The Murasaki Stories

A Annoying Trend

2012-01-15T16:24:00.000-05:00

What happened to the word an? It feels like an old friend gone missing. One day I woke up and no one was using it anymore.

"I think there's a apple in the fridge."

"That's a old version."

I even heard someone say - no kidding - "I was a English major!"

Really?

Can a word fade into obscurity from disuse? When did someone first decide it was okay to say a before a word beginning with a vowel? Or did so many people lack an understanding of the rule that a critical mass was eventually reached, rendering the word an helpless to stop its being relegated to a dusty drawer as the newest companion to forsooth, verily, and yoicks?

People butcher grammar all the time in conversation, but standards are higher for written English; "proper" English is what distinguishes civilization from - well, whatever you have without it (Terra Nova?). Yet I have been more than dismayed to find that using a for an is now seen even in newspapers and magazines. (Does this mean editing is more lax, or there is less editing?)

I accept that usage of words changes over time, and with it, meaning. I use the word hopefully a lot. Technically, it's an adverb, like angrily, quickly, or gracefully - a descriptive word modifying a verb. At some point, however, it became accepted as an introductory word describing the attitude about whatever follows in the sentence: Hopefully, I would win both the Veg-o-Matic and the Thighmaster. I didn't even realize until today that I'd been misusing the word.

Is this bad? Should I be as inflamed about my own grammatical error as I am about an's disappearance? They are both wrong, but they both appear to be acceptable.

The same goes for the word broke. Who said we could lose the n? Every time I hear it misused, I cringe and want to say, "Fie! Whencesover didst that come?" Broke is the past tense of the verb to break: break, broke, broken.

I know he will break my heart, but I'm going to ask him out, anyway.
He broke my heart even though I waited until the third date to propose.
He has broken my heart, but soon I will join Match.com.
Broken is also the state of disrepair: My heart is broken, but it's nothing my friend Johnny Walker can't fix!

Broke as past tense is only fitting as dialect: Dang nabbit! Pappy's hooch machine in the holler down yonder's still broke!

Otherwise, as far as I'm aware, broken is still the correct word: Damn - the nozzle that foams the milk for morning espresso is still broken!

From where I sit, using language as my art, it's hard not to feel sad about the decline of proper English, the gradual, apathetic casting off of grammatical rules. Is it stuffy to want to construct sentences following long-accepted guidelines? Should one relax and follow the masses in resignation to the tides of popular practice?

I'd hoped to draw some pithy conclusion warning against degenerating into a Lord of the Flies existence in which we only use the grade school communication exercise vocabulary of fa, pa, and ba, - but, faced with my own participation in changing the rules, I am left with only my belief in what I learned in school.

Comments welcome.

... and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

2011-12-11T22:55:00.001-05:00

The poll results are in: out of eleven respondents, four (36%) believe that fiction writers and poets write primarily to communicate with others, while seven (64%) believe that those writers write first for themselves as artistic expression.

When applying the same question only to themselves, just two (18%) said they write primarily for others, while nine (82%) said they write for themselves first. The response rate was just under fifty percent, with eleven out of twenty-four writers answering (including myself).

As I mentioned before, the questions can become more complex as they are discussed, and judging by the comments (thanks, Andi and Jane), the answers can be quite involved. Although the poll may have seemed simplistic and inadequate, I believe many qualified answers can actually fall into one or the other category.

For instance, writing to preserve history can be considered writing for others, since this really goes to the title of this and the previous blog entries; if history is recorded but no one reads it, is it really preserved? One may write down one's family history and not care at the time if it remains hidden in a desk drawer or forgotten in an attic, but if no one ever discovers and reads it years or decades later, would the writer have considered the effort worthwhile?

Or consider writing to make sense of an experience. This could fall under writing for oneself, since the person benefitting from bringing order out of chaos is the writer. It may subsequently affect or enrich others, too, but the making sense part is coming from the writer, primarily for the writer.

Personally, I write to express myself as a creative outlet. I would like others to read my stories, but if no one does, that's okay; it does not devalue what I have written or diminish my experience of writing, and it's not why I write in the first place. If I were on a desert island with no chance of being rescued or of my work being discovered on the island years later, I would still write (provided I could re-create the pen, ink, and paper).

Thanks to my friend Guy for asking an important, relevant question and sparking discussion among my writer friends far beyond the casual lunchtime chat that gave birth to the poll!

If a Tree Falls in the Woods...

2011-11-27T22:25:00.013-05:00

A friend asked me a philosophical question today: Do writers write primarily for themselves, or do they write for someone else's benefit?

I have a strong opinion about this, and we discussed this question for quite some time. I am going to assert my position later, but my friend's belief is that writers' primary motivation is to communicate, to pass on to others something they want to say, and that that is the whole point of writing. If no one reads your writing, there is no point in having written.

When we finally had to get on with our separate afternoons, I told him I would poll my writer friends and let him know the results. This is where you come in!

As with most polls, there's a whole lot wrapped up in the questions and answers, but I tried to make it as simple as possible. Let's assume we are only talking about fiction and poetry. The water gets murky very quickly, once we even start talking about the questions, let alone the answers.

Just two questions. The first is your belief about most creative writers in general, while the second is the same question applied to yourself:

This is my first Poll Daddy poll, so I'm not sure how this works, but I did set both polls to allow commenting (good luck with that). If all else fails, send me an email if you have other thoughts to share.

I'll post my own thoughts after allowing some time for response. Thanks for your help!

Life Re-Examined, Again

2011-02-06T16:51:00.007-05:00

Dear Dianne,

After three consecutive 13- to 14-hour days at the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) conference, I hope you are readjusting to life back home. I myself feel unmoored and am trying to regain my bearings. Yes, it was wonderful being with 8,500 writers, agents, publishers, students, teachers, and editors, all focused on the art of literature. But for me, it is more than coming down off the high of community; it's dealing with the same question that arises after attending a week-long workshop at the Fine Arts Work Center (FAWC) in Provincetown: what am I doing with my life? What should I be doing with my life? And if it's something different than what I'm doing now, do I have the guts - and the resources - to make the change?

The central question is that of the MFA, which has become the bachelor's degree of the writing world. You and I both feel the private sting of our perceived, though unspoken, snubbing at this seeming deficiency, even if our detractors exist only in an unidentifiable aggregate. (I am just waiting for the day when the first question people ask is, "And where did you get your MFA?")

We have both been through at least five writing workshops, which is equal to the requirement of many MFA programs. And you have certainly exceeded the coursework requirements as a former creative writing and literature professor and chair of an English department. You have also completed (and submitted for publication) a book-length manuscript, which is the same as an MFA thesis. You are missing only those three letters after your name.

I, however, am lacking the literature part of my education, try as I might to address it by reading on my own and using the resources now available on the Intranet to help me understand. Another FAWC classmate sent me the reading lists from her program at the Bennington Writing Seminars to help me out, but I'm not sure how I could ever read everything on those lists, as well as the works on my own lists.

So yesterday I once again struggled with The Question, one which becomes harder to answer the older I get. And beyond getting the degree, what is the financial tradeoff of a post-MFA career (assuming I could identify non-teaching options), and is it feasible to even consider in DC? That question is pretty easily answered, so the next question is whether I would be willing to relocate to a place with a lower cost of living.

More fundamentally, the question that becomes not only harder but more insistent with age is: what do I want to spend the rest of my career doing? Over the past three days, we were surrounded by many people who spend their time reading people's writing and considering, discussing, and arguing questions of competence, meaning, and relevance, as well as asserting subjective assessments of whether a story is good. Wow, I wonder what that's like, I thought.

But as the editor of Tin House said in one session, "we are you"; that's what we all do, and they are no different from us. At the time, I thought that was a nice thing to say but that as editors, they were on a different plane. Sitting here reflecting on it today, though, I realize that is indeed what we do in workshop: analyze a piece, discuss its merits and shortcomings, provide feedback to the writer, and privately decide which stories we think are the best, which show potential, and which aren't quite ready yet. While we don't do it full-time, we already do know the meat of at least the art side of what they do, and it is indeed wonderful. How many times during a week in P'town have I felt consciously aware of how great it is to spend our days reading and talking about each other's writing?

You don't get paid much to edit and publish fiction. But as Daniel Slager, publisher of Milkweed Editions, said in that same session, he gets paid to read, and he loves it. Though not by the world's standards, it's a privileged life.

And in the end, aren't ours the only standards that matter? At the end of our lives, how will we ourselves judge what we have done with them? Who cares what anyone else says about it?

So, Dianne, in my opinion you can be proud of all you have accomplished. As I've said before, enjoy your retirement. Take satisfaction in what you have done, not only for yourself but for so many young people (especially in opening their literary worlds beyond the white male canon).

The possibilities in my own life remain open, waiting for me to act. I hope and pray for the courage to do whatever is right for me. Thanks again for calling my attention to AWP being in my own backyard this year, thus spurring me to re-examine the bigger questions.

In gratitude for our writing friendship,

Mark

High Tech, Low Touch

2010-07-03T22:29:00.000-04:00

This afternoon I stood in the aisle at Barnes & Noble, next to the New Fiction table, despairing. The world was changing and in a direction I didn't like. There was nothing to be done. It was progress. This is how it would be, and people would adjust, or become dinosaurs.

I had just discovered that the CD section had moved from the back wall of the store to a smaller section along the side. Further, DVDs and Blu-Ray discs now took up half the space, with CDs squeezed into the other half. Genres of music were much less obviously marked, and the racks of "NEW RELEASES" had disappeared. CDs are going the way of the cassette tape. Most music is now digital and virtual and intangible and is purchased invisibly through a keyboard.

I had a brief nostalgic moment remembering the excitement I used to feel walking through the vast inventory of CDs at Borders, wondering what new music I might discover. Would it be an older release that I somehow missed of a favorite artist? Or would I, on a whim, put on headphones at a "listening station" (what a fantastic service!) and discover someone new? I spent a lot of time at Tower Records before it died at the hands of iTunes, making such discoveries of world music artists.

Sometimes I even went to Borders on the day a long-awaited CD was to be released and asked for it since it was not yet on the shelves. Now, that was exciting: when a staff person disappeared into the back room and brought it out to me, fresh from the box, not even priced yet!

Those days are long gone. CDs now sit in a small, sad part of the store, still there only to pacify those of us who have yet to make the jump to the newest medium and trash our jewel cases and cumbersome CD racks. (Who keeps their music in furniture anymore?) They will soon disappear unnoticed as DVDs, in their only slightly larger packaging, take over the space completely.

On my way out of the Barnes & Noble, I stopped for a moment at the large display, sitting front and center, showcasing B&N's electronic reader, the Nook. It's B&N's answer to the Amazon Kindle and the Sony Reader. I stopped to touch it. It's cold metal parts struck me as exactly diametrical to the warmth I supposed its name was meant to evoke. It made me sad. It did not make me want to find some cozy nook and read a book on it.

That is when I found myself standing in the store aisle, full of anti-electronic angst. This was the "high tech, low touch" dichotomy predicted and decried back in the '70's by those who studied the future. Advances in technology, they said, would result in less touch and a distancing from the things which make us human.

When the tide of digital photography broke over the beach of picture-taking, I transitioned from film consciously and with minimal tragedy; the issue was forced when my partner gave me a digital camera for my birthday, and I was quickly running out of storage space for my many bulky photo albums. I also felt relieved that I would no longer have to spend a lot of time mounting developed photos and handwriting captions for them. Nor would I have to order reprints and mail them to people any longer - I could just email them! And since taking pictures was all electronic now, I stopped hearing ka-ching! every time I hit the shutter and could take and erase as many photos as I wanted - and the ones I kept I could edit after downloading them to my computer.

So while I was reluctant to give up the tactile experience of pulling out an album and flipping through the pages or bringing the album out to the living room to share with a visitor, all the practical advantages of digital photography more than made up for it.

But with music it's harder. I've always loved the little booklets that come with CDs. I enjoy the art, photos, lyrics, and liner notes. Reading the artist's thoughts and thank-you's adds to my emotional experience of the music. (Granted, I now need a magnifying glass to read the tiny print.) Before CDs, when I was growing up, I used to love slitting the plastic wrap of an LP, sliding the record out of the cardboard cover, and seeing what was on the paper sleeve. I would turn the record on and lie on my stomach facing the speakers, reading the album cover and sleeve. (We're skipping mention of that deplorable phase of the cassette tape and of the 8-track, which I never experienced.)

Yes, space is an issue, even though CDs greatly reduced the storage necessary for vinyl. But downloading music creates its own storage issues. And I don't get art or lyrics with it. Nevertheless, I acknowledge that it's only a matter of time until CDs are no longer sold. It's hard to deny after seeing Virgin and Tower Records close and watching the ever-shrinking CD sections at B&N and Borders.

But considering the demise of the printed book is not something I'm ready to do. When it's a cold and rainy Saturday in November, I don't want to curl up in a big chair under an afghan with a mug of hot chocolate and - power up my Kindle. At the end of a long day, when I want to escape into a story world before going to sleep, I don't want to climb under the covers and settle in - with my Nook. I want my book, with its cloth cover and deckle-edge pages, or my paperback with its somewhat worn cover, evidencing the many hours I've already spent with it, complete with the notes I've written in the margins, the underlined passages which struck me in a special way.

And when I go to a reading and stand in line to meet the author, and when I finally reach the table where they sit, pen poised and ready to ask my name, where exactly on my downloaded book should they write the inscription?

When we are finished with printed books, their lives do not end. Many people bring them in to work and contribute them to a lending library or book swap. Some people release them "into the wild," leaving them in airport waiting areas, cafes, or public parks. Electronic books are - deleted.

Again, storage is an issue, admittedly. But those of us who love books - beyond simply loving to read - don't mind. We just use them to decorate. Even if we can't display every book we own, we can't part with a special book that has made us cry or has moved us or made us think in a way we wouldn't have found on our own. And we've spent so much time with it, how could we just get rid of it?

The writing is probably on the wall with newspapers shutting down right and left and surviving rags losing more and more weight, resembling skinny small town papers rather than the hefty, two-pound parcels that used to take us a couple days to get through. People already enjoy listening to the audio versions of books. And you can't beat the convenience of purchasing and consuming e-books wherever you are.

Nevertheless, I am heartened when I consider that books don't seem to be going away. Not yet, anyway. The way that books are sold has changed drastically, but books themselves don't seem to be less available. Many people, after acknowledging that bookstores (at least brick-and-mortar ones) are probably on their way out, assert that books are going to stick around for a while.

I myself will be doing my share to ensure that is true.

What Aisle is Just For Men on?

2010-05-27T21:55:00.004-04:00

I've always maintained that I would not be one of those aging men who go kicking and screaming. I was going to grow old gracefully. My hair was going to go from black straight to white, and it was going to be striking. I would live through a period in which I would be seen as experienced, savvy, and handsome in a worldly sort of way.

We seem to be skipping that phase.

Not only do I no longer get carded when I buy beer at the grocery store - it's been a few years - but today the checker finished scanning my items and then asked, "You're not a senior citizen, are you?" Oh. My. God.

After recovering, I exclaimed loudly, "Not yet!" I didn't know whether to laugh or slap her.

She said, "I didn't think so. Just wanted to be sure." You didn't think so, but you couldn't be absolutely certain. Again: Oh. My. God.

I'm 48 years old, but she thought there was a chance I could be 65. Or at least 55, going by the restaurant menu standard. Do I look like I would order dinner at 4:30? I mean, come on, maybe 5:30, but give me a break!

I did join AARP in my early 40's, but not because I felt old - I just wanted to get discount movie tickets (which don't appear to be a benefit of membership).

I caught a glimpse of my hair in the rear view mirror on the way home. It was a little shocking, I had to admit - you know, seeing an image of your outsides that doesn't match what how your insides feel.

But maybe it's time to face the truth. When meeting friends at a night spot a couple months ago, I stood in line at the door. They carded everyone in front of me. Then they waved me on and carded everyone behind me. How mortifying! I could just hear them going, "Whose dad is that?" And in fact, I mysteriously experienced a moment of looking for a son I don't have.

I now think maybe they card me every time at my favorite bar only because they're bored.

What happened to middle age? Maybe someone should have told me the exact age it started and when the cutoff was at the other end so I would have been better prepared and self-aware enough to enjoy it while it lasted. As it is, the next thing they are going to do at Harris Teeter is meet me at the door and ask if I want to shop using one of their scooter carts. Then when I finish they will offer to call the Sunrise Retirement Home shuttle.

Just out of curiosity, I recently asked our 24 year-old contractor at work how old his father was. Bad idea. Turns out I'm older than his father! I knew there was a risk that I would be, but I thought it was a negligible one. I can see being older than the father of a baby or a kid with a sippy cup. But how can I be older than THE FATHER OF a person who analyzes and organizes things at work, shares a boss with me, and pays his own way through life?

The signs were already there. For a while (too short), I had a dentist who was ten years my junior. Young people have been calling me "sir" for a while. About the only time I have to dig out my driver's license now (besides the occasional outing to my favorite bar, which doesn't really count anymore - see above) is in the security line at the airport.

Ah well, at least there are perks for seniors.

You have a party and the neighbors don't even realize it.
Things you buy now won't wear out.
In a hostage situation, you are likely to be released first.*

Now, where did I put those movie tickets?

* Perks courtesy of: www.llerrah.com/seniorperks.htm

Pulling the Plug

2010-04-15T21:34:00.002-04:00

I'm not the only one who refuses to pay exorbitant cable bills. Apparently hundreds of thousands of people are unplugging and relying on Hulu, Netflix, iTunes, and DVD sets for their TV fixes. (And of course there's my rabbit ears!) Over 9000 comments have been posted in response to that story on Yahoo News.

I've actually adjusted to my limited channel access (now down to just two channels after my most recent auto channel scan). I no longer feel a compulsion to channel surf until I'm sure I'm watching just the thing I'd rather watch over all other possible choices. It no longer matters whether I hit the Channel Up or Channel Down button, since it only alternates between two channels. I'm enjoying the very easy decision of which channel to watch, especially since 95% of the time channel 20 isn't worth watching.

Which leads to the surprising finding that there are some pretty good shows on 5! Who knew that I would be watching so much FOX? I wouldn't yet call them my favorite shows (and does the word "favorite" mean anything in the absence of choice?), but I readily admit to liking them a lot. Human Target (impossibly handsome, hunky Christopher Chance, always cool and physically capable in the face of hopeless odds, and nice as can be), Bones (the comical but tortured dance between Bones and Agent Booth as they solve forensic mysteries), and House (the inappropriate, abrasive, brilliant Gregory House) all keep me interested. And I have become addicted to American Idol for the first time, too.

Life without premium paid TV isn't impossible - which is a good thing, since Verizon has apparently abandoned plans to expand its FiOS fiber optic network into Alexandria. With the exception of missing the winter Olympics, I don't feel I've suffered much at all. And without a way to record (not that I can watch anything I'd want to record now), I just shrug when I miss a show I'd wanted to see, rather than getting upset.

I've always lamented the loss of simpler times, and now, in a small way, I have rediscovered them.

Let's Hear It For the Boy!

2010-04-08T21:51:00.010-04:00

Ricky Martin has "finally" (according to many) come out of the closet in the climactic ending to a deeply thoughtful piece on the homepage of his website, proclaiming to be a "fortunate homosexual man." Hallelujah!

It's about time, right? What took him so long?? Everyone knew that already, so what was he waiting for?

I just read a Washington Post article that detailed a 2008 study showing that both gay and straight people are very good at guessing sexual orientation. People correctly guessed 87% of the time when shown videos of straight people and 75% of the time with videos of gay people. My own gaydar has never resembled a spinning weathervane when considering Ricky Martin, but apparently I'm in the minority.

Speculation has been wild and sporadic over the years, certainly fed by Ricky's declining to answer Barbara Walters' needling questions in an infamous interview in 2000, which Walters now regrets. The persistence of the rumors alone was enough to make some believe them. Certainly people were more than ready to hear him confess that the rumors were true. So why did he wait ten years after evading Walters' question on national television?

As I came out to friends and family over several years, various people tried to make it safe for me to do so. Some cracked the door open just enough for a little light to enter, while others tried to reach in and pull me out. A dear friend invited me to a dinner party, adding, "You can bring anyone you want - ANYONE." A co-worker made reference to going downtown, dramatically winking with a knowing glance. Another co-worker noted the rainbow on my birthday cake and said, "Mark likes rainbows - RIGHT, MARK?"

My sister in-law, after the fact, told me she had wondered and had wanted to just ask me point-blank, but my brother had advised her to hold her question. Whether he was offering wise advice or simply exercising our family's talent for avoiding uncomfortable issues, he was right; depending on when she had considered asking me, I would have either denied it or become paralyzed and speechless with mortification.

In the years immediately preceding my coming out, I had been deeply involved with an "ex-gay" ministry (in fact, I was in leadership) and considered myself fundamentally straight. I was not ready to come out even to myself. And the years immediately following my coming out were uncertain and a little scary. I was in my 30s, and it was tricky navigating such a total change in my life. Coming out to others was a slow, gradual process and depended on my relationship to each person I told.

The right time for me to have come out was not when everyone was ready to hear it; it was when I was ready to tell them.

Ricky Martin was not ready to tell the world in 2000, or at any time during the next ten years. Ricky Martin was ready last week. Yes, it might seem like "finally" to the rest of us. But when he came out on his blog, he was able to do so with dignity, grace, and pride, on his own terms. And that is what I'm celebrating.

Potomac Winds Blowing Sweet Sounds

2010-04-02T22:50:00.014-04:00

I help keep the rhythm going on my djembe* as each flute player in the circle takes a turn allowing his or her spirit to lead in song. I'm glad I spent time on the Web learning the basic strokes, and I try to incorporate tones, slaps, and basses in my drumming. Finally, recording artist and world flutist Suzanne Teng takes a turn with her flute, dancing in the middle of the circle as she plays. She gets closer to me, and then for an instant our eyes meet, and we are playing to each other. I was drumming for Suzanne Teng!

Never mind that someone else was playing a djembe, and on the other side of the circle someone was playing a doumbek, and over there was Gilbert Levy, percussionist extraordinaire and her partner in music and life, leading us all. That moment was still mine.

It was the final workshop at the 7th annual Potomac Native American Flute Festival in Arlington, Virginia, and the climax of a great weekend of flutes and friends. For this festival, my fourth, I accepted an invitation to serve as what would come to be known as an "uber-volunteer," basically being available to help for the entire festival, rather than just a few hours here or there. It was well worth the long hours to become much more a part of the festival than ever before.

Mostly I helped with food service: keeping the snack table stocked, making urns of coffee, putting large trays of sandwiches out for lunch, taking meal tickets, and generally keeping an eye on things. But I also sat at the information desk, sold CDs, took tickets at the Saturday night concert, and helped vendors move their wares.

In between shifts I had ample opportunity to try out flutes from the various vendors - always a high point of the festival. It's just amazing how different a flute made by one maker sounds from one made by another. Discovering each flute's unique voice is one of the greatest pleasures a "flutie" can have.

Every year we are blessed by having some of the finest flute makers in the country here: Colyn Petersen, Brent Haines, Brad Young, Hawk Henries, and several others. We are also lucky to have some newer, perhaps unfamiliar makers come to the festival to expand our flute world.

Last year I decided my next flute would be a high Hawk Henries. He had one I really liked, but since I had just dropped some serious money on a custom flute by Brent Haines, I waited a whole year, just thinking about that flute. And I'm glad I did, because now he had a gorgeous spalted birch version of it with an Alaskan yellow cedar bird and endcaps. I knew as soon as I saw it and blew my song into it on the opening day of the festival that it was mine.

Every flute Hawk makes is stunning in its simplicity and natural beauty. He adds no decorative frills, and that somehow allows the woodgrain of every flute to be the star of the show. The bird (totem) is typically small and flat - again, simple and

unobtrusive, pleasing to the eye but not calling attention to itself. The leather ties securing the bird to the flute are thin and unadorned with beads or feathers, simply enhancing the overall look.

He uses only hand tools to make his flutes, and yet each one seems perfect and exact. When you pick one up, you are struck by how silky it feels under your fingers.

Hawk Henries' flutes are a perfect reflection of the quiet, gentle, unassuming, beautiful man he is.

My new flute, however, has to be a cut above all the other flutes Hawk brought this year. The spalted birch is fascinating and beautiful to look at, and the Alaskan yellow cedar complements it perfectly. And its aroma is intoxicating.

But let's not forget its sound! While it's definitely beautiful enough to serve only as a decorative piece, it is ultimately its voice which brings it home for flute players. And this flute has a high, distinct - forgive me - bird-like sound. It chortles and barks, too, so there is plenty of interest in what might otherwise be a limiting range.

I had a golden opportunity to become familiar with other makers' flutes as well, while sitting at the information desk. Right across from me sat more than a dozen flutes donated by their makers to be raffled off throughout the weekend. They just begged to be played, so of course I obliged! Here was a Colyn Petersen, always reliably clear and resonant. Here was an interesting cane flute by Geri Littlejohn, who often makes flutes in their natural state, like actual tree branches. Here was a Leonard McGann, a Brent Haines - and here was an incredible raven's head flute by Brad Young. It became the flute I couldn't stop playing. The sound was just beautifully clear, and it was so easy to play well. By the end of the afternoon I had become quite attached to it, though I knew someone else would probably win it.

Later in the day, I found out I had won a flute! It wasn't the Brad Young, but rather the river cane flute by Geri Littlejohn, also one I liked playing, so I was very happy.

The cane comes from the coastal areas of the Southeast, and Geri gave it an interesting finish by burning it in places and then applying a coat of oil. This also gave the flute a wonderful smell which reminded me of a campfire.

Of course the best part of the festival was sharing my interest in and love of the Native American Flute with other like-minded people and making new friends in the process. I am struck by the wonder of being in such company, sharing in our unspoken understanding of the captivation we feel with this incredible instrument, and laughing at the "sickness" we all have in common, the inability to stop buying more flutes. (Nobody's trying to get well, either!)

After the excitement of playing my djembe with Suzanne Teng and Gilbert Levy at the final workshop on Sunday, I talked with Gilbert for quite a while about drumming. ("It all boils down to boom-chic.") The last event was an Open Mic, and then we tore down, packed, and cleaned up. My new friend Jeff from upstate New York sat tapping out his Sunday festival report for the online Flute Portal on his iPhone. Debbie swept the now-empty vendor area with a broom. Vendors trickled out, hugging and saying goodbye until next year.

I was sorry to see the festival end, but I felt re-energized, and that was my hope for attending. What's next? Attending the Northern Virginia Flute Circle, for sure. Considering making the trip to Musical Echoes or Native Rhythms in Florida, or the Pacific Northwest Flute Quest. Going to a drum circle to play my djembe. And of course throwing my name in to serve as on-site staff at next year's Potomac Flute Festival!

*African hand drum

Photo credits: 1) Suzanne Teng playing flute, me directly behind her playing djembe, photo courtesy of Jefferson Svengsouk; 2) Night Writer, 3) Night Writer

Ski West, Young Man!

2010-03-09T23:48:00.021-05:00

I've finally been skiing in the West. Not only that, but in Utah, where the snow is supposed to be the best (according to friends in Utah and confirmed by still sober folks in the hot tub).

After a rather dubious start on the Chickadee beginner run (there are no bunny slopes at Snowbird), I got my sea legs back - twenty years after my last ski trip - and began enjoying myself. A few inches of fresh snow had fallen the night before, the air was pristine, the evergreens and mountains majestic around me, and traffic on the

mountain light, being a Tuesday. Many times I had a run almost all to myself.

My plan to confront potential altitude sickness, beyond obtaining a pre-trip scrip for acetazolamide, was to take chair lifts to increasingly higher elevations and possibly end the day by reaching 10,000 feet with a breathtaking view - hopefully speaking figuratively - of the valley below. The base at Snowbird is around 7900 feet, so I started with lifts that got me to 8400 and 8600 feet.

At some point the fog started rolling in - or, as I saw it, the clouds began dropping down. During one specific stretch of the run it felt like it was raining. Visibility dwindled to 30 or 40 yards. At that point, skiing was difficult but not dangerous, as I could see just enough to complete the next couple turns.

After lunch I took a lift that got me to 9200 feet and an intermediate run called Bassackwards. It was quite challenging, but I did all right, especially considering the worsening conditions. It was now snowing and accumulating quickly.

The afternoon was waning, though, and I had a few more runs on my agenda, so I got on the Gadzoom High-Speed Quad chair lift and reached 9700 feet. My plan was to take Bassackwards all the way down, get on the Gadzoom lift again, ski halfway down, and get on the mid-slope lift that would take me up to 9800 feet, and ski down across the mountain back to Snowbird Center. Then I would end the day by taking the Peruvian Express High-Speed Quad up to 10,500 feet and skiing down Chip's Run back to Cliff Lodge, where we were staying.

That didn't happen. As soon as I got off Gadzoom I could tell conditions had seriously deteriorated. Wet snow fell heavily, ice pellets battered my face as I skied, forcing me to stop, and my wet glasses cut my visibility even more. Not only that, but they suddenly developed a fogging problem that would not go away. Wiping them only helped until I put them back on my face, when they immediately fogged up again. I had no choice but to take them off and put them away.

Now everything was out of focus, but at least I didn't have to fight fog on top of the mist and snow.

Looking up the run, I could hear voices but couldn't tell where they were coming from... until people materialized from the mist. Looking down, skiers traversed the run and then disappeared. "Wait!" I wanted to shout, but they were gone, and though I waited, no one else came after them.

I wondered if I were the last one left on the run.

With no other choice, I skied down into the blurry whiteout and quickly encountered a new problem: snow flying directly into my eyes. Though it forced me to blink rapidly, I kept going, gaining a sense of what it must be like to ski blind.

I became disoriented, as the ground and air became one, all the same whiteness and mist. With no depth perception and no other people in front of me, I couldn't judge the slope of the ground, couldn't tell where anything was, couldn't make the split second adjustments necessary for successful turning, and I lost control and fell repeatedly.

It was no longer fun.

All I wanted was to get to the bottom, get on the shuttle back to Cliff Lodge, and get out of my wet clothes. But it seemed I would never get to the bottom, since I couldn't see it. Nevertheless, I knew I would be closer with every turn, and I blinked hard against the wet snow, straining to focus on keeping my weight forward and carving turns (or at least skidding) aggressively, while praying no trees would suddenly appear in front of me, like goblins in a fun house ride.

Eventually the lifts emerged at the bottom, and I relaxed. The chairs hadn't even stopped for the day yet, and yes, unbelievably, some intrepid skiers were riding back up for one last run. I shared a shuttle ride with two guys from New Orleans, one of whom had never skied before and who had twisted an ankle at the end of the day. And I was worried about fogged up glasses?

Later, sitting in the hot tub while kids played in the pool, all of us in the middle of what Washington would call a "blizzard," I noticed that snow was piling up on the heads of my tubmates. And while it had been quite an afternoon, and while it seemed crazy to go right back outside into the same weather, only this time in just a swimsuit, I had friendly conversation around me, the spa jets warmed my body in no time, and all my worries of the day evaporated as quickly as those skiers disappearing down the slopes in front of me, chatting unconcerned to each other, as friends do.

Photos: (1) Beautiful weather on March 8; (2) Clouds dropping on the Peruvian Express Quad Lift (10K feet) on March 9; (3) Decreasing visibility at the top of a run; (4) Looking up the mountain, three skiiers (center) emerge from the mist. This is how it looked facing downhill, too. (Funny how a dangerous situation always presents a good photo op.)

Mom, I've Found Her!

2010-03-08T22:28:00.007-05:00

I've found the perfect girl! She's cute, intelligent, driven, passionate, has a good heart and beautiful smile, and can light up a room with her laugh. She's taken more than one leadership role at church after being around only a couple years. She listens well, is compassionate, and cares about her family and friends. She's fit and loves frozen yogurt. Any guy would jump at the chance to snap her up.

There's just one problem: what would her boyfriend say?

Or, more to the point, what would mine?*

R and I had the beginnings of a great relationship - lunches, plans to discuss great literature, heart-to-hearts at Mr. Yogato - until what's-his-name came along. I'm not jealous, exactly... I just miss spending time with her. Under different circumstances (for instance, if I were straight), I would definitely pursue something more meaningful with her - although under those same circumstances I might be considered a dirty old man, since I am technically old enough to be her father. Indeed, maybe the love I feel for her is in a way paternal (which would explain the urge I've had to meet this boy she is dating and see if I think he is good enough for her).

But I suspect that a kernel of what I feel for R is the same kind of thing a lot of gay men have felt for women they married (and eventually divorced). I've known many such men who felt it was just the next thing they needed to do in life, who felt pressured by society and family or maybe the woman in question, or who thought perhaps it was the way to escape bothersome, frightening urges they didn't want to have.

I am just happy that I don't bring any of that to my friendship with R, that I have been through the self-discovery and process of coming out of shame that is necessary for reaching a point of happiness and yes, pride, at being gay, so that no confusion entwines itself around the interaction we have as friends.

Gay men have had a long history with straight women (though the women may not have realized it). Will and Grace. The hapless gay guy and sharp-tongued gal pal in most gay comedies. Rock Hudson and Doris Day. In my own life, I have a long list of close female friends who have sustained me over the decades, and who continue to do so.

It is such a blessing to have had such wonderful and unique friends, to be able to relate to women in a way that straight men cannot, and to be the kind of man a woman can feel completely comfortable with, in a way that she cannot, or does not often, feel with a straight man. Sometimes what a guy needs is a person who is Other, and fellow men, whether gay or straight, cannot fill this role (although straight men sometimes seem enough like interplanetary travelers that they might come close).

Even though I will never marry R - and wish her all the very best in her budding relationship - I will enjoy our continuing friendship and the realization that I finally found the woman I would, in another life, take home to meet Mom.

* (if I had one)

I'm Going Radical

2009-11-06T17:34:00.014-05:00

No, I'm not becoming a naturist, padding around home in all my glory. I'm not adopting a vegan lifestyle, although I think it would be a good idea. And I'm not adopting a child from an obscure third world country.

I'm giving up TV.

Well - not really, but it almost amounts to that. I dug out my old rabbit ears from the basement and hooked them up to my one year-old HDTV. Now I get crystal clear reception - on FOX, and sometimes channels 20 and 50 (local D.C. channels that show old sitcoms and tabloidy judge shows). If the weather is nice, that is. If it's raining, I get pixellated images, freeze action, metallic buzzing, and stuttering dialogue ("What do you mean, jelly be-be-be-be-be -").

How is my reception on the other channels, you ask. What other channels?

Oh, if I'm really lucky, channel 4, the local NBC affiliate, comes in, and it's beautiful. But that's only about once a week. Other than that - nada. I used to get Unavision occasionally, so I could watch soap operas in Spanish, but not anymore.

My boss can't understand why, in this day and age of technological sophistication, I would choose such an antiquated way to get TV. ("Give it up!" she said one day.) And it's true; it wouldn't even occur to most people as an option.

But in the zip code where I now reside, Comcast is my only viable choice. (DirecTV is also offered, but the satellite dish must be outside and face south, and my balcony faces north.) And I would rather not have TV service at all than to be shackled to Comcast against my will and better judgment.

I know of only one person who has been satisfied with Comcast. Otherwise, it seems unanimous that Comcast provides abysmal customer service. This is borne out in surveys from various sources, and now I have a story of my own to add to that pool of outrage.

When I set up the electricity for my new condo, I was transferred to a third-party vendor to set up other services (TV, phone, Internet). The guy who talked to me was a fast talker who went over the figures so fast that I didn't have time to write them down. There was a regular monthly cost, a six-month introductory monthly cost, and an installation fee, and the prices were different between TV and Internet, which were the two services I needed (since I had decided to use my cell phone in lieu of establishing a landline account). And of course there was the six-month total cost, and the total cost after the introductory period. But he didn't give me these eight figures in any logical order; they were seemingly disclosed randomly.

At some point during the same phone conversation the installation fees changed. I challenged him on this, but he didn't even acknowledge it. When I asked him to go over each cost once more so that I could write everything down, the response was silence, followed by obvious frustration and condescension in both his words and tone of voice. ("When something is good, you just do it. Don't you?") Nevertheless, I caved in to his hard sell tactics because there was no other choice for TV.

I then spent a significant chunk of time on the Comcast website trying to match up their figures with what I'd gotten on the phone. But while some of the costs were the same (despite the agent claiming to have "found" me special rates), I could not confirm his breakdown.

I then received an email order confirmation, but not all the charges on it were familiar.

The next day I called the vendor again to get a different agent. This time I got a woman who was much nicer and more patient, but she said she could not itemize the costs because they did not appear on her screen. She said when the installer came to my condo, he would be able to give me something with the costs on it. I didn't want to be faced with the situation of being inconvenienced with an eight-hour appointment window and then turning someone away at my door, but we had reached an impasse.

I then called Comcast directly, but even they could not break down the charges for me - until after everything had been installed. I was incredulous. "So if the bill is different from what I was told when I placed the order, I'm going to be forced to call and argue with you about the charges," I said. And of course if I wanted to cancel at that point, I would be slapped with an early termination fee and shipping charges for returning the equipment. "Oh, no," said Comcast, "I'm documenting everything you say." (I think that's what they call a non sequitur.)

After several days of frustration and anger (at both my treatment and seeming lack of choice), I decided on a major change in lifestyle and cancelled the order. If I was this stressed out even before installation, there was no way I wanted a long-term relationship with them. I then placed a DSL order with Verizon for Internet service and hoped for the best with TV.

After all, what did we do before Comcast, satellite, and Verizon FiOS? Wasn't there a time before six-month introductory pricing, Triple Freedom, and waiting for the cable guy to show up, when you just plugged in your set and got regular network TV?

I moved into my new place, and yes, it was a little stressful at first. Not only did I no longer have all the channels I was used to watching, but I had no broadcast at all. Even after finding and hooking up the old rabbit ears, only a few channels came in. And those channels were seemingly dependent on the weather, placement of the TV set, and whether the sliding glass door was open or not. (I recently discovered this was not true - it's only the weather and placement of the TV.)

It was an adjustment getting such limited programming. But my boss is right: these are indeed days of technological advancement. I can get full episodes of "Desperate Housewives" for free on the ABC website. I can watch episodes of "The Dog Whisperer" on the National Geographic website and "Curb Appeal" and a lot of related content on the HGTV website. And I can buy episodes of my current obsession, "Mad Men," on iTunes.

The only thing I really miss is reliable TV news - to be able to switch on CNN Headline News, MSNBC, BBC World News, or the local news at 6:00. I even miss the news I never watched but could, like BBC Asia or CNN Europe or whatever. It's amazing and wonderful to me that one can tune in to any of those specialized channels to get news that never makes it onto mainstream TV, whether or not I actually take advantage of it. There's a whole world out there, and now we can discover what's happening in it.

But there are countless Internet news sources - every newspaper, magazine, TV station and network, and radio station has a website, and you can pick and choose videos of stories that interest you. I even came to think of it as a more intelligent way of procuring news; you choose your source (even one from your hometown), scan the headlines, click on links that seem important to you, and ignore the rest - similar to reading the paper. And you get the news whenever you want, not just when it's broadcast. All this leads to using your time more wisely. And if you missed how that news story began, or if you want more info from related content, you can always link to those items.

I've learned a couple things using this approach:

1) It's nice, and even beneficial, to be spoon-fed the news.
You only find out about certain things when a newscaster tells you. It's part of the show, so you sit there and listen to it. In an interactive setting, I won't learn about those things if I don't choose to click on them.

2) What's important to know is not always what interests me.
I usually follow links to the big headline stories of the day, but those I most want to click are human interest stories. So even though getting news interactively might be more efficient and intelligent than absorbing it passively, I might miss out on things I should know about (see #1).

Regardless of whether I want to watch news or something else, however, I have found that having control over when and how I watch TV content has allowed for another option: not watching it at all.

Rather than being controlled by a broadcast schedule or the burden of finding time to watch a stack of recorded shows, I most often simply pursue other activities. Recently this has meant focusing on settling into my new home, but as I finish up, it will mean writing, reading, playing the Native American flute, volunteering, and engaging with friends, among other things - all healthier for my mind and spirit than sitting in front of the TV. When I look back at what has really enriched my life, it's not "Mad Men"; it's workshopping a story for a week at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. It's being with friends who have reached out to me, whether in person locally or online from far away. It's reading letters from prisoners and sending them books they want.*

Some use the TV for company. I do understand that; when I've lived alone, it has been comforting to hear human voices and see people. This time, though, I'm trying not to lean on TV this way and want to focus on contact with real people.

So far, I haven't heard of anyone else who has chosen the same route. But I did find one friend who has gone a step further: she doesn't even own a TV. As much as I dislike FOX news, I'm glad to have one local station. I'm not sure I could go as far as not having a TV at all. She said at first it was hard. But then she thought of what else she could do, like - read a book.

And in these days of technological sophistication, THAT'S radical.

* See 7/16/09 entry

For The Glory of the Old Maroon and Gold

2009-10-24T10:34:00.017-04:00

An older man with white facial hair pulls a well-loved brass sousaphone out of his car, hefts it onto his shoulder, and begins shuffling down the slippery sidewalk. "Only a band person," I say, catching up to him, "would be crazy enough to be out here at 5:30 a.m. in the dark and freezing cold on icy streets!" He gives me the once-over to determine whether I am referring to him or myself. I wave my saxophone neck strap at him, and he agrees.

Who knew there would be 30-degree temps, wind chill, and black ice in mid-October?

After several blocks of taking careful half-steps and nearly landing on our butts several times, we finally arrive at the stadium, grateful for the warmth and light of the band facility. Not surprisingly, it's hurry up and wait, but we use the time to catch up and chat. After all, it's the first time some of us have seen each other in over 25 years.

Last night we met on the corner of Pillsbury and University Avenues, across from Folwell Hall, where I had my first class at the University of Minnesota (Japanese at 8:00 a.m., September 1979). True to the reputation of the alumni band, we looked a bit ragtag - sweatshirts, band jackets, running shoes, and a lot of gray (or no) hair. Especially next to the uniformed, youthful, good-looking student band. But in my mind, the alumni band also had experience, maturity, and an undying spirit borne out of having lived through the band years of college and experienced the iron-clad bonds of friendship and camaraderie, made only stronger by the passing years.

Oh my God, it's Bill and Liz Pick! And who's talking - that voice, it's so familiar - it's got to be Carol Herbert, my Stoogemaster! And look, it's Jean Gray!

The Homecoming parade was the first time I'd marched and played since 1982, and while I was excited, I also worried about the seeming lack of organization. No one called names - they just told us to line up - and when I asked if we weren't going to tune, someone burst out laughing. After a minute, the drum line began their cadences, and we took off down the street.

What I came to realize in my determination to look and sound good - and my subsequent discovery that perfection was not possible, given that the cadences, horn movements, and chants had all changed over the years - was that the crowd didn't care whether we were as good as the student band. Whether making fun of the old geezers or truly supporting us, they were just out for a good time. And after getting up at 4:00 a.m. to fly in from DC just for this, that should be my goal, too.

Oh, my God, it's Janet Denenny marching in my rank! We wave to each other across 27 years.

Marching past the decorated frat houses and a crowd all revved up to beat Purdue the next day, I felt what a thrill, an honor, and a privilege it was to be in the parade.

Now, ten hours later, shuffling through the bowels of the stadium and into the passageway leading out onto the field, my anticipation builds. Just ahead, the student band, fully uniformed, is already on the field, going through their motions. Being in this brand new stadium on campus after 26 long seasons in an indoor domed stadium downtown is historic and momentous enough (and the reason for my trip) - someone murmurs, "Isn't this something?" - but seeing the band in uniform under bright stadium lights in the pre-dawn dark, humming their parts while marching in the 30-degree stillness, students using leaf blowers to clear the snow off the stadium seats in the background, infuses it with surreality and makes it even more unforgettable.

This person looks familiar - it's John Gibbs! And that person is looking at me, but it's hard to see who she is under all those bundles of warmth - it's TD Kiernan - now Gibbs!

Thankfully, the sky eventually brightens, and we eventually play the music and forget about the cold as we march across the field.

Hours pass. The sun comes up. Tailgaters arrive and heat up their grills. Students come with blankets. Maroon and gold covers everyone. You can actually feel the University of Minnesota pride in the air.

Shortly before kickoff, we file onto the track surrounding the field and make our way to the bleachers reserved for us. We wait for the band to make its pre-game entrance, and when they come out in running cadence, it's almost like watching myself 25 (okay, 27) years ago. As they perform, even though I am excited, I have the distinct feeling of being left out. Nothing compares to marching down the field, bursting with pride while playing to 50,000 Gopher fans under a bright blue sky, anticipation in the air. And these guys look and sound good - really good.

To our left, in the bowl end, is the student season ticket section. These guys should be paid for the enthusiasm they generate throughout the rest of the stadium. A solid mass of maroon and gold, they make a lot of noise, follow all the band cheers, and sing along with the Rouser. In the front is the requisite row of shirtless men - 30 degrees plus windchill be damned! - with painted chests and faces. But what really makes this section is a guy inexplicably dressed in a full-body white chicken suit.

The people around me are very into football and provide running commentary. I myself didn't watch a single game of football in my three years of marching. In this new stadium, I could watch it much more easily on the gigantic screen in the open end if I wanted. But what I remember most about the games is spending two or three hours with my closest friends, making fun of the cheerleaders, chitchatting, and generally being silly. Sometimes there was ice on the benches, but we all cuddled together in our heavy wool uniforms, and the cold was generally forgotten. And in early and mid-fall, the sun low in the crisp, blue sky, there was no better way to skip studying!

And what I am thinking about now is how wonderful it is to discover that a lot of people - most, in fact - are the same great people they were when I last saw them. Jean Gray is still cheerful, fun-loving, and caring. Steve Kreitz is still the life of the party. Janet Denenny is still the same nice, positive, helpful person. We are heavier and grayer, but the essence of who we were has not changed.

After the game, I hear, "Is that Mark Abe?" I look up. Who is that big man smiling down at me from the stands? Wait - that raspy voice, those clear blue eyes. "Brian Benson." Brian Benson! I go running up the bleachers towards him.

We are back in the band facility for a reception of big cookies and "vintage" video of 1989 Spat Camp. (Wait a minute, they're calling it "vintage" and it's from seven years after my final year in band?)

And there's Rick Trembley, my old college roommate, and Celeste, his wife and fellow alto sax player! I haven't seen them in 15-20 years, but it doesn't take long to catch up.

Eventually the crowd begins to thin, and I realize this event is coming to a close. It saddens me, as I know this was a special year for people to come back, and succeeding years won't be as well-attended. But I celebrate the joy of reconnecting with old friends, if only for a day or two, and the affirmation of treasured memories from my years in the Finest Band in the Land.

Photo credits: 1) Homecoming Parade - Matt Abe, 2) Pre-Dawn Practice - Mark Abe, 3) Janet (Denenny) Linkert and Mark - Matt Abe

Books Can Set You Free

2009-07-16T21:55:00.005-04:00

The letter is from a nineteen-year-old. He's in Texas doing thirty-five for murder. He'll be fifty-four when he gets out. He is requesting science fiction or fantasy and a Spanish dictionary, but any book will do. And that's how most of them end: an entreaty for any book at all, closing with profuse gratitude and blessing for the work we do.

I am at church, helping Books to Prisons, a volunteer organization that matches donated books to prisoner requests. It's my assignment for the day at Foundry United Methodist Church's "Great Day of Service," a church-wide half day of volunteering. As a writer and book lover, I requested this assignment; I believe in the power of books to educate, entertain, and transform.

I open a letter, read it, and try to find a few books on the shelves to meet the request. Then I package the books, weigh them, and add them to the appropriate group of packages based on weight. Then I choose another letter to read.

It's a huge task; there are stacks and boxes of letters on a metal shelf, and still more fill paper grocery bags on the floor. I can only do about four or five packages in one sitting, especially when I write a note to the prisoner (which always ends up being a full-fledged letter taking both sides of one sheet). There are only about four of us fulfilling requests. It's like bailing a flooded basement with a thimble. The standard message on the strip of paper that gets inserted into a book in every package asks the prisoner to wait at least five months before requesting more books.

Some of them want westerns, sci-fi, or fantasy; others want educational materials, like GED study books or accounting textbooks; still others want books on foreign language instruction or self-improvement. Most of the letters are well-written, with correct spelling, punctuation, and grammar. Most are in legible cursive handwriting. All express deep appreciation for the work of Books to Prisons.

A good number say they have no friends or family to visit them and no money or way to buy books. I choose the thickest books in the best condition I can find for them. Five months is a long time to wait for something else to occupy one's mind.

I have always felt slightly ambivalent about prison ministries. How much should we improve the living conditions of those who have stolen from, raped, or killed other people? How much sympathy should we feel towards criminals in solitary confinement when we don't know what landed them there?

Overall, though, I think that the loss of freedom, identity, friends, and a future, is probably plenty punishing even under the best of prison conditions. Giving them a Louis L'Amour novel is not going to coddle them. And if we are truly concerned about recidivism, then maybe sending a requested book to improve their minds or gain some personal insight is just a tiny investment in the future of all of our safety.

I recently went through all my books at home, gleaning the surplus from the still-treasured. Not only did I have books on shelves in my office and bedroom, but I had stacks of bins full of them in the basement - I have so many books I have to keep some in the basement! And I can walk to Barnes & Noble anytime I want and choose any book from thousands of volumes and buy it on the spot - or go onto Amazon.com in the comfort of my own home, order virtually any book I want from a vast pool of millions, and find it on my doorstep in a couple days. And yet in letter after letter prisoners ask for any book at all because they have no other way of getting one. And they are very, very grateful for that book.

Books to Prisons is housed in our church basement. It's a dimly-lit room with no windows, ringed by tall shelves of worn books. But I can come and go as I please, whereas others are not so fortunate. So the work done in that room is not depressing; it's energizing. Every package assembled in that room directly affects an individual person in a significant way.

So give me that thimble - I've got more bailing to do.

Choose One (and one only)

2009-04-27T19:20:00.004-04:00

Here's an interesting question:

Quizzes by Quibblo.com

Think about it carefully; your answer may surprise you. Can you live with only one? Imagine having the one you treasure most but without the other.

Wait, That's Our Band!

2009-01-20T22:09:00.004-05:00

Producers and commentators, it seems, don't have kids in marching bands. Coverage of the inaugural parade by the major networks skipped nearly all commentary on the units in the parade, most of which were bands. They either continued analyzing the inauguration or the historic nature of the election, broadcasting the parade only as it appeared in the background over a reporter's shoulder, or reduced the parade to half a screen, again so they could show the reporter making observations of matters unrelated to the parade or the reaction of the new President and First Lady. If they did show the parade full screen, it was usually without any disclosure on the part of the journalists as to who was marching by at the moment. They didn't even bother displaying a graphic on the bottom of the screen so we could read it for ourselves while the unrelated commentary continued.

A bunch of us neighbors congregated over food and drink to enjoy the ceremony and parade, and we flipped through NBC, ABC, CBS, CNN, BBC, MSNBC, and FOX, trying to find someone who would tell us who the bands were and where they were from. We finally settled on NewsChannel 8, our local all-news station ("More Local. More Often."). The hosts seemed fresh out of broadcast school, but at least they were talking about the parade they were covering.

I was eager to see the ceremony. But I was excited to see the parade. Having marched through both high school and college, I still thrill at the sound of drum cadences coming from a nearby high school on a crisp fall night. If a football game is on (at someone else's house), the sound I key in on is not the ref's whistle or the quarterback making a call, but the pep band. And I still love watching bands in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade and the Rose Bowl Parade.

I know what it's like selling M&M's, chocolate bars, raffle tickets, Entertainment coupon books, and fertilizer (yes, fertilizer) door-to-door to raise money for band trips. I know what it's like putting in hours and hours of practice, memorizing music and marching up and down streets for days on end in heat, cold, and rain, to prepare for the spotlight. And I know the excitement of travelling across the country or around the globe to compete or to march in a parade broadcast on national television.

I also know that my parents and the parents of all the other kids were just as excited about our trips as we in the band were. And if they were not chaperones on the buses, the only way they could share in our experience, after months of sharing in our practices and fundraising, was to stay glued to the TV if we were marching in a major parade, so as not to miss the twenty seconds we'd be in front of the camera.

So I am particularly frustrated with the bush league parade coverage because I identify with those parents, as well as the siblings and alumni of the band being ignored as background to the parade hosts' blather. When they say, "More on that when we return after this short break" just as a band is marching by, I want to scream in solidarity with all those moms and dads going, "Wait! That's our band!" as the screen fades to black for a message about leaky pipes or ED. We've been hearing perspectives, retro-analyses, and commentary of all things political for the past several months, and it will continue for at least the next four years. Can't we put it aside for two hours and just enjoy the parade?

I put up with all the usual cringe-worthy jokes of parade hosts because they also follow the script in describing the bands, where they came from, and some interesting anecdote about their parade preparation. I realize that there's no other focus for the Macy's parade (other than food preparation), but at the Rose Bowl parade they don't talk ad infinitum about the football game or the players or the history of the matchups, while the flower-covered floats pass by silently, out of focus behind some reporter wearing headphones. So why rob the inaugural parade units of the short-lived, hard-won honor and glory they deserve?

Sure, they'll still have fun and won't even know until later if they didn't make the broadcast or were shown but ignored. But I still want to know. I didn't buy all those M&M's for nothing.

Photo credit: www.ramband.com

In Private Celebration

2009-01-18T20:06:00.010-05:00

They've closed all bridges into the city from Virginia. They've prohibited bicycles (although that appears to be in question now). They're encouraging the use of Metro but asking people not to transfer. But there are no restrictions on walking into the city!

In anticipation of gargantuan crowds flocking to Washington, D.C., for the inauguration of President Barack Obama, the authorities have had to take extraordinary measures to deal with the onslaught. You can't fault them for thinking through every angle and putting certain prohibitions in place in an effort to make it an event which comes off with minimal problems. But - walking into the city? No strollers? No backpacks? No umbrellas?

Increased security is now a fact of life, especially in D.C. Hundreds of thousands will be packing every available spot of the Mall, watching the inauguration taking place several blocks away on Jumbotrons. They will be able to see the Capitol from where they stand, but they won't be able to make out human beings in ticketed seats or the form of the new President as he stands with one hand on the Bible. And yet each person watching the big screens placed along the length of the Mall will have to stand in a blocks-long line and pass through security screening, anyway.

Ditto for the parade; you can't just walk up to Pennsylvania, craning your neck for a glimpse of the President without first passing through a security entry point. Even then, they are going to refuse all entry to the parade once a specified saturation point has been reached along the street - meaning the entire parade route will be fenced off?

Ah, the price of watching history being made in a post-9/11 world. Sixteen years ago, I stood near the Lincoln Memorial on a cold January night for President Clinton's pre-inaugural concert. A-list Hollywood appeared then, also, and I didn't care that I couldn't see anyone famous without checking the big screen. It was just exciting being in the midst of an excited, hopeful crowd after twelve years of Reagan/Bush. Today's national mood of hope and relief was similar to that of early 1993. The youthful Bill Clinton and Al Gore were going to change Washington and the world. There were no security checkpoints back then, no cloud of a terrorist threat.

On January 20th, I stood on the Mall and watched the inauguration ceremony while stomping my feet and rubbing my hands. I took pictures of President Clinton raising his right hand on the big screen. And I also volunteered at the Presidential Inaugural Committee in the weeks leading up to the big day, tolerating the snotty, sloppy attitudes of the twenty-somethings on staff and performing menial tasks at night in hopes of snagging the prize assignment of working at one of the poshest Inaugural balls on the schedule - which, in the end, I got.

At the ball, I walked around amidst the rich and famous: Ralph Lauren, Harry Belafonte, Loretta Swit. At one point in the evening I stood at a door to stamp hands of departing guests and got to ask Dustin Hoffman if he intended on returning to the ball.

So I have had the good fortune of living in Washington and doing a quintessentially Washingtonian thing, and it was a great experience I'll remember for a long time. It may not have been as historic as this year, and it's hard to stay home, living a just a few blocks from the Metro and a five-minute drive from the Lincoln Memorial and not needing maps or subway lessons. But I'd rather not walk into D.C. (about an hour and a half to the Mall), stand in interminable security lines and wait for hours in the January cold, only to watch the inauguration on a big screen TV.

Instead, I'll be watching it on a smaller big screen TV with neighbors in a warm home, enjoying the ceremony, each other, Washingtonopoly, and good food and drink. We'll be toasting the start of a new era (and "the end of an error," as one commentator said today) and giving up our spots of the Mall for some of the hundreds of thousands of Americans travelling to our city for this event. We're glad to do it. Happy Inauguration, America!

Photo credit: About.com

Effortlessly Inspiring Hate

2008-09-18T21:07:00.006-04:00

Saturday night on my way to Remington's, my favorite watering hole in D.C., a large man with an intimidating amble walked down the middle of the sidewalk towards me. Something put me on guard, and as we passed each other, he muttered, "faggot," under his breath. Fortunately, he continued on his way, and I reached the door a few yards later.

How can someone size me up in the time it takes to walk half a block without even exchanging a single word? Recently, someone told me I do not come off as "overwhelmingly heterosexual" - meaning, I suppose, that I do not drip masculinity - but neither have I ever thought I was overtly homosexual in appearance, voice, or behavior.

Nevertheless, I have always set off the gaydar of people who likely have never even heard of gaydar. In high school I was pegged as gay and hated for it by many of the boys on the track team I helped manage, at a time when I self-identified as straight. Someone in the lunchroom called me a faggot one day. (Granted, I was wearing the same shirt as the friend I was eating with, and while he was embarrassed about it, I was rather pleased.) And once in the dorm at college, a guy down the hall called me "a fuckin' gay boy."

Fast forward to my life as a gay man in D.C. One very late night, halfway to sunrise, I was walking hand-in-hand with my boyfriend in Dupont Circle, and we heard someone in a small group of questionable types sitting against a building mutter, "faggots," after we walked past, followed by the sound of a bottle smashing against the sidewalk. We kept going, and nothing happened, but once again I was struck first by how quickly we were judged, and second, how instantly being perceived as gay can elicit hate-filled behavior.

It's important to remember these experiences in a city with a large gay population, one that is thought to be at least somewhat gay-friendly. Living in our cozy gay worlds, where most of our friends are gay and where it seems there is gayness everywhere, we can easily become complacent about safety. The D.C. police department’s Gay and Lesbian Liaison Unit (GLLU) used to have two officers (one gay and one lesbian), and now it has several members, some of whom are straight. Arlington County now has a GLLU. This increases our sense of safety and protection. But the fact is, D.C. is experiencing an increase in violent crime and in "bias crimes" - more commonly known as hate crimes - against gays, so it's prudent to remember that even though awareness, sensitivity, and tolerance have increased, the picture's not all rosy.

What I have gained from my experience as a gay man, however, is an increased sensitivity to bigotry towards others, particularly blacks, living in an area with a large African American population. It has increased my self-awareness of the prejudice I carry with me every day, the spot judgments I myself make of others in that same half-block distance, the smug assurance I feel characterizing someone else within a few seconds, at least until I hear them speak.

At a recent fiction workshop, I felt confident in guessing who wrote which story from the pile of manuscripts we each received prior to arriving at the workshop. What surprise - and what shame - I felt upon learning that the person I decided probably wrote one of the worst stories was actually the writer of one of the best. I was amazed to think how quickly I came to my conclusions with no evidence to reach them. (Thankfully, I was able to quickly jettison any preconceived notions of this person and enjoyed our week together of writing and discussion.)

How incredible that such a gleaming silver lining could be reaped from my experiences of being treated hatefully, that my eyes were opened to my own bigotry in time for me to do something about it. Quite often, I am sad to admit, I catch myself having ideas about someone I’ve just met – or have not yet met – but now I take those ideas and leave them at the door before allowing them to poison my interaction with that person. Like Joseph (see Genesis 50:20), what man intended for harm, God meant for good. And for that I am thankful.

Michelle '24

2008-08-25T23:24:00.007-04:00

I love Michelle Obama. She's sharp, articulate, impassioned, genuine, and warm, among many other things. Since there is no getting around comparisons, she's the polar opposite of ice queen Cindy McCain and would do much greater good for many more people in the role of First Lady. And if Barack wins the White House, I believe she could follow the same path as Hillary. Fist bump!

Photo credit: Reuters

You Can Go Home Again

2008-05-28T22:20:00.008-04:00

Watching people retire over the years, I always wondered why so many were drawn to return to their hometown, since I had never seen myself doing so. When I moved to Washington, D.C. in my early twenties I was so enamored of the city and so glad to get away from home (specifically my father), that I couldn't imagine ever wanting to return for more than a week at a time.

After many years, though, as I felt myself becoming less and less a Minnesotan and more and more a Washingtonian, I began to feel interested in seeing the sights on trips home, both the new ones and the old ones I'd never gotten around to seeing while growing up. I was becoming a tourist in my own hometown!

And when my father died, something big changed. Suddenly Minnesota meant home in a new, or maybe renewed, way, and I suddenly couldn't get enough of loons, Garrison Keillor, or WCCO radio. Because I had lost such an important part of my rootedness, I felt a strong need to grab hold of whatever would affirm my Minnesotan background. It was startling and mysterious, this desperate call to the place where I grew up.

Over the past few years I have found myself looking at the Star Tribune real estate ads, imagining myself buying the perfect bungalow in Minneapolis, somewhere near the lakes. And every time I visit, I enjoy it more and more. There is always the chance that it has to do with the relaxation and momentary happiness of being on vacation, away from the responsibilities of home and work, but I can't help wondering if it's more than that, if it has more to do with that elusive quality of life thing, especially "Minnesota nice" - which is, I can say with the authority of someone who has lived elsewhere for 24 years, more than simply a self-adulatory construct of the state's own residents. If people everywhere have to deal with the same things - commuting to work, going to baseball games, buying toothpaste at the drugstore - then it is the little things, the chance encounters with service personnel or fellow residents, which make the difference. When people greet you or say "thank you" and "have a nice day" after ringing you up, it's clear they actually mean it. When people who are supposed to help you on the phone actually do, and you realize they even want to, it feels like a time warp. When someone drives you home because you missed your bus, it's unbelievable but real.

At the end of one's career, then, when thinking about where to spend the remaining years of one's life, it makes a great deal of sense to return to the place you first felt warm and safe, especially if as an adult, you have come to an appreciation of that place that you lacked as a child, an appreciation that has grown and strengthened over time.

Last weekend I attended a family reunion, the first for my family not precipitated by a death or marriage proposal. Going to events together and simply sharing meals and enjoying each other's company were powerful experiences in that we were there to do that and only that. For me it was reconnecting with family in a new way, with the sole purpose of reaffirming our ties and evidencing the worth which we all placed on doing so. As a middle-aged man, I no longer take my family for granted as I did in my youth, and I am grateful to all those who showed me along the way how precious family is and who brought me to a place where I can appreciate it for the rest of my life.

It's good to spread your wings and explore life wherever it may take you. I still can't see living where I have to shovel snow, worry about the pipes freezing and the car starting in the morning, or run indoors at twilight to avoid mosquitoes so large that t-shirts commemorate them as the state bird. But if in no other way than in my heart, I can always go home again.

Night Owl Plays Flute

2008-02-25T21:54:00.014-05:00

Some might say it was an unusual gathering. Women with big '80s hair; a handful of biker types, their snow-white hair in long braids; nerdy, pocket protector guys; the occasional handsome loner; and plenty of average joes to round out the crowd - all united by their love of the Native American Flute (NAF) at the Fifth Annual (and my second) Potomac Native American Flute Festival this past weekend. They came from the D.C. area, West Virginia, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, toting a lone favorite flute or a quiver made especially for multiple flutes.

Flute players are generally an upbeat crowd, and after the first day was canceled due to inclement weather, they were even more excited to start on Saturday morning. I attended a practical workshop on breathing by Jan Seiden, who did biomedical research before discovering the NAF and who now gives workshops and presentations, plays concerts, and records. Her workshop recalled previous training I'd had in both voice lessons and karate, so I was able to draw on those experiences and found it a helpful refresher with a new application. Then I went to a workshop on "looping," or recording layered rhythm accompaniment tracks. You could sense people's interests being piqued as their minds opened up to taking their flute playing to a new level, previously unconsidered.

After shopping among the various flute vendors throughout the morning and agonizing between an F# and a C flute I'd tried, I returned to Lone Crow Flutes and bought the C from Leonard McGann, about as friendly a guy as you could hope for as the maker of your first serious flute. He told me about making my flute, showing me the detailed woodburning around the circumference, and he gave me some playing tips. It's a beautiful instrument made of poplar, with Eastern red cedar endcaps and gorgeous purple heart inlays in both the endcaps and "bird" (the block strapped to the top that forms the air channel between the air chamber and sound chamber). (The moccasin in the photo is my feeble attempt at providing scale.)

The sound is low, round, and resonant, a big brother to the child of my high A flute. The right hand finger holes are spaced a little further apart than I'm used to, but Leonard says I'll adjust.

The other flute maker I spent a lot of time with was Brent Haines, of Woodsounds. His flutes are absolute works of art. The first thing you notice is the almost otherworldly beauty of the wood; never before have I seen so much variety in color or pattern of woodgrain, and some flutes have turquoise inlaid in the gaps and fissures of the wood. One of the most distinctive and naturally attractive features was the jagged, uneven end of some, looking like they had just fallen to the forest floor after centuries of standing tall. They are all finished with a glossy polymer that highlights the wood, gives a silky feel to the player, and protects the flute with a tortoise shell hardness (not to mention uniquely allowing the mouthpiece to be cleaned with an alcohol swab).

But of course the true glory is their incredibly rich sound. From the very first note you can tell they are very special. The volume, control, and color you can produce is amazing, and the proof can be seen in the long list of recording artists who play these flutes (and in how difficult I found it to stop trying them out). One day I'll have my own!

Now I know why every flute is so special to NAF artists. In songbooks you might find a notation of the type of flute used for the song (e.g., "Spanish Cedar Left-Handed F#"). At concerts, the player might identify not only the kind of wood but also the maker and even say something more about it. Even a year ago, I didn't fully appreciate this practice, but now I understand. Much like pianos, every flute feels, plays, and sounds different. You become intimately familiar with its strengths and quirks, and you also develop a relationship with the maker. Each flute is unique to the owner by virtue of this combination, so it's only natural to want to talk about it with people who share your passion.

The Saturday night concert was given by none other than R. Carlos Nakai, THE premier Native American Flute recording artist in the country. No one else has done as much to revive and reinvigorate Native American Flute music, and it was a thrill and an honor to have him play for us. I already owned three of his CDs and learned how to play from his book, so I was very excited to hear him live and also to stand in line for an autograph of my fourth CD. Besides playing solo flute for the evening, he talked to us seemingly about whatever came to mind in a gentle, relaxed spirit that made you feel not only that he had all the time in the world, but that you did, too.

I must be part Native American. When my brother and I were kids, we were in the YMCA Indian Guides with our dad. I absolutely loved it: choosing an Indian name (I think my name was "Day Owl" and my dad's was "Night Owl," but given my habits, I don't think he'd mind if I appropriated his name for my own use), woodburning and then wearing our nametags around our necks, going to meetings and earning feathers for our headbands, learning animal tracks and Indian symbols. Far from being corny, it taught me respect for Native Americans. Years later, when I started sending Christmas cards, I would send only Leanin' Tree cards, which depicted scenes of cowboys around campfires, birds and squirrels gathering around pine trees, and Indians on horseback, looking up to the sky. The only ones I was attracted to were those showing reverential scenes of Native Americans connecting with the Great Spirit. At my church today, we pray the Lord's Prayer in its many versions from around the world, and I always want to use the Native American version. And for the past two years I have been in love with the NAF. I already know which flute I am going to buy at next year's festival, and I'm working on a plan to take a Woodsounds flute home with me someday. Beyond that: a rattle, a drum, a looper, microphone, and amplifier?

I don't know why it speaks to me so strongly, but its voice touches me in a deep part of my being seldom accessed any other way. This isn't surprising, given its application in various medical and behavioral therapies. Maybe it really is in my blood; its sound is very close to that of the shakuhachi, or Japanese bamboo flute, which is pentatonic like some NAFs and shares some of its construction characteristics and playing techniques. Whatever the reason, I can't stop thinking about moving to the Southwest, buying an adobe house, and sitting out at night under the stars, playing my flutes to the accompaniment of a crackling fire in the chiminea and coyotes howling in the distance.

In my first year of playing, I was just learning, listening, and trying to understand. Then at my first flute festival, I was awed by Hawk Henries' transcendent, meditative playing. I was electrified by Ron Warren's innovative music and moved by his collaborations with voice and cello. My mind was opened to the unlimited possibilities of NAF playing, and I was inspired to play more and learn as much as I could. And now, after another year, having played many flutes and met their makers and having had the honor of hearing Carlos Nakai play live, I am firmly in the grip of this beautiful instrument.

At the end of his concert, Mr. Nakai said, "Let the journey begin." Mine has.

Photo credits: top - M. Abe, middle - Woodsounds.net, bottom - RCarlosNakai.com

Luna Obscura

2008-02-20T22:43:00.006-05:00

OK, I've done the pinhole in the shoebox thing. It was an amazing thing to see a solar eclipse, albeit indirectly so as not to go blind. But somehow I've always missed lunar eclipses, maybe partly for lack of effort because they aren't as sexy as the dramatic daytime event, but also because they always seem to happen in the middle of the night. Until tonight. Finally we - Mother Earth - are passing between the sun and the moon in late evening, and I am awake and aware of it (instead of slapping my forehead upon reading about it the next day). Not only that, but the moon is visible just outside the kitchen door, unobscured by tall trees or buildings, and the sky is clear after an afternoon snowstorm!

To top it all off, I was reminded of it in Yahoo! news at 10:00 p.m., just as it was beginning. I walked outside, and there it was: the moon's dusty orange tint* and Earth's shadow partially covering its face. And Saturn and the star Regulus, I am told, are the two bright "stars" near it, like two eyes to the nose of the moon. (Where is my big brother's telescope when you need it?!) What a privilege to witness this event!

10:30: I go back out, and it's less orange and more dark.

11:00: The moon is now almost completely in shadow, with just a sliver of a white crescent on one side. Even when the eclipse is full, indirect sunlight still reaches the moon after passing through Earth's atmosphere, rendering the whole moon fully visible even at its darkest.

11:15: The eclipse is now starting to end as our shadow continues passing across the moon's face. Almost a quarter is now the bright white we are used to seeing.

I took Astronomy as an undergrad (in partial fulfillment of a science requirement), and my jaw dropped regularly as I read incredible things about the universe, things that I swore had to have been fabricated by the textbook authors. Not only were they fantastic to consider, but the methods of discovery seemed unknowable. Even if these things were true, how could anyone explore, study, and analyze phenomena that were light years away? (And who was naming these things, anyway, and cataloging them?)

This course (as well as anatomy and physiology many years later, as I prepared for grad school) made me wonder how anyone could possibly not believe in God.

11:29: Half moon. I'm calling it a night. The next one is December 20, 2010. Plenty of time to check Consumer Reports for telescopes.

Photo credits: AP

* Maybe Snoopy was right; maybe the moon is made of American cheese.

Let's Get Subversive

2008-02-09T17:21:00.000-05:00

Last night I attended a panel discussion that was part of the PEN/Faulkner Reading Series at the Folger Shakespeare Theatre. The theme was "Imagination as Subversion in Nonfiction and Memoir." One of the panelists was Azar Nafisi, who wrote Reading Lolita in Tehran, A Memoir in Books, which chronicled the seminar in Western literature that she hosted for female students from the University of Tehran just after the Ayatollah Khomeini came into power. I had read it a few years ago, and I was excited to hear her speak.

Along with writers Daniel Mendelsohn and Samantha Power, she discussed how imagination could be used as a tool of resistance. Mendelsohn had to imagine the experiences of Holocaust victims as he reconstructed what happened to them, and Power had uncannily similar experiences in her own writing about oppression and war in Iraq and Darfur. Far from being a light conversation, the panel almost immediately focused on foreign policy and international or cultural conflict.

Nafisi, now director of the SAIS Dialogue Project at the Foreign Policy Institute of Johns Hopkins University's School of Advanced International Studies, said that one reason that genocide is allowed to happen is that people in other countries fail to imagine that the victims are anything like them; they think only that those people are so totally different, and that somehow makes the news easier to swallow. Mendelsohn pointed out that imagination is not always benign; the Nazis imagined all sorts of new (and "unimaginable") ways to torture and kill the Jews. He prefers the term "inventive" as distinguished from "imaginative," which has customarily had a more positive connotation.

During the post-discussion reception, I met Ms. Nafisi and asked her about her former students and whether they appreciated the subversiveness of meeting to talk about such American classics as Lolita, The Great Gatsby, and Washington Square. She was unabashedly warm and friendly in her response, and it was exciting having this brief but personal encounter.

As I walked out with my friend Mike and two of his friends, he said that whenever he came out of the Folger, looked west down East Capitol Street, and saw the Capitol dome lit up against the black sky, it was a surreal moment because it looked like a postcard. We agreed that it was an amazing sight.

I walked the two blocks to the Capitol. I've always considered it one of the most beautiful buildings I've ever seen, and I felt grateful to Mike for reminding me of its awesome presence. I turned left onto First Street, the Capitol on my right, the Library of Congress on my left. My favorite fountain in D.C., that of Neptune and his mermaids and wildly flailing horses, was dry and statuesque in the brisk night air. (This is what it looks like in the afternoon, with the fountain on full.)

I had the sidewalk almost all to myself, though it wasn't that late, and as I walked past the Cannon House Office Building - the halls of which I had walked as a Senate intern 25 years ago - I was so appreciative of the opportunity to be with such accomplished writers in such a beautiful venue as the Folger Theatre in such an exciting city as Washington. Literature and writing may not be the first things you associate with D.C., but this is a stimulating place for both readers and writers.

Photo credits: top: PEN/Faulkner, bottom: Mark Abe

Enough With the Tabloid Obits

2008-02-02T21:10:00.000-05:00

Why is there such an intense focus on drugs when a celebrity dies? Yes, Heath Ledger was found face-down on his bed (and yes, naked, although the relevance of that information escapes me), with bottles of prescription drugs around him. And understandably, the public wants to know why the presumably healthy 28 year-old actor and father died. But why can't we just report the basic facts and wait until the toxicology report comes back before saying anything more? Let the Ledger family and Heath's fans grieve, and allow Heath some dignity in death.

It is thought that Heath Ledger was only the last in a long line of young celebrities to die of a drug overdose. River Phoenix died of an overdose of heroin and cocaine at 23. He had hinted at suffering from sexual abuse as a child at the hands of members of his parents' cult, the Children of God, and has been remembered for saying "I wish sometimes that I wasn't as conscious as I am." Kurt Cobain died at 27 of an overdose of heroin and a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. He battled chronic bronchitis and pain, which led to emotional problems and drug addiction. And there have been others, of course, but of those who have died before age 30, plenty have been due to accidents or illness. Drugs, I guess, are sexier media fodder, drawing public attention for their mystery or illicitness - never mind that most of the drugs on Heath's bed have been advertised on TV during the dinner hour.

Heath Ledger was a gifted actor, perhaps best known for his role as the brooding Ennis Del Mar in the film "Brokeback Mountain." It was a phenomenal performance, full of emotional nuance and depth, winning him the American Film Institute award for Best Lead Actor, as well as Academy Award, Golden Globe, BAFTA Award, and SAG nominations in the same category. Never before has so much been communicated with so few words or such spare body language (or mouth movement). His role could not be reduced to just a "gay cowboy"; rather, he simply played a man dealing with his love and attraction for another man in a difficult time and setting. And while he was not gay himself, Heath Ledger did gay men everywhere a great service in his wholehearted, genuine, unapologetic portrayal. His Ennis was as masculine as the Marlboro Man, undoing what some might have thought was the damage wrought by such films as "The Birdcage" (1996), "To Wong Foo Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar" (1995), and "The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" (1994) which were (and continue to be) enjoyed within the gay community but which also perpetuated the stereotype of the gay man as a flaming, effeminate homosexual, drag queen, or transvestite.

The toxicology report will be out soon, and then perhaps we'll know more about why Health Ledger died. Until then, can we not just acknowledge his artistic accomplishments and mourn the loss of a young, talented actor who did not seek the spotlight in his personal life, who apparently rejected stardom in Hollywood and just did his art?

Photo credits: top: Wikipedia.org, bottom: IMDb.com

My Uncle, Civil Rights Hero

2007-10-29T21:25:00.000-04:00

My uncle, a retired United States Marine Corps colonel, was buried last month at Arlington Cemetery with full military honors: five white horses pulling a caisson, Marine Corps band, Marines marching with rifles, a twenty-one gun salute, a flag-folding ritual and presentation to the widow - it was so impressive that before we knew what was going on, we wondered whether we had bumped up against another one of the thirty funerals held there each day. But it was all for my uncle.

After the graveside service, we conversed over small plates of food at the Fort Myer Officers' Club, where my cousin, his son, an Assistant U.S. Attorney, talked about how he fought in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam; how he landed a jet on an aircraft carrier over 400 times (138 of those in the dark); how he flew upside down over the treetops, craning his head backwards to watch the earth rush past, purely for the delight of it.

Another cousin, an oncologist and his younger daughter, talked about how he was a medical hero in that he put his life on the line to save his infant son by undergoing a new and risky surgical procedure. The child died, but the procedure would later prove to have paved the way for the very first open heart surgery. In the intimate and personal act of putting himself in danger for the sake of his child, he directly advanced the state of cardiac medicine.

My uncle is a hero to me for yet another reason. After World War II, people of Japanese descent met with prejudice and discrimination. As late as 1958, 96 percent of whites disapproved of interracial marriage, or miscegenation. And while there were no federal anti-miscegenation laws, 30 out of 48 states had their own. Virginia, where my uncle was stationed, had some of the strictest such laws, barring not just blacks but any non-whites from marrying whites.

My uncle, a big white Marine, married my mother's sister, a Japanese American, though they had to leave Virginia to seal the deal. In another intensely simple and personal act - loving the woman who became his wife - he may not have changed any laws, but he took a stand for the right to marry the one he loved and thus willfully threw himself into the unstoppable tide of civil rights progress. Obviously he loved her, but it took courage and a conviction of what was right to marry her.

Virginia would be one of the last states to remove its anti-miscegenation laws from its books with the 1967 Supreme Court decision of Loving v. Virginia. (South Carolina didn't remove their defunct laws until 1998, and Alabama took until 2000.)

Fast forward to the present: a sizable (though steadily decreasing) portion of Americans oppose same-sex marriage. The Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), prohibiting the marriage of any same-sex couple, was signed into Federal law during the Clinton (I) Administration. Thirty-six states have enacted their own legislation prohibiting same-sex marriage, and 26 have added such amendments to their state constitutions. Virginia, where I live, has some of the most draconian laws on the books, prohibiting not only marriage, but civil unions, domestic partnerships, and all contracts purporting to provide the same benefits as marriage, between two people of the same sex.

It may take 50 more years or maybe even 100, but eventually same-sex marriage will be as common - and as legal - as interracial marriage is today. I consider my uncle part of the reason for the change in interracial marriage, and I look to him for inspiration to continue the fight for my civil rights.

Free D.C.

2007-09-16T23:02:00.000-04:00

No, that's not a protest slogan, it's a descriptive phrase. Today my partner and I had a little time to kill before an afternoon soiree, so we walked across D.C. to the recently re-opened National Portrait Gallery/Museum of American Art, a duo of attached Smithsonian museums that closed for six years while undergoing extensive renovations. We saw "new" acquisitions (works added to the collection over the six years of closure), including a startlingly dramatic full-length portrait of Denyce Graves, the hometown mezzo-soprano now world-renowned for her debut in the lead role in Carmen and her elegant, colorful voice. The brilliant reds in her dress were so bright, you could swear the lights in the painting were actually electrified. I took special interest in the pictures of writers such as Bernard Malamud, Gore Vidal, and John Updike.

Twenty-five portraits of former Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, painted by both professional and amateur artists, hung in one room. Another had recent works of current entertainment celebrities like David Letterman and Whoopi Goldberg. On the other side, new works of American art hung on the walls or from the ceiling or stood on the floors.

Being in the new-again museums renewed my appreciation for the accessibility of some of the greatest collections of art in the country, as well as for the historical artifacts, textiles, and even biological life in all the other Smithsonian museums in Washington - all an easy Metro ride away, at no cost of admission. I may be tired of the traffic congestion, weary of the continued rant over race relations, and jaded from the insane real estate market and shifting demographics of our neighborhood, but some of the best things in life are still in Washington, and they make living here a joy and privilege.

Senator Larry Craig (R-ID) Chastises Bill Clinton

2007-08-29T20:52:00.001-04:00

Ah, what are the dog days of August in Washington, D.C. without a juicy Congressional sex scandal? My first reaction to Senator Craig's bathroom "incident" mess, in which he pleaded guilty to sending clear signals that he wanted sex from an undercover police officer and is now vociferously denying any such behavior, was pure amusement. Here was another high-and-mighty, self-righteous Republican Member of Congress, claiming to have cornered the market on morality (whatever that means) and having worked hard against the gay civil rights movement - caught with his pants down, literally. "I'm not gay," he insisted. "I don't hit on men..." Okay, what do you call looking for sex in a men's room??

Once I finished laughing, I remembered how much I long for the good ol' days, when the biggest problem this nation had was an elected official (the President, I know) getting a little too randy with an intern. I think most people on both sides of the aisle would agree that Senator Craig exercised poor judgment and behaved in an unbecoming manner for the dignified office of United States Senator. But again we are faced with the question of what effect one's private sexual behavior has on one's ability to be of use in public service. Granted, an airport men's room isn't exactly private, but it goes to the larger question. On that count, my reaction is similar to the reaction the Europeans had to Monicagate - basically, "So what?"

But I know the real question is how effective one can continue to be, once people write you off as a pariah, especially those who only yesterday were your comrades. And in that sense, the Senator is probably finished, the same way former Senator George Allen (R-VA) immediately lost all credibility at one sunny picnic, where he called a man of East Indian extraction from the opposing camp a "macaca," or monkey, and later claimed to have made up the word.

When all the blather fades, the elephant sits obstinately in the middle of the room. Homosexuality, while increasingly tolerated in recent years, is still a polarizing issue, and as long as gay men and women fear discrimination, ostracism, and worse, some will continue to hide in the closet, putting on the show everyone expects them to put on and acting out only when they feel anonymous - though sadly enough, those are usually the very situations in which they are not unseen.

From what I've heard, Larry Craig had a conservative upbringing, comes from a conservative state, and has probably wrestled with his sexual orientation all his life, making decisions which advanced his career, earned him respect and admiration from his constituency and peers, and made him privately miserable. He is in his sixties, and after fighting his demons for several decades, obviously does not now -- and probably never will -- feel it is safe to come out.

The Senate Republicans will be fine, as will all Idahoans. What we don't know today is how Larry Craig will deal with his inevitable ouster and whether he will be able to come to terms with his sexuality and many years of loneliness and denial, all brought to a head under public floodlights. Nor do we know what will happen to his family (wife, three adopted children, and nine grandchildren), presumably full of years-old boomeranging questions, confusion, and anger. Yes, Senator Craig is responsible for his own downfall. But a sixty-two-year-old man who still hasn't found a way to accept himself is no laughing matter.

Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye

2007-08-22T22:03:00.000-04:00

One by one, the faces display on the screen for several silent, unapologetic seconds. We read their ages and hometowns and study their expressions. It is sad. Maddening. Outrageous. Not because of where they were or what they were doing there. Because most of them were under thirty. Because a great many had only been legal for a couple years. Because some were not even old enough to vote for those who would send them off to die in service to their country - when they had hardly even begun to live.

On PBS's News Hour, Jim Lehrer posts the photos of U.S. servicemen and -women "as their deaths become official," pausing in the program to give tribute to these young soldiers, and it is in these soundless minutes that the human cost of war becomes real to me. Those daily statistics that numb my mind take on flesh and blood and remind me of the the decades that will never be lived, the dreams that will never take shape, the tragedy of loss for so many back home.

My nephew graduated from college three years ago. He is in his first apartment. He weathered his first job. He survived his first car breakdown and major repair bill. He is now beginning the next phase in his life. And most of the people whose pictures flash by every few nights are younger than he is now.

So every time another round of photos appears on the screen, my partner and I stop eating dinner or reading the mail, and we honor the latest soldiers to die overseas, far from their families and the country they loved. We take note of those whose hometowns are nearby, and we imagine what their families are going through. And we wait until the last photo fades out, because we have the time.

Tempus Fugit

2007-08-11T22:56:00.000-04:00

Today my partner and a friend and I went hiking in the Shenandoah National Park. After a stretch of several days in the 90s with high humidity and even reaching 103 one day, the cool, clean air up on Skyline Drive was invigorating. (So much so that we had to buy long-sleeved T-shirts in the gift shop.) The trail that we took starts up off Skyline Drive and goes downhill, so when you turn around, you hike uphill to go back to the parking lot.

(This is a waterfall, seen from the trail high above it. If you look closely, you can see a man standing near the edge at right center. The rocks at the bottom of the picture are the edge of a sheer drop-off of at least 100 feet. I almost peed in my pants a couple times, standing there taking pictures.)

On the way back I heard footsteps not far behind us. I detected that the people, a man and woman probably ten years younger than us, would soon want to pass, and it made me feel suddenly old. I always passed other people; they did not pass me. Eventually, though, I could deny it no longer: there were younger people who had more stamina than me. I stepped aside and allowed them to go by. And I watched as they got smaller and smaller up the mountain.

Last month, my partner turned 50. Another decade passed. It had everyone asking, and me thinking, of course, about my own slide towards that number, and how I'll be one click closer in a couple months. It hardly seems possible; I've only recently become used to being in my 40s.

When I look at my friends, though, I see that many - or maybe even most - people don't look or seem to feel their age. Thing is, we are used to thinking of our parents at this age, and - good God! - we can't possibly be that old yet, can we? When actually, this is us now, not our parents, and we're normal people in middle age. So maybe it's not that any given number is "old," whatever that means, and maybe our parents felt exactly the same way at this age, wondering how they could have reached middle age when they didn't FEEL that old yet.

Age is just a construct, anyway, since we don't suddenly get one year older on one particular day each year. We are in a constant state of aging very gradually.
So what else can you do but just try to keep up with the march of time? And taking on a hiking trail of moderate difficulty was a fun way to do that.

And that couple that passed us on the way back up? When they reached the parking lot, we were just five yards behind them.

Bridge of Sighs

2007-08-07T22:15:00.000-04:00

Living in Sanford Hall at the University of Minnesota in the early 80's, I used to vacillate on cold winter nights between walking into the heart of campus to catch the warm shuttle across the river to West Bank, knowing I might miss one and have to sit in the bus shelter for ten minutes, and just going the other way and hoofing it across the 10th Avenue bridge, a long, high bridge which exposed me to frigid winds, high-speed traffic, and an endless view of the shiny, black Mississippi. In the fall and spring, the very same walk was a treat, allowing me indulgent views of a verdant riverbank and sparkling river as I made my way to and from classes.

Not much further down, a small railroad bridge also spanned the gap between East and West Banks. I remember debates on the safety of walking across that bridge instead; obviously there were no railings or walkways, but had anyone ever actually seen a train on it? I decided to walk across it at least once before graduating but never did.

Last week, when I heard the 35W bridge had collapsed, I quickly looked it up on the map and couldn't believe it: that was the bridge running parallel to the 10th Avenue bridge I had walked across so many times as a student. I had a flash of yearning, a homing instinct, similar, I imagined, to how New Yorkers travelling in Europe felt on 9/11. I took inventory of my friends in Minnesota, trying to think if any would normally be in that area during rush hour, and started calling.

Some of Shelly's staff used the bridge regularly. Lizanne's daughter, a sophomore at the U, had driven across it earlier that day. Both Mary and Karl drove that route regularly, and Karl, leaving work early that day, had crossed the bridge forty-five minutes before it collapsed. Karen's sister was on it twenty minutes before. Frighteningly close calls, but no tragic news.

All the old cliches come to mind: "Live each day as if it's your last," "You never know when it's your time," "Hug your children/spouse/relative and tell them you love them," "Treat everyone as if it's the last time you'll see them." Sayings that elicit eye-rolling in better times, days that are not so sobering. Sometimes, though, trite rings true.

A Blog Is Born

2007-08-06T22:47:00.001-04:00

I can think of no better seminal event for a new writing venture than a workshop at the University of Iowa's Summer Writing Festival (ISWF). Iowa's MFA program in Creative Writing is the oldest in the country and has long been regarded as the best. The workshop method is, in fact, thought to have started at Iowa. So I had great expectations as I flew over the cornfields at the beginning of my week in Iowa City, the final one of the twenty-first annual ISWF.

I joined eleven other writers, all working on novels, memoirs, or other long manuscripts, in learning techniques to help us survive the arduous and sometimes emotional process of revision. Through daily assignments, class critiques and discussion, and talking over morning coffee or long into the night over a "bambino" gelato or a cocktail, we not only found new ways of seeing our work and making it crackle, but also discovered personal connections that enriched our experience far beyond the catalog description.

After a week of immersion in writing, books, future dreams, and some incredible and fascinating new friends, I left Iowa City, reluctant to return to responsibilities and routine but full of hope and new expectations. This novella, whether it blossoms into a novel or is pruned down to a long short story - or remains a novella, publishing be damned - will get finished.

Oh, and about my blog: the title refers to the three main elements of my identity. "Murasaki" is Japanese for "purple." Now you have it.