Dear Big Brother

I think I mentioned I got one of those camera tickets. Actually, it's a video ticket, because I finally got to watch the entirety of my crime--I did not, regrettably, stop at the limit line and so I will HAVE to go to traffic school--making a right turn on Grand and Venice in Los Angeles. I knew they snapped you, potentially, at intersections, but I did not know that, as a friend of mine said, I'd get my 30 seconds (or less) of fame, while trying to get my car serviced at the local dealer. I did it. And so I must pay. But the larger issue has really, really bothered me since, the one where maybe it isn't such a bad idea to be paranoid. Cause anything you do can be recorded by just about anyone. The worst thing though is that the government is doing it too, and ain't that right out of George Orwell? Along with the Captivate Screen in my elevator at work that I can't stop looking at as I wend my way to my floor. I am being watched, AND PROGRAMMED. While I am drinking my Starbucks, which probably has some special ingredient in it, I have been told, to make me want another cup. Ok, I am joking. Am I?

Maybe.

Or maybe we should be worried. Maybe we should be forming anti-1984 groups in 2008. Or maybe it's too late and we are already in the sociological petrie dish and to quote the Borg, "Resistance is futile."

Maybe we are doomed. On that happy note, I say goodnight, and remember that this entry is forever locked in the techno-cosmos in my nightmares.

 

 

 

Ice on Big Bear Lake

 

It is merely coincidence that "ice" is a theme in the last two entries. The ice that is today's subject relates to a wonderful experience.

On New Year's Eve weekend, a friend and I went up to Big Bear, my first time, to meet some other friends. I tried skiing once when I was in college at Mount Snow in Vermont. Not terribly parentically to me at the time, a short-term boyfriend of mine had moved on (without my prior knowledge; my consent was academic) from me to one of my classmates and roommates, and they were essentially together on that trip, so I was already feeling less than, spirited. Besides that, it was incredibly cold and I spent most of my time on the ground on the baby hill, while my friends were more advanced and elsewhere. The experience did not thrill me. So, here I was thirty years later on another baby hill. This time one friend stayed with me, and promised me I would not fall if only I followed the instructions. I did do better than the last time. Skis are lighter and more aero-dynamic and they separate from one's foot easier, if needed. But I still fell. The rest of my friends, though they said they were not great, were of course on the more advanced hills. This time I was more spirited. I actually was able to move a little before I went down. I think with a little practice, I could actually become a competent skier. But, I was sore the next day, and I decided that with the enormous crowds that posed safety danger when I did fall, I would do something else in Big Bear during the day, before we all joined up in the evening. My travelling companion and I drove around the little town and by one of the sort of marinas on the lake, we heard someone with a bullhorn announcing a boat tour. This is unusual in December and January. There are usually no boats on the lake that time of year, because of ice. But this boat, with a large paddle wheel, was a new addition to the community, of only about six months. She was Lady Liberty, with tables and chairs and wine and snacks, run by a few men, still excited about the future of their burgeoning business. They would be the first to run a tour during the winter months. And it had been sanctioned by the harbor master, so along with a fewfamilies, we took the tour. The whole thing was wonderful, the weather, sunny, though chilly, being the only boat on this big lake made me, at least, feel a special connection with the nature we viewed, and a bit privileged to be seeing the homes of the rich and famous (like Kevin Costner) along the water's edge. But perhaps the most fascinating part of it, was watching the boat crack the thin veneer of ice as it moved out into open water. Each swoosh of the boat created a new natural canvas, with ice shards looking indistinguishable from gleaming glass. One of the boat's owners was taking pictures as the boat broke the ice, as was I, hoping for that most amazing picture. One I really loved. It was as if the shards were on blue black velvet, even though the water was actually clear that day, that is what came out on camera. A lake of crystalline shards. I did a painting of that shot. I often talk to friends about these moments that happen in my life, and I am sure in many other's lives, but to me these are moments which reflect what Paradise must be. The photo captures the essence. The painting in its poor way does the same. At least doing the painting extends the feeling. I thought I'd share it, although my photography of the painting does less justice to the event than even the photograph. But maybe it will bring moments of your own to mind.

   

aoljpictureUpload, aoljpictureUpload_2

Welcome To Your Ice Floe

The three readers I may have are savvy, but just in case a caveat is needed---this will be a cynical, and angry, entry.

Yesterday I was driving to work and flipping radio channels as usual. Coming up LA's Coast the suddenly single voice of Mark Wallengren reminded me that his 20 year plus on-air partner, Kim Amidon, was given the unceremonious heave-ho by the station's parent company. As my stomach dropped with a burst of rage, I remembered that the very same company dropped long time host Valerie Smaldone, at WLTW in New York, after her 20 plus years. Cost cutting, that proverbial rationale. I know from reading the reports that Ms. Smaldone was offered an insulting contract calculated not to be accepted by any self-respecting, oh, and by the way, successful on-air personality. I happened to keep track of Ms. Smaldone though I live in California, because she was only a year or two behind me at Fordham University and I had a passing acquaintance with her she doubtless would not remember. Bye Bye. Don't let the iron door hit you in the rump on your way to other endeavors, code for "you're washed up, and you'll never see the same success again, you old geezer--oh, by the way, we couldn't care less." Although it happens that these were two female successes, and perhaps there is a tale here too, the not very fare thee wells to these two after doing their jobs for essentially a generation, put me in mind of other friends, of a certain age (over 40 and into 50) who having been relieved of their roles in the world, where by the way, they excelled, are relegated to the "what have you done for me lately" pile" concomitant with "even if you did do something lately for us, we don't want you, you're old" pile. These friends of mine have struggled to find anything notwithstanding their pristine resumes. They would, how dare they, like the salaries which they worked through the ranks demonstrably to achieve. You'd get experience. Cost cutting is not consistent with getting experience. All sorts of places have muddled along without real experience, look at the government. Look at where you work, any of you. Experience shmerience.

This is not a new problem. Valuing anybody with skill or wisdom went out with Socrates, and even then folks were complaining about the new crop of kids who ran the world, with their snivelling and self-absorption.

Back to the world of radio, I was looking back at the career of Alison Steele, "the night bird" of WNEW-AM. She was the model for radio DJs, of both sexes, in the 1970s, with her deep, sensual voice and articulate intelligence. And she too was given the heave-ho back nearly two decades ago. Then she died. No, really, she died. At least she has several pages on the net reminding us of her contributions.

I still have my job at 53. My father is convinced that if I lost my job or decided to do something else, I'd be snapped up somewhere for my skills as a lawyer, or a teacher, or a speaker. It just ain't the case, and if I can I'll hang onto this job until I can retire with a decent cushion, and then I will expect that my future life will be entirely volunteer. There she goes the little old lady followed by the neighborhood cats. And I swear, show me an ice floe and I will set it on fire! To mix my metaphors, or is it poetry? I will not be going gently into that good night. There will be kicking and screaming. And Valerie and Kim, I know you don't want to burn your bridges so you have said platitudinal nice things about your former employer, but I have two words for them. James Lipton would know what one of them is.

 

 

        <---------she's the one who's gone from the air.

Walking Around the Fairfax District

 Busy Fairfax Less busy residence streets

Since coming back from Big Bear last week, I have truly been "takin' it easy." I have been arranging for estimates for work on my family condominium, in which my dad resides. I have been sending this or that by snail mail. For me. For my father. I have slept late. I have checked the office e mail occasionally, and been completely disinterested in the new year developments, among them a soon to be physical move of staff to more ergonomic cubicles, including a move for me from a lovely downtown view corner office to a less visually pleasing corner office on another floor to be closer to my team--which I doubt they will favor. But no worries about that until the 14th, when I get back. For now, I am a happy slug, easing from one not particularly important task to another, like beginning a new painting, to be called "Ice on Big Bear Lake" and the occasional important one, like going with my father to his doctor, without having to worry about running back to work.

Today, I went to deliver some mail belonging to my landlord to his home. And I just started walking around, a goodly walk. Picked up a business card at the Metatheatre, thinking again that I'd like to take acting classes (an item on my personal "Bucket List"). Thought about getting a tattoo at Ed Hardy, if his store still does that--a variable item on my bucket list. Passing thought, as it usually is. Up and over to Spirituali where I bought some real incense, that I am about to sample, after I close out this entry. I am back now from my meander, checking personal e-mail and deciding whether I am going to fight that right turn on red video ticket or just take the on line traffic school that my friend alerted me to as an option. When I am not thinking about a cottage of my own on the beach, or in the woods, I love the Fairfax District. Los Angeles city along the main drag, and apartment suburb a few blocks in, as you can see by the photos. Want slightly seedy village, go over by Canter's and Mr. Pizza and the new Schwartz Bakery. But just a little walk and you are with families and young professionals merging together, not always familiarly, but peacefully co-existing. Whenever I think of moving to something bigger and fancier, I remember my still under $1,000 rent and the centrality of the location, and I bury the thought.

It is partially sunny mid-afternoon. Think I'll finish that Venti Hot Chocolate from Starbucks and maybe have a late lunch. Maybe I'll take another long walk in the neighborhood tomorrow. Or meet a friend for a movie at The Grove.

 

 

 

Tags: Fairfax District, Los Angeles

Forms of Immortality

 

 

Been thinking about impermanence lately. Here today. Gone tomorrow. It is as if there was nothing in between, when someone or something loved is here, then gone, dies. But of course there was something in between. That's why that scene in Brokeback Mountain is so powerful. A lover stands in a closet and smells the remnant of his loss on a shirt that will never be worn again. He WAS here. Then memory supplies the rest, although as time passes, memory becomes less powerful and the urge to stay with the pain necessarily diminishes.

The lessening of pain is a matter of survival.

I happened to hear this morning on the radio about a young man lost to his family. Andrew Olmstead. He died in Iraq a  week or so ago.

And what remains of him, besides his family, his belongings, and memory of him is a blog that he wrote. A friend logged his final entry after his death. Andrew talks about many things. About war, about his life, about what he left behind, about how he valued it, about the ambiguity of having been here and then having died. His blog, presumably, will always be out there, with words written when the idea of death was anxiety, not reality. Andrew Olmstead is alive in that blog. Even if memory fades, perhaps someone, in some thirty years will come upon it in some futuristic version of the net. And learn of our time, and of one individual within it.

 

www.andrewolmstead.com

Already written on the New Year

In that moment 12 a.m. strikes

 

on the first of the year, the new page is pristine. I was in Big Bear for that moment, watching the new glitzy ball drop at the vacation home of a Newport Beach plastic surgeon and his wife, all teak wood and warm fireplace, teenagers against adults in a game of charade. And the moment passes in a flash and life begins its writing, in staccatos of happy and sad, urgent and leisurely, mildly annoying, and majorly annoying. . . .you get the idea.

In my little life up to here and the lives of those with whom I associate, the 7th of January of the new year 2008 a few events provoke a little of each mood--on the first day of mail after the holiday, one of those photographic gotcha tickets. Yup that's me frowning in the driver's seat and that's when I did not know that I was being watched. Yup that's my license. But I didn't go through a light! I was turning right on red. That's allowed right?  I let the pedestrian go before I did it. So why did I get a ticket? I am putting off thinking about this until the "video" of my violation is on the website and I can look at it in its full big brother narrative.

I kept my beloved girl cat alive through the holidays, although looking back, I probably wasn't doing her any favors, but on January 3, there was no more to do, and no hope for even another short term revival. I stroked her, remembering her so recent seeming vibrance, while the doctor nudged her from coma like state to death. Today, I ordered the birch box that will be her resting place now that she is cremated. I must pay the $160.30 to the pet cemetery folk before she will be released to me.  For a while I will look at her picture and miss her, and then this box will join the other two somewhere behind a cupboard door. I am considering a more prominent location that I will see, but will not be an imposition on any visitor to my apartment. The other two bruiser boy cats that are left behind, don't seem to notice she is gone.

Yesterday was the Epiphany of Our Lord, January 6, and I found out that my pastor emeritus, a friend, a complicated, good man, has been in the hospital since last weekend. Pneumonia. Falls he cannot afford. The tubes are out now. I met him when he was 55, nearly the age I am now. He is 81. I have always seen him as a permanent fixture. None of us are permanent fixtures, and that is hard to accept particularly in a fresh New Year, when all things seem possible.

My father, who has been having a "wee bout" is doing better right now. Today, he took himself for a haircut at a little place across from Canter's. Bus. Walking. For a man of nearly 90 that is quite the feat and he needed to accomplish it. I needed to let him.

I have taken off for a couple of weeks, apparently, other than the previously mentioned weekend trip, without much on the agenda, except sleeping late (a favorite) and errands, the errant prayer, and considerations of what else a New Year might bring.

 

 

 

 

 

Trouble No More

As I write, my last moments with Trouble, the subject of the prior entry over two weeks ago, are reflected in the basket I had been using as bedding for her as she weakened, it still sitting on my own bed, and the Pamper's Baby Fresh I was using to wash her off, since she could no longer go anywhere to relieve herself, that is, to the extent with kidney failure she could stay hydrated enough to do even that, before I ran out of here like a bat out of hell to the vet's.

I was away for the weekend and had someone, with experience in subcutaneous hydration, taking care of her. Monday, when I called  I was told she seemed to be hanging in. She had eaten a great deal on Sunday, but not too much on Monday. On the morning of Tuesday, the first, I was told by the caretaker and a lovely friend who had visited her several times while I was gone, that she was walking. But by the time I came home at just after noon, she was unable to walk at all, not only her back feet weak as they had been when I left, but her front. I called the vet and he said, let's see where she is in 24 hours, because she had rallied before. I was waiting for the sure sign that would tell me that she was ready. And I had not seen it. I thought I had not seen it.  Then, she was back to not eating, not even the appetite stimulant was working. And she wasn't drinking. Last night, when I hydrated her, I hurt her, and it seemed not only my usual ineptness but something else. She wiggled more. She did not want me to do it. Or, perhaps I project? I knew that either way I was going to the vet and called for a Friday appointment--to give her more time. But today, I came home from my own doctor's appointment, and with her silent plaintive meow, I knew the time was now. She could not wait. She was visibly suffering. I probably waited too long. The doctor said that there is a fine line--and we cannot easily know where that is. A tech took her back to assess her. One of the other vets said that a temperature did not register on the thermometer and she was so dehydrated. It was indeed time. They brought her to me, not in the orange towel I had grabbed to carry her in, but in a leopard like blanket. She was breathing so shallowly, I kept hoping that she would just go as I signed all the papers and waited for one of the doctors (I had wanted Dr. Baker, who had been so kind these last weeks, but I came without an appointment so I did not expect him.) And then one eye opened and I thought again, there is the silent meow. Dr. Baker made the time to be the one to ease her to sleep. I could hardly tell when her breathing stopped. It is true that the body gets cold quickly. I put the blanket around her as if it mattered. I cried. I kissed her goodbye. 

And now I will reluctantly remove the makeshift bedding and the baby wipes. I'll toss the small remaining amount of appetite stimulant. I think I'll keep the lactated ringers bag on the back of the bedroom door for a while, and when I pass the 5 by 7 picture of Trouble on my wall, her mischievious look will make me smile. And cry again. And smile again.  

Thanks to Dr. Howard Baker and TLC in West Hollywood, for their kindness.