Point Loma Surfer Girl

Falling from the Sky

2008-01-21T07:51:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning and read the news: two planes collided over Corona airport yesterday and the debris fell into a car dealership. Five people died. This occurred at 3:35 pm Sunday about ½ an hour after we passed overhead. At El Monte while eating lunch on the patio we saw an emergency vehicle race towards the runway. Looking over the fence, we saw an experimental plane tipped on one wing. Three fire trucks eventually showed up, paramedics, and the police. It took about 45 minutes to clean up the runway of gas and clear it so that we could return home. The pilot of that plane was low-time and he had porpoised on the runway (a really bad landing).

On the way home we observed planes chasing each other over Lake Mathews, jumpers near Elsinore, and had close encounters with two Lear jets.

Our Cessna had a traffic avoidance display and 3 times we observed a yellow light and heard the soft yet firm voice calling "traffic". I love to fly but it is dangerous.

Nashville

2008-01-06T17:58:00.000-08:00

Nashville, Tennessee: the people are friendly; they look you in the eyes when they greet you. In a traffic delay near Vanderbilt University (the basketball game had just ended) my cab was stalled for 10 minutes alongside a delivery car that read "freakin' fast delivery".

It was unusually cold there when I arrived, about 22 degrees at the height of day. I was disoriented in my directions. Looking west, I thought it was east. With no sun to guide me, I got lost while roaming the west end of Nashville near Vanderbilt University.

Saturday night I went out with the scientists to a trendy blues bar in downtown. The band had to compete with the TV because the Steelers were playing Jacksonville in the play-offs (and it was a very close game.) Downtown Nashville is crowned by the AT&T building whose spires appear to be Morse code connectors. It's a music and party town.

I shot these photos while walking through the west end of Nashville. The upper photo is on the Vanderbilt campus.

New Year's hike

2008-01-02T10:09:00.000-08:00

During the holiday break I took several hikes. The first one was around the tip of Point Loma on one of the lowest tides of the year (12/22). I was the only person out there. Hanging from the cliffs was a stranded fishing boat. As I rounded the point, the cold winds died. In the distance I could see the skyline of downtown. To the south, Mexico and its islands spread out before me. It was magical; it was mine. I did some yoga and meditated and then picked my way back across the tide rocks to the parking lot. A ranger stopped me and told me that this area had been closed to the public since the early 90s.

The second hike I took, pictured above, was to Hollenbeck Canyon out the 94 towards Deerhorn Valley. I drove through Deerhorn Valley first and was amazed at the twisted and burnt landscape. Hollenbeck Canyon had burnt but mostly on the north side as I walked east. The south side where the creek runs was unscathed.

Above from top to bottom: Hollenbeck Canyon tree, charred earth, and a view of Lyons Peak from the trail that rises above Hollenbeck Canyon.

Walking back at dusk I was amazed at the silence. Where were the insects? Where were the small animals? The cougars had survived, I read, were they seeking a meal? I hurried my steps.

An Avian Solstice

2007-12-24T10:22:00.000-08:00

December 22, the winter solstice, is our shortest day. We hold our breaths to see if the sun will come back on the following day. In southern California it's a given. We have had high pressure days with clear, clear skies. From Cabrillo National Monument I can see all the way south into Mexico. I can see the San Bernardino mountains (lightly capped with snow) to the northeast and, driving up the coast to Orange County yesterday, Catalina Island was clearly visible from Oceanside.

The solstice coincided with a full moon (and Mars is as close to Earth as I'll ever see it in this incarnation). The birds took advantage of the low tide. I caught these three photos in Point Loma of an ordinary seagull, a snowy white egret, and a great blue heron.

The Start of Winter

2007-11-03T14:10:00.000-07:00

No, it's not fire; it's sunrise on a cloudy day-- looking south from Trumball Street in Point Loma.

October has been a weird month. A week after the fires it grew cold, very cold. It's cold this weekend; a Santa Ana event was predicted but I don't see much evidence outside.

This morning a woman stopped me as I was carrying my yoga mat and chair down to Sunset Cliffs for my meditation. She too meditates there every morning and she is always happy to see me because her meditations are more powerful when I am there with her. That was a nice thing to hear.

There was a brouhaha at my condo complex and, being on the board, I was privy to the complainant's letter. She was upset because her dog was leashed and the other was not, so why was she being fined? The other dog owner falsely accused her of having an unleashed dog, too.

She responded [sic] Oh, Cointreau! My dog was on a leash.

Thinking of that made me smile throughout the day.

Calm at Sunset

2007-10-28T08:47:00.001-07:00

Wildfires have burned the entire back country I used to fly over, including the training area for Gillespie; the route up the Julian VOR to the desert, the route north to French Valley, and south along the border outside of Class B airspace. The Santiago Peak area of Orange County has also burned. Silverado Canyon is one of the most beautiful areas on Southern California. What will it look like now?

On TV there are horror movies for Halloween and the documentaries aren't much better. On CNN there is the "planet in peril" series and on the History Channel they were doing a special about colliding galaxies. Somewhere in the future the Andromeda galaxy is slated to collide with the Milky Way, of which we are an infinitesimal part.

No wonder I feel anxiety. Time to go down to the beach and watch the sun set, or if cloudy, watch the sunset change the sky.

Aprés the Fire

2007-10-27T11:43:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up to the smell of moisture in the air. It is drizzling on the coast. The air is clear and I drove up to Cabrillo National Monument to do some sun salutations (or perhaps I should say cloud salutations). Looking southeast I could see San Miguel Peak (left) and Lyons Peak is peeking out from behind it. A plume of smoke from the Harris Fire rises behind them.

Doing yoga outside in the misty air I finally relaxed some of the tension I've been feeling all week. If I think the world is threatening, then it becomes so. Right view is the first step.

Orange in October

2007-10-23T09:28:00.000-07:00

October is definitely an orange month. In the past few days the fires have turned our skies pumpkin day in and day out. On Sunday as I watched the surfers on the best waves of this Fall, I noticed smoke drifting out over the ocean. The skies slowly darkened to the north and the south but the sky directly over Point Loma has remained clear. If you look at the satellite photos you can see that the winds have kept the smoke at a distance. We are an oasis, unlike 2003, when we took the brunt of the foul air.

Previous to this weekend, we were Orange in October only as day turned to night. On October 13, I was down at Sunset Cliffs for another sunset when a group of people dressed in black showed up. Was it a funeral or a wedding? It turned out to be the latter. Only two people were not dressed in black: the bride and the fairy girl in pink taking pictures. I alternated watching the sunset and watching the people. The ringbearer was serious about his charge keeping his eyes focused on the ring for the entire ceremony; he was too short to participate in most of the activities taking place a foot above him.

October Weirdness

2007-10-07T19:04:00.000-07:00

A patio restaurant in La Jolla Shores has gone all out for "Dia de los muertos." The entire exterior of the restaurant and all available space is covered with skeletons. Friday night, as I watched the sun set, I saw a young man flow through asanas with amazing grace and agility. His shirt was as orange as the setting sun.

Summer Rain

2007-09-24T12:55:00.000-07:00

Summer ended a few days early this year. A fierce wind came up on Friday afternoon. I caught these sea gulls huddling against the wind. On Saturday morning, I shot downtown San Diego cleansed by the first rainfall in months. Fall has arrived and the ocean water temperature has dropped about 10 degrees and there is a chill in the air.

Paddle for Clean Water

2007-09-17T07:20:00.000-07:00

Surfer chic in OB. The guy on the left is wearing a wetsuit under his sport coat.

The line-up for the paddle.

Kids everywhere have fun at the beach.

Yesterday was the 16th Annual Paddle for Clean Water sponsored by the Surfrider Foundation. It was sunny early on and then the fog rolled in. I couldn't even see halfway down the pier.

Later I went to Gillespie. John and I flew up to El Monte, California in the LA Basin. North up through the pass that separates Riverside from San Diego County. We flew along the eastern side of the Santa Ana Mountains. There is much development going on around Lake Elsinore. We flew into the LA Basin and roughly followed I10 to the 605 where we turned downwind for El Monte. We were right up against Mt. Wilson. There was a fire in Big Bear and the smoke streamed across the basin. But other than that smoke, the air was fairly clear.

I flew home.

The Glass Cockpit

2007-09-09T11:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we flew to Torrance in a new Cessna 180 with a Garmin 1000 cockpit. The photos are 1) the display of the 2 Tango Alpha; 2) the Huntington Beach Pier; and 3) short final into Torrance.

The display gives you all the information you need; you never have to look out the window. The Garmin 1000 cockpit has a traffic collision avoidance system installed that keeps the pilot apprised of "targets" within a 12-mile radius of the plane and shows their altitude in relation to ours. You can dial out to a 50 mile radius and check for weather activity. We saw an active thunderstorm cell east of the Salton Sea while returning to San Diego.

The auto-pilot is very smart. You dial up the altitude you want to reach (5500 feet) and then you indicate your rate of climb (500 feet per minute). You push arm and the plane flies you gently up to that altitude. All you need to do is monitor airspeed and engine performance.

When you hit altitude you can lean the engine by watching the cylinders and dialing down to the desired burn rate for gas (in this plane about 8 gallons per hour). At your assigned altitude you push a button called heading and the auto-pilot locks into your heading and levels the plane and navigates for you. You fold your arms and take pictures out the window.

The Garmin 1000 will also bring you in for landing using GPS or localizer approaches. John hadn't quite figured that out so he couldn't show me.

After flying that plane, would I ever go back to ded reckoning and rudder-stick flying? There is the price of course; this new plane costs $140/hour.

UDONOME: A Japanese Noodle story

2007-08-29T20:35:00.001-07:00

Hey! You don’t know me, quit touching my foot! The man in front of me, about my age but far less flexible, struggles to right himself according to the yoga instructor’s gentle and flowing instructions.

“Legs straight, quadriceps pulled up towards the core. Hand resting lightly on your calf while the other hand reaches for the sky. This is triangle pose. Open your chest! Breathe! Yoga is a union of effort and relaxation. Slip into the nectar of the pose.”

The man in front of me is not an inappropriate yoga guy and I am not a fit young thing in perfectly coordinated yoga wear. But I can hold a pose and I can balance on one foot for several minutes. It’s amazing how strong I have become with yoga.

Last night I caught a snippet of local news on TV. I caught the tail end of the anchorman’s spiel “shark attack today” as the screen-line read La Jolla Shores.

I watched TV until the news came back on and then found out that the attack was nowhere near San Diego but in northern Monterey Bay.

Today, before yoga, I went surfing north of La Jolla Shores. I constantly scanned the ocean bottom through the clear water. What if a shark did attack me? What would I do? If I saw it coming towards me (a highly unlikely scenario according to the experts) I would shout, “You don’t know me! Why are you doing this?” as the hungry predator dragged me towards my watery grave. I fervently prayed to Poseidon to send me a wave for distraction.

I drip sweat onto the mat and smell the day’s toil collected in the hollows of my armpits.

Today at work, I received a job offer, a promotion to be the project manager for a new research program to study the temporal dynamics of learning. I told my current employers about it. They offered me more pay with half the workload if I remained in my current position. “You don’t know me,” I wanted to interject but wisely shut my mouth and let the two academic powerhouses up the ante as they continued to fight over me.

There are cognitive studies that claim emotions strongly bias our decision-making much more so than rational thought. They are wrong. They don’t know me. Last night my Dharma teacher said, “Timing is everything,” using the exact words I used in the interview to express my interest in the new center. I know what I’m going to do.

“Be in the moment” the yoga instructor gently admonishes. I focus on my breathing and my trembling right leg.

The Rodeo

2007-07-21T12:04:00.000-07:00

The rodeo is part of our Spanish past in the Southwest. During the annual round-up, the cowboys (or vaqueros as they were known then) would gather together and show off their horsemanship and bravery. Rodeo comes from rodear (surround).

On the Fourth of July we went to a Rodeo in Oakley, Utah. This is the heartland of America. Many of the young married women were pregnant and toting along several tots. The children were dressed in their cowboy best. There was no alcohol allowed. The rodeo clown made several stupid and racist jokes.

Still Surfing

2007-07-19T13:30:00.000-07:00

In May as I walked along the OB Bluffs, I spotted hundreds of tuna crabs (pink miniature lobsters that look like tampon applicators) floating in the surf. El Niño! The water would be warm early this year and the waves would be better than average. How could I give up surfing?

The next day after work I drove to a small surf shop I had noticed in my neighborhood. It stood out because the owner had painted a mural of a breaking wave on the entire east wall. The shop featured row upon row of surfboards of all shapes, sizes and colors. A young and smiling blonde man was behind the counter.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely looking me over. He was puzzled that I was in his shop; I could see it in his eyes.

“I want to buy a surfboard,” I said.

“Really? That’s cool. I read the other day that women, especially older women, are going into surfing in a big way. Did you read it too? Is that why you’re here?” he asked.

“I can surf,” I replied thrusting out my chin and narrowing my eyes. “I’ve surfed for 20 years.”

“You go girl! I’m Jason. So what kind of board do you need? We have two kinds of boards – long and short boards. Long boards are heavy to carry but they are easy to catch waves with and to paddle. Short boards are generally for advanced surfers. We also have what’s called a fun board, a sort of hybrid between the two. It’s what I usually recommend to people new to surfing. But you probably know all that, right?" Jason amended as my assertion that I was a surfer finally sunk into his salt-addled skull.

“I ride a short board but I don’t surf as much as I used to so I’m a little slow paddling and I’ve gained weight in the last couple of years, so I’m looking for something a bit easier to paddle.”

“What’s your board’s dimensions?” He asked.

“It’s a 6’3” thruster and potato-chip thin.”

“Tight! I have one of those myself. So you want to go longer because you’re getting fat. Would you like to try longboarding now like all those gray-haired dudes out at Sunset Cliffs?

“Actually, I thought I’d just get a longer short board and maybe one that’s slightly thicker for flotation. This one looks pretty cool,” I said as I pulled out a white board that looked just like the one I had at home except for the addition of 9 inches of length and an extra 2 inches of width.

“That’s a good board,” Jason exclaimed. “I shaped it myself but you really have to know how to surf to ride that one.”

“I told you I can surf.”

Truthfully I hadn’t surfed in 8 months and had seriously contemplated giving it up over the past winter. I was nearing 50, and had gained 30 pounds in the past 3 years. I was too slow and heavy for my potato-chip stick. I had a chronic shoulder ache when I paddled for more than 30 minutes and it was hard to crane my stiffening neck backwards while I paddled to catch the breaking wave.

Jason gave me a great deal on that surfboard. He threw in the fins, a year-old Surfer Magazine, and some surfboard wax.

I drove home and put on my bathing suit, a pair of men’s surfing trunks, and a rash guard. I grabbed my wetsuit from the closet and headed down to the beach. Parked in the lot at Dog Beach, I struggled into my wetsuit. I had to tug viciously to pull the suit up over my ass and suck in my stomach while I yanked the zipper up. Zipped I was Gumby in black neoprene. How would I ever paddle my surfboard? I could barely move my arms! I rolled the wetsuit down to my ankles and kicked it off. I would brave the cold water. I bent down and applied the wax to my brand new surfboard.

If I had the cojones, they would have shriveled as I waded out into the cold ocean. But fortunately I had ovaries instead, malfunctioning ovaries that went into overdrive and lit me up like a furnace. Who needs a wetsuit when you have hot flashes?

I caught my first wave easily because of those 9 inches of additional foam. When I stood up the board tilted backwards, I lost my balance and, arms windmilling, I fell backwards into the water. On the second wave I paddled furiously and caught the wave as it was pitching out into the air. My board slid off the wave and I looked straight down into the trough while the lip of the wave harried my back. I hit the water limbs akimbo, the board slapped my butt, and I was ground rudely into the sandy bottom. I surfaced coughing up saltwater. The third wave I caught, I managed to make it to my knees and ride shoreward. As the wave dissipated in the shallow water, I collapsed onto my board, panting, with my arms dragging along the bottom like stone weights.

The problem, I realized, was that 10 of those extra 30 pounds had gone directly to my breasts. I was listing like the Titanic when I paddled. My center of gravity was too far forward.

On the last wave of the day, a smart bit of advice surfaced in my waterlogged brain. Look where you want to go. Paddling to catch the wave, instead of looking straight ahead, I looked farther down the wave to where I longed to be. I stood up and I was there! I rode that wave smoothly to shore.

As the summer wore on, I lost some of that weight, my muscles grew stronger, and I recovered my surfing mojo.

Surfing is more than catching waves. I like to paddle out into the warm and salty ocean after work to sit on my board and watch the pelicans soar overhead. I bob gently in the water with my legs dangling off the rails and my hands pressed into the board for balance. I scan the horizon for waves. If there are no waves, then I might scan the ocean bottom for sting rays or sharks. I play a game with myself. Would I rather lose my arms or legs if attacked? I then alternate balancing myself on the board with arms or legs up. Occasionally I fall off the board into the water. I pray for a wave to distract me from this game.

One night I listened to one young man instruct his friend in the Zen of surfing. “You must be dedicated; you must devote every waking second to surfing. You must concentrate and then you will learn how to surf, and one day you, the board, and the wave will be one gliding across the surface of the ocean. If you are not dedicated, if you do not concentrate, then you will NOT catch that wave. Also, you have to get beat up to surf. If you are not willing to get beaten up, then you will never really surf. On the next wave, give it everything, don’t hold back, you’re gonna get hurt and you’re gonna get right out there and try again.”

Yesterday Hurricane Hernán off Baja generated the best south swell of summer. It hit San Diego beaches exactly as predicted by the weathermen. I was ready for it, ready to take a beating.

(this was written in the summer of 2002)

Morning meditation

2007-05-18T11:44:00.000-07:00

This morning I clambered down to Cheesegrater Rock and entered the cave. I slid down the cave into the shallow and cold water and tip-toed across the tidepool over to the flat rock that is usually submerged. It was an extremely low tide and I was completely surrounded by saltwater. I placed my mat on the rock and did some sun salutations to warm up. I practiced breath of fire and qi gong. I sat.

The motion of the water through the tide pools and the gentle swaying of the sea grasses back and forth inspired me to sway gently in rhythm. The rhythm took over and I became a pendulum, rocking back and forth in harmony with the sea.

I live for these moments.

Monterey/Carmel

2007-04-26T20:05:00.000-07:00

On Bird Island, these two unusual birds were nesting. I wonder what they are called?

China Beach in Pt. Lobos is closed to the public right now. There were more than 10 seals frolicking in the shallow water.

At the Pt. Lobos Reserve just south of Carmel, I caught this wave breaking.

Walking through the streets of Monterey I spotted an open warehouse. I looked inside. I wonder what this person does. I think I'd like to know her/him.

I enjoyed Monterey - the crisp air, the sunshine, and the healthy sea. Flying out of San Francisco and looking down on the ocean I could spot pods of whales, dolphins, and other large fish swimming in the clear waters. Flying over southern California, I saw mostly seaweed and birds.

Downtown, San Diego Comes of Age

2007-04-14T22:16:00.000-07:00

We went downtown tonight. San Diego has come of age I realize in this trendy see-and-be-seen Photographic Exhibit at the Lyceum Theatre. They serve wine, Kendall-Jackson instead of two-buck-chuck, and tiny appetizers that never make it 5 steps farther than the ad-hoc kitchen doors. I bring my camera and shoot my first night-time society event. My camera is 1/10th the size of the professionals and my hand is unsteady but I am learning to look at people in the same way I look at landscapes.

The Week in Review

2007-04-14T14:57:00.000-07:00

The week started badly. I was stressed out and bitchy. I couldn't sleep. I had a dream about my mother and woke up with a profound sadness within. I went down to the beach (there's not a lot that saltwater can't cure) on Tuesday afternoon. (1) The waves were huge. (2) Surfers were lined up to go out. I saw a surfer catch a left off Luscombe's and ride it all the way to inside Indicators and then hop-skip his board to connect with Needles. I've never seen anyone ride through those 3 reefs. My mood lightened as I contemplated the probability of miracles.

On Friday I called a gym friend, Tom, who has been in the hospital since his knee replacement surgery of more than 2 months ago. There were complications. Grave complications.

Tom's voice slurs as he confides to me that his doctor is pressuring him to hurry up and make a decision: he can continue as he is and hope that the injured leg and foot will heal (even though he cannot feel that foot, or move his toes or ankle); he can cut off the damaged leg below the knee (the preferred option for future mobility but complicated by the knee surgery and festering wounds that currently surround the knee); or he can most extremely cut the leg off above the knee - the quickest-to-heal option but more permanently crippling than the others.

Tom asks me, "How can I make this decision while doped up on morphine?"

Monday, I'll go see him and see if I can help in any way.

Today I wake up to the sunshine streaming in my window. I hop out of bed and go down to the beach. I surf OB pier and hang around for a bit to watch the beach scene develop. Summer is a'coming (3) and the Capoeira club is practicing on the beachfront grass (4).

Signs

2007-04-10T20:50:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, the day between Good Friday (when Jesus was crucified) and Easter (when he rose from the dead), a dark cloud threatened the sun from dawn to dusk. A dark cloud lurked in the background of my mind. I was raised Lutheran but I admit that the notion of original sin and a belief that an enlightened being such as Jesus had to die to redeem us all from that original sin does not resonate in my soul.

Soul Window

2007-04-02T17:38:00.000-07:00

Who is that person in the window with the bright sun-shiny head? Self-portrait, this window into my soul reveals my white shoes.

Old man Cliff

2007-03-17T18:23:00.000-07:00

Old man misses an eye.

Socket dull so he cracks a frown.

Old man made of stone.

Foggy Day Haiku

2007-03-17T18:19:00.000-07:00

Spring sky hugs the Earth.
Fog clings in wet silence as the
dew hangs from the pine.

Tidal Haiku II

2007-03-16T18:40:00.000-07:00

Tile, two stones, and sand.
Left by the tide they write songs
for a Summer’s eve.

Spring Eclipse

2007-03-03T20:36:00.000-08:00

There was a lunar eclipse this evening. It happened 40 minutes before the moon rose in California. I watched the moon appear over the mountains from Trumball Street above Shelter Island.

Earlier that day I went down to Sunset Cliffs and caught a photographer waiting for a shot and a couple launch their kite. The recent rains have turned the fields green and I saw my first wild mustard in a fenced off lot on Voltaire.

La Cruda Moral

2007-02-19T10:34:00.000-08:00

In Spanish they have a description of that remorse one feels after a night of drinking when one was not particularly kind. They call it, "la cruda moral." Moral hangover. I can't call it a disease since I brought it upon myself. Maybe it's time to give up the demon rum, or in my case the decomposed fruit of the vine.

The horizon melts into the sea this morning. The rain cleanses my heart and purifies my intent to be kinder. The rain on my windshield looks like bleached orange peel and dances before me hypnotically, a symphony of musical notes. Shhh! It whispers. I become quiet inside. The wind buffets my car and outside on Birdshit Rock the terns huddle against the cold. The seagulls soar upon the air their wings outspread.

Yesterday morning my sister and I walked the new San Clemente beach trail. The trail followed alongside the railway. We walked by a church on the beach.

Spring Break

2007-02-12T15:48:00.000-08:00

Isabel moved here from Cancun 6 months ago. She is a real estate broker but after Hurricane Wilma there was little to sell so she took a friend up on an invitation to move to San Diego.

In the future when she explains how she came to San Diego she can honestly say that a hurricane uprooted her.

Her two sons visited her over Christmas break. When they arrived in San Diego they were shocked at the sedate public behavior of American girls. In Cancun, during Spring Break, these young girls wear the skimpiest bathing suits in public. They slither on the poles that border the seats of the public buses and yank off their tops to the frenzied cheers of the watching men.

What goes on in Cancun stays in Cancun?

California Mi Corazon

2007-02-05T18:24:00.000-08:00

Friday I left work early to meet Pam at Sea Lodge in La Jolla. It was an absolutely gorgeous day. I shot the first two pix looking north (Scripps Pier) and south (jogger on beach). Sunday was another beautiful day and I caught these retired folks taking a landscape painting class at Sunset Cliffs.

Divas in Denial

2007-02-04T17:37:00.000-08:00

I am a 50-something woman suffering with hot flashes in a theater surrounded by gender-benders who are at least 30 years my junior. On the stage we cheer LaShonda, 7 foot and so skinny that she could model an aid poster for Somali. She wears a black spandex dress that doesn’t quite cover her white panties, though she tugs the hemline down frequently in what she believes is a fetchingly feminine manner. Lashonda-- that girl-- is all legs and arms.

Janeet Jackson, emerging from a year-long fast-food binge, sings joyfully while she shimmies her adipose tissue with skillful abandon. She is wearing a slinky black dress cut low across her ample bosom. Cross dressers can teach the overweight women of my generation a thing or two about dressing with style. Janeet turns her back to me. What on earth possessed you, girlfriend, to wear that bra with its industrial-sized white strap, spread like a pun, across your nude-to-waist back? Is the hair real? Are the tits real? A tit becomes dislodged in a hip-hop dance routine and the owner handily adjusts it back into a pleasing shape. Who is female and who is male in this theatre of joyous young people expressing their beyond-gender identity? Danny is a wood sprite, not male nor yet female, and unsure of which way to go. He is nattily dressed in trousers, a fedora, and a white t-shirt the front of which has been stenciled in black:

Queer

as Fuck

Danny sports a pencil-thin mustache, sideburns, and goatee. As he dances up the aisle I see that the facial hair has been inked or tattooed on with great artistry. I cannot imagine for even one second that any of the friends of my youth would have been so honest at that age. These people before me, and I wish I could avoid the pronouns “he” or “she”, have such courage that I feel a weight on my chest lift. In spite of today’s wars, overpopulation, and global warming, this generation will survive and prosper. The incredible genetic plasticity of life is expressing itself in response to the environment.

Paris Hilton and Britney Spears will most likely drown because they partied too hard the night the sea level rose irrevocably; these youngsters before me, however, will ride the waves of change with élan. Cowabunga!

Tidal Mood

2007-01-31T21:36:00.000-08:00

Been dazed and confused this week. Bitchy. Can't handle the stress. Can't sleep. What is wrong with me? I left work early and went down to the beach. There's not a lot that saltwater can't cure.

I had become so absorbed in details this week that I had lost sight of the day.

Finally I stopped, took a deep breath and look around.

Down at the beach I was amazed at the low tide. The reef was exposed way beyond Needles; I had never seen this much ocean floor laid bare! Tomorrow is a full moon; the tide was at its lowest point right when I arrived at the Cliffs.

From top to bottom: No Surf at extreme low tide. Visual haiku in the sand. A snowy egret with yellow feet. The sun reflected in a tidal pool.

The Dark Network

2007-01-26T18:05:00.000-08:00

I work at UCSD in cognitive neuroscience. We are mapping the brain and its functions and our understanding of it is changing from a black box view to that of a highly specialized and plastic tool that we use everyday of our lives. Some of our brain function is conscious (attention, planning, motion) and some of it is automatic (breathing, hormone regulation, etc.)

Time Magazine is running a series of articles on modern neuroscience and cognitive science -- describing the plasticity of the brain. They discuss V.S. Ramachandran's investigation of phanton limbs -- apparently if you lose a limb, the part of the brain that used to control that is overtaken by neighboring functions -- so that losing a leg which was controlled by an area next to genitalia could result in your sensing the missing limb during an orgasm.

There is also an article on time travel wherein they postulate that the brain is often living in the past and future-- reliving and then predicting scenarios, and making decisions based on experience. We live in this dark network much more than we think. Then, a bell rings, a child cries, we hear a car crash and are brought back to the present. We live in the present until we can relax and go back to the dark network and process our experiences and imagine how it might have been different, and how it will be different if it occurs again.

In meditation, we learn to remain mindful and quiet this dark network in our mind that is so active. No wonder we call it Enlightenment. But if this article were the complete picture it would imply that we lose our capacity to learn from our experiences when enlightened, because we no longer avail ourselves of the dark network. There is more to this story

Cold Snap

2007-01-19T19:18:00.000-08:00

Back to work. The temperature dipped after the holidays both in the air and in the sea. The ocean temperature is near 55 degrees now and the highs during the day in San Diego were close to that for about a week. Here are a couple of cool pix of people shaded in sunset.

The Dream Girls

2007-01-06T22:05:00.000-08:00

Lori and I saw The Dream Girls tonight. It' s a very good movie with stunning acting and music. Beyoncé is upstaged by J. Hudson, the American Idol finalist, who is a newcomer in this movie. She had two very powerful songs she sang; her music moved right through me.

I caught the palm trees swaying in the early morning wind, a face in the cliffs, and the splash of high tide against the rocks.

Healing Meditation

2007-01-04T20:04:00.000-08:00

Tonight we did a healing meditation with Sanskrit chant and a rose quartz crystal. I grew very quiet inside; the quietest I've been. At the end, my teacher looked my way and bowed to me.
That was different.

The Winter Vacation

2007-01-02T16:21:00.000-08:00

My 12 days of Christmas break are ending. I go back to work tomorrow. On this my last free day I went surfing at Scripps Pier. On the way home, waiting at a long stoplight, I made friends with this dog. In the morning after a session of yoga and meditation at Sunset Cliffs, I took photos of a seagull and some pelicans surfing.

Out with the Old

2006-12-31T20:01:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve 2006. The weather is here, wish you were beautiful! I went surfing today. The swell is coming up again. The grunion were cruising in the surf near Scripps pier and a swallow darted into the water, within inches of my leg, to catch one. I spotted several seals frolicking in the nearshore water. The full moon is nearing and the tides are becoming extreme. That afternoon, at Sunset Cliffs, a diver walks across the exposed ocean bottom at No Surf. Nearby, a surfer gingerly traverses the same rocky reef in shallow water, and the surfer's are up on a set wave at Luscombe's.

Bad Back

2006-12-30T21:01:00.000-08:00

I called Mary today. Her OCD husband, Jay, (an artist and former probation officer who worked in a California Youth Authority prison in the central coast for about 15 years) spent four hours out on that steep driveway of theirs in Cayucos on the east side of Highway 1, polishing an imaginary imperfection in his Porsche’s sleek painted exterior, an imperfection only he could see, until he tired and slid downwards and wrenched his back. Now he’s “this thing in my bed,” according to Mary. She gave him a bell today because she prefers it to his bellow.

This rock has been on the path where I walk forever. Today I took a fresh look.

The OB Pier

2006-12-29T18:01:00.000-08:00

I walked the OB pier today. It was crowded with fisher families, a Jesus-Christ-loving musician, seagulls, and walkers. I went down to Sunset Cliffs for the sunset and caught a photographer setting up for the close of the day; I also caught my own shadow.

At Bird Shit Rock: 3:00 pm

2006-12-27T18:25:00.000-08:00

The wind blows gale force. The ocean spits at the rocks and my car jerks like a boat rocking upon a tumultous sea. People arrive and take pictures. The waves crash against the cliffs and rain water on the amateur photographers who run for the safety of their cars. A woman, my age, raises her arms to the wind and sways, laughing. The sun appears, disappears, and in the clouds I spot an eagle. A gull angles its wings to soar upon Zephyrus' angry bellow.

Paddling Out

2006-12-26T17:00:00.000-08:00

To surf Sunset Cliffs is challenging, especially when the tide is high and breaking against the rocks. The surfers jump into the ocean from slippery rocks and if they mis-time it, they could get swept into the rocks. Arms, legs, and backs have been broken here. The wise surfer stretches before launching.

Aprés Navidad

2006-12-26T14:36:00.000-08:00

The day after Christmas. A winter storm is heading down from the Pacific Northwest. The waves arrive first.

Winter in California - Day Two

2006-12-24T08:51:00.000-08:00

I stopped by Scripps Pier to walk on Saturday. For fifteen years I surfed this place on a daily basis -- waves or no waves, cold or warm water, in windy or glassy conditions.

I watched this pier being built in the late 80's. They used the old pier to stage the construction. When the finished the new pier, they tore down the old one. Parts of it were shipped off to Arizona to become a restaurant, "the old Scripps Pier". The day they tore the old pier down, a huge spring swell came in and the workers lost control of one of the pilings. The piling floated in the ocean and was caught by a large wave and hurled shoreward towards the surfers. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

Back home I took up the quest for the city of gold again. Eureka! I found it. It lasts only about 10 minutes -- from 4:25 to 4:35. The best viewing spot will be at the top of Voltaire, off Willow. I'll get a better shot of it in a few days.

BMIND

2006-12-22T21:02:00.001-08:00

Beginner’s mind --
At some point is be-kind.
Le point en français,
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
What is the point
of being be-kind?
A swept windy sea
recedes into blind --
faith that goodness
must prevail. Hail!
Hail! Ceaser arise!
The skies, the skies
are falling --be-kind --
beginner’s mind.

First Day of Winter

2006-12-22T17:07:00.000-08:00

It rained last night and this morning. A low pressure system moved through San Diego quickly. The morning was cloudy and the ocean was mad with the wind. The waves were breaking outside of the OB pier which was closed to pedestrian traffic. The wind blew the clouds east and frothed the waves. Birds in courtship. Birds huddled against the wind. Birds are California dreaming of peace. By sunset, the sky was clear and the wind had switched to offshore.

The Solstice

2006-12-22T11:06:00.000-08:00

Today, fall became winter at 4:00 pm PST. I left work early after a visit to the Jacobs School of Engineering. It is a masculine area of campus with imposing buildings thrusting straight into the sky. UCSD is growing and I caught a crane reflected in the windows of the EBU-I building. I drove down to Cabrillo (again) and caught the solstice sunset from the tidepool area. A ranger found me and escorted me out (the area closed at 4:30 pm).

Later on Towards Sunset

2006-12-17T17:37:00.000-08:00

Later on, I went back to Cabrillo. It was cold; the sun was low on the horizon. The shadows were long across the tombstones; downtown was lit by the setting sun. The clouds interfered with the sunset towards the end. But as the sun dropped into the horizon, one of its beams flashed green like a beacon through the clouds. Ah the elusive green flash!

San Diego after the rain

2006-12-17T13:01:00.000-08:00

I went out to Cabrillo again this morning. Can you see why? I grow solemn as I drive past the row upon row of gravestones at Rosecrans but the view, as from a low-flying plane, of the city to the east and the Coronado Islands to the west soon fills me with lightness. El Pueblo de San Diego de Alcala de Henares rises from the edge of the bay. To the south, Mexico gleams in the sunshine.

The Quest

2006-12-11T17:10:00.000-08:00

You meet the strangest people on spiritual quests, even if your quest takes place in modern-day San Diego and your journey is a symbolic one through the Internet, blogs, meditation groups, homeopathic medicine, and acupuncture.

Each week at the Dharma Center our teacher will ask after the meditation, “Are there any questions?” It’s rare for us to respond with one so, after a pause, the teacher will bring up a topic related to self-realization. Last week, a first-timer to the Center, a lanky and somewhat disheveled young man bellowed into the silence, “Would you like to know why I am here?”

Narcissist! I thought hearing a therapist friend's voice in my head. Was his question rhetorical? I looked at the speaker more closely and noticed that he sported a narrow black thong across his left eye which gave him a slightly rakish look, almost pirate-like except that this latter image was ruined by the coke-bottle lenses of his black-framed glasses.

“I learned transcendental meditation in another country. I practiced it day in and day out and was determined to advance quickly. It did help me to relax but after several months I grew frustrated and stopped doing it.”

The teacher asked, “What were you hoping to achieve?”

“Each day I would slowly construct an edifice brick by brick, and square inch by square inch. I populated that inner space with plants, animals, and people. Each day I would sit in meditation and start building again from the point where I had stopped. Then one day I finally made it to the top; it was whole and complete. I was weightless and bodiless and pure spirit. I opened my arms wide to embrace the sky and crashed down to earth back into this same tired body. I could not transcend it no matter how hard I tried."

If the teacher had asked any of us what we hoped to achieve in meditation we would have answered, “stop thought for a while and learn to accept what is.”

My question for that night might have been, 'From what planet did this guy come?'

Omens

2006-12-11T10:24:00.000-08:00

While dropping off the mail at the mailbox this morning I looked up and a snowy white egret soared in a straight line directly above me. While driving to work this morning I was behind a white pickup truck filled with plywood. A piece of plywood came loose from the bunch and soared over my truck just like that snowy white egret. Mixed message?

Looking for Dorado - Day Two

2006-12-08T19:26:00.000-08:00

On this brief Autumn evening I traveled down to Cabrillo Lighthhouse in search of the City of Gold. From today the sun will set a minute later each day. Did you know that? The days will still grow shorter in the morning until December 22, the official winter solstice. To have the sun set later matters much more to me, so this is my personal solstice.

The fog pushes against the western flank of Point Loma and I am wary of catching a sunset at all. I am wary but willing to see what happens. The road grows quiet as I drive south and west to this point that hovers over North Island and the Nuclear subs.

En route I pass row upon row of glowing white tablets, placed in crisp angles, to melt down the cascading lawn on each side.

At the entrance to the park, I purchased a one year pass for $15.00. I will get my money's worth in this upcoming year. You can see why.

Approaching white Cabrillo He is clouded and dark-- an ordinary and little man. I circle him -- the sun breaks through -- Cabrillo transforms into the golden legend.

Turning west, I am surprised by the lighthouse in silhouette against a storm-threatened sky. Enamored I drive down to the tide pools where the setting sun blurs reality.

OB on a late afternoon

2006-12-08T18:38:00.000-08:00

Imagine, this is what I saw at OB in the interlude of an hour's walk: OB's unabashedly denominational Christmas tree, children chasing the brisk and cold sea, a family portrait with at least 3 generations and a bike, the jetty sign at extreme low tide, and waiting for the last wave in the waning light.

California Dreaming

2006-12-02T17:28:00.000-08:00

I never intended to spend my life in San Diego. I came here to go to school. Other than a brief season in Las Vegas and a few years in Mexico, I have lived in San Diego County since 1975.

Every December the sun sets so far south that it reflects in the windows of San Diego's downtown. For 10-15 minutes, San Diego becomes the City of Gold. I've seen this from the hills of Loma Portal. I went down to Shelter Island to see if this apparition is visible from there. Not quite. But I did capture these two moments.

This is my quest for the next few weeks -- to capture the City of Gold on camera.

La Ruta Vinícola

2006-11-26T14:12:00.000-08:00

Northeast of Ensenada is Guadalupe Valley, the wine country of Baja. This valley was settled by Russians in the 1800s. L.A. Cetto winery is gigantic and modern. La Casa de Doña Lupe is intimate and old baja. The best varietals used the Italian grape Nebbiolo with Cabernet. The wines were very good. The road to Tecate was in good condition and there is a new highway from Rosarito to Tecate which might explain why it took us 2.5 hours to cross the border (on Saturday afternoon). The border at Tecate has been moved east of town. Lou was smart and brought Sudoku puzzles to while away the wait.

La Bufadora

2006-11-26T14:04:00.000-08:00

The Blowhole has gone global. Tourists from the cruise ships are bussed there in great quantities. They have set up a narrow bazaar at the entry and you run a gauntlet of vendors who cajole, frighten, and block your path. "Look at my wares," they cry. I found that if I put my IPOD buds in my ears and pointed at those, I could quickly walk through the throngs. There were entertainers, there were nuns, there were Chinese and there were Farmacias everywhere selling Viagara.

Ensenada Zona Turistica

2006-11-26T14:01:00.000-08:00

This is not the Calle Primera that I remember. But it is charming. The restaurants have expanded out onto the sidewalks; the stores are upscale, especially the silver jewelry stores (acid tests welcomed), and cater to the cruise crowd. There was only one beggar, a Native American mother with her child wrapped in a shawl around her chest. Hussong's is the same except that peanut shells have replaced the sawdust on the floors. A group of Mexican youth were drumming rasta-style and a girl was entertaining the passersby by twirling 2 rings of fire on the corner of Primera and Avenida Ruiz. Ensenada youth still cruise up and down Calle Primera with their cars lowered, front or back, or front and back, and boom boxes blaring.

This shot was taken early in the morning in the tourist zone before the hustle and bustle begins.

Baja California

2006-11-26T13:10:00.000-08:00

Ensenada has exploded past its seams to the east and to the south. I barely recognized it. The traffic is terrible. They need to build a highway through town. It took us 40 minutes to navigate from the port to Estero Beach. There was a billboard on one particularly bad corner that read,

"No es tráfico, es un desfile!"
It's not traffic, it's a parade!

South of Estero Beach, Ensenada looks much the same. This shot is taken of Punta Banda one hour before sunset. Though the beach looks wide here, they have built a rock seawall along the coast north of Estero Beach and the Mona Lisa Restaurant, which, in my memory was set back on a wide sandy beach is now very close to shore and protected from the waves by that seawall.

The Pomegranate

2006-11-09T20:41:00.000-08:00

One block off Texas Street, it was dusk and the sign was in Russian, so we passed it before realizing it was our destination. We parked a block away and walked up from the side street. The sign read "Pektopah" in Cyrillic writing (translated into English as "the Pomegranate").

An elderly gentleman, his aproned paunch resting on his knees, was seated outside on a rustic wooden beach next to an open-fire barbecue. We rounded the corner and entered. The ceiling was hung with Christmas lights intertwined with cheery red-chili lights (purchased perhaps from a now-defunct Mexican restaurant?). The white ceiling and walls were covered with graffiti. The aroma from the kitchen hinted of stews laden with paprika, cardamon, and onion.

The hostess (and waitress), an attractive and petite Russian woman with blonde hair, approached and asked if we had a reservation. No? Then we must sit here, in the high seats near the window because the restaurant would soon be full; it was popular, it was Saturday night, and one usually made reservations. We felt fortunate that we hadn't been placed next to the bathroom.

I looked around. A man who vaguely resembled the young Baryshnikov was eating Beef Stroganoff and drinking a bottle of dark Russian beer at the table nearest the door. Behind us a divorced man was dining with his two young daughters. He too was drinking Russian ale. His blonde daughters were slurping big spoons filled with a hearty red soup.

Each table contained an intricately painted and colorful Samovar for tea. The waitress brought brought us menus and lit the candle at our table. We asked her about a corkage fee. It was $14 and she discouraged us to open our own bottle of wine; it was important for them to sell their own wines which were very good. We asked her for the wine list. There was none; they sell Chilean reds by the glass and Georgian wines by the bottle. She described the Gerogian red wines as dry, admonishing us that grapes in Russia are different than California, but that this particular wine (which we chose) was like Pinot Noir.

As we waited for the wine, we perused the menu and the graffiti (both in Russian and in English). Above us someone had written, "Abandon despair, all ye who enter here!"

The waitress brought us the wine and uncorked it. She set down two thick water glasses for the wine. I reached to pour some wine into the cup and she slapped my hand. "Wait," she said. She proceeded to unravel a napkin and roll it into long strip which she tied around the wine bottle. "Now," she announced, "you can taste it." I sipped the wine; it was vinegary and acidic; perhaps it would improve after breathing. We ordered.

The wine did not improve with breathing and we debated whether or not to continue drinking it or to insist that the waitress uncork the bottle I had brought. She passed nearby and I hesitated to stop her. I took another sip of the wine and flagged her down. Could we have our own bottle uncorked?

Didn't we like the Georgian wine? She was surprised. No one had ever complained about it before. Begrudgingly she took that bottle and our bottle, and disappeared into the kitchen.

We waited. And waited. While we waited, the restaurant began to fill up. The waitress, not making eye contact with us, questioned each couple as they entered, "do you have a reservation?" Most said no, yet they were given desirable tables. Why had we been relegated to the high table in the window? Was it because we were two women (and one African-American)?

After 15 minutes the waitress finally returned with the bottle of wine I had brought (a prize-winning Rhones de Robles). She slapped the open bottle onto the table and walked away. I guess we were supposed to use the glasses that were still half-full of the Georgian wine. We had to empty them into the planter nearby.

Our order arrived. We had chosen a sampler plate of traditional Russian salads to start. The waitress, kinder now, explained to us how to eat the salads and in which order. 1-2-3-4-5 she pointed them out and then explained that these two salads were strong tasting and should be saved for last.

The salads were delicious -- there was a beet salad, a carrot salad, a kind of slaw, and various other dishes. Each one was freshly prepared and unusual.

For the main course I had ordered the Borscht --a Russian soup comprised of beet roots, potatoes, cabbage and other vegetables and meats, simmered for hours to produce culinary magic, served with a dollop of sour cream. Pam had ordered the
Schi -- a Russian peasant soup. According to the menu, it was served with black bread on the side and was a secret enjoyment of nobility. Both soups were excellent (Pam never received the black bread).

We enjoyed our bottle of wine and our food. I overtipped and we left to complete our Slavic evening with a viewing of the dance troupe, Betontanc, in Wrestling Dostoievsky.

The next day, in recounting our culinary experience, a friend reminded me that the waitress had probably placed us in the window seat so that people driving by would see that the restaurant had customers. It wasn't where we were seated that had mattered -- it was her implication that we were being punished by having to sit there for not having a reservation. If she had said as she seated us, "Lucky you two, getting the best seats in the house," our perception would have been far different.

I will go back; the food is excellent; but I'll drink the ale.

Through a Glass no Longer Darkly

2006-11-09T20:00:00.000-08:00

"For the Sake of Peace" by Kaisaku Ikeda, president of the Soka Gakkai International, outlines seven paths to peace that we as individuals can take. One quote in particular struck home. My mind, now clouded by the illusions of the innate darkness of life is like a tarnished mirror. When I have polished it with my spiritual practice, it shall become like a clear mirror, reflecting the essential nature of phenomena and the true aspect of reality.

In Buddhism there are 10 Worlds or Realms. They are
1) Hell - submerged in suffering
2) Hunger - where body and mind are engulfed in raging flames of desire
3) Animality - where one constantly fears the strong and abuses the weak
4) Humanity - a tranquil state where one makes reasoned judgements
5) Rapture - a state of joy
6) Learning - aspiring to enlightenment
7) Realization - where one perceives unaided the true nature of phenomena
8) Boddhisattva - a state of compassion for all
9) Buddhahood - human perfection, the end of all suffering

I have spent too much time in the lower 3 realms; I look forward to moving on!

Politics

2006-11-09T07:09:00.000-08:00

FROM THE NY TIMES TODAY:
"Many Republicans may calculate that the best way to win back the majority is to highlight their differences on key issues with the Democrats, just as Pelosi and her party did. 'I don’t think we’re going to take back the House of Representatives by cooperating and coordinating with Democrats,' said Holt, the former House aide."

No wonder we are in such a mess and the Executive Branch has grabbed almost imperial power, our senators and congresspeople spend the majority of their time trying to get re-elected and win more seats! Weren't they elected to govern?

The Fate of the Ocean

2006-11-02T19:29:00.000-08:00

I Just read an article about the health of our oceans in "Mother Jones." Based in part on the Pew Foundation Report on Oceans in 2003, it tells a calamatous tale of extinction. Since 1980 so many deleterious changes have been observed in our oceans. Fish are smaller. Fishing nets are larger and more deadly. Hypoxic "dead" zones are growing along our coasts. Mercury levels rise in the fish. Coral reefs die off and the lowly jellyfish may soon reign supreme. The Atlantic MOC of which the Gulf Stream is the surface part is decreasing and the warm water that makes Europe habitable may soon be too feeble to help. The runoff of agricultural fertilizers have been a boon to sea algae that disrupt the ecosystems they invade.

What can we do? What can I do? There are no answers in this article, only dire predictions. From Surfrider Foundation: Prop 84 (please vote 'Yes') will fund, among many other things, programs to reduce polluted runoff, the number one source of beach water pollution. Prop 90 (please vote 'No') will, among other deleterious effects, impede the government's ability to require private landowners to follow environmental laws.

Navigate with Care

2006-10-19T15:39:00.000-07:00

Flying to and from Las Vegas - Your Safety and Restricted Airspace
Notice Number: NOTC0634, dated 10/18/06

North Las Vegas Airport's neighbor is Nellis Air Force Base and the Air Force has reported 19 intrusions into its RESTRICTED AIRSPACE this year alone. Although these reports will result in pilot deviation investigations, you will face more immediate threats to your safety when you enter a restricted area.

Today, more than ever, this very busy RESTRICTED AIRSPACE is used extensively to train fighter pilots. There is the real potential for mid-air collisions.

The military will scramble aircraft to identify and monitor that intruder. Are you current on your intercept procedures?
---------------------------------------------

In May 2000 I flew into Las Vegas (pre 9/11) and was too high and suffered from hypoxia, which left me stupid. All of the sudden, the charts made no sense. The Mojave Desert stretched for endless miles around me and I swore I was flying south, not north, in spite of my compass. It didn't help that my primary navigation aid, the GOFF VOR, was oscillating madly. I almost panicked but had enough presence to descend from 9500 feet to 5500 feet and head east to find the Colorado River. When I finally saw it, north/south snapped back into place and I followed the river into Las Vegas.

If that happened in today's security-scared world, I'd probably be shot down by an F-18!

Clouds after the rain

2006-10-13T19:24:00.000-07:00

Today when I entered the Kaiser office I noticed they had something new on the floor of the waiting room. A huge box had been painted onto the carpet and footprints were placed carefully within the box with printed instructions that even I could read without glasses. It read in bold print, "The line starts here." Another set of footprints were in front of it inside a large circle. Those prints carried the instructions, "Wait here to give other clients privacy." I carefully stepped into the first box and then, because no one was in the circle, advanced cautiously to the set of prints nearest the reception desk. I carefully placed each foot into the print. The receptionist, laughing, invited me forward. Others behind me burst into laughter too.

After the doctor's office I went down to the beach. There was a special on close-outs at OB. Afterwards I took my dinner and a bottle of wine down to Sunset Cliffs and had an awesome oceanview sunset cocktail and meal. Took a salutary walk afterwards and here is what I saw:

The clouds after a brief Fall rain; the OB peace sign haloed with light; empty chairs aprés the wedding.

Bush in the Rose Garden

2006-10-11T13:37:00.000-07:00

This morning while treadmilling I watched the Bush press conference. He looks tired. He looks defensive. When questioned about the report released today stating that 655,000 Iraquis have died since the U.S. invasion, he discredited the report. The methodology is wrong. General Casey, GW and Iraqi officials do not believe the report figures. When asked by a reporter, "Do you stand by your figure of 30,000 killed of a few months ago?"

Bush replied with a false smile, "I stand by the figure of a lot of innocent people have died."

I switched channels and ran into an advertisement for a Natural Male Enhancer, Enzyte. All of the men in the commercial were grinning, like Bush, as if a pole had been stuck up their collective arses.

Tensa Situación

2006-09-26T10:27:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up and meditated for 15 minutes and then I walked over to the on-site gym. I unlocked the door to an empty room. Good, I could control the environment something I especially needed this morning since my head was pounding and my hands shaking from too much wine, beer, and vodka the day before.

I stuck my IPOD buds in my ears and turned on some lively jazz tunes. I clicked on the overhead TV and turned the noise down to zero. I jumped on the treadmill and began to sweat.

I clicked the remote until I found VH1 channel. Each morning they usually run the same stream of popular music videos and my favorite is a band that does a choreographed exercise routine on 6 treadmills. The song is On the Go. The 5 musicians look like the Beatles in their first movie, A Hard Day’s Night. These musician’s humor and bravery are evident as they leap from treadmill to treadmill while singing. How on earth do they know when the treadmills reverse themselves so that the musicians must walk backwards in synchronicity instead of being hurled into space? It’s probably a digital trick.

Next follows America’s new black diva -- move over Whitney drugged-out and abused Houston -- here comes Beyoncé! Buxom, gorgeous, and healthy weight Beyoncé!

A Latina woman enters the gym. I feel selfish watching a silent TV to the sound of my IPOD (which she of course cannot hear). Since she is IPOD-less I offer her the remote. She turns the channel to a Mexican news station and amps up the sound (way too high in my humble opinion).

I watch as a parade of horrors unfolds. Tensa Situación, Tragedia en Tluacán, Trágico Accidente en Ecuador. The first scenario – the tense situation – is shot with ahand-held camera at crazy angles ecording people running amok through the streets of some southeast Asian metropolis. In Tluacan people on the banks of a fast-flowing river were fishing out the body of a child from the water, and in Ecuador it appeared that a slope had slid onto a road and buried some hapless commuters. These news were followed by slightly more cheerful views of thousands of the faithful crowding the central Mosque of Mecca for the start of Ramadan in Arabia Saudita which, coincidentally (or by Revelatory design?) coincides with the Jewish High Holy Days this year. This image was followed by one of the Pope in the Vatican announcing that he plans to meet with top Muslim leaders to work on religious tolerance.

I know why we are tense now, why we have problems with anxiety. We are tense because we wake up and watch the damn news every morning! I turn away from the TV and glance at the sign on the wall, “Be considerate. No music, please.” We can’t play music in our gym but we can introduce this visual carnage to get our hearts pumping! And what is it with these Spanish news bites where they put the adjectives before the noun, as if in English? (e.g. Tensa situación replaces situación tensa? )

Tomorrow morning I’m going to hide the remote.

Letting Go of Rigid Mind

2006-09-10T08:27:00.000-07:00

Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun in Nova Scotia, spoke with Bill Moyers about 9/11. She said that in Buddhism, the path to serenity is to accept that we are groundless. We spend so much emotional energy craving security and no-change and become very upset and depressed when we cannot reach this untenable goal. She says that if we focus on accepting the groundless nature of life then we can be happy. Developing our sea legs will bring us inner peace and then we can work towards outer peace.

The days after 9/11 we were groundless; they were times of fear and times of great hope. We stood on the brink of change. Which way would we go? Five years later we are enmeshed in two wars and the foreign nations that played our national anthem and said, "We are Americans too!" now hate us.

Three thousand or more Americans died in 9/11. How many Afghan and Iraq civilians have died in the past 5 years?

It is time for us to stop fearing death. Death will come to all of us. Let us instead focus on the legacy our generation is leaving for future generations. Let us focus on peace and compassion.

Dalai Lama in Canada

2006-09-09T10:18:00.000-07:00

The Dalai Lama, currently in Vancouver, B.C. met with 2800 teenagers. They were spellbound by his message of compassion.

Three students shared their own stories with the Dalai Lama, who listened intently to each, particularly the tale recounted by 17-year-old Lucy Wang of Point Grey Secondary School.

Ms. Wang told of her summer visit to a poor village in China where her cousin Ting lived.

Each day, under a broiling sun, Ting, the same age as Ms. Wang, sold ice cream, raising money for new shoes, a better umbrella and school supplies for her young sister.

Then an old woman in the village became sick, needing an operation she could not afford. Without a second thought, Ms. Wang's cousin turned over her entire summer's savings -- $70 -- to the village's fundraising drive.

Ms. Wang asked Ting how she could give up what she had worked so hard for. Ting replied, "Those things can wait, but sickness cannot."

Ms. Wang was deeply moved and inspired by her cousin's unselfish decision. She said she is now working "every day" to meet her new goal of helping others.

The Dalai Lama was moved, too.

"Wonderful, wonderful," he told Ms. Wang, as her short video account ended. "I admire your way of thinking, and also your cousin's. Sometimes I think compassion is greater among poor people and the uneducated."

Seated on stage beside the Dalai Lama, the earnest high-school student blinked back tears.

(cut and pasted from the Globe and Mail)

Jesus told His disciples, "And again I say unto you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God" (Mat. 19:24)

The Seventh Treasure of the West

2006-09-02T08:24:00.000-07:00

We kayaked the Channel Islands last weekend. The ferry-catamaran out of Ventura Harbor took an hour. It was foggy leaving the California coast but the sun broke through in the middle of the ocean and what a feast for the eyes were these Islands!
Anacapa is a rookery for Pelicans. Santa Cruz, the island to which we were headed, is the largest in the chain.

Arriving at the island, one had this feeling that nature dominated here not man. No electricity, no phones. In the first picture, the boat is towing the kayaks into the water to load them in the hold. In the second picture, my sister is exiting a narrow cave pushing her kayak away from the wall where the surge had pushed her. The third picture is of Elephant cave.

All the news that's fit to print

2006-08-22T07:02:00.000-07:00

ITEM 1:Osama Bin Laden has a crush on Whitney Houston; she does attract the bad boys.

ITEM 2:In Teheran, nose jobs (reducing that noble Persian nose to a cute, turned up western nose) are more popular than breath mints. If you can't afford one, just buy the nose bandage and wear it around instead like the Iranian wannabes.

ITEM 3:In our theaters we have, "Snakes on a plane." As if flying wasn't bad enough, now one can imagine creepy crawly things under one's narrow and legroomless seat.

I'd like to see Jaws Five shot on a jumbo jet. While transporting a rare Great White Shark discovered in the Suez Canal in an aquarium tank to Florida, the glass breaks and the shark belly-slides into the first class compartment filled with conservative Republicans, including one who is an ex-governor from Texas.

Our saltwater hero cruises down the aisle chomping at leisure on the witless men in expensive grey suits. The brave ex-Texas governor hides himself in a food cart to escape the iron jaws. Then we discover that Whitney Houston is also on the plane.

We cannot let the shark decimate our beautiful diva, so Osama, who has been stalking her for ages, sends up a cadre of terrorists to rescue her and kill the shark. The terrorists drop the shark into the Dead Sea and liberate Whitney who has squished her size-two body into a luggage compartment in first class; As the terrorists land the plane roughly near Teheran, out bounces our little ol' ex-Texas governor with tomato sauce smeared on his fine Italian silk shirt. He lies to the terrorists and claims that he is actually the governor of Florida and worth a small fortune in ransom. They hold him hostage.

Whitney and the ex-governor are held in a small room in Teheran that overlooks a sign advertising the services of the top plastic surgeon in Iran. He is offering a 50% discount for anyone who can pay in US dollars. Whitney calls him on her cell phone and arranges for a free consultation.

While in captivity, Whitney, nose bandaged, persuades the ex-governor that the US invasion of Iraq is a mistake. Our ex-Texas governor, besotted like Osama, agrees with her and, when he is ransomed back to the US, fires those of his advisors who were not decimated by the shark. Now openly president again, he surrounds himself with ACLU lawyers and AIDS activists. He starts a war on poverty and racism, and pulls our troops out of Iraq. He makes good on his promises to the poor people displaced by Katrina, and Spike Lee ends up visiting the White House.

I watched Jon Stewart last night, but I am more of an optimist.

The Sawdust Festival

2006-08-21T17:49:00.000-07:00

The City of Laguna Beach has a good local transit system for their art festival, now in its 40th year. Fewer and fewer hippies, and higher and higher prices for the "fine" art. A nice place to walk around with sisters.

Three Generations

2006-08-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

This August we went to the races for Jim's birthday. Three generations of men in one row.

Delusion

2006-08-04T23:34:00.000-07:00

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!
Do I want to enter? Do I want to give up hope?
Is hope that safe room I seek,
you know, the one where I am the Goddess?
In that room, all those people
around me are kind and gentle;
they accede to my power and wisdom.
In fact, Everyone accedes to me:
parents, children, even strangers.
They all accept MY truth as theirs.
For my truth IS theirs.
In that safe Goddess room,
I dictate the music, I dictate the food.
Is there such a place as that safe room?
Why should I abandon hope if there is such a place?
If I abandon hope, then what fills the resulting vacuum?
Life fills the vacuum.
Life, just as it is, with warts and magic ...

San Diego Summer

2006-07-26T22:43:00.000-07:00

This time of heat, bright light and burning fire
My skin the ocean drapes in Chinese silk.
The sea, a polished amber, mirrors sky.
The sun, near setting, blushes brightly red
while silver grunion leap to celebrate
The looming tide and I with surfer’s bliss
Will go splashing into summer’s eve.

War and Heat

2006-07-23T11:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, the heat broke records all over southern California. It was 113 at Gillespie Field around noon! Care to fly in a hot little plane, anyone?

In Stratfor.com there was a special report on Why Hezbollah Fights on July 22, 2006.

Hezbollah is an organization supported both by Syria and by Iran. These two countries both have a pan-Arab vision of a United Arab Republic, but under the former it will be a secular government (as Nassar dreamt) and under the latter, it would be a religious republic (a la Khomeini).

According to this article, Hezbollah hopes to bog Israel down in the war and wear down her resources, as Iraqi resistance fighters are bogging down the US. Eventually we will bankrupt ourselves on these numerous civil wars (Afghanistan, Iraq, and Lebanon, at the moment). Like the Soviet Union in the 80s after a lengthy invasion of Afghanistan, we shall fall apart. One superpower down, another to go!

When the Romans conquered new provinces they had two military strategies for subduing the locals: the preferred one was to co-opt the natives with the benefits of Roman civilization by offering political power and Roman military support to local chieftains in exchange for the collection of tribute (taxes). If the Romans could not coerce the locals, all males over the age of 10 would be slaughtered and Roman soldiers would be given generous grants of the land with the admonition to marry a local woman, one with power, and thus repopulate the colony with sympathetic friends, cousins even! leave Roman soldiers there with grants of land to repopulate the area with friendlier allies.

I can't see the United States giving benefits to our servicemen for marrying into the local Arab population.

We should realize that we are going to lose in Iraq and that our presence will not result in a likely western-leaning regime. The sooner we exit, the better the chance for a more moderate form of government to take hold there, don't you think?

Mystery Night

2006-07-13T19:17:00.000-07:00

Balboa Park on a humid summer's eve. Casually clad people stroll and picnick, joggers race by spitting sweat onto the asphalt, formally dressed couples head for a reception at the Old Globe Theater, and the Museum of Man hosts Kundalini who recently announced her enlightenment.

It was billed as a mystery night. The foyer of the Museum of Man was mazed with photographs of people, mostly buff young men baring their chests and their elaborate tattoos. In the background, three life-size stone stele rose to the cupola. A painted background hinted at the Mayan jungle.

Filled with light and humidity, I sat down. The crowd was mostly young, both men and women, about 30 in all.

Kundalini came out on the stage dressed in a white Nehru jacket and a maroon embroidered skirt. She was beautiful and emanated warmth and humor. She spoke and likened the spiritual path many times to dieting or getting in shape. Her method of meditation and mindfulness was the "short path." She fielded many questions. Curiously, she never hesitated before replying. She mentioned her teacher, Rama Lenz, once.

We meditated to one song and were charged with "hearing the sounds of the colors" in our head.

She spoke more and we meditated once more. The crowd was adoring. I was hot. I left at intermission, skipping the chocolate chip cookies.

It's a sharkfeed out there

2006-07-06T10:50:00.000-07:00

I went surfing on a Monday, the day before the 4th. The surf report said that the waves were small but shapely. I checked out Sunset Cliffs (flat) and OB Pier (mushy) and decided to go out at Avalanches. From the shore it looked kind of crossed-up and closed out but when I got out there, the waves were surprisingly good. They were fast and steep with nice shoulders. When I paddled out there were 2 other surfers near the same break as me; I caught several screamingly fast lefts. All of the sudden a "school" or "pod" of young and agressive surfers on tiny potato chip boards paddled out. They began to dominate the peak. I got a little frustrated and moved north. I was in perfect position for a fantastic right that was coming my way when one of these aggro-idiots paddled furiously around me to be closer to the peak and thus claim my wave as his. I refused to buy it and took off. Since I'm on a longer board I stood up first, giving me priority on the wave. He was behind me and tried to push me off my surfboard but all that yoga and pilates did me good -- he ended up falling off his board and, since he didn't have a leash, his board was swept to shore. I looked back at him in the water and said, "that was my wave! You paddled around me and I got up first."

I'm a soul surfer from the 70s and I don't like this competitive spirit that has taken over surfing. After all, the ocean will never run out of waves. Shouldn't we share this free bounty from the sea?

Next time this happens, I'm going to take off and put on my most fiercesome scowl and growl, "Ladies first!"

4th of July

2006-07-04T14:30:00.000-07:00

In San Diego on this holiday everyone goes to the beach! OB parking was filled up by 10:00 am this morning I imagine. Me, I ride my bike down to the beach to gawk at the crowds. The recycling scavengers were gleeful --today is a big income day for them. It is sunny, hot, and the waves are small and glassy. I adore summertime!

Riding back to my house I passed the Kaiserhof restaurant. I could hear the cheering and jeering as the customers watched Germany contend with Italy in the World Cup.

American Idol or Idyll Americana?

2006-05-25T08:59:00.000-07:00

A record number of reviewers watched American Idol last night. I found it somewhat corny and the celebrities in the audience looked a bit sheepish when the camera panned them. I asked my 26 (today) year old son why the hoopla? He said that American Idol was simple and reminded him of a less complicated era, the good guy gets the dame. The winner of the popularity contest, Taylor Hicks, affirmed this in his ending statement that we were "living the American dream."

A Canadian newspaper reported that 4 of the 5 idols come from the south; all of the winners come from red states (we blue-staters just cannot agree on anything), and that if it were a radio show contest, Paris or Chris would have won for their vocal performances.

I watched it last night with my son. I found it disturbingly akin to a Miss America Pageant, especially that surprise and bizarre appearance by Prince with a feminized pompadour and lavendar suit with maroon shirt.

Port of Entry Closed

2006-05-18T20:09:00.000-07:00

When you close a port of entry does it become a port of shut?

Mid-day today they closed the San Ysidro border crossing because a US Border agent shot a man suspected of illegal immigrant smuggling. The man who was killed was heading south into Mexico with 4 immigrants. He was taking the immigrants back into Mexico. Why shoot him? Sounds like he was reversing his legal karma.

By the way, I am opposed to this immigrant bashing. Is is a way to siphon our attention from the bungled war in Iraq and the ridiculous profits that oil companies are making?

The only argument I can get out of those who are for walls against immigrants is: "they don't pay taxes; they are a burden on our system."

When I was a college student I lived in an apartment complex that housed several Mexican men working as dishwashers and busboys in restaurants. They had fake IDs and payroll taxes were taken from their meager checks. They never filed for their refunds because they were afraid of the system. They never used our emergency services or obtained food stamps or any type of aid because they didn't want to bring attention to themselves.

Of course, one may argue, the immigrants of today who wait at the 7-11 parking lots and other places for construction day jobs, for which they are paid cash, do NOT pay taxes, yet they benefit from our roads (can they afford to own a car?), and from our police and fire protection. (How many of them have a cell phone to even dial 911?)

The ones who are breaking the law are the employers who avail themselves of this cheap, under-the-table labor. Contractors can't declare the payment as an expense and thus pay taxes on it, and immigrants don't pay taxes on it; that sounds more than fair and our government benefits because the corporate tax is a higher percent than a poverty-level occasional day laborer without benefits.

I had a recorded phone message opposed to the election of Francine Busby. The caller stated that Francine was pro-immigrant and would not protect us from those "criminals who crossed the border illegally, posed a danger to our children, and promoted prostitution."

The caller did not identify the organization that made the call. Perhaps the caller is a mutant?

In the news today there was also a report in Science that scientists (from comparing the human genome with the chimp) have evidence that humans diverged from chimps much later than previously thought. In fact there may have been two divergent lines due to the fact that chimps and hominids probably interbred for a period and we humans resulted from one of these hybrids in which the male must have become fertile. We are like mules!

If this be true, are we approaching another split in the hominid line? Will the red states and blue states quit intermarrying, and cut off from Mexico by a huge fence, will we suffer a Galapagos-style isolation on our population from which spontaneous mutations might arise?

I'm glad I live in a blue state.

Rainbow in the clouds

2006-05-07T13:49:00.000-07:00

Maya Angelou is a rainbow in the clouds and has been blessed to have many rainbows cross her path. I want to be a rainbow, not a cloud.

Milan Kundera was inspired to write one of his books when he watched an older woman throw her arm back by a pool. The gesture was that of a young girl and in that gesture, Milan saw the young girl that woman once was.

It was a gesture last night that brought him to my attention.

I scanned the audience to see what kind of community Maya would attract. More white than black in La Jolla. More young than old. More women than men. The acoustics were bad in the gymnasium and Maya teased that she had once vowed she would never, ever speak again in a college gymnasium. The lights flickered on and off, and the microphone squealed when she sang, but she made light of these irritations and proceeded to enchant us with her smoky and caressing voice.

At one point she recited “Invictus” and I silently mouthed the words with her.

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

She paused on the word “Black” as if it were the main attraction of the poem to her. Her son had once asked her to repeat it verbatim over the phone. When she finished he told her that he was in his doctor’s office having 100 stitches removed, and that her recitation of this paean to stoicism had eased the pain. Poetry, once written, belongs to everyone it helps, according to Maya.

He was seated on the right side of the bleachers, on the aisle closest to the stage. He was rubbing his left ear with two fingers, the ear from which he had a mole removed and the incision had not held, creating a crescent shaped indentation in the rim of his upper ear. I saw this gesture and wondered, could it be him? I looked closer. It was.

A woman sat at his side. Was it his wife? It did not look like her. Was it his daughter? It did not look like her even though she would be 10 years older by now.

Surreptiously I watched from the floor of the gymnasium. His body language, leaning away from her, to the initiated might have read ‘stranger’ or ‘casual acquaintance.’ I knew better. His posture indicated that he was afraid he might be noticed with her by someone who knew him and his wife. That was highly unlikely in this crowd of liberal activists.

When they rose to leave, she took his arm, as if they were dating. Instead of going up the bleachers to exit by the closest route, he chose to lead her down on the floor. Had he seen me? I strode briskly away. I had no desire to play that game of two women eyeing each other in competition for one lousy balding and vain male.

Ten years ago I loved him and he broke my heart by reconciling with his wife and yet trying to keep me on a leash in the background. I used to dream that I was in his house, and his family had come home. I would freeze. If I didn’t move, no one could see me. One day I realized, as Gordon Lightfoot put it, “I will never be set free, as long as I’m a ghost you can’t see.”

I’m not a ghost, I’m not a cloud, I’m a rainbow!

Little Italy Art Walk

2006-05-06T15:44:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was the annual artwalk in Little Italy. I shot these photos there. The following night, Sunday, we went to see the Count Basie Orchestra at the Belly-Up in Solana Beach. Young and old were "hip to the jive."

Sunrise

2006-03-29T09:03:00.000-08:00

I couldn't sleep this morning so I rose before sunrise and went down to OB Pier to watch the sun rise through the clouds. It rained all night.

Rainy Day

2006-03-11T18:11:00.000-08:00

Sitting in my car I'm listening to John Coltrane as the rain and hail strike my windshield and the sun peeks out from behind a cloud.

Aprés the Rain

2006-02-28T21:08:00.000-08:00

The sunset was awesome tonight at Sunset Cliffs. Last surfer in.

Full Moon Yesterday

2006-02-13T23:23:00.000-08:00

I went down to the beach tonight to gaze at the stars before the high pressure fades and the marine layer returns. At Sunset Cliffs the air was slightly filmy and the almost full moon had dimmed the stars. I sat above Cheese-grater Rock and meditated. I watched the waves break and glanced over at the moon occasionally. It had a large ring around it portending a change in weather. After about 10 minutes the cliffs to the north vanished. In the blink of an eye my view was dense with fog. I looked towards the moon. The ring had disappeared and it was a pale orb devoid of light. Snap! Like that the moon disappeared and I was swathed in ghostly nothing. I stood up and extended my arms to the sky where I had last seen the moon and cupped my hands. I cupped my hands and concentrated on the moon. “Come back to me,” I whispered. The moon broke through and lit my path. For five minutes I clenched my hands and begged the moon to be with me. It shone brightly through the fog. The light is always with us, even though we can’t see it.

Aprés menopause and memory

2006-02-13T20:58:00.000-08:00

Reverse puberty is over. The sex hormones are gone and my pituitary has adjusted. It no longer sends out panicked signals to my brain and temperature regulating system crying, “We need estrogen! We need estrogen and the ovaries aren’t responding!”

In this past year of extreme turmoil when I learned to meditate, I would slow down my breathing and focus on my interior state; then would I notice a constant jitter in either my stomach or brain. That jitter was my faithful companion through menopause.

The shakes are gone now. I’m calm for the first time in 10 years. Once an ocean wave, I am now seawater.

It was this inner agitation that drove me to flight, to surf, and to take on more and more tasks at work. I tried to bury that restless energy in constant activity. I would drink wine to calm down on the weekends. I was rushing forward to break on some distant shore. I was not a human being, I was a human doing.

Now I’m content to sit onshore and watch the waves break. That’s surfing in my revised point of view. If I were the worried type I might feel anxious about my new lack of ambition and drive. I haven’t piloted an airplane since September.

I’ve always had a near-photographic memory. Years ago, I dated a Brooklyn Heights Jewish man who was trying to escape his culture by moving to California, owning little, driving a motorcycle, and dabbling in light bondage. He mentioned the artist, Modigliani, to me once and I remarked, “Yeah, the eyes!” He looked at me astonished and said, “you are the only person in California who has ever heard of Modigliani and what he was known for!”

I didn’t tell him that I knew of Modigliani only because he was used as a metaphor (Modigliani eyes) in a Nancy Drew mystery that I read when I was 10 years old. I’ve never seen a Modigliani painting and wouldn't be able to recognize one.

My memory has become less effective without the sex hormones and I fear early onset dementia. I have trouble with dates and numbers now. I read that with normal aging, retrieval of stored memories slows down and one must consciously commit to memory new events using mnemonic tricks; yet 20-year-old memories can be recalled just as pungently as Proust’s madeleine. Dementia and Alzheimer’s not only makes it impossible to remember current stuff but they also corrode the places where old memories are stored. Proust’s biscuit becomes a donut and then a hole in your head.

To test my memory, I try to recall the license plate for the car of the man who broke my heart and about whom I had obsessed for months. This was more than 10 years ago. Each time I saw a car like his in those tweaked months, I’d scan the license plate. Was it his? Was he coming back to me? That number, 1OUR575, still exists in my mind even though that car and license plate were pulverized in some wrecking yard 10 years ago. I don’t have dementia, yet.

Flotsam

2006-02-10T21:19:00.000-08:00

You find the strangest things on the beach. I was walking up towards Playa Langosta early in the morning. The tide was low. I saw a fish's head in the distance and walked over to examine it. Damn if that fish didn't have blue dentures. Whatever!

The Nefarious Turtle Expedition

2006-02-08T18:47:00.000-08:00

It was billed as an eco-adventure. Playa Grande, Costa Rica is a National Reserve for the leatherneck turtle. Access to the beach at night is limited from October through January, in order to protect these behemoth turtles who can weigh in at over 650 pounds and slowly drag themselves up the sand to lay their eggs.

Before we left I had asked Joan and Pat if they wanted to bring a beach towel or water. They shrugged their shoulders as if to ask why. Wasn't this an organized adventure?

I brought water, my Ipod, and a large beach towel.

Our tour departed at 9:15 pm. We were advised that we might have to walk a distance and that sometimes, though not often, turtles were not found. We might have to wait several hours. How many? Someone asked. Oh, no more than three at the most. (That wasthe first lie.) No cameras were allowed. We were welcome to leave the tour at any time. (That was their second lie of the evening).

We took a short boat ride across the estuary to Playa Grande. The boat, an open-air Jungle Cruiser á la Disneyland, lent an air of adventure to the tour. The spirit of Disneyland was further enforced by the folksy and corny humor of the guide.

After disembarking, we walked north for about 5 minutes to a guard post where we were all asked to produce our passport numbers and sign in. Ooops! They forgot to mention this in the literature. So we made up our passport numbers.

That was our first lie of the night.

After giving our passport numbers, we sat down to wait while the "biólogos" searched for a likely turtle. I spread out my towel and generously shared it with Joan and Pat. We all settled down for a long tropical night.

The night was moonless and I was happy to recognize the stars in the sky, especially Orion the hunter with his bow and arrow, albeit in different positions.

The black beans had given me flatulence so when I felt the urge I asked my sister to laugh loudly and mask the sound I was making. We had fun with this masquerade for about an hour.

As the night grew longer, we had an urge to use the restroom.

Donde están los baños? (Where are the bathrooms?) We asked our guide, Gerardo.

He told us that yes, there were bathrooms, in the hotel behind the guard post, but the hotel is closed right now. What to do?

Joan and I snuck off towards the beach to find our own solution. Minutes after I pulled up my shorts, Gerardo approached and scolded us for leaving the perimeter of our group.

The night passed. Near midnight, one party in our group told Gerardo they were tired of waiting; he counseled them to have patience, just a bit more patience. The turtles were worth the long wait. (Another lie!)

Joan and Pat fell asleep on my towel.

I stood on the beach practicing yoga with my IPOD playing jazz while watching Orion cross the sky. Playa Grande is a long wide crescent of sandy beach that ends in a point to the north. The sand is bordered by a fringe of tropical plants and it is utterly black there. To the south I could see the sparse lights of Tamarindo.

The North Star was visible 10 degrees above the horizon because we were 10 degrees above the equator and I realized that its position in San Diego was at about 34 degrees above the horizon to match San Diego's latitude. I had made a scientific discovery! The sky was the real star of this evening's adventure.

At about 2:30 pm, only Gerardo and I were up and about. We chatted in Spanish. He was fascinated by my IPOD. Gerardo had lived in Tamarindo all his life and didn't like the big city. He had learned his English in the streets.

A biólogo radioed Gerardo. A turtle had been spotted about 2 kilometers north of our position. Gerardo woke everyone up and told us to line up in twos. We stood in the line yawning, rubbing our eyes, and shaking off the sand for about 20 minutes. Then Gerardo split the line and sent the first party forward. Joan and Pat were in that party; I was left behind.

Those left behind waited another 20 minutes standing still in the dark. This too reminded me of Disneyland but I was fast losing the spirit of adventure.

The radio crackled and Gerardo urged us forward.

Since I was in front of the line, I was paired with him. He set off at a fast canter on the slanted berm of soft sand. My feet sank into the sand with each step up to my ankles and I had the pressure of the group behind me to keep up the pace. After a few minutes my lungs were burning, my throat was dry, and my calves were aching. I began to limp. When I stubbed my toe on a log, I cursed and dropped out.

Nursing a stubbed toe, I limped along the beach. My group quickly sped away from me into the dark night. Far ahead I tracked a pinpoint red light that the guide carried. The light blinked and disappeared. Except for Orion, I was alone on the dark beach.

I trudged on. And on. And on.

The red light reappeared and grew larger. I walked up to my group. They had clustered around a giant hole; half the group had formed a semi-circle around the hole and were kneeling down; the other half was standing and looking over the heads of the kneelers. There was no room for me.

Joan called my name. I could see her waving to me from the edge of a group of people milling about 15 feet away. I called back to her. She tried to approach me but herguide restrained her. Only 15 people were allowed near the turtle at any one time. Those were the rules.

I caught a glimpse of the giant turtle that was the center of my group’s attention. The biólogo played the red light on the turtles' rear end. Suddenly, the turtle swatted her flipper backwards and a cupful of sand flew onto her back. She rested. Then she flapped her other flipper flicking sand onto the kneelers in my group. I moved towards the head of the turtle and Gerardo stuck his arm out to stop me.

"Stay back!" He warned. "We don't want her to know that we are here."

Yeah right! Even I could smell us, the sweaty tourists who had drunk nice bottles of wine at dinner and then fallen asleep in the sand only to be rudely awakened for a late-night jog down the humid beach. I'm sure the turtle had no idea that we are there, all 15 of us clustered in a semi-circle around her rear end and oohing every slow-motion swat.

Bored I slipped over to Joan's group. That was allowed. Joan was very angry. Pat had dropped out of her group more than half an hour ago, limping, and each time Joan mentioned her concern about our friend to the guide, he would say, "No problem." For every query his response had been, "No problem."

We decided to leave the turtle in peace and head back down the beach to look for Pat. Joan's guide stopped us and told us we were not allowed to leave.

I snapped back in Spanish, "But you told us, 'we can go back at any time!'"

He threatened us with arrest if we wandered alone through the reserve without one of the guides.

"Yeah, and where are the bathrooms? Where is the help for our missing friend? She could be out there in the dark injured and trapped by the upcoming tide! And where is the welcoming cocktail we saw on the brochure?"

We marched off in rebellion. He got on his radio, perhaps to alert the other guides of our mutiny.

We found Pat; she had dropped out from the brutal pace and then was allowed to join a Spanish-speaking group who were watching the rear half of a turtle that was only about 100 meters from where our group had begun its horrible "death march." Joan wondered if perhaps the foreigners were dragged way down the beach while the Spanish speakers were guided to the closer turtles at a more leisurely pace.

Tired of turtles we joined a group that was heading back to the boat. The wind tore at the loose nail of my stubbed toe forcing me to limp. Approaching the shore where the boat was anchored, with my good foot, I stepped on a huge thorn protruding from a submerged branch.

FUCK! I screamed. That was it, the last straw. The guide too late waved his flashlight in front of me to light my path to the boat.

We arrived at our hotel at 3:30 am. Next year I'll skip the turtle expedition.

Costa Rica II

2006-02-08T18:43:00.000-08:00

After the nefarious turtle expedition, we were apprehensive about guided tours and thus came up with our own "sunset cruise with free cocktail." We rented two foam boards and paddled out beyond the waves. Joan had her white wine in a plastic bottle and I, my red. We toasted the setting sun in the 80 degree water. This tour cost us about $10.00.

In San Jose on our way back we were given free drink tickets at the hotel. But the only drink they would give us for the ticket was a "cuba libre." (rum and coke)

The Landlord

2006-01-14T19:13:00.000-08:00

We loaded up everything that would fit into my Volkswagon bug and headed north to San Diego. We stayed with my sister in OB for two weeks until I found a job. With my first paycheck, we went out and found an apartment. My Mexican husband, Paco, watched our son and applied for a green card.

We found a good-sized two-bedroom apartment in National City just east of the 805. It rented for about $250/month back in 1981. We painted our infant son’s room a bright yellow and rented cheap furniture with my second paycheck. This was our new home.

There were 8 apartments in the complex located on a residential street of stately old white houses with wide front porches. If I had to live in an apartment in National City, then this was one of the better locations.

Good location or not, the apartment was infested with roaches. I opened the cupboard above the sink one day and a cockroach fell off the door and hit my nose before landing on the scratched linoleum floor and scurrying under the oven. I screamed and contacted the landlord immediately.

The landlord lived in a 3-bedroom apartment on the 2nd floor. The stairs leading to his residence intersected my kitchen window like security bars. I would be cooking dinner in my kitchen and hear the thud, thud as he trudged up the stairs after a long days’ work. I watched his thin legs climb those stairs, feet encased in tight black leather shoes and ankles covered in thin woolen dress socks.

His name was Bon. Not Bon, James Bon -- just Bon. Bon was retired from the navy and sported a faded tattoo on his right bicep and a butch haircut. Some women might have said he was good-looking. I might have thought the same thing if he had ever smiled. He was lean and his face was chiseled with high cheekbones and a strong chin. When he walked up those stairs, he usually had a cigarette dangling from his lips.

His wife was a black-haired vixen turned fat bitch. Her hair was ratted and shellacked into a beehive that added 5 inches to her 5-foot frame. She had huge breasts that she and Bon must have been proud of, since she displayed them quite freely, even on Sunday when they dressed up to go to church. Her feet were plump sausages stuffed into tight stiletto sandals. Her heels screeched whenever they scraped the cement on the stairs as she passed by my window.

One day I was washing my car as it was parked in front of the apartment. I had left a bucket of soapy water on the stair’s edge. Bon's wife came home and I waved a friendly hello to her while sudsing the hood of my car with a sponge. With narrowed eyes she informed me that I better "never ever again leave a goddamn thing on her stairs!"

I grew red-faced and deeply desirous of a sharp retort, but she was the landlord’s wife so I choked on my words and turned away. I ignored her from that time forward.

Bon was as sour as his wife. On one of the rare instances that he was friendly with Paco, Bon complained about his feet and having to climb those stairs over abnd over, everyday.

He complained about the neighboring dogs too. Behind our apartment there was a small house on a ½-acre lot. There were fruit trees in the yard and two dogs. Bon had complained to the city so relentlessly about those dogs that the owners had been forced to scrape their vocal cords. The muted dogs would linger outside my bedroom window and bark at passersby or birds, only their barks now sounded like two old men wheezing excitedly as they fondled each other in public. I rarely napped in my room in the day.

Paco and I tried to stay on the good side of Bon and his evil wife by being perfect neighbors. We were quiet, we were tidy, and we didn’t complain about the roaches after that first time, or the wheezing dogs out back. It didn’t matter. Sooner or later Bon was bound to hate us.

We had two assigned parking spots. One was a long driveway at the back of the complex. When my sister’s tiny Honda civic broke down, we offered to store it for her until she could decide whether or not it could be repaired. We pushed it into our 2nd spot and parked the Volkswagon in front of it. Bon didn’t like that and one day he told us to move the "goddamn Honda" or he’d take away our 2nd parking spot. We moved the car and began to hunt for a new place to live. One month later we moved into a house; our new landlord lived in Oregon.

I heard later that Bon died after we moved. So acidic was he, that his sweaty and aching feet were prone to athlete’s foot. Bon would combat it by dousing his socks with anti-fungal powder every morning. He would change into fresh socks packed with powder at night. The poison seeped into his bloodstream and killed him. I know it’s wrong, but when I heard this story, a smile escaped my lips.

(written October 2004)

Music, Sweet Music

2006-01-13T09:11:00.000-08:00

I may not have a cell phone, but I now have an IPOD. It fits in the palm of my hand and holds all my favorite CDs. I went to the music store online and downloaded a few of my favorite songs, including "MacArthur Park" by Stan Kenton.

Each song costs .99. I downloaded my Ana Caram CD in which the song "Cumbia" was scratched on my CD player -- on my IPOD there is no skipping!

The earplugs fit neatly into my ears. I can do yoga, I can run, and they stay plugged in.

The music fills my brain, my heart, and my soul. This is the best invention of the century!

I wonder if the shape of our ears will spontaneously mutate over this century and become more bowl-like in the canal to fit the earplugs?

AFTERNOON WITH SOO

2005-12-31T17:47:00.000-08:00

Soo’s question for the new year I’ll ponder.
Is it
Do we eat to live?
Or
Do we live to eat?

I pour out the 11-minute pasta at exactly 11 minutes. Into the metal colander I liberally pour olive oil, sprinkle salt and pepper and then add the crimini mushrooms and pecans that have been lightly sautéed in bacon fat and garlic. I will top it all off with freshly-grated aged parmesan cheese and crushed live basil.

With that meal, I live to eat. There is no greater pleasure than to eat. Or is there?

What about sex and procreation? What about love and recreation?
What about that 4-bedroom model home near the beach?

In each age of our lives we receive a mandate. But the mandate is not clear; it comes to us from our parents, television, and peer pressure. Occasionally, if one is lucky, it comes to us from an enlightened person.

Soo is enlightened but not understood in his own language. If he were understood by many then he would be remembered like Jesus or Buddha. Someone must make his words known.

When Soo eats, he does just that. He eats. When I eat, I am writing or watching TV, or standing in the kitchen. I must learn to just eat.

I should ask Soo to will me his papers. I will cherish them. I will have them translated. I will understand them and then publish.

I’ll go to some tropical paradise with healthy fruits and vegetables, and mild weather year round. I’ll get up early and go to yoga when the surf is down. I'll spend the afternoons editing Soo’s memoirs. I will be dressed in a sari, as the most comfortable garment around. I will sip bottled water all day and at cocktail hour, one glass of wine.

The words will confuse and anger me at times. This translator sucks, I will think, until I grasp that it’s also my mind. Can I take the words of an enlightened man and make them understood by others? This challenge will awaken me.

Is that what happened to St. Paul? Is that what happened to the monks around the Buddha after he died? Who wrote the Qu’ran?

Soo’s words would become mine. With them I would leap forward. Capable of synthesis and unification I would mirror his vision in my own words and yet retain the magic of his original utterance.

Perhaps the question for the next near year should be
Do we human beings live to communicate?
Or
Do we human beings communicate to live?

Sunset from Iron Mountain

2005-12-28T20:10:00.000-08:00

Today Julia, Otis and I climbed Iron Mountain. It's at least an 800 foot climb to 2695 feet.

Driving east to Poway it was gloomy and hazy and I reconciled myself to a climb without view. I was wrong. Magic happened. On the way up, the clouds cleared, and the sun came out. As we stood at the summit the haze disappeared. First I spotted the ocean, a vivid yellow in the center of the screen. Then downtown appeared and Pt. Loma. To the east I could see Mt. Laguna and the Salton Sea. South lay Mexico and San Miguel. North was Palomar. San Diego county painted itself before me.

On descent, the sunset was awesome. It grew redder and redder as we neared the bottom. In one switchback, I caught the sun between the dead limbs of a tree.

Iron Mountain

2005-12-28T20:09:00.000-08:00

Surf's Still Up

2005-12-26T17:21:00.000-08:00

Stonewall looking East

2005-12-26T17:18:00.000-08:00

Stonewall looking West

2005-12-26T17:16:00.000-08:00

Today's Hike

2005-12-26T17:03:00.000-08:00

Today I climbed Stonewall Peak, an 800 foot ascent. I forgot my sweatshirt and wore only a sleeveless summer top with sweatpants. Many people on the trail remarked on my fortitude in the 53 degree wind. I smiled as if I had chosen to go sleeveless; as if there was a nice Goretex jacket in my backpack

A cloud descended on me mid-way up the trail and it grew even colder. I wasn't sure I would be able to see anything when I hit the top. But right as I neared the summit, the cloud broke up and sunshine spilled over me. The photos that accompany this are looking east towards Mt. Laguna, and looking west towards the cloud as it dissipates.

City Scape

2005-12-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

An alien shared this shot of San Diego with me on Christmas Eve.

San Diego Christmas

2005-12-24T10:58:00.000-08:00

Heading to sunset cliffs this morning, the western peninsula was covered with fog so I headed to the bayside. This is what I found.

My favorite view

2005-12-19T18:23:00.000-08:00

San Diego on a high pressure winter's morn.