[Above photo: A reefed old-timer in a stiff breeze on Casco Bay, with Peaks Island in the background.]

1 January 2023

I love language slips, malaprops, and written struggles, especially since we are all going to participate in them if using a language other than our mother tongue.  An equal-opportunity humiliator. I recall my friend, Andy, addressing the Board of Directors of the Alviso Family Health Center in 1970: Speaking of his embarrassment at his poor command of Spanish, he began, “ Estoy muy embarrassada.” Which translates as “I am very pregnant.”  All laughed and the tense balloon deflated instantly.  Or the sign on the storefront in Malawi: “Difficult to understand investments.” I’ll take 100 shares, please. I recently purchased an inexpensive radio [Retekess TR604] for the basement, to hear music or NPR when I am building something there.  In the instructions it suggests: “When fall across thunderstorm, please do pull out the AC plug.” In addition to a better translator, they could use a product-naming focus group.

Apropos, I hope we all can experience laughter, with others and at ourselves, in the coming year. And love. Power and money aren’t very satisfying substitutes, for me at least. Perhaps I just haven’t tasted either on a grand enough scale to be hooked, but I think not.

My daughter, her partner, and [their] dog visited for the last 3 nights and will be back tomorrow for yet another. He’s buying a very particularly chosen small new Toyota pickup truck.  Locally they are only available at one dealer in New Hampshire so he’ll go Tuesday when the banks are open and purchase it. He’s downsizing from a huge Ford F-250 with a massive and elaborate camper on the back.

When they are here, it is a bit like a cyclone. “What just happened?” But I love having them, even if I don’t get much else accomplished during their stay. We have long walks, play Bananagrams, talk, and eat. Pearl is a smart sweetie but I’d forgotten how pervasive the remnants of a shedding dog are. Wear a black coat or sweater? Forget it.

They greatly enjoyed the new Avatar film. It is a challenge to imagine how our country can shift from a focus on individual rights, competition, acquisition, private property, etc. to a more communal, shared, harmonious, and supportive state of being. It will be necessary for us, however, if we want to survive on Earth, to value the flora, fauna, and general context of our lives and to work together to benefit everyone. It sounds very utopian, like a pipe-dream (I think of old men in opium dens in Shanghai, dizzily content in their fantasies.).

Yet, I think we must stop fighting.  The environmental, let alone human, costs of war are so high. If only the UN had teeth and could remove and imprison leaders who perpetrate violence without just cause [incontrovertible evidence that the target is preparing an unprovoked attack or has assumed illegitimate power.].  On the meaning of many of the words in the last sentence we’d struggle to achieve consensus, I realize. But there are occasions, such as the military coup in Myanmar, the invasions of Iraq and Vietnam, our support for the Contras in Nicaragua, or the Russian invasion(s) of Ukraine which seem obvious. And the perpetrators obviously cannot be part of the decision.  However, our country is, not surpirsingly, unevenly willing to be bound by international rules or conventions.  We haven’t even signed the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child (1980) or agreed to the compulsory jurisdiction of the International Court of Justice (since 1986), although most other nations have.

The back story of the license plate my friend had made for me at Walpole Super Max includes the three who created it: a drug king pin, a gang member in for homicide, and a spree killer. I’ll treasure it. I can only imagine the back stories on each of them: sordid tales with neglectful, drug abusing parents, lack of love and care, domestic violence, perhaps physical or sexual abuse, likely poor.  Whew!

Our current spell of warmth is eerie. It is 67F inside and the furnace has been off for 15 hours. It is sunny and glorious outside. I fear the backyard forsythia will mistake it for Spring and bloom. Perhaps we’ll then get two blooms or maybe it will kill the poor plant. I don’t know.

I’d best go for a walk. I seem to have no idea how to proceed here today.

[After the walk.]

I read an amazing graphic novel—Ducks—by Kate Beaton. It is a memoir of two years she spent working in the tar sands of northern Alberta. She is from Cape Breton Island and loves it there but, like others from the maritime provinces, was compelled to leave home for a decent-paying job. In her case, she wanted to pay off her college student loans. 

In a striking blend of line and word, each amplifying the other, she tells a sad tale of environmental devastation and misogyny, of rape and injury, and of occasional kindnesses. It is a remarkable coming-of-age tale. Happily, she is now married with children, a successful artist, and living in Cape Breton again. The two Maus books are the only graphic novels I’ve previously read, unless one can count R. Crumb—more a lascivious comic book, I think. Mistuh Natural: “Hey, Louise, yer nipples is stickin’ out like thumbs.” That sort of thing.  Graphic novels are a compelling genre, employing the combination of limited writing and drawing to achieve story, meaning, and depth of feeling.  They make truly powerful writing without graphics appear even more amazing.

There is a well-done piece in today’s NY Times about Elise Stefanik’s meteoric rise among the Republicans, propelled by going all-in with The Donald et cie. A determined wish to acquire power certainly can lyse our personal integrity and morality.

My surgical scar is healing, the steri-strips are gradually falling off. I continue to have to restrain myself from lifting heavy objects or exercising too vigorously. How do fibroblasts know that when there is an incision they must step it up? It troubles me to assassinate the mice in my basement; they are so similar to us in their incredible physiology, albeit lacking opposable thumbs, consciousness, and math skills.

Happy New Year to all, with lots of love and laughter! And good health!

[Above photo: Winterberries (?) by Jordan Pond with The Bubbles in the background. I see why a chorus girl might have a stage name of “Bubbles”. ]

25 December 2022

My Headline of the Week is the following from the (Singapore) Straits Times: “Rapists Over 50 Shouldn’t Be Spared Caning.”  I’ll let you parse that but it does highlight how differently we generally view the rights of women versus how they are considered in that economic wunderland.

As the temperature drops (12F this AM) and the days lengthen (8 hours 56 minutes today, here), the warmth of the holiday season settles on many of us. It warms me to read of the Ukrainian civilians in Kherson successfully coordinating their expulsive efforts of the Russian military with EU and US national intelligence services. They courageously risked their lives to visit violence and death upon their invaders. It will, of course, deform them to some extent, killing others even if it is The Enemy. I feel for the young, untrained and poorly equipped Russian conscripts.  They must be stopped but most of them would likely be much happier at home, having a meal by the fire with their families and girlfriends/boyfriends. Even killing someone who is immediately trying to kill me would change me for life in ways I wouldn’t like. We are victims of ourselves and, especially, of those more powerful than us.

Modern medicine, if done well, is amazing. My brother, Chas, whisked me to the Maine Medical Center outpatient surgery on Friday. Despite a power outage, which I would have missed if I had blinked since the generator came online instantly, I was in and out quickly. Since it was a re-repair, the surgeon had to open my groin. As the slight burn of Versed tickled my vein, I tried to see how long I could talk. Pretty quickly my words, and resolve, slurred and I had a nice nap. Chas brought me home and fed me a meal, spending the night. Susan, his wife, contributed a wonderful vegetable soup, apple crisp, and seasoned, roasted pecans. Now, two days later, I have little discomfort. I’ve only taken Tylenol twice and the Oxycodone has gone unused. Nausea, constipation (the great enemy of hernia healing, I learned), and feeling stupid—-why wouldn’t I want that? 

I did have opiates when ill in 1970. Poki and I had been knocking about in northern Guatemala, camping in hammocks on a tiny island in the middle of Lake Peten Itza in anticipation of visiting Tikal. I developed what I thought was a strep throat. We went to a pharmacy and I purchased injectable penicillin, since I couldn’t swallow. When I tried to find a private corner to inject it, people thought I was a heroin addict and refused me. The pain worsened and in 2 days I lost 20# since it was hot, I couldn’t eat or drink anything, and I had to spit out my saliva.

We took a motorized canoe across the lake to the regional clinic. The young doctor, probably freshly minted and reluctantly banished to the provinces for national service, examined me and promptly prescribed erythromycin capsules the size of soccer balls. He wasn’t paying attention to my primary complaint, since my Spanish was pretty good. Meanwhile, back at the restroom, Poki was surrounded by dirty bedpans and heard the girls in the adjacent room at the autoclave, re-sterilizing needles and syringes: “Oh, I dropped this one on the floor.” “Don’t worry, just wrap it up.” Poki rushed back to tell me not to get an injection.

To finish the story, we caught the next plane from Flores to Guatemala City and, from there, a prompt flight to San Francisco. In the air I composed menus of dinners I wanted to have when I could again swallow. Somehow roast pork with applesauce and roasted new potatoes with buttered peas topped the list: familiar food from my childhood. It was straight to the ED at Stanford and I was hospitalized for a week or so on iv’s while they determined that I had a primary coxsackie virus pharyngitis.

At bedtime each night I was given a shot of Talwin, a synthetic opiate. Wow! I glowed from the tips of my toes to the split ends of my hair and felt more free of care than I ever had. I looked forward to the evening and those shots. They scared me, as well, since they made me feel better than anything—good sex excluded. I could reproduce those feelings at will 2 or 3 years later.  I get why 106,000 people died of [largely fentanyl] overdoses last year. I recall when the Federal estimate of heroin addicts was less than 10,000. The Sacklers et al surely changed that. At the same time, alcoholics numbered more than 10 million and were implicated in 30,000 fatal car accidents per year. Alcohol was legal and heroin possession would land you up the river. Better lobbyists, I guess.

But this is a post on Christmas day! To interrupt my solitude, my friend, Polly, has invited me to zip to Cape Elizabeth for a meal with her daughter’s family and then zip back.  [Her other daughter’s boyfriend, who supervises the guards at Walpole State Prison and who I like a lot, had the prisoners make me a personalized license plate.]  Since my incision knits better if I am horizontal, it will be a quick meal.

Speaking of a meal, I tied two broom handles together and added a carved shim so I could lean out my 2^nd story window and hang a cage with suet and seeds in it on a branch. It has survived 40mph wind gusts and is unreachable by squirrels but I have yet to see a bird nibbling. Wrong season?

I am grateful for my life, as complex as it sometimes is. I’m happy to be the owner of a warm, attractive, and pleasant place to live rather than one of the intruders entering my basement to exit the cold.  Crunchy peanut butter seems to be their fentanyl and I’ve now caught 8 mice.

Thankfully Congress is on recess and the Washington hullabaloo is settling down to simply serious forensics for now. It was amazing to read an article on battlefield tactics in the Times today. Our restraint at direct involvement of US troops, even when they seemed necessary, has been a terrific call. Things are looking up here, except for all the groomers and commies and lascivious math primers in Florida!

I hope you have a lovely day.

[Above photo: A winter bath in Blue Hill.]

18 December 2022

Memories of Christmas Past flood me this time of year. I recall those of my childhood—the good and the bad—and of my own-constructed family. Good and bad. My wife and I were Nazi’s about video games: None. Our son, with the resilient hope of a child, imagined that the box under the tree with his name on it contained a gaming system. He was quietly but deeply disappointed when he discovered it was an illuminated world globe. That contrasts sharply with his reaction to a first bicycle, a tiny electric blue job with training wheels.  His grandfather, a legendary photographer, caught our son’s excitement reflected in the mirror on the bike’s handlebar as he learned to peddle, steer, and balance. Or our daughter’s joy at receiving her first installment of the American Girl’s empire: Samantha, I think? My own best was in the hiatus between the end of our mother’s hospitalizations for depression and the death of our father. I was likely 7yo and the large yellow road-grader with the big cleated tires was perfect. I smoothed the pea-gravel on our front path for many hours, accompanied by diesel sounds. The happiest I ever saw our father, who lost his entire fortune in the Crash of ’29 and cared for his family when his wife would get depressed and be shipped off to this or that institution, was the Christmas he got a new ski parka.

I just spent an hour in REI while my daughter was fitted for new insulated hiking boots. The gear is now beyond imagination.  The common man or woman can outfit themselves commensurate with an Everest assault in order to hike 4 or 5 miles in the woods. At a price, to be sure! My father’s parka was made of khaki-colored rubberized canvas, probably as good as one could get then. But light weight—No.  Breathable—Forget it. However, the smile on his face—a Kodak memory, if you will—was a remarkable sight for this child. He wasn’t usually angry; just somber. Imagine my surprise when my lively uncle Fran said in later years that my father was hilarious, a real card, and was his very close friend. Children perceive—and misperceive—much more than we adults choose to imagine.

The dining scene in this little town surprises me. Mr. Tuna, who already makes the best sushi and owns other excellent restaurants, has knocked it out of the park with his latest, Bar Futo. It is a yakitori joint, impeccably designed by my friend’s daughter and serves the most divine food. I was there last night for a memorable meal: fluke crudo with cucumbers, grilled boneless chicken thighs with a honey mustard glaze, grilled duck with plum sauce, shishito peppers with something white and tasty on them and a shaved kohlrabi salad with toasted hazelnuts. Dessert was a fantastic creation—it deserves a patent!—of shaved ice, roasted pecans, whip cream, and grilled bananas, all drenched in a syrup. Oh, and the signature cocktail, which I cannot describe adequately, was deliciously decadent. Ari and I sat at the bar and marveled at it all, coming together so well by the 3^rd day after opening. Mr. Tuna must live in a universe with no gravity.

Finally, the snow has arrived: 27 inches in the Carabassett Valley of Maine, where Harold and I shall cross sountry ski 4 days in February. We have a coating of heavy slush here, although it is white. And more is on the way with hopefully cooler temperatures. Living in climates of extremes—either here or the tropics—my focus on the weather seems, even to me, excessive. It does assume an outsized practical and aesthetic importance that is lacking in more temperate zones, however.

I have committed to being in Thailand for April, at least, renting an Air BnB house in the old town of Chiang Mai that will accommodate 16 sleepers. I’ll do a 10 day workshop on play therapy and working with parents, hopefully with some live families. I’ll look into getting a camera with a live feed so the students can be in a separate room from the therapist and parent/child. It gives me purpose and an anchor in the world as I prepare for it over the next few months. Happily, my suitcase full of toys and my books have made it from Yangon to Chiang Mai and are awaiting my arrival at Jose and Irene’s house. I’ll use my award from AACAP to help with the funding.

Instead of feeding my brother and sister-in-law Cindy Pawlcyn’s dry-rubbed roast duck for Christmas dinner, I shall have a hernia repair on the 23^rd and be resting on 25 December. Then likely a shoulder surgery and I’ll be done with the knife for the year!  I want to note that a dear family member and friend have each fallen, one suffering a broken a pelvis and the other a fractured hip. A speedy recovery to you both.

Happy Holidays to anyone and everyone who still reads this!

[Above photo: A mallard couple in Blue Hill Bay at low tide.]

11 December 2022

A friend and I heard Janice Carissa give a recital yesterday at Hannaford Hall. The artistic director of the concert series announced that Janice had just been picked up by the best possible international booking agency. She played the same program 4 days ago at Carnegie Hall.

Janice is in her early 20’s. She grew up in Surabaya, Indonesia and began to learn piano from her mother, who was self-taught. She is in her last year at Julliard but has been on the performance circuit since 15yo when she debuted with the Philadelphia Orchestra. She is a brilliant, powerful, and imaginative pianist. She’s been studying with Gary Graffman at the Curtis Institute since she was 15.

Her recital was one of those staggering performances that cause you to think differently about the world. For me, I’ve thought recently how much better for the Earth and its plants and animals if humans had never existed. After hearing, and seeing, her amazing performance, I take it back.  Witnessing her display her gifts just adds another significant level of complexity to my assessment of our existential value.

I’m not quite sure why I was so awestruck. I’ve heard and seen many famous, remarkable, and gifted musicians, as well as others who have accomplished so much in other fields. I suppose to experience such a display from one at such a young age took my breath away. Oh, did I mention that she is beautiful, as well, and spoke warmly with members of the audience after the recital.  Keep your eyes open for when she comes to town—a not-to-be-missed.

What evil lurks in the hearts of men? Only the Shadow knows. [I realize this dates me to the golden era of radio drama. “Am I off? Am I off? That ought to hold the little bastards for awhile.”]  In truth, we may all now have a pretty good idea of the evil, both home-grown and abroad.  The sickening violence and corruption in ___________ is equaled only by the sickening violence and corruption in _________.  I’m thinking of the Ukrainians freezing, the Somalis starving, and the Burmese being shot, bombed, and beheaded. Not to mention the Kurds, Ethiopians, Uighurs, Haitians, Nigerians, North Koreans, and _____________.  As ineffectual as the United Nations is at peace-keeping, there is so much else that it does and needs to do.  Research, health care, agronomy, family planning, economic development, governance, attempts to prosecute war criminals, mediation, feeding the starving, and on and on. Enough.

I stumbled across an article in the NY Times today on traditional Japanese cutting of fruits and vegetables. There are many styles of slicing, dicing, and chopping, all with specific names, which enhance the flavor of food, as well as its presentation. I didn’t realize when my former wife would correct my slicing and dicing that she was speaking from a position of authority backed by a long tradition. She was/is a superior cook, so I thought she was just being bossy.  It turns out that, like so much of Japanese culture, there are right and wrong ways to cut vegetables. And pretty good reasons for their practice, as well. 

I’m going to make kare (curry) rice. It apparently came from India with the British around the end of the 19^th century.  I used to order it at Norikonoko, a cute and wonderful restaurant in Berkeley where I’d lunch regularly. Noriko and her husband ran it. She was sweet and friendly. He was more reserved but still welcoming. They had a fire in the restaurant and just didn’t have the oomph to rebuild and start over, which I understand. But I do miss her smile and side dishes and his stoic good looks and kare rice and salmon or saba shioyaki.

I am devouring Shirley Hazzard’s The Transit of Venus which I find intimidatingly fine. Such control of the language. She assumes a lot of the reader, which increases the tension. I’m simultaneously reading Patrick Radden Keefe’s collection, Rogues.  It is a compilation of investigative articles he has published, many (if not all) in the New Yorker. I just finished a thrilling one about the Libyan bombing of the Pan Am plane over Lockerbie, Scotland on December 12, 1988. A brother of one of the victims, for everyone died, has spent the last 34 years travelling and sleuthing, trying to identify those behind it. The story concludes persuasively with the name of the bombmaker, whose whereabouts were unknown for many years.  However, the latter has just been arrested and is being tried in the US; it is unclear if he was snatched out of Libya.  Keefe’s tales don’t have the multilayered pull for me of good short stories but are wonderfully written and certainly gripping.

It is now cold, although lacking snow. 16F last night, 29F was the high today. Brisk walking is in order; I’ll start to wear the balaclava I bought at the end of last year, as my nose freezes. And you never know when you might want to rob a bank.  I walked to the Eastern Prom today at dusk and then dropped down to the bike path along Casco Bay. The narrow gauge railroad train, pushed by a very cute little steam engine—think, The Little Engine That Could, another great read—passed me, heading in the opposite direction. The 5 cars were filled with parents and young children, noses pressed to the glass. It’s a lovely Christmas tradition and recalled The Polar Express.

Christmas in Yangon or Blantyre felt strange. Hot, out of whack.  The hotel staff at the Taw Win Gardens where I stayed when I first alighted in Myanmar all had to wear—maybe they loved to, I don’t know—red Santa hats with white pompoms. Being mostly young, they looked cute but silly. It won’t be very merry in Myanmar this year, again.

[Above photo: Jordan Pond and The Bubbles in Acadia National Park in November.]

5 December 2021

It is cool but not cold yet. Nights hover around 30F.  Cold enough to freeze to death if you were lost in the woods and either inadequately clothed and/or unable to start a fire.

My neighbors on the Sacramento River were a Canadian pair. He was handy and built their home in his retirement. It was an octagonal, modern affair, of his own design, and elevated by 10 foot concrete pilings. The river would flood regularly and until the authorities opened the spillway ¼ mile downstream basements would have water 4’ deep, as well as our riverside-facing yards. Harry would calmly put all his tools in a skiff, cover them with a tarp, and tie the boat to the railing of the deck. As the water would rise, so would the boat. They were dryish years when Poki and I lived there and we never were flooded. Two months after we sold, the new owners had to deal with a wet, muddy basement.

When Harry was young and single, he worked in a logging camp on the Peace River in the interior of British Columbia. It was notoriously cold in the winter, which froze the sedge and swamp so they could make an ice road over which to haul the logs. It was 13 wild and deserted miles from where they were cutting to the mill. Once Harry was driving a D-8 Caterpillar, towing a train of log-filled sledges. His partner for the ride, Jim, was sitting on the last one. That time of year it was either dark or twilight whenever it wasn’t snowing.

Halfway along Harry noticed that Jim was lying down, not sitting. Alarmed, he paused the Cat and walked back to check. Sure enough, when he got to the end of the train, Jim was nearly comatose, in that comfortable state of relaxation and indifference that comes before you entirely succumb to the cold.

Harry cut a branch from a nearby tree and began to beat Jim, arousing him enough so that he ran, howling, from Harry. Harry pursued Jim around the sledges until the latter had sufficiently restored circulation to his cerebral cortex and he realized that Harry was saving his life. Once revived, he promised Harry he’d sit up for the remainder of the ride.

As Harry returned to the Cat to resume their slow journey, he heard no sound of the engine. He panicked, since he knew that diesel fuel turns to jelly with serious cold (It was -15F.) There was a small section of fuel line that was exposed to the air, although under ordinary running conditions the flow of diesel was enough that it wouldn’t freeze. But at idle speed….  Then Harry noticed that puffs were emitting from the exhaust pipe. He later learned that sound doesn’t carry well when the air is very cold.  

I loved thinking of his grit and hardiness, working under those conditions. Living in the country outside of Seattle, my brothers and I greatly admired lives of masculine strength and courage, like those of the commercial fishermen or the loggers.  My now-deceased brother, Roger, worked one summer on the Olympic Peninsula as a choker at a Simpson logging operation. Another summer Dad got him a job on a tuna boat and he cruised, well offshore, from Seattle to Baja, pulling in albacore when they’d cross a school.  He later was a fighter pilot in the Marines, by then fulfilling enough masculine fantasies for many lives.  He loved his ability to succeed under challenging circumstances, the sense of accomplishment. He was never macho, driven by insecurity. Like my brother, I am certain that Harry is dead by now; he was old when I was only 45.

A part of me is ready to hang up my spurs, stop teaching, and focus on writing. But then I will read something really, really good and realize that since I am starting now, I’ll always be a rank amateur as an author whereas I can be quite accomplished teaching and supervising in my field. Plus, when I hear of my students suffering and that of the Burmese people, I cannot turn aside.  Burma has been my late-in-life adventure and it still feels a bit exciting, even at a distance, to support the Opposition in a civil war.

I walked along the base of the Eastern Prom two days ago; it was cold and windy but the sky was clear. Nevertheless, I saw a sprinkling of white flakes falling and realized it was snow, even with no clouds.  I’m eager to start shoveling, to cross country ski, and to try out my new car on snow.  The annual transformation of the landscape by snowfall is a chilly baptism.

I had a dinner party for friends and then three of us went to the local repertory theater for a production of “Carousel”. I loved it as a kid—I saw the movie in 1956 and, of course, fell in love with Shirley Jones. Since it was written in 1943 by Rogers and Hammerstein, it was far from politically correct, the characters all settling into very traditional gender roles. Our production here was pretty good, although Julie Jordan didn’t have a voice large enough for her role. At the end, as the cast sang, “When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark……” we stood and clapped, as audiences in Maine regularly do, and tears streamed down my face. They surprised me, my tears.  

I suppose they are for all that has transpired and those who have been lost, none of which that 15yo boy could have anticipated: tears of sadness and gratitude.

[Above photo: “A Room With A View” ]

A piece of exterior trim between two panels of shingle on the front of my place came loose. Ari, with the skill and sharp eye of a rural Maine homeowner who does most of her own repairs, noticed it and wondered if it meant ROT. Home ownership for me has always been a bit terrifying, since I associate decay in a wall with decay in a family. I think my dad must have been concerned with the deferred maintenance on our huge old Ivy Banks house on Mercer Island. I know the front porch, which also formed the roof to part of the basement, was rotting and I think we didn’t have the $ to repair it, due to Mom’s repeated hospitalizations. Anyway, my simple child’s conflation of structural issues in home life with those of home has generally meant that I am in a state of anxiety lest my dwelling quietly rot and collapse, as our family did.

There are numerous sills here that are, in fact, rotten and need replacement. But that will be for a carpenter next Spring or Summer. My sprung molding was about 16 feet off the sidewalk. Lowe’s had a selection of ladders; I bought a fabulous one that folds up into a short, easily-carried bundle but when extended can reach 18’! Plus, it has levelers on the end, so it can be stable. The conclusion is that I extended it, nearly put it through the bay window of the living room, climbed aloft, probed the wall for rot, and nailed in the offending trim. Today it is raining like crazy but I am snug in the knowledge that my family—I mean my house—is secure against collapse (for now).

Winds today are gusting to 55mph, supposedly. I am thrilled to be so close to the ocean. My walks downtown each day regularly begin or end with a cruise along the Eastern Prom (-enade), which is a large sloping grassy park with unobstructed views of all of Casco Bay. I can see many islands, only some of which I can identify. Ari and I took the ferry to Peaks Island two days ago and walked its circumference. If I were partnered, I might have enjoyed settling there instead of where I am. The ferry ride is $2 round trip for a Senior—they don’t collect tickets on the way back since they sell only roundtrips and figure you’ll return on the ferry sometime.  Why waste the papah?  Very Maine.  I guess if you die and are buried on the Island, your soul will have a Return Credit.

Yesterday I purchased a good kayak which I have yet to retrieve. It is Downeast, 2 ½ hours away; I’ll gather it this weekend. It will rest in my basement until the weather improves in the Spring. When it actually warms, I’ll go to western Maine for an Eskimo-rolling course so that I am safer in rough water. Before that, however, I can explore the many, many calm and lovely estuaries along the nearby coast.

I’m reading a volume—The Best American Short Stories 2019—which I bought used. I am amazed at the variable quality of the writing. Some seem excellent, others not so much.  Reading them has prompted me, as has the cold and wet weather, to begin writing fiction again. [That sentence sounds so very presumptuous, as if I am a trained, published, and recognized writer!]  I’m enjoying Wallace Stegner’s essays on writing fiction. How exciting to have participated in the Stanford Writing Program when he started it!

The days are so short—today, for example, the sun rose at 6:53AM and shall set at 4:06PM.  9 hours only. I must discipline myself to think of darkness, 4-7PM for example, as part of my waking day, as well. I’m still alert then, so I can plan that to be reading time, for example. Or, I can use it to build in the basement. I bought two sawhorses, some lumber, and a palm router (a Bosch for $89 on sale—imagine!) and shall begin by constructing bookcases. I need a low, 7’ long one to go beneath the dining area windows and a couple of smaller ones for upstairs. As convenient, economical, and ecologically-sound as Kindle is, I cannot help myself with used books. I so prefer them.

This evening I’ll attend an event of the Global Affairs Council of Maine in a tony white-shoe law office downtown. A former ambassador to Ukraine will speak on aspects of the conflict. Maybe I can see if a former ambassador to Myanmar can be brought on another occasion. Or maybe Danny Fenster, the editor-at-large for Frontier, a terrific news magazine in Myanmar. He was incarcerated by the junta for 7 months in Insein prison after the coup as a warning to other ex-pats, lest they think their foreignness would provide impunity were they to criticize the Military. Danny is now a Nieman Fellow at Harvard. In an amazing coincidence, the video journalism graduate student who rents a room from my friend, Ellen, in Berkeley knew Danny when he was selling hot dogs in Telluride. What leaps, from selling hot dogs in SW Colorado to an editorship of a Myanmar news magazine to imprisonment at Insein to a fellowship at Harvard’s School of Journalism. I’ll see if we can get him here for a talk.

As the courts do their work, our country seems to be settling down a bit, excepting the ongoing mass shootings. “Freedom” should be synonymous with safety, not gun possession. Not that Ruger and Remington Arms would agree. We all are pretty wild animals and boundaries/limits are necessary prerequisites of civilization. Like vaccines and face masks in an epidemic. The German penal code makes hate speech and Holocaust denial in public and online illegal.  What about gross fabrications, like election denial? I think complete freedom of speech is ideal but I wonder if our democracy is educated and resilient enough to withstand it. Hate speech, especially when amplified by social media, feeds on itself. We must acknowledge and respect that we are emotional creatures: Reason is a flea on the back of the elephant Emotion.  We have learned, once again, about politicians exploiting hate speech and lies for personal advantage: election denial, racial and ethnic stereotypes. I did love the Jewish Space Lazers of Marjorie Taylor Greene. Holy shit, I bet that some people believed her.  Enough of this nonsense.

It strikes me, for the first time, that sitting at my writing table set in the bay window of my bedroom is like being on the bridge of a ship—in port, of course. When the trees are fledged, it’s a tree house but now with the leaves gone, I have a 150 degree view.  I am fortunate. No waves breaking over the bow!

[Above Photo: Kehoe Beach at Pt. Reyes National Seashore.]

20 November 2022

I returned to Portland last evening from Oakland to find that the
temperature has turned brisk. I can finally break out my down jackets
without censure—-only wimps with poor circulation wear them before November.
That would be me in more accepting circumstances. California, when I arrived,
was wet and colder than Maine but not now.  Note that there are 6+ feet in
Buffalo and it is still snowing. 85” in other parts of upper NY state.

I love that kind of weather event, death and destruction notwithstanding.
I’ve always enjoyed storms.  In college we’d run outside when it really
poured and streams flushed out the streets. Monsoon in Myanmar was just up my
alley. I recall walking down 19^th street in Yangon on the long block
between Anawrahta and Mahabandula when it flooded, hoisting up my longyi until
the water was at mid-thigh. Then I’d go home and shower and scrub and scrub. A
favorite memory is lying underneath an immense cantilevered granite boulder
with Harold during a huge downpour in the Sierras. We were returning to
camp from a day hike to a high, trout-filled lake, and watched the sheets of
rain and the lightening play across the valley. On another trip we returned to
find my tent afloat; I’d pitched it on pine duff but hadn’t realized the latter
was filling a granite basin. Then there were all my counterphobic solo sailing
adventures on SF Bay in high winds.  Endorphins and neuroamines certainly course through you
when the fight/flight system is activated.

I had a terrific visit in the Bay Area, having lunch and dinner with
different friends nearly every day. Everyone was warm and welcoming and full of
news. I have offers of 8 or 10 places to stay whenever I return.  I took
walks and hikes and the BART. I saw an engaging retrospective, “American
People” by Faith Ringold, a Black activist and painter, at the DeYoung. I
spent an afternoon and supper with my college roommate, Peter Barnes, at his
stunning house overlooking the Tomales Bay estuary in Pt. Reyes Station. Peter also bought the
house next door 25 years ago and created the Mesa Refuge, a writers’ retreat
for those completing books on progressive environmental, social, or political
topics. I met his lovely wife, Cornelia, who created a wonderful meal.

I spent a couple of days in Santa Rosa, first visiting my
cadaver-mate in medical school who was recovering from shoulder surgery. Next I
visited an old friend and his wife; he is an accomplished musician and
delivered a house concert, complete with himself on fiddle and guitar, his
playing buddy on guitar, and a remarkable 26yo tiny woman from Texas with a
huge voice strumming, singing, and yodeling high calibre cowboy songs. It was such fun and so moving,
transporting me to my three summers as a horse wrangler in the Colorado
Rockies. Of an evening we’d go to the local bar to play pool, drink beer, eat salty snacks, and
smoke (but not inhale) self-rolled Bull Durham cigarettes. Such a time! In my horseshit-smeared

Justin cowboy boots.

Ed Levin’s memorial service was perfect. About 8 of us spoke for 5 minutes
or so each, then we ate and visited. As I wrote my bit, it seemed dry, not containing
the feelings I had for Ed. I wondered where the affect was; when I read it in
front of the group, I discovered my sadness at his loss.

I found the Bay Area vibrant, stunningly beautiful in parts, very congested, and filled with the homeless. I am happy to be back in Portland, ensconced in
my cozy townhouse and driving my electric car. I miss the warmth of friends who
have known me for many years. But I don’t feel regret about settling here and
will keep forging ahead on the social front.  I heard a wonderful concert
of Celtic music with a friend last night before collapsing. (I’d arisen at
2:30AM to return my rental car and catch my 5AM flight.) I think I’ll apply for
a United Airlines credit card; the obligatory plane transfer and consequent
long transcontinental flight times on Southwest are wearing.  Plus, a TSA pass to circumvent the secuirty line.

A friend gave me The All of It by Jeanette Haien, a vibrant jewel of a
novella. It recounts a kind of “secular” confession to her priest by a woman
whose brother has just died. He—“In his role as priest he has cut himself off
from some of the more human aspects of his life.”—, however, is the sinner
and is thus most transformed by the experience.  Before that, I read
Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge. Her writing recalls that of Alice Munro, whose short stories mesmerize me. Seemingly simple lives described with simple language to great effect. I especially like Strout’s ability to activate the reader’s mind by creating characters of such honest
human frailty and complexity that we experience a great range of feelings
toward them. Just like in life.

It was both awful and wonderful to meet with my students again today. The
situation in Myanmar is dire and dangerous and the outlook so devoid of hope.
The bands of youth—-the People’s Defense Force—has little support in terms
of arms from the outside. They make their own of pipe and other metals. 3 have
died in simply making and testing the “weapons”. Despite their sorrow and
worry, the students are bright and lively.  When presenting difficult
cases in detail, they make themselves vulnerable to the group in remarkable
ways. Then we all learn. It’s a process, one of them switching from English to Burmese when
my explanations and their understanding don’t succeed for everyone.

The election was a remarkable referendum on America. 
Reading an article in the current New Yorker on the assault on education from the ultra-Right in a
Nashville school district was scary. However, I tend to forget how dark our
history has been in earlier days: a civil war, lynchings, the anti-immigrant
fanaticism of the Woodrow Wilson era, internment camps in World War 2, and
McCarthy’s Red Scare. I’m untutored in history, I’m afraid, so it is easy for
me to focus without perspective on the present.  I think I always disliked
history for the same reasons many do: a recitation of dates and battles and
“great accomplishments”, not the evolution of ideas, social movements and their significance,
and so forth.  “The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice” sort of thing. Now I find it fascinating. I wish I’d further exploited the
resources of the Harvard History Department. Ah, regret. However, it’s not too late!

We have a lot to be thankful for. Many of us do, at least.

[Above photo:  Sooo Canadian!  How are they so much saner, their prior treatment of the Indigenous People notwithstanding?]

4 November 2022

So much has happened since my last post when I described my arrival at AACAP in Toronto. The meetings I attended were filled with interesting ideas and observations, including a full-day workshop on family therapy that introduced me to the idea of “mentalizing” interventions. For example, “It sounds like your mother is very concerned about your friends. What do you think she doesn’t understand about you?”, encouraging the adolescent to try to consider their mother’s mind, including her motivation. It elevates their discussion.

But I felt what I always do at AACAP when I go alone: both stimulated and lonely. The latter was worse this time, since I have been going often with Ed Levin, my dear friend who died in September. Most of my other friends and colleagues have aged-out of large meetings.  I did have a number of good exchanges and a nice supper with the Maine bunch, generally much younger (Almost everyone is!) and deeply invested in their careers.

The award was nice to get, what with a very elegant lunch and supper thrown in.  I became aware how important feeling relevant is for us, especially as we relinquish our livelihoods with ageing. The Elders at AACAP, and although I am of a certain age I don’t count myself among them, tend to reminisce and drone on in tedious ways.  I get the impulse but hope to avoid it, unless I am with others my age and we all do it.

I explored Toronto on Friday, having had more than enough intellectual stimulation. I walked miles through the lovely and large Trinity Bellwoods Park where mothers were playing with their toddlers. One kept trying to photograph her lad and he, smiling and intentional, kept keeling over. She was sweet and good-tempered about it, quickly realizing that the importance of the moment was his joke, not her photo. I also walked into the immense Kensington Market and found an excellent Chinese noodle house. I was amazed at the number of tall and flashy buildings downtown, with many more in construction.  It felt prosperous and urban but not oppressive. People were remarkably helpful, polite, and, well, Canadian.

On a truly bright side, now that both cataracts are removed and with new lenses in place, my ability to enjoy color and detail is incredible. I took a wonderful hike in Acadia last Sunday. The air was so clear I spent another night at Ari’s home just so I could enjoy the outdoors. At one point on my walk, as the sun was going down, I headed back toward the car along the Jordan Cliff Trail. I expected it to travel along the bottom of the cliffs but it traversed their mid-section. A sign cautioned that there would be iron rungs to negotiate. I am happy with iron rungs; they are easily grasped. But traversing the cliff to get to them…..I was aware of feeling fearful, recognized that my balance is nothing like it was even 15 years ago, and retreated down the mountain, completing the circumference of Jordan Pond. In a contest between granite and my head, smart money is on granite.

Speaking of heads, the absolutely worst head trip someone can do to another is to gaslight them: that is, to try to make them disbelieve, or at least seriously question, their own memories and perceptions. Not a nice thing to do.

My smart and lively grandniece, Em, is staying at my place in Portland while I’m in California, trying it on. She works remotely and her sublet in Brooklyn was up; I am happy to have her stay there and enjoy the place.  

Now I am ensconced at my friend Marie’s home in Berkeley while she is on a Blues Cruise with her guy, Murray. They love music and love to dance, being regulars in the Bay Area Zydeco scene. Murray also likes Blues, so they are on a ship traveling from San Diego down Baja, around Cabo, and up the Sea of Cortez, enjoying wonderful live music.

Within three hours of my arrival at Oakland International, while I was having supper on College Avenue with a friend, someone was smashing the rear window of the rental car to get into the trunk and liberate my luggage. The trunk was empty so I simply returned the car in the morning. A nuisance but a surprise to me.

The roads here seem very congested, although that may simply reflect my having spent the last 6+ years in Maine, Myanmar, and Malawi.  Saul’s no longer has the half a pastrami on rye, half-sour dill pickle thrown in, and a cup of matzoh ball soup.  Prices have risen, you order by scanning a QR code on your phone, and my lunch was $30 with tip. The prix fixe meal at Chez Panisse is now $175. We went once or twice in our pre-child days at $40 or so, but preferred the less pretentious café upstairs.

Being in Berkeley is bitter-sweet for me. I loved it here, loved my friends and work, and, mostly, my family. Now the family has dissolved, as such, although Ari and I have a good and growing relationship. But I feel a lot of sadness for what is lost.

And, of course, I’m here, in part, to attend Ed’s memorial service. He got 91 years on this sphere and made much of his time. I loved him and think of him often, a smart, kind, loyal, and amazingly tenacious guy. I miss our talks.

The attack on Paul Pelosi is hideous and I fear just the tip of the violence we’ll see in the next few months.  I worry, along with everyone else, for the future of our country. Such lies, mockery, and incitement to violence. Along with talking about the past and our ailments, a good dinner with friends can be ruined by discussing the state of the world:  Trump, MAGA politicians, Brexit (so over!), restrictions on choice, the rise of antisemitism, politically incited violence, and LGBTQ hatred.

And, oh, climate change. NPR described Elon Musk’s new Tesla factory in Germany which is trying to expand from its current 137 soccer fields size.   It will require the amount of water needed for a city of 30,000  and Germany has been in a serious drought for years.  We should stop making individual cars immediately and develop comprehensive alternative-fueled public transportation systems. And limit the population.

However, there isn’t the will to do either.  I fear we are done and that the worldwide turn toward tyrants is a reflection of people’s anxiety—“Just give me a strong daddy who tells me he will fix it all.” I just finished a terrific novel by Joshua Cohen, The Netanyahus. It won a slew of awards, including the Pulitzer. One character says, [History can be summed up as follows: Man arrived and ruined the planet.], more or less.

[Above photo: The evening skyline from my 25th floor balcony in Toronto.]

17 October 2022

Life seems to hand us gifts and challenges. Duh! In preparation for flying to Toronto from Boston for the AACAP meetings, I reserved an off-site parking place, as the spare spot where I was staying would be unavailable for two days mid-week and to park for 6 days at the airport would cost more than my round-trip plane ticket. When I arrived in the North End from Portland yesterday, Polly pointed out that I had chosen a spot that would likely take most of an hour to get to in Monday morning traffic and the shuttle to the airport would have to retrace the same messy route to drop me off at Air Canada. She talked with two friends in her building who volunteered their extra spots and I left the car in her lot. With the normal amount of anxiety about rising early to catch a flight, I slept poorly. The alarm, which I had set properly for 6:30AM didn’t go off. I awoke at 6:38 and leapt into action, shaved, brushed, combed, packed, dressed in a trice, and was at the 7-11 Uber pick-up spot 6 minutes early. My driver, Juan from the Dominican Republic, who has been an Uber driver for 6 years and likes it, pulled in 4 minutes early. 10 minutes later I was getting out at Logan.

There was no check-in line since I was 4 hours early for my flight. That’s taking “not wanting to rush” too far! As I moved into security, the lady checking the passports said, “You don’t have to remove your shoes [like everyone else].”  Hm, too old to be a terrorist? Then a young thing approached me in the xray machine. “Why aren’t you going through the metal detector? Do you have metal on you?” I was taken aback and checked my pockets. “Like a pacemaker or something?” Jeez. Then my hernia began to ache—it had popped out, apparently. I had to lie down in order to get things back in the right place. I found an empty couch but was concerned, lest my groin-pressing activity, even if discretely managed, be construed as public indecency. Now that would be quite a story to tell the AACAP folks. Pop, it went in and no one was the wiser, I think. I was certainly reminded repeatedly of my advanced age; I’m the last to know, not surprisingly.  Probably my development is arrested somewhere between 15 and 25yo, depending on the day. So why these aches, this hernia, these cataracts, this—-What’s the name for it?—-memory issue with name-finding?

The flight was 25 minutes late, but seemed very short.  I didn’t have anyone sitting next to me, which was nice, and when I finally got to UP Express (the subway to Union Station), the senior rate was $6.20, a far cry from the $44 (including tip) for the 10 minute Uber ride. Union station is 2 long blocks from my condo. I was unable to get the key until 3PM, 20 minutes from my arrival time. But, there was a Starbucks right next door where I had a cappuccino and a warmed turkey sandwich.  

Everything seemed to balance out nicely, the columns of pluses and minuses.

I planted about 50 bulbs in my yard last week—crocus, daffodil, hyacinth, and tulips (from Holland, a gift of my friend Kate)–, covered the garden with mulch, watered it all down, and shall await lovely flowers next Spring. Crocus through the snow!  I so love gardening, planting and watching things grow. my kind of magic. Occasionally I think I should have bought a house with a larger yard. Only for a minute or two, however, as I lock up and walk off for a week without a worry.

I’m reading Lucy by the Sea by Elizabeth Strout, a celebrated Maine writer many of you may have read. Her Olive Kitteridge won her a Pulitzer. While the child-like neurotic utterances [It’s written in the 1^st person.] of the protagonist initially irritated me, and still does occasionally, the author is a master and spins a rich golden tale seemingly from straw.  It is very engaging. I also saw a play with a friend last week, “The Lifespan of a Fact”, at the Good Theatre, a company housed in a former church just around the corner from me. It was so clever and well-acted and their remodel of the interior of the church makes for a wonderfully intimate experience. I’ll go regularly when I’m in town. I also went two nights ago to hear a jazz group from Boston at the Portland Conservatory. The music was of their own composition, not particularly melodic but incredibly demanding to play and to play tightly together as a quartet. It was moving, but certainly not from The Great American Songbook.  I kept thinking of a cross between Dave Brubeck and Ornette Coleman, but that may simply betray my ignorance. My, but were they fine musicians!

I’ve rehearsed my talk a few times so I can keep it to 50 minutes and mostly cover what I want. How to distill the essence of a major life experience over 2+ years into 50 minutes? I can try and I shall let pictures speak their own volumes.  In fact, I’ll do it again now—once more with tenderness.

I am also very excited to go to the Bay Area in November to see numerous friends.   I’ve started writing to them, to alert them and see if they’ll be in town. It has been, literally, years.

[Above photo:  Community sailing in Portland, well protected.]

10 October 2022

It is wetter and colder in Portland. My cataract surgery went easily and, most amazing to me, I see bright colors again. I had expected to see more clearly but the world had gotten both fuzzy and gray.

Yesterday as I was driving to the hardware store I listened to a program on NPR about Morality, including Honesty. The program was ‘Kelly Corrigan Wonders’; she interviewed Father Boyle whose organization in the often-violent slums of LA, Homeboy Industries, has transformed many lives there. Then she talked with an academic who has studied Morality for 15 years [It seemed a long time to him, a mere tic to me!].

Among his findings are that our morality is fluid and our actions depend a lot on heredity, our surroundings, our peers, and, not surprising, our internal states. If I really, really want something today when I am stressed and feeling deprived, I’m much more likely to bend the rules. Thus far his conclusions seemed pretty obvious. Then he related an experiment in which he gave a test to college students for which they could earn $50 if they did well. In the control group, they averaged 7 of 21 right answers. When they could grade their own papers and then shred them, they averaged 14/21. But at a school where there was an honor code, even if they could grade and shred their own, their scores dropped to 7/21.  His conclusion was that our desire to have others think of us, and to think of ourselves, as honest is important enough to account for the difference among shredders. And reminders of honesty help. He didn’t mention it but that is Kohlberg’s Second Stage of Morality, where most of us reside—“I do this because I want to be well thought of, want to get along with others, and want society to be the sort of place where others are honest.” Sociopaths and extreme narcissists, like DT and other tyrants, operate at Kohlberg’s First Stage: “I’ll do what I think I can get away with.  My only real concern is to get what I want and not be caught and punished.”

I mention this in part because my PayPal account was scammed last weekend.  I gullibly went along with the scammers on the phone for a bit, despite some trepidation, until my friend, Polly, who overheard my conversation, said that it seemed wrong. I hung up. But I realized that, especially in the moderately unfamiliar world of tech, I was no match for a kind and helpful-sounding man with an Indian accent, whose “boss” related similarly. My reflexes are to trust, at least at that level. They didn’t abscond with anything. I cancelled all my credit and debit accounts and have had to reconstruct them with my new cards. It was a nuisance.

And speaking of dishonesty, the stakes in the mid-term election and in 2024 are huge.  The stream of lies—starting with the Big Lie—-from the MAGA crowd is unending. They are truly operating under a different set of principles than most Democrats. Take all of the blatant lies from and about Herschel Walker, who states he wants “no exceptions to abortion restrictions”: he didn’t know that woman [It does sound like Bill Clinton, lying away.]; well, he might have known her but he never paid for an abortion; well, not sure what to make of the cancelled check and the get-well card.  It turns out he knows her very well, having asked her to get a second abortion which she refused, producing another of his unacknowledged children. Violent toward women? “I was suffering from mental illness then.” And on and on. This person we want to be a senator? And none of the Republicans speak up about his unsuitability because DT has endorsed him. What was the quote from Dana Loesch, the GOP operative and conservative radio host? “I don’t care if he paid to have baby eagles aborted, we just want to take the Senate.” Finally, some plain-speaking!

Now it appears that DT may possess even more classified documents. We, mostly honest, are hard-pressed to match people who lie easily and constantly. I don’t mean stretching the truth, as all politicians do. I mean repeatedly saying or doing something that is well-documented and then flatly denying it. To the point, DT knows beyond a doubt that he lost the election but he cannot bear it so he’ll lie and bully others repeatedly to support his lie, so much so that he comes to believe it and is convincing to the MAGA masses.

We forget that humans have lived under lawless, often whimsically, brutal tyrants for almost all of our history and that we have only recently [a few hundred years ago] managed to throw off our chains in some parts of the world.  Democracy depends on humans [usually] functioning non-violently with honesty, reciprocal trust, and acceptance of the will of the majority, however disappointing the last may be. The continued and repeated dishonesty, intimidation, and encouragement of violence of today’s GOP threaten the voice of the people, however imperfect it is. Conspiracy theories are simply elaborated fabrications.  Not expressing opposition in some way when we see repeated lies is conspiring with them by omission, especially for those elected to represent others.  

We can surely all remember the desaparecidos under General Pinochet, the murders of Stalin and Hitler and Pol Pot.  The adulation of Vladimir Putin by Tucker Carlsen and others on the radical right betrays their love of strongmen. One problem with strongmen is that there is no recourse when they go astray, as they regularly do.   

I fear less that Putin will use nuclear weapons, given his recognition of the Russian military’s demonstrated inadequacy, than that American Democracy, seriously wounded, is in danger of perishing. Once lost, it would take a bloody revolution to restore it, I imagine. I am convinced that many Americans do not realize how close we are to tyranny. Dwight Eisenhower, and even Gerald Ford, would have called it out.

No one is perfect. But the import, persistence, and frequency of lying should disqualify anyone from public office. If civil service employees must pass an examination to be hired, why shouldn’t our high officials? Surely psychologists could devise a schema and assign a morality score, derived of prior public statements/actions and both written and oral examinations, below which an applicant might be suitable for dogcatcher or park maintenance jobs (both worthy and important tasks but where dissimulation hasn’t such dire consequences) only.