On a movie set

There are actors running around my house, setting up scenes for their latest movie. We have a small family business I've not previously mentioned in this space, Weir Dudes Production, whose first movie, Light-sabers in San Francisco, was an instant hit. Judging by the props I see emerging from various closets around here, tonight's film involves rich (little) women, art thieves and (small) men in Russian hats and sunglasses.

It's anothet hot night in San Francisco, though I understand the rest of the country has been truly sweltering. Here, more fruit swells and drops to the grass; flowers unfold in pots, and everyone dresses in lighter clothes. We go through gallons of carbonated water these days, as well as watermelon and other fruits.

A couple actors just stopped by.


Rich lady.


Russian art thief.

I've been informed I have a non-speaking role as a policeman. How appropriate. So I must leave you for now, but will try to come back online later, after performing my role in tonight's performance.

(later)

Okay, I'm back. Here's a shot on location on this hot city night...



And, finally, back in the editing suite...

Second hand emotion

We live in a cynical age. A post-modern age, when discontinuity has replaced whatever expectations we might have brought into this era from our pasts. Only recently, have I begun to question the wisdom of my father's main advice to me: "I don't care what you do as long as you are happy." In many ways, he was simply being a good American, since "the pursuit of happiness" is guaranteed in our Constitution.

On the other hand there are those who suggest a better goal might be the pursuit of meaning. See The Dark Side of Happiness (Thanks, S.)

My good friend and I were recently discussing a younger person, extremely intelligent and idealistic, who had grown frustrated by organizational challenges she had encountered. My friend tried to counsel her that her intelligence was in no way a guarantee to happiness. In many ways, in fact, it is the opposite, given how this world works.

But, if we can set aside this question of happiness, which so often seems to rely on not seeing the uncomfortable realities around us, and consider the quest for meaning as a better gauge of how we are doing in this life, maybe we will come to a deeper appreciation about the potential opportunities awaiting us here on earth.

One example is the person who foregoes all of what she knows, every familiar thing, everything comfortable, in order to travel to a distant place where others badly need her help. She may or may not find happiness there, but no one can question the deep meaning imbedded in her choice.

My only problem with this formulation is this: "What about love?" Is our only choice to end up hurt when the one we love follows a search for meaning over the conventional definitions of happiness? Or I am foolish for even raising this question? After all, the music never lies, does it...

The Sentimental Materialist

People like me are fond of saying we don't like "things," since it is rarely cool to be a consumer (except when it is). When it comes to conventional consumer items, I'm definitely backward. My car, a Saturn, is nothing to brag about, I don't have a big TV or an iPod; hell, I'm not even a home-owner any longer. My furniture is thrift store quality, my dishes are chipped, and I wouldn't even own a decent bed, except that I am taking care of my ex-girlfriend's bed while she is away in Mississippi.

A bunch of the other, nicer furniture in my house is hers, also. Some of the rest is my ex-wife's stuff. I don't believe I've ever had a fight with an ex-partner for our shared material goods; in the end, it just doesn't matter that much to me who has what.

What I do care about, however, is the memories associated with various other objects littered around my house, and my ex-partner's houses. Every object has its own story; and I often recount these narratives to myself, as in:

*That big shampoo bottle.
*That Chinese liquor bottle.
*That old hat.
*Those design books.
*That baby shawl.
*This old broken piece of tile from Balkh.
*That robe, those slippers.
*"Power Cat," a painting.

Then there is the matter of my many, many collections: Seaglass, shells, stones, driftwood, bottle caps, sand dollars, feathers, stamps, kids' art, magazines, books, coins, sports cards, model cars...on and on. Most of these items have little if any monetary value, in fact many of them qualify as pure junk.

But, to me, they represent captured memories like a certain beach at sunset with someone I loved, stooping and gathering tiny shiny bits of things as they glinted in the fading light. Or, stamps torn from letters sent me from around the world after one of my books on global environmental problems.

I have an especially hard time throwing away things people have given me, like cards and gifts from my kids or lovers.

By now, you are envisioning a pretty cluttered place. Actually, most of my possessions are in boxes.

But there is the occasional surprise: open a drawer and find a matchbox with the name of a restaurant in New York, which brings back a flood of memories, or another from a spa in Calistoga, Dr. Wilkinson's; or a scrap of paper, a credit card receipt from a gas station in Gulfport or the Kona Coast.

A travel shampoo from a hotel, a pen from a conference, a hat that says Hands On USA, an old photo of happy people dancing. Wherever I look, there are stories screaming out at me. None of these objects, or at least very few of them, should be retained once I pass from the earth. To most other people, these bits and pieces of life are nothing more than archeological evidence from an era that, by the time it becomes exotic, will be buried under the bones of those who will succeed us, just as we now stand atop the bones of our ancestors.

Still, stories can be crafted out of these modest possessions; perhaps then they will acquire value that otherwise will elude them during their natural life cycle. In the aftermath of a disaster, such as Hurricane Katrina last year, people's possessions littered the landscape willy-nilly, coated with mud, no longer in any sort of order or condition that would allow their previous owners to reclaim -- or even recognize -- them. Their individual stories were lost, but collectively they spoke of shattered lives and a community lost.

It's nice to build stories out of modest particles, like these small collections of mine, or the emotional waves that lap over me, like tides, coming in, going out, leaving only a soft residue behind. There will never be enough time for me to craft all the stories these tiny items surrounding me contain. Most will lose their potential for meaning when I go silent.

In this way, I am their curator. Their stories depend entirely on me. I wish I had the time to tell them all, but I don't. From the last license plate for our trailer in Michigan, and why; to the hand-lettered instructions for our dishwasher, and why not; most of these stories are destined to go untold, along with their unteller to our common grave.

Heat Wave: Dropped Fruit

My backyard tonight yielded this bonanza. The day up here must have been so hot that these plump purple beauties simply let go, and allowed themselves to give in to gravity. Like a woman falling in love.





Out front of my house, the flowering tree next door dropped her petals like a lovely woman undresses -- effortlessly.

Disasters

Today, another tsunami smashed into Indonesia, killing many people. In the past few days, a man from Gulfport, Mississippi, rendered homeless last year by Katrina, died in a fire in his FEMA trailer. Authorities were trying to find a relative before releasing his name.

People of faith, and insurance companies, call these "natural disasters." The former do so out modesty and awe at the terrible power of God. Faith allows people to accept these horrors as part of some larger plan that may not be apparent to mere mortals. The latter do so as part of a strategy to get out of paying off legitimate claims.

There is a little-noticed trial going on in Gulfport, involving how an insurance company did not cover the losses of homeowners post-Katrina, saying the damage was caused by flooding, and most residents did not carry flood insurance.

When I interviewed residents (as well the volunteers who were helping them) along the Gulf Coast three months after Katrina hit, they all described a similar experience: The Gulf of Mexico, pushed by Katrina's winds, rose up into a wall of water 30 feet high. This terrifying wave destroyed almost everything in its path as it roared ashore.

In East Biloxi, which is a peninsula, the wave rushing in from the Gulf crashed head-on into a second 30-foot wave rushing in from the opposite direction, Back Bay. The two exploded over East Biloxi, and the result, when I saw it, was beyond my powers of description. Let's say I fell silent as my girlfriend drove me through these ruined streets, and those who know me understand it takes a lot to shut me up.

Here is how it looked:



I am neither a man of faith nor of the insurance industry. Just a simple observer, a journalist trained to notice details. My analysis is the social forces that lead poor people to congregate in marginal areas, vulnerable areas, provide the context for who gets hurt most when disasters strike.

In other words, God may well make the earth shake and the waters rise; and insurance adjusters may well have the final word on whether policy-holders get help (though the courts, and especially juries of peers have a voice in this matter); but it is the class system of the modern world that more often than not, determines who lives and who dies when tsunamis and hurricanes hit.

Afterwards, as the cleanup begins, a land grab ensues, and those victimized once by the storm, are inevitably victimized twice as casinos (Mississippi), or hotels (Indonesia) seize their land. I hope I don’t sound too cynical, dear reader, which is not my intent. My intent is to honor the angels who show up to help victims survive, and organize to fight for a better tomorrow.

My Life as an Activist 1.1

In a bygone era, we saw no contradiction between our social activism and our journalism. I could demonstrate and cover the demonstration. But, even then, I always felt outside the group of true believers. It was hard to accept some of the extremes that were being discussed. And I always tended to think critically about every subject, including those closest to my heart. I was passionate about civil rights, and I opposed the war in Vietnam. I published lots of stories expressing my opinions. When the time came to criticize the movement, I wrote those stories as well.

American journalists have become confused in the past 30 years; or rather their bosses have become confused. There is a false belief that a journalist should not have any personal involvement in a matter (s)he writes about. There is also the ludicrous idea that a reporter should not participate in civil demonstrations, even if (s)he does so strictly as a citizen, with no intent to write about the experience at all.

Many idealistic journalists have approached me in recent years; fearful that some potential boss might find out they had marched against the war in Iraq, or against Israel's actions in the Middle East, or against those who would remove a woman's right to choose.

This makes me sad. My generation of journalists fought for these rights. We trusted ourselves to tell the truth as we saw it, regardless of our political beliefs. In my opinion, our highest responsibility is to our readers. As long as we disclose to them where we stand, our managers and overseers should have the wisdom to step aside, and let the great democratic process of debating ideas to occur.

The impact (not to mention the irony) of journalists feeling forced to self-censor reaches well beyond the individual facts of each case. This is one way a democracy dies. One self-censoring journalist at a time...

Take a look at me now 1.1

Finally, maybe I am ready to move on. I can feel a difference. Suddenly I'm noticing women and meeting them in new ways. And I'm interested in seeing them again. I'm open now.

All of this is new. They said it would happen. It's happening.

San Francisco's weather is perfect for some new friendships to emerge, and maybe love too. It's warm and sultry; the city is cooled by the sea breezes at night. Everything that can bloom is doing so; flowering trees with purple and white blossoms, new greenery pushing up through the soil; a mother duck with a bunch of furry chicks waddling around under the trees.

In our yard, the plums are red and ripe and plump, hanging heavily; and the apples are still green but growing bigger every day.

There's a softness in the air, the lovely scent of new possibilities. I'm open and I'm ready. What I had with J. was good, but it is gone. It's over. She never writes, she never calls. As far as I can tell, she only rarely thinks of me. Therefore, she's moved well on and probably notices others much as I am now doing.

Life can't stand still. I'm restless, and I like women -- a lot. Whether as friends, lovers, partners or colleagues, I enjoy their company. So the next stage of my life will be as it is meant to be in the natural order of things.