17 January 2021

[Above photo:  Our friend, Jose, exhausted after cleaning all day. He’s an attorney with two additional Masters degrees, running a very successful consulting business here. He was for years the Director of Save the Children in Sri Lanka. His parents were physicians at Mayo Clinic and his grandfather was the Mayor of Manila.]

This is wearing, all this dangerous nonsense from so many Congressional Republicans. Of course, there are many people everywhere in the world who feel, and often are, left off the train. The lies, for expediency to advance or protect careers, out of fear of The Donald and his Base, simply as an expression of their own grievance at being in a minority party, and finding life, jobs, and the color of lives about them changing rapidly, are not harmless or in any way innocent. We cannot go back to times that some nostalgically imagine were simpler for the white people (read “men”) on top. The train continues down the tracks; jump on or don’t, but it’ll never stop and back up.

Kelly and I were drinking our morning brews—he coffee, me mint tea since caffeine makes my bp soar and they don’t have decaf anything here (except ½ pound of decaf German coffee for $45)—and eating breakfast on Friday, seated on Annie’s pink overstuffed couch looking at the jungle. She, a long-time Yangon-resident, started Pomelo, the first fine general crafts store here. She is sheltering with her husband in Australia and storing much at Kelly’s. The latter has his own banana bread, toasted, each morning. I find the sugar shot too much and make muesli with added fruit and Oat Milk. We were trying to think of songs about the weekend—Ready For the Weekend.  You know the genre: the job sucks, I want to get drunk/stoned, have a fling or a fight, recover, and return to work on Monday—“Monday mornin’ my head is bad, But it’s worth it for the fun that I’ve had”. They come in Rock, Pop, R&B, Blues, and Country versions. Hell, Bach may have written the Coffee Cantata with that in mind!

The problem is, at the moment, holidays and weekends are indistinguishable from “workdays” since I regularly have work on Sunday (webinar) and do not on most weekdays. When time blurs like this, I find it passes all too quickly. It seemed the election and the results took forever to arrive but the 2 ½ months since have flown. I shall resume attending clinic Wednesday mornings next week with two of my former students, shall teach a two-week course in brief psychotherapy for a group of General Psychiatrists starting February, and shall resume teaching my Child and Adolescent Psychiatry certificate course in March, with luck. I have determined, and let my professor know, that I’ll be in the US June-September each year. As I approach returning to the US and getting out to the Island for a 3 month stay, will time move quickly or slowly? It feels very good to anticipate resuming substantive work here. 

I feel gradually duller and less interested in life when I don’t have meaningful goals to address. I woke up one morning with “Goodnight, Irene” going through my head, Pete Seeger’s version. Specifically

“Sometime I have a great notion, To jump in the river and drown.”

I quickly decided to paint my room over the weekend. My face had been looking green on Zoom, from the yellow walls and the blue door, I thought. I gave it two coats of a lovely off-white and changed the blue cloth on my worktable to dark red. Now I appear as a normal, ruddy European, not a bilious, anemic Romanian bloodsucker-in-need.  I also simplified things, eliminating unnecessary stuff, including the 30year old dusty floral drapes. The room is now bright and cheerful, a pleasant place to work. I’m beginning to think I happily could live in a tiny, nicely engineered house. Not that I shall.

While I worry about aging, I can still recall the 4 things I was supposed to purchase at the grocery store yesterday—red wine vinegar, sun-dried tomatoes, cream of tartar, and arugula—so I guess my mind is mostly, except for recall of names, functional. The cream of tartar is to help the aquafaba whip up stiffly. Since we rarely use eggs, the fluid from cooked chickpeas (which I boil regularly to make hummus) serves as a vegan egg white substitute. I never thought I’d eat vegan. Kelly has been plant-based since March, so it works better for us. If I go out and meat is available, I may have it. But thinking about the cruelty and environmental damage wrought by cultivating and harvesting animals for food makes it easier to avoid eating them. Kelly does it for health reasons, although I don’t know why. His mother is 97yo, his father 96yo and he is slender and fit at 64yo. I can make a better case for not eating meat for my health than he can, since my parents died at 55yo (coronary) and 78yo (pancreatic cancer).

Joe is a calming father figure, after a deeply disturbing one. And he has some smart and principled people around him. I expect good things to happen, all within the law, once the dust settles.  DT may actually get a legal reckoning, for once. Cy Vance Jr. and Letitia James are motivated. What a murderer he is, through both neglect and incitement(s)!

10 January 2021

[Above photo: Mmm. Just makes you want to buy a bottle or two, doesn’t it?]

Vladimir Ashkenazy is playing the Bach French Suites. They come, via Spotify, into my Vivo phone and out into the air through my new Sony mini-speaker. It enriches my life to be able to play any music I want. If you really want a surprise, tune in to Lucille Bogan (1897-1948), a blues singer like Ma Rainey, who sang it like it was. I just heard her for the first time. Her song “Til the Cows Come Home” is priceless in its explicit way. And as a kid, we all thought Nellie Lucher’s “Hurry on Down to My House, Honey” was racy! All to say that (electronic) progress isn’t all bad, even though social media algorithms often seem more to confound than to illuminate truths, choosing drama over depth as they do.

We re-wired a new light in Kelly’s bedroom yesterday afternoon to replace the circular fluorescent in the ceiling. It worked fine, even though both wires I was splicing into were red so I didn’t know which was hot. Everything here is 220v. so it is important for cardiac conduction not to mess around when wiring. During supper at 8PM all the lights went off; the a/c stayed on, as did the fridges. I was sure I had somehow screwed things up, but couldn’t imagine how, since electricity can go either way through a lightbulb. Plus, it’s AC, not DC. We used headlamps for the rest of the evening, I switched the wires for the suspect light fixture early in the morning. Soon afterwards our very kind landlady knocked on the door, asking if our electricity was off. Yes, since last night. She called the electrician, who soon arrived on his electric bike with toolbag strapped on the back. In 15 minutes he had diagnosed it and re-routed the main trunk, bypassing a faulty switch which he’ll replace. 

It is nice to have running water, refrigeration, air conditioning, and ample lighting at night but I suppose we’d get along OK without if we simply didn’t expect to have it. The rapid shift from have to have-not causes the strain, as when our electricity or water would suddenly go off for many hours at a time in Malawi. Like the memorable Thanksgiving when we were suddenly faced with 15 dinner guests and no stove. We borrowed the neighbor’s grill and grilled the 3 chickens to perfection.

The rage, gullibility, and ignorance, a problematic trio, on display at our Capitol last week was sad and troubling.  So many people think what happened was OK. [Ted Cruz has been aptly described as “a snake covered in Vaseline”.] It seemed like a mob of angry teenagers to me, hardly a coup attempt.  There was no plan to govern, hardly to do more than invade, shout, and vandalize. I get their anger and frustration, watching as good jobs disappear, seeing the scornful rich get richer as they get poorer, and feeling ill-equipped to address it, let alone understand it. Feces and blood smeared on our seat of government, windows smashed, doors broken, feet on desks, papers strewn about, a piece of Chinese calligraphy torn from the wall (“We don’t need any Chinese here.”), chanting and shouting, and, then, “Well, what do we do next? He told us to come up here and fight with him, to be strong.” Meanwhile, He’s sitting watching TV in the safety and luxury of the White House. Happily, the PGA has withdrawn their 2022 championship tournament from Bedminster in response.

Having lived for 4 years now in two countries with whose governments I have strong objections, I think that we have a pretty good, although imperfect and often unfair, one in comparison. There is a lot that is very wrong, especially our tax system, structural racism, and economic inequality. We also have trouble not violently interfering in the politics of other countries deemed “strategic” to our interests.  The US can only advance in a stepwise fashion, however, and learning from the recent 4 year debacle can perhaps illuminate other major deficiencies we have in realizing our potential for good in the world. For me, the most important piece is that We, if We mobilize, can change things for the better. If We can change the rules by which the system functions, which We can with time and effort, life can improve.  Where I’ve been living changing the rules is very, very difficult. Try to do so in Russia or China.

What is life about if not to contribute positively to human experience through our work and play, by helping the less fortunate/more vulnerable, in advancing ideas through art, through discovering and sharing knowledge, and creating sustainable conditions for the same? It certainly isn’t a new BMW or a yacht, at least not for me. And I don’t wear a hair shirt; I like my possessions and comforts. I’m OK with basic contentment, which is difficult enough to find even without the complications of vast wealth and piles of stuff. My guess is that for most people, those extras limit, rather than expand, their happiness, in spite of our drive to accumulate them.

The “magical realism” novels from S. America never appealed to me but I am now very taken with Love In the Time of Cholera.  It is, for me, memorable writing. There is a range and depth of human emotion and frailty that rings true. I’ll read 100 Years of Solitude next. It will be a change to return to working regularly, not having time to lie in bed and read in the mornings.

A gecko just skittered across the wall. They are my friends. If I have a mosquito one night, and it is rare, they are not there the next. The gekkos do utter surprisingly loud mating calls at night on occasion. Sometimes I feel like doing the same.

3 January 2021

[Above photo: Kelly contemplating our recent Fresca Box delivery with fear and awe.]

I have become unconscionably lazy during this period between teaching my classes. Yesterday I slept until 9AM, something I haven’t done for 30 years. Of course, Kelly and I stayed up until midnight watching “No Direction Home” about Bob Dylan’s career. It was mesmerizing and recalled to me first hearing Joan Baez sing at 47 Mt. Auburn in Cambridge in 1961. And Ravi Shankar gave an electrifying concert at Sanders Theatre at Harvard about the same time. The place was packed, I’d never heard of him, and everyone was transported. We were all so young.

Drifting along here, I arose at 7 this morning and worked for an hour before joining Kelly for breakfast on the couch, as usual. We looked through the window at the garden, and the jungle beyond it;  both are lushly green and lovely and filled with birdsong. It is a striking contrast to the pages of the NY Times, where DT is bullying election officials to “just find me 11,780 votes”, an inflatable Christmas tree at Kaiser-Permanente Santa Clara Hospital has inadvertently spread coronavirus to 40+ people, including to one who died, and small businesses are simply shredded and abandoned by these viral times. The above hospital is where I had surgery and chemotherapy for lung cancer 10 years ago; the care, and the facility, were incredible. I feel a certain responsibility to repay that remarkable care and skill through the way I carry out my life.  I’ll spend less time reading the newspaper and watching political videos, to which I seem drawn, and more being productive.

I had supper two nights ago with friends—-he is Burmese and she is British. In two weeks they’ll fly to UK, settling in Sussex where her parents are, where she grew up, and where her granny left her a cottage. She’s been here, doing peace work, for 15 years. He spent 10 years in Lowell, Massachusetts, doing community work with the large SE Asian refugee population there. He’s an American citizen. Returning to Myanmar has not been easy for him, as it is not for many who live in the West or Australia for a year or more. The quite rigidly defined roles of men and women here, the traditional restraint and indirectness of communication, and other cultural expectations make transition back very difficult.  I anticipate it may be a challenge for them to go to UK, where she has a dream job working for an international star in the peace movement, Dr. Scilla Elworthy, and he has yet to obtain a work visa. This switching between cultures can be tough. Plus, you have amazing and exotic experiences for which those at home, not surprisingly, have a brief interest only. As they told us when we were about to return from Africa, “A little Peace Corps goes a long way.”

Thinking about all this, plus discussing it with my daughter, has helped me to decide to find a winter residence, when I decide to hang it up here, in a town of sorts. Summer will be on Beach Island, all meadows and forests and beaches. Being in proximity to Ari, yet not breathing down her neck, is important to me. The appealing towns are Belfast, about which I hear good things, and Bar Harbor. The latter has The College of the Atlantic and Jackson Labs and their faculty, in addition to the town itself. Bar Harbor is the more expensive. Perhaps I’ll rent for a year, from October through May, and see how I like it. I am so unencumbered I could easily rent in Ushuaia or Ulan Bator.

Kelly, with phone assistance from his wife, Diane, in California and a vegetarian cookbook she sent to him, is creating wonderful dishes in our kitchen. It isn’t difficult for me to be vegan, although I do miss cheese. We cheat and use a bit of grated parmesan on pasta dishes. I can torture myself by imagining feasts I’ve had—-roast leg of lamb with mint sauce for Sunday supper as a child, ribs at Everett and Jones in Oakland, a Jack Daniels-marinated rib-eye steak at the Protea Hotel in Blantyre, and, of course, lobster at Beach Island. But if I don’t think about it, if I live in the moment with what is before me, I am perfectly happy with our diet. Kelly isn’t rigid; he’s a “Flexitarian”. But we never buy meat and rarely eggs (pecan pie) or milk (for coffee only). I suppose it feels a bit virtuous, not needing animals to be raised and killed to keep me fed. Mostly, it feels healthy. 

We had a Fresca Box, a selection of fresh vegetables for one person, delivered weekly for 4 weeks. It was overwhelming and we’ll take a break for a bit before signing up for another 4 week set. It takes organization and planning to use all the vegetables when they come simultaneously. Wednesday supper is always a challenge, because the box comes on Thursday. We now know to make vegetable broth from anything left around; it makes a nice soup base. My thinking is impulsive, not linear, but I see the advantages in cooking from a tested recipe. “Secret Santa” brought me a book on Burmese cooking and I’ll find dishes there to cook and use the veggies.

I recall the Onion headline when Obama was inaugurated: “Black Man Gets Worst Job in the US”. Inheriting two wars and a deep, vicious recession, it did seem pretty awful in comparison with his predecessor.  Shrub had a $500,000,000,000 budget surplus and we hadn’t yet invaded Iraq. DT inherited a growing economy and recovery but leaves us with massive unemployment, an inadequately tended, worsening pandemic, and an economy in tatters. We may soon have tens of millions of families homeless. A banner saying, “Kind, Elderly White Man Accepts the Worst Job in the US” could decorate Joe’s inaugural stage.  The most trying part will be to gain the trust of those fearing “Socialism” but wanting, and needing, government assistance, healing the tribal rift, and discerning a way to identify and de-fang disinformation on the internet. For every Alex Jones making millions off of “Silver Supplements”,  survival packs, and conspiracy theories, there are thousands who seem incapable of critical thinking and who are vulnerable to following anyone who promises a quick release of their fear and anger.

There are, thankfully, enough reasonable people across the political spectrum who can pump their brakes, like the past 10 Secretaries of Defense. Imagine Dick Cheney initiating that letter, not jumping on the Trump bus to hell. This nightmare is ending, although not without a coda, which will be on January 6 as the Electors’ votes are counted. I do hope the Proud Boys “stand down” on that day. The inauguration will be welcome but it will be an anticlimax.

27 December 2020

[Above photo: “My Blue Door” after R. Wintz.

DT has certainly fanned the flames of fear and difference and 74,000,000 Americans have responded. I guess we could say that the other half has, as well.  I’m aware of my intolerance of the other side, but I’d at least like a fair shake for them.

Tribalism, based on place of birth, religious belief, skin hue, SES, bone structure, sexual preference, hairdo, clothing style, preferred music, and all other imaginable ways of slicing and dicing our origins and tastes, seems to be so hard-wired in us. It actually feels good to self-righteously dislike or despise the other side at times, meeting their intolerance with our own.  Whereas a religion or a national creed to whom large numbers belong may allow them to join together and work toward common goals, that often means in opposition to “the others” who live elsewhere or believe otherwise. It seems so stupid and destructive, since we all want the same fundamentals. It is only in the ornaments of civilization that we differ.

One of the bright pillars of the San Francisco Psychoanalytic Institute was Stan Goodman, who mentioned to me in passing during my supervision with him that he thought of all religions as exclusive clubs—-you belonged or you didn’t—complete with special rituals, etc. When I was a student there, it certainly felt like a very clubby enclave of secular Judaism, and I felt on the outside. I recall feeling stung when one of the other candidates said to me, “Oh, I always thought you were Mormon.” which emphasized to me my “Otherness” to her and revealed to me my attitude toward Mormons.

Our tendency to pick our side, and to demonize or idolize the other in ways subtle and obvious, is compelling and pervasive. Living in a diverse community like Berkeley, at which a PTA meeting can seem like a mini-United Nations gathering, helps but is not sufficient. Proximity and familiarity diminish the fear element which propels tribalism but we feed it in so many other ways. Sports team rivalries, political parties and elections, adherence to cultural or religious norms and doctrine, and so many cultural opportunities encourage splitting off the “other”.

Malawi is not free of this, what with tribal, linguistic, geographic, and religious rivalries. Myanmar is likewise tainted. Here, with 132+/- tribal identities, there is opportunity for bullying at all levels, from the schoolyard to the corridors of power. The majority 60% of the country is Bamar and Buddhist.  Many want the country to be a Bamar Buddhist country, just as many Israelis want a “purity” of culture there. The problem is, there are many Muslim and Christian, mainly Baptist and Catholic, families here whose ancestors have been here for generations. And ethnic Chinese. And Indians and Bangladeshis.

One thought about Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s defense of the military atrocities against the Rohingya is that it is purely pragmatic: If she doesn’t side with the military, she may be displaced and the country may slide back into a military dictatorship. A competing, or perhaps additional, thought is that she, too, feels strongly that Myanmar belongs to the Bamar Buddhists and the others must just adapt, leave, or be crushed, regrettably.

Given our tribalism and our tendency to get very violent with each other every few years, it is amazing that in the 75 years since we dropped the bombs on Japan, no one with nuclear weapons has lost it and crisped us all. What a species! Then again, I was listening to the 1956 recording of Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations as I woke up this morning and thought, “What a species!”

It takes a constant daily effort to counter our desire/tendency to want homogeneity and to guard against tribalism. Civil dialogue helps. Diplomacy helps. I don’t think we can outlaw inflammatory rhetoric without severely damaging our right to free speech but I wonder. The “illusion” that we accept each other, within the bounds of the law, is both desirable and a necessity. Like the stock market, treaties, trade agreements, a marriage, friendships, and so much more, illusion is important and can help bridge over substantive differences. The idea that we can “root out” our tribalism seems mistaken to me; we are tribal at base. We can, and should, struggle against it.  We must attempt to codify equality, but that goes only so far if people don’t respect the spirit of the law.  We must support a strong, non-politicized judiciary in order to have a democracy. Those are lessons I have learned from our recent brief experiment in tyranny. I haven’t had to think much about them before, as a member of the dominant white, educated, privileged caste.  At base guilt doesn’t help. Mine is a practical and selfish choice about the quality of the society I want to inhabit and my experience walking down the street or in a city council meeting or lying in bed before sleep at night.

Finally, and accompanied by an exhausted sigh, I had a letter accepted to the NY Times (23 December). I’d almost given up after fruitlessly submitting many. I have lately used the opportunity of writing on a topic simply to clarify my thinking. Then, Surprise!  Here it is to save you the search.

To the Editor:

An executive, rather than a judicial, pardon befits monarchs and tyrants, not the American president. It distorts, and betrays a disdain for, our judicial processes in many ways.

If Michael Flynn or Mohammed bin Salman or Marc Rich, for that matter, has been unfairly served by the courts, he should be referred back for a second accounting. And “pre-emptive pardons”? Please.

We are about to see the pardon process become intolerably abused by the ultimate self-dealer in the White House. It will provoke individual outrage and disgust; it should incite large-scale, masked and distanced peaceful protest across the nation and comment, at least, from the Justice Department.

Writing this helped me think to think more clearly about it. Could we have a special judicial body and mechanism for pardons? Is it already called “an appeals court”? Do we need to modify the appeal process, to fine-tune it so that innocents or others unfairly sentenced can be pardoned? Knowing that our prison system is designed and conducted for punishment, not rehabilitation, should alter how we think about sentencing and pardoning. After all, we want to optimize society and capital punishment, for example, seems not to deter capital crimes.

All covid restrictions have been lifted here. The Myanmar economy, shaky in good times, cannot tolerate a prolongation of the shutdown. We are bracing for “a wave”. And looking around for a vaccine.

20 December 2020

[Above photo: This blossom just opened in the back yard. You can see why hearing “I’m Dreaming of A White Christmas” as we shop in Citymart Market Place sounds silly, if not jarring, with daytime temperatures in the mid-90’s.  The NY Times suggests that in the time it takes to play through once, another 5 Americans have died of Covid-19.  I love and miss snow, in truth.]

Our Saturday night poker game collapsed this week. Connor forgot and when Kelly called him, Connor sounded besotted, as his girlfriend was with him. Jose had supper with Irene and another couple. Kelly had also invited his steady tennis partner, whom he has known for years. Andrew is a Canadian from Toronto; he headed Save the Children here when Kelly arrived 8 years ago. He’s raised his kids in Myanmar, having lived here for 15 years.

Andrew claimed he hadn’t played poker for years but he certainly picked up the game quickly, betting aggressively and drawing us all in. Kelly was unprecedentedly lucky and won all of our money. It has never happened to him before, he assures us.  Three isn’t enough for a good game, really. But we had some laughs. Kelly made a tasty Thai coconut curry soup with lemon grass and mushrooms, I baked onion-garlic bread and fashioned a kale/balsamic/parmesan/pecan salad. I forgot how long bread must rise and only let this loaf rise once, but it was fine. There will be more bread in our future and I’ll get some proper bread pans next week. We ate the gingerbread cupcakes Irene brought over for dessert, with some mango sorbet.

I’m sniffing around for funding at UN agencies, international NGO’s, and the US Embassy. Kelly helped me fashion an introductory letter and as I looked at the list of my accomplishments over the past 2 years, I felt pleased. To really make a difference I’d have to be here 5, 10, 20 years but I’ve made a good start and hope to continue and consolidate. I am not worried about funding, being in a unique position as the only child psychiatrist in the country. Plus, I have a track record here, having worked within government service and proven I can do what I am proposing to continue. Selling myself is much more fun than selling a car or a house.

I have been watching “The West Wing” when I am running on my elliptical and find it compelling and witty. I am pretty much a TV virgin. There was no TV in our home when I grew up. A set was expensive then and we were all readers. Plus, TV was pretty lame back in the 50’s. Poki didn’t like to go to movies often or to watch TV, except when Joe Montana was taking the 49’ers to the Superbowl year after year or the early years of SNL.  I kind of get it, since it is virtual life.  As a result of all, I haven’t acquired the habit.  When we finally got a set, we were pretty silly in not wanting our kids to get too much exposure. When the excessive viewing time alarms rang, I’d lug our 75# Sony Trinitron to the basement. But then something newsworthy would compel me to lug it back upstairs so we could all watch. The Oakland hills fire was one of those. A neighbor kept his TV in the trunk of his car. But Kelly has no such pincers bedeviling him and I’ve seen some great stuff recently.

Imran is a 3^rd generation Pakistani carpet dealer who has a big shop in Bangkok. He met Kelly in Bangladesh years ago.  They have an arrangement whereupon Imran brings carpets to Yangon and stores them at the house, having a public show here every 6 months or so and Kelly gets a discount if he buys any. We get to use the carpets of our choice until they sell.  Since Imran has been unable to visit Yangon due to Covid restrictions, he recently put the word out and several couples came by and have purchased carpets, including a lovely one I had in my bedroom. I thought if it survived the current sale, I could negotiate a better price. The first buyer bought it. There are many more where that came from.

As a footnote on indoor wildlife, Kelly cut flowers for poker night. Putting them in the 10’ vase sitting on our coffee table, he noticed a dark lump in the bottom. On closer inspection, it was a frog! Probably the same little guy or gal who has been hopping all over our house recently. S/he is an amazing freestyle climber, since the vase is tall and flares outward at the top. What did Kelly do? Put in a little water and the flowers. Then he told me. Having breakfast on the couch this morning, I looked at the vase and flowers and realized I couldn’t bear the thought of the frog in there. I walked down two flights to my room, exited to the yard, pulled out the flowers and a frog wriggled up. Said frog surprised me so that I dropped the vase in the long grass. The frog was liberated, to live his/her life freely among the pleasures and dangers of our jungle. If s/he returns to our home, I’ll name and care for him/her. Some frogs are hermaphrodites, I think, or is that just the result of too many estrogen analogues in our water supply?

Because I “attended” the IACAPAP (International Association of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry and Allied Professions) biennial meeting in Singapore last month, I can access all the presentations online until 4 March. I am showing them to my Webinar group of 70 psychiatrists by Zoom every week, after which we have a discussion. It is interesting for me and for them to hear others—-experts, often—-discuss new ideas and observations. The lectures are more relevant for Myanmar’s needs than those at AACAP Annual, since many of the IACAPAP speakers are addressing needs and projects in developing countries.  What a fun time I can have even in the middle of this dreadful pandemic!

Vaccines are beginning to roll out across the world. “Pressure” of the vaccines will encourage the emergence of resistant strains.  I suspect the first vaccines to get to Myanmar will be from China. Given the intense Chinese government desire to hide bad news, I am reluctant to accept one of theirs. It would be nice if another lethal virus doesn’t emerge and spread during this time.

13 December 2020

[Above photo: Since I am not travelling, I’m using old photos. This is from an outbreak of mass hysteria among adolescent schoolgirls in a small village in Malawi.]

Kelly and I can manage to dissipate hours of time in laughter and enlightenment. And we both seem to have hours to spend. For example, he bakes a standing loaf of walnut-chocolate chip-banana bread which, with a cup of coffee or tea, is breakfast. It includes your nut, fruit, and chocolate food groups, nutritionally well-balanced. If he’s not off playing an early tennis game, we sit on the couch in front of a floor-to-ceiling glass window and watch the birds and butterflies flitting by against a wall of green jungle and chat.

We have revisited our childhood thrills, like the Klondike Big Inch Land Company. Quaker Oats, when the marketing appeal of “shot from guns” for Puffed Wheat and Puffed Rice waned, ran a promotion.  After buying 19 acres of Yukon Territory in Canada for $1000, they printed 21 million “Deeds” to one square inch of the land, minus mineral rights, putting one copy in each box of cereal they sold.  It was a smash, coupling nicely with the radio show Sargent Preston of the Yukon [with his trusty husky, King], also sponsored by Quaker Oats. After a year or so the company increased the appeal by adding a “poke” of soil, a tiny packet of sand from the local riverbank, for 25 cents. Those were simpler times. I also loved the little grey plastic airplanes that came at the bottom of a box of Kix. I vaguely recall a secret decoder ring associated with the radio show, Tom Mix. “Take a tip from Tom, go and tell your mom, Shredded Ralston can’t be beat.”  Some of the ads at the end of comic books were bogus—-a World War II surplus US Army jeep for $24.99—but some were great.

From one I bought a little pamphlet on ventriloquism and my siblings and I spent a summer making “high-pitched grunting sounds” and pointing to our spaniels, Sunny and Goldie, or to inanimate bushes and trees. I also bought a box of fireworks from Texas for $5. It was totally worth it. High explosives. Massively powerful rockets, roman candles, and M-80’s in abundance. I carried the firecrackers around on the 4th of July in a glass Mason jar. It would have done a job if, at 8yo, I’d ignited anything inside the jar.

In college Peter Barnes and I bought a “weather balloon” from the same source.  We lived on the 7^th floor of the new Leverett Towers and were going to inflate it out the window and stencil foot prints on it. We inflated it up to about 8 feet in diameter inside our suite with someone’s portable vacuum cleaner.  Peter touched it with a magic marker, and the balloon, probably a leftover from WW2, exploded with a soft “Poof!”.

Just to add to the Indoor Wildlife saga here, we are infested with weevils. Actually, they are only in one section of the kitchen and have caused us to dispose of two bags of rice noodles and a small open container of rice. They seem indifferent to wheat, such as fettuccini or macaroni.  They like corn, though. Now that we’ve protected all the rice products, we see them forlornly creeping across the kitchen counters. They are rather amazing; you can press on them as you would to kill an ant but they keep trucking along. They actually are easy to get out of rice, since they float and a fairly heavy contamination is completely clean with 3 or 4 rinses.

Kelly called me to the bathroom a month ago. There was a plump frog sitting on the top of the reservoir tank for the toilet on the 3^rd floor. How did it get there? We left it alone and it was gone in a day. Two evenings ago we were sitting outside with mosquito coils, on the 3^rd floor balcony and, lo and behold, there was a frog of the same size and shape hopping about. It may be our earlier guest. I assume it has a plan and a map. I hear its soulmates chirping outside my bedroom window in the marsh all night.

The Dutch National Public Health Directorate suggested in May that single people find a sex partner for the duration of covid restrictions. How enlightened! Imagine our Surgeon General doing such a thing. “It’s our civic duty.” It could decrease the viral spread associated with desperate and furtive couplings. Recall that Bill Clinton fired Joycelyn Elders for suggesting that masturbation should be included in sex-education classes. Then he and Monica….  I’m pretty sure Bill didn’t give a fig but the political pressure was too great for him not to act. 

Part of why the Soviet Union collapsed was widespread alcoholism and low productivity. Vodka was abundant and cheap and people felt unmotivated and quite despondent that their efforts weren’t commensurately rewarded. “To each according to his need.” Soviet communism neglected one great fuel source of capitalism: many, if not all, work harder and smarter if they are rewarded for it. We don’t get very far in our social engineering projects if we deny fundamental human nature, like sexual impulses and a desire to be rewarded for hard work. Why not recognize, accept, and channel them?

Our Christmas dinner plans fell through as we discovered that the hostess had invited 4 more people, bringing the number to 9, which felt like too many to both Kelly and me. It’s just a meal; we’ll do better with a smaller gathering, I think. This is a beastly disease and I want to avoid it.

Think, more Americans have died in 9 ½ months from Covid-19 than in all battle theaters in the 4 years of our engagement in WW 2. And many who haven’t died are left with lasting pulmonary and neurological sequelae. US ICUs are bursting, health care providers exhausted, and Bozo golfs and drums up phony claims to overthrow our democratic election, all dismissed even by judges he has appointed. “4 years of this nonsense. It’s time to stop, Fucko. You lost. Pack your boxes.” as one articulate Yankees fan delicately puts it on YouTube.

I’m lining up international faculty from the US and various ASEAN countries to teach virtually in my course. It will be good for the students, good for me, and good for sustainability. I’m also hoping to develop the Myanmar Association of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry. I initially thought to add “and Allied Professions”, which makes great sense to me except that I want to develop child psychiatry as a viable specialty here and it is too delicate in its infancy. Maybe in time we can add the others, including psychologists, special education teachers, art therapists, etc., if they are interested. It would make for a more interesting organization and potentially more powerful advocacy group. I need to get permission to form a group, however.

6 December 2020

[Above photo: Kelly working, from my series, The Descent of Man.]

Thanksgiving Day brought an avalanche of food and good cheer among the 5 of us celebrating together. I must, again, extoll the virtues of our gravy, Queen Mother of Thanksgiving, which was judged superb by all present, turning to Glory the mashed potatoes, turkey, and dressing (No stuffing here. It slows the cooking, using more gas.). The bounty came from our own shopping and cooking, from Jose and Irene, from Connor, and, with a bit of bad planning, our first Fresca Food Box which was delivered on Thanksgiving Day.  It is probably the worst day of the year on which to receive a large box of fresh vegetables.

A box will come each week for a month and we’ll probably end the service then.  There is always the element of surprise, which is fun, but there is the constant pressure to be done with last week’s box before the next one comes. Also, if they want to bring you lots of root vegetables and you are ok with a small number of root vegetables but prefer green leafies and tomatoes, you are in for disappointment. Having tended vegetable gardens for many years I know the work involved. I also know the miracle it is to plant a seed and have it develop into a plant producing tasty, nourishing leaves/fruit/roots. I hate to waste food. The boxes can seem oppressive.

Consequently, two nights ago we were trying to deal with the complexity of refrigerators filled with fresh vegetables. Kelly made a huge curry with all of the broccoli, cauliflower, and mushrooms. I made a large coleslaw with vinaigrette of the cabbage and carrots. At lunch we finished off a container of gazpacho, another of salad greens, and a container of chili. Gradually we make progress emptying the shelves, so eating feels like an accomplishment, as well as a simple pleasure. Laughter echoes from the kitchen.

For example, my Hasselbeck potatoes looked swell but are basically a baked potato that could more easily be garnished at the table than during the cooking process; I have spoken about them repeatedly for several weeks and they turn out better in metaphor than reality. Kelly made a guacamole with an avocado a friend gave him; it was unripe and he put in nearly an entire, very hot red onion. It was inedible, despite adding extra limes, a bit of brown sugar to counter the bitterness, and letting it sit overnight. We dumped it into the curry where it was nicely absorbed and the curry was none the worse.  His gazpacho, if simple to make, is wonderful; whoever paired cucumbers and tomatoes in a cold soup deserves a Nobel, I think. Or some Michelin stars to affix to their shirt.  I subscribed to the NYTimes cooking section so I now can select from 137 recipes for cole slaw. Probably a copy of The Joy of Cooking  or the NYTimes Cookbook would be a more economical approach.

Yesterday we “put up” the Christmas tree, a 2 foot tall cedar in a pot we purchased at a nursery on Kandawgyi Lake. With a 3 foot long string of battery-powered colorful LEDs, it serves as something between a tip of the hat and a totem, reminding us of Christmas here in the tropics. Since I am not religious—even less inclined, having just seen “Spotlight”, which reinforces the fallibility of humans acting as God’s messengers—the holiday is a mix of happy memories when the kids were young and excited by it, miserable memories because I was so inept at buying gifts for my wife, and a sense of otherworldliness having this celebration in the heat. “Everything is commodified.” seems to match well with this holiday—-I’ll take it for $500. A bit cynical.

There is a lot of life in the tropics. There are geckos scooting all over the inside walls, calling to their mates and eating insects. There is the occasional large—-1 ½“ x ½”—cockroach in the pantry or bathroom. Plenty of centi- or millipedes (Who is counting?) inside and out; they are much smaller than the massive ones in Malawi.  The rare mosquito inside, fat and slow and easily dispatched. They carry dengue, not malaria, but in its hemorrhagic presentation it, too, can be fatal. Irene called us to see a beautiful snake in a bush in their garden.  It was slender with fine green and yellow markings. It “jumped” from one bush to the other, travelling along above the ground that way. Irene was convinced it was a krait (very venomous) but Kelly identified it on Google as a Burmese whipsnake whose venom might kill a bird or small rodent but not a human. Excepting the mosquitoes and cockroaches, we all live in harmony, keeping our distance.

I’m applying for funding to continue my teaching. It is a laborious process, learning a new way to present myrself, my project, and my hoped-for deliverables. But it also stimulates me to organize my thoughts; I am definitely not a linear thinker. The recent 3 day IACAPAP (International Association of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry and Allied Professions) biennial conference, Zoomed across all time zones from Singapore, was terrific. Hearing committed academics discuss their interests is inspiring to me and helps me to think more deeply about my course and my larger plans here. I realize, again, how interacting with my students inspires me.

In constructing a budget, I constantly low-ball myself. I think about the poor women selling vegetables on the street and my professor and students’ miserable pittance of government salaries and work from that. It turns out that all foreign organizations, including Save the Children, the Red Cross, Amnesty International, etc. pay reasonable wages. Kelly has been a great help in the perspective and organization department. I won’t get rich but I won’t eat up my retirement when I get funded.

I note that I’m not cranking this out on Sunday anymore. It’s amazing how much more time you have to write if you live alone. Or, I suppose, if you discipline yourself. Please don’t worry, as I’ve heard some do, if this isn’t up by Sunday in your town. I’m undisciplined when class is out, not perishing from a coronavirus infection or snakebite.

29 November 2020

[Above photo:  The remains of our Thanksgiving champagne, placed in the freezer to quickly chill and, then, forgotten.]

On Friday I called a Grab to take me to my physiotherapy appointment. It is my 4^th with Hugues Tierny, a tall, friendly Frenchman who has been here for 6 months. Because I spent cash buying a sound bar for the TV and an office chair for my Zoom broadcasts, I knew my wallet was thin. Checking it in the cab, I had less than half the cab fare (which was about $2.50). Yikes!  I asked the driver to stop at an ATM. He did, and I tried 3 machines but none would yield cash. Back in the cab, I asked him to go to an AYA Bank ATM. He stopped at one but it was broken. A woman at the group of ATMs motioned to me that there was one up the street. Off I hustled on foot, as the cabbie waited. I couldn’t find it and returned. As I started to get into the wrong cab, another driver came and attempted to pry me loose. It turns out I hadn’t seen his face and he was, in fact, my driver. After explanations and apologies, I hopped in his cab and he drove me to Samitivej International. I asked him to wait and I went inside, late for my appointment. Hugues was sitting at his desk in the consulting room. I said, “I need to borrow 5000 kyat.” “OK”, he replied, and handed me a note which I delivered to the cabbie, who was happy to get the tip.

Then, in the middle of my treatment, Hughes excused himself and met a little Frenchman bearing fresh brioche in a paper bag. It was Antoine, of Antoine’s Breads. “He bikes all over town, delivering these. He doesn’t charge for delivery and doesn’t charge enough for the bread.  Here, you have one. It will go well with a cup of coffee.”  And, “Do you need to borrow more to get home?” I didn’t, and directed the next driver to an AYA Bank ATM near my house. I split the brioche with Kelly and ate my half with sweet butter and a cup of coffee, listening to a local guru from the Asia Foundation give a talk about the recent elections, the NLD victory, and the necessity of not viewing it all in a binary fashion.

I think my arm may actually be getting better, given my daily exercises and Hugues’ massage/acupressure ministrations. As he bore down on my tight left middle trapezius with his thumb, I sighed, “Ah, that’s the spot.” He retorted, “You are a masochist?” with a heavy French accent.

David Brooks wrote an excellent opinion piece in the NYT about the mollusk-like adherence of the Base to DT. He thoughtfully points to their anti-intellectual, anti-scientific, hyper-religious leanings as based on fear, insecurity, and a sense of being scorned and not special. It all makes sense to me and I thank him for it. We must restore economic opportunity to them, as well as our respect for them, if not their beliefs. Not easy to do. There is so much to learn to be a useful citizen in this world! 

The quick acceptance of conspiracy theories certainly can give a person a smug sense of superior “knowing”, as well as an explanation of sorts, providing a reassurance of control in an increasingly complex world where large, anonymous forces play a central role in our experience.  It also can provide a likely opponent and target for hatred and grievance, always useful. Freud’s thoughts about religion in The Future of an Illusion partially illuminate this puzzle for me. Basically, the world is a scary place, filled with uncertainty, illness, savage animals, savage, sexual humans, and dangerous, destructive natural phenomena. Religion is an illusory attempt to bind humans together in collective cooperation, to lend a sense of safety and meaning to our existence (especially our suffering), and to calm our terrors.  In a sense, conspiracy theories provide a similar succor, including a sense of special knowledge unrecognized by other, “naïve” people.  It is a very seductive draw in these days of pandemics, global warming, job insecurity, immense wealth inequality, mediocre education for many, and corruption at the highest levels of government.

We have finally finished the pecan and pumpkin pies . My apple pie was a distant third; it is difficult to compete with those two at Thanksgiving. We’ve also eaten all the dressing and mashed potatoes. Since there were going to be two others bringing potatoes, I punted on the Hasselbeck potatoes and shall make them another time. The turkey was delicious and it was easy to revive my interest in meat. I whisked while Jose wafted in flour and we made a terrific gravy. The dinner was lively and we spent most of the time taking turns talking about things we were thankful for, which was pretty easy.

However, I am in a state of missing family and my close friends.  I suppose it is because of Thanksgiving and revisiting memories of uniformly happy past celebrations . I’ve forgotten the unhappy ones, just as a woman must forget, I imagine, the extreme pains of labor and delivery if she is to get pregnant again.

Speaking of which, Laura Spiekerman and her husband Nick (and her mother, Martha Chase, and their dog, Ruby, and Martha’s dog, Stevie—it takes a village to raise a child.) just gave birth to a healthy baby boy, as yet unnamed. I don’t know Nick’s parents and don’t recall the name of Martha’s cats or I’d include them in the list. Congratulations to all!

This relative isolation is tedious. At brunch today with Jose and Irene, after a 2 week hiatus, we explored the legacy of David Livingston, the Scot physician, missionary, and explorer, who was the first European to cross Southern Africa coast to coast, among other exploits. I remembered him as an anti-slavery zealot and for founding his mission in Malawi, since moved to Livingstonia as the falciparum malaria at his two lakeside sites killed an inordinate number of his followers, the Lord’s work notwithstanding.  Irene, who is a Scot, remembered him as seriously flawed. As we discovered, he was a great promoter of British colonialism. Then we moved on to “Was there anything good about Hitler?”. He was into physical fitness, promoted education for youth, led the first anti-smoking campaign, built the autobahn system, and developed an automobile for the people. Our appreciation for his love of animals was tempered by the fact that he tested one of his cyanide pills on his beloved German shepherd, Blondie, to make certain it would work for him. It did for Blondie. Then we were on to the “dark side” of Mother Theresa, who was felt not to actually provide much medical care for the ill, had positive relationships with the Duvaliers of Haiti and Enver Hoxha, the autocrat of Albania, and did last minute conversions (?forced) before death of those who had in healthier times resisted the same.  Plus, there was her colonial stance of a white woman bringing care cum religion to the brown masses. There was much laughter as we developed each character.

And now, The Donald whines off into the sunset—I have no fear that LB (Lazybones, Lardbottom) will run in 2024. Maybe Tom Cotton. Or Pompeo. Even Pence, an exemplar of the smiling zero.  C’mon folks, let’s include character (with kindness) and acceptance of science as a fundamental bar all viable candidates must step over.  Support of the Constitution. Operate within the law. The President’s cabinet can supply the brilliance and the detailed plans.  We don’t need a president as a buddy, we don’t need nicknames, and we don’t need a messiah. We need a basic level of competence, of decency, a concern for everyone in America, and a genuine interest in caring for others, including lending a hand to the most vulnerable.

One very important thing that we’ve lacked in the past 4 years is inspiration from our leader’s actions to become better people.

23 November 2020

[Above photo: A small, peaceful herd of elephants gathered by a large granite boulder—on our windowsill—in Blantyre, Malawi.]

Nights are cool and lovely. The rains are over. All is green and lush. It is a perfect time to travel into the beautiful nether reaches of Myanmar but, alas, it is not to be. Perhaps if vaccines are widely and rapidly disbursed here by the end of April or May, it will be possible. Upper Kachin State, at the tail of the Himalayas, will be a comfortable temperature before the rains turn it all to flooded rivers and soupy trails. It’s good to dream.

I’ve headed downtown twice since last week and realize how much I enjoy all the activity. It is convenient but boring to go into one of the City Mart Marketplaces here. The chain is identical to a Safeway or Hannaford. Since there are no wet markets functioning in our district at present, we are reduced to that.  I shall plan to go downtown at least weekly for my shot of a street market and street life. We are all masked and it is outside so I don’t think I am at great risk.

Here’s an issue I’ve wanted to tackle in my blog but haven’t known how. I still don’t. Every toilet here has an adjacent nozzle on a small hose with which to wash your butt. It turn out that this is common practice in much of the world, according to people who study these things. It now seems a bit gross to me not to wash off; the alternative being just a bit of friction with some toilet tissue. We use the latter here to dry off with. It is hygienic and I don’t know why it isn’t standard practice in the US. We are still a frontier people in many ways, as if using outhouses without plumbing. The French have bidets, the Koreans and Japanese have elaborate machines that will warm, cool, wash, dry, massage, and probably make popcorn! The control panels on those units have been somewhat intimidating to me. For all prospective visitors to my new home in Maine, I shall have plumbed little hoses with nozzles next to each toilet.

We are preparing for Thanksgiving. Yes, and despite my plant-based diet I’ll eat Jose’s turkey this evening. We’ve already made hummus for an appetizer and pecan, apple, and pumpkin pies from scratch. We have both whip cream and vanilla ice cream. How male to make desserts first! We’ll also have a savory dressing/stuffing, the Ottolenghi baked butternut squash/red onion/tahini dish, steamed green beans with fried garlic and almonds, rocket salad, Hasselbeck potatoes, mashed potatoes, and a variety of libations. A logistical challenge is oven space. The party—-five of us who socialize regularly and with few else—will be at our house. Thus, the turkey should cook here. I’ve tried transporting a turkey cooked in a disposable aluminum pan in the past and it was not pretty. We may have to outsource some of the other oven items to Jose and Irene’s stove and walk them over when cooked.

Kelly and I tried to revive an old gas stove in the pantry that belongs to the organization he used to head. He hasn’t used the oven in the 4 years he has been in the house.  We were able to connect it to a gas cylinder and light the oven but it refused to stay lit. The thermocouple must be dead. Probably safer just to ignore it. Kelly said, “I think I have a toaster oven that might work.” which entirely cracked me up. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner in a possible toaster oven that might work. Many have, I’d guess.

I do not know why I am so late writing this post. I haven’t felt I had that much to say, I suppose. Although I am excited by the professionalism of Joe’s cabinet choices, especially to see Janet Yellen and John Kerry included. It was inevitable that Tom Cotton and a bunch of spineless ‘Pubs will immediately begin to criticize them. The Base needs raw meat. They feel like the Germanic hordes of old. I guess it also was inevitable that DT would pardon Michael Flynn. Seeing how the Presidential pardon prerogative can be abused, including of Marc Rich by Bill Clinton, I think we should consider abolishing it. It seems like a royal privilege to me, akin to droit de seigneur. If someone’s presumed innocence demands a new trial, let’s have one. And if we could only base our vote on a candidate’s character, rather than wealth or charisma. Good luck with that!

My hearing hasn’t been good for years, perhaps from my ill-spent youth at the Filmore and Winterland in the ’60’s. I have trouble interpreting British English. In response, I bought a soundbar for the TV and now, miraculously, I can understand English, French, Russian and Chinese! It does make the experience much better. If you haven’t seen “The Morning Show” on Netflix, it is terrific. And I have not been a Jennifer Anniston fan, based on her whiney, aggrieved portrayal in the tabloids. How would I know? No, no, I never read that trash. Just whispers on the street. But it is a gripping saga and a peek into the world of broadcast celebrity and compromise, as well as human nature. I currently use my elliptical trainer watching Ken Burns’ “World War 2 in Color”. It is a masterful compilation and narrative, and leaves me stunned by the complexity and immensity of “modern” warfare—-and that was 80 years ago.

I am so enjoying my garden, viewed through the plastic sheet over my screen. It feels like I’m sitting in it but with no mosquitoes or stifling heat. I have so much to be thankful for, despite all the crap in the world. The gift of conscious life is astounding.

15 November 2020

[Above photo: Weaver bird nests over the Shire River in Liwonde Game Park, Malawi]

Kelly and I just returned from the American Club, which I’ve described before. Several tennis courts, a coffee shop, a swimming pool, a gym, a softball/soccer pitch, and outside terraces set on several acres of lawn and trees at the north end of Inya Lake. It is bucolic. Kelly is a competitive tennis player and wins single and doubles tournaments there, although a 16yo boy beat him yesterday. We went there to see an exhibit of furniture repurposed from salvaged hardwoods—from monasteries, old houses, etc. It was gorgeous in design and execution; the joinery was crisp and tight. I want to visit the showroom to possibly buy something to send home. The cabinets, small bars, chests, tables, chairs, and chess sets were all wonderful. We had  snacks and smoothies, getting brain freezes. My god, those hurt!

It has been a pretty uneventful week. We’ve expanded our culinary repertoire to include a red curry (me), gazpacho (Kelly), and masala dosas (Indian Tadka, down the street).  I made pasta from scratch, using a salvaged pasta machine Kelly found in a cupboard. It was simple, if labor-intensive, and wonderfully tasty. We are eating more green leafies than before.  Our poker game last night was hilarious as we created new versions of old standards; “Double five card draw with hold ‘em and a wild card kicker at the end”. The hands ended up being fabulous—5 aces, Royal Flush—, as are the pots. I lost over half my buy-in, as my betting skills collapsed with the change in odds. It was cheap entertainment.  

I did try, once again, to send Aillen some money for a laptop. I now have spent 10 hours on 7 or 8 trips over 4 months to various branches of Aya and CB Bank. I have learned to say that I am retired—-“I’m 80yo!”—and, thus, have no work contract. (You must show a contract.) Yes, she is my relative, my cousin on my mother’s side. (Aya Bank doesn’t allow you to send money by Western Union unless the recipient has your surname.) At CB Bank on Wednesday, after a third futile trip to immigration to secure my visa, the teller issued me the money, which I had to walk around the corner and change to dollars at a separatte “money changer” window. I came back and gave it to them, assured it would be sent that day. Two hours later a frantic call came to me at home. They should not have issued me money over the counter via my bank card. I had to write a check, although I have never received a check-book from them. I went in two days later, they gave me a check book, I wrote a check, and then thought to review my balance. They had deducted the amount twice from my account. They fixed that and gave me a new receipt. But before sending it, they needed to see again the paper from the Ministry of Immigration assuring my visa through April. I had shown it to them two days previously and didn’t bring it this trip. But I’ll go in again on Monday with all the papers, plus the cash in dollars that they returned to me, and try again. It’s surprising anything gets done here, with all the interlocking bureaucratic hoops, born of paranoia and profit, through which everyone must hop. I should keep my money in a sock under the mattress.

My trips downtown were fun, however, as I visited several areas I know that have busy street markets. I bought fruit and vegetables and enjoyed the exchange with the vendors and the general atmosphere of bustle. I miss that, although I love the company and natural beauty here on Kokkine Swimming Pool Lane.

At a check-in a week ago with a group I lead, I forgot to mention the US election results. It is the most important thing to me at present but I have such Trump-drama fatigue that it slipped my mind. To think that he’s possibly going to continue to receive a lot of press for years to come is repellant. He gives repellant a bad name!

Ari continues to find, and evaluate, homes and home-sites for me near her. There are many, each with their benefits and shortcomings. I am eager to return to the US, although not into the current covid maelstrom. I want to settle into a new home, make friends with my neighbors, and build a 16 foot long seaworthy skiff on which to run out to Beach Island.  If I could continue active teaching here, with a clinic, I’d be content but being at loose ends isn’t my cup of tea.

Looking out my plastic-covered door, I see butterflies fluttering by in patches of sunlight that penetrate the thick, lush canopy. It drops my blood pressure and makes me want to snooze!