The Autumn of his life

The Autumn of his life

His sister speaks of aspens
that I see him in, but he pays little mind.
He thinks of how she speaks -
talks – on and on, all
around him talk.
That’s for him now, the talking
mixed with coughing,
pills and medicines.
Time is running out
     The leaves from the trees
     wave before
     resting beneath.

Satires of God are satires of the world

What does it say of our world that when we satirize our biggest, most sanctimonious concepts we're really talking about everything, and in so doing give that power that some describe as holyness?

Giacomo Sartori, an Italian agronomist, has written a novel, I AM GOD, that takes apart our lives on earth with jest and humor and profound moments. Originally written in Italian, fertile ground for the obscene, the witty remarks carry over seamlessly into English as a lesson in the ease of translating blasphemy.

"It shouldn’t be so difficult to understand that their [human] lives are thrilling and tender because they come to an end... Humans haven’t learned how to die yet, and worse, the more time goes by, the more they think they’ve understood everything and the less prepared they are.”

And before it all ends, we may as well laugh at it, see our similarities and differences, and read a thing or two to learn what isn't otherwise obvious. Lest we get too serious and think we alone know something of substance about this world.

“If you haven’t read hundreds of books, you are functionally illiterate, and you will be incompetent, because your personal experiences alone aren’t broad enough to sustain you,” Mattis writes. “Any commander who claims he is ‘too busy to read’ is going to fill body bags with his troops as he learns the hard way.”  

Ignorant generals and corporate raiders will do their thing, but there's a body bag for each of us eventually.

Land

Where to enjoy it? Where to purchase a piece to call home, share it with friends and give it purpose. Somewhere to be, not just do. Galen and Kiki once mentioned White Salmon, WA, and nearby Husum is right on a river. North San Juan is inviting and accessible and remote at the same time (and fire-prone). New Mexico is interesting. Colorado's front range is just growing. Montana? Vernal, Utah, near to Teresa? There are many good places, but where to invest? How best to discuss and draw up arrangements for something shared?

Old Familiar Fright

Mousa drives his rideshare passenger from Denver into the mountains.

A canyon turns to switchback roads beyond street lights

the radio stations static and fade

seemingly familiar comforts in an adopted home

can be fleeting

and that which is scary can be just a few miles out of town.

Just as the moon pulls me in toward it, high above the eastern plains,

pines and distant dog barks are not inviting when the country isn't your country.

The Barked Out Dog

When something is wrong for a dog they bark and howl until they're hoarse

When something is wrong for a horse

They leer and winnie

When something is wrong for you and me

There’s ignorance, therapy, self medication, or worse.

A rural town is loud at night

A city street can be quiet in context

Dogs and horses, cats and chorus frogs

All have something to say

Nothing comes easy for any of us

We all speak our grievances

Until forever we hold our peace.

Final KQED Perspective

It seems to me that recently, my favorite speculative fiction books are becoming reality.

Speculative fiction is a genre that includes elements from science fiction, fantasy and dystopia, characterized by imagining worlds not so far from the truth.

Driving down to LA this past fall, I saw smoke in the distance from the Malibu fires. I couldn’t see much of the fire, but I smelled the coarse burning scent and my eyes felt rough from the ash. In my car I suddenly felt the presence, the memory, of a speculative fiction novel I had read. In the novel, the valley is plagued with fires set by arsonists addicted to a drug called “pyro”, a symptom of a larger failing of society. The characters flee their homes by foot up the 405, all seven lanes filled with bodies moving north.

This story entered my imagination to such a degree that I confused it with reality. For a moment in my car I thought I really remembered a time, not so long ago, when the 405 was filled with fire refugees on foot. This confusion made me realize just how close to the truth speculative fiction can be. In California today, fire refugees are very real. They may not have fled up the 405 by foot, but they were camped in the living rooms of my friends.

This isn’t the only speculative fiction novel I have confused with reality. Recently, my partner returned from visiting a friend on a tech-company campus. He told me how his visitor badge was his golden ticket, giving him access to three dinners, a haircut, and even car maintenance, all on campus! My imagination drifted to another novel where the elite live in armed, walled corporate compounds, and the commoners outside in the “pleeblands” disintegrate into crime and poverty. “Did you visit your friend’s on-campus apartment-pod?” I wanted to ask. But again, there I was confusing fiction with reality. Or was I? Today, tech-companies are ever increasing worker benefits and reaching their tentacles into real estate and housing.

These stories remind me not to normalize what I see. We need storytellers to shock us into seeing what is already before our eyes. Sometimes it takes speculative fiction to see reality more clearly.

Open water

KQED Perspective

Swimming in the open water


Throughout the winter in the extended Bay Area, I elect to jump into the cold ocean water in my onepiece for a morning swim. It’s the most fantastic feeling of my day. It’s an ultimate extension of a "cold water on your face morning wake up", a challenge and communion with the unpredictable ocean. On cold mornings I enjoy the small thrill of knowing that I’m going to do the exact opposite of what my body wants - take off my warm jacket and jump in. Often when I return home from a swim and my partner asks how it was I declare “It was best swim yet”. And it feels true.

I didn’t always love the cold water. When I started swimming in the SF bay on a whim, I wore a wetsuit for the first year. It was only when I was peer pressured by the looks of older members in my swim club, that I finally lost it.

On rare occasions the sport feels like a boasting match - how cold was it and how long did you stay in? But mostly, it is immersive, solitary, repetitive, meditative. Splashing through the ocean is being a part of something much larger than myself.

I think sometimes that the only people who understand my obsession are the other swimmers. One of my friends commented that when he first met our local group he thought to himself immediately “yep, these are my people”. I agree. I once considered never moving out of San Francisco so I wouldn’t have to leave my open water swim club (I stayed a member at large). We range in age from teens to the late 60s (I think, I don’t even know!) though nobody seems to notice when we are in the water together. Most of them I hardly recognize in their street clothes.

I’m not the fastest, nor the most consistent, I've never done a truly long distance, nor have I know my friends the longest. I don’t even swim in a pool to train, I feel so restless and bored. I just want to be in the open water, and it turns out that is the only criteria to be a member of our motley club.

Here is to loving something so crazy, and finding other people who are crazy in the same way you are.