tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80299617933779937062024-03-14T00:14:46.521-07:006K Miles Home“Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”
― James Joyce, UlyssesAsk Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-39603799941600288612013-12-11T08:31:00.000-08:002013-12-11T08:31:59.986-08:00Dream<br />
<br />
I dreamt I was home at my childhood home. I saw that a couple were walking through the property at the base of the steps where I used to eat pomegranates and spit out the seeds. I went up to them and told them they were walking through our property and should leave. But a short while later (or perhaps even as I turned back to the patio, the property was filled with people. These were not sinister people, nor apparently homeless, but they were people who had decided that being on our property was a good thing. There was a man with a dromedary camel, there were young people and older. Some may have been indigent. I even saw that out near the corral, there were a few small tables and people gathered as though it were a cafe. In exasperation I told them I was calling the police. I fumbled with my phone and had to go inside so Maya could help me dial 911. In time a single policeman arrived and he and I walked around together, rousting people and telling them they had to leave. By now the camel was in a makeshift stall in the garage. The garage was further equipped with small lofted rooms, each of which contained sleeping or resting people. I did get mad at one man for smoking. When the policeman and I went back out to the patio, I saw that the windows had all been covered with burlap or thatch in an effort, I suppose, to protect our privacy. Although a moment later those coverings were gone, as though my dream author decided that was a bad move and edited them. Gradually we seemed to get most of the people to move on, though the policeman and I agreed that they would probably be back. I remember walking up the steps toward the dichondra lawn and the patio. The tree that my parents had planted when we first moved there<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.ipm.ucdavis.edu/TOOLS/TURF/IMAGES/KEYIMAGES/dichondra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.ipm.ucdavis.edu/TOOLS/TURF/IMAGES/KEYIMAGES/dichondra.jpg" /></a></div>
was gone and I remember thinking I would have to replace it with a new tree.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.canaryzoo.com/Camels/arabian%20camel%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.canaryzoo.com/Camels/arabian%20camel%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-54085825889370197682012-12-02T09:35:00.000-08:002012-12-02T09:35:01.301-08:00More of my mother's words
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>70</o:Words>
<o:Characters>400</o:Characters>
<o:Company>University of Washington</o:Company>
<o:Lines>3</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>491</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>12.0</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere in the tumulous, the cumulous, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the ramble of my…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The currency of current affairs</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
is flame</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
fire that burns roof, shelter</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
heat that distorts, destroys</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the reason—lobe of the brain…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
throwers of the flame are also</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
subject to its destruction</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a jotted poem on scrap paper by mom, undated (but late). I
started to add the word “mind” to the end of the second line, but realized that
it not being there was likely the point.
Moreover the ellipsis is there in her hand.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-49039305112416946062012-12-01T20:52:00.003-08:002012-12-01T20:52:59.693-08:00Four pieces<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUduZBCfRwlj7gW1wiM7et527BSzxtXnAALs6Jcg36Tf5B4KorOi-YQ-S5bpNNgq3j6S1bHOUD6vzr_XCe13O0tVdDUSSVUqYKn70x4ox3v-1jejzCNJqlguN6ZVFHfRu1ed-N5A8SOX3H/s1600/IMG_0063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUduZBCfRwlj7gW1wiM7et527BSzxtXnAALs6Jcg36Tf5B4KorOi-YQ-S5bpNNgq3j6S1bHOUD6vzr_XCe13O0tVdDUSSVUqYKn70x4ox3v-1jejzCNJqlguN6ZVFHfRu1ed-N5A8SOX3H/s320/IMG_0063.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My parents words...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HZqbkH5qWsZpD4WnJsnc7BtxKlFdjwiropNJSZYUMNx8tSpFEVdVlkRlV3VkEIMl8s1OpDZq8L2Q6hF3AQM1JnlwSStax_2UzAj6FHYekIupkRP8iQ0QqFXefImPOj_mLsEIWrxl-CXh/s1600/IMG_0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HZqbkH5qWsZpD4WnJsnc7BtxKlFdjwiropNJSZYUMNx8tSpFEVdVlkRlV3VkEIMl8s1OpDZq8L2Q6hF3AQM1JnlwSStax_2UzAj6FHYekIupkRP8iQ0QqFXefImPOj_mLsEIWrxl-CXh/s320/IMG_0064.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Both parents died on March 26, 16 years apart...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6XMIrYIdy7ZiwHKyZ-gRi4iOokizhdDGpXHH0Rg_-pVM-7r-sS1KXDlThPGRXOXFzzNA31HLxWfLDgW4lt9HZ06M97FT4A8N7igbV_WDDod41maCGgsK1olKNDQHU-BiZjoJHEHULmnG/s1600/IMG_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6XMIrYIdy7ZiwHKyZ-gRi4iOokizhdDGpXHH0Rg_-pVM-7r-sS1KXDlThPGRXOXFzzNA31HLxWfLDgW4lt9HZ06M97FT4A8N7igbV_WDDod41maCGgsK1olKNDQHU-BiZjoJHEHULmnG/s320/IMG_0065.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diagnosis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9qQJGN07kTN-ONoK6OHxRylkq8gxzV4xirdYpt4mQyOywP__hdv5rUazUNn-Ik4UngUObnX3ubtp6IOF389iRne_gwXIpX0xeGTvPk6YKjQCOoAcN3Iot-OtNvsg4ZEcqTgkaZG2CTPZ/s1600/IMG_0066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9qQJGN07kTN-ONoK6OHxRylkq8gxzV4xirdYpt4mQyOywP__hdv5rUazUNn-Ik4UngUObnX3ubtp6IOF389iRne_gwXIpX0xeGTvPk6YKjQCOoAcN3Iot-OtNvsg4ZEcqTgkaZG2CTPZ/s320/IMG_0066.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSv9hBHBri8yiC2DgZWcJodkONaAyEk1pzWgM-D5rM1t6tgogw6gU5rQdEYXWZJ075G9P9zHBrVqGrqzbbvBCcT_V4yznK2Fldq4Zj1qeMup6C2UHdO80bNoDxRKbf-965r3Fue17gchS/s1600/IMG_0067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSv9hBHBri8yiC2DgZWcJodkONaAyEk1pzWgM-D5rM1t6tgogw6gU5rQdEYXWZJ075G9P9zHBrVqGrqzbbvBCcT_V4yznK2Fldq4Zj1qeMup6C2UHdO80bNoDxRKbf-965r3Fue17gchS/s320/IMG_0067.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MRI</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKIgsmPojc4-KEG8sTWJxTcOT1KulB6yZH6DVu6cQIWBJnVAQFOciFTMLXmgGPHrE-9I4mftNKsvbZwvwT5YIs-mzwh7dFlts_253vaCJwGHIIloO-Vmi4S7YavV9OXOUNz4hsoPjWzsY/s1600/IMG_0068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKIgsmPojc4-KEG8sTWJxTcOT1KulB6yZH6DVu6cQIWBJnVAQFOciFTMLXmgGPHrE-9I4mftNKsvbZwvwT5YIs-mzwh7dFlts_253vaCJwGHIIloO-Vmi4S7YavV9OXOUNz4hsoPjWzsY/s320/IMG_0068.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUUttGzmhuyPlEdGo2VsH2ZM6OaOMSVOIRu5CjFm1nwEIdilpstztMlc7yktb0jIDLHiJnN-l9zf3I4DWfrMJBFeqcmboOgjnkARDmb169xD35jQrcA5wdP0DaHYJd31b5YHeLwxab1SB/s1600/IMG_0069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUUttGzmhuyPlEdGo2VsH2ZM6OaOMSVOIRu5CjFm1nwEIdilpstztMlc7yktb0jIDLHiJnN-l9zf3I4DWfrMJBFeqcmboOgjnkARDmb169xD35jQrcA5wdP0DaHYJd31b5YHeLwxab1SB/s320/IMG_0069.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Bird's Eye View of Home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWW_XYJfqPPzt1zNekVKOmWw3E94GxRwkKril66K1sYX1oJxmqRqWX7ULS6GJTlaynBZ7A-B1ErU3l_BaU1XNXnSqmQTc3IdV_xUjSPP7z8Wq2OsTkDrrBj1ktvMTXfLGe1aIoVpukQO5P/s1600/IMG_0070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWW_XYJfqPPzt1zNekVKOmWw3E94GxRwkKril66K1sYX1oJxmqRqWX7ULS6GJTlaynBZ7A-B1ErU3l_BaU1XNXnSqmQTc3IdV_xUjSPP7z8Wq2OsTkDrrBj1ktvMTXfLGe1aIoVpukQO5P/s320/IMG_0070.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">detail - house, driveway, trees I climbed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOz1Q-gIBLxYt1p84wJe1Fy0rAsMT4pNU7WBiegQ8b9K283hN_MzoZTcdECXG4Fm4yF1eKm1rEOWkyI_9gR3ktSmaoRmGmgMcBwZHRWcFliujIWSBQcUBAdka3Cf-QMFv4ybtRsVcy4w5r/s1600/IMG_0071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOz1Q-gIBLxYt1p84wJe1Fy0rAsMT4pNU7WBiegQ8b9K283hN_MzoZTcdECXG4Fm4yF1eKm1rEOWkyI_9gR3ktSmaoRmGmgMcBwZHRWcFliujIWSBQcUBAdka3Cf-QMFv4ybtRsVcy4w5r/s320/IMG_0071.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">detail - Eucalyptus grove, corral, hay bales</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9Q2Dr7ZYtyOH9QobDOUmspMVD5EYDyIHGwIespm9lwBIlqRPoWiK0muj_OW7SwRqert4JhwUNqbTxwAlkEVoZNC9AdAbtVIJ3yMELpcnico-WAnP__sC3ufBcqoBUqdTfO0ep-7gUQoq/s1600/IMG_0072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9Q2Dr7ZYtyOH9QobDOUmspMVD5EYDyIHGwIespm9lwBIlqRPoWiK0muj_OW7SwRqert4JhwUNqbTxwAlkEVoZNC9AdAbtVIJ3yMELpcnico-WAnP__sC3ufBcqoBUqdTfO0ep-7gUQoq/s320/IMG_0072.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">detail - Corner of Portshead and PCH, the gullies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4w_WyGESHNIa3TZpkhHg5hBBbw-jDhxpBJ9KFib3uzueLqNdl3795uIWJgoH9AdDRkbjfxxWmOGW1CfnIIxhUA5rc4aWPxqETUb1f73kU-DyqiSGsSn-QpycL9dSP53X5SeYYu9pMg_3/s1600/IMG_0073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4w_WyGESHNIa3TZpkhHg5hBBbw-jDhxpBJ9KFib3uzueLqNdl3795uIWJgoH9AdDRkbjfxxWmOGW1CfnIIxhUA5rc4aWPxqETUb1f73kU-DyqiSGsSn-QpycL9dSP53X5SeYYu9pMg_3/s320/IMG_0073.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four Pieces</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-47836046687859962812012-12-01T20:13:00.002-08:002012-12-01T20:17:40.699-08:00Resurrecting the blog<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVnRKfrjYBVCOSV5QC5XWseeOi6Hp_q4FKEcuv4f_kb6h2d3rfk7FNmiXNbfXbQBT5oTL5Dmrf5wFKLRJu8V2R3jbzuI_LLDJejMywgBFbt0LUIJ6QuCniNhd0VdSwWSQMMP1mge2g6_En/s1600/IMG_0009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVnRKfrjYBVCOSV5QC5XWseeOi6Hp_q4FKEcuv4f_kb6h2d3rfk7FNmiXNbfXbQBT5oTL5Dmrf5wFKLRJu8V2R3jbzuI_LLDJejMywgBFbt0LUIJ6QuCniNhd0VdSwWSQMMP1mge2g6_En/s400/IMG_0009.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deck plants after rain, summer 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I am reviving my blog. I once had the thought to transcribe my journal entries from my last Africa trip but it was too overwhelming. The impetus today is to have a place for the pieces I create for the Bead Journal Project 2013. With that in mind, I am also going to post the 4 pieces I did in 2010-11. They tell the story, to some extent, of my year with cancer and my mother's decline and death. I look forward to telling other stories in 2013.Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-33464059390754745702010-06-14T08:17:00.000-07:002010-06-14T10:23:54.332-07:00Dakar, Senegal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3Hity6jTqRfWv3jvSrfTXjbq0rQK58EO80CnGrq_jY7nQ6XIDGQ9-e0DFVDsz20fqjO8QdSYPBYoB8xtbKg114-ZyB_A4dAi1N6aWFgWG3LxDEgDltLCZzNU2OIprRDuxLt_1V6bcjYr/s1600/img130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3Hity6jTqRfWv3jvSrfTXjbq0rQK58EO80CnGrq_jY7nQ6XIDGQ9-e0DFVDsz20fqjO8QdSYPBYoB8xtbKg114-ZyB_A4dAi1N6aWFgWG3LxDEgDltLCZzNU2OIprRDuxLt_1V6bcjYr/s320/img130.jpg" /></a></div>June 2, 2010<br />
<br />
The embassy appointment went as it had been described to me: Yusupha is inadmissible and we have to get the grounds of inadmissibility waived. It was all expectedly byzantine and, dare I say, Kafkaesque. So since Kafka covered that topic far better than I could, I will describe Dakar--decidedly not Kafkaesque though it is many others things and much more.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibMsnex4cryjZ_WatuGXnjTR1vh3h9gxeWHVQz1njIHYigWTIprFSxP-VkIa16ccmR-_uu_Dq6dU6uucO_WizGdM6mrw5VIy4e9OyfPCiqJSr_DFlwCSox_svGgfW9H5tugC8tUmd5WI3/s1600/IMG_0590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibMsnex4cryjZ_WatuGXnjTR1vh3h9gxeWHVQz1njIHYigWTIprFSxP-VkIa16ccmR-_uu_Dq6dU6uucO_WizGdM6mrw5VIy4e9OyfPCiqJSr_DFlwCSox_svGgfW9H5tugC8tUmd5WI3/s320/IMG_0590.JPG" /></a></div>My favorite part is walking around off the main thoroughfares. They are so intense, all those hard-eyed drivers who scoff at pedestrians in those multitudes of yellow-and-black taxis, the sides of which are a patina of dents and scrapes. Traffic is a free-for-all in which pedestrians do not have a right of way, even in a cross-walk, of which there are some. There are no lane lines and so street lights or stop signs. The main streets are full of taxis, private cars, buses, the colorful open vans run by the muslim brotherhoods, horse drawn carts, man-drawn carts, motorcycles, a few bicycles, and even, occasionally, a cluster of in-line skaters. Crossing the streets calls for bravery and attention. I personally clutch Yusupha's elbow and try not to look.Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-63543265793025458242010-06-13T16:30:00.000-07:002010-06-13T16:52:05.284-07:00Dakar, Senegal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7x8N5Lj907kKiZqlgFy0vgMCkXM9pWrsb6bpAKIPo8vWezia1czgogOnbU02MYNPsMtWPyztX-P4E8WUleulDjVxQNZw85CeyyHrz9xyBju0Tfn_PkV-SbFGxFC_IuWOFWC4PlTdb-YeN/s1600/IMG_0555.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7x8N5Lj907kKiZqlgFy0vgMCkXM9pWrsb6bpAKIPo8vWezia1czgogOnbU02MYNPsMtWPyztX-P4E8WUleulDjVxQNZw85CeyyHrz9xyBju0Tfn_PkV-SbFGxFC_IuWOFWC4PlTdb-YeN/s320/IMG_0555.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482409656979352834" /></a><br /><div>May 31, 2010</div><div><br /></div>The purpose of this trip to Dakar was to go to Yusupha's immigration interview with him. The whole heart of the trip was to be with him, with my husband from whom I have been separated by US immigration since July 2009. We hoped to do our business in Dakar and then go to the Gambia and even to Allunhari to see the rest of the family, who I have not seen since 2005. Yusupha hoped, believed that he would be granted the visa at the interview. I knew from talking to our lawyer that that was unlikely because of the deportation and the need for waivers of the grounds of inadmissibility that obtain in spite of our 8 year marriage.<div><br /></div><div>Since the interview came up on such short notice, I was unable to get a Gambian visa before coming. So on our first day in Dakar we went to the Gambian Embassy and I got that visa. I'm pretty sick of bureaucrats of all nationalities and their language and their red tape. But the encounter at the Gambian Embassy was almost funny. Behind the glass was a surly French-speaking woman who mumbled. I filled out the form and when I returned it to her, through the slot in the glass, she would not extend her hand to grasp it forcing me to push it further toward her. Nor was there any other trace of courtesy or recognition. It's one of the things that Yusupha gives me: The calm not to react, or if I react (as invariably I do) not to retaliate, as in: You dumb bitch, didn't anyone ever tell you about customer service...</div><div><br /></div><div>Our interview was the next day and it went as it had been described to me by our paralegal. The officer said that based on the marriage, which she did not doubt, she would grant the visa. But, she said, "the way the process works..." Moreover, we would need to refile and repay (another grand) for the two documents. It was a blow to Yusupha and although I expected this outcome it hurts to be unable to protect him, to watch him suffer.</div><div><br /></div><div>He is my love, the partner of my life.</div>Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-89238241205789900712010-06-13T10:50:00.000-07:002010-06-13T12:23:02.897-07:00Dakar, Senegal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1gEBF8ueg8CA9rShugeO76EPIeGhD4AaJusmhRUSc9iZRPCWGhlZFL0ubGswrZauRARdjlliP7Q1ymivdfWZljQ6RVLJ85W5l-Q7ORizEKDO96OnRNNN3ER70lC30TMTeO4qXjh94pFF/s1600/img117.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1gEBF8ueg8CA9rShugeO76EPIeGhD4AaJusmhRUSc9iZRPCWGhlZFL0ubGswrZauRARdjlliP7Q1ymivdfWZljQ6RVLJ85W5l-Q7ORizEKDO96OnRNNN3ER70lC30TMTeO4qXjh94pFF/s320/img117.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482340960879796898" /></a><br />May 31, 2010<div><br /></div><div>From the plane through customs at the Dakar airport was trying. So incredibly tired. And it's hot. And I was so close to Yusupha, somewhere outside in the crush of people and taxis, but stuck in the incoherence of lines and official procedure--granted that in Dakar the whole thing is more low fi than in the US. When I finally emerged with my suitcase, there was an open area with barriers beyond which people were waiting. I was at once being warmly solicited by a man assisting with my bags, offered calling cards and money changing services, while scanning the crowd: Yusupha waved and smiled and at last we are together again. It has been almost 11 months.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yusupha, ever the economizer, had a friend who had recommended a particular hotel, cheaper even than the Auberge du Lion of our previous visit. But he said if I didn't like it we could move. Since by now I'm barely functional in any language and Yusupha doesn't really speak Wolof, it took awhile to find the place. We checked in and Yusupha had to agree it that it was barely acceptable. There was a cover on the bed but no sheets. There was a toilet and across from that a stall shower, with a sink in the stall. Below a painted over window was a wheezing but not totally ineffective air conditioning unit. We decided to sleep there that night at least. What seemed barely adequate however proved shortly to be entirely inadequate as the nightclub adjacent fired up the music which continued until dawn. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning we returned to the Auberge du Lion and after a day of sleeping I felt somewhere back toward normal.</div>Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-51015735588848104292010-06-13T10:13:00.000-07:002010-06-13T10:36:16.014-07:00Dakar, Senegal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHex9XxUvkL-RGBVJEWpIwBP_wwhaUAv0kFuzBR2sPRso5HXCvDOH4rpV0qAdwYqbmXXrJBtUKsaXVJ8sL6FFT6K3KqsNB0BJwdzkXDOGg9BYt5F47fi26Zdx60S6FkSoQGTnwemEx_he/s1600/IMG_0526.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHex9XxUvkL-RGBVJEWpIwBP_wwhaUAv0kFuzBR2sPRso5HXCvDOH4rpV0qAdwYqbmXXrJBtUKsaXVJ8sL6FFT6K3KqsNB0BJwdzkXDOGg9BYt5F47fi26Zdx60S6FkSoQGTnwemEx_he/s320/IMG_0526.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482313262803551474" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGBN7Q4UwIJXYqN01_4aRQhWcagXIGlRDGveHK96phns53VaYy2wK3utquGaCIKbLBN6sMMFKFCo4XwJCH6RR3Zs7bnokBMnBnEqoSV8sj0Z-qK1pb9PyybZjpk9JSaxdvJiduXYvM8ykg/s1600/IMG_0530.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGBN7Q4UwIJXYqN01_4aRQhWcagXIGlRDGveHK96phns53VaYy2wK3utquGaCIKbLBN6sMMFKFCo4XwJCH6RR3Zs7bnokBMnBnEqoSV8sj0Z-qK1pb9PyybZjpk9JSaxdvJiduXYvM8ykg/s320/IMG_0530.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482312487351784178" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXmIagiSuFxUNhdhe6zUGsjCNAcaQ9CLS-YHjJvmKzrDkJnahxu0HcBfBlbbtYQfwA8TozExj5XViHgWjBYGGNKDY2D5YYMz4nII4RjD2I2MwaPCZp2zv3MHTtP0GWZYXVSedN7Toe56UB/s1600/IMG_0522.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXmIagiSuFxUNhdhe6zUGsjCNAcaQ9CLS-YHjJvmKzrDkJnahxu0HcBfBlbbtYQfwA8TozExj5XViHgWjBYGGNKDY2D5YYMz4nII4RjD2I2MwaPCZp2zv3MHTtP0GWZYXVSedN7Toe56UB/s320/IMG_0522.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482312477200635042" /></a><br />May 31, 2010<div><br /></div><div>The flight from Paris to Dakar. Again on the window, sandwiched between that and a fat lady and her fat husband. As my fatigue increases my tether decreases. In fact, they were very nice, even though she coughed relentlessly throughout the flight. They were on their way to vacation in Senegal. But the real interest this flight was the view out the window. It was clear almost all the way so I could watch the landscape below and track the plane's progress on the GPS. France looked so green and bucolic. Small towns surrounded by green patchworks of fields, rivers meandering through. Each town appeared so circumscribed as though the French have not discovered (or discovered and rejected?) the idea of urban sprawl. I wanted to descend and stay in one of those villages.</div><div><br /></div><div>Spain, of course, appeared much dryer and emptier. Then we crossed the Atlantic west of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Gibralter</span>. There the water was spotted with thousands of white dots. At first I thought they must be white caps (which didn't really make sense from our height), but then I could make out some larger vessels and realized that I was seeing a multitude of small boats in those blue waters off Spain and near the Strait of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Gibralter</span>. As the plane flew closer to Africa, the sea emptied except for one large ship, perhaps a container freighter.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the most fascinating part to me was crossing the empty desert reaches of Morocco and then Western Sahara. It became empty desert with the most amazing formations of rock, mountain, and rivers of sand. Some of these formations looked like trees with a central trunk, large branches, with ever smaller and more ornate <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">branchings</span>. One becomes multiple. I can hardly think of anything more fundamentally archetypal--as though these images summed up the entire meaning of the universe. I took picture after picture out the plane window.</div>Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-41541007559995755712010-06-13T09:35:00.000-07:002010-06-13T09:53:23.667-07:00Dakar, Senegal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbwo-hsAC1XHeLM1Zyrk-rk_OjATpKnDWQ3-4yZfPglLjzRIyNHSlX3eLC0rCE_tlxlK4Bnb3g-hM2bGI1Imsj_YOJo7ce2fJKjWHYqiM2TwM9WokiGVILbZ-HcCph8nVk4SRRJLvEhyphenhyphenPS/s1600/IMG_0514.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbwo-hsAC1XHeLM1Zyrk-rk_OjATpKnDWQ3-4yZfPglLjzRIyNHSlX3eLC0rCE_tlxlK4Bnb3g-hM2bGI1Imsj_YOJo7ce2fJKjWHYqiM2TwM9WokiGVILbZ-HcCph8nVk4SRRJLvEhyphenhyphenPS/s320/IMG_0514.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482302231468582258" /></a><br />May 27, 2010<div><br /></div><div>My third trip to Africa has begun. Saying goodbye to Maya. We hug by the mailbox, then she goes inside, I step into the van, my hand pressed against the glass and Maya watching and waving from behind the front door.</div><div><br /></div><div>May 31, 2010</div><div><br /></div><div>The flight to Paris was long. I watched the GPS display on the screen in the back of the seat in front of me, tracking our passage across Canada, Greenland, Iceland, England and finally France. The Charles de Gaulle airport was enormous, lots of shops and places to eat. I changed a little money for euros and got a Paris coffee cup for Maya and a bag of pasta shaped like les petits Tours Eiffel. I got something to eat--expensive French yogurt: so good. </div><div><br /></div><div>That first flight was stressless, on time, adequate food, but cloud cover the whole way. I slept awhile in the airport--unlike most airports they actually had some seats without arm rests inbetween to foil tired souls. Better yet, there where wonderful foam seats and couches in a remote sunny corner where I could stretch out and actually doze awhile.</div><div><br /></div><div>Although we had arrived in the morning, having left the afternoon before, the sun had never set, I guess because of the polar route, so my sidereal clock had already taken a beating and I had entered that weird timeless, dateless state of being inbetween places. Such is travel.</div>Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-69475255020292660342009-09-01T10:13:00.000-07:002009-09-01T10:27:39.920-07:00two insightsTwo insights. I complain that I cannot feel the presence of god, that my prayers seem rote. But it occurred to me that I always allow the world to overwhelm my time and space, not to mention my heart and mind, with its multiplicity, all the good and bad of it. If I want to feel god I will need to make a space and a time, just like I might make time and space to knit. So I need to make that small clear space and open, empty time and then I need to be there.<br /><br />As I was walking to work, I was rehearsing where it was left with RM, his not coming to my wedding celebration and saying to me something about boundaries. As I was talking to myself, I said he was talking to me like I was 18... I realized that I am so angry with him because he fell into the parent role, accusing me of not knowing what I should know, shaming me, making me feel like I felt at 18. And it is being 18 that it seems I can never get over, how all of the present troubles play into that punishment, endlessly repeated.Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-53494298113990825702009-08-26T08:36:00.000-07:002009-08-26T08:52:07.327-07:00Summer Reading<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWU6omEI4wDfZlsTJUloqu8jg-p9Nk2cmF0Cn2rByX0nsLUW2df-7WTI9J6corusAHbg6vLz0xisCk8w5toxSXLT7lt9H2Ltvs3mfWhO5aqWshU_DalKnmGiO-Dmi6QUvps80MsOdpcEu/s1600-h/martin+lings.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374300808573469442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 248px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWU6omEI4wDfZlsTJUloqu8jg-p9Nk2cmF0Cn2rByX0nsLUW2df-7WTI9J6corusAHbg6vLz0xisCk8w5toxSXLT7lt9H2Ltvs3mfWhO5aqWshU_DalKnmGiO-Dmi6QUvps80MsOdpcEu/s320/martin+lings.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I am reading Martin Lings "What is Sufism" and "The Secret Teaching of Plants" by Buhner. Both books answer to a need I have to reorient myself to Islam and my religious belief. I just want to note this, to remind myself that my heart can open. As I walked to work, I felt a looseness and observant quality not present every day. The coil of a hose on the sidewalk, the ripening blackberries, the clarity of the sky. I am trying to find the presence of god in my heart and life, to have my practice of Islam come from my heart and to probe the meanings more deeply. This is something Lings does so exquisitely well and I can feel something dormant come alive in me as I read.</div>Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-428331478972001842009-02-23T07:43:00.000-08:002009-02-23T07:52:27.777-08:00Just a slog... only because we just got the computer wiped (again!) due to a certain person in the 17 yo category using certain peer-to-peer downloading sites. Well I think maturity may have moved us past that phase. Meanwhile I can't find a damn thing and I've come to rely upon said 17 yo to be my tech support. So I might hope to upload a pretty picture for the day, but can I find my pictures??? No.<br /><br />Yus is planning a trip to LA. He was going to take mom back to Carmel, but we decided that we'd save that until M's spring break and all go, the better to insure that Mom returns to Seattle as promised. It makes me stop and think: Here we are making decisions for her. While she clings to the notion that she can still make her own decisions, but she really can't. Even this weekend she must have said twice how hard it is to be so old, that being old isn't for sissies. I can see that this is true and I feel it out there waiting to claim me in my turn.Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-89519424220007790182009-01-25T10:15:00.000-08:002009-01-25T10:34:46.727-08:00So many new beginningsSo now it is 2009 and I have still not rectified my consistency in posting or anything else for that matter. But with the new year, my dear husband and dear daughter and I have weathered our immigration troubles. Yusupha will have to leave the country but we can go through the consular process and get a visa so he can return. It's uncertain how long that will take but, insha'allah, our ordeal with Homeland Security is over and we can return to our lives. So it is a new beginning.<br /><br />We are going to get remarried--to renew our commitment, to bring in a wider circle of friends, witnesses, participants. It is to seal something, or maybe to close off the involvement of the government, to bind our community to us--because the whole experience was traumatic, with lawyers, agents, people inquiring into the insides of our family, a place they didn't belong. So we are starting anew. The ceremony is, for the most part, going to be simple and informal EXCEPT that I bought some beautiful fabric to make myself a beautiful dress. I'm still working on details--the date in May, reserving the community center, who to invite, who to officiate.<br /><br />This weekend is Yusupha's birthday. We never really celebrate his birthday because it is indefinite: we only know that he was born sometime around now in 1964. But this year he will have a birthday dinner, cake, and at least one present. I know what he wants!!<br /><br />Obama is President! Michelle Obama is first lady! This new beginning, which resonates across the land, also feels like a purely personal joy. I drank it all in--the miles of people, all the dignitaries, the music, the fashion, the seriousness of Obama and then his face split by that luminous smile. I have great hope that whatever he achieves or fails to achieve, he will bring this country back to a position of dignity and humility within the world community. I believe he too will bind us to the greater world and seal us off from the indignity and the shame of the Bush years.Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-39690418040596254512008-10-19T08:35:00.000-07:002008-10-19T09:10:04.673-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRppPVwLw6ioiMxh5wZmgCrdwL-Fn_7ryiLIAwx0dJUUHHkKHx3H1t89W3SfN4ks9MQ11YnpoaIuc1BSYh0AYnJOUXexfhqXHfw8tvGi8yZ6YM0pzg6SuUoJXzGiuYxtutaeNHqbbc7bES/s1600-h/obama+hope.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRppPVwLw6ioiMxh5wZmgCrdwL-Fn_7ryiLIAwx0dJUUHHkKHx3H1t89W3SfN4ks9MQ11YnpoaIuc1BSYh0AYnJOUXexfhqXHfw8tvGi8yZ6YM0pzg6SuUoJXzGiuYxtutaeNHqbbc7bES/s320/obama+hope.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258897866008119506" border="0" /></a><br />I woke up to NPR's Weekend Edition this morning. I heard that Colin Powell had endorsed Obama, then fell back asleep into a dream in which I was joyfully telling everyone at work about this good news. I do alternate between joy and excitement about Obama's chances of winning the White House, and anxiety about the alternative--we've had enough disaster from the Bush Administration for the last eight hears.<br /><br />I've been watching the television series "World at War" on dvd, and simultaneously reading the first volume of Ian Kershaw's book on Hitler: Hubris. It says in the book that for Hitler politics was first and foremost propaganda--that at which he so excelled. It struck me that that also define Rovian politics, in which a lie can be repeated so often, and somehow gets purchase on reality, however often the truth is told. Witness the lies that got us into the Iraq War, witness the lies like "palling around with terrorists", witness the lies about free markets being self-correcting. I so hope that we can begin to turn all of this around with an Obama presidency. He makes me so proud when he says (to paraphrase), "this has never been about me, it's about you, the people, bringing the needed change to government".<br /><br />Watching the "World at War" series also makes me think about my father, who was born in 1917 and died in 1995. He was on a battleship in the Pacific, but the only thing I know about his experience during the war is that he hated it, and that they fed them mutton that was so unappetizing that they'd empty their plates overboard rather than eat it. My father was an FDR democrat and Adlai Stevenson type liberal. He taught the history of philosophy and Western Civilization at Santa Monica College. He hated Hitler and war and the killing of the Jews. Although he didn't talk about his personal experience in the Navy, he did talk a lot about the betrayal of decency and civilization that the Nazis wrought. I often think that WWII feels like a part of my life, even though I was born well after the war because of how much he talked about how fragile Civilization could be in the face of totalitarians and fanatics of all kinds. He would not have been happy with these last eight years and he would have seen in Sarah Palin the raising up of vulgarity, ignorance, and superficiality. He would have shared in the hope for Obama to be the next president.Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8029961793377993706.post-76983642016203970182008-10-16T14:21:00.000-07:002008-10-16T14:33:21.322-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8iVRotzwce8ccPxG7ly2IMCYwJfNec6BMRrV6FcNKyBjv6rpZuLCNGxBI3GHaZKkAE7KuLvCn_4krTZHem8gyXIaEiZzwigY8i6ak5wbzB7dim1LqUoV6rwlUwBqD_pCZscLK-l9KmIL/s1600-h/P1010029.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8iVRotzwce8ccPxG7ly2IMCYwJfNec6BMRrV6FcNKyBjv6rpZuLCNGxBI3GHaZKkAE7KuLvCn_4krTZHem8gyXIaEiZzwigY8i6ak5wbzB7dim1LqUoV6rwlUwBqD_pCZscLK-l9KmIL/s320/P1010029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257867814663268338" border="0" /></a><br />It is a quiet day, while I knit, set up this blog, browse Ravelry and watch the birds feeding on the red berries. The whole gang has been here: The robins, a small band of cedar waxwings, a Stellar jay, briefly a flock of starlings, and one other little thrush, I think. He has a turned up tail and a white bar over his eye. I love that they love the yard.<br /><br />I was unprepared to take a picture of the birds, but here are the berries.Ask Me Nowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12368091507347777797noreply@blogger.com0