Creative Risk, Safety, Fear, Love & Death

The environment around me could not be more dramatic, several miles inland from a violent ocean, churning from a series of winter storms that are dumping rain along the northern coast.

As we rounded the hill atop Bernal yesterday, my kids are I were confronted with a black sky to one side and a bright, almost white sky on the other, with a giant rainbow joining them together.

The city's fabled seven hills are bright green from the rain, and the constantly changing sky provides the opposite of what our summer fog brings, i.e., clarity as opposed to confusion.

I love this season.

My friend asks, "Just think, if you have only a few years left in your life, what would you like to leave in words, as a journalist, to make the world a better place?"

Although I hope to have more than a "few" years left, her point is well-taken. Most of my career as a writer, I've been extremely passive. (This blog is a more aggressive approach to writing than most things I've done.)

Normally, I've waited for work to come to me, and then said "yes."

In the past few months, this pattern continues. I've said "yes" to anyone who approaches, and that has included editors for three magazine articles (all successful) and a new blog (that jury is out). Over the same period, I've approached no one on my own, to suggest projects, although I have a few in mind.

In my personal life, a similar passivity reigns. I've accepted those who show up, including girl friends; rarely reaching out to meet new people on my own.

Somehow, life just keeps showing up. But I am quite aware that a new approach is indicated; that it is now time for me to take more decisive actions.

Stay tuned. News headlines coming up...

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Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,'s Last Speech

Tonight, on the American holiday dedicated to his memory, I'm watching a documentary about King and his life's work.

There has been no leader who has emerged in this society since King was assassinated in Memphis in 1968 with anywhere near his moral authority or rhetorical skill. The clip above is of one of my favorites among his speeches, with his awful premonition of impending death this last night of his life.

But my personal favorite among the many documentaries about King is "From Montgomery to Memphis," which contains much uncut footage of his major speeches.

Every year, on this day, I drop whatever else I may be doing to celebrate King's memory in my own private way. That is to review these speeches, studying his words and their meaning, and searching for new ways to contribute in the year ahead.

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Writing in the Rain

This region chronically suffers from droughts, so at a time like this, when a large winter storm moves into the area, everyone is hopeful -- not only that the coastal area gets rain but that the mountains to our east get snow.



Meanwhile I'm just grateful that the dark skies and pregnant air of the weekend have finally given birth to this rainfall locally.

For some reason this morning I recalled what it was like to be "normal," you know, to be married, own a house, have a job, unquestioned health, an unquestioned future, plenty of disposable income -- the whole American middle-class dream thing.

I have none of those things in my life. None.

Instead, I write. Few people read my words, fewer still know the little steps they could take to help sustain this work. On my BNET blog, I'm occasionally able to cause some trouble, but what does this amount to, really?

There appears to be no sustainable model left for writers in this society. We not only have to be able to write, we have to publish ourselves, market our work, and to keep doing so without any encouragement from the organized publishing world, which continues to hate bloggers.

Meanwhile, I'm just writing in the rain. There is no business model for me going forward, which is why I will never regain that dream-like lifestyle of my past, but will walk forward alone, listening to the rain, keeping to myself as much as possible, dreaming of a novel.

One that I, no doubt, will never write.

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Back in Action

A big storm is supposed to be poised offshore; so far all we've gotten are a few isolated raindrops.

Today, down in Redwood City, I got to watch my kid play soccer again, for the first time in months.

I can't say that two months ago I was fully conscious of how precious these little life moments are, but I am now.



Although he's been ill, with a sinus infection and stomach flu, he still is as fast and graceful as ever.

Athletes are athletes, pure and beautiful.

He's an athlete.



I'm a writer. I have a different role. Tonight, thanks to a DVD sent to me by the film company that produced that Patty Hearst documentary for MSNBC, I finally got to see the whole program.

Except for getting sick of seeing (and hearing) myself on film, I thought it was a good show. The producers re-created an odd moment in American history. Their work is accurate and compelling. I hope they win awards for their work.

The skies are dark. I'm pondering my own memoir, one that will include the Hearst saga, which I covered for Rolling Stone.

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Back to Being the Unkillable Messenger

Back in my old familiar role of breaking a news story that shakes people up. (Follow link.)

You can always tell, in my business, when you've struck a nerve because most everybody gets mad at you.

The first line of offense they take is to allege that you are plum wrong. But I don't think I am wrong about this story.

The second line of defense they take is to protest that nothing is wrong, everything is fine.

In this case, I doubt everything is fine.

Finally, bureaucracies always try to protect themselves from independent analysis. Most laughable of all are other news organizations, that shall remain unnamed here, who repeat the lies of the guilty to attack those of us who shine a light in on the truth.

Such is the state of journalism circa 2010. Dig deper if this is too opaque for your taste...

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Unmoored and Floating

Sitting here in an Internet cafe in the Mission District of San Francisco, I'm feeling lonely. It's not that I do not have plenty of human contact -- my email inbox is full; I've received several phone messages and texts; and I have plans for tonight.

This loneliness is something else, something that companionship cannot shake.

Considering the devastation this week in Haiti, I became acutely conscious again how vulnerable we are in this city to earthquake damage.

Yet, nothing like the loss of life in Haiti will occur here, no matter how great the quake, because there is no such thing as a natural disaster in this man-made world of ours.

Hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, earthquakes, fires, and volcanoes will devastate parts of earth on a regular basis, but the poor always suffer disproportionately. There is nothing remotely "natural" about this.

The poor are pushed onto marginal lands, below sea-level, on landfill, in flimsy structures close to harm's way. Haiti is a desperately poor country -- that is why so many are dead.

It has nothing to do with "Nature," or "God."

This kind of thinking is not the cause of my loneliness, of course. Clear thinking is one of my best friends. I know what I know, after forty years as a journalist, about how the world works, and I am confident in my analysis.

But, as a person, even one with a rich family life and with caring friends. observing the world has its limits; unless I am engaged with those I love on an almost continuous basis I seem to drift away, like an unmoored boat.

Even when surrounded by those I love, and who love me, this can occur. There seems to be a deep abyss inside me, a place no one can reach, and it summons me at will. Today is one of those times; I'm lost both within and beyond myself.

I've tried but I cannot write the things I need to write today. I've tried to go where I should go but failed. So I sit alone here, keying in words that may or may not resonate with anyone else.

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Hole in the Wall

Not a new little cafe in San Francisco, no. Something more mundane -- a hole cut in the ceiling of my bathroom by workers trying to fix a serious water leak from the unit above.



This was part of the repair undertaken after I'd noticed a large globe forming in the ceiling, sloping downward, filling proportionately until it hung down quite invitingly, with fluid oozing from its tip.



The fluid, alas, was dirty water.

Such repairs in old houses (this one was built circa 1880) are routine, naturally.

This problem must have been swelling on its own, unnoticed, during the month I was away, recuperating, because when I came home, it was quite fully formed, begging for attention.

As of this hour, the hole has been patched. Who knows if the leak has been fixed, however.

I've been around too long to assume anything, when it comes to old-house repairs. We'll see what holds and what doesn't once we fire up the system once again...

p.s. Could you imagine that a simple coat of house paint could be that strong?

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