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Solitude of Dusk, Richmond Ferry Dock |
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 29, 2020
Saturday, February 23, 2019
The Ford Fl-Car ~ An American Automotive Allegory
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| Still the Busted Laptop, but with an Explanation |
The Ford Fl-Car ~ An American Automotive Allegory
The Unremarkable Brain interrupts the previewed schedule of Blog posts to recount the tale of an unremarkable milestone in history of the American Automotive Industry-- the story of the Ford Fl-Car! (Pronounced “Fl-Kar”)
In February 1947, several years after Henry Ford left his corporation to dedicate his life to philanthropy, the geniuses in whose hands he had left the Ford Motor Company released their latest innovation at automotive shows in Detroit, New York and Los Angeles
Announcers proclaimed: “Ladies and Gentlemen, you will now glimpse the Future. Ford Motor Company gives you- The Ford Fl-Car!”
The Fl-Car was the World’s First Flying Car. Breathless marketing copy averred that the Fl-Car would provide Americans the rarefied experience of setting off from home-- by taking off!
The program from the Spring 1947 International Automotive Exhibition in Detroit rapturously proclaimed, “Your neighbors will gape in awe and envy as you make your way along at the amazing altitude of 9 feet!”
Quite the innovation.
Seventy-two years on, there are no extant examples of the Ford Fl-Car on the road. Such cars, of course, wouldn’t be on the road; they’d be cruising along at vintage car shows at an amazing altitude of nine feet.
Nevertheless, the Fl-Car model was a dreadfully ignominious failure. Automotive Industry analysts attribute the model's failure to three design flaws:
1) The Fl-Car’s engine had an incurable bug-- it leaked oil continually. Your neighbors, and most Americans, stopped gaping in awe and envy when they started getting motor oil in their mouths.
2) It did achieve and maintain an amazing altitude of nine feet but there are structures that are 10 feet, and taller. The Fl-Car frequently crashed into them.
3) The Fl-Car couldn't land.
By Summer 1947 the Ford Motor Company had pulled the Fl-Car from production. It never again was seen at Ford dealerships or cruising 9 feet above American roads. And by Summer 1947, Henry Ford was deceased-- apparently succumbing to embarrassment.
OK--- Henry Ford did die in 1947 but probably not of embarrassment. Probably nothing could embarrass Henry Ford. And, of course, they was never a Fl-Car.
But there is Windows 10.
I've repeated the image above of the busted laptop and I feel I must explain how my laptop got busted. You see, this laptop had Windows 7 when I purchased it but by 2016, after a stop at Windows 8.oops, Microsoft was trying to shove Windows 10 into it.
Windows 10 is to Microsoft what the Fl-Car would have been to the Ford Motor Company-- the bridge too far, the product that was doomed to failure.
Windows 10 metaphorically continually leaked oil and ran into structures 10 feet above ground-- which is perhaps why it was dubbed Windows 10.
Tongue in cheek and palm to face, I blame the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation for Windows 10. (Remember-- if Henry Ford hadn't devoted himself to philanthropy, no Fl-Car)
When Gates left Microsoft to devote HIS life to philanthropy the Microsoft Corporation evidently experienced such a catastrophic brain drain that the brains left behind simply did not know how Windows anymore.
Hence Windows 10, hence my laptop had to die.
After many downloads of unnecessary upgrades, I was often left with a laptop that constantly consistently presented-- not the dread Blue Screen of Death-- but the equally bricked but needlessly antagonistic Blue Screen of Death with a Swirl.
Imagine your laptop screen screaming, “I'm still alive but you can't access me!”
Because of Windows 10, I unfortunately broke my laptop in touch screen.
On one occasion, when Windows 10 needed to freshen itself up with another FORCED unnecessary download of an upgrade, I slapped the smirky swirl on my touch screen and it cracked.
On another occasion of a disabling FORCED unnecessary download of an upgrade, my fist collided with my computer. The thing ground to a halt.
The word that popped into my head as I beat the living upgrade out of my computer? “Unproductive”.
How do I have a functioning laptop now? I learned how to use Ubuntu and currently am running Ubuntu 18.04…. or perhaps a hybrid with Lubuntu.
There are challenges but, at least, I get to say what updates want and when I want them.
Whatever-- I don't bother it, it doesn't bother me.
Basically now I actually have an “okay car” that works. Not a fucking Fl-Car. I'm good.
Update from Forbes:
"Windows (10) Updates (are) still a confusing mess to manage. That’s the definitive conclusion from a newly published study, which also contains a flowchart of Windows 10 update behavior that may just melt your brain."
"Windows 10 Updates Are Still A Confusing Mess, And This One Image Proves It." 2/27/2019
https://www.forbes.com/sites/jasonevangelho/2019/02/27/windows-10-updates-are-a-confusing-mess-and-this-one-image-proves-it/
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Self evaluation
There was recently great relief in the form of a lifting of a major stressor in my life. (No, I didn't hit anyone or anything. I'll expound later.)
The tale of the Fl-Car was a bit of schtick I've often bored people with verbally, but I was able to get it in writing here within roughly three hours. Typos? Sure.
But now I can expand the audience I bore with this schtick
From now on one "So I Went" (Maine), one "So I Heard" (Karaoke Songs - "Too Much Heaven") and many lovely photos (which you can order as Prints or Notecards, here!)
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Monday, February 18, 2019
The International Federation of Who Cares
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| Busted Laptop with Unmade Bed in Background |
What is it that keeps people from completing the tasks they need to complete? What causes procrastination?
Many years after I gained intimate acquaintance with procrastination, I had the long-delayed epiphany that the basic origin of procrastination is hidden in the statement "Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good". As a Italophone, I was surprised to learn that this aphorism usually attributed to Voltaire is based on the Italian: "Le meglio รจ l'inimico del bene".
Now, I don’t claim the procrastination in my writing work is a symptom of perfectionism. Incompletion in my work probably stems more an approach to it left over from how I wrote when I was first strongly conditioned to write.
When most people were more focused on writing papers (which I also did) I became more concerned with writing scripts for theatrical plays because the scripts were expected of me (long story which I may or may not get to.) The scripts I wrote fit a certain format. Unlike playscripts one may read in literature class-- and as I first wrote scripts-- my endeavor centered on writing LESS: with less scenic and lighting detail and fewer blocking details and line readings.
I came to understand of the process of writing as one which leaves room for collaborative input from other professionals-- designers, directors and actors. Hence, I became more inclined to leave my writing work incomplete, awaiting feedback from other.
In the folowing years event till today, on several assignments I’ve maintained that approach towards writing and discovered that my assumption was way wrong-headed. In most instances, it was instead expected that the written material I turned in would be 100% done; not a penultimate draft on which editorial comment and collaboration would be offered. certainly.
This attitude to prose writing is like another form of writing I did when I was younger-- songwriting. I wrote songs by myself, writing both the music and lyrics, doing my own “nitpicking” until the product suited my standard as “perfect” This practice has oddly made me super-critical of songwriting-- especially songs written by songwriting teams.
For example-- and drawing in the topic of “nitpicking”-- the weirdest lyric that has ever leapt out of a song was written is at the beginning of the song written by the Bee Gees for Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. I admire the (B)rothers (G)ibb’s writing skill and I will reinforce this admiration in referring to their work on another song which I will feature in this month’s Karaoke Song spotlight, "Too Much Heaven".
But their lyric which has always struck as flawed is that of “Islands in the Stream”. "IITS" is a fun song about mutual devotion which begins with an astoundingly off-tone analogy:
Baby, when I met you there was peace unknown
I set out to get you with a fine tooth comb
Huh?
Anyone who has ever used a “fine tooth comb” knows that if you set out to get anything with one of these devices, you're basically seeking a louse (or its eggs). This weird phrase hasn’t prevented the song from becoming a beloved classic and the Bee Gees regarded as expert songwriters, but here we have both the literal and figurative failure of nitpicking.
Perhaps they are the charter members of the International Federation of Who Cares? Do you wonder what IFWC is, and how to join?
My work with a team of two other co-worker in the travel industry. We would (I believe) literally tear our hair out trying to make three destination brochures, consisting of a total over one hundred pages featuring hundred of hotels with thousands of price point absolutely error free. This longtime experience later on in my life reinforced the belief process I has as a scriptwriter-- seeing writing was a seemingly eternal collaborative free-for-all.
The descriptive copy I wrote portraying hotels, tours and destinations would always be nitpicked over-- until the core team with which I worked discovered the International Federation of Who Cares.
For three years preparing these brochure promoting product in Hawaii, Mexico and Tahiti we always failed at being 100% perfect-- and received grief for our failed effort. Probably the grief we received was mostly self-originating, until we created the IFWC.
We didn't descend into the dismay of the impossible pit of nitpicking. Whenever my boss would lament that our work was “a complete mess", my reply was "It's not a complete mess. It’s an incomplete success”. This touchy-feeling slogan was roundly mocked.
Ultimately our route to colalborative madness wound up at the cul-de-sac of IFWC. This acronym began as an abbreviation of a phrase we’d utter in frustrate disgust as our deadline approached and yet minor errors would arise.
We’d say/ask of the end result of our efforts: It’s Fine! Who Cares?
The phrase became “IFWC”. From there this union of good enough was universalized into the International Federation of Who Cares. This global brotherhood/sisterhood exists to this day when anyone has had enough in the search for perfection.
Anyone who is in the midst of a dispiriting search for perfection-- who has proofread and corrected to distraction and who despairs that a job well done is a job never done may join merely but taking a deep breath and intoning:
"It’s Fine! Who Cares?"
________________ Self-evaluation
Yeesh. Where to begin? An essay on the topic of procrastination completed nine days late? The reason: being trapped in an existential hell where the revelation of a determination is put off while the determination undergoes a "quality review" which can take several months.
I did some revision in the following days which brought the piece more into focus.
But concentration seems impossible. (No real world details will be shared in this blog until THAT process is complete.) At the very least I was able to ignore the arrival on an email related to that process until I got this posted.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
the unremarkable brain returns in february
The unremarkable brain has been on hiatus last month and this month as a result of the holidays and the Federal Government shutdown-- yes, my brain actually IS a National Park, but I digress--
Great news!
The unremarkable brain will be returning in February with:
So I Thought: "The International Federation of Who Cares?" (2/9) and "Does Humor Have a Color? Yes. Green." (2/23)
So I Saw: Seven more R O Y G B I V images
So I Went: "Maine" (2/13)
So I Heard: "Karaoke Songs: Too Much Heaven" (2/17)
Dates approximate.
ALSO -- If you would like to order prints or notecards featuring my images, please see SALE to place orders!
Sunday, December 2, 2018
How Great is Depression and How Long is Anxiety
So I thought it would be a worthy endeavour-- at this point-- to present a simple explanation of how I perceive depression and anxiety.
Then the wheels came off my will to post anything and once again I fell short of my goal of posting between the 9th and the 23rd of each month.
We’ll get it right in time.
This is not the complete reflection on the dual affliction of depression and anxiety but it will have to suffice for the moment.
Also, I’ve not studied psychology or psychiatry, so I do not know whether my characterization duplicates some other thinker's writings-- but I’m sure my impression is solely my impression.
My characterization may seem simplistic and possibly cliched but... bear with me.
Anxiety: an Affliction of the Perception of Time
A family member shared with me an account of the first occasion on which she noted that her mother might be suffering from some sort of mental illness-- which did in fact turn out to be Alzheimer's Disease.
On a completely mundane day out shopping with her mom, she walked away for three minutes and when she returned your mother was in a state of panic.
Alzheimer's Disease of course is not Anxiety but her account nevertheless led me to wonder whether the nature of anxiety might have something to do with the inability to fix a beginning point and then end point in one’s reasonable perception of time.
Someone who's anxious may in fact regard thirty minutes as a year-- not realistically, of course,and not rationally. But being left waiting for an anxious person approaches being unendurable. One can learn now to suppress this sort of anxiety but if one who has anxiety is told a task was just take three minute, if they have no way of a fixing to starting point to that amount of time, they enter an uncertain realm wherein time is a joke.
Depression: an Affliction of the Perception of Space
What pairs well with time?
Yes, that’s right: space!
And since I was anxious to have a similar definitive description of depression, I examined whether I perceived depression as a disorder in my perception of space.
I do know that a depressed person-- take me for example-- by my disordered nature instinctively overestimates the load they have to bear and the distance they have to travel.
So frequently-- not always though-- a mere trip from my bedroom to the kitchen to get a drink of water can seem as daunting as carrying a ton of weight over the distance of a mile.
This miscalculation is naturally followed by the unanswered question “….and for what purpose?”
I will continue to extrapolate on this basic premise as possible but the gist of my message today is this: To me depression and anxiety are best defined as a internal inability to adequately objectively and reasonably judge the distance to travel the burden to bear or the time to budget to accomplish anything... and the anguish which results from this failure.
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MORE TO FOLLOW
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Self assessment
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I began this on a Monday and by Friday still hadn't been able to continue work on it. Now it is Sunday and I'm finally posting. As the week progressed I began to obsess on the fact that, although what I intend to write is as precise a definition of my experience of depression and anxiety that I can recount, my definition may differ from other's experiences or a textbook definition.
I'm also thoroughly disgusted by the utter twisting of my intended words that my voice to text executes. To dictate text pertaining to personal experiences and then to read its nonsensical shambles of transcription-- for me-- is to feel profound failure.
On top of this challenge, note here another nasty pitfall of mental illness.
Sufferers are compelled to keep quiet because they fear that the symptoms they are confronting don't conform to a textbook definition and aren't easily understood by others.
As for this post, I'm going to have to resort to the strategy I used previously-- post what I have done and promise “MORE TO FOLLOW”.
Hey, it's something-- and something is better than nothing.
Then the wheels came off my will to post anything and once again I fell short of my goal of posting between the 9th and the 23rd of each month.
We’ll get it right in time.
This is not the complete reflection on the dual affliction of depression and anxiety but it will have to suffice for the moment.
Also, I’ve not studied psychology or psychiatry, so I do not know whether my characterization duplicates some other thinker's writings-- but I’m sure my impression is solely my impression.
My characterization may seem simplistic and possibly cliched but... bear with me.
Anxiety: an Affliction of the Perception of Time
A family member shared with me an account of the first occasion on which she noted that her mother might be suffering from some sort of mental illness-- which did in fact turn out to be Alzheimer's Disease.
On a completely mundane day out shopping with her mom, she walked away for three minutes and when she returned your mother was in a state of panic.
Alzheimer's Disease of course is not Anxiety but her account nevertheless led me to wonder whether the nature of anxiety might have something to do with the inability to fix a beginning point and then end point in one’s reasonable perception of time.
Someone who's anxious may in fact regard thirty minutes as a year-- not realistically, of course,and not rationally. But being left waiting for an anxious person approaches being unendurable. One can learn now to suppress this sort of anxiety but if one who has anxiety is told a task was just take three minute, if they have no way of a fixing to starting point to that amount of time, they enter an uncertain realm wherein time is a joke.
Depression: an Affliction of the Perception of Space
What pairs well with time?
Yes, that’s right: space!
And since I was anxious to have a similar definitive description of depression, I examined whether I perceived depression as a disorder in my perception of space.
I do know that a depressed person-- take me for example-- by my disordered nature instinctively overestimates the load they have to bear and the distance they have to travel.
So frequently-- not always though-- a mere trip from my bedroom to the kitchen to get a drink of water can seem as daunting as carrying a ton of weight over the distance of a mile.
This miscalculation is naturally followed by the unanswered question “….and for what purpose?”
I will continue to extrapolate on this basic premise as possible but the gist of my message today is this: To me depression and anxiety are best defined as a internal inability to adequately objectively and reasonably judge the distance to travel the burden to bear or the time to budget to accomplish anything... and the anguish which results from this failure.
-----------------------
MORE TO FOLLOW
-----------------------
Self assessment
-----------------------
I began this on a Monday and by Friday still hadn't been able to continue work on it. Now it is Sunday and I'm finally posting. As the week progressed I began to obsess on the fact that, although what I intend to write is as precise a definition of my experience of depression and anxiety that I can recount, my definition may differ from other's experiences or a textbook definition.
I'm also thoroughly disgusted by the utter twisting of my intended words that my voice to text executes. To dictate text pertaining to personal experiences and then to read its nonsensical shambles of transcription-- for me-- is to feel profound failure.
On top of this challenge, note here another nasty pitfall of mental illness.
Sufferers are compelled to keep quiet because they fear that the symptoms they are confronting don't conform to a textbook definition and aren't easily understood by others.
As for this post, I'm going to have to resort to the strategy I used previously-- post what I have done and promise “MORE TO FOLLOW”.
Hey, it's something-- and something is better than nothing.
Monday, November 19, 2018
The Secret of the Hummus
I previously mentioned that "What I Thought" would include recipes. Here's one:
"The Secret of the Hummus"
Canned garbanzo beans -- or you can cook them from raw.
(Cooking the garbanzos
Into a crock pot add:
As many garbanzos as you'd like to cook,
A medium sized onion, quartered
Several stalks of celery, with leaves, use inner stalks)
Several cloves of garlic
2-3 Bay Leaves
Cook in crock pot until beans are tender, drain beans and remove bay leaves, onion and celery -- it's no great disaster if small bits of celery and onion move on in the recipe, but make sure you get all or most of the bay leaves.
I've also added roasted cumin and coriander seed in the cooking of the garbanzos, those can move on in the recipe. Proceed with the following ingredients:)
Garlic (a lot)
Olive oil (copious amounts)
Cumin (plenty)
Ground coriander (I use a former TJ's sea salt grinder with coriander seeds in it)
Dried Oregano (watch out for the stems on the little leaves)
The juice of at least two lemons...
Sesame tahini
Salt
Infuse olive oil with roasted garlic... roast garlic cloves on a hot surface. You can use the floor of a clean oven, cookie sheet, or a skillet in an oven at 375 degrees. When cloves are slightly browned, or even a little charred, remove them, cover with salt and smash into a paste in a bowl. Use as much garlic as you like. Cover with olive oil, and let sit while garlic infuses into oil.
Drain garbanzos.
Combine in a large bowl: garbanzos, olive oil (Reserve some garlic infused olive oil), garlic, oregano, cumin, ground coriander, lemon juice and salt.
Let this mixture sit for awhile (could be days in the fridge....)
Blend the marinated garbanzos, and spices in blender or food processor, with sesame tahini (Note: exercise restraint with tahini-- too much will impart a peanut-buttery flavor to the hummus).
As you are blending, add garlic-infused olive oil, lemon juice, salt and cumin to taste.
(If a kick is desired, white pepper can be added.)
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Self assessment
This recipe was pre-written as a Facebook Note. Insomnia had me awake early but fatigue nevertheless made copying and pasting difficult and stressful.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Karaoke Tunes - Someone to Watch Over Me
It gives me no small amount of sadness that two voices that I've known and appreciated for years have been stilled even though the women who utilized these instruments are still alive.
Both sang a wide variety of songs-- my next favorite karaoke tune is one they both have performed.
The song is "Someone to Watch Over Me" and the vocalists are Julie Andrews, who no longer sings as the result of a botched vocal cord surgery, and Linda Ronstadt who no longer sings as a result of Parkinson's Disease.
The first time I recall hearing "Someone to Watch Over Me" was in this scene from Woody Allen's "Manhattan":
https://youtu.be/AsbdW6ZTFBs
The beautiful imagery of this scene was perfectly underscored by an orchestral arrangement of George Gershwin's poignant melody which I instantly loved.
I had no idea at the time that I would become as fond of Ira Gershwin's lyric.
Andrews's performance of STWOM is from her much-lambasted Gertrude Lawrence biopic "Star".
I've seen the film (or some chopped up version of it) on TV; generally, I'd describe the film "huh" dragged out past the point of "meh".
Below is a link to a clip of her performance of STWOM.
Honestly, while I recall Andrews-as-Lawrence's performance of Kurt Weill & Ira Gershwin's "The Saga of Jenny", I have no recollection of her rendition of STWOM, or even the scene's context in the film.
Ronstadt's version is from her first album of standards, conducted and arranged by Nelson Riddle.
Over their careers, the performances of both artists have demonstrated great technical skill but inconsistent emotional expression.
For example, Andrews's "Feed the Birds" from "Mary Poppins" and Ronstadt's "Love Has No Pride", among other performance" genuinely move me.
Sadly, neither of these takes on STWOM feels right to me.
I invite you however to give both performances a listen. Please share your opinions of either or both recordings. Maybe I'm
missing an epiphany....
Inconsequential and Possibly Gratuitous Personal Note: When I sing STWOM, I make one lyric change. The idea of referring to myself as a "lost lamb" feels ridiculous, so this Aries pronounces himself a "lost ram".
Same species; approximately equivalent pathos.
--------------------------------------------------------
I don't own the rights to this song or these performances.
These links are offered to facilitate an appreciation of the song. named.
Someone to Watch Over Me - Julie Andrews
https://youtu.be/QKvnUGSNbys
Someone to Watch Over Me - Linda Ronstadt
https://youtu.be/_wzuAyAdecc
--------------------------------------------
Self Assessment
This post went in a much different direction than I first planned and took far too long for me to complete.
I attribute this to my focusing on preparing some dishes around the Thanksgiving holiday and my inability to focus on two endeavors simultaneously.
Nevertheless they're done now.
Both sang a wide variety of songs-- my next favorite karaoke tune is one they both have performed.
The first time I recall hearing "Someone to Watch Over Me" was in this scene from Woody Allen's "Manhattan":
https://youtu.be/AsbdW6ZTFBs
The beautiful imagery of this scene was perfectly underscored by an orchestral arrangement of George Gershwin's poignant melody which I instantly loved.
I had no idea at the time that I would become as fond of Ira Gershwin's lyric.
Andrews's performance of STWOM is from her much-lambasted Gertrude Lawrence biopic "Star".
I've seen the film (or some chopped up version of it) on TV; generally, I'd describe the film "huh" dragged out past the point of "meh".
Below is a link to a clip of her performance of STWOM.
Honestly, while I recall Andrews-as-Lawrence's performance of Kurt Weill & Ira Gershwin's "The Saga of Jenny", I have no recollection of her rendition of STWOM, or even the scene's context in the film.
Ronstadt's version is from her first album of standards, conducted and arranged by Nelson Riddle.
Over their careers, the performances of both artists have demonstrated great technical skill but inconsistent emotional expression.
For example, Andrews's "Feed the Birds" from "Mary Poppins" and Ronstadt's "Love Has No Pride", among other performance" genuinely move me.
Sadly, neither of these takes on STWOM feels right to me.
I invite you however to give both performances a listen. Please share your opinions of either or both recordings. Maybe I'm
missing an epiphany....
Inconsequential and Possibly Gratuitous Personal Note: When I sing STWOM, I make one lyric change. The idea of referring to myself as a "lost lamb" feels ridiculous, so this Aries pronounces himself a "lost ram".
Same species; approximately equivalent pathos.
--------------------------------------------------------
I don't own the rights to this song or these performances.
These links are offered to facilitate an appreciation of the song. named.
Someone to Watch Over Me - Julie Andrews
https://youtu.be/QKvnUGSNbys
Someone to Watch Over Me - Linda Ronstadt
https://youtu.be/_wzuAyAdecc
--------------------------------------------
Self Assessment
This post went in a much different direction than I first planned and took far too long for me to complete.
I attribute this to my focusing on preparing some dishes around the Thanksgiving holiday and my inability to focus on two endeavors simultaneously.
Nevertheless they're done now.
Alabama
Updated & Completed - Nov. 18, 2018
I want to assert that-- even though my previous post about Iowa featured a preface of hapless misadventure-- no conclusion should be drawn from the fact that my visit to the state of Alabama also begins inauspiciously.
For one, I enjoyed Alabama far more than I did Iowa….
When I was planning my trip to Alabama I asked a Birmingham-knowledgeable friend, Julie Walsh, to recommend where to go and what to do. Julie was immensely helpful (as is her nature). I still have her extensive document with great options of things to do while in Birmingham.
I regret to say I didn't go to all the places or do all the activities Julie recommended. But I feel I struck gold with the one recommendation I followed through with-- which was literally a dream.
How I Got There and What Happened on the Way
What happened to me on my way to Birmingham could have happened to anyone. My flight itinerary was custom created to permit me an Amtrak sleeper car voyage from Birmingham to NYC, whence I'd go visit my parents. So I booked round-trip air from SFO to JFK.
Late in October 2013, I flew on a red-eye flight to Kennedy Airport, then took a cobbled-together series of brief flights JFK to Dulles, Dulles to ATL and ATL to BHM. At SFO, JFK and IAD I had to pass through TSA so I had my ID out. By the time I was in a cab in BHM, I realized my ID was MIA.
Could happen to anyone. How do you check in to a hotel without ID? Well, here's where an early arrival helps. You say to the front desk clerk “I'm arriving today, I've misplaced my ID, I hope to have a friend fax a copy of my passport to your attention, would that suffice for the ID required? In this case the answer was “yes”.
My dear friend Robin Dolan was able enter my apartment, where she located my passport (It pays to keep your passport in one easily described location). From there she was able to make a copy of the passport, fax it to the hotel in Birmingham and then-- dear heart that she is-- she FedExed the envelope to my parents' address (It helps-- when your driver's license is already lost--- to be headed ultimately to a destination where you are comfortable having your passport sent).
This concludes my tales of calamitous arrivals to destinations-- with the one exception to be told in the near future....that of the Trip to the Other Four Letter Destination.
The Birmingham Experience
16th Street Baptist Church / Kelly Ingram Park
Alabama’s and Birmingham's history entails anguished occurrences from which sense and purpose need to be drawn and empathy needs to be applied.
As a White man I cannot know the pain of racial discrimination or the terror of ethically motivated violence but travel and contemplation can bring anyone further understanding of that which one lacks firsthand knowledge.
On the afternoon of the day I arrived, I went to respectfully pay a pilgrimage to the 16th Street Baptist Church where, in 1963, four young girls were murdered by a racist’s bomb.
The area seemed deserted that Saturday afternoon I visited. With few people around, a stillness pervaded the area that italicized the moment's solemnity for me.
The 16th Street Baptist Church wasn't open. If it were, I may have not ventured to enter, as I don't regard places of worship tourist destinations. One can make an intentional and possibly secular pilgrimage to a church for a service, but walking into such a place at an odd hour is not something I'd do.
It was sufficient for me to walk the sidewalk beside the church and sense the energy of prayer, hope, tragedy and resilience that reside in the structure.
Cattycorner to the church, at the edge of the four-acre Kelly Ingram Park is a statue of the young martyrs, girls depicted in joyful play. The spot served as another point for quiet contemplation.
Other statuary in Kelly Ingram Park contains other statuary commemorating moments in Alabaman images of my nation's continuing slow process to grant all their civil rights . One piece I recall brilliantly captured a widely viewed historical moment of desperation as it made me a participant in that moment.
As I walked along a path in the park I approached a wall with a doorway cut in it. Through the doorway I could see a distant statue of a lone firehose on a stand pointing towards the door.
As I passed through the doorway, on either side there were statues of figures crouching and thrown against the wall as if by the violent force of the firehose's spray. In that moment my own balance faltered, so real was the power of the imagined space of the statuary.
A Trip to Dreamland (I've Never Been to Jupiter….)
Every time I'm in Berkeley I remember once hearing work colleague who lives there say, “Thursday night I went to Jupiter...." (Jupiter is a bar/restaurant on Shattuck Street in Berkeley.)
I've actually been to THAT Jupiter and-- on my visit to Birmingham-- I had the pleasure of visiting Dreamland.
One of Julie Walsh’s recommendations about where to find good BBQ in Birmingham was an establishment named Dreamland.
On the Sunday I was in the city I ate breakfast around 11am. I went back to my hotel, and checked out because I was spending my second night at another hotel, and stashed my bags with the bellman. I planned a leisurely walk to lunch at Dreamland but misjudged the length of the walk there….
At 12:45pm, there I was in Dreamland-- shamelessly eating lunch only and hour after finishing breakfast. I recall ordering ribs and chicken, mac and cheese, potato salad and sweet tea-- all delicious.
I sat at the establishment's bar and-- as I was dining alone-- I became engrossed in the several NFL games which played on multiple TV screens. I might have stayed longer but after two rapid-fire meals I was painfully in need of a nap, which would require my checking into my new hotel.
So, off I went. Miles to go before I napped.
What is this Commemorative Plaque commemorating?
Sometimes in my travels I will see something which is quite typical and then wonder about how atypical it might be.
When I think of having seen what I saw where I did and when I did, I suddenly feel feel the need to go back and double check to see whether or not I actually saw what I saw.
One such discovery that I will have to double check someday is in Birmingham.
After I checked in to my second hotel of my two night stay, I really couldn't nap so I went for a walk.
As I meandered the sidewalk, I noticed a commemorative plaque on the side of a building. The plaque commemorated the nation's first Veterans Day Parade, it said, which was held in Birmingham one day in the late 1800s.
My first thought about what I saw is “Hmm, interesting; that's a nice piece of trivia.”
My next thought was to try to picture what that parade looked like.
Then it occurred to me that in the late 1800s, the majority of veterans living in Alabama actually were individuals who had not fought for the United States.
While a veteran's Day Parade may seem both worthy and innocuous, a gathering of individuals who had fought for the Confederate States of America might actually be more terroristic than nostalgic to many of the citizens of Birmingham.
I do wonder about that parade-- who attended that day and who felt it would be best to keep the hell off the street and out of downtown Birmingham.
A Lecture at the Local LGBT Establishment
Sunday evening I went looking for Birmingham's nightlife. I tend to go out early-- when I do go out-- but if this was a typical Sunday night in Birmingham there is no nightlife there.
The establishment I went into had not much going on-- just about 6 guy sitting around a U-shaped bar. I ordered a cocktail and sat there listening to the lively conversation. I wasn't eavesdropping as the discussion was sufficiently loud that it was impossible not to hear every word. As I recall, there wasn't even any music playing.
Out of the blue one of the fellows who was talking-- in fact the one was talking the most: a White fellow-- suddenly used in passing, completely comfortably, the N-word.
I was ambivalent about the company in the bar up until the moment the fellows that the word he did. Then ambivalence went out the window. I finish my drink quickly and I left.
Another spot was about a mile away down the street away so I walked the distance this next place was a bit more lively but I guess I wasn't really in and overall mood to socialize. I didn't hang out there too long either.
It was one cocktail and out, but at least I wasn't being propelled by the classless comments of an ignorant fool.
On my way back, since I was going to go by the first establishment on my way to my hotel, I thought I might stop in again and see if the scenery had changed, as well as the dialogue.
It hadn't. By the time I realized it hadn’t, I was already in the door and had twelve sets of eyeballs on me. So, I sat down and I ordered a drink.
I had the drink for only a minute or so, when Mr. Ignorant Fool inquired, “So, did you leave earlier because I said (the N-word)?”
I said, “Yes”.
He spoke as if he was the most reasonable person alive but I could tell he was offended that anyone would reject his company. He asked if I was from Birmingham.
I replied “No, I'm from Oakland”.
Thus began his mini-lecture: “What you have to understand is that down here we all say (the N-word)-- all of us. Even the (N-word)s. And no one minds because everyone knows what it means. You don't know what it means.”
He was goading me to ask him “what does it mean?”. But I was 100% sure he didn't have a good answer.
I finished my drink and left without another word.
My encounter with this fool was unfortunate and I don't mean to use him as an illustration of the typical Alabaman.
The Alabamans I know are principled, intelligent, caring people. (Perhaps by virtue of the fact that I know them…. Need I say, just kidding…)
I will return to Alabama-- definitely to see the Gulf Coast and to revisit Birmingham, to see if that plaque is still there and if it says what I thought it said, and especially to see any sites or attractions linked to Willie Mays's life and career.
--------------------
Self assessment
I tried to get this done dictating voice to text which naturally meant a hell of a lot of editing and rewriting. (Voice to text heard something I said in the section about my visit to Dreamland “I have boobs boobs” as if I was a weirdly insistent Erin Brockovich.
My general mood makes getting this entirely done impossible at this point but I am anxious (literally) to get some of it up at least…..
I want to assert that-- even though my previous post about Iowa featured a preface of hapless misadventure-- no conclusion should be drawn from the fact that my visit to the state of Alabama also begins inauspiciously.
For one, I enjoyed Alabama far more than I did Iowa….
When I was planning my trip to Alabama I asked a Birmingham-knowledgeable friend, Julie Walsh, to recommend where to go and what to do. Julie was immensely helpful (as is her nature). I still have her extensive document with great options of things to do while in Birmingham.
I regret to say I didn't go to all the places or do all the activities Julie recommended. But I feel I struck gold with the one recommendation I followed through with-- which was literally a dream.
How I Got There and What Happened on the Way
What happened to me on my way to Birmingham could have happened to anyone. My flight itinerary was custom created to permit me an Amtrak sleeper car voyage from Birmingham to NYC, whence I'd go visit my parents. So I booked round-trip air from SFO to JFK.
Late in October 2013, I flew on a red-eye flight to Kennedy Airport, then took a cobbled-together series of brief flights JFK to Dulles, Dulles to ATL and ATL to BHM. At SFO, JFK and IAD I had to pass through TSA so I had my ID out. By the time I was in a cab in BHM, I realized my ID was MIA.
Could happen to anyone. How do you check in to a hotel without ID? Well, here's where an early arrival helps. You say to the front desk clerk “I'm arriving today, I've misplaced my ID, I hope to have a friend fax a copy of my passport to your attention, would that suffice for the ID required? In this case the answer was “yes”.
My dear friend Robin Dolan was able enter my apartment, where she located my passport (It pays to keep your passport in one easily described location). From there she was able to make a copy of the passport, fax it to the hotel in Birmingham and then-- dear heart that she is-- she FedExed the envelope to my parents' address (It helps-- when your driver's license is already lost--- to be headed ultimately to a destination where you are comfortable having your passport sent).
This concludes my tales of calamitous arrivals to destinations-- with the one exception to be told in the near future....that of the Trip to the Other Four Letter Destination.
The Birmingham Experience
16th Street Baptist Church / Kelly Ingram Park
Alabama’s and Birmingham's history entails anguished occurrences from which sense and purpose need to be drawn and empathy needs to be applied.
As a White man I cannot know the pain of racial discrimination or the terror of ethically motivated violence but travel and contemplation can bring anyone further understanding of that which one lacks firsthand knowledge.
On the afternoon of the day I arrived, I went to respectfully pay a pilgrimage to the 16th Street Baptist Church where, in 1963, four young girls were murdered by a racist’s bomb.
The area seemed deserted that Saturday afternoon I visited. With few people around, a stillness pervaded the area that italicized the moment's solemnity for me.
The 16th Street Baptist Church wasn't open. If it were, I may have not ventured to enter, as I don't regard places of worship tourist destinations. One can make an intentional and possibly secular pilgrimage to a church for a service, but walking into such a place at an odd hour is not something I'd do.
It was sufficient for me to walk the sidewalk beside the church and sense the energy of prayer, hope, tragedy and resilience that reside in the structure.
Cattycorner to the church, at the edge of the four-acre Kelly Ingram Park is a statue of the young martyrs, girls depicted in joyful play. The spot served as another point for quiet contemplation.
Other statuary in Kelly Ingram Park contains other statuary commemorating moments in Alabaman images of my nation's continuing slow process to grant all their civil rights . One piece I recall brilliantly captured a widely viewed historical moment of desperation as it made me a participant in that moment.
As I walked along a path in the park I approached a wall with a doorway cut in it. Through the doorway I could see a distant statue of a lone firehose on a stand pointing towards the door.
As I passed through the doorway, on either side there were statues of figures crouching and thrown against the wall as if by the violent force of the firehose's spray. In that moment my own balance faltered, so real was the power of the imagined space of the statuary.
A Trip to Dreamland (I've Never Been to Jupiter….)
Every time I'm in Berkeley I remember once hearing work colleague who lives there say, “Thursday night I went to Jupiter...." (Jupiter is a bar/restaurant on Shattuck Street in Berkeley.)
I've actually been to THAT Jupiter and-- on my visit to Birmingham-- I had the pleasure of visiting Dreamland.
One of Julie Walsh’s recommendations about where to find good BBQ in Birmingham was an establishment named Dreamland.
On the Sunday I was in the city I ate breakfast around 11am. I went back to my hotel, and checked out because I was spending my second night at another hotel, and stashed my bags with the bellman. I planned a leisurely walk to lunch at Dreamland but misjudged the length of the walk there….
At 12:45pm, there I was in Dreamland-- shamelessly eating lunch only and hour after finishing breakfast. I recall ordering ribs and chicken, mac and cheese, potato salad and sweet tea-- all delicious.
I sat at the establishment's bar and-- as I was dining alone-- I became engrossed in the several NFL games which played on multiple TV screens. I might have stayed longer but after two rapid-fire meals I was painfully in need of a nap, which would require my checking into my new hotel.
So, off I went. Miles to go before I napped.
What is this Commemorative Plaque commemorating?
Sometimes in my travels I will see something which is quite typical and then wonder about how atypical it might be.
When I think of having seen what I saw where I did and when I did, I suddenly feel feel the need to go back and double check to see whether or not I actually saw what I saw.
One such discovery that I will have to double check someday is in Birmingham.
After I checked in to my second hotel of my two night stay, I really couldn't nap so I went for a walk.
As I meandered the sidewalk, I noticed a commemorative plaque on the side of a building. The plaque commemorated the nation's first Veterans Day Parade, it said, which was held in Birmingham one day in the late 1800s.
My first thought about what I saw is “Hmm, interesting; that's a nice piece of trivia.”
My next thought was to try to picture what that parade looked like.
Then it occurred to me that in the late 1800s, the majority of veterans living in Alabama actually were individuals who had not fought for the United States.
While a veteran's Day Parade may seem both worthy and innocuous, a gathering of individuals who had fought for the Confederate States of America might actually be more terroristic than nostalgic to many of the citizens of Birmingham.
I do wonder about that parade-- who attended that day and who felt it would be best to keep the hell off the street and out of downtown Birmingham.
A Lecture at the Local LGBT Establishment
Sunday evening I went looking for Birmingham's nightlife. I tend to go out early-- when I do go out-- but if this was a typical Sunday night in Birmingham there is no nightlife there.
The establishment I went into had not much going on-- just about 6 guy sitting around a U-shaped bar. I ordered a cocktail and sat there listening to the lively conversation. I wasn't eavesdropping as the discussion was sufficiently loud that it was impossible not to hear every word. As I recall, there wasn't even any music playing.
Out of the blue one of the fellows who was talking-- in fact the one was talking the most: a White fellow-- suddenly used in passing, completely comfortably, the N-word.
I was ambivalent about the company in the bar up until the moment the fellows that the word he did. Then ambivalence went out the window. I finish my drink quickly and I left.
Another spot was about a mile away down the street away so I walked the distance this next place was a bit more lively but I guess I wasn't really in and overall mood to socialize. I didn't hang out there too long either.
It was one cocktail and out, but at least I wasn't being propelled by the classless comments of an ignorant fool.
On my way back, since I was going to go by the first establishment on my way to my hotel, I thought I might stop in again and see if the scenery had changed, as well as the dialogue.
It hadn't. By the time I realized it hadn’t, I was already in the door and had twelve sets of eyeballs on me. So, I sat down and I ordered a drink.
I had the drink for only a minute or so, when Mr. Ignorant Fool inquired, “So, did you leave earlier because I said (the N-word)?”
I said, “Yes”.
He spoke as if he was the most reasonable person alive but I could tell he was offended that anyone would reject his company. He asked if I was from Birmingham.
I replied “No, I'm from Oakland”.
Thus began his mini-lecture: “What you have to understand is that down here we all say (the N-word)-- all of us. Even the (N-word)s. And no one minds because everyone knows what it means. You don't know what it means.”
He was goading me to ask him “what does it mean?”. But I was 100% sure he didn't have a good answer.
I finished my drink and left without another word.
My encounter with this fool was unfortunate and I don't mean to use him as an illustration of the typical Alabaman.
The Alabamans I know are principled, intelligent, caring people. (Perhaps by virtue of the fact that I know them…. Need I say, just kidding…)
I will return to Alabama-- definitely to see the Gulf Coast and to revisit Birmingham, to see if that plaque is still there and if it says what I thought it said, and especially to see any sites or attractions linked to Willie Mays's life and career.
Self assessment
I tried to get this done dictating voice to text which naturally meant a hell of a lot of editing and rewriting. (Voice to text heard something I said in the section about my visit to Dreamland “I have boobs boobs” as if I was a weirdly insistent Erin Brockovich.
My general mood makes getting this entirely done impossible at this point but I am anxious (literally) to get some of it up at least…..
Saturday, November 10, 2018
The Klutz with the Clots
The Teaser: (composed Nov. 9, 2018)
This first post of November 2018 is a meditation on my uncommon blood and what I did when doctors told me to ingest rat poison and also my recent reflection on being prescribed yet ANOTHER med.
As October 2018 ended and November began, I underwent a medical procedure-- two days later a consultation with medical specialist.
I'm going to write about my consultation with the specialist because you don't want to hear the story of my colonoscopy. (But, believe me, it’s a story…)
I inaugurated this blog's posts last month with comments about my unremarkable brain..
NOTE: Genealogically my blood is as common as anyone’s. What makes the stuff my heart pumps so unusual is its not one-- but two!-- genetic factors which makes it clot really really really well...
My Uncommon Blood
Quite accidentally in July 2010, I ran a test on myself which revealed my blood contained not just the Factor V Leiden clotting factor but also the Factor II. This just means I clot like a beast.
What was the test? Well, I don't really know. Midweek the first week of July I started to have pains in my left calf which I thought might be a charleyhorse, but which I couldn't stretch out.
Yadda yadda yadda -- clots in my lungs which required six days in the hospital.
What I Did when Doctors Told Me to Ingest Rat Poison
Perhaps you all recall those TV commercials with the late Arnold Palmer, comedian Kevin Nealon, basketball great Chris Bosch and some NASCAR star? They were advertising a prescription drug which helps folks with really clotty blood like mine.
Was I prescribed this medication? No. In 2010, my health insurance wouldn't pay for THAT medication.
Instead I was prescribed Wonder Drug of the 1950's: Warfarin.
Some of the details in the following History of Warfarin may be incorrect but basically:
1) Scientists develop a substance
2) Scientist test substance on rats
3) Rats die of internal hemmoraging
4) Substance marketed as rat poison
5) Demand for rat poison wanes
6) Some nut decides substance can be used to treat folks with blood that clots like a beast if the people taking the substance can adhere to dietary limitations and, since those folks usually die really quickly anyway,...
7) Wonder drug Warfarin introduced
Sixty years later-- I was told to ingest rat posion and given ridiculously impossible dietary restrictions to follow involving the intake of Vitamin K. Since the drug was introduced in back when men had wives who stayed at home (or cooks) who planned their meals, no problem looking out for that pesky Vitamin K.
When I insisted I didn't want to take the stupid medication anymore because I missed certain foods, my idiot doctors would insist: "no one said you couldn't have blueberries anymore, you just have to consistently eat 7 blueberries every day...."
By 2014, it was decided I could take one low dose aspirin every day. Which I'm cool with....
But...
My current medical profession recently sent me to see a hematologist and the recommendation: now that the cost of the TV anticoagulant has dropped, it's time to take that...
Except--- I would have to watch out if I ever traveled to a remote location.... because, if I were injured there probably wouldn't be anyone with the antidote to the anticoagulant around....
Now, I'm not big on traveling to remote locations-- it's not a fave for me like blueberries. But it's at lease something I enjoy as much as cranberries-- which also raised Warfarin warning flags.
Even more so, I know myself and have come to know myself better in light of my diagnosis as having depression and anxiety. While it may be oversimplifying the dual affliction, for me they lead to periods in which I am overcome with horrific inertia (depression) which simultaneously cause me such inner distress (anxiety) that I tend to hurl myself into action.
(NOTE: I am actually completing this entry in one of those "hurlings")
Knowing that I have this inclination explains why I can be a klutz at times-- I simply don't "stick the landing" well when I vault from wherever I've been sitting or laying in depressed inertia.
Recognizing this makes the idea of taking some medication which requires an antidote were I to injure myself VERY undesirable.
It really doesn't matter to me if I fall in the company of many people in an exotic locale or by myself at home-- in both instances, I could still bleed internally to death.
So, please pass the baby aspirin....
-----------------------
This first post of November 2018 is a meditation on my uncommon blood and what I did when doctors told me to ingest rat poison and also my recent reflection on being prescribed yet ANOTHER med.
As October 2018 ended and November began, I underwent a medical procedure-- two days later a consultation with medical specialist.
I'm going to write about my consultation with the specialist because you don't want to hear the story of my colonoscopy. (But, believe me, it’s a story…)
I inaugurated this blog's posts last month with comments about my unremarkable brain..
NOTE: Genealogically my blood is as common as anyone’s. What makes the stuff my heart pumps so unusual is its not one-- but two!-- genetic factors which makes it clot really really really well...
My Uncommon Blood
Quite accidentally in July 2010, I ran a test on myself which revealed my blood contained not just the Factor V Leiden clotting factor but also the Factor II. This just means I clot like a beast.
What was the test? Well, I don't really know. Midweek the first week of July I started to have pains in my left calf which I thought might be a charleyhorse, but which I couldn't stretch out.
Yadda yadda yadda -- clots in my lungs which required six days in the hospital.
What I Did when Doctors Told Me to Ingest Rat Poison
Perhaps you all recall those TV commercials with the late Arnold Palmer, comedian Kevin Nealon, basketball great Chris Bosch and some NASCAR star? They were advertising a prescription drug which helps folks with really clotty blood like mine.
Was I prescribed this medication? No. In 2010, my health insurance wouldn't pay for THAT medication.
Instead I was prescribed Wonder Drug of the 1950's: Warfarin.
Some of the details in the following History of Warfarin may be incorrect but basically:
1) Scientists develop a substance
2) Scientist test substance on rats
3) Rats die of internal hemmoraging
4) Substance marketed as rat poison
5) Demand for rat poison wanes
6) Some nut decides substance can be used to treat folks with blood that clots like a beast if the people taking the substance can adhere to dietary limitations and, since those folks usually die really quickly anyway,...
7) Wonder drug Warfarin introduced
Sixty years later-- I was told to ingest rat posion and given ridiculously impossible dietary restrictions to follow involving the intake of Vitamin K. Since the drug was introduced in back when men had wives who stayed at home (or cooks) who planned their meals, no problem looking out for that pesky Vitamin K.
When I insisted I didn't want to take the stupid medication anymore because I missed certain foods, my idiot doctors would insist: "no one said you couldn't have blueberries anymore, you just have to consistently eat 7 blueberries every day...."
By 2014, it was decided I could take one low dose aspirin every day. Which I'm cool with....
But...
My current medical profession recently sent me to see a hematologist and the recommendation: now that the cost of the TV anticoagulant has dropped, it's time to take that...
Except--- I would have to watch out if I ever traveled to a remote location.... because, if I were injured there probably wouldn't be anyone with the antidote to the anticoagulant around....
Now, I'm not big on traveling to remote locations-- it's not a fave for me like blueberries. But it's at lease something I enjoy as much as cranberries-- which also raised Warfarin warning flags.
Even more so, I know myself and have come to know myself better in light of my diagnosis as having depression and anxiety. While it may be oversimplifying the dual affliction, for me they lead to periods in which I am overcome with horrific inertia (depression) which simultaneously cause me such inner distress (anxiety) that I tend to hurl myself into action.
(NOTE: I am actually completing this entry in one of those "hurlings")
Knowing that I have this inclination explains why I can be a klutz at times-- I simply don't "stick the landing" well when I vault from wherever I've been sitting or laying in depressed inertia.
Recognizing this makes the idea of taking some medication which requires an antidote were I to injure myself VERY undesirable.
It really doesn't matter to me if I fall in the company of many people in an exotic locale or by myself at home-- in both instances, I could still bleed internally to death.
So, please pass the baby aspirin....
-----------------------
Self assessment
In November, the added challenge will be sticking with the schedule I previously mentioned of posting between the 9th and 23rd of each month. I adopted this schedule assuming that a horrifically stressful but periodically resolvable situation would be on track to its periodic resolution. This situation hasn't been resolved so I am in anxiously uncharted territory. After dragging myself out of a multi-day emotional roadside ditch, I concluded that-- in order to proceed with and meet my schedule-- I'd make the adjustment of providing teasers for my posts whenever I cannot complete the entire post, then double back to complete it later. It, of course, complicates my overall task but it's all I can do. There's no point of getting even MORE depressed and anxious about shit.
Now I'm going to eat a shit-ton of blueberry coffee cake (and a piece of fruit!), post this to Facebook (but first a birthday shoutout to a college friend!), do a little cleanup on my post labels till 1:30p (and a maybe start this month's R O Y G B I V cycle), finish my coffee and go look for this farmers market in West Oakland I keep missing. (Didn't find it this time either.)
Now I'm going to eat a shit-ton of blueberry coffee cake (and a piece of fruit!), post this to Facebook (but first a birthday shoutout to a college friend!), do a little cleanup on my post labels till 1:30p (and a maybe start this month's R O Y G B I V cycle), finish my coffee and go look for this farmers market in West Oakland I keep missing. (Didn't find it this time either.)
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Whither this Blog?
UPDATE
I've had this phrase going through my head lately. It seems like an old adage or saying but the more I think about it the less sense it makes.
(I refuse to Google it at this point but I may reconsider…)
Is there really a saying that goes: “Take care of the little things and the big things will take care of themselves”?
Don't Big Things always take care of themselves?
-----------
About 3 weeks ago I had arrived at a decision that I was going to work on this blog-- at most-- for 2 weeks out of every month. And since I worked on the blog in October between the 9th through the 23rd, I decided I should do my monthly blog posts each month between the 9th through the 23rd.
Then I thought posts I might make in October…
Then I didn't do make any of them…..
Sooooo -- back to the original decision: my monthly blog posts will appear each month between the 9th through the 23rd.
Final answer.
__________________________
Self assessment
This blog post-- brief as it is-- was a long time coming. Just coming through a stretch of feeling no need or use in communicating.
Answer tba
I've had this phrase going through my head lately. It seems like an old adage or saying but the more I think about it the less sense it makes.
(I refuse to Google it at this point but I may reconsider…)
Is there really a saying that goes: “Take care of the little things and the big things will take care of themselves”?
Don't Big Things always take care of themselves?
-----------
About 3 weeks ago I had arrived at a decision that I was going to work on this blog-- at most-- for 2 weeks out of every month. And since I worked on the blog in October between the 9th through the 23rd, I decided I should do my monthly blog posts each month between the 9th through the 23rd.
Then I thought posts I might make in October…
Then I didn't do make any of them…..
Sooooo -- back to the original decision: my monthly blog posts will appear each month between the 9th through the 23rd.
Final answer.
__________________________
Self assessment
This blog post-- brief as it is-- was a long time coming. Just coming through a stretch of feeling no need or use in communicating.
Answer tba
violet passion flower & R O Y G B I V
 |
| violet passion flower san pablo avenue, oakland, ca
Final photo from this first lap across the spectrum
_____________________________________________________
R O Y G B I V
This was the proposal for an art exhibit I recently submitted to a gallery in SF.
I wasn't accepted.
Perhaps my photography wasn't good enough, perhaps they weren't interested in submissions from Oakland.
____________________________________________________
Name of Show: R O Y G B I V
Tagline: A Rainbow Seen by Colorblind Gay Eye
Photography by Donald Cooper
Theme
I am one of the 10% of males who “suffer” from a specific type of color perception (aka “color blindness”) called a “red/green seeing deficiency”.
There's almost certainly a scientific name for the condition but “defect” is the word I remember being told I had that day in elementary school when I was tested and diagnosed. The news was shared with me in a pitying tone, I thought. The school nurse implied that the defect would hamper my pursuit of any number of careers careers.
I was even told I couldn't be a bus driver because I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a red light and a green light.
So, no one's perfect. We all have defects and talents to overcome them. I didn't let having a “defect” limit me...but the concerning idea that the rainbow I see may differ from what the “90%” sees stayed with me through the decades.
And I do see in color. I know “red” and “green”. Apples are red. And green too…. I didn't have a defect. Through trial and much error I learned not to make the sort of wardrobe choices that made me look like an escapee from a circus.
And I got very reluctant about discussing visual art.
But, for 17 years I had a job which allowed me to travel extensively and I learned I enjoyed photography. Investing in a genuine SLR never seemed practical-- given my “defect-- but did all right with a basic disposable camera.
In 2010, I finally got a phone which came with a decent camera…. And I finally had the capacity to challenge my longtime self-perception as “defective’.
Describe your work, your vision for the type of art you want to be exhibited on the second floor, and why you want to show it at Strut.
Capturing images of my home in the Bay-- as well as a handful of other locations-- started out as a pastime something which simply brings me joy. The Gay Bay is often seen exclusively as San Francisco’s clubs and organizations, and the sights and scenes of San Francisco. Of my 30 years in the Bay, Oakland has been my home for 16 years.
Oakland’s unique combination of natural beauty and “hella” gritty realness has sharpened my eye to such qualities wherever I travel and has made me a more assured photographer. In fact, the photos I’ve contributed to Google Maps as a Local Guide have been viewed 538,000 times.
I have visited 40 States (and DC) on my way to all 50 and have trained my eye to see details many might miss,
The significance of the rainbow is-- naturally-- the image of the Rainbow flag representing our LGBTQ community.
But R-O-Y-G-B-I-V also represents the range of color I was told I could never physically perceive.
As I facetiously recounted above, I spent decades doubting my “visual sense. I only gradually started to consider the images I took with my Nexus 5 phone “photography”, developing a love for the art past the age of 50.
------------------------------------------------
Self assessment
This piece was already for the most part composed. It simply required some editing. Posted in the niddle of the night as a result of insomnia
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Tuesday, October 23, 2018
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