Tag: places

Are we there yet?

Moon Shot

THE FOUR ASTRONAUTS who recently swooped around the Moon and back again – Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch and Jeremy Hansen, may their names live forever – did more than visually explore Earth’s neighboring world from close quarters for the first time in decades.

They injected into this world a burst of hope and vicarious glory sorely needed in this age of cynicism, distrust, chaos and doomcrying.

Think of it. When’s the last time you felt a surge of positivity and pride at human accomplishments? Speaking strictly for myself, it’s been more than one year, three months, and a day or two.

But watching the Artemis mission’s textbook-perfect splashdown and recovery had me shedding at least one tear of grateful joy.

This is what humans can do when we all work together, I thought, dabbing my eyes with a tissue. This is what’s possible.

I don’t know about you, but I needed that.

5 Thoughts: Why Sonoma?

0. WE SONOMANS LIVE in the greatest semi-isolated piece of spacetime findable on this vast and tiny Earth. Here are five reasons why I believe that.

1. Environmental infrastructure: Green hills in winter, golden in summer, wildflowers in the spring, and – partly due to the ubiquitous vineyards – some of the certifiably best autumn foliage that will ever knock out your eyeballs with giddy wonder. (Not to mention Sonoma Plaza, which San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen once called the most beautiful public square in California.) And all of it available within walking, hiking, or biking distance.

2. Social infrastructure: A friend of mine refers to this place as “the island.” Unlike other Sonoma County population centers, we’re not on any main highways/freeways – so to get here, you have to really want to. And because of that, there’s this fierce community spirit and shared sense that “we’re all we have.” In addition to our many volunteer-built niceties (a feature-rich senior center and independent FM radio station, to name just two), this was most evident during the October 2017 wildfires, where folk used their skills and resources to help their neighbors (and house and feed the many first responders who helped save us from a fiery fate).

3. Quality of life: Taking into account the countless farms, restaurants, museums, music and food venues, newspapers, artists and artisans, festivals, markets, parks, charities and benevolent societies, sister-cities, youth programs, tree-lined streets, classic cars, cottage industries, and 1930s-era moviehouse, there’s a reason we call it “Slownoma.”

4. The people: With Sonoma’s estimated population of less than than 11,000, one person really can still make a difference. And they make for great neighbors! (Mostly.) In any case, there’re a lot of friendly folks round these parts, and due to having lived here since 1998, a lot of familiar ones as well. You can’t buy that kind of connection.

5. Reality check: Oh, we’re not perfect: we have our occasional (and sometimes bad) crimes, a high cost of living and housing, our share of homelessness and hopelessness, and crushing poverty side-by-side with privileged opulence, just like many other American communities. But we also have more nonprofits per capita than many other American communities, meaning an unbelievable proliferation of goodhearted and competent people working to change or at least ameliorate our problems. Sometimes that may seem a Sisyphean task – but then, Sisyphus couldn’t muster so many cheerful and enthusiastic helpers.

Teapot Tempest

OUR SMALL COTERIE WAS IN Oakland in 1989, and in that aftermind imbued by any Grateful Dead concert: happy, playful, joyful and a wee bit mischievous.

We were also ravenously hungry, so on the way back to the car we stopped halfway through Chinatown and took in a restaurant crowded with locals. Somehow and somewhere along the way, I had acquired a small chip of dry ice and was amusing myself (and the others) by tossing it about inside my top hat. But once we were seated, I realized I needed to divest myself of my acquisition.

So I dropped it in the hot teapot sitting in the middle of our table.

You may imagine the scene which unfolded next. (No? Well, then: imagine a thick column of steam roiling up from the pot’s spout, expanding outward along the ceiling to the edge of the room, and slowly creeping down the upper part of the walls. Silence reigned among the astonished diners, while I sat there wearing my best “I meant to do that” face. Got it now?)

The rest of our meal passed in peace and relative quiet, concluding with an enormous tip and profuse thanks to the unsmiling owner.

It’s a wonder he didn’t kick us out. I guess you can’t argue with physics.

Wonder Standing

THREE YOUNG MEN relaxed inside an enormous paper-recycling bin circa 1980, musing over their preferred futures.

Youthful dreams don’t always come true. But …

“I want a huge apothecary and knowledge of all kinds of medicinal roots, herbs, and such so I could heal people,” said the short blonde one.

“I want my own piece of land, so nobody could tell me what to do,” said the tall Japanese one.

“I want the world’s biggest library, filled with books of great wisdom,” said the bearded Jewish one.

The first young man left his companions in 2002, mission largely accomplished; the second, last year and likewise. The third is still working on his (the library, not the leave-taking).

My buddy Sputnik’s apothecary existed in considerable and connected chunks strewn throughout his relatively brief life; not to romanticize it, but his curiosity-fueled meanderings (medical and spiritual) always seemed to end up benefitting everyone around him.

My buddy Ralfh took a dark turn. Kind and gentle, yet terribly, terribly lost, he did eventually get his land – and also some serious incarcerations, which he bore as marks of grim defiance.

My quest for “the world’s biggest library” resulted in inheriting the textual legacy of one of this planet’s oldest and most misunderstood peoples. I don’t know it all, by far, but I do know more than I did – though considerably less than there is to know.

Youthful dreams don’t always come true. But sometimes, their ripples may reach beyond imagination. Here’s to absent friends – and the open sea.

Elder Weisenheimers

THERE IS MUCH VALUE IN friendships – even more so in those that are decades long.

In 1986, I began working at the Northern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire’s fencing booth. Dubbed the privateer ship “Cardiff Rose” (after the 1976 Roger McGuinn song/album of the same title), we taught people to swordfight using foils; we also staged exhibition bouts with epee, saber, shenai, main-gauche, and other martial implements. These shows drew in many guests, as did our hawkers (myself among them), and an unspeakably tightknit and rollicking good time was had by all – until our much beloved Black Point Forest site was sold to condo developers ’round 2000.

It’s important for Village Elders to know how to pass on what they know.

After that original RenFaire closed, some of us migrated en masse (swords included) to similar “living history” events, including The Great Dickens Christmas Fair. But we also see each other at annual picnics in an undisclosed East Bay park. My copilot (then coworker) and I met at RenFaire in 1988, and recently attended one such reunion. As we drove regretfully home (it’s hard to say goodbye to unique friends you’ve known for almost 40 years), the following discussion ensued, dutifully recorded elsenet (edited here for clarity):

Friends, Roses, countryfolk – lend me your brains.

It was so good to see, connect with, and learn from everyone, which is invariably the case whenever we gather. The thought occurred – and I’m still puzzling the why of it – that our longtime, lifetime Cardiff Rose association-web is good training for becoming Village Elders.

Stay with me here.

1. We are for the most part a generally and generously accepting group of people (we’re all misfits on some level, which helps), except when it comes to militant/willful stupidity. Village Elders may welcome the strange(r), but they also don’t take no guff.

2. The prefatory acronym AKICITR – “All Knowledge Is Contained In The Rose,” which we all use to pose online questions to activate our “hive mind” – is amusing, yes, but also true thanks to our vasty array of eclectic educations, singular experiences, and multiform talents. And what we don’t know, we know how to learn about. Village Elders must be, or at least be perceived to be, sources of wisdom.

3. Strictly as a collective, it would be fair to say that “we’ve seen it all” (see point #2), while mostly avoiding the discomfort of world-weariness by dint of a sardonic sense of humor. Village Elders without such a humor-sense are just crotchety old fussbudgets and get-off-my-lawn shouters.

4. Many of us have (or teach) younglings. It’s important for Village Elders to know how to pass on what they know.

Anyway, that’s the view from behind these eyeballs. What do you think?

This can’t at all capture our seamless friendships’ ineffable essence, but I hope it conveys some of the flavor; we would not be the people we are today without each other. Here’s to good (and sadly, some now-absent) friends – and to life! [clink]

We’re All Americans, Dammit

I’VE SAID THIS BEFORE, BUT it’s more important now than ever:

“I pledge allegiance to the Constitution
Of the United States of America
And to the ideal on which it stands:
One nation of individuals
Indivisibly intertwined
With liberty, justice, and peace for all.”

(So help me, G?d. And so help all of us.)

False Economy

SO THERE I WAS, PEEPING through the window of the Eureka, California post office, waiting for my elusive boss to enter her across-the-street cafe.

The year was 1988 – a time of great personal upheaval, both good and bad. Through a combination of circumstances, my then-new girlfriend and I were trying to make a go of it in that sleepy, downbeat North Coast city. Jobs were hard to come by, at least for a journeyman printer like me, and when I saw a newspaper ad promising to train someone as a coffeehouse clerk I sprang into delighted and determined action.

At first, things were pleasant. The cafe’s owner, who I’ll call Simone, was friendly and easygoing, as were the customers, and once I had figured out the espresso machine and sandwich-making regimens I felt reasonably financially secure (and competently useful) for the first time in weeks.

Then “Dave” walked in, an itinerant handyman who lived in a big blue van well-stocked with tools of every description.

“You’re new here, huh?” he said as I handed him a double espresso and a roast beef on rye. “Simone paid you yet?”

“I’ve only been here a couple days,” I replied. “Payday’s Friday.”

“Yeah? Right. Good luck.”

Friday arrived, and at closing time, I asked Simone for my wages.

“I’m a little short right now,” she said wistfully, “and I have to move some things around at the bank. Can you wait until tomorrow?”

“Well …. I suppose so.”

Tomorrow became today, and Simone appeared late that afternoon as I was building a turkey croissant.

“I’m SO sorry,” “she said wistfully. “I just missed the bank’s hours. Can I pay you Monday?”

“I don’t know, Simone…”

“I promise. Monday morning, as soon as the bank opens.”

Monday’s dawn broke, typically foggy and grey, with me outside the cafe waiting for Simone to arrive.

She didn’t.

Neither did she on Tuesday.

Nor Wednesday.

Meanwhile, my daily phone messages went unanswered, both at the cafe and at the number purporting to be Simone’s home.

Hence, my Thursday-morning stakeout.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought with one of many impatient sighs. Who am I, James Bond? But I also can’t believe I’m not going to make rent or buy groceries this week.

Suddenly, Simone’s red Gremlin pulled up across the street. As she exited her car, I exited the post office.

“Simone!” I called, breaking into a fast trot. “Hey! Simone!”

Her beseeching eyes reflected helpless and apologetic dread, but before she could say anything, I spoke with uncharacteristic bluntness.

“Look here, Simone,” I said. “I like you, and I like working here, but I need to get paid – like right now!”

Tears came to her eyes. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “I can’t afford to pay you. All I have is this cafe and what’s in it. I owe so many people so much money; my life is in shambles, and I’m just as much a victim as you are…”

“I don’t mean to sound harsh, Simone, but frankly, that’s not my concern. I’m not going to leave this place without your paying me.”

And that was how, and why, my girlfriend and I feasted that week on thick sandwiches of roast beef and turkey breast. Victory is indeed sweet – and sometimes, savory.

Where Are You Most You?

IN CARLOS CASTANEDA’S EPIC FANTASY, The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge, his titular shaman Don Juan Matus describes “places of power” — those locations where we can experience deep wisdom and indomitable purpose. No two are the same for everyone, and when you find yours, it’s best to stake it out and pay attention.

In my case, it’s the kitchen.

Our kitchen is a small one, measuring roughly 7’x9′ – a mere 63 square feet. (It’s also and actually the model for the inside of Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon.) That cozy space contains a refrigerator/freezer, double sink, drain rack, electric stove/oven, toaster, four drawers, and a trio of small counters with seven cabinets above and three below (not counting the one under the sink). In it are all things necessary for providing and consuming tasty fare: knives, pots, pans, dishes, tableware, pantry goods, raw ingredients, assorted seasonings, and a handful of small appliances and wall-hung utensils. In it I have prepared breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks, holiday feasts, and endless cups of tea. After a quarter-century of daily use, I know where everything is and should be, and I daresay I could find it all in the dark The size doesn’t bother me – it’s where I learned to cook, and I don’t know any other. (Besides – tight-space discipline is good for the soul.)

Perhaps most important of all is the boombox, either tuned to our hidden gem of a local radio station or filling the savory-scented air with background music from the CDs and cassettes stored atop the refrigerator. (I have occasionally been known to spend more time and energy selecting appropriate music than making the meal or washing the dishes that the music is supposed to accompany.) Few things can better motivate good cookery than listening to or singing along with the right tunes. Often, I will prop a book on the counter beside the stove while whatever’s cooking is cooking, standing a studious watch until the timer goes off.

Our kitchen is one of the two or three places I feel most like myself. What are yours?

“Room 101 Amusement Park”

RELAXING IN PUBLIC CAN SOMETIMES bring unexpected consequences.

Seated in the Walnut Creek BART station in the spring of 1980, I was reading my well-thumbed copy of 1984. So engrossed was I in Orwell’s pessimistic prose that I didn’t hear the man approach.

“You’re only reading this NOW!?” he demanded in an outraged bellow.

His intensity belied his nonchalant appearance: mid-30s, cleanshaven, plaid shirt, blue jeans, loafers. Although he seemed a normal human (for some values of the words “normal” and “human”), it also seemed best not to provoke him.

“No,” I replied with calm sincerity. “I’ve read it a couple of times.”

His blue eyes speared mine with an emphatic glare.

“Good!” he declared, and stalked off toward the escalator.

I guess it pays to be polite.

“You Can’t Avoid the Void!”

IT DOESN’T REALLY MATTER WHERE or when I was, beyond that it was a high place from which I felt an overwhelming urge to jump.

I felt neither depressed nor sad nor suicidal. But I did feel scared, though mostly of the compulsion. In fact, I retained an echo of those feelings, not to mention utter perplexity, until happening across a healthline.com article which told me that such compulsions are very, very common. Normal, even.

It’s known as the “Call of the Void.” (In the original French, because the French have words for everything experientially interesting, “l’appel du vide.”) In clinical terms, it’s referred to as “High-Place Phenomenon,” and can also involve other aspects of self-harm: leaping in front of a train, steering one’s car into oncoming traffic, or sticking one’s hand into a garbage disposal. Naturally, these urges are quickly suppressed. And no one quite knows why we have such episodes – they may simply be an artifact of our neurological wiring – but it seems related to anxiety: the more anxious one is, the louder the Void calls.

We humans seem to be repelled by, yet attracted to, vast emptiness: the gulfs between stars and galaxies; abyssal ocean depths; wide-open deserts; untenanted warehouses; the view from a mountaintop. (BTW, the worst vertigo I ever experienced was while [very briefly!] standing on my head atop Northern California’s Mount Diablo – I literally felt as though I was dropping into the sky. Brrr.) Perhaps such things remind us of our insignificance. Perhaps we just don’t know what to do with (or in) them. Getting lost in immensity carries a deep discomfort; it blurs the lines we draw between Is and Is-Not. And that can be downright scary.

The most important thing to do when the Void calls? Don’t answer.

A Short Course in Flabbergastery

IN HIS EPIC, THREE-VOLUME Burnham’s Celestial Handbook, the astronomer Robert Burnham, Jr., proposes the following metric:

Let one astronomical unit (the mean Earth-Sun distance) equal one inch. On that same scale, one light-year, or 63,360 astronomical units, equals one mile; in our model, that puts Alpha Centauri, our closest stellar neighbor, just over four miles away.

See how big space is? But let’s go further.

Fig. 1.

In October 2022, the James Webb Space Telescope peered 13.1 billion light-years into one tiny slice of our all-surrounding nothingness (see Fig. 1). On Burnham’s scale, that’s 78,067,190,880,000,000,000,000 miles — or roughly the distance from Earth to just beyond the boundary of interstellar space.

And if your mind is still insufficiently blown, think on this: Except for a handful of relatively close six-rayed stars, the smudges of light you see in Fig. 1 are all galaxies.

GALAXIES. Each containing hundreds of billions of stars, a good many of which are just like our Sun.

Wow. Right?

Contemplating such vasty depths may challenge our sanity. But I also think such a meditation is good for the perspective.

Because in all that unending emptiness, there is only one of each of us: unique, ephemeral, irreplaceable. Enjoy yourself if and while you can — and don’t forget to floss.

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