Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Breathe
I have been negligent. Interrupted by Comcast, and a day with no connection, I have sloughed off and not produced. Spent several hours in the barn playing music with friends, fiddling to tunes that I have never heard, and fitting in notes and rhythms where they might. It is now a regular Wednesday evening thing (a bit like the blog, a self-imposition) and it will evolve. The evening has already taken on its own form and flavor, it seems quite different from the "fiddle jams" that i have been to, mixing some singing, multiple styles (Irish, Old-time, Cowboy, jazz, Beatles, blues) - It's loose, and that seems to be right. Makes for a long but satisfying day, with a full morning of work starting at 0600, a couple hours of basketball at mid-day, errands, cooking dinner...the range of stuff. Tomorrow I will be more diligent, and the writing more interesting -
Monday, October 26, 2009
October 26
I was going to continue on to Mogadischu, but I need to get the Somali dust out of my clothes. It is quite surprising how writing about those trips brings them back to life for me – hopefully for you, too.
But what is really on my mind today is dogs, or rather how to deal with three large beasts on a daily basis in a small house. I love watching them, imposing my interpretation of their thinking and decisions, appreciating their intelligence and abilities, even as I throw them out the door or berate them for yet another transgression…a loaf of bread snatched from the counter, a shoe snitched from beside the bed, a sprawl on the couch of such profound abandon that to disturb it would be shameful.
Two of them are ours – an old golden retriever, born in Bangladesh and transported back via four years in Geneva to Maine. He is fat and no longer has the speed he did as a youngster, but still can get feisty and impose on the younger set when he wants to, which is less and less. His tactics are patience and persistence, combined with singleness of purpose, and excellent senses of sight and smell. He needs them all to contend with the two year old Lab, who is at his prime: fast and sleek, smart and passionate – he could dominate, but that doesn’t seem to be foremost in his character. He just wants to retrieve, and run – over and over and over and over – there is no off button. Watching him allows me to understand what peak performance might be. And then I look over and see him, all fours in the air, totally vulnerable with Onyou, the Astro Cat (full name) curled up between him and the back of the couch like a pillow and it is hard to imagine his virile speed.
The third is my daughter and her partner’s - a young Walker Hound taller than the other two and lanky with a gate like a horse. He is sweet and gentle, but I firmly believe that at some point in his lineage, the olfactory lobe of his brain took on ascendant qualities and somehow crowded out the rest. To say that he thinks with his nose would only be partially correct. He is led around by the nose, pulled through life on a scent, overwhelmed by the perfume of life. Which would all be OK, except for the fact that a loud and repeated baying seems to be hardwired to the same part of the cerebrum, and so regular concertos in the key of random odor have become common.
This too would be fine, except we now also have four cats…but they are another story.
But what is really on my mind today is dogs, or rather how to deal with three large beasts on a daily basis in a small house. I love watching them, imposing my interpretation of their thinking and decisions, appreciating their intelligence and abilities, even as I throw them out the door or berate them for yet another transgression…a loaf of bread snatched from the counter, a shoe snitched from beside the bed, a sprawl on the couch of such profound abandon that to disturb it would be shameful.
Two of them are ours – an old golden retriever, born in Bangladesh and transported back via four years in Geneva to Maine. He is fat and no longer has the speed he did as a youngster, but still can get feisty and impose on the younger set when he wants to, which is less and less. His tactics are patience and persistence, combined with singleness of purpose, and excellent senses of sight and smell. He needs them all to contend with the two year old Lab, who is at his prime: fast and sleek, smart and passionate – he could dominate, but that doesn’t seem to be foremost in his character. He just wants to retrieve, and run – over and over and over and over – there is no off button. Watching him allows me to understand what peak performance might be. And then I look over and see him, all fours in the air, totally vulnerable with Onyou, the Astro Cat (full name) curled up between him and the back of the couch like a pillow and it is hard to imagine his virile speed.
The third is my daughter and her partner’s - a young Walker Hound taller than the other two and lanky with a gate like a horse. He is sweet and gentle, but I firmly believe that at some point in his lineage, the olfactory lobe of his brain took on ascendant qualities and somehow crowded out the rest. To say that he thinks with his nose would only be partially correct. He is led around by the nose, pulled through life on a scent, overwhelmed by the perfume of life. Which would all be OK, except for the fact that a loud and repeated baying seems to be hardwired to the same part of the cerebrum, and so regular concertos in the key of random odor have become common.
This too would be fine, except we now also have four cats…but they are another story.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Leaving Berbera - Feb 2000
Approaching the airport in Berbera is surreal. There are tanks everywhere – Russian T-72’s or perhaps their knock-offs - a military junk yard scattered in the sand. The long Soviet built airstrip (long enough to have been designated as an alternative landing site for the Space Shuttle until the chaos 1991) was a major pawn in the Cold War game and its rusting defense mechanisms attest to the importance it once had. The airport itself looks like an old bombed out factory. There is one large room the size of half a football field with a roof intact, and in one corner there is a counter of sorts where Raghe takes care of the formalities: buying the tickets at a negotiated price (in cash, dollars), getting our boarding passes (a slip of paper with a number hand written – I am number 7), and getting our passports stamped (the stamp is a triangle within circle with “Allah Akbar” written in Arabic over “Berbera Air Port”, and “exit” between the sides if the triangle and the edge of the circle in English, Somali and Arabic, date stamped over at an odd angle, messing up the nice balance of the design.)
Near the counter there are a few crates aligned into a small shop. There seem to be two things for sale: cans of coke, and reading glasses in silver and gold tubes with a clip to hold them in a shirt pocket. They are all +3.00. The price of everything is $1. Fortunately there is are several men squatting behind charcoal braziers producing steaming coffee and tea, sweet and with condensed milk, served in plastic cups. There are five of us and we all have a hot drink and the vendor takes the going rate for then all.
The plane arrives on time almost to the minute, and pulls to a halt only a few meters from the “terminal”. There are about 20 passengers, and we all take our bags to the plane and hand them directly to the hands stretching down from the hold - not much chance of lost baggage. We don’t have more than on light bag each, but there are boxes and boxes of commercial goods being hefted aboard – business in Somalia is business, regardless of the state of the state. Berbera is directly across the Gulf of Aden, Yeman, and it seems that part of the payment for the goats and camels destined for Saudi Arabia that are Somaliland’s exports is in goods destined for the former Italian colony.
We climb aboard and take seats anywhere, but are soon asked by the co-pilot (Russian) to move to fill all the front seats, and the back half of the plane becomes additional cargo space. In a surprisingly shot time the doors are pulled shut and the four turbo props turn and catch, inside left, inside right outside left, outside right. The blades have an odd curvature, like sets of whirling scimitars, and he engines are very loud. We rumble to the runway and without the slightest hesitation accelerate to full throttle. There is a strong smell of kerosene, and the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of the wheels passing the joints in the cement is not only loud but palpable. Though the pilot seems in no hurry to be airborne, he eventually noses upwards, and we arc out over the water to bank East and South and on to Mogadischu.
Near the counter there are a few crates aligned into a small shop. There seem to be two things for sale: cans of coke, and reading glasses in silver and gold tubes with a clip to hold them in a shirt pocket. They are all +3.00. The price of everything is $1. Fortunately there is are several men squatting behind charcoal braziers producing steaming coffee and tea, sweet and with condensed milk, served in plastic cups. There are five of us and we all have a hot drink and the vendor takes the going rate for then all.
The plane arrives on time almost to the minute, and pulls to a halt only a few meters from the “terminal”. There are about 20 passengers, and we all take our bags to the plane and hand them directly to the hands stretching down from the hold - not much chance of lost baggage. We don’t have more than on light bag each, but there are boxes and boxes of commercial goods being hefted aboard – business in Somalia is business, regardless of the state of the state. Berbera is directly across the Gulf of Aden, Yeman, and it seems that part of the payment for the goats and camels destined for Saudi Arabia that are Somaliland’s exports is in goods destined for the former Italian colony.
We climb aboard and take seats anywhere, but are soon asked by the co-pilot (Russian) to move to fill all the front seats, and the back half of the plane becomes additional cargo space. In a surprisingly shot time the doors are pulled shut and the four turbo props turn and catch, inside left, inside right outside left, outside right. The blades have an odd curvature, like sets of whirling scimitars, and he engines are very loud. We rumble to the runway and without the slightest hesitation accelerate to full throttle. There is a strong smell of kerosene, and the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of the wheels passing the joints in the cement is not only loud but palpable. Though the pilot seems in no hurry to be airborne, he eventually noses upwards, and we arc out over the water to bank East and South and on to Mogadischu.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Somaliland, again – Hargeysa
I am awakened by the sound of the bucket filled with very hot water plunked down outside my door for morning ablutions. Fawsi is right on time, I assume, as he is one of the few Somalis I have met with a respect for the clock. It must be 5 a.m. or close to it, but I have no watch. We are up early to drive to Berbera to catch a Dallo flight to Mogadishu. The flight will leave at 0800, or so. There is no schedule published, but they have been flying close to on time recently, that is every other day at 0800. The old Illyushin 18 is on a good streak.
I get up and quickly light a candle so that I can see enough to find my way to the shower, such as it is, and then to the clothes laid out last night in anticipation of the early departure. It is amazing how complete and satisfying a shower one can have with a simple bucket of hot water and a good ladle made from a can nailed to the end of a stick. I do not dally, and in short time join my colleagues at the jeep. There will be no lemon crepes this morning, but Raghe has found some coffee and bread and that seems just right.
We head down the bumpy track from the hotel through the center of Hargeysa in the dark. There are virtually no lights save he occasional lamp of an early riser. It is cool and pleasant, with a faint sweet smell in the air from the chevrefeuille (honeysuckle) flowers that are rare but potent. We arrive at the intersection where the road to the airport takes off to the right, and to my amazement, a traffic light. Raghe tells me that they have been installed two days ago, and run off batteries that are recharged by solar power. The light turns to red and Ahmed, our driver, obediently pulls to a stop. There is no one in sight, not to mention any other vehicles. We wait, and wait, and wait…this modernism is to be respected! Finally , the light changes to green, and we move on.
The road twists and turns between rocky escarpments, with a faint glow in the East turning first pink, then rose, then orangey red. The sandy landscape picks up the colors and honors them, and the land and sky merge. After an hour or so, we turn a corner and crest a small rise and suddenly there is a whole new vision before us as the land sweeps down in a long incline from the high plateau (1500 meters) to the sea. The road too has become a quality highway, still two lanes, but now smooth and solid. This is the main route out of Berbera towards Ethiopia, a land locked country. It is in everyone’s interest that it be well maintained.
We drop down quickly, losing altitude and gaining heat with unexpected speed. From the comfortable sweater temperature of the morning in Hargeysa, we have plunge into the humid sauna of the Barbary Coast. (More tomorrow)
I get up and quickly light a candle so that I can see enough to find my way to the shower, such as it is, and then to the clothes laid out last night in anticipation of the early departure. It is amazing how complete and satisfying a shower one can have with a simple bucket of hot water and a good ladle made from a can nailed to the end of a stick. I do not dally, and in short time join my colleagues at the jeep. There will be no lemon crepes this morning, but Raghe has found some coffee and bread and that seems just right.
We head down the bumpy track from the hotel through the center of Hargeysa in the dark. There are virtually no lights save he occasional lamp of an early riser. It is cool and pleasant, with a faint sweet smell in the air from the chevrefeuille (honeysuckle) flowers that are rare but potent. We arrive at the intersection where the road to the airport takes off to the right, and to my amazement, a traffic light. Raghe tells me that they have been installed two days ago, and run off batteries that are recharged by solar power. The light turns to red and Ahmed, our driver, obediently pulls to a stop. There is no one in sight, not to mention any other vehicles. We wait, and wait, and wait…this modernism is to be respected! Finally , the light changes to green, and we move on.
The road twists and turns between rocky escarpments, with a faint glow in the East turning first pink, then rose, then orangey red. The sandy landscape picks up the colors and honors them, and the land and sky merge. After an hour or so, we turn a corner and crest a small rise and suddenly there is a whole new vision before us as the land sweeps down in a long incline from the high plateau (1500 meters) to the sea. The road too has become a quality highway, still two lanes, but now smooth and solid. This is the main route out of Berbera towards Ethiopia, a land locked country. It is in everyone’s interest that it be well maintained.
We drop down quickly, losing altitude and gaining heat with unexpected speed. From the comfortable sweater temperature of the morning in Hargeysa, we have plunge into the humid sauna of the Barbary Coast. (More tomorrow)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
October 21
This will short because it is late and I am tired. Tonight we had the first "open jam" in the barn, something I have been promising to do for some time, but only now is it happening. Basically making the space available, laying out some crackers and a great pie that Régine picked up on her way home, some basic drinks that no one drank, and saying "there will be music, Wednesday at 630". Seven folks showed up - three guitars two fiddles, a stand up base and a mandolin. It started out a bit structured and fairly quickly fell into its own natural rhythm of tunes and songs, trying to find common denominators. It was a bit chaotic, but not bad for openers. Not sure how well it will sustain itself, but will nudge it along for a few weeks to see how it goes. I had fun, and it pushed me into new musical space in a group where I could try anything and did, sometimes with more success than others. Like this new venture, let's see how it evolves...
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
October 20 - 9 years ago...
Hargeysa, Somaliland – 12 July, 2000 – I guess it’s natural to have a preconceived image of places whose names you have heard only in certain circumstances, and more often than not the reality bears little resemblance. Hargeysa is a mix: the dusty, gullied tracks that pass for streets and the rounded huts made of grainsack patchwork mixed with UNHCR blue tarps surrounded by thorn bush fencing are right out of the dream. But the new housing, well stocked shops, and pleasant temperature don’t fit. Nor do the smiles of the people and the general atmosphere of emerging well being. It is poor, and the bombed out buildings remain, but it is neither miserable nor squalid. If it were not for the ubiquitous plastic bags that blow and catch everywhere, it would almost be clean. Efforts to plant trees and flowers are numerous, though they have a tough future in the face of the wind which is constant, and the mouths of the goats who are everywhere.
Hargeysa sits at 1200 meters on either side of a river which exists only for a few hours at a time when it rains, and is otherwise dry wash. It is in the Oogo zone, a cooler highland which rises from the Guban or “burnt” area of the coast, about 2 hours south of Berbera. While it’s about 40° on the coast today, here it has been in the mid to high 20’s and quite pleasant with the breeze. There’s been an occasional sprinkle, but not enough to run the river.
Interpeace has a project going here, which has taken the form of a local NGO – The Somaliland Center for Peace and Development – which is responsible for implementing participatory action research in Somaliland (There is no Somalia - since 1991 Somaliland has been an independent country though not formally recognized. I did spot a huge Taiwanese flag flying over their “embassy”, and when I enquired my colleagues told me that there was apparently a mutual recognition treaty that was signed, which cost the Taiwanese five million dollars, but it was quickly unraveled once the check had been cashed and spent, and had not been renewed. Somaliland receives no international aid and has done what it has in term9s of rebuilding from the ashes virtually on its own.
In its first phase of research, the SCPD (staffed by Somalilanders from all parts of the country and representing different clans and political points of view) spent five months traveling around the country and engaging people at all levels of society and produced a ”Self-portrait of Somaliland”, an attempt to identify the key issues facing the people of the country. They then held a national conference to present the study, and to identify the key areas for further research and action. They chose four, and have now formed working groups around each, assigned a researcher to each, and are holding research workshops throughout the country in each area. The workshops invite people of all kinds to participate in the discussion, and the results will take the form of research reports which will be both fed back to all the participants, and shared with the Government, NGOs the international community etc. Sounds pretty academic – but they are also video taping it all, and using the video to cross-fertilize different area working groups and workshops, as well as to share with newcomers like me the reality of what they are doing. It is impressive. There is energy, and focus, and active engagement in these workshops that is amazing. And the organization and running of the workshops is well done and professional – under conditions that are extreme – everything has to be provided, and these are in places with no paved roads and no electricity. A tree may be the shade for a workshop, or an abandoned hospital. Exciting stuff, and an intro to Interpeace reality that is wonderful for me to have right off, even if it seemed awfully quick to be jumping into the fray (I started, officially on 1 July, and left Geneva on the 8th, and still have no contract…)
Somalilanders love to talk, and the mafresh, or afternoon qaat chewing session, is an integral part of the way things get accomplished here. It is also a major social issue/problem. Qaat is a plant brought in from Ethiopia which is chewed to produce a mild narcotic effect, supposedly like a combo of caffeine and a mild high. Groups of men get together in the afternoon for a “chew” which can last for hours and usually does. A bit like the hammam or the sauna, but very male, though women can participate on some occasions (several of my working afternoons have been “chats” where we sit in a “chatroom”, cushions all around the walls, tea, coke and water for each person, along with a bundle of Qaat for those who chew). It is very non-hierarchical, and where you can hear real discussion with no external patina – I wish I spoke Somali.
The hotel is clean, with good simple food and service; no hot water, but no mosquitoes, a trade-off I will take as malaria is prevalent here. Morning pancakes (more of a rolled crêpe with syrup poured over) are delicious, with just a touch of lemon added to the batter. Tea is served regularly – milky and sweet. Women all wear bright clothes, heads covered. Alcohol is illegal, but present in homes. There is no sense of insecurity, but you don’t wander around alone at night either (three weeks ago a German development aid worker was shot dead on the street, and a week ago the head of the presidential Guard was gunned down inside the presidential residence.) Driving is on the right, but so is the steering wheel (virtually all the vehicles are second-hand imports from Dubai) – very odd for me having just re-adjusted to European standards after two years in Dhaka.
Hargeysa sits at 1200 meters on either side of a river which exists only for a few hours at a time when it rains, and is otherwise dry wash. It is in the Oogo zone, a cooler highland which rises from the Guban or “burnt” area of the coast, about 2 hours south of Berbera. While it’s about 40° on the coast today, here it has been in the mid to high 20’s and quite pleasant with the breeze. There’s been an occasional sprinkle, but not enough to run the river.
Interpeace has a project going here, which has taken the form of a local NGO – The Somaliland Center for Peace and Development – which is responsible for implementing participatory action research in Somaliland (There is no Somalia - since 1991 Somaliland has been an independent country though not formally recognized. I did spot a huge Taiwanese flag flying over their “embassy”, and when I enquired my colleagues told me that there was apparently a mutual recognition treaty that was signed, which cost the Taiwanese five million dollars, but it was quickly unraveled once the check had been cashed and spent, and had not been renewed. Somaliland receives no international aid and has done what it has in term9s of rebuilding from the ashes virtually on its own.
In its first phase of research, the SCPD (staffed by Somalilanders from all parts of the country and representing different clans and political points of view) spent five months traveling around the country and engaging people at all levels of society and produced a ”Self-portrait of Somaliland”, an attempt to identify the key issues facing the people of the country. They then held a national conference to present the study, and to identify the key areas for further research and action. They chose four, and have now formed working groups around each, assigned a researcher to each, and are holding research workshops throughout the country in each area. The workshops invite people of all kinds to participate in the discussion, and the results will take the form of research reports which will be both fed back to all the participants, and shared with the Government, NGOs the international community etc. Sounds pretty academic – but they are also video taping it all, and using the video to cross-fertilize different area working groups and workshops, as well as to share with newcomers like me the reality of what they are doing. It is impressive. There is energy, and focus, and active engagement in these workshops that is amazing. And the organization and running of the workshops is well done and professional – under conditions that are extreme – everything has to be provided, and these are in places with no paved roads and no electricity. A tree may be the shade for a workshop, or an abandoned hospital. Exciting stuff, and an intro to Interpeace reality that is wonderful for me to have right off, even if it seemed awfully quick to be jumping into the fray (I started, officially on 1 July, and left Geneva on the 8th, and still have no contract…)
Somalilanders love to talk, and the mafresh, or afternoon qaat chewing session, is an integral part of the way things get accomplished here. It is also a major social issue/problem. Qaat is a plant brought in from Ethiopia which is chewed to produce a mild narcotic effect, supposedly like a combo of caffeine and a mild high. Groups of men get together in the afternoon for a “chew” which can last for hours and usually does. A bit like the hammam or the sauna, but very male, though women can participate on some occasions (several of my working afternoons have been “chats” where we sit in a “chatroom”, cushions all around the walls, tea, coke and water for each person, along with a bundle of Qaat for those who chew). It is very non-hierarchical, and where you can hear real discussion with no external patina – I wish I spoke Somali.
The hotel is clean, with good simple food and service; no hot water, but no mosquitoes, a trade-off I will take as malaria is prevalent here. Morning pancakes (more of a rolled crêpe with syrup poured over) are delicious, with just a touch of lemon added to the batter. Tea is served regularly – milky and sweet. Women all wear bright clothes, heads covered. Alcohol is illegal, but present in homes. There is no sense of insecurity, but you don’t wander around alone at night either (three weeks ago a German development aid worker was shot dead on the street, and a week ago the head of the presidential Guard was gunned down inside the presidential residence.) Driving is on the right, but so is the steering wheel (virtually all the vehicles are second-hand imports from Dubai) – very odd for me having just re-adjusted to European standards after two years in Dhaka.
Monday, October 19, 2009
October 16
When we decided to leave Geneva and move back to Maine in 2004, part of the reasoning was to be part of the return to sanity that we were certain would accompany regime change in Washington. We were four years early, but have never regretted the move. Another part of the thinking was to bring to local involvement some of the things we have been working on at the international level for years, either through teaching or through working in international organizations. How to contribute to making the world a better place starting up close and personal, rather than big picture and “out there”, was the question. The peacebuilding work of Interpeace is guided by five principles, which I think can be applied fairly well to town politics:
1. Local ownership - Local ownership begins by ensuring that priorities are determined locally. It is crucial that spaces and processes exist where consensus-building and dialogue can take place. If local people and groups participate in defining the problem, they can be engaged to take ownership also of the solutions.
2. Include all parties in the process
By ensuring the involvement of all relevant groups in society in the dialogue and priority setting process, actors from each social group are instilled with a sense of responsibility for the rebuilding and reconciliation process.
3. The heart of the challenge is building trust
Trust cannot be imposed, imported or bought. It emerges slowly and is built through collective engagement on issues small and large, and through consistent daily commitment.
4. It’s a long-term commitment
Support of local efforts must be patient, adaptable and consistent. There are no short-cuts or quick-fixes.
5. It’s as much about "how" things are done as well as about "what" is done
How the process is managed and how the engagement of all sides is carried out, will determine in large part the success of the initiative.
So what I am really trying to do is to apply these principles to being a Selectperson, a citizen of Bowdoinham, of Maine. It carried over at a national level in the Obama campaign and still has me getting regularly upset at the way issues national or international are being played, but the real heart of the matter is here – It’s the little issues – the tax abatement that sets a precedent; the decisions on how taxes will be budgeted and spent; how the roads will be fixed, the garbage collected and disposed of; how kids will be educated; how this little patch of earth in town will be cared for and stewarded for the next generation and the next. It’s quite a challenge. There is much to learn and it is not a perfect system, this thing we call democracy, and yet we taut its benefits so confidently and look down on societies that can’t make it work well right from the start as somehow inferior, or less intelligent or some how less worthy.
Democracy, government by the consent of the governed, by peers chosen from amongst us, and tough decisions going back to direct referendums voted by an informed and caring public …Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so? It’s on this last point that we are falling seriously behind, and may be putting the whole ship at risk. The responsibility of the media to educate and inform is seriously deficient. The only way for the populace to be truly well informed is to demand to be, to seek out truth and perspective, and to embrace diverse opinion. We all should do that every day and not be satisfied or throw up our hands in defeat.
1. Local ownership - Local ownership begins by ensuring that priorities are determined locally. It is crucial that spaces and processes exist where consensus-building and dialogue can take place. If local people and groups participate in defining the problem, they can be engaged to take ownership also of the solutions.
2. Include all parties in the process
By ensuring the involvement of all relevant groups in society in the dialogue and priority setting process, actors from each social group are instilled with a sense of responsibility for the rebuilding and reconciliation process.
3. The heart of the challenge is building trust
Trust cannot be imposed, imported or bought. It emerges slowly and is built through collective engagement on issues small and large, and through consistent daily commitment.
4. It’s a long-term commitment
Support of local efforts must be patient, adaptable and consistent. There are no short-cuts or quick-fixes.
5. It’s as much about "how" things are done as well as about "what" is done
How the process is managed and how the engagement of all sides is carried out, will determine in large part the success of the initiative.
So what I am really trying to do is to apply these principles to being a Selectperson, a citizen of Bowdoinham, of Maine. It carried over at a national level in the Obama campaign and still has me getting regularly upset at the way issues national or international are being played, but the real heart of the matter is here – It’s the little issues – the tax abatement that sets a precedent; the decisions on how taxes will be budgeted and spent; how the roads will be fixed, the garbage collected and disposed of; how kids will be educated; how this little patch of earth in town will be cared for and stewarded for the next generation and the next. It’s quite a challenge. There is much to learn and it is not a perfect system, this thing we call democracy, and yet we taut its benefits so confidently and look down on societies that can’t make it work well right from the start as somehow inferior, or less intelligent or some how less worthy.
Democracy, government by the consent of the governed, by peers chosen from amongst us, and tough decisions going back to direct referendums voted by an informed and caring public …Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so? It’s on this last point that we are falling seriously behind, and may be putting the whole ship at risk. The responsibility of the media to educate and inform is seriously deficient. The only way for the populace to be truly well informed is to demand to be, to seek out truth and perspective, and to embrace diverse opinion. We all should do that every day and not be satisfied or throw up our hands in defeat.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
October 15
Learning some things doing this on a daily basis about time management and the body and soul. When you are physically tired for too short a night plus hard wear on the body (a couple of hours of basketball, two cords of wood stacked, an hour and a half of yoga) you shouldn’t start at 10 in the evening and hope to write anything meaningful or even comprehensible. The eyes want to close on their own, thoughts don’t connect, there’s little lift from the imagination, and my nose is running from yawning every few minutes. Maybe I’ll just admit to this, get a good rest, and start 16 October with something fresh, rather than impose any more on your time. Thanks for your understanding, and good night.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
October 14 - Out of Africa
The kid was not happy, that much was clear. He thrashed and twisted and wailed, half on his mother’s lap, half standing, ensnared in her arms. He must have been three or so, Kenyan brown; his captor maybe forty, Dutch, chiseled features, classes, pretty maybe under different circumstances, but now suffering the pain of rising temper brought on by the little one. Control was her chosen tactic – hold tight and contain while trying to reason. “Geoff, Geoff, no – be still – calme-toi”, or whatever the Dutch equivalent.
The waiting room at Jomo Kenyatta Airport was filling and Geoff sustained. A European woman seated just in front of ringside turned and offered a distraction, quickly rebuffed. Mom decided to bring additional limbs into the battle (for that was what it had become) and now had Geoff in a modified figure-four, his arms wrapped and pinned by her human strait-jacket. But he was quick and wriggly and determined and she was not up to the task. No points were awarded.
It occurred to me that the kid must be boiling, as I had already peeled down to short sleeves, and he labored for freedom trapped not only by the woman but by a wool winter jacket. A half-hour passed. The room filled, the screams continued, the heads turned, patience on all sides was thin. Tension - you could feel it.
Suddenly, she lost it. Three, four, five good whacks aimed at the butt, falling on whatever part of Geoff’s writhing anatomy they happened to land, accompanied by a high pitched string of words whose meaning was clear without translation.
The reaction was instant, and loud: “Hey! Hey! Stop!!!” and a stunned silence…followed immediately by more bawling from Geoff. The woman blurted out “He’s my son – I know what I’m doing!”
“You should have done that thirty minutes ago!” “Too little, too late” – Interestingly all in English, but with Dutch accents. (the flight as to Amsterdam – KLM)
An elderly Kenyan moved towards the mother and child from a distance, and pointing a finger shaking in anger and remonstration, shouted “That’s abuse!! That’s abuse! You’re not fit…”
“I am his mother”! I… am… his… mother!!”
A Kenya Air ground staff, neat red jacket, black tie, crisp white shirt, stepped forward and in the wonderful measured English of his profession, molded by colonial tradition and tribal intonation invited calm, and for Geoff and his mom to board now, as part of pre-boarding courtesy activities. A nervous calm spread from his words, and mom attempted to gather all her truck and the still crying Geoff and his stroller to move to the plane. The woman seated just in front got up and offered help and this time it was gratefully accepted. The room breathed a sigh, but surely everyone inwardly was asking – where am I seated? Where are they seated? It was going to be a long flight.
Fifteen minutes later when I worked my way down the aisle towards the back section of the 767, I passed by Geoff and his mom, seated side by side now, settling in, rummaging through his mini-backpack looking perhaps for the latest wonder hero figure to while the hours. Mom and son, on their way, all smiles. He had taken off his jacket.
The waiting room at Jomo Kenyatta Airport was filling and Geoff sustained. A European woman seated just in front of ringside turned and offered a distraction, quickly rebuffed. Mom decided to bring additional limbs into the battle (for that was what it had become) and now had Geoff in a modified figure-four, his arms wrapped and pinned by her human strait-jacket. But he was quick and wriggly and determined and she was not up to the task. No points were awarded.
It occurred to me that the kid must be boiling, as I had already peeled down to short sleeves, and he labored for freedom trapped not only by the woman but by a wool winter jacket. A half-hour passed. The room filled, the screams continued, the heads turned, patience on all sides was thin. Tension - you could feel it.
Suddenly, she lost it. Three, four, five good whacks aimed at the butt, falling on whatever part of Geoff’s writhing anatomy they happened to land, accompanied by a high pitched string of words whose meaning was clear without translation.
The reaction was instant, and loud: “Hey! Hey! Stop!!!” and a stunned silence…followed immediately by more bawling from Geoff. The woman blurted out “He’s my son – I know what I’m doing!”
“You should have done that thirty minutes ago!” “Too little, too late” – Interestingly all in English, but with Dutch accents. (the flight as to Amsterdam – KLM)
An elderly Kenyan moved towards the mother and child from a distance, and pointing a finger shaking in anger and remonstration, shouted “That’s abuse!! That’s abuse! You’re not fit…”
“I am his mother”! I… am… his… mother!!”
A Kenya Air ground staff, neat red jacket, black tie, crisp white shirt, stepped forward and in the wonderful measured English of his profession, molded by colonial tradition and tribal intonation invited calm, and for Geoff and his mom to board now, as part of pre-boarding courtesy activities. A nervous calm spread from his words, and mom attempted to gather all her truck and the still crying Geoff and his stroller to move to the plane. The woman seated just in front got up and offered help and this time it was gratefully accepted. The room breathed a sigh, but surely everyone inwardly was asking – where am I seated? Where are they seated? It was going to be a long flight.
Fifteen minutes later when I worked my way down the aisle towards the back section of the 767, I passed by Geoff and his mom, seated side by side now, settling in, rummaging through his mini-backpack looking perhaps for the latest wonder hero figure to while the hours. Mom and son, on their way, all smiles. He had taken off his jacket.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
October 13
Doing a daily post is tough, especially when you have a day when you are angry or sad and introspective and have little motivation to be creative, and even less to share anything with an anonymous public. But it is good discipline, and I will persist. Note from a year ago in Geneva,, almost to the day, when I for the first time felt old from the outside in.
This morning I awoke well and practiced yoga for a short time before heading spryly to the bus get a early start at the office where I knew no one would be until 9 except for Mike, the CFO, who followed a rhythm forged somewhere other than this town. I just missed the 7:14 and so by the time the 7:25 came, there was a good crowd. As an out-of-towner I had to pay for a ticket, and so was one of the last to enter and all seats were taken. I plunked down my backpack, which has served as a briefcase since the early days in Washington when I realized the strain on the elbow of carrying too much at the end of an extended arm, grabbed strap and prepared for the first lurch forward of the bus.
The young woman seated in front of me half rose and said, “vous voulez vous assoir, monsieur?” It took me a good three seconds to even realize that I was Sir, and the offer for what it was. By that time I had already replied, “non, merci”. The “vous êtes sûr?” perturbed me more, driving home that there was no mistake, but also that the origins of the offer were sincere and polite and prompted by the whiteness of my beard and the respect for ”le troisième age”. Rude awakening, which stuck with me for the rest of the day like an ill fitting shoe or lost button on a shirt.
This morning I awoke well and practiced yoga for a short time before heading spryly to the bus get a early start at the office where I knew no one would be until 9 except for Mike, the CFO, who followed a rhythm forged somewhere other than this town. I just missed the 7:14 and so by the time the 7:25 came, there was a good crowd. As an out-of-towner I had to pay for a ticket, and so was one of the last to enter and all seats were taken. I plunked down my backpack, which has served as a briefcase since the early days in Washington when I realized the strain on the elbow of carrying too much at the end of an extended arm, grabbed strap and prepared for the first lurch forward of the bus.
The young woman seated in front of me half rose and said, “vous voulez vous assoir, monsieur?” It took me a good three seconds to even realize that I was Sir, and the offer for what it was. By that time I had already replied, “non, merci”. The “vous êtes sûr?” perturbed me more, driving home that there was no mistake, but also that the origins of the offer were sincere and polite and prompted by the whiteness of my beard and the respect for ”le troisième age”. Rude awakening, which stuck with me for the rest of the day like an ill fitting shoe or lost button on a shirt.
Monday, October 12, 2009
October 12
Today is the most strange of the holidays that America celebrates. First, it is a holiday where the only celebration of any kind is a frenzy of sales and specials offered by retailers as they try to dump whatever they haven’t been able to over a similar long weekend at the beginning of September, in preparation for stocking the shelves for the Thanksgiving to Christmas onslaught. But second and more importantly, it is the only holiday where we celebrate our national shame. Not that the terrible genocide that we “Europeans” perpetrated on the native Americans who were here long before our arrival was the fault of Columbus. It took a real collective and protracted effort to do as thorough a job as we have managed over the years.
It reminds me, sadly, of 15 May, where in the same space on this earth Israelis celebrate the creation of their State and Palestinians “celebrate” al-Nakba – the day of the catastrophe. Is it always so that one peoples’ joy is rooted in another’s’ sorrow? Does every celebration of statehood imply almost by definition that there are losers, those who are NOT part of the State – who do not have the privileges of citizenship and either have to leave the territory where they may have lived for centuries or take on some lesser apartheid status? The mess that is Africa today can be largely traced to the 19th century colonial efforts to create States that would satisfy the arrogant greed of European invaders as they tried to somehow regularize the chaos they had created by drawing lines on a map and trading land and lives as though playing some kind of parlor game.
So 12 October should really be a day of sober reflection, of recognizing the beauty and strength of the people from whom we should be seeking forgiveness rather than flaunting any pretense of conquest. Canada gets a little closer to it as they celebrate their Thanksgiving the same day, honoring the good relationships that did exist at least in their idealized memory (though our northern neighbors new arrivals certainly did their share of damage, too ). But I think I’ll shine the light on the October 12 holiday that perhaps does some justice and at least sounds honorable: in Venezuela, today is the day to celebrate el Día de la Resistencia Indígena – the Day of Indigenous Resistance. Doesn’t that sound better than “Columbus Day”?
It reminds me, sadly, of 15 May, where in the same space on this earth Israelis celebrate the creation of their State and Palestinians “celebrate” al-Nakba – the day of the catastrophe. Is it always so that one peoples’ joy is rooted in another’s’ sorrow? Does every celebration of statehood imply almost by definition that there are losers, those who are NOT part of the State – who do not have the privileges of citizenship and either have to leave the territory where they may have lived for centuries or take on some lesser apartheid status? The mess that is Africa today can be largely traced to the 19th century colonial efforts to create States that would satisfy the arrogant greed of European invaders as they tried to somehow regularize the chaos they had created by drawing lines on a map and trading land and lives as though playing some kind of parlor game.
So 12 October should really be a day of sober reflection, of recognizing the beauty and strength of the people from whom we should be seeking forgiveness rather than flaunting any pretense of conquest. Canada gets a little closer to it as they celebrate their Thanksgiving the same day, honoring the good relationships that did exist at least in their idealized memory (though our northern neighbors new arrivals certainly did their share of damage, too ). But I think I’ll shine the light on the October 12 holiday that perhaps does some justice and at least sounds honorable: in Venezuela, today is the day to celebrate el Día de la Resistencia Indígena – the Day of Indigenous Resistance. Doesn’t that sound better than “Columbus Day”?
Sunday, October 11, 2009
October 11
Early Sunday, and heading up to an island in Lily Bay on Moosehead to help a friend close up his camp before the ice comes in. As I'll be out of internet range today I will only leave a brief offering from a Bangladeshi poet to ponder:
'I am ashamed of my emptiness,'
said the Word to the Work.
'I know how poor I am when I see you,'
said the Work to the Word.
Rabindranath Tagore
(1861-1941)
'I am ashamed of my emptiness,'
said the Word to the Work.
'I know how poor I am when I see you,'
said the Work to the Word.
Rabindranath Tagore
(1861-1941)
Saturday, October 10, 2009
October 10
Something there is about October and us Little League boys that just won’t let baseball pass unnoticed. I have had three connections from the old Pittsfield South League in the past two days – dredging up all kinds of images: smells, sights, sounds -whole scenes that all took place 50 plus years ago. Very strange…
But maybe not – Baseball was the center of the universe during that short time between age 9 and 12, from in just Spring until August with Little League, and then the fantasy follow up of the big boys through the World Series. Playing ball was what we did – it was our job, our communion, all that mattered. Or my birthday each year I would ask for five new baseballs from my grandparents, in advance (August 15 was far too late in the season for such a treasure), and they would deliver - a luxury. Each ball came in its own cardboard box nestled in tissue paper, and smelled of wax and vanilla. The hide was smooth and the seams perfect. I would use them one at a time, first only to play catch, then run down, then finally pick up games. Eventually they would be gone – lost in the tall grass beyond the playing field, hit too far and into the river, or nabbed by the dog who had other sport in mind.
Pittsfield had the double A team for the Red Sox at old Waconah Park (which vaguely resembled Fenway, but with a much lower ”monster”) and some fine players at the high school level, some of whom went on to play some pretty good ball in the majors - Mark Belanger shortstop for the Orioles and Tommy Grieve center field and then General Manager for Texas in particular. Tommy and I were on the same Little League team, the Elks Club, and he was far better at 9 than I was at 12. At that point I had some seniority and experience and as the catcher had a certain standing at the heart of the beast, but we all saw that the little blond kid could hit the hell out of the ball and was something special. The last time I saw him up close and personal was at Clapp Park in Pittsfield in the late ‘60’s where I went to throw a Frisbee with a girl friend and he was there tossing a ball around. He had just been drafted by the Washington Senators and I barely recognized the strapping young man he had become at 19. We chatted briefly and went our ways and that was that. Later, much later and still, I wonder: Was he GM of the Rangers when Bush was an owner? Were they buddies? Did Tommy like music (his father had been a music teacher and band leader)? Did he remember the bushy eyebrows of coach Lyons and the damp cement smell of the dirt floor dugout at Demming Park field where we played? Where is he now?
I still stay up too late to listen to the West Coast playoff games, and will probably do the same when the Series starts, even if the Red Sox don’t seem to have it this year. Such is the influence of youth – I’ll have to remember that for Merlin…
But maybe not – Baseball was the center of the universe during that short time between age 9 and 12, from in just Spring until August with Little League, and then the fantasy follow up of the big boys through the World Series. Playing ball was what we did – it was our job, our communion, all that mattered. Or my birthday each year I would ask for five new baseballs from my grandparents, in advance (August 15 was far too late in the season for such a treasure), and they would deliver - a luxury. Each ball came in its own cardboard box nestled in tissue paper, and smelled of wax and vanilla. The hide was smooth and the seams perfect. I would use them one at a time, first only to play catch, then run down, then finally pick up games. Eventually they would be gone – lost in the tall grass beyond the playing field, hit too far and into the river, or nabbed by the dog who had other sport in mind.
Pittsfield had the double A team for the Red Sox at old Waconah Park (which vaguely resembled Fenway, but with a much lower ”monster”) and some fine players at the high school level, some of whom went on to play some pretty good ball in the majors - Mark Belanger shortstop for the Orioles and Tommy Grieve center field and then General Manager for Texas in particular. Tommy and I were on the same Little League team, the Elks Club, and he was far better at 9 than I was at 12. At that point I had some seniority and experience and as the catcher had a certain standing at the heart of the beast, but we all saw that the little blond kid could hit the hell out of the ball and was something special. The last time I saw him up close and personal was at Clapp Park in Pittsfield in the late ‘60’s where I went to throw a Frisbee with a girl friend and he was there tossing a ball around. He had just been drafted by the Washington Senators and I barely recognized the strapping young man he had become at 19. We chatted briefly and went our ways and that was that. Later, much later and still, I wonder: Was he GM of the Rangers when Bush was an owner? Were they buddies? Did Tommy like music (his father had been a music teacher and band leader)? Did he remember the bushy eyebrows of coach Lyons and the damp cement smell of the dirt floor dugout at Demming Park field where we played? Where is he now?
I still stay up too late to listen to the West Coast playoff games, and will probably do the same when the Series starts, even if the Red Sox don’t seem to have it this year. Such is the influence of youth – I’ll have to remember that for Merlin…
Friday, October 9, 2009
October 9
This evening my daughter and her partner and my grandson came over and we made a great dinner out of the various things lurking in the fridge, and hanging on in the garden. Quite a repast! The little one was in fine fettle, smiling and laughing at the least excuse and the chaos of meal preparation morphed in a surprisingly timely way into a beautiful and tasty meal that lingers with me now
As we finished the last of the salad, and pushed back our chairs a bit, Justin my grandson’s dad, an environmental biologist turned cabinet maker working in an upscale kitchen building shop, took on the clearing and clean up chores and the conversation turned to the day’s news – Obama and the Nobel prize. The link for me is strong, as my “boss” (the Chair of the Interpeace governing board), Martti Ahtisaari was the last Nobel Laureate, and multiple interactions with José Ramos Horta in East Timor over the past couple of years remain present as well. So for me the honor of and the reverence for the prize are perhaps less mythic, more practical and political, but nonetheless individually merited if not deserved. Some have said already that for nothing less than his speech in Cairo he should get the prize.
But that led to conversations about Justin’s co-workers and their views on the world, which it seems are mainly formed through listening to Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck and not much else. Obama the darky neo-nazi communist bent on destroying the health of the nation and taking our guns away. How has this happened? How have we let ranting radio ideologues dominate the sources of information which pour political hemlock into the ears of all too many uncritical and hungry citizens? Where is the failure that allows such uncritical acceptance of patent unsupported, harmful diatribe? Should we be looking at the media? The educational system? The Government itself? The political parties? How do we get back(?) to a point where informed debate is welcomed. Living in Bowdoinham and living in my circumscribed world I have not encountered this reality enough, though I am told often that it is real, extensive and very scary. I think
As we finished the last of the salad, and pushed back our chairs a bit, Justin my grandson’s dad, an environmental biologist turned cabinet maker working in an upscale kitchen building shop, took on the clearing and clean up chores and the conversation turned to the day’s news – Obama and the Nobel prize. The link for me is strong, as my “boss” (the Chair of the Interpeace governing board), Martti Ahtisaari was the last Nobel Laureate, and multiple interactions with José Ramos Horta in East Timor over the past couple of years remain present as well. So for me the honor of and the reverence for the prize are perhaps less mythic, more practical and political, but nonetheless individually merited if not deserved. Some have said already that for nothing less than his speech in Cairo he should get the prize.
But that led to conversations about Justin’s co-workers and their views on the world, which it seems are mainly formed through listening to Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck and not much else. Obama the darky neo-nazi communist bent on destroying the health of the nation and taking our guns away. How has this happened? How have we let ranting radio ideologues dominate the sources of information which pour political hemlock into the ears of all too many uncritical and hungry citizens? Where is the failure that allows such uncritical acceptance of patent unsupported, harmful diatribe? Should we be looking at the media? The educational system? The Government itself? The political parties? How do we get back(?) to a point where informed debate is welcomed. Living in Bowdoinham and living in my circumscribed world I have not encountered this reality enough, though I am told often that it is real, extensive and very scary. I think
Thursday, October 8, 2009
October 8
Today was filled with a day-long conference and other obligations, and so with apologies, I will only share with you some wisdom from Ben Franklin, and resume tomorrow.
There are two ways of being happy: We may either diminish our wants or augment our means - either will do - the result in the same; and it is for each man to decide for himself, and do that which happens to be the easiest. If you are idle or sick or poor, however hard it may be to diminish your wants, it will be harder to augment your means. If you are active and prosperous or young and in good health, it may be easier for you to augment your means than to diminish your wants. But if you are wise, you will do both at the same time, young or old, rich or poor, sick or well; and if you are very wise you will do both in such a way as to augment the general happiness of society.
There are two ways of being happy: We may either diminish our wants or augment our means - either will do - the result in the same; and it is for each man to decide for himself, and do that which happens to be the easiest. If you are idle or sick or poor, however hard it may be to diminish your wants, it will be harder to augment your means. If you are active and prosperous or young and in good health, it may be easier for you to augment your means than to diminish your wants. But if you are wise, you will do both at the same time, young or old, rich or poor, sick or well; and if you are very wise you will do both in such a way as to augment the general happiness of society.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
October 7
Today was the first day of the Maine Municipal Association’s Annual Convention (the 73rd!), a two day affair at the Civic Center in Augusta. It consists mostly of workshops run concurrently covering a range of subjects that concern city and town governments and administrators: planning for pandemic flu, economic development tools, community-wide internet, “a road runs through it” – some forty in all from which to pick and choose. Educational, challenging and interesting, I look forward to the second day.
But what remains with me most vividly from day one is the keynote luncheon, which took place in a large room filled with maybe thirty-five tables for eight, hosted by the President of the MMA . It was not the food, which was fairly nondescript but tasty, nor even the keynote speaker – Thomas Jefferson, wonderfully portrayed by actor Patrick Lee, passing on his views on government as well as some sound and familiar advice in the form of “a decalogue of canons for observation in practical life.” No, what remains with me tonight is my total surprise and discomfort at the opening when, after being asked to rise for the “presentation of the colors” by the Maine Fire Chief’s Association in full regalia, we were invited to join in the Pledge of Allegiance. As two hundred and seventy-nine people clapped their right hands over their hearts and recited in unison, I stood there silent, unmoving but very moved. The first and most powerful emotion was total surprise, followed hard upon by an almost uncontrollable urge to giggle; and then, as the collected voices rumbled towards the affirmation of a potent and allied divinity, a calm conviction that remaining still and silent was the correct choice.
In that brief time, I had a moment to reflect on why I was so surprised, having been in the State Department for ten years and being now an elected local official, and could only conclude that maybe I was still a foreigner in my native land, and perhaps will forever remain so.
But what remains with me most vividly from day one is the keynote luncheon, which took place in a large room filled with maybe thirty-five tables for eight, hosted by the President of the MMA . It was not the food, which was fairly nondescript but tasty, nor even the keynote speaker – Thomas Jefferson, wonderfully portrayed by actor Patrick Lee, passing on his views on government as well as some sound and familiar advice in the form of “a decalogue of canons for observation in practical life.” No, what remains with me tonight is my total surprise and discomfort at the opening when, after being asked to rise for the “presentation of the colors” by the Maine Fire Chief’s Association in full regalia, we were invited to join in the Pledge of Allegiance. As two hundred and seventy-nine people clapped their right hands over their hearts and recited in unison, I stood there silent, unmoving but very moved. The first and most powerful emotion was total surprise, followed hard upon by an almost uncontrollable urge to giggle; and then, as the collected voices rumbled towards the affirmation of a potent and allied divinity, a calm conviction that remaining still and silent was the correct choice.
In that brief time, I had a moment to reflect on why I was so surprised, having been in the State Department for ten years and being now an elected local official, and could only conclude that maybe I was still a foreigner in my native land, and perhaps will forever remain so.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
October 6
Two of the many reasons I love France (there are many reasons that I do not, too, but… for another day) are road signs. The first is cautionary: “Attention! Un train peut en cacher un autre” – Watch out! One train can hide another - It is posted at all railroad crossings where there are two sets of tracks. Simple and fairly obvious, but a worthy reminder nonetheless. It’s a very useful phrase to pull out in meetings with Ambassadors and street vendors, Presidents and cab drivers – who might well be struck by its relevance – the danger in the foreground often easily masks one only slightly in the background of equal o r even greater danger coming from the opposite direction. It seems especially true when assessing new situations where danger seems obvious and noisy and fast, yet very often, only hides another, and another…
The other sign is a wondrous invitation, and can be found in almost every town and city in the country: A panel in the form of an arrow indicating “Toutes Directions”. It’s usually at the entrance to a to an agglomeration, or at a roundabout, and is perhaps the underlying cause of some of the peculiar driving habits in the country. Toutes Directions – All directions. Just what you wanted to know when confronted with the choice of turning left or right, East or West. Follow this sign and you will have chosen perfectly, for this choice leads everywhere! Actually it is often set up in juxtaposition with the second most often seen road sign: Direction Paris. So if you are not going to Paris, it really doesn’t matter, this road will take you there (with an implied option to get back on the right track later on!) It’s like finding the yellow brick road! How wonderfully soothing when frantically looking for the road to somewhere to find the road to anywhere. Terribly inviting!
The other sign is a wondrous invitation, and can be found in almost every town and city in the country: A panel in the form of an arrow indicating “Toutes Directions”. It’s usually at the entrance to a to an agglomeration, or at a roundabout, and is perhaps the underlying cause of some of the peculiar driving habits in the country. Toutes Directions – All directions. Just what you wanted to know when confronted with the choice of turning left or right, East or West. Follow this sign and you will have chosen perfectly, for this choice leads everywhere! Actually it is often set up in juxtaposition with the second most often seen road sign: Direction Paris. So if you are not going to Paris, it really doesn’t matter, this road will take you there (with an implied option to get back on the right track later on!) It’s like finding the yellow brick road! How wonderfully soothing when frantically looking for the road to somewhere to find the road to anywhere. Terribly inviting!
Monday, October 5, 2009
October 5
I was writing something about US policy towards relations between Israel and Palestine, the changes since Obama came into office, and the lack of changes since Obama came into office, the complexity of it all, viewed through the lens of the actions and reactions to the Goldstone Report. But as seems often the case with me on this subject, I ran into a muddle with not enough facts, too many conflicting opinions, a context shifting like the floor of a tilt-a-whirl and decided to not. Maybe another day.Each time I visit there I leave drained and depressed, despairing even if the time with colleagues has been warm and work with the project satisfactory. I step back and look at the reality on the ground, and none of the “solutions” being proposed by anyone seem likely to produce a peace worthy of the word. Try as I might, and optimist that I am I will keep trying, I come up empty. Perhaps the destiny of this part of the globe is to be in conflict (http://www.mapsofwar.com/ind/imperial-history.html) and thus will it be for the history of Man.
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The order of things…It starts with very little: empty space on a page, then fills with symbols - 26 letters (in English) and a few dots and squiggles arranged just so can produce a story, tears, laughter, angst, excitement, arousal, sadness, joy…really quite extraordinary because it is only a collection of symbols arranged in linear fashion on a blank background. Nothing real – a total fabrication. When someone asked Hemingway why it took him so long to write such simple prose he said, “getting the words right”. Grouping the symbols correctly, in the order and spacing to create something out of nothing. It is easy to take for granted, because we early on forget about the individual symbols and move on to blocks of them (words) and groups of blocks (sentences) and blocks of groups of blocks until we begin to recognize a reality totally dependent on the order of things. Sometimes it doesn’t really matter and sometimes it is all the difference.
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The order of things…It starts with very little: empty space on a page, then fills with symbols - 26 letters (in English) and a few dots and squiggles arranged just so can produce a story, tears, laughter, angst, excitement, arousal, sadness, joy…really quite extraordinary because it is only a collection of symbols arranged in linear fashion on a blank background. Nothing real – a total fabrication. When someone asked Hemingway why it took him so long to write such simple prose he said, “getting the words right”. Grouping the symbols correctly, in the order and spacing to create something out of nothing. It is easy to take for granted, because we early on forget about the individual symbols and move on to blocks of them (words) and groups of blocks (sentences) and blocks of groups of blocks until we begin to recognize a reality totally dependent on the order of things. Sometimes it doesn’t really matter and sometimes it is all the difference.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
October 4
In bold white letters on the cover of Smithsonian Magazine : “28 Places to See Before You Die”. And there they are, starting on page 78, grouped in fours around seven themes. “We’ve travelled the globe in search of destinations certain to inspire”… And I am sure that these are indeed inspiring locations and well worth a visit – Tikal, Machu Picchu, the Louvre, the Grand Canyon, Angkor Wat - Three stars in any Michelin Guide.
But somehow I seem to increasingly find inspiration in the small, the up close, the personal; marvels that can be reached without getting into a metal tube that moves into the air lifted by the lack of pressure on the upper side of is curved wings (a physical phenomenon that I understand intellectually, but that amazes and perplexes me every time just before liftoff). Or even getting into a metal box that rolls along predestined paths powered by small, eloquently timed explosions of an aspirated liquid that comes at great expense from deep under the earth’s crust thousands of miles distant.
Yesterday, my neighbor delivered a couple of cords of green hardwood, cut to stove length and split into still meaty pieces, ready to stack to dry for a year before they will provide heat for the winter. It is mostly red maple, with some oak, beech and birch mixed in, all cut from his woodlot on the other side of my immediate neighbor’s field. The grain of the wood is still moist, though not wet, and smells sweet. Each piece is a slightly different color, though there are patches of wood in the pile that have been cut from the same log and are clearly siblings. Some of the logs have a dark and punky core (a tree that was ripe for harvest) but they seem bug free and solid, and certainly heavy. The are quite even length and stack well in the 8´ x 8´ bay of the woodshed, a cord filling half of it in two rows floor to ceiling. The finished wall is a pattern of light half circles with dark rims and cores that looks oddly modern and composed. All the more pleasing for the tired back and arms and hand wrapped around a cold beer.
But somehow I seem to increasingly find inspiration in the small, the up close, the personal; marvels that can be reached without getting into a metal tube that moves into the air lifted by the lack of pressure on the upper side of is curved wings (a physical phenomenon that I understand intellectually, but that amazes and perplexes me every time just before liftoff). Or even getting into a metal box that rolls along predestined paths powered by small, eloquently timed explosions of an aspirated liquid that comes at great expense from deep under the earth’s crust thousands of miles distant.
Yesterday, my neighbor delivered a couple of cords of green hardwood, cut to stove length and split into still meaty pieces, ready to stack to dry for a year before they will provide heat for the winter. It is mostly red maple, with some oak, beech and birch mixed in, all cut from his woodlot on the other side of my immediate neighbor’s field. The grain of the wood is still moist, though not wet, and smells sweet. Each piece is a slightly different color, though there are patches of wood in the pile that have been cut from the same log and are clearly siblings. Some of the logs have a dark and punky core (a tree that was ripe for harvest) but they seem bug free and solid, and certainly heavy. The are quite even length and stack well in the 8´ x 8´ bay of the woodshed, a cord filling half of it in two rows floor to ceiling. The finished wall is a pattern of light half circles with dark rims and cores that looks oddly modern and composed. All the more pleasing for the tired back and arms and hand wrapped around a cold beer.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
October 3
Last night there was a going away party at the town hall for a couple who were long-time Bowdoinham residents and had been immersed in town life for years, participating in everything from the library to grave digging, town manager to town historian. About a hundred people showed up, and they were duly roasted and toasted, receiving official kudos from the town (official Proclamation of Honorary Residence and Key to the Town…) and au revoirs from townspeople of all sorts. It was a warm and friendly gathering with much love and sweet sadness, a recognition not only of the contribution they had made, but of the community spirit they had inspired in others.
This morning I am off to a Housel Raising, getting together with a number of local folks to hoist into place the pieces of a timber frame house a young farmer couple are building, having just taken over the old Steen Farm on the River Road. They’ve already started working the farmers’ markets with a minimal crop and lots of energy and creativity. In the slack time last winter Ian cut and trimmed the mortises and tenons of posts and beams, joists and braces for their simple new home. Today up goes the skeleton with friends and neighbors persuading the heavy timbers into place with mallets and come-alongs and muscle. It’s raining hard. The wood is swollen and all are soaked. The fits are tight but it all comes together and the lines are level and plumb.
There is a feel to this town that is different, and I have often questioned not only what it was, but where it came from. Sometimes I think much of it is the influence of Merrymeeting Bay: the boat building industry that flourished here in the 1800’s; the rich bottom land along the rivers that join in merry meeting; the eagles and ducks and ospreys and herons that share our airspace; the ebb and flow of the tide. Sometimes I think it springs from a few strong families that came here and stayed mixing farming, artistry and hard work with community spirit and a good dose of fun that became the norm, overriding political pettiness and tempering mean-spiritedness when it arose. Maybe some of it goes back to the early religious rebels who set up in town, or maybe it’s some remnant of the Abenaki spirit. Or maybe it’s just happenstance. It’s here, though, and worth honoring from time to time to be sure it remains.
This morning I am off to a Housel Raising, getting together with a number of local folks to hoist into place the pieces of a timber frame house a young farmer couple are building, having just taken over the old Steen Farm on the River Road. They’ve already started working the farmers’ markets with a minimal crop and lots of energy and creativity. In the slack time last winter Ian cut and trimmed the mortises and tenons of posts and beams, joists and braces for their simple new home. Today up goes the skeleton with friends and neighbors persuading the heavy timbers into place with mallets and come-alongs and muscle. It’s raining hard. The wood is swollen and all are soaked. The fits are tight but it all comes together and the lines are level and plumb.
There is a feel to this town that is different, and I have often questioned not only what it was, but where it came from. Sometimes I think much of it is the influence of Merrymeeting Bay: the boat building industry that flourished here in the 1800’s; the rich bottom land along the rivers that join in merry meeting; the eagles and ducks and ospreys and herons that share our airspace; the ebb and flow of the tide. Sometimes I think it springs from a few strong families that came here and stayed mixing farming, artistry and hard work with community spirit and a good dose of fun that became the norm, overriding political pettiness and tempering mean-spiritedness when it arose. Maybe some of it goes back to the early religious rebels who set up in town, or maybe it’s some remnant of the Abenaki spirit. Or maybe it’s just happenstance. It’s here, though, and worth honoring from time to time to be sure it remains.
Friday, October 2, 2009
October 2
This morning is gorgeous calm, with warm sun, blue sky and the night chill already memory. A brisk morning walk with the dogs brought back a previous time, and I am wondering how much the seeming difference of a new era is real or imaginary. The Muck Boot slip-ons are gone – Shoo-Goo can only do so much – as is Bush, but much of the rest remains, or has shifted only slightly to East or West. Worth reconsidering.
On Coming Back from a Sunday Morning Dog Walk (Early 2003)
There is a small hole starting to wear in the sole of my right Muck Boot slip-on, my favorite early morning take-the-dogs-for-a-walk shoes. Tchotto already tried to show his affection by eating a chunk out of the left one. But the jagged tear is high at the front cuff, ankle level, and strangely enough it has had no effect on their unparalleled comfort and ease. The hole, though, is a sign. I am not sure if Shoe-Goo will prevail.
It has been like that recently. Slowly, things wear. Come unglued. Seams let go and buttons disappear. Things fall apart. West Africa, yes, that too, but it seems a globalized phenomenon. There is no continent that is not affray: anxious and adrift. Even where tender shoots of hope push through darkness, roots are shallow, heavy treads abound, and the threat of frost makes it a particularly harsh time of man.
The economic tumble, the seemingly inexorable march towards an ill-conceived and hugely dangerous war, the downward spiral of occupation, Intifada, revenge and on and on without beginning and seemingly without end. In the face of diamonds and oil, or timber and coltan, revolutionary heroes slide from founding fathers to tyrannical despots; hurt people lash out in unconnected series of random madness. Ethnic groups take on the traits of wounded dogs; historical cleavages become rifts across which leaders hurl shallow barbs more aimed at domestic throngs than at the other side. Millions of soldiers wait on the ragged edges of the divide, atomic bayonets fixed.
No part of Africa is free from the disease. Algeria bleeds, its neighbors contain. In the Horn fragile not-war is stalked by two specters: drought and imposed peace, maybe more. Jealous, fearful men lead with increasing power and weakness. Bloody flames spring up daily throughout the West, sparked by the deep-rooted legacy of colonial arrogance, a wildfire doused on the surface, raging below.
Latin America suffers the chill from its northern neighbors, and the burden of its own legacy of democracy too quickly hailed. Argentina is worthy of tears. Brazil is vulnerable, Venezuela tottering, Colombia drug crazed.
Europe seems saved from arrogance only by its inability to get its act together or to produce leadership sure enough of its domestic agenda to lead beyond its borders,
In parts of Asia there are hopeful glimmers, mainly in the East: no bombs in Colombo and the barricades are down; Ang San Soo Chi can travel outside Rangoon; East Timor exists, barely. But from Katmandu west, passions seethe. All the way to any chosen line of East-West divide, poke a country and it will bleed. China?
And then there is America: “Who say they God & still be the Devil.” (Amiri Baraket)
Maybe I’ll go back to bed.
Or go on-line and send hard messages to people who should care, split some dry oak for winter’s end and then turn the garden so it will be ready for spring. And give the Shoe-Goo another try.
On Coming Back from a Sunday Morning Dog Walk (Early 2003)
There is a small hole starting to wear in the sole of my right Muck Boot slip-on, my favorite early morning take-the-dogs-for-a-walk shoes. Tchotto already tried to show his affection by eating a chunk out of the left one. But the jagged tear is high at the front cuff, ankle level, and strangely enough it has had no effect on their unparalleled comfort and ease. The hole, though, is a sign. I am not sure if Shoe-Goo will prevail.
It has been like that recently. Slowly, things wear. Come unglued. Seams let go and buttons disappear. Things fall apart. West Africa, yes, that too, but it seems a globalized phenomenon. There is no continent that is not affray: anxious and adrift. Even where tender shoots of hope push through darkness, roots are shallow, heavy treads abound, and the threat of frost makes it a particularly harsh time of man.
The economic tumble, the seemingly inexorable march towards an ill-conceived and hugely dangerous war, the downward spiral of occupation, Intifada, revenge and on and on without beginning and seemingly without end. In the face of diamonds and oil, or timber and coltan, revolutionary heroes slide from founding fathers to tyrannical despots; hurt people lash out in unconnected series of random madness. Ethnic groups take on the traits of wounded dogs; historical cleavages become rifts across which leaders hurl shallow barbs more aimed at domestic throngs than at the other side. Millions of soldiers wait on the ragged edges of the divide, atomic bayonets fixed.
No part of Africa is free from the disease. Algeria bleeds, its neighbors contain. In the Horn fragile not-war is stalked by two specters: drought and imposed peace, maybe more. Jealous, fearful men lead with increasing power and weakness. Bloody flames spring up daily throughout the West, sparked by the deep-rooted legacy of colonial arrogance, a wildfire doused on the surface, raging below.
Latin America suffers the chill from its northern neighbors, and the burden of its own legacy of democracy too quickly hailed. Argentina is worthy of tears. Brazil is vulnerable, Venezuela tottering, Colombia drug crazed.
Europe seems saved from arrogance only by its inability to get its act together or to produce leadership sure enough of its domestic agenda to lead beyond its borders,
In parts of Asia there are hopeful glimmers, mainly in the East: no bombs in Colombo and the barricades are down; Ang San Soo Chi can travel outside Rangoon; East Timor exists, barely. But from Katmandu west, passions seethe. All the way to any chosen line of East-West divide, poke a country and it will bleed. China?
And then there is America: “Who say they God & still be the Devil.” (Amiri Baraket)
Maybe I’ll go back to bed.
Or go on-line and send hard messages to people who should care, split some dry oak for winter’s end and then turn the garden so it will be ready for spring. And give the Shoe-Goo another try.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
October 1
October is an odd month for beginnings. In the seasonal rhythm of life here in Bowdoinham, it is more of a time for drawing to a close and preparation for the lengthy cold, without much precision and difficult to predict. With no hard frost yet the garden lingers on, half in repose and half still in meager production – some lettuce , carrots and beets, and of course kale – close to ready for a final planting of garlic and a winter coat of hay. It’s chilly enough so that a fire in the morning feels right, but the third cup of coffee is usually taken with the door wide open to turn down the heat. Today is the first day of duck season, though, and so the duck boats are out on Merrymeeting Bay, floating blinds, many of them built right here in town. The Abenaki named the bay “Quavicook”, the water of many ducks, and though there are still thousands that feed on the wild rice that garnishes this freshwater tidal estuary, they are no longer “thick as gnats”, and taking them is more for nostalgic sport than for filling the larder. Oranges, yellows , browns and reds are splashing across the forest palette, bright this year perhaps for all the wet of early summer, a splendid “closing for the season” sign hung out until the bite of the Northwest wind takes it down.
But now is better than someday soon, yes more real than “I will”, and so I begin.
But now is better than someday soon, yes more real than “I will”, and so I begin.
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