© Skip Schiel 2005 |
| More dreams of home, an especially acute recurring dream these days with the Gulf Coast so ravaged and filled with suffering. This time my dream put me into a home-seeking story with another man, a younger friend. He and I were trying to find some place to stay. We found two matching stair cases at opposite sides of a building, and I thought I could sleep in the tiny alcove above one, and he in another, but I, scouting ahead, located the second but realized from a nameplate on the door that it was inhabited, apparently by a Buddhist monk, judging from the name. I had to prepare to tell my friend that this spot was not available. The Gulf Coast clearly commands major attention. All the way from what that hurricane was, how it tracked, why it was so intense, connecting it with global warming, the government responses, and lack of, the criticism of this, how media seems more challenging in this case, yet refrains from much discussion of the larger political and climatological context, and the horrifying losses—homes, jobs, family and friends. A disaster of major proportions that is all the more troubling because of how it bodes for this once great nation. Reminiscent of the dust bowl disasters, exacerbated by human folly? An early clue to the new direction? K, to her credit, has been sending me news items about racism and peak oil. The first I believe is a relatively new interest of hers, the second, one of the lines she’s been following. I am most gratified to be having this conversation with my own daughter, one who long ago—during her no business as usual phase, and her angry opposition to animal coats—signaled her concern for the large picture. I only hope this grows in her, rather than seducing her into an early retirement from matters political and social. +++++ Yesterday in our early morning walking meditation (joined by C) I remembered the potential of showing details of the trees. I’d shown nothing close up, now is the time, I vowed while slowly walking, trying to keep my mind on my breath. Even tho I don’t have the equipment for close up work, I might be able to fake it. And I tried just that later yesterday, lugging around the heavy tripod, using the infrared filter in bright sunlight to first photo the field generally—another problem area because so vast and relatively uneventful—and then the leaves and acorns, tiny clusters on massive mounts. Another page in the slowly growing photos of trees book. +++++ Writing, I’ve reached my pit in the saga of Skip at Birzeit and with some relief—as if confessing, actually what my journals are all about, and much of my writing, a legacy of my Catholic background when I approached confession with trepidation and excitement, always relieved to have dumped my weighty sins on another person, whether the very human priest or the heavenly father—and I read that and the build up portions to L and C last night for our reading for comment series. By and large, they were interested, at least interested, if not gripped by the story. Highlights were scenes with Y, the flying checkpoint, and R. I can expand these. L suggested minimizing the diary mode and maximizing the story telling mode. Less about details of my travels, like backpacks deposited at the new apartment and loose bowels, and more about the characters, plot, and local color. Which suggests I might study fiction writing more deeply, maybe taking a Cambridge Center for Adult Education course this fall. So I could apply fiction techniques to my very non-fiction writing. Another question was photos, how or whether to use them. L thought not at all, build completely on words. C thought depends of who is the audience. Both concurred, after some discussion, that limited pix might add greatly. +++++ A few days ago, biking more or less aimlessly around Napa, but with the Napa State Mental Hospital as one target, I roamed the sprawling campus, unstopped by security (surprisingly). I discovered the complex includes a large holding area surrounded by a ten foot high fence topped by razor wire, patrolling police, with buildings inside and a myriad of men in tan uniforms usually just sitting around at tables outside the buildings inside the fence. Very odd. A bit disconcerting. Are these California’s criminally insane? What services do they experience inside? How do they see me as I whiz by, completely free? Several waved, a few smiled, many didn’t seem to notice. The campus borders the skyline park where L and I and often with friends hike. I learned from the web that the land once stretched down to the river, an area that is now college and park land. L thought the place had been closed, part of national deinstitutionalization, but no, some 1000 poor souls exist here. I learned also that the hospital is being investigated for its poor provision of services, the allegation that people deal drugs inside, use unnecessary violence for restraint, over medicate, and other complaints suggesting maybe this place also should be shut down, or better, find another more global solution to the mental health care problems. —Journal, September 4, 2005 A few days ago on one of my bike trips into Napa, as I was about to unlock my bike and ride off, two young men in black pants and white shirts biked up, and tied up. One greeting me with the usual hi how are you greeting, the other with a remark about how do I like the hot weather. I knew in a flash: missionaries from the Mormon Church. I tried to react coolly, politely but coolly, to indicate zero interest and minimal friendliness. Eventually one asked, have you ever talked with a missionary before? Have I ever had sex before, smoked a joint, robbed a bank? Why yes, I have and I have to tell you guys, I have my church, I have my belief, and I think you’ll be wasting your time with me. Despite this cold reception we had a warm talk. They asked, what church? Quaker. Oh really, do you know such and such, someone from Napa I guess, a Quaker. No, I’m from the east coast, don’t know many Quakers here, and there aren’t many here. Aren’t many anywhere. But you might be surprised to hear that the largest and fastest growing population of Quakers is in Kenya. No kidding, never would have guessed that. They asked if they could visit me later and talk about their church. I replied, not likely, hate to waste your time and mine. But if you could convince me you’d be as interested in my beliefs and practices as you’d want me to be in yours, if you’d promise not to tell me that you have the ultimate answers and I don’t but should agree with you and take on your church, then I might be willing to labor thru a conversation. I said this with what I hope was a twinkle in my eyes. We went on to discuss the massive Mormon temple in Belmont that only special people can go in, but Latter Day churches, they argued, are open to all, no need to be a member. They are from Denver and Wyoming, never seen the Belmont temple. This discussion brought back to me my intimate acquaintance with Mormons in Salt Lake City Utah. 1959, just graduated from high school, off to the west on a journey of discovery, my first really, alone. Landed in Salt Lake City because something about Utah appealed to me, maybe I was heading for Provo Utah, having heard something intriguing about the place (which I’ve forgotten now). Sorry, sorry, sorry, no job here, no job. And I soon realized, since they’d ask me at each employment center, are you LDS? that without the affiliation to the church I was lost. Eventually I found work on a sheep ranch in Utah—for one week. Then I quit. The work was arduous, dangerous, long, and I was poorly paid. This led to a summer of vagabondage, an early clue to my new somewhat romantic direction. +++++ We’ve seen little wildlife so far, heard a few coyotes, saw an owl perched in the field waiting to snag ground squirrels, a family of 3 deer, maybe an eagle, lots of hummingbirds (but I’ve not yet found a way to photograph them), other birds too numerous to mention, and one lonely turkey. This turkey is a sad sight. It wanders alone, never with its flock, despite turkeys being flocking birds. It is often near D’s house, and will peck at its image in the chrome of his truck. L thinks it has been ostracized from its community and is seeking a mate. Because of this interpretation the poor bird has soared to mythic proportions, standing for all of us who seek mates, who wander about alone and pushed out, finding solace only thru the equivalent of pecking at our own image. +++++ Here’s the problem. Not only is this the dry season, but this is the dry time historically. Wineries consume great quantities of water and this is slowly depleting the aquifers. So the well is going down and we are on strict water rationing. We save our rinse water and use it to water plants. This is grey water. Secondly, L discovered a large leak in the stream dam. Water ran back into the stream and not into the tank. Earlier she’d noticed that the sprinklers did not function well and so scouted the water system. Calling D in Maine, an expert in such matters, he suggested stuffing plastic bags into the leaks, holding the bags in place with rocks and mud. D did not believe this would solve the problem. But we decided to try. The 3 of us, D, L, me, drove in the old blue truck over bumpy terrain into the forest, to the lower part of the stream that flowed from the leaked dam. We climbed thru brush, avoiding poison oak. The ground was sandy slick, we could easily lose footing. L carried a shovel and banged it against rocks periodically to warn rattlesnakes that we were coming. Up and up to the dam. Indeed, a large leak. L tried placing the plastic bags while leaning over the dam’s edge. Not quite. Need to get in. She mentioned that D and S usually have the annual job of getting into the pond and shoveling out the debris, the silt, the branches, the algae. But they’ve not been here to do this for some time because of S’s illness. L entered the pool, fully clothed, a daring firebrand here, and more impressive when remembering that she is slow to enter the swimming pool, not easily adjusting to the cold water. No hesitation here, jump right in. Of course, I ply my usual trade, do my job assiduously, making photos of others working. A joy not to have to scurry into this cold water, clothed or unclothed. Soon, the water reduced to a trickle, D was ecstatic, “it’s working, it’s working, hardly any water coming thru now, I never thought this would work.” —Journal, September 6, 2005 |