In looking for community activities, I came across the Claremont Forum. It sponsors the Farmers and Artisans Market, which I have patronized for 2 of the 4 Sundays I have been here. It also has a bookstore and the Prison Library project, and the events include a weekly writer's workshop, music performances and documentary screenings and...Japanese language lessons?! I noted the details and gave the Forum a call. Apparently, the lessons are one-on-one, taught by a woman who is also a fabric artist. Her name is Sumi Foley, and Forum took my name and number and promised to let her know I was interested in her lessons. We played telephone tag for a few days, but finally connected, when I learned that I can't afford to take lessons from her: she charges $50 for each hour-long session, which is reasonable for a personal lesson, but not in my budget. I decided, though, that it would be interesting to meet with her and get some basics down, preparatory to using Mango or some other free online course. And, I liked her artwork. It's not a reasonable way to pick a teacher, but I'm in an unreasonable sort of lifestyle right now. So, we set a date for Tuesday, July 18. My plan was to meet her at 12:30 and then drive to the Descanso Gardens, 45 minutes away, for the 3rd Tuesday free admittance.
The Claremont Forum is located in an old citrus packing house in downtown Claremont. It takes up a city block. The concrete facing of the outside is softened by stairs and outdoor restaurant seating with umbrellas and huge planters. I walked up the steps and into a wide hall, with a wine shop to the right and several other shops to the left, a very high ceiling with girders, and other bits of industrial chic decor. The floors were highly polished wooden slabs of varying lengths. The entry hall T'd into another hall. The Claremont Forum bookstore was situated at the end of the right leg of the T, so of course I turned the other direction and explored: there was a Pilates studio, a cooking school, and a community art space, which seemed geared towards the kids. That side of the hall emptied into an outside pedestrian street. Coming back to the bookstore, I peered in the door and then turned around to see Sumi walking towards me. I'm not sure where she came from, as it became clear she'd already been in the bookstore setting up, and I hadn't seen her in the hall; but then again, I tend to be oblivious. She was around 5'4, small boned, in her late thirties, with shoulder length black hair, very clear skin, and the almond-shaped eyes of the Japanese. I asked her what part of Japan she was from, and promptly forgot her answer. But later, as we discussed food, she said that Osaka was the town for foodies, so I'd guess she was from an area near there. Looking at the map and trying to hear her voice, I think it may have been Wakayama, which is next to Osaka Prefecture, to the southeast.
It was a warehouse sort of bookstore, with metal shelves and crates and boxes of books located at the back, and space for tables in the middle. A large double-sided cart was parked outside, filled with paperbacks and sale books. A young man with a bun sat at a packing crate desk by the front doors, which were tall glass framed in wide wood with wooden cross bar handles. Sumi and I walked towards a white-grey plastic, narrow, rectangular fold-up table in the center of the room. A similar table was set closer to the shelves, a few feet away, and two young women were seated there, reading it seemed. I sat facing the shelves, and Sumi sat across from me. She pulled out pens and paper from a brightly colored plastic folder, and we began our lesson.
I said I mainly wanted to be able to read menus and street signs and get around. So, we started with hello (Konnichiwa), I'm Kari (Kari desu), what is this? (Kore wa nani desu ka). I learned sentence structure: you start with the subject, followed by a word like wa, then the object, then sometimes a word like ga followed by a descriptive, ending with a verb. If it's a question, the format is the same, but you end with "ka." Sumi described a Japanese sentence as a train: the Engine (subject), followed by a connector (wa), then the cars (object etc), each with a connector (ga), and finally the caboose (verb). So in the above sentence, Kore (this) is the engine, wa the connector, nani (what) is a car, and desu (is/ar) is the caboose, with ka designating that it's a question.
Sumi expressed doubt that I had never studied Japanese before, but eventually attributed my ability to my musician's ear and quick mind. "You'll have no problem at all, your face is so mobile, and that smile..." It's an easy language: not specifically tonal, no complicated phrasing and possessives that I could see. The numbers are obvious, 1 through 10 (ichi, ni, san...jyu); then it all depends on placement. ni jyu ni is 2-10-2, or twenty-two. I conjectured how the numbers would work. Sumi sat back and shook her head in disbelief, and then we got into the hundreds, which work the same way.
The really great thing is that Japanese doesn't have an "r" sound, per se: it's more like an "l." So, my one modest speech impediment (as the high school speech contest judge termed it), my inability to say an "r" (not to mention the Spanish trilled "r") is no impediment here.
As always, I found myself starting to speak German, as I practised the simple phrases she taught me. Instead of trying to speak Japanese, I was trying to NOT speak English. And, I thought about V's comment when she was visiting and I was studying for a Spanish quiz: you don't learn a language by memorizing vocabulary and verb tenses. You learn it by having it in your ears and by speaking it. Fortunately, I no longer have the shyness gene: I don't mind speaking poorly, just as I don't mind singing poorly. I belt it out as best I can. (Why, then, am I so timid when it comes to playing the solo violin?) So, I experimented with the tiny vocabulary and Sumi was pleased with me. I was pleased with me, too. There's something to be said about taking a one-on-one class: you get undivided attention, and you can move at your own learning pace.
The last bit of the session was spent trying to write characters. Japanese is written left to right, with the lines read from the top of the page to the bottom. But, it is also written top to bottom, in which case the lines go right to left. Confusing. She didn't have the list of characters for me to take away with me, so I wrote down my e-mail address for her to send me a copy. And as I was writing this blog, I discovered that I had walked away with the address, piling it in amongst my notes as we cleared away and set up our table for some Claremont Forum volunteers.
Clearly, I have not been studying much.
Monday, July 24, 2017
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Community
People ask how I'm liking retirement. They ask how the assignments are working out. M, my slow travel expert, asks how I'm connecting with people and places while I'm traveling. Do I have intentions to become part of the communities in which I stay? If so, what will I do 1st, 2nd, and 3rd to see what's available to me?
To answer the first two questions: I'm loving it. I was mainly exploring during my time in northern CA, as well as setting up logistics. And of course, I started with the sister trip in May, and in June had a week with G in San Francisco and its environs. Now I'm in the first few weeks of my second longest assignment: Claremont, CA. I'm trying to set up a practice and writing schedule. I am following through on my daily texts and 4 minute diaries and budget entries, but otherwise I'm most successful at walking dogs and swimming laps in the house pool. Other than feeling guilty for being so unproductive, I'm ridiculously happy with this. I send messages about the triple digit weather to obviate my guilt: see, it's TOO HOT to explore, my asthma kicks in if I'm out in this poor air quality for too long, etc etc. But really, I need to stop focusing on that. As Abraham (Esther Hicks) would say, I need to activate something better than guilt, something more vibrationally satisfying than asthma. Or, as the Buddha would say, I need to stop focusing on desire, the desire to be an admirable self.
In my need to be productive, I am not seeing the reality, which is perfectly delightful. I have dogs to cuddle, books to read (or listen to), tomatoes to harvest from the garden, good pinot grigio to drink. When I feel sleepy, I go out to the pool, usually sans suit. I take a slow breast stroke/scissors kick towards the deep end and the sitting garden, looking at the tall bird of paradise trees, the flower arch with bright pink blooms, the little smiling turtle light. At night, the arch is outlined in tiny white lights, and the solar lights in jars line up along the pool. I reach the end of the pool and lean back for the even slower side wiggle back stroke. At the shallow end, I flip my feet under me and go back towards the garden and the deep end. The water is warm later in the day, cool in the morning, silky on my skin. Sometimes the surface is dusted with pollen and little seeds and occasionally I dodge a fuzzy insect body, pushing it towards the filter or away to the side. Although I am swimming laps, I do not count them or work at them. I swim until I don't feel like swimming any more. Sometimes I lie on the lounge chair, baking both sides before sliding back into the now-chilly water. Sometimes I read, sometimes I listen to an audio book, the ipad carefully placed in the shade under the plastic side table. Sometimes I nap, but not too long. Even with sun-screen, I don't want to hazard this heat for too long. The dogs come out through the kitchen flap and circle the pool, watching me and then finding a shady place to wait while I finish what I am doing. They are very attentive to me, as the source of food and cuddles and walks.
I did look into some things to explore. As with Santa Rosa, my host had some ideas of things to do: the Huntington Gardens, the Arcadia Arboretum, 4th of July fireworks, the Botanic Garden, Monday night concerts in the Park, Temecula wineries, Santa Monica 3rd street shopping, Long Beach, Descanso Gardens. Then, as M suggested, I looked into ways to be part of the community. The Chamber of Commerce had a calendar of events and activities for Visitors, and I discovered the Claremont Forum as well. The result is a Google Calendar filled with events that I may or may not attend: outdoor concerts (it's TOO HOT), the weekly Farmer's Market, art exhibits, Shakespeare in the Park (Much Ado, and Hamlet, quite the contrast.) Those were not really ways to connect with the community, so I looked at classes and music offerings. I am now involved in the Vocal Forum, classes put on Wednesday nights by the Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, and as an offshoot of that, I'm singing in their summer choir. On Sunday, the communion music was provided by an excellent violin/flute duo, so I approached the violinist after church and asked her about local amateurs with whom I could play (she was clearly a professional.) She took my number, and we'll see. Today I connected with a fabric artist who teaches Japanese at the Claremont Forum, and we're booked for a single session at $50 to get me started on my studies in preparation for the December gig in Nagano.
These are all pleasant ways to occupy my time, but they don't feel necessary. It's nice to have something to write about in my daily texts, of course, and it soothes my guilt to think that I'm being productive. The vocal class even got me to get out my violin and do some practicing, thereby justifying both my Housesitter Profile title (Musical Librarian) and the space and logistical issues caused by lugging the instrument around. Today I practiced voice, violin, and Tai Chi Chih, And now I'm writing. So, see? I'm being productive!
But....I don't really feel invested in any of this. I am happy just being. My day has a pleasant arc to it: wake up to the meowing cat, pet the dogs. If it's early enough, take a walk, either before or after breakfast for all 4 of us. Sit with coffee and toast and the crossword. Check email and Facebook. Then progress with the day. Do I need to go shopping, clean up the house, water plants? Do I have something scheduled for the day? Do I want to log into Tutor.com and float, in hopes of some tutoring sessions? Do I want to write? Practise? Swim? Listen to an audio book and knit? Write? Call a friend or family member? Eventually, I take a nap, sometimes inadvertently. Soon it's 5 pm, and time to look at the evening. If I have nothing scheduled, do I still need to walk the dogs? Go to class? Log in for a tutoring session? I need to send a text to the folks who are tracking me, reassuring them that I'm still alive and well. And the next thing I know, it's time for bed. The dogs, who have been following me all day, follow me there as well, and we all settle in. I don't feel like I've wasted the day, but what have I done? As I texted once, don't know where this day went. Surely I didn't spend the whole day sitting under a dog and coloring online? 'Fraid so. And that's fine. When it's time to get active, I'll get active. And phooey on the whole meditating (Buddha) and examining (Plato) options. That's another sort of desire, it seems, the desire to reach some sort of meaning or nirvana, to have purpose in my life. Right now my purpose is to keep someone else's fur babies happy, and that seems sufficient.
All of this begs the question: am I lonely? I don't seem to be. The difference between working and living in a community and house-sitting in random places seems to be one of focus. When I was caregiving for E, I was living like this, but I felt trapped by the 24/7 responsibility of it, and I felt like I had to get out in the larger community and make music and see people. When I was working in libraries, I felt trapped by the schedule, and my health was compromised so that I didn't get out into the community enough. Now, I'm in a 24/7 situation of sorts, but I am free to get out when and how I want. And now I find that I don't want to get out much. All of that need for community and activity was apparently manufactured by some other need: the need to escape my entrapment. I find that, while I miss my PDX and ABQ and Taos and WitsEnd peeps, and I feel wistful about the various groups with which I've been involved, I'm not lonely. It helps that I have the internet, but mainly it helps that this is what I want.
I think about this. L, when she was dowsing, said that I needed a community. When I was video chatting with W, she said that people who live happily into old age do so when they are in a community. So, the question seems to be, what constitutes a community? Is it the physical contact? I get that with the dogs and cats. Is it the emotional contact? I get that through correspondence and chatting. Is it meeting needs? I get that through emergency contacts and activism. Is it passion? I don't seem to have that, but I do manage to find music wherever I go. Is it relationships? That's the missing link, it seems: can relationships be sustained long-distance? Does a community need to be local? Are the social and personal networks sufficient? Now that I'm no longer trapped and I seem to have what I want, do I have what I need? Do I have a focus? Do I have a community?
Time will tell. Or my heart will. Or both.
To answer the first two questions: I'm loving it. I was mainly exploring during my time in northern CA, as well as setting up logistics. And of course, I started with the sister trip in May, and in June had a week with G in San Francisco and its environs. Now I'm in the first few weeks of my second longest assignment: Claremont, CA. I'm trying to set up a practice and writing schedule. I am following through on my daily texts and 4 minute diaries and budget entries, but otherwise I'm most successful at walking dogs and swimming laps in the house pool. Other than feeling guilty for being so unproductive, I'm ridiculously happy with this. I send messages about the triple digit weather to obviate my guilt: see, it's TOO HOT to explore, my asthma kicks in if I'm out in this poor air quality for too long, etc etc. But really, I need to stop focusing on that. As Abraham (Esther Hicks) would say, I need to activate something better than guilt, something more vibrationally satisfying than asthma. Or, as the Buddha would say, I need to stop focusing on desire, the desire to be an admirable self.
In my need to be productive, I am not seeing the reality, which is perfectly delightful. I have dogs to cuddle, books to read (or listen to), tomatoes to harvest from the garden, good pinot grigio to drink. When I feel sleepy, I go out to the pool, usually sans suit. I take a slow breast stroke/scissors kick towards the deep end and the sitting garden, looking at the tall bird of paradise trees, the flower arch with bright pink blooms, the little smiling turtle light. At night, the arch is outlined in tiny white lights, and the solar lights in jars line up along the pool. I reach the end of the pool and lean back for the even slower side wiggle back stroke. At the shallow end, I flip my feet under me and go back towards the garden and the deep end. The water is warm later in the day, cool in the morning, silky on my skin. Sometimes the surface is dusted with pollen and little seeds and occasionally I dodge a fuzzy insect body, pushing it towards the filter or away to the side. Although I am swimming laps, I do not count them or work at them. I swim until I don't feel like swimming any more. Sometimes I lie on the lounge chair, baking both sides before sliding back into the now-chilly water. Sometimes I read, sometimes I listen to an audio book, the ipad carefully placed in the shade under the plastic side table. Sometimes I nap, but not too long. Even with sun-screen, I don't want to hazard this heat for too long. The dogs come out through the kitchen flap and circle the pool, watching me and then finding a shady place to wait while I finish what I am doing. They are very attentive to me, as the source of food and cuddles and walks.
I did look into some things to explore. As with Santa Rosa, my host had some ideas of things to do: the Huntington Gardens, the Arcadia Arboretum, 4th of July fireworks, the Botanic Garden, Monday night concerts in the Park, Temecula wineries, Santa Monica 3rd street shopping, Long Beach, Descanso Gardens. Then, as M suggested, I looked into ways to be part of the community. The Chamber of Commerce had a calendar of events and activities for Visitors, and I discovered the Claremont Forum as well. The result is a Google Calendar filled with events that I may or may not attend: outdoor concerts (it's TOO HOT), the weekly Farmer's Market, art exhibits, Shakespeare in the Park (Much Ado, and Hamlet, quite the contrast.) Those were not really ways to connect with the community, so I looked at classes and music offerings. I am now involved in the Vocal Forum, classes put on Wednesday nights by the Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, and as an offshoot of that, I'm singing in their summer choir. On Sunday, the communion music was provided by an excellent violin/flute duo, so I approached the violinist after church and asked her about local amateurs with whom I could play (she was clearly a professional.) She took my number, and we'll see. Today I connected with a fabric artist who teaches Japanese at the Claremont Forum, and we're booked for a single session at $50 to get me started on my studies in preparation for the December gig in Nagano.
These are all pleasant ways to occupy my time, but they don't feel necessary. It's nice to have something to write about in my daily texts, of course, and it soothes my guilt to think that I'm being productive. The vocal class even got me to get out my violin and do some practicing, thereby justifying both my Housesitter Profile title (Musical Librarian) and the space and logistical issues caused by lugging the instrument around. Today I practiced voice, violin, and Tai Chi Chih, And now I'm writing. So, see? I'm being productive!
But....I don't really feel invested in any of this. I am happy just being. My day has a pleasant arc to it: wake up to the meowing cat, pet the dogs. If it's early enough, take a walk, either before or after breakfast for all 4 of us. Sit with coffee and toast and the crossword. Check email and Facebook. Then progress with the day. Do I need to go shopping, clean up the house, water plants? Do I have something scheduled for the day? Do I want to log into Tutor.com and float, in hopes of some tutoring sessions? Do I want to write? Practise? Swim? Listen to an audio book and knit? Write? Call a friend or family member? Eventually, I take a nap, sometimes inadvertently. Soon it's 5 pm, and time to look at the evening. If I have nothing scheduled, do I still need to walk the dogs? Go to class? Log in for a tutoring session? I need to send a text to the folks who are tracking me, reassuring them that I'm still alive and well. And the next thing I know, it's time for bed. The dogs, who have been following me all day, follow me there as well, and we all settle in. I don't feel like I've wasted the day, but what have I done? As I texted once, don't know where this day went. Surely I didn't spend the whole day sitting under a dog and coloring online? 'Fraid so. And that's fine. When it's time to get active, I'll get active. And phooey on the whole meditating (Buddha) and examining (Plato) options. That's another sort of desire, it seems, the desire to reach some sort of meaning or nirvana, to have purpose in my life. Right now my purpose is to keep someone else's fur babies happy, and that seems sufficient.
All of this begs the question: am I lonely? I don't seem to be. The difference between working and living in a community and house-sitting in random places seems to be one of focus. When I was caregiving for E, I was living like this, but I felt trapped by the 24/7 responsibility of it, and I felt like I had to get out in the larger community and make music and see people. When I was working in libraries, I felt trapped by the schedule, and my health was compromised so that I didn't get out into the community enough. Now, I'm in a 24/7 situation of sorts, but I am free to get out when and how I want. And now I find that I don't want to get out much. All of that need for community and activity was apparently manufactured by some other need: the need to escape my entrapment. I find that, while I miss my PDX and ABQ and Taos and WitsEnd peeps, and I feel wistful about the various groups with which I've been involved, I'm not lonely. It helps that I have the internet, but mainly it helps that this is what I want.
I think about this. L, when she was dowsing, said that I needed a community. When I was video chatting with W, she said that people who live happily into old age do so when they are in a community. So, the question seems to be, what constitutes a community? Is it the physical contact? I get that with the dogs and cats. Is it the emotional contact? I get that through correspondence and chatting. Is it meeting needs? I get that through emergency contacts and activism. Is it passion? I don't seem to have that, but I do manage to find music wherever I go. Is it relationships? That's the missing link, it seems: can relationships be sustained long-distance? Does a community need to be local? Are the social and personal networks sufficient? Now that I'm no longer trapped and I seem to have what I want, do I have what I need? Do I have a focus? Do I have a community?
Time will tell. Or my heart will. Or both.
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
10 Thousand hours
Tonight I stopped by the Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, about 6 minutes away from my 2-month home. I saw advertised in the Chamber of Commerce calendar a Vocal Forum, and I thought, well, that's a way to get some musical connections while I'm here. Turns out, most of the members were congregants at the church, which makes sense, and the classes were run by the director of music, a slender short young Hispanic male with an engaging smile.
I was a little disconcerted to realize that we weren't singing, much: it really was a class, and this particular class was about forming a habit of practise. While I could definitely use that habit, the various tools he shared were not inspiring. I've done lists and categories and schedules, and they do not work for me. The only way I can make myself practise is to have something specific for which I must practise, that is, a rehearsal or a performance. And even that doesn't totally work: CD and I would get together to play duets and we'd say, "oooh, we should work that up." But I never would. She was better than me, being a professional musician who was also taking lessons. I get by on my ability to sightread and to fake, and on my basic knowledge of the repertoire. After 42 years of playing orchestra repertoire and an equal amount of time playing chamber music, duets, trios, and quartets, I do have a number of pieces that I've faked my way through. Experience does help, even if you don't work at it.
In the course of the discussion, one of the gentlemen in the group mentioned the 10,000 Hour Rule: if you spend 10K hours working at something, you become an expert. I thought, huh. No wonder I'm not an expert at anything. And then I thought, wait a minute, I've spent at least that much time on a lot of things over the 58 years, 21,170 days, and 508,080 plus hours of my life. Why am I an expert in none? And, I've come to the conclusion, it's not the number of hours, it's the number of focused hours. (The article to which I link above verifies that conclusion.)
It's more than that, though. It's a lack of confidence, a lack of self-respect in the endeavor. I feel embarrassed to be caught working hard at something, I think that over. Yes, embarrassed is the word, but why? It's akin to stage fright. There's a sense that, if I am nonchalant, if I act like I'm not really trying, I don't really care, then the inevitable poor performance will not matter. It'll be bad because I didn't try, not because I am incompetent, untalented, a loser.
And that is truly embarrassing. Why would I feel that way at this point of my life? Why would it matter that the amount of work and time I put into something is not productive of something of comparable value? Who cares but me? If I'm going to do something, why cannot I do it with passion? Why cannot I respect the years, days, and hours of my life, and use them?
Well, maybe tomorrow I'll practise a bit, in addition to walking the dogs, swimming, and (new task) replacing the just-discovered burnt-out headlight. As Scarlett O'Hara says, tomorrow is another day!
I was a little disconcerted to realize that we weren't singing, much: it really was a class, and this particular class was about forming a habit of practise. While I could definitely use that habit, the various tools he shared were not inspiring. I've done lists and categories and schedules, and they do not work for me. The only way I can make myself practise is to have something specific for which I must practise, that is, a rehearsal or a performance. And even that doesn't totally work: CD and I would get together to play duets and we'd say, "oooh, we should work that up." But I never would. She was better than me, being a professional musician who was also taking lessons. I get by on my ability to sightread and to fake, and on my basic knowledge of the repertoire. After 42 years of playing orchestra repertoire and an equal amount of time playing chamber music, duets, trios, and quartets, I do have a number of pieces that I've faked my way through. Experience does help, even if you don't work at it.
In the course of the discussion, one of the gentlemen in the group mentioned the 10,000 Hour Rule: if you spend 10K hours working at something, you become an expert. I thought, huh. No wonder I'm not an expert at anything. And then I thought, wait a minute, I've spent at least that much time on a lot of things over the 58 years, 21,170 days, and 508,080 plus hours of my life. Why am I an expert in none? And, I've come to the conclusion, it's not the number of hours, it's the number of focused hours. (The article to which I link above verifies that conclusion.)
It's more than that, though. It's a lack of confidence, a lack of self-respect in the endeavor. I feel embarrassed to be caught working hard at something, I think that over. Yes, embarrassed is the word, but why? It's akin to stage fright. There's a sense that, if I am nonchalant, if I act like I'm not really trying, I don't really care, then the inevitable poor performance will not matter. It'll be bad because I didn't try, not because I am incompetent, untalented, a loser.
And that is truly embarrassing. Why would I feel that way at this point of my life? Why would it matter that the amount of work and time I put into something is not productive of something of comparable value? Who cares but me? If I'm going to do something, why cannot I do it with passion? Why cannot I respect the years, days, and hours of my life, and use them?
Well, maybe tomorrow I'll practise a bit, in addition to walking the dogs, swimming, and (new task) replacing the just-discovered burnt-out headlight. As Scarlett O'Hara says, tomorrow is another day!
Independence
A year ago I joined G on a pet-sitting gig at his sister's home. There were 3 corgis and one deaf French bulldog. The corgis were energetic at the best of times. At the worst of times, they were maniacal. The Fourth of July, with the attendant booms and pops and crackles and flashes of light, definitely qualifies as a worst of times. I spent most of my visit sitting with one of the dogs, rubbing his chest, trying to calm him down, while G sat with the others. The bulldog, being deaf, couldn't hear the noise, but he responded anyway to the frenzy within the house.
This year I sent G a text: "Listening to classic rock, waiting for fireworks." He responded, "Keep the dogs in!" Last years' experiences apparently left a scar. Actually, I did double-check with my host about her dogs and the Fourth, and she said they'd be fine, and I should get a ticket to the celebration. Vons, the nearby version of Smith's (my discount code works there), had them for sale. So, I stopped by and got the ticket. When I started breathing after looking at the amount ($8?!?!?), I decided it was probably worth it for parking and a concert of classic rock by a group of which I'd never heard (The Ravelers.) As it turned out, it wasn't worth it. There was no parking, so I had to find a place in the neighborhood. I wound up in an unlabeled parking lot at Pomona College, which I was lucky to locate afterwards. The Ravelers were not bad, though. It was like any band of old guys who had day jobs and just liked to play 60s, 70s RockNRoll on the weekend. There was a band like that in Portland, Johnny Limbo and the Lugnuts, but they had costumes and did an historically-based set list, working their way through the decades from Paul Revere and the Raiders to the Rolling Stones and...maybe even through disco? Can't recall.
I enjoyed myself, even though I was alone and had not brought much to entertain myself. The crowd was entertaining enough, and I knitted through the hour and a half until fireworks. There was an adorable 2-year-old, gamboling about in her tutu and star-decorated T shirt, and the folks next to me were gossiping about friends and people they saw. Once the lights were doused, the canned music came on; and that was a weird hodgepodge indeed: Boogie Woogie Bugle boy, followed by some modern emo music I didn't know, ending with Sousa and the 1812 overture. I had to move, though, even though I'd checked with the cops I saw standing around as to the best place to settle. They were dead wrong: the fireworks were set off from the south, and I was on the west, with trees in the way. Oh well. The fireworks always have something new for me: this time it was wriggling sperm-like white lights, swimming in all directions to a high-pitched whooshing sound. But mainly it was the usual mix of starbursts and loud bangs.
This year I sent G a text: "Listening to classic rock, waiting for fireworks." He responded, "Keep the dogs in!" Last years' experiences apparently left a scar. Actually, I did double-check with my host about her dogs and the Fourth, and she said they'd be fine, and I should get a ticket to the celebration. Vons, the nearby version of Smith's (my discount code works there), had them for sale. So, I stopped by and got the ticket. When I started breathing after looking at the amount ($8?!?!?), I decided it was probably worth it for parking and a concert of classic rock by a group of which I'd never heard (The Ravelers.) As it turned out, it wasn't worth it. There was no parking, so I had to find a place in the neighborhood. I wound up in an unlabeled parking lot at Pomona College, which I was lucky to locate afterwards. The Ravelers were not bad, though. It was like any band of old guys who had day jobs and just liked to play 60s, 70s RockNRoll on the weekend. There was a band like that in Portland, Johnny Limbo and the Lugnuts, but they had costumes and did an historically-based set list, working their way through the decades from Paul Revere and the Raiders to the Rolling Stones and...maybe even through disco? Can't recall.
I enjoyed myself, even though I was alone and had not brought much to entertain myself. The crowd was entertaining enough, and I knitted through the hour and a half until fireworks. There was an adorable 2-year-old, gamboling about in her tutu and star-decorated T shirt, and the folks next to me were gossiping about friends and people they saw. Once the lights were doused, the canned music came on; and that was a weird hodgepodge indeed: Boogie Woogie Bugle boy, followed by some modern emo music I didn't know, ending with Sousa and the 1812 overture. I had to move, though, even though I'd checked with the cops I saw standing around as to the best place to settle. They were dead wrong: the fireworks were set off from the south, and I was on the west, with trees in the way. Oh well. The fireworks always have something new for me: this time it was wriggling sperm-like white lights, swimming in all directions to a high-pitched whooshing sound. But mainly it was the usual mix of starbursts and loud bangs.
I thought about other celebrations, and wondered what had happened to me and to the country that now all I can bring to the party is a sense of nostalgia and grumpiness about the noise. I see the flags and mutter about people who don't know the proper way to display the flag, and what does it mean now when people fly the flag? Does it stand for patriotism, and what is patriotism, anyway?
This feeling is not new, however. I can't blame this malaise and downright hostility on 45, even though many pundits do. It has something to do with growing up and becoming disillusioned. I've read too many alternative histories to be able to enjoy the mythology of the Fourth. And, I'm no longer with friends and family, for the most part.
Years ago, the Fourth meant eating watermelon and corn on the cob and Dad disappearing for a few moments. We'd hear a bang/pop from outside and he'd come back in. He'd gone outside with one of the firecrackers Leif had brought back from Reed. Since they were illegal, he hadn't shared the activity with us, although I do recall cutting a firecracker in two, lighting the gunpowder, and watching its spark and sizzle, the tiny explosion pushing the cracker away from us along the ground. I also recall dropping a lit firecracker into a plastic milk jug and listening to the small reverberation as exploded. One red letter year, we had sparklers. I still like those, writing names and squiggles in the air with the glowing flames.
I also recall the year we drove into the country with the Bucholtz elders. They brought a charcoal grill and chicken marinated in Italian dressing, and we brought home-made vanilla icecream, still packed in ice and rock salt in the maker, with the paddles removed from the inner metal container and the lid tightly fixed. It was a green and quiet picnic, followed by fireworks at Monmouth Park.
One year when I was a teenager, I went out to the park with the Kloeppels. Erik had been at a summer school of sorts at Knox College, and he brought a tall lanky very cute friend. Becky and I had an immediate crush on him. I remember listening to the radio and lying on the blanket next to him, surrounded by our friends, as the ball game concluded and the fireworks went up. Afternoon Delight will always remind me of him. (Sadly, although we both ended up at Knox, he was a troubled soul, and I let that fantasy go with little regret.)
My disillusionment didn't set in until later still, though. Al least through my 30s, I enjoyed the Fourth. I recall being with B and C at the Colorado Springs fireworks. B had her camera and tripod, and she took time exposures. I recall visiting Grandma S in Vancouver, which had the loudest and biggest show west of the Mississippi: 20K at the least. Leaving the event was like being a refugee in a burning city. For years, that was a destination, and after she passed, I would go to the Waterfront Blues festival or watch the fireworks from one of the Portland SE bridges. The heat didn't bother me, and it was always a day off from work.
So, what happened? Was it one too many stories about frantic dogs or burnt-up neighborhoods? Was it one too many stories of racism and bigotry? Was it the difficult years with D, when he'd fight with me about my being too tired to go to the Waterfront? Was it the crowds?
I don't know. It seems that this year, at least, I was able to return a bit to my roots. Eat some ice cream, sit on a blanket, watch some fireworks. Maybe I can start celebrating independence, illusory though it seems at times. After all, you can't be more independent than me: owning little, owing nothing, on my own.
And, sad as that sounds, I'm not sad. I'm content.
Sunday, July 2, 2017
Refugees
In May, my sisters and I attended the world premier of Refugia at the Minneapolis Guthrie Theatre. I hate to say it, but I was underwhelmed. Although it was well produced and well acted and had a very interesting lobby display (of which I only got a glimpse), its earnestness was not sufficient to help it transcend its chaotic structure. Apparently, a number of students and actors got together and created a series of vignettes that were only peripherally related. The impetus for the exercise seems to be an attempt to address the current anti-immigrant political climate, and, as with most dogmatic art, it does not succeed very well artistically. I especially had difficulty with the long soliloquies: they neither advanced plot nor developed character. Interesting in themselves, they had no obvious place in the drama. Neither did some of the mime/dance pieces. The dying polar bear in the tropics was especially confusing, albeit compelling.
That being said, Refugia did succeed on one level. While I don't find myself thinking about the individual vignettes, I do find myself thinking about the entire concept of refugees. It's a huge topic, which is perhaps the reason the play failed: they tried to cover all the bases. The books and short stories that work confine themselves to one story, or one group. I remember trying to read Katherine Ann Porter's Ship of Fools, which was too grim for me to continue. I remember the story in Julian Barnes' Short History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters, wherein the even more grim tale of the "Voyage of the Damned" (AKA, the Voyage of the St. Louis) is recounted. That was the terrible incident wherein over 900 Jews and other escapees from Nazi Germany were turned back at the Florida waters, after days of waiting to be let in. They were sent back to Germany to die in concentration camps. Unconscionable then, it's a story that continues to be played out today. From Cuban boat people to those crossing the Mexican border, from Iran to Syria, in the course of my 58 years I've watched this tale over and over. And, I'm not even politically aware: there are so many more incidents out there, I know.
It's taken awhile for me to recognize this. I was 13 when I read Anne Frank's diary, and I picked it up because it was a Diary of a Young Girl, and she turns 13 in her very first entry. I was stunned when I got to the last page to learn that she died in a concentration camp. I thought it was fiction, and no, I'm not a Holocaust denier; I was just young and unaware of history. I didn't know about the Holocaust. I couldn't believe it was actually true. In some ways, I remain unable to comprehend the cruelty of man to man.
It crops up everywhere, from current debates about immigration to the fascinating tale of Beethoven's hair.(which was heirloomed in a locket and followed refugees over the border to Norway, where it waited out the war.) Every generation has its own horror stories. In fact, the refugee narrative goes back to Genesis: Noah's ark is the tale of refugees. As long as there have been communities, there have been refugees, and the cost is incalculable. Families are separated, childhoods destroyed, cultures decimated. I remember Hodel in Fiddler in the Roof: "Papa, God alone knows when we shall see each other again," and Tevye's reply, "Well, we will leave it in his hands."
Leaving literature and religion and myth aside, the story of the United States itself is one of refugees. Not all immigrants were refugees, but many of them were, and we created refugees out of the indigenous populations: refugees with no place to go. The tale continues: the family of my current host's ex-husband were refugees from Korea.
So, I think about this, and I think about what it takes to leave everything behind. What was it like for my host's ex, for a teenager, to get on a plane, pretending to be going to school in Paris, leaving behind parents who in turn are making plans to escape with what they can carry? They will meet again in Singapore and finally end up in New Orleans. Why New Orleans, I ask, and my hostess has no answer. It's just the first place that offered a visa to the military folks who were engineering the escape. But at least they had a place to go. Syrian refugees and refugees on the St. Louis were not so lucky.
My nomad life is not such a tale. While I too have pared my belongings down to what I can carry, I am not separated from family and friends, and I still have access to people and things. I am not in personal physical danger; I am not forced to leave everything behind. However, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I must say that psychological danger is another thing, and the fear and distress and anger continue to follow me. I cannot escape them, because I cannot escape the world. To that extent, yes, I am a refugee, seeking asylum from a scary political reality, hoping those other countries will not turn me away.
But in reality, I'm just a spoiled middle class white girl, living well and doing not much. I am lucky to be able to travel and see wonderful things. I have to force myself to recognize that, in a world where people are real refugees, I am playing at it. After this year is over, I will come back and hopefully find a way to live a meaningful life. And I'll be grateful that I have that possibility, that I'm not facing the grim reality of being a stranger in a strange land.
That being said, Refugia did succeed on one level. While I don't find myself thinking about the individual vignettes, I do find myself thinking about the entire concept of refugees. It's a huge topic, which is perhaps the reason the play failed: they tried to cover all the bases. The books and short stories that work confine themselves to one story, or one group. I remember trying to read Katherine Ann Porter's Ship of Fools, which was too grim for me to continue. I remember the story in Julian Barnes' Short History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters, wherein the even more grim tale of the "Voyage of the Damned" (AKA, the Voyage of the St. Louis) is recounted. That was the terrible incident wherein over 900 Jews and other escapees from Nazi Germany were turned back at the Florida waters, after days of waiting to be let in. They were sent back to Germany to die in concentration camps. Unconscionable then, it's a story that continues to be played out today. From Cuban boat people to those crossing the Mexican border, from Iran to Syria, in the course of my 58 years I've watched this tale over and over. And, I'm not even politically aware: there are so many more incidents out there, I know.
It's taken awhile for me to recognize this. I was 13 when I read Anne Frank's diary, and I picked it up because it was a Diary of a Young Girl, and she turns 13 in her very first entry. I was stunned when I got to the last page to learn that she died in a concentration camp. I thought it was fiction, and no, I'm not a Holocaust denier; I was just young and unaware of history. I didn't know about the Holocaust. I couldn't believe it was actually true. In some ways, I remain unable to comprehend the cruelty of man to man.
It crops up everywhere, from current debates about immigration to the fascinating tale of Beethoven's hair.(which was heirloomed in a locket and followed refugees over the border to Norway, where it waited out the war.) Every generation has its own horror stories. In fact, the refugee narrative goes back to Genesis: Noah's ark is the tale of refugees. As long as there have been communities, there have been refugees, and the cost is incalculable. Families are separated, childhoods destroyed, cultures decimated. I remember Hodel in Fiddler in the Roof: "Papa, God alone knows when we shall see each other again," and Tevye's reply, "Well, we will leave it in his hands."
Leaving literature and religion and myth aside, the story of the United States itself is one of refugees. Not all immigrants were refugees, but many of them were, and we created refugees out of the indigenous populations: refugees with no place to go. The tale continues: the family of my current host's ex-husband were refugees from Korea.
So, I think about this, and I think about what it takes to leave everything behind. What was it like for my host's ex, for a teenager, to get on a plane, pretending to be going to school in Paris, leaving behind parents who in turn are making plans to escape with what they can carry? They will meet again in Singapore and finally end up in New Orleans. Why New Orleans, I ask, and my hostess has no answer. It's just the first place that offered a visa to the military folks who were engineering the escape. But at least they had a place to go. Syrian refugees and refugees on the St. Louis were not so lucky.
My nomad life is not such a tale. While I too have pared my belongings down to what I can carry, I am not separated from family and friends, and I still have access to people and things. I am not in personal physical danger; I am not forced to leave everything behind. However, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I must say that psychological danger is another thing, and the fear and distress and anger continue to follow me. I cannot escape them, because I cannot escape the world. To that extent, yes, I am a refugee, seeking asylum from a scary political reality, hoping those other countries will not turn me away.
But in reality, I'm just a spoiled middle class white girl, living well and doing not much. I am lucky to be able to travel and see wonderful things. I have to force myself to recognize that, in a world where people are real refugees, I am playing at it. After this year is over, I will come back and hopefully find a way to live a meaningful life. And I'll be grateful that I have that possibility, that I'm not facing the grim reality of being a stranger in a strange land.
Saturday, July 1, 2017
Daily texts and notes, June 2017
June 1
I joined another wine club: lovely gardens and wine. Not to mention lavender. (Matanzas Creek). Rudy and I had a nice walk through Jack London State Park first, and he charmed everyone at the winery.
  |
| Jack London state Park, Matanzas Creek winery, And much puppy love |
 |
| .A walk to Wolf House And a wine and cheese pairing. The dog liked the first. |
Picked up E and spent the afternoon/evening with her. Dinner at Rosso with Jan. Amazing Bach concert. EB was phenomenal in the Brandenburg 2, and the trumpet was unreal.
June 3
Today's message, not a text because I wanted to share these pix.
Loved the one of E grimacing. The food was out of this world:
house made yoghurt and sourdough, house-cured bacon, and imaginative
versions of the classics. EB treated, and took the pix, so you
don't get to see her.
Took a long route home from dropping
E back at her place in El Cerrito: I hope to see her again before I
leave the area. She has literally no short term memory left, but she
still remembers me, and it's so wonderful to see her.
June 4
Woke up at 3 am, slept to 11,. Only outings were dog walk, but 'twas a good day. Did an NYT crossword, listened to an audiobook, wrote a few things, drank some good wine.
While we walk I think,
Thoughts both airy and deep, yet
I dream of coffee
Tonight we're greeted
By two girls in bathing suits:
They're selling "fresh air."
June 5
I'm switching carriers and phone, so there will be some glitchiness until G brings my new phone on June 11.
June 6
A windy day at Dillon Beach. According to my new friend T's Fitbit, we walked over 9000 steps! Rudy rocks!
 |
| Outside Tomales bakery |
June 7
Found a winery (Paradise Ridge) close by, along with a sculpture garden (Voigt).
Thu June 8
My last day here is grey and rainy, so I spent the morning cleaning.I think Rudy knows something is up.
It rained last night and
Today it's dim and misty.
I avoid the snails.
Fri June 9
Today was glorious but very windy in this hilltop house. I swam and sunned and read and napped. My hostess informs me that Northern CA is not hot! (Inland heat causes build up of fog at the coast). I'm glad I brought sweater and warm socks.
   |
| Last month, heirloom seeds Then a tart shrub with breakfast. I'm sensing a trend. |
  |
| Her garden sculptures: She says they're functional, but I say they are art. |
 | ||
| Waiting to see Wonder Woman in the most comfy theatre EVER! |
Got up early to pick up G at the airport. He's sleepy. Wandered around the San Mateo area after picking G up at SFO; surfers at Half Moon Bay, wine walkers in San Carlos (where we're staying.) Missing the Pride parades.
Mon June 12
Posing at MOMA
Followed by deep dish pizza
With Golden State fans
A piece of art or a piece of work?
   |
| He's petrified. I'm not |
Spent the day at the Asian Art Museum. They housed the museum in an old library building.
 |
| Interactive installation at UN Plaza |
 |
| Looking oh so noir At Godfather's Burger Lounge: He sports the smug hat. |
Wed June 14
Long walk down the Embarcadero and a nice time on historic ships.
 |
| In a strange structure by the maritime museum |
  |
| An homage to EB: altered oil slicks dripping down the Balclutha |
Thu June 15
2 days avoiding
Giants and Warriors fans:
 |
| Closeups of the art At the Legion of Honour: Best selfie ever |
 |
| Ancient coffee beans Decorate sacred objects. They so had it right. (At the De Young) |
 |
| View from the hill. |
 |
| G liked this art. At the CA Legion of Honor, Urs Fischer |
 |
| I covet these shoes: So much walking and standing. Art isn't easy. |
 |
| At the CA Legion of Honor, mimicking Rodin |
 |
| He's so patient: Breakfast at 8am (Cafe, not time) |
 |
| The shapes and colours Of a good hearty breakfast At 8 am (cafe) |
 |
| Clouds at Golden Gate. He's likely wise to avoid Today's sailboat trip. |
 |
| He walked and saw whales, But the captain let me steer! We both were quite pleased. |
At the CA Academy of Science
 |
| Really great eco roof at CA AofS |
 |
| G provides scale for a really huge piece of quartz |
 |
| Just a few amazing And true colours and textures From Golden Gate Park |
8-hour drive south, arrived at Newport Beach in time for Baroque concert. Now crashing at my airbnb. This one is not so nice: musty smell in the room.
Mon June 19
EB skeet shooting at Mayur Restaurant, pre-concert. A demonstration of life as an artistic director of an early music festival.
  | |
| I love napkin folds. The shirt fold is new to me. Now I must learn it. |
 |
| Before the concert, a pic for Esther |
Tues June 20
In a garden listening to rehearsal. Lovely.
Sherman Library and Gardens, in Corona del Mar
 |
| It's not Chihuly Nor yet SanFran Botanic, But it's quite lovely. |
Wed June 21
Zinc Cafe, at Corona del Mar. A vegetarian Reuben, with beets and cabbage. Excellent, but no Reuben substitute.
 |
| It's going to be rough But one can get accustomed To anything, right |
Thu June 22
Just learned my voicemail did not apparently transfer over to CREDO. Will fuss over that tomorrow. Also discovered that tea does not prevent a caffeine headache. Sigh.
Fri June 23
Lounging after a day of fighting with the computer; still recovering from yesterday's migraine. Tonight I meet the ex. Mom and son are fighting about packing. He's 20, time to grow up.
Sat June 24
These SoCal dogs chase
Lizards up the tall tree trunks.
I've seen no squirrels.
 |
| Found another Little Free Library on the dog walk. Wonder if I'll see any in England?! |
Sun June 25
They're on their way! And the natives are restless. I'll have to take them on a walk once my coffee kicks in.
 |
| Still life with crossword |
Mon June 26
Other than skinny dipping and tutoring, I've done very little. Too hot. But this is an excellent home for lounging in the heat of the day.
Tues June 27
.
 |
| When you wake early And go swimming in the dark, The pets are confused |
Wed June 28
Each hour is a gift
This morning I hear
Warbles, flutes, twitters, and cheeps:
It's a bird riot.
Behind a huge frond
In the Bird of Paradise,
A bird's silhouette.
They lick my limp hand
And I doze, slowly baking.
The water's chillin'.
   |
| At the Rancho Santa Ana Butterflies and Brews |
I leave for 2 hours, return,
And the dogs go nuts.
  |  |
| It's impossible To share the immensity Of these native trees |
It's what they do, when they aren't fighting over my lap.
Don't know where this day went. Surely I didn't spend the whole day sitting under a dog and coloring online?
Fri June 30
OMG, the DOG caught a baby bird! The little feet were sticking out of his mouth and I couldn't get him to drop it so I pulled on the feet and only half came out. So gross. I had to swim several laps to recover and when I came out he was LICKING my legs. I'm going to have to disinfect everything.
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