This is war… sort of.

Posted on April 3, 2020 by Pat Greene

In the first World War people bought war bonds and planted gardens. (Some of those bond drives — especially in Philadelphia — themselves proved fatal to civilians who got the H1N1 flu there.)

In World War II, people went without sugar and stockings and a great many other things and planted gardens.

There have been four wars since then (five if you count Afghanistan and Iraq as separate wars). We’ve have never been asked to sacrifice in any of them — except for the troops and their families, of course.

We’re in a war now, or at least Donald Trump thinks of himself as “war president.” We might as well be in a war; people are hurt, people are dying, people are facing the loss of jobs and businesses. Even people who are fortunate to have a safe income during this emergency are stranded at home, away from friends and family. Our hospitals — especially in New York — are being slammed.

Not all of us are acting like we’re in a war, of course. Of course, there are people hoarding. There is the medical equivalent of war-profiteering. Behind the scenes, the guy running the response thinks that because he has spent a few weeks studying the issue he is more of an expert than doctors and epidemiologists.

One big difference between WW II and now? We have no leadership. With a crisis of this magnitude…

We need Franklin Roosevelt.

We got Donald Trump.

We need Winston Churchill.

We got Donald Trump.

We need John F. Kennedy.

We got Donald Trump.

We could even use Ronald Reagan, and definitely Barack Obama.

We got Donald Trump.

We have a President who, rather than work with the states to mitigate the worst of this crisis and save countless lives, indulges his vanity. He reduces supplies to states such as New York and Michigan, whose governors are critical of him, while giving Florida, a state he favors because the governor is his lackey, all they ask for and more.

We have a President who “leads from behind,” telling states that the federal government is “back-up.”

We have a President who played down or dismissed the pandemic as a hoax even as the first cases were cropping in the US. Whose Administration sent PPEs and masks to China even as it was clear to scientists that we were facing a disaster in the making here at home.

We could use FDR, telling us during the Great Depression that all we have to fear is fear itself. We could use Winston Churchill, urging us to be strong in our fight against the enemy. We could use JFK, telling us to find an answer “not because it is easy, but because it is hard.”

Instead, we have Donald Trump.

May God have mercy on us all.

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Communication.

Posted on March 29, 2020 by Pat Greene

This is one of my favorite paintings, the portrait of George Harley Drummond by Sir Henry Raeburn.

It’s not a significant painting. I’m sure if you drew up a list of the top hundred paintings in the world, it wouldn’t be on there. Even on a list of the top thousand. Maybe in the top ten thousand.

The first time I saw it I was wandering the British section of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I looked at the museum note next to the painting:

“The foreshortened view of the grazing bay horse is the most complex part of the composition, though not the most important. It is curious, therefore, that the animal’s hindquarters should be so prominently displayed.”

I started giggling, because really, the fact that the horse’s hindquarters are prominent is not curious at all. (I once showed the painting to a fourteen-year-old and asked him what he thought the painter was trying to convey and he answered without hesitation that “the guy was a horse’s ass.”)

I sat on a nearby bench giggling. A very serious couple came by, so I stopped giggling, so as not to disturb them. I still had a huge silly grin on my face. They looked briefly at the picture, and then (although I was not giggling anymore) glared at me. If looks could kill, I would be pushing up daisies. I was breaking the unwritten rule of art museums: always be serious. I know making noise is disruptive to other people, but just sitting there, smiling? They found my mere presence problematic.

I drew two conclusions from this incident:

Lesson One: Art is all about communication.

Art should make you feel, or think, or maybe just observe. It’s not something to be marked off of some list (saw the Mona Lisa, check! Saw the Venus de Milo, check! Saw the Sistine Chapel ceiling, check!). The artist is speaking to you.

Not all art speaks to me, of course. But artists that don’t speak to me (Mark Rothko, say) may speak to you. And some works by artists I normally don’t like draw forth unexpected emotions in me. I am not a Picasso fan, but Guernica made me cry. Salvador Dali’s work, for the most part, I look on with a shrug, but some of his religious paintings make me feel something like reverence. I emphatically dislike Jeff Koontz’s work, except Puppy, which makes me inordinately happy and which is the screen saver on my phone.

I was in the Museum of Modern Art once, during an exhibition of Gerhard Richter’s work. I rounded a corner and came across a series of paintings of black and white newspaper pictures of young women. I read the title, Student Nurses, and didn’t need to read the further description. They were paintings of the newspaper pictures of the young women murdered by Richard Speck in Chicago in 1968. In addition to making me feel sad, it caused me to think about the commodification of tragedy. And about how the victims of mass murder aren’t remembered while the killers become household names. And how these young women had gained a fleeting fame that they would never have had if they had lived.

An older couple came by, looked at the description, shrugged and moved on. I was appalled — how could they not find that moving? — but in retrospect, the paintings didn’t speak to them. That’s okay.

And it’s okay for me to laugh at the portrait of George Harley Drummond, too.

Oh, that second lesson? It was this:

Two large apple martinis at the bar in the Met is probably one large apple martini too many.

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Good things.

Posted on February 11, 2020 by Pat Greene

The sky is blue — the color of the statice in Fourth of July flower arrangements.

It’s 65F outside, the perfect temperature.

I have homemade empanadas for lunch.

I have Fevertree Ginger Beer in the garage.

I have a functioning car.

I have mini-carnations of a riot of color before me on my table.

I have a cat curled up on the sofa that likes to watch dog shows with me.

I have The Story of Film and Ken Burns’ Country Music and Casablanca and Citizen Kane and Woodstock (the director’s cut) all at my disposal.

I have Trivia on Monday nights.

And so on.

Sometimes I think the only way to survive all of this is to occasionally look around. Yes, we feel like our country is on a precipice. Yes, it hasn’t rained enough this winter in California. Yes, I’m not working, for reasons mostly beyond my control, and I am worried about the effect that has on both my finances and my psyche.

But there is art. There is music. There is friendship.

There is love.

We’re going to get through all of this; we have to believe that. And in the meantime, we have to occasionally be aware of the good.

What’s good in your life?

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Posted on February 6, 2020 by Pat Greene

John Scalzi has ideas about how people treat books, because, well of course he does.

Looking at his (actually Anne Fadiman’s) grid, I have been all of them from Lawful Good (uses leather or other proper bookmarks) to Chaotic Evil (rips out pages as they uses them). One on occasion, I destroyed a copy of Absolom, Absolom (which I hated — and I do NOT want to hear from all of you who think it’s a great novel) by ripping each page into one-inch strips still attached to the spine, all the while repeating “I don’t hate the South….I don’t hate the South…” (the last line of the book). I was riding on the bus from MIT to Wellesley, and in my defense, I had undiagnosed bronchitis and was running a 102F fever.

Mostly, though, I agree with the commenter on Scalzi’s post that books are tools. Yes, like all tools they should be cared for, but they should not be treated as objects of reverence.

Once, in a Scripture class, the leader ripped a page out of a Bible, accomponied by gasps from several of the students. “It’s the words that matter; not the paper and print. Anything else is idolatry..”

Aside from specific items with historical significance (Gutenberg Bibles, original copies of the Federalist Papers) or personal import (family bibles with births, deaths, and marriages; my signed copy of Alton Brown’s first book, which has personal history tied up in it), I pretty much agree with that statement.

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No words. NO WORDS.

Posted on February 6, 2020 by Pat Greene

Sometimes you can see it. You can see the car running the red-light, the truck hydroplaning as its semi-trailer jackknifes its way through all the lanes of the freeway, the train as it starts to derail. You can see; nevertheless you feel powerless and horrified. Knowing doesn’t make it better; does not ease the grief and pain.

Our democracy has slid along a terrible, terrible road. I look at the senators who voted to acquit Donald Trump and I want to scream “How?!? Why?!?” Especially those who admitted he was guilty but opined that “the voters should decide.”

That’s not the voters’ job; it was YOURS. You took an oath to protect the Constitution from enemies foreign and domestic. The Constitution that said that a president should be removed for “high crimes and misdemeanors.” You listened and accepted an argument that the President can do ANYTHING while in office. God only know what he will do next. He’s talking about finding a way to charge John Bolton — the man who stood up to him — with a crime. How long before he goes after Nancy Pelosi? Or Adam Schiff, who so ably prosecuted the case against him?

And God bless Mitt Romney. He took his oath seriously. There are some on the left that are downplaying Romney’s action, saying he did nothing other than what he should have done. They’re wrong; unlike Democrats who voted to convict, Romney can expect payback from his party, and I would be very surprised if he were not receiving serious death threats. For the Republicans who viewed this as a partisan exercise, Romney stabbed them in the back.

I know that I — we — will rise from this determined to take our country back. We will fight — we may not win — but by God we’re not going down quietly.

But right now, I grieve.

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Revisiting caucuses, and accessability.

Posted on February 4, 2020 by Pat Greene

In 2016, I wrote about caucuses, and how they are an undemocratic anomaly. I believe every word I wrote then, and it seems redundant to restate the case.

One issue I did not address in that post — mainly because I hadn’t thought of it — is disability access. Requiring people to participate in person means that individuals who are disabled have to find transport, and have to spend hours participating in a long drawn out process. I have friends for whom this would be difficult, to say the least. Speaking from my own experience, if I were in a fibromyalgia flare, when I am in great pain, participating in a caucus would be impossible.

We, as the Democratic Party, need to do better. All of us need to be able to participate. Primaries allow for such participation.

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“He’s a Harvard undergraduate. It’s almost justifiable homocide.”

Posted on February 4, 2020 by Pat Greene

Today I came down with a migraine. I took the migraine meds, and then, because I am not working* (which provides distraction), I decided to watch my favorite Hitchcock film, Rope.

Whenever I hear people talk about Hitchcock’s greatest, Rope doesn’t get mentioned. Psycho does, or Vertigo (my second favorite Hitchcock film), or sometimes North by Northwest (which bores me). But it’s as though people have forgotten about Rope.

It’s a taut little thriller, about two young men who set out to commit the perfect murder, and how one of them decides to gloat about it. It’s not “who-done-it” but “will they get away with it.” They gamble with discovery every step of the way, deliberately, as a way to prove their superiority to “ordinary people.” Jimmy Stewart is wonderful as the cat to John Dall and Farley Granger’s mice.

Every time I see it get something new. Today, as I was watching Dall leading — almost browbeating — Granger through the cover-up (and, one suspects, through the murder), I was reminded what I had read about the Columbine killers, that Eric Harris was a psychopath and Dylan Klebold a depressive who fell under his sway. The same dynamic was at work here.

Fascinating. Check it out if you have a chance.

*Yeah… not working. Long story.

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Lady of the storms

Posted on February 3, 2020 by Pat Greene

I am currently reading Laurell K. Hamilton’s Merry Gentry series, which can best be described as…Fairy Porn. Maybe I’m exaggerating — maybe it’s just Fairy Erotica.

At any rate, several of the tall, statuesque fairies with silken hair down to their feet are described as gods, or former gods. Merry herself says she is descended from five different fertility deities.

It got me to wondering… if I were a deity, what would be my bailiwick?

The answer came to me almost immediately: I would be a goddess of the weather.

Not all weather, though. Not the brilliant sparkling days of fall, with the cornflower blue sky and air crisper than a Granny Smith apple. Not the golden days of summer, which tempts out the cold-resistant (or people with wet suits) into the frigid Pacific.

Those days are controlled by that other god. The bronzed, golden, surfer type from SoCal, with his carefully draped hair over one eye that is meant to be cool and casual and is anything but.

I would be the goddess of the mist and the rain. The gentle warm rain falling on the corn fields in Iowa. The soft mist that rolls in off the ocean, condensing and dripping on the redwoods. The drizzly annoying rain that lasts for days (I have my moods, just like any other deity) that forces parents and teachers to figure novel ways to entertain small children. The fog that hides the deer from the hunter.

The dark clouds that mass and mass until they cannot contain themselves anymore, sending sheets cascading from the heavens, accompanied by the wild magic of the lightning and thunder.

If I were a god, I would be the Lady of the Storm.

Probably a good thing I’m not.

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So, I’m back.

Posted on February 2, 2020 by Pat Greene

I have been back for a week now. My blood pressure has gone up several points since my return.

It is easy to forget the trauma a country may be going through when you’re a tourist. Especially when you’re in a UNESCO World Heritage Site like the Galapagos. You return to your own country and see how quickly everything has gone to hell in a very large hand basket.

I don’t want to write about the impeachment. It’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I don’t want to start crying. I don’t care who wins this (I’m not a 49ers fan) since whoever it is, it won’t be the Patriots. It’s all good.

A couple of final notes about travel:

Ecuador is smart. Unlike other countries that might peg their currency to the U.S. dollar, Ecuador simply uses U.S. currency. Which a) saves them all the costs of minting and printing and b) means U.S. tourists don’t have to muck around with currency conversion. (Not that the last is smart, per se, it just makes travel easier for people like me.) They tend do favor dollar coins — especially odd Presidents. Therefore I own (in addition to Sacajaweas) a James Monroe (not that odd) and a Franklin Pierce (really, pretty odd). I was hoping for a Milliard Fillmore or Chester Alan Arthur, but no such luck.

I have been reminded how exhausting moving through water is. After snorkeling on the boat trip, I needed several wonderful deck hands to move back onto the boat. The water holds me up — gravity not so much. Since my current plan to start exercising involves water walking (I have found a warm pool that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg), I need to remember that.

I tended think of UNESCO World Heritage Sites as being properly developed and “Western.” The Galapagos is not, although there are streets on San Cristobal that are. I worry about the economic well-being of the people. Especially as tourism is a major industry and the country is trying to reduce tourism to the islands.

Their reasons make sense: like National Parks in the U.S., the islands are being loved to death. Ecuador is talking about doubling the access fee for the islands. It make sense, but tends to place the islands beyond the reach of the less-than-wealthy. People who are shelling out large sums for cruises won’t feel it — much — but others might. Personally, I think they should have a lottery for each islands. Give the cruise companies a certain number for each island, and place the rest in a lottery.

I wish I had been in Quito during the daylight. I imagine it is interesting. We did go into town during our massive layover on our way home to see a pretty student production at the Ballet Folklorico. Oh, and on our way to the Galapagos we stayed at the Quito airport Westin which is my favorite (non-historic) hotel not called Ritz-Carleton.

So, I have returned. I kind of wish I hadn’t.

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Yesterday

Posted on January 26, 2020 by Pat Greene

I spent yesterday on a boat.

I saw the frigate birds and Nazca boobies soar and wheel over Kicker Rock, and a blue-footed booby perch precariously on a nest halfway up its nearly sheer cliff-face.

I saw the maelstrom churning through the honeycomb of rocks at its base.

I saw sea lions: sleek and elegant in the water, not the clumsy clowns they are on land.

I rode over dark navy waves, the color of the Pacific near my home.

I snorkeled and swam in waters as turquoise as those of the Caribbean at Key West, and saw parrot fish and damsel fish dart and scatter below me.

I saw a sea turtle pop its head out of the water a dozen feet away from me, take a look around, and slide back under the waves.

I dozed on a bed of ice-plant, and sand soft as fine sugar and pale gold as morning sunshine.

I saw dolphins cavorting in the boat’s wake, and shearwaters forming an avian honor guard as their flocks escorted us.

I swam in the ocean for the first time in far too long — I had forgotten the feel of the silky water on my skin, and the briny aromas on my nose. (I had forgotten too, if I ever knew, the unforgiving nature of lava rocks.)

I grew up a creature of the ocean, of wind and wave. I live now in cities of metal and glass, not even visiting the sea that lies ninety minutes from me. Yesterday was coming home.

Yesterday was a very good day.

Posted in My life and times, Travel (real or imaginary) | Tagged | 1 Comment

If it was good enough for Darwin…

Posted on January 22, 2020 by Pat Greene

Notes from San Cristobal, Galapagos:

San Cristobal was the first island Darwin landed on in the archipelago. That almost makes up for not being able to see more penguins, since the penguins live on other islands that are at least a two-hour ride over generally very choppy seas. According to the Rocket Scientist, who has seen the penguins, they’re pretty much like Magellanic penguins. Therefore, I shall not pout.

Because I have seen giant tortoises! We visited the center that is working to preserve them and saw tortoises from huge monsters that a person could ride and that were over a century old down to one-year-old babies the size of a box turtle at the pet store. Birds may be modern day dinosaurs, but giant tortoises look like dinosaurs.

Which brings me to the question… if you are somewhat mobility impaired, is it worth forcing yourself up a steep hillside along a path of lava boulders, so slick that your guide held your arm most of the way so you wouldn’t fall, through two miles of pain, to see baby Galapagos turtles? Damn straight it’s worth it. (We tipped the guide well.)

And the first night we were here I saw frigate birds flying, and a striated heron walked past so close I could have stepped on it. There were also sea lions, who are nature’s equivalent of spoiled teenagers.

We were sitting on a bench looking at the rocks when we noticed a sea lion had hauled itself onto the sidewalk. A man with a camera started taking pictures and that animal posed. There is no other words for it. Head straight ahead, body still? Check. Head up, showing length of neck? Check. Lying on side with one flipper over face? Check.

The photographer didn’t feed it, or reward it with anything other than attention, and this animal stayed put for a good ten minutes until the photographer left. Until he did, it was a bit like watching a sea lion at Sea World.

Speaking of photos, I haven’t yet gotten mine loaded from my phone, so there will not be any wildlife pictures in this post.

In preparation for going around the island, I have been reading up on Galapagos bird life. I have seen a finch already, although Darwin’s finches are not in fact true finches. It was a pretty nondescript bird with a large beak for its size.

I have never been a passerine fancier: my heart belong to seabirds and wading and shorebirds and especially to raptors. So every time someone mentioned the finches I would smile and shrug. But turns out the Galapagos finches include the bad-ass Vampire Finch. When other food supplies get low they peck on boobies (get your mind out of the gutter, people) and drink their blood. (At the other end of the scale is the rather prosaically named Vegetarian Finch. It would be great if the Vampire Finch preyed on the Vegetarian Finch, but alas, life does not always follow a movie script. On the other hand, the Vampire Finches exist on only two islands, which coincidentally do not have Vegetarian Finches. Hmmm…) I am not going to be seeing Vampire Finches; they live on Darwin and Wolf Island, while I am on San Cristobal.

The one thing about San Cristobal finches: they are fearless. At one stop on our “highlands” tour, our taxi driver/tour guide Ricardo ignored the carefully placed sign that explained exactly why it was bad to feed the birds and put out his hand with bread crumbs. He literally had the birds eating out of his hand. And once one had food, a flock came and settled expectantly around his feet. It was like a scene from The Birds except less frightening, since finches don’t look like they’ll peck your eyes out, unlike seagulls or ravens.

Ans then there are the mocking birds. The Galapagos Mockingbird drinks blood from iguanas; the Espanola Mockingbird drinks the blood of sea lions. The San Cristobal Mockingbird is less impressive — it’s diet only includes eggs and carrion. Compared to that, the mockingbirds back home seem pretty boring. I’ve seen several mockingbirds here and… they’re mockingbirds.

On a non-bird note….

I don’t generally post food pictures, but I’ll make an exception for this morning’s coffee:

Yes I know, they probably use a stencil. Whatever. It’s still adorable.

And the pastries were pretty good, too. And the bananas on this island are very small, and very sweet. And the pineapple we bought tasted fantastic.

Tomorrow? A boat tour around the islands, so I won’t be posting. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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It’s rough out there, right now. Would a couple of penguin pictures help?

Posted on January 17, 2020 by Pat Greene

Although I have a bunch of pictures taken by the ship’s photographer (which I am having trouble loading), the Rocket Scientist took these.

  • Magellanic penguins
  • The brown buggers are skuas.

Or just maybe scenery?

There is a glacier up there, but you can’t see it because it is the same color as the clouds. Stupid clouds.

At any rate, hang in there. As the Doctor said in the second show of this season, “Darkness never sustains, even though sometimes seems it will.”

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Wildness.

Posted on January 16, 2020 by Pat Greene

I can go home now. I saw penguins yesterday.

Penguins swimming. Penguins waddling. Penguins doing what penguins do, all where penguins normally do things.

And geese! and cormorants! and albatrosses! and petrels and terns!

Even skuas, those mobsters of the ocean, of whom the guide said “They’re really aggressive.” The Rocket Scientist, who encountered them in Antarctica, calls them “seagulls on steroids.”

Three types of penguins, too. Magellanic, the most numerous; Gentoo penguins; and King penguins, which look sort of like the Emperor penguins’ smaller brother.

And sea lions too, but they looked a lot like the sea lions that hang out on the pier in San Francisco.

And drumlins, too, but those are geographic features, not birds.

Wildness.

There are mountains beautiful beyond belief, with snow and glaciers. You can tell that you are at “fin del mundo,” as they have on their tourist trinkets, because it is high summer and to snowed in the mountains last night. (We’re closer to sea level, so it only got down to 41F for us.)

Reading my Birds of Patagonia book, I see over and over that climate change is a threat to some of these birds existence. It is only going to get worse — the guide yesterday mentioned how much the glaciers had eroded. (The other major threats appear to be animals such as cats and rats, and for a lot of marine species, longline fishing.)

This special place will disappear, as the earth warms and the glacier melt away. The species vulnerable to climate change may go extinct.

I’m glad I got to see all of this before that happens.

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Poem for today while I cruised through the Beagle Channel

Posted on January 15, 2020 by Pat Greene

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

John Masefield

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Money money money money

Posted on January 14, 2020 by Pat Greene

I have mentioned the $30 steak dinner for two. And the eight dollar doctor visit. And I just dropped off what felt like 25 pounds of laundry for 400 pesos, or about $7.50. And last night’s dinner…

A king crab for two; seafood appetizer with shrimp, squid, crab and mussels; rice; salad; and a nice Argentinian white wine, and gratuity, for about $55. The crab was very fresh, and like all very fresh seafood did not taste at all “fishy,” but sweet and deep and briny like the ocean. The appetizer was wonderful, too, and the wine is one I might try to find when I get home. It was the best meal I have had in years.

One the one hand, it’s wonderful having a dinner to savor over two hours without thinking twice about the cost. I would never have ordered king crab in a restaurant because it would be more expensive than I would feel comfortable with. And talk about eating local: the crab had been pulled from the fish tank at the front of the store before being cooked. (I called him Bertie. He was delicious.) The owner of the restaurant runs a crab fishing boat (they really need to do a “Deadliest Catch: Southern Hemisphere) and supplies all the local restaurants. The waiter patiently showed us how to crack open and eat the crab.

On the other hand…

The prices are so low in the dollar equivalents because the Argentinian economy is in free-fall. And the day after the people elected a left-leaning populist, the peso dropped twenty-five percent in a single day. According to the news sources I read, that was the market response to fears about Argentinian solvency.

I worry about what the markets in the U.S. will do if a Democrat is elected. While I understand that financial decisions need to be made in advance of what happens, I also realize the markets exist for the sole benefit of investors and companies and let the devil take the rest. Unfortunately, those market drops affect everybody (Main Street as well as Wall Street, as the saying goes). And while I realize Wall Street is composed of many disparate elements, they all seem to work in lockstep sometime. (Admission: I have never quite grasped how the U.S economy works, The Big Short notwithstanding.) What if the markets instigate an economic crash, helping to make Elizabeth Warren (to take the candidate they are most scared about) a one-term President?

And the immediate question for me: by being here, am I helping or hurting? I am going to be here anyway, but am I pumping money into the local economy or taking advantage of an economic crisis? Or both?

I care enough about people to think about these things. I started to say “I’m enough of a lefty” but really, I do know conservatives who consider these issues, although I suspect they would frame it differently.

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