Year: 2009
Notes on an inferno
Posted on October 17, 2009 in Vacation Fall 2009 Video
Dawn was a concept I had heard of, but seldom experienced. the idea of putting myself to bed and then waking at an hour where I might see it slightly worried me The lure of seeing lava flowing directly into the ocean was too powerful to resist. we made the reservations, got up at three, and met the party outside the Aloha gas station in Pahoa.
A twenty minute drive took us through a black jungle — a long pergola of tropical trees that arched over the road and dropped long roots from their branches. At Isaac Hale State Park, we met the boat, which was raised upon its trailer in the parking lot. We boarded via an aluminum handyman’s ladder. They took us to the boat launching ramp andbacked us into the sea.
Here are things I noted:
- The lava jumped out of the cliff or pali as a series of orange falls – a few large ones and fewer tiny tributaries.
- Rocks floated in the water. These were cinders that were still molten at their core. when they cooled through, they sank.
- The guides told us that this was the only place in the world where magma chuted straight into the ocean.
- The shelf had actually retreated by several yards in the previous weeks. It appeared that the forces of Nature were out to reclaim the loss.
- Steam churned upwards in white, obscuring clouds that reeked of sulfur. I ate a whiff of it and had the dry heaves that I shouted overboard.
- Pops of gas welled up from the cooling slag beneath the water and rocked the boat.
- I noticed two people viewing the lava from atop an adjacent pali. When I called this to one of the guides’ attention, he called them idiots.
- “A good day,” the guides declared.” The sea was like glass.”
After the trip, I tipped the guides. We then went back through the now lit pergola. A pair of small mammals that I mistook for squirrels whirled in the road: I had never known mongooses were so small.
The name of the outfit we chartered was LavaOcean Adventures.
Dude
Posted on October 12, 2009 in Cats Dogs
A man we know likes to take his cat for walks in the park. The man strolls down the street and the cat — a smallish gray tabby boy — follows along. Once at the park, Dude, as the cat is known, looks around and then follows the man home. The dogs in the park evidentally don’t know what to do with this feline because I have had no report that he has been bothered by them.
There’s a bush just outside the fellow’s apartment that Dude likes to hide in. When I come back from the park with Drake, Dude likes to leap onto Drake’s back. This causes Drake to startle and do a left circle until he is behind me. Dude then tries to make friends with Drake, but my Boston Terrier will have nothing of this. He turns his face to his right, away from the victorious tabby.
“Dude,” I like to laugh to the cat’s owner, “has Drake’s number.”
Tension
Posted on October 12, 2009 in Body Language Coronary
From my journal, dated 8 October 2009:
Yesterday, a hood of deadened nerves encapsulated my head and shoulders. Dr. Ip’s nurse put the cuff on my arm, listening until the sound of my pulse stopped before releasing the pressure. She announced that my blood pressure was 150 over some awful number. I could feel the insensitivity clasping my neck. Into the night it bothered me, shook me, mangled my equanimity. It was impossible to sit comfortably to watch television. It hurt. I was broken, flattened, squeezed. My eyelids fluttered. Heavy as they were, I could not relieve myself by sleeping. The flattening numbness wouldn’t let me go.
Dream
Posted on October 9, 2009 in Dreams
I’ve sailed into a gigantic library from the San Francisco Bay where I am researching the history of a huge white prison that was constructed to replace Alcatraz. Inside the library is a broad fountain cast in the form of a rectangular maze. The path is easy enough to follow, but the water on the side I enter on gushes cleanly. As i wend my way towards the other end, the water becomes filthier until I am walking through an inch or so of shit. Realizing that I have gone from excellent to worst, I go back, cleaning my shoes as I go. When I get to the other end, I watch as a few students open up part of a wall so they can enter the maze through its most immaculate stream.
One Day, No Hate
Posted on October 6, 2009 in Hatred Reading
Today is One Day, No Hate, a cause that some of us have taken up by avoiding political discussion on Twitter and Facebook — me, included. This means not engaging in political discussion or any of the playful banter which I am noted for.
The netival ((Neologism that you first saw here. Meaning “net festival”.)) has led me to crack Eric Hoffer’s [amazonify]0060505915:align:text:bycommandofemper:width:height:The True Believer[/amazonify] and uncover this relevant passage:
There is perhaps no surer way of infecting ourselves with virulent hatred toward a person than by doing him an injustice. That others have a just grievance against us is a more potent reason for hating them than that we have a just grievance against them. We do not make people humble and meek when we show them their guilt and cause them to be ashamed of themselves. We are more likely to stir their arrogance and rouse in them a reckless aggressiveness. Self-righteousness is a loud din raised to drown the voice of guilt within us.
There is a guilty conscience behind every brazen word and act and behind every manifestation of self-righteousness.
To wrong those we hate is to add fuel to our hatred. Conversely, to treat an enemy with magnamity is to blunt our hatred for him. (p. 96)
The Twitter hashtag for this is #1Day0Hate
Dream
Posted on September 30, 2009 in Dreams
After being defeated at some kind of word or number game played with seeds, pills, and string beans by my brother and his girlfriend (both of whom mock me for being so stupid because I cannot figure out the rules), I gather my things to go to school. At the door, my father ambushes me. He is mad because he says I think I am so smart ((My family felt it was their duty to bring down my ego at every turn by attacking my intelligence)) and tells me — even though the family dog who is a Boston terrier is rolling at my feet — that dogs don’t like me ((Again, a favorite taunt of his while I was growing up)) . He’s obviously crazy and though my mother tells me there is nothing to worry about, I flee to school. Here as the clock circles to the hour when we must go home, I despair. I can’t go home, I say to them. He’ll kill me. A homeless lady with a small long-haired dog that likes me, comes into the class as apparently is her habit and lets me have a pinch of raw sunflower seeds. Where will I go? I ask the class. How can I finish school if I don’t have a home?
Acrophobia 2
Posted on September 28, 2009 in Anxiety
If I am to keep acrophobia from overwhelming me, there’s a simple thing I must do: keep my butt firmly planted. I can get on a ski lift with my feet dangling hundreds of feet in the air and feel no fear. It is difficult to stand at the rim of a canyon, but I can sit with my feet hanging over the edge. No panic captures me until the moment when I stand up: evidentally, I do not trust my heels and toes to keep my head from toppling.
Roman Polanski Caught at Last
Posted on September 27, 2009 in Film Scoundrels
There is no doubt that Roman Polanski has contributed great works of film to the world archives. But there is also no doubt in my mind that he committed a heinous crime when he drugged and had sex with a 13 year old girl.
One can feel compassion for a criminal without endorsing his crime. I recall here the murder of Sharon Tate. I imagine the unbearable longing he must have felt after her murder by the Manson Family. There truly must have been a seeking, a desire for softness and beauty to fill the void. Roman Polanski loved young women, it is clear. But I do not mention this either as an excuse or as a reason to charge him. No, there are other factors that must be thought of.
What surprises me are the legions who are jumping to his defense, saying that he is “misunderstood” or the subject of a witch hunt. I remind readers of these facts: First, that he was convicted of the crime. Second, that his victim was a 13 year old girl — a womanly body who wasn’t even fair game in the eyes of the French. Third, he drugged this said female. So even if he “made an honest mistake” about the age of the girl ((Yeah, right.)) , he still raped her. Fourth, after his conviction, he got on board a Europe-bound 747 and has stayed out of the reach of California law ever since. So he knows what he did was wrong.
I simply have no sympathy for him regardless of gems like Tess that he made in the years after his trial. That any European country other than England — especially Switzerland — was willing to grab him by the collar for the long plane ride home surprises me. But this isn’t a matter of maintaining the sanctity of numbered bank accounts: we have here a convicted child-abusing felon on the run.
No amount of great art exonerates a man or a woman when a trespass is committed against the body of another person. Your past sorrows do not release you from the responsibilities of treating your fellow human beings with decency. For some crimes, such as rape and fleeing from conviction, there can be no statute of limitations.
UPDATE: A few arguments have been advanced to me on Twitter and I’d like to address them here.
First, there are questions about the trial. It was badly conducted, Polanski’s defenders say. This is leaving out the fact that Polanski was free on bail while he awaited his sentencing. It was during this interval that he fled. He could have appealed the decision, but instead he made a run for it. This suggests to me that he and his lawyer both felt that his chances of getting out via this avenue were limited.
Second, there is the complaint that the judge did not honor the deal that Polanski made with the prosecutors. Plea bargains are not writ into law. They simply say that if the defendant pleads guilty, the prosecutor will ask for a specific sentence. The judge is not obligated to accept the deal. Evidently what Polanski did so horrified the justice that he insisted on something more.
A few people say that the victim forgives Polanski and feels that the courts hurt her more. I can understand this, but it isn’t a reason for releasing Polanski. Behind this argument is another one — that this has already gone on too long. But consider this: if Polanski had served his sentence, this would be over for everyone. Instead he chose to hoof it to France.
There’s also the message being sent to other rape victims: the trial is going to be worse than the rape itself. So don’t accuse, don’t press charges, don’t participate. Let the rapist keep raping.
It’s outrageous that Polanski’s supporters are calling on one law for Polanski and another for everyone else. This is shades of the Simpson murder trial except with a different set of people.
For a discussion about what anti-rape activists say, check this article from the Los Angeles Times.
Tears of Blood
Posted on September 22, 2009 in Dogs
A fellow around the corner keeps a pair of dogs that are too big and too mean for the neighborhood. Nevertheless, we try to respect his property rights. Drake, on the other hand, feels it is his devotion to inform those canines that he deserves their respect. He could get this plain enough by ignoring them as they bark at his passing, but the pull on the leash towards them whenever we pass tells us that this low key approach does not suit him. He has to show ’em.
To avoid overexciting him, we pick up our pace or even run by until we reach a peaceful stretch of path where all the dogs forget about each other. We have another habit to which I must confess: to reward Drake at the end of walks, we sometimes let him walk with the leash dragging behind him. The plan is always to pick it up before he gets to where the big dogs are, but on Sunday night he dashed off before Lynn could grab him.
Straightaway he charged to the barred gate where his antagonists lurked. The larger and blacker of the two of them faced off our brindle boy. Fierce barking was exchanged. Drake squatted down on his side of the fence, simultaneously snarling and screaming. Lynn got his tether and goaded him back to the path. He marched with his head up for the few dozen paces back to our condo. When he got in the door, I pulled down a flashlight and shone it over his face.
The rims of his eyes were bright red. Tears of blood flowed from each. I had Lynn bring me Q-tips, hydrogen peroxide, and a clean paper towel. First, I wiped the bloody tears. Then I examined him more closely. An abrasion arced along the bone next to the eye. I carefully sponged this area. Drake sat placidly as I cleansed the wound and patted his head.
The sight of the blood tears worried me, so I checked the Web. Three different pet medicine sites said the same thing: if there is any bleeding from the eyes, take the dog to a vet immediately. Relaying this to Lynn before I dialed, I first called our regular vet then the veterinary emergency service his answering service recommended.
“I have a Boston Terrier,” I said. “He got into an argument through a fence with another dog and there’s bleeding from his eyes.” Boston Terriers, like pugs and bull dogs, have protruding eyes which can catch on twigs, claws, splinters, and even flecks of paint ((The vet told us that the sensitivity of Boston Terrier eyes is less than that of other dogs. Smushed-face dogs had that in common. He had seen pugs blissfully unaware that there were huge chunks of lint attached to their corneas.)) . We were told to come in immediately.
It was a relief to both of us that Drake didn’t paw at his eyes for this was a sign of trouble. Lynn noted that he tracked her finger well when she told him to Focus. Still eye injuries can be slight at first then become more serious as they get infected, the receptionist told us. Drake curled up in the back seat as we drove down to the clinic which is attached to the Mission Viejo animal shelter.
This place wasn’t new to us: it was the same clinic where my little Ambrose had been put down seven years ago. The staff had been kind, but it still ached as receptionist sent us into the same room where my beloved cat had been put to sleep, where I had rushed out in tears rather than face seeing him killed.
Our dog fared much better. The veterinary nurse happened to know him because she had cared for him at our regular doctor where she works days. Drake did not like the taking of his temperature (what dog or cat does?) but he was stoic as the thermometer did its job. The checkup showed that his eyes were less red than when we left. There was no sign of the red tears ((Our best guess about the blood was that his blood pressure was so high vessels inside the tear ducts burst. As he calmed down, they healed. We have seen no trouble since.)) . The night vet complimented me on my treatment of the abrasion, then rinsed and stained Drake’s eyes green so he could check for corneal scratches. There were none.
Drake left with a tube of ointment that we were to apply to his eyes three times each day. The drive home was so restful that I didn’t see that I had dropped my cell phone back at the clinic. (We recovered that later in the night.) Drake licked his paws, made his bed to his liking, and slept deep until Lynn woke him for his breakfast and morning walk.
Acrophobia
Posted on September 17, 2009 in Anxiety Travel - Conferences
We arrived after midnight, our flight having found the tarmac about fifteen minutes past schedule due to a takeoff line in Houston. The pilot could not find space in all that sky between Texas and Indiana to pick up time in or else he wanted to be sure that the stewards had enough time to pass out the mushed sandwiches that were the snack. It looked like we were the last plane to land in Indianapolis’s all glass airport. We waited for our checked bag, then caught an expensive cab that brought us to the Hyatt downtown.
Two stories of conference space, a mystery floor without an elevator exit, a revolving restaurant, and fourteen floors of rooms loomed over the open lobby. The desk clerk sent us to the seventh floor.
The elevators opened out onto contained space, but my hopes for a room that wasn’t facing the atrium were fractured and spewed like projectile vomit when I saw a sign directing us to the right and again to the right. A low wall separated the “hall” from the atrium — a black bottomless pit ringed by faintly lit balconies. Along most of the length of these terraces, the wall was solid. The sadist who designed these lofts found it fit, however, to install glass walls right next to the elevators (which had glass back walls themselves). As I edged toward our lodging, a large picture window directed at the Indiana State House opened on my left. I scurried past it and, keeping the wall near to my left, I crept towards door 729.
Lynn, wont to help, stepped between me and the outer wall in an attempt to shield me from the yawning maw of the hotel’s central courtyard. The reptilian part of my brain saw no charity in this: a feral impulse suggested that her move would tip the contents of the terrace down where our remains would be gawked at by the last people in the hotel’s bar, so I waved her back, back. We reached the door, stuck the card in the lock slot, and rushed in. With the door closed behind me, I felt safe from the abyss.
Over the course of the weekend, I dreamed of the empty darkness beyond the door. As I opened it, the floor would slant and I would be consumed by the motionless mouth of the hotel. I would wake up just as the wall shattered and my fall commenced.
Daytime wasn’t so bad a time — as long as I could see down into the lobby beneath me, the dread took deep breaths and enjoyed the play of light from slotted windows that the architect had obviously thought to entertain visitors with. At night, the terror returned. Once I went to get ice from the ice machine and returned a broken man. That fear — that fear of the whole structure collapsing beneath me persisted despite the inn’s solid construction and the certainty that there would no earthquakes. I was safe my feet averred, but my head swung in awful ellipses about on my neck and I wouldn’t believe them.
High Flying
Posted on September 15, 2009 in Travel
The ascending roar of the jet engines signals the commencement of my favorite part of flying: take off. For a few minutes, [[inertia]] presses you to the back of your seat. It’s the opposite of weightlessness — a heaviness that pulls you into it and cradles you. Slowly it gives way until you find yourself in the boring transit between points. Then there’s naught to do except to read, nap, watch the in-flight movie, and press back at the jackass-in-front-of-you who thinks his comfort is more important than yours.
Landings are another exciting part, but I don’t like them nearly as much. If you’re flying in during the day, you get to see fields and housing tracts, the latter looking like the mosaics of engraver beetles. There’s an anxious wait for the wheels to feel the ground, then a series of shocks and the sighing reversals of the engines. I don’t care much for the meeting of plane and earth.
If you are in transit, as we were the other day, you find yourself coming out of a tunnel into a strange place filled with crowds of people who don’t live in the vicinity. Atlanta, with its hundreds of planes, underground subway, and thronging terminals, is famous for this. If you’ve come to the end, the tunnel sends you off to the baggage claim area. Then it’s off to your hotel via an expensive cab ride or back home — after discovering that someone has stripped the Obama-Biden sticker from your car while it was standing in Long Term Parking.
Bastard.
Not Writing
Posted on September 14, 2009 in Activity
More than a few times in the last several days, I’ve started to compose a blog article in my head only to have sleep or human interaction intervene before I get a chance to write it down. Part of it is the feeling of isolation that has come over me in the waning days of this blog. Part of it is that I seem to lack all conviction. Part of it is that I am addicted to Facebook and Twitter now. The back of my neck feels tight. I’ve lost faith in my ability to engage my readers.
