Category Archives: Politics

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The Off to College Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Shirley Waste. Great Sol. Blue Sky. Shades of green. Mark in Bangkok. Ruth and Gabe. Jen. Workout this morning. Reconstructionism tonight. Steve Bernstein. Prostate cancer. Sue. Kristie. Black Mountain. This oh so strange election year. Kamala. Tim. He who must be defeated. Celebrex. Pain relief. Medicine. Hippocrates.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Pain Relief

Kavanah: STRENGTH  Gevura     for a workout today, this August 14th, 2024 life

One brief shining: Rolling, rolling, rolling the thunder sound of green and yellow garbage bins under a brisk Mountain early morning, my driveway, the neighbor’s driveway, then another neighbor’s, a form of sympathetic magic involved, recycling as a solution to global warming, climate change, all of us doing our part. Sort of.

 

Yesterday. Seems so far away. May I, for a moment, speak a word against telephone call centers. An example might be United Health Care. After a good medical day Monday when I felt heard and seen and cared for I followed it up doing what the front desk requested. Changing the name of my PCP from Kristin to Sue Bradshaw. Simple enough, right?

First, the chipper A.I. confident in its ability to take care of whatever I needed. After having said advocate, advocate, advocate, this simple spell did result in a human voice. Ah. Yes, I can help you change the name of your primary care provider. Can you spell her name? B-R-A-D-S-H-A-W. Please hold while I work on changing the name of your primary care provider. Some ditzy tune that would have been a good warmup at a rollerskating rink oh those many years ago. For far too long.

Hello, sir. I was not able to replace nurse practitioner Bradshaw-did I detect a slight tone of how could I anyway?-as your primary care provider. Her credentials do not meet our contractual requirements. I will call Conifer Medical Center and see if I can solve this problem. I’ll put you on hold again.

Images of rollerskates, organ music, girls in short skirts twirling while boys in jeans struggled to stay upright. Boredom. A period where I got all my bills scheduled for payment. A turn at reading the New York Times, first article, second article. Playing Spelling Bee. We’re now 20 minutes or so into this pause while other wheels turned out of my aural range.

Then the climax. A dial tone. Yup, the call dropped off. As you know, if you call back, you don’t reach the person you talked to last time.

Found my spirit doused, my energy cooled for solving minor life bureaucratic annoyances. In spite of pleasantness as my kavanah for the day, I had unpleasant thoughts, not for the first time, about my health insurance.

Just a moment: There will be blood. But for now it’s Harris/Walz placards. A presidential candidate under 60 and a 60 year old vice presidential candidate. A youth movement. Not sure how long this momentum can last, but go, Kamala, go. We have a fighting chance to win now. May her name be ever known as blessed.

 

 

Palliation

The Off to College Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Sue Bradshaw. Palliative Care. Good sleep. Smoke in the air. Open front door this morning. Geez. Kamala and Tim. A moment for Minnesota. May he who will not be named stay hidden. CBE. Alan. A Manny for Us. Getting medical stuff done. Ruby, battered but dependable. This Shadow Mountain Home. The Fourth Phase.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Sue Bradshaw

Kavanah: PLEASANTNESS   Noam   Pleasantness, sweetness, niceness  (Chen – Graciousness, charm, charisma) ( Sever Panim: Warmth, affability, geniality; literally “a bright face”)

[Mrirut; : Grumpiness, sourness, literally “bitterness”]

One brief shining: Told Sue about my last week, she leaned in, took my hands, looked at me; here, I realized was a medical professional who cared for me as me, and a knot I didn’t know I had untied, released; I was not alone on this path toward death, be it late or soon.

 

Which is not to say that I don’t know each one of you who are walking me home and whom I’m walking home. Sue is the one inside the medical world. Kristie, too, though she’s more clinical. As this maelstrom spins, I’m not sucked under and it’s because I have friends and family who care for me. This may seem to suggest things are more dire right now. Not at all. My new PSA/testosterone numbers will clarify what is right now murky. And there are treatments left. Not sure whether or if I need them.

Sue is treating my back pain. Possibly with a long lasting NSAID. Trying tramadol right now. She also suggested I see a palliative care team*. In case you’re not familiar with this form of care, I’ve added an explainer below. It’s not hospice. It does not mean death is imminent. It does recognize in my case that the treatments I’ve been getting, combined with my back pain, are diminishing my quality of life. I feel good about this idea. A consult will happen as soon as Sue can set it up.

This part of my fourth phase began in Korea, a year ago September. That day at the main palace for the Joseon Dynasty, I watched the changing of the guard and walked back toward the center of the palace. And began hobbling. By the time we’d toured a bit more, I was done in. That occasioned my visit to the Korean orthopedist and Mr. Lee, the massage therapist. Later, here, Mary, the physical therapist.

It also occasioned my trip to San Francisco. Which was wonderful. But underlined the limitation my back has left me with. A week ago Sunday I walked from Union Station to Alan’s condo with Ruth. OMG. Lot of pain. I need more intervention. With the back pain. With the trajectory of my cancer. I feel fine with where I am now. Headed toward just that.

 

Just a moment: Just like that. Hope. Not a big fan of hope, but definitely not a fan of despair. Kamala and Tim. The happy warriors. Could we reset our politics that easily? Of course not. Yet…

 

*Palliative care is specialized medical care that focuses on providing relief from pain and other symptoms of a serious illness. It also can help you cope with side effects from medical treatments. The availability of palliative care does not depend on whether your condition can be cured.

Palliative care teams aim to provide comfort and improve quality of life for people and their families. This form of care is offered alongside other treatments a person may be receiving.

Palliative care is provided by a team of health care providers, including doctors, nurses, social workers, chaplains and other trained specialists. The team works with you, your family and your other providers to add an extra layer of support and relief that complements your ongoing care.

Izun

The Off to College Moon

Monday gratefuls: A Manny for Us. Alan. Local theater. Local playwrights. Better energy, mood. This August 12th, 2024 life with Great Sol beaming. And my lev quivering with a charge of joy and strength. Sue Bradshaw. Hitting 150. Finally using my Ninja blender. Fruits and Veggies. The Ancient Brothers, chewing the fat. Lobster pottin’. Still above ground and taking nourishment.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: from melancholy to joy

One brief shining: Driving on 38th Street in Wheat Ridge, a Denver burb, oh, there’s the Fridge’s Experimental research farm, there a huge care center for Christian Scientists, there a bar/restaurant in a faux Swiss building, the Chalet of course, a huge Lutheran hospital complex wrapped around a cathedral style church, odd design choice for the ecclesiastical heirs to the 95 theses, a left turn into a strip mall with a pizza place, a martial arts spot picturing a bald white guy holding a metal sword and looking strange to me, and a plain door for the Wheat Ridge Theater Company where I spent an afternoon surprised by the depth of a local playwright.

Kavanah for this August 12th life: BALANCE   Izun (ee-ZOON)   Balance, poise, moderation

(Derech Ha’Emtzait, DARE-ech ha-em-tsah-EET: the middle path/way/course)   [Kitzoniut, keets-own-ee-OOT: Extremism, going to either end of a spectrum]

NB: Mussar does not say that the poles of a character trait are bad. There are times when they are the appropriate expression of the middot. Imbalance on ones political or religious views can be harmful, destructive, yet there also times when the extremes serve a larger, necessary purpose. Or, say, times when being either very active or passive might be the better way.

 

 

The word for balance in Hebrew is איזון, izun. Interestingly, the word for ear in Hebrew is אֹזֶן, ozen. Using my inner ear to try to catch the middle way between last week’s struggle and this week’s grace. What sound comes between? Is it middle-C? Good way to imagine it actually. I have a hard time these days hearing the high notes, children’s and women’s voices. Bass notes. Oh, they still come through pretty well.

I would say I usually live life in the upper ranges of joy and happiness. I don’t understand musical composition well enough to use it accurately here, but I do plunge down to the bass notes once in a while. A mild manic/depressive oscillation I’ve always thought. I like this analogy though because bass notes, lower keys, are, at least I think they are, musically necessary for harmony, for a musically balanced composition. Life is like that. Taking the high notes and the low notes and arranging them along the staff lines of your movement through the day so that something beautiful takes shape.

What kind of music are you making with this one Mayfly life you’ve been granted by awakening on August 12th, 2024?

 

Just a moment: Gosh. Gee whiz. Where are the I can’t believe I’m reading this headlines? Where is he who should no longer appear in bold type? In hiding? Afraid of getting his behind whooped by a woman?

 

Shinin’ on me

The Off to College Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Better mood. Great Sol shinin’ on me. And my Lodgepole Companion. More blue than milky sky. Quarry Fire 100% contained. Makes me feel better about a Fire nearer to me. Theater and lunch today with Alan. Sue Bradshaw. Moods. James Lee Burke. Magic realism. King Arthur. Lancelot. Guinevere. Percival. The Green Knight.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Ginny and Janice

One brief shining: The Tree of life has its sefirots, way stations for the stuff of creation that travels up and down the Tree from its masculine Crown to its Root, from chi borne in the ein sof, nothingness before, to malkut, the residence of the Shekinah, the sacred as female, pulsing and throbbing up and down, back up, back down, always new, always changing.

Kavanah: Joy  Simcha

 

A bit surprised but as Great Sol has snuck out from the dark clouds of last week, I feel better. Feel like the rain and drear might have doubled or tripled my dis-ease last week. I often slip into melancholy around October, the month of mom’s death 60 years ago this year. And last week felt much like early Fall. So… Doesn’t change the reality of anything going on with me of course. But it could change the valence, by a lot. Mild concern becomes serious worry. This bit of pain feels more telling. Combining concerns increases concern like a dung beetle rolling in, well, dung. Not diminishing the moment but perhaps draining some of its intensity.

 

Allows me to stand back and grin about Harris and Walz. Retail politics? Not my thing for the most part. Had a fling with it in the late 1980’s, working on some Hennepin County races, then Paul Wellstone’s first Senate run. I chaired the Farmer-Labor Association, “Put the FL back in the DFL.” Didn’t like it though the results were satisfying. Went back to organizing and working with the Sierra Club.

I can give money though so I paused a second here while writing this and sent $250 to the Act Blue pact. If you ever felt like donating to a political effort now’s definitely the time. We have to show enthusiasm, diverse support, and a willingness to push a bit past where it hurts. This is to put the Orange ifrit back in his Mar-a-Lago swampland.

 

Meanwhile this oh so fraught election year Ukraine fights on, sneaking into the Motherland. My sense is that Ukraine needs something big and doesn’t appear to have it on the horizon. And, further south the world and Israel awaits Iran’s response to the killing of two of Hamas’ leaders, one on Iranian soil. The Lebanese based Iranian terror client, Hezbollah, threatens war with Israel and Israel thumps its weakened chest right back. Could get real ugly, real fast.

As my son and other U.S. military personnel in the Far East stare down China, which has economic woes of its own making.

 

Just a moment: Olympics. Refreshing and beautiful. International. Diverse. See the American Olympic team. And what it’s accomplished.

 

Earth Waves

The Off to College Moon

Wednesday: Tom. Zoom. Ruth. Money for college. Inspire concerts. 110 minute workout yesterday. Work out days. 2. Focus on Herme’s journey. 5 days. Mayfly life. Earth Waves. Mountains. Mountain Day in Japan coming August 11. Shadow Mountain. Black Mountain. Conifer Mountain. Berrian and Legault Mountains. Evergreen Mountain. Berrigan Mountain. Mt. Blue Sky. My local cluster of Mountains. 82% containment of the Quarry Fire. Evacuations over.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Shadow Mountain

One brief shining: Rabbi Rami Shapiro’s metaphor of our lives as Ocean Waves, above the surface of the Ocean yet still the Ocean, then returning to the Ocean from which we came made me consider Mountains, Earth Waves, lasting much longer than the Ocean Wave, yet also destined to return to the Earth from which they rose. both metaphors for human life and I choose the Mountain, the Earth Wave, to emulate.

 

Continuing on the theme from the last few days. My cobbled together worldview. This is the life of August 7, 2024, risen through the orogeny of waking, strong and tall, durable. From its peak you can see Denver and Minnesota and Thailand and the Outback and Orion and Draco and the Milky Way. Yet also only a day, one of the infinite Mayfly lives, none longer than a day. We surf the Earth Wave of our day, our life, embracing its heights and its valleys.

My Lodgepole Companion greets this August 7th life with their usual stoicism yet expresses joy as its Needles, oriented by Great Sol toward the southeast, soak up life giving Light. The life of August 6th saw Rain for their Roots, may it be so in this life, too.

My day, my only day in which to live, this day, August 7th, 2024, includes greeting Great Sol. Saying the shema. Groaning a bit as my back exacts its price for movement. Excited for Ruth’s visit to work on Kate’s Minnesota Saves account. Free the money. Free the money. Free the money! A nap in this life, I imagine. Near the end of this life, as Great Sol disappears thanks to Mother Earth’s stately spin, I’ll buy some cutup fruit at at the Evergreen Safeway and go to the Mussar Vad Practice group at CBE.

After the day’s light disappears and night falls, I’ll drive home away from Berrigan Mountain and Evergreen Mountain, up the Valley drained by Cub Creek, Blue Creek, Maxwell Creek. Swimming through the Earth Waves in which I live, climbing from Evergreen to the peak of Shadow Mountain where I will rest at the crest of its wave.

One day.

 

Just a moment: The Midwest. My home for over 65 years. 40 of those in Minnesota. Not Coastal. Not a center of power in the political sense. Its politics far more opaque than those who live outside it know. Especially the Upper Midwest states of Michigan, Minnesota, and Wisconsin. More communal with the German and Scandinavian roots. More rooted in Land and Lakes. Distant from the rest of the U.S. Less concerned with the opinions of others, more determined to make its own way. Sometimes populist. Sometimes progressive. Sometimes conservative in the old fashioned sense. Sometimes crazy right. McCarthy is buried outside Appleton, Wisconsin. Not sure what it will look like to the nation as Walz’s turn on the hamster wheel of fame drives close inspection.

International Dialogue

The Mountain Summer Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Stien. Koontz. Ootz. The Netherlands. Arjean. Tara. Susan. Irv. Marilyn. Cade. Vincent. Eleanor. Kilimanjaro. Zugspitz. Jungfrau. Olympus. Conifer. Evergreen. Labcorp. Great Sol. Data. Mussar. Neshama. Nefesh. Rabbi Jamie. Luke. Leo. Paulaner N.A. Kate, always Kate. Ruth and the Inspire Concert Sunday. RTD. Uber.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Tara

One brief shining: Could I have a short spade, please; Tara handed me a gardening trowel and I knelt down in her curved bed of Carrots and Beets, plunging the trowel in beside the missing Beet plant and felt the Earth give way, yes, there was a tunnel there, something, maybe a Vole, had burrowed in and eaten it from below.

 

Interesting lunch at Tara’s. Met Arjean’s family: Stein, Ootz, and Koontz. And, his mother whose name I didn’t get. They’re visiting from the Netherlands. BTW: Don’t rely on those spellings. They’re phonetic, which means based on my hearing. Always a risky basis for sounds.

Asked Koontz, Arjean’s brother, about how American politics looked from Europe. Next question, he quipped. He went on to say what I’ve heard in many other places including Korea and Singapore. In essence, it really matters to us, but we can’t do anything about it. As an example, he mentioned NATO. Well, yeah.

Koontz also said there was some talk in Europe about deserving a vote in American elections since they impact Europe in such critical ways. Made me think of the Chinese taxi driver I talked to in Singapore in 2004, the day before election day. He shook his head and said, “When America sneezes, we get pneumonia.”

Stein, Arjean’s nephew, is in his third year of university pursuing a business degree. He’s also starting a clothing business as a middleman between Chinese garment manufacturers and a European customer base. When I asked him about the stresses of doing both at the same time, he looked over at his dad, Koontz. A bit sheepishly. Oops, I said. I withdraw the question.

After the meal Tara and I went downstairs to look at her garden. She’s had vegetable eating animals taking out Beets, Lettuce, Raspberries, and Tomato plants. She wanted to get my opinion about what was going on. That was when I asked for the trowel. I found the tunnel right away. Some critter has dug their way to a meal, perhaps several meals. She also has rabbits, I think. Her fence keeps the Deer out. They’re the animal that can really devastate a Mountain garden. They’ll eat everything down to the ground. Well, Elk, too.

Had no solution for her save putting in raised beds for next year’s garden. Would help her back, too.

 

Just a moment: A lighter heart. Some hope. Kamala wouldn’t have been my first choice, but she’s sooooo much better than Biden. Since I’ve long thought this election would hinge on turn out, I feel good since she will be able to energize the Democratic base.

Diane and I talked politics this morning. She feels lighter, too. That feeling alone may be enough to swing the election our way.

 

 

 

Buy me some peanuts…

The Mountain Summer Moon

Monday gratefuls: Friends. Family. Coors Field. RTD. The W Line. Walking. Lidocaine patch and two nsaids. Cool weather. The Rockies. The Giants. Homeruns and broken bats. Hot dogs and pretzels. Shaded seats. The umpire pulling his arm in fast. A strike! Gabe. Who likes baseball. My son, who does, too. A long sleep afterwards. Life of July 21st, 2024. Play.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Grandsons

One brief shining: Seats 12 and 13 in section 135, shaded throughout the whole game, hard wooden seats, narrow aisles, cupholders and a baseball diamond lit by Great Sol spread out below with the umpire squatting using his whisk broom on home plate, the catcher in his armor down on one leg waiting, while designated hitter Charlie Blackmon, he of the luxuriant black beard, swings his bat, then, Batter up!

 

The Rockies are in competition for the least capable team in the major leagues. They played the Giants, one rank above them in the National League West. Only the also hapless Marlins are further out of a division race. 28 games to the Rockies 22. Still. It was baseball, major league baseball. And it was sun hat day! I gave mine to Gabe to give to Ruth.

View from section 135

The new rules have sped the game up. I found I liked it better. No more drift into the setting sun as pitchers chawed, spit, pondered, and us fans waited. Might go a bit more often. With a lidocaine patch and a couple of nsaids my back was not impossible though it was a 23 minute walk from the train to Coors Field. Glad to have a seat at the end of the walk.

First time taking the light rail in for a game. Did it because Coors Field is not too far from the end of the W line near Union Station. No driving in downtown. Cheaper than parking and much less hassle. Will do it again next Sunday when Ruth and I go to the Jewish music concert at Cheri and Alan’s. $5.50 round trip. Uber then to their home on the 38th floor of the Spire Condominiums.

Gabe and the straw hats. He’s a kind kid. Enjoyed spending the time with him.

Warming up

Had a hot dog, sang take me out to the ball game, stood for the Anthem and, again, for God Bless America played by a trumpeter from the Air Force Academy band. Reflected on the years when I wouldn’t stand for the Anthem. I do now, but for a very different reason than before Vietnam. It’s important for those who, as I saw on a hat of a Never Trumper, want to make red hats wearable again.

 

Just a moment: And, he’s outta there! Another curve ball for election 2024. Though not an unexpected one. What is unexpected. How all this will effect the campaign. Who will be the candidate? Probably Kamala, but not necessarily. And can any one put the orange jinn back in the lamp? If they can, I personally volunteer to carry the lamp to the Marianna’s Trench and drop it over the side of the boat.

 

 

We’re All Just Walking Each Other Home.

The Mountain Summer Moon

Shabbat gratefuls: Life. Living. Death. Dying. Leo. Luke. Tara, a good friend. Sleep. Exercise. Red Beans and Rice. Chicken wings. Apples and mandarin Oranges. This July 20th wakin’ up mornin’. A new life, a new day. Great Sol. Blue Sky. Uncle Joe Biden at a crossroads. Recovering from Covid, but not from his debate performance. Our United States.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: 2024.

One brief shining: Two Tanakhs open on Rabbi Jamie’s round office table we roamed back and forth through the book of Numbers, from the spies and their devastating report on the promised land to Moses striking the rock at Meribah and Balaam’s donkey explaining there was an angel in the road that would have done Balaam harm.

 

Restored inner calm. Had breakfast with Alan and Joanne, then lunch with Tara. Just being in relationship with them, talking about usual matters like oh my god the election 45 Joe turnout and a positive story from Alan. Alan read that Joe has been waiting until the Republican Convention is over to step down. Maximum impact. Joanne talked about the conflicts and troubles of early CBE history after Rich’s sunny recollections last Wednesday night. Joanne and I traded stories about Japan and Korea. Ate. Saw each other.

Alan has the role of innkeeper in Ovation West’s upcoming Man of La Mancha. He even has a solo. He’s also getting into directing, taking up a work of the Executive Director of the Evergreen Players who is a playwright as well. Joanne’s new book on extreme mental states, written with two Buddhist therapists and edited by Marilyn Saltzman, is done. The Bread Lounge.

Lunch with Tara at Brook’s Tavern. An emotional one. We talked about my cancer news. Tara is so empathetic. And honest. She got me to commit to a visit to Taipei on my next journey to Korea. No excuses. She also invited me over to their house on Wednesday afternoon to meet Arjean’s brothers visiting from the Netherlands. Marilyn and Irv, Susan and her daughter will be there.

Talking to Tom at 8 this morning. Diane at 3 this afternoon. I am not alone, now, or in the future. This journey has companions, as I am a companion on the journey of others. Ram Dass: We’re all just walking each other home.

 

Just a moment: So. How bout the folks wandering around the Republican Convention with bandages over their ear? Eh? Like the orange one, their hero. Their avatar of Yahweh Sabbaoth, Lord of Hosts. Only the orange one’s hosts are the Proud Boys, the 3 percenters, and the KKK. 45 is, for sure, satan, the Hebrew word for adversary. He’s a thug with a gold plated toilet.

 

Downy Woodpeckers have attacked my house. Again. A problem with a cedar sided house. When I have it stained, I also have the painters patch up the holes the little buggers leave in their search for a meal. I’m mentioning this because someone’s going at the house right now in the back. It’s loud.

 

The Finished Line

The Mountain Summer Moon

Thursday gratefuls: This July 28th, 2024 life. Castration resistant prostate cancer. Me. Dr. Leonard, a poetry major at Vanderbilt. Kristie. Lucille’s Littleton. That independent, bright three year old. Those up after the Baby Boomers. Great Sol. That tiny living layer of each Tree, the Cambium. Sell by dates. Joanne. Wallace Stevens. Ovid. New translation.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: This moment

One brief shining: A radiation oncologist, Dr. Leonard loves T.S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, and Auden and once spent a year reading only those three, he said to me as we were parting; he had just told me I had castration resistant cancer and have five to seven more years ahead of me, “Not a death sentence.”

 

Hit me hard though. Not an immediate death sentence, no. Yet. Having a stop sign ahead felt, in that moment, like it was one. Not three hours ago, this news. Still echoing in my inner world. These sort of thoughts. Oh, my money’s going to last. Easy. That cute little girl. Always death, birth, growth. Always.

When I left Rocky Mountain Cancer Care, I’d found the route to Lucille’s Cajun Cafe for breakfast. Then I thought, no I want to go home. Go to Aspen Perks. Shook my head. Drove to Lucille’s instead. Right call. An interesting place for breakfast, good food, and that little girl. Set my phone down. Looked out the window, past the group of young Latino men in a serious business conference, to a sunny blue Sky Colorado morning.

This is the life of July 18th. Up and out to the doctor. Over for a cheesy grits, red beans, and poached eggs breakfast. To go order of red beans and rice. The drive back home. A slight daze haze. Serious gear turning. Bouncing foreground: the Hogback, Hwy 470. Background: Dying before 2030. Does it matter? Not really. Though of course it does.

Mortality. A finished line ahead in the mist. Now the mist has lifted and the track seems shorter than I’d imagined.

Other thoughts in no priority or order: Want my son and Seoah here. Don’t want to leave my house. Want to go on a long cruise. See somewhere new. Does this mean I don’t need to diet? Exercise? No, it does not. How much fun is this. Relief. Ready. How will it play out?

 

Just a moment: Economic populism. The American Compass

JD Vance loves these folks. I looked up their website and found this paragraph*. I agree with most of it. Without getting into the weeds let me say I would underline the idea that markets are a means to the end of human flourishing. That the economy should empower workers, their families, and communities. And that public policy plays a vital role in advancing those goals.

We would not, I’m confident, agree on our definition of family, of empowered workers, what strengthening the social fabric means in practice. I’m not an economic nationalist either.

I’m an economic agnostic. Whatever economy encourages justice, fairness, healthy families and communities I’m for. That makes me feel hopeful when I read this because there are grounds here for common direction and policy.

 

*”Conservatives rightly value free markets, but we also recognize that markets require rules and institutions to work well, that they are a means to the end of human flourishing and exist to serve us (not the other way around), and that larger televisions and fancier cars are not what people value most. Rather than evaluate the economy by how much stuff it allows everyone to consume, conservative economics asks whether the economy empowers workers to support their families and communities, whether it strengthens the social fabric, and whether it fosters domestic industry and innovation. Public policy plays a vital role in advancing those goals.”

 

 

 

American Renaissance II

The Mountain Summer Moon

Phnom Penh Park Hornbills

Tuesday gratefuls: The steady string of twists and other plot surprises. Poor Milwaukee. Joanne and I. All these years we’ve worked. Both shake head. Sushi. Evergreen. Yesterday’s afternoon rain. United Healthcare. A James Bond villain in American corporate clothing. Life with cancer. Flonase. An allergy season from heaven. So far. The Hornbills of Phnom Penh. Thanks, Mark.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Wild neighbors everywhere

One brief shining: Went into Nana Sushi in Evergreen right across from the main fire station in the same spot where Thai 101 was a few years back; saw Joanne and she asked would I rather go back to the booths, yes I would because I could put my hearing aid to the wall well when we got back there she told me she’d been sitting in the front because it was easier for her to get up. Dueling infirmities.

 

Beginning to feel reality slipping away. The shots in Pennsylvania. His fist raised in the oh so ironic Fight, Fight, Fight. Him entering the convention in profile with a large bandage on his right ear. The polls. That documents case for now disappeared. Presidential immunity. Project 2025. As if a thumb has been pressed on the flow of events in my (our) United States of America, tilting them toward putting this guy and his gang of anti-law, anti-constitution, anti-immigration, anti people of color, anti gay and lesbian, anti climate change in power. That’s the reality slipping away. As if a long string of no that can’t be rights has direction and purpose.

As the wags say though. It isn’t over until it’s over. We still don’t know what the next chapters of the political thriller we’re living in have to offer. Things could change. Couldn’t they?

 

Let’s talk instead about Ruth’s frog. A tattoo on her right upper arm. She asked for ideas for names. I suggested Twain. You know, Calaveras County. Which BTW is an event that continues to this day. I found this cute picture on the Calaveras County Website.

Perhaps there is a route through the potential dismal and painful years. An American literary and artistic renaissance. American Renaissance II. A celebration of American art and artists, locally and nationally. Organized readings, classes in person and on zoom, museum exhibitions. Poetry contests. Prizes for new art and artists. A way to remind ourselves of the history of our national spirit. And of our national spirit itself. An oh so important task right now.

When the Ancient Brothers discussed what they’d do with a quarter of a billion dollar windfall, the last thing I offered involved creating a think tank for the advancement of the liberal arts outside the academy. This could be a big idea. A way to counterpunch. With Emerson and Whitman. Twain and Bierce. Dickinson and Sontag. Oates and Morrison. Copland and Gershwin. Bierstadt and Hopper. Cage and Davis. Monk and Coltrane. Piercy and Hughes.

I like this idea. Come at them from the side rather than head on. Perhaps defuse defensiveness? This one stays in the hopper. Soft power.