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Showing posts from July, 2008

Leaning Curve

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Sometimes the fishing is much better than the catching.  So it was when I took my brother-in-law to Timothy Lake this week.  Ever the purist, I kicked along on my float tube, casting my fly rod between stumps, next to logs and up against reeds.  I tried a few dry flies but mostly it was drifting a nymph or stripping a streamer, or both.  Nobody home.  Not even some mild interest my offerings. Bro' John, on the other hand, slipped over the water in his kayak and took 3 fish on his spinning reel outfit.  Using mostly shiny silver spinners, both rainbows and brookies were impressed.  "Nice place you got here," he yelled across the lake at me as we both took a break from watching a pair of osprey do a mating dance about 500 feet above.  Oh I know there will be other days and other lakes and rivers and streams and tail-waters, and fly fishing only places and many more times, but for a minute there, I was much too downcast for such a beautiful day. It's always so unpredicta

To Die For

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     In responding to the previous post, my friend Cameron thoughtfully reminds me to extend the question "What do we tell the 58,000 names on the wall?" to the millions of Vietnamese killed during the American occupation in Vietnam.  To this I would add the Australians, Canadians, Koreans, Chinese, et.al.  Yes, they all would have something to say about the current state of affairs.       I would also add the millions physically and psychologically maimed by that war.  Yes, they all figure into this paradox that has resulted from the stability that Vietnam offers corporate capitalists.  It's a hop, skip and a jump to oil and Iraq.        A few years ago, while teaching an International Relations class for high school seniors, I came across a wonderful cartoon.  My attempts to find it and post it here have been unsuccessful so far.  Let me describe it, however, because it's genius in it's concept.  Imagine a split screen.  On the left side is a Vietnamese girl, ab

A Moose in the Mekong

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So many of the young women looked alike. Save one, they all had long hair halfway down their back, gold hoop earrings, and, for the most part, the same smile. Of course they wore the same swim suit. Even the women from Asian countries, African countries, and the African-American woman who represented the U.S.A. had essentially the same hair style. That's right, Miss Universe. But it wasn't the cookie-cutter models on stage, the competition, whether evening gown, swim suit or answering terribly relevant questions about international relations that gave me pause. It wasn't the host and hostess, Jerry Springer and a former Spice Girl. (the Black one) It was the venue. Vietnam. The Peoples Republic of Vietnam was host to the 2008 Miss Universe pageant. Within minutes after I stumbled upon this telecast, I was lost in thought. No surprise that so many violent images of Vietnam are emblazoned upon my consciousness. After all, the war was the defining moment of my genera

A Day's Work

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The Farmers' Markets are in full swing in Portland now. Our summer starts on July 5th and the warm winds, long daylight hours, and bright mornings are very much in evidence in the size, color, and yield of this seasons fruit and vegetables. I always walk the perimeter of the downtown Farmer's Market first. Yesterday it was blueberry city. Native American fishermen had wild salmon from the Columbia River they had caught the previous day. Lots of onions, cauliflower, broccoli, and peppers. Strawberries, marionberries, raspberries, and cherries of all kinds completed the palate. Of course there are urban farmers who sow and reap in the concrete fields of the citiy offering chocolate, baked goods, breads, and wines as well. People watching at a farmer's market is outstanding. On the Portland State campus, the visiting academics, Asian tourists, and our of towners are easy to spot. Sometimes all I have to do is close my eyes and listen. Since Portland is ver

Happy Birthday Mr. President

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Like some twisted Zen koan, the names Nelson Mandela and Amy Winehouse have surfaced together. Apparently she performed, in London, at a 90th birthday celebration for Mandela. I'd love to hear the rationale for this one. Yet, in meditating further, the synchronicity of this pair of prisoners makes sense. Yes, they both have spent time in cages; Mandela is, of course now free. I don't think folks expect either to live more than 10 more years. At 24, Winehouse has been alive fewer years than Mandela was incarcerated. Her death wish is no doubt equally as strong as Mandela's will to live. Racism seems to have played a major role in the drama of both actor's lives. Violence too. What must go through Mandela's mind as he enjoys his birthday concert? He does enjoy it, doesn't he? Mandela, and South Africa may be best known for the Truth and Reconciliation committee. The will to bring to the surface the horrors of Apartheid, admit culpability, deal wi

I've Just Seen a Face

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Like all cities, we have some fairly aggressive pan handlers here in Portland. One of our locals is is particularly bad shape. Aside from his gaunt, toothless, limping, loud self, he has to wear a catheter strapped to his leg. I'm sure his kidneys gave out a few years ago, and from his sunburned, painfully thin, scraggily bearded appearance, probably doesn't have long to go. In winter when the temperature dips under 30 degrees and he disappears for a few days, I feel sure we might not see him again. But he reappears. When he sees me buy a newspaper out in front of my local coffee shop, he times his move. "Hey Buddy..." Often, I give him a quarter. I have bought him coffee before, but since the catheter, sometimes his pants are wet or his cuffs are dripping and I generally try to say away from anything that might impact his bladder. I know he eats, because I've seen the hyena gaze he gives when he's devouring something, like a person who hasn't