Wither?

Who are we now and who are we becoming?  We walk along with our heads down constantly checking electronic devices, missing everything from urban wildlife to cars narrowly passing by.  We "submit" everything from ideas, essays, applications, poetry, and payment.  But what else is being submitted in the process.  We are down for the word count.  Awesome, amazing, and your're out.  What does it mean to be amazed anyway?
We sublet our wars, our dirty business, our licensing, our clothing, our jobs, our cars, our lives...to independent contractors.  Our Constitution is in a vice.  The federal government knows who and when we called our Aunt Dorothy, but doesn't seem to be able to track mentally ill patients when they want to procure automatic weapons.  We sit around, like I'm doing now, in cafes and coffeehouses, with remarkable people surrounding us, yet we rarely speak to them.  Too many boundaries to cross.  A polite smile to plug in a cord, an unconscious involuntary look up when someone enters the room produces a smile from time to time.  But nothing more.

     We read today about a young man, 29, perhaps, if we are to believe what we read, who hides in a hotel room on the other side of the globe.  No proof of formal education, yet he's a computer whiz who is forcing us to take a look at our moral windshield when it comes to what and how much and how and why our government knows about the citizens it would protect from the forces of terror that occupy our fantasy and reality all at once.
     We knew, decades ago, that this day was coming.  We knew that there was danger of evolving into one large butting pushing organism.  But nobody could predict just exactly what form it would take.  We could have never foreseen the steps the process would take.  Or the glaring contradiction of all this interconnectedness...that we are becoming estranged from our lives, our planet, ourselves.
Sometimes, when the world around me is quiet, in the dead of early, early morning, or the silence that comes while drifting on a lake, I'll give it a go.  You know, try to imagine this scene long after I'm gone.  What seems to be prevalent now and where it might be going.  Who I am today and what that would surely become should I linger for another couple of decades longer.  Will there be bread, will there be roses, will there be time to think about the whimsy of wind?  What will become of those who sold their hope of self knowledge for a size, a "style," a chance to perpetuate that which enslaves and strips them of their individuality, their dignity, their chance at knowing themselves.

Tale of Two Lives

It appears that the death of Nelson Mandela is imminent.  Word from South Africa tonight is that his family is coming in from all over to be near his bedside.  At 94, this remarkable life will not go quietly.  It will hardly go unnoticed.  If ever the arc of a lifetime could become a paradigm for a century, for the moral enlightenment of a country, for the inspiration and wisdom of reconciliation, it would have t be Mandela.  From prisoner to President is beyond remarkable.

When Mandela leave this earth, there will be plenty of time to savor his impact.  And while that could be any day now, the news in my corner of the planet is tempered by another loss of life.  A life, arguably that contrasts with Mandela's in mysterious and profound ways, nonetheless.
     It seems the body of a newborn was found in a recycling center near Portland.  The child had once been alive.  Disturbing as this is, the case continues to baffle and disturb so much that authorities today have released a flyer with the baby's hand and feet prints.  The humanization of one so dehumanized is such an affront that it might be just the step needed to solve the mystery.
And yet these two lives swirl around in my brain in a rather uncomfortable juxtaposition.  One of stunning length and contribution, the other lived painfully brief, if at all.  Another Zen koan of sorts, the particulars irritate my soul.

Yet, there are ways, like dream dialogues or monologues that help bring meaning where none seems likely.  This unnamed child and the brilliant, strong, defiant, empathetic Mandela belong to us all.  They are in everyone.  To what extent, their own lives will tell.

See Me

     In Amanda Coplin's wonderful new novel, The Orchardist, there is a brief scene where a young woman has her picture taken for the first time.  The setting is American West and the time is the late 19th century.  For this badly abused, now reborn character the fascination with her own image is understandable.  We all are interested in what we look like to others.  It's part of how we define ourselves, and certainly has a significant impact on such important things as self-image/concept and personal identity.  As Coplin notes in the text, it's as if she thought her image was fixed for life, would never change.
Our self image over time has always seemed to fascinate people.  From films like longitudinal study "Seven and Up," to attempts to recreate childhood photos (now very popular on social media) our certain "look" and how or if it holds up over time commands attention.

With this in mind I was wondering the other day about the photos of various writers I regularly read.  You know those thumbnail portraits in newspapers and magazines, on web sites, Facebook pages and the like.   There are a handful of folks that flat out refuse to change those pictures.  That means that they are continuing to write and evolve under an image that is no longer accurate.  I've seen clothing and hairstyles so bad still gracing the pages of recent publications that they compete with the message the writer is attempting to impart.  In extreme cases, there is hair where none presently exists.  In others, you would be hard pressed to recognize one of your favorite and familiar writers even if he'she sat next to you in a coffee shop.  What's up with that?  Why do these well known figures refuse to visually enter this century?  I could venture a guess.  Well, it's so hard for me to get a decent picture that I just go with the one that works.  Sorry, next excuse please.  Aging musicians don't seem to have this problem.
     Perhaps these folks are refusing to recognize their age.  We all look into a mirror one day and wonder who that older person staring back could be.  I somethings think I'd rather look at a face thats all painted up, tucked and trimmed, dyed to the wool, or had the cracks filled in instead of a photo from the 1980s.   A well-marked face, one with wrinkles, fissures, scars, or other identifying marks has character.  These "life tattoos" are one of a kind beauty marks.
     Can anyone recommend a business that guarantees an honest, up to date photo or your money back?  It should be mandatory, in my view.  If we can't trust or believe in your picture, how do we know what you are saying/writing is accurate?

Tracy Delgado cousin of William Garcia 1946-1966

This Memorial Day weekend I was thinking of a high school friend who was killed in Vietnam.  I think of him often, but somehow he was on my mind more than usual.  Maybe it was the recent sexual abuse and harassment that's come to light in the media.  There were plenty of women in the service during the Vietnam years, but not anything like today.  That's why the recent revelations about rape and assault, and the resultant cover-ups are so damning and so disappointing.
The dilemma for pacifists like myself, of course, is to retain our beliefs while still "supporting the troops."  It's a non issue in my view.  I say that because anyone who is a humanist will always support others.  If I disagree with the death penalty that doesn't mean I condone the acts of the criminal.
So here I am thinking aout my friend Bill Garcia, and I happened to remember the time, about 20 years ago now when I went in search of his name on the Vietnam Memorial in Washington D.C.
     Wondering if any photos of the wall were online I chanced to find some information about him and his military career.  I remembered that he was only 20 when he was killed in 1966.  He remains 20 in my mind always.
http://www.virtualwall.org/dg/GarciaWx01a.htm
This post was written by a second cousin who never met him.  She took the time to honor his memory and mentioned some tings her mother told her about the person she considers a hero.  The post ends with some contact information, but it didn't work.  I tried to contact her because I wanted to fill in some gaps.  the email address must be obsolete; it kept bouncing back with the message that it was an incomplete address.  Didn't look incomplete, but maybe a letter or number or some other figue was missing.  I een tried to add something to the post, but that link just said the site was being changed or re-worked.  I would really have loved to describe her cousin Bill's blue eyes, his golden frizzy hair, and an impish grin he was never without.  I wanted to tell her about his '59 Ford convertible, the trips to the So. California beaches on Fridays after summer school, and how he loved to dance with the girls at the local Catholic Youth Organization.
So Tracy Delgado, cousin of William Garcia, maybe you'll find this blog if I make you two the title.  Hope so.  Do let me know.

Unarmed

Middle of May and in the top of the news:  Tornados, government scandal(s), terrorist attacks and terrorist investigations, floods, firestorms, drought, and uncommonly wet weather.  One sensational trial ends and four more are waiting in the wings.  No Triple Crown winner, No legislation to impact gun ownership, marriage to the one you love, or how we spend our money.  Congress is broken.  Politicians can't see beyond the next election.  Our national "stew" is pretty thin these days.  As Woody Guthrie noted in his famous "Talkin' Dust Bowl Blues," ...."Maybe if it had been a just little bit thinner some of these here politicians coulda seen through it."  They can't comprehend the millions they impact.

There is definitely something wrong with the climate.  It's easy to have this discussion in the aftermath of a record-breaking tornado that leveled about 40 square miles in the state of Oklahoma.  And still they rebuild.

What does it take to set this latest event in perspective given Hurricanes like Sandy and Katrina?  Out West here we have fire seasons that come on the heels of drought.  We talk about and plan for earthquakes often.  In other parts of the Midwest we watch as people who make their homes in a flood plain try to hold back rivers.  And still they rebuild.
Today, as I await the official start of summer (post Memorial Day) I see that snow is falling in the national forest where I would like to go fly fishing.  Something is definitely going on with the climate.
I've followed the Jody Arias trial, probably a bit too much, but this trial, the defendant, and the media's role continue to fascinate.  Now that she's been found guilty of first degree murder by her peers, the hungry public awaits the verdict in the penalty phase.   Most of the general public and media commentators can't seem to get their heads around the concept of a sociopath.  That Ms. Arias is a sociopath, that is to say, she has no conscience, is difficult to fathom for most.  They continue to vent their anger at her.  I get that, but it's useless.  She is one of the 4 in every 100 that is incapable of moral emotions.  1 in 25.  They manipulate, they seduce.  They are not burdened in the least by remorse or guilt, or that most important emotion shame.  Save your breath.  They don't have a conscience.  You can pity them; they really love and desire that.  You can question their behavior and motivation, but the best thing you can do is to avoid them at all costs.  As one definition of sociopathy says, "...even unarmed, they are dangerous."

Take It With You

Occasionally I still hear someone speak of a "depression mentality."  What they mean, of course, is a Great Depression mentality.    What passes for stingy behavior could well have its roots in surviving the Great Depression of the 1930s.  Certainly my parents, who were married in 1932, displayed a bit of this behavior.  My father would come unhinged if someone left a light burning in an empty room.  My mother, always giving and thoughtful, was fairly good at stretching a meal or making due with less.
     These days, even in tough economic times, people seem less inclined to hoard.  In my town, restaurants are usually full and even though prices have doubled and tripled on some things in the last 10 years or so, you wouldn't know we';re still in the throes of a deep malaise.  Younger folks seem to be willing to share, care, and otherwise help those less fortunate.  There is a coffee wagon in my town that has a chalkboard menu outside that overlooks the street.  If an item has a mark or two (I III IV) that means someone has paid for an extra and if you want/need a latte or cup of coffee it's already been paid for.  Pretty cool, no?  This allows those to help and be helped without it being a big deal.  There is a bakery where people pay what they can.  Sometimes, people of means will just lay $20. worth out there for the taking.

     I wonder, though, how those who are really well off relate to these ventures.  Certainly there are some inspirational wealthy folks who spread their wealth around.  Bill Gates has given many an underprivileged scholar a free ride to the college of their choice.  But he's outrageously wealthy.  What about others?  I recall people coming to garage sales in a Mercedes and quibbling about weather to pay 15 or 25 cents for some insignificant item.  The old adage that the reason they are well off is because they are miserly seems sufficiently proven on occasion.
     The only really wealthy person I know is quite elderly...how about 92...but suffers from a full blown Depression mentality.  This person is estimated to be worth upwards of 15 million.  A long professional career, good investments, weathering a few economic storms have led to this.  But one time, a few years ago, I was driving said person and a few friends to a dinner engagement.  On a busy freeway I noticed a car with personalized license plate.  It read: GIV BAC.  I remarked to my fellow passengers that I thought it was a most interesting plate.  The person was driving a very nice car, probably a Lexus, but felt the need to take a stand for all to see.  As my carload of fellow travelers noticed the license plate  they all nodded in recognition.  All except one.  You know who.  The multi-millionaire had no idea what the significance of that plate could be.

Mother's Day

We don't really need a Mother's Day to officially recognize our moms, do we?  They are with us always.  I recall a wonderful presentation given by a noted psychologist/therapist about the mother child relationship.  After soft music, cloudy pastel photos of smiling children with their mothers, and lulling her audience into nostalgic stupor, the narrator abruptly stopped and pronounced the mother'child relationship as one of complete power and control...forever.
     Maybe.  Maybe not, but there is some truth to that notion.  Considering how vulnerable a newborn is and how vulnerable we remain until puberty, it's easy to understand how love can migrate somewhere else.
     I was only becoming an adult when I lost my mom at the rather early age of 54.  To have had an adult relationship with her is something I miss and can only speculate about from time to time.  But she is with me always and sometimes rather surprisingly so.  A favorite story of mine concerns one of her favorite expressions.  Whenever a friend was over to visit and stayed for lunch or another meal, this one liner would usually pop out of her mouth.  If I or my guest ever said, "I'll take..." (insert any sandwich, drink, or request here) She'd snap back, "You'll take what I give ya..."  he was working class to the core.

     The picture here was taken when my sister was about four and I was three.  Our grandfather (her father) was visiting from New York City.  The year is 1950.  The photo was taken shortly after the family moved into the house in the San Fernando Valley that would be our home for the next 25 years or so.  the backyard fence is new; the yard is just beginning to take shape and the fruit trees recently planted not even visible.  Grandpa would soon plant a Chinese Elm tree that gives shade to this day.  I vaguely recall these cordory overalls I'm wearing.  They were blue.  My sister and I are trying to stand still with our hands at our sides.  In this photo I can see how much I resemble my mother in looks.  What isn't visible in the photo is her wonderful New York accent and my Grandpa's equally enchanting old country accent.
About a decade after this picture was taken, my grandfather would visit again.  At 14, I really had an opportunity to bond with him and the couple of weeks we spent together as "roommates" were unforgettable.  My love of thoroughbred horses definitely comes from him. Two decades later they would both be gone.  But n this day, 60 years or so ago, life was full of promise, the weather was clear and warm, and my family's roots were firmly planted.