A Lazy Day

Today I have hardly the stamina or the inner resources required to brave the opinion pages of the New York Times. The times are indeed dispiriting. One wishes for a sign of some gumption, somewhere in the country, either in Washington or out here, among the thinking electorate. The only gumption I see is of the misguided, philistine, boorish kind. We did spend an excellent day, yesterday, with fellow members of the Art Council at the Laguna Art Museum, exploring the cultural highlights of the city of Riverside. More about that in another entry, perhaps tomorrow. Today, I go to that same Laguna Art Museum to give a talk about "Persist" and, hopefully, sign a few books. In the current desultory atmosphere, I'll be delighted if a handful of good souls show up...

Meantime, though, let me share my delight in these pictures of our grandchildren, sent yesterday from England. Here's Sherlock Joe and Doctor Georgia, twins, at that house on Baker Street:

And here they are again with their older sister, Alice, in the company of young Paul and Ringo at Madame Tussaud's:

And of course with that naughty old British master, Hitch:

So who can be too grouchy, when these spirits abound?

Obama: A Stellar Performance

Did you catch any of the broadcasts of Obama at that gathering of Republican congressional representatives yesterday? It was a masterful performance. One hundred and forty of them, many with distinctly hostile questions about his policy and his handling of the Presidency, and he took them all on with extraordinary grace, ease, and good humor. For two full hours. Above all, he demonstrated an amazing grasp of the issues, often much broader and deeper than his questioners. So much, too, for those who have scoffed at his use of the teleprompter. Here, he spoke extemporaneously, without notes; he answered the questions that were asked, often turning the barb around on the questioner--though always without malice. He seemed entirely at ease, presidential, in command of the situation. In front of him, in the audience, his questioners seemed small, petty, inconsequential.

I heard that the Republicans regretted their decision to allow a live broadcast of the session. They must have expected to score points. They did not. I wish it had been required watching for every independent voter who has started to lose faith in the man they were responsible for electing. This session made clear that the problem is not with their choice, but rather with a political climate and a law-making system that allow his leadership to be hobbled by those with poisonous political agendas but no ethical perspective on the obligations of government. One man alone cannot do what's needed to be done in this country, not even a man with presidential powers.

In case you missed it, I invite you to go back to Gary's excellent comment on Thursday's entry in The Buddha Diaries. He says is all, loud and clear, upper case! Have a good weekend!

A Covey...

... of art writers at our Laguna Beach cottage last night. The occasion was an Orange County visit from my friend Bill Lasarow, who has for many years now published Artscene magazine, in which a number of the essays in "Persist" originally appeared. A couple of years back, Bill started Artscene Visual Radio, the host for my podcast series, "The Art of Outrage"; and his recent merger with Visual Art Source has created an art resource network that covers the western states. It's an impressive venture, and an invaluable source of information for what's happening in this part of the world. Last night's dinner at our cottage--take-out pizza and salad--gave the Orange County contributors a chance to get together, and some of us an opportunity to meet for the first time.

I have been writing about art since the early 1970s. Until then, I had never thought of myself as anything but a poet, but I stumbled into an exhibition of work that fundamentally challenged my understanding of what art was all about--I've told the story too often elsewhere to repeat it here!; my poet's head would not let go of the challenge and I started to write about it... From that moment on, I have been known as an art writer, and have contributed at one time or another to all the major art publications. Throughout it all, though, I have been grateful to Bill for allowing me a platform for observations about the "art scene", the predicament of the artist, the influence of money and the meaning of professionalism, what it means to be an art writer, and so on.

It has not been a "profession" in the sense that I could have made a living out of this aspect of my writing--nor, indeed, ever, out of any kind of writing. But art has provided me with a valued focus for most of what I write. I have worn the critic's hat; I have written scores of reviews. I have written general interest articles about collectors, artists, and other art world figures. I love to write catalogue essays, which give me the opportunity, as I see it, to collaborate with the artist in a way that is not kosher, certainly, in writing reviews. I have written the text for art books, and am currently about to embark on a new one, which I shall enjoy.

All this has offered me wonderful opportunities, and I'm grateful to have encountered many fascinating, creative people along the way. I stand in a place now where I am able to pick and choose what I write about, and love the freedom of these Buddha Diaries to write about everything from global politics to personal matters, from book and movie reviews, as they come along, to questions of ethics, religion, and philosophy. I have noticed an upward trend in my readership in recent days, and wonder what this might have to do--or not!--with the publication of "Persist" and my (persistent!) efforts to give this new offspring a good start in life. The nice thing is, it all seems to work so well in symbiotic flow; things come together, merge and form a steadier stream. A good feeling...

So it was wonderful to be able to welcome a handful of fellow writers in our home last night, all of us at different stages along the path, but all dedicated to a similar purpose in life, and with similar goals. "Success" comes generally in small measures for an art writer, and must be tallied mostly in terms of personal satisfaction and fulfillment. But it's good to know that there are others, like myself, who are content to enjoy the satisfactions that our avocation brings.

Obama Persists!

And good for him! I am amazed, how he manages to hold up with apparent good humor and good spirits, even optimism, in the face of the political obstacles that continue to confront him--indeed, seem to multiply by the hour and day. I thought his speech last night was excellent. He went head-on for the major issues, was not afraid to accept responsibility, nor to hold others accountable where appropriate. I was at once astounded and gratified to hear him publicly scold the Supreme Court for their dreadful decision last week, to open the floodgates of corporate money into the political system. Not that it wasn't already the major factor in our political life. The venerables were forced to sit like little children in front of their teacher in the classroom. No doubt we will be hearing from Scalia...

So, yes! Persistence is the quality of the day. I choose to believe that this young man has his heart in the right place, along with a head that can grasp realities with analytic discernment, and address them with thoughtful patience and awareness of the circumstances, and an eye to their eventual outcome. I do not, however, believe him to be a magician, witch doctor, or Messiah. He needs help. He needs support. He needs thoughtful--not knee-jerk, ideological--criticism and collaboration. He challenged the Congress to work with him for the benefit of a deeply wounded, deeply divided country.

The glove was thrown down last night--and not only to the Congress. It was thrown down at the feet of the American people who elected this still new President, as well as the feet of their other elected representatives.

I wonder, now, if all of us will recognize the challenge and stoop to pick up the glove that has been thrown. If we fail to do so, if we continue to squabble and obstruct, if we continue to whine and whimper like unruly children, or stamp our feet when we don't get our way, we will surely hobble this President we elected amid so much fanfare, and with so much hope. If we are to get out of this current mess we're in, we must, each of us, learn to see further than our little selves, our imagined needs, our assertive and yet fragile egos. This absurd struggle for power succeeds, eventually, only in rendering us impotent.

So, can we persist? Can we, at this late date, summon up the will to find our common purpose and to work toward our common good? Can we yet learn to sacrifice some of our own sacred cows? If not, I believe this America is destined to become irrelevant as the rest of the world moves on.

Dear Readers...

... of The Buddha Diaries,

This morning I thought I might just take a few minutes to bring you an update on the progress of my promotional efforts on "Persist." It happens to be what is taking up most of my time these days, and I have to say that I'm rather enjoying it.

I sometimes stop to ask myself why I'm spending so much time and energy on work that, after all, is now completed. The book is written, published. It has started a journey of its own. What I myself can do seems puny beside the money and support systems that go into the promotion of the major publishing houses. (Consider that dubiously famous "rogue" and her best-seller!) And yet... I've always felt it a bit soppy to refer to a book as "my child," but I do feel that kind of responsibility for it: I put it out into the world, it's up to me to give it the fair start it needs--or at least the best I can. In my case, no one else is going to do it for me.

That said, I'm really thrilled with what I've managed to achieve thus far. I decided, first of all, against the traditional "book-signing." I have done enough of those, and the only one that ever worked was when I put out the book on David Hockney in the Abbeville Press Modern Masters Series. I was astonished, then, when I showed up for the event at Book Soup in Hollywood, to find lines around the block. But they had showed up for the superstar artist, of course, not for the author! The more successful book-signing events have been those combined with a talk, a lecture, some discussion. I remember one such event at the Bodhi Tree, on the publication of my memoir, "While I Am Not Afraid." A hundred people showed up for the talk I gave about the book and the experiences that led to it.

So that's the route I'm taking this time around, with "Persist." If you were reading along last week, you'll have heard about my talk at the Inside Edge. I have the second in the series coming up this Sunday, at the Laguna Art Museum in Laguna Beach (for Orange County residents, it's at 1PM.) And another dozen already scheduled in the next couple of months, at various locations, some academic, some groups of artists or writers. I'll be posting information as they approach. It's good to realize that these events are not merely about selling books. As long-time readers will know, I have a great, abiding desire to feel that I'm doing something with this life I have been given, that I'm making a contribution with this one talent--with words--with which I have been endowed.

I know, also, that I'm not able to make much of a dent on my own. I'm grateful for any help I can get along the way. If it's in your heart, there are ways in which you can lend me a friendly hand. I hope it's okay with you if I lay a few out:

* If you're a fellow-blogger, a mention on your own blog would be appreciated. If you think you might be able to write a review for your readers, send me an email (my address is in the right hand sidebar) with your street address and I'll send off a review copy. I'm offering up to ten freebies for this purpose.

* Importantly, you can also order a copy at www.paramipress.com/persist, or even at Amazon. The latter, I believe, is slightly slower, but it works. Please consider this. I'm not one for the hard sell, but every order makes a difference. And once you have read the book, I'd welcome your participation on Facebook and Goodreads discussions.

* You can inquire about the book at your local bookstore, and act surprised when they've never heard of it! You might tell them that you've heard good things about it...

* You can send a link to this entry to creative friends who you think might resonate with the title. (Actually, the title and subtitle have already proved good friends to me. I have only to say the words and a smile of recognition will inevitably appear.)

* You can send out information via your Facebook page ("Persist" has its own page on Facebook, and there's information about the book there, along with links to other sources of information); or via Twitter, LinkedIn, etc.

I hope you won't mind my making these suggestions. I do understand that this medium can be easily misused, and that it can be an annoyance. I trust that's not the case here. And I do need to live up to the injunction that is the title of my book...

Sophie Scholl

We watched a rented version of Sophie Scholl: The Final Days last night. It's the story of the young woman who, as one of the small group of German students who resisted the Nazi regime, was executed in 1943 for the crime of distributing pamphlets condemning Hitler and denouncing his war as a lost cause. As Sophie's brother, Hans, said during their kangaroo court trial, even in 1943 you had only to look at a map to understand that the German military stood no chance against the combined forces of Russia, Britain and the United States. Had the simple realism of the young people of the White Rose prevailed, how much futile bloodshed would have been avoided.

As its title suggests, the film concentrates on Sophie's story--from her "criminal" act, to her arrest, her interrogation, the trial, and her execution by guillotine. It is not one that I'd recommend to those who prefer to spare themselves this kind of agony. It is, though, a powerful, compelling, and utterly convincing evocation of a period when tyrannical ideology trumped even the most basic human rights, when the surveillance of state police made resistance a risk of imminent arrest and an almost certain death sentence, and terror was the tool used by the state to ensure compliance with its arbitrary laws. It is a cautionary tale, reminding us of what can happen when average citizens are intimidated into surrendering their conscience.

Most remarkable about the film is its reliance on simple head shots and dialogue over action scenes. With the exception of the early scenes that briefly dramatize the fraught circumstances of the creation and distribution of the White Rose pamphlets and the electrifying trial, the action is reduced to the exchange between Sophie and her interrogator, Robert Mohr. Both actors are superb. In the beginning, Sophie simply lies, and lies with magnificent aplomb. At one point, she has virtually succeeded in convincing Mohr, and seems about to elude his clutches. But the tide turns against her, further resistance becomes futile, and her new tactic is to protect others, her friends, from sharing her fate. It's a battle between state power and personal conscience, reduced to this intense exchange between two individuals. There's a desk, a lamp, occasional incursions by attendant characters, but essentially the two actors must rely on nothing mire than facial expression and subtle body language.

You have to love Sophie. You are astounded by her grit, her determination, the inner moral compass that guides her through moments of weakness, pain, and doubt. You are outraged by the treatment she is subject to, and by the mockery of a trial at which--along with her brother and one associate--she is condemned. Even though you know throughout that it is coming, you are appalled by the injustice of her death. The events follow on each other in absolutely gripping sequence, such that it's impossible to take your eyes from even the small screen of the television monitor. You are confronted with your own core values, and with the question as to whether, in these circumstances, you would share Sophie's courage. You wonder whether you, too, would succumb to the tyranny and terror of the regime. And you find, in Sophie, the possible redemption of humanity, the essential nobility of the human spirit at its best.

Later this morning, I go to visit the studio of my friend Mark Strickland, one of a relatively small number of artists (I think of others like Leon Golub and Nancy Spero) who take it to be their responsibility, as artists, to use their skills to address matters of social conscience. Mark's recent series on the children at the Dachau concentration camp, another Nazi monstrosity, is a notable example. It's not something I expect of every artist, but I respect those who choose this difficult, off-mainstream path. They remind me that Sophie Scholl surrendered her young life for a cause greater than herself--an act of heroism that vastly transcends today's easy misuse of that word.

Buddhism: A Book Review

This might be a good time, for those who have not already done so, to consider Buddhism. I am no proselytizer of religion, but there is a great deal to be learned from the teachings. If, as I do, you look around in dismay at the hierarchies that seem to dominate our planet and our nation, you may stand to benefit from the non-attachment and the equanimity these teachings invite us to consider. You, as I, may have watched in sadness and bewilderment the stalemate of what purports to be our government, the disasters—both natural and man-made—that beset us, the stubborn denial of the human species in the face of its own ignorance, indifference, and outright cruelty, too often in the name of religious fervor. Like me, you may find these to be times when despair and withdrawal seem to be the only rational answers.

Time, then, perhaps, to pick up your copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Buddhism by Gary Gach (Alpha Books, 2009) (This is a revised version of "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Understanding Buddhism.") For some time now I have labored under the misapprehension that I had already published my thoughts about this useful and engaging handbook; but a search through my computer files finds no mention, and this revised edition has already been out for months. It’s time to correct my omission.

There are, it’s true, much shorter and much less demanding guides to Buddhism on the market. But most of these serve only to reduce their subject to its simplest outlines. This book does not. It looks at Buddhism from every angle: its origins in the life story and the teachings of the Buddha, and how they come down to us; the history of the spread of the religion to different parts of the East, and finally to our own hemisphere; the variety of its manifestations, including Tibetan Buddhism, Zen, Theravadan, and Pure Land; its similarities with other religions, and its differences; the core teachings themselves—the Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path, the Precepts, and so on—and not least their application to everyday life; and the basic practice of meditation, with ample examples of the huge variety of how-tos.

All of which may sound intimidating, but Gach makes the journey a pleasant and often light-hearted one. His narrative is filled with parables and poems (Gach himself is an enthusiastic translator of haikus), illustrations and engaging side trips into pithy expressions of wisdom by the great master teachers. And the truth is that this is not a simple subject, though many in the West have attempted to make it so, reducing complex thought to simplistic clichés. Gach is careful with detail, respectful of both the religious and philosophical complexities of Buddhist thought and practice. His book deserves to be read with the same careful attention; it is not one to read cover-to-cover, but one that asks for time and patience. It will reward those who bring that attention to it, not really “Complete Idiots,” but rather those with a curious bent and an open mind, ready to learn from what is a serious source of the kind of human wisdom and compassion sorely needed in a world that becomes increasingly vulnerable by the day.

The precious and I think perhaps unique quality of Buddhism is that it specifically rejects the fanaticism that other religions seem unfortunately to foster; what it offers instead is the rational alternative of a Middle Path, respectful of all life and insistent at its core on the principle: Do no harm. Gach’s book will serve you as a comprehensive, thoughtful and intelligible guide.

The US Supreme Court

I'll be brief, and here's my brief: until this week's Supreme Court ruling on corporate election funding, we could all choose to close our eyes and pretend that our country was not for sale to the highest bidder. Now, though, it's legal.

By what stretch of the judicial imagination vast corporations wielding billions of dollars become "people" I am unable to say. But what I have been saying for years now, first in "The Bush Diaries" and now in "The Buddha Diaries" is official and surely undeniable. We live in an oligarchy at best, at worst a simple plutocracy. Who can any longer deny this simple truth?

It has been the work of thirty years and more. We thank President Gerald R. Ford for John Paul Stevens; we thank Ronald Reagan for Antonin Scalia and Anthony M. Kennedy; we thank George Bush Sr. for Clarence Thomas; we thank Bush Jr. for Samuel Alito and Chief Justice Roberts--the five wise men who hold American justice in their hands, and now apparently American politics, too. The Court that cynically--and disastrously--gave us George W. Bush now hands us the corpse of democracy.

These men, I've heard it said, pay homage at the altar of the US Constitution. Did the framers of that supposedly sacrosanct document see democracy thus? I like to think not. But now, as I see it, the form of government that the founders foresaw is a thing of the past in this part of the world. I trust it will raise its head somewhere in some other unlikely place, but who knows. The world is an increasingly weird and uncomfortable place. It may be time for a definitive eulogy.

Have a great weekend, friends!

Tickled Pink

Yes, I'm tickled pink. I'm on YouTube! Here's the link to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nIrbKi4x1qE">a video of my event at the Inside Edge. I'm planning on having more to say on another topic later in the day...

A Weird Week

This is a weird week, and it's not only the storms--four in a row, thus far--that keep slamming into the coastline from the west. Each brings, it seems, a heavier rainfall along with it. No, it's also the rhythm of the week which is all off. In the normal course of events we head up to Los Angeles from the beach on Sunday afternoon or Monday, and return to Laguna usually on Friday. Well, sometimes Thursday, if we're lucky. This week it was back to Los Angeles Sunday, then back again on Tuesday afternoon to be here in time for that Wednesday breakfast meeting; and back up north Wednesday morning, early enough to avoid the arrival of that day's storm. The evening brought the gala opening of the Los Angeles Art Fair (more below), from which we got back home at around 11PM. A walk around the hill early this morning, in the blustery winds that announced the imminent arrival of the next attack, and off immediately after breakfast, headed for the beach in nice time to arrive in Laguna Beach at the same time as the front edge of the storm. A very wet moment to unload the car.

I have a couple of days to look forward to in the sanctuary of the cottage, waiting out the remaining waves of rain. Saturday is supposed to be dry and sunny, but who knows? I leave in the morning for Los Angeles again, for a scheduled book-signing event at the art fair. Then back again to Laguna that same evening. It's all very bewildering--and not the least bewildered among the three of us is George. Not only is the rhythm all off, not only does he suffer the indignity of having to be toweled off each time he returns from his pee- or poop-walk, not only does he have to be man-handled in and out of the car--quite apart from all this, he's missing his regular ball-chases, whether down here in the park at the Top of the World or in our L.A. garden. He sits by the door at his usual times and wants to know what's wrong with us, that we're not catering to his habits.

The gala opening of the art fair was, well, an event. It began with a round of speeches to which, so far I could tell, not a single person listened; followed by a raucous performance by a song-and-dance group that tumbled down the long steps at the Convention Center into the crowd of champagne-sipping art enthusiasts--a long procession of musicians, blaring music unlike any I have ever heard before, a joyful, celebratory sound that was not band music, nor jazz, nor anything like classical--trombones, trumpets and saxophones blaring in gloriously exuberant cacophony...

... backed up by an odd assortment of drums and other timpani and a dozen or more squeeze boxes. This motley band was followed down the steps by a shimmering troupe of dancers...

... all clad in masks and brilliantly-colored, string costumes that quivered individually and unison as they moved. Once down at plaza level, the ensemble blasted out their music and the dancers bobbed and weaved for a good ten minutes before retreating back up the steps whence they had come. As you can tell, I managed only a few hopelessly inadequate pictures on my IPhone:

Once among the booths, we checked in with our friends at the Artscene booth before grabbing a bite to eat on the fly and heading out on to the floor of the Convention Center, where dealers from throughout the world were assembled to show their stuff. Generally speaking I have to say that the quality of work was disappointing, though with some exceptional highlights. Given my beef about art and commerce, I find it always a somewhat surreal experience to be in a place where a hundred and more galleries display their wares and dealers hang out, hoping to grab the attention of a potential customer. This is the market at its crassest, with a zillion artworks displayed higgledy-piggledy on makeshift walls, such that it's virtually impossible to see any of it. Still, a good spirit seemed to prevail, and we ran into a god number of old friends whose faces we had not seen in far too long. All in all, it was an entertaining evening, and one that reminded us of our good fortune in knowing so many good people involved in what we too glibly refer to as the art scene.

The Inside Edge

No. I'm not going to talk about Massachusetts. I'm going to talk about me. Well, I guess I usually do that anyway...

I was up shortly after 5AM, fed George, took him out for his morning walk. He was more than a little puzzled to be going out so early, but raised no particular objections. I made tea, poured two cups, and took one in to Ellie, to wake her. By 6AM, we were on the road, headed for the Faculty Club at UC Irvine, where I was scheduled to give the first in what is now developing into a series of speaking engagements in connection with the publication of "Persist." Those of you who have followed along in these pages for the past couple of weeks are surely aware that I have been chewing my nails a bit about this prospect, and will join me in a huge sigh of relief that it all turned out well.

Here's what I have come to understand. Speaking is an entirely different medium from writing. As a writer I can sit around playing on the keyboard, hidden comfortably behind my monitor, making changes where needed and taking the time to develop ideas, all the while aware that nothing goes out to the public before I want it to. Before I know that it's right. In the past, when invited to speak in public, I have most often written it all down and read from my script. My hosts at the Inside Edge, however--a truly wonderful organization that meets weekly for the express purpose of listening to invited guests from all walks of life--make it clear in advance that they expect something different. The expect their speakers to, well, speak.

So I set out to learn this new skill with some trepidation. I devoted a good number of hours to organizing myself and boiling it all down to an outline, from which I hoped to be able to stand up and talk without making too much of a fool of myself. I meditated furiously in the attempt to calm the mind down--though it was honestly not meditation, it was sitting and thinking. The fear was, of course, irrational: that I'd stand there with my mouth open and no words would come out. Irrational, because I do speak passingly well and, even when I'm talking absolute nonsense, have the advantage of a (still, halfway!) English accent which apparently, to the American ear, covers a multitude of other verbal inadequacies.

In the event, all was well. I threw away a good deal of the script. Over breakfast--a part of the Inside Edge ritual--one of my table-mates spoke about how she had abandoned early dreams of a creative life in favor of the contingencies of the job, the career, the family... Which gave me the perfect lead-in, as a place in which I too found myself many years ago, leaving university with the vague desire to be a writer, but constrained, at the same time, to meet those same social expectations. So that's where I started one I was up on the podium, and from there the words flowed easily and naturally--so much so, that I had pages of unused notes when my time came to an end. It seemed to have gone all too fast.

And what a wonderful reception! May I say, without appearing immodest, a standing ovation? (As soon as I found out how this is done, I will post a link to the DVD for anyone who might want to watch.) My generous listeners were all too kind, and many of them came up to me afterwards with really heartfelt expressions of thanks for those moments in which they had, for a variety of reasons, resonated with my words. The Buddha Diaries was mentioned and acknowledged, and should any of the participants from this morning happen upon this entry, today, may they know how very much I appreciated their warm welcome and their generous reception.

It's my understanding that this organization welcomes new members, and if you happen to live in Orange County, California, or anywhere nearby, I do recommend that you look into the opportunities it offers. There is, to begin with, a real sense of community which would be hard for even a one-time visitor to miss, along with a commonality of interest and an intellectual appetite for new and interesting ideas. I feel honored to have been invited, and to have been heard with such attention.

Back home in good time, we picked up George from the cottage and headed back up to Los Angeles, where we are scheduled to attend the gala opening of the Los Angeles Art Fair at the Convention Center. We were fortunate to beat the rain, which was starting just as we reached to off-ramp to come home... Right now, it's coming down steady and hard.

Rain

There's a steady rain outside my window this Monday morning in Los Angeles. A weekend of bewildering contrasts, which seems only highlighted by the arrival of the series of storms we expect to last for this entire week.

The news from Haiti continues to be heart-breaking, and those few glimmers of hope, when one live person is found beneath the rubble feel like little tidbits offered by the media to relieve the flow of dreadful news in their reports. The suffering is unimaginable--not only in the survivors' desperate need for food, water and shelter, but also in their loss of many loved ones and their uncertainty about many more. Sitting here in earthquake country, where what we refer to nervously as the Big One could come at any moment, there is also a sharpened consciousness of our own vulnerability--and what I personally experience as a low-grade but persistent fear. Scarcely a day passes without my giving at least a passing thought to the possibility.

And then there's Massachusetts. Were it not for Haiti, the situation there would be foremost in that part of my mind that dwells on worries for the future. The mere possibility of the election going to a Republican who could single-handedly scuttle the minimal health care package that has survived the political soap operas in the US Congress is cause for distress and alarm. It's almost inconceivable that this state, of all states, could turn its back on years of (moderately) liberal tradition and betray the cause for which their late, great senator fought for so many years. And yet that possibility seems real, at least if we're to believe the media reports.

Contrasting with these depressing spectacles was the over-the-top celebration of the Golden Globe Awards, the glitz and glamor of Hollywood on display--its generous and humane side, be it added, as well as its giddy self-congratulation. Not having seen "Avatar" yet--I plan to--I have no way of knowing whether its success was deserved. Nor have I seen the Jeff Bridges movie, though I want to. Meryl Streep, I agree, was a magnificent Julia Child. As for the TV awards, I hadn't the first idea who was who and what was what. I had never seen any of the shows.

The other wonderful and welcome contrast was the Cirque du Soleil. I had booked seats for the Irvine performance of "Koozo" a couple of months ago, as a not-quite birthday surprise for Ellie. I had invited our good friends in Laguna to join us, and between us we managed to keep the secret pretty much until the last moment, when the waitress at the restaurant blurted it out as she brought the check. Heaven knows how she knew.

In any event, the event was a delight. We first saw the Cirque back in 1994, its first performance in the US at the time of the Los Angeles Olympics, and have seen it since then a couple of times in Las Vegas. And once again we were thrilled, delighted, inspired by the drama of it all, the clowns and the acrobats and the contortionists, the extraordinary feats of strength and breath-taking daring; and by the movement, the color, the choreography, the music... They have the performance timed to absolute perfection, so that at the end you're sitting there--well, standing, cheering--wonderfully satisfied, and yet wanting more.

All of which brings me to reflect on the ephemeral nature of experience. When I get caught in the low cycle of events, the tens of thousands dead in Haiti, the (to me!) incomprehensible stupidity of the American electorate, it behooves me to recall the ecstasy of a night at the circus; and, of course, vice versa. The trick is not to get attached to either one, but it's a trick that's often easier to conceptualize than to actualize. Now, about that rain...

MRI

It did seem odd to me that the imaging technology company, to which Kaiser sent me for my MRI, was located in a Bank of America building in Beverly Hills. What, I wondered, is the nexus between big banking and big medicine that brings them together in the same (weirdly green-ish) glass and steel semi-high rise on Wilshire Boulevard? Does this have something to tell me about the state of our economy and the state of our health care system?

I left that one unresolved. In the reception area, they had me fill out forms. I found that I had forgotten most of my medical history, the dates of my surgeries--hernias, polyp and gall bladder removal, appendix and tonsils as a child--and had to improvise. Did I suffer from claustrophobia? I noted down, "Mild." It didn't seem to matter much anyway. I don't think anyone actually looked at the forms, once filled in. They were interested mostly to know if I had any metal or other foreign objects concealed somewhere in my body. I don't. No pacemaker, no metal plates...

I declined the medical robe they offered me, but left my valuables in the locker as requested, and was escorted to a room with one of those tube things I was kind of dreading--and which the good doctor at Kaiser had prescribed against. The horrifying images from Haiti have brought back all my dread of being entombed (and, curiously, have reminded me that my mother's greatest fear was of being buried alive. She was absolutely insistent that, in the event of her death, the doctor should slit her wrists before her burial. Are such phobias genetic?) My technician took note of my "mild" claustrophobia and reassured me that it was really not so bad.

I was already on my back and about to be inserted into the plastic tube when the technicians made a change of plan. Apparently, an "open" machine had felicitously become available, more suitable for a person like myself; I was reassigned. I climbed down, changed rooms, lay down on my back again. And wondered why I was given earplugs. I was given a panic button, to press in case of emergency. The new technician asked me, too, to use it if I felt a cough or a sneeze coming on. She could pause the machine while I took care of this bodily function, and restart it when I was done.

The "open" machine still seemed pretty closed to me. It swallowed me up. I would be in there for half an hour, they told me. Okay, it would be a good test for my meditation skills. I closed my eyes and began to pay attention to the breath... In the event, it was not a cough or a sneeze I had to worry about. It was a giggle. I had not been forewarned about the sounds. It started with a hollow knocking, as though on the wooden sides of a coffin, regular, then sporadic. Then grinds and staccato stutterings, machine-gun-like, sudden roars and rhythmical pings--a cacophony of noises that began to sound like what I once used to listen to as "concrete music." It just sounded funny, and I was tempted to laugh out loud.

Soon, though, I adjusted to this strange environment. I managed to settle into the breath and, counterintuitively, to kind of enjoy the isolation. The half hour passed with remarkable speed, and I emerged none the worse for the experience. I must now await the results, and have no idea how long it will take to process them.

Haiti

So much human suffering! And in a place where suffering was already common lot of the vast majority of people... The images are heart-rending.

Did we need another reminder of the spectacular destructive power of nature, and our puny defenses against her? I think not. And then again, perhaps we did, given the insults that we heap unstintingly upon her. The devastating event in Haiti reminds of this truth, and also, sadly, of the indifference of the wealthy and developed nations of this world toward their poorer brethren. The rich nations, well endowed with resources, march on toward greater wealth and power, with nary a backward glance toward a disaster-waiting-to-happen like little Haiti. Nothing could have been done to prevent, even predict the earthquake that struck, now nearly two days ago; but its effects were greatly aggrandized by a fragile government, a pathetically inadequate infrastructure, shoddy construction, and a paucity of medical, educational and other social services.

Not our business? Perhaps. But it has become our business now. While it is heartening to see the nations of the world rally to provide support, how much better it would have been had even a small portion of that support been available before the current catastrophe. How many lives would have been spared? How much devastation of lives and property prevented? Of note, in the rush to help: I heard on the news this morning that little Israel is sending twice as many emergency personnel as big Russia. I wonder, will Iran be there to help? Odd, tangential questions. The real, pressing question is whether sufficient help will arrive soon enough to spare the many thousands of life that are still gravely at risk.

The vulnerability of our species is once more dreadfully on display. We see ourselves as so powerful, yet we even the most powerful among us is no more, really, than a small, pitiful sack of flesh and bone. It's sad, indeed, to recognize that it takes disasters such as these to reveal the better part of humankind: its spirit.

A New Medical Adventure

(I feel badly having written the entry below, having now heard news of that earthquake in Haiti. My little headaches seem so trivial. And my fear of being trapped--see below--so, well, theoretical when compared with the dreadful reality in that poor, devastated contry.)

I'm taking my head to Beverly Hills this morning, to have it examined in an MRI. Why Beverly Hills? That's what I wondered. It seems that Kaiser outsources (one of those neologisms that I truly hate!) its MRI patients to this place in Beverly Hills. Perhaps there are more people in Beverly Hills who need such screening. Who knows?

It's about those headaches. Did I mention that I went to the Kaiser headache clinic a couple of days ago? No? Actually, the cluster series I was experiencing--and about which I'm pretty sure I wrote on The Buddha Diaries--seems thankfully to have come to an end; but they were so different this time around, so much less regular and, frankly, much less intense, that I was concerned. Hence the appointment with a headache specialist in Kaiser's Neurology Department.

I must say I was impressed by the department. The nurse/receptionist was bright and cheerful, and seemed actually delighted to put me on the scale and measure my vital signs. (I was gratified to note that I have lost ten pounds since before the holiday season; intentionally, I hasten to add. I have been eating more mindfully...) The doctor was excellent, generous with her time and attentive to every detail. She had me walk the line, tested reactions, tickled the bottoms of my feet. She tested my eyes, and worried over the blurring and double vision I have been experiencing. And decided that, all in all, it would be a good thing to get the MRI.

She was also thoughtful enough to ask if I am claustrophobic. I guess I am: one of my great nightmares is being trapped under tons of rubble. I had no idea that the scan might involve being trapped inside a tube for twenty minutes to half an hour, and was happy that there are alternatives, involving machines that leave one side open--and that I had a choice.

So I'm off this morning on this new medical adventure. More to come...

A Recluse

Who would have thought it?

We have this neighbor, a couple of blocks away. He's a big man, with long, unkempt hair, and he always seems a little unwashed. For years he has had this huge, two-door red clunker, I wouldn't know the make, but I'd guess from the early 1970s. It belches fumes; the pop-up lock on the driver's side has sprung loose, and its long cable is usually draped around the steering wheel while one of those club devices protects the car from theft--though it's hard to imagine who might steal this hulk, or why. The dingy interior is overflowing with assorted trash. Our neighbor drives it occasionally around the local streets, presumably to keep the engine and the gearbox in running order. Aside from the smell, it creates a frightful, thunderous racket, and it moves precariously at about three miles an hour.

Our morning walk takes us regularly around the hill we live on, and the car is invariably parked outside his house. We often find him tinkering with it, with the hood or the trunk open, his head buried inside. I have always made it a point to say good morning. For many years, my greeting went ignored. I was unsure whether it was even heard, or whether the man simply chose to keep himself to himself. It was only recently, during the past year, that I began to get a surprise good morning in return.

And then this morning, on our walk, we found him tinkering with a different car--still considerably older than those parked on either side, up and down the street, but smaller, sleeker, tidier... As we passed by I paused and said: "New car? Congratulations!"

And the floodgate opened. This man who had never responded beyond a muttered monosyllable went off into a rant--friendly enough, but definitely a rant--from which I was hardly able to tear myself away. The new car, I gathered, was an inheritance. It was one of those sweet and bitter things, he explained in a booming voice that startled me and threatened to arouse the neighborhood. His good friend had died of cancer at the age of seventy-four and had left him the car. It was smoking, he said. It should be against the law. He himself is a smoker, he confessed, and is unable to quit. He smokes one cigarette a day. Well, maybe five, some days. How much he smokes, or has smoked in his life, is evident in his voice. He fulminated for some time about the evils of nicotine, and would have gone on, I guessed, for another half hour, had I been willing to listen.

But I was maybe a bit spooked by the torrent of words, by this big man and his big voice, by the intensity of his monologue. And besides, Ellie and our friend from across the street, who joins us on occasion for our morning walk, were moving on. Perhaps they, too, were spooked; or perhaps they were just engaged in a conversation of their own. So I hastened to tear myself away and catch them up. He was still talking as I tried to say goodbye and wish him luck in quitting cigarettes.

I felt a little bit guilty, too. After all, I had finally succeeded in finding the switch that turned him on, and it felt like I was abandoning him at a moment when he had suddenly revealed himself to me and to the world. I was left wondering about the man, about his loneliness, his isolation, his obsession, whether these things were chosen and what might have been their cause. Did he need connection, was it something he might have longed for in his life? And now that, for a few moments, he had it, was it right to snatch it away? And when we pass again, will there be more words exchanged between us, or will he revert to the silence from which he so unexpectedly emerged? We human beings are a mystery... to each other. Sometimes even to ourselves.

Hummers...

(... the nice kind!)

We watched a particularly lovely episode in the PBS "Nature" series last night, called Hummingbirds: Magic in the Air. I have always been enchanted by these truly magical little creatures, and I learned a whole lot more about them from the program. I did not know, for example, that they are found only on the continent of the Americas; that there are close to 350 distinct species; that, inches long themselves, they migrate literally thousands of miles each year; that some species cross the Gulf of Mexico, 5oo miles in a single flight, with no place to rest or replenish their resources; that their hearts beat regularly at 600 beats minute, rising to double that number in flight--and dropping to a mere 35 beats per minute at night, when they enter into a period of "torpor", akin to a brief daily hibernation. I learned that there is no protein in the nectar they find in flowers, and that they must supplement this diet with insects, which they catch in flight with wide open bills (not chopstick-fashion, then!) I learned that survival for them is a constant struggle to maintain sufficient nutrition to support their enormous expenditure of calories in their darting flights and hoverings...

All this, as they say, and much, much more. Still more compelling than all this fascinating information, though, was the stunning photography of these birds in flight and at rest. Super high speed video technology has allowed those who study them to capture amazing pictures, still and moving, of their brilliant plumage and their inimitable motion, their surprisingly aggressive territorial battles, their mating habits, their nesting and the raising of their young. I have a new respect for these tiny fellow-travelers, some of whom are frequent visitors in our Laguna Beach Garden, which they love for the brightness of our flowers and shrubs. I have mentioned in the past, I think, what a special joy it is, during meditation, to hear their distinctive hum close to my head as I sit there with closed eyes. It is perhaps fanciful to imagine that they approach me out of curiosity, to find out who this person is, sitting there so still in what they take to be their territory--and we take to be ours! They come so close, I sometimes wonder if they might be evaluating the fine strands of my gray hair as promising material for their nests; but none has ever dared to steal one, to my knowledge!

It's good to know that we share our planet with such beautiful and marvelously skillful beings. Their presence here--unlike our own, alas!--is entirely beneficent, and brings nothing but joy to the human eye and heart. If I believed in God, I would be thanking him or her daily for the gift of hummingbirds.

Speaking of Poetry...

.... I'm going to cheat a bit today and offer you this Don Marquis poem by way of entertainment. The "i" in the first line is the narrator, Archy the Cockroach, who writes his poems by jumping from key to key on the typewriter. (This is before the computer, friends!) Obviously, he can't manage the shift key and the "i" together, to make the upper case letter. Oh, and the punctuation marks are a little beyond his reach. If you don't know about Archy and his friend, Mehitabel the Cat (who thinks she's a reincarnation of Cleopatra,) it's time you did.

Poetry...

I was thinking this morning, in connection with my preparations for the speaking engagements I have planned for early this year, about poetry, and about how the poet is the only "artist" for whom financial success represents not even the glimmer of a hope. Every other kind of writer can always hope--most of us vainly!--for a book that sells well in the bookshops. Performance artists of all kinds have to concern themselves with the costs of production and finding audiences. Visual artists produce objects that can be marketed, and can entertain the prospect--however remote, for some--of gallery shows and sales. A book of poetry has virtually no commercial value, and the poet has no prospect of survival without the "day job"--whether in academia or elsewhere. You can be a professional actor, a professional dancer, a professional musician, a professional writer; but the idea of a "professional poet" is an oxymoron.

And no, I don't agree with those who argue that the likes of Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen are "the poets of our time." I see them as minstrels--no offense intended!--who combine words and music, and whose art is precisely in the combination. Poems, as I see it, exist in and for themselves. They make their own music. They are sound and image, a complex of meanings and associations, and the audience for them is miniscule. Which allows the poet an enviable freedom. With no financial prospects or constraints, he or she is at liberty to go ahead and say exactly what needs to be said, without that backward glance over the shoulder to see what anyone might be thinking or expecting.

People have occasionally asked me why I don't think about the exploring the commercial possibilities of blogging--minimal though they might be. That would be simply awful. I can't imagine the kind of constraints that would place on The Buddha Diaries, as opposed to the freedom I enjoy, sitting down pretty much when I feel like it and scrabbling around on the keyboard. It's the giveaway that makes it such a pleasure, and I frankly would not wish it otherwise.

Today...

... Ellie's birthday! The actual day!

Here's our Palm Springs B&B...

... and the view from our room...

... with bird on dome. And Agatha...

... eighteen years old!

We're back in Laguna Beach this morning, and headed up for a long-ish stint in Los Angeles later this today.

Yesterday, a glorious walk up a canyon whose name I forget. Here's the trail, looking forward...

... and looking back, with clouds...

... here's the rocks, towering above us, to the left...

Here's the waterfall, at the top of the trail...

... very lovely, indeed; and the stream on the way back down...

And then, of course, there was the drive back home, on the freeway! Ah, well...

Happy Birthday, Ellie!

That Was Palm Springs..

... that was!

Just back from our Palm Springs jaunt to celebrate Ellie's birthday. It was an unpromising start. We arrived in time to unpack in the tiny--I mean tiny, closet-sized!--room in our B&B, and walked out for lunch at the Tennis Club (!) nearby. We passed on the Bloody Marys that most of our neighbors seemed to be enjoying, and opted for a shared Cobb Salad--we could have shared it with another couple, it was so huge. Then off to discover what we had remembered as a rather picturesque downtown. Didn't seem that way to us this time. Heading north from the couple of blocks at the very center of town, we found empty lots and stores boarded up. A few consignment and antique shops, selling stuff for outlandish prices--though we did run into a few friendly dealers and struck up some pleasant conversations. And discovered a newly opened branch of the Terrence Rogers Gallery, old friends from Santa Monica...

But... there didn't seem to be much happening, so we opted for a movie in the evening and, on the way to the theater, stopped at an authentic deli for dinner and found ourselves surrounded by a convivial gathering of Jews--some of them clearly long-time immigrants from Eastern European countries. The food was great... in that traditional deli kind of a way, but far heavier and gravier than we would have wanted, and so much that we asked for a take-home box for more than half our meal--then forgot the box and left it on the table. On the way to the theater, we paused for a few moments to consider going back for it but on the whole decided, no, it was better off left where it was.

The movie was fun. "It's Complicated." It wasn't, really complicated. A pleasant enough romp with Alec Baldwin and Meryl Streep, the latter being pretty much the giggly Meryl Streep we know and love. Could have left that one for a rental, but okay, it gave us a few chuckles--particularly the scene where Streep and co-start Steve Martin indulge in a few tokes, for the first time in twenty years or so. Both hilarious. We laughed.

Got back to the B&B to discover that Ellie had not brought her toothbrush. Nor her earplugs, which she likes to sleep with. And the stopper in the bathroom sink didn't work. (We discovered the next morning that the shower didn't work either.) And the tiny room felt claustrophobic. The double bed nearly filled the entire floor space. The duvet felt like lead. I woke an hour after going to sleep and couldn't get back to sleep again. Took a pill. Dozed fitfully for what seemed like hours, rehearsing my complaints to the management. Waking the next morning, we debated the possibility of leaving and coming home to George.

However, we did have a talk with the manager in the morning and she was very gracious. We were offered the choice of two other rooms, much more spacious, for the same price as ours. We ate French toast and scrambled eggs in the sunshine, and a couple of cups of coffee made the world look brighter too. We borrowed a couple of hotel bikes and set off into the back streets of Palm Springs, where the mid-century architecture is always a delight. We saw--I'm sure we saw--a pair of bluebirds. Do bluebirds live in Palm Springs? I was surprised. But they sure weren't blue jays. We see enough of those... Anyway, who can be mad when they think they see a bluebird?

Back at the hotel, we returned our bikes and set off in the car to the museum, where we had made an appointment to meet with the senior curator--a colleague of Ellie's in her professional association. A pleasant lunch--shared sandwich, Arnold Palmer--in the sculpture garden, next to a pair of monumental standing bronze hearts by Jim Dine; and a wonderful tour of the museum and introduction to its collections with our guide and friend. The current installation is "The Passionate Pursuit"--selections from a stellar collection promised as a gift to the museum. We were also much impressed with a corner devoted to the medium of glass; and by an exhibition of the photographic work of Linda Connor, whose sepia-toned pictures of locations throughout the world are the product of an extraordinary eye for the telling image. We loved the museum itself, small enough in scale and scope to be manageable in a visit, but endowed with a good number of truly significant works of art.

In the afternoon, we drove down through Cathedral City to Palm Desert, where there are several notable galleries to visit. The prices, in this recessionary period, are simply eye-popping. Twenty to eighty thousand dollars seemed the norm for basically mid-list artists--and I don't want to sound condescending. There were some fine paintings, fine sculptural works, and some amazing glass... but the bottom line, for me, was the reminder of the huge gap between the wealthy in this country and the rest of us, most struggling to get by and all too many not making it. Is this reverse snobbery? Maybe. I found myself wishing, not for the first time, that art, and the buying of art, could be somehow more democratic. That those at the very top of the market could sacrifice a few of those top dollars in favor of those lower on the totem pole. A redistribution of the wealth, if I may be allowed--old socialist that I am!

We had been thinking of going to see "Avatar" in its 3-D version. It seems to be something of a cultural phenomenon. But the lines outside the I-Max theater in Cathedral City were enough to discourage us from the idea, so we went to see "Invictus" in Palm Springs instead. It's a terrific movie, directed with the ease of simple authority by the ever-surprising Clint Eastwood. Morgan Freeman does a great job as Nelson Mandela, and Matt Damon as the captain of the Springboks rugby team, which became--thanks to Mandela--a living symbol of the possibility of reconciliation in South Africa. I used to play rugby as a youngster, and still remember the sweat and smell of the scrum. It seems to have become a pretty brutal sport since my days. By comparison, American football, with its all its pads and pauses, seems like a sport for pussies.

I'll have some pictures to post tomorrow. For today... enough!

Dawn

I took George out for his morning walk at about 6:30 this morning, and the dawn was so utterly spectacular, I had to go back for the camera. I caught the sky just past its blushing best:

These blow up well, but I wish I could have caught those brilliant pinks. Guess I need to be up and out a little sooner, if I want to catch the worm.

We're off on a jaunt to Palm Springs in a couple of hours. It has become a tradition, in recent years, to celebrate Ellie's early January birthday with a trip rather than presents, so soon after Christmas. This year of (still, in my book) recession, we decided on a short one, so we'll be gone for just a couple of days. Then back to Laguna Beach to pick up George...

... (looking regal here, no? If not downright snooty!) for the return to our Los Angeles digs for an unusual weekend in the city. We have been fortunate to have had nearly a full month down here in Laguna. Let's hope that dawn bodes well for the coming days.

Blue Moon, Low Tide, Happy New Year

New Year's eve, we were down at the beach at 3:19PM, the low point of the lowest tide of the year in Laguna Beach:

Then, in the evening, watched the rise of the blue moon--the only time this year for the second full moon in the month. Out to dinner in the company of good friends and artists, and home and asleep in time to narrowly miss the turn of the year. Ah, well, it was 2010 just one time zone to the east.

Happy New Year, friends!