Influence the Space

The Townie

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 23:29:00 +0000

Don't get me wrong. I can admire Ben Affleck's unshaven face like the next guy. I don't mind watching him walk the streets in his assortment of hoodies, brooding beneath his five o'clock shadow. If I did mind, or if you mind, forget "The Town," because Affleck's character Doug does this a lot. He hoofs about Charlestown Massachusetts looking good and feeling conflicted, all while wearing the de rigueur outfit of his fellow townies, though his, like his temperament, is comprised of more refined stuff, less outright sports apparel and more post-adolescent menswear, the kind he might don on a date to a fancy restaurant with, I don't know, a pretty assistant bank manager he robbed?

See, Doug's different. He's different than Other Guys, but he's also different from the guys he grew up with, too, the guys he's still hanging out and robbing banks with. He's also different than his bank-robbing father, and all the other criminals who call Charlestown home. Because Charlestown's legacy, it turns out, its claim to infamy—about which we learn in the film's opening credits—is thieving. Armed- and bank- robbery, to be specific, has a disproportional preponderance of occurring in, of all places, Charlestown, Massachusetts—aka The Town. Doug's a handsome-ass man, he's a criminal by birthright, and he's different. He's a nice bank robber. He doesn't want to hurt anybody.

In the opening scene, upon which the story pivots, it's nice bank robber Doug who tells the assistant bank manager in his nice take-your-time voice to take her time, as she trembles over the safe's combination while he and his posse wield semi-automatic weaponry over her head. See, Doug cares. He robs banks because, well, that's all he knows. If you're a kid like Doug, raised up in The Town, you rob banks. It's in the blood, like mining coal in West Virginia. We should understand Doug. Sensitive, conflicted bank robber, we're on your side!

And, Doug looks good. Did I mention that? He may not be mean, but he's lean. He demonstrates why in a scene in which we witness his brisk push-ups and pull-ups, à la Clubber Lang. Bank robber is ripped! Affleck also directs, and I always wonder. How are such vanity scenes actually shot? Okay, boys, I’m going to get up on the pull-up bar now and start cranking 'em out. Make sure to get in low, and get me from the crotch up. That's when I really look ripped! Make sure to highlight my lower abs, and don't make me have to shoot me again, these moves are hard. Lights!

Two nights later, I stumbled upon "Heat" with Robert De Niro, and thank god I did. Only then did I realize: "The Town" is a legacy piece on another level. It's an homage, another Hollywood vehicle where the savviest, most professional of all men are really criminals. And what do they really want? What we all really want, the love of a good woman. Duh! So profound is this need, for thief or honest man, we are asked to overlook what these men do for a living. Forget that they scare the bejeezus out of people, threaten, kill and steal from them. Forget that! They're handsome, dammit, and they need love. Where's your compassion?

In "The Town," Doug's feisty bank robber best friend (a menacing Jeremy Renner) gets wild (someone always does) during the robbery and in so doing decides he must take a hostage. You guessed right, it's the foxy assistant bank manager (Rebecca Hall) that Doug fell in love with as he coaxed her into dialing up the numbers of the bank vault without soiling her pretty panties. The gang lets her go, unharmed and unmolested, but soon discovers she lives too close to the gang's 'hood, and is therefore a Big Problem. Bad Bank Robber wants to kill her; Nice Bank Robber says he'll handle it. This is movie code for: I will now spend the rest of the film charming her into scratching my back tattoos during coitus.

Which begs the question: how big is Charlestown Massachusetts, anyway? This babe poses a should-be-killed problem because she lives nearby, but what about everybody else who keeps getting robbed in The Town? Who would keep living there, for crying out loud? It's raining thieves! And why do these savvy bank robbers keep robbing (for decorum's sake, I won't use another phrase) in their own backyards? I know one thing, if I lived in Charlestown, I'd do my banking in Mystic River. They got other issues, but my money would be safe.

The current trend of romantic efflorescence between participants in which one is hiding something from the other continues in "The Town," an engaging trope. The audience is smug knowing what the heroine doesn't about Doug. The key problem is why would this hot, virtuous woman fall so quickly for this dude, his handsomeness and hoody collection notwithstanding? He's not shy about guarding something from his past, and, doesn't she realize she lives in a town full of bank robbers?

Nevertheless, she falls hard enough for Nice Criminal Doug that even though he betrays her, she still holds a candle for that inexplicable love (was it the tats?), a tiny flame that gives her no trouble whatever in accepting the stolen money he leaves her after skipping town. I don't mean to be a stickler (okay, sure I do), but wasn't she once an assistant bank manager prepared to die defending its greenbacks?

In the end (spoiler alert?), we see handsome Ben, like Bobby De Niro before him, free but alone, gazing out over a melancholic vista. Don't we feel for him? Bank robbers are people too, you know.

Soundtrack For A Revolution

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 20:27:00 +0000

No, I didn't want to write about "The Bachelor." But I did. Then, I watched some "American Idol."

This flavor of reality show would be equally intolerable except that many of the contestants are downright regular-normal, as my mother might say. Watching the auditions, which, I admit, I did last season as well, is a treat, truly, because the power of music, specifically song, trumps whatever TV hooha surrounds it. And despite the bizarre rudeness sometimes displayed by the judges--getting up from the table for a break while a final judgment is taking place, while the nervous kid still stands there, a golden ticket receiver, no less?--even they are often palatable, to a degree, as when "Evil" Simon (man is he riding that to the bank) says something like "I like you too, I like your energy," or Randy squawks a "Broham!" or the women, in this case Cara (who is she anyway?) and Anorexia Spice, I mean Victoria Beckam, veritably swoon. Song, and singing, can be like that. A kid gets up in front of you and out of that sweet face comes a songbird soul that can move the unmovable. It's the power, the essence of art. As I've said before, it's the only thing that really separates us from the other animals. A painting, for example, can move you, make you feel, and a song, well, songs can go straight into that emotional core wherein all the best things of humanity live. Not even weirdo American TV practices can mess that up. At least, not too badly. Those American Idol judges, they don't realize how good they've got it. Go ahead and roll your eyes, Evil Simon, but you get the opportunity, king-like, to sit on your arse and have an eager flock perform for you. And I'm here to tell you, many of those pure offerings, no matter how few, are pure gold. I'd love that gig. For shiz.

But no! I didn't really want to write about all that, the above (and the previous post) notwithstanding. But music, yes, that's something to write about. Rather than write about the irksome, let's Influence this Space with what inspires. And that's something else I saw last week, a documentary film called "Soundtrack For A Revolution."

A friend named Dylan Nelson is one of the producers and she invited me to a screening at the Embarcadero theatre. Attentive, diverse crowd in attendance, along with both directors and other producers, including executive producer Danny Glover, who joined them all up front afterward for Q and A, made for just the sort of *special screening* I like. Message to the world: invite me! I'm your champion. (For things I like and support, that is.)

The film's about the civil rights movement, a topic not undocumented, and I must admit I wasn't overly excited, at first, by the subject matter. I've been fortunate in my life, because of where I'm from and my age, to learn a lot about this time period and its impact on our American lives. I was intrigued, however, by the music. Both aspects, the topic and the music, happily, were well presented and inspiring. When the film was over, I realized there can be no limit to the retelling of the civil rights movement's story. Especially, when done so well. It's a story, indeed, that must be retold, again and again, so it's legacy is always fresh in our minds.

And the music. The central theme of this retelling is that the music was a sustaining, if not the sustaining force in all the actions the protesters, freedom fighters, etc. participated in. When they needed strength, they sang. When they needed a group to pull together, to finish a meeting in solidarity, they sang. When they were happy, when they were afraid, they sang. Song, therefore, was fundamental to liberation. To revolution. Soundtrack For A Revolution.

As part of this film, the creators asked musicians like John Legend, Mary Mary, Blind Boys Of Alabama, Wyclef Jean, and others, to perform, at intervals throughout, a version of one of these important songs. The result, in addition to the footage, new and familiar, and the strong interviews, adds an essential element to the otherwise familiar story. What a treat to watch these musicians, in private studio sessions, perform. Their songs reveal this quality of the human soul, and we feel the power. A power we can use to rise above obstacles as mean as racial oppression.

The film also did something I haven't seen in previous films, for example "Eyes On The Prize." Along with new footage of MLK, Jr. that I appreciated, it showed the wide range of people involved in the movement, old and young, black and white. It was moving to see the solidarity that existed among people of all colors who considered this issue, as we all should, a "no-brainer," as one of the producers, a participant in the movement more than forty years ago, and white, called it. He said he hasn't before, or since, had such a clear understanding of something he would give his life for. A cause worth dying for. MLK, Jr. preached about how fundamental that concept is to understanding the value of life, to know what you'd offer yours for.

The battles of the civil rights movement were being fought only forty years ago. And, despite the larger victories, MLK, Jr. was killed, as were so many others. We can never forget, especially the fact that this is something--human equality--that had to be fought for in America, where all men (and women) are, supposedly, created equal. Remember. And, remember that it took faces of all colors, many of them blended, to, these forty years later, elect a President with a black African father and a white American mother. There is no overstating this triumph, this significant moment, just as there can never be too much said, written and remembered about the heroes of the civil rights movement. Thank you for what you did for all of us. Thanks for the Soundtrack.

First, On "The Bachelor"

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 22:15:00 +0000

I break the (typical) silence with a screed about "The Bachelor." Read at your own risk.

Despite my occasional interest in the reality TV phenomenon, a confession made easier when a friend described it that way, a phenomenon, at once acknowledging the absurdity and offering a less guilty rationale for watching, I still, like any thinking person, find it pathetic. Especially examples like "The Bachelor."

Ah, the myriad sources of writing inspiration.

In short, some boob named Jake, a pilot, a fact which seems to render everybody semi-gaga, as if, as a pilot (no way!), he flies to Caribbean islands and lives a life of glamour, (reality show reality check: pilots fly other people to these places), is the next contestant trying to find "true" love and a wife from among twenty-five TV producer selections. This Jake, with his toned abdominal muscles that we, the lucky American audience, were treated to, soft porn style, as he showered before meeting the phenomenal harem of mostly good-looking, quasi-interesting women, is a well-meaning pussy.

The concept of "The Bachelor" would be more fun if they didn't make such a big deal out of the "true" love element. Everybody, and I mean everybody, particularly this pilot named Jake, gets watery-eyed when they talk about their reasons for being on the show, how they're "ready for love" and copious amounts of other hooey. The irony, per usual, seems to be lost on everybody. Sure, the possibility exists that, given such an opportunity, a love connection (where are you, Chuck Woolery) could happen. Indeed, in a way, we all go through our twenty-five, or five, or whatever number, interviewing, if you will, for something more. My skills would've gone up markedly if some of those "interviews," TV Bachelor style, were on all-expense paid set-up dates to exotic locales. It's just those darn cameras. Could you turn that off for a second while I discover my life partner?

How can these people really believe anything close to love can happen under these circumstances? The answer is: they can't. It's a farce. Oh, you already knew that? Sorry. Unless, that is, they're delusional. And some of these people, including Jake, seem a bit, um, sweet. As in, people who might not truck with irony.

This was evidenced by Jake, handsome though he is, genuine though he seems to be, voting off, or, as the case may be, not giving a rose to the one woman who actually seemed like a real, composed (and beautiful) person. All the rest, specifically the ones he did give roses to, seemed either ditzy or shadowy or way too young or, as in the case of one "contestant," not even there for Jake but for any staffer who wanted to have a good time. In fact, she's the most real of them all, because she's hip to the gimmickry and decided to get her hump on while at the same time flirting with a good-looking pilot (wow!) on TV at a pimp mansion in L.A. with twenty-four other women. Get some, Rozlyn! This "jezebel," who had already received one of Jake's roses, was asked to leave the house, and the show, immediately for her transgressions by host Chris Harrison, another serious boob, with repugnant gravity. His dour overtures regarding misconduct and the fact that this had "never happened before in the history of the show," were silly.

How do people swallow so much baloney? Even if it is "reality TV" masquerading as "sincerity TV"? America: still an Oscar Mayer society.

Still, I'd take a crack at twenty-five women claiming, however disingenuously, to want to fall in love and marry me. What a fantasy show! Where's Mr. Roarke?

Glenn Beck

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 22:46:00 +0000

This fool. (See picture in previous post, with tongue.) I've never seen his Fox News show, and I'm not familiar with his antics, or even him. But I read about something he said that was so inane, so ridiculous that I had to take a photograph of the text, and even engage in petty larceny.

This fool got me so pissed, he and he alone is responsible for holding up the Influence for these many weeks. And for that, I hurt. And I apologize. Seems his brand of livelihood, his "Extreme talk," is so effective he can even keep people from criticizing him because, well, we're so mad. How ironic! Anger's supposedly his bag. He employs the "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore" philosophy, the exact one I'd like to invoke when considering him. Am I stooping to his level when I say: Asshole?

Here's what he said: Obama "has a deep-seated hatred for white people." What? But here's what really takes the cake. He adds that this doesn't mean he actually thinks "Obama doesn't like white people."

What kind of bullshit doublespeak is that?

Supposedly, according to this Time article (Sept 28, 2009), which, I admit, I pilfered from the hospital waiting room where I discovered it, Beck often says, "I'm afraid. You should be afraid too."

You know who we should be afraid of? Him! Fox News! That's probably the most irksome aspect of any of this Fox News stuff, of the Limbaughs, the Becks--you know, the assholes--their penchant for telling us to be afraid. We should be afraid of them!

Please forgive this apostrophe-laden rant which, I realize, will not be the most elegant piece of writing as a consequence. But at least I'm getting to it because I've been stewing for weeks and I felt I couldn't post anything new until I dealt with this Beck Situation. So. I'm doing it. Now I can move on!

Thank God for Stephen King, quoted in the article for calling Beck "Satan's mentally challenged younger brother."

See, I just don't get it. These powerful talking heads say they have America at heart, and Americans in their best interests, but I don't see it. What I see is them fomenting vitriol (there's a potent word combo) and making money--LOTS of money--while taking ZERO responsibility for what they're doing to America, which is fucking it up. Sorry, but that's the best way I can think to phrase it. Fucking it up by doing one thing, and then claiming to be doing another. That is, saying they're on the side of "ordinary hard-working Americans" when, in fact, they're only on one side, and that one side is: their own. They don't care that there are people out there who listen to their programs--Glenn Beck supposedly has 3 million viewers--who are now considering this fallacious slander that Obama doesn't like white people. Wait. Scratch that. He likes white people, but he has a "deep-seated hatred" for them. What crap.

This issue is sensitive to me--and I think it should be to everyone, really--because I know people who watch Fox News. And I want to talk with these people, I want to have a meeting of the minds, to the extent we can, and I want, in my heart of hearts, for people in the country to really talk about their varying ideas. But the fomenting bullshit proffered by Beck, and Limbaugh, and that other asshole I've yet to mention, Sean Hannity, does NOTHING but divide us. I cannot believe how we perpetuate division in this country!

The Republicans are so resolute in their present obstructionist ways, the congress can make no progress about anything right now, namely healthcare. But why? Embarrassment over the Bush years? At the end of the day, the evaluation that must be made about George W. Bush and his administration is clear: terrible. This isn't up for debate, really. If a sports team plays poorly, even if it's your team, at some point you have to admit: we're bad. So why are Republicans doing what they're doing, as if to "get" Obama for winning the election? It's stupid, and it's unproductive. What they should get is better. Period. Contrary to popular belief (and U.S. history?) politics is not a game. Though maybe it should be, if that meant people would play fairly. Hell, even intelligently.

I am interested in their viewpoints. (Republicans' that is, not Fox News'.) I am. Like a good liberal, I'm not afraid to say that I'm interested in all opinions. For, I realize, this doesn't make me any less patriotic or loyal to my "party," or my religion, or anything! But when people do things just to get a reaction, just to make some money, like Glenn Beck (who, by the way, apparently cries often on camera because he loves America so hard), it's wrong. It's actually creating the very thing they're telling us to worry about. The hypocrisy kills me. In any other context, I'd bust out my Uncle Walt and talk about containing multitudes at this point, but in this case, I can't.

Ok, there. I got it out. Now I can move on. To my loyal Influencers, I leave my customary apology to the end. Serious mea culpa for neglecting the Influence for so long, as I too frequently do. Grad school writing and baby having notwithstanding, I'm remiss in my duties. Thanks for your forbearance.

Fools (cont.)

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 02:31:00 +0000

I'm still trying to get text to follow...

Who Are These Fools?

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 23:02:00 +0000

Another remote test

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 20:49:00 +0000

Still trying...

Feel it

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 07:05:00 +0000

Both photos had captions. When we solve that, we're in business.

Sent from my iPhone

Dos Hombes

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 07:01:00 +0000

Testing 123

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 06:57:00 +0000

Harvest Moon - Cal v. Usc - October 3rd, 2009

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 02:33:00 +0000

(Still hopeful, good cheer felt by all as we approach the north gate of Memorial Stadium.)

By the time the harvest moon appeared over Strawberry Canyon, the indomitable Trojans of USC, with their irksome fans, had victory in hand. Actually, they’d had it in both hands for about three hours. The harvest moon, the same one my astrology-minded friends claimed carried with it the potential for new possibilities, augured, upon its rising, not much new for the Bears. How Berkeley of me, listening to the astrologers. Maybe I should’ve knelt down and praised Jesus like practically the entire Trojan team did pre-game, en masse, in our north end zone. I’m all for praying, mind you; in fact, I added a little something in my own about the Bears, despite my firm belief that it’s poor form to ask God, or any Higher Power for that matter, for good favor in a football game. Pray for the health of your children? Indeed. Pray for touchdowns? Well, with this Cal team, I might have to modify my principles. Zero touchdowns in eight quarters. A happy fan, this does not make.

It’s probably my fault. It wasn’t my choice of boxers, or T-shirt, I don’t think, and unlike the Oregon game, I remained sanguine and positive—but not too positive—straight up to kick off. And even after kick off, when, for two or three whole minutes, it looked like the Bears might score a touchdown, the first in five quarters. Boy, were we ready to let the ‘SC fans seated behind us have it, with their snooty, high-voiced chatter, already in full swing before the game started. “We are so good,” one said to the other. “Kick it into the end zone!” the other squawked. “We should go down and dominate them.”

The worst part is, they did just that. After intercepting our 3rd down pass in the end zone, when we were less than 10 yards from scoring, a soul-crushing twist of fate which allowed the collective voices of Troy to shout us down, they took the ball from our twenty all the way down, and into, the south end zone. Wait. A whistle had blown the runner down before scoring. The officials reviewed. “Oh,” said the ‘SC fan behind us, “that was totally in. No way his knee was down.” He said this, sitting where we sat, which was at the exact opposite side of the stadium. The play happened at the southwest corner; we sat at the northeast end.

This was too much for Jeff. I was already worried about him, as if the gods, these cruel, merciless gods that enjoy only to punish Bear fans, and him most of all, had seated us directly in front of this ‘SC fan in a classic test of wills, of good versus evil.

“You can see that from over here, huh?” said Jeff, seething with sarcasm.

“You don’t know me,” said the ‘SC fan, sounding like fighting words until he added, “I know the calls. I can see the field remarkably well.” He tittered with his friend. “You’ll see.”

Jeff remained facing forward, pulling hard on an imaginary tag of skin on his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger. I hoped he didn’t keel over from apoplexy.

“After review,” announced the referee, “the ruling on the field is reversed. The runner’s knee was not down. Touchdown.” It was going to be another one of those days.

Soon, when it was 17-0, this ‘SC fan, still chattering constantly, had modified his tone and now included such concessions as “that was a nice play,” or “ooh, we should watch out for that.” A tone, I might add, that would’ve been appreciated, from a visitor at our stadium, to begin with. But who decides rules of decorum in fandom? Believe you me, Jeff was filled with internal conflict about how rankled he was at this trickster sent by the gods to torment him. I know him too well. He didn’t want to react to coyote, but coyote is tricky. He cajoles. He needles. He says: “I’m in real estate investments,” as only an ‘SC coyote can, with that air of pomposity that’s so…so…Stanford.

The footballs gods said: Jeff, have you learned from years past that by letting such a quintessential ‘SC fan get under your skin you are again setting yourself up for failure?

O ye gods. It’s just so damn hard.

("Rub their noses in it," said the above 'SC fan, disappointed that Barkley took a knee with :47 to go.)

It was also probably my fault because earlier in the day, while I was happily doing chores and preparing myself for the game, bargaining with the Universe all the while, feeling into the experience, testing to see if I could tell if I’d be walking back in the door a victor, or the somber recipient of yet another loss, I’d resigned myself to no pre-game drinking. No, I thought, I should abstain in order to preserve the victory. By remaining sober, I’ll be better able to remain equanimous, and therefore less susceptible to the vagaries of the game. Won’t lose my cool. No ‘SC trickster fans are gonna get me. But also, in a kind of religious guilt context, I worried, even believed, that rectitude could be my Golden Bear salvation. By partying before the game, weren’t we just indulging for no reason, celebrating before there was anything to celebrate?

Then there’s Joey, in the Howard Room of the Faculty Club, who spots me in conversation, noticeably without a beer in hand. In an instant, he properly assesses my vulnerability. “What do you need,” he says, in that clear way which says he’s buying. “Oh,” I reply, suddenly aware of how good the beers look, that I’ve been contemplating one for quite some time now. “How about a shot of tequila and beer?” he says. Now I’m with him at the bar. “Well--” “C’mon, fire you up a little bit.” I say sure. “Two tequila shots and two Coronas,” says Joey. The bartender pours the white alcohol into squat clear-plastic cups. “Here,” says Joey, “do a double shot. I’ve already had too much. You need it.” The bartender pours one into the other. My mind reels, racing hard to arrive at self-permission for this backtrack on plans. Now I’m seeing the shot-and-a-beer as proper take-the-edge-off, don’t-be-superstitious fan behavior. It would be silly to refuse, is what my mind arrives at. Though I know, only too well, that to get drunk, and then lose, is one of the worst things going. Not only are you saddled with the gloom of defeat, but you’re self-defeated as well, filled with existential dread, questioning such profligate behavior.

I swig down the double shot, and suck a lime. Joey winks with approval. Maybe I did it to us, Bears.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re all outside throwing the football, a good leather college model with white stripes. It’s Matt and his fifteen year-old son Drew and I, it’s Paul, it’s Jeff and Dini and Joey and we’re excited. We’re attempting circumspection, while also trying to indulge our deeper hopes that we’ll finally prevail. The vibe is so jocular, so filled with bonhomie, it’s obvious that this is really what we enjoy, being together on a football Saturday, getting ready to watch our Bears play football. And that is what’s most important. Paul collaring us in a huddle and exclaiming, as he always does, that he loves us. It fills us, as it always does, with joy and fondness and brotherhood.

And still, we don’t want it to be only this. We want to feel this, as we have, for years, years when we had no business being hopeful. But now, when we believe, (though as I write, the reasons seem just as specious as before), we want to think we actually might win. That we’re finally ready to leave behind our reputation as a team prone to terrible letdown, for one that is actually, honest-to-goodness good, and worthy of a “rivalry” with a team like USC.

And we got to enjoy the fantasy for two or three whole minutes, before the Trojans played us like a big brother. A five-years-older big brother, the one that’s getting a little tired of you trying to do what you obviously cannot yet do, and are annoying him for being blind to reality, still swinging those silly little fists.

There I was, again with some Mercers, as I was two years ago for USC at Memorial. That game, in 2007, was played in a driving, cold rain and the Bears wore Joe Roth throwback jerseys, and we all held the hope that the ghost of #12 might materialize in the hallowed Strawberry Canyon environs and save a season teetering on the brink of disaster. Nope. Even Joanne Mercer was there in that rain, all game, hopeful and then disappointed and soaked. Boy we do a lot for these Bears.

This time it was just Big E, the patriarch, sweet natured and longer-suffering than all of us, Justin, Jeff and I. When Elliot left with Justin, with only a few minutes to go in a game that had been over after the first quarter, he said to me: “Good luck in the next three weeks. That’s what really matters.” He was referring to the fact that I’ll be a new father in three weeks, more or less.

And again I’m forced to agree. He’s right. More right than we realize. Righter than just the polite thing to say. Maybe, this is what we’re here for. Not really to win, but to hope to win, to at least be in the conversation, to be together at a time when the opportunities to do so are far and few between. What’s most important, is getting together on a Saturday with your college buddies and telling them you love them, to hear about their kids, to spend some time with family and let them know you’re expecting a family of your own. What’s most important is the harvest moon and the gusting winds twisting the flags, the glowing Technicolor sunset over the scoreboard to the west, and the talk of children. Because the Trojans, with their quasi-Fascist persona, the incessant droning of horns, over and over and over, simply have our number, whether we like it or not, whether we agree with their politics, their superstitions, their arrogance and piety and false-modesty, or not. They’ve got our number.

For now. I’ll continue to hold out, you Bears, and though I write of the larger perspective, you gotta come through for us someday. Just don’t let me die before it happens. Could the gods be that cruel?

Go, you maddening sloth (amazingly, the term for a group of) Bears.

Ps: Ishi’s brain has been identified inside a cupboard in Kroeber. Jeff, we must retrieve this and make amends. Only then will the curse be lifted. You were right.

I Must Say

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 19:20:00 +0000

The conclusion I come to when writing these posts is often that we, as people in community and in relationship, must actively conjure a sense of compassion for each other. Funny, how compassion seems to have become a word of the weak, the jargon of the tree-hugger; it appears in the roots of my sentence like an effeminate Buddha, gentle and seemingly powerless. Au contraire.

I write again of compassion today because of one of these pop cultural items that just screams for me to do so. Yes, I'm actually going to write about compassion for Michael Vick.

This morning I watched the "60 Minutes" interview between James Brown (CBS sports' JB) and Vick. I was filled with a sense of understanding. I was filled with--yes, I'll say it--compassion for this man.

Because I love football? No, though I do love the game. Because I always jump on the side of star athletes, thinking they get scrutinized unfairly and made examples of? No, but they do receive an unfair amount of scrutiny. For every one Kenneth Lay, there are twenty Kobe Bryants.

I felt compassion for Michael Vick because I got the sense that there was more to the story. There's always more to the story. Midway through the interview, he talks about his childhood neighborhood and its relationship with dogs. Older men had these fighting dogs, and they were respected, worthy of a kind of admiration. And the dogs? Mere symbols of their ferocity, like an accoutrement. You can see it, can't you? The police were called once and did nothing when they learned that the ruckus was due to dog fighting. Vick says that gave him a distinct understanding.

There are entire communities out there which think dog fighting is acceptable. Does that make it any less odious? No. It means that the problem goes far deeper than Michael Vick. We live in a TV-dominated society that broadcasts, nightly, UFC fights "in the octagon" that pit humans against each other just like dogs. And people act as if this is unimaginable? Sadly, all this proves is that people get more riled up about the mistreatment of animals (and I'm not saying they shouldn't) than they do about the mistreatment of humans. I sometimes watch UFC fights. It's like violence pornography. I couldn't watch a dog fight, or a cock fight, or a bull fight, but people do.

The bloodlust is human. It's real. And in the case of dogs, there are many people out there that have not had a lovely, healthy experience with another person, let alone a dog. In my own experience with the black community in the Bay Area, I've encountered many more folks who regard dogs with trepidation than with calm affection. Why should that be? Because dogs are frequently used as protection, and there isn't a lot of experience otherwise. Imagine if all your experiences with dogs was of gnashing teeth and growling. What would you conclude?

Therefore, and kudos to the Humane Society of America, using Vick as a spokesperson is a great idea. If you don't learn it, how are you supposed to know it? If you've only seen dogs paraded around your neighborhood as fighting trophy beasts, how are you supposed to know the difference? You might even sense the difference, but you don't know or understand it.

But, Michael Vick did know. At a certain point, it becomes obvious. Not to a child, maybe, though children have natural compassion for animals, but to an adult, even a callous adult who has treated dogs this way his whole life. Humans have compassion in the hearts, even when it hasn't been properly nurtured. It would take a great effort to steel your heart time and again watching dogs fight and not see it for its cruelty. They know what's up.

Michael Vick knew it wasn't right. But, he was on top of the world. He had a contract for 130 million dollars. One hundred and thirty million dollars. Just read that again. He was a playboy, a gifted athlete who didn't really need to work at it. So he had that swagger. Not Michael Jordan swagger, where talent meets determination, but the begrudging swagger carried by the guy who doesn't work hard and still comes out on top. Not this time.

Vick surrounded himself with childhood friends, his posse. He was the kid who made it, the boy king. Did anyone see City of God about the favelas of Brazil? The toughest young boy--ruthless, actually--makes it to the top. But after he's there, who really loves him? The story is one of our oldest; it's archetypal.

Yes, I can see it all very clearly. Can't you? In this society? Vick made good. In fact, not just good, he's perhaps the best they've ever seen. He's hip to bringing you all along, his friends, and because of it you all start to feel like you've got a little say, a little piece. Remember that time I beat up that punk around the corner for you? When you were nine and scrawny? But I knew you had them quicks!

Dog fighting is a part of a subculture. If members of that subculture get more influence, then the stakes climb. It's just like any syndicate. More money exchanges hands, more power and influence and prestige becomes available. In the interview, Vick alludes to this. Sure, he enjoyed some of it. Maybe a lot of it. But it looks to me that it got a little out of hand, too. That's how it goes sometimes. He was the "leader," but maybe it was all spinning out of control. Maybe he felt above reproach. There sure are a lot of people in our society who feel similarly.

Can any of us say, or really know, what goes on between people in certain communities? Who has what power, what's owed, what's feared? Why do you suppose millionaire athletes get caught up in weird violence all the time? Because violence is in those communities. I don't mean to oversimplify the matter, but that's the truth. If you go back to your old neighborhood in a Mercedes, you're going to be confronted by the other guys who are just as eager to show you what they've achieved. You're the quarterback? O.K., I'm the musician. I'm the fighter, the dealer, and others. Like the jealous. In my own North Berkeley neighborhood of the early eighties there were punks barely old enough to drive who were dealing weed, starting fights, and acting crazy. That's how it is. That's how some people forever define themselves.

Who knows, maybe your neighborhood didn't have anything like this. Perhaps for this reason it's more difficult to understand, more difficult to find compassion. I guess that's why it's important to write about, because compassion needs to be fueled by understanding, and that comes from learning. Because Vick is a human being and he made mistakes. (Seems this statement is made a lot these days.) We all have. And he seems to have learned a big lesson from his mistakes. Sometimes, that's what it takes, to finally get caught, to finally look at yourself in the mirror and say: fool, you knew that wasn't right. Now look at yourself. After that, you're never the same. A moment of clarity.

Life, as some say God, moves in odd and mysterious ways. If you don't get the wake-up call, what happens? If you do get the wake-up call, you should be allowed to prove it. We all deserve that chance.

You might be thinking: so, does this apply to that Governor of South Carolina Mark Sanford, or that Evangelical preacher Ted Haggard? In principle, yes. But distinctions can be drawn. It's another kind of ballgame when someone actively preaches against something that they themselves are doing. But, that said, there's always more to the story. That's my point. Find out what the truth is, remember to summon compassion, and work from there. If Vick turns out to be an ass (or more of one), well, he's had his chance. But remember: He also went to jail for two years. Mark Sanford, for example, is still in office. Ted Haggard, while disgraced, didn't do any time. There are distinctions, yes. But that's for another day.

The Midsummer Mash, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 16:15:00 +0000

"Somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work. Help me, in saying it, to understand it." -Rainer Maria Rilke

I wanted to tell you about Moab Utah and the Fourth of July. This bit of ancient history might cause your eyes to roll, and if so, I apologize. Bad blogger. Lost audience. No biscuit.

But here it is: I was scolded, or perhaps scoffed at, by a strange, longhaired small-town Ute for saying to him, and his curious family, upon the conclusion of the fireworks we watched from the patio of the bed-and-breakfast (delightful place called Adobe Abode, if you're ever in Moab) we shared: "Happy Fourth of July."

This man, whom Tara and I first glimpsed through a pane of glass in his underwear as he watched us unload our bags from the rental car. Staring at us he was, rubbing his hairy torso, his head-cape of wispy, back-length hair about his shoulders, and in that underwear: a manboy pair of briefs, with thick crossings creating the Byzantine fly.

Perhaps he didn't realize he was visible to us, I thought, scrutinizing the new arrivals from the safety of his room. Perhaps he was European, it somehow occurred to me, of a kind less skittish about their naked boldness. Perhaps, it was a bad sign. I can't say what other kind of sign an underwear clad man watching you from his room would be, but I suppose it doesn't have to be bad one.

So, it follows that this man belonged to a party of three: a young male of ambiguous age, maybe twenty, with a shaved head and early moustache, and a woman, meek and plump, in that oh-so American way, were his companions. The younger man had a slight German accent when he spoke, and the woman, who didn't say much, also returned our pleasantries. The man, however, said nothing. Twice during the weekend I emerged into the common room and, when seeing him in all his hirsute glory, offered a nod, a good morning or a hello and received nothing in return. Though eye contact was made, this man, with a slight nostril exhalation in the manner of farm animals, would turn away and say nothing.

I always find this remarkable. An active, even aggressive, disregard to the most common of salutations. That's not easy to do! With some people, I might've assumed he was terribly shy. But with this man, I sensed it wasn't that.

We arrived on Friday July 3rd. That party of three, and Tara and I, were the only guests at the Adobe Abode all weekend. So on Saturday night, when this "family" joined Tara and I, along with the B&B owner and his lady friend, on the porch for fireworks from the town below, we weren't necessarily enthusiastic. Great, I thought. He comes the creepy S&M couple with their German whipping boy. But, in the manner of B&B relations, we did our best to adjust porch chairs, mutter greetings and welcome them to the viewing. This was, after all, the Great American Fireworks Exhibition symbolizing our break from Britain.

Needless to say, there wasn't much interaction. The arrival of the family snuffed out what was left of the light banter Tara and I had going with the owner and his friend. We concentrated on the town of Moab below, our vantage from this outskirt perch optimal, and waited for fireworks. When they appeared, the occasional "ooh" was offered by one of us, overcome with bonhomie. I believe one such outpouring was offered by the woman of the family.

After the finale's aftermath was given its proper waiting period, I offered, "Good night, all," and stood, indicating it was time for this swell party to break up. But, after a pause, and these people still lingering on that section of porch near our room, I added, "Happy Fourth of July." To which this odd, taciturn longhaired man replied, "You mean: 'Happy Independence Day.' You don't say 'Happy December twenty-five,' do you?" Everyone laughed politely. He chortled.

Inside the room, the echo of his comment bounced around my brain. Was I miffed? Did I care? I considered interactions it reminded me of, times when the silent ones finally pipe up. Often, it's a stoic male revealing his inner monologue, one which, more often than not, appears ugly. The stunting matter-of-factness of insecurity. Men whose reticence might betray a thoughtful soul instead, with their piping up, outs their inner arrogance. I remain quiet while you fools jabber around me. They think they're powerful, but no one recognizes it.

If you cannot tell, I have a problem with men like this. And it's almost always the men. I have a problem with impertinence. Someone who thinks they have a right to "place putting" when no opening, or call for such is necessary. Especially when the intended meaning, one extended to include you, my brother, is of general goodwill. Exactness is not required. Exactness is hardly the point.

But the next morning, Sunday, I was up early watching the finals of Wimbledon. By my early rising, I had wrested control of the TV from this family, which had dominated it all weekend, though each room was equipped with its own. When the family slowly emerged and noticed me, there in their living room watching tennis with the sound off, they were unsure how to proceed.

The young man, who, though shy, had at least returned our hellos and good mornings, was the first to encounter me. We exchanged a nod and he lingered around before finally deciding to sit. We exchanged another nod, and a little conversation. Then the woman came out and milled about, getting ready to leave I suspected, but she wanted to sit a minute, too. Finally the man came out, doing what was now his familiar strut, his head slightly forward of his body, his eyes darting around, his trailing mane of hair imperious as a lead singer's.

At other times, I may have harbored a bad feeling for him, feeling somewhat censured as I did by his comment of the night before. Instead, I just watched him. I've let these guys go. I assumed he didn't mean what he said to be confrontational. Suddenly, he stepped into the space between the coffee table and TV, but not blocking the screen, and he started to talk to me. Two days of no interactions, and now he's asking where I'm from. Go figure.

From this unexpected bit of conversation, I learned these things: it turns out the young man is the longhaired man's son, who has been living in Germany for sixteen years. He is now in the military there. The man and this woman, not the boy's mother, live five hours from Moab in another part of Utah. On numerous occasions they have visited the Adobe Abode, a show of good taste I'm obliged to acknowledge. When they left, Tara and I had the entire place to ourselves for Sunday night, and Monday morning I walked down the opposite wing of the property where they had stayed. There, three nice rooms are found, and I saw that in the room in which this family stayed there was an extra twin bed for the young man. That is, my Tarantino-esque master and servant fantasy was quickly debunked.

In the end, much of the mystery was removed, and the underwear flash was not, after all, a bad omen for our stay. It turned out these folks were just small-town, somewhat awkward people, and our only companions for the July 4th...um, Independence Day weekend.

There are so many people out there. Though my ache for common ground and understanding goes on, unabated, I realize, again and again, that assumptions are dangerous and people are unique. I wish we could always remember that, even after interactions we don't, at first, understand.

Check out this fun picture from our trip!

Off The Wall

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 19:10:00 +0000

Michael Jackson has gone on.

Every so often a celebrity's passing seems particularly significant, and MJ's affected me deeply. One of the first records I ever owned, at nine years old, was "Off The Wall." I loved looking at the album cover, Michael's smile, his eyes. Today I looked at a picture of the Jackson 5 and there those eyes were, peering out from a little boy's face, the youngest one in the middle. His brothers' eyes look alive; Michael's look spirited.

When I listened, I was fascinated by who I thought Michael Jackson was, trying, as we do, to figure out this handsome young singer by his lyrics, his picture, his rhythmic soul. "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" might just be the best first song of any album (as we like to say so much in our culture), ever. It is impossible not to dance when that song drops, as it does in toto, when Michael's "whoo!" erupts. It makes me, to this day, right now, want to emerge upward, out of my skin and into an ether of joy. I want to be light, happy, smiling like he is on the album cover. But then "She's Out Of My Life" was so touching, so sincere, I felt I knew another side of him, like I understood something of his soul. Even my nine year-old ears could hear the suffering, the sincerity. It was mine too.

It was in him. I can see it in his child eyes, and hear it in his voice. I imagine everyone could. We watched this precocious boy evolve, watched him move from child star survivor to defining adolescent to bizarre adulthood. We thought we knew him, and sometimes, maybe we did. Other times, though, he remained a mystery, and as we tried to look for clues to later behavior we didn't understand--his face, his skin color, his antics--he moved further from us. But the music is there.

Thinking on it now, I will miss his quirky, old-style celebrity oddball antics. I remember hearing him say in an interview that, as an artist, he included his body and style among the things he might alter for affect. I thought, why not? Why must we judge him so harshly if this is what he wants to do with himself? It's because we assumed something about his soul, its trouble, that made us deem these eccentricities, well, off the wall. (See: friendship with Elizabeth Taylor.)

"Livin crazy, that's the only way." I wish we lived more by this advice. I wish I lived more by this advice. I already miss Michael Jackson's strangeness because, well, we need strangeness in this world. Yes, we might not understand it, and we might ridicule it, but power to the people who are courageous enough to live in the face of all that scorn and propriety. Power to the eccentrics who can buck trends, buck systems and thereby exist as brave paragons for individuality. For freedom.

Was Michael free? I know he wanted to be. His is a fascinating life precisely because of this: his desire to be free, how we heard and saw moments of its realization, and all the ways in which he wasn't free, trapped in a body, a culture, a history.

I will never forget watching the video for "Thriller," and the hackles-raising excitement I felt listening to Vincent Price's laugh at the end. I will never forget watching Michael Jackson moonwalk on the Motown 25th anniversary telecast, the way everybody--and I mean everybody--was trying to do it at my school the next day, and all the days after. That one dance move was a cultural phenomenon for years. I had a friend who could do it, not poorly like the rest of us, but well, the way it looked like gliding, as if the floor were a conveyor belt, and we'd ask him to do it again and again and again. "C'mon Mike, moonwalk."

The group dances, the "competition" with Prince, the glove, the crotch grab, the mystique. The fucking mystique. Sure, in his last years Michael was pretty hard for any of us to understand. I'd say most of us stopped trying, and fell back into the child star-troubled childhood-celebrity madness understanding. But we did, sometimes, think we knew him, think we understood, and maybe we never really did. His mystery makes his passing more affecting, because there's so much we couldn't know, let alone understand. All I know--and my heart registered a poignant thud when I learned of his death--is he played a big part in my life, especially my childhood. His music still makes me happy, and it makes me want to dance.

Michael Jackson's passing made me aware of my own mortality. Not just to think of it, but to feel it. I realize that's why certain deaths, celebrity or otherwise, are affecting: We are here together only for so long.

Michael: I don't know what your life was really like, but man, you sure influenced my space. Thank you, Michael Jackson. Rest easy, dancer. You're free.

***

Off The Wall
(Written and composed by Rod Temperton, 1979, whom I'd also like to thank.)

When the world is on your shoulder
Gotta straighten up your act and boogie down
If you can't hang with the feeling
Then there ain't no room for you in this part of town
cause we're the party people night and day
Livin crazy that's the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five up on the shelf
And just enjoy yourself
Groove, let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all
If you live it off the wall
Life ain't so bad at all
Live your life off the wall

You can shout out all you want to
cause there ain't no sin in folks all getting loud
If you take the chance and do it
Then there ain't no one who's gonna put you down
cause were the party people night and day
Livin crazy that's the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf
And just enjoy yourself
C'mon and groove, and let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all
If you live it off the wall
Life ain't so bad at all
Live your life off the wall

Do what you want to do
There ain't no rules its up to you
It's time to come alive
And party on right through the night

Gotta hide your inhibitions
Gotta let that fool loose deep inside your soul
Want to see an exhibition
Better do it now before you get to old
cause were the party people night and day
Livin crazy that's the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf and just enjoy yourself
C'mon and groove let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all if you live it off the wall
Life ain't so bad at all
Live your life off the wall

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf and just enjoy yourself
C'mon and groove let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all if you live it off the wall
Life ain't so bad at all
Live your life off the wall

The Protagonist

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 18:38:00 +0000

[From a journal entry dated 1.28.09, Mudraker Cafe]

I come from a long line. The pantheon is quite full, your Larry Darrells, your Franks, Wheeler and Bascombe, your Harry "Rabbit" Angstroms, your Ignatius J. Reillys and Robert Jordans. The protagonist hall of fame. It's not like I'm setting out to be some kind of Holden Caufield, or that I possess some or any of the characteristics of these literary ancestors, it's just that I read these books and I know them. They are me.

The beauty of the protagonist.

For example: Larry Darrell. (The Razor's Edge.) Granted, he was a lot younger when he said this, but he wanted to loaf, and I see a whole lot of merit in that. (Maugham did too.) Especially if by loafing he means what I mean by it, which is spending time thinking about Bigger things than buying stuff or keeping up with the Joneses, or, I don't know, looking good. (Though, sure, I like to look good. I primp. Not like some people I know, please, but I trim nose hairs and attempt to thwart unibrow.)

Maugham observed ol' loafin' Larry sitting in a chair and, get this, reading for ten or twelve hours. All day! Isn't that great? I don't see it as the least bit strange. In fact, I think it should be required. I read in the paper that most adult males read only one novel the rest of their lives after college. If this is indeed true, and I'm sure it is, then so-called loafing should be mandatory. (Unfortunately, not many agree. Maugham's book was published in 1943. We've been doing this for a while.)

I also read in the paper, today's in fact, that new President Obama thought that many Republicans he met with "may just not be as familiar with what's in the package as I would like." A polite way of saying that these jokers don't read. What kind of hooha is this when elected officials don't consider it their duty to read everything thoroughly? Even if a staffer does it--and I haven't a clue about how they really go about their business, so forgive me--at least they should be up to snuff. Right?

It's like these celebrities hawking stuff. Do they even care, as long as they get paid? I remember a time when it was considered shabby, shameless, and you were--remember this phrase?--a sell out when an artist stooped to advertising. Ok, so times have changed. Maybe the '70s derision was too harsh, but today's desired prostitution is too much. Especially rock/rap stars. Nowadays, they'll ok a song for damn-near anything: car, pill, computer.

"It's all about the money, baby." Don't they see it perpetuates the system? The system the Larry Darrells and Frank Wheelers tried to resist, in the 1940s and 50s? The system that has only grown stronger, more entrenched in this, my era.

So what do I try and do about it? I don't know, tell you about it?

Doesn't an ex-football player like Howie Long, whom I used to respect because he seemed direct and intelligent, realize that there are thousands of meat loafs (interesting new use of loaf) who watch his TV ads? The ads in which he mocks their manhood? These people actually go out and make choices based on how a Howie Long--flat-topped, bespectacled, rugged--views them. For the money, Howie, you're perpetuating all the worst male stereotypes. I guess what you care about is perpetuating Howie Long.

Well. What do I know. I'm just a cafe dweller. A loafer of the Darrell tradition. I stood in the shower this morning for several minutes just trying to work out a thought in my head. It had to do with this, how I might write it, but I kept losing my train, so, I continued to crank down the cold while I tried to think straight. These were minutes well spent, to me, but I bet not to others. Those looking for a Ford F150, maybe.

It's quite hard to come up with ways to tell a story. Especially one that hasn't been told before. Some say they've all been done. I say there's always room for more. Because they emerge through you: a new protagonist. Singular, as each individual soul, as each character.

***

School has started. The above is not school-related, but I found it in a journal as I was gearing up for the first weekend and got to thinking about protagonists, characters, us. The We of everyone. Thought I'd copy it into the Space.

First weekend, and first week of classes completed last night. Very intriguing. I am officially a USF Don, a graduate student. Still sinking in.

Here are a couple of random pics. I took these on Saturday June 20th as I walked from the parking lot to the main building on the Lone Mountain campus.

Jumping Into El Fuerte

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 22:43:00 +0000

I like jumping. Like up to grab a crossbar that supports a telephone pole, or from cliffs into a river. I'm no daredevil, but, like water feels to the body when submerged, flying a little in air has that weightlessness. I dig the soar, however momentary. I also like the feel of the grab of the bar or branch or rim. Or the plunge into water or sand, as off a good swing set. Jumping from a cliff into a river? Best of both sensations.

I'm also a fan of jumping, as a concept. Into the fire, as they say. On stage. I've learned from experience that it's much better to just go ahead and jump, as the Van Halen boys suggested, rather than hesitate. At least, don't hesitate too much. Because those few, albeit practical, voices offering their timid warnings usually start to work against you and something you might've done easily is now hard because, oh yes, that fear is creeping in. Self-consciousness. Intimidation. Wait, how high did you say it was? Look over the edge long enough and you'll start talking yourself out of it. You might never jump. And who wants that?

This past weekend (June 6,7), I took a few jumps. And as always, they were rewarding. But here's what's fascinating: I'm not exactly sure I would've jumped--at least not so easily--knowing what I now know upon landing.

I was invited to attend a private gathering of musicians on a piece of land near the Yuba river, up in the foothills near Nevada City. Gorgeous property, with oaks and rock outcrops along a ridge with views down the hillsides to the thick river far below. When the sun set, or the full moon rose, with folks playing samba and singing in Portuguese, I was hardpressed to contain my swoon. (For those familiar with HSMF, picture a mini-High Sierra with simply one stage on a more remote and beautiful property for no more than say, 60 people.)

The owner of the place, a guitarist and singer named Kevin, plays in a local Bay Area band called Boca do Rio which plays Brazilian samba music, also categorized as Latin/Funk/Afro-beat. Many Brazilian musicians were there, quite well-known in these circles, guys my friend and drum teacher Robert, who invited me, and friend and fellow student Aaron, know from bay area music scenes and from previous "El Fuerte" gatherings. This year's event, and full moon bacchanalia, was edition number 7. Two of the Brazilian regulars are brothers, one of whom, Alex, is returning to Brazil after 14 years in the U.S. The party doubled as a farewell for him, what they call in Spanish, and I learned also in Portuguese, a despedida. Man, can that dude play the pandeiro. (Brazilian tamborine, click on Robert's video example to the right on Total Rhythm's homepage). Smile on his face, he smacked it and shook it and flipped it. He played that instrument like John Henry swung a hammer. Which is to say: born to it. His older brother Marcos, also warm-spirited, played guitar and sang in Portuguese. With Kevin up there on stage with them, his easy sway and handsome smile, and the others--funky bassist, drummers, etc.-- the swing of this music was enchanting. And with the friendly vibe and the early summer setting, in those environs, it was, in the immortal words of a Billy Ray Valentine reveler: a stone groove. Muito obrigado, Kevin!

Before we arrived at the hilltop estate, we stopped at the Yuba for a swim. The weather was overcast, but not too cold. The blessing in disguise was it kept the normal Saturday river crowd away, though that also included the party folks we thought would be there for the annual Saturday dip. So Robert, Aaron and I hiked in to the spot where the revelers usually go and the three of us enjoyed some river time alone before heading up to the party.

On the way down the trail to the river's edge, we hiked along the massive rocks carved smooth by the river's ancient masonry. They're the kind you might find at any big river, but the Yuba has some particularly prominent ones, characteristic of the area with their coloring and marbling. It's a great river for finding little swimming holes and diving/jumping spots. One spot in particular we passed on the way down was the perfect invitation for an ambitious cliff jump: high, but not no-way high; good launching ledge, and plenty of deep river in which to land. But also: a decent-sized rock shelf below that needed clearing to make water. In other words: no slipping. Just standing at the edge looking over, my heart raced with a combination of that weird sensation one gets to jump when overlooking ledges and edges--like, bizarrely, tall buildings: what malfunction of human survival instinct is that?--and a goading inner voice that said: you could do it. No, you should do it. Maybe right now! I was half-tempted, in a fleeting moment of male bravado, to just lay down my towel and water bottle and boom: leap out and down into the cold Yuba. Thankfully, we hiked on.

We got down to the river's edge, and swam across to the beach. It was a brisk swim, based more on necessity than a need for refreshment, since the beach lay on the other side and there isn't a dry way to cross. Like most swimming experiences I've had--and this is in complete accordance with my theory of jumping--once you're in, it's good. Even cold water holds a special exhilaration that, if you remember rightly, should always get you from the rock hesitation point to the plunge. Oh, the time we spend on the hesitation points of life! Hear me toe-dippers: get yo' body in there!

After drip-drying on the other side, with much arm swinging and warm-rock-clinging, Aaron left us and walked up-river aways and found some fat fish in the shallows near an inviting dive ledge. He came back and got me and we meandered up there, checked out the 2-foot (rainbow?) trout and contemplated a cliff dive. This wasn't nearly as high as the one we passed hiking in, but it required a good-sized leap-out and flat dive to make sure of clearing some submerged boulders. (They were probably not a real concern, but might've been easier to negotiate if the weather had been different and we could see them better.) This was clearly a dive spot, though, not a jump spot, on account of those fish-sheltering rocks. Couldn't risk going too deep. I looked at Aaron and said: "It's like we have to. It's just too inviting." He nodded; it was true.

I thought about my entry, wavered some, moved over a foot, picked my line, massaged down a quick fear thought, and dove. The rush of cold water and the force of it on my arms and chest and neck was powerful. Even this jump, once made, was more significant in actuality than initial assessment. Still, I was in and safe, it was over and really not that dangerous, and as I floated forward, supermanning down the current, I realized adrenaline's summoned presence, the risk ride reward, the aliveness and relief.

From down the river, I looked back toward Aaron. He was hesitating. My dive-and-success clearly said that, according to the most fundamental tenets of the man code, he must do it too. I stood up on a distant sandbar and watched him as he hovered up there on that polished gray rock in his yellow trunks, peering over the ledge into the rushing water. I noticed it was a more significant height than it had seemed when standing up there, since I now had the benefit of distance and perspective. Aaron readjusted. "What are you going to do with your glasses?" I shouted, worried he'd forgotten them on his face. He showed me how he planned to clutch them in his fist. He looked over again, gathering mojo. He knew I was watching. I had a fear thought: don't miss. I followed it with a prayer, or call it a quick blessing thought: Let him make it. Then I leaned into an even better mindset: he's got this. And then he dove. Perfectly, right on target. When his head returned to the surface, the smile he wore said it all: I did it!

Later, Robert and Aaron went for a walk and I stayed at the beach. I was alone; even the family down the river had packed up and gone. I decided to meander and enjoyed walking up and over the warm rocks with my bare feet, checking out new river vistas and remarkably sandy beaches. No wonder this was a popular hang spot, I thought, it almost had a quality like Hawaii, only without waves and a completely different vegetation. But of a similar nature, that was for certain. If the sun had been out, I doubt I would've been able to enjoy this spot by myself.

I started to get cold. I'd left my towel on the other side of the river after watching Aaron attempt a river crossing with towel extended skyward only to fail after slipping and dropping it. I scouted out an inviting river channel that led out from the beach and around a rock into the center depths and current and over to the other side. It looked like I'd have no real trouble climbing up onto the big, tall boulders on that side and could walk back up-river to where I'd stashed my stuff. I waded in a few yards and dove, swimming hard for several strokes, then paused to experience the current. After treading for a few seconds, I went all the way across.

I got out feeling great, found a route up the boulders, then discovered: there I was, standing at the big jump spot we passed earlier. Alone. I looked up-river toward the beach and beyond to see if the fellas were walking back yet. No trace of them. I looked back out over the ledge. It was calling me. I figured I could do it, yeah, no trouble. But I had to admit: it was a big leap. I looked again for Robert and Aaron, debating my intentions, then realized: it's not about them seeing me make this jump. I should just do it for myself, a self-challenge.

Swimsuit dripping onto the slick rock, I planted my foot on the very edge and decided I'd do a leaping one-footer. No need to risk slipping with a running foot plant. So that's what I did, the swinging one-footer. And just as I left the rock, my heart stopped: did I not clear it? My arms flapped, the river rose up to meet me, and quickly--and thankfully--I realized I had. I landed and submerged deep into the water, surprised by the force of the current immediately pushing me down-river. I found the shallows and stood up, shaking my head of water and with disbelief. I was satisfied, yes, but I was in possession of another, different feeling. This was not a fear-before-leaping sensation, this was a holy shit feeling of afterthought: that was actually kind of freaky!

I got out and climbed back over the boulders on my nicely negotiated path, more quickly now since I'd already trailblazed it, and stood again at the top. Whoa, I thought, looking over the ledge with newfound respect. I had done it, but I wasn't sure I'd do it again. (Ok, maybe. If you dare me.) I walked up-river further along the rock wall and descended from the top ledges and back toward the jump, where I could look up at it from below. Damn, I said to myself. That's actually pretty high. And the shelf below that must be cleared, well, it's a good distance out from the launch, which is to say the jump's ledge is set back aways. I hadn't experienced this feeling, at least not for a long time, of bigger fear after the fact, as opposed to before. Now, I felt more intimidated by the jump, not less so. But hey, you do it once, you can do it again. Right?

I told the guys about it when they came back down-river. It seemed ironic that I'd made the leap without them in order to have my own experience with it, but ended up talking about it incessantly because of what happened. They both said, as a first response: dude, you should've waited until one of us was around to watch a jump like that. And they're right. Aaron assessed it by my height compared to the ledge above, and concluded it was about 18-20 feet.

Yes: a good jump. It's good to jump.

Off we went up into the hills to the party. The evening's festivities had begun. The potluck was finished, and we arrived while a few moms and children were completing a play/performance for the crowd. Little squirts reading their lines from playbooks, while moms added energy and direction where needed. After it was over, the musicians took the stage and soon live Brazilian music flavored the whole scene. Robert was quickly called up to add his percussion skills to the mix, while Aaron and I mingled, drank beers and cooked food.

About an hour or two into the jam, the groove red-hot, Robert got Aaron's attention and summoned him to come join onstage to do one of the rhythms we know well from class. Aaron grabbed me, and without hesitation--just jumping--I left the conversation I was having and walked up to the stage. I got my djembe from its bag and a chair from backstage and sat down with all these professional musicians like I was somebody. (Do a Stanley Kowalski: I coulda been somebody.)

And that's it: there's just something about jumping into it. Leaping. I don't know why this particular set of circumstances created a space in which I could do it without hesitation, but there it was. Onstage, we were grooving immediately. Robert, Aaron and I had always enjoyed rare moments in class when we played together, just the three of us, and we'd long talked about an opportunity like this to really play together. It was my main reason for going to "El Fuerte." And, as it occasionally happens, we had something special going. I looked up at the other musicians, and they looked back at us, at me, smiling and nodding. We were locked in. More than that, rather than hiding behind the beat, which is somewhat possible with so many instruments and drums, I was adding flavors, and those flavors were being met with approval by these incredible musicians. And believe me, I know the opposite feeling. Most musicians, no matter how "big," won't completely freeze you out, but you know almost immediately if you've been deemed unworthy. You won't get any attention, no love. No smiles or nods come your way. But, this wasn't that kind of scene, which is to say nobody was going to be that rude anyway, and, it was just obvious. Something was happening. When we were in the middle heat of the jam, I looked out toward the crowd and everybody had come forward and was dancing. It was thrilling.

When the song ended, with a big euphoric finish conducted by the main singer, a dude in a black leather jacket and groovy en vogue fedora, all the musicians, including me, shook hands and congratulated each other. Every one. Me and the lead singer, me and Kevin, me and Alex, me and Robert and Aaron. Everybody. It was just dynamite. Even then, there was no freeze out. Everybody was warm. For a moment in time, we had come together as a team. I felt so included, and it was really exciting. Come to think of it, for all they knew, I might've actually been a more seasoned musician. (And I'm not saying I'm not a musician, only a minor leaguer compared to these pros.) Only I knew, and Robert and Aaron, this was a rare experience.

Afterwards, Aaron said to me: "So, how did it feel to play with Sila?" I said, who? "Wait," Aaron said. "You don't know Sila?" I looked at him sheepishly, shook my head. "Aw, man!" he cried. "Well, dude, you just played with Sila. How does that feel?"

It turns out Sila, the lead singer, the guy in the fedora who looks a bit like Miles Davis, was one of the heavy hitters up there, and the song we played was really the only one he joined in on. While we played, he turned back to us drummers with a big approving smile on his face, at one point dancing over and putting the mic down near our djembes.

Wow, I thought, considering it all anew.

And now, like the high cliff jump, I must wonder: would I have gone to the stage so easily, and played as loosely, with such joy and carefree, if I'd known beforehand that I was going onstage with this local music luminary?

Sometimes, it's just better to jump. Muito obrigado El Fuerte!

Goodbye Solo

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Sat, 30 May 2009 19:56:00 +0000

I met ML Spinrad at Yali's on Oxford street in Berkeley yesterday. He walked in just as I was finishing a letter. Yes, an actual handwritten letter that I will stamp and post. Imagine.

We had talked of seeing a matinee, of an afternoon, for several months, and of the documentary "Tyson" in particular. The 2:50pm show at the Shattuck would be the realization of our long sought aims. On a Friday no less. Life is good.

Both of us were excited for this film, which examines Mike Tyson's life and career. His is an amazing story, with all the elements of the modern tragic hero: childhood poverty, getting bullied, the wizened, gravelly-voiced trainer, the superstardom, the riches, the divorces, the ear biting. You'd be hardpressed to make this stuff up.

But while ML was at the Walgreens buying candy, I went to the ticket window only to discover: no 2:50 Tyson. Seems the schedule had changed that very morning. Our perfect plan foiled? I looked at the listings; nothing seemed good. In fact, only one film was playing that we could make in time. The 2:45 showing of "Goodbye Solo."

Wisdom is a cool thing when you apply it. I've certainly received my fair share in my 39 years, but it's the applying it part that can prove tricky. Lately, though, I've been getting better at this one piece, the kind that involves moving along with what is, rather than dwelling (oh, forever the dwelling) on what is not. In this case: seeing Tyson. The show at 2:50 was simply not an option. Move along, says the existential traffic cop. No rubber necking, son.

I walked away from the window and back out toward the doors to await ML and deliver this news. My mind was running the options. What would be our next, best play? Though disappointment kept popping into my head--I was geared up for the Tyson film, big-time--I kept having this thought: maybe we were meant to see something else. Maybe we were meant to see "Goodbye Solo." It felt like one of those moments when you know you should order the tasty vegetarian dish instead of the chicken parmesan, and just in the nick of time you do in fact order the veggies. And they're fabulous.

"The gods have cursed us," I said as ML approached. He gave me a quizzical look. "No Tyson." He frowned and his shoulders dropped, but only a little. Then, he brightened. It was the slightest cloud and his sun simply melted it. He seemed to have already made his peace with the inevitable. For some people, wisdom comes easy.

"We've got 'Goodbye Solo' at 2:45," I said. "You wanna see that?"

"Sure. That's actually another one I was interested in." For some reason, even as he was saying this, I knew this was the movie we would see. And it would be good.

The gods, in fact, had blessed us.

Like the dinner menu, films can be a weird choice. Fascinating character study or not, I was lamenting the fact that we wouldn't see a film in which (I imagine) there are lots of scenes of men pummelling each other. In other words: violence. Sure, it's a documentary, and one about a person I'm genuinely interested in. I also like boxing. So, it isn't Terminator Salvation violence and explosions, but it's still mainly about violence, pugilism and aggression, both in the ring and the world surrounding it. These are not in short supply in our culture.

Like eating your vegetables, sometimes it's good to go with the quiet film, the thoughtful film. Not everything is supposed to be Indiana Jones. At least, not all the time.

As the previews finished (good grief, like 7 previews, enough already) and the film started, I had competing impulses: a jolt of disappointment that this wasn't Tyson, and a flash of hope that because of this twist of fate, we were actually about to see something special. Something, perhaps, we may not have seen if not for this showtime switcharoo. Something, moreover, especially for the long-awaited matinee experience, that would fall in line with what my man ML, with whom I've talked at length about beautiful, quiet films like "Half Nelson" and "Old Joy," and I had wanted all along.

And indeed, "Goodbye Solo" was terrific. I hesitate to say much more, although I included the link above to the NY Times review which talks a lot about the film. I hope not too much. What I must say however is how delighted I feel, how edified and inspired, when seeing a film of quality and truth and complexity such as this one by Ramin Bahrani. Kudos to you, good sir.

Films like this allow me to consider the human condition and our cultural milieu in ways that make me feel compassion, actually experience it, in a way the aggressive films, sci-fi, action and comedy included, that dominate our screens never can. I'm encouraged to consider heartache, joy, disappointment, jealousy, happiness, confusion, serendipity. That is, I'm encouraged to consider real life, while also receiving the benefit of a story. I'm not actually experiencing these things, I'm watching characters do it, ones I don't know and might never because they live in different cities and different countries, but, when the tale is done, I do know them, like I know myself, like I know people close to me.

Goodbye Solo. Indeed.

***

After the film, ML and I walked across town back to Rockridge and to George & Walt's for a few beers and the Lakers v. Nuggets playoff game. Midway through our first pitcher of Stella Artois, we were approached by two elderly couples who wanted to fill in the four remaining seats at our table. Of course, we said, happy to have you. We didn't think much of it, in fact, were happy to have them with us, partly because they seemed so happy that we'd been so pleasant and welcoming to them. They ordered themselves martinis, and for most of their stay, we talked at short intervals. But occasionally they'd ask us something, or we'd include them in a conversation we were having, or they'd ask the score, and the interactions were very friendly. I realized how rare it is to be in a bar like G&W's, especially on a busy Friday night with big-time sports on TV, with people their age. Their absence is really rather sad. As Donne suggested, their absence diminishes me. We are all diminished by the lack of true diversity, and whatever forces are in place that make it rare for suchlike mingling to occur.

They didn't stay very long, and when they got up to head across the street to Rustica for a pizza, we shook hands and heartily bade farewells. I got a glimpse of what the good life might've been for them in their time, how people may have interacted in bars. Perhaps not all people, but maybe the overall vibe was more congenial than it tends to be today. One of the gents, who had sat next to me and told us about going over to the other couple's house one afternoon many years ago with a suitcase full of booze, and who, he confessed to me, drinks vodka martinis now because he can no longer take gin, tossed a $10 bill on the table in front of ML and me. "The next one's on me, boys," he said with a bright smile.

Man, that was cool. Thank you, good sir.

Reno 39: Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Tue, 12 May 2009 16:50:00 +0000

I know this has happened to you. Feel my pain.

I was working on this piece, tinkering, editing, feeling it out. Next day: gone. None of the changes took. I admit, I ignored a message saying I had unsaved changes, but I'd been working on the thing for hours. It was autosaving; I saved. I figured, at most, I'd lost the last few word changes. The program was just being persnickety. Nope. The ending, the last two paragraphs: gone. I tried to rewrite, but lost steam. I was discouraged. But then, (cue heavenly music) I realized: maybe this post wants to be something else?

I think what I really wanted to write about was not the night in Reno I spent with a few buddies, which happened to coincide with my 39th birthday, or familiar yarns about casinos and sin city scenes, but this:

A couple days ago I finished reading Anne Lamott's book called "Operating Instructions." I appreciate her stuff, and "Bird By Bird," a book about writing, is a staple on my shelf. (Though I can't seem to find it today. Anybody got my copy?) Operating Instructions is a diary of her son Sam's first year, and I liked it best when it reminded me of Bird. At times, I must say, it seemed a little neurotic. When I said this to my mom, she said: duh. Other times, though, I thought it was lovely.

I was curious about this book because I've been working on a memoir piece about my impending fatherhood. (Impending; sounds like waiting for the jury to deliver the sentence.) Some weeks ago, I had lunch with the writer Ethan Watters and he asked what I was working on. When I mentioned my memoir piece, he suggested, by way of examples on similar themes, O.I. by Lamott.

Lamott passes my how can you tell the writing's good? test because you feel it--that is, her voice, her style--in your mind. You find yourself crafting sentences like her. You try her humor, her italics, her confessional style. That's good writing, because it makes you want to write, or at least to consider the possibility contained in the discipline. To ask yourself: how did that sound? Could I have said it differently?

I've been ruminating on the confessional concept. I offer it out as food for thought to my good and true Influence the Spacers. I'm talking about very honest writing. (Many might say: is there any other kind?) In a memoir or diary, honesty or frankness might seem obvious, but think about the choices we make when we write. I was writing up stories of my trip to Reno. What details should I leave in, and which to leave out? (Got you curious now.) Discretion is the better part of valor, sayeth the proverb, and it's true that one must be very careful when considering telling tales that include others. Still, there's something very powerful, very humanizing about the real deal, all names and all activities included without veils, without code.

I was thinking about how much I like it when a writer talks about her life with that kind of truth. The real, honest details. If she had been out drinking, she'd write that she had three Ketel One martinis, not "a few drinks." And, of course, all the other luscious details, the olives and how many, the soggy beer coaster, the Marlboro Light she passed up because that particular brand hurts her soul. Writing, like life, is in the details. Otherwise, who are we fooling, ourselves? Who are we hiding from, our spouses? Our mothers? The details aren't just "naughty" things, either, they're emotions, anger and love, and they're juicy, like sex. We seem so busy disguising and code-naming, veiling threats and offers, that nobody knows exactly what people mean, or what, in fact, people are doing. It occurs to me: isn't much of homophobia a result of the unknown?

A writer's job is to say it true. Graciousness is fine, magnanimity is great. But so can be jealousy. So can be anger. When it's true. When it's hot and raw. Be honest, that's the point. You ask: at all times, in all situations? Here, in this context, I'm gonna say yes. I prefer to err on the side of honesty, not caution. I'm JDA. Do you know me?

But ok. Yes, it's among the trickiest of tasks, this detail decision-making, because these days the "confessional" form has gone so far toward that nitty-gritty, de rigueur basement-hovel-junkie thing that I sometimes wish folks would euphemize or metaphorize them details. A little subtlety, please! Consider: was that more than any of us really needed to know?

So, there's a paradox here. A contradiction. Yes, yes. I contain--we contain--multitudes. But you get my point.

Lamott, in this book, refers frequently to her past days of heavy drinking and cocaine use. While I appreciate her honesty (a virtue I daresay I've belabored) I do have a problem. I often found myself wondering if her particular honesty was made easier by hindsight. By which I mean, is she so forthcoming now (in the book) because the lifestyle she's referring to is in the past? Would she have written so frankly if she were in the middle of a serious bender, engaged with a serious habit or other (cue ominous music) debased phase of her life?

Perhaps. I'd like to think she would. And I do have to include this qualifier: when appropriate. I want to err on the side of honesty, of exposure, yes, but I'm not necessarily advocating a wanton indiscretion. Does that make sense?

Why I like the artful application of confession in writing is because I feel it connects more than exposes. We fear the confession because of the exposure, but as we realize from telling the truth--really being truthful--it connects us much more than it alienates us. That's my experience, anyway. It's the closeted stuff, the dark secrets in dark corners, the Unknown, where real problems germinate. And they grow because of the hiding, the suspicion and assumption inserted into that place of uncertainty. It's the filling in the blanks that happens, by all concerned, the hiding of the doer, the suspicion of the watcher, that creates separation and fear. Vicious cycle.

Would I not write something, even at the tender age of 39, because my mom might read it? Maybe. But I'd like to think no. What about my in-laws? I'm not ashamed of who I am or what I do. I love to tell the truth. (Cue my internal black man: tell it like it is!) But, I ain't no fool. I know when to apply the white lie. Or, do I? To be honest, har har, I've never been very good at lying. I have truth-told on many an occasion and regretted it, sometimes because I simply wasn't clever enough to fib, or devise somesuch clever subterfuge. It takes skill and practice to lie. It ain't my ballgame. I'd rather win with the truth. Ah, but have you ever bluffed in a poker game and won the hand? Delicious!

What am I after in this piece? Maybe in my deeper dedications as a writer I'm abolishing all forms of deception. From now on, I'm just gonna let it rip. Readers: beware. From now on, I'm using all your names! I'm telling on you!

It's a choice. One that must be made consciously and carefully, indeed. What I hear in Lamott's writing about her past behavior, albeit in hindsight, is something that I think comes from going all the way to someplace terrible, recovering, and then facing it. Reviewing it from the rescue platform. After that trip, honesty is all you have. You wear it. There is no cloak, the cloak is you. But it's good like that. She uses words like addict and alcoholic and thereby seems to give herself the freedom to just let fly, because the worst is already out there. And while it might not always make her feel great to remember certain things, or re-read something in all its (in)glorious detail, I bet she feels good, because it's true.

As the man said, the truth rings true. Or was it the woman?

Decision 2009

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 21:03:00 +0000

It came down to the lesbians or the Jesuits.

Ok, that's crass, I know, but it's funny to think of that way. Of course, I got no problems with either. Which is to say: I'm down with the women, and I'm down with the black robes. In actual fact, I'm a whole lot more familiar with women, feminists, lesbians, moms, aunts, girlfriends, wives, than I am with Jesuits. But what I do know (or think I know) about Jesuits, I like. What I know, however, is very little and almost entirely based on a blend of Jeremy Irons' character in The Mission, and Lothaire Bluteau's in Black Robe. Film representations both, and of the 17th and 18th centuries, furthermore. (Both excellent, by the way. Two of my all-time favorites films. By the by, does anyone out there know of a good read re: Jesuits? Both these films were based on novels.)

I must say, despite the obvious problems of basing what you think you know on the movies, I sort of love my faux knowledge, that romantized version of the missionary interfacing with tribal people, the fascinating learning, the cultural exchange, the misunderstanding and cruelty. Oh, yes, always the cruelty. On both sides. I gather from friends who attended Catholic universities that the Jesuits are a most interesting faction, committed to education and social justice. By the way, did you realize that little "c" catholic means "Including a wide variety of things; all-encompassing"? I suppose, by that logic, Jesuits are the real catholic Catholics.

I suspect you might be thinking: where's he going with all this?

Well then, here's the point: it's grad school 2009, ladies and gents. Last fall, I applied to four schools for an MFA in writing. I was accepted by two. It so happens, I will not be a writing Minuteman, or a writing Duck. But, I may have been a writing Cyclone (the mascot of Mills College, which I didn't know before this writing, and saves me/you from an attempt at humor, probably of poor taste), or, a writing Don. Which is what I'll be. In fact, I gave my verbal commitment to the director of the program on the phone today. May Day. Quite auspicious.

Since I'm on a mascot theme, let's look up Don, shall we?

noun
1 ( Don) a Spanish title prefixed to a male forename.
• a Spanish gentleman; a Spaniard.
• informal a high-ranking member of the Mafia.
2 a university teacher, esp. a senior member of a college at Oxford or Cambridge. [ORIGIN: transferred colloquial use of the Spanish title (see above).]

Now that, I like. I hadn't realized a Don was a university teacher, thought it was a priest. Quite apropos, considering my future goals.

Wryness aside, this has been a difficult decision. Last year, before I went to Colorado to work on the Obama campaign, I visited USF for one of their writing program informational meetings. This was about the 3rd week of September. I liked it. When I got back to California, I set to work researching a few other programs and started the application process. I discovered I was about in the middle of the cycle; some schools had deadlines I just wasn't gonna make, but there were a few others I was interested in that were still in reach. Considering my finances, interests, living situations, the aforementioned deadlines and the GRE (I applied to schools that didn't require it), I settled on: USF, Amherst, Oregon and Mills. All different, all interesting.

As you may know (and can guess) these applications are a pain. I mean, the process is somewhat interesting, the statements of purpose, the writing samples, but tracking down and paying for school transcripts and finding recommenders and getting their letters and making copies and finding a fax machine that charges $1 a page, and completing everything...pain. I spent what I thought was an inordinate amount of time working on my SOP (that's statement of purpose, in application speak), partially because USF's director told me it was definitely considered in their process. I liked that, and maybe that's a possible reason it's a good fit for me. I think who you are and how you're coming to a writing program is important to express, and if you can express that well, in writing, I think that should count. Other schools, though, as I discovered as I researched more, don't place a high value on the SOP. Amherst, and Oregon too, essentially said: everything is based on the writing sample. If it's liked, deemed up to par, then they review the rest of your application. And the thing was, I wasn't all that thrilled with my sample. It was ok, but not great. I've been writing for a long time, and I was pretty sure of this. Still, I had Tara read it one night and she pointed out things that she liked and when I reviewed it again with her comments in mind, through her eyes, I backed off my "this sucks" (so typical of the writer) attitude and saw it as having some potential. This is why I'm going to writing graduate school, right? To get better?

So, I got the apps in. I played a little game with myself on the day of the application deadline for Oregon and Amherst, printing at the very last possible moment and racing to the post office, trying my hardest to repeat what I'd done in high school which completely mucked up my first two years of college. But not this time. I made it with time to spare.

Then the waiting. This was a good kind, though, not anxious. Some things change when you get older. Good things. People said, invoking some of that undergrad anticipation energy: when do you find out? I was casual. Genuinely casual. Oh, around April, I said. Then I got my first envelope, the small kind, from Mills, which, at the time, I considered my "back-up" school. I thought to myself as I opened the envelope: I got rejected by Mills, my back-up school? But this letter, although small, was an acceptance. Back-up or not, getting accepted feels good. The process started with an acceptance, and that was nice. I decided to take a closer look at Mills College, this damn fine institution of learning with the great good sense to admit me.

Then I got another small envelope, this one from Amherst. Though I'd been fooled by Mills' acceptance, I had a feeling about this one. It was quite blunt. They said no. It didn't feel good, as it never does, so it was nice to have a yes already in my pocket. I was 1 for 1, and feeling fine about it all.

Some weeks passed, and I still hadn't heard from either Oregon or USF. I considered this a good sign, though I'm not really sure. It seems schools do their acceptances in rounds, so at some point not hearing is good because you're moving along the process, making the cuts, but then there might also be a period when they're waiting for other folks to decline so then they'll give you that spot. Actually, who knows how it really works? And by the way, once you start researching this MFA thing, it's a perfect "how far down the rabbit hole do you want to go" situation. I found a blog published by this guy with an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop (supposedly the best in the land) and a law degree from some ivy league, with rankings and scores and funding info and damn near everything. It was 1 part interesting to 2 parts totally daunting. Some people on this blog were writing in saying how they'd applied to 20 or 30 schools, all over the country. That's almost $1,500 on applications alone!

Rankings are in large part specious, too. You're drawn in by them, but they only say what they say. Sure, a highly ranked school doesn't get that way for nothing. But distinctions between 25 and 37? And what about the faculty, and what about the location, and on and on. I got caught up a little in the rankings thing, as Amherst was up near the top, even the top 5. I thought to myself: if I get in to Amherst, will I have to go? But were Tara and I really ready to move to Massachusetts? Maybe. But Amherst made the decision for me. Quickly. Oh, I'll show them.

I'd received a large envelope from Oregon that didn't really fool me (though a little) because it seemed too early for a decision. It was. This envelope included housing information. Just in case, I suppose. Finally I did get a letter, the small kind, saying no. This letter was more gracious than Amherst's, and informed me that they took only 7,8 students out of several hundred applicants in fiction. I hadn't quite realized the odds.

Then several more days passed, and by now I was up against the Mills deadline for yea or nay. I got a little worried about USF. The opening acceptance was great, but two rejections in a row had me down. Would I not get into USF as well? Then one morning, kinda out of the blue, I got a call from the director of the USF program, a man named Aaron Shurin, whom I'd met at the info meeting in September and talked with privately one afternoon during an informational interview they encourage (another feature of the program I like).

Aaron's message was saying he was pleased to tell me that the review committee had recommended me for admission, and he "hoped this comes to you as good news" or something to that effect, a gracious sort of turn of phrase that added to the sentiment. Hey, how about it? Getting a phone call was cool, and I'm in!

Finally I return to how I started: Decision 2009. The Dons, or the Cyclones? (For those still reading, bless you.) I really wanted to "do it right" and visit the schools and ask the right questions and feel it all out. As it happens, this is a "perfect" choice opportunity, contrasted like vanilla or chocolate. (Jesuit, or lesbian?) The programs are structured quite differently: Mills with a more traditional set-up, classes start in the fall, no summer classes, and a normal load of three classes per semester. You're a full-time, and often daytime, student. USF's classes are on a strict evening schedule. All classes throughout the program are Tuesday and Wednesday nights from 6:15 - 9pm. There's also a six-week summer workshop that kicks off the program, and every summer after you work on your major project. Just in terms of set-up, I liked USF's. It seemed more planned out, and more tailored toward working adults. Certainly the set schedule means that there isn't a lot of flexibility, should you need it, like taking a daytime class, but on the other hand, for working purposes (and man, will I need to work!) the known schedule is an advantage.

Mills has a tree-filled, retreat-like campus in the Oakland hills. USF is on a hilltop with sweeping views of the Golden Gate bridge and has a huge cathedral on the main campus. Mills felt very laid-back; I was able to come in and visit two workshops and one class. USF limits its visits; they allow only one, and then only a class and not a workshop, since workshops involve students' new works and they want to protect the safe space. They also feel too many visitations are disruptions to those in classes. I appreciated Mills' openness, but I respected USF's boundaries. I went to evening faculty and other readings at both schools, and found both interesting, but not necessarily overwhelming. Nothing that made me say, as I secretly hoped: here! I must go here! I walked the campuses, a tried to feel into my decision. I felt myself getting a bit confused, trying to find things to help me choose, like the conversation I had with one of the directors, or a comment of a student, or the feel of the library.

In the end, I kept thinking to myself: I sorta like USF better. But it was hard to trust it, because not everything felt "concrete" or objective. Some things, yes, but not everything. For example, I just liked being in San Francisco. I left a reading I attended, and the moon was rising and I looked off toward Sutro Tower and UCSF, and I thought: this is cool. But that hasn't anything to do with the actual school! But, it's something. USF will most likely be a pain to commute to sometimes, while Mills is much closer to home. Still, I lean USF-way. Both are very expensive (private schools) and I still wonder if it'll make sense when it's all said and done. But today, May 1st, was the verbal deadline. And I made the call. The Jesuits! The Dons!

A last thing I wanted to muse on. Again, if you're still with me, you're my friend. Part of this whole facetious Jesuit and Lesbian thing has something to do with my writing root, if you will. I know writing from an intimate place, from my upbringing in Berkeley, and from my mother, a writer herself, especially when I was young, who published stories and poems in a feminist journal called The Wild Iris. One of my all-time favorite memories of my childhood and my mother is waking up from bad dreams and wandering to the back of our house on Cedar street and finding her in her little office, typing on a typewriter. She had then this feeling of calm about her, she smelled pleasantly of cigarettes, and I'll just never forget how unique that space was. I just wanted to sit on her lap, maybe tell her about my dream, and just stay there for a little while. The mother of my daytimes was not there. This was a different woman, and it was good.

So, Mills brings my writing root up to me for consideration. But instead of being the natural choice, as it could be, it feels almost too familiar. It seems like I already know that part of myself. Or, that kind of relationship to writing and how I think about it is known. This is why, in contrast, I use the image of the Jesuits, though really knowing nothing about them. That's kind of the idea. And, the USF MFA writing program doesn't have much to do (if anything at all) with Jesuits. It's just a different image. It's an unfamiliar one. I'm intrigued by it. I've heard it termed "the growing edge," drawn to where you're not familiar. It's partly an idea of scholarly, or even monastic writing work, and it's somewhat paternal. I get images of the father-side of writing, if you will, compared to the mother-side, and it's something I haven't always had the most stable relationship with. These images, whether real or imagined, help. The fact is: I'm intrigued by USF, the Dons, something I'm seeing has "Jesuit" energy. A parternity side of writing. But that's not to say I don't know my roots.

So, that's the many parts of this decision, MFA 2009. Today, just before my phone call to Aaron, I decided I'd pick a rune. I often don't have a clear question when choosing one of these little stones, but today my question was very clear. Is USF the right decision for me? And, as is almost always the (uncanny) case, I picked one called: Breakthrough.

A Sense of Aww

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 19:50:00 +0000

Went for a beautiful hike in Marin on Saturday with some of the fellas. We had a few beers down in Stinson before charging back up Mt. Davis toward the Bootjack parking lot. I'm tellin ya, that's how to do it. Fortify yourself. Fuel up.

I paused to take a few pictures as we meandered up Steep Ravine, realizing how the chatter of group hiking keeps you from the reflective pauses that happen when alone. And oh, what places to stop and reflect. Next to the clean, purling creek, the fallen redwoods crisscrossed making bridges upon which to sit and look at: the Nature, the new growth, the rock formations, the sunlight reaching in from the west.

I took a deep breath, as one might when taking in such sights, but it got caught a little bit in my throat. I usually, in such moments, take my inhale and get a powerful feeling of relief. I feel a sense of God. I relax into a deep knowing that it's all going to be ok. Old ancient Nature, Mother Earth herself, will come through it all ok. She'll be fine, even after us crazy monkeys have jettisoned ourselves. Normally, what I'm feeling is a sense of awe.

This, however, was a distinct sense of aww. As in: maybe she won't.

I needed to take a second to absorb this feeling. I wasn't reassured; I was saddened. I read an article recently (in the Chron I'm sure, but I can't seem to find it right now) that talked about how Americans rank environmental concerns lower than things like economic stability and health care. Without the article I'm not doing the logic justice, but, while the two other issues I mention are certainly important, how folks are feeling about the environment seems to be going down, especially in the past 30 years, rather than up. How can this be? If ever there was a nonpartisan issue, this is it. If the Earth dies, we die. That means our children, our grandchildren. Doesn't everybody GET this? We can't err on the side of caution on this one, people. In fact, we should err on the side of caution. So we "over-regulate" which "hurts" business--but ensures clean water and clean air. Who cares about the business interests if we're all dead? We've already seen what Big Business does with its exorbitant profit margins. A solid gold spaceship ain't what I'm lookin for. I want redwoods. I want clean, gorgeous creeks. I want clean, healthy oceans.

I thought: maybe that's my true purpose. To write for the trees. I'm Jamey Lorax.

I lined up my picture (#1, below). I was having these aww thoughts while doing it, and a feeling came over me, kinda like a voice: Don't be too sure you know Nature's nature, sonny boy. It wasn't admonishing, it was truthful. Kind of an inner knowing. The sun is warm, and the sun can burn your skin. I pursed my lips and squinted, having my private hmm moment. What was I sensing here? I leaned back a little and something brushed my hair. I looked above me, and a goateed piece of lichen had alerted me to the (rather sharp) point of rock upon which it grew. He seemed to be looking at me. He might've said: without me, son, that coulda smarted. I was having a bit of a Tom Hanks and Wilson volleyball moment. Smiling, I reached up with my thumb and two fingers to tug on the point of this lichen's goatee and, as if Nature was showing me its point, what I thought would be coarse to the touch was amazingly soft, and came away easily in my fingers like wispy cotton. Next, I "heard" my lichen Wilson say: "Try me." Bah, I thought. I ain't eatin' no lichen. But then I looked around. And suddenly I thought of all the shit we make our beautiful Nature eat: smoke, exhaust, garbage, chemicals.

I balled up the little piece, making it smaller and easier to swallow, thinking are you really going to eat this? and ate it. Rather tasty, actually, in an earthy sort of way.

Sign o' the Times

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 18:22:00 +0000

It's silly, no?
When a rocket ship explodes
And everybody still wants 2 fly
Some say a man ain't happy
Unless a man truly dies
Oh why
Time, time

(Prince, "Sign o' the Times")

I cancelled the paper. I didn't want to, but seventy-five bucks every 13 weeks was starting to bother me. It's an expenditure I could make, but is it one I could avoid? I had to say yes. This must be a perfect example of economic "contraction." People pull back, even if they may not exactly have to. Sorry, darling, but we really mustn't purchase any BMWs right now, at least not until our recovery money is confirmed...

So, it's not that I absolutely can't afford the paper. I could make it work, and I'd certainly like to think I was helping the paper, the whole damn institution, from going under, as I'm told it very well might. But cancelling my subscription seemed a perfect opportunity to cut back, especially when I can get the information, almost exactly, for free online. I don't like it, but it's true. I find I have very little stamina for reading articles online, and I would certainly prefer my morning news on newsprint, holding it open in front of me in my leather chair, grandpa style, but free with a little bother, or $300 a year? You see the dilemma. Jon Carroll, I apologize.

The cancellation logic makes sense, but it sucks. I love the morning paper. Paired with a strong cup of coffee, is there really anything better? The surprise front page elements, the annoying inserts, the addictive box scores, the movie reviews? The morning newspaper, on newsprint, delivered to the door, is as sacred as American Apple Pie. I don't want to give it up.

But things are changing. I guess I have to accept it, like I accepted the transition from fun kid's job with a route of 50 papers, to adult job covering major swaths of cities. I'd love to return to the days when the San Francisco Chronicle, a paper I once slung from my bicycle toward porches at 6 a.m. (and loved it), was delivered to the door by a neighborhood kid (any paperboys out there?) and not slung through the window of a Toyota Tercel by an immigrant father working the route like a real job, probably one of three he holds.

Sign o' the Times.

Here's the thing: I don't really miss it. Part of my reasoning for letting it go was I wanted the hour or two hours I often spent reading the paper, back. What did I really have to show for it? When asked "what happened in the world" or "what was in the paper today," I usually couldn't remember. I love the feeling of being informed, yet I don't miss being removed from the repetitive clangor of politics and depressing world events. Suddenly, it's like I'm on an extended camping trip and I've realized: I don't miss the paper at all.

Ok, maybe just a little to see who's in first place.

The thought of something happening in the world that I don't know anything about is indeed disconcerting. I don't like feeling I've come upon something late. You know how it goes, someone at a party says to you: oh, you didn't read about that? You didn't know about that? Well, they say, after a pause. And with that one word your very credibility has been indicted.

I've been that person, sniffing ever so slightly, thinking: oh, you're just not very informed, are you? I guess that's me.

Sign o' the times mess with your mind.

Last week, when I was going through the first days of withdrawal, this TED talk went around. I found it quite interesting, though I'm not sure what it'll do for saving newsprint. The speaker basically says the same, though his talk is instructive and holds potential. Change the format? Radically rethink the product?

Sign o' the times mess with your mind
Hurry before it's 2 late
Let's fall in love, get married, have a baby
We'll call him Nate...if it's a boy

Gotta Be The Beard

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 17:59:00 +0000

A couple weeks ago I had lunch with Ben Turman, an old high school and college friend. He's planning a trip to Spain this summer and wanted to see what I might recommend to him. Que me recomiendas, Jaime?

Ah, Spain...

Wait. That's another story.

My meeting with Ben happened to coincide with the start of some work I'm doing with a career coach named Carolyn Foster. She has reignited my desire to network, and she encourages the old-fashioned informational interview technique to facilitate this. I love networking; meeting new people and finding out what they do. Isn't it strange how we get untethered from the things we know? I daresay most of the good fortune I've experienced in life has come to me, one way or another, via networking. Despite this knowledge, whether present to me or lying around dormant somewhere in my head, I realize my disposition is matched by a dual philosophy: I can do it myself. Just leave me alone, here in my little room with a computer, and I'll figure it out!

With my "network aspect" reinvigorated and out-dueling the dual, I asked Ben, when we finished discussing the finer points of La Costa Brava, about his company. What does he do, and who does he work for? Turns out, a well-known company called Autodesk, which, I must add, has a sabbatical program, the reason Ben is able to visit Spain with his family for several weeks this summer.

Sabbatical programs = good.

Ben also told me about his older brother Dan, a writer, who currently works at a company called Organic. Seems Dan, like me, had tried some years ago to parlay his creative writing work into a situation where he might actually make a living. Ben offered to put me in touch with Dan since our interests seemed so well-matched, and true to his word, within days he'd set up some meetings. A few days after that I found myself in the lobby of the 4th floor of 555 Market visiting Organic.

Networking combined with solid follow-through = good.

A few quick notes before I get to the actual point of this post. As I've said, networking is cool. It's remarkable. Also about this time, I was invited to attend a "sailing mixer" with OCSC, a sailing school owned by Anthony Sandberg, whom I know through Max Fancher. Though it was gray and rainy, we, just a collection of people Anthony thought might enjoy each other, went sailing on the bay in the late morning of Sunday March 1st and had a blast. I thrilled, as I always do, in meeting so many interesting new people. One of whom happened to be the writer Ethan Watters, author of the book "Urban Tribes." From the brief chat I had with him that day, we arranged to meet the following week so I could visit the San Francisco Writers' Grotto, which he's a founding member of and I'd been reading about for years. Cool, huh?

Therefore, through this various networking, I met with the working writer Ethan Watters, a managing editor of Autodesk named Mark Tricarico, Dan Turman an associate creative director at Organic, and Guthrie Dolin the Director of Strategy at an awesome company called Odopod. And these are just the folks with whom I had a writing/career connection. There were other connections I'm not mentioning, like Ron Blatman, a guy making a documentary film about the bay. We watched a short clip of it after the sail, and it promises to be something special, including all the interesting details of the bay we tend to have scattered knowledge about. First settlers, redwood trees, gold rush. You name it.

All of this came, mainly, because I asked a few questions and possibilities opened up. Of the many reasons informational interviewing is rewarding, one is simple: you can take a look inside. Among the companies I visited, from an energy and vibe and size standpoint, Odopod took the cake. It was experiential evidence of something I already know, but love reaffirming: the small, creative, non-traditional companies are always my favorites.

What about beards, you say? Didn't the title of this piece say something about beards? My apologies, the route to making a point can be circuitous!

Ok. So, when going for an interview, informational or otherwise, what's one of the first things you consider? Appearance. You must decide: go with the suit, or casual? Haircut? What about this beard? No doubt we've all had the experience of choosing in one direction, say, showing up in the suit, and wishing we'd gone with the jeans. As for facial hair, I know the grandfathers of our collective soul would always advocate for the clean shave. But this isn't our grandfathers' workplace. Not to mention the fact that sometimes the recently shorn look doesn't work. Especially, when it's not a proper representation of you. And that's the key. Who are you? What do you want people to see, to know about you? Certainly, you want to be respectful, and your presentation is a big part of that. I'm not much of a shorts-and-sandals-to-the-workplace guy. But why don a tie when that's not really who you are? Aren't you sort of hiding? Cloaking yourself, faking it? Yes, it can depend on the situation, but it's important to remember where you're coming from. Like dating, do you want to pretend to be something you're not? It might work the first time, but from then on you're putting on airs.

Here's an apropos Spanish phrase: Ser Tu Mismo. Be yourself.

I went to these meetings in SF, then, full-bearded. Perhaps the "informational" nature of things helped. Probably; it's another of the many good aspects of this type of interview. By keeping the beard, though, it wasn't that I was trying to make a statement, or that I'm particularly committed to this look. I just wasn't ready yet to shave it off, and, well, I'm good with it right now. Tomorrow, who knows?

(Finally, here's the point!) And so there I was talking with Dan Turman. Right away , I was more comfortable with him (I'd been speaking previously with a recruiter), knowing he's a writer and the brother of a good friend and well, he's from Berkeley. How kindred can we be? Still, I was attempting to sound professional; I didn't want to come across as too cavalier, assuming a relationship we didn't yet have. But our conversation kept turning on fun points, and soon we were talking of creative writing, and writing about subjects we know. We got on about blogs, and related topics of interest, and I hesitated only momentarily before saying that I loved basketball and writing about it. The slight hesitation was because I worried basketball might seem like a lowbrow topic, not tech-oriented or hip or something. Maybe mentioning writing about basketball would seem unprofessional or puerile.

Dan's eyes flashed. "I write a blog about basketball," he says. And not just any old blog, either.

I'm tellin ya, this is the kind of stuff that makes life fun. And it gets better. What's his blog called? Fear The Beard. The coincidence, considering Mi Barba (more Spanish!), was obvious. Off our conversation went into basketball, and related hoop topics. Check it out; seems Dan started this site when Baron Davis was still a (bearded) Warrior. Man, I wish he still were. Before I left Organic, Dan gave me a T-shirt:

It was such a pleasure meeting these guys, and they were very generous with their time. My thanks out to them, and to my man Ben for the hook-up.

The Other

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 20:06:00 +0000

There's a great scene in the film "Rachel Getting Married" in which members of the wedding party toast the bride and groom during the rehearsal dinner. Anne Hathaway's character Kym, the sister of the bride, gives the most memorable, if uncomfortable, toast; the scene is hers, really, and will be easily recalled because of her character, though several others give heartfelt and humorous tributes. The film, by the way, does an excellent job at portraying the many dynamics of such a "modern" wedding, with the presence and interaction of its satisfyingly diverse cast, and its exposure of subtle family issues, loves, joys and resentments.

When one character stood to give her toast, however, I felt myself stiffen. This was Emma, Rachel's best friend and maid-of-honor, played by the actress Anisa George, whom I'd noticed in an earlier scene has a cleft lip. Quite subtle, but there nonetheless. If there's one thing I've discovered as a fellow bearer of this superficial burden, it's that we recognize each other: instantly. That recognition is not friendly, nor is it mean. The merest flash of an eye, which has already noted the particular misalignment of lip or nostril, going to that area of the face like some radar, assessing severity and attractiveness, flashes away again. We don't nod; we don't smile. We aren't out to be "brothers." I sometimes wonder why not. Who else could understand our walk? Why alienate or avoid those of our particular stripe, however unwanted the color?

Instead, we avoid each other. I suspect it's because we mainly walk our individual paths without many suchlike encounters. We are unique; we are The Other. We pretend invisibility. Perhaps, we might even forget, and often do. When we encounter each other, we are abruptly pulled up from our sea of invisibility and forgetting. We are thrust face-to-face with not the mirror, which we're used to, which we've made be our friend, but with others. Others like us. We are forced to remember ourselves, and we are awakened to the reality: we are not the only ones.

I suspect everyone walks the world with a feeling of The Other more than they care to admit. And this was the beauty of my realization while watching this actress deliver her toast in the film. This realization is the font (at least, directions to it) of true compassion.

By the time of this scene in the film, Emma has already had a few uncomfortable interactions with Kym so we, as viewers, are starting to see Emma as somewhat annoying. Though Kym is clearly the bitter, insensitive character, her quips at Emma give her power and make us feel that Emma's too earnest, and maybe a bit of a lapdog to Rachel. It probably added to my feelings about her before the toast. Either way, when Emma stands up, I had this strong feeling: Don't Be Foolish. As in: Don't you, as a representative of my "kind," act a certain way that'll embarrass me.

Never before have I felt quite like this. Ol' Joaquin Phoenix is all over the silver screen with his scar, and what I feel watching him, usually, is just uncomfortable. I think to myself: how can people not stare? Even I'm staring! And I think (and here, up comes the virgin lava of insecurity): how can anyone find him truly attractive? How did this actor get the role? But the feeling I had watching Anisa George was somehow different. I realized that this is how people must feel all the time, especially when considering themselves different, out of their element or comfort zone, and being "represented" by someone.

I realized: All of us experience The Other feeling. Not just people who think they have a more justified "claim" to it, by race, or sexuality, or affliction, but everybody. How many times must a black person watch another black person, say a participant on Survivor, for example, and think: "Oh please, don't fuck up." They're worried this individual will be viewed as a "representative," for better or for worse, of millions of people. Sure, it feels good when the Denzel Washingtons of the world, in apropos parlance, represent, but consider all the Flava Flavs. How about when, by random miracle, an Asian person gets cast in a mainstream film? How must other Asians feel when they watch this character? (And think how inherently flawed, considering "Asian" (like black) has got to be one of the grossest generalizations of all-time.)

See, everybody feels The Other. You stand up to make a toast and you think everybody's staring at: your earring; your beard; your lovehandles; your race, your marital status, your fill-in-the-blank. Anne Hathaway's character feels so uncomfortably The Other that she veritably revels in it, using it as her tool, her armor. And who could blame her? She has been the cause of so much family embarrassment nobody completely trusts her anymore. She's an addict. When she stands, the room looks on with pained, worried expressions. She drinks it in, like the alcohol she can't have, because it's one of the few recourses available to her in the face of so much perceived, and real, scrutiny.

Watching Emma's toast, I understood, in my moment of embarrassment and then clarity, that human beings don't always know themselves, let alone how we appear to others. We can't. No matter what our particular situation, our bodies, our selves, our circumstances we are simply showing up and trying to make it work. Sometimes, we're doing it well. Sometimes, not so much. Sometimes, despite any combination of the aforementioned, we feel: attractive, athletic, intelligent, free. Other times, we feel decidedly other things. That's the human experience. We have our nuances, but the basic essence is the same. The same.

The poet David Whyte describes the dichotomy. He asks: Do you belong, or feel abandoned? I refer to it in my mind again and again. Let's work toward belonging, and making others feel that they belong.

Fellow Pilgrims

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 22:21:00 +0000

On a recent quest for the next book to read, I happened into Walden Pond Books on Grand Avenue where I bought a used copy of Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," which has orbited my sphere of consciousness since I read "The Writing Life." Her writing had reappeared to me last fall, when I read the first half of "For The Time Being" which I found on the bookshelf of friends I was staying with in Boulder during the election. That's right, I remembered when scanning the page of previous works, she won a Pulitzer for Pilgrim at Tinker Creek...

In chapter 2, called "Seeing," she writes: "It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get."

The above is preceded by a story of when she was a little girl in Pittsburgh, and how she used to plant pennies in "secret" places, trees and sidewalks, for other people to discover. She sometimes drew chalk arrows pointing to their locations. SURPRISE AHEAD, she enticed the would-be discoverers.

I got to thinking about magic with these hidden pennies, how oftentimes the magic we seek in the world is actually planted, perpetrated somehow, by someone. Magic's in the seeing, yes, but magic, I realized, is also in the doing. I was no less than thrilled, ecstatic even, when adults during my childhood created an aura of magic about me and our interactions. Coin from behind the ear trick? Loved it. Suggestion that we set off on a magical mystery adventure down the trail with monsters and a princess to save? I'm in. All of it; anything. Even a twinkle-eyed wink delivered me the frisson I wanted the whole world to be filled with.

Here's what I'm talking about: If finding a letter in your mailbox is thrilling, send someone a letter. That's creating the world magic.

In high school, my best friend's mom had a saying: spread a little magic out there. At the time, with my callow ears, I got it, but it sounded so flaky. The poet and storyteller Utah Phillips once remarked about his teenage daughter, cross with him for some public antics: "Why are teenagers so conservative?" Spread a little magic out there resonated in me, but my high school sensibility winced at it.

Now I know what she meant. So many aspects of the world we want to see, the world we want to live in, are predicated on our creation of them, our effort. And why not? Creating magic for children is a hoot. Creating magic for adults, even total strangers, is no less fun or satisfying. Ok, you may winkwink at the wrong person, creating a difficult "magic" from which to extricate yourself, but you get the picture. Try it.

I suppose this sounds like the pay it forward thing, a concept which I like, but didn't see the movie of that title or understand why the idea was mocked after its release. You know those commercials (I think for insurance) where someone observes a stranger helping a stranger and thus decides to help another stranger and the cycle continues? It's like that. Advertisement or not, I love that concept. You walk by some trash on the ground right next to a garbage can? You pick it up. Sure, it's not your trash. You're well within your "rights" to pass it on by. But what if you did pick it up, thereby contributing a little to the whole? Maybe the person who left it there got a distressing phone call and was rendered momentarily careless, but otherwise would never have left such a thing on the ground. You're picking them up. The examples are endless.

It was in this magic sort of mindset, then, that I found myself on the Rockridge BART platform at midday, standing alone at the west end listening to Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough." I was feeling sort of conspicuous up there with the traffic of Hwy 24 wizzing by on either side. However, the song was, as it always is, irresistible, and I kept fighting an urge to pull a step and spin move, right there on the platform. Nah, my mind said. Who are you, fruitcake dancing iPod boy? But I kept getting the urge. Come on, just one random move. Bust it, and that's all. I started thinking of the drivers, glancing up casually at the platform people, at me, as they journeyed toward a lunch meeting in SF, or a friend's house in Orinda. I thought: what if I were driving by, looking at the people waiting for the train in their normal stolid fashion, and suddenly one of them pulled a Michael Jackson spin move?

So, giggling to myself and slightly embarrassed, I suddenly stepped to the right, picked up the left heel, shoulder to the ear, and spun. Wooh!

And that was it. Back to standing. I wondered if anyone looked up to see my one spin, and if, by that random move, my one "magical" display, it influenced anybody. "Honey, you'll never guess what happened. I was driving by the BART platform, and I was thinking how I really wish we went out dancing more, and suddenly this guy on the platform did a little random dance move. It was crazy!" I'll tell you this: I certainly felt like I was having fun, creating some magic out there.

Come on, fellow pilgrims. Create a little magic out there. Don't stop 'til you get enough.

A Wanderer's Beginnings

noreply@blogger.com (jdawords) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 21:05:00 +0000

During my sixth grade year, in response to a spate of classroom mischief of which I was a principal culprit, Mrs. Culpepper relegated me to my own desk in the corner by a window. Her purpose was ostensibly punitive, but I suspect, looking back, it had more to do with keeping order than pure punishment. Either way, I was delighted. Sure, I hammed up the banishment angle, sulking, albeit briefly, in my new place away from everybody else. But once I was there and set-up, secretly I was delighted.

First, there was the window. I could now look out onto the playground and do the next best thing to P.E.: watch other kids do P.E. I'd evaluate kickball kickers and decide if Mr. Richie was treating our class as fairly as those outside. Did we play the same games, for the same amount of time? If the playground was empty, though, and I was in a thoughtful mood, I would simply stare out at the asphalt expanse, like a charcoal sea, with its intermittent seagulls and yellow temporary classroom bungalows like junks, and indulge my inchoate introspection.

Second, I had no table-mates. No snooping classmate eyes on me or my activities. If Mrs. Culpepper needed to see me, either I went to her desk or was called over to a group table. Thereby liberated, I set about that year to read books. I'm not exactly sure where the desire came from, but I suddenly wanted to read, and not much of what I was supposed to read. I decided to enact what I thought was a clever, albeit unoriginal, ploy. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I would go to Mrs. Culpepper to get my next assignment, meted out to me now in separate, individual portions since I no longer belonged to an official table-group. She'd give me, say, pages 11 through 17 of the workbook to read and the quiz on 18; I was to return to her when completed. Marching orders in hand, I would beeline to my desk, industriousness falling off me like sparks, and prop the large workbook open. But rather than read its contents, inside that partition I would spread other books: the Garfield series; The Hobbit; A Wrinkle In Time.

You'd imagine my subterfuge more clever if my desk actually faced Mrs. Culpepper's, thereby hiding my contraband; instead, with my back to her and the classroom, I somehow figured the outside workbook cover was sufficient to disguise my activities. Nonetheless, I was never caught, and relished every minute of my personal reading. When I gauged a proper period of time had elapsed, I would return to Mrs. Culpepper for more pages. I remember showing her the book, and fibbing about the previous assignment. I must've done the quizzes, which were easy, but maybe not. My detailed rap seemed to satisfy her. She once remarked on a report card: "James will make a great salesman someday." With pages 19-27, and the quiz on 28, I was on to another book, maybe A Wind in the Door.

Thinking back on this from an adult perspective, I realize Mrs. Culpepper must've observed me over there reading my books-inside-the-workbook. I suppose she considered it productive, if not incorrigible: at least I was reading.

At about the time of my new seating assignment, I'd begun to realize that class was often intensely boring. I wanted to go outside for P.E., and if we couldn't do that, wasn't there anything more interesting to do in class? Certain activities I enjoyed, like reading out loud in groups with Mrs. Culpepper. Sitting next to her as I read, she once stroked my hair, quite maternally, and said: "James, your hair is so soft!" But the rest of the sixth grade curriculum? It was either too easy or too boring. Who could stay focused? This attitude had unfortunately contributed to my present seating arrangement, which meant now there were no nearby classmates for me to tease or otherwise engage with. So I turned my attention outside the classroom, and had another in what seemed a series of sixth grade epiphanies: I'll employ the "go to the bathroom" ruse! I'd never even attempted this without really having to go, but, just like that, I tried it. And it worked. That bathroom pass made me feel like an army private on his first furlough. Free! Where would I go first?

I thus began daily wanderings throughout the school. I wandered the third floor, peering into classrooms; I wandered near the main office and studied the huge bulletin board of pictures of "students of the month." Often I'd head over to the auditorium, where the Gilbert & Sullivan troupe rehearsed. Mr. Klute's fifth grade and Mrs. Lynch's sixth grade classes had the added, exotic activity of rehearsing and performing plays during the school year, along with the regular curriculum. They seemed special, and I was fascinated. A couple of my neighborhood friends were in the troupe. I'd sit in the audience by myself and watch like a talent scout. I'd make small mental notes: "Erika is actually a good singer." "Tom looks uncomfortable up there." Sometimes, I don't think I was doing much at all besides looking, and listening to the songs fill up the cavernous auditorium, a sixth grade boy alone in a metal folding chair in an inconspicuous row, pondering. When I was sorta tired of wandering about, I'd return to Mrs. Culpepper's class.

And she never said a word! I thought I had her so fooled. Every day I asked "to go to the bathroom" and wouldn't return for what seemed like hours. Which, of course, for those older than 11 years, was probably no longer than an hour. Still, a kid outside the classroom for an hour? You might suspect some kind of negligence here. But I don't think Mrs. Culpepper was careless. This was 1982, after all. Kids still played outside until dusk, by god, without parental supervision or helmets. I think she was the opposite of careless, actually, I think she was quite astute. She was trying to perform that unenviable teacher's task of treating students as individuals, and deciding what works best for the group. And, as for Mrs. Culpepper's level of engagement, let me add this: she appeared recently at my 20th high school reunion, and said she remembered most of her students, 26 years later! Still, I think it had less to do with the era, or a teacher's lack of protocol, and more with the fact that I think she knew I needed out, and so she let me go. She knew I'd come back.

I consider now the self-absorption of that age. I had no idea that Mrs. Lynch might've reported back to Mrs. Culpepper that she saw me in the auditorium. Or the librarian, or any number of teachers or administrators I encountered. It just didn't occur to me. Perhaps they did, and that's why Mrs. Culpepper didn't worry. Perhaps they didn't. Either way, I was in my own world, and she let me experience it. It was an unspoken agreement between Mrs. Culpepper and me.

What's interesting now, in retrospect, is the fact that this need, to wander, and this attitude, that I'd like to do what I want, (and not what you're paying me to do), in many regards, hasn't changed much. I still want to read, and when that's finished, I want to wander. Around the bookstore or the library, or go down to the shoreline or up in the hills or along any streets and listen and look. Who doesn't? And like the sixth grader, there's a self-absorption that must be equally honored and reformed. I, like many in my generation, struggle with finding this balance in adult life. We are inundated with the message follow your dreams, which who can argue with? But the dream to write or to play music or to paint or, hell, to wander, isn't always as easy as it seems. We know this; still, we must address it. There's no shortage of Larry Darrells in the pantheon, literary or otherwise, those who simply desire to loaf. Which meant, we came to understand, not wanting to do it the "normal" way. Then, how? It still must be done.

The more practical-minded (within whose number I count myself on certain matters) say it should be a simple matter of assiduous dream-following, and in some cases I suppose it is. We all have responsibilites, to ourselves, to our partners and our families. Letting oneself wander, and knowing when it's time to return to class, is the crux of the matter.

Finally, a note. It occurred to me as I remembered my sixth grade self that it was a wonderful time of self-possession. I was blissfully unselfconscious, liked what I liked and did what I wanted to do. Mrs. Culpepper let me be me, in fact I think she championed my self-assurredness. I certainly had a lot of sparkle and enthusiasm for an 11 year old, was cocky even, and I think she saw it and knew to let it be. I cringe thinking about what a different personality might've done in the face of my exuberance, because change was coming only too quickly. In just a few short months, I experienced one of the worst summers of my young life, filled by emotional stress and the first body changes associated with the onset of puberty. In the wink of an eye, I became self-conscious, and entered that fall into the 7th grade and a whole new phase of life and development that would take years to recover from, periods of doubt, self-loathing, insecurity and awkwardness. Knowing that was coming, I offer my thanks to Mrs. Culpepper for her leniency, for letting me wander. And, I think, we should allow ourselves, and the people in our lives, more room, because who knows what's next, and who knows what a great opportunity this could be.