The Cruel & Cool Jokes of Nature

The way I see it, there is a great pair of jokes played by nature on us humans. Tricks of time: one cruel and the other almost cool enough to make up for it.

First of all, why is it that time speeds up so much as we get older? It’s so damned unfair. When we’re young and impatient for the things we look forward to, time crawls at a snail’s pace. A week can feel like a month, an hour can feel like half the day... until school is out, or we can have dessert, or get to see that movie that’s been advertised forever.

We get older and time speeds up. It’s easier to wait for what we want. We have more patience, and more perspective, it seems. It feels like maturity. But then, that speeding up continues. And continues. Even accelerates. We get into our thirties and we begin to want to slow things down a little. We begin to realize that the longevity that has stretched into the dim future all our lives is not infinite. We’re already into adulthood – that period of time we were desperate for as children – and now it’s speeding by. Our twenties are already behind us, and the years are only running by faster.

I’m into my sixties, and every year seems to last about as long as a month once did. Whatever there is still to do in life, I’d better get to it pretty damned fast, because memory and energy are diminishing as fast as my future.

But, there’s the silver lining. It’s how wonderful it is being an older human being. When I was a teenager, I imagined that the best part of life ended by age fifty, if that. People that age and older seemed to be mostly worn out and used up. I didn’t imagine there could be any real pleasure is being alive at that age. I figured that what kept them going was mostly the dread of the alternative. Wasn’t much to look forward to, so I didn’t think a lot about being older. In fact, I somehow didn’t expect to become an old man. Something would surely save me from the fate of being among the living dead.

But it isn’t like that at all. Being old doesn’t feel much different than being younger. Sure, the body doesn’t work as well as it did, and I’ve noticed that I’ve begun to shrink, but there are so many ways in which life is better. That’s the wonderful joke of nature.

The most surprising thing is that I feel like the very same person I was in my twenties and thirties, but all the experience and choices of the past have begun to pay off. They haven’t all been good experiences and choices, of course, but bad ones have led to better ones, and the good ones have given me so many tools for facing the present in ways I couldn’t before. Patience and perspective are part of the story. But there’s also the shifting of priorities and appetites. I want better things than I used to. And my values are an outgrowth of lived experience, and are therefore more solid and reliable than the values that were so much generated by the noise of the world. And these days, the worth of a choice stems more from its generation than from its consequences.

I’m deep into the second half of my life, possibly into the fourth quarter. I don’t project a lot about what the rest of life will be like. Will the acceleration of time continue? Will life continue to feel this good? Experience confirms that projections can be very wrong. And even if they're right, it’s probably best not to live inside of them. I have foreseen so much pain and difficulty where there turned out not to be any.

I’m sure curious though. And I’ll try to make the best of whatever comes. I know from experience that there will be constant surprises. Every day is full of them.

Getting ReConnected

     It’s already been a month since our return to the steady and regular lives we lead. We aren’t feeling the physical effects anymore, or the sense of time and space warp from the trip, but we’re still moved by the epic scale of our adventure. We negotiated 14,600 kilometers or 9,000 miles; 29 days; 12 visits including 6 stays with friends in 5 Provinces and 7 States; 18 different motels rooms. It was a month of almost constant movement. Only twice did we spend two nights in the same bed. On four successive Wednesdays, we met up with friends in Calgary, Seattle, Los Angeles and Houston. Ponczka and I had the odd experience of looking backward at earlier events on the trip and feeling simultaneously that they’d just happened and that they’d happened weeks before. And, it was a dream of a lifetime.

     For how many years had I been contemplating this trip? I was so grateful to replace all the vague and shifting notions about what the trip might be, with the vivid reality of it: the sights and encounters, hugs and conversations, meals and walks, forever updating my inner scrapbook of my life. So many people and places, touching so many different parts of my life, even back to my beginnings. I’d wanted this for myself, but I wanted as much to share it with Ponczka, to give her a deeper glimpse into my has-been, even the might-have-beens.

     I love cities and I love the in-between places. One of the disappointments was to find that all the cities that I’d known before (but hadn’t visited in twenty-five years or more) have become bigger, busier and more alike. It was harder detecting that West Coast vibe – if it still exists. We were in such a flurry of movement and meetings that we didn’t give ourselves time to notice.

     The rubbing up against technology was an interesting experience, as well: the ease of taking photos and videos, then posting them that same day, to share with friends scattered around the world; using AI to handle so much of the navigation, not only guiding us to motels, but comparing rates and amenities; and of course, communicating while on the go. The last time I did a cross-country trip, none of this was possible to do in the way we did it, not even simple phoning ahead. It changes things enormously, this connectivity. The ability to pay for things, and to withdraw money effortlessly, changes the ways of travel as well. Because there was a time when one was wise to do a rough calculation of expenses in advance, then to carry that along on the trip, maybe investing in traveler’s checks to protect against theft or loss.

     I’m putting up videos and photos in an attempt to share some of it all. Impossible to ‘capture’ it. It was such a unique ride. Already, I’d like for us to do it all again, but to take more time – three or four times the time. Because, for everything we saw and did during our trip, we passed on three or four things we’d like to have seen and done. It was all more than worth it.  

Growing With Purpose

I’m reading Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens, and it’s making me more conscious – and self-conscious – about the ways I think, the ideas I have about life, and where it all comes from.

Among other things, it led to thoughts about what I live for. And it came to me that, if I were to choose a motto, I could do a lot worse than this:

Living Well

Living Well with others

Supporting the striving of others to Live Well

If I adopted it though, I’d have to admit that it’s more of a summary drawn from looking backward than it ever was a mission statement as I moved forward. I haven’t been as intentional in life as I once aimed to be. Now, that seems not such a bad thing. I’ve repressed, edited, muted myself in lots of ways. But this has stemmed, in part anyway, from wishing never to cause harm. I’ve been careful.

And, I’ve been afraid. I’ve feared the potential, unrealized repercussions from a world I haven’t easily allowed myself to trust. Only gradually have I realize that I belong here, that Earth, life, this moment are where I belong, where I was created, designed, or simply evolved to be.  There’s no escaping the harm. It’s built into the Living.

So my intention has always been, in part, to hurt as few, as seldom, and as lovingly and humbly as possible. And I believe I’ve done alright by that. I’m also aware that my own share of hurt has been relatively small, and that so, so much has gone right for me, all my life long. So much love and consideration has flowed inward. And so often from souls who didn’t owe me a thing, who maybe didn’t even know me.

A plane on which I’ve been a failure so far is in creating something that in and of itself shifts living toward the good. A book is such a thing. A food bank is another. A child, however it may seem to turn out. Some forms of creation are indeed abandonment to a creative power that is beyond us, that we cannot wield like swords, or pens, but which we can only aspire to be the swords and pens of. Yes. Good. Or God. Even Science, if you refer to that science beyond what we think we  already know, the science that pulls us forward, into what we haven’t even imagined.

In keeping with my motto, I’ve been trying to reconstruct myself. Sounds brutal, but it’s not. But I do mean a repairing, a cleaning, the tossing out of some junk. About time. And just in time for a last act, if the Good be willing. I intend to repair my relationship with time, that I’ve abused and blamed for so much that burdens me. I’ve always made it time’s fault, even to the point of sometimes wishing it would just go away. Now, I’m learning to cherish every minute. Still learning, yes. And trying to make amends to this ally of all my life.

And I’m wanting to relieve myself of all the things I’ve clung to and used, in hope that they would soothe the hurts and dispel the fears in me. What are all these things? Too many to name. Too limiting to name. They are everything under the Sun, all that it provides that nourishes and enhances, and wanting it all too much. Love, sex, food, control…..oh, why do I even start!

I want to stretch open a space that’s always been there in me. It’s a space of total connection to life, of freedom so complete that it makes the word superfluous, a space in which being me stops being a protection against life, but a submersion into it: like that very favorite experience of mime – floating on the skin of a lake, muscles completely relaxed, face turned upward toward the infinite sky. Kissed by Earth, on the tip of the tongue of the Universe.

Ride Along

Hey There Friend,

Man oh man, what a fun ride!

We’re in Tucumcari, after exploring Santa Fe for a few hours.

We’re nearing the end, and beginning to feel the wear and tear of it, having to pack and reload every morning, and the hours of driving.

But so so much we’ve seen along the way, and so many nice connections.

Greenlake and the rain forest, Ruby Beach

Astoria and Tongue Point, and Seaside, where I lived in ‘80

Powell’s bookstore in Portland, which incredibly not only endures, but now takes up an entire city block around its original, modest footprint.

We got down and into the Redwoods, then the amazing sweep and swerve through the Coast Range.

In Chico, we overheard a conversation between our hostess, who’d involved herself in relief support to evacuees of Paradise, and a young friend who’d live there. He reported that his entire family was burned out – 10 homes – and that he’d come close to being among the dead: residents who woke to smoke and ran to their cars, only to be trapped by the elevation and inaccessibility of the place. He became blocked in, and heard explosions of propane cylinders and possibly cars going off. A bulldozer came along and drove aside the dead vehicles. He and his ninety-year old mother replaced Marzena and I in the guest room.

We hit San Francisco, drove about, walked some, she took lots of photos.

The next day we got onto highway 1, and it took us four hours to cover forty miles, the views stopped us so often.

The worst thing about this trip’s timing is the early dying light, so we sped though the dark to make it to LA to meet an old friend. He directed us to the Santa Monica Pier for our morning exploration and we didn’t even know until we were there that we’d pop up on Venice Beach.

We got to slow down in San Diego, where we had a good visit, followed by another in Mesa. We left there last night to bend our path north to Santa Fe, and do you know there was snow on the ground and ice in cracks in the sidewalks? We were totally unprepared for that, but given the elevation at 7,200 ft , we should have been.

We’re on our way to Houston, and we’ll be at least a day late for Thanksgiving in Atlanta.

Next Monday, I’m at work at 9am.

What a Blast!

It was GREAT to hang out with you!

I look forward to the next time!

Kirby

Now...Forward Again

We've completed a sweep through my past; we've visited all the west coast cities I ever lived in: Seattle, Seaside, and yesterday, San Francisco. Nostalgia ran deep. My time in Seattle ended 25 years ago; Seaside, 37, San Fran, 44. In each place, we drove by places I lived, worked, hung out. The folks I knew then are mostly gone, moved - I was never great at maintaining any but the deepest relationships.

The reconnections I was able to make, and those still ahead, in L.A., San Diego, Phoenix, Houston, Atlanta...all have a future as well as a past. And aside from Atlanta, these are places I know very little or not at all - new landscapes and city-scapes to learn.

This is a great trip to be taking with Ponczka. We've now been together through almost all the places either of us has ever lived, and quite a few more besides. We've travelled one another's geographies. And geography means something, means so much. I feel the effect these different environments have had on me.

Yesterday, I was remembering hitch-hiking to San Francisco from Atlanta, just after turning twenty and being out of school for the first time in my life. That trip was very much about opening up new pathways into a different future. Back then, what San Francisco represented to me was alternate lifestyles and alternate ways to thinking and being. It was, for example, the place I first allowed myself a self-definition that wasn't centered around being Black. When I arrived, I did not immediately go to the Fillmore, San Francisco's Black community, because I was much more interested in Haight-Ashbury. I allowed myself that: to be moved by what I was drawn to. rather than what I thought I was supposed to be drawn to. And therefore, I found myself mostly meeting young White people, some of them hippies, mostly travellers as I was, mostly explorers, as I also was, looking for how to be other than how they'd always been defined.

Ponczka and I are exploring what our next years will bring, where we will be and what we will do. We know it won't simply be an extension of what has already been. One of the most special things about her is her capacity to imagine the new and to nudge out lives toward it. One of our favorite games to play together is imagining living in places we don't live. So more than a dozen times already, one of us has said to the other, "Okay, let's buy THAT place, and move here." And the other will agree and speculate about where we might work, and we'll be off into imagining parallel lives for ourselves.

After thousands of kilometers West, then South, we've almost at the point where we'll turn East again. A few old friends still to see, and mostly new places to explore. It won't be so much about nostalgia. Much more about what's next. One of the best things about a trip like this is how it opens possibilities. The world is so, so full of possibilities. So many different environments. So many different life styles. So many different ways that human beings can be creative. It underscores the reality that our lives at home are in no way inevitable. There is no such thing as inevitability. We create in every moment, and possibility is unlimited.

A Glance Backward

We’ve just spent our second overnight in Bellingham, Washington, a small city between Vancouver and Seattle that’s home to Western Washington University. Our host Scott drove us around the oyster farming bays with views westward to the San Juan Islands yesterday. We stopped in the tiny village of Edison and ate fried oysters, reminding Scott and I of a similar trip on the east coast when we sought out and devoured fried clams.

I’m in downtown Bellingham this morning to get an oil change for the Nissan Micra that’s carried us 4,700 kilometers already. Later, we head for Seattle, the destination that inspired this trip – completing the re-tracing of the route I drove in May 1993 with my new wife, when I moved from Seattle to Toronto. I’d never have believed that it would be a quarter century before I returned. I had just turned 39 then, and was finishing up 12 years in Seattle. Now I’m 64, much changed in some ways, not so much in others. I expect to find Seattle the same – altered yet familiar.

Some things are already familiar, being this close. The West is easier than the East. People are better at taking their time, they move with less … what’s a good word that falls between determination and desperation? It feels right to say that there’s less gravity here and more space. It seems there’s less obesity. I think that here one feels more free and open in ones body, has a more balanced relationship with time. Our brief time in Vancouver has already confirmed my memory that even the big cities feel less removed from nature, from wilderness, from Wildness. And this too is a kind of freedom.

This time in and around Seattle will mark my deepest brush with memory, with nostalgia. I did so much growing up and exploring here. I’m excited to walk Capital Hill and Fremont, the U-District and Beacon Hill. The handful of visits will be bitter-sweet. These relationships were interrupted and for the most part, I haven’t been a good long-distance friend. I’ve completely lost touch with most of those who shaped my life back then. But I’m so glad to be here, to reconnect where I can, to feel gratitude for what my time here brought me.

Hello Seattle and  Goodbye again. Thank You, Great NorthWest. It was a great Blessing to have this place as Home.

Road Trip

     We're seven days on the road now - We've made it from Hammertown to Vancouver. It's raining and it's perfect.

     We have another three weeks ahead of us: another three weeks of not thinking about the job, not worrying about the cats at home, or getting the trash out, having no schedule or role except to be nomads together, and to run these roads, between friends and once familiar places.

    It was pure coincidence, but is adding spice to this journey, that it began just before Halloween, finishes with Thanksgiving, and that this hysterical and panicked race for political supremacy reaches one of its climaxes in three days. I've voted as an absentee for twenty-six years, and though I will again on Tuesday, I'll be doing so while in Seattle, where I'm still registered.

     The continent is majestic. We've stopped for the night in Spragge, Ontario - north of Superior, Thunder Bay, just west of Winnipeg, in Swift Current, Calgary and Revelstroke. I love that name...Revelstroke. I once had a friend who grew up here - an unhappy childhood, she said. But as I bought take-out downtown, and imagined one of the waitresses was her sister, and drove between those towering and inspiring summits, draped in wisps and splashes of cloud, I thought - at least she had this magic, and knew that was part of what had made her special to me.

     It's a huge land. In space, in breadth, in imagination. So many memories crowd in, of times I've crossed the continent before, in cars, on trains, hitch-hiking. In a hurry to get back someplace, or reaching for someplace I'd never been; loving, longing, sometimes lost.

     It is deep and humbling Earth we're crossing, doing it together for the first time, and it's her first time ever. We feel seeds being planted in us as we observe this land, and the people on it, how they are part of a place and that place part of them. It's felt like a grand sweep, rolling west along the Trans-Canada, through the tumble of northern Ontario, the lakes then the flatlands of Manitoba, the country they call Living Sky for millions of reasons, the Rockies thrusting up, the bulge in the mantle that it is. Sometimes its good to feel so small. It's small and a piece of something grand. How lucky we are.

Legal Pot: Celebration & Concern

      I love marijuana. And I’m very glad that now, finally, I live in a country where using it is legal, where I’ll never again have to sneak, hide, or deal with people I don’t really want to deal with in order to get it.

     But I’m also a marijuana addict, and I know how much it can fuck up a life. So while I applaud legalization, I’m also concerned. I know that, just as some people insist that marijuana has no positive qualities, there are others who mistakenly imagine that no harm can come of it. And I know better.

     I started using marijuana occasionally when I entered university. The summer after my freshman year, I began to use it regularly. And within another couple of years, I began to realize that I had a bit of a problem.

     My roommate and I began our use of marijuana at about the same time, and we enjoyed it together. I’ll still argue with anyone that marijuana enhances creativity, the perception of beauty, can promote a mental agility and flexibility. And, perhaps best of all, it can substantially enhance the ability to synthesize information, to view things from novel perspectives and to transcend an habitual attitude or viewpoint. Being progressive rather than conservative in outlook, I see these as very good things.

     Marijuana was also very helpful to me in that it helped me to overcome a shyness, a reticence, a limiting self-consciousness in social or intimate situations. It helped me to open up, to express myself, and to connect with others. It empowered me to take reasonable risks and to make bolder explorations. I consider it an amazingly useful and transformational substance.

But I became dependent. I began to turn to marijuana for an everyday boost, as a kind of ‘cure’ for what I perceived as my shortcomings. So my addiction was underway.

     I didn’t see, at the time, that I was using herb as…medicine, shall I say? And by over-using it, I was cancelling out its most beneficial traits. Every high has its low, and daily use of herb had the side effect of reducing my 'sober' hours to a duller, foggier and more lethargic state. Getting high was then necessary to gain back a spark that felt more life-like. I knew that 'Yo Highness',  kept me from being bored, not realizing then that boredom, like every kind of natural pain, was a powerful and useful signal about my situation, circumstances or state of being. And in this case, the boredom was substantially a sign of withdrawal, a direct by-product of the, by now, faint and foggy highs that were the most that my abuse permitted. But that’s getting ahead of myself.

     The way I learned that I had an issue was through the mirror of my roommate, and others. We’d go in on an ounce together and a week later I’d be all out, and his lid would seem almost intact. I began to see that while lots of friends got high on the weekend, I was continuing to indulge all through the week. Despite the rhetoric that weed was not addictive, it became very clear to me that it was very addictive to me.

     The fact that I’m an addict in no way changes my notion about the supremely positive characteristics of marijuana. Most users I’ve known over the years use it, enjoy it, put it aside and show no ill effects that I’m aware of. But there’s that small minority that I’ve seen use it to the point of disabling themselves, and most of them don’t recognize or acknowledge it.

     Yes, the pothead who loses all motivation or ambition exists. And the one who becomes so muddle-headed as to be unable to tackle any complexity. And the one who loses all sense of responsibility, or of accountability, or punctuality, or even of reality. Then, there are those whose disability never becomes quite so apparent. They still go to work, have relationships, manage their households. But some of them have reduced their … what shall I call it … their Life Force, their Vitality, their Clarity to the point where they are substantially dimmed, diminished, lessened – dialed down to 75 or 50 percent – and they may not even know it.

     I was one of these. After years and years of almost daily pot smoking, I was a dull knife indeed. And it was very clear to me that if I continued on my course, I was committing a kind of suicide. I literally felt that I had to give it up in order to save my life. And I finally did. With the help of a 12 step program, I gave it up and didn’t use for many years. Fourteen, in fact. And there’s no question that giving it up grounded me, brought a kind of clarity and solidity to my life that I hadn’t known was missing.

     At some point – because I still remembered the glories of weed – I told myself that if I made it to 10 years of sobriety, I’d allow myself to try it again if the opportunity arose, and if I felt inclined. And when I did smoke again, I knew instantly that I was still an addict. Because immediately, I wanted to smoke more, I wanted to smoke it every day.

     Long story short, I ultimately found a good balance. Once a month works for me. I allow myself to indulge once every few weeks, for a day or two. Because I’m coming to it from sobriety, the quantity I consume is very little. A single joint will often suffice. It’s amazing to me how much I can get from that periodic indulgence. It’s so wrong, this notion that the brilliant ideas one gets while high evaporate into nothingness when the high is gone.  The insights that come have helped me powerfully in my writing, in my people work, in my personal life. They have often helped me to see things in a holistic way that previously eluded me, bringing together and making sense of experiences and challenges I hadn’t even seen as related.

     But I remain an addict. Sometimes, the indulgence is so good, I want to continue it. So it stretches to three days, four days. By which time, a bit of fog has descended, the world has become a bit less solid, and it becomes harder to put my mother drug away. I have occasionally gotten caught up in that haze again for two or three weeks. It can remain a very sweet trap for that long and longer. So, I’ve learned how important it is – if you’re an addict like me – not to let the indulgence stretch out.

     One of the things I think most pot heads don’t even realize is that, when they use all the time, they rarely if ever experience the glorious high that first committed them to weed. Instead, they may experience a soft, tingly and insulated stasis, like I did. It's often a numb but safe space, full of trivial but reliable comforts, and so easy to get to. A grander, deeper and richer high, in my own experience, demands at least occassional society. Sobriety of the intentional sort, which is not the same as what one experiences when unable to connect with their dealer for a couple of days.

     On top of that, overuse denies us potheads the opportunity to experience the wonderful solidity and clarity of total sobriety. I know, I know…this sobriety can feel extremely oppressive, boring and empty when one is in the grip of the herb addiction. But that emptiness is a symptom of the addiction, not of sobriety. And besides, it doesn’t last.

     So, my worry about legalization is simply that, with the persistence of the myths, that marijuana cannot be addictive, and that there’s nothing to lose, there will be more people falling into the pot haze trap. This is not a call for prohibition or restriction. I think herb is a wonderful gift, and that anyone ought to be able to use it as they see fit , except that I believe it’s a bad idea for kids. And while it will only ever be addictive to a minority, it can be devastating to we few.

     I try to see marijuana as a kind of sacrament, as a precious substance to be used sparingly and with great respect. I try to use it purposefully, and when I'm in a positive frame of mind, never to boost myself out of a bad mood. It is amazing when doing things creative or enjoying art. But I no longer toke up just so the explosions will be cooler when I'm zoning out watching Netflix. If I'm going to experience a temporary, rhapsodic shift in consciousness, I want it to be meaningful. A sacrament is not to be wasted or taken for granted. 

     I hope this legalization goes well, that it brings to any who use it the positive blessings it had brought me. And I hope those, like me, who are prone to addiction, will realize this and never let it take over or reduce their lives, as it did mine for too many years.

Serena: The Greatest Athlete...and a Human Being

I don’t generally go for “Best of All Time” titles.

I think it’s pointless to argue that a particular leader, author, architect, book, singer, president, movie, or anything else was the greatest of its kind for all time. There are just so many factors and differences to weigh and to consider when comparing this brightest star to all others. In the realm of sports you have to consider: the level of competition and the training, nutrition and equipment that is/was available. Even social conditions and cultural expectations play a role. Like, how do we compare a modern “professional” athlete, with trainers and sports psychologists and nutritionists to an amateur from the past who not only had none of that, but who was expected to treat the sport as a hobby, received no pay, and had to get on with establishing a career and a family.

But despite this, I’m going to proclaim that Serena Williams is the absolute greatest athlete – male or female – of ALL TIME. I do so not because it’s scientific fact or anything that I would try to prove, but because I’m so in awe of her talent, her determination and her level of accomplishment. I won’t lay out a pile of irrefutable evidence. Agree or disagree, you have your own champions and biases and stats to cite, I’m sure. I’ll just throw out the single accomplishment (well, eight really; at least two that I consider most staggering:

They are the fact that she won, in succession, the 4 highest level championships in tennis – something only ever accomplished by a small handful of men or women. Then, 14 years later, she did it again! To win even one major championship requires victory in 7 matches, and generally at least a couple of those will be against other top-10 players. And the 4 championships are on different surfaces, on different continents, in different seasons.  And there can be no doubt that tennis is among the most grueling of sports, demanding an extremely high level of fitness and of mental toughness. So the fact that she accomplished this Grand Slam at age 21, then again at age 33, when almost the entire field she dominated the first time around was well into retirement, and some of her competition barely half her age, is, to me, almost beyond belief.

Last week, I watched her lose her latest quest for a major championship – it would have been number 24. And she lost the last time I watched her as well – a couple of months ago at Wimbledon. But my admiration is not diminished by these loses. All champions lose, and lose badly.

Nor am I turned against her by her behavior during the recent U.S. Open. Her frustration and some punishing rulings by the judge got the best of her, and she experienced a near melt down while being trounced by her 20 year old opponent, Naomi Osaka. Yes, I was unhappy, sad, disappointed about several aspects of that altercation. But I don’t see how being a superstar insulates a person against surges of anger or frustration, or from spontaneous self-expression, especially when under such pressure. Serena is human, gloriously so. Given her rage and disappointment, she handled herself well enough, even composing herself enough to comfort, console and express pride and admiration for her opponent. The thing I feel worst about is that all the drama and controversy took the focus and the spirit of celebration from Osaka, who deserved it.

But the other thing I was left feeling after that amazing match was an appreciation that yet another young, powerful and supremely talented brown-skinned girl has ascended to the upper echelons of women’s tennis, along with last year’s winner, Sloane Stevens, just as Serena and her sister Venus are beginning an inevitable descent. As a brown person myself, I can’t but feel satisfaction in this manifestation of diversity in this still almost entirely white sport. I like it even a bit more that Osaka is both Japanese and Haitian, diversifying the diversity, so to speak.

So, Go Ahead On, Serena. Keep on being yourself, and being the Best Ever!

Walls Tumbling Down

We are entering a remarkable time in American History. The Reign of Incompetence is about to end! A threshold has been reached. Americans are beginning to really come to terms with the consequences of electing a shallow, immature, self-obsessed narcissist to the most important and powerful position on Earth.

A revolution of sorts is taking place. Members of the innermost center of government are actively organized against the agenda and efforts of Donald Trump. And they are doing so, fully recognizing that this man is doing harm to the country.

This on the heels of Bob Woodward's book, of Cohen's explicit guilty plea, the continuing Mueller investigation. Have enough of us woken up?

Of course, so much of Trump's fervent base is tied to him because of his commitments to a right wing court, the repeal of Roe v Wade, support for guns and for coal and for de-regulation. They will never again have a champion like him. And they won't give him up. Trump and these will cling to their power. Would they accept Pence? Would the rest of us? Regardless of that, some of them must simply be able to separate the politics from this pitiful, limited adolescent they are serving and adoring.

Huge problems are that Trump has consistently peddled his messages against the media, against the left, the courts, against any entity that resists him. And so many have bought in to the conspiracies about all the powers arrayed for the sole purpose of unfairly bringing him down.

A wild time. I haven't read the Times editorial yet. Apparently it calls for activity from the people. I want to be, need to be, more involved in this. It's such a crucial time. And there is so much complacency, cynicism, rejection of personal responsibility. I must choose to be active in this. Speaking out. Raising my voice more regularly will be the start.

Trump: America's Anti-Hero

Trump is demeaning and weakening America. He is undermining our country’s strongest values and institutions, in pursuit of ego trophies and personal victories. And the ugliest part of America, the entitled, spoiled, narrow-minded, self-centered and arrogant part of us has hailed him as its champion.

Trump is like the  action movie “Good Guy” who – in order to save his sweetheart – drives furiously through rush hour traffic, unconcerned about the trail of destruction in his wake. He’s the defiant rogue who breaks every law and thumbs his nose at every convention, because he knows best and cares least. He mows down dozens, or hundreds, of baddies; the body count doesn’t matter when measured against his precious. He wins the day, his model-gorgeous girlfriend, and the adulation of the masses. And he gets off without so much as a scratch or a traffic ticket.

Trump is like the bully we want to turn to when we’ve lost every logical argument and flip of the coin and just want to punch the other guy in the mouth. Trump is every irreverent anti-hero Hollywood has ever dreamt up, who kicks ass and asks questions later, or more likely, not at all. Because, forget the reasons and calculations of the snobs and the nerds, who look down on us, who don’t fear our God and love our truth. We know when we’re right! And anybody who tries to tell us different deserves a punch in the mouth too!

This is what’s happening to America. The self-righteous rage against the ‘other’ that reached a new level of simple-minded virulence when Obama came to power – no, it was not new; it’s as American as apple pie – found its focus and its symbol and its hero in a disrespectful, insecure, tell-it-like-it-isn’t egomaniac who unashamedly roars that he’s smarter than anyone else, more important than anyone else, and who puts his version of “winning” above all else.

I’ve never been so afraid for America as I am now. Because America, still a young nation in historical terms, is behaving like the brash adolescent it put in charge, big on brawn, short on wisdom and maturity, who wants what it wants and doesn’t have the patience to introspect, to see its own responsibility for its plight, and simply wants to attack anyone who has what it wants and knock down anyone who stands in the way of getting it.

Trump is undermining all of America’s international alliances, and dismantling the diplomatic service, and he doesn’t seem to care, or to even be aware of the potential long term consequences. He’s steadily working to undermine whatever faith Americans have left in its courts and investigative agencies, because they challenge his power and judgement. He isn’t concerned about how this erosion of trust could cripple the nation’s ability to reform and improve itself for decades to come. And he has been so relentless in his attack upon the media, and upon expertise and scientific judgement of all kinds, that he’s damaging the very ability of governments to act based on knowledge, and the ability of voters to choose based on fact.

The Republican party – which used to proclaim itself the party of values and standards – has been so beaten down by Trump's base that otherwise intelligent leaders have been reduced to Yes men and women, afraid to peep out of turn. Those who two years ago seemed determined to uphold some standards of character, professionalism and integrity have given up the fight. The very few who continue occasionally to call out Trump and his policies have announced their retirement, admitting their defeat. So Trump’s lies and distortions, his bullying, his over-reaching egotism and his chaotic style of governing, have all become the new normal.

I’m not a defender of the status quo. I want change too. By and large, I side with the progressives. To my view, and drastically oversimplifying it, the fundamental difference between them and the conservatives is that they choose a course based more on love and inclusion as opposed to fear and exclusion. It’s a matter of the kind of society we want to live in. But I am fearful of Trump, and of his base, and of the narrowing of the mind and the clogging of the heart that their brand of politics has brought us.

Anti-Heroes can be fun in the Cineplex. Not so much in the White House.

Me TOO ?

I’ve never been so glad that I’m not famous, or successful in any popular way. If I was, I think I’d be living in dread, waiting for my life to collapse around me. Because the evolving definition of sexual misconduct has expanded to the point of including behavior that was considered acceptable and normal not so long ago. And it now encompasses much of my own past behavior. And the climate of the time makes little allowance for defenses or explanations or for bygone standards.

I’m guilty of what is widely being termed sexual harassment, and in some cases sexual assault. I’ve touched women, looked at women, made comments to women in ways that are not unlike acts described in charges leveled against famous and once powerful men, and that have played a role in bringing them down.

I can see how some of my actions may have hurt and offended, and in some instances, though not most, I was aware of the potential of hurting or offending at the time. I’ve done a few things that I will not attempt to excuse. And I’ll think it’ll be understood that I have no intention of detailing them here. But I am guilty, I've been wrong, and I am ashamed. I’ve made a few personal apologies over the years and wish that I could make a few more. Certainly, the recent focus and furor about sexual misconduct has made me more aware of instances in my life for which apologies would be appropriate. It’s a time of what used to be referred to in the sixties as consciousness raising. And my consciousness is being raised.

But at the same time, I declare my innocence. Because intent matters. And social norms matter. Whether right or wrong, they play a part in shaping our behavior and who we are. And because sexual courtship is a very complex matter. It takes many years for individuals to learn and understand, to mature in this area. It takes even longer for cultures and societies to do the same.

I’m not making the argument that because something was once considered the norm, that it was acceptable, and that therefore past behavior should not be judged.

But I do feel that many of the accusations surfacing lately amount to over-reaching and take no reasonable account of the realities of human nature and sexual interactions. And that’s what I want to explore. Going there makes me uncomfortable, but one of the things I’m suggesting is greater ownership of one’s discomfort. I think that the situations I’m about to describe are shared widely, and that discussing them may contribute to a collective shift forward. We shall see.

Let me get specific: I have very often ‘touched’ women I found attractive, when I wasn’t sure whether or not they were attracted to me. I’ve prolonged a handshake, or taken the other’s hand in both of mine, and maybe caressed it. I’ve touched arms and shoulders, sometimes rubbing or massaging a bit. I’ve put an arm around a waist or shoulder. Even placed my hand on a leg or hip. And I've gone in for unannounced kisses.

These actions have usually been part of a flirtation, a way of exploring a possibility of intimacy. They’ve happened in the context of making a judgement about another’s interest, and about another’s boundaries. And my judgements haven’t always been good. Generally, I’ve tried to act with some finesse. So, for example, I don’t touch only women, and when I touch women, not only those I am sexually attracted to. My skill and level of confidence in the sexual pursuit game has never been very high. I’ve never been known for my boldness. So my touching has mostly been discrete (or so I thought – maybe it would be considered sneaky or creepy today) It was meant to be similar enough to non-sexual touches to not seem aggressive, but different enough to communicate my interest.

Very often, I’m glad to say, it was easy to tell if my interest was reciprocated. The touches were returned, I got a warm smile, the woman stayed close or moved closer if she was interested. If she wasn’t, she’d move away, maybe frown. That would be the end of it. But I know that these days, it might not be the end at all. It might be the beginning of a sexual assault charge, the start of a reputation as a sexual predator.

Sometimes, it was really difficult to tell what the reaction was. Maybe there was no clear reaction at all. What then? Sometimes, my physical closeness would make a woman nervous, uncomfortable. But that was a good sign. That usually meant some level of interest, I thought. If a woman didn’t get a little nervous around you, she wasn’t attracted. Today, alarm bells would go off. I’d retreat immediately, might even apologize. But in an earlier time, I might well have kept it up, slowly escalating the contact. Because through my teens, early adulthood and full adulthood (I’m a senior now), as I practiced and developed my sexual pursuit skills, that’s what I learned. That’s what worked. That’s what got desired results.

These tactics of mine got a full range of responses, from a woman becoming my lover, to her telling me that she wasn’t interested, with a bunch of reactions between the two, including: let’s just be friends, you’re nice…but, I’m flattered…but, you’re cute…but, I have a boyfriend…but, and – I don’t know. To my ears today, all of these reactions sound like ‘NO’. But what they used to sound like is “I don’t know; I’m not sure.” And what my experience through my thirties taught me was to keep on trying.

So sometimes I would keep on trying. And sometimes that led to a consensual, sexual interaction. Some of those women later told me that they’d wanted and/or expected sex from the start, but hadn’t wanted to show it. Because the way they’d been raised, the last thing a woman wanted was to be perceived as easy, or as eager for sex. At other times, my trying got me to a clear ‘No’, occasionally with surprise or annoyance that I had kept trying. I was guilty some of those times. Of being pushy and insensitive. But I don’t think anyone would have considered it sexual assault or sexual harassment, as they might now.

There were a few instances, upon ceasing a flirtation, when a woman later asked me why I’d given up, or told me that more assertiveness had been expected. Once, when I was giving a back massage in my bedroom – one that had been offered and accepted – I tried to turn my date over to kiss her, and she resisted. I stopped and things went no further. But when she left, she asked me why I hadn’t forced her. That time, it was me that was surprised.

The truth is that the lines between acceptable and unacceptable sexual conduct aren’t always sharp and clear, and they change under the influence of culture and over time. They can change in the middle of a date. Different men and women react to behaviors in very different ways. And getting signals wrong or confused in the social/sexual realm is a very common thing, as are embarrassment, uncertainty and discomfort. In face, a large part of what dating involves is sorting all of this out, one-on-one. Another reality is that, among all the things that sex is, it is also a game and a pursuit. This doesn’t mean that any or all behaviors are exempt from judgement. But it does mean that the presence of uncomfortable feelings doesn’t automatically mean that someone has been victimized.

I know enough about sexual aggression and abuse, from my professional as well as my personal life, to recognize that these are very serious problems. I can understand why lines defining the acceptable are being redrawn more clearly and less liberally. The “Me Too” movement is a very good thing. Education about dating and sexuality is very important. These things need to be talked about, especially with teenagers and young adults.

But it’s really troubling that we seem to be at a point where lives are turned upside down and careers ruined on the basis of people being made uncomfortable by comments and clumsy or assertive flirtations, by sexual jokes and innuendos, where no coercion has been involved and no force applied. It’s even more troubling if, at the time of an incident, the ‘victim’ accepted it, joked about it, actively participated in it, or made no effort to criticize it or escape it. I understand that there are very legitimate reasons why victims sometimes respond in these ways. This doesn’t mean that the offending comment or behavior wasn’t wrong. But if a victim can be excused for not recognizing or reacting when they’ve been wronged, isn’t there a reasonable possibility that the offender didn’t recognize it either? There are degrees to the errors we make, and degrees of guilt. It’s important that there be degrees to how actions are judged and to the consequences they generate, as well.

I’m glad that sexual abuses are being taken more seriously, that victims are being supported, and criminals prosecuted. But I hope this isn’t at the cost of due process. Alleged victims are just as capable of lying and exaggerating as anyone else. Intention does matter. And it isn’t ‘blaming victims’ to point out that the way people respond to and communicate with others in social and intimate situations matters. It matters a lot.

Black Panther Revisited

I finally saw Black Panther tonight and it had me on a critical roller-coaster between loving it and being angry at it.

It was majestic.

But, it was about a make believe Kingdom full of super people with super powers and resources and a super moral culture.

It was beautiful.

But it was so politically tame.

It extolled so many beautiful features of real Black cultures.      

While it implied rejection of so much of what the actual Black Panther Party and other Black radical groups of the 60’s rightfully advocated and organized toward.

Yet, in the end ... it reasoned its way into advocacy of the very community-building philosophy of those same radical groups

I came away from it mostly content. I don’t feel the point in raging against a positive, family adventure film that advocates non-violence and sharing. But I’ll at least wag my proverbial finger at the soft politics of the film.

It beautifully fulfills / exemplifies a complaint that was heard frequently during this week’s commemoration of the half century that has passed since the assassination of Dr. King while he organized to redress economic imbalances. The complaints were about how much King’s image has been sanitized. He’s been turned into a saint, and turned from a man who unflinchingly challenged America’s racism, hypocrisy, war-mongering and engines of economic oppression.

This film directly rejects Black militancy, the kind that arose out of unvented rage and put lives on the line to literally fight a defensive war against murderous police aggression. All of the Wakandan villains in this film are virtual Black Panthers in the mold of Huey Newton, whose poster we see in the film, adorning the apartment of Killmonger’s father.

The protagonist – the cartoon-birthed Black Panther, leader of the fictitious nation – ultimately comes around to agreeing that the villains are right, in principle. Resources and sacrifices ought to go toward aiding the oppressed elsewhere in overcoming their oppressors. But this doesn’t stop the villains from being villains. Because they have been embittered by anger, moved too far toward “by any means necessary”, have grown too comfortable with violence. They have become the proverbial 'angry, black man', Now, they can only become noble in death.

As Dr. King became more noble in death. Then, the angry Black minister, putting life and limb on the line, to force his oppressors out of their comfortable, cozy evil, was buried, and Saint Dr. Martin Luther King was born, smiling down on his native America, which he so dearly loved.

Black Panther’s villains die also, but the resurrected T’Challa endures. In real life, the Black Panthers were virtually exterminated. One by one they died in police and FBI raids. And though, to some degree, the sanitizing of Dr. King’s posthumous stature was in part because he had been less threatening than the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, some of that stature came from the fact that he was dead. No longer a threat. In the film, we become able to respect and empathize with Killmonger only as he dies.

In the end, I like the film. Great seeing all those badass sisters up on the screen. And the cultural artifacts, and the ancestor rituals. I wonder how those viewers raised in Africa took in all the accents. They rang fine in my unschooled ear, and I enjoyed the acting, especially Bozeman’s. He brought a earnestness and humility to the role that kept the superhero human. As entertainment goes, this film was dazzling on a visual design level, and the action sequences were clear enough for my old eyes to keep up with what was going on.

But ya know? I think it’s about time I pulled out Spike Lee’s “Malcolm X” for a fresh viewing.