Before dinner Sabrina came upstairs and asked for an old shirt, a smock, in which to paint my Christmas present. I told her I had taken most of the shirts I no longer wore to the second hand store, but took her to my closet, in the bath area. I would find something.
"Is THAT your shower?!?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"Is that the shower door?" she asked of the tan cotton draped across the inside of the keystoned doorway, concealing yet revealing the mottled brown stone walls behind.
There is no door, I told her. Just the curtain. "Don't you remember when we got the curtain rod and drapes at Fred Meyer?" I asked.
I watched the memory return, of the three of us in the curtain aisle of the home improvement section, selecting the rods, thinking about color. I watched the memory fit itself into the present, the pieces falling into place. "THAT's why we bought those?" she asked.
"You have to clean shower doors," she finally said.
"I will throw that in the washing machine," I replied.
I showed her the strange shower heads. The stone. She laughed her laugh of surprised joy. "I SO love this house. It is SO the red string," the abbreviated reference cementing K.C. 's metaphor into our family lexicon, that this steel sided barn house is a red string in a box full of gray string.
As to metaphors, K.C found another one in the truck after we left the coffeehouse on 14th Street late this afternoon. Laura the barista had made the girls some nice drinks, much better than the awful ones we had gotten earlier at the strip mall. Sabrina's Chai Tea was especially a disappointment, thin. K.C. said it was skim milk instead of whole milk.
"You mean really made with skim?" I asked her. She said no, just that it had no flavor.
I told her she had just come up with another metaphor, and she said, "I did, didn't I?" So on the way home we looked for cars that were skim milk, the Malibu's and Accords, and noted even people could be skim milk, or strong coffee.
We talked of people who were easy to see through, as though they were hiding in a water glass. K.C. laughed hard and sudden when she got that one.
The girls put up the lights and ornaments when we got home. K.C. said it was kind of cool having two trees to decorate.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Reflections on a mountain
This morning, long before dawn, after putting on the coffee I turned out the lights to bath in the stillness. There was some wind outside and a slight spitting of snow, but it would be hours before carpenters came to split the morning with power saws and compressors and nail guns. My steel shack was solidly silent, warm.
It is becoming easier to navigate the house in the dark. There are a couple of potential pit falls -- literally. The stairs to my loft are nearly six feet wide -- the adjacent passage back to my bedroom and bath is only four feet. If I turn too soon there will be a tumble to the lower landing.
The cooking island stands right in the middle of the u-shaped embrace of the kitchen. And I don’t always know where the sink might be.
Back in my chair with a fresh cup of coffee and facing the mountains and quiet storm, I think of other homes I have navigated at dawn. It frightens me a little how fresh memories can be. First up is the rental house after the marriage came apart, with its tall white walls and glass fireplace, two sets of sliding glass doors. Two years ago there is a small pine branch blocking the track of one of those doors, and a shampoo bottle clatters to the floor of the shower.
After that the single level house, level only by accident where it was level at all, where I try to cobble together a blended family without any of the proper tools, four stools for four children along the peninsula behind which I cook eggs and sausage, doors that either swing open by themselves or closed, depending on which room you are in, which way the house is tilting.
Years before that I walk into the narrow pantry of the log house, with unfinished stairs leading onto the dirt floor of a low basement or tall crawl space, your call, tucked below the kitchen. I still see gaps in the plaster left as logs settle, heavy pine posts on the deck wobble as wood gives way to moisture.
We moved from there so long ago, lifetimes ago, and yet I can feel my feet slide across the wide-plank oak floor, the cool gray tile of that bathroom, the small splash of pink in tiny flowers outlined in gray, the window sill in the living room sags under the pressure of posts holding up the gable end and curved glass window.
There is the transition house, small twin girls and one bathroom, a tight one car garage for some reason full of camping gear, it is cold with its hollow core doors, rough wood siding of a room added by the previous owner, the smell of chlorine from an indoor hot tub. There is that mysterious cavity between the new and old rooms you can crawl into from where the firewood is stacked and then stand, you could hide in there for days or even weeks with preparation.
Reaching back 25 years, there is the apartment on Lovejoy, with the small white tiles in the kitchen, the narrow plank floors, the bathroom I rough plaster and paint blue, grass wallpaper, a window to the outside over the tub I rig into a shower with a hose, casement windows once painted shut I bang back into use with the heel of my hands in a fierce uppercut, tightly spring roll-up shades.
When I close my eyes in the easy chair facing the mountains it feels like I could open them into any one of these rooms of the past and present.
But when I do open my eyes I see lights where there should be no lights. The mountains are shrouded, I think, Black Butte only promising to become visible. The lights I see are halfway up where I know Mt. Jefferson to be. That is wilderness, that is high up the side of a snow-laden mountain.
From my chair in the dark I see rescue teams have marked with lights the location of a lost hunter or climber. They are waiting for dawn to bring in a helicopter for evacuation. It is too early to call the news desk, it would be too much an interference to call dispatch.
For a half hour the lights do not move on the mountain. There are two of them, one slightly brighter than the other. I wished I could see the mountain through the dark to tell how high the rescue teams might be, if they are above or below the tree line, the line-of-life in these and in most mountains.
It is not until dawn starts to gray the skies and I need another cup of coffee that I literally bark in laughter at myself, at these silly musings. There are no other lights. At all. There are no other rooms but this room.
In my predawn, the lights that I thought illuminated a mountain 20 miles away were simply the reflection of an illuminated button on the coffee pot behind me, bouncing back from the double paned window through which I am viewing the world. Memories are just that, too, poorly filtered reflections, fading somewhat slowly with the light of each new day.
It is becoming easier to navigate the house in the dark. There are a couple of potential pit falls -- literally. The stairs to my loft are nearly six feet wide -- the adjacent passage back to my bedroom and bath is only four feet. If I turn too soon there will be a tumble to the lower landing.
The cooking island stands right in the middle of the u-shaped embrace of the kitchen. And I don’t always know where the sink might be.
Back in my chair with a fresh cup of coffee and facing the mountains and quiet storm, I think of other homes I have navigated at dawn. It frightens me a little how fresh memories can be. First up is the rental house after the marriage came apart, with its tall white walls and glass fireplace, two sets of sliding glass doors. Two years ago there is a small pine branch blocking the track of one of those doors, and a shampoo bottle clatters to the floor of the shower.
After that the single level house, level only by accident where it was level at all, where I try to cobble together a blended family without any of the proper tools, four stools for four children along the peninsula behind which I cook eggs and sausage, doors that either swing open by themselves or closed, depending on which room you are in, which way the house is tilting.
Years before that I walk into the narrow pantry of the log house, with unfinished stairs leading onto the dirt floor of a low basement or tall crawl space, your call, tucked below the kitchen. I still see gaps in the plaster left as logs settle, heavy pine posts on the deck wobble as wood gives way to moisture.
We moved from there so long ago, lifetimes ago, and yet I can feel my feet slide across the wide-plank oak floor, the cool gray tile of that bathroom, the small splash of pink in tiny flowers outlined in gray, the window sill in the living room sags under the pressure of posts holding up the gable end and curved glass window.
There is the transition house, small twin girls and one bathroom, a tight one car garage for some reason full of camping gear, it is cold with its hollow core doors, rough wood siding of a room added by the previous owner, the smell of chlorine from an indoor hot tub. There is that mysterious cavity between the new and old rooms you can crawl into from where the firewood is stacked and then stand, you could hide in there for days or even weeks with preparation.
Reaching back 25 years, there is the apartment on Lovejoy, with the small white tiles in the kitchen, the narrow plank floors, the bathroom I rough plaster and paint blue, grass wallpaper, a window to the outside over the tub I rig into a shower with a hose, casement windows once painted shut I bang back into use with the heel of my hands in a fierce uppercut, tightly spring roll-up shades.
When I close my eyes in the easy chair facing the mountains it feels like I could open them into any one of these rooms of the past and present.
But when I do open my eyes I see lights where there should be no lights. The mountains are shrouded, I think, Black Butte only promising to become visible. The lights I see are halfway up where I know Mt. Jefferson to be. That is wilderness, that is high up the side of a snow-laden mountain.
From my chair in the dark I see rescue teams have marked with lights the location of a lost hunter or climber. They are waiting for dawn to bring in a helicopter for evacuation. It is too early to call the news desk, it would be too much an interference to call dispatch.
For a half hour the lights do not move on the mountain. There are two of them, one slightly brighter than the other. I wished I could see the mountain through the dark to tell how high the rescue teams might be, if they are above or below the tree line, the line-of-life in these and in most mountains.
It is not until dawn starts to gray the skies and I need another cup of coffee that I literally bark in laughter at myself, at these silly musings. There are no other lights. At all. There are no other rooms but this room.
In my predawn, the lights that I thought illuminated a mountain 20 miles away were simply the reflection of an illuminated button on the coffee pot behind me, bouncing back from the double paned window through which I am viewing the world. Memories are just that, too, poorly filtered reflections, fading somewhat slowly with the light of each new day.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Let’s talk about it
Confession: Yesterday I called my daughter Sabrina on her cell phone.
She was in the house. Downstairs. I was in the house. Upstairs.
All right, mea culpa. But there are a lot of stairs. The twins, 14, had their music on and their door closed. I was in a hurry and she is on my speed dial, and I use an ear piece. There is no doubt that it was faster to call than to walk downstairs, knock, wait for them to hear the knock, and tell her to come up and see the mountains as the sun rose. She is trying to paint those mountains.
Yes, I called her on her cell phone to come up and look at the view.
But then I started to think about this turn of events. Perhaps what I did is really just the squeezing of inefficiencies by technology, as technology is intended to do.
For some six months I have been among the ranks of those who no longer have a land line. Instantly I can name of four others close to me who no longer have a tether to Ma Bell or any of her children, although one of them has a land line linked to his cell phone in a way I don’t understand. In my case, I have no land link at all, since I don’t get cable or DSL. Everything is wireless by some form of technology standard, WiMax or WiFi or Bluetooth or cell.
In other words, I no longer have a phone. I have a Star Trek communicator. Instead of a hand held device or a badge on my breast like Jean Luc Picard, I have a dongle in my left ear (the hearing in the right a little dim from shotgun reports or rock and roll or the finish grind barrel at the cement plant where I worked eons ago).
And with free family to family minutes, it is more efficient and less costly to tap my left ear twice and ask my daughter to come up stairs. In the 50s and 60s there were intercoms. Stand at a box in the wall of the kitchen and talk to a bedroom. Now I tap my ear and talk to my daughter.
We are on the cusp of being able to do the same upstairs to downstairs, Hawaii to New York, with voice or image, with mass amounts of data on the internet or simply a reference to commonly accessed URL’s.
It’s not a telephone, it’s a communicator. It will soon interface the personal area network (earpiece, iPod, Bluetooth) with the local area network (my house, my printer, my computer) and the wide area network (the internet, my office, you).
And because technology puts the squeeze on inefficiency (while introducing a few of its own, ask any homebuilder watching hourly subs on their cell phones), it will replace the old methods, as surely as it is difficult now to find a typewriter.
She was in the house. Downstairs. I was in the house. Upstairs.
All right, mea culpa. But there are a lot of stairs. The twins, 14, had their music on and their door closed. I was in a hurry and she is on my speed dial, and I use an ear piece. There is no doubt that it was faster to call than to walk downstairs, knock, wait for them to hear the knock, and tell her to come up and see the mountains as the sun rose. She is trying to paint those mountains.
Yes, I called her on her cell phone to come up and look at the view.
But then I started to think about this turn of events. Perhaps what I did is really just the squeezing of inefficiencies by technology, as technology is intended to do.
For some six months I have been among the ranks of those who no longer have a land line. Instantly I can name of four others close to me who no longer have a tether to Ma Bell or any of her children, although one of them has a land line linked to his cell phone in a way I don’t understand. In my case, I have no land link at all, since I don’t get cable or DSL. Everything is wireless by some form of technology standard, WiMax or WiFi or Bluetooth or cell.
In other words, I no longer have a phone. I have a Star Trek communicator. Instead of a hand held device or a badge on my breast like Jean Luc Picard, I have a dongle in my left ear (the hearing in the right a little dim from shotgun reports or rock and roll or the finish grind barrel at the cement plant where I worked eons ago).
And with free family to family minutes, it is more efficient and less costly to tap my left ear twice and ask my daughter to come up stairs. In the 50s and 60s there were intercoms. Stand at a box in the wall of the kitchen and talk to a bedroom. Now I tap my ear and talk to my daughter.
We are on the cusp of being able to do the same upstairs to downstairs, Hawaii to New York, with voice or image, with mass amounts of data on the internet or simply a reference to commonly accessed URL’s.
It’s not a telephone, it’s a communicator. It will soon interface the personal area network (earpiece, iPod, Bluetooth) with the local area network (my house, my printer, my computer) and the wide area network (the internet, my office, you).
And because technology puts the squeeze on inefficiency (while introducing a few of its own, ask any homebuilder watching hourly subs on their cell phones), it will replace the old methods, as surely as it is difficult now to find a typewriter.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Directing our own evolution
Stem cells have cured sickle cell anemia in mice.
Hold on to your hats, with at least one of your three hands, because we are about to direct human evolution. The rate of which has already been increasing over the last few millennia.
This is to be both celebrated and feared. Celebrated because it will rapidly take us into the unknown, and we are, after all, adventurers; to be feared because we are going someplace we have not been before, and we will not know our destination until after we have arrived.
This is very much like driving to a new town using only the review mirror to decide how to crank the steering wheel.
But the point is, in the past evolution has had a rate based somewhat on the random effects of change within a dynamic environment, where the feedback was based upon a shortening or lengthening of life span.
Sickle cell anemia is a lousy, painful disease, but confers some resistance to malaria, common in areas where the sickle cell trait is most common. An interesting thought might be to wonder if malaria will be more common if sickle cell is reduced through genetic engineering. One might assume that the advantage of resistance resulted in the increase of sickle cell trait. Those without it died.
That’s how evolution works, in fruit flies, tomatoes or men.
But it seems that evolution has been speeding up, at least in humans. According to research published in The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences and referenced by the BBC (read it here), in the last 5,000 years human genetic change “has occurred at a rate roughly 100 times higher than any other period.”
“Five thousand years is such a small sliver of time,” said co-author Professor John Hawks of the University of Wisconsin, Madison. “It's 100 or 200 generations ago. That's how long since some of these genes originated, and today they are [in] 30% or 40% of people because they've had such an advantage.”
And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have introduced something new, something very powerful: pre directed evolution. Because we can imagine and dream, and because we have or soon will have the technology.
We may decide that we want to go somewhere genetically, a decision taken as a community, society, race or a species, or by a despot, and we now have the tools to go there fairly quickly. If not the master race, maybe just a marginally better one.
The last phase of “natural evolution” perhaps moved us from being animals to becoming humans.
The next phase will result in our becoming ... something else.
Hold on to your hats, with at least one of your three hands, because we are about to direct human evolution. The rate of which has already been increasing over the last few millennia.
This is to be both celebrated and feared. Celebrated because it will rapidly take us into the unknown, and we are, after all, adventurers; to be feared because we are going someplace we have not been before, and we will not know our destination until after we have arrived.
This is very much like driving to a new town using only the review mirror to decide how to crank the steering wheel.
But the point is, in the past evolution has had a rate based somewhat on the random effects of change within a dynamic environment, where the feedback was based upon a shortening or lengthening of life span.
Sickle cell anemia is a lousy, painful disease, but confers some resistance to malaria, common in areas where the sickle cell trait is most common. An interesting thought might be to wonder if malaria will be more common if sickle cell is reduced through genetic engineering. One might assume that the advantage of resistance resulted in the increase of sickle cell trait. Those without it died.
That’s how evolution works, in fruit flies, tomatoes or men.
But it seems that evolution has been speeding up, at least in humans. According to research published in The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences and referenced by the BBC (read it here), in the last 5,000 years human genetic change “has occurred at a rate roughly 100 times higher than any other period.”
“Five thousand years is such a small sliver of time,” said co-author Professor John Hawks of the University of Wisconsin, Madison. “It's 100 or 200 generations ago. That's how long since some of these genes originated, and today they are [in] 30% or 40% of people because they've had such an advantage.”
And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have introduced something new, something very powerful: pre directed evolution. Because we can imagine and dream, and because we have or soon will have the technology.
We may decide that we want to go somewhere genetically, a decision taken as a community, society, race or a species, or by a despot, and we now have the tools to go there fairly quickly. If not the master race, maybe just a marginally better one.
The last phase of “natural evolution” perhaps moved us from being animals to becoming humans.
The next phase will result in our becoming ... something else.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Christmas lights
It was daughter K.C. who kept up the nagging about Christmas lights. She is 14 and her priorities never cease to surprise me. Just now I put on some music for doing laundry and she looked over the counter and said “Bob Marley?” I could not tell if there was enthusiasm or reproach in her voice.
She had been talking about decorating the house for Christmas. It was more certain to happen this visit, they came to be with me on Thursday. I had been telling the contractors all week we were going to occupy the house this weekend. Not one more week in that trailer, it is too cold and too small and too dingy, I was not keeping life on hold for one more week.
Alan and Larry and Curt and Mike and Rod and Rick and John and Ron, they all made it happen this week. I had been cleaning up a little, a box of debris here and there, and then I just moved the girls’ beds in from the tipi, their sleeping bags from the trailer. So when the girls got out of school on Thursday, we went from piano lessons to buy sheets to sushi to what is now home.
We are home.
It’s not finished yet. Trim boards and paint and lacquer are yet to be put up or applied. But we have heat and sinks and a stove. A refrigerator, a still-unused dishwasher which may not see use even once a week. And a washer and dryer! No more scheduling around laundromat hours of 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., lugging the laundry basket to and fro.
I slept in a nest of blankets on my own mattress placed on cardboard on the floor downstairs on Thursday because I was too exhausted to drag it upstairs. Friday I cleaned my bedroom and bath and Alan helped me to put the frame together when we had to take a break from the technical difficulties of reversing the handle on a dryer door.
It’s been a very rough few weeks since the divorce was final on Halloween, among the roughest, for reasons that will get no elaboration. But K.C. kept bugging me about Christmas lights. At their mom’s house, the girls put up all the decorations. I didn’t have any of my own, of course.
Bob Marley sings, “Take it easy,” after two days of listening to Alegria. We are home.
So yesterday after looking for stuff for their rooms, we stopped and bought some outside lights. This afternoon, in bitter cold, I screwed hooks into fascia shadow board, brass hooks that sit behind the drip line of the corrugated steel roof and that will be there for as long as I live in this concrete and steel mining barn on a hill top facing the east slope of Cascade volcanoes.
The girls handed up strings of lights that we stretched tight. There were enough extension cords on the job site, some of which will be reclaimed tomorrow for power saws and compressors.
But tonight, in a right now that flows outward in time and place and in peace, they power the smallest of lights because K.C. wanted to get it done. She was right, of course.
Sometime this week we will get a tree, Sabrina says it must divide the room against the wall where the window looks out on the mountains. She gets to decide. That works for me, too.
She had been talking about decorating the house for Christmas. It was more certain to happen this visit, they came to be with me on Thursday. I had been telling the contractors all week we were going to occupy the house this weekend. Not one more week in that trailer, it is too cold and too small and too dingy, I was not keeping life on hold for one more week.
Alan and Larry and Curt and Mike and Rod and Rick and John and Ron, they all made it happen this week. I had been cleaning up a little, a box of debris here and there, and then I just moved the girls’ beds in from the tipi, their sleeping bags from the trailer. So when the girls got out of school on Thursday, we went from piano lessons to buy sheets to sushi to what is now home.
We are home.
It’s not finished yet. Trim boards and paint and lacquer are yet to be put up or applied. But we have heat and sinks and a stove. A refrigerator, a still-unused dishwasher which may not see use even once a week. And a washer and dryer! No more scheduling around laundromat hours of 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., lugging the laundry basket to and fro.
I slept in a nest of blankets on my own mattress placed on cardboard on the floor downstairs on Thursday because I was too exhausted to drag it upstairs. Friday I cleaned my bedroom and bath and Alan helped me to put the frame together when we had to take a break from the technical difficulties of reversing the handle on a dryer door.
It’s been a very rough few weeks since the divorce was final on Halloween, among the roughest, for reasons that will get no elaboration. But K.C. kept bugging me about Christmas lights. At their mom’s house, the girls put up all the decorations. I didn’t have any of my own, of course.
Bob Marley sings, “Take it easy,” after two days of listening to Alegria. We are home.
So yesterday after looking for stuff for their rooms, we stopped and bought some outside lights. This afternoon, in bitter cold, I screwed hooks into fascia shadow board, brass hooks that sit behind the drip line of the corrugated steel roof and that will be there for as long as I live in this concrete and steel mining barn on a hill top facing the east slope of Cascade volcanoes.
The girls handed up strings of lights that we stretched tight. There were enough extension cords on the job site, some of which will be reclaimed tomorrow for power saws and compressors.
But tonight, in a right now that flows outward in time and place and in peace, they power the smallest of lights because K.C. wanted to get it done. She was right, of course.
Sometime this week we will get a tree, Sabrina says it must divide the room against the wall where the window looks out on the mountains. She gets to decide. That works for me, too.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Diane’s embarrassment
A lot of boring stuff happened today in the world. Cheney/Bush vetoed a bill that would fund education, job training and health programs, while getting huge sums for war. A muslim country that already has nuclear weapons and is home to thousands of Al Queda, Pakistan, totters on the brink of chaos. The communist running Venezuela and distributing its oil is threatening international banks. The mideast smolders. The U.S. economy balances on a hairline of confidence. China growls.
And Diane Sawyer is leading the news with a story on the death of a rap star’s mother after a tummy tuck gone bad.
This is the best indication that things are going from bad to worse. Or not, if you are one of those who hold that “the media” (there is no such thing) makes things bad. In that case there is much to rejoice: Few are paying attention, most couldn’t care less, others don’t believe it affects them, and the rest can’t wait to see if Britney will finally lose the right to drive with her kids in a car when she isn’t getting down with Paris Hilton.
Diane Sawyer’s story is a symptom, not the problem. You are the problem. Well, not you, readers of “eyeonoregon,” but those others. You know who they are.
And Diane Sawyer is leading the news with a story on the death of a rap star’s mother after a tummy tuck gone bad.
This is the best indication that things are going from bad to worse. Or not, if you are one of those who hold that “the media” (there is no such thing) makes things bad. In that case there is much to rejoice: Few are paying attention, most couldn’t care less, others don’t believe it affects them, and the rest can’t wait to see if Britney will finally lose the right to drive with her kids in a car when she isn’t getting down with Paris Hilton.
Diane Sawyer’s story is a symptom, not the problem. You are the problem. Well, not you, readers of “eyeonoregon,” but those others. You know who they are.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
To Beauty
Ah, welcome back, legalchick. Again your intelligence sparkles, your perspective educates.
And you have flown off the target. “Well, well, well. Any doubt that eyeonoregon and anonymous are men?” Gratuitous and irrelevant. (See comments in previous post.)
The topic of the day actually was reading, of compelling prose. The paragraph about beauty was offered because I thought it beautiful, in prose and insight. It was an illustration, only.
“Anonymous” took issue with the example, and the thread meandered. That is all well and good, debates and exploration of ideas is what this “place” in Oregon is about, these kinds of discussions, not simply about raising children in a trailer, sunrises and the Law of Comparative Advantage.
“What is the beauty of women in such matters,” she asks. As an illustration of prose, it is but an illustration. As a topic of its own, it is also worthy.
Legalchick proves this by asking, “What is the beauty that lies upon women and what is a beautiful woman? Is it her eyes or the luminous secrets veiled by lashes that sweep her cheek? Is it the curve of her lips or the next whisper she breathes? Is it the grace of a lithe arm and the line of her legs or is it the artistry of her strength and endurance?”
Exactly right. Of what beauty are lovely eyes without luminous secrets, lovely lips that pass ewe-like bleats, a lithe arm that has no endurance?
The nature of beauty is a driving force of mankind and one of those great undefinables, along with “truth,” and “quality,” these traits, if they are traits, these attributes, if so they be, are definable only in terms of themselves, hence their definition must be incomplete, or contradictory.
“Beauty is that which is beautiful,” “truth is that which is characterized by being true.” We offer questions like these, we ponder. We like it.
Of beautiful women, and beauty takes many forms, I annotate Helprin: of those told they are beautiful and come to believe it, only the truly beautiful know that beauty is a gift received, and temporary.
And you have flown off the target. “Well, well, well. Any doubt that eyeonoregon and anonymous are men?” Gratuitous and irrelevant. (See comments in previous post.)
The topic of the day actually was reading, of compelling prose. The paragraph about beauty was offered because I thought it beautiful, in prose and insight. It was an illustration, only.
“Anonymous” took issue with the example, and the thread meandered. That is all well and good, debates and exploration of ideas is what this “place” in Oregon is about, these kinds of discussions, not simply about raising children in a trailer, sunrises and the Law of Comparative Advantage.
“What is the beauty of women in such matters,” she asks. As an illustration of prose, it is but an illustration. As a topic of its own, it is also worthy.
Legalchick proves this by asking, “What is the beauty that lies upon women and what is a beautiful woman? Is it her eyes or the luminous secrets veiled by lashes that sweep her cheek? Is it the curve of her lips or the next whisper she breathes? Is it the grace of a lithe arm and the line of her legs or is it the artistry of her strength and endurance?”
Exactly right. Of what beauty are lovely eyes without luminous secrets, lovely lips that pass ewe-like bleats, a lithe arm that has no endurance?
The nature of beauty is a driving force of mankind and one of those great undefinables, along with “truth,” and “quality,” these traits, if they are traits, these attributes, if so they be, are definable only in terms of themselves, hence their definition must be incomplete, or contradictory.
“Beauty is that which is beautiful,” “truth is that which is characterized by being true.” We offer questions like these, we ponder. We like it.
Of beautiful women, and beauty takes many forms, I annotate Helprin: of those told they are beautiful and come to believe it, only the truly beautiful know that beauty is a gift received, and temporary.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The authors
At a lovely bookstore a few weeks ago I picked up a book of short stories, “The Pacific” by Mark Helprin. He became one of my favorite authors after I read “Winter’s Tale” a decade or so ago.
A great author like Helprin stuns with insight; not just the ability to weave together words into an exquisite and balanced tapestry, but in the way that tapestry displays deeper truth.
Keep your authors of the Northeast, their tales of profundity and their affairs, contrived significance. Annie Dillard can peer into souls and each time bring home a new message; Kesey gave us life and death and courage right at home in fir-paneled honkey tonks; Robbins’ metaphors leap out their chairs and dance on the tables; and this great author Helprin offers us meaning.
“... Women who are told that they are beautiful and come to believe it not only lose delicacy of soul and sharpness of wit, they forfeit the appealing privacy and loneliness without which real beauty cannot exist. They hardly reflect, as everything reflects upon them, and this makes them dull.”— Mark Helprin, Prelude, “The Pacific.”
Turn off that damn TV.
A great author like Helprin stuns with insight; not just the ability to weave together words into an exquisite and balanced tapestry, but in the way that tapestry displays deeper truth.
Keep your authors of the Northeast, their tales of profundity and their affairs, contrived significance. Annie Dillard can peer into souls and each time bring home a new message; Kesey gave us life and death and courage right at home in fir-paneled honkey tonks; Robbins’ metaphors leap out their chairs and dance on the tables; and this great author Helprin offers us meaning.
“... Women who are told that they are beautiful and come to believe it not only lose delicacy of soul and sharpness of wit, they forfeit the appealing privacy and loneliness without which real beauty cannot exist. They hardly reflect, as everything reflects upon them, and this makes them dull.”— Mark Helprin, Prelude, “The Pacific.”
Turn off that damn TV.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Greenspan's warning
“If the pernicious drift toward fiscal instability is not arrested and is compounded by a protectionist reversal of globalization, the current account adjustment process could be quite painful for the United States and our trading partners," warned Alan Greenspan on Sunday, October 20 in a speech on the sidelines of the International Monetary Fund and World Bank meetings (read it here).
There is cause for great alarm in that sentence. Partly because of the incompetence of Bush/Cheney. Partly because of the tendency of both Democrats and Republicans to pander.
The “drift toward fiscal instability” is the deficit that Cheney/Bush has run up during its term of office. They are not conservatives. They are statists drawing power from the moral right. They favor a big government profiting special interests, they have run up huge deficits with tax breaks to large corporations and the wealthy while not paying for their war in progress.
The left is not much better. Their hatred of other people’s money makes them economically illiterate. If they get control of government on an agenda that includes opposition to liberal trade, Greenspan’s “protectionist reversal of globalization” could launch another worldwide recession.
At the end of which, China will be even more clearly the most significant economy in the world. If we start banning their T-Shirts, they may stop buying our debt. We need them more than they need us, and some of the recent market chaos may be related to China’s displeasure with our politics. We did not need to fete the Dali Lama.
The Law of Comparative Advantage proves that trade makes all nations wealthier. Protectionism extended the depression and made it worse. Democrats need to recognize that by trying to save in California jobs more cheaply done in Mexico, we hurt U.S. consumers, Mexican workers, and U.S. workers who can not make things for sale to a Mexico that can not pay for them.
Greenspan is giving us another warning. We are walking an edge. Only by more wisdom than we seem to possess, and a great amount of luck, shall we avoid a fall.
There is cause for great alarm in that sentence. Partly because of the incompetence of Bush/Cheney. Partly because of the tendency of both Democrats and Republicans to pander.
The “drift toward fiscal instability” is the deficit that Cheney/Bush has run up during its term of office. They are not conservatives. They are statists drawing power from the moral right. They favor a big government profiting special interests, they have run up huge deficits with tax breaks to large corporations and the wealthy while not paying for their war in progress.
The left is not much better. Their hatred of other people’s money makes them economically illiterate. If they get control of government on an agenda that includes opposition to liberal trade, Greenspan’s “protectionist reversal of globalization” could launch another worldwide recession.
At the end of which, China will be even more clearly the most significant economy in the world. If we start banning their T-Shirts, they may stop buying our debt. We need them more than they need us, and some of the recent market chaos may be related to China’s displeasure with our politics. We did not need to fete the Dali Lama.
The Law of Comparative Advantage proves that trade makes all nations wealthier. Protectionism extended the depression and made it worse. Democrats need to recognize that by trying to save in California jobs more cheaply done in Mexico, we hurt U.S. consumers, Mexican workers, and U.S. workers who can not make things for sale to a Mexico that can not pay for them.
Greenspan is giving us another warning. We are walking an edge. Only by more wisdom than we seem to possess, and a great amount of luck, shall we avoid a fall.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
In the Valley of Elah
“In the Valley of Elah” is not entertainment. It is not an action film, it is not a detective movie. It is an outstanding film about a father looking for his boy, who has gone missing after returning from the war in Iraq.
The acting is supberb. Tommy Lee Jones is understated as the father looking for his soldier son. We are so used to his smart dialogue in other films, here his face tells the tale. Charlize Theron is quite believable as the police detective aiding in that search, and Susan Sarandon owns every one of the few scenes she is in.
Early in the movie, as Jones sets out on his search, he comes upon a school employee of foreign origin who has run the U.S. flag up the pole upside down. Jones educates the man with a soliloquy that requires attention. Listen to his words, to his quiet passion, his love of country.
The movie grinds on in places. It heads full speed at a cliché or two, swerving only at the last minute, especially with Theron’s relationship with her fellow police officers. But the film never loses its believability, the bad guys are not always so bad, the good guys never that good.
We don't find out until halfway through the movie, during a casual conversation in a diner, just how significant the loss of the missing son might be. A lesser director would have played that card, that of the second son, much earlier in the film.
Emotionally, this movie is quite graphic. Not in the blood, guts and gore sense with which so many movies indulge themselves, in that ever-escalating game of overcoming the sensibilities of the audience. Not in the superficially manipulative way that directors of lesser talent whipsaw our emotions.
This movie is emotionally graphic because the emotions are so real, and so honest. Sarandon gives us a mother's loss that will be hard to forget, that should not be forgotten.
Some will see “In the Valley of Elah” as a political film. It actually celebrates values while taking a good look, and makes no apology. “Elah” shows the nobility of the soldier, both active and retired. Tommy Lee Jones, as Hank Deerfield, loves this country, he has sacrificed for this country.
“In the Valley of Elah” helps us understand that war matters. It matters to all of us, it matters to the boys and girls we send to fight in places like Iraq, where the enemy may be hiding behind a child playing in the street. What we ask our young fighters to do has an impact on them, and on us, our culture, our great nation.
The acting is supberb. Tommy Lee Jones is understated as the father looking for his soldier son. We are so used to his smart dialogue in other films, here his face tells the tale. Charlize Theron is quite believable as the police detective aiding in that search, and Susan Sarandon owns every one of the few scenes she is in.
Early in the movie, as Jones sets out on his search, he comes upon a school employee of foreign origin who has run the U.S. flag up the pole upside down. Jones educates the man with a soliloquy that requires attention. Listen to his words, to his quiet passion, his love of country.
The movie grinds on in places. It heads full speed at a cliché or two, swerving only at the last minute, especially with Theron’s relationship with her fellow police officers. But the film never loses its believability, the bad guys are not always so bad, the good guys never that good.
We don't find out until halfway through the movie, during a casual conversation in a diner, just how significant the loss of the missing son might be. A lesser director would have played that card, that of the second son, much earlier in the film.
Emotionally, this movie is quite graphic. Not in the blood, guts and gore sense with which so many movies indulge themselves, in that ever-escalating game of overcoming the sensibilities of the audience. Not in the superficially manipulative way that directors of lesser talent whipsaw our emotions.
This movie is emotionally graphic because the emotions are so real, and so honest. Sarandon gives us a mother's loss that will be hard to forget, that should not be forgotten.
Some will see “In the Valley of Elah” as a political film. It actually celebrates values while taking a good look, and makes no apology. “Elah” shows the nobility of the soldier, both active and retired. Tommy Lee Jones, as Hank Deerfield, loves this country, he has sacrificed for this country.
“In the Valley of Elah” helps us understand that war matters. It matters to all of us, it matters to the boys and girls we send to fight in places like Iraq, where the enemy may be hiding behind a child playing in the street. What we ask our young fighters to do has an impact on them, and on us, our culture, our great nation.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Tom McCall's clarion
"There is a shameless threat to our environment and to the whole quality of life, an unfettered despoiling of the land. Sagebrush subdivisions, coastal ‘condomania,’ and the ravenous rampage of suburbia in the Willamette Valley all threaten to mock Oregon´s status as the environmental model for the nation. We are dismayed that we have not stopped misuse of the land, our most valuable finite natural resource.
"We are in dire need of a state land-use policy, new subdivision laws, and new standards for planning and zoning by cities and counties. The interests of Oregon for today and in the future must be protected from grasping wastrels of the land. We must respect another truism: that unlimited and unregulated growth leads inexorably to a lowered quality of life."
Governor Tom McCall, to the 1973 Legislative Assembly, January 8, 1973.
"We are in dire need of a state land-use policy, new subdivision laws, and new standards for planning and zoning by cities and counties. The interests of Oregon for today and in the future must be protected from grasping wastrels of the land. We must respect another truism: that unlimited and unregulated growth leads inexorably to a lowered quality of life."
Governor Tom McCall, to the 1973 Legislative Assembly, January 8, 1973.
Save Oregon
Measure 37 was sold with lies.
Few voters disagreed that if a couple bought a piece of land on which to retire, newer land use laws should not prevent them from building their home. Oregonians in Action used that to sell Measure 37 to voters in 2004.
The lie was that Measure 37 was actually written by OIA to overturn Oregon land use laws and benefit development companies. The largest contributors to Measure 37 then, and those who oppose Measure 49 now, were rich men, developers and timber companies.
It was a classic bait and switch. A political game played very well and unfamiliar in Oregon, where there was still a certain naive belief in honesty of the process and the wisdom of even uninformed voters. The effete running the campaign against Measure 37 were having a wine party in the Pearl District as they got crushed on election night and Oregon's land use system was destroyed.
Last week I heard “Why can’t I do what I want with my land?” from a woman in Sisters. She has filed a claim for a subdivision on the edge of that mountain town. The answer, pure and simple? Because she never had unlimited rights to do what she wanted. Because what she does on her land affects the rest of us.
Oregon Land Use laws weren’t just an arbitrary move by big government. They were a response by the people of Oregon to protect the quality of life in the state, when to the south, California strip malls were flowing across farm and forest. “Sagebrush subdivisions” near Bend horrified long time Oregonians. “Don’t Californicate Oregon, “was the cry.
So we in Oregon enacted land use laws. The public was involved then, and has been involved since in the zoning of land. Many zones were appealed and modified during that time. There was success. Growth occurred where it would do the most good, do the least harm.
It is not a wide open world anymore, folks. Water is limited. Air is limited. Roads are limited. Money for schools is limited. Unlimited sprawl has a very real cost to all of us. Supporters of Measure 37, who are now the wealthy opponents of Measure 49, want us to pay those costs while they make millions.
The woman I talked to last week could have built a subdivision on her land in the early 1970s, but all it was worth was to raise cattle. Even today she could build a subdivision if the land was incorporated into the growth boundary, if there were roads for the houses, stores for those houses, places for children to play.
The value of her land went up partly because of the very Oregon land use laws that she and OIA are trying to overturn. The protected views, the green space, the adequate transportation, and restrictions on her neighbors who bought their land in the 1980s have all made her land more valuable.
“If the state wants to restrict what I do, why shouldn’t they pay for that?" she asked. Because if she wants to turn her ranch into a subdivision, it is our right as neighbors to ask her to offset the loss to the rest of us. The process is there to assure that she will pay her share while making millions off land use laws that kept Oregon livable.
Few voters disagreed that if a couple bought a piece of land on which to retire, newer land use laws should not prevent them from building their home. Oregonians in Action used that to sell Measure 37 to voters in 2004.
The lie was that Measure 37 was actually written by OIA to overturn Oregon land use laws and benefit development companies. The largest contributors to Measure 37 then, and those who oppose Measure 49 now, were rich men, developers and timber companies.
It was a classic bait and switch. A political game played very well and unfamiliar in Oregon, where there was still a certain naive belief in honesty of the process and the wisdom of even uninformed voters. The effete running the campaign against Measure 37 were having a wine party in the Pearl District as they got crushed on election night and Oregon's land use system was destroyed.
Last week I heard “Why can’t I do what I want with my land?” from a woman in Sisters. She has filed a claim for a subdivision on the edge of that mountain town. The answer, pure and simple? Because she never had unlimited rights to do what she wanted. Because what she does on her land affects the rest of us.
Oregon Land Use laws weren’t just an arbitrary move by big government. They were a response by the people of Oregon to protect the quality of life in the state, when to the south, California strip malls were flowing across farm and forest. “Sagebrush subdivisions” near Bend horrified long time Oregonians. “Don’t Californicate Oregon, “was the cry.
So we in Oregon enacted land use laws. The public was involved then, and has been involved since in the zoning of land. Many zones were appealed and modified during that time. There was success. Growth occurred where it would do the most good, do the least harm.
It is not a wide open world anymore, folks. Water is limited. Air is limited. Roads are limited. Money for schools is limited. Unlimited sprawl has a very real cost to all of us. Supporters of Measure 37, who are now the wealthy opponents of Measure 49, want us to pay those costs while they make millions.
The woman I talked to last week could have built a subdivision on her land in the early 1970s, but all it was worth was to raise cattle. Even today she could build a subdivision if the land was incorporated into the growth boundary, if there were roads for the houses, stores for those houses, places for children to play.
The value of her land went up partly because of the very Oregon land use laws that she and OIA are trying to overturn. The protected views, the green space, the adequate transportation, and restrictions on her neighbors who bought their land in the 1980s have all made her land more valuable.
“If the state wants to restrict what I do, why shouldn’t they pay for that?" she asked. Because if she wants to turn her ranch into a subdivision, it is our right as neighbors to ask her to offset the loss to the rest of us. The process is there to assure that she will pay her share while making millions off land use laws that kept Oregon livable.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Westlund for State Treasurer
Ben Westlund will make a great governor. Which is why we should elect him State Treasurer.
Oh, Westlund will do a great job as treasurer, too. He knows the numbers. He likes the numbers. The fact that he is not a CPA is not a handicap. The job is a policy position, after all.
What does this have to do with Westlund as governor? In many ways Westlund is far more qualified for that role than any other, and more qualified than anyone else in state politics. He has been a state representative. He has been a state senator. And now, if we elect him, he will have been state treasurer.
To that training we add the man himself: Westlund has vision. He has heart. He had cancer and rather than retreat, he lived life even more fully: that life he chose to lead was one of public service, not sitting on an island somewhere playing golf.
While he can tell you more than you want to know about anything in government, he can also crystalize in 30 seconds the essence of complicated policy. He also has the knowledge of the game inside of the capitol building that can get things done that seem beyond reach.
Which will, when Kulongoski stops warming the chair in the governor’s office in two years, make Ben Westlund the most highly trained and qualified candidate for governor we have had in the state in a long, long time.
Oh, Westlund will do a great job as treasurer, too. He knows the numbers. He likes the numbers. The fact that he is not a CPA is not a handicap. The job is a policy position, after all.
What does this have to do with Westlund as governor? In many ways Westlund is far more qualified for that role than any other, and more qualified than anyone else in state politics. He has been a state representative. He has been a state senator. And now, if we elect him, he will have been state treasurer.
To that training we add the man himself: Westlund has vision. He has heart. He had cancer and rather than retreat, he lived life even more fully: that life he chose to lead was one of public service, not sitting on an island somewhere playing golf.
While he can tell you more than you want to know about anything in government, he can also crystalize in 30 seconds the essence of complicated policy. He also has the knowledge of the game inside of the capitol building that can get things done that seem beyond reach.
Which will, when Kulongoski stops warming the chair in the governor’s office in two years, make Ben Westlund the most highly trained and qualified candidate for governor we have had in the state in a long, long time.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
First snow
The storm that blew through yesterday laid upon the mountains finally their first blanket of snow. From the hilltop here, you can see rock falls and outcroppings jutting still black through the fresh white dusting on the dormant volcano. From here you can not tell if the snow on the mountain is two inches or two feet thick.
The sun in Fall is so bright for lacking warmth. It brilliantly etches trees, mountains, squinting from light flat and harsh. How can the sun be so cold? In spring or late summer it is softer, yet so full and warm. It must be the way light polarizes as it bends and bounces through the whisper thin skin of air to fall upon the mountains.
The twins sit at the table in the trailer on this Saturday morning. I worry that when the house is finished in a month and they have their own room that I will be deprived of this closeness of hearing them think aloud to each other only five feet away from the couch where I write, of having them warble like wrens about anything and everything and nothing at all.
Right after eggs K.C. was strumming a rubber band and asked if a musical instrument could be made of rubber bands. I had a new pair of sneakers still in the box, we got the box and stretched the rubber band over the opening. I explained frequency. Within a few minutes, she was playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” as if on a guitar. I told her it was now an instrument, and we could even mark the notes, “A through G” on the side of the box.
A thirty foot travel trailer is not always crowded, even when filled.
My second small pot of coffee is done, and I look at news of Oregon and the world: Cheney/Bush attempt to derail real action on global warming; Portland doused in the rainiest day of 2007 (the storm that whitened my mountains); Cal versus Oregon; drug free zones; truck crashes.
We are so much a part of it and so far apart from it, a day at a time in the trailer on the hill at the foot of the mountains with their first frosting of snow.
The sun in Fall is so bright for lacking warmth. It brilliantly etches trees, mountains, squinting from light flat and harsh. How can the sun be so cold? In spring or late summer it is softer, yet so full and warm. It must be the way light polarizes as it bends and bounces through the whisper thin skin of air to fall upon the mountains.
The twins sit at the table in the trailer on this Saturday morning. I worry that when the house is finished in a month and they have their own room that I will be deprived of this closeness of hearing them think aloud to each other only five feet away from the couch where I write, of having them warble like wrens about anything and everything and nothing at all.
Right after eggs K.C. was strumming a rubber band and asked if a musical instrument could be made of rubber bands. I had a new pair of sneakers still in the box, we got the box and stretched the rubber band over the opening. I explained frequency. Within a few minutes, she was playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” as if on a guitar. I told her it was now an instrument, and we could even mark the notes, “A through G” on the side of the box.
A thirty foot travel trailer is not always crowded, even when filled.
My second small pot of coffee is done, and I look at news of Oregon and the world: Cheney/Bush attempt to derail real action on global warming; Portland doused in the rainiest day of 2007 (the storm that whitened my mountains); Cal versus Oregon; drug free zones; truck crashes.
We are so much a part of it and so far apart from it, a day at a time in the trailer on the hill at the foot of the mountains with their first frosting of snow.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Straight "A's"
The twins have straight “A’s” so far. Living with me and in a tipi on a hilltop one-third of the time during the school year, with their mother in a house near the creek two-thirds, they are making this transition.
They are not brilliant the way that some of their friends are brilliant: they work, they slog, they are able at age 13 to put in four hours on a project, they do their homework. That will serve them better, I think.
I barked at them last week for not setting aside enough time to study for the Social Studies test, I growled when they told me that was why they did not know all the answers. I felt like the stupid one when told one girl scored 54 out of 50 with the extra credit, the other 53 out of 50. “I missed four but got seven of the extra credit,” she explained.
I felt stupid only until I heard her pride as she told me, without words but with the inflection in her voice, “See, Dada, I have got this under control.” It is not supposed to be easy, struggle in a safe environment is learning essential lessons.
Each with her own style, her own strength, the twins know they are different with their golden brown skin and deep black hair with highlights of henna when the sun watches them with an oblique glance, almost tomboys with their lack of understanding of girly girls, not quite getting that obsession with showing too much to boys (they are young, it may come soon).
We celebrate independence, talk about the loneliness of being on the outside, hint at the painful joy of self-direction. The day will come when I introduce them to the nobility of the outlaw, why the outlaw is always necessary, how the outlaw gives herds an option, a warning, a dynamic force that highlights the dangers of conformity.
But now there is the girls’ quiet knowing they are enveloped in grace: wrapped in the love of those close to them, part of a universe that truly intends them no harm, a welcome part of creation and free to create what they want to see, create themselves, create their days.
They are not brilliant the way that some of their friends are brilliant: they work, they slog, they are able at age 13 to put in four hours on a project, they do their homework. That will serve them better, I think.
I barked at them last week for not setting aside enough time to study for the Social Studies test, I growled when they told me that was why they did not know all the answers. I felt like the stupid one when told one girl scored 54 out of 50 with the extra credit, the other 53 out of 50. “I missed four but got seven of the extra credit,” she explained.
I felt stupid only until I heard her pride as she told me, without words but with the inflection in her voice, “See, Dada, I have got this under control.” It is not supposed to be easy, struggle in a safe environment is learning essential lessons.
Each with her own style, her own strength, the twins know they are different with their golden brown skin and deep black hair with highlights of henna when the sun watches them with an oblique glance, almost tomboys with their lack of understanding of girly girls, not quite getting that obsession with showing too much to boys (they are young, it may come soon).
We celebrate independence, talk about the loneliness of being on the outside, hint at the painful joy of self-direction. The day will come when I introduce them to the nobility of the outlaw, why the outlaw is always necessary, how the outlaw gives herds an option, a warning, a dynamic force that highlights the dangers of conformity.
But now there is the girls’ quiet knowing they are enveloped in grace: wrapped in the love of those close to them, part of a universe that truly intends them no harm, a welcome part of creation and free to create what they want to see, create themselves, create their days.
Second floor pour
The concrete truck is here, and the pump to move slurry to the second floor. The sun is not yet up at nearly 7 a.m., and it is 31 degrees, supposed to be 70 later today.
Ryan the concrete man asked for a couple of days to cut and finish, and the concrete has to give up its water, so we will not have insulation until maybe on Thursday, drywall next week. I will not be in before November.
The girls come back to the tipi/trailer on Friday for a few days, then back with my ex-wife until the 8th, then back to me for nearly 11 days.
On Saturday I leveled the trailer so fried eggs would not slide right to the edge of the pan. While it's always possible to turn the handle to the other side of the stove, the compensation is an unnecessary complication when you are in a hurry on school days.
The leveling gauge on the trailer did not show the frame to be that far out of plumb, but the true test was a fry pan with just a little water in the bottom. Sometimes the methods of measurement are also out of line, not just what is measured. It's hard to get a good calibration when you don't know where to begin.
Turmoil, most of it internal. I have temporarily lost my center. Time to reach for conscious contact.
Ryan the concrete man asked for a couple of days to cut and finish, and the concrete has to give up its water, so we will not have insulation until maybe on Thursday, drywall next week. I will not be in before November.
The girls come back to the tipi/trailer on Friday for a few days, then back with my ex-wife until the 8th, then back to me for nearly 11 days.
On Saturday I leveled the trailer so fried eggs would not slide right to the edge of the pan. While it's always possible to turn the handle to the other side of the stove, the compensation is an unnecessary complication when you are in a hurry on school days.
The leveling gauge on the trailer did not show the frame to be that far out of plumb, but the true test was a fry pan with just a little water in the bottom. Sometimes the methods of measurement are also out of line, not just what is measured. It's hard to get a good calibration when you don't know where to begin.
Turmoil, most of it internal. I have temporarily lost my center. Time to reach for conscious contact.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Stiff hands
It is 6:15 a.m. The sun has not made it to the horizon, but the eastern sky south of Smith Rock is that delicious creamcicle orange and vanilla, fading quickly through blue and violet to dark. I can still see stars but barely.
I didn’t think about it last night but of course I ran out of water this morning. I had not filled up because Rod the Plumber was setting up the house, replacing with some real plumbing the funky standpipe I had cobbled together. So at 5:45 I was out there in my slippers unhooking the sprinkler, attaching the hose to the new bib, and filling the trailer so the girls can wash their faces, cold stiffening my fingers.
The girls go back to their mom today and I miss’em though they ain’t out the door.
I don’t think I am going to Seattle this morning to race. It is too far, my racing buddy has bagged out, the weather is iffy on Saturday and I may be coming down with a cold, I didn’t sleep well from 2:30. It’s about six hours each way, a lot of fuel to burn in XSSUV, Auburn, Washington is not a town to enjoy by myself and Seattle proper is too far from the track.
I’ll hunker down here with a book instead, I think, and review the divorce papers. We may, finally, be seeing the end of this. I don’t quite know what I am going to do for a living. My wife will end up with our business, she is set for life, and that is all to the good. But I am going to be scrambling, for a while. Anybody need a writer?
The girls are packing. It’s time to make breakfast.
I didn’t think about it last night but of course I ran out of water this morning. I had not filled up because Rod the Plumber was setting up the house, replacing with some real plumbing the funky standpipe I had cobbled together. So at 5:45 I was out there in my slippers unhooking the sprinkler, attaching the hose to the new bib, and filling the trailer so the girls can wash their faces, cold stiffening my fingers.
The girls go back to their mom today and I miss’em though they ain’t out the door.
I don’t think I am going to Seattle this morning to race. It is too far, my racing buddy has bagged out, the weather is iffy on Saturday and I may be coming down with a cold, I didn’t sleep well from 2:30. It’s about six hours each way, a lot of fuel to burn in XSSUV, Auburn, Washington is not a town to enjoy by myself and Seattle proper is too far from the track.
I’ll hunker down here with a book instead, I think, and review the divorce papers. We may, finally, be seeing the end of this. I don’t quite know what I am going to do for a living. My wife will end up with our business, she is set for life, and that is all to the good. But I am going to be scrambling, for a while. Anybody need a writer?
The girls are packing. It’s time to make breakfast.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Jesse Jackson is a rascist
Jesse Jackson accused Barak Obama for "acting like he's white." (read it here) Any time a white man says that a black man is "acting like he's black" or if we hear someone claim that another is "acting like a Jew," the outrage pours forth. As perhaps it should.
But there is no excuse for Jackson's comment, because Jackson has made fighting rascism his Crusade. Yet with that one remark he shows he is himself a rascist, which is what we call those who, to paraphrase Peter Jennings, hold groups responsible for the acts of an individual.
But there is no excuse for Jackson's comment, because Jackson has made fighting rascism his Crusade. Yet with that one remark he shows he is himself a rascist, which is what we call those who, to paraphrase Peter Jennings, hold groups responsible for the acts of an individual.
Belligerence
The New York police have decided not to allow Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to visit the site of the September 11 attacks. (Read it here).
Presidential candidates have climbed aboard the Outrage Express, calling the request “shockingly audacious” the State Department has called it “appalling,” and U.S. Jewish groups are apoplectic (the Iranian President has called for the destruction of Israel).
The shrillness of the outrage is easy to understand, but it seems too many of the most vocal are using the 9/11 tragedy to further their own agenda. There is something of a false note in the screaming. Nowhere have I read that Iran was involved in the 9/11 attacks. (Nor was Saddam Hussein, right everyone?)
Iran is of course developing a nuclear bomb and using client groups to create anguish around the world (we taught them well). Is Iran a state sponsor of terror? Probably.
But there might be some benefit if the world’s Muslims could see a Muslim leader laying wreathes at a site where Muslim extremists killed innocent U.S. citizens. What is the downside? A dubious moral imperative? The satisfaction of name calling?
Frankly, to deny the visit seems a bit petulant. We should accept another's acknowledgment of our grief. We might have been able to forge a propaganda tool out of the visit. As it is, the world’s Muslims will see once again that we scorn them.
As far as I know, belligerence has yet to prove effective in furthering national interest over the long term. It has not served us so well in the last 50 years, it does not seem to be serving Israel (though it is hard to know what would ameliorate that region’s toxic anger). Did it help in Northern Ireland? Depends on which Irishman you ask, but peace may have broken out.
Self-righteous indignation is powerful drink. Belligerence is the glass. The hangover is often quite brutal.
Presidential candidates have climbed aboard the Outrage Express, calling the request “shockingly audacious” the State Department has called it “appalling,” and U.S. Jewish groups are apoplectic (the Iranian President has called for the destruction of Israel).
The shrillness of the outrage is easy to understand, but it seems too many of the most vocal are using the 9/11 tragedy to further their own agenda. There is something of a false note in the screaming. Nowhere have I read that Iran was involved in the 9/11 attacks. (Nor was Saddam Hussein, right everyone?)
Iran is of course developing a nuclear bomb and using client groups to create anguish around the world (we taught them well). Is Iran a state sponsor of terror? Probably.
But there might be some benefit if the world’s Muslims could see a Muslim leader laying wreathes at a site where Muslim extremists killed innocent U.S. citizens. What is the downside? A dubious moral imperative? The satisfaction of name calling?
Frankly, to deny the visit seems a bit petulant. We should accept another's acknowledgment of our grief. We might have been able to forge a propaganda tool out of the visit. As it is, the world’s Muslims will see once again that we scorn them.
As far as I know, belligerence has yet to prove effective in furthering national interest over the long term. It has not served us so well in the last 50 years, it does not seem to be serving Israel (though it is hard to know what would ameliorate that region’s toxic anger). Did it help in Northern Ireland? Depends on which Irishman you ask, but peace may have broken out.
Self-righteous indignation is powerful drink. Belligerence is the glass. The hangover is often quite brutal.
Fall announces
The laughter of girls lightens the trailer. I roll out at 5:30 still tired, the twins come in from the tipi at 6 a.m. It was cold last night, it was supposed to get down to 28 degrees. I wrapped the well pressure switch pipe in foam just before sundown.
Eggs and sausage and we’re a half-hour from leaving for school. Leave at 7:30, and we get there too early at 7:40. Leave 8 minutes later, and the trip takes 20 additional minutes, traffic snarled around the middle school, lattés and cell phones battling with kids in crosswalks for driver’s attention.
I prefer the early run.
Today Mike and I will lay down a foam/foil/foam sandwich on the top floor of the barn. Tomorrow tubes for radiant heat will go down, concrete comes on Monday. Insulation. Drywall. Three weeks for drywall, I have been told. We finally have a plan to get the corrugated steel siding on before the snow flies.
The trailer, after four months, is getting small. I don’t know how it will fare when temperatures drop to 10 degrees, five degrees, below zero degrees for a week or so, and don’t really want to find out what it’s like draining sewage and gray water tanks when ice forms in seconds, thawing the hose to refill the freshwater tank.
The race is on.
Eggs and sausage and we’re a half-hour from leaving for school. Leave at 7:30, and we get there too early at 7:40. Leave 8 minutes later, and the trip takes 20 additional minutes, traffic snarled around the middle school, lattés and cell phones battling with kids in crosswalks for driver’s attention.
I prefer the early run.
Today Mike and I will lay down a foam/foil/foam sandwich on the top floor of the barn. Tomorrow tubes for radiant heat will go down, concrete comes on Monday. Insulation. Drywall. Three weeks for drywall, I have been told. We finally have a plan to get the corrugated steel siding on before the snow flies.
The trailer, after four months, is getting small. I don’t know how it will fare when temperatures drop to 10 degrees, five degrees, below zero degrees for a week or so, and don’t really want to find out what it’s like draining sewage and gray water tanks when ice forms in seconds, thawing the hose to refill the freshwater tank.
The race is on.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Gunslingers
The problem I have always had with “private security contractors” in Iraq is that it’s hard to really know what they are. Actually, that’s wrong. What they are is obvious: they are mercenaries.
There is nothing wrong with that, now. Those of the “Have Gun, Will Travel” profession, Knights Errant, Ronin, have been around for thousands of years. It’s an honorable living. In fact, it’s a damn good living, and it should be, it’s a dangerous occupation. That does not dismiss the question of whether we should be buying their services.
The most recent (not the first) incident involving Blackwater USA (read it here) occurred when a “convoy of U.S. personnel protected by Blackwater security contractors came under small arms fire...” according to Time Magazine.
Apparently our State Department is the primary employer of this private army. It us unclear why our State Department is being protected by hired guns. Why isn’t our army the “gun” of first choice?
Why we would pay these soldiers of fortune hundreds of thousands of dollars per man per year when a sergeant in our military has to support his family with food stamps is unclear. I can only think of three obvious reasons: (1) Mercenaries are not bound by the same rules of war as our troops; (2) Someone is getting very rich; (3) Somebody doesn't want the rest of us to know what's going on.
The State Department is itself without much information, apparently. "(State Department spokesman Sean McCormack) had no information about any Iraqi laws Blackwater or its employees might be subject to, the chain of command its employees answer to, or details of the company's contract with the State Department..." according to the Associated Press (read it here).
The cluelessness extends to the Senate. "Having visited now 10 times in Iraq, most recently just two or three weeks ago, I know full well the dependence of that nation upon contractors — contractors who are trying to refurbish their seriously deteriorated oil production facilities, their power lines, their fresh water," said Sen. John Warner, R-Va. in the same article.
What an absurd statement. It indicates that Sen. Warner doesn't understand the difference between rebuilding power lines and protecting convoys with guns.
We used Afghanis as a surrogate force to defeat the Soviets, then left the country awash in guns and fighting know-how, until the Taliban used those guns and that knowledge to protect bin Laden. Saddam was “our guy” until he decided that we had given him permission to take down Kuwait.
We can’t institute a “rule of law” in Iraq when we enforce it with mercenaries from South Carolina with tribal loyalty to each other first and their corporation second. How do we tell the Mehdi army to put down their guns and pledge allegiance to Iraq when private corporations from the U.S. speed through their neighborhoods in Suburbans with blacked out windows and shoot their civilians in the street?
The U.S. ambassador to Iraq spoke of the courage and capability of Blackwater personnel. Of course. They were trained as SEALS and Green Berets and Airborne. They are the best fighters (retired) we could train and develop. No one doubts their courage or capability.
The doubt is whether the United States should out source our shooting.
There is nothing wrong with that, now. Those of the “Have Gun, Will Travel” profession, Knights Errant, Ronin, have been around for thousands of years. It’s an honorable living. In fact, it’s a damn good living, and it should be, it’s a dangerous occupation. That does not dismiss the question of whether we should be buying their services.
The most recent (not the first) incident involving Blackwater USA (read it here) occurred when a “convoy of U.S. personnel protected by Blackwater security contractors came under small arms fire...” according to Time Magazine.
Apparently our State Department is the primary employer of this private army. It us unclear why our State Department is being protected by hired guns. Why isn’t our army the “gun” of first choice?
Why we would pay these soldiers of fortune hundreds of thousands of dollars per man per year when a sergeant in our military has to support his family with food stamps is unclear. I can only think of three obvious reasons: (1) Mercenaries are not bound by the same rules of war as our troops; (2) Someone is getting very rich; (3) Somebody doesn't want the rest of us to know what's going on.
The State Department is itself without much information, apparently. "(State Department spokesman Sean McCormack) had no information about any Iraqi laws Blackwater or its employees might be subject to, the chain of command its employees answer to, or details of the company's contract with the State Department..." according to the Associated Press (read it here).
The cluelessness extends to the Senate. "Having visited now 10 times in Iraq, most recently just two or three weeks ago, I know full well the dependence of that nation upon contractors — contractors who are trying to refurbish their seriously deteriorated oil production facilities, their power lines, their fresh water," said Sen. John Warner, R-Va. in the same article.
What an absurd statement. It indicates that Sen. Warner doesn't understand the difference between rebuilding power lines and protecting convoys with guns.
We used Afghanis as a surrogate force to defeat the Soviets, then left the country awash in guns and fighting know-how, until the Taliban used those guns and that knowledge to protect bin Laden. Saddam was “our guy” until he decided that we had given him permission to take down Kuwait.
We can’t institute a “rule of law” in Iraq when we enforce it with mercenaries from South Carolina with tribal loyalty to each other first and their corporation second. How do we tell the Mehdi army to put down their guns and pledge allegiance to Iraq when private corporations from the U.S. speed through their neighborhoods in Suburbans with blacked out windows and shoot their civilians in the street?
The U.S. ambassador to Iraq spoke of the courage and capability of Blackwater personnel. Of course. They were trained as SEALS and Green Berets and Airborne. They are the best fighters (retired) we could train and develop. No one doubts their courage or capability.
The doubt is whether the United States should out source our shooting.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Time machine
“The Razor’s Edge,” made in 1984 with Bill Murray, was an instant favorite when I first saw it. It caught, in a coarse net, my own hopes as a young man, what I sought in India, aspirations I thought were universal.
College in the late 60s was full of adventure. Alan Watts turned me from an engineer to a student of Zen, though I knew even then the contradiction in rigorous study, a tight fistful of water. When I got back from India the first time, it was 1974. All my friends were in medical school or studying polymeric memory at Cal Tech. I became a waiter.
This month, I ran across the movie again. I rented it. And then the original film version, made in 1946 with Tyrone Power. And then read the book, written by W. Somerset Maugham in 1944.
The movies are very different, abstractions of a tale about the ineffable, about society, about the church and about faith, about personal values, social values, religious values, about a search for enduring truth in an age when the trappings of success were as temporary as the weather. In their abstraction it is clear the movies try not to let authenticity obscure the veracity of the tale. Very different, the essence is the same.
The book was one of the best selling in the 20th century. I don’t remember if I had read the book before my trips to India, if it is buried in my library.
The title comes from the Katha-Upanishad: “The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard.”
Maugham offers gems of his own:
“Art is triumphant when it can use convention as an instrument of its own purpose.”
“I have come too late into a world too old.”
“The self ... is not part of the absolute, for the absolute, being infinite, can have no parts, but the absolute itself.”
There is no wisdom offered in this post. But young seekers should know that the path has been tread by countless sandals; returning seekers can remember with a smile: “In the present” can have its own memories.
College in the late 60s was full of adventure. Alan Watts turned me from an engineer to a student of Zen, though I knew even then the contradiction in rigorous study, a tight fistful of water. When I got back from India the first time, it was 1974. All my friends were in medical school or studying polymeric memory at Cal Tech. I became a waiter.
This month, I ran across the movie again. I rented it. And then the original film version, made in 1946 with Tyrone Power. And then read the book, written by W. Somerset Maugham in 1944.
The movies are very different, abstractions of a tale about the ineffable, about society, about the church and about faith, about personal values, social values, religious values, about a search for enduring truth in an age when the trappings of success were as temporary as the weather. In their abstraction it is clear the movies try not to let authenticity obscure the veracity of the tale. Very different, the essence is the same.
The book was one of the best selling in the 20th century. I don’t remember if I had read the book before my trips to India, if it is buried in my library.
The title comes from the Katha-Upanishad: “The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard.”
Maugham offers gems of his own:
“Art is triumphant when it can use convention as an instrument of its own purpose.”
“I have come too late into a world too old.”
“The self ... is not part of the absolute, for the absolute, being infinite, can have no parts, but the absolute itself.”
There is no wisdom offered in this post. But young seekers should know that the path has been tread by countless sandals; returning seekers can remember with a smile: “In the present” can have its own memories.
Monad
It’s nearly 7 a.m. now when the sun throws itself above the eastern horizon, an hour later than when I first started paying attention in June. It rises 15 degrees or so further south, too.
The geese are gone. Which started me off on a long, fruitless meander: Is a large flock of geese one being, or the summation of 1,000 beings, neither or both? How can something that large alter course so quickly; on the other, perhaps only as one organism can the flock so quickly change path.
Because we cannot see a physical connection, we assume separateness; perhaps the connections of communication, of information, are as binding as those of chemistry and physics.
Of what being are we? A point of isolation, an observer, a slightly self-aware exchangeable part of a larger being, a temporary and disposable cell point of family or of church or of community or of a business or of a society or of a culture.
Are we but a transitory nexus of different sets, of different languages that overlap in infinitely many ways, a vibratory micropoint set atwang by interconnections far away and unseen? I could be good with that, too.
The sun breaks over the horizon further to the south today and far later than in June. Fall is here, the geese are gone, there is work to do and here I sit pondering vacuous philosophies, Leibniz and Whitehead, Goedell, Escher and Bach.
The geese are gone. Which started me off on a long, fruitless meander: Is a large flock of geese one being, or the summation of 1,000 beings, neither or both? How can something that large alter course so quickly; on the other, perhaps only as one organism can the flock so quickly change path.
Because we cannot see a physical connection, we assume separateness; perhaps the connections of communication, of information, are as binding as those of chemistry and physics.
Of what being are we? A point of isolation, an observer, a slightly self-aware exchangeable part of a larger being, a temporary and disposable cell point of family or of church or of community or of a business or of a society or of a culture.
Are we but a transitory nexus of different sets, of different languages that overlap in infinitely many ways, a vibratory micropoint set atwang by interconnections far away and unseen? I could be good with that, too.
The sun breaks over the horizon further to the south today and far later than in June. Fall is here, the geese are gone, there is work to do and here I sit pondering vacuous philosophies, Leibniz and Whitehead, Goedell, Escher and Bach.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Bush and Vietnam
The irony is bitter and painful, just like the memories still haunting the Vietnam veterans who George Bush used to get reelected.
Warned that Iraq could become another Vietnam as they took us to war, Cheney/Bush denied it, after once admitting it. (See it here). Now that we may finally be hauling our boots out of this quagmire, Cheney/Bush says we should stay, or else this could become another Vietnam.
The president who ducked Vietnam, who brought us a replay of Vietnam, who said this was not Vietnam, now says we have to stay to keep Iraq from becoming Vietnam. After once preening under a banner that proclaimed "Mission Accomplished," after challenging religious Muslims to "Bring it ON!"
Outrageous. Amoral. Callous. The man should not be allowed to even say the word Vietnam to the people of this country. And those of you who still support this fool, you have another chance.
Oh people, the bills that have yet to be paid for this tragic mistake are not yet received. The loss of national treasure, national prestige, the coming home of the maimed and the broken and their care, the lost investments, the lost productivity: the debts will last at least another generation.
You want a war? This is a war. You want a hero? That writer, that soldier Sean, he is a hero.
Not the braying smarmy little jackass from Texas, the bantam cock Bush who failed at everything he undertook in his adult life, not this small man so indifferent that he has brought failure home by comparing his war of vengeance in Iraq to Vietnam, he has sullied the memory of those that served there then, he abuses the trust of those who serve in Iraq now.
God forgive him.
Warned that Iraq could become another Vietnam as they took us to war, Cheney/Bush denied it, after once admitting it. (See it here). Now that we may finally be hauling our boots out of this quagmire, Cheney/Bush says we should stay, or else this could become another Vietnam.
The president who ducked Vietnam, who brought us a replay of Vietnam, who said this was not Vietnam, now says we have to stay to keep Iraq from becoming Vietnam. After once preening under a banner that proclaimed "Mission Accomplished," after challenging religious Muslims to "Bring it ON!"
Outrageous. Amoral. Callous. The man should not be allowed to even say the word Vietnam to the people of this country. And those of you who still support this fool, you have another chance.
Oh people, the bills that have yet to be paid for this tragic mistake are not yet received. The loss of national treasure, national prestige, the coming home of the maimed and the broken and their care, the lost investments, the lost productivity: the debts will last at least another generation.
You want a war? This is a war. You want a hero? That writer, that soldier Sean, he is a hero.
Not the braying smarmy little jackass from Texas, the bantam cock Bush who failed at everything he undertook in his adult life, not this small man so indifferent that he has brought failure home by comparing his war of vengeance in Iraq to Vietnam, he has sullied the memory of those that served there then, he abuses the trust of those who serve in Iraq now.
God forgive him.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
bin Laden in Chitral
The other day I was giving a speech on context and chaos and was asked if I knew where Osama bin Laden was hiding. Since I didn’t have any facts, I just said yes, he is living in the town of Chitral in Northern Pakistan.
When asked how I could be so certain, I replied I had no reason to be certain, just that I had been to Chitral, and if I was bin Laden, that is where I would be.
Chitral is a small town near the border where Pakistan, Afghanistan and China meet. It sits in the shadow of Tirich Mir, a great peak in the Hindukush range of the western Himalayas. To get there by road, when passable, requires a two-day trip from Peshawar, because Pathan tribesmen will not offer safety to those who travel after sun down.
The Pathan of Pakistan’s Northern Territories are among the fiercest, most ethics-bound people anywhere on earth. Smugglers, opium growers, descendants of Ghengis Kahn, they are a people as hard as the mountains they call home. The Pathan code of hospitality is iron bound. If bin Laden is their guest, they will protect him with their lives.
It is an exquisitely beautiful valley, with a couple of inns, a river rushing over the granite boulders in deep canyons. Terraced fields bear local grain. The last leg of the trip from the lowlandsis on a jeep trail over a 10,000 foot mountain pass, easily seen by residents below. Helicopters find difficulty at the altitudes of these mountains, and the valleys are deep.
"If you know where he is, why doesn’t the government go in and get him," I was asked. Because bin Laden has more value as a bogey man than a corpse to the Bush/Cheney regime, I replied.
But now that Cheney/Bush has proven itself irrelevant when not outright catastrophic (“Bring it ON!”), that might change. The capture or killing of bin Laden may be the last hope this administration has to avert classification as the worst in U.S. history. It might even divert attention from the lending crisis. Watch the news.
When asked how I could be so certain, I replied I had no reason to be certain, just that I had been to Chitral, and if I was bin Laden, that is where I would be.
Chitral is a small town near the border where Pakistan, Afghanistan and China meet. It sits in the shadow of Tirich Mir, a great peak in the Hindukush range of the western Himalayas. To get there by road, when passable, requires a two-day trip from Peshawar, because Pathan tribesmen will not offer safety to those who travel after sun down.
The Pathan of Pakistan’s Northern Territories are among the fiercest, most ethics-bound people anywhere on earth. Smugglers, opium growers, descendants of Ghengis Kahn, they are a people as hard as the mountains they call home. The Pathan code of hospitality is iron bound. If bin Laden is their guest, they will protect him with their lives.
It is an exquisitely beautiful valley, with a couple of inns, a river rushing over the granite boulders in deep canyons. Terraced fields bear local grain. The last leg of the trip from the lowlandsis on a jeep trail over a 10,000 foot mountain pass, easily seen by residents below. Helicopters find difficulty at the altitudes of these mountains, and the valleys are deep.
"If you know where he is, why doesn’t the government go in and get him," I was asked. Because bin Laden has more value as a bogey man than a corpse to the Bush/Cheney regime, I replied.
But now that Cheney/Bush has proven itself irrelevant when not outright catastrophic (“Bring it ON!”), that might change. The capture or killing of bin Laden may be the last hope this administration has to avert classification as the worst in U.S. history. It might even divert attention from the lending crisis. Watch the news.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Heisenburg's geese
The pheasant has disappeared. At least from the brush pile past my bedroom window. I miss the hollow hooting call as he sought company.
He has been replaced by geese, hundreds and hundreds of geese. They fly over twice a day, in the rose gold of sky just before dawn and just after sundown. Formations of 10 or 20 or 50 just clear the short juniper and taller pines of my hilltop, I can tell whether it will be a large or small gaggle by the number of voices I hear before they even come into view, I hear the whistle of individual wings as they just clear my second story deck, I see even their eyes.
I don’t know where they go or where they come from. They sleep somewhere at night, they feed somewhere else during the day. They are quite regular, and for all that, quite mysterious.
Are the formations made up of the same birds day after day, or is there a randomness in the grouping? Is that group of four the same I saw, or is there a new mix wing to wing? The group that flies around that giant pine, is it the same group that did so yesterday, or are some of these birds the ones that yesterday flew just over the pheasant’s brush pile?
The Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle applied to water fowl. I know that the geese will spill over my hilltop, but I don’t know where an individual bird will be in the flight. If I stop that bird, it will no longer be part of the flock. The wave in which it exists is a numerical prediction of position, not the description of a goose.
He has been replaced by geese, hundreds and hundreds of geese. They fly over twice a day, in the rose gold of sky just before dawn and just after sundown. Formations of 10 or 20 or 50 just clear the short juniper and taller pines of my hilltop, I can tell whether it will be a large or small gaggle by the number of voices I hear before they even come into view, I hear the whistle of individual wings as they just clear my second story deck, I see even their eyes.
I don’t know where they go or where they come from. They sleep somewhere at night, they feed somewhere else during the day. They are quite regular, and for all that, quite mysterious.
Are the formations made up of the same birds day after day, or is there a randomness in the grouping? Is that group of four the same I saw, or is there a new mix wing to wing? The group that flies around that giant pine, is it the same group that did so yesterday, or are some of these birds the ones that yesterday flew just over the pheasant’s brush pile?
The Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle applied to water fowl. I know that the geese will spill over my hilltop, but I don’t know where an individual bird will be in the flight. If I stop that bird, it will no longer be part of the flock. The wave in which it exists is a numerical prediction of position, not the description of a goose.
Financial turbulance
Quite a week inn the international financial markets. And perhaps another interesting week to come.
It is quite extraordinary that the Fed pumped $62 billion into the financial system in two days: $24 billion on Thursday, and when that did not work, another $19 billion Friday morning, $16 billion a few hours later and then another $3 billion Friday afternoon. The Fed bolstered their action with words: They are ready to do what it takes to preserve the markets.
Not since the September 11 attacks on New York have we seen this kind of action. Think about the situation then, how we were feeling, and compare it to now. Do you hear strain in the voices?
Your writer is a dilettante when it comes to economics and finance. But I believe that the pros were glad this crisis came late in the week and there was weekend, a “time-out,” for everyone to to catch their breath. Now the focus is on next week, when a slew of financial data will be revealed.
My guess is that inflation numbers will come in worse than expected, though those are part of a rigged game. At some point, high oil prices have to be reflected in transportation costs. I know how much a tea pot costs at my local hardware store.
At some point, the fact that washers and dryers are made more cheaply in Korea will not be a moderator on prices here in Oregon. The loss of American jobs will not be adequate to offset higher prices, the new balance of production will be come the benchmark.
I think consumer confidence numbers will come in worse than forecast. At some point, we are going to realize that the value of our homes can go down as well as up. That the new washer and dryer is more than I can afford and I need to find a used unit. And by the way, I need to save for retirement, because social security is not secure.
The subprime situation is being given more credit than it deserves: like blaming the trigger for the noise of a gun. If, after all this liquidity has been pumped into the markets, things are still snarky, it will be the beginning of a purge. We have been living beyond our means. Time to pay the bill. At some point, retail sales should fall.
I think the Fed will be limited in what they can do, pinned between inflation (cost driven versus demand driven, therefore less amenable to easier credit, more in the control of offshore factors) and a slowdown driven by real world experience (higher prices, fewer assets, fewer jobs). Stagflation like we had in 1980.
Gonna be an interesting week.
It is quite extraordinary that the Fed pumped $62 billion into the financial system in two days: $24 billion on Thursday, and when that did not work, another $19 billion Friday morning, $16 billion a few hours later and then another $3 billion Friday afternoon. The Fed bolstered their action with words: They are ready to do what it takes to preserve the markets.
Not since the September 11 attacks on New York have we seen this kind of action. Think about the situation then, how we were feeling, and compare it to now. Do you hear strain in the voices?
Your writer is a dilettante when it comes to economics and finance. But I believe that the pros were glad this crisis came late in the week and there was weekend, a “time-out,” for everyone to to catch their breath. Now the focus is on next week, when a slew of financial data will be revealed.
My guess is that inflation numbers will come in worse than expected, though those are part of a rigged game. At some point, high oil prices have to be reflected in transportation costs. I know how much a tea pot costs at my local hardware store.
At some point, the fact that washers and dryers are made more cheaply in Korea will not be a moderator on prices here in Oregon. The loss of American jobs will not be adequate to offset higher prices, the new balance of production will be come the benchmark.
I think consumer confidence numbers will come in worse than forecast. At some point, we are going to realize that the value of our homes can go down as well as up. That the new washer and dryer is more than I can afford and I need to find a used unit. And by the way, I need to save for retirement, because social security is not secure.
The subprime situation is being given more credit than it deserves: like blaming the trigger for the noise of a gun. If, after all this liquidity has been pumped into the markets, things are still snarky, it will be the beginning of a purge. We have been living beyond our means. Time to pay the bill. At some point, retail sales should fall.
I think the Fed will be limited in what they can do, pinned between inflation (cost driven versus demand driven, therefore less amenable to easier credit, more in the control of offshore factors) and a slowdown driven by real world experience (higher prices, fewer assets, fewer jobs). Stagflation like we had in 1980.
Gonna be an interesting week.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Tougher times
The financial news is bleak at 5 a.m. this morning (read it here). Two to three percent drops in stock markets yesterday, it might be worse today. Central banks scrambling to squirt liquidity like grease into a system seizing up with fear. The man who wanted to buy our beach lot, he withdrew his offer. It would have solved the last issue in a divorce still high-centered on the rock of assets versus income.
Times are getting tougher, and they ain’t at their toughest yet.
It is always those closest to the edge who get sandpapered first. Carpenters, plumbers, waiters and waitresses, cooks and busboys. I don’t think this beast is going to be content gobbling a few small fry, though. This one feels like it’s hungry, the stock market bubble “correction” not enough.
This one is spreading like ebola around the world’s financial markets. It feels like it wants more than a few bond traders and househusbands who thought they could “flip” three houses like a pro and why worry. This one feels not so much of a market correction but more of a market driven comeuppance, punishment for our excesses.
Interesting times.
Times are getting tougher, and they ain’t at their toughest yet.
It is always those closest to the edge who get sandpapered first. Carpenters, plumbers, waiters and waitresses, cooks and busboys. I don’t think this beast is going to be content gobbling a few small fry, though. This one feels like it’s hungry, the stock market bubble “correction” not enough.
This one is spreading like ebola around the world’s financial markets. It feels like it wants more than a few bond traders and househusbands who thought they could “flip” three houses like a pro and why worry. This one feels not so much of a market correction but more of a market driven comeuppance, punishment for our excesses.
Interesting times.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Cleaning it up
On Sunday morning it was either the mice or the maggots or the heartbreak, but the trailer got a thorough cleaning. The beauty of living in 240 square feet is that it is easy to clean. It can still take a couple of hours to do a good job.
The mice had kept me up, they were banging around feasting on a bag of tangelos I had forgotten about in the cupboard under the sink. They crapped in my bread baking bowl. Don’t ask about the maggots. I hate them worse than just about anything. Not my fault, and the problem is solved. I'll be truly finished when I find out where the pack rat hid the pistachios.
Two hours of soap, towels, the vacuum and a bottle of 409 and I was just sitting down for a cup of coffee at 9:30 a.m., the trailer as clean as it’s been since I moved in, when the phone rang. The server was down at work. Files inaccessible.
It had been acting up. All the computers had been acting up. Gremlins. Phases of Mercury. I’ve been fighting even getting the back up drives to back up. I had just finished sending an e-mail to the office asking if the server was up, because I could not log on from here at home.
That wasn’t the only crash. Lauren came by late on Friday to say our relationship wasn’t working for her any longer. She arrived in tears, would not let me speak, did this most courageous thing most beautifully. It had become messy, ill-defined, the kids could not understand. Through her pain she organized, she compartmentalized, she's a lawyer after all, she filed me.
So even computer hell was a welcome distraction. It was soon obvious that I was over my head. Called the tech, who was at the beach with his family. My disk recovery program could not drive the ancient monitor attached to the server, he surmised with a long distance diagnosis. Most definitely a bad drive. There is a store open in Bend.
Two hours in Bend, back to the office with a new monitor, Chinese food from Safeway, four new hard drives since we had been hitting the limit on the ones we have. The trashed drive decided it would come back to life long enough for me to clone it. It’s my boot drive, I am going to have to find out why data drives are mirrored but the boot drive is not.
Even though it would not repair with my most sophisticated utility, it lasted just long enough and the data seems intact. I took the time to do some housecleaning there, too, repaired permissions, tuned it, straightened out some accumulated disorder.
The files themselves, all 100 GB had been backed up on Friday because I got lucky, or maybe not so lucky because that’s what I was doing instead of going over to Lauren’s, which was just the last straw, there had been bales of straw though, she wasn’t being unreasonable.
It was 10 p.m. when I finished the Chinese food I bought at Safeway at 2:30 thinking I would have dinner at six. The hard drive works, the server is serving, I just logged on from my hill top and it knows me.
Tomorrow I am supposed to give a speech on chaos. There's irony, there.
The mice had kept me up, they were banging around feasting on a bag of tangelos I had forgotten about in the cupboard under the sink. They crapped in my bread baking bowl. Don’t ask about the maggots. I hate them worse than just about anything. Not my fault, and the problem is solved. I'll be truly finished when I find out where the pack rat hid the pistachios.
Two hours of soap, towels, the vacuum and a bottle of 409 and I was just sitting down for a cup of coffee at 9:30 a.m., the trailer as clean as it’s been since I moved in, when the phone rang. The server was down at work. Files inaccessible.
It had been acting up. All the computers had been acting up. Gremlins. Phases of Mercury. I’ve been fighting even getting the back up drives to back up. I had just finished sending an e-mail to the office asking if the server was up, because I could not log on from here at home.
That wasn’t the only crash. Lauren came by late on Friday to say our relationship wasn’t working for her any longer. She arrived in tears, would not let me speak, did this most courageous thing most beautifully. It had become messy, ill-defined, the kids could not understand. Through her pain she organized, she compartmentalized, she's a lawyer after all, she filed me.
So even computer hell was a welcome distraction. It was soon obvious that I was over my head. Called the tech, who was at the beach with his family. My disk recovery program could not drive the ancient monitor attached to the server, he surmised with a long distance diagnosis. Most definitely a bad drive. There is a store open in Bend.
Two hours in Bend, back to the office with a new monitor, Chinese food from Safeway, four new hard drives since we had been hitting the limit on the ones we have. The trashed drive decided it would come back to life long enough for me to clone it. It’s my boot drive, I am going to have to find out why data drives are mirrored but the boot drive is not.
Even though it would not repair with my most sophisticated utility, it lasted just long enough and the data seems intact. I took the time to do some housecleaning there, too, repaired permissions, tuned it, straightened out some accumulated disorder.
The files themselves, all 100 GB had been backed up on Friday because I got lucky, or maybe not so lucky because that’s what I was doing instead of going over to Lauren’s, which was just the last straw, there had been bales of straw though, she wasn’t being unreasonable.
It was 10 p.m. when I finished the Chinese food I bought at Safeway at 2:30 thinking I would have dinner at six. The hard drive works, the server is serving, I just logged on from my hill top and it knows me.
Tomorrow I am supposed to give a speech on chaos. There's irony, there.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Our imported food
A couple of weeks ago China executed its top food and drug regulator, Zheng Xiaoyu, 62, for taking bribes. (Read it here) Now that’s accountability.
It is one thing to import T-shirts into the U.S. It is another thing to import toothpaste with diethylene glycol, shellfish with nitrofuran, malachite green, gentian violet, and flouroquinolones, pet food contaminated with melamine.
This will no doubt give the protectionist wing cause to chortle, but our imported food needs a higher standard of protection than it has been receiving.
It is the role of government to test, objectively, our food and to ensure that what we eat will not kill us (aside from fructose). At least government should publish the results of testing so consumers can make informed decisions if government lacks the courage to stand up to special interests who would poison us for a penny saved per pound.
To be effective, markets need information, and the U.S., under Cheney/Bush has toadied to special interests who put profit above public health, and by extension, money above morality.
Instead, the Cheney/Bush has put polemics ahead of protection and politicized agencies that were charged with regulation and those publishing science.
Of course, problems with our food are not limited to imports. Castleberry's Food Company is recalling nearly three-fourths of a million pounds of chili sauce and corned beef hash (read it here). And dog food. They say that they had problems on one line of their production facility. And I can only guess why chili and dog food were both affected.
China has set an example of accountability. Our own government has shown a callous disregard, or a naiveté beyond comprehension. To correct this miscarriage, a few heads should roll here as well, figuratively speaking, of course.
It is one thing to import T-shirts into the U.S. It is another thing to import toothpaste with diethylene glycol, shellfish with nitrofuran, malachite green, gentian violet, and flouroquinolones, pet food contaminated with melamine.
This will no doubt give the protectionist wing cause to chortle, but our imported food needs a higher standard of protection than it has been receiving.
It is the role of government to test, objectively, our food and to ensure that what we eat will not kill us (aside from fructose). At least government should publish the results of testing so consumers can make informed decisions if government lacks the courage to stand up to special interests who would poison us for a penny saved per pound.
To be effective, markets need information, and the U.S., under Cheney/Bush has toadied to special interests who put profit above public health, and by extension, money above morality.
Instead, the Cheney/Bush has put polemics ahead of protection and politicized agencies that were charged with regulation and those publishing science.
Of course, problems with our food are not limited to imports. Castleberry's Food Company is recalling nearly three-fourths of a million pounds of chili sauce and corned beef hash (read it here). And dog food. They say that they had problems on one line of their production facility. And I can only guess why chili and dog food were both affected.
China has set an example of accountability. Our own government has shown a callous disregard, or a naiveté beyond comprehension. To correct this miscarriage, a few heads should roll here as well, figuratively speaking, of course.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
It's their victory
It may often seem like racing cars is an individual sport. One-on-one with steeds of steel. But it’s not.
Last year I was headed over to a race in Portland, pulling the trailer up a long grade toward Madras and wanting to get by a semi before I ran out of passing lane. A whistle and “KABLOW!” and I had no power. I figured, correctly, that I had blown a hose off the turbo diesel, and limped into Madras.
Even though they were short handed and their diesel mechanic was buried, the guys at Miller Ford in Madras put a new hose on the Excursion and I was on my way in little more than an hour. Cost me $100 with the truck still under warranty.
I went on to win the race that weekend. I always meant to send Ford Motor Company and Miller Ford a copy of the results sheet with a thank you note. I would not have been there except for that hour they took out of their schedule.
Last week Portland was a little warm in the afternoon, but pretty nice weather. I qualified second to a Corvette driven by Steve MacDonald of Seattle, and took second in the heat race on Saturday after chasing MacDonald for 20 miles of “two feet away” racing.
If he went wide, I went close, if he went close, I went wide. I tried to get by him on the straight, inside corners, braking into corners. He was too tough, and never gave me an opening, even though a simple half-second bobble on his part was all I needed.
Behind us, cars were spinning and fighting on what one driver called “a track littered with drama.”
In practice on Sunday, morning, I’d done about three laps when all of a sudden my transmission gave up. It was certainly driver abuse, either accidental compression braking (only twice, I swear!), overly enthusiastic power shifts ( I never...!) or a missed downshift from fourth to third or to second. At 11 a.m. I had a case full of pieces where my tranny should have been.
Jon, Rippy, Mike and Mark went to work. In less than three hours, they had the broken tranny out and on the ground, a new transmission and new clutch back in. I looked for parts, oil and alignment tools and bought lunch; in other words, I didn’t do much, except to line up to race at 4:10 p.m.
My biggest contribution was getting them some cheeseburgers.
The green flag came down and we ran for the first turn. The track was greasy that late on a hot July day. During the race, an original midyear Z06 Corvette spun and got hit in the chicane, a vintage Cobra got T-boned by a Porsche and collected a Mustang GT350, others were off the track and on again.
I took second to MacDonald, again. Though I turned the best lap of anyone in the group that day, he was smart and backed off to save his tires when he could. In trying to catch him, I went faster for a short while but used up my tires and fell further behind.
But we raced, because of what those guys were able and willing to do. Others in the paddock around us were impressed with our crew of irregulars. “That’s the best part of racing,” said the driver of a vintage 50s race Corvette next to us. He had seen a lot in his years at the track, he had the alignment tool we needed, was impressed we had a transmission.
I wish I’d won the race that afternoon, but the fact that the car was out there at all should have made those guys proud. That by itself was a victory, all theirs.
Last year I was headed over to a race in Portland, pulling the trailer up a long grade toward Madras and wanting to get by a semi before I ran out of passing lane. A whistle and “KABLOW!” and I had no power. I figured, correctly, that I had blown a hose off the turbo diesel, and limped into Madras.
Even though they were short handed and their diesel mechanic was buried, the guys at Miller Ford in Madras put a new hose on the Excursion and I was on my way in little more than an hour. Cost me $100 with the truck still under warranty.
I went on to win the race that weekend. I always meant to send Ford Motor Company and Miller Ford a copy of the results sheet with a thank you note. I would not have been there except for that hour they took out of their schedule.
Last week Portland was a little warm in the afternoon, but pretty nice weather. I qualified second to a Corvette driven by Steve MacDonald of Seattle, and took second in the heat race on Saturday after chasing MacDonald for 20 miles of “two feet away” racing.
If he went wide, I went close, if he went close, I went wide. I tried to get by him on the straight, inside corners, braking into corners. He was too tough, and never gave me an opening, even though a simple half-second bobble on his part was all I needed.
Behind us, cars were spinning and fighting on what one driver called “a track littered with drama.”
In practice on Sunday, morning, I’d done about three laps when all of a sudden my transmission gave up. It was certainly driver abuse, either accidental compression braking (only twice, I swear!), overly enthusiastic power shifts ( I never...!) or a missed downshift from fourth to third or to second. At 11 a.m. I had a case full of pieces where my tranny should have been.
Jon, Rippy, Mike and Mark went to work. In less than three hours, they had the broken tranny out and on the ground, a new transmission and new clutch back in. I looked for parts, oil and alignment tools and bought lunch; in other words, I didn’t do much, except to line up to race at 4:10 p.m.
My biggest contribution was getting them some cheeseburgers.
The green flag came down and we ran for the first turn. The track was greasy that late on a hot July day. During the race, an original midyear Z06 Corvette spun and got hit in the chicane, a vintage Cobra got T-boned by a Porsche and collected a Mustang GT350, others were off the track and on again.
I took second to MacDonald, again. Though I turned the best lap of anyone in the group that day, he was smart and backed off to save his tires when he could. In trying to catch him, I went faster for a short while but used up my tires and fell further behind.
But we raced, because of what those guys were able and willing to do. Others in the paddock around us were impressed with our crew of irregulars. “That’s the best part of racing,” said the driver of a vintage 50s race Corvette next to us. He had seen a lot in his years at the track, he had the alignment tool we needed, was impressed we had a transmission.
I wish I’d won the race that afternoon, but the fact that the car was out there at all should have made those guys proud. That by itself was a victory, all theirs.
Monday, July 2, 2007
For want of a nail
The race ended badly, the weekend ended well.
The girls helped prep the car. I showed Sabrina how to torque wheels, K.C. how to take tire pressures. I then went back over both before the race, explaining to them that I was not doing so because I did not trust their work, but because it was my job to double check, to make sure everything was just right.
Including the nut holding the accelerator pedal, I told them after the race. Not anybody’s fault but mine. That’s racing. They were disappointed but tried not to show it, except for K.C. saying “you were in first” when it happened.
The accelerator pedal broke. The nut holding the bolt holding the pedal to the rod connected to the carburetor came off. It was a stupid, preventable, hidden, subtle, ordinary thing. For want of a nail. For want of a nut, the race was over early.
I was leading, but only because MacDonald was making it interesting for the field, for the crowd. He dominated all weekend, two seconds faster than me, I was a second faster than Jim Click in his Cobra out of Arizona, who was third. I belonged on the front row and was looking for a good race with Click, plus I thought I had found a second in practice that might have let me stay closer to MacDonald, but the pedal broke and I was out early.
On the way home we stopped once in Portland after about two and a half hours, for coffee, tea and cocoa, and a bathroom. We listened to their music and laughed. We rode with the windows down and the wind howling through the Excursion, Sabrina in the front, K.C. in the small seat behind Sabrina next to our boxes of food.
Sabrina asked if tea had caffeine, I said yes and she said that was probably why she was acting so crazy. I told her she was crazy most of the time and she liked that. K.C. handed us Triscuits and cheese and small sliced sandwiches from Albertsons from our dry goods box and the ice box. They knew the words and sang to songs so silly I had to laugh out loud.
They put on their gloves and helped disconnect the trailer. It went faster because of their help, we were home by 9:30, six hours from when we left Pacific Raceways. It was a nice drive home. It was a wonderful weekend.
The girls helped prep the car. I showed Sabrina how to torque wheels, K.C. how to take tire pressures. I then went back over both before the race, explaining to them that I was not doing so because I did not trust their work, but because it was my job to double check, to make sure everything was just right.
Including the nut holding the accelerator pedal, I told them after the race. Not anybody’s fault but mine. That’s racing. They were disappointed but tried not to show it, except for K.C. saying “you were in first” when it happened.
The accelerator pedal broke. The nut holding the bolt holding the pedal to the rod connected to the carburetor came off. It was a stupid, preventable, hidden, subtle, ordinary thing. For want of a nail. For want of a nut, the race was over early.
I was leading, but only because MacDonald was making it interesting for the field, for the crowd. He dominated all weekend, two seconds faster than me, I was a second faster than Jim Click in his Cobra out of Arizona, who was third. I belonged on the front row and was looking for a good race with Click, plus I thought I had found a second in practice that might have let me stay closer to MacDonald, but the pedal broke and I was out early.
On the way home we stopped once in Portland after about two and a half hours, for coffee, tea and cocoa, and a bathroom. We listened to their music and laughed. We rode with the windows down and the wind howling through the Excursion, Sabrina in the front, K.C. in the small seat behind Sabrina next to our boxes of food.
Sabrina asked if tea had caffeine, I said yes and she said that was probably why she was acting so crazy. I told her she was crazy most of the time and she liked that. K.C. handed us Triscuits and cheese and small sliced sandwiches from Albertsons from our dry goods box and the ice box. They knew the words and sang to songs so silly I had to laugh out loud.
They put on their gloves and helped disconnect the trailer. It went faster because of their help, we were home by 9:30, six hours from when we left Pacific Raceways. It was a nice drive home. It was a wonderful weekend.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Seattle
It was raining by the time the race car was set up shortly after 1 p.m. The girls helped a lot, Sabrina got the winch jammed once but I showed her how the cable had to be wound from side to side to fit on the drum.
K.C. crawled under and undid the tie-down chains at the back of the car, and without direction placed them neatly to the side, and when asked she laid the fire suit out on the back of the car for technical inspection.
We passed “tech” and there was an afternoon ahead of us to explore Seattle. Off we went.
Caught James St. or Madison off of Interstate 5 and burrowed down through the business district to Alaskan Way, where we paid $20 to park for three hours or all night. Could have driven another 100 yards and found a better spot on the street, but I was in a hurry.
We wandered up from the abandoned rail road tracks under the freeway to the top of Pike Street Market, where we bought hot almonds and walked from the famous fish monger down the long row of produce and bright silver jewelry and flower stands that exuded fragrance from cut tulips and lilies and flowers I don’t have enough life left to learn all the names or even describe the colors, across from stands of Queen Anne and Bings cherries selling for $2.75 a pound. Taste the current jam.
We caught a cab to the Space Needle, Sabrina did not like the elevator ride up or down but we walked the compass points and stood at the telescope where she could see people walking the decks of ships and on islands far out in Elliott Bay. Then we took the monorail back toward the market, had a bite to eat at the food court and wandered down to the ferries.
Another hour and a half to Bainbridge Island and back. The girls stood at the front each way, on the way back there was another rain squall but they did not back down, they faced forward the entire way and toughed out the cold drops that drove me inside until nearly back to the dock.
We have done Seattle. K.C. knew which way Lake Washington lay by pointing without a map. Sabrina pointed from the ferry terminal toward Auburn without hesitation. The girls know the surface texture of another great city, they now have a center in San Francisco and Seattle and Portland. Vancouver B.C. is next, I don’t care about L.A.
The day will come when one or both will need to have a city that is their home town, for college or adventure, and then of course they won’t just hit the tourist spots. But they know how to “see” within the urban canyons.
Cities have color, and the great cities on the ocean and bays of the Pacific and the Northwest have a color all their own, different expressions of green and gray iridescence like oil on water in the late afternoon, fading to an evolution of neon sparks on wet pavement after the sun goes down.
I want the girls to be comfortable in these cities as well as the lovely lonely isolation of our 80-acre ridge top, facing mountain sunset silhouettes and sleeping in a tipi. I panic at times that there is too much to share, and so little time left I have access to their wonderment.
K.C. crawled under and undid the tie-down chains at the back of the car, and without direction placed them neatly to the side, and when asked she laid the fire suit out on the back of the car for technical inspection.
We passed “tech” and there was an afternoon ahead of us to explore Seattle. Off we went.
Caught James St. or Madison off of Interstate 5 and burrowed down through the business district to Alaskan Way, where we paid $20 to park for three hours or all night. Could have driven another 100 yards and found a better spot on the street, but I was in a hurry.
We wandered up from the abandoned rail road tracks under the freeway to the top of Pike Street Market, where we bought hot almonds and walked from the famous fish monger down the long row of produce and bright silver jewelry and flower stands that exuded fragrance from cut tulips and lilies and flowers I don’t have enough life left to learn all the names or even describe the colors, across from stands of Queen Anne and Bings cherries selling for $2.75 a pound. Taste the current jam.
We caught a cab to the Space Needle, Sabrina did not like the elevator ride up or down but we walked the compass points and stood at the telescope where she could see people walking the decks of ships and on islands far out in Elliott Bay. Then we took the monorail back toward the market, had a bite to eat at the food court and wandered down to the ferries.
Another hour and a half to Bainbridge Island and back. The girls stood at the front each way, on the way back there was another rain squall but they did not back down, they faced forward the entire way and toughed out the cold drops that drove me inside until nearly back to the dock.
We have done Seattle. K.C. knew which way Lake Washington lay by pointing without a map. Sabrina pointed from the ferry terminal toward Auburn without hesitation. The girls know the surface texture of another great city, they now have a center in San Francisco and Seattle and Portland. Vancouver B.C. is next, I don’t care about L.A.
The day will come when one or both will need to have a city that is their home town, for college or adventure, and then of course they won’t just hit the tourist spots. But they know how to “see” within the urban canyons.
Cities have color, and the great cities on the ocean and bays of the Pacific and the Northwest have a color all their own, different expressions of green and gray iridescence like oil on water in the late afternoon, fading to an evolution of neon sparks on wet pavement after the sun goes down.
I want the girls to be comfortable in these cities as well as the lovely lonely isolation of our 80-acre ridge top, facing mountain sunset silhouettes and sleeping in a tipi. I panic at times that there is too much to share, and so little time left I have access to their wonderment.
Even girls race
We are at the races. A day early.
It was the right decision, to come on Wednesday. When we arrived, the vast new parking lot at Pacific Raceways was nearly empty. Drag races were happening. The girls went down to watch the drags while I put the trailer in its designated spot. I found them still at the fence after about an hour.
“Dada, they go really fast.”
“Dada, one the the drivers of a motorcycle is a girl.”
“Two of the drivers on motor cycles are girls.”
And the girl on the orange bike, blond braid down the back of her black leathers, didn’t look much bigger than my 13-year-olds. She was hideously fast, I think she turned the quarter in the nines, at about 150 mph.
I explained to the twins that our race is a road race, that we would be coming around that turn there and dive down that hill there, up that hill and back to this stretch of road right here.
Okay, yes, this is one reason why it was important to me to bring the twins. Girls race. Girls work on cars. That doing is more fun than watching. I don’t expect the twins to race, nor especially want them to, or even to love cars. But I do want them to taste this from Dada’s world, to know that a ratchet is among their options.
They do not want to be “girlie girls.” On the bridge of adolescence, they don’t understand those who do nothing but talk about how they look or about what the boys are doing or thinking.
My twins demand to drive the truck up and down our half-mile driveway at home. They sleep in a tipi. They have come to the races after a six hour drive with one stop and not one complaint, not one video game, handing up almonds and Triscuits and cheese. Today, in a few hours, we will see the Space Needle and Pike Street Market.
And tomorrow they will see some of the most wonderful cars in the world making some noise.
It was the right decision, to come on Wednesday. When we arrived, the vast new parking lot at Pacific Raceways was nearly empty. Drag races were happening. The girls went down to watch the drags while I put the trailer in its designated spot. I found them still at the fence after about an hour.
“Dada, they go really fast.”
“Dada, one the the drivers of a motorcycle is a girl.”
“Two of the drivers on motor cycles are girls.”
And the girl on the orange bike, blond braid down the back of her black leathers, didn’t look much bigger than my 13-year-olds. She was hideously fast, I think she turned the quarter in the nines, at about 150 mph.
I explained to the twins that our race is a road race, that we would be coming around that turn there and dive down that hill there, up that hill and back to this stretch of road right here.
Okay, yes, this is one reason why it was important to me to bring the twins. Girls race. Girls work on cars. That doing is more fun than watching. I don’t expect the twins to race, nor especially want them to, or even to love cars. But I do want them to taste this from Dada’s world, to know that a ratchet is among their options.
They do not want to be “girlie girls.” On the bridge of adolescence, they don’t understand those who do nothing but talk about how they look or about what the boys are doing or thinking.
My twins demand to drive the truck up and down our half-mile driveway at home. They sleep in a tipi. They have come to the races after a six hour drive with one stop and not one complaint, not one video game, handing up almonds and Triscuits and cheese. Today, in a few hours, we will see the Space Needle and Pike Street Market.
And tomorrow they will see some of the most wonderful cars in the world making some noise.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Post hoc ergo propter hoc
Sen. Kate Brown is stepping down as Oregon Senate Majority Leader. She has had a remarkable run.
We met Sen. Brown on a couple of occasions, once when she came to the Board of Medical Examiners to see what that organization did, another time in Salem. She is a smart and caring Democrat. She also was lucky to have a term that ended coincident with the implosion of Republican power caused by the stunning arrogance of Dick Cheney and his sock puppet, George W.
The accolades for Brown start with the fact that when she became leaders of the dems in the Oregon Senate in 1998, there were 10 of them, now there are 18.
Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Yeah, I know. Damn the effetes. But folks, it is a concept that has been around since Latin was the language of the civilized world, which is why it’s important that we remember we ain’t as smart as we think we is. Just because she was there then, and things are different now, does not mean she made the difference.
The second round of accolades center around what happened in this last session:
“increased funding for early education, K-12 schools and higher education; making health care more affordable and accessible; restoring 100 state troopers to protect Oregon’s highways; protecting consumers; investing in renewable energy; expanding the Oregon Bottle Bill; enacting landmark civil rights protections; and passing comprehensive ethics reform – Brown said she leaves her role as Majority Leader with a great sense of accomplishment.” (Salem-News.com)
Well, some of those might be accomplishments.
With a majority (but not two-thirds, required to pass some reforms) and a Democratic governor (we forget his name) the Democrats also failed to implement fundamental tax reform, bring accountability to teachers, failed to create a fair and comprehensive health system (sorry, Ben Westlund), failed to reform school finance aside from dipping into a pot more full of money, and failed to fix Measure 37.
They frittered away much of their session on “feel-good” legislation.
Kate Brown is a good senator, and a good Democrat. But credit where credit is due. Just because some things happened doesn’t mean they were all good, doesn’t mean she gets the credit if they were good. Post hoc ergo propter hoc.
We met Sen. Brown on a couple of occasions, once when she came to the Board of Medical Examiners to see what that organization did, another time in Salem. She is a smart and caring Democrat. She also was lucky to have a term that ended coincident with the implosion of Republican power caused by the stunning arrogance of Dick Cheney and his sock puppet, George W.
The accolades for Brown start with the fact that when she became leaders of the dems in the Oregon Senate in 1998, there were 10 of them, now there are 18.
Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Yeah, I know. Damn the effetes. But folks, it is a concept that has been around since Latin was the language of the civilized world, which is why it’s important that we remember we ain’t as smart as we think we is. Just because she was there then, and things are different now, does not mean she made the difference.
The second round of accolades center around what happened in this last session:
“increased funding for early education, K-12 schools and higher education; making health care more affordable and accessible; restoring 100 state troopers to protect Oregon’s highways; protecting consumers; investing in renewable energy; expanding the Oregon Bottle Bill; enacting landmark civil rights protections; and passing comprehensive ethics reform – Brown said she leaves her role as Majority Leader with a great sense of accomplishment.” (Salem-News.com)
Well, some of those might be accomplishments.
With a majority (but not two-thirds, required to pass some reforms) and a Democratic governor (we forget his name) the Democrats also failed to implement fundamental tax reform, bring accountability to teachers, failed to create a fair and comprehensive health system (sorry, Ben Westlund), failed to reform school finance aside from dipping into a pot more full of money, and failed to fix Measure 37.
They frittered away much of their session on “feel-good” legislation.
Kate Brown is a good senator, and a good Democrat. But credit where credit is due. Just because some things happened doesn’t mean they were all good, doesn’t mean she gets the credit if they were good. Post hoc ergo propter hoc.
Friday, June 22, 2007
The wind
Mike and I got the tipi up by about 12:30. Three, four hours. It is not a job I could have done alone, it is not a job I would do again. Practice would make it easier, but 60 pounds of canvas along a 22 foot pole is hard. Even following instructions, which is also hard, at least for a couple of guys who think they know how everything should work just by looking at it.
Jon stopped by on his motorcycle and carved down the ends on the stitching sticks. Thankfully, he did not offer suggestions.
We didn’t have enough cord to tie all the stakes to the ground, but I knew I would be going to town later and could pick up some more.
Yesterday I went to the seed company and bought four large packages of a slow growing bunch grass. I hoped to plant it and let it grow a little thicker than some of the local fescues. After the tipi was up, Mike went over to move rock with the track hoe, and I spread the seed over the new drain field. The seed was light and flew gently in front of the spreader. Along with 8 oz. of wildflowers.
It isn’t going to be a lawn. Even though the girls would like a lawn, I made myself a promise 10 years ago when we moved out of the log house that I would never mow a lawn again. I haven’t so far. And the goal of this concrete and steel barn on an 80 acre ridge hill top is to not be pinned by household chores.
I put the seed down in a crisscross pattern to spread it evenly, and ran with the spreader when I mixed in the wildflower seed to get some coverage. Mike came over with the track hoe to “walk it in” to the dirt. The powdery dust flew up, I tried to water the soil a bit to keep the bit of wind from carrying the dust and seed away. Mike pointed out that wet dirt would just stick to the tracks of the hoe so I stopped.
At about 2:30 I took the spreader back to the rental store, Mike was going to call it a day, too. We had had a good week. The rough plumbing is in the mostly graded subloor, packed and ready for the concrete guy to come wire for the slab on Monday. The heating guy can come tie his radiant tube to the wire, then we can pour the slab, and start framing the walls. The septic is in. We have power, we have water. It has been a good three weeks, and next Thursday we take off to go race in Seattle.
I was still in town when the light breeze of earlier became a howling wind. There was a big build up of clouds over the mountains to the west, a storm surf of clouds held at bay by Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Washington, the Three Sisters. But though the clouds were pinned, the wind howled in, angry it seemed. It made the trailer shake and feel insubstantial.
It buffeted the tipi, but even without all the stakes, it held. Inside, the poles creaked against the rough rope. I quickly cut cord to finish tying stakes down, but with its respectful conical shape, the organic weight of canvas, the tipi seems impervious to the wind.
Not my drain field. When I walked out to move the sprinklers, my $80 of seed, two hours of spreading, and an hour of Mikes time pressing the seed down, were pretty much gone. The wind had taken the flour-like soil, the feather like seeds, off to my neighbor’s place, abraded the surface right down to the crust of the last watering.
At my frustrated suggestion, the girls and I lit the smudge stick that came with the tipi, I was hoping to perhaps buy us a little grace from the wind. It didn’t work, at least not yet. It was obvious hubris anyway. The ancestors could tell lighting the stick was a bribe, not thanks from a pure heart.
Jon stopped by on his motorcycle and carved down the ends on the stitching sticks. Thankfully, he did not offer suggestions.
We didn’t have enough cord to tie all the stakes to the ground, but I knew I would be going to town later and could pick up some more.
Yesterday I went to the seed company and bought four large packages of a slow growing bunch grass. I hoped to plant it and let it grow a little thicker than some of the local fescues. After the tipi was up, Mike went over to move rock with the track hoe, and I spread the seed over the new drain field. The seed was light and flew gently in front of the spreader. Along with 8 oz. of wildflowers.
It isn’t going to be a lawn. Even though the girls would like a lawn, I made myself a promise 10 years ago when we moved out of the log house that I would never mow a lawn again. I haven’t so far. And the goal of this concrete and steel barn on an 80 acre ridge hill top is to not be pinned by household chores.
I put the seed down in a crisscross pattern to spread it evenly, and ran with the spreader when I mixed in the wildflower seed to get some coverage. Mike came over with the track hoe to “walk it in” to the dirt. The powdery dust flew up, I tried to water the soil a bit to keep the bit of wind from carrying the dust and seed away. Mike pointed out that wet dirt would just stick to the tracks of the hoe so I stopped.
At about 2:30 I took the spreader back to the rental store, Mike was going to call it a day, too. We had had a good week. The rough plumbing is in the mostly graded subloor, packed and ready for the concrete guy to come wire for the slab on Monday. The heating guy can come tie his radiant tube to the wire, then we can pour the slab, and start framing the walls. The septic is in. We have power, we have water. It has been a good three weeks, and next Thursday we take off to go race in Seattle.
I was still in town when the light breeze of earlier became a howling wind. There was a big build up of clouds over the mountains to the west, a storm surf of clouds held at bay by Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Washington, the Three Sisters. But though the clouds were pinned, the wind howled in, angry it seemed. It made the trailer shake and feel insubstantial.
It buffeted the tipi, but even without all the stakes, it held. Inside, the poles creaked against the rough rope. I quickly cut cord to finish tying stakes down, but with its respectful conical shape, the organic weight of canvas, the tipi seems impervious to the wind.
Not my drain field. When I walked out to move the sprinklers, my $80 of seed, two hours of spreading, and an hour of Mikes time pressing the seed down, were pretty much gone. The wind had taken the flour-like soil, the feather like seeds, off to my neighbor’s place, abraded the surface right down to the crust of the last watering.
At my frustrated suggestion, the girls and I lit the smudge stick that came with the tipi, I was hoping to perhaps buy us a little grace from the wind. It didn’t work, at least not yet. It was obvious hubris anyway. The ancestors could tell lighting the stick was a bribe, not thanks from a pure heart.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Rush on the job site
“You are one of the only guys I know I’m kinda friends with that doesn’t like Rush.”
That’s a hard one. It’s meant as a compliment. Mike and I have been working side by side for a few weeks. I owe him more than a couple beers. He can do more in three seconds, and with more finesse, with a backhoe than I can do in ten minutes with a shovel.
But he listens to Rush Limbaugh while driving the backhoe, and Country music. My music, heavy guitar licks by Roy Buchannan or Pink Floyd, just don't cut it under the noon day sun. But I can’t stand the smooth new country, “Men in boots whining,” and I can’t stomach Rush. There are just so few ways to respond.
“Rush is just a mouthpiece for the people who want to own you. If you like your government telling you what to think, you are welcome to it.” When they were trying to sell us on a war, it was abusing patriotism to get us into Iraq. Now it is the jingoistic pitch against immigration. Being sold to a nation founded by immigrants.
But it is not the hypocrisy of bitter and sordid talk show hosts like Limbaugh or O’Reilly that is so offensive. It is the blatant manipulation. The subtle name-calling. The smirking, superior, “I am SO getting away with this,” lack of conscience, that is so galling.
30 years ago there was a TV show that featured Carroll O’Connor as Archie Bunker. Archie was laughed at by the left, his bigotry held up for ridicule. The thing is, Archie won.
Now we have a nation where about 45% of the population idolizes the politics Archie Bunker used to create laughs. We have a president who smirks like Archie, who came out in support of creationism, for crying out loud, and who manipulates hard working men and women who should be supporting labor rights and equal rights and supporting the individual over monopolies charging us to breathe clean air.
The Archie archetype himself got some polish and has radio stations and TV stations and employs Rush and Bill who spoon feed us hatred and bigotry right out of Karl Rove’s White House.
Not because Rove or Bush love war or hate Mexicans, but because by fanning hatred, outrage and bigotry, they control the discussion, they get reelected, and they can serve Pfizer and Exxon and ConAgra and all the others who buy them power.
Mike is a good man who knows how to work hard and takes care of his family. So am I. We have more in common than we don’t, but I sure wish he didn’t get his politics from talk radio.
That’s a hard one. It’s meant as a compliment. Mike and I have been working side by side for a few weeks. I owe him more than a couple beers. He can do more in three seconds, and with more finesse, with a backhoe than I can do in ten minutes with a shovel.
But he listens to Rush Limbaugh while driving the backhoe, and Country music. My music, heavy guitar licks by Roy Buchannan or Pink Floyd, just don't cut it under the noon day sun. But I can’t stand the smooth new country, “Men in boots whining,” and I can’t stomach Rush. There are just so few ways to respond.
“Rush is just a mouthpiece for the people who want to own you. If you like your government telling you what to think, you are welcome to it.” When they were trying to sell us on a war, it was abusing patriotism to get us into Iraq. Now it is the jingoistic pitch against immigration. Being sold to a nation founded by immigrants.
But it is not the hypocrisy of bitter and sordid talk show hosts like Limbaugh or O’Reilly that is so offensive. It is the blatant manipulation. The subtle name-calling. The smirking, superior, “I am SO getting away with this,” lack of conscience, that is so galling.
30 years ago there was a TV show that featured Carroll O’Connor as Archie Bunker. Archie was laughed at by the left, his bigotry held up for ridicule. The thing is, Archie won.
Now we have a nation where about 45% of the population idolizes the politics Archie Bunker used to create laughs. We have a president who smirks like Archie, who came out in support of creationism, for crying out loud, and who manipulates hard working men and women who should be supporting labor rights and equal rights and supporting the individual over monopolies charging us to breathe clean air.
The Archie archetype himself got some polish and has radio stations and TV stations and employs Rush and Bill who spoon feed us hatred and bigotry right out of Karl Rove’s White House.
Not because Rove or Bush love war or hate Mexicans, but because by fanning hatred, outrage and bigotry, they control the discussion, they get reelected, and they can serve Pfizer and Exxon and ConAgra and all the others who buy them power.
Mike is a good man who knows how to work hard and takes care of his family. So am I. We have more in common than we don’t, but I sure wish he didn’t get his politics from talk radio.
Tipi
The underslab plumbing is in the project. We may actually have a slab poured before July. The girls will be back on Friday, we go racing in Seattle next week -- the ZL1 is locked and loaded.
And this week the tipi has to go up.
The tipi will sit right by the trailer, and will more than double our square footage. The girls and I will end up fighting over it, but in this case, they get double my votes, plus veto power. I just hope they let me use it when they are at their mother’s house.
It is going to be an odd amalgam of living, the tipi. Aboriginal, wired with electricity for heaters and lamps, in the middle of hilltop rural acreage yet with highspeed internet, wireless laptops and wireless printer, adjacent plumbing, two futons, a raised firepit and Afghan carpets.
An adventure for the summer I don't think we will forget. Set up right, the tipi may serve for that first month of school, if the house is delayed.
And this week the tipi has to go up.
The tipi will sit right by the trailer, and will more than double our square footage. The girls and I will end up fighting over it, but in this case, they get double my votes, plus veto power. I just hope they let me use it when they are at their mother’s house.
It is going to be an odd amalgam of living, the tipi. Aboriginal, wired with electricity for heaters and lamps, in the middle of hilltop rural acreage yet with highspeed internet, wireless laptops and wireless printer, adjacent plumbing, two futons, a raised firepit and Afghan carpets.
An adventure for the summer I don't think we will forget. Set up right, the tipi may serve for that first month of school, if the house is delayed.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Power to the people
On Saturday I moved the generator away from the trailer to a spot over by the pump so we could put water on dirt that will support the concrete slab. Which meant that the trailer would be on batteries for a couple of days. The generator is a 30 year old Honda and weighs about 400 lb. Not easy to move.
I debated getting another generator for the well, borrowing or renting or even buying one. Costco had a 5.5 KW unit for about $895, Honda motor. Then I realized I could move the trailer over by the pump to be by the generator. It is pretty scabby over there though, well slurry hardened on the ground and construction pieces left over from an effort years ago.
I decided to hold off. The power company could come to hook us up any day. The batteries in the trailer were new and fully charged. The electrician came on Sunday night and wired the generator to the well so we had water. It was great not having to wash pots and pans out of a gallon jug.
But I left the furnace on in the trailer and the batteries were about dead that night. And it was very, very cold. The furnace would not fire Monday morning with no power for the fan. The girls were cold. It was cold making breakfast before school. Not more than a peep out of either of them.
I figured we would have to move the trailer, or move over to Jon’s for a few days. I didn’t want to do either. I only have the girls through Friday, when they go back to their mother’s house. I wanted continuity in our first stay on the ridge.
Just before 3 p.m., I was on my way to pick up the twins at school. Four white trucks from Central Electric Co-op were coming up our road, trucks on their way to hook us up to the grid. Power for the well, power for the trailer. No more cans of gas in the back of the Excursion.
I debated getting another generator for the well, borrowing or renting or even buying one. Costco had a 5.5 KW unit for about $895, Honda motor. Then I realized I could move the trailer over by the pump to be by the generator. It is pretty scabby over there though, well slurry hardened on the ground and construction pieces left over from an effort years ago.
I decided to hold off. The power company could come to hook us up any day. The batteries in the trailer were new and fully charged. The electrician came on Sunday night and wired the generator to the well so we had water. It was great not having to wash pots and pans out of a gallon jug.
But I left the furnace on in the trailer and the batteries were about dead that night. And it was very, very cold. The furnace would not fire Monday morning with no power for the fan. The girls were cold. It was cold making breakfast before school. Not more than a peep out of either of them.
I figured we would have to move the trailer, or move over to Jon’s for a few days. I didn’t want to do either. I only have the girls through Friday, when they go back to their mother’s house. I wanted continuity in our first stay on the ridge.
Just before 3 p.m., I was on my way to pick up the twins at school. Four white trucks from Central Electric Co-op were coming up our road, trucks on their way to hook us up to the grid. Power for the well, power for the trailer. No more cans of gas in the back of the Excursion.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
A true conservative
It’s easier to be conservative living in a trailer, to be a conservationist, to conserve.
Interesting how the meanings of those words diverge through twisted politics. But there is nothing like having to haul your house for an hour to refill it with water, and dump the sewage, to turn one toward “living lightly.”
It isn’t the money; it’s the time, the effort, the risk, the hassle. A 31 foot trailer wants to go its own way when it’s really windy on the highway, even at 50 mph.
We turn off the propane water heater at night: water heats quickly in the morning and there is no need to keep it hot all night long. The tanks are bulky to refill at one of the local stations, but propane seems like a bargain.
Gasoline for the generator is bought in $5 units, which just fills the small can. That’s a little less than 1 1/2 gallons depending on price. Each purchase will last a few nights, unless we are using the generator all day for construction. I don’t leave the generator on if we aren’t uploading or downloading or needing to recharge the house batteries.
Water. Water. Water is the hardest. I can’t haul enough for thoughtless use. Five gallon jugs for drinking and cooking fit just fine on my large cooler. But it is warm water, and lots of it, that separates living from camping and we come in just under the wire. I wash the plates outside sometimes and rinse with cold water. I shower less often and have forgone the luxury of a long soak with steaming streams running over my head and down my shoulders.
Ironically, I think the girls are showering more often, since I demand they shower whenever they can, at Elizabeth and Jon’s, or at their mother’s house when we go there so they can practice piano for the recital this Sunday.
The twins are into this conservation lifestyle. “Does this burn, Dada?” K.C. asks, holding up an empty peach cup from her school lunch. No, I tell her. We don’t burn plastic. Actually, we don’t burn paper yet, either, not in the open in this tinder-dry climate, but I wanted to start life here on the land in the trailer making that distinction. I hope someday to capture the energy of waste paper to heat the house and reduce the use of propane, trips to the dump.
But that kind of conservation is a luxury. Right now conservation is driven by the necessity of the space in which we live. Turn down the heat. Boil water for coffee on the stove. Don’t let the faucet run. Clean up after yourself and do it now, don’t accumulate, because the unnecessary is sure to get in your way, or in someone else’s way.
Living in 260 square feet demands a certain discipline. Good practice for our transition to the boat, someday.
Interesting how the meanings of those words diverge through twisted politics. But there is nothing like having to haul your house for an hour to refill it with water, and dump the sewage, to turn one toward “living lightly.”
It isn’t the money; it’s the time, the effort, the risk, the hassle. A 31 foot trailer wants to go its own way when it’s really windy on the highway, even at 50 mph.
We turn off the propane water heater at night: water heats quickly in the morning and there is no need to keep it hot all night long. The tanks are bulky to refill at one of the local stations, but propane seems like a bargain.
Gasoline for the generator is bought in $5 units, which just fills the small can. That’s a little less than 1 1/2 gallons depending on price. Each purchase will last a few nights, unless we are using the generator all day for construction. I don’t leave the generator on if we aren’t uploading or downloading or needing to recharge the house batteries.
Water. Water. Water is the hardest. I can’t haul enough for thoughtless use. Five gallon jugs for drinking and cooking fit just fine on my large cooler. But it is warm water, and lots of it, that separates living from camping and we come in just under the wire. I wash the plates outside sometimes and rinse with cold water. I shower less often and have forgone the luxury of a long soak with steaming streams running over my head and down my shoulders.
Ironically, I think the girls are showering more often, since I demand they shower whenever they can, at Elizabeth and Jon’s, or at their mother’s house when we go there so they can practice piano for the recital this Sunday.
The twins are into this conservation lifestyle. “Does this burn, Dada?” K.C. asks, holding up an empty peach cup from her school lunch. No, I tell her. We don’t burn plastic. Actually, we don’t burn paper yet, either, not in the open in this tinder-dry climate, but I wanted to start life here on the land in the trailer making that distinction. I hope someday to capture the energy of waste paper to heat the house and reduce the use of propane, trips to the dump.
But that kind of conservation is a luxury. Right now conservation is driven by the necessity of the space in which we live. Turn down the heat. Boil water for coffee on the stove. Don’t let the faucet run. Clean up after yourself and do it now, don’t accumulate, because the unnecessary is sure to get in your way, or in someone else’s way.
Living in 260 square feet demands a certain discipline. Good practice for our transition to the boat, someday.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Just enough
My coffee table is a charred juniper log. The tree was killed in a fire 30 years or more ago. It’s just flat enough to keep the cup from tipping, if I am careful enough. The log/table works if I move slow enough. If I pay enough attention. Making it work is not high effort, just slow effort, attentiveness.
I thought about laying in boards to make it easier to put down the cup without thinking, but in some ways it would be more effort to make it easy. It would also deprive me of the need to pay attention, in the moment, to how the cup sits crooked on the log.
The twins and I are up here at our new address, living in a tin tent of about 260 square feet with snowcapped and pine clad mountains outside the door. At 13 they still fit in their bunk beds at one end, I have a pseudo queen bed at the other. We have a kitchen. I let them choose which seat they each own at the table, back packs for school on the bench next to them and against the wall, lunch boxes on the table flanking a rack of newly purchased silverware.
The landlord turned our home of the last year into a vacation rental. I thought we had it worked out for the rest of the summer, but nothing is good unless it is in writing and when the FedX’d agreement arrived from San Francisco, there were terms not discussed. The strain on our blended family had become cataclysmic, Lauren and her two boys have gone one way, the girls and I another.
There is wonderful closeness of living in the trailer. I am never far from the girls as they are doing homework, I watch them draw and hear the rustle of turning pages in Manga books they read backwards. They have their iPods, of course. We will have a tipi next week.
My living room is outside, acres of living room. A lawn chair 50 feet from the trailer looks out over the Cascades. Move the chair and see different mountains, the Three Sisters from one point, Mt. Washington from another, Mt. Jefferson from beneath the tree over there.
There is more quiet than I’ve had in many years. It is a lonely, lovely, healing quiet, often quite full. Last night the girls’ godfather came over for a steak. We sat out there in a thunderstorm booming over the mountains and to the north of us, pummeling Black Butte. Jon looked out through juniper to mountains 20 miles away but in our lap, then he looked up at clouds roiling overhead.
“Love what you’ve done with the ceiling.”
Pheasant wander through the sage with double hollow clarinet call, escapees from the nearby hunting preserve. A snake track disappears under the contractor’s outhouse, I look very, very carefully before sitting down. Breezes brush the pines.
Choices are often hard. Rewards hard to see. There are days when sadness clings like humidity. But two beautiful girls read books and do homework, I have a project in concrete and steel 20 yards away. We don’t have TV. We have cell phones, and high speed internet is pumped to us wirelessly from an antenna three miles away when I choose to start the generator.
It is enough. And if I pay slow attention, it is more than enough.
I thought about laying in boards to make it easier to put down the cup without thinking, but in some ways it would be more effort to make it easy. It would also deprive me of the need to pay attention, in the moment, to how the cup sits crooked on the log.
The twins and I are up here at our new address, living in a tin tent of about 260 square feet with snowcapped and pine clad mountains outside the door. At 13 they still fit in their bunk beds at one end, I have a pseudo queen bed at the other. We have a kitchen. I let them choose which seat they each own at the table, back packs for school on the bench next to them and against the wall, lunch boxes on the table flanking a rack of newly purchased silverware.
The landlord turned our home of the last year into a vacation rental. I thought we had it worked out for the rest of the summer, but nothing is good unless it is in writing and when the FedX’d agreement arrived from San Francisco, there were terms not discussed. The strain on our blended family had become cataclysmic, Lauren and her two boys have gone one way, the girls and I another.
There is wonderful closeness of living in the trailer. I am never far from the girls as they are doing homework, I watch them draw and hear the rustle of turning pages in Manga books they read backwards. They have their iPods, of course. We will have a tipi next week.
My living room is outside, acres of living room. A lawn chair 50 feet from the trailer looks out over the Cascades. Move the chair and see different mountains, the Three Sisters from one point, Mt. Washington from another, Mt. Jefferson from beneath the tree over there.
There is more quiet than I’ve had in many years. It is a lonely, lovely, healing quiet, often quite full. Last night the girls’ godfather came over for a steak. We sat out there in a thunderstorm booming over the mountains and to the north of us, pummeling Black Butte. Jon looked out through juniper to mountains 20 miles away but in our lap, then he looked up at clouds roiling overhead.
“Love what you’ve done with the ceiling.”
Pheasant wander through the sage with double hollow clarinet call, escapees from the nearby hunting preserve. A snake track disappears under the contractor’s outhouse, I look very, very carefully before sitting down. Breezes brush the pines.
Choices are often hard. Rewards hard to see. There are days when sadness clings like humidity. But two beautiful girls read books and do homework, I have a project in concrete and steel 20 yards away. We don’t have TV. We have cell phones, and high speed internet is pumped to us wirelessly from an antenna three miles away when I choose to start the generator.
It is enough. And if I pay slow attention, it is more than enough.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Blazers bigger than Portland?
Blazers general manager Kevin Pritchard on getting the top draft pick for NBA basketball (read it here):
"Huge. Unbelievably huge. Franchise-making," Pritchard said. "This is bigger than the Rose Garden, bigger than the organization, bigger than the city of Portland. The whole state and the whole area revolves around the Portland Trail Blazers... As we go, so does the city. This has a chance to change the organization and the city..."
Um, Kevin? It's just basketball. A game, a game played by some often very spoiled adults wearing shorts.
Tax reform; great schools; a non cyclical economic base; healthy Ponderosa forests on the east side, clean water on the west side; health insurance for all Oregon children; opportunity for all Oregon children: These are bigger than the City of Portland, these are the priorities around which the State of Oregon revolves, not the Blazers, not basketball.
Get some perspective, will ya? And talk that guy from Seattle into selling the team to a local consortium with some class.
"Huge. Unbelievably huge. Franchise-making," Pritchard said. "This is bigger than the Rose Garden, bigger than the organization, bigger than the city of Portland. The whole state and the whole area revolves around the Portland Trail Blazers... As we go, so does the city. This has a chance to change the organization and the city..."
Um, Kevin? It's just basketball. A game, a game played by some often very spoiled adults wearing shorts.
Tax reform; great schools; a non cyclical economic base; healthy Ponderosa forests on the east side, clean water on the west side; health insurance for all Oregon children; opportunity for all Oregon children: These are bigger than the City of Portland, these are the priorities around which the State of Oregon revolves, not the Blazers, not basketball.
Get some perspective, will ya? And talk that guy from Seattle into selling the team to a local consortium with some class.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Protect us from ourselves
“Sen. Margaret Carter, D-Portland, suggested (in The Oregonian, read it here) that many consumers get taken in by sham sales, and counted herself among them. She said she bought a bedroom set at a furniture store’s 'going out of business' sale, only to find the same set at a lower price at a different store. And the store where she bought the furniture didn't close.
'I was stupid; I was an idiot,' she said, before voting for the bill."
C’mon, Margaret, grow up, shop around. You weren't stupid, you were lazy. Don’t deprive the rest of us the opportunity to learn from our own laziness, don’t protect stores that charge higher prices, by passing a law (Senate Bill 684).
Neither Republicans nor Democrats favor liberty: Republicans want to control our bedrooms, Democrats want to control our wallets.
But Democrats just can't seem to resist the need to pass laws to set the world right for everyone. This bill will cost more to enforce than everyone lost buying a cheap bedroom set from the same store that has been going out of business for the last three years. What a waste of Legislative time and money.
'I was stupid; I was an idiot,' she said, before voting for the bill."
C’mon, Margaret, grow up, shop around. You weren't stupid, you were lazy. Don’t deprive the rest of us the opportunity to learn from our own laziness, don’t protect stores that charge higher prices, by passing a law (Senate Bill 684).
Neither Republicans nor Democrats favor liberty: Republicans want to control our bedrooms, Democrats want to control our wallets.
But Democrats just can't seem to resist the need to pass laws to set the world right for everyone. This bill will cost more to enforce than everyone lost buying a cheap bedroom set from the same store that has been going out of business for the last three years. What a waste of Legislative time and money.
Don't waste money on state police
Democrats in Oregon want to waste hundreds of millions of dollars on the Oregon State Police. And they want make the funding an entitlement, so if money needs to be saved in the future, OSP will not have to share.
The budget is scheduled for a work session on Monday, May 14 at 3:00 pm at the Oregon State Capitol.
Folks, the OSP gets hundreds of millions of dollars a year. How many more highway patrols to you want? What about schools? What about roads? What about investment? What in the hell are you getting for your money?
Will someone please give us some facts here?
Let's talk first about response times and support for other police: Response times have been improved by the increase in the number of cell phones far more than the number of troopers.
Then we need to ask, what is the cost per officer of an OSP Trooper versus a Clackamas County Sheriff if each is a five-year veteran? What is the "efficiency" of those officers, that is, what is the "Total cost per trooper" versus the "total cost per deputy?" or better yet, "total cost per trooper per mile on the road" versus "total cost per deputy per mile on the road?"
Is it possible we might get three deputies for the cost of two troopers? What does that mean for response times?
Let's move on to support for other agencies: do OSP and Clackamas County work as well together as Clackamas and Multnomah Counties on a true mutual aid call? Ask a couple of deputies, and promise them absolute anonymity. Ask them how they like working with the other sheriff's office, and ask them about working with OSP. There are culture differences between all of them: Bernie's agency may be hard to work with, etc. But it's a good question to put out there.
It has been said that a proposed 139 additional troopers alone will cost $17.6 million of new money initially, growing larger every two years, at least $80 million of new money in the next decade for just the increase. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO GET FOR THAT MONEY? You will not get $80 million of lives saved, or $80 million of meth busts, or $80 million of anything that has a positive impact on the lives of Oregonians.
The emphasis so far has been on 24 hour patrols, and more cops on the road. On that subject, see if you can find any statistics, anywhere, that shows that issuing tickets causes a population to drive more slowly, or saves any lives.
OSP sells budget increases with a misuse of numbers: In an accident, force at impact increases by the square of speed increase, (true) therefore, issuing tickets saves lives (false). Invalid because (1) Few accidents are caused by speed in a way that more troopers would prevent; (2) We don't really want traffic to move more slowly, we want it to move more safely, and they are not the same; (3) Things that are true in the singular (one driver) often fail in the aggregate (traffic safety).
Over the same period the number of troopers has been going down, the number of fatal accidents per mile driven has been going down. Ask again: What are we getting for our $17.6 million of new money that will directly benefit Oregonians?
We could put that money into schools, teaching boys and girls how to pound nails, how to weld, how to earn a living; We could create a state service program for all 18 years olds; We could put that money into a bypass around Sisters, Oregon; We could put that money into investments in alternative energy, growing soybeans for diesel fuel, turning logging slash or underbrush clearing into ethanol; We could attract a business with jobs to Newport or Coos Bay; We could improve a bridge. Widen a road. Reform K-8 education by teaching parents how to parent.
There is so much to do with that money, my god don’t throw it away on the OSP.
Time is short. Write your legislator. Find the address on the right side of this article.
The budget is scheduled for a work session on Monday, May 14 at 3:00 pm at the Oregon State Capitol.
Folks, the OSP gets hundreds of millions of dollars a year. How many more highway patrols to you want? What about schools? What about roads? What about investment? What in the hell are you getting for your money?
Will someone please give us some facts here?
Let's talk first about response times and support for other police: Response times have been improved by the increase in the number of cell phones far more than the number of troopers.
Then we need to ask, what is the cost per officer of an OSP Trooper versus a Clackamas County Sheriff if each is a five-year veteran? What is the "efficiency" of those officers, that is, what is the "Total cost per trooper" versus the "total cost per deputy?" or better yet, "total cost per trooper per mile on the road" versus "total cost per deputy per mile on the road?"
Is it possible we might get three deputies for the cost of two troopers? What does that mean for response times?
Let's move on to support for other agencies: do OSP and Clackamas County work as well together as Clackamas and Multnomah Counties on a true mutual aid call? Ask a couple of deputies, and promise them absolute anonymity. Ask them how they like working with the other sheriff's office, and ask them about working with OSP. There are culture differences between all of them: Bernie's agency may be hard to work with, etc. But it's a good question to put out there.
It has been said that a proposed 139 additional troopers alone will cost $17.6 million of new money initially, growing larger every two years, at least $80 million of new money in the next decade for just the increase. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO GET FOR THAT MONEY? You will not get $80 million of lives saved, or $80 million of meth busts, or $80 million of anything that has a positive impact on the lives of Oregonians.
The emphasis so far has been on 24 hour patrols, and more cops on the road. On that subject, see if you can find any statistics, anywhere, that shows that issuing tickets causes a population to drive more slowly, or saves any lives.
OSP sells budget increases with a misuse of numbers: In an accident, force at impact increases by the square of speed increase, (true) therefore, issuing tickets saves lives (false). Invalid because (1) Few accidents are caused by speed in a way that more troopers would prevent; (2) We don't really want traffic to move more slowly, we want it to move more safely, and they are not the same; (3) Things that are true in the singular (one driver) often fail in the aggregate (traffic safety).
Over the same period the number of troopers has been going down, the number of fatal accidents per mile driven has been going down. Ask again: What are we getting for our $17.6 million of new money that will directly benefit Oregonians?
We could put that money into schools, teaching boys and girls how to pound nails, how to weld, how to earn a living; We could create a state service program for all 18 years olds; We could put that money into a bypass around Sisters, Oregon; We could put that money into investments in alternative energy, growing soybeans for diesel fuel, turning logging slash or underbrush clearing into ethanol; We could attract a business with jobs to Newport or Coos Bay; We could improve a bridge. Widen a road. Reform K-8 education by teaching parents how to parent.
There is so much to do with that money, my god don’t throw it away on the OSP.
Time is short. Write your legislator. Find the address on the right side of this article.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Life is not always nice
An article in today’s Oregonian by Shelby Wood talks of gay rights taking two historic steps (read it here). I would agree, but worry they are steps backward.
The first is creation of domestic partnerships for gays. We have now defined another class of human being. To limit discrimination based on sexual orientation, we have created another category by which to discriminate. It would have been better to get Oregon out of the marriage business altogether and we have missed a historic opportunity. But we have railed on this before (read it here).
The second step has to do with laws against job discrimination based on sexual orientation.
It is said the workplace is a nicer place since sexual harassment lawsuits changed behavior in the 1990s. Maybe, but I don’t know if we can equate the addictive power of sex and extortion power of supervisors over women to the stupid insults of ignorant men.
A fellow traveler said a while ago that it is shame, not guilt, that modifies behavior. The problem, of course, is that some men will never feel shame, and others may feel it for all the wrong reasons.
It is difficult to legislate attitudes, but perhaps if we can legislate behavior, the attitudes will follow. I don’t know. But I do believe the power of the state is so great that it must be used judiciously. Or we shall consume ourselves in fruitless debates over what was said, what was meant, who was hurt, and how.
The first is creation of domestic partnerships for gays. We have now defined another class of human being. To limit discrimination based on sexual orientation, we have created another category by which to discriminate. It would have been better to get Oregon out of the marriage business altogether and we have missed a historic opportunity. But we have railed on this before (read it here).
The second step has to do with laws against job discrimination based on sexual orientation.
It is said the workplace is a nicer place since sexual harassment lawsuits changed behavior in the 1990s. Maybe, but I don’t know if we can equate the addictive power of sex and extortion power of supervisors over women to the stupid insults of ignorant men.
A fellow traveler said a while ago that it is shame, not guilt, that modifies behavior. The problem, of course, is that some men will never feel shame, and others may feel it for all the wrong reasons.
It is difficult to legislate attitudes, but perhaps if we can legislate behavior, the attitudes will follow. I don’t know. But I do believe the power of the state is so great that it must be used judiciously. Or we shall consume ourselves in fruitless debates over what was said, what was meant, who was hurt, and how.
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