Posted on July 27, 2010 in Civic Responsibility Reading
“If you love wealth more than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, depart from us in peace. We ask not your counsel nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you. May your chains rest lightly upon you and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.” – Samuel Adams — organizer of the Boston Tea Party
Posted on July 27, 2010 in Anxiety Mania Photography
Last week had its difficulties. I dropped my new camera on the Harding Trail and jammed the zoom lens. The ring allowing me to move between focal lengths wouldn’t turn below 35mm. The autofocus motor whined without acting. Upper Modjeska Canyon heard my yells of frustration. In my solitude, I shouted at uncomfortable memories, the kind of behavior you expected of the homeless. The rest of us, including me, kept to the confines of our homes, lonely trails, and the interior of our cars when driving places. I marked it an evil day.
The following day I marked some troubling signs on my dailybooth account:
I’m feeling on the edge of an episode, perhaps a manic rather than a depressive one.The signs are varied, but lately I have noticed these:
1.) Light-headedness or the feeling that my head is going to explode.
2.) Increasingly late and troubled sleep.
3.) A fascination with bright colors like the red of stoplights or brake lights. They just seem more vivid — a warning sign.
4.) An impatience with people whose faults I would ordinarily forgive or ignore.
5.) Being confused about what day it is.
The next few days may reveal more symptoms or these may subside. If the urges grow too strong and I can’t contain my impulsivity, it may be time to surrender the credit cards to my wife and stay close to home.
It’s more than take the meds or meditate or exercise or eat right — I do all these things. The main thing is to steel myself to ride it out: it could be over in a few days or a few weeks. I just have to hold fast to my rational state of mind, to let my logical, compassionate being take charge while my emotions seethe. ((Several people commented with encouragement. I posted a link to What helps, what hurts to assist them in talking to people going through the stress of an episode.))
I wondered if I should push people away, keep to a strict solitude. A particularly aggressive woman on dailybooth (or so she was magnified in my head) irritated me to the point that I sent her a private message asking her to leave me alone. “I’ll ignore you,” I said. “Please ignore me.” ((I don’t like aggressive women. But then I don’t like aggressive men either. One of my problems when I was younger was that I kept looking for a passive woman who would make the first move. I settled for one who was more assertive.)) She acquiesced.
Subsequent days brought me peace. I sent the lens out for an estimate and stopped taking photos with any kind of device until my rage settled. The mania rose and subsided. In my journal I noted “Anxiety is the root.”
Posted on July 26, 2010 in Neurology Video
The physical therapist has me doing the most absurd-looking exercises. The latest one involves the very last joint on my ring finger. Holding my knuckle rigid, I bend the last joint. We began doing this because I noticed a stiffness in the joint.
Many of my exercises are the result of discoveries such as this. When I first visited, we noted some loss of motor ability in the little finger on the left hand. When I held the hand flat, spread the fingers, and closed them again, the pinky was slow to join the others. A few days of exercise using a rubber band relieved this. I am not seeing the ring finger spring back so readily and I am wondering if there is damage to that finger which has nothing to do with the nerve. If I bend it, there’s stiffness between the distal joint and the knuckle.
An especial torture is the Purdue Peg Board. A set of long rods, washers, and short tubes must be arranged in a series of holes. It was a struggle to do five holes when I started: now I am up to thirty.
The hand continues to improve except for this small detail. Some days it tingles. Today, while the numbness is still there — especially in the ring finger — the numbness is less noticeable.
One theory for my condition is that I’ve leaned a lot on the elbow. Every night I take my place in the big red retro chair in the living room and put my weight on the left elbow. I do this less when I sit in the office chair. It’s a common effect that afflicts truck drivers who lean on the window until their ulnar nerve balks and gives up its motor abilities.
Posted on July 21, 2010 in Dreams
We’re driving on a very rough road in a national park. We turn left into an overlook with mountainous bumps. As we pull in, another tourist — from Texas — tells us to be sure to check out the cave. The cave lies at the end of a steep trail. A small triangular entrance opens next to a yawning pit. When we get closer, we see the pit is full of feral goats. A ramp turns down a corner and under an arch. I round the bend and find myself facing a grizzly bear-sized ape (the face is like an orangutan). I rush backup to the laughter of other tourists, one of whom tells me that the beast is none other than the only Sasquatch ever captured. The scene abruptly cuts out to one of Lynn and I ascending an escalator in a department store.
Posted on July 20, 2010 in Morals & Ethics Travels - So Cal
Last week, I attended a film festival held in conjunction with a Jewish Genealogy conference at the L.A. Live Marriot. No, despite my eminently semitic name (Joel Sax), I am not Jewish. Lynn was there because she has long suspected that she has [[Sephardim]] ancestors from the vicinity of [[Constantinople]] or [[Thessaloniki]]. Wednesday was rich in workshops on the subject, so she paid for a one day conference pass and bought a film festival ticket for me.
I saw only four of the movies during the eight hours I was around. The only fictional piece was a short about a Hungarian Jewish mother in hiding who rescued the son of another Jew from a firing squad. The standard Holocaust theme done in black and white caught the heart. The contents of the next film were forgettable. After it, I ate lunch and took a walk down to the L.A. Public Library and back ((I was frustrated all the way because I did not have my Nikon to catch the street scenes. My d40 had died and I was waiting for a new d60 to replace it. What photos I did capture were taken with my Droid camera phone. Some interesting material resulted, but I was limited by my battery’s power.)) before the next two.
A film about [[Felix Mendelssohn]] and his descendants raised the question raised the question “Can there be anything especially Jewish about his music? I laughed aloud when I heard a Nazi claim that he lacked depth and soul. That his music could be considered “Jewish” caused one man to vocally argue against it. How can music be measured as Jewish or not, he cried. Music is music. The whole concept struck him as ludicrous.
There was also the question about the many German Jews who converted during the 19th Century. This had made no difference to the Nazis who rounded up Mendelssohn-Bathory family descendants wherever they could find them, but it also annoyed many Jews who saw this as treasonous and uncalled for.
The plight of South American [[Crypto-Jews]] also touched on this theme. To be a Jews in these times — especially in Catholic-dominated Latin America — invited discrimination, hatred, and even violence. The biggest hurdles for the handful of men and women who wanted to recover the religion of their ancestors, however, were not set in their path by Catholics but by Jewish survivors of the Holocaust who had come to South America to escape the ultimate pogrom. Whose Judaism was more authentic? asked the [[Reform_Judaism|Reform]] rabbi who performed the conversions: the ones who had been given it by birth and only perfunctorily lived a Jewish life or these who had embraced it with passion? The worst discrimination the new converts — who were the descendants of men and women who had lost their faith in the aftermath of the Inquisition — came from other Jews who did not want to recognize their conversions.
I didn’t stay for very long afterwards, but I made these observations. First, I found myself moved by the story largely because as one who had been raised a Christian, I accepted the idea of being drawn to a religion and affirming a connection to it by an act of faith. Second, though it annoyed me at the time, I have since come to realize the source of the hurt that led some in the audience to lash out at the aspersions of Kansas City based Rabbi Jacques Cukierkorn ((The film showed Rabbi Cukierkorn conducting a mikvah in an Ecuadorean river. The symbolism of this is so close to baptism that I can appreciate the audience’s nervousness.)) . “I’m only a Jew by birth”, one woman prefaced her attack during the question and answer period led by the filmmaker.
Every one of the Abrahamic religions — Judaism, Christianity, and Islam — experiences among its own controversies as to who is a member and who is not. Many of the Jews who the rabbi criticized spent all of their lives struggling to be good people by learning to read Hebrew, reading tracts on theology, and living the life of charity that the religion calls for. Are they less authentic because they have not undergone a conversion experience? It has been part of their lives all along. Yet I continue to feel compassion for those whose families were cut off by political matters, who are only now finding it safe to learn about the faith of their fathers and return to it. I don’t think racism is the word I would use to characterize the attitudes of those reared as Jews, but it has a similar effect in bringing down the person. You are damned because of the choices your ancestors made is the way some Jews interpret rabbinical law. There is no going back no matter how deep the longing, how appropriate and authentic the faith. I kept my mouth shut in the room, but I am opening it here. Like the other religions, some of the concepts driving traditional Judaism are just plain wrong and are in need of reform. Ties broken by centuries of persecution should be reforgeable.
So speaks a goy.
Posted on July 19, 2010 in Dogs Travels - So Cal
The waterline at Dog Beach runs nearly in a straight line from southeast to northwest. Chunks of gravel-pocked conglomerate shore up the low dirt cliffs for most of the length until dunes meet the sea at the reach adjoining [[Bolsa Chica State Beach]]. As I just noted, the beach itself runs straight, but for about a quarter of a mile, the cliffs do a little advance and push the rocks into the sea. Aside from this, it’s an empty stretch so there are no interesting [[tide pools]] at water’s edge, just a sliver of sand.
We’ve been arriving during the late afternoon retreat of the tide. The waves have left gray penumbrae of themselves at the point where the beach abruptly changes its declivity to a twenty degree angle diving into the sea. At the southeast edge, people cluster with their canines, throwing orange and yellow balls into the foam while black-clad surfers float a few yards off waiting for the idea wave to scrape the bottom and carry them in a brief moment of magnificence to the shore.
None wait at the area I call the Point. The Point is merely the place where the rocks spill over into the sea. The beach remains straight, determined on its course to skewer Bolsa Chica. Winds blowing from the south churn up eight foot waves that crash into the beach in intervals that can’t be predicted. I have never been able to count the pattern of small waves leading to one large like surfers are said to — and I don’t think they can make the count either because they sit in the water until one suits their liking.
Yesterday, as we approached the Point from the southeast, no crests struck the shore. The water just slid in gracefully, throwing up little cockscombs of spray rather than the dramatic crashes we associate with winter storms. So I deemed it safe and let my diminutive, twenty pound [[Boston terrier]] up the strand.
Halfway through the rocky area without warning of wind, a succession of ten BIG rollers crashed into the shore. I saw them coming, so I lifted Drake onto the rockslide because he so hates getting wet. I pointed out the path he should follow. But my doggy kept coming off the rocks and onto the beach, scared I suppose and craving closeness.
I saw it coming: a huge scrapper with a slapping wall of turquoise water and a growing white crest bearing down on the shore. I turned my back to shoo Drake up the rocks seconds before it hit. My doggy was slow in understanding my intentions for him, so I was reaching down to pick him up and move him when the monster hit. For a second, white foam erased the rocks and the dog. There was only the heavy shush of the water, then a gurgle as it pulled back. Drake disappeared from my sight. The spring-back from the rock drenched from shoulders to knees. Then, as the green, silver and brown of the rockslide reappeared, he stood there, taking in the surprise of the splash. This time I grabbed him before the next one hit and placed him on a high place before scrambling up ahead of the next one which crashed even higher and still got my butt.
We were left to climb sideways down the rocks as one white-out after another wrecked itself on the shore. Lynn got wet, too, but only as far as the bottoms of her short-shorts. It was good to get back to the wider beach. I thanked no god for our survival, but I was glad that there had been no pull to the encroaching waters.
Posted on July 12, 2010 in Disappointment
One by one, I’ve found old friends. I discovered most recently that one of these suffers from bipolar disorder like me. Another works as a walk-on in Hollywood. The fate of many others is unknown to me, but I haven’t seen them in the tabloids or the more respectable media.
We don’t seem to have amounted to much. A dullness has circumscribed our lives. The worst thing about it is that I can’t in all honesty say that we were marked for mediocrity as a group or that a personified Fate pulled out our strings and tied knots in them. Each of us came to our tragedies on our own and there is no celestial reason for it.
My mother used to imply that if I didn’t have my life together by age 25, it would never come together. Now at age 52, I have trouble believing that it isn’t over.
Posted on July 11, 2010 in Earthquakes
The USGS errs on the side of excess when it first estimates the power of an earthquake
Posted on July 10, 2010 in Neurology
My neurologist dispatched me to the physical therapist to see what could be done about my hand. First tests were disheartening. We discovered that my finger did not come back into place when I spread the fingers and drew them together again. It dragged. I also had trouble holding it tight against the ring finger.
I’ve been having trouble getting it to behave when I type. The pinky likes to wander, ignoring the A key and reaching for the cap locks. It’s been bad enough to force me to use a pen tablet when on the laptop and consider switching to the DVORAK keyboard on the other. The A is much too vital to ignore.
The physical therapist has me doing a variety of exercises, beginning with a warmup on the bicycle wheel for hands, then stretches with a large, softish rubber band called a Theraband. Then lessons commence in the many uses of putty to exercise my hand. Squeezing, pulling, and spreading it stimulates the affected digits. Finally the session ends with a stint on the Purdue Peg Board, a devilish exercise that calls on me to put pins in holes. At the end of these tortures, I need ice for a sore wrist and shoulder.
The good news is that I am recovering the motor functions of my hand, though the numbness remains, will always plague me so I am told.
Posted on July 10, 2010 in Nature
For the past several nights, I have missed the clear skies of Spring. Last night, though, I went out to see that the clouds had burst asunder, letting in a view of Outer Space.
I noticed an odd phenomenon: pinprick flashes of light that appeared in my peripheral vision but faded to near-nothingness when I looked at them straight on. They were very specific as to their location. Yes, they were actual stars because when I pointed my Droid’s Google Sky Map at them, it named them. So even if Vega and Jupiter were the only fixed lights in the firmament, I had more than faith in these spectres. There at the Zenith, invisible to my focus, but stunning in the fringe, was Deneb.
Posted on July 4, 2010 in Encounters Folly Watch Thinking
The first person who asks me what I mean can go soak her/his head in a vat of near beer.
I’ve been told by the well-meaning that I “lack social skills”. This may be true, in the usual sense of the word, but I employ a different variety of social skill to get by. I play dumb around strangers and family I seldom see. Talking, you see, brings questions, and when questions come too quickly, the mind loses its place.
“What do you mean?” is probably the most vapid, unimaginative and aggressive question you can ask me. It’s the prelude for an attack for some, a perfunctory exercise for most who are like a dog given a cucumber: they haven’t any idea what they are supposed to be doing with it.
So I’m not a big talker when I am with people. I prefer to observe. When gazing upon things or otherwise experiencing the world, I do so with the minimal possible intrusion of language. The machine gun minds want you to do more than this. They want you to layer a hefty meaning on it all ((Ask them “What do you mean by meaning?” sometime. When they balk, insist that they define their terms because without a clear and detailed explanation, how are you going to be able to give them what they want?)) because they are uncomfortable with the perplexing lightness of the world.
If you want to enjoy the world with me, don’t look for shortcuts. If it is one of my pictures, examine it without asking me to say what it is. If it is my writing, remember that I take care to write what I mean — sometimes using metaphors. It’s a waste of my time and yours to step away from what is before you, to demand that I provide you with Cliff Notes for each and every one of my creative acts. Engage.
Posted on July 4, 2010 in Citizenship Festivals
Don’t be a superficial patriot today and a selfish bastard tomorrow.