R Blog

Plumbing the Secrets of the Universe

Spirituality, according to last week’s  Newsweek, is a concern of many Americans. There are many blogs that try and stay on top of the subject (including Brian Hines’s very interesting and provocative  Church of the Churchless). And although I would like to be in touch with The ONE and enjoy what is referred to in the spiritual biz as an “ecstatic experience,” some days what’s really important is finding a good plumber. This is as challenging as, say, finding the right guru or teacher. For the Bell Curve rules our universe when it comes to competency. This means that 90% of gurus, spiritual teachers and, yes, plumbers are, in fact, not entirely competent. Oh, they may be able to hook your pipes together. But will they be able to keep the flow moving at a constant rate?
Returning to Ashland recently our water bills indicated we had leak. I called the City who came out to view the meter which wouldn’t stop turning. “You have a leak,” they told me. I put my primitive, animistic plumbing skills to work. I prayed to the God of Plumbing to help me. I got no help. The leak continued to make the meter turn, torturing me like the rotations of the inquisitioner’s rack. I turned off toilets and sinks. running back and forth to the street to watch the little blue dial. Still revolving. A mystery leak for sure. Visions of giant holes being dug around the yard searching for the secret.
We conferenced. We would need a plumber. Who should we call? Over the years a number of plumbers had visited us and explained certain secrets that only they know. Even with all their help we couldn’t keep our flow at a constant rate. The tub took a long time to fill. We had accepted our low water pressure. We had learned to almost enjoy the dribbling shower. However, we knew, from visiting other people’s homes that water often blasted out of taps, that showers could redden the skin with a rejuvenating thrust of H2O.
Opening the phone book I went through the list of plumbers we had used. Nice people. Pleasant. Fair. But, did they know the secret of the universe?
Sadly, I had to conclude they did not. I decided to pick a new plumber. I opted to choose one from Medford. Perhaps I was tired of philosopher plumbers (as most contractors in Ashland have Masters degrees in arcane subjects). I actually used my pendulum, slightly rusted from inactivity, to dowse a couple of ads and chose a firm who advertised “leak detection equipment.” A team of plumbers arrived the next day. There was a knarly old guy with calloused, nicotine-stained fingers and his handsome young apprentice. They were excited about plumbing. In five minutes they discovered a subtle leak in the toilet and a dripping hose bib. In thirty minutes they were gone with the promise to send a specialist the next day to finish the job (replacing toilet parts). Team one only did outside work. Like prophets they told us that one greater than them would surely come.
Bob, the Plumber came the next day. He was clearly a Master and radiated a confidence that a spiritual adept might interpret as, well...love. There was a dynamic, hydraulic kind of energy exuding from his person as he tore into our toilets and shower valve. As he worked, he talked, and his disquisition was like a symphony of epiphanies. Everything he said made sense. Linda and I smiled at each other, love struck with Bob the Plumber.
Then he asked us a question that gave us chills. “Would you like to have more pressure?” How could he do this? Could he do it? We had many questions. But as the wise ones have written, “When you are in a pit and someone throws you a rope and offers a way out, don’t ask why or how, just grab the damn rope.”
“YES!!” we shouted. “We want the pressure. We want to feeeel the pressure!”
After Bob left we were happy yet felt a bit bereft. Everything had been so clear while we were in his presence. We wondered if there was anything else we could ask him to do so we could call him back at $85 an hour plus $40 travel charge from Medford. But, he had told us we would be okay, that our pressure was good and that we could maintain it. He had answered all our questions and  we will go with the flow, knowing that if we do have a problem Bob will be there for us.

Kenneth Goes to the Train Park

When we last met Kenneth, he had "felled in the mud." Today, with his older brothers Forrest and Cole, Kenneth took his fourth trip to the Medford train park. He had no accidents. He did ride many trains. Little boys and old men seem to share an affinity for trains and the park was filled with parents and kids queued up to ride the little 1.5” to 1' models, some purring along using coal for fuel. Quite a spectacle and noisy with bells, whistles, wheels clicking on tracks and kids on their best behavior, serious about being in the presence of trains. There were four or five of them clickity clicking around the circles of track. And when we weren’t riding we could walk around and inspect cabooses, engines being restored, old rusty railroad tools that looked like medieval weapons and a wonderfully landscaped model railroad that wound through a bansai tree forrest and over bridges and through tunnels. Thomas of children’s book fame was there. Thomas is Kenneth’s favorite. Word is he will get to go back one more time before the train museum closes up shop for the winter. (Here's what about five minutes of it sounded like).Download 10_9_05trainpark_11_25_am.wav

Blog Recommendations

Here are a few blog recommendations:

The Rude Pundit http://www.rudepundit.blogspot.com/ Fair warning. The Rude one isn’t kidding about his name. He is extremely rude. He is nasty, vile, profane, scatological, vulgar, crude, filthy, dirty, and smutty. He is obscene and pornographic. If you are easily offended by really nasty writing, do not view this site. Did I mention foul language? Given that caveat, his daily essays on politics are usually right on the money using metaphors you haven’t considered on your most evil day. Who else could relate the impending battle between conservatives over the Supreme Court to a bumfight. (I didn’t even know about bumfights), or compare Harriet Miers to a friendly old stripper or Tom DeLay’s troubles to cockroach sex. Or portray the Preznit as Crazy George sitting on the end bar stool. Fair waring again. If you are offended by bad language or allusions to kinky, perverted sex don’t go here. But if you are fed up with the Bush Administration and enjoy watching someone verbally turn them  into mush, you might enjoy the Rude One (who is a college prof somewhere in the New York area).

Clusterfuck Nation by James Kunstler http://jameshowardkunstler.typepad.com/clusterfuck_nation/
Mr. Kunstler is a writer who believes our reliance on fossil fuel is going to bring life as we know it to and end. He is anti-auto, anti-highway development, anti-suburbia, anti-sprawl. He thinks we are delusional as a nation and writes an essay on his blog once a week. Plus he has a web site and many books if one is interested in following his dark vision in more detail.

Steve Gilliard’s Newsblog http://stevegilliard.blogspot.com/
Steve is a black man who lives in NYC. I mention these two specific points because his commentary often details the perspective of a black man in NYC. He has a background as a reporter. He’s pretty mean and obnoxious for a liberal. He shares billing with his white, lawyer girlfriend (who hardly ever blogs). Steve’s format is interesting. He often pastes an entire news article, then makes his comments.  He will find lots of articles that you can’t find by yourself. I believe that Steve is a full-time blogger who lives off ad revenue and donations. He detests black Republicans and doesn’t like Mayor Blomberg and is interested in soccer!?, and in food and drink.  Steve is a sharp observer and since I don’t have any black people I can currently claim as friends, I’m claiming Steve Gilliard. I learn stuff from him that I wouldn’t know otherwise. I actually donated to his site. Better than a subscription to Newsweek. Cuz Steve doesn’t have to suck up to anyone. And, doesn't. He doesn't much like vegetarians either which will probably keep us from ever sharing a meal.

James Wolcott http://jameswolcott.com/ is a staff writer for Vanity Fair. He blogs in bursts between writing assignments and has the sharpest pen on the web. Here’s a guy you don’t want to get in a pissing contest with.

The Smoking Christian http://smokingchristian.blogspot.com/ My friend Phil told me about the Smoking Christian, a friend of his family. The Smoking Christian is odd. He’s very, very amusing. He actually reminds me of me some years ago when I had a bit more angst.  (I’m not claiming that I was as funny as the SC, but funnier than I am now. Contentment takes the edge off.) His humor is offbeat and surprising. And, if you don’t laugh out loud occasionally I will have to question your sense of humor. The Smoking Christian is apparently a fiftyish, out of work, overweight advertising guy whose Presbyterian elder-in-the-church wife disapproves of his smoking and perhaps of him in general. His family is old friends of Billy Graham and the SC likes to take occasionally shots at such subjects as “Intelligent Design” and my own personal favorite Christians, Jan and Paul Crouch, the ones who own the Holy Beamer, a satellite that sends their TV show around the universe. However, the SC might riff on just about anything including an explanation of why a well-known buffet restaurant exists, ten ideas for reality shows (#4. Queer Eye for the Dead Guy), or the hazards of taking in Katrina victims. I don’t know what he’s smokin’ but he’s wound up and on a roll. Hope he can keep it up.

Want to stay on top of the Karl Rove affair which promises to be more satisfying than the OJ trial? Check out Firedog Lake. http://firedoglake.blogspot.com/ is a group blog including one gal from Otter Rock, Oregon. I think she’s a former prosecutor. I believe the other two participants are lawyers as well. They can explain the ins and outs of grand juries and read between the lines of the official spin. I trust they will follow the story of the treasonous outting of a CIA agent to its hoped for conclusion.

Anti-Torture

Back in 2000 I was very high on John McCain. But after he was trashed by Rove and Co. in the S.C primary he seemed to lose his spunk and in 2004 appeared to have been totally co-opted by the Preznit. I was disgusted with McCain. He seemed to sell out. And, I felt bad for him. I was an Operation Homecoming debriefer and knew in detail what he and his fellow PWs had experienced in North Vietnam. But maybe McCain is just a realist. A patient man. Perhaps he was laying low doing what he could behind the scenes. His committee on Indian Affairs was instrumental in revealing the machinations of lobbyist Jack Abramoff whose trials and tribulations will be a big part of the Bush downfall. And, now he has managed to add a dramatic anti-torture provision to the defense spending bill in opposition to the White House’s desires. It will be interesting to watch McCain play out his hand. But his statement to the Senate, quoted only here in part, was very eloquent

“I have been asked before where did the brave men I was privileged to serve with in Vietnam draw the strength to resist to the best of their ability the cruelties inflicted on them by our enemies. Well, we drew strength from our faith in each other, from our faith in God, and from our faith in our country. Our enemies didn’t adhere to the Geneva Convention. Many of my comrades were subjected to very cruel, very inhumane and degrading treatment, a few of them even unto death. But everyone of us knew, every single one of us knew and took great strength from the belief that we were different from our enemies, that we were better than them, that we, if the roles were reversed, would not disgrace ourselves by committing or countenancing such mistreatment of them. That faith was indispensable not only to our survival, but to our attempts to return home with honor. Many of the men I served with would have preferred death to such dishonor."

"The enemies we fight today hold such liberal notions in contempt, as they hold the international conventions that enshrine them such as the Geneva Conventions and the treaty on torture in contempt. I know that. But we’re better than them, and we are the stronger for our faith. And we will prevail. I submit to my colleagues that it is indispensable to our success in this war that our servicemen and women know that in the discharge of their dangerous responsibilities to their country they are never expected to forget that they are Americans, the valiant defenders of a sacred idea of how nations should govern their own affairs and their relations with others – even our enemies.”

Score one for the good guys.

Phished

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Artist Statement (Revised after 911)

My work, consisting of little pieces of whittled wood, has crystallized out of a fascination for... wood. I like wood. Wood is important. The eternal role of an artist is to remind us of our humanity, to connect us with the mystery when we have lost our way. For me, the magical process of uniting disparate pieces of wood to express a new consciousness best serves to manifest my response to this imperative. From a wood pile of forgotten prunings I glean the twigs and branches in the tradition of the 19th Century Romantic Movement. The twigs are often vulgar, even ugly, yet evoke symbols of the beauty and mystery of life. For, after all, what is a chair, anyway? Is it just someplace to sit? Or is it a manifestation of the support provided by the natural world? I don’t know.
I prefer to work in all three dimensions, that is of heighth, width and depth. The tiny pieces of what appear to be furniture pull together the heterogeneous remnants of my multi-dimensional consciousness as the twigs and branches metamorphose into recognizable shapes and forms. There is a pathos in the wood, an odd poignancy that moves and shapes my movements as the knife I weild reveals the mystery. What will emerge? A bed, a screen, another chair? Will the tiny sculpture be unsophisticated, pathetically pretentious or hallograph into something humorous, poignant, even baroque? A shrine-consciousness pervades my work, sometimes mystical, always rustic. By shrine-consciousness I think I mean that my spouse will take my art and make displays like little shrines arranging them on available flat surfaces in ways that give them new meaning, juxtaposing them out of their usual context. The shrines will be confusing to some but comprehensible to others. There are those who worship the Adirondack chair and make cat noises when face-to-face with tiny carved cabins with birch bark roofs. Art is strangely moving and the artist can be overcome with self-awe. However, the humility of knife cuts and glue burns brings one back to reality and reminds one of the harms caused by the terrorists. Since 9-11 my art has taken a new, more agressive turn, resorting, as I mentioned, to knife and gun and more volitile and poisonous glues. My edge is honed and stropped, my gun is loaded and heated. My chisel will split a whisker. Stacks of branches provide a protective barrier, a shield, and as I whittle pretentious themes emerge as chips flying from maple twig. Defended thus, and protected by my art I seek to explain it, but fail. It is what it is—wood and glue. And what does that have to do with terrorism? It scares me to think about it.

Babies, Babies Everywhere

We are decompressing from two months of intensive grandparenting watching a baby grow from eleven months old to thirteen months. We’ve had good practice over the last four years with our two other babies now nearly four and two and a half. Our extended family, long berift of inflants, is knee deep in the creatures, crawling, running, talking, gooing, pooping, peeing and eating, eating, eating. By next summer, among the first cousins, we will have seven little ones ranging from four and a half years  to newborns. Our lives, for the forseeable future will be babies. In the aggregate there will be more than seven car seats (because grandparents will add them as necessary accessories). There will be multiple strollers, several special backpacks, Baby Bjorns, huge traveling bags in cheery colors, and bundles of diapers in assorted sizes. There will be potty chairs and little stools, high chairs and plastic cars. Blocks, Lego, plastic toys of all description. There will be books by the bushel. Some good; some awful (Are You My Mother?) Food will be dished from little jars. Tidbits cut into tiny pieces. Breasts will be suckled.
In many ways it is easy to be with babies (if you are a grandparent). Ones responsibility is secondary, or if an uncle/aunt, tertiary. It gives one the chance to redeem oneself of parental failures. One can argue that babies are demanding. But, really, they aren’t if you except the incessant need to feed and change them, bathe them, nap them and sleep them. I’m not talking about all the stuff the mommy and daddy have to do. I’m talking about the grandparental interaction. It’s easy being with a baby. For example, wittiness or cleverness is not a requirement. Intellectuals need not apply. One can  simply make noises and faces to entertain and communicate. A sneeze can be a cause for great amusment and celebration. Head shaking is great fun as is the traditional favorite “Peekaboo.” With a baby around all one has to be is silly. Act like an idiot. Roll on the floor. Jump up and down. Wave your arms. Shake with the palsy. Froth at the mouth. Yip, yelp, scream, gurgle or reveal your bellybutton. No thought is required. It’s relaxing. It’s natural. It’s liberating. We like to act like idiots. We are idiots. We like to play. Babies lead us back to a forgotten place. I like it there. I like babies. I’m ready for the fun and the noise and the poop and the snot and the food on the floor. I’m ready to watch them grow and walk and run and talk. I’m looking forward to seeing how the cousins merge as a group. It’s like having reinforcements arrive. Some day they will mow, and weed and do the dishes. They are most welcome.

Hazards of Island Living

There several ways to get on an island. For example: a bridge, a boat, a ferry, or swimming. If there is no bridge, I prefer a ferry because you can take your car. On Lummi Island the ferry goes into drydock for two weeks each September. This is a favorite time for islanders as traffic is greatly reduced. It also creates logistics problems for commuters who must keep a car on the mainland side. Parking is leased from the Lummi Indian Nation and security provided by the county. Hundreds of cars are parked on the other side during drydock. A passenger ferry is put into service. The regular ferry, The Whatcom Chief sails to Seattle to have the engines overhauled and paint chipped and redone. Each year there is a new color scheme. Two years ago we liked it in blue and white with paintings of an orca, the local whale. Last year the Chief came back painted like a navy scow all dingy gray. When the two weeks is over the Chief sails back. Everyone prepares to go get the car they left on the other side and go to town for supplies. But the rumor swept the island that the Chief had broken on the way home and turned back to Seattle. Drydock might be continued for days some thought. Stranded. Marooned. Double drydocked. But Sunday the Chief showed up and we made plans to cross on Monday morning carrying empty water bottles and an insulated chest. Returning from town the line was excessively long and the word richocheted down the ferry lane that the Chief was busted again. “She’ll be down all day,” shouted a garbage truck driver as he passed. A Lummi wandered up from the beach in high rubber boots and asked what was going on. He was a handsome kid, friendly and intelligent. “Something wrong with the rudder,” I told him. “Well, yeah,” he said. “She’s out in the passage going around in circles. The Chief isn’t doing so good this summer.” I walked to the beach and there she was in her new John Deere color scheme with the loons, our favorite winter bird, painted on the side. Three big trucks occupied the deck and the Chief sputtered her engines and tried to turn. The Indians had a gill net set out in a circle just off shore. It looked like a brand new one. The kid I had talked to was standing on the shore and an older man was racing his dory from one splash to another and extracating salmon. Outside the net seals formed a perimeter waiting for an opportunity to steal a fish. The Chief was drifting north towards our house. Suddenly, she fired up and made a big arcing turn and headed for the slip.
I hiked down to the dock and talked to our UPS guy, a long-time island resident who was relaying a tale of the ferry being down three days one time with a rudder problem. “That rudder is always a problem,” he said. Two Public Works employees in safety vests were standing around trying to figure out why they had been dispatched while a fuel truck backed up to the end of the dock. The Chief was out of gas, too. A county supervisor with an oversized cell phone and a clipboard walked down the pier. I asked him if we should stay or leave and he assured me the Chief would be back on schedule in thirty minutes. Walking back to our car I repeated thirty times to thirty cars, “Back on schedule in thirty minutes.” We didn’t make the first run but ended up fourth car in line for the next one. This put us on the pier so we got out and threw a stick for the three-legged dog that hangs out on the dock. He’s a black lab who loves to swim and asks for no sympathy. For some reason the Lummis who work the line, the salmon and oyster peddlers and  artists weren’t out. Guess they knew that everyone would be coming back with car fulls of food. But this day, unless you were keen enough to take an ice chest, your ice cream was melting. Hazards of living on an island.