I have to make a record of two books that we talked about tonight...books some among us have read and enjoyed immensely (I am not one of them...I am one who should read them). One of the books is Canticle for Lebowitz by Walter M. Miller, a science fiction piece from the 1950s (I don't read much sci-fi) that tells the story of what happens after the acts of people of our time effectively end civilization; it's about how civilization is reborn.
The other book is The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell, another sci-fi with religious overtones. The way it was described to me, though, by people who I would characterize as anything but religious, makes me want to read it.
Thinking a bit about what I have been told about both books, without having read them, makes me want to get back to my serious efforts to write. One of the books I want to write might be entitled Matter, telling the personal story of a slightly misanthropic scientist/physicist as she uncovers and tries to explain the principles of how all matter is related to all other matter, how those principles are simple and traceable, and how that understanding can lead to a world without strife, violence, need, inequity, and the thousands of other problems that plaque humankind. Unlike other "we had the answer and we let it slip away" stories, this story will capture all the reasons that people tend to let those simple solutions slip away. It will tantalize the reader with possibilities that can answer any question ever posed.
I think this idea has merit. Please do not steal it, lest I put a razor-sharp steal dagger deep into your worthless heart after subjecting you to intense and almost unbearable pain for days and days and days on end. Don't believe me? Try me, motherfucker. I'm not feeling particularly hospitable toward people who take food off others' tables or take opportunitities out of others' reach.
My intellectual explorations today have gone from the depts of the ocean to the depths of the human heart. Ricochet. That word rings true about my mental gymnastics.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Philanthropy
I am content in my relative certainty that there is no 'fate,' no greater power, no omnipotent god that makes things happen at just the right time, for just the right reason. But there are times where experience and information and beliefs and emotions conspire to challenge that relative certainty. The challenge is never enough to shake my 'faith' in the uselessness of faith, but it is enough to cause me to remember what I think it is to be human.
As I wandered the badly worn, hole-ridden cobblestone streets of Ajijic and saw the poverty that allows many residents to live in little more than shanties, I was ashamed. I was ashamed to be looking for something cheap enough to let me retire early to a life of relative ease and affluence. When I saw the rib-cages of starving dogs and the dusty streets and the children satisfied with playing with discarded, broken toys, I wondered just where my humanity has been of late.
Stopping to view a relatively modest house (for the area), I was struck how very far above what most Mexicans in these little villages on Lake Chapala can afford this little house was. I saw ancient pickup trucks and long-dead Datsuns that had been brought back to life not because the vehicles were particularly appealing, but because they were all their owners could hope to afford. People who clean homes or build streets, or sweep them, at least have income from their efforts, though their incomes are miniscule compared to incomes of most of the people they serve.
I stopped at a roadside taco stand, where a man was cooking barbacoa tacos on a gas-powered stainless steel griddle. To this man and his family, I suspect that job and that tiny little building were fine. But I look around at the galleries and the fine restaurants and the magnificent homes in this Mexican paradise community and I see people like me, people for whom wealth is never enough.
After I returned from my little sojourn with family members, I decided to read a piece that an old friend had blogged about recently, as it dealt with some of the obscenities of being fixated on wealth. What I saw was that, but something more. His words propelled some of those thoughts that conspired to challenge my humanity. He wrote an item entitled, The Good News? You're Rich. The Bad News? Never Rich Enough. It would pay dividends to pay heed to another piece he wrote, the one I initially intended to read.
I am not suggesting that all the wealthy people in the villages surrounding this paradise give all their money to the poor. I'm suggesting, instead, that they keep the poor in mind when they are spending their wealth and they keep the poor in mind when they are looking at the next big purchase that will demonstrate to their wealthy friends that they have excellent taste.
I wonder how many people here have considered offering micro-loans to people in this area for whom banks are out of reach, but for whom hard work and integrity are values that are unwaivering? I wonder if I would have the strength of character, were I to move here, to give up some of my wealth to help others achieve a fraction of what I have come to take for granted?
I won't stop wanting money, I suppose, and the freedom it promises. But maybe one day I will come to embrace, in my heart as much as in my head, that wealth comes in many forms and that helping other people achieve simple financial hope may well be the highest form of philanthropy.
As I wandered the badly worn, hole-ridden cobblestone streets of Ajijic and saw the poverty that allows many residents to live in little more than shanties, I was ashamed. I was ashamed to be looking for something cheap enough to let me retire early to a life of relative ease and affluence. When I saw the rib-cages of starving dogs and the dusty streets and the children satisfied with playing with discarded, broken toys, I wondered just where my humanity has been of late.
Stopping to view a relatively modest house (for the area), I was struck how very far above what most Mexicans in these little villages on Lake Chapala can afford this little house was. I saw ancient pickup trucks and long-dead Datsuns that had been brought back to life not because the vehicles were particularly appealing, but because they were all their owners could hope to afford. People who clean homes or build streets, or sweep them, at least have income from their efforts, though their incomes are miniscule compared to incomes of most of the people they serve.
I stopped at a roadside taco stand, where a man was cooking barbacoa tacos on a gas-powered stainless steel griddle. To this man and his family, I suspect that job and that tiny little building were fine. But I look around at the galleries and the fine restaurants and the magnificent homes in this Mexican paradise community and I see people like me, people for whom wealth is never enough.
After I returned from my little sojourn with family members, I decided to read a piece that an old friend had blogged about recently, as it dealt with some of the obscenities of being fixated on wealth. What I saw was that, but something more. His words propelled some of those thoughts that conspired to challenge my humanity. He wrote an item entitled, The Good News? You're Rich. The Bad News? Never Rich Enough. It would pay dividends to pay heed to another piece he wrote, the one I initially intended to read.
I am not suggesting that all the wealthy people in the villages surrounding this paradise give all their money to the poor. I'm suggesting, instead, that they keep the poor in mind when they are spending their wealth and they keep the poor in mind when they are looking at the next big purchase that will demonstrate to their wealthy friends that they have excellent taste.
I wonder how many people here have considered offering micro-loans to people in this area for whom banks are out of reach, but for whom hard work and integrity are values that are unwaivering? I wonder if I would have the strength of character, were I to move here, to give up some of my wealth to help others achieve a fraction of what I have come to take for granted?
I won't stop wanting money, I suppose, and the freedom it promises. But maybe one day I will come to embrace, in my heart as much as in my head, that wealth comes in many forms and that helping other people achieve simple financial hope may well be the highest form of philanthropy.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Has anyone ever died of old eggs?
Yesterday, I made breakfast for those members of my family who had gathered in Mexico for the holidays. There were just four of yesterday...a brother, a sister, my wife, and me. I opened the refrigerator and took out the eggs we had found when we arrived (the house belongs to another brother and his wife, who had not yet returned form their own holiday trip). There were tree "old" eggs and a new carton we purchased the day before. I did not know how old the "old" eggs were, but decided they were probably still good. I used them, along with several that we had just bought.
After breakfast, I mentioned that I had used the "old" eggs. Someone said "you didn't tell us that!" It went on. "Are you trying to poison us?" Someone said, "the ones we leave behind will be told we died of old eggs." I just had to get that down so I can remember it when the time is right!
After breakfast, I mentioned that I had used the "old" eggs. Someone said "you didn't tell us that!" It went on. "Are you trying to poison us?" Someone said, "the ones we leave behind will be told we died of old eggs." I just had to get that down so I can remember it when the time is right!
Molly Ivins
There are some people I respect greatly, even when I consider their viewpoints wrong-headed and narrow. That's rarely the case with Molly Ivins. But, there are times when she and I have utterly different points of view and when our opinions seem to have taken wildly divergent paths. One of the reasons I respect her so much is that she is unafraid to speak her mind, no matter what the consequences and who she might offend. What is remarkable about that is not her obstinance, but the reason for it. She cares about freedom of expression and she expresses alarm when instruments of power...government, corporations, military units, whoever...are trending toward oppression. She is someone to admire and, as you will see here, others feel the same.
On the Lake
My siblings and my wife and I have been enjoying a relaxing time near Lake Chapala in Mexico, just a bit south of Guadalajara. We wandered around yesterday, driving into Jacotopec and then back, stopping for lunch at Las Ojas, a restaurant we visited last year for a dinner of red snapper. Lunch consisted of guacamole, marlin tacos, quesadillas, and chips & salsa. We were still stuffed from a large breakfast that I made earlier...bacon and eggs that I scrambled with tomatoes, jalapenos, onions, spices, and other odds & ends. We stopped in at an open house...large place with lots of yard and wonderful layout...just $358,000. I'm in the mood to buy, but my budget would be about one fifth that amount, so I may have to settle for an occasional visit.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Night Fishing
Steve and Rod and Mark were playing in the murky surf, throwing rocks at one another. Steve and Rod had carted "throwing" rocks out into the water in the lower front portions of their t-shirts, stretched out to form sacks that were ideal storage for rocks and anything else they cared to carry into the water. Mark had taken an oar with him into the water, rather than rocks, and he used it both as a means of defense against the rocks lobbed his way by the other two boys and as a bat, attempting to swat the rocks back at either Steve or Rod...whoever had thrown them at him. One of Rod's larger rocks, thrown with significant force, was met by the swing of Mark's oar; the oar, too, was swung with force. The collision of rock and wood created a fiercely loud "crack!" that caught everyone's attention. Even John, who had stayed on the beach to collect driftwood for the fire, heard it and looked up from his drudgery to see whether something bad had happened in the surf.
The oar snapped in two pieces, the wood split from top to bottom, right through the center. Mark yelped, as he was genuinely startled, then screamed out in mock outrage, "You broke my fuckin' oar, you asshole! This is WAR!" Mark's declaration, followed by his lunge toward his attackers, was met with a frenzy of rock-throwing and screeches and verbal assaults. The water in the cove became a boiling, bubbling froth as the three of them executed the war. Occasionally, a rock would strike Mark's arm or shoulder and he would yelp in pain and then dive under water to retrieve the offending weapon to use it against his attackers.
A sharp rock struck Mark just above his right eye, causing a much-louder-than-usual scream and an eruption of blood running down his right cheek. While it looked worse than it actually was, the appearance of a large volume of blood, Mark's pain, and the fear that the blood dripping into the water could attract sharks brought the war to an end. The three of them went to the shore and dragged themselves out of the water and onto the mixture of broken seashells and sand and gravel and lumps of buckskin-colored clay blobs that served as a beach.
John had seen the blood on Mark's face almost immediately after the rock struck him, but he knew it was nothing serious because the other boys did not react the way they would have had it been serious. They would have panicked and screamed for John to go for help; since they didn't, he knew the damage was slight. Anyway, he was busy. He had to finish gathering enough wood to start and maintain a good fire that would last all night.
It would be sundown within a hour or so and there was much to do. Aside from collecting the wood and building a fire, they had to fashion a framework for the tarps that would serve as a tent, sneak back to Steve's house to recover the cooler full of beer that he had hidden in his backyard, and prepare a dinner of bacon, eggs, salt & pepper. John would prepare the meal in a cast-iron skillet that sat atop a rusty metal grate that had been left on the beach long ago, probably by another clan who fancied themselves adventurers.
Their little beach was only four or five blocks from John's house and just below a major bayside boulevard, but it was very private. The street was a good thirty feet above them, at the top of the 'cliffs' of clay and sand and palm trees and clumps of oleanders shielded the beach from view and provided a sound barrier. The cove was further protected, on the water side, by a series of three straight rows of broken concrete jetties that jutted out into the bay about fifty yards each. Typically, the water between the rows of concrete jetties was as calm and serene as a pond. The larger bay was relatively calm for the most part, as well, since its connection to the Gulf of Mexico was miles away.
To be continued...
The oar snapped in two pieces, the wood split from top to bottom, right through the center. Mark yelped, as he was genuinely startled, then screamed out in mock outrage, "You broke my fuckin' oar, you asshole! This is WAR!" Mark's declaration, followed by his lunge toward his attackers, was met with a frenzy of rock-throwing and screeches and verbal assaults. The water in the cove became a boiling, bubbling froth as the three of them executed the war. Occasionally, a rock would strike Mark's arm or shoulder and he would yelp in pain and then dive under water to retrieve the offending weapon to use it against his attackers.
A sharp rock struck Mark just above his right eye, causing a much-louder-than-usual scream and an eruption of blood running down his right cheek. While it looked worse than it actually was, the appearance of a large volume of blood, Mark's pain, and the fear that the blood dripping into the water could attract sharks brought the war to an end. The three of them went to the shore and dragged themselves out of the water and onto the mixture of broken seashells and sand and gravel and lumps of buckskin-colored clay blobs that served as a beach.
John had seen the blood on Mark's face almost immediately after the rock struck him, but he knew it was nothing serious because the other boys did not react the way they would have had it been serious. They would have panicked and screamed for John to go for help; since they didn't, he knew the damage was slight. Anyway, he was busy. He had to finish gathering enough wood to start and maintain a good fire that would last all night.
It would be sundown within a hour or so and there was much to do. Aside from collecting the wood and building a fire, they had to fashion a framework for the tarps that would serve as a tent, sneak back to Steve's house to recover the cooler full of beer that he had hidden in his backyard, and prepare a dinner of bacon, eggs, salt & pepper. John would prepare the meal in a cast-iron skillet that sat atop a rusty metal grate that had been left on the beach long ago, probably by another clan who fancied themselves adventurers.
Their little beach was only four or five blocks from John's house and just below a major bayside boulevard, but it was very private. The street was a good thirty feet above them, at the top of the 'cliffs' of clay and sand and palm trees and clumps of oleanders shielded the beach from view and provided a sound barrier. The cove was further protected, on the water side, by a series of three straight rows of broken concrete jetties that jutted out into the bay about fifty yards each. Typically, the water between the rows of concrete jetties was as calm and serene as a pond. The larger bay was relatively calm for the most part, as well, since its connection to the Gulf of Mexico was miles away.
To be continued...
Friday, December 22, 2006
Ricochet of Thoughts
As usual, the staff was restless today and expected, I suspect, that I would shut the office around noon. They dropped hints all morning. Considering that I close the office for an entire week, you'd think that would be enough, but apparently it is not. Because of the workload and all that I had to get accomplished before the holidays, I kept most of the staff at the office until about 4:00 pm, a pretty severe thing to do, judging from the reactions I got. The bills must be paid.
One of my blogger friends asked whether Leonard Cohen's Tacoma Trailer instrumental piece is, like, a house trailer in Tacoma? I don't know. I've always wondered whether that was it or whether it refers to a trailer...as in movie trailer. If Leonard were sitting next to me, I'd ask. The music touches me for reasons unknown...I suppose I would characterize it as music that conveys a sense of loneliness, sadness, loss...something like that.
I'm chomping at the bit to be kicking back in Mexico. That's an odd feeling, it is; anxious and on edge in anticipation of relaxation. It will be interesting to go to a place where daytime highs are in the neighborhood of 75 degrees, while nighttime lows get down to below 30 degrees.
We'll spend one week in Mexico and then come back with an agenda to quickly straighten the office so we can welcome the search committee of a prospective client into our office just two days later. It would be a significant piece of business, but I've stopped counting chickens...they too often are hit by semis as they cross the road.
I watched an interesting little piece on PBS news tonight. It was about Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Suzan-Lori Parks' project to write a play a day for a year. Now, they plays are being enacted inside and outside theaters all over the U.S. I couldn't find a link to the item I saw, but here's a link to an interesting piece about her project.
Today is my nephew's birthday. I called him during his celebratory birthday dinner with his wife, his sister and her husband, and my sister. Sounded like they were having a good time at a dumpling house.
One of my blogger friends asked whether Leonard Cohen's Tacoma Trailer instrumental piece is, like, a house trailer in Tacoma? I don't know. I've always wondered whether that was it or whether it refers to a trailer...as in movie trailer. If Leonard were sitting next to me, I'd ask. The music touches me for reasons unknown...I suppose I would characterize it as music that conveys a sense of loneliness, sadness, loss...something like that.
I'm chomping at the bit to be kicking back in Mexico. That's an odd feeling, it is; anxious and on edge in anticipation of relaxation. It will be interesting to go to a place where daytime highs are in the neighborhood of 75 degrees, while nighttime lows get down to below 30 degrees.
We'll spend one week in Mexico and then come back with an agenda to quickly straighten the office so we can welcome the search committee of a prospective client into our office just two days later. It would be a significant piece of business, but I've stopped counting chickens...they too often are hit by semis as they cross the road.
I watched an interesting little piece on PBS news tonight. It was about Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Suzan-Lori Parks' project to write a play a day for a year. Now, they plays are being enacted inside and outside theaters all over the U.S. I couldn't find a link to the item I saw, but here's a link to an interesting piece about her project.
Today is my nephew's birthday. I called him during his celebratory birthday dinner with his wife, his sister and her husband, and my sister. Sounded like they were having a good time at a dumpling house.