Things which have changed (1)

Size.



I should mention some of the ways in which the city, Albuquerque, has changed in the time since I've been gone…that is, the last 30 years or so.



The first and probably the most obvious is sheer size. I've not done serious research, but I did check the web, and according to Wikipedia the current population is 552,804 (or, at least, that's what it was in 2011).  If you include the surrounding areas, what specialists call "the Metropolitan Statistical Area" (MSA), then things get even more interesting. The total population then is in excess of 887,000 souls.



Now, when I left here, in 1979, the population of the whole area…not just Albuquerque but the MSA, which is to say almost the whole center of the state…was just about 480,600 (at least according to the web sites I've checked). In other words, the size of the city and its environs has not quite doubled since I was an undergraduate in my twenties.



And the increase becomes even more dramatic when you go further back. When I was thirteen in 1970, the population of the MSA was somewhere between 350,000 and 370,000 people, depending (I gather) on who you count and how you count them. (I'm using censusscope.org as my source, and it gives a number of about 373,000. However, The Real Estate Center at Texas A&M University provides the smaller number.)



In 1960, when I was all of three years old, the city's population was 315,485 (again, according to censussope). Thus, just in my lifetime, Albuquerque has gone from being a pretty small town, really, to a reasonably serious player among America's middle ranked cities.



This is not necessarily a good thing. There have always been serious traffic problems here—everyone has a car, public transportation exists but it is under-funded, streets are broad and straight, and speed limits are high and often not particularly well-observed.. (There's one avenue not far from where I sit now which has a limit of 55 miles an hour. This is not a highway, understand. It is a city street. It cuts between residential areas and is lined on either side by shopping malls. Thus pedestrians, if there are any, must play a kind of tag or leapfrog with thundering cars and SUVs, all moving at speeds that would be considered intimidating on some Eastern freeways).



Now, though, those problems are increased by an order of magnitude. Traffic can be simply overwhelming. At rush hour (and it seems that, in these days of 24/7 work weeks, every hour is rush hour), you will find yourself at some stoplight on an average city road that has up to eight lanes, not counting the two additional left turn lanes, and a right turn lane as well. Yet, in spite of that vast capacity, you will be trapped, stopped, stuck in motionless traffic, with too many cars (each containing too few people), waiting long hours for something, anything, to move.



I remember when we first started visiting here, my wife and I. My father told Martha, "This town is getting just too big. The traffic is terrible."



Martha, city-girl from the densely populated east, laughed when she told me this. Albuquerque? Wonderful little Albuquerque? Albuquerque the anti-Boston? Albuquerque with too much traffic? How was that possible?



Then, she started driving here on a regular basis.



A few years, even before we moved, she told me, "You know what? Your father was too right."



And at that moment, in her face, I saw the sadness that comes with the death of a hopeful illusion—that is, the idea that somewhere, somehow, there is a kind of Shangri-La, a Mayberry, a Rivendale, where the good things of cities are not balanced by the bad.



I recognized the look quite easily. It's been on my face often enough. In Boston, New York, New Orleans, Las Angeles, Montreal, London, Paris…others.



Think of it as the curse of the small town boy. The boy who goes in search of something, some excitement, some escape…but who discovers the reality that place is largely irrelevant. If the heart is itself not at peace, then there is no safe harbor. Serenity does not come from position.



So he returns to the community that sent him forth. Only, alas, he discovers too the sad wisdom of Mr. Wolfe.



He will have no welcome.

Taking a break, and Something For Everything

I'm taking a break today. I should be posting something about New Mexico and our lives there. But, well, I'm tired. I've had a long, long day. Sometime, when I'm feeling particularly chipper, I'll share the gristly details. Or maybe I won't. We all of us have enough petty annoyances in our life. You don't need to hear mine.

Instead I'll simply post a link to the Belfort and Bastion editorial blog. There's an essay there you might enjoy. It is about a new author of ours, and his book, which is sort of a teenage Faust projected into our grim, postindustrial little age.

You can see it here.

And, in the meanwhile, I'm off to seek solace in a long jog and a short beer.

Until next time…

Onward and upward.

The Sea

Another image from the apartment.

We have my father over for dinner now and then. He comes and sits in the front room. Oreo, our dog, makes an enormous fuss over him, leaping into his lap and licking his face. He laughs and seems pleased.

Then we eat. My father likes Martha's cooking, though he finds it a little mild. This is a man, recall, for whom spices are a food group, and no plate is complete without cayenne pepper. But he enjoys the food, enjoys us, enjoys his time here…

Afterwards, we talk for a while. He talks to us, particularly to Martha, about politics or the sale of our house back in Winchester, or about my mother and his hopes for her recovery. He grows animated. Then he tires. I take him home. I leave him in the driveway of his house and drive away, not wanting to seem to hover, not wanting him to see me lingering to make certain he gets inside without problems.

And I go home to Martha. We sit and read or cruise the Web, or watch a sitcom on my laptop.

It gives me a curious feeling. You see, I never had my parents over to my apartment when I lived here. Later, when we were in Massachusetts, they would come to visit, of course, but there was never that moment that most of us have in extreme youth when we invite (for the first time) our parents to "our" place, and we show it off proudly. We say, in effect, look, see? I have the made the transition to adulthood. Or, at least, am making it. Will complete it. Soon. I promise.

Now, thirty years on, when I am already middle aged, and married, and have a grown son, I find myself experiencing that late moment of adolescence…that earliest hint of maturity…

That dawn which for me, alas, came so long delayed…when my sun is already at zenith…

And theirs so close…so dreadfully close… to the sea.

Time, Space...disco

More on the apartment…

After we got the boxes more or less sorted out, we found that it was really quite comfortable. It is large enough for our needs, yet not so big as to be a burden, and I must confess I greatly enjoyed not shoveling snow in the winter…it doesn't fall here often, or at least it isn't deep, and even should it happen the apartment complex staff handles everything nicely.

Yet, it has summoned up some curious ghosts for me.

For example, as I write this our stereo plays. We have it tuned to a local oldies station. For whatever reason the station plays a lot of music from the late 1970s—James Taylor, Moody Blues, Helen Reddy, Foreigner, Queen, Olivia Newton-John, KC and the Sunshine Band, Neil Diamond, the Bee Gees, and so on. There's even a little of the less offensive Disco on display, a genre which has aged much better than I thought it would.

In other words, I'm listening to music now that was popular just about the time I was finishing up my undergraduate degree and getting ready to move to Massachusetts.

And thus the ghosts. I sit in an apartment that isn't greatly different from the one I had then, more than thirty years ago. I listen to music that was popular when I was in my twenties. I find myself now, as then, confronting fundamental changes in my life…even in my identity. Then, I considered the prospect of a new state, a new environment, the beginnings of a career. Now, once more, I contemplate having a different existence, one in which I am the caretaker of my parents' property, or, even, the caretaker of my parents themselves.

So, I find myself returned to the uncertainties of youth. And that is both good and bad. When you are very young, life is like a grand hotel, one with a seemingly infinite number of hallways stretching off in all directions, all lined with doors, each more inviting than the last.

Now, for me, the hotel, the hallways, they still exist. But the doors? Many of them are closed forever. Barred and shut.

Ah, but there's the rub. Behind some unlocked doors are monsters. I have found a few of them. 

So, if there something sad in the loss of promise, so too is there something comforting in the knowledge that I may not need encounter them again.

Or, rather, there may yet be Minotaurs in my personal maze. But, at least…at least…this time they shall not take me unaware.

Stuff...too much stuff...

But from food to place.

We arrived in late afternoon. A short time later we parked in the lot of our new apartment building.

As I think I've said somewhere else, the place is really quite nice, and very, very handy. We're directly across the street from the Home. To visit her, I need only cross the road. And my father is not far away. I can walk to his house, if need be.

And our own particular apartment is charming as well. There are two bedrooms—we use one as our shared office—a kitchen, a dining area, a living room, and two baths. It's comfortable, and cozy, and we are happy here.

Except…

There is this little issue of *stuff.*

All our stuff arrived a few days after we did. It came in five U-haul containers and was duly delivered out front in the parking lot. Tables, chairs, a sofa, a recliner, a dining room set, lamps, paintings, art works, two TV sets (neither of which we use), and boxes, and boxes, AND boxes….of books.

Oy.

It was then, really, that we realized …however dimly…that we had moved from a two-story house to a two bedroom apartment. And we just didn't have room … for… all… that… stuff.

The irony is that we'd thought we weeded out and downsized. We donated, we sold, we threw away…we got rid of more than half of possessions, at least, before we moved.

But, once we were here, we discovered the reality. That all our weeding and tossing was insufficient. We found ourselves in our apartment, which formerly seemed so copious, with boxes and cartons piled floor to ceiling.

After two month, we have more or less managed to get the mess under control. My father, who I think saw what was coming, volunteered to let us store stuff at his house. And now, his guest room is stacked floor to ceiling.

I realized that he was amused by us, and our situation. In his wisdom and his age, he knew what we had not yet discovered.

To wit: possessions are like beliefs. Even when proven baseless and false, you cannot get rid of them so easily. They flourish, they reproduce, they remain…

And what took thirty years to acquire may take thirty more to lose.

Foods we cannot get

Foods we cannot get...


If there are new foods to discover here, there are some we have left behind. Though, I'm surprised by how little we miss the cuisines of Boston. We were neither of us big fans of the things that are, perhaps, most characteristic of the foods of eastern Mass. Clam chowder, clam rolls, fried clams, steamed clams…lobsters and fried fish…jonnycake, funnel cake, popovers…these and others we do not miss, particularly.



There are some things we mind not being able to buy. Coffee-flavored ice cream is rare here, though you can find it if you look. Good bagels are similarly scarce…though, again, if you look you may discover them.



What has been a loss, though, is hot dog buns. In most of America, and certainly in New Mexico, a hot dog is oblong and round across the middle. It looks like a small loaf of soft bread. In New England, hot dog buns have flat sides and open from the top. This means that you may grill them, in butter, in the same pan that you cook the dogs themselves.



It is…oh God!...close to heaven to eat a hot dog with that kind of bun, toasted and warm, and with relish and brown mustard. Such a feast is best consumed in the company of a friend and a "frappe"—a milk shake—on a Saturday afternoon that knows no other obligations.



And, alas, such buns are not to be found here. No bakery provides them. No store for ex-pat New Englanders stocks them on its shelves. We are reduced to relying on the kindness of friends who mail them as presents on birthdays.



Such are the small tragedies of life. Or, maybe…it is calling. I am summoned by fate. I should enter the bread-baking business. Offer New England buns to southwesterners. I shall wear a paper chef's hat and an apron…call myself "Mr. Buns,"…promote my business by cruising the town in a converted Wienermobile.



There are less dignified fates. Consider the banker, the lawyer, the marketing expert, the social media consultant, the Wall Street insider…the men and women in tight suits with padded shoulders, optimizing shareholder value and agreeing that a rising tide lifts all yachts.



At least I would know I was ridiculous.



There is a certain blessing in that.

Piñon

There is no end of other foods that are unique or at least characteristic New Mexico. I won't go into most of them.



Although I should mention to the Piñon. This is a sort of pine…smallish, not exactly a shrub but no towering monarch of the forest either. You find it in forests and groves, particularly in the hillier areas, all over New Mexico…and, indeed, throughout the American Southwest and Northern Mexico. What makes the piñon part of an entry about food is that it produces a nut, sort of oblong and white. You can eat it and people have done so for thousands of years.



Here, people have piñon nut, roasted and sometimes salted, as a snack. That's common throughout the Southwest. But New Mexicans will also take piñon nuts and grind them with dark roasted coffee beans, rather the way that folk from New Orleans will mix their coffee with chicory. Coffee brewed from the mix can be best described as very, very rich, a little heavy (almost as though it already contained cream), and nutty.



Piñon coffee may be unique to the state. I'm not really sure. I've seen it in other parts of the southwest, but whenever I have… in Texas, Arizona, California…it has always come from here. Usually in the little yellow bags that are the trademark packaging of the New Mexico Pinon Coffee Company, a local institution and something of a genuine landmark. (You can see them at their website if you like. It's nmpinoncoffee.com/.)



Honestly, I'm not a regular drinker of piñon coffee. It's a little oily for my taste—though there are people who will touch nothing else. But there is one aspect of the piñon that I'm completely sold on—its wood. Burn it and you have an amazing smell… something like sandalwood, something like rosemary, but not really exactly like either.



I will leave you with an image: a night, not too cold, but chilly, and you are out of doors. There is a piñon wood fire. It flickers. It pops. Its strange, lovely scent is everywhere. You are with someone dear. There is a bottle of wine…



But, wait. There is no need of me here. You have an imagination. You have the capacity for romance. You may handle this.



Indeed, I charge you to do so. Envision it now. Construct it as your night. Your fire. Your lover…whoever that may be. Your wine.



Your sense of wonder.



Your stars, unimaginably bright, under a sky of ebon black.

Sopaipillas

More on food…



New Mexican cuisine is actually distinct from those of other regions, so much so that it actually rates a separate entry on Wikipedia. (It's on the web. It must be true…he said with a smile.)



Anyway, New Mexican cuisine is related to but distinct from the those of Northern Mexico, as well as "Mex-Tex" from the east and Arizonian and Californian stytles further west. Thus, New Mexican dishes are sometimes unique to the area (as, for example, in its use of the Green Chile in preference to all other chiles) or they prepare dishes in unique ways.



One food that New Mexico does share with much of the American Southwest, as well as parts of Latin America, is the sopaipilla. This is a kind of bread or pastry made from wheat flower. They are made by rolling out dough into a kind of triangle, folding it over, and then deep frying it.



When it is fried, it puffs up. It is warm and toast, and empty, a kind of brown, tender bubble of bread. You take it, still warm, and bite off one of the ends. Then you pour honey into the hot interior, and eat it…



Again, to die for.



Sopaipillas are sometimes served as desserts, but where and when I grew up, you ate them with the meal. Hot, fresh, brown, glowing…like a kind of edible luminaria.



My most intense memories of sopaipillas come from my childhood. When I was very young, my parents would take me to a restaurant down in old town. It was quiet and dim and huge…and very, very old…in an adobe building that dated back to earliest days of the city.



In the back wall of the restaurant there was a glassed-in booth. Inside the booth, a chef and a huge pot of oil. You could watch while he made the sopaipillas in a batches of dozen at a time. My father would pick me up and let me watch. The man behind the glass would smile.



It is one of my favorite memories. It dates from that moment in my youth…that moment I all our youths…when the world seems full of safety and promise, and sweet honey, and those around you are protective or at least indulgent…and miracles and wonders come fresh and hot.



And full of honey…





*



One other memory of sopaipillas. American cuisine is, today, much more diverse than it once was. At one time, and in some places, meat, potatoes, and white bread was as exotic as it got. (When I was a boy, I knew people who had never eaten in a Chinese restaurant.)



That day is (I hope) happily past. You probably had Green Chiles and sopaipillas for supper last night, and my long description of them is both unnecessary and boring.



But, not that long ago, 'twas another story entirely. A few decades past, in a certain Northern state, and I was a undergrad in search of a university, I was traveling and hungry and I went to a restaurant that advertised itself as "eclectic." It was expensive, and rather chic, and I really couldn't afford it. But, there were burritos on the menu and I was lonely, alone, and rather homesick. So, I counted up my pennies and figured What-The-Heck?



I went in and found that the burrito came with mixed vegetables. From a can. And the beef was ground chuck.



But the real jewel of the evening, the cherry on the top, was the sopaipillas. It was a cold night, wet, and I'd been dreaming of those sopaipillas…warm, and golden brown, and sweet with honey.



They didn't come with the meal but I knew they'd be dessert so I waited patiently. Finally, the waitress came by and said, "Are you familiar with sopaipillas?" Her tone indicated that of course I wasn't. That I was a rube and hick and kid and would never have tried something so exotic.



I assured her I was…my eagerness all too evident…and said that she should bring them on. I was ready.



"Here you are," she said, and produced a tin box, maybe twelve inches on a side, and decorated with New England motifs.



"What?"



"Your sopaipillas," she assured me.



I opened the box cautiously, as though it might contain live cobras.



Inside were little white things…biscuits, vaguely triangular, hard, cold as a stone.



"Sopaipillas," she said again, as I stared at them in horror and pain. Then, she hurried away to take something boiled and gray to the table across the room.



After a moment of grief, I nibbled at one. It was …bland. I later wondered if it had come from a factory, baked like a cookie, or whether they'd bought preprocessed dough …like the kind of that comes in tubes from Poppin' Fresh ("home cooked rolls"), rolled them out in triangles, and baked them up a few nights before. No longer hot, of course, and stiff as a board, but, Heck! No sense in wasting 'em.



I sighed. I shed a single tear. I paid my bill and exited into the stormy night.



There are some situations, as in Vietnam, when all you can do is get on the helicopter and leave…

And more Green Chiles

But I've lost track of the issue of Green Chile.


I suppose you've noticed that I was a little disappointed in the two Chile Fiestas I attended. They seemed small, somehow. And the one in Albuquerque was particularly so. There was a notable lack of food in the shadow of the balloon museum. I expected places where we could have bought a meal rather than just samples of hot sauce. But, perhaps I'm being unfair. Both are relatively new events. Perhaps they will grow with time.


Besides, I was afraid that Martha would be disappointed. I wanted to provide her with a genuine spectacle, something to both introduce her to the New Mexican culture and also entertain her. But, again, I think I'm overreacting. In spite of my concerns, she seemed to enjoy herself quite a lot—particularly the Los Lunas one, where she watched children play, shopped for jewelry, sampled the food.


But this, of course, is the nature of marriage. That we struggle and stumble, desperate to please, certainly that we have not done, only to discover that in the midst of all our terrors…


Someone wonderful loves us.


In spite of it all.

Balloons...Balloonists...Me

On the other hand…

I'd met them, actually. I mean the Abruzzos. You'll recall I said the museum's name is officially the Anderson-Abruzzo Albuquerque International Balloon Museum. The Anderson in question was Maxie Anderson, a local businessman and balloonist who was one of the pilots of the Double Eagle II.  The Abruzzo was Benjamin L. Abruzzo, another Albuquerque businessman and an aviator. He was on both the Double Eagle 2 and 5, as well as scores of other remarkable flights.

I did not know him. But I did see him now and then. My parents were skiers and Abruzzo was also part of the combine behind the Albuquerque Tramway, a rather remarkable cable car that runs from the city to the Sandia Ski Area (again, more of which later). And, now and then, Mr. Abruzzo would address the ski club of which my parents were members. I remember him as a personable chap in a business suit who spoke well and easily.

I also knew…well, that's too strong word… I knew of his sons. There were three, I think. The eldest was in the same Junior High School I was. I remember him as being pleasant enough—much bigger than I was, an athlete where I was anything but, and a bit of a favorite of the ladies, the teachers, and the coaches. But he wasn't a bully, which set him apart in my book. He could have easily taken advantage of his position.

I understand he grew up to be, like his father, a businessman and an aviator. But it was the youngest of the sons who ended up following most closely the father's fate. This man became a competitive balloonist and was well-known in the field.

I never met this man. But, I remember envying the elder Abruzzo and his sons. They seemed to live the life of daring and adventure which, for whatever reason I was temperamentally ill-equipped. Where they went out into the world and challenged, I stayed in my room and read science fiction.

I suppose I still feel a little like that. I ask myself if I had the chance, and I could have exchange fates…would I?

I wouldn't. But there would be a real temptation.

Which is odd…for the father died in a plane crash in 1985, and the younger son did the same in a balloon accident in 2010.

So, no.

And yet. And yet…

I hear that hateful little voice whispering. Forever whispering.

Better to have lived a day in passion than a thousand years asleep.

Green Chiles (again)

The other Chile fest we attended, the one in the City, was in a big field next to the Albuquerque Balloon Museum, or, more precisely the Anderson-Abruzzo Albuquerque International Balloon Museum. More on that later. For now, suffice to say that New Mexicans are also in love with balloons.

Anyway, once more we parked and paid a fee (bit more stiff this time, but it included entrance to the museum). Once more we entered and threaded our way through tables and tents.

It was pleasant enough, but there were fewer vendors of food…something of a problem since we'd thought we would have lunch there. Still, there was much to be seen. Again, there were vendors of sauce and toppings, whole roasted Chiles, jewelry…and (one major difference from the Las Lunas gathering) beer. Several local microbrewers were on hand to offer their wares.

I am not quite sure it was good idea (all those people and all that beer), but it did cool the tongue after one too many visits to the hot sauce samples.


*

We exited through the Museum. As I say, New Mexicans are crazy about balloons. In the Museum itself you may see all manor of historical balloons, or, at least, their gondolas, suspended from the ceilings on long cables…as though they still dangled from their gas bags.  And so, here you may see the Double Eagle II, the balloon which first crossed the Atlantic, and the Double Eagle V, which managed similar flight across the Pacific.

Impressive, really. The gondolas are relatively tiny. One wonders what it was like to be confined in them for day upon day, drifting with winds which you my exploit but cannot control, hoping that you will not tumble into ruin and death and white capped waves at any moment.

I suppose it requires that one be a sort of hero to manage that. You must be brave, verging on the fearless, and daring! You must be willing to risk it all on a single toss, telling yourself it will be seven and not snake eyes.

I could never be that sort of individual.

But, then, I suppose I don't want to be. If I must be heroic, and I don't suppose I ever will, then I would prefer it to be in some sort of service…doing something…for someone. For many someones.

Perhaps that means I am a lesser man.

So be it.

Oh, my God, I'm famous...sort of.

Well, it seems I've been quoted.

Way back in 1994, I wrote the following line in my ezine, explosive-cargo:

"If the Anti-Abortion Movement took a tenth of the energy they put into noisy theatrics and devoted it to improving the lives of children who have been into lives of poverty, violence, and neglect, they could make the world a'shine."

(I've also seen it reproduced on the web as "...make the world shine.")

But, anyway, someone just pointed out to me that it's been included in William Martin's recent book of liberal quotes, Quotes from the Underground: Radical Wisdom in Small Doses.

In a word, wow. Far freaking out.

Thanks Dr. Martin.

Green Chiles (3)

The Green Chile is so central to New Mexican cuisine that it is celebrated. We've been to two "Green Chile Festivals" since we got to town. One was in Las Lunas, which is a community some miles south of the city. The other was here in Albuquerque, but I will get to that second in another Xcargo.

The Los Lunas one was first. We had seen posters of it somewhere, and Martha said, "Why not?" So, one Saturday, we got into my little truck and headed down I-25…past the airport, past Isleta Pueblo (Indian land. Which means it has its own casino, now. Like every reservation in the state), and finally to Los Lunas.

We took a designated exit and followed signs. We came finally to Wagner's Farmland, which is both a working farm and a sort of local attraction. People bring their children. There's a petting zoo. A maze in a cornfield. Hayrides. And so on.

One huge field had been turned into a parking lot. Teenagers with little red flags guided us into through muddy roads—one of which we actually got stuck in. The tires were rolling merrily and going nowhere. I took it as a metaphor for my life. But, then, by dint of pulling, pushing, and some swearing, we got traction.

From there we followed the crowds to a fenced-in area. We paid a small fee, were given green paper bracelets to wear, and then entered. Around us were tents and tables, vendors and providers of free information about this or that service. There was live music from a stage.

We wandered. It was smaller than I thought it would be. But, Martha clearly loved it. Her camera was busy.

We ate enchiladas with, of course, Green Chile.  Then we toured the tents. Jewelry and jars of Chile sauce, handmade clothes and carved wood statues, brochures from this or that organization…

Oh, and then we got a free plastic cup from the New Mexico Chile Association. It sits now on the table beside me. I use it for water.

Then…

It was done. We went into Los Lunas, found a Starbucks, and with iced decaf Americanos, went our way again.

I wondered vaguely where the day had gone.

More on Green Chilies…(or chiles)

Before you can eat them, they must be roasted. You can do this at home in your oven, but it is a lot of effort and instead most people buy them from some store or enterprise that has a commercial roaster. This is a device that looks sort of like a large, perforated drum into which the chiles are placed. Then the drum rotates slowly over an open flame—in the old days, charcoal or wood, today usually propane.

In recent years, this has become something of a growth industry. At harvest time, in October, many of the local grocery stores will install a roaster right outside their doors, on the walk or even in the parking lot. Thus you cannot go in or out, even on so minor a mission as to pick up that carton of milk or loaf of bread, without being tempted.

What does it smell like? Hard to say, exactly. Pleasant, and decidedly organic, but not familiar. I suppose you could say it has some resemblance to the scent of grilling vegetables, but not a whole lot.

I will say this. It is a strong scent. It carries far. You can't miss it. And I've heard stories (maybe apocryphal, but still amusing) of overeager authorities sniffing what they thought was the bust of all busts, bursting into a backyard or a tailgate party, and finding…startled suburbanites, standing around a roaster, wondering what all the fuss and bother is about.

Green Chile (1)

Things about New Mexico…

The green chiles. New Mexicans are crazy about green chiles. They love them. They love them green, they love them red, and they love them "Christmas," meaning a mix of the two.

They are a standard of cooking in the northern Rio Grande and beyond. And a word, these are Green Chiles, which are long and slightly curved. They are not to be confused with other chiles, which have quite different tastes. It can particularly confusing since as you move south into Texas or west in Arizona, the Green Chile gradually gives way to the jalapeño, which locals also sometimes call a "green" chile (it's green after all).

But for New Mexicans there will always been one chile and one chile only, the Green Chile, which (or so I'm told by Wikipedia) is also the state's single largest agricultural crop.  It is central to their cuisine, and, maybe, if one believes some historians and sociologists of food, is thus central to their personalities.

*

They put it on, in, or over everything. They chop it fine and put it on meat (like the burgers) or over certain vegetables, or even eggs. There is a thing called "breakfast burrito" that must be experienced. You take a flour tortilla, fill it with scrambled eggs, potatoes, and cheese, then you roll it up and top it with green chile. I've seen easternerscringe at the sight of it. But, try it once or twice, and you're addicted.

Another favorite, Green Chile Stew. It consists of Chile, potatoes, meat (pork or chicken as a rule, though there are vegetarian variants) served in a bowl. Quite amazing, really. I could, I think, live on it alone. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Though my very, very best beloved Green Chile dish is something called a "Chile Relleno," or, more precisely, the New Mexican version of a Relleno (the Mexican original uses the poblano pepper rather than the Green). You take a whole Green Chile, empty it of seeds, fill it with cheese, dip it in batter, and cook it rather like a fish. Again, it is amazing. (In fact, truth be told, I'm sitting here salivating at the thought of it.)

But, as I've implied, the Relleno is somewhat unusual in that it employs the whole Green Chile. Far more often, the Chile is chopped or sliced or otherwise made smaller and then placed on other foods.

And what foods! I've mentioned eggs and burgers. Add to them enchiladas and burritos and chimichangas and quesadillas and tamales and taquitos and a thousand other things whose names lay upon the tongue with a certain poetry… compelling, romantic, the music of the oven and the kitchen and that moment on a Christmas morning when you are (for once, so rare thing) almost content. Able to forget your thousand, thousand faults, the things which disgrace you. The things which make you wish for death. For just a moment, for a second…

They are gone.


*

Oh, two asides: Yes, there is such a thing as Chile-flavored wine. I've tried it. Not bad. And yes, too, there is green chile ice cream. That, I've never eaten. Someday, though…when I'm feeling strong.

Arrival

And then here is arrival…

Envision it as follows: she is driving the car. You are in your little truck. Because her sense of direction is better (you have a tendency to dream behind the wheel, to think of other things, and so miss exits), she leads the way. Even though she has never taken this route before.

And as you drive, you consider. How long has it been since you've come this way? Along 40 from the east? It is the ancient Route 66, celebrated in song and story.

Could it be forty years? Quite likely.

In any case, you drive. You have driven across the Texas border, through the uplands, the grasslands, the little towns, the small cities…some with fabulous names, evocative, exotic, and strange. Tucumcari, Santa Rosa, Clines Corners, Wagon Wheel, Moriarty…

And then just past Sedillo the road begins its winding way into the mountains, or rather the pass…Tijeras Canyon …that notch that lies between the Sandias and the Manzanita Mountains. Somehow, because you are busy driving, busy watching, particularly if it is dusk and you are tired, you do not notice that great gray and tree-covered mountain walls…almost cliffs going up around you. You don't notice until suddenly, least expected, they are everywhere…

Perhaps you notice the town … the town of Tijeras, itself…vest-pocket city, long and lean, its buildings and houses and the giant cement works between hilltops and mountain face…valley town, two-dimensional community, extending East and West, but there is no South nor North…

And then you are at the top. You arc over a mountain. And…

The city. Albuquerque.

It is best at night because then you see the lights stretching before you, below you, a vast field of neon and gems and incandescent street lamps, stretching from the shadows at your feet to the opposite horizon. (When you were a boy, when your parents took you driving at night, you would pretend you were a city in the sea, at the bottom of the ocean, or the dark side of the moon, and you were in a descending vehicle, submarine or lunar lander.)

But even in the daytime, or at the interface between afternoon and dusk, there is a certain magic in it, as you descend from the mountain and find yourself on a highway. You and she had hoped to stop just outside the city to regroup but she does not see the turnoff for Tramway Boulevard and so you follow her to Eubank.

She exits there and then pulls off at the first sign she sees that reads Café. She thinks you will be able to get coffee before you travel on to your father's house. You follow her into the parking lot. It is, you realize, The Owl Café. White building. Huge windows. And on the roof…an image. A statue. At first you think it is a cat. But then you realize it is an Owl. The Owl from the name. A huge owl's head, wide-eyed, beaked, great horned…

You stand in the parking lot for a minute. Then you walk to her as she emerges from her car. You embrace. You have made it.

You go into the Owl Café. You will discover, over time (because you will go back), that the coffee is…all right.

But the green chile burgers?

To die for.

Happy Holidays

I hope you had a merry Christmas, or whatever it is you celebrate.

Winds

I return, now, to talking about the trip here…that is, from Massachusetts to New Mexico.

*

Other scenes: moving through Kansas and Texas and encountering vast wind-farms—hundred of huge white turbines on towering masts, their blades rotating slowly or quickly in the wind.

I am told that they are not as innocent as some activists would have us believe. They are, after all, enormous constructions, taller than most buildings. And their turbine blades are vast. I'm further told they are a threat to birds and wildlife, and, under certain conditions (during storms, for example), to humans.

Yet, one thing is undeniable: their fabulous beauty…vast yet graceful, reed slender yet mighty.

Perhaps we need such things, even with their hazards, if such hazards truly exist. They remind us that nothing is unmixed. Loveliness is genuine, but it comes with a cutting edge…concealed or revealed…

And to know it, even briefly, is to know that, sooner or later, you will be bleeding.

Bleeding, but there's the rub of course. You will be back.

And you know it.

Of Sandy and Presidents

I haven't been posting here much for the last couple of months. There are several reasons for that. For one thing, I'm in the midst of a couple of very big projects and they are consuming almost all my time. For another, there have been so many important things going on the world—-first superstorm Sandy and then the election—-that my own little observations seemed almost fantastically unimportant…even ridiculous.

But, I can't help tooting my own horn just a wee bit. You'll recall that in my last entry I wrote about climate change requiring an interventionist government.

Well, in some ways I think that's exactly what a majority of the American voters decided in the 2012 presidential contest. They saw Sandy…the world's most horrific campaign volunteer…in all its hideous fury. They saw FEMA and the rest of the Federal government reacting with amazing speed to deal with the storm's destruction. And, maybe most of all, they saw Chris Christie and President Obama side by side…like a pair of titans…working to restore New Jersey to the living.

(Those amazing photos of the two men, burying their differences to do real good, may have won the election for the President all by themselves. And, of course, whatever the photos left undone, Christie's praise of his new friend and partner finished.)

I think a lot of people saw all that and wondered…would a government headed by Romney, and controlled by ideologues opposed to federal intervention on any level have done the same?

Thus, if I did not call the election, I think I identified one of the mechanisms that determined the winner. It is a small triumph, but these days I'll take anything I can get.

More on the pundit…

As I drove away, I wondered if the pundit, in all his erudite cynicism, really understood the implication of his statement. If climate change is happening, and if we have no choice but to "get used to it," well, that is going to require a lot of effort, time, and money on the part of a lot of people. In fact, it is probably going to require considerable government spending.

Or to put it another way, my pundit, in all his libertarian logic, was in fact arguing for the very sort of government—activist, regulatory, a welfare-state—which he has built a career out of opposing.

Other memories...

Other memories, mostly confused: searching for motels and hotels that were "pet friendly" Oreo, our dog, you see), searching for restaurants with patios and al fresco dining (the dog under the table with a bowl of water and a snack, us up above wilting in the sun), generally not finding such restaurants and so picnicking along the way in the shade of a tree or a dumpster.

Meeting remarkable people: the farmer/used car dealer who let us eat lunch on his property, the enormous bearded biker in black leather who took a great liking to Oreo and told us how wonderful, kind and loyal is that marvelous beast the dog. Better than humans. Who will betray you to your enemies. Or the law.

Enormous storms: lightning blasts from the highest of the high right down to the ground at your feet, black rolling clouds which (at one point) turned into the dreaded funnel and did some real damage in the town we had just left.

And heat. Heat. The great shimmering terrible heat of the drought.

*

Moving through Kansas was fascinating and terrible. The summer of 2012 was a summer of drought. You would drive through fields and fields of corn…blasted dead, withered, leaves brown and wrinkled as parchment. It was hard for the farmers. It will be hard for many others in terms of higher prices for food.

In one little town we stopped for lunch. Again, we couldn't find a place to eat where we could take the dog. But there was a little park, sort of in the very center of the community. We got sandwiches at a Subway, took out our folding chairs, and ate outdoors.

I say it was a "park," but envision nothing green. Nothing verdant or living. The grass was brown and dry. It was even brittle, for lack of a better word. You could touch it and it would not spring back.

Then, to add a touch of biblical plague to the scene, there were huge grasshoppers everywhere. Great horned locusts, like something out of Exodus. You would move or take a step and they would bound off in every direction, startling the dog who would try to pursue them, then fall back confused and maybe even a little afraid.

We ate our lunches and left.

I remember this incident clearly because shortly before it happened I'd heard on the radio that a certain and intelligent Right-Wing pundit had apparently said something along the lines of, "Global Warming is happening. Get used to it."

It was an interesting remark. It conceded that climate change is underway, yet did not extend the cause for that to human activities. Further, rather by implication, it suggested that even if climate change were due to the combustion of fossil fuels, well, that was the price for the modern world.

There may be something to the idea, I don't know.

And yet…

It did strike me as I looked out upon the brown waste that it is easy to say such things when you are sitting in an air-conditioned office, knowing that a chill drink is only a short walk to the fridge away, and knowing too that you are wealthy enough to afford significant increases in your food budget.

The rest of us… that's a different story.

About UVA

…it is one of the few colleges in America I've seen that genuinely has a touch of Oxford to it. Most of our schools do not have that…not even Harvard and Yale, both of which tried so hard to be our national equivalent, our place of spires and Thames, medievalism and brick, gowned scholars and merry undergrads in straw hats gone punting…

But Yale, Harvard, others…they never quite got it. For all their struggles, they became simply urban schools. Oh, excellent schools of course, full of brains and ambition. But city universities all the same.

And the merry undergrads? The scholars in black robes? They grow more rare with every passing day. Replaced, you see, by striving careerists, professionalists, specialists… heads full of facts and performance enhancing drugs (Nootropics, I think the word is)… for whom the concepts of merriment and medievalism, let alone punting, seem genuinely ridiculous.

These others, these new men and women, they are what society says it values. They will succeed. They will go far.

But, I wonder, sometimes, will there ever come a time when these chill and perfect creatures, so hard and so strong, will awaken to the haunting question…

What is life for?

Son Rise In Charlottesville

For me, the high point of the trip was visiting my son, David, and seeing his new digs. He has recently begun a graduate program at the University of Virginia. We met him at Charlottesville and he gave us a tour of the town and the school.

It was fascinating watching him, listening to him…conducting us through lecture halls and workshops, displaying the models and scale drawings, explaining the 3D printers and CNC machines.

And thus the thing occurred which happens to every parent at some point, or several points…

The question …

From whence came this confident young man? This familiar stranger? And where did he gain these astonishing talents?

Something different...the trip

I'm going to take a break from writing about the Home. I will come back to it. But, something different for now.

I realize that I have not said much (or, really, anything) about the trip here…our drive from Massachusetts to New Mexico. That's partly because I've left that to Martha, whose own blog goes into much more detail about the trip (see "Traveling West," at mttucker.blogspot.com), and does so in a much more interesting way than I could manage.

But, it's also because the trip simply didn't register much for me. I'm not sure why. When I think about it, all I can recall is a succession of highways, trucks and cars, sixteen wheelers and fast food restaurants.

It is rather surprising. I'm usually a more thoughtful traveler than that. But not this time. All I could seem to think about was the road, the traffic, and keeping Martha in sight (she was in the car, I was in my little truck with our dog, Oreo).

Yet, here and there, an idea did force its way into my otherwise well-armored brain.

So…

Vistors (4)

Fourth: last.

One final visitor. The guest who never leaves.

The invisible one.

He is here most well-behaved. Never melodramatic. Never crude. No splashes of red, no scarlet patterns to be observed. No. He is gray and quiet. In his way, I suppose, a gentleman. He regrets the inconvenience of the hour. The failure to phone ahead.

And then the ambulance comes without a siren. Leaves at a leisurely pace. There is, after all, no hurry.

In the morning, of course, one sees a single red flower in a vase on the desk near the nurses' station. There is also a note in a calligraphic font saying something about loving memory and listing a name.

And the faithful Mr. Carlos, that excellent man, is in the vacant room with his industrial carpet cleaner, removing all traces of stain…

All memory of presence.

Visitors (3)

Third set: the irregular.

"It is a lonely place," my father says, meaning the Home.

Most of the patients receive few visitors. Time and circumstance prevent it. Time and trouble consume us. If my father were still working, he would not have the days to attend to her. If I were still in Massachusetts, if I had not been able to move, then I could never visit her for an hour every day. Most people, even the most well-meaning, the most attentive, the most compassionate, must make trade-offs. If it is a question of the grandparent or the child, the present or the future, we know which must be selected.

And if they are not compassionate. If they are not well-meaning. If the daughter or the son is, shall we say? challenged in terms of empathy or even sense of simple obligation, well, then…

"It is a lonely place," my father repeats, this time meaning the world. In its fullness. And its chill.

Visitors (2)

The Second sort of visitor is the semi-regular.

This is the group that comes on a regular basis, but does not stay as long. This is me, for example. I live across the street from the Home. So, each morning, I walk over and see her (and my father) for an hour to ninety minutes.

I'm not the only one, of course. There are others. A brother who comes to see his elder sibling (a stroke, I think, or a fall) at least every other day. Adult children of this or that surviving parent. A nephew.

We come. We do our best. I, for instance, read a lot to my mother. She was fond of mystery stories. On the table beside her now are Tony Hillerman (Hunting Badger), Henning Mankell (The Dogs of Riga), Dorothy L. Sayers (Whose Body?), Agatha Christie (Murder on the Orient Express)…

I read and I read. She seems to listen. Seems to enjoy the sound of my voice. May, indeed, attend to the stories.

Which is good. Though, I think, my other purpose is as important, or more so. That other purpose is my father. When I look and see him in the padded chair beside the bed, and I realize his eyes have closed, and all his enormous burdens have if only for the moment been forgotten, when he sleeps …

I know I have won. I have triumphed. I have achieved something, however small, of genuine virtue.

The Visitors (1)

One last group I shall discuss…my own. The Visitors.

People who come to visit the patients fall, again, into distinct categories. At the top end, the rarest, are the super-regulars. These are individuals who come all the time. They are present every day without fail, and usually for the whole day. They are, as a result, as much a part of the community as the Staff and the patients themselves.

At the particular Home where my mother is there is only one Super, and that's my Dad. He appears inevitably between eight and eight-thirty, goes to her room and waits, speaking to her, reading to her, stroking her hand and her head. He remains there until about one o'clock in the afternoon, then he will go and have lunch and take care of whatever business he needs to transact. After that, very often, depending on circumstances, he will return to the Home in the late afternoon and stay until early evening.

As I say, the Staff is in awe of him. He is their romantic hero, I think. The Man Who Is Always There For Her. The Man Who Never Gives Up. The little man, the frail man, the old man…who is, under it all, under all the illusions of weakness…

Constructed of steel and silver.

The Patients Are…

…surprisingly quiet. They make little noise.

Of course there exceptions. The woman in the bed in the room next to my mother's who called out regularly, monotonously, once a second, like the pained turning of the smallest hand of the clock, Help. Help, Help. A nurse would appear. The sound would stop for ten minutes to an hour. Then resume.  To whom did she appeal and why? I never knew. She was simply gone one morning. And her voice, her call, her understated panic vanished with her.

Then there was the man down the hall. I never saw his face. His room was shadowed. I saw him in the bed. The covers up to his chin. His face directed to the TV on the wall, but not (I think) seeing it. He, too, would call. In his case, a name. A woman's name. A wife perhaps? Someone already dead? (Or, worse, indifferent?) In any case, whoever she was, she did not come. He was not comforted. And one day too his room was empty. The ambulances appear as a rule at night, you see. They are not perceived.

But, for the most part, they…the patients… are quiet. In their beds. In their chairs. Terribly quiet.

*

There are three sorts. Patients I mean. There is the non-ambulatory sort. The people who never leave their beds. Or, if they do, then it is only through the intervention of nurses and aides and machines…for example, a device that is somewhere between a large sling and a small forklift. It lefts them up, out, swings them away from the miraculous inflating/deflating bed that fights bedsores and brings them, gently as possible, into the wheeled chair. Then, after a sojourn in the sun or the front office, it swings them back again.

My mother is one such.

The second sort: The semi-ambulatory. These come and go with rather greater ease. They do not spend the whole day prone. They are assisted out of their beds into their chairs and then rolled about to various destinations—the large front room, where the nurses or aides read to them; the dining area where they are given their meals (if they can feed themselves), various functions here and there, sometimes to the little Van that takes them on outings. The State Fair, for example.

The third sort: The fully or at least mostly ambulatory. They are here for recovery from some devastation or another. A fall perhaps. A shattered hip. A replaced knee. Pneumonia. They move about the halls not in chairs but with walkers. In time, they may go home. To some home or another. Probably not to care entirely for themselves. But, perhaps with a home health aide. A daughter or son. Someone.

*

There is crossover between the three groups. Sometimes, rather improbably, (I hope, one day, my mother) the non-ambulatory will transit to the middle. One morning, one afternoon, a patient will show such improvement that they are able to move, to speak, to command the relative autonomy of their very own wheelchair. Perhaps even go home to the care of a family or of a personal attendant.

However, the more usual course (alas!) is the other way. Someone checks in expecting to be here only a few days, a week or so at most, just until they're "back on their feet." Only, it doesn’t happen that way. They do not regain their feet. Perhaps the feet do not regain their former function…instead weaken, blacken, must be amputated. The walker gives way to the chair. The chair to the bed. The bed to…well, where-ever it is that one goes to from there.

Which is an interesting thought, is it not? Could I perhaps have it backwards?

*

I wondered thus as I walked past a room today, one near my mother's. In it was a woman I've seen here before. She is ancient. Far older than either of my parents. Her hair is utter-most white. She is motionless. Has been motionless the last month.

She lies in her bed. She looks toward the ceiling. I've never heard her speak. The nurses switch off the lights. Apparently their brightness bothers her. What illumination there is in the room leaks from the window in the tight white projections (almost spectral) of a Venetian blind. Plus, there is, of course, the silver flicking of the obligatory television tuned to no station in particular. So all her flesh is pearl in color…hair, face, hands…while the body is clothed in the black of a coverlet that reaches to her chest.

She is the least ambulatory, the least mobile of anyone.

And yet. And yet. Somehow, I feel a kind of tension when I see her. A bowstring tautness. Something of the preparation. The moment without motion. The second before the anticipation. The waiting before the flash and the blur. The diver on the board. The gathering of nerve. The catching of the breath.  The strain. Then… action. The leap. Thus what is most without motion is the most in movement. The least mobile the most upon the wing.

And the woman, the others…they shimmer in their shadowed rooms, possess the illusion of silence, know however the great secret of stillness.

To wit, that it contains the flight. And within the breathless dim is discovered …the fury, the flurry, the exaltation…

The exit…

The child's laugh.

The final bell before the summer's boundless energy.

And speed.

 

The Staff

It can be complicated. There are multiple levels, multiple programs, different sources of funding, connections curving and twisting and sometimes quite Byzantine.

There are those who work with the patients directly, or who work in some fashion around them…nurses, RNs, PAs, Nurse's Aides, M.D.s, the custodial staff, the receptionists, the physical therapists, the speech therapists, the vocational therapists, the replacers of oxygen tanks, the emptiers of this and the fillers of that, those who man desks and those who pilot the wheelchairs to lunches of much softened meats and pureed vegetables…

And, as a rule, these people know my father. He is there so often. He is so friendly. So open. He greets them. He speaks to them. Asks about their families and their lives. They call him, "Mr. Tucker," even when he tells them he is "T.J." They check on him, they watch out for him, ask him about her, encourage him, even…in their way…protect him, or as much as they can in the chaos of the place and the time.

*

Then there is another level. These are the occupiers of front offices and the givers of bills. These do not see the patients, or not as much. These deal with the children or siblings or spouses or whoever it is that is deemed Responsible. Some of these, too, have a relationship with my Father. Something like friendship. He brings them a check once a month.

They have a game they play. He hands the women at her desk the check. She tries to take it. He pretends his fingers clamp shut and the paper cannot be removed by any means short of surgery. She giggles. He relents. The money changes hands.

*

Other layers, other complications. There is a layer of administrators who, in theory, also deal with the patients and their families, but whose actual contact with either may be rather minimal. They are, instead, the managers of those who do connect. They are not "in charge," exactly, but neither do they labor in the vineyards and fields. They hew not wood nor draw water, but they command those who do. They set not policy, but enforce it. In another sort of army, they'd be NCOs. Subalterns is, I think, the term employed by Those Who Know Important Things.

These we shall revisit.


*

Further still upwards. Managers.

Managers of the complex, some of whom have offices here. Most of whom do not. They are invisible. You will not see them. They have no interest in seeing you. They are the Great and the Powerful. The Oz. Behind the curtain. Silent and the Inevitable. The MBAs. Heaven's blest. Children of the King. Increasers of shareholder value. Those who made suburban parents and high school guidance counselors very, very happy.

These, too, we shall see again.

*

And all these women and men are present. These different strands. They connect, twine, interlink, form that most tentative and least natural but most common of all our modern communities…a workplace. The Office. No worse than most. Better than many.

Yet, I wonder, for you see the Others…the patients…they too are present daily. But, they are not permanent. They, the patients, occupy the beds and the chairs, are wheeled into the sunshine on pleasant days, are left in front of the televisions when there is rain. They are tended to. They may be here for years.

But, ultimately, sooner or later, and usually sooner, they…the patients…they have other appointments. Some recover from some distressing ailment and are able to live at home. Others, most, the majority, they, well, shall we say? it is best left unsaid. Insert silence here. An inevitable silence. Perhaps meditative. Perhaps even to be wished. If not to be hurried. But a silence.

On the other hand they…the staff…they will remain. Coming in each morning. Leaving each evening. Thirty minutes for lunch. Tasks large and small repeated ad infinitum. Gossip around the proverbial water cooler. Small friendships which would not normally form and will not last the change of jobs or position. Enmities which are deathless and eternal. Our normal lives.

And I wonder, then, whose story this really is. Who are the genuine residents? Whose home is, in fact, the Home?

Who, in the end, is fixed? The flies in amber?

And who the free?

Room

Her room.

It is easily envisioned. Not cramped, but not large. Comfortable but not personal. What you expect of life in an institution. Thus:

1) Her bed: a technical marvel. It is inflated. It rises and falls and shifts positions all by itself. This to fight bedsores. At the foot of her bed is a machine that contains controls and an air pump. It huffs and it puffs and moves the mattress according to some mysterious and complicated algorithm of its own. We ignore it. It ignores us. We are thus, man and machine, united in indifference to one another.

2) Entertainment: twin TVs on the wall, one of her, one for a potential roommate. Turned on by the nurses and aides. They show Sesame Street, Elmo and Bert and Ernie, The View, Celebrity Chefs, DIY shows, rebuild your house in seven easy days (she was a great fan of home construction. Putting in a ceiling or installing sheet rock was a pleasure to her, and a hardware store more fun than a candy shop)…sometimes adventure movies, science-fiction, Men In Black is a fav. She watches it. Her eyes open. Not quite staring. Not quite anything else.

3) Decoration: Mostly photos, and mostly on the wall in front of her. There is a collage of family scenes my wife put together on cardstock—assorted images, some familiar, some strange. My father in a heavy jacket, standing tall against some distant winter's snow. Her and him at the beach. Texas, I think. My son as a child. The dogs. We show them, the pictures, to her. She looks at them. She does not change expression.

4) Medical devices: A metal stand next to her bed supporting a plastic bag. It contains the chalk-brown fluid that is her nutrient; a long tube aches down to the insertion point in her stomach. Another, similar tube snakes down from under her bedclothes to the catheter balloon where it hangs under her bed, filling laboriously, drop by golden drop.

5) Flowers: Or, rather, flowering plants in pots on the windowsill. One is dead but remains, dry, yellow, straw-like but somehow still clinging to shape and color, like a dried herb. One lives, after a fashion. It is something we bought at the grocery store and bought to her. ("Wait, wait," she said, when I showed her the plant and to my amazement she reached for it, would let not me take it away, not until she had brought it to her chest and held it between clinched fists.) It sits on the sill and I water it when I remember. The flowers droop. Grow brown.

6) Dressers: two, one beside her bed, the other across the room from it. They, along with the little closet at the end of the room, hold her clothing, folded or hung. Also medical supplies, spare Foley balloons, plastic tubing, adult diapers, a dozen other things industrial and gray.

And last.

7: The Window…

Only one of those, but it is beside her bed. It looks out into the parking lot but also beyond it. Look up, look over the parked cars, over the little bus that takes the seniors on their outings, over the pickups of the lawn crew, over the vans making their deliveries of oxygen tanks and processed meals, over the ambulances that appear without sirens and carry their sheeted burdens out the back, over all of that and …you will see the mountains.

The mountains.

The Sandias. Blue in the morning. Rose at sunset. Reaching up from the mesa. Enormous. Vigorous. Glorious. A promise.

A Certainty.

Scent

If those others are not, then what is the dominant sense in the Home?

Strangely, I think it is scent. You smell things. You return to those first origins of life, when chemical sensitivity was all-important. When molecules and olfactory receptors defined perception. And communication. With their own grammar and poetry.

It is not all good. Very little of it is sweet or mellow. You detect…cleaners, harsh and abrasive, bland food on the trays being taken on carts to those patients who can sit and eat; medical smells, disinfectants, the electronic-hot-metal odor of clinical machines; very few perfumes or personal scents unless they're on the skins of visitors; and, most of all…

Urine.

It is not that the place is unclean. No. It is very, very clean. But urine is a powerful scent. And the Foley catheter is not a perfect technology. (Note to transhumanists and others who long for the blending of man and machine, partisans of cyborg and superhuman, there is much remaining undone, long miles to be traversed 'tween here and your utopia.).

And so, as you walk past a patient or a patient's room, you will detect urine. Sometimes, too, feces, if they are having a bowel movement.

You get used to it. You don't think you could, but you do. And if you are of a certain mental bent there is something instructive in it. Almost comforting. For, you see, these are also the scents of the nursery. Of the maternity ward. Cycle of life, etc. I'm sorry if that strikes you as platitudinous. Perhaps it is. But it is also true. And inescapable.

Besides, it is humbling. We go from ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and from uric acid and methane to uric acid and methane. Even the most remarkable among us comes, in time, to here. The most powerful, the most arrogant, the most supercilious, the most talented …here. Here and nowhere else.

Oh ye mighty. Sniff upon these works and despair.

Or, better, learn modesty. And so wisdom.

Swimming

Sound, too, is not dominant, though for other reasons.

There is an attempt to muffle noises in the Home. There is soundproofing here and there, padding in the walls and so on. But it does not matter. Everywhere there is noise. Constant, grating, strident noise.

Everything is alarmed, you see. Open the wrong door, or the right one at the wrong time, and emergency alarms begin their incessant beepings. If a patient rolls over and hits the nurse's call button, more beepings, equally loud. If one of the machines that support the patients in their beds malfunctions or runs out of some necessary fluid, yet more beepings and bleatings.

And, of course, all the rooms have TVs, usually tuned to competing channels, and (given the viewers' almost inevitable deafness) usually quite loud.

Yet, after a day or so, you learn to tune out all this. It blurs away. Becomes indistinct. In time, it's all just white noise, and in a strange way, even serene.

Or, here's a better description. Go swimming. Put your head under the water. Listen, if you can, to the talk of other swimmers on the surface. What do you hear? It is reduced, of course. Their conversations dwindle, grow dim, are incomprehensible…

And somehow alien. As though you eavesdropped on strangers from a different world, far away and chill, where concepts are different, nothing quite makes sense, and communication…no matter how sincerely attempted…is impossible.

Yet, even so, there is hope to be had. It is in the knowledge that you will eventually rise, abandon the rushing waters, come again upon the tile and earth, feel the towel over your shoulder, the sun on your body, the warmth, the knowledge, hear again the spoken word…

Rendered coherent. And whole. And potent.

The Home

It is pleasant as such places go. A smallish building, tan and white and yellow, "southwestern colors"…you go through the front entrance, sign in at the desk, talk to whichever receptionist is on duty (there are two, they alternate)…then you go through the doors behind the desk (closed, difficult to open if you are seated in a wheel chair, deliberately so, reduces "risk of elopement").

You find yourself inside a large central space. The nurse's station is on your right. Hallways lead off to the patients' rooms in various directions. If it is morning, then many of them…I mean, the patients…will be in this central space. They are pushed there in their wheel chairs and one of the aides reads them the morning paper. You must, then, navigate a crowd of chairs and impassive men and women.

You find your way to one of the seemingly identical hallways (it is all too easy to get confused, to pick the wrong one, and have to return and start over again) and head toward the individual room you want to visit. My mother's is on the immediate right hand side, which makes it a little easier.

It's funny. As I think about it, I realize that vision is not the dominant sense there. Things seem a little smooth, a little bland, a little hazy. The beige rugs, the earth tone walls, the subliminal blues which are almost gray, the uniformity of the furnishings, give the place a curiously unseeable quality. It is not invisible, you are not blinded, but you somehow cannot recall looking at anything in particular. Nothing specific. It is as though someone wrapped your face with gauze and you perceive the world indistinctly, as through a veil.

Which perhaps is fitting. Maybe that is the way the patients in their chairs also see the world. Veiled. Awaiting that moment in the ceremony when the music swells, union is achieved, the veil is lifted, and all things are made once more new and crystalline.

I like that. It is a comforting image. True or not, I shall choose to believe it. Forsaking all others.

Besides, there are moments when something like that truly seems to happen. Albeit on a smaller scale. When, say, you are picking your way carefully through the chairs, the old men and the old women, and one of them looks at you for just a moment, and you smile, and to your surprise one of them smiles back…

For a second, a split second, it is as if the sun reaches through shuttered windows.

All shadows are banished. Your sight is incalculably clear. 

how much of her remains?

And her?

She speaks sometimes. Not a great deal. I don't know how much she recognizes me. She will smile. She will respond to my questions, at least on occasion. Usually, it is just "yes" or "no." Sometimes we will get a full sentence.

She moves her hands. With some help, she has even fed herself. She has a great fondness for soft ice cream. And my father brings her mashed sweet potatoes, which she also seems to love.

I wonder, sometimes, when I watch…when I watch those beautiful, luminous eyes of hers…how much of her remains. How much of the woman I knew and loved and admired?

My nightmare is that she is still in there, someplace, unable to speak, unable to move…raging against the dying of the light.

Such a thing is not to be considered. It would be kinder if she were not there at all…if she had, somehow, moved on to whatever place it is that awaits us…(insert the image of the celestial sphere, the blue crystal dome of heaven, turned by mystic clockwork engines …and she, the traveler of the tarot deck, comes, pauses, considers, passes on, through the boundary of What Is, sees what we may not yet perceive…)

Kinder, yet harder, for it would mean she would never return to us.

And there is part of me, hopeless yet ever hoping, that it is only a matter of time, or reconnections, or resumed neural linkages, and one day…maybe after many summers…there will come the morning…

The morning she looks out into the room. Sees her husband. Smiles. Says Thank you for waiting. Reaches for his hand.

colossus

As a rule, I see my mother once a day. I get up, walk the dog, have breakfast, then head over to the nursing home. My father will be already there. He spends the morning there, and sometimes much of the afternoon. He comes and sits by her bed, speaks to her, plays her music on a little stereo he bought on eBay, and (most of all) watches out for her.

They are in awe of him. I mean, the staff at the home. He is there every day. Rain or shine. Snow or sleet. He is there. He comes and is with her. He is her companion. Her guardian. Her support. No matter what.

If you saw him, not knowing, you would see a very small man, very old, wearing ill fitting clothing that we can never get him to change, his hair unkempt…

You would dismiss him.

You would be wrong to do so.

Remember the saying about entertaining angels unaware? With him, it is the titan that is concealed. The giant. The more-than-man.

How frail the flesh. How fragile the bone. But perceive him correctly. You will see the monolith. The shimmering entity. The colossus at the edge of cosmos. The gaze which seeks the infinite.

And will, in time, obtain it.

A certain spectrum...

And so I begin again.

It has been months since I've done anything with Xcargo. I have some excuse. As you know, we moved to New Mexico this summer. My mother had a stroke—a second one, actually—and my father is elderly. Someone had to be here. And that was me. Or, rather, Martha and me.

If circumstances were different, if we came for other reasons, we'd be quite happy. Martha was retiring from Tufts, anyway. What I think of as my career is entirely portable. I can do it via computer and the web. Our son is now going to school in Virginia. There was, in short, increasingly little to hold us to Massachusetts. Why stay and fight the winters?

Thus, we came, and we are glad to be here. Or mostly so. The qualifier of the mostly being, of course, our motivation. The reason for our coming. The illness. The stroke. The slow and incomplete dying of the brain.

Alas, you see, the quality of contentment has something of the nature of physics. Between the quantum of the consequence and the shimmer of the cause, there is a certain spectrum which, like the rainbow, is constructed by the breaking of the light. Or, if you prefer another metaphor, one taken from the falsity of vacuum, then consider the virtual pair. Whose life is beautiful but brief.

Begun in nothing. And ended there.

B and B's transgression

As you know, I work with a small epublisher called Belfort & Bastion. Here's a entry to B&B's editorial blog which I just posted. You can see the original here. Or you can just read it below.


Here come the Transgression…


In the next few weeks, we're going to be introducing a new category of works to the Belfort and Bastion catalog. Specifically, we are going to be offering you works of Transgressive literature and art.

Which should, of course, invoke in you a certain response. You should, at this moment, be sitting there in front of your laptop, your hand on that cup of mocha-grande, and be asking yourself, "What the hell do they mean by that?"

A damn fine question.

Unfortunately, we're not too sure ourselves.


*

It seems odd that there should be any question of what "transgressive literature," or "transgressive fiction" is. There's a whole section on it at Wikipedia. That wise source informs us, "Transgressive fiction is a genre of literature that focuses on characters who feel confined by the norms and expectations of society and who break free of those confines in unusual and/or illicit ways. Because they are rebelling against the basic norms of society, protagonists of transgressional fiction may seem mentally ill, anti-social, or nihilistic. The genre deals extensively with taboo subject matters such as drugs, sex, violence, incest, pedophilia, and crime."

All well and good.

But, come, let us be honest. Most of the time, and for most people, transgressive literature has meant just one thing. 

Sex.


*

It used to be that you could say what was "transgressive" without a whole lot of effort. It meant a dirty book. Or, if you prefer, porn or erotica.

And that was a good thing…for publishers and writers. It meant you could be daring and new (and extremely salable) by simply throwing in a few words like "dick" or "cunt" or "boob" or whatever. And, if you weren't particularly talented, well, terrific. Lack a plot or sense of character. No problem. A little sex here and there, plus a lurid and leerworthy cover on the paperback version, and who cared? I mean, really?

And if you could write…if you actually had talent…ah, so much the better. It meant that people like Oscar Wilde, Algernon Charles Swinburne, D. H. Lawrence, Henry Miller, Anne Desclos (a.k.a., Pauline Réage), Anaïs Nin, etc. could (like De Sade) smuggle ideas under the cover of smut into a greater public's otherwise unresponsive intellect.

Of course, it was a dangerous game. The endless court cases, the imprisonments of artists and writers, the unwelcome attentions of the world's Anthony Comstocks great and small…these were real threats.

But, until recently, you knew what was illicit to say. You knew what could not be said. You knew what was considered unspeakable.

Alas, that is no longer the case.


*

Sex was the lodestone of the unspeakable right through the 1970s. But after that …well, the erotic gradually faded from the transgressive. It became less taboo. Less dangerous. Less important.

That was, of course, because sex was no longer quite the problem it had once been. Unwanted pregnancy is a serious thing, and not just for the mother or the child. Societies, particularly but not exclusively pre-modern ones, are not fond of children who must somehow be supported without the co-operation of at least two adults. Preferably more. Hence, again particularly but not exclusively in pre-modern societies, marriage becomes a vital economic institution, and sex outside that institution becomes a sin. And discussion of sex outside marriage becomes a crime.

But contraceptives change all of that. Suddenly, extramarital sex becomes relatively consequence free. Yes, you run risks. You have your share of "illegitimate pregnancies." You have diseases, including quite serious ones, likes HIV. But, on the whole, sex becomes "casual." Even recreational. Indeed, it becomes the norm.

And, in the process, porn looses its sting. It becomes just another middle class industry.


*


Today, of course, there is nothing transgressive about porn. Except for the most obviously wantonly and hideous acts (rape, child abuse), there is not a form of sex that isn't portrayed quite freely in the market. Straight, Gay, oral, anal, group, solo, with dolls, toys or sheep …you name it, it's out there. 

The Dominatrix in her black leather catsuit bounds about superhero movies for the entertainment and titillation of twelve-year-old boys. Her brooding male equivalent, in tight breeches and equipped with a riding crop, is to be found on the covers of bestsellers everywhere. Soap operas and sitcoms, meanwhile, discuss role-play and pegging and mammary intercourse. Talk shows provide tips on the proper methods of bondage and the correct pronunciation of Bukkake.  Oh, and if you have questions about what "tea-bagging" is, or how one performs a "turkey slap," well, these things are nicely covered in the some 85 pages (and counting) of Wikipedia that deal with different sex acts.

Yes…of course, yes…there are still barriers and taboos. There are still places and times where one had better not raise, as it were, the issue. Yet, come! Admit it. This is a new age. And there is no turning back… in spite of the best efforts of moralists and censor of every stripe, ranging from the religious fundamentalist to the radically feminist.

Sex has become all too commonplace. It's depictions are no more transgressive than images of eating, and considerably less so than those of defecation.


*

So, what is transgressive now?

I think there is a short and a long-term answer to that. The short-term answer is that we shall see sex itself questioned. After having been so long taboo, its current dominance in society invites critique. An age, after all, in which the Kardashians and the Real Housewives discuss the intimate details of their bedrooms on Reality TV (and their revelations are considered worthy of front page coverage), is by definition ridiculous.

We shall see, then, a class of literature exploring that fact. We shall see a type of book asking if the insertion of this or the extraction of that is really so exciting. Or, indeed, if it is worth remarking upon at all.

And Belfort and Bastion has two titles about to go online that might be said to fall into this category. The first of these is WARNING: Sexually Explicit Content by Aubrey Tannhauser, while the second is The Pellucid Risen: Book One, Awakening, by Brad Amante.

Both of these mock sex, or rather, they mock our cultural obsession with it. They do so, however, in very different ways.

To explain that, let me take them one at a time.


*

The Pellucid Risen: Book One, Awakening, by Brad Amante, came into us via editor Victor Storiguard, who (as he puts it) "stumbled across" Mr. Amante's blog-based webfiction some time ago (you can see it at bradamante75.blogspot.com, by the way).

Amante writes science fiction and his book is, at first glance, nothing more than a piece of rather conventional space-opera, or rather "time-opera" since the main character visits the future. It concerns a young man, Robert, who has led a pretty wretched life in our own century, but who is then murdered for mysterious reasons.

However, he's frozen, and after five hundred years, he's brought back to life. In fact, he finds himself in a feminist utopia in which the sexes have completely changed roles. Women are tall and masterful. Men are small and delicate.

So far there's nothing here particularly transgressive. Sex-role reversal is a staple of sci-fi, and, indeed, in what passes for public discourse these days (think about the famous Newsweek issue, and the equally famous article in the recent Atlantic).

Ah, but here's where things get interesting. Robert, now a male ingénue named "Bobbi," has rather a lovely time. He's petted and pampered and wooed and won by dozens of beautiful superwomen, all of them desperate for his favors.

Women, on the other hand, well, they discover that being on top isn't quite the bowl of cherries they thought it would be.

And, this, of course, is the transgression. What the author is saying is simply this: the great and much ballyhooed Battle of the Sexes…the battle over sex, the battle during sex…is in the end irrelevant. The victory is uncertain, the victor unclear, the triumph …

Doubtful.


*

WARNING: Sexually Explicit Content by Aubrey Tannhauser, meanwhile, is perhaps a more subtle work. In it, Tannhauser presents us with the life and loves of Jacob Lamdan, a young man who wants nothing more than to be a famed author of well-crafted erotica.

And this should be a snap for Lamdan. He's a decent stylist and he's got scads of personal experience from which to take his material. He is, you see, one of those young men that women perceive as beautiful, no matter how they really appear. Where the rest of us poor heterosexual males (particularly those who are, as they delicately say, of a certain age) must struggle and sweat to gain even the passing attention of women, Lamdan gets it whether he likes it or not. They fall into his arms at the least excuse. They offer him sexual escapades that would embarrass Caligula. Indeed, they demand his attentions with a single-minded fury. (We have here something of Amante's Bobbi, do we not?)

But, Jacob discovers something distressing. To wit, his easily obtained sexual experiences provide no inspiration. They have required no effort, so they are not genuinely rewarding. They satisfy the animal, but they do not nourish the human part of him. He has no muses, only fuck-buddies and "friends with benefits."

In time, he finds that only by withdrawing from the sex may he save himself. In the process, he must confront both great unhappiness and real tragedy, but it is his route to salvation.

Which is, of course, how Mr. Tannhauser commits his own transgression. He takes the climax of every porn film, every romantic comedy, and every advertisement for underarm deodorant…i.e., the moment when boy-gets-girl and vice versa…and says, "It doesn't matter."

Doesn't matter. And maybe should be avoided.


*

So that's our two newest additions. And it is also my suggestion for short-term transgressions.

But what about the long? The other possibility I suggested? The second and more lasting sort of transgression.

That is complicated. And political. And for another day.

But, I will leave you with a clue. I hope it will be appropriately tantalizing.

It is a quote from Voltaire. It is: "To learn who rules over you, simply find out who you are not allowed to criticize."

But let us change it. Let us say, instead, "whom you may not mock."

Three Books About Strangers

Okay, first some confessions. In the interest of full (or nearly full) disclosure, I'm about to write a blog entry about a book in which I've an interest. In my capacity as an editor of Belfort and Bastion (of which more later), I'm helping publish it.

That said, I think I'm objective enough to write about it with something more or less like a clear head. Or, as clear a head as I've ever got.

Still, you've been warned.



*

The book is Stranieri: Life among Italy's Tourists, Expats, and Immigrants by Tristan Gans. In theory, it is a personal memoir of a trip to Italy undertaken by Gans and his then girlfriend (now wife) Sarah. And, yes, I know both and count them as friends.

Anyway, as young college gradates in 2008, the two went merrily off to Italy to live for a spell. Specifically, they went to the little industrial city of Brescia, where Sarah had landed a job teaching English. Gans went along to compose music and, as he says, contemplate art.

So, at first glance, you could be excused for thinking this was yet another imitation of Eat, Pray, Love and all the other recent English-language bestsellers about finding one's self in exotic locations. And, to a certain extent, there really is a book here that's sort of like that. It concerns a young couple, in love, yet human and so prone to the occasional bit of friction, exploring their relationship someplace far from home.

Except, read a page or two, and you find that's not all that's going on. Tristan and Sarah aren't in for an endless summer of love in the Tuscan sun. They find themselves instead in a grimy little industrial city, where the locals are for the most part unfriendly and inaccessible, and the only real connections they can make are with other foreigners.

Ergo, you have another book in this work, this one about the Stranieri from which the title comes.  Gans thus contemplates the Africans, Arabs, Eastern Europeans, Greeks, South Asians, North Americans, etc., who have made Italy their home (in spite of the objections of the Italians).

And a wild and wonderful crew they are. We have, for instance, Asad the Pakistani (maybe Gay, maybe not) who runs the international calling center in the neighborhood, and who becomes Gans' first real friend in Italy. Then there's Donnie Columbo, an Italian-American who's come to the land of his forefathers, discovered he is regarded by the locals as the most alien of aliens, and who has therefore embraced and exaggerated his Americanness to promote his business as a kind of cultural broker.

And there are others, some named and some not, but always present and always providing the services, labor, and energy which the Italians cannot seem to produce for themselves. Gans' sympathies are clearly and overwhelmingly with these people. He prefers them to the locals and he watches with no little fascination as they increasingly control vital sections of the economy. What will Italy be, he wonders, and how will Italians react, when they find they have been outclassed by their own guest workers?

So we have that book, that second book from Gans. It is the story of the New Peoples of Italy, and is an excellent read for that reason alone.

Ah, but we are not finished yet. There's a third book lurking here. And it may be the most important of all.


*

Years and years ago, I read a review of Ryszard Kapuściński's The Emperor: Downfall of an Autocrat, an analysis of the fall of Haile Selassie. Alas, I don't remember the author of the review. I'm not even sure where it appeared. The New York Review of Books? The Globe? Oh, well.

Anyway, in it, the reviewer began by noting that when he (or she) had first picked up the book, he'd thought it was about "well, Ethiopia." But, in fact, it wasn't about Ethiopia at all. It was about Kapuściński's native Poland, where the Communist regime was just about to implode.

And, guess what. We have a similar situation here. The third book in Stranieri is a self-portrait.

Of Gans, and his whole generation.


*

As I say, I know Gans. He is young. He also describes himself as "upper middle class."

But there's a lot wrapped up in that expression. "Upper Middle Class." It means a time, a space, a mindset, and an interesting place to be today, if you're young.

Not necessarily nice. But interesting. As goes the Chinese curse.


*

To be young in the Upper Middle is to be at the center of a perfect storm of expectation. It is to be in a place where everything…everything…is focused on "being a success," on getting high SAT scores, on being admitted to the "good schools." It is to be in a place where Ritalin is handed out to everything with a Y-chromosome, where there is a college prep franchise after-school program on just about every corner, and where achievement is everything and standardized tests are the word of God.

And Gans is the product of all that. He is one of those young people who came through the System…who has been taught by it that he must achieve greatness. Not just success. Not just a happy life. Not just a rewarding career. But greatness.

Absolute greatness.


*

When my father was young, his parents hoped that he would have "a nice life." They hoped that their children would not suffer a Depression, as they had, and that he would live the comfortable middle class life which had been so cruelly stolen from them in 1929.

My father, in turn, wanted something quite similar for me. He made it clear that I was to pursue whatever path it was that led to my happiness. If that meant being a writer, well, it was a tough job to get, and a harder one to make pay, but that was my choice. He would be in my corner.

And I think a lot of Baby Boomers, people my age, were told something similar. My parents were a bit more hippies than some, but they were not uncommon. Their hope for their children was that they be, well, comfortable. Maybe not greatly wealthy. But comfortable.

Ah, but consider what we…people my generation and a little after …have said to our own children.

Is it all right to be "comfortable?" To have "a nice life?" To live a middle class existence?

I don't think that's what we've said. I think the message we've given our children is that they are to exceed beyond our wildest expectations. They are the tools by which we express our most malignant narcissism.

Don't believe me? Try the following little test. Go to an affluent suburb and, if you can, engage a few parents in conversation. Ask them how they would react if little Johnny decided on a career as a plumber. Or if Tiffany proclaimed her intention to be a stay-at-home Mom.

As I say, ask the question. But you might be well advised to do so at a distance. And perhaps even then wear a bullet-proof vest.


*


Now, understand, there is nothing wrong with being a plumber or a stay-at-home mom. In fact, they can be rewarding professions. A good tradesman can earn over $100 an hour. And stay-at-home Moms (or Dads) can provide so many advantages to a family that their actual economic input may exceed that of the so-called "breadwinner." (Think of the cost that most families otherwise face in terms of things like child-care.)

But that's not enough, is it? To be successful in a rational, normal, healthy sense is simply not enough for us anymore.

What we want for our children…what we shall demand…is for them to be inhumanely accomplished. They are to be Stephen Jobs or Bill Gates or Hillary Clinton or Condoleezza Rice or Brad Pitt or Halle Berry or Stephen Hawking or Jane Goodall or…well, you get the point.

But there's the rub. We can't all be Stephen Jobs or Bill Gates or Hillary Clinton or Condoleezza Rice or Brad Pitt or Halle Berry or Stephen Hawking or Jane Goodall or whoever. We can't all be great. We can't all be stars.  This isn't Lake Wobegon where all the children are above average. Some of us, even if we are talented and wise and filled to the brim with the best of ambitions, will fail.

And the vast majority of us…well, we shall never grandly fail nor grandly succeed. We shall just be… people.

For better or worse.


*

What this means, though, is that a vast number of young folk—those of Gans' age, class, and origins—are doomed to misery.

They cannot help but be so. They have been trained, programmed, indoctrinated from their earliest youth with the idea that they are obliged to achieve greatness. I don't mean that they think they can achieve it. I don't mean they think they will achieve it. I mean they are obligated to gain it. They are commanded to do so. They must.

And if they do not…

Then they are worthless.


*


I've wondered how we got into this weird mess. How did we come to this great, national neurosis by which we (or, at least, our middle and upper middle classes) act out Alice Miller's Drama of the Gifted Child on a titanic scale.

I'm not at all sure. Though, I have wondered if it has something to do with media. We tend to take our role models from the people we know in our communities. Not so long ago, that meant the people we actually might meet—the town doctor, the local banker, the mighty president of the women's club.

But now, our "community" has expanded via the cinema, the TV, and the web to include the whole world. The banker, lawyer, and clubwoman have been replaced by Donald Trump and The Kardashians—people whose lives, celebrity, and conspicuous consumption are trumpeted to the heavens.

The obtainable is thus rejected. The only acceptable goal is what cannot actually be achieved.

And our children…they are condemned to the anguish of Tantalus, forever reaching, never acquiring.


*

And Gans has wised up.

During his long sojourn in Italy, watching what he suspects is the decline of the West (he is writing while the economic system melts down in 2008-2009), he's figured out that he's been sold a bill of goods. He's realized that no matter how hard he works, how dedicated he is, how talented he is…it isn't going to happen. 

He begins his story as a composer. He has internalized the idea that he must be the next John Cage, or even a Mozart. And he has done his level best. He is no slacker. And he is talented. His music is good.

But as he watches Italy and the world wrestle with the new realities of resource scarcity, oil depletion, the rise of China and India, the post-industrial scarcity of jobs, the appearance of strange new totalitarianisms…the general impoverishment of us all both economically and intellectually…

He sees the future.

It is surely no accident that as he ends the book, he is no longer planning on a career in music or the academy. His profession will be, instead, bankruptcy law.


*

And so, I think, Stranieri will be an important book. It is a corrective. It is a rebuttal. It is the voice of many, many young people who are just now waking up to the fact that they have been given goals that cannot be reached. And that other ends, which they have been told to despise, are not only better but perhaps the only ones possible in our curious and mutable age.

In fact, I hope it is the first example of a new literature—a kind of text in which our children hesitate before the TV, watch for a few moments while The Real Housewives obsess about fame and fortune and diamond tennis bracelets, and then … perhaps with a sigh…switch off the box.

And go outside to cultivate the garden. 


*


Stranieri should be up and running on both Amazon and the Belfort and Bastion site very shortly. The official launch is August 20, 2012. Lots of little things will be happening before and after that as well.

I do hope you'll read it. As I say, it is many books in one. Though, again to repeat myself, the last of them is my favorite. And there is a reason for my preference. You see, I have always been a bit of a fan of the heroic.

And there is something heroic about this new literature…this literature of re-born realism…

It requires courage to take in hand the vorpal sword and slay that Jabberwock, i.e., grandiosity and the unrealizable expectation.

Compared to which T. Rex seems mild and sympathetic.

And I'm in NM

Well, I'm officially in NM. I'll be posting here again.

Watch for all the sordid details.

my tweets

Which reminds me...

If you read my tweets because you buy or sell comics and keep track of my offerings, you should know that you'll have slim pickings over the next few weeks. I'll be on the road and what tweeting I do, if any, will be purely personal and be about my travels.

However, towards the end of July I'll pick up again. AND I hope to establish a new twitter account just to deal with my ebay business.

So, stay tuned. More to come.

I'm on the road!

Hello, hello!

I'll be on the move for a few weeks and so won't be posting here much. Not that I've had a lot of time to do so recently anyway...but my apologies and promise to do spent more time Xcargoing once I'm in NM.

Talk to you soon.

mjt