[Above photo: Another rocket’s display. ]

10 July 2022

The following ad on NPR holds intriguing possibilities.

“C3AI. Allowing companies to solve previously unsolved problems through Artificial Intelligence at enterprise scale. C3AI.”

Why should the problems be limited to those of companies? How about marital discord? Chronic eczema or hemorrhoids?  Should I buy an electric vehicle? Do maroon socks go with a yellow tie? (No!) Territorial disputes—-did Russia try C3AI before invading Ukraine? (I doubt it, somehow.)  Is French language and culture truly superior to all others? All leading to the overwhelming question (Not J. Alfred Prufrock’s)—-Does God exist? If so, is he white? Perhaps variably hued, like an octopus or chameleon. Is he, a he? Does s/he speak and understand ALL spoken languages? Will s/he seriously attend to the plaintive performative piety of a high school football coach summoning his team to prayer on the 50 yard line after each game?

If C3AI can provide useful answers to these dilemmas, sign me up!

I was walking with a friend at the Audubon Gilsland Farm today when it struck me why so many of us privileged people find it difficult to think in detail about the problems of the world. There we were, strolling through lovely peaceful meadows and leafy woods, hearing birdsong, feeling the soft warm breeze, and experiencing no sense of immediate worry. And yesterday, as I sailed with a friend through the islands of Casco Bay and we came unpleasantly close to ramming into a sunken ledge, it was through our own negligence, not because we were hungry, hunted, or fleeing in terror. When I returned home I realized I hadn’t even remembered to lock the front door.

The thoughts of my affluence, security, leisure, pleasure, and comfort contrast dramatically with the dire circumstances of hunger, thirst, poverty, deception, and threat from which many, if not the majority, of the world’s inhabitants suffer.  The desire for a good education, which is obtainable by most here, is burning yet unrequited for the majority of youth in the developing world.  For those of us in the developed world who have lived in the period following World War 2 to the present, our security, mobility, and prosperity are anomalies in the history of the world, although we accept the same as “normal”.

To think of most of the world, the “Have-nots”, in the midst of my Plentitude sets up a cognitive dissonance for me. Even if I give some of my time and some of my money to help them, it doesn’t feel enough as long as I am regularly enjoying what they don’t have. It makes me and most people, I imagine, want to look away, to think abstractly about the issues, or to deny them altogether.

On another note, if a company is dysfunctional in the area of sexual harassment, it’s helpful to look to the leadership. If people have poor work habits and that is tolerated, look to the leadership. If a country devolves into hatred, armed hooliganism, racial supremacy, and serial dishonesty, look to the leadership.

Just as we are capable of such amazing creativity, as well as repeated acts of mercy, kindness, and generosity, humans are also obviously able to turn our destructive tendencies to terrible ends. Tigers kill to eat, to establish their status in their family group, and to defend their immediate territory, as do others in the various families of carnivorous predators.  Humans kill widely to express diffuse or specific anger, for philosophical differences, and to gain power, an abstract form of territorial supremacy and hierarchy, I guess. But given our endless capacity for destructive behaviors, why do we allow individuals to arm themselves with powerful weapons and to carry them among us? Furthermore, why are many satisfied with the explanation that this is an expression of Freedom?  And the statement that these semi-automatic people-killers are “sporting rifles”? Which sport is that? I get that the politicians are paid off by the gun manufacturers who are making a fortune. But I am puzzled that so many people, who are not getting donations or kick-backs, seem hypnotized by the rhetoric.  I’ve never held or fired an AR-15; perhaps it is exhilarating beyond comprehension, like an orgasm.

Portland remains a sweet, civil, and pretty town. There is a considerable number of homeless people. There will always be those who cannot fit in or support themselves or for whom it is a great struggle. We have to provide them with respectable food, clothing, shelter, and training, even as our society must help the other Vulnerables.  Even though it is difficult for some to accept the help, we must offer it if we are to call ourselves “Civilized”. Yet the protests from many people of means seem endless.  If not caring for the vulnerable among us, what, then, does “civilized” mean?  Good table manners?  Brushing your teeth? Writing “Thank you” notes? Not cursing?

[Above photo: The Rockets’ Red Glare]

5 July 2022

I heard a wonderful NPR interview two days ago with Annette Gordon-Reid, a Harvard law professor and historian who wrote, among other books, On Juneteenth and The Hemingses of Monticello: An American Family.  Her warmth, poise, and capacity to contain the contradictions in discussing Thomas Jefferson were breathtaking. Reading from his writings and other historical documents, she brightly illuminated his struggles with being a slaveholder, espousing equality, and fathering several children by Sally Hemings, his (initially 16yo) slave.  She told the tale of Ms. Hemings accompanying Jefferson to Paris, where she was a free person, there being impregnated by him, and deciding to return to slavery in America for multiple and complex reasons with a remarkable grace and complexity.  That a black woman could speak of slavery and its evils so knowingly yet evenly amazed me. I confess I have wondered at times why the Blacks of this country haven’t organized and risen up to slaughter the Whites as we have them, given the cruelty, humiliation, and unfairness that they have suffered. Yet Professor Gordon-Reid seemed to be living at a level of grace and enlightenment far above my own. (Recall that the Black Panthers were a social service organization, providing meals, health care, and education to their communities; their smaller but better-known armed groups were defensive and violent only in response to violence visited upon them.)  I think that the Black Experience in this country has, of necessity, deeply tutored many in understanding, patience, and compromise.  We desperately need their skills and wisdom to help guide us out of our current political and spiritual crisis. 

The most striking and personally useful aspect of her interview for me was noting her ability to find and value truly wonderful qualities of a person without neglecting to give the bad sides their full due, elevating ambivalence to a virtue.

I mentioned hearing Professor Gordon-Reid to a friend, a senior Child Psychiatrist, yesterday evening. He laughed and affirmed my experience, saying he’d gone to Dartmouth College with her and how they spent a work/study term together in North Carolina.  And that everything wonderful said about her was deserved, in his experience. Such a small world of many little surprises.

Speaking of which, my 92yo sister visited for 3 nights on her way to the Island. She was considerably stronger than I’d imagined, going up and down the stairs in my condo many times per day. We walked, and I drove her, around Portland, seeing lovely parks and preserves. She was taken with it. My brother, Charles, came to supper one night and we reminisced with laughter and sadness, recalling how dysfunctional our family was, how that shaped us all, and how we still managed to have memorable times in our childhoods and do some good works as adults. Like the time Nan’s yellow shorts washed away with the tide as we slept on a beach near Sekiu where we’d fish for salmon the next day. And she, perhaps with cosmic justice, was the only one of us to catch a salmon!  I learned much about her life that I’d never known, including about her 1 ½ years in Europe after Freshman year at Stanford, as well as the family life in Brookline, before the Depression drove the family west to Seattle in 1939.

Despite short-term memory issues and struggling with her hearing, Nan is managing remarkably well.  We got into a couple of dust-ups but I think much of the fault was mine; her anger triggers my own, since I spent my childhood and youth placating an amazing yet very labile and often irritable or capricious mother.  I must work not to conflate her anger with that of our mother—a nice demonstration of Transference—that is, adding my own history to my interpretation of her anger—and act accordingly.

Several of my students in Myanmar are under incredible pressure and in considerable danger of arrest. One mentioned today that she’s not been eating, has lost 8 pounds, has been unable to sleep, and has been “overthinking” since a friend and fellow physician was arrested by the military 3 weeks ago. It made me realize, once again, how much they are all carrying. Thus, when a bomb goes off nearby their apartment or the electricity is on only 4 hours in 24, these things are added to already crushing loads. Our situation in this country, with our democracy at high risk, a regressive and complicit Supreme Court majority, many lying and corrupted politicians, and a powerful, determined, and emboldened Christian Right trying to drag us into “dominionism”—where they can order all of society, including the government, according to “their” Christian principles—is gravely threatened but Myanmar is already a disaster.

On a cheerier note, watching the fireworks over the Eastern Prom last night was glorious. It was a calm, warm evening. The extensive sloping lawns were blanketed with people—-on blankets—-and a great multitude of small craft with winking lights were anchored just offshore. A large demonstration protesting the Roe v. Wade abolition marched and chanted across the top of the Prom and then down its width  via the diagonal road. The fireworks began and seemed to last forever. Firework technology is now so advanced that the rockets explode in a veritable arboretum of blooms and unnamed galaxies, including the inevitable red, white, and blue varieties.  It was so nice to be with a large group of celebrants, all enjoying Independence Day peacefully, however different our personalities and persuasions.

Now to dig a ditch for my EV charging cable.

[Above photo: Grasses at Gilsland Farm.]

27 June 2022

Summer is moving like a zephyr! Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. After several warm (85F) and sunny days, it is gray and rainy. It is a relief to me. I’m not sure how and why I love the tropics so much. I guess the casual ease, never having to wear more than flip-flops, shorts, and a tee shirt. And the dramatic rains, when they fall like Niagara or Victoria. I won’t get to the island for another 3 weeks, but then I’ll stay for 6 weeks or more.

I was invited to a gathering of 4 Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) couples at one of their lovely homes in Cape Elizabeth. It seems the bug of foreign service bit them all, as they stayed in or returned to Peace Corps for several years after their initial service. They are all interesting and fun, my kind of people, and they all appear to like to cook and eat! It will be a good social group for me, I think. With covid on the wane for now, they’ll resume their 3rd Thursday of each month gatherings with the larger, younger group of RPCVs in July. 

Scott and Nicole, at whose house we met, have vanity license plates saying “RPCVs”. Serendipitously, an older man, and this group isn’t young, was walking by and they heard, “RPCV? RPCV? I know about that.” He knocked at their door and it turns out that he was a founder, with Sargent Shriver, of the Peace Corps, in 1961. He lives across (oceanside, wealthier) Cottage Road. And my Country Director in Malawi, Carol Spahn, was the trainee of one of them in W. Africa (?Ghana). She is now the Acting Peace Corps Director. More in the Small World category.

Enough chit-chat. The hideous majority members of the Supreme Court are displaying their plumage, although it never actually was hidden, as Senator Susan Collins—the Embarrassment From Caribou—enjoys pretending. “What? Gambling in here?!” Justice Kavanaugh lie? Never, not possible. He’s as honest as a good draft IPA can inspire one to be. We know that Handmaiden Coney Barrett is a fanatic—it is visible in her steely eyes and carefully-crafted smile. Justice Gorsuch is, well…

But the implications for so many women, especially poor women and women of color (often overlapping categories) and their subsequent unwanted offspring are heart-breaking. To be unable to control their own bodies, to have forced deliveries, to bear the product of rape (including incest), or to add another child to their already struggling family is such cruelty. 27% of Americans are Roman Catholic. I suspect a large number of them would support abortion in certain circumstances. That 2/3 of the population supports choice—No one likes it!—but that a tiny group of people, whether through religious belief or cynical political calculation or a mixture of the two, choose to impose their will on the majority of the population is intolerable. And you know that if the teenage daughter of a wealthy Mississippian got herself preggers as a result of normal curiosity and desire, she’d be quietly flown somewhere to be relieved of her burden, lest it shame the family or interfere with college plans.

Every one of our politicians and judges should need to demonstrate that they had walked in the shoes of the poor as adults in a substantive way prior to passing judgment on laws that burden the poor. Again, I’d favor compulsory national service in poor populations, here or abroad, for all graduating from high school or, if postponed, from college. It likely wouldn’t alter a Brett Kavanaugh, Clarence Thomas, or Amy Coney Barrett, but who knows. Our American Exceptionalism seems to lie in the realms of overwork, cruelty, greed, and the failure of compassionate understanding.  At my age, I’m afraid, it makes me want to leave, not to stay and fight.

And perhaps leave into the woods. For humans are so flawed. And so blind. If a bear or a wolf eats me, it’s because they are truly hungry or threatened, not to collect more bones to decorate their respective lairs. Better we were more instinct-bound. We’d be more in harmony with the earth. I just saw a brief video on the Rimac Nevera, a $2.4 million dollar carbon fiber electric car manufactured in Croatia. It is the quickest in the world at 1.9 seconds 0-60mph.  It is an engineering marvel, doubtless, but that someone has $2.4 million to spend on such a trivial thing when so many of us are starving or chronically malnourished is insane.

The January 6^th Committee hearings are riveting, even as they are not surprising. It is difficult to sustain hope that prosecutions and substantial jail-time will follow, which simply demonstrates the failures of our judicial system. Wouldn’t prosecution under RICO laws be appropriate? All we hear makes those enterprising souls sound like racketeers.  I now fear the ending of the filibuster. What if a slim majority of Republicans create a bill to exonerate all who participated in the insurrection?  Again, since the Donkeys (Jackasses?) seem less able to lie with a straight face than the Elephants, the former are at a serious disadvantage. If we agree on the rules of combat that we are limited to fisticuffs but one party deviously conceals a knife or a pistol, guess who wins?

It’s a tough time to be an honest, principled politician committed to carrying out the will of those who elected you in accordance with the laws and the Constitution. The siren song of the office and of lobbyist’s money is irresistible to some.  And yet as I was driving home from doing errands yesterday I saw a large Pro-Choice group marching up Congress Street. People Power!  I wish I’d known earlier and had joined them. As it was, I just honked my horn a lot and gave a thumbs up, probably confusing or irritating the driver of the car in front of me.  

You can bet that the Regressive Supremes will continue to drag us back decades into an earlier world of male, white, middle-class or wealthier, privilege.  Like the ’50s.  Where women, poor people, immigrants, and people of color were disenfranchised and knew their place.  

My nephews and their mother are preparing their lovely home in Williamsburg, Virginia for sale. They then have the unenviable task of selecting, winnowing, and moving their possessions to Portugal. The nephews will purchase a large, historic building or mansion in a small, pretty town for near-nothing, repurpose it, and settle in. I’ll visit!

[Above photo:  Peonies at Gilsland Farm.]

20 June 2022

Summer is here. Portland begins to throb with tourists and local merrymakers. Many restaurants in the Old Port area, as well as elsewhere, developed heated outdoor seating during covid, some in tiny plastic individual tents that were warm enough for comfortable dining in the cold of late Fall and early Spring. Outdoor dining, being slightly unusual, encourages gaiety. Portland is now a green, blossom-filled, and lively town, although yesterday it was cold, windy, and rainy. I thought, Summer is a fickle woman, dressed to kill and prepared to complete the act if so moved.

My patio is barren, just slate flagstones. I’m attempting to assemble ideas from friends and neighbors before I disassemble what is there and start anew. I know I want a small sitting area. I also want a weeping Japanese maple and a lilac bush, some low azaleas and peonies. Then greenery, other flowers, and a small vegetable garden. Ariane suggests pea-gravel, which is lovely underfoot at mealtime but requires more attention to keep it nice than do flagstones. I already have strings of tiny lights around the perimeter. My neice cleverly suggested I consult with a local nursery for design ideas and knowledge of indigenous plants to attract bees.

Our parking area for 4 cars is newly-paved and level. It is 35’x 41’.  A pickle-ball court is 20’x44’.  Street parking is very easy on Munjoy Hill. I’ll propose to the condo association—myself and the young couple next door—that we measure and spray the lines for a court and plan to park on the street on Sundays so the neighborhood can join us for a regular tourney. I like ping pong, squash, and racquetball and, although my skills are currently non-existent, I once could play tennis tolerably. By all reports this fastest-growing sport in America is easy to pick up and works for people of all different skill levels. It would be a fun way to join the neighborhood.

My great-nephew—after first generation cousins, nieces, nephews, etc. my genealogical skills are seriously limited—was asked to be a counselor-in-training at his camp of several years, Blueberry Cove in Tenants Harbor. Friday he flew into the Jetport where I met him with a large bag of Cool Ranch Dressing Doritos and a Coke. We drove a couple of hours through green fields and picturesque seaside villages, with a ½ hour stop for a quick EV charge and burgers in Topsham Fair Mall, to deposit him in a clearing in the woods at the camp. He clearly wanted to set off to the lodge solo, it being his first job, so I said goodbye and returned to Portland. He is a terrific youth, in spite of quite a lot of geographic dislocation—Maine to Bethesda to Cape Town to Bethesda—and the early loss of his father. His mother, my niece, has not only grit, good values, and smarts, she is very developmentally thoughtful about his needs and it shows. I enjoyed our brief interlude and tried not to pepper him with too many questions about his life.  Only he can judge the success of my restraint.

I had an infuriating experience today. I have athlete’s foot, acquired from the rowing and squash shower rooms at Harvard. I’ve never been able to shake it, despite being fastidious with clean cotton socks, foot powder, and great tubs, over the years, of antifungal creams: tolnaftate, clotrimazole, terbinafine, ketoconazole, and so forth. Ah, the shaming looks of dermatologists when I’d go for my European-skin sun-damage checks every year or two.

Yesterday I was rummaging through Renys, “A Maine Adventure”, when I came across 1 ½ oz. tubes of clotrimazole 1% from Lucky Super Soft of India for 99 cents. Today, after getting my 2^nd Covid booster at Walgreens I checked the price of the brand name variety—Lotrimin 1%—manufactured by Bayer. An ounce of the Lucky Super Soft costs 66 cents. An ounce of the Bayer costs $35. Do the math yourself, $14.99 for a .42oz tube. Yes, you’ll say, but the FDA doesn’t supervise the Lucky brand. All I know is that I used blood pressure medication manufactured in India for 2 1/2 years in Myanmar, it cost almost nothing, and my bp was well-managed. And virtually all of the psychiatric medications used in Myanmar are made in India. They seem to have the same modest efficacy and significant side-effect profile identical to those made in the West.

I mentioned it to a smart young stock guy at Renys.  He replied, “My dad is a podiatrist. He buys that stuff in bulk for nothing. They are making a fortune with the 99 cent tube. The Lotrimin is a massacre.” And why won’t the GOP allow the government to negotiate lower drug prices with the pharmaceutical companies?  Lobbying $$$.

I was once riding in Cebu (Philippines) with my host, a pediatric cardiologist with an interest in child sexual trauma, and her husband, a talk show host, in their ancient VW bug. “You can’t turn left here, Rickey.”, Naomi said. He did and was quickly pulled over by a policeman standing in the road. Rickey opened his window and quietly, but authoritatively, said, “I see you work for the government, also.” We were waved on. Naomi lamented the corruption throughout Philippine society. I said, “In the US it is the same, just more quietly and on a much, much larger scale.” The drug companies here and in Europe are bandits; they bribe the politicians to be allowed to continue their thievery, just as the gun manufacturers do. Capitalism demands government regulation, both environmental, public safety, and fiscal, despite the GOP hatred of it.  The market doesn’t correct or favor competition or a clean environment, it favors the owners’ profits.  Politicians should only be able to use public funds for their campaigns.

Today my walking group hit the jackpot! The Gilsland Farm is 65 acres in Falmouth run by the Audubon Society of Maine, 10 minutes by car from my home. It is simply spectacular, surrounded by the Presumpscot River on two sides with gorgeous walks through woods and fields. There is an interpretive nature center, a gift shop/book store, a large lawn with picnic tables where we had lunch, turkeys roaming about, and a massive garden of peonies, thick and fragrant that were the love of the original owner, an amateur horticulturalist. The weather was summer-perfect, as well. I’ll go there regularly. When my sister visits in two 2 weeks she’ll enjoy it.

Kudos to Bennie Thompson. All the Committee can do is skillfully present the facts and hope that enough people can distance themselves from the furor and Fox-yapping to note them.  Much of the future of our democracy, and the rule of law in this country, depends upon it.

[Above Photo: My bedroom view. Forgive the screens and subsequent photo quality.]

12 June 2022

It is striking how genuine proximity can dispel fantasy, hatred, or indifference. The modest-sized (a few hundred) crowd gathered at Lincoln Park on Congress Street with spunky chants and challenging placards marched down into the commercial port district and back up to City Hall. I never located the members of the Maine Committee For Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, so it was at least that large. We heard from several teachers, several primary and secondary school students, and the Superintendent of Portland schools. The repeated message was “We shouldn’t have to be fearful of [attending/working in/overseeing] our schools.” This sentiment is being repeated all over America these days. It is similar, I imagine, to what Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and members of the LGBTQ communities have felt for years upon stepping out of their doors (or going to bed at night, in some instances).  A fearful population is more easily manipulated and controlled, which is one purpose of the recent GOP divisive rhetoric.  I loved the sign, “Well-regulated militias do not kill children.”

Misreading the 2^nd Amendment so that it justifies 18yo men buying semi-automatic military-style weapons is easy if deprived of its context. For the “Originalists”—which is a pretty dopey idea, frankly—they are intentionally misreading the intent, and content, of the Right to Bear Arms. (I always liked Robin Williams’ manic rant about “the right to arm bears.”)  The amendment was expressly for the purpose of maintaining a well-regulated militia (read the National Guard, which each state has) in defense of the new democracy from our common enemy, the tyranny of a minority. We’d recently shuffled off a monarchy and the FFs were concerned lest the habits of dominance and submission reassert themselves. It was not a permission for every person to own, and carry openly, their military-grade weaponry.  One of my favorite travel signs was in the Luang Prabang (ancient capital of Laos) airport: “Please show your weapons.”  Another, commonly seen upon entering hotel lobbies in SE Asia, “No weapons or durian allowed.”

New Zealand, Scotland, and Australia reacted sensibly and democratically to gun violence of their own, with a consequent dramatic drop in instances of the same. The culprits here are money for our “bought” elected officials and a potent political rallying point.

It’s not as though guns make us safer, Hollywood aside. Note that John Wayne evaded all military service in WW2 by making movies pretending to be a fearsome warrior and getting rich doing it. Most non-criminal gun owners who turn their guns against a person [often mistakenly] kill a friend or family member. But since there are laws prohibiting research on gun violence—How did this happen?!—and, of all manufacturers of ANYTHING, the Rugers and Remingtons of this country cannot be sued, we cannot know the details of it all for certain. There are 74 distinctly different semi-automatic rifles for sale manufactured in the US alone, so imagine the number in people’s homes.

We talk about the Uvalde and Buffalo and Parkland and Stoneman Douglas HS and Columbine HS and Pulse Nightclub and Mandalay Bay Casino and Tree of Life Synagogue and Texas Tower and Virginia Tech shootings, but seem to forget the more-than-1/day other mass shootings that are occurring right now in the United States.  As well as the suicides and one-on-one gun violence. It is another pandemic. Gunshots are the leading cause of death for children in this country. Where is the Surgeon General? Where are the voices of our public health leaders? Why are they not shouting out warnings?

As I was walking to the march, a heavy-set man rode slowly past me on a bicycle, muttering “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” True enough, but arm him with a hunting knife [Better yet, a butter knife.] …. such nonsense people believe. It makes you long for the leadership of an enlightened aristocracy. But wait, how do you define “enlightened”?  And how do They?

The January 6 Committee hearings didn’t disappoint, especially Liz Cheney and Officer Edwards, the girl-next-door who was filmed being slammed to the concrete with a heavy metal bike rack, knocking her unconscious. Hats off to them all, with no political posturing or grandstanding. “Just the facts, ma’am”, as Jack Webb used to say.

There is a porous wall of green in front of all 3 panels of the bay window in my bedroom, in the middle of which I have planted my writing desk. It is like living in a treehouse, without the disadvantages. I recall Freeman Dyson’s son describing the wild storms he endured (? enjoyed) while living in the two-story treehouse he built in a mammoth Douglas Fir on the coast of Vancouver Island. It is thrilling to realize some of our “crazy” ideas.

I’ll join Polly and members of the Dessertine Clan this afternoon at Hadlock Field to watch the Portland Seadogs thrash the Hartford Yard Goats. Their names are much more evocative than their Major League counterparts’. Others in the Northeast Double A league include the Fisher Cats and the Rumble Ponies. This will doubtless be a fun outing, complete with hot dogs and ball park mustard. I once sprang for the $20+ crab roll at a Giants game in then-Pac Bell Park. It was actually worth it, with a surfeit of fresh crab. It was glorious taking the ferry in the early evening from Alameda Island, packed with like-minded celebrants, to be dropped off at the Park and returned, hoarse and pleasantly tired, some hours later to our car. Kayakers chased the homers delivered to McCovey Cove. And, as always, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” as we exited the stadium.

I assembled an actual bed yesterday and put a mattress on it. One more and the place is suitably furnished. Whew!

[Above photo: Vineyard Haven harbor from the ferry.]

6 June 2022

I’m sitting on a couch in my sunny living room, looking out the front bay window at leafy trees and the neighbor’s garden in back. This part of moving is kind of fun, emptying boxes, breaking them down, and tossing them onto the huge pile of cardboard on my back porch as the desired interior effect emerges. I have a box for the Goodwill, things I’ve dragged around, and stored, for years but neither need nor want. How has one old guy accumulated so much stuff?  Too easily, it seems.

My place looks pretty and comfortable and I hear nothing from either neighbor. I bought a powerful dehumidifier and put it in the basement. It has lowered the humidity from 59% to 47% overnight, which bodes well. Authorities suggest getting the largest one you can afford, within reason, and I did; it isn’t struggling at all.

I still sleep on a blow-up air mattress, but it is comfy enough while I search for the right beds. I’m pleased with how the place—my home— is turning out.

Ari was a great help, both with her muscle (carrying heavy objects down from the second floor of her barn) and for her discerning eye. We spent Tuesday driving to Bangor in her truck and visiting a couple of antique shops. The Schoolhouse in Brewer is a place we frequented to furnish our island cabin. It is full of wonderful finds. I bought 4 dressers and a couple of small bookcases which I picked up in the Uhaul truck on my way back to Portland on Wednesday. While emptying my storage space in Bar Harbor on Monday, I came across 8 dessicated mice in 8 traps which I think qualifies me as a successful small game hunter!

Rocket Movers, from whom I’d hired two guys to help me unload, were an hour late but got everything in the right place in only an hour and ½. The couch, which I’d bought from Cherished Possessions, a consignment shop near Portland, was delivered at 4:30PM onto the sidewalk. My Rocket guys weren’t the bulky Mainers I’d expected. Young and wiry, they confirmed that they drank Red Bull to keep up their mojo. The couch is long and wouldn’t fit through the front door, so they loaded it into the truck and I drove to the rear of the building. Even so, it barely fit in and only by being elevated over the kitchen island. It’s in, looks great, and is very comfortable.

Poki was generous with me about taking things she’d stored in Ari’s barn and wasn’t using. Carpets, a side table, two designer chairs, lovely ceramics, a 43” smart TV, and a dining room table.  Some of these we shared in our marriage and they continue to revive pleasant memories. And an amazingly beautiful coffee table designed by Isamu Noguchi—I’m sure it is in the MOMA NY collection, so clever and stunning is the design. With all of the moves, I broke one Chinese ceramic soup spoon and one glass. The pre-Columbian earthenware survived nicely, as did all the lamps.

My plan is to store almost nothing in the basement, even though I have plenty of room and shelf space.  Why keep what I am not using, excepting some journals and, temporarily, a computer/monitor/etc. whose contents I have yet to transfer to a storage device. I never want to move again! It was exhausting, I experienced too much uncertainty with so many moving parts, and I dislike living in chaos.

The neighborhood is quiet and yet with wonderful destinations for walking. It is two blocks downhill to the Eastern Promenade, with its lawns, food trucks, and splendid sea-captains’ mansions looking out over Casco Bay and the islands. Heading inland and up the one block to Congress Street, there is a coffee house, an Asian restaurant, two bakeries, a small market, and more. Dropping down to Washington Street brings a wide array of eateries, from fancy to simple take-out. It reminds me of the Elmwood but with the ocean, and ocean breeze, nearby and not so crowded. Still, there is no Elmwood Theatre, Café Roma, or that wonderful Mexican chocolatier.

I hanked on the roller furling genoa and the mainsail with friends on Saturday on their 26 foot Tanzer, At Last. Since the anticipated afternoon rain morphed into a sunny day with a 12 knot breeze, we went for a sail around Clapboard Island. At Last is a nice little boat and it was fun to feel her heel and scoot along. Having roller furling makes a sailor’s life practically sedentary!

Our country is barely recognizable to me. Prevent mass shootings by passing out more rapid-fire high-capacity weapons?  Mindful of weapons manufacturer’s bottom lines, let’s address the murder of schoolchildren by arming teachers and having just one heavily-guarded entrance to all schools. Not so good in case of fire, I think.  And it doesn’t help much with massacres in synagogues, mosques, Walmarts, nightclubs, and other spots but, hey, Ted’s just trying to do his part.

I have yet another list of things to purchase, so am off again, after a bite of lunch.

[Above photo: Dogwood in bloom on the Vineyard.]

27 May 2022

I missed last week’s blog, as I was returning from a visit to friends. This weekend I’ll be moving and cannot reasonably expect to write on Sunday.  I’ll pen a note today.

I travelled to Martha’s Vineyard last weekend to see my good friend from medical school, Jeff, and his wife, Bonnie. I’ve previously described their place, set in 8 acres of conservation woods. Each time I visit, the progress of Bonnie’s remarkable gardening is evident. Their home is now surrounded by beds of flowers, flowering shrubs, trees, and stone walls, creating a layered illusion of complexity and distance. It is lovely, redolent of Japan.

The Vineyard, at least through my lens, appears to be a tranquil, pastoral paradise with well-to-do and well-educated neighbors: not bad for a later chapter in life. And perfect for grandchildren, if one is so blessed, to visit in the summer.

My trip there, the first of some distance in my Leaf, was laced with a low-level anxiety: How far would I get on a charge? Where is the next charger? How often do these things not function? I mistakenly didn’t fully charge before I left, so I did a quick charge in Saugus, Mass. On the way back I found a Level 2 (not so quick) charger near the Cape Cod Canal and added 30 miles in an hour. Then a final 30 minute charge at Braintree got me home easily. My next trip will be simple: leave fully charged, a quick charge at Braintree going down and returning and I’ll be home free. Well, cheaper. The trick is finding the damned chargers in a massive, many-acre mall with open parking and a multistory garage.  But now I know where three are and, if properly planned, it’ll be a breeze. It is nice to stop for a cup of coffee or even lunch.

Ariane has clarified for me that my smugness in driving an EV is unwarranted, given the environmental destruction associated with mining lithium and other rare earth metals necessary for the battery, as well as the lack of recovery and recycling of the same at its demise. This is all true. But as EV’s become more popular, SCIENCE will rescue us, with clean mining and efficient recycling, so I’m told. I’m just ahead of the curve, pushing the envelope. Ha! The fact is, we shouldn’t all be tooling around in our private vehicles; an efficient system of [electric] minibuses, as are used in developing countries, would be much less expensive and much more environmentally sound.

I sign the closing documents on my condo this morning. I have some trepidation about my move, planned to begin this afternoon and continuing for 4 days. My apartment is mostly packed and far from the 2 boxes, three suitcases, and 3 duffels I imagined, I have many, many and heavy, heavy boxes of books, kitchen stuff, food, you name it.  Does it reproduce in the darkness of my closets, cupboards, and ‘neath-the-bed?  Then there will be the Uhaul to Bar Harbor, emptying my storage space, retrieving some furniture from Ari’s barn, shopping local antique stores with her, driving the entire mass to Portland to meet, hopefully, two strong gents from Rocket Moving who will assist me to shift it all inside in 2 hours. I feel like lying on the couch as I contemplate it. It will be good to be settled, although one of my students suggested that I could be of great use to them in Chiang Mai, which is a sweet and livable Thai town. Ah, such choices. I could go for a month or two during the winter.

As to my fantasies about Timon and Pumba 10 days ago, my friend Mary alerted me to the fact that these were characters from “The Lion King”, a meerkat and a warthog, rather than love-sick middle-schoolers. I prefer my imaginings.

I’ll paste here a letter I sent to the NY Times yesterday, rather than create anew a state-of-the-nation notion today:

________________

To the Editor:

In reference to “Evil Swept Across Uvalde” (NYT 5.25.22), citing “mental illness” and failures of the mental health care system as a response to a mass shooting is as ineffectual as saying, “We’re going to pray for the families.” or “We’ll form a committee.”. 

Mental health professionals are unfortunately poor at predicting violent behavior in previously non-violent individuals. We do, however, know that executive functioning, which helps us make considered decisions and is crucial for impulse control, is located in the forebrain, which does not fully mature until  26yo. We also know that military-style rifles are designed to kill a large number of humans quickly, not a deer.

The steps required to diminish the frequency of mass shootings (213 in the first 145 days of 2022) are obvious. They would not infringe upon our Constitutional rights.  Although a small minority of Americans would be infuriated, that’s the price we’d pay to protect our innocents.

While Republicans in Congress do not support gun regulation, a large majority of Americans do, giving the lie to representative government.

______________

As a former gun manufacturing executive put it, “The system isn’t broken. It is functioning exactly as designed” [selling many, many more guns and consolidating a political base around the erroneous ‘Freedom’ issue.].  We have to get rid of the filibuster, create term limits for the Supremes, and have publicly-funded-only elections. What a mess of a system!

[Above photo: Yet another flowering tree in Portland. ]

16 May 2022

As happens, the sun appears, the temperature rises (86 F two days ago!), and weekend activities beckon. I hiked the Morse Mountain-Seawall Beach trail on Saturday with a friend. Morse is only a hill and a modest one at that. Perhaps to the early settlers who built at the top and had to haul their water up, it felt like a mountain. The walk was lovely with the smell of the forest giving way to the wonderful organic scents of the “sea”: rotting kelp, decomposing fish, sea birds, shellfish, and crabs, and whatever else contributes to that alluring mix. I guarantee that smelling the sea 10 miles offshore is unremarkable. The vulture in us, possibly, prepares our brains to find the pungent seashore mix particularly attractive.  The broad beach itself is stunning: surf and fine sand with a backdrop of granite ledges topped with spruce. At either end of the beach are the estuaries and salt marshes of the Sprague and Morse rivers.

On Sunday I joined two new potential friends in preparing their sailboat for launch. Since I seem to be of more modest stature than the guys I sail with, I am always chosen to go up the mast in a bosun’s chair or to dive into the engine compartment to inspect or repair. It is appreciated, as the over-6 footers would not fit easily. Yesterday was no exception. I volunteered to scrub the inside of the cabin on their 26 foot Tanzer, since I could slip into the crevices. I did a good job and earned myself a spot for summer sailing. It is even satisfying to enter a grey, moldy space and exit, after two hours of snorting Lysol and scrubbing vigorously, a white, shining one.

As I prepare to move into my new townhouse—-a two story condominium but “townhouse” sounds rather grand—I am accumulating boxes, scheduling a U-Haul, and planning my strategy and tactics. I am also taking long walks around the West End, revisiting my familiar haunts now cloaked in green and bright colors rather than snow.

Ascending to the Western Promenade from the street below, I saw a sticker on a post: “Timon + Pumba”. I thought that is one clever boy, printing up weather-resistant stickers to impress his girl. I admired their names and it made me think of a classic love-story, like Dido and Aeneas or Antony and Cleopatra, a European-African romance. This one is perhaps blue collar, rather than nobility. The feelings and sensations will be the same, perhaps more pure, since neither partner will be freighted with dynastic considerations. I would love to see from a distance the entranced couple, probably middle-schoolers, chatting. Might they possibly be immigrants to the US, and to Maine? My fantasies and future projections for their love and happiness abound!

I confess that I wonder if Merrick Garland was a plant, that Obama didn’t really know his sympathies. His apparent lack of enthusiasm for addressing January 6^th and the surrounding events is pretty awful. As with Robert Muller, the voices of moderation are cautioning that he is simply thoughtful, careful, and ethical, trying to avoid a media circus (not so successful, I think) in meting out Justice. I fear that he is reluctant to pursue the leading frauds and plotters with vigor for other reasons: sympathy for their cause, a fear of further dividing a split country, a diminished valuation of the insurrection—“Boys will be boys, you know.”—, and refusing to see the true menace of those lying right-wing tyrants to our democracy. He surely can see how dishonest and partisan the Supreme Court is today, imposing the will of a Catholic and other Christian minority on the majority of the population. I keep hoping, as do many of us, that he’ll pull a rabbit out of his hat, stunning us into admiring silence.

Speaking of miracles, it is wonderful to cheer for the Ukrainians, shoving the Bear away from Kharkiv, back to its den in Russia!    Even in the Donbas region Russian advances are slow and there are some Ukrainian victories. Weakening Russia will serve us all. The age of territorial empire has long passed, dustbin-confined. Russia is where spirituality gets scary, as Putin’s quasi-mystical sense of a greater Russian destiny and his desire to achieve that demonstrate. Russia is an historically amazing country with great art, literature, music, dance, and other cultural products. Its cruel and bloody history, like our own, dogs it and, unlike ours, the populace hasn’t had the will to put the mutt to sleep.

I’ve applied for a US Embassy (Myanmar) grant to fund my continued virtual teaching there. I’ll continue it anyway, but would expand my work if I got paid to do so. I do love my students and feel badly about the constraints imposed on them, including their learning, by the civil war.  

[Above photo:  Cherry blossoms on Spring Street daring to herald an end to winter.]

8 May 2022

Shamelessly plagiarizing from “Letters From an American”, it is noteworthy that Mothers’ Day started in the late 1870’s as a response to the carnage and trauma of a world run by men—the Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War as particular examples. Far from a day to be nice to your mother—-Why not be nice to your mother every day, or at least once each month?—, it marked an attempt by women to develop influence in the larger sweep of world events. The women’s suffrage movement followed. How toothless the holiday has become: chocolates and flowers and, if lucky, breakfast in bed or brunch out. Watching the awful destruction wrought by boys-with-their-toys in Ukraine and the very problematic reign of the male-dominated Catholic Church in our Supreme Court suggests the importance of a strong feminist movement. Yes, there’s Amy Coney Barrett, but she is a zealot and no zealot is to be trusted.

Remarkably, after some shenanigans, my bid for the townhouse/condo I fell for was accepted! Shenanigans included the selling agent asking of the top 3 bidders, “Can you go a bit more?”.  I could and won the competition some few thousands beneath my limit. Now is the period of waiting while the mysteries of loan approval—for I am seeking a small mortgage—unfold. How can my credit be above 800 for years and within a month and no late payments or other missteps it dropped to the high 700’s? It is moot re. the loan but the operation of these silent and inscrutable forces is unsettling.

The classes I have been taking have all ended and they all were terrific, especially the creative writing. One of my classmates, who spent 5 years in Peace Corps in Bulgaria and Ghana as an adult, and I had oysters, steamed clams, and peel-‘em shrimp at The Bait Shed. Like many Maine delights, it sits on a pier poking into the ocean; this particular pier is at the bottom of the immense and protected Scarborough Marsh, overlooking the emancipation of the Nonesuch River into the Atlantic.  The place will be jammed in another 4 weeks but was a perfect spot for us to reflect on our Peace Corps experiences.

Thursday evening I gave a slide show and brief talk about my work in Myanmar, sharing the stage with a young child psychiatrist who’d spent 5 months in Malawi immediately before I arrived there.  The audience was about 25 child and adolescent psychiatrists and trainees. They hadn’t assembled for 2 years because of covid. The event was held at the Dockside Grill, overlooking Falmouth Harbor. It couldn’t have been a more lovely evening or setting.  I’m not sure if I enticed anyone to pursue work abroad, which was my objective, but I think all enjoyed the exotica that Saffron and I displayed.

I’ll contact the head of the child and adolescent psychiatry training program here to assess her interest in my setting up a rotation in a developing country for her Fellows-in-Training.  It would be a fun project and I’ll bet I could get funding to do it. Another, less demanding, way to keep my hand in international work. The latter is compelling: doing good, having fun, and stretching oneself in a way that, like all good stretching, feels wonderful afterwards.

Kim will be showing my apartment today at noon. She was flooded with responses as soon as she listed it. Housing is limited here and I have, so far, been remarkably fortunate. Because I’ll move in over Memorial Day weekend, retrieve the contents of my storage locker in Bar Harbor during the subsequent few days, and attempt to get furniture in the ensuing week, I shall not attend my Harvard 60^th reunion, which falls in the middle of those activities. It seemed a curiosity and possibly fun back in the cold isolation of February, but my roommate will be in Europe with his wife, celebrating his 80^th birthday, and I only recognize distantly a couple of the names on the 25 or so attending.  I will miss not seeing Annette, a contemporary ‘Cliffie who is a psychiatrist and was in my medical school class, as well.

I have packed and moved so many times since leaving our home in Berkeley: to Arch Street, to Bar Harbor, to Malawi, to another house in Malawi, to Bar Harbor again, to Myanmar (3 dwellings over 2+ years), to the Island for 4 months, and to my current apartment. Untethered, I’d say. About to be tethered, which is fine and for which I am ready. I am extra-happy to have no lawn and no exterior maintenance! One more move, in several steps.

I live-streamed a wonderful 2 ½ hour memorial service from San Francisco yesterday of an old friend, Stephen Arkin. He was a remarkable guy: brilliant, funny, kind, enthusiastic, generous, a revered teacher, etc. All those qualities, and more, were reflected in the tributes given by his wife, children and many friends. I’m sorry I couldn’t attend in person, as I felt I needed to be here while house-hunting.  These occasions will be more frequent, clearly, as the clock ticks.  Winding down, closing up shop, heading to greener pastures (doubtful), taking a final deep dive.

[Above photo: The shadow of a tree opposite my apartment.]

1 May 2022

It is a perfect day with a blue sky, small fluffy clouds in the distance, and—dare I say?—a warming sun. I’ve heard about April in Maine for years, “Mud month”. Since the snowfall was light this year, the mud isn’t a bother.  However, it has been tantalizingly warm for a day, followed by a week of cold rain and wind. Will Spring ever arrive? 

Nevertheless, the harbinger forsythia reigns in Portland at this moment and I suspect it may, by its sunny nature, have forced the cold air back into Canada. Last week I mistakenly praised as ornamental dogwood what are in fact magnolias. The magnolias I planted on Milvia Street in Berkeley were evergreen, with thick, waxy leaves and heavy, robust creamy blossoms. These magnolias are deciduous and the flowers, diaphanous, twist randomly.  Cherry blossoms have shed over the sidewalks like spilt milk.

I walked 45’ from the West End to the East End to meet my realtor, Stephanie. We closely examined a townhouse on Munjoy Hill that I inspected at an open house yesterday. It is perfect for me. The right size, nicely upgraded kitchen, bay windows in the living and master bedroom, lovely floors, a fenced patio in back, two parking spaces, and lots of storage in the basement. To make my offer attractive, and there will be many competing, I will liquidate virtually all of my savings so I can pay cash for it, enabling a quick closing. Then I’ll return to my bank for a small mortgage to give me a cushion.

It all makes me nervous. What if I get it? What if I don’t get it? I recall the Holmes-Rahe Scale, in which you accumulate points for major events occurring during a year: points for good things—-a promotion, an engagement, birth of a grandchild—and for bad—death, car accident, divorce, bankruptcy, arrest. A certain number of points predicts with some accuracy that a physical illness will ensue. I get it as I am stressed doing this process, sleeping poorly.

Then I talk with my students in Myanmar and my concern falls into a more proper perspective. On Tuesday one of the psychiatrists was on Zoom but in darkness. I assumed that she simply had an electrical outage, as is increasingly common these days of military misrule.  The reality was that in desperation someone had stolen the electrical transformer for her neighborhood and the lines leading to it. People are increasingly poor and copper can be sold. Two men in Maubin tried to time their theft with a scheduled electrical outage, but the current went back on and both were electrocuted. I doubt that Dr. Khin May Lwin will have electricity in her home soon.

I then feel chagrined to be stressed by whether I get this condominium or not. I’m in a lovely apartment and could stay here indefinitely. People in Ukraine, if alive and intact, may have no family, home, or city to which to return. One man’s nick is another one’s amputation.

And then there is the remarkable series of articles on Tucker Carlson in the Times. After he said that immigrants make our country “poorer and dirtier” his ratings shot up so that he has now the most popular show in the history of cable television. And the most racist, as the writers point out. They see him as the likeliest inheritor of Trump’s mantle. He has visited and celebrated Victor Orban, the Prime Minister of Hungary, for whose white Christian anti-immigrant authoritarianism Tucker seems well-suited. I’m sorry if I ever ate Swanson frozen dinners as a child.

Out my window I see a tall, heavy young woman in jeans and a red pullover repeatedly pitching a ball—Whiffle ball? Tennis ball? Surely not a hard or softball—to a young boy who has a good swing and knocks it across the field repeatedly. A short story begins to emerge in my mind—she’s a single mom, her young and unformed lover has left for greener pastures.  She, as countless other single moms do and have done, is trying to pick up the slack so that her beloved child will suffer less. Alternately, I recall the fun of pitching to my son when he was in Little League, practicing his batting on the playground of the School of the Madelaine near our home in Berkeley. He’s a fine athlete.