afterSonoma

Back from California

Hyatt Long Beach, originally uploaded by p0psharlow.

Yes, busy. Just back, late last night, from 4 days in L.A. where we put my Dad in an assisted living facility. He is recovering from hip replacement surgery, is doing reasonably well, but is a real brat. Understandable that he doesn't like what's happening to him, especially the loss of control, but since he failed to take suggestions or respond to persuasion in the past couple of years, the reality of being disabled is forced on him. The place he's in is nice - I'd live there.

Ruth was magnificent with handling him and many of the details. I moved furniture with a 13 year-old and my sister helped as she was able. Ruth's daughter, Heather, met up with us for two nights and the one main full day of relocating him. She provided a hotel room for she, Ruth and I, which helped us recover from the stress of it all.

The flight back ended with us joining a large crowd waiting half an hour for a cab in 20F windy cold. But, once we got it, it was a nice ride and some soup and our own bed, we were home.

Thanks for the report on David's play, "Up Island". We enjoyed the fact that the dog got a part and performed well. And your project seems to be a good one, I'll be looking forward to hearing more about it as you go along.

My illustrated book project did not move further to completion -- maybe tonight. Now, I'm heading to the office in the sunny, cold morning.

Hot January

Kraemer & Imperial, originally uploaded by p0psharlow.

The weather is a big story here, too. It's too warm! Pseudo-son, Cam, was in town this weekend, we went to an art opening in Chelsea, walking through the January evening in shirtsleeves. The day-time temps so warm, we've had to close up the windows in our apartment to run the A/C like it was July. Too weird!

Of course, the freakiest thing about it is the unpredictable character. No history of weather patterns applies and the changes could be in any direction. And extreme. Our earth's atmosphere cares little for our comfort or even our viability, it could suddenly be 900F as easily as 90F or - 90F.

New York City flooded with rising ocean levels, that's a given -- whether it's next century, next decade or next year, who can say?

People doubting industrial man's development having an influence, crack me up. "Just a natural cycle". I'm like, "Yeah, as long as you consider human development as an act of nature."

Nature, man, industry, agriculture... I don't have time to do a real review of the book I'm enjoying for a few minutes each work day on my 10 minute commutes, but, it is Ray Kurzweil's, "The Singularity is Near". I will do a thoughtful reaction to the tome when I get through it -- it's big and I read very little. But, for now, I'll just say that the evidence he calls to support his future predictions in nano-technology, genetics and robotics creates a hopeful, if radical, vision of our future. I love that he has an expansive defination of what is human, so that when we soon, as he sees it, "transcend biology", we will expand, not limit human consciousness. We'll make nanobots from excess carbon which will create our energy, clean our environment and even our bloodstreams.

Meanwhile back in the life of little Steve Harlow, I've had a family emergency. The day before Christmas my Dad, who's 87, fell, broke his hip. I flew out to SoCal, saw him through hip-replacement surgery and his transferal to a "Skilled Nursing Facility".

My sister and I did what we could, I got deathly ill for days, stomach virus I thought was food poisoning. Really out of it at an inconvenient time. Recovered enough to make a rough trip back to NYC. Ruth is doing the financial arrangements. My Dad suffers from dementia, is considered incompetent. He's comfortable, responding well to physical therepy, getting good care. We will, most likely, be selling his house so he can afford an extended stay in an assisted living faciality.

My Mother died three years ago on the day before Christmas. Our family is small and dispersed. There's just my sister, who lives near our Dad, her two grown boys, one is out here in NYC and my Nathan in SF.

Meanwhile, I've picked up a new, fun responsibility at work, I'm doing a daily video blog, interviewing our salesmen about what interesting products are available in their departments. Two minutes of talking head video, which I've got to shoot, edit, upload, create linking blog posts and ads -- getting it all done before noon each day. That's my goal, if I can do it, I'll be able to continue this fun and still do my old job in the afternoons. So, far, I've run way late, but, I'm hopeful.

And at home, with Ruth, we're trying to fit into our old art-making schedule, we drew today, preparing our new collaborative painting. She's got a lot of exciting new work at her job and some recent recognition as well. I'm trying to wrap up my dip into the street art scene with a post, Who Owns Public Art? on p0ps blog.

I have lamb shanks braising in the oven, what should be a good winter's dinner seems a little out of place after this sunny day, an hour after sunset, we have the windows open wide, the air is soft, the temp says 47F, but seems warmer. So, that's it, no good blog links, too many subjects -- bad blogger.

After Sonoma County, Part 2

Still in Santa Rosa, we drove into the town centre on College Avenue and easily found Beaver and King Streets. The King Street house I have dreamt of numerous times over the years was gone, replaced by a modern bungalow. I don't think you ever saw the house on King Street. Kim and I landed in Santa Rosa and parked at the Courthouse Square - in 67 - and a man came up to us asking if we needed a place to stay. That was Al Krause, whose flower-decked 55 Lincoln I later bought. Al became our landlord and friend and gave us free rein to improve the old place. Kim collaged the water tank and we painted the tall-ceilinged kitchen in alternating 12-inch stripes of pomegranate and persimmon, the bathroom deep blue with lime green trim, which perfectly set off the old claw foot tub. Kim had such a good eye and an artistic imagination. Just out the back door, down Beaver Lane, I was bit by a dog one night on my way home from Lyn and Patty's. Remember Patty who was Greg's girl for awhile, and Lynn, who later married Kim? The neighbourhood seems to be in gentle decline. Some great old houses still, but maybe not as well kept. 720 Beaver, which I think you did visit, still stands, though the wooden steps have been replaced by concrete block and cement. Another great house, though one with a faulty space heater. Kim, Lizzie and I almost were asphyxiated by fumes from it one cool morning. Kim insisted we get up, instead of going back to sleep as we were inclined to do. Neighbours took us to the hospital. The yard and duck pond behind the house have been replaced by a small apartment unit. We had a garden there, and experimented with poultry. Did have ducks, and tried baby geese, but the local dogs got to them one time when we were out. Kim took some great black and white photos of Lizzie there, which help with the memories. I could go on and on, but it's mostly me who values these memories. I tried to describe to my sisters how meaningful a time that was in my life. Mike understood a bit, because her life began to change after she visited us there. I think you met her. She remembers you and Linda.
   The beauty of Northern California still moves me, though I live in a place that easily compares and even surpasses, in some ways. The apple trees on Sebastopol Road were just coming into blossom and the little town seemed much the same, without close investigation. I did have Occidental mixed up with somewhere else, though. I had remembered it being closer to the Russian River, and it does seem more developed, paved. But the kind waitress at the Union Hotel explained that while the railroad no longer runs through the middle of town, the large parking lot has been in existence for at least the 35 years since I last saw it. It didn't take as long as I remembered to drive there, so we were early for dinner and not too hungry.

We shared a lunch special of pizza and salad, both tasty, and brought the homemade breadsticks with us when we left. I wanted Judy to see some redwoods and our waitress advised us to take the Coleman Valley Road - stupendous suggestion.
   Driving that road, towards Bodega Bay, awoke sense memories - smells, sights - and launched me into a deep dreaminess that became particularly strong the next morning, when we walked around Bodega Head. So like the west coast of Ireland, the high treeless hills, the sheep and cows wandering across the road at will, the grand vistas and steep shores. Because of all the rain it was very green there too and profuse with wildflowers, calla lillies, miniature iris, ice plant, early lupine, the pride of Madeira, bleeding heart -- too many to name, if I knew all the names. A subject that has interested me over a few years is the connection between landscape and identity and my identity is somehow wrapped up in places like that. Coastal planes, high and low; even the greyness in the air as often it is, the dampness and smells. There, the eucalyptus I can't smell here, or in Ireland; wet earth. We stayed at a funky place called the Bodega Harbour Inn and the red-haired mother and daughter who run the place let us use two sides of a little blue house, just so we could use the bathtub in the half we had not reserved. We drove over to The Casino because the mother-daughter team had recommended the Casino's home-made burgers and hand cut fries. Well it's a down home place for sure, with the Christmas lights and American flags, the pool tables, the long, dark bar, the wooden porch; but I wouldn't eat there again. Homemade only matters if you're in the home of a good cook.  But I liked the aging proprietress. I mentioned your names, yours and Ruth's, and she said she'd wondered what had become of you. She had a vase of peach tulips on the bar which she'd bought at Safeway, she said; of course this remark tarnished the image of rural, unspoiled. Such a romantic, me.
   After our walk on Bodega Head we drove south, into Marin County eventually, along those great winding roads, through more eucalpytus groves, through little towns that don't seem to have changed much (thank you, California!), making various bakery stops for Judy's sake  - the Bovine in Point Reyes Station is one I remember. We chose lunch in Bolinas over a drive out to the edge of the Point Reyes peninsula, but that was a bad idea. Except for the bar, which we decided to pass up after dining at The Casino, there wasn't an eating establishment open on Monday, nearing 2PM. Several very inebriated old hippies livened the street scene, and, before we left, the ambulance came to collect a guy who had passed out backwards into a flowerbed. On to Stinson Beach and another mediocre meal, then over the panoramic road to 101. The road was in very bad shape, another consequence of the heavy rains. But the view is dramatic and Mike loves driving challenging roads like that. We headed for Sausalito, but it's a stop we could have missed. Pretty enough, if in the grip of a tourism and boating culture that had limited appeal for us; though we did buy groceries, to cook for Jeremy and Hope that night.
    California, Sonoma County in particular, is still in me, easy to waken. The beach I gazed down on from Bodega Head is the one that inspired the beach I created in the first section of Centre/Center, same as the house on West Avenue, which inspired Eileen's house in C/C. Maybe because I reworked much of the place in my imagination, maybe because I identify with the landscape, I was happy to be there again and regain the past, because it seems to me that if you don't have memory, you've lost big chunks of what is already too short a life.

After Sonoma County, and S.F / Part One

I've returned from my trip to San Francisco and Sonoma County, where I thought of you, Steve, and all the people we knew back in the late 60's in that beautiful part of the world. I should put a nostalgia warning on this post.
     My sisters and I hit the city during a merciful stretch of weather. Sun sharpened the lines of the colourfully-painted Victorians and approriately bathed all the flowers in the city and on the roadsides. Thanks for the suggestions you sent before I left. We happened upon the Tadich Grill around lunchtime and loved its delicious seafood cioppino and broiled halibut, and the classic atmosphere of dark wood walls and bar, small, glass-shaded lamps, men waiting on tables and serving behind the bar, white linen napkins. My kind of place. The previous day my nephew Jeremy, who is the western organizer for the Appollo Alliance, took us to a North Beach cafe for lunch and then we visited City Lights bookstore where I bought a copy of Beckett's three novels and found a copy of Centre/Center on the shelf. Nice surprise.
     After lunch at the Tadisch, we wandered through the downtown out to the waterfront and returned to my nephew's Fell Street apartment by streetcar, an Italian model, with polished wood interior and and squash- coloured exterior. I love the idea of using streetcars that were abandoned in various parts of the world. Other food stops you may have heard of include the Taqueria CanCun, where we had fabulous burritos, and some great Thai restaurant near Haight. Can't remember its name, which is no help to you.
     We just happened to spend most of Earth Day in Golden Gate Park, wandering the gardens, eating lunch at the de Young cafe, then visiting the Arts and Craft exhibit that's on at the de Young. I think we need another Arts and Crafts movement, as an alternative to the chain-store culture of our time. Of course individual artists still operate, and individual designers create. I wonder if the furniture and art works of the A and C movement were appreciated only by the wealthy few or also influenced the design of goods affordable to middle and lower classes.
    My sister Judy is still a churchgoer, and I offered to help her find a place to attend mass on Sunday morning, and keep her company. Jeremy found us studying lists on his kitchen table lap top and took over, recommending St. Mary's of the Assumption - the very modern cathedral with its distinctive roof - then deciding to join us.  St. Mary's is beautiful inside. Lofty as cathedrals should be, and with an organ whose pipes are a sculpture in themselves. Being the second Sunday after Easter, it was a special Gregorian chant mass, which I really enjoyed. I can appreciate the rituals of the Catholic church now without being threatened by its rules, which I rejected before I met you. The recessional was the Ode to Joy theme of Beethoven's 9th, perfect for making me feel I'd been cleansed somehow.
     Then into Jeremy and Hope's Subaru wagon, sister Mike driving, and across the GG bridge on 101. I love the hills around SF Bay, and they're wonderfully green right now because of the rainy spring. We got lost a bit approaching Santa Rosa, but found our way to West Ave, and the house I lived in there, with Kim for awhile, before we split up. I'm going to send you a picture as soon as I figure out how to do it, because it will bring back memories for you, too. I can't remember how long you and Linda lived there, but I can remember that much happened to me in that house, a literal earthquake and a decision to change my life by moving north. It's also the house I was thinking of when I wrote the first section of Centre/Center. My black cat Dinah just about had kittens on my lap, as I sat in our brown overstuffed chair between those two front windows in the kitchen area. My stereo broke during the earthquake in 69, my cable-spool bookcase - that Kim built - toppled over, and all the medicines, etc from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom fell into the sink. Lizzie was safe in her back bedroom besieged only the stuffed animals that toppled from her shelves. The Beatle's Abbey Road album came out while I was there, and I associate "Here Comes the Sun" with the living room, where I slept on a bed behind a screen, near the farthest front window, maybe I should have said most-westerly? It isn't as easy to determine compass points there. Here I always know because the mountains are north, the sea west.

The West Avenue house looks the same, and I know there were always outbuildings behind it, but there seemed to be more buildings, closer, and there's a sidewalk in front, modern homes around. The rural character of West Avenue lingers, barely. The accacia tree outside the kitchen window is older, a little scraggly.

Thugs

I'm glad your Canucks are doing well, I haven't heard the Canuck Outsider recently, I'll have to catch another one soon. That guy is a great commenter. Go Canucks!

Re: Beckett, do you think it was a simple matter of depression? Not that depression is simple, but I wonder because, as you recount what you learned from the bio, he got better during WWII, which I conjecture could have helped focus his attention outside his self, then he got attention for his work and gained some hope. Sounds like the world and the love of other people, for his work at least, drew him out of depression. Is that too simplistic?

Who wouldn't be depressed if they were involved with a Christian belief system. (I'm so impatient with any of these mono-theists religious thugs, the way they degrade daily experience, bullying women and children, projecting life's meaning onto a nether world defined by preachers). I'm with your yoga teacher.

Since you say you don't know how I am with Beckett, I can tell that you haven't noticed yet the blog comments, i.e. you haven't read my comment on "Edgy". I'd like us to start using the comments and their replies to branch off specific discussions. Since our readers are not using them yet, we may as well. Twenty years after my High School drama interest in Beckett, I gained a new interest in him in the '80s when I was reading and reading about Joyce. After dipping into "Finnegans Wake" for a couple of years, I read some of a Beckett novel (don't remember the title). It was fun in a dreamy way. When I read things like that, I'm very pleased by the inner images which spring from these seemingly incomprehensible word strings.

The weather here in New York this morning is about as good as it gets anywhere, low 70s, clear sky, slight breeze. All I can say about the weather is that it is way-whacky everywhere. San Fran and Sonoma, like you, have had too much rain, Hawaii, where daughter, Heather and husband Jim may be moving soon, is absolutely washed away with historically unprecedented amounts of rain. Here, we had a mild winter, a record one-day snow fall which melted away in three days and now, a record dry March. Glaciers melting into the oceans, all these port cities are threatened, no telling what's going to happen anywhere. I'm just glad that the global discussion has gotten beyond questioning whether there is climate change and now is pondering whether we've passed a tipping point. When the oil mafia, which controls this country, is defeated, the world can make some progress towards providing future generations with an environment they can live in.

Centre/Center Gets It Right

Centre/Center
Mary Burns

The settings for Centre/Center are West Sonoma County, California of the late '60s; frozen northern British Columbia of the mid '70s; Vancouver, B.C. and the Oregon coast of the mid '80s.

Centre/Center's cast of characters include: a daughter whose cultural, political choices put her at odds with her mainstream suburban family; pot-smoking hippies with anti-science attitudes and neo-pagan rituals; anti-war protesters; a LSD casualty who liberates a motorcycle from an owner who doesn't respect it's need to be ridden; a woman who permanently borrows without permission her friend's truck because she thinks he can get along without it; a drug dealer; an abandoned child searching for her mother and coming to terms with an uncomfortable truth about her father; a disillusioned and angry Vietnam veteran who lives in isolated northern wilderness and fathers a child with a woman stronger than he and another Veteran burn-out lost to a hobo life.

The novel is in three sections, in the first section the omnipotent narrator drifts through the thoughts and histories of a group of young people challenged by the stresses of the Viet Nam War Era. The second section's narration is tensely focused on a couple in a wilderness cabin. The third and final section is the first-person narrative of a determined, capable 20 year old girl.

Of course, I'm not an unbiased reviewer, Mary Burns is a friend of mine, my partner on this blog. I first knew her in Sonoma County, California of the late '60's. Although this book is not strictly auto-biographical, several people we both knew are recognizable, in composite and it is dedicated to the mutual friend who introduced us.

The settings, social attitudes and interactions of the first section are all quite familiar to me, she thoroughly manifests the era and illustrates the way we were. The thoughtfulness, the self-seriousness, the moral dilemmas we tackled, all ring true. The shifting, drifting narration of the section accurately evokes the mood of the hippie life-style we enjoyed.

I'm a stranger to the wilderness setting of the second section, though it is clear from the writing alone that Mary is not. Though Mary and I have been in correspondence for decades, I last saw her in 1970 as she and her young daughter drove away, headed north. They continued until they reached the far northern wilderness. Again, she brings authority to this northern wilderness story of a strong woman and a troubled man.

With intimate knowledge from observation, Mary clearly narrates the third section through the voice of a character of the same generation as Mary's daughter. The character's adventures while on her quest have the truth of fiction and brings the novel to an enlightened completetion.

Mary's my friend. She also wrote a great book that gets it right.