ER

I interveiwed a plastic surgeon today, and he showed me slides of his work in reconstructive surgery. I saw a photo of a man who got his nose bit off in a fight, and then how the Dr. sliced out a piece of skin from the man's forehead, and flipped it down over the stump of a nose and, over several operations, constructed a new nose.

Many photos -- severed hands, faces ravished from skin cancer -- for him, these were challenges, something he could do, something he could make better -- a craftsman, an artist, a pretty good guy. He also does nose jobs and breast enhancements.

Gruesome photos, but when I saw it with his eyes....

Coincedentally I'm watching ER on the television.

The Lion of East Cambridge

Harvey Blume lives in Brooklyn now, but I knew him when we both lived in Cambridge -- he on the east side and I on the west side. We met at the Sunday morning Tikkun discussion group, an offshoot of the magazine, a salon of articulate Jewish intellectuals discussing progressive issues.

[What was I doing there, not being Jewish or articulate? Some other time, I'll explain this.]

Harvey is a freelancer and he gets published in various magazines. I've seen his interviews with luminiaries such as Doris Lessing and Edward Said.

It would be wonderful to live in Brooklyn and to meet Harvey for coffee somewhere. I still call him the Lion of East Cambridge.

The Magic Touch

I heard the Platters in November, 1966, at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill -- 5,000 students. It was one of the most wonderful moments of my life. I heard them sing all those songs, and not a dry eye in the house. It had to be in North Carolina -- to hear it like that.

Los Angeles

You don't know how much I love Los Angeles. I must be geographically promiscuous. Ask me, "Which do you love the most, California or Texas?" and I will answer, "Yes, very much."

I said promiscuous, not because I believe my affection is cheap, but because other people seem to think that one ought to pick one place above all others. It may be so with a woman, and it is often so with a place to live, but I have been many places, and my heart doesn't settle, but expands.

Tom Waits

Tom Waits

My last year in high school, I used to skip out and take the "L" to downtown Chicago, down to South State Street where they had burlesque theaters and tawdry used book stores. I could lie my way into the girlie shows and see strippers like you see in this photo of Tom Waits. Afterwards I could pick up pocket novels for 25 cents at the used books stores - good books, mind you, the classics. 1964 -- that was the year.

Tuesday

Tuesday morning in skip week. No one is working, just pretending. No news in the newspaper -- that's good, that means nothing bad has happened, except for the usual, like a meth lab gets busted. Why would anyone do meth?

I think I will write to my friend Harvey Blume tonight. I haven't seen him since 1995, when I lived in Boston. Harvey lives in Brooklyn now. You couldn't pry him off the East Coast.

And I might call Bo Miller in LaConner, in the Skagit Valley, where I used to live. Bo is my very snobbiest friend. This annoys me, but he really can't help it. He treats everybody this way. I get mad at him, then I forgive him. It's been going on for years.

Or I could call Paul Schulte in Cinncinatti. Oh -- that's a good idea. He's one of my old pals from college. It's been a long time.

This blog is undergoing revision in terms of content. I recommend checking it once a week at this point.

I love this week. It's so quiet -- people pretending to work.

I got an excellent 6-inch totally yuppie chef's knife for Christmas, super for chopping vegetables

Chinese food

Food is interesting. We had Chinese food last night, at the Golden Wok in San Antonio. I shared the meal with Manahara, a concert pianist from Sri Lanka. There was a matter of etiquette when we ordered tea. The waittress brought iced tea. I said, in my most gracious manner, "Yes we are in Texas, but this is a Chinese restaurant, so we would like a pot of hot Chinese tea." [Everybody drinks iced tea in Texas, for those who need an explanation]These things can be negotiated. Manahara, who came to the U.S. when he was 14, is quite skilfull at navigating his way through the dominant culture any place in the country. I asked him how he reconciles his traditional upbringing with modern America. He said he sometimes feels mixed up and some times it is an agony, but for the most part he just deals with it. So it is for all foreigners in Texas. You must first pay homage to the national drink of Texas -- iced tea -- and then ask for what you really want. As long as nobody gets all het up about this, it works.

The food was great. I had pork lo mein, and Manahara had a stir fry. For dessert we had a sweet dimsum covered in sesame with a just-right bean paste inside. It was so good. In fact, it was the highlight of a long day.

Blog problems

I started this blog -- maybe for the wrong reason -- because that's what everybody was doing, that's where people's attention was going. Well-meaning friends encouraged me. They said this is what's going on. On that basis -- a new form of communication -- it was worth a try.

However, my reaction, after writing this blog since August, is that there is not much to it. I don't get much lift from writing it, and I get very little response from people who read it.

My old email newsletter format was clumsy and antiquated, but it fit like a glove for me as a writer, and it struck home with more than a few readers. I could put my heart in it, and reach the hearts and minds of the people who read it. So, I think I will go back to doing that for a while.

I will still make posts here from time to time, but right now my expectations are minimal.

orange marmalade

I was thinking of cooking some jam, but then....

I drank some gin with ruby red grapefruit juice and laughed too much to do anything else. Holy fucking Jesus Christ -- feels pretty good.

Iraq

I woke up this morning and felt good about the situation in Iraq for the first time. I heard John Burns, a correspondent for the New York Times, and his testimony was sanguine. We're a bunch of smart alecks here in the United States, and Iraq is a very old country, but the outcome might be good. I keep in mind this thought -- optimism dies in the Middle East, but life goes on.

Bok Choy and Tofu

I had a Texas lunch, courtesy of the Christmas party by the local County Extension office -- all good farm boys. They served steak and boiled potatoes and green beans. It was a really good steak too, and I enjoyed the company.

But for dinner, I needed something lighter and greener, so I made myself a good old-fashioned yuppie dinner -- bok choy and tofu. Ah! I turned on a bit of classical music, I'll make some herb tea with honey and all is right with the world. I'm reading -- I've been carrying this set of books around for more than ten years and I'm just now getting to it -- the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. Now it's been made into a movie -- The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe -- so I will see that when it comes to Floresville in a week or so.

People are drifting into a holiday mood in town here -- There is less and less work getting done anywhere. I sure don't mind.

Pickled Herring

I bought a jar of pickled herring -- Norwegian soul food, because I was lonesome for the far north country where I did once dwell, and the cold water fjords and the rushing rivers of Puget Sound, the tall trees, the dark nights in winter and longing for the return of the light.

Now I'm in Texas, which I love and embrace, but I still miss what I once had in the Skagit Valley up north.

I've been singing a Swedish song all week (Swedes and Norwegians!) for the feast of Santa Lucia. I had been practicing it, getting good at a proper Swedish accent, and dwelling in the meaning and melody of this traditional Christmas carol on the feast of St. Lucy, Santa Lucia, the fair maiden wearing a wreath lighted candles on her head, bearing the tray of sweet saffron pastries.

I was going to talk about this old custom at Elaine's Christmas party and then sing the song, but I am not quite a performer, so I did not. I'm sure they would have liked it, and I might get another chance, perhaps with a smaller audience, four or five people at most. That I could do. Here's the lyrics:

Natten går tunga fjät
runt gård och stuva.
Kring jord som sol´n förlät,
skuggorna ruva.
Då i vårt mörka hus
stiger med tända ljus
Sancta Lucia, Sancta Lucia.

Natten är stor och stum.
Nu hör det svingar
i alla tysta rum
sus som av vingar.
Se, på vår tröskel står
vitklädd, med ljus i hår
Sancta Lucia, Sancta Lucia.

Mörkret skall flykta snart
ur jordens dalar.
Så hon ett underbart
ord till oss talar.
Dagen skall åter ny
stiga ur rosig sky.
Sancta Lucia, Sancta Lucia.

Why I love Africa

By Zodwa Mataka

Why do I love Africa? Because we are all related. Biologically, where ever you are from in Africa, we are related.In Africa if you are from the same house - you are related, from the same village - you are related; from the same country - you are related. Even from the same regional grouping like west, east, north and southern Africa - we are related as long as you are an African we are all related. We refer to each other as brother and sister in Africa. We do not have cousin or nieces - all we have are brothers and sisters. That is why I love Africa - so let us stop killing one another.

It's not a big river

I was on the river walk tonight in San Antonio. They had Christmas lights dangling from the cypress trees, hanging over the water. Ate a burger, walked on the river promenade, came into the lobby of the Hotel Valencia and sat down on a very swanky couch. Then I went to a Christmas party given for the local media people. It was a good party, but by the time I got there I was all talked out from a busy day of morning meetings, lunch with new friends, a press conference -- I wasn't all that tired, I just didn't want to talk. I don't understand how people can throw a party and get a decent band and then nobody dances -- they just stand around and talk. I hate standing around balancing a drink. I'd rather sit down and get off my feet, or get out on the floor and dance and get some non-verbal action going.

the flag of Texas

I went to Wal-Mart after work today, to buy art supplies because -- well, the general idea is finding things to do that keep me out of pool halls and taverns -- I wanted to do a project, while sprawled out on the carpet watching TV. So I bought poster boards and a sketchbook and crayons and markers and cheap water colors, and glitter markers too.

My plan, such as I have one, is to make a drawing of the flag of Texas, which I am most strongly attached to --because of its clarity and simplicity. What this flag means is not so clear or simple, but I will discover that -- by living here in Texas, and drawing this flag on the poster board.

Duvet

By Annabelle Hawes, from Vermont, writing about her two youn children.

My children come into my bed in the morning. They press themselves on both sides of me and I breathe in their warmth. Their sighs stretch out and their limbs grow limp when the fall back asleep. I wake them again in time for school and ask about their dreams. Elizabeth often remembers hers, they are elaborate schemes of animals and natural events. Bradley dreams mostly of places we have been and things we have seen, but he doesn't recall the details often. He dreams of monsters sometimes. Elizabeth fears holes. They both believe that there is a certain pink stuffed animal monkey in our household who is responsible for bad dreams and they refuse to have this creature in their rooms. I love to listen to them speak, to hear what is meaningful to them. But that is how we know anyone, isn't it? We then discuss breakfast or the weather or the plans for the day. "It is cold today, Elizabeth you need to wear a sweater." Or,"Bradley you have library today, do you know where your book is?" It's nice (this morning meeting) before we toss back the covers and attend to the day.

Baking Bread again

I baked bread tonight -- four loaves. Rosemary bread, I picked the rosemary on Thanksgiving day and kept the small snips in a glass of water on the counter. I bought a small sack of flour that was half whole wheat and half unbleached white flour -- which is the right balance, I think. I bought three packets of yeast for 99 cents. Yeast is a very special thing, but I still don't like it that it costs so much.

I used three small aluminum loaf pans. I smeared them with olive oil, so they wouldn't stick. I mixed, and then I kneaded and let it rise twice. It was like the old recipe I used to use.

The first time in a new oven -- you know that might be a surprise, but it came in like a hummingbird. I'm just waiting for it to cool so I can have a taste

Cowboy up, Help ain't comin'

This is an attitude. I could explain it -- how to cowboy up, and what it means that help ain't comin' -- but it's better if you simply repeat the saying during quiet moments, and then implement it as a policy. It might have something to do with sleeping under a leaky tree in the rain, or being bug-bit on a hot day, and nowhere near the time or place for a cold beer. This is not confined to experiences in Texas by any means, but those with a decidedly rural character. Getting stuck in traffic doesn't count, unless, if you really want to cowboy up because you are stuck in traffic, you need to pull your vehicle over to the side of the road. You then pull a large ball-peen hammer out of your tool box -- this is not for beginners, you have to have the toolbox -- okay you get the hammer out and fix your vehicle in a manner that will leave it permanently in your past, including everything that got you stuck in traffic in the first place.

Having left the traffic jam, you start walking until you hit daylight. I mean daylight metaphorically, of course. Now your feet are sore and tired, you're thirsty, and finally, a lot of your friends will think you have lost your mind -- but you just keep on walking. Now you're cowboyin' up, and believe me, help ain't comin'

Motocross

The paper sent me out to the motocross event. I drove two miles down a dirt road to the dirt track.I parked my car and began to walk around. My first reaction was revulsion -- I had landed in redneck heaven. As much as I like Texas, there is a limit. What really bothered me was the dirt itself -- images of my years working in the mud in farm fields and landscape gardens, coming home caked with dirt and soggy jeans. This dirt which I had resolutely left behind in pursuit of my journalistic dreams. I enjoy so very much being clean now, and being clean at work -- and there I was back in the dirt again.

I got over this. I began to speak with people -- all very friendly, of course. There were 4,500 people in attendance, according to the manager -- people from all over the country -- Colorado, Oregon, California. It turns out that little old Floresville is world class in motocross circles for being a good track. And people came from Europe -- I saw a gaggle of Italians wearing funny clothes and heard German accents, and then I fell in with the contingent from New Zealand, lead by Joesphine and her "Mum," as she called her, and her boyfriend, Kevin. Josephine is a flight attendant for Air New Zealand, and loves her bike. She had been to Los Angeles many times in the course of her work, but this was her first trip to Texas. She seemed to like it here quite a bit, except she asked a number of questions about snakes. There are no poisonous snakes in New Zealand -- I could tell that she was fearful. I admitted as such that we have rattlesnake here and they can bite, but fatalities are quite rare, etc. I doubt that this re-assured her. But she was a pretty athelete and I enjoyed talking with her -- certainly fearless on her bike.

She asked me if I had ever ridden a bike. I said no. I didn't want to tell her that my oldest sister died in a motorcycle accident in 1974.