believe" comes from one of two sources. The first and most prevalent is childhood. The old "Nurture" accounts for what most people think and believe about most everything. Indeed, the apple or in this case the moral and ethical center, does not fall far from the parental tree.


The second most common source of your belief system comes from the same source but involves a profound rejection of it; we often refer to this as the generational gap or simply being a teenager. In either case radical shifts in what we believe seldom take place much beyond our teenage years.


However, it is possible to change. One common adult period of ethical readjustment involves being the parent of one or more teenagers who are themselves inspecting and dissecting your professed beliefs. At times the teen years are as life changing for the parents as they are for the young adults.


But the point of the Borg Cube is to emphasize that many of our cherished beliefs have been gained through a process of slow accumulation. We take on the moral and ethical tenets of those around us. Society, peer groups, church, television, motion pictures, assorted role models, even advertising can shape your moral compass.


The obvious question at some point is: "Are your most embedded beliefs really yours?" Or did you just osmose them from your environment? Perhaps the direction of this influence is the other way around, the environment osmosed you. Come to think about it, you should probably come to think about it. Which may lead you to several uncomfortable conclusions, including:

"the unexamined life is not worth living" - Socrates

Silverhill Road

Don't let it be forgot
That once there was a spot
For one brief shining moment that was known
As Camelot.

My brief shining place was a stone cabin in Michigan located in the middle of a 20,000 acre state wilderness park off Silverhill Road. If you go there now a three mile section of that road has been returned to wilderness, grown over and grown in. The cabin is gone, torn down my the state just after I abandoned Michigan for California in 1975. But for two years, it was my Camelot.

Back in 1973 a good friend was living there, he was a park ranger. The plans to level the old cabin were in the works but until then someone got to live in the near idyllic setting. My friend was transferred and I got the cabin until the state brought in the bulldozer. 

The old stone structure hugged a central stone fireplace that ran up through the second floor bedrooms. Across the narrow dirt road and far down the hill was the Crooked Lake campground. We were sheltered from even minimal intrusion of civilization by a huge hedge of violet lilacs, the smell in early summer was nearly overpowering as I lay in the front bedroom.

There was a small garden less successful than the wild asparagus patch nearby. We inherited a sheltie collie named Heather and my roommate brought his shepherd, Bo. I soon had Sam, Heather and Gisele who produced 9 kittens the second spring. Sam was the feline who trained me to pet him during the night. 

When the trees were fully leafed out in the summer, the final two miles to the cabin were inside of a green tunnel with the trees on either side providing a complete canopy to Silverhill Road. In the fall the tunnel would darken and then burst into yellows, reds and silvers. There was a fairy circle of mushrooms in the meadow and a stand of lonely birch trees in the high pasture.

We had several big summer parties but the real highlights were the quiet nights in the spring, summer, fall and yes even Michigan winter. All the lights would be extinguished and the stars would burn brightly down on the small rise behind the cabin. I remember that rise for another reason but that is a story for another time.

Pace and the Wisdom to Ignore It

An expert is a person who has made all the mistakes that can be made in a very narrow field. -- Niels Bohr

I am not claiming to be an expert but perhaps simply the holder of some wisdom accumulated over time. Recently I was doing was long-distance skype counseling session and heard words from my client that I had heard several times before. Now it's not unusual for individuals to have similar issues in their life, as much as we yearn to be uniquely ourselves we do share common thoughts, desires and frustrations. In this case my client was in an almost identical situation to two previous clients. 

This is one of my stories, it's not about any of the three clients and I am not going to disclose the exact life situation they shared. Just for clarity let's say they all had a similar scary nightmare when they were young.

There is a full decade between my current client and the previous one and another decade or more to the first time I was told about the 'nightmare' by a client, probably sometime in the late 80s. After the recent skype session I pondered just how differently I had reacted to those three so very similar situations.

My first experience happened during one of those 'kitchen sink' second sessions with a client. Sometimes after an introductory therapy session the client will spend the week thinking that they did not get all of their 'issues' out on the table, so in the second meeting they talk and talk about everything, just so the therapist has the whole picture of their life situation. When this happens the therapists has to spend a lot of time sorting and absorbing the client's words. Unfortunately, I did not give full weight to the 'nightmare' disclosure and that lack of therapeutic insight delayed the client's progress.

Ten or twelve years later, I picked up on the significance of the client's words as he said them but I also recognized he was not ready to pursue that particular aspect of his recovery. You see there is a therapeutic concept known as pace. If you push a client too soon or too hard they will shut down or run away; well that's the short version of pace. I was really into therapeutic pace back then. What? You didn't think therapists had strategies and styles?

Finally the most recent client. Again I knew exactly what was being said but I also knew this client was interested in progress - immediate progress. So I pushed back, when she resisted I pushed harder. Was I violating the client's pace? Possibly, but I am older and potentially wiser. On her third attempt at deflecting the conversation I said:

"Look we can talk about your boyfriend being distant or your boss being a dumb ass manager; but I thought you wanted to get to why you are unhappy and since you just told me exactly why, shall we talk about that?" 

There are lots of responses you can get from a client, some good, some bad, some confusing and some confirming. She said:

"Remind me next time to see a therapist who can't see so easily into my soul."

Therapeutically speaking I've made most of the mistakes before and from those hopefully I've gain a modicum of wisdom, if not expertise.

[Situational aspects of these client interactions have been changed to protect the indentity of the clients. No animlals were harmed in the writing of this post.]

--

photo from National Geographic

That Time I Got Bit By a Fairy

Last week when Irene was blowing around the East Coast, I heard a news report about evacuations on the Carolina Outer Banks and I was reminded of my own evacuation from those same islands some forty years ago.


In the summer of 1971 I was traveling on the Eastern seaboard with the then love of my life. We were taking a car ferry to one of the islands off South Carolina. This was one of the remote islands, back then you had to boil your water when camping out there. We parked the car about midships and I headed for the restroom under the bridge. On my way back to the car the ship lurched and started to pull away from the dock, I was between the bumpers of two vans and decided that might be a dangerous place to be standing, so I stepped out into the space between the vans and our car. 


What I discovered later was that the ferry was running behind schedule and the deckhand was drunk. So the captain gave a hurried sign to cast off from the auto dock and the deck hand missed it. The ferry started to pull away from the dock before the final chain (not rope but one inch diameter chain) was unhitched. 


The end link of chain snapped under the thrust of the ferry, it opened up like a three pound horseshoe and was flung forward. It would have shot the entire length of the boat and splashed down harmlessly in the ocean had it not been for the right side of my head being in the way.


I went down against the side of the car, didn't quite lose consciousness but by the time the incident was brought to the captain's attention we were more than halfway to the island so we completed the trip, waited for cars to disembark and then made the run back to the mainland. About two hours later I was getting my neck stitched up with several South Carolina Ferry officials trying very hard not to say the word - liability.


I remind you this was 1971, which might lend some perspective to the doctor not giving my any pain meds nor mentioning the potential for swelling in my neck and throat. So at 2 a.m. I was in an emergency room fifty miles down the road getting an injection into my throat and medication for pain and soft tissue trauma.


Forty years ago, my crackerjack lawyer got my medical expenses reimbursed and the cost of three nights in a motel so I could recover in an air conditioned room. No damages, no pain & suffering, no negligence. 


That was the time I got bit by a ferry.

On the Road Again

Well I'm off again, on the road for 2+ months and according to Google Maps 6,262 miles. The motivation for hitting the highways again, like need a reason; one of my brothers is getting married in October. Of course, there are other relatives and friends to visit along the way.

Leg One of the trip I have already made, I am back in Weed, California (up north near Mt. Shasta almost to Oregon for those not up on their Northern California geography). Once again I am cat-sitting at my good friend's place while they do their own relative visiting in Oklahoma. I imagine I will be here about three weeks give or take and then head out on the first really long leg of the trek from Weed to Shakopee, Minnesota (just south of Minneapolis/St. Paul).

After a short, poker-filled stop in MN. I shall meander about the midwest until the wedding in mid-October. Then another long hunk of driving south to Texas.

Current itinerary subject to mid-course corrections:
Berkeley, CA
Weed, CA (I'm already here, there, everywhere)
Shakopee (Minneapolis), MN
Ann Arbor, MI
Fort Wayne, IN
Franklin, IN
Austin, TX
Albuquerque, NM
Phoenix, AZ
Palm Springs, CA
Venice, CA
Marina Del Rey, CA
Berkeley, CA

Not sure how much coverage I will give the trip, the blog continues but geographically I don't really need to be anywhere in particular to disgorge the contentions of my head onto this cyber-page. I'll update the "Going Next?" over in the right column, other than that and reports on any strange natural occurrences, it will be business as unusual.