Dancing with Myself

John Kerry Rocks

Oh-my-fucking-god! What a great speech! I have been a mediocre supporter of John Kerry up until tonight. Tonight, I have the fervor of a convert. I swelled with unimaginable pride for my generation, for myself, for John Kerry, for Max Cleland, for America. He totally hooked me. It set the right tone. It presented the issues clearly. To quote Bush, "Bring it on."

We have in John Kerry a noble son of the spirit who steps forward to unite us and lead us out of the morass in which we find ourselves. Ordinary Republicans aren't our enemy; but cousins, neighbors, friends who feel strongly about Republican values, you have been abandoned and are being used. Used badly. Look at this loser we lifted up in our time of anguish and sorrow. Bush has failed us so miserably. Join us in reclaiming America.

Kerry rocks. That was the best speech I have heard in 40 years. Yes it was that good.

Old Photographs

Anybody notice the change of pictures? This photo was taken in November 1971. I was 24 years old. I was not a happy camper. I didn't want to be in the Army. I did everything I could to avoid it, including living on the lam for about 3 years. I even went to Canada, but was thrown out because I hung out with bad types there. I even spent one summer in hiding as a pioneer counselor at a Jewish summer camp in the Catskills. I was charged with about 8 or 9 counts of draft evasion when they finally caught me. My lawyer convinced the feds that it was all a huge misunderstanding, so Judge Joe Fisher said that if I would be willing to submit to the draft board's authority, I wouldn't have to do hard time in Leavenworth. Sounded like a good deal to me. My draft board drafted me the next day.

I wrote a polite letter telling them they had no authority to draft me. This was about June of 1971. The draft law had expired and Congress was negotiating with the President. Meanwhile, there was no draft for about 3 or 4 months that year. My draft board called the federal attorney and complained that I was not complying with Judge Fisher's decision. He told them that I was correct. They only had authority to register me, not to draft me. Meanwhile, I had a kind of breakdown from the pressure and started seeing a psychiatrist. Being a freudian, it didn't take us long to get down to issues of sexuality, inadequacy, paranoia, obsessive compulsive behavior, you know, the full ten yards. I had taken an entry level course in psychology, so I knew a lot of symptoms to enthrall my psychiatrist. Also, I was absolutely sure the homosexuality issue would save me. So sure was I, that on the day I finally reported to my induction, I didn't even bother to close my apartment or to arrange for someone to feed my dog. Hell, I almost brought the dog with me to the induction center. Armed with a letter from my psychiatrist, I reported fully expecting to be sent home.

Well, as Gomer Pyle used to say, "surprise, surprise, surprise." They took my ass. A sergeant at the induction center told me that it was alright that I was queer, but that if I did anything queer while I was in the Army, I'd still end up at Leavenworth. Sputtering, "that's not fair," I was led away into the waiting buses for transport to basic training. And that's a true story.

What I resent about Bush's draft dodging, is that he used family influence to avoid his duty and then continued to mouth support for the war in Vietnam. His own ass safely out of harm's way, he continued to support a war that was sending poor and middle class boys to Vietnam. That is so chickenshit that I'm amazed that anyone who did serve in the military can vote for him under any circumstance. What truly amazes me is that not one single person with whom he supposedly served has come forth to stand by him. Everytime Kerry is on television flanked by his comrades, I'm reminded of this. I hope Americans every where are reminded of this as well.

A Failure of Imagination

My ass. Primary law of politics: if it happens on your watch you get credit. The Bush administration failed to take terrorism seriously and it resulted in a devastating blow against the United States. "We were only in charge 9 months," they whined. Well, the captain of the Titanic was on the job less than that, and he got full credit for sinking the ship. Just ask yourself this: if it had happened on Clinton's watch 9 months after he took office, would the Republicans being saying it wasn't his fault? We both know the answer to that. Besides that, the Republicans have been in control of the government for most of the past twenty years. They cannot continue to run against the government. They are the government. If our institutions failed on 9/11, it's because the Republicans have done everything they could to make our government not work.

What did Bush do on 9/11? When he was told about the attack, he froze in place and read to children for 20 additional minutes. Then he went and hid. And who was giving orders in Washington? Cheney. Do you remember the uproar when Al Haig uttered his infamous "I'm in charge here," line right after Reagan was shot? Where in the Constitution does it say the Vice President is in charge until the President gets his head out of his ass?

This administration has lied time and time again. Bush said "Had we any idea of such an attack..." The report says there were plenty of warnings. This administration failed to take them seriously enough to respond. No links to 9/11 and Saddam Hussein were found by the commission. That has not stopped Cheney from saying there was. That did not stop Bush from taking us to an unprovoked war against a smaller country.

Osama bin Laden is still out there. Bush farts and says he's singing. Not good enough, Dubya. Not good enough. You were in charge. You failed us. You said you were going to get Osama bin Laden. I hope you're looking for him harder than O.J. Simpson is looking for Ron and Nicole's killer.

He says we're safer now because Saddam has been brought down and is being held in prison. Safer? By what stretch of the imagination are we safer? We can no longer safely travel in over 1/3 of the world. People who have lived in Saudi Arabia for over 20 years are fleeing in fear. Americans are being treated with increased rudeness all over Europe. We're subjected to increasing intrusion into our lives by the government as it desperately consolidates its power at home and pretends to look for terrorists.

There was a failure of imagination, alright. We failed to imagine how dangerous Bush could be. We failed to imagine how poorly the Republican government would handle the crisis of terrorism. We failed to imagine how much havoc you would be able to wreck with our European alliances. Well, we're up to speed now. We can bloody well imagine the mess you're willing to make of this country and the world in order to retain your power.

To my Republican friends and cousins, your willingness to accept such poor quality leadership from this loser who is President who has never done anything successfully, and your failure to hold him and his administration, and the Republican majority in both houses of Congress accountable for their poor quality of leadership disappoints me. It bitterly disappoints me. I thought you loved this country more than that. I really did. You're as big a bunch of losers as is he.

Poetry on Friday

This is a photograph of a painting by Mary Henrikson, a good friend of mine in Ketchikan, Alaska. The painting is titled, Whaler. It was part of a show which she called Only One Ship is Seeking Us, which is based on a line from the poem I've chosen for today. This is for Mary.

Next Please
by Philip Larkin

... We think each ship will heave to and unload all
the good into our lives,

All we are owed for waiting so devotedly and so
long
But we are wrong.

Only one ship is seeking us, a black-sailed
unfamiliar,
Towing at her back a huge and birdless silence. In
her wake,
No waters break.

Celebrate!

This is how I celebrated my birthday at home. One of my most private and selfish of passions is the pleasure I get from flowers. I swear, when I do a drop-dead arrangement, I feel like peeing on myself. Naturally, I volunteered to do the flowers for the party on Sunday--you know, my birthday brunch to which I was an hour and a half late. That one. These are the flowers I brought home with me. I left Wendy an arrangement and I gave Katie a lei. These I enjoyed for myself.

I don't know if I have any special talent for flowers, but I can promise you that no one, talented or not, enjoys flowers more than I. I often wear leis, sometimes bought, somestimes I make myself.

Personally, I love gladiolas. My mother thinks of them as a funeral flower and won't have them in her house. I think of them as Glory-to-God-Hallelujah-Let's-Celebrate flowers, what with their arms uplifted in praise of the creation. Besides, they're reasonably cheap and very dramatic.

Katie gave me this vase. This is the first time I've worked it.

This is Howard Salzberg. His ashes are in the monkey jar. The monkeys are keeping him in the jar. Howard was one of the meanest, most evil spirited people I have ever met. Buddha gave him to me as a lesson. When I am sure of the lesson, I'll release Howard from the monkey jar. Howard was my nemesis for over ten years. As his health failed, he fell more and more into my arms. He was not pleased, nor was I. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Howard never failed to show me spite, and always sought to make me look like a hick. The story is much too complex for a simple post. I bring up the subject now because I want to pay homage to Howard as the person who showed me the way to appreciate flowers. When I came back from my party, I gave Howard a fat roach, a shot of vodka and my lei. Fuck you, Howard.

Life is Sweet

I spent Saturday morning at the Flower Market in San Francisco buying flowers for today's brunch. There's almost an entire city block devoted to flowers. I'm not allowed to buy from most of the stalls, but I can wander around taking in the sight and smells of an acre of flowers. That lifts my soul.

Later I took my mother shopping. I've always thought the wrong person got congratulated on a birthday. It's the mother's that ought to get the cards on that particular day. Humans would be better served observing their birthdays on the day that popular culture observes the ending and beginning of a new year--like the Chinese do. Think about it. No more forgotten birthdays. I give presents to others on my birthday. I have received so many blessings and so much largesse from the universe, that I believe I should celebrate my good fortune by some act of generous selflessness.

My energy level stayed low well into the late afternoon when I crashed into a good nap. Five-year-olds and fifty-seven-year-olds are both well served by naps. A close friend called and insisted I come over for dinner. It was a very pleasant evening.

Yesterday when I was running around, I bought 2 lbs of boudin from the market in downtown Oakland. This morning I made it into balls, breaded 'em and fried them. This is about as white-trash, rural Louisiana and East Texas as you can get. I love them. I'm taking them to my chi-chi brunch in the Oakland hills. After finishing the task, I checked my email, noticed all the well wishes from friends near and far, and sat down to reflect on turning a year older.

I've been suffering from a severe case of Lazy Writer. Lately, I feel challenged even to write a complete sentence. I even ended a sentence in a preposition last week. Instead of writing, I've been moving my mother, preparing for a roommate, uploading my entire music collection, appoximately 500 or so cds, in anticipation of going to iPod. I've also been playful sexually, milling the chaff to find the seed, so to speak. There's been friends near and far to visit. I guess I've been more of an active verb than a reflective one. Besides, things look kind of hopeful on the political front and others write about that so much more eloquently than do I. I'm not denigrating myself, just calling a shot truthfully. I'd rather read N'Todd, Jaye, Andante, Ellen, Michael, Bobby, Charles2, etc., than stumble along in cheap imitation.

I've come to identify with a very elastic group of bloggers all over the world. That is so cool. The more I have interacted, the more personal my blog has became. I started wanting to share more of my personal experiences rather than my political opinion. I guess I've always approached blogging as the natural, evolution of journal and letter writing into the cyber world. Of course I wrote a lot of political stuff in the past two years. There was an illegal and immoral war taking place. Would I have lived in the U.S. during the Civil War and not talked about it?

I'm very optimistic these days. I'm one of those ABB-people, so I experienced a natural let down when the Democrats (whom I always support it seems, but with whom I don't strongly identify) nominated Kerry. Most of us wanted a mythical god to receive the nomination and then become man, when in actuality it works the other way. The mortal man seeks t he nomination and then is transformed into a demi-god during the campaign, and if victorious, becomes a full-fledged god on Olympus, er--I mean, Washington.

I wrote last year that it seemed that it didn't matter which party controlled the government, because under both it kept getting larger and I kept getting smaller. That's a disingenuous comment though. The two parties are not alike. The Republican Party is controlled by some very mean and spiteful men who are as capable of evil as any we've seen in the past couple of centuries.

While I've never personally believed in reincarnation, I keep getting flashes about being Jewish in Vienna in the 1930s. I know the government would never single me out and punish me with harsh restrictive laws forbidding me to teach, serve in the military, have my committed relationships outlawed. Of course it wouldn't. Afterall, I'm White, male, a respected member of the community, a home owner, a leader in my community. The government would never actively marginalize my participation in society, would it? Would it? Personally, I would never equate Republicans with Nazis. That would be hyperbole. Nonetheless, ... nonetheless.

This afternoon's brunch is to celebrate mid-summer and friends. My guru taught me that we should get together with friends often and laugh a lot. He says it creates a positive energy which is necessary for the world to stay balanced. He pointed out to me that one of the first miracles performed by Jesus was when he turned water into wine to keep the party going. If we fail in this effort to create enough positive energy, the world could go plunging into the abyss. Fuck, that's heavy. So, I say, save the world and rock on!

Happy Birthday to Me

I'm 57 years old today. Whoopee. Whoopity shit. Maybe after several cups of coffee I'll enjoy the day more, and if that doesn't work, I can always switch to gin.

Poetry on Fridays (Better late than never)

By Carl Sandburg

"Get off this estate.
What for?
Because it is mine.
Where did you get it?
From my father.
Where did he get it?
From his father.
And where did he get it?
He fought for it.
Well, I’ll fight you for it."

Does anyone know if this really is by Carl Sandburg? I remember it from way, way back in my life. I searched for it today and didn't find anything conclusive. It resonates in my mind as one of the more important ideas I have ever incorporated into my being. But that's another story.

Pussy now, poetry later

Our life is good. We had a stray kitten pass through the neighborhood. I was tempted. It disappeared before I could catch it. It's just as well. Beauregard doesn't really play well with others.

I'll be back later with poetry. This is birthday week-end, both mine and my gf Katie's. Hers is today, mine is tomorrow. We're throwing a brunch on Sunday. Wish you all could be here. My birthday present to myself: Boudreaux (my old cadillac) is getting a makeover to the tune of about $3500. All it had was a slight headache, but exploratory surgery discovered some serious problems. Since Boudreaux isn't worth $3500, I might have opted to retire it instead of investing in it, but the cost-escalation occurred slowly over the week and then doubling the last day when my mechanic-adviser told me that all of the injectors needed replacing. I don't even know what the fuck an injector is, but it sounded serious, so we're fixing them. I'm dreaming of a Prius, a lot more today than yesterday. Other than that, life is good. Happy birthday world.

Poetry on Fridays

I'm in Bellingham, Washington sitting in a Starbucks cafe, trying to type on my Sony Vaio, hands cramping from using such a small keyboard.

I encountered this poem while looking for information on online about durian, the strange and smelly fruit from Malasia. It spoke to me. I hope it speaks to you.

by Li-Young Lee

Persimmons

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew on the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet
all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down,
I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I've forgotten.
Naked: I've forgotten.
Ni, wo: you me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.

Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eat
but watched the other faces.

My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang. The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father would stay up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents' cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.

He's so happy that I've come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.

-- Li-Young Lee

Peace, friends.