Dakota

Consumer Report from the Memorial Day Yard Sales

Hi there, I'm back, did you notice? Did you miss me?

I am sorry to report that I was unable to connect wirelessly over the weekend. except in the most fluttering way. I drove around the village with my laptop open on my lap, trying to keep my cursor steady, one eye on the road and the other on the screen, trying to spot potential hookups, to no avail. Since it was 5 AM, I did not hit any pedestrians. The Village Coffee Shop isn't wireless, although it does have an internet connection. I believe I know of one other possibility, the afficionatos at the end of the beach with a thriving family computer business. I'm sure they know enough to lock their wireless tight, but perhaps they will take pity on a blogger, and let me sit on their front lawn from time to time on summer weekends to do a post.

Yard Sailing as a clump on Saturday, we unearthed a pair of Jackie Onassis sunglasses, gradated with a warm brown tint from forehead to upper lip. A find for 50 cents. Their new owner, a Vogue devotee, says the large lens is back. Although she does feel that the glasses make her look like a bumble bee, she wore them all day, a slave to fashion. They make an excellent full face windscreeen when riding a bike.

We also purchased two paperback books. One, in perfect conditon, was dated 1950, and entitled "How to Survive an Atomic Bomb" by Richard Gerstell, Consultant, Civil Defense Office. It's terrifying in that hilarious way. Mr. Gerstell has chosen a question and answer format for this little tome, in which he optimistically answers questions like "What are my chances of surviving a nuclear bomb explosion?"

Answer: " Excellent! "

Regarding "rays", (one of the three components of a nuclear explosion outlined - heat, blast and radiation), we are told, "the rays will not necessarily make you have children who are freaks. Not one of over 12,000 carefully watched Japanese survivors has yet to have an abnormal child because of the rays. Not one of the many animals that lived through the atomic tests at Bikini has had an abnormal offspring. "

"The rays will not make you permanently bald. Some Japanese men and women lost some of the hair on their heads for awhile after the bombing, but even in the worst cases the hair returned in a few months. In no case did baldness remain."

Here's a chatty bit. "All right, let's say I've taken all the safety steps. I've gone down on my face with my head in my arms. The bomb has gone off, I've waited for the all clear, or at least I've waited for a good length of time after the explosion [no length is specified, but you get the feeling he's talking about 15 minutes, not fifteen weeks] after I get up, what do I do then?"

Answer: "The first thing is get set for a shock."

Question: "Why should I get set for a shock?"

Answer: "Because things are going to look different. ....Understand that beforehand. Then you won't get such a jolt when you come out later and see a lot of places that you knew very well, and find them damaged or destroyed.... this book doesn't kid you. It's trying to keep you from being hurt."

I could go on and on. Actually, I had the grim thought that we could use a revised edition of this little paperback, given how badly things have been stirred up by our bad behavior in the Middle East. And, of course there is one .

The second paperback purchased was "The 5-Minute Iliad, and Other Instant Classics: Great Books for the Short Attention Span", by Greg Nagan. Synchronicity, not only because it was tailored for my kind of attention span, but also because, in the evening, we went to see the epic, "Troy" , which is loosely based on The Iliad and spills over into The Odyssey. I. personally, never would have made this film selection, but mutual consensus was involved. This is an antiwar movie, if ever there was one. Lots of retaliation, missed opportunities for peace, gore, battle scenes, widows, warrior psychology, and, of course, the Trojan Horse, which is really from the Odyessy. Brad Pitt, as Achilles, the mighty warrior is quite buff, but too adorable to be ferocious in my book.

Most interesting was that we unknowingly had an, as yet unappreciated, Iliad/Odyssey scholar in our midst -two courses on the Joseph Campbell campus - who critiqued the movie expertly, and taught us much about the history and the literary nuances of the original. We were all disappointed that the director chose to skip entirely all the divine intervention -- the myriad difficulities and miracles in the original manipulated by goddish jealousies, rivalries and whims. Oh well. It was three hours too long anyway.

Finally, I got a new teapot for a dollar.

Photo note: My new teapot. I was a bit disappointed that it only whistles like an ordinary teapot. I had hoped that the bird would warble when the water boiled..

Off to The Cot by the Sea

I am heading out to the cottage for Memorial Day weekend today. Tomorrow at this time, I will hopefully be sucking up vistas at sunrise with my trusty Canon. Not that I don't have enough sunrises in my archives to crash a hard disc, but, like polar fleece jackets , I always think that I need another one, whenever I see one. Greedy girl. At least I don't have to take digital photographs to the Goodwill . They're only electrons.

In any case, this will be my first foray from homebase with my new laptop. If there are no entries for the next several days it will mean:

. I have dropped my laptop while unloading the car
. My laptop has sand in it, and needs vacuuming
. There are no unlocked wireless internet connections at the beach
. There are unlocked wireless internet connections at the beach and I forgot how to connect to them when I found them.
. The Heart of the Village Coffee Shop, miraculously not a Starbucks, which has an internet connection, doesn't have a wireless internet connection.
. I will not have the presence of mind, amidst all the goings on, to think
. I will not have the privacy necessary to call forth the muse
. I will be having such a good time romping in the sun and surf, that I will have momentarily forgotten my duties as a blogger.

I do hope the weather clears up. There is nothing more depressing than rainy days at the beach-- the cold, dank sheets, the soggy snacks, and the mold spores wafting up the nostrils. I am looking forward to fondling my armadillo , having only one bottle of catsup, mustard, mayo and horseradish in my frig at home, the splendor of the dwarf Japanese iris which should be in bloom, and spending time with my sweeties, preferably astride bicycles.

Photo note: A portrait of the Cot looking significantly more elegant than it really is. Suffusion with light is everything.

Apologies are In Order

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When did everyone get so wimpy. Judith Miller taking dictation from Chalabi, Condi Rice , Dr. Rice, needing an exact time and a place before she took action on the memo that said Al Quaeda terrorists were planning an attack within the US. Come on girls. Assertion is required. Questioning is required. Thinking is required. Now, apologies are required.

Perhaps you think I am the pot calling the kettle black . If you have been reading this blog for any time at all, you know that I have terrible trouble thinking, concentratiing and paying attention. Thank heavens I am not in a high powered position in the government or a reporter for a major newspaper.

Photo note: A clinging vine about to cover up a rusty pipe.

Just in case you missed gadgets for God on the last clickie.

The Rock Arranger

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I posted this photo because I thought it was adorable. This is not my creation. It is the altar, face, spirit expression of a woman who lives in the quarters just above Heaven , the coffee shop.

Buddists, American Indians, Esther Hicks channeling Abraham, (I'm sure I'm missing alot of folks here) think everything in existence holds life force energy. Rocks, like metal, and some human beings are just life force energy in its densest form.

Perhaps I am reading rock spirit into this arrangement because it melts my heart when it looks at me with its riveted blue eyes. Mountains (simply a larger form of rock -- I probably don't need to point that out) are always thought to be infused with spirit, and have been an eternal source of creative inspiration.

Inspiration defined -Divine guidance or influence exerted directly on the mind and soul of humankind.
Clickies while looking for the definition of inspiration.

inspirational lit
quotes related to character and ethics
good and evil
learning styles
lightworker cards
inspiration from nature

Concrete Thinking

Concrete thinking is "Thinking characterized by immediate experience, rather than abstractions. It may occur as a primary, developmental defect, or it may develop secondary to organic brain disease or schizophrenia." Actually, concrete thinking is only considered a defect in those individuals over the age of twelve, until then, it's a developmental stage. ( Dialectical thinking , in contrast, is considered the more advanced form of thought, for which we should all be striving, if we are interested in maturing, that is.)

George W. displays an excellent example of concrete thinking with his suggested solution to the abuse of Iraqi prisoners by the military at Abu Ghraib. He proposes to demolish the physical building in which the abuse took place. W.'s magnanimous gesture is equivalent to the Catholic Church closing some parishes(which they are, for financial reasons) in order to prevent the sexual abuse of children by priests. Really.

If the definition above is correct, we have alot to worry about, because we seem to have a person at the helm, with a major developmental deficeit, at best.

The earliest of Piaget's developmental stages, birth to two years, is the sensorimotor stage . At the latter end of this stage, the game, Peek-a-boo, delights babies, because they begin to learn that objects can exist even when they are not in view. W. couldn't be thinking on that level could he? Does he think this problem will really disappear? We can assume that he won't be delighted if it pops up again. The real question is, will he be surprised?

Photo note: There was a concrete wall in my archives, what can I say. It's not pretty, but it is illustrative. You will be interested to know that I had difficulty deciding which, of several, photos of concrete walls to publish. I didn't think a larger version necessary. Please let me know if you need one.

Much more interesting concrete

The Wedding Section Comes Through After All

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Apologies to the Section. When I had to leisure read it with a fine tooth comb , in the bottom corner of the last page, without a photo , was the wedding of Hillary Goodridge and Julie Goodrige, lead plaintiffs in the case the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court to allow same-sex marriage. It never pays to hurry. I should have had a clue that it was there, because it's longer than the usual announcement-- always a sign of something pithy.

Thank goodness Hillary is an executive at the Unitarian Universalist Church. Some wedding photos are published on their website. If you clicked, you will see the Goodridge's wedding cake was donated, so sweet - but not by anyone from Amy Domini , who introduced the pair, ended her wedding speech with "Julie, Hillary, you two may just blow my mind. You take a little thing like a fix-up and turn it into a court case. You take a little thing like a court case and turn it into a national crisis. You take a little thing like a national crisis and turn it into a celebration. And finally, you take a little thing like a joyful celebration and turn it into nothing less than equality, dignity and righteousness for the millions who will now have the right and the courage to say, “I love you….I do” before God, and each other, in this country. " Amy may have improvised from her written document on the Unitarian Universalist site, because the Times had a different version, punchier "You introduce a couple of people, and maybe encourage them a bit, and what happens? A national crisis. The fault line for the presidential election. The coming of Armageddon."

Hillary and Julie are perfect poster girls. They are attractive, smart, clean cut, well educated, executive, articulate, suburban soccer moms. They do not scare us with piercings, mohawks or studded leather wardrobes. They look like just like us; actually much better.

Fame has pumped their googles into the hundreds. I was looking for googles on the girls individually, and I could hardly find one. (Hillary handles rentals for their cottage on Cape Cod.) It seems that they are forever bound together in cyberspace, as well.

On a separate, but related subject, I got an apologetic message from a lesbian friend yesterday. She had called me back because she had been to three weddings over the weekend, plus a celebration outside of Cambridge City Hall, on Sunday night, that lasted into the wee hours. At one of the weddings, every guest was given a sticker with the name of a state on it, which they were required to wear for the bouquet catching ritual. The "state" that caught the bouquet, was the next state to legalize same-sex marriage. You will all be relieved to hear that Vermont caught the bouquet, rather than Utah. Maybe it was rigged. She was New Jersey.

All of my gay and lesbian friends have been so touched, and actually a bit surprised, by the outpouring of support from the community for them. It has been a joyful interlude indeed.

Photo note: Another excuse for a white flower. They are in abundant supply.

A Seduction

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Speaking of Mitt Romney's underwear , I am entering Brian McGrory's column in full here, because newspaper clickies have a way of vaporizing over time. This clarifies my confusion over the threat that gay marriages pose to some of us.

BRIAN MCGRORY
Civilization in ruins
By Brian McGrory, Globe Columnist | May 18, 2004

Back in the old days, which now count as every day before yesterday, I used to look at Mitt Romney as a governor with a lot of unfulfilled potential.

Now, I look at him as a guy with a gorgeous head of hair. For that matter, check out those deep-set eyes, that almost unnaturally trim waist, the incredibly muscled gams. All you Bobbys, Billys, and Brads of the world, you're honestly going to tell me you've never noticed how his exquisitely tailored suits fall just perfectly so?

While we're at it, why do I keep thinking about the old campaign ad in which he strides bare-chested from the surf? Or his manicured hands? I'm sorry, did someone turn on a light or did Mitt flash another smile?

All of which might explain how I came to be standing in the marble corridors of the State House yesterday nervously contemplating the one question I had climbed Beacon Hill to ask: Governor, would you marry me?

Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not gay. At least I don't think so. I mean, I have 42 years of avowed heterosexuality behind me, and enough women who would gladly testify to my physical incompetence and emotional detachment to prove it.

But now, with the advent of gay marriage in Massachusetts, I have these strange feelings, sensations really. Let's call them, for lack of a better word, emotions. I'm confused.

First and foremost, I'm confused as to how to pop the big question. How about, "Mitt, we've grown beyond the usual governor/columnist relationship, and it's time for us to accept the fate that is inexorably ours?" Or, "Mitt, I'd like to invite you to a gay wedding, and you're in it." Or maybe, "Mitt, I know you already have a wife, but how about a husband?"

I was weighing those exact issues when -- holy moley, check it out! -- Tom Finneran, the speaker of the House, sauntered past. I mean, you normally need a zoning variance to have shoulders that broad, but he's got his on unabashed display.

Tommy has returned not one of my calls in my entire career, and it suddenly strikes me that maybe he's just bashful. Or playing hard to get. Could he be combating the same deep desires that I've suddenly found I have?

What's it mean that I'm actually starting to think that Bob Travaglini is cute?

And then it occurs to me that Mitt and Tommy and all those other equally handsome chaps who keep railing on about the sanctity of heterosexual marriage, the undermining of family values, and the bedlam that such a profound social change will cause, they're right. Every one of them. On every point.

One day into a new, threatening reality, everything's changed. I think I saw Bert and Ernie holding hands yesterday morning outside of Cambridge City Hall, and was that Gilligan and the Skipper publicly necking in Provincetown?

I mean, it's all crashing down now, isn't it? Lions and tigers are suddenly eyeing each other in a much different way. Male bonding will soon be taken to unthinkable extremes among otherwise perfectly red-blooded men. Girls' night out will lead to something entirely too permanent. And then what?

Emotions will undoubtedly fray. Families will invariably crumble. This whole marriage thing -- one big house of cards? And yesterday, the whole thing just came crashing down.

Or did it? Did anything really change? Did strong marriages between men and women suddenly weaken, and the weak ones collapse? Did straights suddenly think gay? Has heterosexual commitment become cheap all because a bunch of people of the same gender were finally granted a legal, public, and equal expression of their love?

Actually, you know what, Mitt? Never mind about that little proposal. I think I got caught up in the emotion of the day. It's true, you look great. But given where you are on issues of basic human decency, I'm starting to think you might not wear well over time.

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.

© Copyright 2004 Globe Newspaper Company.

Photo note: There may be a seduction taking place on the bridge, look carefully.

When Criticizing a President

In his review in the New York Times, May 2, 2004, Franklin Foer , associate editor of The New Republic, criticizes John Dean's new book "Worse than Watergate" because Dean "fails to persuade the undecided "..... By the end, the levelheaded Mr. Dean has remade himself as the spitfire Howard Dean....This is a maddening book. Dean has again amassed evidence of a cancer growing on the presidency. But he has forgotten the lesson of his Ervin committee testimony : to strike a blow against a president, it takes a calm demeanor, clear presentation and a voice devoid of rancor."

Here's Michael Moore doing just that, in the New York Times, May 23, 2004. I am telling you that I am quoting from now on, so I don't have to deal with all the transposition of quotation marks that would be required to be grammatically correct. I don't know how to indent in Moveable Type either. Just so you know what I would be doing if I weren't in such a hurry. Here goes:

Asked by a journalist at the news conference what he thought Mr. Bush , the target and, inadvertently, the star of "Fahrenheit 9/11" would make of his Palme d'Or, Mr. Moore was temporarily brought up short. "Does he know what this is?" he wondered. Then, suppressing a wry smile, Cannes newest laureate decided to be gracious. "I'm sure he's proud any time an American can win an award on the international stage", he said.

Photo note: A flag playfully whipping around in the breeze, after dark.

The Wedding Section Precis

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As I ripped open my Times this morning, in haste, as I have ladies coming for luncheon, and much to cover beforehand, I was thrilled that the Section was featuring a gay union today, given the legalization of same sex marriage in Massachusetts this week.

Gay and lesbian couples can get really married now, as in tax advantages, rather than just civil unioned, as in Vermont. The opportunity may be short-lived, but there are mobs plunging through the window that has been opened by the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts. Mitt Romney, the Mormon governor, has his underwear in a knot about this. But it seems that he is helpless to prevent the Nuptial Revolution. But I digress.

Shannon Gibbons and Dominique Simon are the featured couple. I don't know whether I ever mentioned this, but the photographer for "Vows", as the feature is known, is not one to give you a full-face shot of the bride and groom, for which you often find yourself longing (the triple goddess was an exception). There is often a vista, showing an expansive lawn, sprinkled with guests and the bride and groom will be seen as inch high figures a football field away. Another tantilizer is the shot from the back with a full view of the attending official, and the bride's poofy veil and shoulder blade. I think the photos are chosen specifically so as not to detract from the text.

In this case, the main shot (there is always a secondary shot too), is taken through the lattice that seems to be behind the bandstand. We see the artistically blurred lattice, the shoulder blade of what appears to be an attractive, blonde vocalist, an almost a profile of the guitarist (I think it's a guitar), and then the two and a half inch couple, backed by their guests in rapt attention on the lawn, framed by stately trees.

Oh, I thought as I refocused my eyes to get a closer look at the couple, one of them wore a wedding dress, and one of them wore a tuxedo. Then I realized that the featured couple is not gay. The groom is descended from a long line of restauranteurs and vintners from the Loire Valley, and just happens to have what is considered in the USofA, a girl's name. I must admit, I was disappointed in the Section, in the missing-an-important-historic-moment sense. This is not to say I was at all disappointed with the chosen couple, heterosexual though they are.

The bride, Shannon Gibbons, is a jazz vocalist an event organizer, and gourmand . She met Dominique Simon , in a moment of grave disappointment, having ordered foie gras ahead of time for her friend's birthday celebration, at Bouley Bakery , a TriBeCa restaurant where Mr. Simon was general manager. Mr. Simon, whose style we are told, has been satirized in the play , "Fully Committed" , was the sorry soul who announced to Ms. Gibbons "Alas, there is no foie gras".

She, undoubtedly as a result of organizing a few events, (though her snit was vaguely attributed here to her red hair), used her assertiveness training to it's full extent. Although he did not enjoy her persistance, Mr. Simon graciously apologized with a complimentary bottle of Reisling, sent down the street for some take-out foie gras, hid his irritation remarkably well, and eventually acquiesed to her charms.

Their differences, only hinted at, seem to be complementary. Mornings (still gracious, he brings her coffee in bed) are his favorite time of day because "nothing has gone wrong yet" -- (read either a tendency toward pessimism, or too many years in the restaurant business). He says "She's always thinking tomorrow is going to be a better day, that you can always do better. That's a very American spirit, something the French are not raised with."
(Read, she's more optimistic.)

Of course they both love food and cooking, and had a fabulous wedding feast at the New Jersey, English country manor owned by the same friends whose birthday was being celebrated when they first laid eyes on one another over the no-show foie gras. (Someone parse that sentence, please.) Baby lamb, wild salmon and prepared goose livers were served.

Elsewhere: Another first, a photograph of the bride and groom which could only be described as a little rumpled (for the Section, that is). This seems to be an indoor photo, with no wind blowing either. Ariana Speyer, editor of "Index" , board member of Downtown for Democracy and Patrick Sullivan the lead singer and guitarist of the Brooklyn-based honky tonk band, Oakley Hall , are grinning mischieviously into the camera. Reading along in the announcement, we find that they were married on a Wednesday, at the Brooklyn Municipal Building, by an officer of the Brooklyn Marriage Bureau. Later, a nondenominational ceremony was held at the Dreamaway Lodge, in Becket , Mass. Doncha love it?

Photo note: Notice the slight imperfection in the shadows, nay, the distinctly black spot. I could have spent my morning figuring out how to erase it with photoshop, but I thought it metaphorically significant. Besides I have ladies coming for lunch.

Tai Chi or not Tai Chi?

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I just know that everyone is waiting with baited breath to hear about my latest experiment with the mildly exotic. This one takes us to Ancient China.

Since most of my Abraham-Hicks Discussion and Manifestation Group frequent a tui na practioner who is also a Tai Chi afficionato, we have all been referred at one time or another, to someone who could teach us how to do for ourselves what she does for us. And so, many resistances later, yesterday we found ourselves in his backyard, ready to begin. We were joined by a Flemish filmmaker, who has also reached the age of wisdom.

We are a group with a few special requirements. Because of my plantar flexed forefoot problem, I have trouble standing for long periods of time. One of us has a hip problem which precludes moving her hip in certain ways, and two of us have kinesthetic dyslexia. We cannot hear an instruction and make our body do it. We cannot watch a demonstration, and make our body do it. We never know where are body parts are in space, and we cannot remember body based directions, so it's hard to know what to practice. We have printed instruction sheets, but you know my fondness for manuals. The master has his hands full.

I might also add that we are all self described energy junkies and love pumping it up to fill a room. This is the same crowd that went to Providence.

I made the phone call to arrange our lesson, and told the master that we were interested in Tai Chi . When we organized ourselves to begin, our master announced the first step, and my cronies looked at him in horror. They thought we would be learning Qi Gong . I was to blame for that one, since I was just slinging abitrary terms around on the phone. Negotiations began. One of us had taken Tai Chi before, and knew that it exaserbated her hip problem. Two of us didn't know the difference between Qi Gong and Tai Chi, so they were elucidated, and demonstrated .

Qi Gong is the more ancient form, and deals with the management of energy in the body-- producing it , keeping it flowing, and eliminating blockages. Tai Chi is a newer, elaborated form of QiGong with more complex choreography. As the other dyslexic kinesthete commented "Choreography! I can't' even learn the Macarena ."

Qi Gong was chosen by the majority. The Flemish filmmaker was most gracious. We then had to decide whether to learn "Dragon Tiger" or "Opening Energy Gates" Though I think we were all drawn to "Opening Energy Gates", which seems to involve a lot of arm swinging that looked like fun, our master gently guided us toward "Dragon Tiger", noting the requirement of standing in one place for twenty minutes in the beginning of "Energy Gates, as a possible obstacle for me. I think he was a little worried about increasing our energy, before he knows us better.

So "Dragon Tiger" it was. We began by doing isolated movement of our shoulder blades. North, south, east and west, just kidding. Then we were taught the first hand movement initiated at the shoulder blade. Starting with the hand at rest, dangling near the thigh, moving it across the body at the groin (about six inches out, probably tracing the aura or the etheric body, or the astral body or something like that) and lifting it,from the blade, along a meridian, rolling twice, changing direction at the chest, and coming back to rest along the same path. Very Swan Lake.

Even with this tiny bit of practice, I began to experience burning in the fascia across my shoulders. Same problem I had with yoga and sustained postures. Our master reminded me that the Chinese teach students to perform at 70% of their full capacity, (rather than the American 125%). In order to do 70%, I was instructed to practice the movement only once or twice, several times a day. I'm a little worried, because I don't want to develop chronic fascial pain again, just when I seem have it under control.

A tidbit of synchronicity: I just received, via email, an invitation to the opening of
Cloud Hands Press (Cloud Hands is a Qi Gong form, like Dragon Tiger, I think.). I met the translator/publisher in Mexico, where he helped me shoot pelicans diving (a tricky business using a camera with delayed action).

Photo note: I know these masks are Japanese. Close but no cigar .
another crone

Skinner's Box

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Eeks -- Lauren Slater, psychologist , journalist, author, mother and mental health consumer has written a new book, "Opening Skinner's Box" . It seems to have enraged the psychological community. I almost missed the whole hubbub because I've been focusing on the wedding section for the last few Sundays.

The book is about famous psychological experiments, and their later ramifications. In it, Slater describes the experiment, interviews subjects and investigators, talks about the long term ramificatons, tries to duplicate results herself, and pays personal visits to bigwigs.

Here's a good summary by Beatrice of what's been going on. Be sure to start at the bottom and read all the clickies.

Slater seems to have insulted a few honchos, by noting their pecularities. They are retaliating with their fine tooth combs and acid academic acumen.

Deborah Skinner, B.F.'s perfectly sane, living daughter is also furious. She feels that Slater's attempt to locate her for an interview was feeble and propagates a common, if untrue rumor, among psychology students that she was psychotic, before she killed herself, due to being raised in a box by a mad scientist and his compliant wife. The current contraversy will, no doubt, serve to dispell this rumor.

This is exactly why it's tough to be famous or even slightly influential (look what happened to B.F. and Lauren) Also it is why I worry about my own cavalier descriptions of things psychological. Not that I am in any such danger.

Isn't it interesting that all this came to my awareness (via an outdated NY Times Book Review strewn the bathroom) just as I was blogging about fame, intermittant reinforcement and John Money (and the disasterous results of some of his research, thank you Margaret )? I just love it when that happens.

Photo note: This is as close to a Skinner Box that I could find in my archives. I am handicapped at the moment, since I cannot download my camera, or I would have rushed out to find a box to photograph. Oh well.

A Case Against Fame and Fortune

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Why it might be more annoying than fun to be rich and famous:

You can't go anywhere without being recognized

You have very little external reality testing and the sycophants surrounding you often mirror your every nuttiness. You are constantly in danger of developing pathological narcissism.

You have inadvertant influence, so that every decision you make has possible consequences within a wide circle. This is probably true anyway, if we believe the quantum physicists, but it's really in your face if you're famous.

People invade your privacy (look at Belle's du Jour's experience, or Monica Lewinsky's for that matter).

You have to know what you're doing and use your influence ethically, like George Soros, Oprah, or Michael Moore. That's not a bad thing, but I'm sure it's not easy.

You are subject to the transferences of others, both good and bad That creates alot of turbulence around you, and makes it harder to find yourself.

I am in the third ring of the sociogram , to the inside story of a man who just won a whopper state lottery. Even though, as a practicing Buddist, he gave almost his entire winnings to create a charitable foundation that benefits children, he's had an awful time. He had to move out of his house, he's had death threats, his best friend, asked him for half the money. It's a big problem. Esther Hicks, channeling Abraham advises manifesting in small increments so that you are prepared to integrate the changes that occur. She always says, "You don't want to water your garden with a fire hose".

I am so glad to be anonymous, to have the resources that enable me to explore the world and own a camera and a spiffy new laptop, and to have a lovely sprinkle of visitors every day here in my garden.

Photo note: This is Ganesha , one of the gods of this blog. Follow the Ganesha clickies back if you want to know more. The picture is taken in the window of the sacred objects store which used to be near my Ladies Group.

It Probably is Fair

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It's not fair, I haven't even had a comment in what seems like weeks. This entry started out as a whine, and it's still a pretty good one.

In my parenthood excursion, I came across a Weblog Review . It listed the components of a good blog. (I can't find the exact clickie) Their first point (my attention span was too short to digest any more than one, oh well) was that a blog has to identify its author, or at least his or her point of view. I realize that in my whining, I had written a pretty good description of Dakota essence. See how the universe helps, if you just follow your feelings?

A WHINE or A STATEMENT?

The name, Dakota Feinstein came to me in a loose association. I think it's funny, but could be misconstrued as serious. This is intentional. After the name came to me, I began to say that I was going to write a book, and call it "Dakota Feinstein's Spiritual Journey". I like the new age first name and the Jewish last name, in counterpoint, as well as the picture it evokes. I may have to take on a mystical middle name at some point.

When I started this endeavor, I was completely anonymous, because I project shame and humiliation into every new experience, due to early trauma. Anonymity just seemed safer. After a few months, I did tell a few dear and close personal friends what I was up to. I remain anonymous because I write things here that many people would be better off not knowing, as in, you don't want to think about your parents having sex.

I try to publish interesting photographs that illustrate synchronicity and beauty. I've stopped with the dead fish, for the time being. I cover culture, inside looks at seminars, shamanism, energy healing, spiritual journeys, spiritual teachers, intense conscious and unconscious emotions and thoughts, aging, aesthetics, pressing questions, lunacy and what I do with mine, politics and most recently, perversion.

You know, whatever comes into my head.

I have even received continuing education credits for learning some of this stuff. I am about to start Tai Chi for little old ladies who want to increase their goddess energy. See what I mean?

I try not to be boring, to use clickies for astonishment, intermittantly reinforcing the reader's quest for further iinformtion. I try to to keep my sense of humor and awe, and stay at the curious edge of my disbelief as I experience fourth dimensional goings on. Really, what more can a girl do?

Just looked at the list above and said to myself, "No wonder only a few people read this blog?" Who can take it?

In the past I would have said alot more about what I "do" rather than about how I be. This is a blog about coming into being -- doesn't that sound pretentious?

As a friend said to me yesterday, hoisting me gracefully on my own pitard, "When the universe wants people to read your blog, people will read your blog ".

Well, I drew a big crowd for the distribution of the Dakota Disposable Camera and the triple goddess wedding , but, statistically, it's been lean pickings ever since.

I shouldn't be negative. I should get into the energy of abundant readers and then see what happens. An experiment to see if Esther Hicks, channeling Abraham is right.

I just imagined myself being influential or even being read more widely. I don't think that's what I really want. I think I want to banter with a few people--possibly interact. Come to think of it, even that could be intimidating. Why do I think I want recognition? If I recognize myself, and that I am creating whatever I can in my little corner, and tossing it into the evolving universe to expand consciousness, that's plenty. It's actually a big committment. I need to be fine doing it for the sake of doing it -- give up on that other stuff.

I resolve to be thrilled to have created something with my thoughts and feelings over time. Maybe someday, when my attention span elongates, I'll be able to read ihat I wrote, rather than just look at the pictures.

Photo note:The photo isn't that great, but the title rocks, " Narcissus with the Blues".

Addendum: I posted an entry out of order, sorry. It's the one with the flying fairy godmother, two doors down, just in case you missed it. LOOK, LOOK, LOOK. Sometimes I'm just like a kindergartener at Show and Tell.

Addendum #2: Just as I was writing this, I received a valuable contribution from my nettie friend Margaret , who always waters me when I am wilting.

Petticoats

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While snooping around for Swan Lake links, I seem to have discovered a fetish that is new to me, petticoats . Doesn't it make perfect sense?

John Money , who researches sex and gender issues at Johns Hopkins, talks about the development of "love maps", in which early eroticized experiences become the basis for later sexual attractions and interests.

I once knew a man whose mother played, "This is the Way the Ladies Ride" with him. He mounted her foot and she rocked it gently for ladies, more vigorously for gentlemen, and wildly for Indians. Needless to say, this was before political correctness reached our awareness. He was erotically stimulated. As these were the olden days, his mother also wore nylon stockings while she played. As a consequence, he was fixated on stockings as part of his adult erotic experience.

You can absolutely see how petticoats became eroticized for children of the 50's. All those toddlers spending time under the dining room table, watching their fashionable mommies rustle crinolines.

Crinoline castle
Petticoat Pond .

Photo note: The resemblence should be obvious. Isn't it amazing that I had one of these in the archive? Also a legitimate excuse to use yet another phlower photo.

Blogging and Having Babies

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Stumbling around, humbling around, on the web this morning I discovered (for me) an entirely new genre of blog, the parent variety- -and what fun they are.
Why, I ask myself, have they never crossed my virtual consciousness? I think the answer is that I have passed that developmental stage, however clumsily. I never needed friends and support more than when I entered the field of childrearing. I had some wonderful friends, but, in the olden days, when we managed to get together, we were always juggling babies and car seats, and had to scream to hear one another over the constant din. What a gift is the web.

I have no idea how these mommies and daddies produce what they do. Perhaps they are techowhizzes, and type 120 words per minute. I couldn't even think when I had toddlers (actually, that turns out to be a chronic problem). I would also fall asleep at 7 PM. If I had been writing a blog back then, I would have dropped off with my finger on a key and you would have only seen something like rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. In any case these parent bloggers are multitalented, multitaskers.

Here is a wonderful addition to the question of why people blog from the mommy blog

moms who blog

a mommy and daddy blog

a daddy blog

two daddys blog

I can't find a two mommy blog - help!

transgendered parents

All of these folks are heavily networked, and they even have time to play the haiku too. Very impressive.

Photo note: When I chose this photo, I was just thinking about mothers. I left it here, because I decided that everyone with kids can use a fairygodmother.

Swan Lake, Act I

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Swan Lake was performed at the ballet on Saturday night. As do most classical ballets. Swan Lake simply drips romance, and ends in tragedy, if unlike Esther Hicks channeling Abraham , you consider death a tragedy.

The ballet begins on the castle lawn as Siegfried, the prince, is coming of age. After a rollicking ten minutes, his mother, the queen, disapprovingly interrupts the pick-up birthday celebration with his drinking buddies and the locals. In this production, his mother is played by a retired favorite ballerina, who often, in the past, danced the part of the main squeeze swan. In spite of her impressive 800 pound costume, she was recognized and applauded by those in the audience who follow these things. Mother, the queen, is carrying Sig's birthday present, which she presents to him.-- a nifty, new, gold-pinstriped crossbow . The crossbow is important.

A party on a lawn or in the village square is a popular opening sequence in a "story" ballet. It provides many opportunities for leaping, locking elbows while twirling with silver goblets in hand, and dancing to themes taken from traditional folk music. It also gets the audience in a good mood; we were all happy that we came.

This company's Seigfried, a brand new hire, has the small disadvantage of looking exactly like ER's Dr. John Carter , Noah Wyle. Since he is Cuban, only performing in Cuba and Europe, he has probably never been associated with ER, and his striking resemblence has not affected his career as a balledondo. For me, seeing a doctor in the romantic lead, even one with such a great butt, was a bit of a damper. Even Noah Wyle says about his character “I wouldn’t want to be Dr. Carter’s patient. He’s extremely well meaning and eager to do a good job and be noticed for doing a good job, but he’s a klutz who is easily overcome by pressure". Cute, but not the makings of a prince-to-die-for.

Mother reminds Sig about the official palace party the next evening, where he is expected to get down to prince business and chose a princess with whom to settle down and procreate. Six eligible princesses have been invited to the fete for his perusal. He is bummed, since this will be the end of sowing wild oats .

Fortuitiously, as the scene comes to an end, he sees a flock of wild swans flying overhead, and decides to take out his aggression and disappointment by killing a few of them with his new crossbow. This did not endear him to me. At the end of the first act, we see him leaping, alone, into the forest, toward the mysterious lake where the swans hang.

I have a few swan photos, having communed with them energetically once in a while --no Wonder Bread involved. Therefore I will draw out this story, so I can use the photos.

If It's a Wedding Page Summary, It Must Be Sunday

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Someone who was searching on the web for "les foufous man" landed here yesterday. Goodness. When I googled "les foufous man" many French sites appeared, but I couldn't find a translation for "foufous" in the French-English dictionary . The following is simply another good example of foufous .

Well, featured in this Sunday"s New York Times is the wedding of Susan Arbetter , a talk show host for public radio in Albany, with a voice with which to fall in love , married William Danielson , Nordic giant and former forest ranger, who now teaches high school history and biology. He is the author of "Speaking of Nature" and had (this touched my heart) a quiet Bachelor Bird Walk in lieu of a more traditional rowdy event.

When Mr. Danielson accompanied his $50 pledge to his local public radio station (another heartwarmer) with a dinner invitation to Ms. Arbetter, who was celebrating her birthday during the fund drive, she had to refuse because she was otherwise romantically involved.

Undaunted, he sent his book to her, and, fatefully, it popped out of her pile (note: a cute cover pays off, see clickie). Since she hosts a three-hour, daily show, and is always searching for guests, she invited Mr. Danielson to be hers, so to speak. It was instant attraction, on the air. We are told that there was so much giggling, that Ms. Arbetter's cohost felt it necessary to intervene.

Their featured photograph is shot from the back, and shows them both wearing Viking helmets , the Brunhilda kind, with horns, (hers has a veil, in addition) in honor of his Nordic roots. In the background, on the left you can see that all of the guests at one table, no doubt his clan, are also wearing Viking regalia . Predictably, much hilarity was inspired by the horns.

Here's the differentiation part. He's an enthusiatic outdoorsman, she's a girl, after my own heart, who has to be in a place where she can plug in her hairdryer. Their first, bare bones, trial, camping trip lasted four hours, due to bugs, scary noises and, I suspect, pluglessness. She has vowed to go camping with him annually, he has, in turn, promised to "protect his bride from' all insects, great and small' ".

Observations in the rest of the Section.

An inordinate number of doctors and doctors-to-be married one another this week. Perhaps they are taking advantage of the teeny break they have between medical school and internship or internship and residency.

There were no gay weddings this week, everyone is waiting until tomorrow. In anticipation of same-sex marriage becoming legal in Massachusetts May 17, James Barron wrote a piece on the linguistics of marriage to a same-sex partner. I hope that there will be another "first" in the Section next Sunday --a same-sex Featured Couple. Stay tuned.

Lastly, another couple is reported to have survived a "challenge" during their courtship. "Ms. Grava's dog ate Mr. Lubys' hearing aid, which he had left on a table while he was visiting her." I hope they were both insured .

The wedding season is coming to it's peak. My coverage is getting sloppy, because there are too many ceremonies to sift through this time of year.

Photo note: Having run out of spectacular wedding cakes , I am feeling free to use my most sappy flower shots. Actually I took several weddingy pictures this week, but someone unplugged my dazzle (as well as my sound) and I have no way to transfer them out of my camera.

Technocrone

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I did it. I am the proud owner of a Toshiba laptop which will enable me to blog even in places where I cannot plug in my hairdryer. I have been obsessing for a few months about this, ever since my Journey to the Wild Divine arrived, and had no place to explore it's mysteries at my house.

Now I will have to spend time and money at Starbucks and learn the etiquette of plugging in appropriately and/or positioning myself in wireless waves, since I haven't figured out how to plug in my own wireless adapter yet.

Caught up in technofury, I also got a new cellphone to replace the one I bought for my mother six years ago when she broke her hip and was temporairily admitted to a nursing home/ "rehabilitation" facility where patients answered the phone at the nurse's station after it rang 50 times, and fragile, demented souls were found inadvertantly locked in broom closets where they had wandered.

She never figured out how to use the darn thing, but at least her round-the-clock, private duty nurses could answer a call and put her on. (I am sure that patients without family or advocates at their sides 24/7 died in that place. When I called to report the facility to the state, there were already 200 complaints filed. It closed.)

My mother gave me the cell phone back to me for Christmas that year. Its LCD screen no longer lights up. That's okay, I know how to dial numbers without a display, because I have been making calls on a regular phone all my life. I just wanted a new one that would ring like fairy dust descending, like Chopin, like temple bells. Since that feature isn't built into my new instrument, I see that I have inadvertantly given myself a new technological challenge.

My laptop doesn't seem to have a word processing program either.

Many manuals challenge
attention deficeits

Excited anticipation
overrides anxiety

Experimentation
builds competence

Photo note: I don't know-- it had that slightly techie look, the light, the bent light, and the brick wall.

My May Ladies Group

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All five fledgling shamanettes were there this month, and we added a new member.

We did a little processing about the energies each of us are trying to transform in ourselves .. a nice variety including betrayal, abandonment, neglect, intrusion, and victim/perpetrator.

Our leader shared her dream about George W. or Cheney sitting in a circle of goddess energy. Through some mystical means (initiated by the goddesses... of course I can't remember the exact details), he realized what he had been doing, and melted with horror and regret, heaving great sobs, as he faced reality. The goddesses were there to help him in his healing, naturally.

Because I am working to transform victim/perpetrator energy within myself at the moment, nay, my whole life, I did not find myself in such a charitable resonance. The week's goings on have, instead, aroused my wish to retaliate.

As a somatizer, I felt this twisted stagnant energy/repression as pain in my right side ( yin or yang , I can never remember). It originates in my right shoulder and jaw and radiates up my neck and halfway across my back and down my arms. It also makes quite an ungodly noise, like someone turning an unoiled, rusted wheel, while simultaneously scraping the black board with fingernails. When it was my turn, we worked with the tenacious little devil . Although that part of myself wasn't completely transformed, I did feel a little more playful about it. I was reminded that it's a slow process, and it may take some time to fluff this one up.

We did other fourth dimensional healings and hashed out some conflicts between third dimensional schedules and fourth dimensional timelessness.

Although the Tibetans and the Indians seemed to be missing this month, (what do I know, they may have been there for me and I just wasn't paying attention), the angels definitely arrived in at the end for a welcomed heavenly chorus.

As one of us commented, it isn't exactly a bridge club.

Photo note: There is tenant in the "Heaven" building, where my Ladies Group meets, who makes little rock arrangements and artfully places them around the premises. This particular rocky duo is in the corner of the third floor deck. Getting a seventy five pound rock up the stairs was no mean feat. I found it perfectly primordial , befitting my Ladies Group.

From Another Angle

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As a photographer, of sorts, I always appreciate it when my passers-by wear something that improves the shot. In this case, our adorable pregnant woman chose pink instead of ......I would have preferred, either acid green or some shade of blue.

Have you noticed that I hardly ever take photos of people? I just had the thought that, photographically speaking I treat people like objects . As if their wardrobe is my only concern, not their spirit. I can do that without deadly consequences. That's why taking pictures (in my case) is called a hobby.

When humans are objectified, it is easy to send them to war, to call them names like "geek", to torture them, and to kill them. I try to limit my objectifying activity to wardrobe criticism.

The real reason that I don't photograph people is because, no matter what race or ethnicity, their skin almost always turns out some shade of vivid orange. (Perhaps if I read my camera instructions, I could correct that problem). In addition, I have very little sense of the emotional body , and I cannot capture it on film yet.

Family of Man 2

The other angle

A very good picture of the emotional body in case you missed it the first time

Awning with Spring Buds

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This is another photo in my attempt to show spring buds against an interesting background that doesn't overwhelm the delicacy of burgeoning. In this photo, I think the drape of the chaff of wheat is an adorable counterpoint to the drape of the budding branches.

That said, there is a huge fly in my office this morning. Whatever is it doing up at 4 AM? It is reminding me of a favorite website that I can use to soothe myself in the midst of all my political snits. I hope it buzzes for you.

Strung along

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Testing acumen..testing acumen... Not great, and I can't figure out how to edit this so that the concepts flow. I'm publishing anyway.

I am experiencing sadistic rage. I have been drawn into that energy by our administration. I am sorry to add my vitriol to the world cup of sadism which already overfloweth. Of course, The Group that Runs George W. (actually, I think W. has joined them recently, and is participating more actively) has stimulated me, by providing multiple occasions upon which I to want to squash their arrogant pusses into rotten pumpkins and ..., oops,...

Unlike anger, the perpetrator of sadistic rage wants its object to experience the same thing, or worse, than he or she is experiencing, or had experienced. This can be conscious or unconscious (like the sexually abusing priest who had been raped as a child by other priests, and may or may not remember). In that vein, I would like to see The Group publically humiliated, before they are run out of office for criminal behaviors.

I think George W. is the only president we have ever had (notice I didn't say elected) who wasn't the family favorite. Most presidents are the apples of their parents' eyes, given their ability to achieve. Not our W. He is the Billy Carter , the Roger Clinton , of his family, but, with the combined help of the fundamentalists and the interests of big business, he made it to a position of authority. Oops.

It's a little heady for a guy who has always been the black sheep of his family to be given a great deal of power.

But I digress. Where does the line get drawn between setting firm limits and protecting boundaries with "righteous anger" versus active sadism ? Good question.

The invasion of Iraq was not an act of protecting boundaries, even though the Weapons of Mass Destruction Line was meant to justify our agressive greedy behavior. We behaved like bullies. We bullied Iraq. We also bulliied our allies and the United Nations when they attempted to intervene in our "plans"

Since our greedy, territorial invasion was not welcomed as a liberation, and resisted, there is now the rage of the arrogant narcissist to deal with. It is only reflected by the behavior of our troops and their treatment of Iraqi prisoners. These are not just six "bad" soldiers. The soldiers in the photos are the manifestations of the intentions of this administration. The heirarchy is angry about the resistance they are encountering, and they were sanctioning sadistic behavior .... before they were exposed, that is.

It is a tenet of systems theory that every aspect of a system is inherently connected to all other parts. For example, when a child is acting out in a family system, he or she is often reflecting disturbances in the parental unit, or even in past generations. Systemically speaking, I think what we are seeing in these photos from Iraq is the amount of sadistic energy that is pervasive in this effort, and, it has been generated from the top down.

Nelson Mandala was acutely aware of the effects of sadistic behavior on its victims. He calls it succumbing to "the disease of violence". (That was his sad comment when his ex-wife, Winnie, was arrested for murder). In order to prevent the victims of apartheid from becoming perpetrators in their rage at what had been done to them, Mandala set up the Truth and Reconciliation Commission which held tribunals . In a tribunal, an apology with full disclosure and awareness of the atrocities that were committed, was required from perpetrators, sitting face to face with their victims. Mandala hoped that this would produce some healing in South Africa, allowing the victims of apartheid to reach a state of forgiveness, thus preventing bloody retributions. There is some question about the ulltimate success of this process. It does however reflect thoughtful leadership.

I am not ready to give up my wish for retribution. Of course, there have been no apologies. I eagerly await the exposure and demise of The Group that Runs George W. I just hope they get caught before I succumb entirely to my sadistic impulses, or they to theirs.

Addendum: "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" , in it's day, was an enlightened idea. It replaced, in those that chose to practice it, "Anyone who messes with my tribe, will get back what they gave five or ten times over". There's no time like the present for another philosophical update .

Photo note: This the equipment of a lobsterman in winter storage - quite aesthetically arranged, I might add. Or you could see it as the heads of The Group that Runs George W. strung up. It's just a photo after all.

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Chairs

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A slow morning. I have a persistant pain in the neck. Whatever could I be expressing somatically that I am not blogging about? Beheadings? I guess they showed us. What will we do to show them back?

I took a muscle relaxant last night because my neck was killing me. It has relaxed my acumen, rather than my muscles. I bought it on-line without a prescription when I had such terrible fascial pain, just to give it a try. Recently, someone asked me for the name of the pharmacy I used, and, when I looked up the pharmacy, it had been shut down by the Feds. Nice to see that they're doing their jobs.

It is a little shocking to see just what you can buy on-line without a prescription. Tranquilizers like Klonopin and Librium, sleeping medications like Sonata, pain killers. A person could get habituated .

See, all I'm good for today is fact dumping and a pretty picture, and hardly even that.

Athena, steaming

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See that little statue silhouetted against the sky. That is Athena , goddess of wisdom, reason and purity (atop the Atheneum). Looks like she's steaming, but who's to say.

Maybe she knows what the next set of photos and videos contain. Really, what could be much worse than the ones we've seen already? Rape? Murder?

A letter to the editor of The Boston Globe, May 12, 2004 from Erica Verillo, Williamsburg:

"English Lessons for our Leaders"

"The Bush administration seems to have a serious problem with reality. The most recent reality challenge is the policy of torture in both Iraq and Afghanistan, which the administration is franically redefining as "abuse", "excesses", and "humiliation". We even have Secretary Rumsfeld describing footage of several American soldiers " having sex" with a female Iraqi prisoner.

Let's have a little plain English here. "Having sex" with a prisoner is known as "rape". Systematic beatings are called "torture". Excesses that lead to death are called "murder". The hundreds of women and children in mass graves in Falluhah are the product of a "massacre". Taken together, all of these add up to "atrocities".

The dessemination of "incomplete information" from "imperfect intelligence" is called "lies". The billions of dollars that Halliburton and Bechtel have reaped in profits are called "war profiteering". The invasion of Iraq is called "illegal" , The destruction of America's international standing is calle "permanent". And Texaco/Phillips' high bid for Iraqi oil is called "why we are in Iraq".

When did we stop praying to Athena, anyway?

More fish rotting

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I fear that both of you will tire of seeing this picture over and over.

In "The Misunderestimated Man: How Bush Chose Stupidity" Jacob Weisberg makes a case that Bush's antiintellectual style developed as a rebellion against his father.

"Curiously, this late arrival at adulthood did not involve Bush becoming in any way thoughtful. Having chosen stupidity as rebellion, he stuck with it out of conformity. The promise-keeper, reformed-alkie path he chose not only drastically curtailed personal choices he no longer wanted, it also supplied an all-encompassing order, offered guidance on policy, and prevented the need for much actual information. Bush's old answer to hard questions was, "I don't know and, who cares." His new answer was, "Wait a second while I check with Jesus."

W. didn't check with Jesus soon enough when the treatment of Iraqi prisoners was brought to his attention months ago. In A Fish Rots fom the Head , Brad Delong quotes Kevin Drum :

"According to eye witnesses to debate at the highest levels of the Administration...whenever Powell or [Richard] Armitage sought to question prisoner treatment issues, they were forced to endure what our source characterizes as 'around the table, coarse, vulgar, frat-boy bully remarks about what these tough guys would do if THEY ever got their hands on prisoners."

Bet it wasn't what Jesus would have done. Maybe W. fell back on his old tactics, treat it as a joke until it catches up with you.

We know that drug and alcohol addiction, whenever it begins, brings emotional development to an abrupt halt. The addict, in a stupor much of the time, misses life's important lessons. Often, when sobriety is achieved, one finds a fourteen year old in a forty year old body. Sound like anyone we know?

Well, the administration seems to have learned it's lesson about photographs . I will be surprised if the new ones will be released, sparing the public visions of the cruelty and sadism of war. No coffins or mutilated bodies either. Thank you so much.

Tears

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I have already been moved to tears twice this morning and it's hardly 6AM

My dear friend, whom I met when we both had baby spit-up running down the back of our pea jackets, sent me a moving piece that she had written about the death of her beloved dog, Maggie. Actually two deaths, given that she mistook a drowsy reaction to a tranquilizer for the real thing. It was great practice though, and, when the time came, she was exquisitely attuned and present for Maggie's transition.

My friend has spent at least the last ten years in a particular form of meditation; attuning to animals. Maggie wasn't her only love. At about age 50, she started to ride horses and commune with them while mounted. She had passionate relationships with a few along the way. Now she has advanced to the most sensitive of Portugese stallions . Riding them, as she describes it, is like dismantling a land mine -- perfect attunment is required or the consequences are dire.

I just remembered a description that I often quote from her. She was diagnosed with a particularly difficult, but not necessarily fatal, form of cancer, a decade ago. She had just begun riding around that time. When she told me about it, she said that getting the diagnosis was like having a stallion jump through her window and land in the middle of her kitchen table.

It was an awakening, terrifying and profoundly life changing. Now she is riding stallions. She also does triathalons to prepare for riding stallions.

When she first started doing triathalons she was in the "Athena" category, (women over 140 over 50). No longer, but, at the time we were highly amused. Athena, the goddess of wisdom, reason and purity, is the first of the three virgin goddesses, fitting nicely into our triple goddess theme.

Esther Hicks, channeling Abraham , tells us that all the "creatures" of the earth are responsible for the continuing flow of well being, even when humans, who are so free that they can choose suffering, do so. Attuning to a "creature of choice" is one way to connect with life force energy.

Sometimes I feel that I do that with the swans , when they swim over to me to be photographed. The more cynical part of me thinks that they are just hoping for Wonder Bread. It's interesting that my allergies, and my unwillingness to care for another soul, at present, has left me without a connection of this sort.

The second thing that touched me this morning was Kurt Vonnegut's description of his son's remarkable recovery from a psychotic episode. "...some people survived going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Others didn't. The turbulence is really something."

Vonnegut quotes Francis Bacon on the vulnerablity of loving anyone or any creature passionately "He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune." Vonnegut has seven hostages to fortune, maybe even more, his grandson just got married.

Photo note: Another pretty picture from October Farm, somewhat belying the content of this entry.

An Architectural Wedding

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Here are the highlights from the New York Times Wedding Section this Sunday, so that you can follow the war, the economy and the Bush administration's deceit and arrogance, rather than waste Sunday morning with your nose in the froufrou. Those of you who live in swing states, and would not ordinarily get the Sunday Times, should pay attention to those things too.

I do hope I have an architectural bridal photograph for this. I seem to have posted alot of architectural pictures lately, and may have blown my wad.

The marriage of Andrea Monfried, an editor of architectural books, and Mike Harshman, an architect, is featured. The piece is peppered with architects - Carlo Scarpa (the bride couldn't spend her life with someone who didn't know who he was), Alvar Aalto , Philip Johnson (possible famous houses in which to have the wedding). Paul Rudolf (the reception took place in a house of his design) Frank Gehry (a wedding cake in the shape of the Bilboa Guggenheim was considered) Peter Eisenman (an attending architectural guest) and Jean Nouvel (honeymoon destination, Paris).

The bride is a girl after my own heart, a "pack rat" (as described by the groom) with a snappy answer (her defense, "I'm an archivist") Her wit has served her well through a relationship with a person with strong aethetic sensibilities, "I had no idea that, as an architect, he would have to have so much control over the living space". When he moved into her apartment (it would probably have been easier for her to move into his space, in "historic Brooklyn", because she doesn't care as much about aesthetics, but perhaps her place was in a better location or is rent controlled), he purged her outdated Conran's furniture (possibly discarding something of collectible value in the future -- my archivist's point of view) and designed cabinets to hide her piles.

She explained that their first date was "not a blind date, but a myopic one" and that "When you buy a piece of furniture with an architect, first you have to know the program". Adorable.

There is a first in the Wedding Section this morning. A further iteration in the couple-with-hair-blowing-in-the-wind portrait trend --Furniture in the Picture --in this case, two rustic wooden lawn chairs. Remember this is just the beginning. The couple, embracing across the space between the chairs, hair blowing, in the case of the bride, firmly affixed with baseball cap, in the case of the groom, are wearing hiking boots and ski sweaters in front of what might be a lodge.

Finally, Mark Vonnegut's son Eli married. He is the grandson of Kurt Vonnegut who, modestly, isn't mentioned as one of Eli's ancestors, the surname has a high recognition value though.

Photo note: The buildings in the background of this photo are those of Lluis Sert ., I think. It was nearly impossible to come up with a weddingy architectural shot, and this is the best I could do without taking a trip to Newport .

Sweet Faces

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I promise that this will be the last you will hear of narcissus
and narcissists , good and bad, judged and unjudged for the season.

When does a narcissist apologize? When he thinks he's about to lose his job.

When do we accept a narcissist's apology? When we think he will be replaced by a similar sort.

Too bad this administration just spent the last six months tying off Colin Powell's testicles and waiting for them to drop off. He might have been a popular replacement for Rumsfeld, and he does know his way around war. (Pardon my analogy, the Iraqi prison pictures have permeated my unconscious mind. I will not hypertext them because you don't need them in yours, or maybe we all do so we can wake up.)

Joseph Conrad's The Nigger of the Narcissus" Weren't we just talking about Joseph Conrad and his supposed writer's block.

scroll down for the poem

the Story of Cybele

Narcissus

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I had been in search of a good narcissus specimen in the neighborhood yesterday, both for bloggish thematic continuity and because its blooming season is limited and happening at this very moment.

The universe provides. October Farm had veritable fields of narcissus, blooming in clumps like albino cow plops all over the greenswards. The photos of this abundance look exactly as described, albino cow plops on vast fields of green. You'll just have to use your imagination, since it will be much better than the pictures.

Fortunately, the passionate gardener had thoughtfully tucked narcissus along the ancient stone walls, providing better photographic opportunities.

My evening was just chock full of narcissus and narcissists (in the play, of course).

TuTulips

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I spent the evening at a delightful amateur theatricale, half of which was devoted to scenes from "Beyond Therapy" a play by Christopher Durang . (If and when you follow this hypertext highway, do not miss "click on Liv Ulmann having a nervous breakdown".)

One of my dear and close personal friends played a perfect cad of a therapist; a narcissist, complete with gold chains. It was all the more amusing because he is a therapist in real life, and was forcibly scripted to say a few things that he otherwise would have had to repress, that is, if he ever thought them in the first place.

In any case, the theatricale was held in the Hunt Room of October Farm, which still houses a hunt on occasion - no fox these days, just mink musk drippings dragged before the hounds (that was what I was told, but the internet contradicts ). The main house was built in 1744 and has been delightfully preserved. The grounds are luscious, clearly tended by someone devoted to gardening. Needless to say, I took a few pictures.

Unfortunately, I arrived just a dusk, without my tripod (which I never use, but should) and many of my photos are blurry. I actually wanted to take gombs of photos in the house, but it felt a bit intrusive, even though our hosts were encouraging. I also missed a few great shots because I was unwilling to roll on the grass in my good linen.

gifts for fox hunters" do not miss the fox hunt mouse pad.

Tulips

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This is meant as a retina refresher for all of you who have turned to Dakota after following Rumsfeld's testimony all afternoon while simultaneously reading Atrios and listening to Air America and NPR, if you still trust them.

This is fresh off the compact flash card, shot this morning and served up to you like an herbal sorbet. Now you can go back to the important disclosures that are breaking.

My photo display
suffers
when
I am
at a loss
for words

Writer's Block

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A package arrived from Amazon today with a book I had ordered from a friend and a two volume set of "Isis Unveiled" by Madame Blavatsky, the founder of theosophy. I definitely remember ordering "The Midnight Disease" , but not the theosophy books. Perhaps they were on special, and I inadvertantly pushed "add to cart". Oh well, I will assume that they are here for a reason, and try to read them, or more likely open them to pertinent passages (given the condition of my attention).

Here's the passage that fell open in "The Midnight Disease" in a segment about writer's block entitled "What It Feels Like"

Although writer's block can have many manifestations and many causes all blocked writers share two traits: they do not write despite being intellectually capable of doing so, and they suffer because they are not writing. That definition, though simple, allows us to peel away several other states that have important differences from writer's block.

In some ways block is a phenomenon opposite to hypergraphia. Yet in some surprising ways the two brain states are complementary without actually being opposites, which is why a writer can alternate between hypergraphia and block. Writers can even be hypergraphic and blocked at the same time as when Joseph Conrad frantically wrote letters to friends while putting off novels. "

Could we be talking about blogging?

Following an agonizing hypergraphic quote from Joseph Conrad describing his own block...

"This long passage, even longer in the original, paints vividly the sick horror of feeling block. But it's verbosity also shows how closely related hypergraphia and, at least some writer's block, can be in the overpowering desire to write.

Defining block as writing less (much less) than the writer wants to has the result that there can be writers with normal productivity who have an agonizing sensation of block because they are not as productive as they want to be...

The sensation can arise from different roots. There is the writer's throbbing self-criticism, which may itself be the source of the block. There is also that strangled feeling of inarticulateness, of ideas coming faster than words, of not being able to express what is inside. And there may be the dull gnawing of feeliing empty, of not having ideas to express.

Why is suffering a major criterion for writer's block? Because someone who is not writing but not suffering does not have writer's block, He or she is merely not writing. Such times may instead be fallow periods for the development of new ideas, periods Keats famously described as "delicious diligent indolence".

Blog block is more like not being able to write a letter to your mother, although, come to think of it, that problem may have quite a different etiology.

Photo note: This is a back view of the previous photo without the drapes. I find it quite blocky.

Drapery

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The thing I like most about this picture is that the kids are lying on a piece of sculpture getting a tan. It seems so irreverent. I think they actually add to the aesthetics, given that they were wise enough to wear sky colored clothing.

A Poem for Elongation

How could this blue beautiful
hold

sun touches that
shadow us ever after
an afternoon of
luscious?

A Surface Just Waiting for a Painted Narcissis

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In my dream, this is just the kind of surface upon which I was painting a narcissis.

In case you were having trouble visualizing it.

Then again why would you be thinking about it at all.

A Picture is Worth a 1000 Words

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I am pleased at the response to the photographs of the Iraqis being tortured by our soldiers. I am not pleased that it took photographs to elicit outrage from the populace. Evidently a photograph has much more impact than the written word , since people, inside the military, have been writing about this at least since January, and no action was taken until the pictures were published.

The problem is, how can some of the other atrocities of this administration be visually documented so that people will understand what is happening? For example, the enormity of $25 billion dollars the administration is asking to spend on war rather than foreign aid and healthcare for all? Staple five dollar bills to Mt. Everest, step back and shoot?

How can you photographically capture atrocities like a tax cut that so outrageously benefits the rich and robs our children for generations to come, or the extent of the damage that the vindictive, traitorous outing of Victoria Plame has had to our intelligence operations? You have to admit, it's a true photgrapher's dilemma.

The political cartoon, though most effective, in these instances, isn't nearly real enough.

Have you noticed that there are no pictures of coffins arriving home from the war. The Frontline visual tribute to those killed in Iraq was blocked in half the country Soldiers with amputations and severe injuries are rarely shown. A shot of crying widow hardly gets us, especially if it's one of the "brown skinned people" to whom we are bringing democracy. One can see why the administration doesn't encourage pictures, and how embedded reporters come in handy.

Photo note: A dead fish who has taken on more than he can chew. A most unattractive sight. You are left to draw your own conclusions.

Those who have been following this blog for awhile will be pleased to finally see the dead fish photo, that you know I have been saving for just such an occasion. I have now blown my wad of shocking shots. I hate to manifest uglier pictures, but I might need some more, if W. wins again.

Snagging a Vesica Piscis

In my quest to find spring blossoms set against something that shows them off well, I inadvertantly caught a Vesica Piscis .

The Vesica Piscis is an ancient symbol, and an element in sacred geometry. It is formed by the overlapping of two circles so that the center of each circle lies on the circumference of the other. This evidently establishes the exact mathematical coordinates needed to create any geometical shape. I'll just take their word for it.

I bumped into the Vesica Piscis last month in Providence, since Christine Page , whose conference I attended (see April archives) is very keen on it. She has a lovely meditation on her CD "Webs of Peace" called "Creating the Vesica Piscis".

Although the evangelical Christians are pasting this symbol onto their bumpers big time, so that they can recognize one anther on the road without honking, there are a number of hystercal variations that have developed in response. Be sure to scroll up and down if you click on this.

Thus ends another pseudo spiritual entry, providing a refreshing balance to my recent pseudo intellectual ones.

Singing in the Rain

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Yesterday, as I was taking a photograph of the redbud tree, which is lovely enough, in and of itself, I heard a female voice, singing a gospel song, coming down the street AND she walked right into my picture AND she was carrying a perfect purple umbrella AND her voice was beautiful AND my camera was ready. After I finished taking her picture, I gave her a big round of applause from across the street. She was surprised that anyone was listening.

I have just spent an inordinate amount of time looking for an audio clip of an acapella gospel singer to go with this photo. No luck. You'll just have to sing to yourself, while you look.

Association: I remember as a ten year old, seeing "Singing in the Rain" with Donald O'Conner and Gene Kelly at Radio City Music Hall, in New York City. A big treat for a little girl from the midwest. My mother loved movie musicals, especially the operettas. We saw "The Student Prince" at least five times.

Just how many more magnolias can you stomach?

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What can I say. Tis the season and it comes but once a year.

Dream snippet May 4. The picture is an ochre background with a medium gray square in the middle. The colors are painted on the bow of a ship, or something that is angled in a similar way, not a flat surface. I am painting a flower in the gray square, with pale yellow and orange paint. It is meant to be a narcissis, it isn't finished. I'm just starting and it's delicate and transparent. I think "Oh, the triple goddess."

Magnolias and Stucco

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Heres' that not exactly fresh, but cute color combination again. Would that the sky were blue. If I were more of a whiz at photoshop, I could probably manufacture a blue sky on the spot. Maybe it would spoil the soft turquoise streaks.

A Yacht with a Dome

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This is an honorable mention in the Narcissism Entry Photo Contest (scroll down for other wiinners).

Hmm..m..m we seem to have only one photographer who has taken all the prizes - most appropriate for a narcissistic photo contest.

That is not to imply that other entries aren't welcome. I wonder if my comment section will take photos? Maybe my email.

The Wedding Section Recap

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I know you're wondering about this week's wedding. Miriam Longchamp and Chris Rowley are the featured couple. She is an ivy-educated, New York corporate lawyer and he is the road manager for Roxy Music based in London.

They met in Antarctica Both had signed up for a group tour on a Russian icebreaker. Right away, you know they have something in common.

Here's a quote from the bride's sister "She would talk about dates she went on and say, `People can't handle me because I act like a white man [she is a black woman]. I walk into a room and act like I own it, and they can't handle that. ' Chris was one of the first people who wasn't intimidated."

We are also told that the bride, as a child, wanted to be the first female pope. That makes up for her lack of tattoos, as far as I'm concerned. Not a bad follow up to the triple goddess, Padma P. Lakshmi Rushdie.

From a new little post-nuptial followup feature called "State of the Union", "Mr. Russom has planted a garden full of roses, herbs and weeping cherry trees. The family (2 kids 5 and 10) has a candlelight sit-down dinner every night. Mr Russom does all the cooking, serving meals like braised rabbit, porcini mushroom tart and homemade ice cream with lavender honey and rosewater. `My creativity (he's a painter) gravitated to home.' he said. After dinner, they sometimes sit in the jasmine scented garden, identifying stars." They also belong to a marriage group, sort of like a book group, but it meets over potluck to discuss "subjects like sex, finances , infidelity, careers and raising children". Goodness, who wouldn't stay married to a guy like that.

One more piece of bridal miscellany that I stumbled across this week -prewedding mistakes - forewarned is forearmed.

Photo note: This is about as bridal as a fence can be. It could also pass for Antarctic. I ran out of wedding cakes.

And in Third Place

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This is the third runner-up in the narcissism entry photo contest. It has that Ayn Rand , Howard Roark , Fountainhead feeling.

That last clickie was a Cliff Note. I find it a comfort that Cliff Notes are not only still around, but available on line. That makes it so easy to seem erudite - not like in the old days, when you had to go to the bookstore to buy that little black and yellow striped savior, and then read it.

Whatever happened to the philosopher/novelist anyway? Sartre, de Beauvoir, Kafka, Camus, Hesse, Huxley, even Iris Murdoch (I wonder if she was channelling?). Just posed this virtual question to my friendly search engine, and Thomas Pynchon, Walker Piercy and John Barth popped up, I guess the genre is still around. I will leave it to you to google the list.

There are certainly philosopher bloggers , and novelist bloggers . There are photographer bloggers, I wonder if there are photographer philosophers? I guess a girl could give it a try now that Cliff Notes are on line -- that is, if she had the attention span.

Alternative photo

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This is the runner up in the photo contest for the last entry on narcissism. It's much prettier than the one I chose, but I went for shock value instead of beauty. I thought this one would be easier on the eye at first landing.

I am chattering a bit to keep the tulips out of the rotten bananas.

One more inch.

Apologies.

Considering Narcissism

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That Girl comments in Bloggish Narcissism "I am curious about the idea that narcissism is a "bad" thing - when I made that post on my own blog it was really to suggest that my blog is for and about me because that's all I really know about..."

There definitely is a "bad" form of narcissism . Although I don't watch TV (having a blog gets to be very time consuming) I hear that the reality shows are a veritable parade of "bad" narcissists. Like the Office of the President of the United States, the reality shows seem to attract them.

My good buddy, who has been sent to this earth to help the pathological narcisssists find their true selves - often a thankless job - tells me that that kind of narcissism is created by lack of emotional nurturance in a family, in combination with focused attention on achievement. The parents never do their job of connecting the little soul in their hands to life force energy, consequently, the child never develops a guiding internal self. Without an independent ability to connect to life force energy, the child is dependent on external approval for that good feeling. External approval then becomes their guidance system. Top that off with parents who would prefer an ornament rather than a human, where the poor kid is only as good as his ability to play the violin, recite the alphabet or go to Harvard, with no emotional support to do any of it, and you have a pathological narcissist. There is little joy in the "now", or in any process, since approval is only forthcoming after achievement.

Differentiation is extremely painful for pathological narcissists , because the thrust that comes with it, punctures their fragile crust of being, and brings the realization of an "empty core" (not empty, just disconnected). A narcisisstic wound, as it's known in the trade, feels so devastating that the narcissist often responds to the slightist criticism with rage and threats of/ and/ or actual abandonment.

A pathological narcissist often believes that material possessions can substitute for emotional connection. They can be indentified by their accoutrements; cars, companies, spousal arm candy . Pathological narcissists often treat others as objects - their arm candy, their progeny and especially those whose approval they are not seeking, like waitresses. That's how they were treated.

With this in mind, we should all feel particularly sorry for George W., who never achieved much of anything before he was appointed by God to be our President. [a quote from an article in the Boston Globe April 29, 2004, reviewing the PBS Special "The Jesus Factor" "On the day of his second inauguaration, he told a small group of supporters in the governor's mansion, "I believe that God wants me to be president".]

W. is now is basking in stage one narcissism. He finally has his mom and dad's approval, not to mention the approval of his Group. Though there is the small problem of his incapacity to remember more than a hours's worth of media training. The Group can't leave him on his own for any extended period of time. They also need to be careful not to puncture his narcissism, or he may turn on them.

Poor W. was never very smart, didn't get good grades, flunked Rodeo 101. Jeb did a much better job in that arena. W. had to find his connection to life force energy through drugs and alcohol, because getting high felt so much better than being the family flop. Of course being an addict never gets anyone much approval, attention perhaps, but not approval. No wonder W. never mentions his first thirty five or forty years.

He did find a powerful substitute for his for his drug and alcohol addiction, however, Jesus. The fundamentalist form of Jesus tells you what to do, and it is all written down in the Bible, so that those seeking approval from the outside have a little instruction book to follow exactly. That's what's wrong with fundamentalism of all kinds. As Esther Hicks, channeling Abraham , says although the Bible, and similar texts that are taken as the literal word of God (I'm just trying to avoid a fatwah here) are interesting and helpful, they were written thousands of years ago and the instructions are a little antiquated. Better to have one's own connection to life force and be guided internally by an up-to-date resource.

So how did the pursuit of internal connection to life force energy and the development of guidance based on empathy and compassion for self, extended to to others, get labeled narcissism, as in pathological narcissism? Any authority who is trying to impose their will on others can begin by calling that which they wish to squash, a bad name. Heretic, ACLU member, French and Liberal are good examples of this. When someone has really "discovered himself" he is in touch with universal guidance. Those that are building power clubs rather that peace paddies find this most unnerving. When people are able to think for themselves; when they have faced the aspects of themselves that need healing with compassion and consciousness -- their firefighters, their chocolate frozen projections, their helpless, traumatized children -- then they are able to find and be guided by the light that is at the core of every human being. It is anarchy personified.

How do we free ourselves from that "thin gray veil" (in my case - a three foot thick wall of dung bricks ) that keeps us from our internal connecton with life force energy? By bringing it to the light of consciousness with rigorous, compassionate examination of all the traumatized and shamed aspects of ourselves.

Photo note: I got this idea from a photo on Photon , a gorgeous photography site - leaf through it and you'll be able to see the visual reference. Anyway, I thought mine was funny.

Another Clairgustiant and a Rainbow in the Vapors

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Yesterday I had an appointment with my acupuncturist, a brilliant, aesthetic teacher/scholar, who, given complete discretion, mostly does cranial-sacral work with me. He is an elusive soul, who often takes a month off, in hopes of clearing out his practice. He explained that, after a month, the froufrous drop out and the determined (that's me folks) chase him down again.

In any case, as I was lying on the table, he fanned my face with his hand and moved to my feet. I felt some relief in my chest. Then he asked me if I ever smoked. (Of course, I smoked. I smoked for years, I would probably still smoke if I weren't so scared.) He had moved to my feet because he was smelling smoke around my head as he was working.

He's clairgustiant ! I told him what that was, and he had never heard of such a thing. He thinks he's really smelling something, as in, something that everyone else is smelling at the same time, not fourth dimensional odors. He often smells stuff as he works on people. The worst smell, he reports, is anesthetic, because it makes him sleepy.

I personally have been spared olfactory revelation, due to my chronic inability to breathe through my nose. Maybe when I'm fully evolved my nose will function.

Photo note: I was going for vaporous. This is a shot of a fountain. It's a circle of rocks, about twenty feet in diameter, over which the mist rises diaphanously . I almost had to lie down on the ground to get this rainbow. It was worth it.

Magnolias

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This is a color scheme for a spring clothing collection, don't you think?Someone was talking about painting her bathroom maroon and gold yesterday. An unusual color choice for a bathroom. As she said, it's "not exactly fresh".

Using clairgustiance , I would say that thsi photo is strawberry ice cream with caramel sauce and raspberries on top.

If you follow the all clickies in this clickie you will find a plethora of magnolias .