[Above photo: I love cemeteries, preserving as they do peaceful open space in metropolitan areas. They are funny, too, implying that the deceased care about the size of their stone/mausoleum or their surroundings.]

12 December 2021

This has been an eventful week. We had our first two days of snow dusting. I prepared a dinner party for friends but did it 7 days early, so I am cooked for the week. It wasn’t all bad, since I was forced to clean and organize the house and I like it this way.

I heard a great local jazz group last night at the Portland Conservatory of Music. I got there early by error and was able to chat with the guitarist. I mentioned that I used to nurse a beer all evening at the 5 Spot in NYC, listening to Thelonious Monk, when I was in med school in the ‘60s. He wrote his dissertation on Monk, played for Monk’s widow, and incorporates Monk’s style into his own compositions! We hit it off. The group, Time Zone, has played all over the world (sic) and does their own take on regional styles. The last three numbers were in 5/4, 7/4, and 25/16 (Bulgarian) tempos; he got lost at one point in the last song, cracked up, and regained his place. As they say, if you want to grow, do something every day that scares you a little.

At 11PM Tuesday evening, I realized that it was the 1^st Tuesday of the month and I was going to get a ticket the next morning if I didn’t move my car. I bundled up against the cold rain, and drove all around god’s green (wet) acre looking for a parking spot.  After almost an hour, I despairingly dropped into the school parking lot directly across the street from my apartment. Of course, they don’t patrol it and I moved it by 7:15AM to a sweet spot in front of my building.

I realize I kind of like the challenge of finding a parking spot, as perverse as that sounds. It makes it so satisfying when I get a good one, a kind of game. Otherwise, I’d just pull up the driveway and not give it another thought. It’s a bit like shopping in Yangon. When I first arrived, I would go to the slick City Mart supermarket, which is very similar to ours; it was quick and painless. Increasingly, I’d go to the street (“wet”) market and get fresher and cheaper food with a greater variety. I’d also have interactions with the vendors, which was generally fun. And I felt some accomplishment out the other side, whereas a trip to City Mart was, well, meh.

I’m deep into The Dawn Watch, a recent biography of Joseph Conrad by Maya Jasanoff, a Harvard historian. It is another lively page-turner. My god, life was nasty, brutish, and short for politically active Poles then. Russia was already the bully, sending the Polish Opposition into gulags in Siberia where they would starve, freeze, contract tuberculosis, and die.  Given his traumatic and land-locked beginnings, Conrad’s accomplishments were astounding. They would be in any case, even with a much easier start.

I’m reading it before I re-read Heart of Darkness, in preparation to re-read A Bend in the River by VS Naipul for the modern novel course.  We just read and discussed Nadine Gordimer’s Burger’s Daughter, which many of us found a difficult read. Sticking with it, however, I came to love it and felt moved and challenged by the author. 

Reading about the opposition to apartheid and the evil tyranny of the South African government has particular meaning for me right now, and not just in reference to our own American journey. In the past week the military in Myanmar, in response to an attack on a military caravan, went into a village, gathered 11 youth (14yo was the youngest), bound them, and set them on fire.  In another incident a military truck accelerated into a group of protesters, killing 5 and wounding others.

One of my former students who lives in Magway is providing virtual supportive counselling, along with a group of 6 other psychiatrists in various parts of Myanmar, to border populations and those in refugee camps. She called today to see if I would do a training on brief psychotherapy for adolescents. I am thrilled to have a way to continue helping in Myanmar and will do so.  The course will start the first Wednesday of January and run 2 hours per week for 4 months. It doesn’t get me into the community in Portland, one of my goals, but does allow me to keep helping in Myanmar.

I visited the dentist last week. It was quite an experience after similar trips in Myanmar and Malawi. The place was new and modern, with digital imaging and a really smart dentist. She got my number quickly; I take good care of my teeth but grind them a lot, causing bone resorption. I know that when I drink coffee I do. But I have only been drinking decaf.  Apparently, there is enough caffeine in decaf to make trouble for me.

In response, I bought a Rolls Royce of a Waterpik that both brushes and squirts, I use micropore tape to keep from mouth breathing if I roll onto my back at night, I drink no coffee at all, I am assiduous in not grinding and in keeping my tongue where it should be in my mouth during the daytime, and in all ways dental I am a model patient. No half-measures for me! We’ll see how things are in a few months when I have a follow-up appointment.

I went for a long walk in the residential part of the West End today, it being sunny and temperate. The many old houses are immense and beautiful, with fancy decorative brickwork. I cannot imagine what it takes to heat them. Or dust them. I stumbled upon the historic Western Cemetery. It is a large area, with many paths, views, and stones.

The cemetery taught me some historical sociology. Many of the stones list a name, a rank, a regiment, the particular conflict, and dates of birth and death. Thus, “Nathaniel Abbott, Corp(oral), Trobridge’s Cav(alry), War of 1812, 1790-1842”.  I found it interesting that many defined themselves by their military service, even when it didn’t take their life. And women were generally identified as “Wife of —” or “Mother of—” whereas men were never “Husband of—“.  Women, even if they survived their husbands by many years, were uniformly listed beneath the latter on the stone. There was a stone without dates, just saying, “Hay” with two equal-sized adjacent stones noting “Mother” and “Father”. It all spoke loudly to me about societal values in the 1800’s.

I purchased a good quality photo scanner in 2015 and have never used it. As I was on the verge of buying a file cabinet to organize and store the 4 large crates of papers, I thought, why not scan them, get rid of the paper, and make them easily available to me. I have spent several productive hours  scanning what I want to keep and tossing all the paper. It feels great!  And, of course, I have begun to encounter artifacts, letters or my own writings, that shed light on my past in ways surprising to me. Once I have scanned the papers, I’ll scan the many negatives and old photos I have to preserve them.

I also came across a trove of aphorisms. I used to print them and put a pithy or inspiring one on the wall for staff and kids at Seneca Center: “Life isn’t about holding good cards. Rather, it’s about playing a poor hand well.” Or, “Be kind to all you meet for everyone is fighting a great battle.” The best were 4 pages of Groucho Marx: “From the moment I picked up your book until I put it down I was convulsed with laughter. Someday, I intend to read it.” Or, “Last night I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas I’ll never know.”  And many more risqué ones.

I think I’ll watch “Duck Soup” tonight.  

[Above photo: Fishermen on the Mekong River in Vietnam. Not a photo. Not a painting. A weaving, done in a workshop by children who have lost a limb or two from stepping on a hidden land mine.]

5 December 2021

It really isn’t the end of the world, yet, but daylight is an increasingly brief encounter here. Nodding to that, I arose in the dark to take my car to Phil’s Foreign Auto in S. Portland. My landlady, Kim, suggested Phil’s as a reputable shop. I drove there last week, as well, and happily saw it was primarily for Subarus. But the receptionist had mistakenly put me in for a different day and the shop was swamped.  Graciously, I thought, I exhibited flexibility, rescheduled for this week, and drove home. Actually, since it was pouring rain, I was happy not to brave the streets on foot looking for a bus.

Today I returned, it wasn’t crowded, and I had a chance to talk with Bruce. He’s the owner. Phil, his dad, died in 1998. He’d started the shop in 1983. Bruce was living in Hawaii at the time of his father’s illness, biking to work and swimming each day on Waikiki. But the climate—-bland, warm, unchanging—didn’t suit him. “I like to shovel and plow snow. I’m built for it. I’ll go out with a sweatshirt and no gloves and I’m just fine.” Bruce returned to Portland and took over the shop.

Get this. They provide a free shuttle service, door to door, in a new bright yellow Jeep. Jodie drives it and she loves her job. As much as she loves sailing, having learned by racing on Etchells. An Etchell is a speed machine; you tune the rigging before each race. I digress. She dropped me at my door. And when they text me that the car is ready, she’ll collect me whereever I am. Concierge service! For an 18yo Subaru. Well, for its owner. To think of my wasted energy obsessing over whether to take my bike, my kick-scooter, or the #21 bus to get home on this 28 degree morning! A small and pleasant surprise.

I take extended walks on days when it isn’t raining, both to get to know the town and for exercise. Yesterday I came upon a long line, perhaps 75 people. At first I thought it was a food pantry or providing a hot meal. But people were of all ages, well-dressed and groomed. So I asked “Why?”. “In line to get our booster shots.” “Why not go to CVS or Walgreens?” “Their appointments are months away; the closest I could find for today was in Waldoboro.” Waldoboro is 63 miles. No wonder Maine is at the top of the list for covid vaccination rates, although there are pockets of skeptics and anti-vaxxers inland and to the North.

I had lunch with a friend (Peggy) of an old friend (Kate) and as we talked she mentioned the Center for Grieving Children which has branches in Portland and Sanford, ME. I later looked them up. It is a place for children and families who have lost, through death or divorce, a family member to meet others in the same boat and to try to talk about their feelings. I’ll talk with the Director of Volunteers in 3 days to see how I might put my paddle in their stream. How helpful such an organization would have been for us as a family after my Dad died. I was 9yo, my immediately older brother was 12yo.  Finding words and a sympathetic ear to hear my confused, angry, guilty, bereft feelings could have meant the world to me. As it was, I simply stewed alone, feeling weird that all the other kids at Scouts had a dad for the Father-Son nights. It felt like a personal failing.

I want to get into the community here in a small way. I may also volunteer to help at a soup kitchen on Christmas Day. I’ve considered it for a long time but never actually did it. This year my dance card is open so I’ll take a chance. I loved being a child at Christmas. And I loved seeing the excitement of my children at Christmas, excepting the year we bought Nate a globe of the world and he thought we had relented and that the box contained a Nintendo set. It also was fraught, for me, because for reasons of my own, hers, or both of us, it was nigh impossible for me to gift Poki what she wanted. I accept that I am not a skilled or intuitive gift giver, which puzzles me since I am a skilled psychotherapist, The latter requires wanting to learn about and know others deeply.  Christmas now has less valence for me; I greatly prefer Thanksgiving. Thus, it wouldn’t be a sacrifice for me to serve others, rather a pleasure.

It is difficult for me to hear some of the Supremes talking about their control over women’s bodies, especially the men. And, as well, any citing of their personal religious beliefs, as if they were authority for others. I accept that they have chosen those values for themselves. It reminds me of competent Muslim women in Myanmar who would love to be free of their useless, philandering husbands but cannot initiate a divorce. The men can, as I’ve mentioned once before, approach them and say, “I divorce you.” three times. Then they are divorced.

Religions have an aspect like a club, with special songs, rituals, and cultures. I accept that some people find them comforting and that they often do wonderful community work through education, health care, and other good deeds. But when one religion, or one sect of a religion, begins to dictate what all others may or may not do, especially with their own bodies—-that is, when religious belief is turned into law—it is intolerable to me, especially if it is contrary to the will of the majority of people it effects. If Justice Barrett doesn’t want to have an abortion, it’s her choice. But just because the official position of the Catholic Church prohibits abortion shouldn’t mean that any woman cannot make this most personal decision for herself. I recall that there was a general worry, needless it turned out, that JFK would superimpose his Catholic beliefs onto the presidency. It appears to be different with the current membership of the Supreme Court.

I finished an amazing book—Over the Edge of the World—about the first circumnavigation of our planet. It was brilliantly led by Magellan but his hubris caused his death in the Phillipines. I’ve seen the memorial on Mactan Island to Lapu Lapu, the warrior-leader who refused to accept Catholic conversion. Magellan attacked him to assert his supremacy and was slaughtered. The book details the suffering, the smells, and the dangers of long-distance sailing in those days better than anything I’ve read. It is a page-turner, which I don’t find often in much of what I read.

And in closing, a most amazing essay by Merritt Tierce about not getting an abortion— https://www.nytimes.com/2021/12/02/magazine/abortion-parent-mother-child.html?searchResultPosition=2  , she who became pregnant at 19yo, two months before her college graduation. She dives into the complexity of religious belief, guilt, sexual desire, maternal love, personal ambition, etc. in a manner I found deeply moving. I thought it was lyrical, clear-eyed, and imbued with love and honesty. A stunning piece.

[Above photo: Sunset at the Fish River Canyon, Namibia]

28 November 2021

Martha’s Vineyard is a lovely island. Again, stolen from the Native Americans. Now it is, like Manhattan, very pricey real estate. The Obamas just bought a multi-million dollar place on a large piece of waterfront land. I looked at Zillow for fun—-for $760,000 I could get a 1 bedroom cottage (800sqft) on a 2200sqft patch of land.

I spent Thanksgiving and surrounding days with my friends, Jeff and Bonnie, at their lovely, spacious home in Chilmark. They got it a few years ago at a reasonable price, along with some acreage. Much of the latter is in a conservation easement, which means a wild buffer for them with no taxes. They often have, and can accommodate, numbers of their children, partners/spouses, and grandchildren, loving the noise and energy and associated senses of history and accomplishment. This time it was just we three.

We ate well—smoked turkey with dressing, homemade pear/cranberry compote, the Ottolengi squash/onion bake with tahini and za atar, matzoh ball soup, and bagels I brought from Portland’s Rose Food—-took easy walks, and talked like crazy. I was able to learn more about each of their beginnings. Jeff and I share college (he was there 2 years before me), medical school (contemporaries), memories, and career interests. Plus, the challenges of aging. It was relaxed and easy and fun; I slept until 8AM which is unheard of for me.

The drive down and back was easy, excepting the tangle of bridges and tunnels through Boston, and I, of course, love the ferry ride. Vineyard Haven Harbor has, always, a lovely assortment of sailboats—large, capable cruisers, numerous small schooners of both gaff and Marconi persuasion, and even a sweet old catboat—over which I drool.

MV has an interesting future, I think. As the rents and prices blast skyward, only the wealthy can afford to live there. Often this means older people in retirement, who may need some assistance with shopping, cleaning, yardwork, and house maintenance. But the service people will not be able to afford to live on island and may not want to commute an hour to and from work each day.  It feels a little like Japan here now, with an aging population and younger people not wanting to do the jobs they traditionally would have done.  Perhaps it will eventually go back to the Wampanoags.

The publication for which Erica is the Managing Editor, Inside Climate News, has a couple of remarkable stories currently. One is about the environmental devastation of the Canadian tar sands petroleum extraction. The other is about the largest nickel smelter in the world, 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle in Siberia. It was built and staffed by Stalin’s gulag and has been spewing out toxins for 80 years, polluting the rivers, poisoning the fish and animals, and killing the trees in an immense surrounding area.  Not to mention the striking increase in various cancers and other serious illnesses in humans living nearby. That plant alone emits more sulfur dioxide annually than the entire United States. And the lies and coverups about the ruination of a pristine and beautiful part of the world are infuriating. Inside Climate News is a great investigative organ, obviously timely. <insideclimatenews.org> Worth your support.

Disinformation in any form is so upsetting. Don Jr., our most visible used car salesman, has been ranting on Fox News about how the US media is not reporting on the riots in Europe over vaccine mandates. What riots are those, exactly? And you are suggesting Americans should riot in protest to our own vaccine mandates, rather than acting “like sheep” for not doing the same? Large groups of unmasked people shouting in protest seems like a great way to spread an airborne virus. Finally, Alex Jones’ chickens may be returning to their roost. I can only imagine what it must feel like to be a parent whose child was shot and killed at Sandy Hook and have Jones mouthing off that it is a “total hoax” with “actors”, all the while earning a fortune from supplements and survival gear he promotes on his show.  One family has been harassed—I’d guess threatened—so often as a result of his disgusting tirades that they have had to move numerous times and remain in hiding.

Jeff mentioned how so many of us, and so easily, are moved to paranoia. If unhappy or depressed, we could accept our plight, assume what responsibility we may have for it, and work to improve our lot. Alternatively, we can regress to a state of blaming others, our imaginary enemies. You’d think just by natural selection paranoia would have vanished, since a paranoid stance doesn’t appear to be a very successful state of mind. “Still blaming your parents, eh?”  It can certainly motivate powerfully, however, and many of our most savage dictators have been extremely paranoid, Stalin and Hitler being prime examples.

The sun is setting now at 4:07PM. The clouds are intensely red/orange. My internal clock hasn’t yet readjusted from living in the tropics where old Sol is up and down at 6 throughout the year. Early darkness is just like when I was a kid in Seattle. I do like the long days of summer, however.

I am thankful for too much to name. However, the lists were the part of Moby Dick I didn’t much like. I suppose the gifts of life, health, and relationship top mine.  It is incredible to live, to love others and to be loved, and to be aware of much of it.

[Above photo: On the Island with dramatic lighting c/o a cloudy late September evening.]

21 November 2021

I tip my hat to the virus; I acknowledge its potency. I am much better, although still easily fatigued ascending a single flight of stairs and unable to taste anything. Each morning after a shower I bury my nose in the manual coffee grinder to test the return of smell. Its absence is different than I experienced with chemotherapy; the latter also induced some nausea and an aversion to food.  I recall the first time I smoked weed in an attempt to improve my appetite, I downed a pint of chocolate ice cream. “What kind is this? It’s amazing!” My wife replied, “Trader Joe’s”. Nothing so special, but that step from 0 to 1 is a dramatic one.  I’m still awaiting the return of taste and will perhaps try some zinc supplement to hasten it. I vaguely recall a New Yorker article by Oliver Sacks on ‘Anosmia’ in which he prescribed zinc for a couple of people with the condition—admittedly, not secondary to covid-19—and it worked!

I’ve only been in my apartment for 7 weeks but feel loneliness wrapping me. I must remind myself that I’ve been absent or quarantined half that time, travelling to see friends and sorting my storage space in Bar Harbor.  This covid go-round leaves me feeling frail and vulnerable. And diminished, an inevitability with ageing anyway, as we lose our strengths and senses. Mostly I feel diminished in purpose and meaning, since my professional life has mostly halted and I am far from most friends. I keep checking, but I don’t feel depressed and remind myself to temper my expectations with the reality of my situation.

Maine now has its highest new daily covid case numbers since the beginning of the pandemic. Break-through cases are not uncommon. And the longer the numbers are up anywhere in the world, mostly correlating with the rates of vaccination, the more likely we are to get a variant that dodges the vaccine. The events of 9-11 did change the world but this little spiky fella is having a more widespread, a more lethal, and a longer-lasting effect.  The idea of easily mingling with strangers to meet a new group of friends, whether in a book group, cross-country skiing, or taking/teaching a class, doesn’t seem in my immediate future.

I’ve now been out of Myanmar for nearly 8 months. My return, at least in the near future, seems unlikely. If suddenly democracy were restored and the military receded to their proper role, I’d head back promptly to resume my crusade of establishing child and adolescent mental health services in the country.  Failing that, and it is most unlikely to occur, I’m here.

I think, thus, I need to change the domain name of my blog from “A psychiatrist in Myanmar” to reflect my current reality.  “Settling in Maine” has a double-entendre that troubles me, however true. More a double meaning, as double entendre, it seems, implies that one meaning is shocking or risqué. Then, again, if I really want to be teaching abroad, being here does carry a sense of resignation.

Do I have the interest, and the juice, to start a similar project elsewhere? I think I’d choose S. America, because I know a bit of Spanish and could learn more. And I’ve never travelled there. And I like the food and much of the music. Now, I am exciting myself. I may look into another Fulbright after March (I’m next eligible two years after the last one ended).

Maybe “Perched in Maine” would be more appropriate, suggesting a transience to my residency. Having my camp on the Island gives me an adequate sense of having a home base, which I require.

I’ve been looking at blue-water sailboat ads, refining my search to land on the “perfect” boat for me. I can easily lull myself into an ocean-crossing or a tropical sojourn. Then I will see a video of a cluster of cruisers caught in a tropical cyclone between New Zealand and Fiji, with consequent terror, serious injuries, rescues, and loss of both lives and boats. Not so much, I think. Besides, the necessarily constant and meticulous maintenance and cramped quarters of a live-aboard cool my enthusiasm.  I now like my shower, my large and comfy bed, the kitchen appliances, and the fact that if, tomorrow, I want to fly to San Francisco or Bangkok, I just need to buy a plane ticket, lock the door, and take an Uber to the Jetport.

I think my fantasies run, predictably, toward open horizons when I am cooped-up. Just as, unable to smell or taste, I read numerous recipes yesterday in a wonderful cookbook which my daughter gave me for my birthday.  Reading and writing, instead of taking actions to effect my escape, make much more sense right now, although they lack the visceral pull of fantasy.

I’m strong enough for a real walk today. Maybe this afternoon I’ll go to the downtown cineplex and watch “Dune” or “The French Dispatch”.  A more practical outlet for fantasied longings. And double-masked.

14 November 2021

[Below photo: A poor quality photo, taken with a phone through both glass and screen, of a hummingbird at the feeder on the Island. She provided me with endless entertainment, as did her 4 babies when they learned to fly.]

Thursday I went shopping. I’d cancelled dinner guests for Friday because of my “cold”. I imagined a fish chowder would feel right, given the chill in the air, my symptoms, and being in New England. I bought a piece of cod.

Friday, still coughing my brains out, my nose running like a faucet, and feeling great fatigue, with an abundance of caution I drove to a covid test center. Bingo! “You are my first positive!” said the cheerful nurse practitioner. Going home through driving rain and high winds, I was lucky to find a parking spot in front of my apartment.

Saturday, after some fussing, calls, and emails, my friend Ellen’s daughter, who is head of Urgent Care at Maine Medical Center, arranged for me to get an iv infusion of monoclonal antibodies. Oh, no! I thought. Just like DT. 8 hours after arriving, I left, well-infused.

Sunday, today, I was finally making the fish chowder. First I cooked the bacon. I thought, Some cheap bacon. No smell. Then I put in the chopped onions and couldn’t smell them. I couldn’t smell anything. So I have a fish chowder that is undoubtedly most savory and no way to appreciate it. At least it will nourish me.

One of the issues with ageing is lacking vision in the shower.  I don’t mean metaphysically. It adds to a sense of vulnerability, as well, for being naked and old in front of a bathroom mirror is to learn about collagen failure and wrinkles. But seriously, how to tell, in a hotel, motel, or friend’s home, which is Body Wash, which is Shampoo, and which is Conditioner? There usually are all sorts of words written—‘Lemon Essence’, ‘Lilac Compote’, ‘Creamy Restoration’, etc. Plus, the fine print. I think they should have it embossed on the lid: B, S, and C, so oldsters like me know what we are slathering on where. It could be an Executive Order, since the GOP would likely block it if it came to the floor. The preparations are probably all pretty similar and I don’t expect my hair will fall out or that I’ll break into an exfoliative dermatitis  if I use the wrong one or use them in the wrong order. Still….

Don’t the oil and coal people get it? Do they really think that continuing to burn them isn’t causing significant warming and climate disruption?  Or do they just want to squeeze the last few $ out of their investments before quitting?  The Glasgow Summit results were less than encouraging to me, although I’m not versed in how these negotiations could go optimally.  Only teenagers, it seems, can shout with authority, as did Diana Ross and the Supremes, “Stop, in the name of love!” Love of Earth. Love of Humanity. Love of animals. Love of plants. Love of Nature’s abundance, diversity, and beauty.

I am fading fast. Even this little bit of mental energy—and after reading this I think you’ll agree that not a lot was expended—and finger exercise has exhausted me. Despite this virus, did I mention how lucky I am? Triple vaccinated, able to get the latest—-well, next to the latest—treatment available, rent paid, plenty of food, friends and family calling and writing.  Pretty amazing. In olden days I’d be put in my kayak and eased seaward.

PS: I am in no respiratory distress and am slowly recovering, so no cause for alarm.

10 November 2021

[Above photo: My living room, since I have no more recent photos. Note the 15′ wide original 1850’s pine flooring.]

Getting to the Portland Transportation Center was a challenge. Google Maps sent me deeper and deeper into a hotel parking lot with no exit. Once arrived, it was a smooth and pleasant ride down I-95 to Boston’s South Station on a quiet and comfortable coach. Next, I boarded the Acela and quietly sped along the Connecticut coast, crossing the Mystic, Thames, Quinnipac, Housatonic, and Connecticut rivers and dropping me at Moynihan-Penn Station. Finding the uptown subway 1 Line was a slog, but I was warmed by its gritty similarity to the IRT of the ‘60’s. Exiting at 79^th, it was a short walk to Harold and Connie’s on West End.

They have a spacious and graciously appointed apartment, cleverly designed so that the guest bedroom seems in a separate wing. There are views of the Hudson and of penthouses with small potted forests. And the wonderful rooftop water towers/tanks allowing for a constant flow, despite upstream vagaries. I was welcomed and fed and we planned our moves for the next few days of my visit.

Since my sleep has not been sound, I was done by 10 and slept, with the usual interruptions, until 8AM. And I dreamed of being in a room with friends and colleagues when I suddenly saw  a myriad of black dots in the sky. Upon closer inspection, they were crows, parachuting ominously into the neighborhood. Associating to it, I recalled the hundreds of crows who would gather nightly in the huge eucalyptus grove at Ginnery Corner in Blantyre, Malawi. At first, it seemed miraculous; later I saw them, aggressive survivors and carnivores, as wicked. In Yangon, the only birds left in the city are crows, pigeons, and little house sparrows. I then, for some reason thought about Hillary’s “deplorables”. How did they get that way? How did I get to be how I am?

Long story shortened, I took the subway and walked to The Strand, New York City’s huge used book emporium where I quickly located a copy of Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents. My thought was that, for many reasons, the sacrifices we make to sustain civilization—I’m angry at someone, there will be a payment if I whack him. She’s tantalizing, but I cannot just possess her or Big Trouble. That shiny object beckons me, but it isn’t mine to take.—are no longer worth it for many to whom the promised rewards have not come. Rules and values of the rich, educated, and priviledged. So, we abandon truth and lie with ease. We incite and enjoy violence. Honor and civility aren’t valid currency. Restraint, art, logic, science, and intellectual pursuits take a back seat to superstition, impulse, greed, avarice, tooth and claw.  My thesis becomes hazy on awake inspection, but. I swear, it was lucid in my post-dream reverie, lying in 800 thread-count sheets with a lovely duvet keeping me warm. I’ll approach it with more rigor later.

Harold and I went to the [new] Whitney and wandered through the immense Jasper Johns retrospective. Not so much my kind of art, but it was an impressive oeuvre and the museum itself is magnificent. We then cruised up the park along the Hudson to his apartment, joining Connie on the roof for a glass of wine.

Off to Marcy’s 80^th birthday, 7 of us, at Genaro’s where we feasted and feted. Toasts included her brilliance, her beauty, her friendship, and her incredible persistence as she has fought, much of it singlehandedly, for 50 years to preserve the riverine west side of Manhattan from the developmental depredations of a series of massively rich and powerful men. Barry Diller managed to best her with his little erection at pier 55 but she has outmuscled the others. She is one rara avis.

The next day I spent with Erica, seeing her new place, doing some minor installations there, and walking with Chloe to Barney Greengrass, the Sturgeon King. He knows—well, knew—his sturgeon. As, later, we moved to meet her publisher and executive editor at a bar, we sought a cab. An Uber would be $45. Why, you ask, for a 12 block ride?  It was NY Marathon day and every spot on the Upper West Side was overflowing with celebrants, including those wrapped in blue ponchos wearing medals.  We grabbed a bicycle rickshaw at $7/ minute. Wait, red lights? I won’t reveal the final fee but it was a pleasant ride and our cyclist was happy at the payoff.  Erica’s editor has run 85 marathons. At 60yo his time was under 4 minutes. His mitochondria are ridiculous.

Our appointed restaurant where we’d meet H & C had cancelled the evening: “a plumbing problem in the block”. We slipped around the corner to an old standard that they all liked but had forgotten (perhaps because they only accept cash) and settled into outdoor seating. Suddenly a long string of ambulances and other be-sirened vehicles rushed by. Had there been a bombing? We never learned but had a wonderful meal, including mussels flown in that day—so said the proprietor—from Portugal? Italy?

The energy of New York, the sheer juice of the place, is like nowhere I’ve been. I imagine Shanghai matches it. The train trip up the coast the next day was, again, sedate and effortless. And there was my ancient Subaru, waiting to ferry me home.

Glasgow seems disappointing so far. China threatens Taiwan. Biden gets his infrastructure bill passed. And Paul Gosar broadcasts anime of him killing AOC and attacking the President.  What a descending path into depravity our Trumpers have taken. Desperate, primitive, they seem willing to do anything to regain power.

Meanwhile, I watched “Lorena, Light-Footed Woman”, a wonderful antidote to all the terrible nonsense, on Netflix. It is about a young Mexican woman from Chihuahua who is an unassuming ultramarathon champion, running in her traditional skirt and sandals. Refreshing!

31 October 2021

[Above photo:  Sunset from my living room window.]

The weather forecast announced showers today but it has  been brilliantly sunny, blustery, and with a variety of clouds threatening but never leaking.  It called for a bike ride and I layered and set out, riding on bike paths past the Portland waterfront and around Back Bay. It took me 2+ hours of steady riding and provided a good workout. I felt like one of the high school wrestlers who work out in plastic bags before a meet to sweat down to their weight class, though, since I’d over-layered.

I’ve begun to explore maps of the many bike trails in Maine, especially the East Coast Greenway, which leads from Calais at our northern tip to the Florida Keys, over 3000 miles. Some is on byways but much is on abandoned railroad lines, similar to the one I took last weekend with Harold and Connie. These are springing up all over the country. Removing the danger of being eliminated by a passing motor vehicle makes for a much more pleasant ride, even if the former railroad trains would make good sense today.

Back Bay is a large tidal pond with marshlands for nesting shorebirds. Many walkers were out, a few runners, and fewer cyclists. On the next sunny day, I’ll head from S. Portland down the Eastern Trail, which leads through the Scarborough Saltwater Marshes (3000 acres) to Kittery at the New Hampshire border.

I visited my storage space in Bar Harbor once again, staying in an “inn” in town since it wasn’t convenient for me to spend that night at Ari’s home. I finished sorting, took another load to the Blue Hill dump, left my stereo system and some power tools with Ari, and moved everything to a smaller space. Linda created a wonderful lunch for us from her very productive garden and we caught up. Her energy at maintaining a 3 story-plus-full-basement home is a wonder to behold; this climate is tough on homes.  I would have down-sized long ago but she enjoys filling the house with friends and family. Also, she built it, so it must feel like an extension of herself.

I caught two mice in my 4 traps. Overnight I caught another entering into my new storage space. “Poor boundaries.”, I say. “What’s private property?”  they say. I left the new space after setting 8 traps, hoping I can discourage a new crop of mice from homesteading. I doubt that encountering the dead bodies of their cousins will prove much of a deterrent to newcomers, however. I’ll check them over Thanksgiving, as I’ll be visiting Ari and enjoying the fare at the Brooklin Inn, as I did in 2019 before the virus struck.

As well as mice, I came across dozens of journals I’d written and letters I’d sent to my siblings and mother. Two of the latter shocked me. In one I noted to her how uninterested in talking with me she was when I called her on her birthday and on a second occasion. I don’t recall her acknowledging or apologizing. In yet another, I was responding to some explosion on her end that I’d forgotten her at Christmas. I soberly explained that we’d sent her carefully chosen present to my brother’s home, 5 blocks from hers, because we knew she was out of town over the holidays. Then I noted how easily she came to call me “a bum”, “a shit”, and “a fake” at different times. The major surprise to me was that I had completely repressed it all. She once exploded at me that I “looked like a schizophrenic” when she met me at the airport. I was coming to visit from medical school in New York and was wearing Can’t Bust ‘Em overalls, perhaps provocative of me, I’ll grudgingly admit. How my dad put up with this, I don’t know. She was like a mouse trap; a slight disturbance in the field would trigger a disproportionate response by her. It did affect my self-esteem for years but less now that I can recognize it as emanating from her fragile self, quite unrelated to me.  It also helped to explain why my sister-in-law once mentioned that my mother hadn’t treated me very well. I had remained puzzled by that for many years and, I suppose, never wanted to explore her conviction.

With this trove of material—-letters and old writings—I have no external excuse for not resuming the writing of my life story. Internally, I think it still frightens me to approach all those memories. But I’m fortunate that it will stir up dreams which will help me to decipher my submerged struggles.  I also have come across a huge number of slides—-Remember photographic film?  Shortly before the end of my marriage I bought a photo scanner, so I can imagine cold winter days spent reviewing reflections of warmer ones.  The local quality photo shop suggested that rather than purchase a light box, why don’t I just use an old laptop? I tried it. With the brightness at maximal, a Slide Show view of a blank Power Point slide makes a terrific LED light pad!

Off to NYC by train on Friday for a friend’s 80^th.  How quickly we’ve aged!  So has Joe but look at him go, trying to shift the machinery of state to actually help people and the world, rather than just facilitate the unbridled grabs of the wealthy. Silver-tongued old Ronald Reagan certainly was a friend of lower taxation (especially for los ricos) and less government regulation of industry. He did ring up a whopping, for that time, national debt. See where it has gotten us, as the world crisps and the rich-poor gap is wider than ever. Then think of FDR. For a wealthy and patrician fellow, he really helped the Little Guy in so many ways.  Despite their marital struggles, Eleanor was his better angel, I am certain.

[Above photo: Tushy, the add-on bidet. That’s an invention I wish I’d made!]

27 October 2021

To this Californian who spent the last 4 ½ years in tropical latitudes, winter has come. Mainers would say, “Not yet. Pretty toasty still.” Today it is 46 F outside, with rain and wind in equal measure. I am attempting to be comfortable at 68 F inside, which is an effort for me. Yangon and Blantyre were only that cold during the last Ice Age!

Now that I am nearly settled, the reality of my solitary existence wraps around me. It is strange for me to consider my unattached state. At times I feel like I’m at a dance in high school without a partner and compare myself with those more enmeshed unfavorably. I must appear like someone’s eccentric uncle, I imagine, perhaps an object of pity.  Yet the freedom to seek society when I want and not have to constantly consider what the effect on another of my sitting in the living room or listening to John Coltrane (or Bach) is excellent. I’m watching the glamorous, deceptive mess of Hemmingway’s life on PBS and don’t envy it at all. But I’m not built as he was and couldn’t have considered all the infidelity in which he engaged, let alone want to be on display at all times. If I awaken at 4:30AM, as I did today, I can try to fall asleep or I can switch on the light and continue reading Anita Desai’s Baumgartner’s Bombay without worrying I’ll disturb my bed-mate. I am struggling to adjust to a different phase in my life, I suppose.

Onwards and downwards! After expelling yesterday’s meals, for the past nearly 5 years I have used small hoses which are attached to toilets to spray myself. Said hoses are all over Africa and SE Asia. It makes sense, feels pleasantly clean, and saves toilet tissue. In going through my storage space I came across ‘Tushy’, a bidet-attachment I had ordered 4 years ago, which accomplishes the same without any contortions, gymnastics, or wild streams, since it has a fixed nozzle. My unit, which uses cold water, attaches to any toilet easily in about 10 minutes. It requires a pair of pliers and a screw driver. It does not require a plumber.  I can’t say it has drastically changed my life but it is a terrific addition to the household.  I encourage anyone reading this to check the link, hellotushy.com, if only for the cute pictures.  Tushy makes a warm-water model, as well.

We in the US are not as advanced in some realms as we enjoy imagining. Our internet services have lagged behind Europe and Asia. Much of the world uses water to clean, not paper to smear.  A little bit of tissue to blot yourself dry and, voila, as good as new! In developing countries you generally must supply the tissue. In the bathroom in my building at the College of Medicine in Malawi, the previous year’s financial report had been cut into neat squares and placed on a shelf behind the toilet. A good use of such a document, I think.

Needing a haircut last week, I walked to Longfellow Barber Shop on Congress Street, the closest to me. One chair, one barber. “Walk-ins. No appointments.” Norm at 84yo, has run it in the same spot since 1961. He gets up about 4:30AM, rides with his wife to the Saco bus stop, catches a 6:02AM bus, and is at his shop by 6:15AM. That is, if Terry is the bus driver that day because he arrives at 6:02AM exactly. Norm reverses direction in the afternoon, closing his shop at 5PM.

He is a kayaker—-or was. He had a number of Folboats and Klepper singles and loved to go out in the ocean when it was rough. I did also, and we swapped [tall] tales, as happens in barbershops. At the end he said, “It’s nice to talk with someone with whom you have something in common.” I agreed.

Norm is a meticulous barber, using warm lather and a straight-edge razor on my neck. He isn’t rushed but moves easily and surely. It’s the best haircut I’ve had in memory, all for $12.

I drove to Old Chatham, NY, across the western border of Massachusetts, to visit Harold and Connie. They have a spectacularly beautiful 90 acres set in a bowl of deciduous trees doing their Autumn thing, with a pond, a tennis court, two gazebos, a fenced kitchen garden, and wonderful lawns and plantings. And an ancient shagbark hickory whose height is 3’ greater than its distance from the house. The primary house is late 1700’s, built around a central chimney, and it was kept in the same family. H & C have made it all into a lovely, comfortable retreat, especially useful during these COVID years, when they pulled back from Manhattan.

We biked on the old electric railroad trail, hiked on Greylock Mountain, and hit tennis balls, eating and laughing in between the exercise. I imagined I’d be able to pick up a tennis racquet and resume where I left off 30 years ago. I wasn’t that good then and, not surprisingly, my skills have deteriorated. It was pretty astounding to me, since I have an image of myself as quite athletic but the reality was, well, shocking!

Tennis is a common entrée for expats in Africa and SE Asia. “Clubs” often have tennis as their centerpiece, although drinking, eating, and chatting actually occupy much more time. I felt chagrined at my clumsiness on Harold’s court, simultaneously enjoying the experience. Perhaps I’ll join an indoor tennis club as a primary setting for winter exercise.

I wanted my drive to Old Chatham to be on byways, so as to pass through the Green Mountains in Vermont. But Google Maps kept insisting I take the Maine turnpike so as to save 1 ¼ hours driving time. This digital conflict had me following a variety of little roads near Portland, often directing me in u-turns and other specious moves.  It exhausted my patience and I yielded, taking the pike and saving the time. On my return trip, however, I studied the map and was able to outwit Google, passing though Bennington, Brattleboro, and Keene. Although the view was partially obscured by drizzle and fog, the Fall colors beamed through mutedly in scarlets, orange, and yellows. I stopped once for food but after 15 minutes waiting and no movement, I skipped lunch in favor of returning in daylight and having pho ga at my favorite Vietnamese restaurant here. It, of course, was closed on Monday but I happily bought a pizza and salad in my neighborhood and retired to my apartment, exhausted.

One final trip to Bar Harbor will allow me to finish sorting my stored belongings and move what I keep to a smaller space. That part of contracting, shrinking, feels good.

14 October 2021

[Above photo:  Sunset from Northport Island.]

Humans, or many of them, seem perched on the edge of violence. We’ve concluded the wars, largely, in Afghanistan and Iraq and, mirabile dictu, there are murmurs and whispers of a civil war at home. Like high schools, whose optimal maximal size is estimated to be 1200 (I’m not sure how they come to that figure.), would we be more peaceful in small (100+) bands of hunters and gathers?  But then we wouldn’t have washing machines and TV’s!  Our technological progress has outstripped our social evolution, as others have noted, creating dangerous conditions. I think of DT as a 6yo who got into his daddy’s Cointreau and now is driving a schoolbus filled with children down a curvy country two-lane road.

Watching the Frontline documentary on the resurgence of the Taliban, it is clear that: 1) might makes right and, 2) many there aren’t democratically inclined, given their traditions and religion. My point is, if we hadn’t waged a starry-eyed war we could have limited our objectives to those achievable and would not have imagined, as Condoleezza Rice still asserts, that we could drag them into the 21^st century.  Our recent knowledge of epigenesis would tell us the same.  It is, however, heartbreaking to witness those who have evolved to want a more equitable and enlightened society crushed by the “traditionalists”. It’s a truism that women generally come out on the bottom of the pile when “Our traditions”  or “Our religion” are fiercely asserted.

I drove up the coast to thin out my storage space in Bar Harbor. The leaves are turning and it was difficult to keep my eyes on the road, so stunning were the colors. En route I stopped on Southport Island to visit a friend from high school, Louise, and her partner, Peter. They were staying at a darling ancient cottage, 50 feet from the water’s edge, which is part of his family’s vacation compound. A bench is perched on the rocks and we enjoyed a glass of wine as we watched the sun sink. They are both retired academics. She was one of the first to successfully sue for gender discrimination in promotion (at Brown University), after which she moved to a tenured spot at the University of New Mexico. It was a good locale for an anthropologist. They made a delicious supper, Peter cooking the swordfish to perfection, and we chatted for a long time. Louise convened our East Denver High School Class of 1958 gatherings in the Bay Area when she would visit each year, reconnecting me with friends who assumed I was dead. Once when a class mailing was sent to my mother’s address, it was returned “Deceased”, referring (I’m pretty sure.) to my mother.  

After supper I drove to my daughter’s a few hours north and east, mildly wine-deadened as I negotiated the two-lane backroads seemingly forever. When the white lines at the road’s margins are absent, it is terrifying to come over a rise, on a turn, facing the glare of an approaching car’s headlights.  Enough of those experiences made me determined not to drive, except locally, after dark unless on a freeway.

And to think, in college four of us would drive for 30 hours straight in a VW bug, all 38 horsepower, from Cambridge to Denver 3x per year! Two of those annual trips might include considerable snow, at Christmas and Spring Break. West of Chicago, there were only two-lane roads.  We were astoundingly fortunate.  If we travelled in the summer months, we’d often pull a few miles off the highway and put down a tarp in a pasture or another rural bedroom. 

It recalls the time in medical school I drove directly from NYC to Denver in 28 hours. I was doing a “driveaway”, delivering a car for an academic moving to the University of Colorado (Boulder). It was a small Oldsmobile. I had enough money for gas and for food or a motel, but not for both. The day before I left someone had been found cut up in bits in a bush in Central Park, so I wasn’t eager to sleep alone in an unknown meadow. Lots of coffee saw me safely home.

After sleeping at Ari’s, we drove to my storage space in Bar Harbor. Upon arriving, I realized that when I moved into my new apartment, I put three new house keys on my keychain and removed the two storage locker keys. Fortunately, I had a spare set at Ari’s so I dropped her and Pearl off to climb Parkman Mountain and I, feeling very stupid, drove two hours roundtrip to retrieve the spare keys. We then loaded some heavy family furniture into her truck, taking it to her home.  The next day we humped it up to the second floor of her barn.  I was amazed at how strong she is.  I am always surprised that I am not as strong as I used to be, despite being in pretty good shape for my years.

Returning to my storage space the next day I made 4 piles: photos, paintings, and kitchen stuff for my current apartment; a car-load to the Goodwill in Blue Hill; a much-reduced number of boxes to move to a smaller storage space near or in Portland; and trash bags full for the dump. The rodents ate and urinated a lot over the past few years, destroying a fair bit.

As little attached to possessions as I imagine I am, when I finally got out of a long shower at my apartment I was horrified to note that my bracelet, a macramé affair with 5 18C gold charms, was missing from my left wrist. I’ve worn it continuously since my first graduating class in Myanmar gave it to me two years ago. It must have slipped off when I removed my fleece, which has tight elastic cuffs. I did that here in my apartment, in the guest bedroom at Ari’s, and at the storage space.  The first two have been searched to no avail, so I’ll make the 3 hour trip up today, spending the night, to look for it.

I think it is an especially painful loss since my work in Myanmar was interrupted and much of what I enjoyed there is completely unavailable to me with the coup.  I continue to receive regular US Embassy Security Alerts; today US citizens are requested to leave 3 townships in lower Burma immediately because of the dangerous conditions. I know the bracelet is simply a symbol of the exchanges I had with my students, our mutual learning processes and our laughter together. Still, when I think of their limited financial means and the feelings they invested in getting it for me, I am upset. I still may find it, however.  It obviously also triggers my feelings of other lost attachments: mother, father, brother, marriage, son. memory, coordination, strength, endurance. Yikes!

Then I think of the Afghanis, the civilians in the country, and my self-pity vanishes.

[Note: I made the trip to Bar Harbor again and searched for the bracelet to no avail. In going through boxes I surprised two mice nesting in them. I baited 4 traps with peanut butter and set them before I closed up the space. If I had shed my attachments, I could have coexisted happily with them. Actually, come to think of it, I wouldn’t even have the storage space!]

6 October 2021

[Above photo:  The place, ready for winter.]

Michael and I left the island with ease, having loaded most of our baggage onto Stella at high tide the night before. My cabin is buttoned up with solar panel stowed, water drained, antifreeze in the drainpipes, old sheets over everything, floors swept, and plywood over all three outer doors. The vegetable garden has had lime pellets, blood meal, seaweed, and fabric spread over it, the latter for weeds. Firewood is cut, split, stacked, and covered with a piece of metal roofing to dry for next year’s fires. All the bottles have been taken ashore and I sprinkled a biodegradable poison around each of the outer foundation piers to discourage carpenter ants. The ridge shingles I replaced this summer have survived several storms.

I’m now in Portland in my apartment, which is excellent. It is the 2^nd (top) floor unit in an 1850’s house that the landlady has rehabilitated with insulation, new windows, refinished 15 inch pine floors, and attractive paint. I need to bring some of my own pictures (paintings, photos) to hang and purchase a hide-a-bed couch for my living room for visitors. Otherwise, I am very comfortable and anticipate a good winter.

I’ve located, with the help of Harold’s very generous and clever niece, a great bakery, THE bagel shop, the best place for fish, a dentist, and a car mechanic. I visited City Hall and changed the title of my car, registered it, paid two small parking tickets, got a neighborhood parking sticker, and changed my voter registration from Bar Harbor to Portland. Mainers in administration, I’ve found repeatedly, are pleasant, smart, helpful, and efficient. Nobody was surly. They are grinding their axes at home, or else someone else does their chopping.

The town of Portland hosts ½ the population of Berkeley, yet it seems larger and more metropolitan. I suppose it is older and was an important seaport for many years. I walked from my place in the West End to the other side of town, passing many interesting-looking restaurants, browsing through a used book shop and buying a few items at Reny’s, “a Maine institution” (No one was ill that I could see.). A stop at Standard Bakery yielded a croissant and an absolutely delicious marinated olive bread.  How I missed good bread in Malawi and Myanmar!  The walk home along the waterfront was quicker than I’d imagined. It’s a good walking town with many interesting old homes and buildings. Long walks, plus light weight work and the 7 minute workout from the NY Times, will keep me fit enough.

The above niece and her husband had me to supper at their truly lovely home in Cape Elizabeth. They were fun and friendly and the food was delicious. Their 15yo son, when he returned from a barbeque with friends, was adorable, showing me his gaming set-up which includes the computer he built last summer. It is difficult not to envy their domesticity and purpose: he’s an IT go-between for a large health insurance carrier, she’s an ER physician at Maine Medical Center. And both are parents of the 15yo and a daughter who is a sophomore in college.

Speaking of purpose, I’m looking for mine. My UNICEF gig ends at the completion of this month. I have offered to continue a consultation group for those therapists interested. I have also extended a similar invitation to my two child psychiatry training groups. I find that those in opposition to the military coup don’t want to be in the same group as those who are accepting of it (the minority), so I’ll do two different groups based on political opinions and actions.

While the child psychiatrists here are very welcoming, the child psychiatry fellowship at Maine Med has already assigned supervisors for the year so I’ll not find much to do there. I’m a little surprised because I suspect I am the most extensively-trained and experienced child psychiatrist in town, but I’ll move ahead deliberately and see how I can fit in.

Which leaves me seeking PURPOSE. I’ll keep my eyes open and, meanwhile, see if I can turn my Myanmar experience into something engaging for others to read. I suppose some might just enjoy the “Golden Years” and bless no deadlines or demands but I’m not cut of that cloth. I do look around and think, why am I rushing? I can spend every day exactly as I please, at the pace I choose. Unfortunately, it feels aimless to me, especially having just returned from helping to develop child and adolescent mental health services for an entire country. I suppose the sub-text is, also, I am without a mate to share the ease of this stage of my life so a good substitute is sharing what I have learned with a younger generation.

Speaker Pelosi’s skill and endurance in these toxic times is amazing. And Irish Joe not breaking stride, despite the provocations and temptations to fling down his glove. It would all be distracting from their important mission. And Zuckerberg stating he doesn’t value profit over children’s (or society’s) safety—who knew he had the capacity for such a wisecrack! And the earnest, moral, church-going mid-western politicians hiding the vast wealth of robbers from other countries in their states to provide…….what? Not a lot of jobs, I think. Maybe some bribes? Hoping some of that lucre will leak out?  Hypocrisy, thy name is Gop.  Really, I can think of types, not species unfortunately, of humans that I wish were extinct instead of the soft, harmless, seed-eating little birds we’ve deleted.

The Future of our Civilization, when I can bear to think about it, doesn’t seem rosy to me, although my immediate experience is very pleasant.