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Showing posts from 2017

Last Day

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This is the day we take stock.  Depending on where you are on the graph of longevity, you focus on the past more than the present or perhaps the present and future are the privileged view. We adore change when it might bring positivity, in our view.  But with the beginning of 2018 comes the chance to re-set.  For many, seeing 2017 go away can't come soon enough. It's only the feeling that we can begin again, with fewer mistakes and more alert than before, but it is something. Something needed. Something welcomed. In our commercial culture, we'll be mugged by all the advertisements for weight-loss and ancestry, newer, bigger sales, and the latest models of everything from cars to phones. It's what we do. Many folks will marvel at just being able to be...here...again. It's been that kind of a year. But for the uninitiated, the inexperienced, the folks who would rather not look back, they'll still have to be wary of what it is that just might be gaining

Existension

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Dawn is only a few hours away The airport is no movement empty I sit in the dark Hearing only “Early Morning Rain” in my head Got the lyrics down now My plane is on time and I’m to let myself onto the tarmac Shopping mall door slides open Braniff Air taxis up from the mist Flight attendant appears from behind silver door Yellow and brown hot pants at 2:29 am I’m in and on and belted Four stops before Chicago 3 now Witchita is snowed in In 3 months I'll appear before my draft board For now, a window seat next to a returning vet we smile hello, nod and then sit back, Our paths cross in the frozen wind

Slouching Again

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I recently watched the new documentary about the creation of Rolling Stone magazine.  Like the music and community it documents, Rolling Stone has survived and flourished for decades.  Aside from the many behind the scenes film and video clips, and the stunning photography the film employs, what resonated most with me was a comment by the founder of this iconic publication.  Jann Wenner was talking about some of the young, unpublished writers that were assigned various pieces early on.  In one case, he took a young journalist aside after he'd written a noteworthy piece.  No, he didn't offer constructive criticism or even express disappointment in the piece.  Conversely, he liked the piece and recognized the obvious talent in his young charge.  What Wenner did was grab a book off of his shelf and tell the inexperienced writer to go home and read it and then use his considerable talent and write like that.  The book was Slouching Toward Bethlehem, by Joan Didion. That book, a co

Morally Bankrupt

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So there he was, smack dab in the state of Mississippi delivering a speech on the occasion of the opening of the Civil Rights Museum in Jackson.  He read his prepared (by someone else) remarks as my insides did a slow burn.  This was a showcase for hypocrisy 101. What occurred to me is that this is how it must feel to live in a dictatorship.  For the current occupant of the White House to talk about the courage of people like Medgar Evers, the Freedom Riders, and the 3 young Civil Rights Workers brutally murdered,  it was repulsive.  This is a man who believes and sustains the worst stereotypes.  This is a man whose party has rescinded the Voting Rights Act that many of those enshrined in the new museum devoted their lives to achieve. Two of the events that stand out most in my memory of growing up as the struggle for Civil Rights was blossoming in the 1960s are the funeral of the 3 civil rights workers and the 1963 March on Washington.  I wonder where the current President was on

Having Been

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Having been a seeker, I danced with watercolors, I traveled among leather-clad musicians, who always fed me well. Having been a thinker, I slept upon waterfalls beneath iron mountains, jumping below on occasion to drink poetry in blue-black corners, As  a politico, I made choices from the heart, stopping every few decades to pick up the box of assumptions left hanging in a distant wind. As a laborer, I worked every hour for the price of admission to the tent show called "the system," I sat through each performance refusing to show my appreciation for being allowed to survive. When I had been aged enough, I came to believe in afterthought, Early mornings are best to recover all that has been lost.

Come On

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When I tell people where I live, they always have a comment on my neighborhood.  "St. Johns," they say, "It's an up and coming area."  My response, though not shared vocally, is I wish it would already get there.  It's been "up and coming" ever since I moved to Portland over a decade ago.  So why does this label stick?  Probably because, like so many other places, the time for gentrification has arrived.  But up here, in this far NW corner of the city, where the Willamette River meets the Columbia, change is coming slowly.  Maybe that's the best way.  I'm coming to believe that it gives us time to savor the old before everything gets replaced by the new. Here's the kind of thing I'm talking about.  I know an old guy named Charlie who used to work on the railroad.  Charlie knows the Pacific Northwest as well as anyone and used to frequent a mercantile business in St. John's to buy his overalls and hats.  Jowers was run by an eld

Come Forth

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In this year of all maladies, a new malaise has descended upon the U. S. of A.  From here on, let this also be known as the year that sexual harassment allegations became daily and commonplace. Every day this week provided a new assertion.  There is a major dose of "the time has come" going around, and the truth is that only those inside particularly thick bubbles doubt the accusers. We need to remember that there are always reasons a woman (or man) will sometimes wait decades before voicing their experiences and allegations.  Just put yourself in that place and if any doubts remain, seriously check yourself. Ironies abound.  The current occupant of the White House seems to slide off this stage even when the evidence is clear.  Many of the accused are the purveyors of supremely Christian family values.  I pause here to remind the reader that there really is no such thing as family values; family, itself is a value.  What is likely to happen within the remaining months of

Seemingly Simple

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We hear the phrase all the time: It was a simpler time.  Things were very different back then.  Back then can refer to anything from 20 to 100 years ago these days.  But, for the most part, we do live in a different world than mere decades ago.  One easy way to compute and visualize the differences is to simply turn on the TV.  As a culture, we seem to be fond of looking at family sit-coms from the 50s and 60s as a way to gauge social change.  The black and white images of squeaky clean 50s families with perfectly coifed mothers and business-suited fathers seem ridiculous by today's family units.  Take the color out of TV and we find a land where nobody is gay, neighborhoods are lily-white, and the language...oh the language is ever so proper.  These Pleasantvilles weren't always so peaceful and perfect.  But the arch of early TV sitcoms is both predictable and benign compared to today's fare.  Sometimes, while watching TV these days, I imagine myself a 10-year-old again wa

Hang On

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I I was all set to sit down and write about what an awful year this has been when I encountered quite a pair in this coffeehouse.  They aren't really an odd couple but he is quite a bit younger than she.  I'd say about 50 years. A grandmother and grandson...most likely.  But just his reactions to her voice changed my mood.  He has dark blonde curly hair but is obviously of mixed racial parents.  She could be most anyone's grandma, but an older middle-class white woman will suffice.  They upset my apple cart of gloom and doom.  Lots of babbling, smiles and that kind of innocent curiosity that can hold anyone's attention.  I admired how she kept talking to him all through their time together.  In the end, I got a modest good-bye wave and a last glimpse of that smile.  Mood elevating to be sure. How easy it is to stop thinking about a President that lies more often than not and the recent wild firestorms that have decimated much of the Northwest I love when you have th

Walk a Few Miles

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That this country, the USA, is deeply divided is not news.  We've been that way since the inception.  In fact, it's in our DNA and we value that diversity of viewpoints.  What is new, however, is that the divides seem deeper than ever before. Countless stories surface of people not being able to talk to one another.  If the sight and sound of political commentators and policy wonks talking over one another, no, shouting over one another is any indication, we are in new territory.  So how can anything move forward in an environment of so much verbal toxicity? Empathy is the only answer, in my view.  Say it again, empathy.  People need to walk a few miles in the other guy's moccasins, as native Americans would say. There are many ways to walk those miles, too.  That was the theory when I went through my training as a VISTA Volunteer.  For two weeks, we altruistic, recent college grads lived in the homes with families that had very little.  Poor folks.  People who lived in

Mother May I

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Aside from the plethora of tragedies that converged this past week on this culture, a couple of homegrown phenomena crossed paths in front of me.  While the Mayor of Portland was telling the media that he's aware that the new name for his city has become "Tent City," I finished the novel Mary Coin by Marisa Silver. Portland has a serious homeless problem.  Parts of the city resemble the "Hoovervilles" of the 1930s. Tests and makeshift lean-tos pockmark the bridges, underpasses, and trails surrounding the many beautiful parks.  It's the underbelly of the American Dream and it won't go away.  Now, the problem has morphed with the addition of broken down RVs that are often towed to a city lot for destruction.  It's not uncommon to find a person's belongings inside these decrepit vehicles. But then, living on the side, or by the side, or underneath or on the margins is nothing new.  In fact, one of the most iconic photographs of all time, Dorothea

Non-Reader

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"The man hasn't read a book in years." I keep hearing that about the current occupant of the White House.  Maybe that's as it should be because recent studies say that claim goes for over half the population of this country.  Scary but true.  It's obvious that the President doesn't know the history of this country.  Examples abound. Even for those who can forgive him for inventing the African country of Nambia (he referred to that the other day) the fact that he knows very little about American History doesn't seem sway his followers.  Either they know nothing too or they simply don't care.  Probably both.  Yet, the notion of ignoring history and repeating mistakes looms large all the while. A former colleague of mine, who taught Language Arts for a lifetime used to have a large banner in her classroom. When kids came into this learning environment they saw a sign which read, "Unless We Read, We Live But One Tiny Life." I'd love to hea

Sound Track

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Something about a song lyric, popping up in your ear at just the right time and your life can flash by.  Maybe not your entire life, but certainly a few segments. One of the things that keeps me exercising regularly is the ability to listen to music while doing so.  I move around on Pandora a lot and ultimately settle on a genre.  Usually it's blues music because I know that will keep me awake and to the task at hand.  But occasionally I wonder over to Neil Young or Dylan, or even Jonathan Edwards, a lesser known country rock artist whose sounds often sooth better than a cool drink of water. Today, a combination of all three took me back to lovers and friends from decades past.  I realized that you never stop loving someone unless you work at it.  There were a couple of times, OK maybe even more than two, when a relationship in my back pages ended and I was feeling undone.  We've all been there but when Dylan sings "If you see her, say hello..." a stone cracks insid

Houston Then and Now

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It's difficult for me to watch the grim footage coming out of Houston, Texas without thinking about the year I spent there as a VISTA Volunteer.  I knew very little about this 4th largest city back then and in full disclosure, even as a recent college grad, I was heavily influenced by the stereotypes, positive and negative, that focused on TEXAS. I wasn't even sure I could spend a year in Texas back then.  But, as often happens, when you immerse yourself in what you are doing and keep an open mindset, you often find that the result is pleasantly surprising. I found plenty of decent people in Houston.  There was Carl Adams, the former trumpet player for such notables as B.B. King and Ray Charles, who wanted with all his heart and soul to run music workshops for kids who lived in under-privileged neighborhoods.  Houston had plenty of those, and when I see much of the footage today of the flooded homes, I wonder what it looks like where I once say large projects for low-income f

Throwback

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In this world of rapid change, it's refreshing to find something that stays the same.  Almost. Once a year, for two weeks, the little Humbolt County Fair in the small town of Ferndale, California kicks off.  I've heard it's the longest continually running county fair, stretching back to the 1870s if I remember correctly. Let me set the context, because that's part of the appeal.  Ferndale is a tiny dairy community tucked into the mountains of very Northern California, not far from the costal city of Eureka.  This is beautiful country where redwoods meet the pounding sea.  I've been there a handful of times and now I'm thrilled to be able to watch the horse races at the fair from my TV or computer screen given the technology available now.  The fair is like most county fairs with fried everything and lots of animal exhibits and show competitions.  Against this beautiful backdrop sits a little 5/8 mile racetrack, as cute as it is dangerous.  Tight turns, the

Street Dance

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He knows there is something there, Something most of us can't see, So he darts out in the middle of the street to peck the unpeckable. That's what crows do, I see it and want it, but there are cars from both directions cars that can stop his vision in one spasm of the neck. Still he pecks, until the last second, then hops or flies or sometimes walks defiantly, leisurely, as if his life were not at stake. She has a family to feed, nothing can go to waste, Risks envelop everything, they hatch at all hours, so she darts, she flirts with the steel boxes that form the carnival ride of chance. Something I can digest is hiding from those that do not see. Still, she pecks until the sound descends, she flits aside at the last second, as if her life were not at stake.

Hackamore

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Sometimes trying to simplify our lives can get complicated.  Cutting back and letting go of things need not be so difficult.  In fact, the two or three times I've made a concentrated effort to downsize were absolutely exhilarating.  Filling up a dumpster with material things that have stayed too long at the fair is a very visual measurement of how attached we get to the non-essential. I've begun to think about finding new homes for anything I still cling to that might be of some value.  In full disclosure, nothing I currently possess is of significant value that it couldn't be replaced if necessary.  Although, my little collection of historical books and primary source objects, while not really worth much, would be difficult to reproduce. Though my wife worries that some of my most interesting items would be difficult to "place" I constantly assure her that a museum or two would take some and a used record store right down the street would be the place to take m

A Play Has Got To Say Something

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With the passing of American playwright Sam Shepard, I was reminded of a most interesting experience that unfolded at the scene of what is arguably Shepard's most critically acclaimed play, "Buried Child." Here's what happened. I'd read some of the reviews of the play and wanted to see it.  So I asked a friend of mine to accompany me.  My friend, Ed Robbin had joined the cast of a modest production about the life of Woody Guthrie that I too was involved in at the time.  We're talking Bay Area circa early 1980s. Ed had directed plays in the 30s and aside from being the guy who first put Woody on the radio, has a few accomplished friends.  He'd drop names like Theodore Dreiser or mention projects he's worked on with frequency so I thought, naturally it would be useful and informative to watch this play with Ed.  Besides, Ed was in his late 70s at this time and was delighted to get the opportunity to attend a play in San Francisco without having to dri

Wild Man Fischer

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Most people ignored him.  Even though he smiled and could talk softly. He offered his wares.  "Want to buy a song for a dime?"  Ten cents...one thin dime...one tenth of a dollar was all it took for Widman Fischer to sing his original compositions to you.  Most often I heard him sing "Merry Go Round," but occasionally he'd belt out "Linda and Laurie."      Oh Linda!...Oh Laurie!      Oh Linda!...Oh Laurie! Sort of a lilting up and down voice collage much like the "Merry Go Round" refrain. A human calliope. He was a fixture on the streets of L.A. in the late 60s and a regular on the UCLA campus where I spent my junior and senior years of college. By the time I was ready to graduate, Widman Fischer, who we all knew was a paranoid schizophrenic, but harmless, had witnessed first hand many of the people and events of those politically flaming days.  Anti-war demonstrations, take overs of the Administration building, Black

The Tao of Winshield

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She gave me a poem a bout wiper blades,              tucked it right up under my own on the driver's side a  too cute, if not subtle tale about how her wiper blades had             fallen in love with each other, But it wouldn't work because they would come together and then flee apart...perpetually when activated. What was she trying to tell me?        That love and relationships were like sisyphus...?             condemned to tempt with intimacy and then separate in an instant? Or did she have something else in mind, something that would take a lifetime to learn? Windshields crack, wiper blades do too, Relationships split but linger long after the parts wear out.

Looking Ahead

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I wonder when it first happens?  My guess is that around age 50.  That's a perfect time to realize that it really is half over.  I'm referring to the realization that life will continue here in your town, your country, this world, long after you do. People must have some curiosity of what daily life will be like; what the future holds, because we get glimpses all the time.  Aside from picture phones and cars without drivers, we wonder about the small and simple things too. It does no good resisting any of his and wish to go backward, but how many of us would like to go back a couple of hundred years rather than go forward? The other day at the train station in Portland I saw an Amish family calmly waiting to board a passenger train.  Certainly not the first time I've seen a religious group in a public setting, but it is real Twilight Zone stuff. Compared to the other folks that surrounded them, with backpacks and tattoos, barefoot and wearing shorts, the optics are st

Find Out What It Means To Me

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"It's beneath the dignity of the office." We keep hearing this about the behavior of the current occupant of the White House.  When we look at the highlights and perhaps more accurately, the low lights, of our President's behavior, it's easy to see why this comment comes up so often. He calls it the "modern Presidency" but in classic fashion even the word modern is out of touch in the 21st century.  Perhaps it's the post modern version, but one thing is clear, our President eschews matters of dignity more often than not. So just how much dignity should we expect from the office and the officer we call our President?  I'm reminded of a student who entered my classroom about 20 years back.  His first name was President.  Yup, there it was, right on the official roll sheet and all the other school district documents.  Davis, President. His peers knew the story, or perhaps it had been passed around so much that by the time I officially asked hi

Big George

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Yesterday, I learned of the death of a friend and former colleague.  George Austin was a big man.  A social science teacher and football coach, he taught and mentored thousands of young people over a long career.  Although George was not elderly, he had recently retired, but never lived to enjoy the rest he deserved.  That often happens. He'd recently had knee surgery and to the best of my knowledge some of the complications of subsequent surgeries took his life.  George was the kind of teacher who could easily put his students needs first.  He took the time to do that.  His priorities were solidly in order. About 20 years ago, we were roommates for a week at a National Writing Project conference in Princeton, New Jersey.  I really got to know George that week.  Aside from the intensive work we participated in regarding teacher research, there was time for some relaxation free time. One morning, George asked me to accompany him on a search for clothing.  He knew about a store

Homeless Business

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When I drive around the Berkeley/Oakland area on one of my annual visits to the place that was home for 40 years, I can't help but notice the re-ordering of buildings, businesses, and neighborhoods.      To drive the streets and look for familiar haunts is a challenge as new configurations abound, and new incarnations of coffee houses, restaurants, and various businesses are the order of the day. I still see the old hardware store or the stationery store that used to be there.  An Italian Deli has sprung up two doors down from where one used to be.  A small bookstore holds on for dear life and even though the drug store with the soda fountain intact has somehow managed to be preserved, it's changed ownership a handful of times in recent years. I see the little Egg and Apple Press shop where I once dated that red-headed waitress with the smiling face and brilliant eyes.  It's been a Middle Eastern cant for a couple of decades now.  Of course the travel agency is long go

The Tao of Impermanence

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Been thinking about a conversation I had some years ago with a wonderful elder.  I's befriended him at a local coffee shop in Oakland and we became fast friends.  Maybe it was the Austrian accent, or the fact that he'd been a teacher.  Maybe just the fact that he was a warm, funny and vulnerable person who depended on me from time to time to accompany him on errands and getting around.  I knew he had a daughter, with issues that remained mostly estranged, but one day I asked if he had any other family.  "I have a son too," he told me.  Where is he, I asked.  "He disappeared," was his quick reply.  "What do you mean he disappeared," I countered.  "People disappear, you know." I left it t that but figured that they's lost contact somewhere along the way. Things disappear too.  Sometimes they turn out to be some of your favorite things.  Recently a funky little breakfast place I frequent changed its menu.  Gone were the wonderful ho

Political Animals

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The current malaise that seems to be enveloping this country will react to the hearings being televised and Tweeted, consumed and considered.  We have a President that lies and who's lack of concern for protocol seems to be catching up with him.  As expected, he tries to run the country like he runs his businesses.  He cares little for ethics and makes moral calculations that are sadly lacking.  This is what happens when you try apply one model to another.  In business, you can step on people.  It's done all the time, because "business is business."  When you work with people and have the power to impact lives while seemingly advocating for the greater good, you can't quantify issues and boil them down to what is most expedient.  With people there is supposed to be a human factor.  Human beings are emotional and in the words of Aristotle we are "political animals." That does not mean we like politics, or that we are ever engaged in politics, it means mo

My Summer of Love

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We are approaching the 50th anniversary of the "Summer of Love."  Ironically that contrasts sharply with the summer of hate that seems to be upon us now.  People seem to be muttering "something's happening here, but the contexts are vastly different.  50 years ago, I was a college student living in Southern California.  Like many, I went north to San Francisco that year to check out the intersection of Haight and Ashbury and see what all the fuss was about.  No, I did not wear a flower in my hair, but there were many who did.  What we all had in common was the overwhelming sense that a substantive change was upon us.  People were fed up with the direction of the war in Vietnam and the lack of trust they felt in their government.  They were buoyed by those that sacrificed all in the struggle for civil rights, and the hypocrisy of a star-spangled monument that was beginning to tarnish.   To be a young person that summer was to be insanely curious and optimistic.  It wa

No Fly Fishing on the First Date

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Finding a fly fishing partner has eluded me.  Since moving to Oregon, I've had a couple of short term relationships with fly fishers, but so far none as gone the distance.  It's complicated, but either they no longer share my passion for the sport, or have moved away, or aren't available.  I once tried placing an add on an online community bulletin board, but that only resulted in a woman who was looking for more than a fishing buddy.  Truth be told, she lined up under the banner of "I always wanted to try fly fishing." Not interested. I need a clone.  Someone near my age and ability who enjoys getting into a float tube and onto a lake, or perhaps walking the banks of a small stream or friendly river.  But the risks are great.  I have fears too.  I'm afraid of finding someone who isn't all that easy to be around, or who has bad habits, or plays food and alcohol fast and loose.  Someone who talks too much, or is a slob, or isn't punctual or is essen

Jerked Around

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I had a rather unsettling, if not bizarre encounter with a homeless person the other day.  As I was scurrying to meet with a teacher I'm mentoring a 20 something guy sprang from a bus bench and asked if he could ask me something.  We all know the drill here, but his youth and condition held me for a split second so I thought I'd just cut to the chase and tell him I was busy but here's a dollar.  The dollar bill I thought was in my front pocket turned out to be a five and at that point the threshold is crossed.  No turning back.  He took the money and then rather uncharacteristically seemed to undergo a personality change.  What followed was a rather speedy, rather schizophrenic diatribe complete with people from another universe and his anger at have ing the 5 dollar bill. "Well, if you're angry about having it, you can always give it back," I replied.  He wasn't going for that but seemed intent on continuing the conversation, one-way as it was. I was