The Tourists

I lived in San Francisco years ago, and though I'd only recently left a provincial life in Ohio, I was quick to adopt a cosmopolitan disdain for the flocks of tourists that jammed into the city. It was all too obvious because tourists wore wispy summer clothes in an ocean wind and fog micro-climate where winter clothes are appropriate nearly year around. The men, at least, had jackets but the women always looked close to hypothermia in their little white nylon sweaters. Being in a state of perpetual dampness eventually lost its romantic quality and I left the city to its pale natives, still dazzled newcomers, and to the steady succession of bone-chilled tourists.

My husband lived in San Francisco too, though with a different wife. And so, with a mutual love for the city, we periodically return as unabashed tourists, prepared for any adventure.

This time we are staying with our friend, Rob, outside the city and taking the train to San Francisco for the day. Rob considers himself a honorary San Francisco native as he lives within commuting distance, goes in on a regular basis, and knows the proper bus routes for getting around. We've landed on a glorious, sunny day with temperature in the high 70's. It does happen occasionally. The streets are filled to bursting with people, but natives have no special status today as everyone's dressed for the heat. I'm possibly the only person carrying a coat in my backpack because I'm so mistrustful of fair weather in San Francisco.

I get to set the agenda because I'm the most enthusiastic about being there; I want to walk through Chinatown up to North Beach. I'm reminded that friend Rob broke his ankle a while back, and is still not completely recovered. An intense moment of disappointment threatens my jubilant mood; I'm so eager to walk. Rob, however, not completely recovered, takes off speed walking and I realize we don't have a problem as Steve and I just try to keep up.

As an unabashed tourist, I have no compunctions about constantly taking photos. I'm immediately taken with the window display in a very upscale men's store; literally the tailor from Hell. Rob, honorary native, did not bring his camera, is not taking pictures and is way out ahead of me now.

The Tailor from Hell

In North Beach, Rob steers us to the quintessential San Francisco restaurant, The Stinking Rose. The perfect mix of funk, understated elegance and well-prepared food, it is frequented by celebrities, natives, and, of course, tourists. We all mix cheerfully together; it's the perfect dining experience.

We move on to revisit City Lights Bookstore and Vesuvio's Cafe. I'm in a parallel universe now; a twenty-something me hanging out here, and tourist me reliving it with two less enthusiastic companions along. Steve somewhat grudgingly takes the requisite tourist shot of me in front of Vesuvio's. I go inside alone to take the interior shot.

Cheesy Tourist Shot

Interior shot of Vesuvio's Cafe

I'm remembering one of my first adventures when I was right off the bus from Ohio. My sister and I have apparently charmed the bartender at Vesuvio's and he asks us to meet him for a drink when he gets off. It's a disaster. We meet at Enrico's; the bartender is urbane, witty and sophisticated. I feel like the country mouse; conversation eludes me. He is not unkind or condescending but he realizes his miscalculation, and after a rather short time, he pays for a cab to take us home. Temporarily chagrined, but in no way discouraged from returning to Vesuvio's, I gradually acquired the confidence and attitude to converse with the cosmopolitan natives. I love Vesuvio's; I grew up there.

My next agenda item for the three of us is to take the bus to the Buena Vista Cafe and ride the cable car back downtown. I'm still in my parallel universe, just completely high on the city sights and the sunshine. The cafe is so popular, it is usually standing room only, and if you do sit, you share a table with strangers. After drinking Irish coffee, no one is a stranger anyway. Rob wants ice with his Irish coffee, which is like asking for non-alcoholic wine in a Paris restaurant, but the waitress is unfazed and accommodating. Having made whatever point he was trying to make, Rob never touches the ice. I get Steve to take another cheesy tourist picture of me.

Irish Coffee at the Buena Vista Cafe

Cable car rides are very civilized now; you can no longer jump on anywhere along the route, but must queue up in long lines at the turnaround points. The wait time is ridiculous but the day is warm and windless, and I'm still feeling exuberant. When our turn comes, I make sure I'm standing on the outside running board which is the only place to really experience the ride. We've done the up hill and are all anticipating the down hill when the entire system comes to a halt. An Occupy San Francisco protest march has closed off strategic streets for buses and cable cars; we're in gridlock and have to walk. Huge crowds of people are caught up in this inconvenience, but no one seems angry or hostile. It's just another unexpected experience, it seems.

I would love to walk down and join the protest march, but Steve and Rob are clearly not up for it. We have to walk quite a distance to find a bus that is not ensnared in traffic and will take us to the train station. Our timing is fortunate and our train is waiting, ready to go.

The Tourists

Power Jumping at the Monroe Fair

Power Jumping

Sophia and I are finally allowed to join her sister and the family at the local fair in Monroe; we sat it out until Sophia turned two. The Evergreen State Fair is bone basic, but a very pleasant annual event, and it is the perfect size fair for my granddaughters, ages two and five. Makenna has been coming to the fair for several years; there is a tidy record of her adventures from all the family pictures. I'm along mostly to help out with Sophia management, push the stroller, help to entertain her if she gets tired and cranky. It's been years since I've been to a fair and with the perfect weather and pumped up crowd, it's looking somewhat magical to me.

Sophia, new at the fair.

Tea Cup Sisters

The parents and I watch the kids' happy faces as they do the rides; photos are snapped from every angle. Next event: eating fair food. We find a place at the tables provided in the outdoor food court, and the parents spread out to gather the calories. Sophia gets cranky. She eats strictly on her own terms and none of the food presented pleases her. I'm immune to fair food so I volunteer to walk Sophia about so that the family can enjoy the gastronomical spread. It's three turns around the food court before Sophia decides to join them. The familiar smell of rancid grease lingers and follows me as I head over to buy an iced latte and a scone.


After an endearing, photo-op stroll with the kids through the animal barns, we came to the main event that I'd been looking forward to. I'd seen last year's fair pictures of Makenna on the power jumping trampolines, wearing gear that looked like rock climbing paraphernalia. I could do this; I would love it. Makenna and I queued up, paid, and entered the enclosure to sit on a long bench and wait our turn. It was only then that I noticed there was not a single other adult waiting for a turn. There weren't even any teenagers; just a line of kids that looked like a little league lineup. WTF? Why wouldn't everyone want to spring high in the air with the greatest of ease?

Each trampoline has a manager who adjusts the equipment and ropes by weight and yells instruction to the jumper. My guy began by guessing my weight at 15 pounds over my actual weight; not a good start on the personal connection. He advised that I shouldn't begin doing back flips until I gained control of my jumps. Helpful, but I wasn't planning to do any back flips.

Even regular trampolines are exciting, but power jumping is pure exuberance with stretched out moments free from gravity. I was flying, holding onto the ropes and vaulting higher and higher; joyously unrestrained. The ride is over much, much too soon.

I would love to have taken another turn at it, but we were winding down our fair experience. Makenna is promised cotton candy for the road and we're ready to go. I'm coming back next year. I'm ready for the back flips.

Lament for Carl

I generally have no luck in finding old friends using an internet search as 500 people with the exact same name pop up with no identifying pictures. I was shocked to actually find a recognizable photo of Carl. I was sad to be reading his obituary; the photo was taken years ago. 


Obituary in part:

The Passing of Dr. Carl Putz- 10/14/2010 

Carl Hampton Putz, PhD (1940-2010) Carl was a philosopher and a lover of the natural world, music, science and art; a constant scholar, and an insightful and patient teacher and friend. He taught Philosphy at DePauw University, University Without Walls, and JFK University in California.

When multiple sclerosis took away the use of his legs and dimmed his eyes, he turned to his incredible intellect and ever-questioning mind. He was, he claimed, an "old curmudgeon", and he was a shining light for those who knew and loved him.

Carl is mourned by his companion of 28 years, Asha Stager, and by his friends and students around the world. There will be a celebration of Carls' life, December 17th, 2010 at Penobscot School, Rockland. His friend Anne Dodson will perform her original dulcimer song entitled "Lament for Carl."

I'm sorry to have missed his memorial celebration; a chance to have met and spent time with other people who loved Carl. I'm resorting to my own memorial/lament.


I knew Carl in the early seventies, when we both lived in Berkeley. Maybe not his favorite time; he was going through a separation and divorce from his wife that took years to negotiate. He was a member in good standing of the Berkeley counterculture and seemed properly confused as to what exactly, he wanted to do with his life. 


We met in an encounter group, a form of group psychotherapy that emerged with the popularization of humanistic psychology in the 1960's. Carl was, of course, the group leader. I was enamored, as was everyone else in the group; Carl exuded a kind of self-effacing charisma. There was a strong Peter Pan element in Carl's nature; if Peter Pan had grown up and gotten a Ph.D in Philosophy. He was intensely "in the moment", made an adventure of everything he did, and entertained with the stories he created from his adventures.

Flashback 

Carl and I are on our way to a Renaissance Fair in Marin County, somewhere in a very wooded area. There is an entrance fee, and we can see security guards in costume planted discretely  around the perimeter. They look to be taking the job seriously, kind of like the Swiss Guard in the Vatican. 






There's no story to tell if we just pay at the entrance. Carl decides we should circle around to the  surrounding woods and sneak past the guards. We spend the next hour playing outlaw; doing reconnaissance, finding the weak link in the security spacing, moving with stealth and heightened alertness to our break in point of entry. We make a clean break in and are flushed with the success of our mission. Once we are in, the fair itself is of little interest to us. Where's the challenge in watching people in medieval costumes sell things?

***

A short string of online condolences was posted at the bottom of the obituary page and one in particular impressed me as overheated romanticism from a no longer young cardiologist. But I understand completely. 

Online Condolence:

From: H. Kirk Hammond MD, La Jolla

Carl was my Intro to Philosophy Professor at DePauw (1969), giving some lectures from a tree. He helped talk me down from an LSD bummer one late summer night. He lived near me in Berkeley when we fought the Revolution. I worshiped him. I will never forget him, not ever. A seminal character in my life. Sent: 3/14/2011

In a similarly overheated online condolence, I might have said that because of Carl's attention and interest in me, I was able to spring myself from a neurotic, unhappy relationship. I'd been involved with a man for over a year who was an unfortunate choice from the beginning, and I had been planning to move in with him when I met Carl. Roughly equivalent to talking someone down from an LSD bummer, I think, except that it wasn't actually Carl's intention to free me. 

Berkeley's a small town and over the next four years or so, Carl and I would run into each other about every six months to a year while "we fought the Revolution", as H. Kirk Hammond, M.D. described that period. I was just fighting my own personal battles though Carl and Kirk were possibly operating on a much grander scale. Carl did have the perfect disposition for a righteous revolution of the downtrodden. Beneath his zany lecture from a tree personality lurked the weariness and dissatisfaction of a café philosopher in a French film. One that dies in early middle-age from smoking and disillusionment. I thought he tended toward melancholy, and felt some concern that Carl's wit and charm might wither with age and depression. Reading his obituary, it seems I was wrong, and I couldn't even have imagined Carl would have to contend with multiple sclerosis.

Flashback

We're looking for something to do on a Friday night, preferably something free of charge. Carl suggests we go to the International House on campus where international dance night is in progress. A succession of folk dances from many different world cultures; tutorial not included. Carl is unfazed, or maybe he's a regular here, but with each new dance he grabs me and we join right in. It would be unthinkable to plead that I don't know how. I just give each dance a go, pretty much the way I joined right in on the breaking and entering at the fair. 

***

Online Condolence:

From: Tip Scott, Leesburg I remember Carl every day by singing some of his songs to myself and to people I'm working with. Sent: 3/14/2011

I have a favorite Carl song too. I don't know if he wrote it, or just collected it, but I've taught it to all of my family members with the request that it sometimes be sung back to me.

You're right, you're right, 

You're absolutely right. 

You're absolutely right and I'm wrong. 

If the innocent seeming little song is intended to be disarming, it is indeed Carl's song. 
As H. Kirk Hammond testified, Carl was generous with his time and attention when his friends needed consoling or entertaining, but it was all very random; nothing to depend upon. Maybe we all told him at one time or another that we wished he would be less quixotic, less capricious; a little more constant and available. Carl might then have conceded that we were absolutely right, but that he was comfortable being wrong. 

Lecturing to Cows

By cosmic synchronicity, I was signed up to attend a five day silent meditation retreat when the congressional debt ceiling fight was entering the final stages. Normally, Buddhist retreats do not include news breaks, but I planned to take liberties. I downloaded a trusted political blog to my Kindle, my concession being that I would only check in once in the evening and not compulsively during the day.

Cloud Mountain Retreat Center can seem like a magical place, bamboo and giant fern gardens surrounded by a Northwest forest. The buildings were designed and build primarily by a master architect/owner. 

Walking path through ferns and bamboo

Mist Haven

The first day of the retreat is pleasant for me. When not sitting in the meditation hall, I'm out wandering, experiencing flashbacks from roughly twenty-five years of attending retreats here. The  dharma friends I've known now mostly exist for me in flashbacks; I don't know any of the other attendees at this particular retreat. I'm watching salamanders in the pond and raccoons on the boardwalk; politics is loosening its grip.

Salamanders rule the pond.

Completely unlike most meditation teachers, Jason Siff encourages us to allow whatever is happening, including thoughts, into our meditation experience. Once a day, we meet in small reporting groups with a teacher, but it is not a sharing group. The teacher focuses on three of four willing participants and explores in depth the individual's meditation sittings. The other students listen but do not comment. It gets very personal, but then no one is ever coerced into volunteering.

Some students report lots of spontaneous visuals in their meditations; lights, colors, surprising images almost dream like. I'm very thought oriented. My visuals are mostly memories associated with thoughts, and by the second day, I'm noticing how frequently my inner voice seems to be lecturing someone. About politics, usually. With the political lectures, or sometimes rants, comes agitation, restlessness, anger. In my real life, these rants are not always internal, of course. There is an obsessive quality about my behavior, and I see a comparison with some avid sports fans that I wouldn't want to know.

On Sunday evening, I check my political blog for news of the debt ceiling drama. The Daily Kos has the details of the final bill now, with both Harry Reid and Obama saying they would support it. I'm incredulous; in shock. Incredulity turns to outrage that the Democratic leaders could sign such a horrendous bill; that this is where we've landed. It's nine o'clock in the evening; I'm sitting in noble silence with other retreatants who are peacefully reading dharma books and sipping tea. I can't talk to anyone, I couldn't possibly go to sleep, and I have to move.

In daylight, I love walking on the boardwalk by the pond. It's dark now, so with flashlight in hand, I practically fling myself down the path, and upon reaching the boardwalk, begin to pace. And in silence, I begin a very loud, angry internal rant at all the players involved in this political travesty. At home I'd be having a stiff drink, but here I have to walk briskly up and down until the adrenalin finally dissipates, and I can sleep.

It's apparent to me that this is not a good way to run my life. As I walk and sit with my experience the next day, I'm calm and reflecting that while politics is not personal, I have made it so. I'm a play-by-play political activist, and I don't wish to give it up anymore than would a serious baseball fan want to just stop paying attention to the game. I don't "think" about a solution so much as I just sit with an intention to change my relationship to politics; to view it, perhaps, in a different mental and emotional framework.

As I was sitting in meditation on the final morning of the retreat, an entirely appropriate memory surfaced. I spent my childhood in a house on about twenty acres of land, and in the summer, the owner of the property would graze cattle in the fields. At age eight or nine, I liked to stand up on the burned out barn frame with the herd of cattle milling about below me. I would lecture to the cows. I don't remember the lectures, but I do remember that the cows were a great audience. They watched and listened to me with rapt attention; they seemed spellbound. The cows, of course, were just trying to figure out how dangerous I might be so that they'd know when to run.

Even though it is my intention to shift my reaction to politics, it has occurred to me that I might look about for the closest herd of cattle I can find near my home. Maybe I could take up lecturing cows again, thereby sparing my family and friends.

Cows listening to a discourse on the new era of hostage politics.

We Are No Smarter Than We Appear To Be

From The Devil's Dictionary, pub. 1911, a satirical "reference" book written by Ambrose Bierce.

 

Brain: noun. An apparatus with which we think that we think.

Mind: noun. A mysterious form of matter secreted by the brain.

Ambrose Bierce was an American editorialist, journalist, short story writer and satirist. He died in 1913 and had probably never met a neuroscientist. Not that no one was studying the human brain and nervous system in the early 20th century, but not with the funding and technology that give neuroscience such appeal today. At least one out of every three smart people chooses to study neuroscience, though that's just my rough, entirely inaccurate estimate based on absolutely no data whatsoever. All branches of neuroscience have impressive "certified smart person" titles: neuroengineering, neuroimaging, neuroinformatics; cognitive, computational, or molecular neuroscience. Taken together;  

The task of neural science is to explain behavior in terms of the activities of the brain. How does the brain marshal its millions of individual nerve cells to produce behavior, and how are these cells influenced by the environment...? The last frontier of the biological sciences—their ultimate challenge—is to understand the biological basis of consciousness and the mental processes by which we perceive, act, learn, and remember. — Eric Kandel, Principles of Neural Science, 4th ed.

I would think that everyone with a brain would find neuroscience at least somewhat interesting; and to some of us, fascinating. For an intense hit, I read Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain by David Eagleman, but for fun, I cruise around in Neuroscience for Kids. http://faculty.washington.edu/chudler/neurok.html. All the golly gee facts and miscellaneous brain trivia as well.

The statement, "We use only 10% of our brains" is false; it's a myth. We use all of our brain. Somehow, somewhere, someone started this myth and the popular media keep on repeating this false statement. According to the believers of this myth, if we used more of our brain, then we could perform super memory feats and have other fantastic mental abilities. But the physiology of brain mapping suggests that all areas of the brain have a function and they are used nearly all the time.

  So just put that 10% myth to rest. We are no smarter than we appear to be.

The brain weighs about 3 lbs. 

Read the label. Compared to most junk food, the brain is made of very simple, straightforward components; obviously completely organic and natural.

Water 78%
Lipids (fats) 10%
Protein 8%
Carbohydrate 1%
Inorganic salts 1%
Other 2%

Such a deceptively ordinary looking list of ingredients. Maybe it's the 2% Other that turns simple gelatin into the amazing organ that we take for granted until we experience a subtle slowdown in brain function; or worse. But our brains are like pie dough in that even with a short list of basic ingredients, neuroscientists inform us that each brain is unique.

•  No two brains have exactly the same outside appearance. 

• Each brain will have a different number of cells. Neurons probably die at different rates in different people. 

• Though the general circuits and connections among different parts of the brain will be fairly common among different brains, the specific connections in regard to the neurons and number of connections with each neuron will be very different for each individual, and can even change over the life of the person.

• The apparent variation in the nervous system on the molecular level is large as well. Differences in receptor distributions, neurotransmitter and neurohomone levels and perhaps even cell adhesion molecules may all contribute to the individuality of each brain and person! 

All of these variables in brain function taken together allow humans to experience an infinite muddle of worldviews whereupon everyone else seems like a fanatic. How can we be expected to compromise with other people whose receptor distributions are so different, whose neurotransmitter levels are clearly out of whack, and who don't have nearly as many neuron connections as we do?

Excessive Personal Service

Since becoming the treasurer for my homeowner's association, I'm spending more time at my local bank than I did before. I recently took Makenna on a banking excursion with me; still an exciting prospect for her.

"I'm just going to deposit a check," I told her. "Won't take long at all."

Immediately upon entering the bank, Makenna and I are approached by an earnest-looking young man in a perfectly fitting, dark suit. He is eager to help us, and leads us to his intimate little banking table. There's no line at the tellers' window but the bank guy is apparently looking for something to do.

While I'm digging in my purse for the envelope with check and deposit slip, the bank guy starts a conversation with Makenna. She tells him she's nearly five, she tells him about pre-school and how it's hard to listen to the teacher, and then about some of her misgivings concerning kindergarten. The young man is charmed and seems to forget me entirely. He calls over a fellow banker person to bring round the basket of lollipops. Makenna is clearly impressed that banks carry lollipops. She comments that her favorite flavor is pink, and that her little sister, Sophia, can not have lollipops because she might choke.

The bank guy is finally ready to take my deposit, and he now makes the trip over to the teller himself. To save me the long walk? He doesn't wait for the teller to do this simple procedure, but comes back to the table and pulls up our HOA account. He begins to advise me about things I already know regarding required signatures and such. Slow day at the bank; excessively personal service. I do have a question about online banking and we take up bank talk.

Makenna decides it's time for full disclosure.

"She's not my mother," she informs the bank guy, "She's my grandmother." Makenna is not sure he understands, so she appeals to me, "Tell him I don't live at your house; I live at my house."

The young banker is fully in banker mode now and doesn't comment on this surprising news. He remembers to take the long walk back over to the teller's window and pick up my deposit slip. My won't take a minute bank deposit, turned comprehensive banking experience, is over and we're out the door.

"Well," I said, "Now you've been to the bank."

"Yes, but there were no fish in there."

"You were expecting fish?"

"You know, swimming around in tanks."

"I'll take it up with the bank guy."

Makenna with fish at the zoo.

Scenes from a Reunion

We timed our reunion perfectly to collide with a major late winter storm that shut down the power and caused landslides and flooding, but ended the week with a string of idyllic, sunny days in the 80's. We had rented a house near Jenner, high in the hills on the Pacific coast in Northern California.

House near Jenner by the Sea

My brother, aged 75, believes he has a built-in, hard wired expiration date, but unlike the simple milk carton, that date is not in plain view. And so, with our expiration dates lurking, my brothers and sisters and I gather periodically while the circle is still unbroken. As the six of us are geographically scattered, we can only converge by strategic planning, starting months in advance.  


The designated gathering day began with news that our elegant, yet reasonably priced rental house had become abruptly inaccessible due to a wide-spread power outage; the fix-it date was uncertain. My sister, our official retreat manager, went to check out our options but dropped her cell phone in a puddle and was forced to rely on antiquated phone booth technology with the inconvenient necessity for exact change. The rest of us kept our cell phones out of puddles and waited for guidance. Off season motel vacancies in Monte Rio gave us refuge for two nights; modest accommodations, perfectly adequate for exhausted travelers. When power was restored, our classy, upscale relocation left us giddy even as the hard rain continued to box us in for another day. The summer-like days that followed were golden.

On a balmy day, overlooking the ocean.

My memories of the reunion don't fall in a straight line, of course. I experience random memory clips with a very personal point of view, and relive them as if they are happening now:

My oldest sister, brother-in-law, and I are sitting in a not cozy, supermarket coffee nook, wet with accumulated rain and snow, listening to locals talk of the storm and power outage that has temporarily derailed our reunion gathering. Another brother and his wife are in the air, out of communication, and not yet knowing we have no clear destination at this point. I am not a graceful plan switcher. I am feeling somewhat despondent as I wait for my other sister, our retreat manager, to call from yet another phone booth, scraping for coins. We decide to adjourn to the local library to wait for further instructions; we are all avid readers and libraries are soothing. It is usually my intention to make the best of whatever happens, but sometimes I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice with the lemons coming in faster than I can make the lemonade.


My two sisters and I are somewhat aflutter as we attempt to work out sleeping and eating arrangements with our affable, chatty proprietor at a wide-open, off season motel. It's been a long day with no lunch, too much coffee, still feeling cold and damp and we all forget to ask for our rightful discounts. Our brother, the horse-trader, arrives and takes up the following night's negotiations with the affable proprietor, scoring all possible discounts. "Ah, you sent your tough guy," says the affable proprietor gamely.

Dinner for eight; no problem.

It's our first night with all siblings and assorted in-laws present and I am cooking a spaghetti dinner for eight in a wee small convenience kitchen at the off season motel. Conversation in the large one room unit has the hum and good cheer of a successful party. I share the feelings of good cheer but am focused on the sauce and on keeping the dinner organized. When the food hits the table, my mind goes immediately off duty. I'm lighthearted; I'm home again. It's the rare occasion where we can reminisce about our ghost, given that ghosts are generally an awkward topic of conversation. We grew up in a very large, old brick house where a ghost we couldn't see walked about in seemingly heavy boots that we could hear distinctly. He rocked invisibly in the rocking chair, threw boxes and shoes about in upstairs rooms, and once sang with a disembodied voice above our heads. Our in-laws practice admirable forbearance; they've heard the ghost stories many times.

We've made it to the hill top house with walls of windows; the cold, steady rain persists. People talk, eat, drift off to read, rejoin the conversation. I'm photographing the readers. Later, when a friend saw the pictures on Facebook, she was incredulous. "Didn't you have a tv?" she asked in wonderment. I guess so. It was upstairs somewhere. Never thought about it.



The storm front has finally passed, the sun came out and we're free to roam about the countryside! Definitely fortuitous; I'm feeling the introvert's need for space and time alone. The rental house is part of a gated community, a pricey collection of homes scattered artfully along a steep, winding road that makes a fine morning walk. I occasionally encounter a gated community resident as I pass the homes; I pull out my relax, I'm not riffraff smile, nod, and move on. Near the top, my view down to the Pacific Ocean is unobstructed. With a reasonably short ride, I could be walking on the beach below, but I am perfectly content to wander the hills and not get into a car again until I'm forced to.

My three brothers and sister-in-law depart, to return at the end of the week. My two sisters and I amuse ourselves by doing laundry and hanging it to dry on a clothes line on the deck. Had we been using an old hand wringer washing machine too, we'd really have been reliving our childhood. I practice sitting doing nothing in particular on the sunny deck; my laptop keeps me company and I peck at it occasionally. It's a great way to run a reunion. When the brothers return, along with my sister-in-law and my younger brother's mate, there's a new round of jubilance at being all together again.


Since I have my laptop along, and therefore have access to Excel spreadsheets, I volunteer to sort out the receipts and figure out how to spread the costs among us. Should be simple; take no time at all. But it morphs into a protracted middle school reading problem and I'm at the same time frustrated and intrigued by the puzzle. I'm set up like a banker in a small bedroom, and I find myself calling in different family members to confer and help me work the puzzle at various stages. It's fitting. My brother, the horse-trader and I shared a paper route when we were kids. I made precise and careful lists of our costs, outstanding payments, and net profit. My brother had a much more cavalier approach which seemed to work just as well. He bought the candy and pop right up front, and assumed the profit would show up. We probably should have used his method.

But really, it was all perfect. I'd change nothing.

Siblings in birth order; left to right.

Birth order by height; youngest brother not with us yet.

High Decibel Dining

My husband and I and some friends were leaving the movie theater after a late afternoon matinée. The four of us are in the age group where moderate hearing loss is routine. We usually consider this when choosing a restaurant, but a very popular Afghani restaurant, The Kabul, was nearby. We were early enough to get a table without a reservation, though our table was right next to the restaurant's entry way. 

 Low decibel level room

The place is still relatively empty, we are full of good cheer, and the conversation flows easily. We begin discussing the movie we'd seen. The waiter is professional and efficient, and the ordering and eating are moving along. Our small group discussion jumps to updates on all of our grown children. The wine is lovely, the food is excellent, and the restaurant is beginning to fill.

On a scale from zero for the average least perceptible sound to about 130 for the average pain level, the decibel count in the restaurant has increased by approximately 20 decibels since we sat down. We all lean toward each other just a bit and begin talking kayaking; the the peaceful joy of being on the water and the potential for injury and death by drowning. The four of us are in the age group where problems with balance can insidiously begin to intrude on our youthful perceptions of ourselves. 

The vibrating crowd

All of the tables are taken now, the restaurant is completely full, and the noise level has increased another 10 or 15 decibels. In the rosy, dimly lighted room, everyone seems to be in constant motion; the waiters of course, but also the customers coming and going, erratically lifting forks and glasses, gesturing, bodies shifting. A loud but convivial gathering.

We lean in a little as it's incrementally more difficult to catch every word. Our friends are soft-spoken. The discourse now shifts to Israel and the upheaval in that part of the world.  I'm fully engaged, listening intently to the conversation. The decibel level continues to rise and I find I'm attempting to read lips as I strain to hear.

I'm facing the door and I notice that a small crowd of people are standing in the entry way, waiting patiently for a table. We've finished our dinner but are reluctant to leave. We all order coffee and baklava.

We're back to our discussion of the changing world order. The decibel level is now roughly equal to an intimate rock concert, but still below the average pain level.  The crowd at the door grows larger, and I begin to feel like French nobility eating leisurely in front of the starving masses. They are not looking quite as patient. 

While the orderly crowd at the door does not truly resemble a mob, these people do want a table in the popular Afghani restaurant, and are growing restive. We are abruptly done with the dining experience and escape to the relative quiet of the streets. 

Paul Haggis Regrets #OccupyScientology

Human beings fervently wish to be special. They aspire to win the trophy, claim the Green Jacket at the Masters, be the last one standing on Survivor or American Idol, be profiled in People Magazine or The New Yorker, or at least be a member of an organization that has the Truth. Preferably a Truth that is not fully understood by less special people.

Paul Haggis, an Academy Award winning Hollywood writer and director, so already special, was recently profiled in The New Yorker because he very publicly split with the Church of Scientology after being a member for thirty-five years. He wonders now how he could have failed to question not only the theology but some of the harsh rules enforced by the Church. With the exception of the particular religion you happen to belong to and believe in, all religious theology sounds rather bizarre when you come upon it cold. Scientology is just bizarre with an edgy kick. 

After obtaining Church documents submitted in a lawsuit against the Church in 1985, The Los Angeles Times printed a summary:

“A major cause of mankind’s problems began 75 million years ago,” the Times wrote, when the planet Earth, then called Teegeeack, was part of a confederation of ninety planets under the leadership of a despotic ruler named Xenu. “Then, as now, the materials state, the chief problem was overpopulation.” Xenu decided “to take radical measures.” The documents explained that surplus beings were transported to volcanoes on Earth. “The documents state that H-bombs far more powerful than any in existence today were dropped on these volcanoes, destroying the people but freeing their spirits—called thetans—which attached themselves to one another in clusters.” Those spirits were “trapped in a compound of frozen alcohol and glycol,” then “implanted” with “the seed of aberrant behavior.” The Times account concluded, “When people die, these clusters attach to other humans and keep perpetuating themselves.”

Scientologists carry a certain smugness that is personified by Tom Cruise. They have the Truth; you don't. Smugness, too, is characteristic of members of all institutions that claim exclusive knowledge of Truth. Scientology just manages to irritate outsiders more vehemently because the church intentionally cultivates celebrities and encourages them to publicly testify. A saintly, purified Tom Cruise seems even scarier than the intergalactic alien ruler named Xenu.

Celebrity Savior 

The Church of Scientology was founded in 1954 by the followers of L. Ron Hubbard, but whether a cult or a church, Scientology is just one more Only We Have the Truth organization. The common underlying assumptions of such organizations are:

• Only We Have the Truth that can save mankind; our followers are Special.
• All non-followers will suffer dire consequences.
• All ex-followers will also suffer dire consequences and we'll make sure of it.

  

Having a lock on salvation gives all such organizations the power to ex-communicate, disconnect or just in general, to cast out anyone who doubts or doesn't conform. While becoming a "lost soul" is a sort of abstract dire consequence, losing close contact with your entire circle of friends and some or all of your family members is immediate. Scientology defectors are full of tales of forcible family separations, which the church almost uniformly denies. The somewhat sanitized version written by L. Ron Hubbard is as follows:

 “Anyone who rejects Scientology also rejects, knowingly or unknowingly, the protection and benefits of Scientology and the companionship of Scientologists,” Hubbard writes. In “Introduction to Scientology Ethics,” Hubbard defined disconnection as “a self-determined decision made by an individual that he is not going to be connected to another.”

Irrespective of the religious founders' or the corresponding deities' original intent for the Only We Have the Truth organizations, the power to "disconnect" another human being, to strip them of specialness, to forever shun them, never turns out well for anyone involved. A church or cult that holds on to its members by threat invites corruption and vindictiveness. The Truth may set you free, but Truth peddling organizations are very reluctant to let you go.

Paul Haggis regrets

The Apostate;  Paul Haggis vs. the Church of Scientology.

by Lawrence Wright

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/02/14/110214fa_fact_wright#ixzz1DmnDpHYz