CAST AWAY: DAY 257

  Here it is the end of November, on Standard time. So now we wake up in the dark, it gets dark again before dinner time and there are still three weeks before daylight starts gaining ground again. What is so great about Standard time? I like Daylight time. Sunshine would be even later coming but you could get home before dark. I’ve done both winter and summer in Alaska and it doesn’t matter. You need cardboard over the windows in summer to fall asleep at night and you need Valium in the winter for dark induced depression. We are high functioning monkeys, we can do it. Get over it. 
But I will be out on my patio on December 21st, fire going in the chiminea, dance a little dance, sipping peach brandy, eating chocolate (my own attempt at pagan communion) singing along with songs about sunshine. Winter Solstice is the longest running, continuously observed religious ritual in human history, if not my favorite holiday then 2nd without a doubt. I really like ‘El Dia del Muertos’ The Day of The Dead and choosing between them wouldn’t serve any purpose. 
Back to today, the end of November; it is time to get serious about looking after my birds. I don’t go out of my way to keep them fed thru summer. They do very well on their own. But winter is God’s final exam for birds. Birds that pass get another summer. So I keep raw peanuts, black oil sunflower seeds and suet served buffet style on my patio. I watch them come and go out the kitchen window as daylight perks along with my coffee. Nobody owns the Cardinal or the Nuthatch on the feeder but you can feel engaged when they choose your house to drop in. They fuss and flutter, big birds drive off little ones but they come back around and all get their turn at the buffet. Nobody can own the squirrels either. They don’t think, don’t fret, don’t make plans, nor do they take pleasure in my displeasure. The myth of squirrel intelligence is just that. They are relentless, never give up; that is what they are. It often leads to success in ways we didn’t imagine but it doesn’t make them smart. Birds can be discouraged and retreat but they sing sometimes and they can fly. They can fly, OMG they can fly. As a kid I was in awe of birds. If I could have flown I would never have landed. 
Sometimes I struggle with Pandemic Blues. In April there were hot spots where people were dying in droves. Now the dying is spread around with only one big hot spot, everywhere. So different day, same shit. Fatalities are peaking again with serious blooms expected after Thanksgiving, Christmas and again after the end-of-year foolishness. I’m struggling today. All I can do is avoid people, keep clean, wear a mask outside my house, get some exercise, stay hydrated and eat all I need but no more. On the bright side, if there is one, I am saving money. But struggle is like gravity, always there, always pulling you down. You can leap the hurdle and the hang time is great but you come back down and there you are. The struggle will have mutated just enough to give you pause and dull your edge. All you can do is find cause to leap again. That’s what I’m doing. I feel like Tom Hanks character in ‘Cast Away’ must have felt, talking to a volleyball, trying to spear a fish. 

A SINGLE DAY: DAY 251

  My Apple computer came with some software I didn’t ask for but then it works and slowly, i’m learning. There is a little box full of small icons, all of them news outlets. If I click on one, today’s paper scrolls up and I can see what is in the news. If I want to read beyond the first paragraph I need to subscribe. Some news services are free and I’ve been satisfied to get my news there so far. As much as I like NPR News and the BBC, I have learned to appreciate the New York Times even more. They offered a one year, on line subscription for $4 per month, but only for a while. Subscribe now or the price goes back up soon. If that is high pressure tactics then shame on them. If it’s nothing more than a good deal, I can live with that. So I did the online subscription and now I have full access, any time of day.
David Brooks is a featured columnist and I trust him. His own personal backstory is credible, he or one of his interns actually does research the issues before he writes and that is to his credit. I discovered his column in 2012 when I was in Nova Scotia, have been following him from a distance ever since. He is a guest on NPR’s news hour every week but I prefer to read, often reread his column and it comes at a price. 
Brooks is a moderate conservative with deep roots in what is fair. I would be a moderate conservative myself but only if the world, this nation, were a perfect place. For as long as greed and denial corrupt perfection, I will lean to the left. I realize the big winners on the right believe that greed is good and denial cures every ill. All of Brooks’ posts are archived, going back for years and I have access to them all.  
Another writer I follow had an op-ed in the Times on 11/20. Yuval Harari is an Israeli scholar, historian, author who comes at issues with relentless objectivity. His piece was about Cabal Conspiracy Theories and the flawed logic behind them. His point about small groups of elites controlling outcomes in large, complex interactions was applicable to smaller scale conspiracies. Exercising covert control, keeping it secret and guiding it to fruition is nigh impossible in a family dispute much less with corporations, government or social hierarchy. After all, the best laid plans of mice and men . . .
Yesterday, November 23, in a single day over a thousand fatalities and 180,000 new Covid cases confirmed. At first they said it was a Liberal hoax. Then they disputed the numbers, that both cases and fatalities had been exaggerated for political ends. Then they tried to play it down by comparing it to the number of Americans who die every day of other causes. Now all I hear from Trump junkies is, "It’s old news, people are going to die so get over it." 
Thanksgiving is only 2 days off with airline bookings higher than any time since the March shutdown. Every medical/health expert on record has pleaded, don’t travel, avoid indoor gatherings this weekend. We want to be with family, I understand that. But collectively we don’t care about the consequence. It underscores a spoiled, inconsiderate culture. We love who we love and everybody else can go fish. I am not full blown angry, just a little pissed, thankful yes but nothing to be proud of on this holiday. 

A GENTLE WAKEUP: DAY 246

  Sometimes I dream at night but I don’t remember much. If I dream at all they are classic stereotypes; searching for something, being pursued, caught naked in public, etc. but they never tell a story, just keep cycling ‘round and ‘round in the same loop. Last night I dreamt a story with a plot and I remember. I was suitably dressed at a meeting of professional businessmen. There was a long table with fancy food and drink. It was clear they were all there for a conference, a quarterly report or something in between. I looked the part alright but ill equipped, ignorant in the business of business. My mother always said, “Giving us the business is about them and bad enough. Getting the business is about us and it’s even worse.” 
I was well received in casual conversation, still I tried to be inconspicuous. My primary purpose was grazing at the food and drink bar. When the businessmen moved to the next room, I was left by myself, unencumbered, consuming little shrimp on tooth picks and pecan tarts. A coat-and-tied man with an official name tag appeared at my side. In a trusting, confidential tone he asked my opinion on a situation he was struggling with. It was so business specific I didn’t understand the language or its consequence; something to do with how to choose a confidant and how to convey bad news without making enemies. “What would you do?” he asked. 
I didn’t want to jeopardize my place at the table and I didn’t have a clue but obviously, he thought I did. Eating and trying to talk simultaneously, I shared with him the fundamental principle of treating people the way you want to be treated, the golden rule. He had never heard of it, a novel idea to say the least. I turned and there was another VIP with yet another unsolved problem. “How would you handle this?” Again, what it was that made his problem so unique, I didn’t have a clue. So I pondered a bit, ate another pecan tart, trolling for something to say. Profiling a dilemma that wrestling coaches have with young wrestlers, I told him, “The first year is nothing but hard-hard work and getting your ass kicked every time. After that, there is still no guarantee that someday you will become an ass kicker too. There has to be a reward in the process and there is no shortcut, you have to find that in yourself.” He rolled is eyes as if I had shared something profound. 
I turned back to the food only to discover that all the executives had come back to the hospitality room, eyes on me, listening attentively. I had been exposed, an uninvited imposter. But questions kept coming. What about stock options and capital investments, what about nondisclosure agreements and insider trading? I felt like Yoda, sitting on a rock, telling young Skywalker to trust the Force.  I blurted out, “Don’t tell stories where you have to think about the words. If you don’t own it, it isn’t yours to tell. Become the story, trust your mouth to frame the language.”
The moguls all applauded. With a flimsy excuse to leave the room I made my escape. They thought they had been counseled by a shrewd, savvy businessman but in dreamland, only deceived by an old storyteller. I came uninvited to the banquet, reluctantly to the dream. I would much prefer dreamless sleep, nothing to retrieve, no questions, no fantasy, just a gentle wakeup and a need to pee. 

POST 543: DAY 242

  On September 16, 2012 I posted my first, Stones In The Road Blog piece. It was the first of 543 journal entries that have since made it into this collection. Today is the first time I’ve rolled back time to revisit that day and the memories it evokes. I like both the story and the writing. If I were not the source I would still give it a ‘thumbs up’. Growing up, my role models believed that if you have to ring your own bell, if nobody else shines the light on you then someone else deserves it more. Unsolicited boasting is neither note worthy nor well received. But I am going to repost that article here, today. More than anything else it is a reminder for me that good writing doesn’t just happen. I was not blessed with a talent, rather compelled to put my stories and ideas down on the page. I don’t know any good writers who can simply throw words at the page and have them land on their feet. It is solitary work, and it is most certainly work. For those of us who do not publish for profit it must be either an addiction or a love affair. 

September 16, 2012
“MOST PHOTOGRAPHED LIGHTHOUSE”

         In all of the world there is but one, most photographed light house. It sits on a heap of granite, thrust up out of the Atlantic on Nova Scotia's eastern shore. At Peggy's Cove, tourists come by the thousands. They come to see, to take photographs of the lighthouse but it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It is human history cast against the timelessness of stone and sea, a story begging to be fleshed out. I am reminded of the Johnny Mercer song, “When an irresistible  force such as you, meets an old, immovable object like me, you can bet as sure as you live....” The song about lovers pairs with metaphor the immovable sea and shore, and with people who have breached that boundary for as long as there have been boats. 
         I arrived at first light, before sunrise. Fishing boats were already setting lobster pots, so close you could hear their engines idling and men’s voices across the water but the parking lot was empty. The sky was low and broken so there was no first dash of morning against the white lighthouse. I took photos anyway. Fog came and went and finally, sun broke through and the shots I wanted were there. I was ready and it was a good shoot. 
         In the restaurant I had fishcakes, beans and coffee. When I came out a half hour later, there were several busses and hundreds of people climbing on the rocks around the lighthouse. In another hour, people would be swarming around the land mark like ants on a peach seed. There would be no more uncluttered photographs that day. Leaving my camera in the car, I took one last walk out on the rocks. 
         Some folks are satisfied to walk the path while others need to climb up on the rocks. A few venture down into the crevices and labyrinths, to either turn around and come back or climb on, up the far reaches to the point. Not many go all the way out to the edge but there were a few when I got there. On the edge, there is no place to look but out to sea. Straight out, the next dry land is Morocco. To say it’s a dangerous place is hyperbole: it’s no more dangerous than a street corner in a busy city. You are only one step away from disaster. But the metaphor rings a little truer. It is the boundary where man’s domain meets water world. The boats and their men from the early morning were out there somewhere; with modern equipment and safety features to help guide them home. They go out but they don’t all come home. Every fishing port has a monument to men who have been lost at sea. 
         The lighthouse behind us was a testament to man’s perilous relationship with the sea. It helped signal the way home and it marked dangerous headlands and rocky shores. We have radar and GPS now but nobody wants to photograph radar beacons or GPS machines. The lighthouse has history and the metaphor, like lovers, marks the attraction of earth’s immovable reality and of man’s irresistible urge to go there. 

WE DO ALRIGHT: DAY 241

  My purpose is not to recount the Lewis & Clark expedition of 1804 but I do want to draw from it. In March of that year, the Corps Of Discovery set out from St. Louis with over 40 men, up the Missouri River in long boats and afoot. Unlike Neil Armstrong and the Apollo 11 mission to the moon, Lewis & Clark knew nothing of what lay ahead. With a compass, sextant and chronometer (a good watch), their first order of travel was to create their own map. For a diverse collection of military and volunteer adventurers, the sense of duty and discipline would require rigid rules and unforgiving punishment. Most infractions drew 50 lashes.
With the Covid-19 expedition launched in March of 2020, I wonder where we are by comparison. By November, Lewis & Clark had made their way up the Missouri, north of what is now Bismarck, North Dakota where they built a fort to hunker down for the winter. It would be April, nearly 5 months later before they resumed their mission. We are looking at a year as well, through difficult, unfavorable conditions before a safe, effective vaccine will become available. 
Wintering at Fort Mandan required essential workers, hunters in particular, to foray out but mostly the Corps quarantined, if you will, close to the fort. The Mandan Indians were settled peacefully for the winter just across the river. In November, 2020 with the virus in resurgence, people are going back to April protocols. Wash hands, distance, mask etc. but not everyone. With a recurring shortage of hospital beds, overstressed medical professionals and fatalities on the rise again, there are still “Hoax Merchants” who can not wean themselves off the Trump nipple. Between them and Generation Z, there is resistance and indifference sufficient to keep the virus alive, well and spreading. 
In the end, The Corps Of Discovery spent 2.5 years in the wilderness. That’s about the same projected timespan experts predict before the pandemic’s new normal finds its natural fit. On our best day, human nature paints us with broad strokes and many colors. In this sea of humanity where people appear to be pretty much alike, there are many different personality types that all beg the same question: “When will everybody else learn that I know best? All they need to do is listen to me.” We all fall into that hole. In my hole, “That would be great.” is about expectation and aspiration. “Great again” infers that perfection is part of our resume and that reeks of self worship. Still, Monkey-see-monkey-do; and we do alright for high functioning primates. 

REINCARNATION: DAY 238

  The new normal means that I don’t engage with other people on a regular basis. Living alone it dawned on me that if I were incapacitated or worse, who knows how long it would take to be discovered? Last year I addressed that with my niece, even before the virus arrived. Now we touch base every day by phone, text or email. Likewise, I reach out to my kids more frequently. In 2001 when I retired, the new normal was about cell phone photographs and Facebook. If someone had foreseen my daily calls to let family know I hadn’t broken a leg in the basement or quit breathing in the night, it would have been absurd. 
Post election transition is being upstaged by a truculent, narcissist president who simply can not, literally incapable of processing failure. In the past, in his mind, his failures were attributed to subordinates or enemies. At the end of the day he always saw a victorious hero in the mirror. Willie Nelson believes in reincarnation, that he was Geronimo in another life. DT has a similar fixation, that he was, still is an ageless Genghis Khan, crushing enemies by day and whoring by night. 
Yesterday at 2:22 p.m. I received this text message from an 866 number (I’m serious). “We’re begging! Things are desperate. Races are uncalled & we need emergency funds ASAP. 5X matching for all Trump Patriots.”  with a link to a website. Certainly an outrageous scam, maybe a Trumpster who does know how to capitalize failure. I guess I’m not all that paranoid about who is president, but maybe I am about who it is not. I am getting him out of my system, sort of like bubble gum out of a your 3 year-old’s hair, not an easy thing to do.
Eleven thousand new Covid cases yesterday in Texas alone. Across the nation, more people were hospitalized with Covid yesterday than at any previous time. If I can keep dodging the bullet, avoiding direct contact and close proximity, maybe this time next year I can go someplace warm. Not much else to chew on here but I did hear a good Abraham Lincoln quote yesterday; “I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.” In my book, that speaks of a willingness to bend in the wind. What better time for all leaders to reflect on Lincoln’s moral compass.

MI CASA : DAY 231

  Here it is the morning after the general election and I didn’t listen to any of the coverage yesterday, haven’t turned on anything yet today. I voted weeks ago and have put it all behind me. Flashback to 2016 and I didn’t really want to know then either. There were two possibilities, bad and worse. By afternoon I finally learned that we were getting the worse and I’m putting it off now, prepared for a repeat. My confidence, for lack of a better word, in the voting public is not only weak but thin. I do have hope but it’s like thin ice, you don’t want to test it. If it comes to pass, I can breathe a little deeper and take some consolation. 
I started watching a 4.5 hour Netflix program last night, ‘Barbarians’. The best review I could find gave it a thumbs up; set in the year 9 AD in Germania, the name Rome gave to the heavily forested region of northern Europe. I made it through the first half hour, will go back to it. What really registered was how arrogant and heavy handed the Romans were. Naturally, that’s how the movie’s producer wanted me to see them. Historically correct, the show revolves around the Battle of Teutoburg Forest, the turning point in a conflict between primitive, low tech Germans and the Romans. The greatest military machine of the time was pitted against a loosely aligned, tribal network. The Romans wanted tribute and their only means to that end was the point of a spear. Of course I made the connection, making Rome great again at the expense of lesser people and their cultures; sound familiar? 
Unavoidably obvious, to me at least, is that progress is limited to tools, technology and weapons that satisfy human wants and needs. In the two thousand years since ‘Barbarians’ every generation rediscovers greed, deceit, intimidation and violence. Between then and now, people haven’t changed at all, only the trappings that accompany technical advance. Like being trapped in a revolving door; consolidation of power and accumulating wealth are what drives civilization and enough is never enough. 
I know-I know, we also practice grace and gratitude, generosity and cooperation. That altruistic expression is usually manifest in small groups or at the individual’s level. Large groups tend to behave with a herd mentality, an ambitious, ‘self service’ model with little or no reservation about exercising the greed-deceit-intimidation-violence protocol.  
I know the history; the conflict between Rome and the Germanic tribes can only end one way. The Germanic tribes ultimately outlasted the Roman Empire and pillaged the city. Whatever it is that makes privilege so intoxicating, it also turns people with shitty ass holes into shitty ass holes that pass for people.
Once this election has made landfall, I’ll know if the outcome has upgraded to bad or still stuck at worse. In either case, over three hundred million Americans will still be divided into two hostile camps. On the right, the low road is home to xenophobes, like Romans, who love white privilege, exclusive religion and military might. On the left, not quite so low, you find naive idealists who love diversity and want fervently to believe that human nature can be updated. In that fairytale, inclusive, egalitarian principles would be embraced, not altogether unlike the barbarians. The two trajectories converge on different coordinates but either way, you face a long stretch of bad road. I am just one, old, altruistic idealist and by myself, I can do that. I live close to the ground, with who ever comes my way. We need each other, we are all in this together. Mi casa, su casa.

SPOON FULL OF SUGAR: DAY 228

  I woke up with an attitude this morning, stronger than disappointment but short of rage. I don’t do rage very well. It dissipates so fast I can’t find the handle and defaults into “What the . . . !”  On the other hand, low grade angst irritates like a big blue bottle fly buzzing on the window, just out of swat range. That must be my affliction today. 
I usually listen to local music radio while coffee is making. Today the DJ was interviewing a local writer/author. The subject was racial profiling. Every year about this time, all police departments in the country report their annual data on traffic stops for the past year. It is the primary source of information used to rank and rate the practice of racial profiling. In the past twenty years, what was intended to reduce the phenomenon has proven to have no effect. In fact, profiling has focused increasingly on people of color and blacks in particular. 
Racial profiling is just a peek into a culture of prejudice and privilege that weighs down on people of color. Since the Civil War, policing has been predicated on protecting white people and their property from anyone or anything that can be perceived to threaten white supremacy (White Privilege). It is an ugly reality, one that most of us would rather not address. Looking in the mirror, we don’t want to see a repulsive monster staring back. So in passive denial, we look the other way. It is a diabolical construct that leaves us with a self inflicted blind spot. Trying to explain that to a flag waving, come to Jesus patriot is like pulling teeth. At best, you will be dismissed as a misguided fool or harshly rebuked as a turncoat. ‘Nuff’ is enough, I’ve chewed on that bone enough today. 
Halloween came and went without a ripple, just like the day before and the day before that. ‘Pandemic Fatigue’ has taken root without my consent. What does that say about me and my consent? This morning, after the coffee pot stopped making noise I selected a tall, white, tapered mug from the rack. It came from the Crane Trust Nature Center in Nebraska. The logo on the side is a whooping crane set against a rising sun. It holds a lot of coffee. I bought it the same morning I took fantastic photographs of sandhill cranes rising off the Platte River at dawn. I had spent the night in Grand Island, up early, off to the river. You can get good photos anytime but the great ones come just after the sun rises and before it sets. Be in the right place at the right time and good things happen. 
They say a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down and I like that metaphor. I thought of that as I dropped a spoon full of honey into the empty mug. With careful aim I tipped the pot to pour. Had the mug been uniformly shaped there would have been plenty of space at the bottom of the well but it wasn’t symmetrical, it was tapered to a small base, not enough space to accommodate the rush of coffee. Down bound coffee hit the bottom and rushed back up the sides. That split second reaction arc, it seems instantaneous but we know better. I pulled back as coffee rose like a halo, above the top of the mug. How long does it take to blink: I don’t know but in that time it was over. I held the pot, the mug was on the counter top about three quarters full and there was no spillage. All of the ejected coffee had come back down inside the mug. 
I had to do a mental rewind and view it again but it played out the same every time. I did that by myself, without any help. If I could replicate that little trick it might turn heads but I can’t. I can do the other part, drain the mug in little sips but that is not remarkable. The physics is awesome; fluid dynamics, friction, gravity, cohesion, inertia but most folks don't get excited about physics either. My Crane mug has a great story now and stories are what we do best. Once upon a time in another century, we brought busloads of intercity kids, year after year to see thousands of sandhill cranes fly in at dusk, to study the Platte River system at the university that night, sleep-over in a motel and be on the river before breakfast to watch the cranes wake up and start a new day. The story isn’t finished; I keep going back.