We had to escape from our latest institution – a long closed, and reputedly haunted mental institution. Henryton closed its doors in 1985. As with several hospitals of its era it opened, in 1923, as a TB sanitarium and was later converted into something else, in this case an institution of human suffering. The buildings, looking very island-like in their white stucco with turquoise trim, are badly vandalized by taggers and strippers. But much of the flavor of sadness remains.
Unlike at the Rosewood Training Center, we didn’t see bars on the windows or any rooms that were clearly used as holding cells for unruly patient. It definitely seemed a lower level security than Rosewood which makes a certain sense since patients admitted to Henryton were funneled through Rosewood Center.
We arrived mid morning to find the gate across the only entryway wide open. My exploring partner had said the gate would be padlocked so we’d been prepared to park and walk down the long, steep driveway. But coming upon the invitation, we drove right in. The complex is much smaller than Rosewood and is dwarfed by Forest Haven, but still the driveway wound around a few large buildings and several smaller houses. We parked neatly in a space marked “visitor parking” – although the print stenciled on the wall was hard to see through the graffiti – and disembarked our vehicle. Now began the long process of preparing to meet the elements. It was a frigid day, with a biting wind and we were about to test out our new winter gear.
In the trunk were our new puffy Dickies coveralls, insulation rated for stationary work outside. I felt like a kid in a snowsuit as I stepped into it and did up the zippers on each leg and the one up my front. Snapping the leg openings around my ankles was a bit of a challenge – bending down was now harder than usual and the snaps were stubborn – but with help I finally got them fastened. There was a face cover over the lower half of said face, a scarf, a hat that pulled down over my whole head, gloves, and finally I put my jacket back on over the coveralls. The only part of me showing was my eyes, I definitely looked criminal-like. Quickly, the neoprene face cover came off – it was too hard to breathe and when we were inside wind wasn’t a factor. But the hat still pulled down over my face so I remained partially hidden. I still looked like a cop show robber. But I was warm.
All of me, that is, except my toes. They felt like little blocks of ice and after only about half an hour it began to feel unbearable. We’d bought toe-warmers, that stuff you expose to air then stick on your socks and it warms up so I tried it out. This required removing my boots, not a happy activity in this cold and dirt. But the end result was a happy face. My toes stayed toasty all day long (after one readjustment of the toe pad’s positioning – yet another boot removal). When I got home that night, after much brou-ha-ha (coming later) the pads were still warm. Still warm when I remembered to peel them off my socks at about 11 PM just before I went to bed. These are a good product.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
new office II
We’re almost completely moved into our new digs across the street from our old digs at work. The new building is newly renovated, the old building was renovated eons ago. The old building is three row houses someone sewed together, the new building is an old bank building that we completely gutted…and then put back pretty much exactly as it was, only more annoyingly. Although they were forced to gut the entire building by the presence of asbestos and other harmful chemicals, we were still not permitted to oversee the details of the renovation even though we had some very particular needs.
In fact, it seemed no one was actually in charge. The architect was making decisions. The university was making decisions. The state was making decisions. The technology people were making decisions. Were any of them talking to one another? I’m going to say no.
First, there is, apparently, a state regulation governing the size faculty offices must be. I wonder what that regulation says, or if it actually really exists. We all know that faculty offices vary greatly in size from building to building from university to university. I suppose since this was a new construction, there might be something saying how large, or small, our offices must be. So let’s just concede there is such a regulation. I’m wondering who wrote the regulation and what they thought we do. Perhaps regulations simply cover people at or below a certain pay grade – but that couldn’t possibly include faculty since our pay is all over the scale and we are ungraded. But it certainly seems that the regulation is about people doing a job where they never (and I mean never) have any need to work collaboratively, see students, or essentially have office visitors for any reason.
My diminutive office affords almost no space for me to set up any chair other than my own. And my whale sized office furniture only adds to that problem. As I inhabit the large C described by my desk system, I can put another chair facing into the opening of the C. Problem with that, of course, is that neither my visitor nor I then have access to any writing surface and so there we are, sitting among a sea of desk, writing in our laps.
My neighbor’s office is slightly larger than mine. Slightly. About seven inches. But in the land of teenytiny offices seven inches makes a world of difference. She can place her two small prison-made chairs in front of her desk system. They are backed up almost touching her bookcases, but they are there. Whoever sits in them is knees to the desk-front, however, since, again, no one thought that we might be having visitors where we’d both have to be working at the desk. Desks exist where a second person can sit tucked in under a desk area. But do faculty have these desks? No. They have been given to higher administrators – people who rarely see students.
Never mind that the sort of work we do in my department often requires teachers to collect and review large projects – mounted posters, constructed packaging, formally constructed proposals. There can be no thought to ever laying them out in your office for viewing. But neither is there really room to even store them here in your teenytiny office between the time you collect them and the time you drag them down the hall to an open classroom where you can spread them out to look at them.
The work area in the office might work as a cubicle – a more open space where if you needed someone to come see you they could drag a chair from the adjoining cubicle and sit half in, half out of the entry way. But as an office it’s simply a goldfish sized bowl – the kind you win at the fair. The ones you’re supposed to take home and get rid of after you transfer the poor fish to a larger bowl. Obviously whoever wrote the regulations about faculty office sizes had no real idea what faculty actually do. Or maybe these notions of collaborating with colleagues and seeing students really are passé.
In fact, it seemed no one was actually in charge. The architect was making decisions. The university was making decisions. The state was making decisions. The technology people were making decisions. Were any of them talking to one another? I’m going to say no.
First, there is, apparently, a state regulation governing the size faculty offices must be. I wonder what that regulation says, or if it actually really exists. We all know that faculty offices vary greatly in size from building to building from university to university. I suppose since this was a new construction, there might be something saying how large, or small, our offices must be. So let’s just concede there is such a regulation. I’m wondering who wrote the regulation and what they thought we do. Perhaps regulations simply cover people at or below a certain pay grade – but that couldn’t possibly include faculty since our pay is all over the scale and we are ungraded. But it certainly seems that the regulation is about people doing a job where they never (and I mean never) have any need to work collaboratively, see students, or essentially have office visitors for any reason.
My diminutive office affords almost no space for me to set up any chair other than my own. And my whale sized office furniture only adds to that problem. As I inhabit the large C described by my desk system, I can put another chair facing into the opening of the C. Problem with that, of course, is that neither my visitor nor I then have access to any writing surface and so there we are, sitting among a sea of desk, writing in our laps.
My neighbor’s office is slightly larger than mine. Slightly. About seven inches. But in the land of teenytiny offices seven inches makes a world of difference. She can place her two small prison-made chairs in front of her desk system. They are backed up almost touching her bookcases, but they are there. Whoever sits in them is knees to the desk-front, however, since, again, no one thought that we might be having visitors where we’d both have to be working at the desk. Desks exist where a second person can sit tucked in under a desk area. But do faculty have these desks? No. They have been given to higher administrators – people who rarely see students.
Never mind that the sort of work we do in my department often requires teachers to collect and review large projects – mounted posters, constructed packaging, formally constructed proposals. There can be no thought to ever laying them out in your office for viewing. But neither is there really room to even store them here in your teenytiny office between the time you collect them and the time you drag them down the hall to an open classroom where you can spread them out to look at them.
The work area in the office might work as a cubicle – a more open space where if you needed someone to come see you they could drag a chair from the adjoining cubicle and sit half in, half out of the entry way. But as an office it’s simply a goldfish sized bowl – the kind you win at the fair. The ones you’re supposed to take home and get rid of after you transfer the poor fish to a larger bowl. Obviously whoever wrote the regulations about faculty office sizes had no real idea what faculty actually do. Or maybe these notions of collaborating with colleagues and seeing students really are passé.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
new office
Well, we moved our offices from an older set of three converted row houses to a newer (really?) renovated bank building. The new building has an interesting hum which I heard as I sat alone in my new office yesterday completely surrounded by still packed boxes. I understand it has that energy saving motion sensor lights off feature: always terrific for people whose jobs involve sitting quietly at their desks reading or writing. After 15 minutes of actual work, your lights are turned off so you’ll need to wave your arms around like a crazy person or get up and go for a pointless walk to reilluminate your office. This is a more advanced version of voicemail that requires you pick up your receiver to see weather or not you have a message. You pick up the receiver when the phone hasn’t rung – again, like a crazy person – and see if you have that “stutter dialtone.” So you come back into your office after a brief sojourn to the restroom and, although it hasn’t rung, you must pick up your phone and listen to it. Why not a visual signal so we don’t have to perform an actual task? The light saving feature especially is just another one of those things – almost everything about the new office has this quality – installed without any thought about the actual end user. I could make a long list. Perhaps I will.
Friday, December 12, 2008
VA Hospital IV
The sad beeping of the dying smoke alarms was a not so subtle reminder that the building hadn’t been abandoned for long. Items – mostly technology – still sporting hang tags marked “excess” told us someone had been though the building making conscious decisions about what to do with its contents. Still, much remained. A good friend who volunteers with a medical project sending supplies to Haiti and Africa is always telling me about the donations they collect. They will take anything, down to a few unused gauze pads. In the VA Hospital major equipment – dental chairs with drill equipment and lights, X-ray machines, refrigerators, exercise and therapeutic equipment – all silently awaited the dumpster. It seemed fairly clear that everything the government wanted had been removed.
Although the place was locked up pretty tight on the ground floors to prevent human intruders, the upper floors let in birds and I’m betting other animals will soon be wandering the corridors. Once windows are broken, the elements begin to have their way with everything in sight. Paint peels, bird guano collects, things start to break down. No matter how tightly a building is locked up, explorers will find a way to get in. We did. And not everyone is as gentle as we are. Kids are much more aggressive in their entry-seeking and disturb much more once they are inside. We saw evidence of their exploits throughout the building: a few toner cartridges emptied across a room leaving a thin film of jet black powder, smashed windows, piles of medical equipment in a broken jumble on the floor.
On the upper floors all window air conditioner guts had been removed leaving only the hulking shells of the old enormous AC units hanging outside the windows. Birds enjoyed easy access through these comfortable shelters. We saw more than a few dead birds who’d obviously not been able to find egress as easily.
Although the place had clearly been gone through, still much remained. Much waste, much that my friend would have happily put in a shipping container bound for a nation much poorer than we and in desperate need of anything salvageable. Furniture, a lot of it, could have been donated somewhere. Yes, it’s that unbearably ugly institutional furniture, but that very construction makes it almost indestructible. It should find a home. Instead, it seems bound for the dump. Recycling our waste takes commitment and energy and apparently these are still lacking. Instead, entropic creep takes over what we leave behind.
Although the place was locked up pretty tight on the ground floors to prevent human intruders, the upper floors let in birds and I’m betting other animals will soon be wandering the corridors. Once windows are broken, the elements begin to have their way with everything in sight. Paint peels, bird guano collects, things start to break down. No matter how tightly a building is locked up, explorers will find a way to get in. We did. And not everyone is as gentle as we are. Kids are much more aggressive in their entry-seeking and disturb much more once they are inside. We saw evidence of their exploits throughout the building: a few toner cartridges emptied across a room leaving a thin film of jet black powder, smashed windows, piles of medical equipment in a broken jumble on the floor.
On the upper floors all window air conditioner guts had been removed leaving only the hulking shells of the old enormous AC units hanging outside the windows. Birds enjoyed easy access through these comfortable shelters. We saw more than a few dead birds who’d obviously not been able to find egress as easily.
Although the place had clearly been gone through, still much remained. Much waste, much that my friend would have happily put in a shipping container bound for a nation much poorer than we and in desperate need of anything salvageable. Furniture, a lot of it, could have been donated somewhere. Yes, it’s that unbearably ugly institutional furniture, but that very construction makes it almost indestructible. It should find a home. Instead, it seems bound for the dump. Recycling our waste takes commitment and energy and apparently these are still lacking. Instead, entropic creep takes over what we leave behind.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
play review
Attended the theatre Friday night, and am very sorry I could not get to blogging it here until today. If I can save one person from seeing this show, I will consider my duty done. I love Everyman Theatre, they have a solid company of actors and a good producer. But best of all they have consistently, and absolutely, the best sets in the city. The best. Every production goes on in just exactly the right environment. If the play wants realism, the set delivers a cozy living room with not a detail missing. If the play wants an abstraction, the set can make a single post represent the end of a lonely pier. Whatever play is in production the set meets its mark 100%, 100% of the time. So we were not surprised to find a perfect writer-detective’s office in front of us when we sat down on Friday night. Small old wooden desk, 50’s style couch, old typewriter table upon which sat a small simple old typewriter (I could imagine its black and red ribbon), the entire setting the mess of a single guy living in his office. As usual I expected we were in for a treat.
But Filthy Rich was anything but a treat. The play itself was poorly conceived. Although the main character gets drunk and sobers up at least three times inside the two acts, the dialogue seems to indicate that all the action takes place within 24 hours. Not only does the inebriation belie this, but the action itself seems impossible for such a small window. People travel around the city – from one end to the other – learn new things about each other, bring them back to the detective’s office and try to set each other up. A non-character is killed in the detective’s office and the police investigation and removal of the body takes place inside this tiny window of time – still allowing time for all the other events.
Time is not the only problem. The play is a classic example of what writing teachers all over the world call telling, not showing. The major exposition of the play’s backstory takes place when one annoying character reads a letter to another annoying character. So essentially the audience is simply hearing a telling of the story. No action, no actual character driven exposition…just someone reporting a tale. What’s the point of having a characters and a play if all you’re going to do is have one character read off what’s happened?
None of the characters is likable, not even the main sort-of-cute writer-detective. It’s clear he’s trying to be cute and/or funny but most of his humor is just enough off to be only mildly, if at all, amusing. With no humor relief there’s really nowhere for the irritation caused by the non-development of the story to come to rest. It’s just two hours and ten minutes of people walking in and out of this wonderful set, reporting what’s happened off stage, and fretting about who’s betrayed whom. Why the audience should care about any of this is never explained. The set and the film noir music that occasionally plays people on are the only pleasant parts of the evening.
As we left the theatre I turned to one of my companions and asked if he’d liked the play. The sour look in his reply told me he didn’t have to think about his answer, but only about whether or not he should voice his opinion. He uttered a single word: “no.” “Me neither,” I joined. None of the four of us liked the play. My most revealing reaction came during the play’s last twenty minutes – which seemed interminable and were a reverberating demonstration of every character’s irritating and unlikable personalities. I just kept thinking "I could be…asleep."
But Filthy Rich was anything but a treat. The play itself was poorly conceived. Although the main character gets drunk and sobers up at least three times inside the two acts, the dialogue seems to indicate that all the action takes place within 24 hours. Not only does the inebriation belie this, but the action itself seems impossible for such a small window. People travel around the city – from one end to the other – learn new things about each other, bring them back to the detective’s office and try to set each other up. A non-character is killed in the detective’s office and the police investigation and removal of the body takes place inside this tiny window of time – still allowing time for all the other events.
Time is not the only problem. The play is a classic example of what writing teachers all over the world call telling, not showing. The major exposition of the play’s backstory takes place when one annoying character reads a letter to another annoying character. So essentially the audience is simply hearing a telling of the story. No action, no actual character driven exposition…just someone reporting a tale. What’s the point of having a characters and a play if all you’re going to do is have one character read off what’s happened?
None of the characters is likable, not even the main sort-of-cute writer-detective. It’s clear he’s trying to be cute and/or funny but most of his humor is just enough off to be only mildly, if at all, amusing. With no humor relief there’s really nowhere for the irritation caused by the non-development of the story to come to rest. It’s just two hours and ten minutes of people walking in and out of this wonderful set, reporting what’s happened off stage, and fretting about who’s betrayed whom. Why the audience should care about any of this is never explained. The set and the film noir music that occasionally plays people on are the only pleasant parts of the evening.
As we left the theatre I turned to one of my companions and asked if he’d liked the play. The sour look in his reply told me he didn’t have to think about his answer, but only about whether or not he should voice his opinion. He uttered a single word: “no.” “Me neither,” I joined. None of the four of us liked the play. My most revealing reaction came during the play’s last twenty minutes – which seemed interminable and were a reverberating demonstration of every character’s irritating and unlikable personalities. I just kept thinking "I could be…asleep."
Thursday, December 04, 2008
VA Hospital III
Emerging from the heavy institutional door that lead from pipe crawlway to main floor felt a little like stepping out into a real world after being trapped in funhouse torture land. We stashed our gear in a hematology lab and went to explore the building. The care taken to prevent intruders had semi-paid off inside. There was almost no graffiti and very little trashing had taken place. The occasional room had some mischief – one office was covered in a thin layer of jet black copier toner, another floor saw every interior window smashed – but the vandalism we usually see when kids get in and start behaving like wrecking crews was absent. Pieces of equipment still sported their “excess” tags, although it seemed clear that these bits were going nowhere.
Much of what made the hospital a hospital was gone. But many of the heavy pieces remained, seemingly abandoned there. And what a waste. X-ray machines, dental chairs, machinery and lights, beds – mostly still sitting quietly in their attentive posture awaiting their patients. A lot of the furniture was obviously gone – not every room had not a bed. But much had been left. Office furniture, lots of it, was corralled in waiting rooms – waiting. Were these pieces going to see a recycled life? I suppose it’s still possible that all this stuff could be donated somewhere. But it seems unlikely. And with every passing day another team of intruders reaches the inner bowels of the structure with more possibility for vandalism. Not all intruders are exploring photographers, many are kids hoping only to make a mess they’re not required to clean.
Every stairway door we encountered was disfigured by crowbar at its latching point. With great intentionality, someone had destroyed every door so secure closure would have been impossible…and had removed all latching mechanisms just to be safe. It felt very odd. Also on every floor we heard the wispy chirp of the low battery signal in the smoke alarms. The note bent as it, too, slowly died. At first we were surprised by the electronic beep, wondering momentarily if they could be motion detectors (we were screwed if they were). But it was obvious they were not as, like slight auditory ghosts, they simply followed us from floor to floor. Eventually the sound faded into the background and re-entered our consciousness only toward the end of the day as darkness fell and everything, once again, became unfamiliar.
Much of what made the hospital a hospital was gone. But many of the heavy pieces remained, seemingly abandoned there. And what a waste. X-ray machines, dental chairs, machinery and lights, beds – mostly still sitting quietly in their attentive posture awaiting their patients. A lot of the furniture was obviously gone – not every room had not a bed. But much had been left. Office furniture, lots of it, was corralled in waiting rooms – waiting. Were these pieces going to see a recycled life? I suppose it’s still possible that all this stuff could be donated somewhere. But it seems unlikely. And with every passing day another team of intruders reaches the inner bowels of the structure with more possibility for vandalism. Not all intruders are exploring photographers, many are kids hoping only to make a mess they’re not required to clean.
Every stairway door we encountered was disfigured by crowbar at its latching point. With great intentionality, someone had destroyed every door so secure closure would have been impossible…and had removed all latching mechanisms just to be safe. It felt very odd. Also on every floor we heard the wispy chirp of the low battery signal in the smoke alarms. The note bent as it, too, slowly died. At first we were surprised by the electronic beep, wondering momentarily if they could be motion detectors (we were screwed if they were). But it was obvious they were not as, like slight auditory ghosts, they simply followed us from floor to floor. Eventually the sound faded into the background and re-entered our consciousness only toward the end of the day as darkness fell and everything, once again, became unfamiliar.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Odetta
Odetta has died. As the obits point out, she was the voice of the civil rights movement. An amazing deep, thoaty, powerful voice. Her signature song, This Little Light o' Mine, remains our mantra as we strive for a more just society and find ourselves in situations that demand song. I had a single encounter with several years ago when I volunteered at a folk venue for weekly concerts. One Saturday night the legendary Odetta graced us. As she was preparing in the "green room" (a classroom off the main church sanctuary where the concerts were) the house manager went in and told her she'd be going on around 7:30-ish, after the opening act. Odetta pulled herself up to full attitude -- head high with the massively intimidating posture of a trained singer, and in full voice she said "I don't do 'ish'" -- a very Odetta(ish) moment.
Sad that she will not be able to serenade our next president at his inauguration – she was trying to last until January 20 for that. She will be tremendously missed. (See the great video piece the NYTimes did on her.)
Sad that she will not be able to serenade our next president at his inauguration – she was trying to last until January 20 for that. She will be tremendously missed. (See the great video piece the NYTimes did on her.)
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
VA Hospital II
The main building entrance facing the water felt like the most likely place we might gain entry. But every old window sported a giant air conditioner and windows without AC were replacement windows – sturdy and unopenable. How, how had others gotten in? We knew they had, we’d seen photos. We do not like to be stymied. A grate over a basement “window” revealed a small hole we could probably have fit through. But a small lake lay beneath it and it led to a small crawlspace – we didn’t know where it would wind up and we decided to keep searching. Around in the ambulance bay several windows looked like they should be openable, but they weren’t. Here another grate over a basement crawlspace window led to a larger opening with no lake. Should we try? My opinion is that no matter how tiny and isolated a basement crawlspace looks, there is almost always a connection between a downstairs area and the upstairs. It’s a rare basement area that doesn’t need to be accessed from above. There were pipes of all sizes and we were pretty sure someone would have needed to come look at them every now and then.
The grate covering the window area would have killed us had it fallen on us as we crawled beneath it and we cautiously leaned it at enough of an angle to prevent its falling. We smushed ourselves through the window opening and landed in muddy crawlspace about three and a half feet high. Trying to keep our gear out of the mud we crouched our way under a series of pipes, both of us hitting our head on the final pipe that had been sawed off to create a rather sharp final blow. And there were the stairs. A small half-flight to a door that led into the basement floor of the hospital. We were in.
The grate covering the window area would have killed us had it fallen on us as we crawled beneath it and we cautiously leaned it at enough of an angle to prevent its falling. We smushed ourselves through the window opening and landed in muddy crawlspace about three and a half feet high. Trying to keep our gear out of the mud we crouched our way under a series of pipes, both of us hitting our head on the final pipe that had been sawed off to create a rather sharp final blow. And there were the stairs. A small half-flight to a door that led into the basement floor of the hospital. We were in.
Monday, December 01, 2008
last month of the year
Hard to believe we’ve arrived at the last month of the year. One more notch on the belt of the twenty first century. We’ll be into double digits before we know it. But first, the final year of single digits: 2009. I still find it hard to believe. I’m sort of getting used to writing 200… as the year. Checks (although who, besides me, still uses checks?) now have that as their prefix on the date line, most spaces where you are required to fill in dates have that prefix, we’re getting used to saying it. But we still don’t have a name for this low, dishonest decade (Auden was never so appropriate). The best thing about 2009 – getting rid of the criminal in the White House and restoring dignity and respect to America’s name around the world. I don’t quite understand why they become unprosecutable when they leave office. People like Dick Cheney, Alberto Gonzalez, Donald Rumsfeld, and the head idiot (I don’t even want to write his name) should be held accountable for their wrongdoing. Or as that guy would say, evil-doing.
I don’t believe I’ve ever detested a president quite so much. My first memory of an awful president was Richard Nixon. I remember telling my mother (who was significantly younger than I am now at the time) on the day after he was elected that we’d just have to “live with it.” She snapped back “we cannot live with it.” We know now she was right, of course – we couldn’t live with him. But he was not a political hack. He managed a few important things (opening relations with China, creating the EPA and OSHA, yeah yeah yeah…). He was the only president to resign in disgrace, he kept a war going so he could be reelected, through his health care policy he created the behemoths of the insurance industry, and countless other bad things. So we thought it was bad under Nixon and then came Ronald Reagan, the man who thought he was at the liberation of a concentration camp because he’d seen a movie about it. He wouldn’t utter the word AIDS during his entire presidency, effectively marginalizing an entire segment of the population at a time when they most desperately needed to be attended to. His inane focus on feeling good distracted the nation from his lunatic policies that favored the religious right. His Supreme Court appointment of Clarence Thomas reflected his total commitment to ideology over judgment. George H.W. Bush continued Reagan’s approach but in a subdued just-following-this-guy sort of way. But I do remember feeling that someone had been beating me with a large stick for twelve years and had finally stopped the day after Clinton was elected. He wasn’t my first choice, but finally “family values” as code for straight/christian/married-with-children/religious-fundamentalist values was going away.
All these guys were bad. Awful. But none as bad as this George W. Bush. Not even close. Our president is a criminal, an idiot, an ideologue, a true believer in the worst way. He should be prosecuted for war crimes, his vice president should be imprisoned in a bricked up room, his cabinet secretaries (many of them at least) should be held accountable in court for all their crimes. I respect the office of president. I do. But I don’t think I could behave civilly were I to find myself in the same room with this man. I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to stand at the playing of Hail to the Chief, I wouldn’t be able to shake his hand, I wouldn’t even be able to speak to him without boiling over with rage.
So this is my favorite thing about the upcoming year change. We will finally be rid of Bush. I can’t believe they get to do what they’ve done and get off scott free. It’s like the country’s been run by a bunch of thugs for eight years and all we’re going to do is send them off to the country homes they’ve built on the backs of the people whose lives they’ve ruined. But I suppose we will have to be satisfied with simply having done with them. Done. Finally.
I don’t believe I’ve ever detested a president quite so much. My first memory of an awful president was Richard Nixon. I remember telling my mother (who was significantly younger than I am now at the time) on the day after he was elected that we’d just have to “live with it.” She snapped back “we cannot live with it.” We know now she was right, of course – we couldn’t live with him. But he was not a political hack. He managed a few important things (opening relations with China, creating the EPA and OSHA, yeah yeah yeah…). He was the only president to resign in disgrace, he kept a war going so he could be reelected, through his health care policy he created the behemoths of the insurance industry, and countless other bad things. So we thought it was bad under Nixon and then came Ronald Reagan, the man who thought he was at the liberation of a concentration camp because he’d seen a movie about it. He wouldn’t utter the word AIDS during his entire presidency, effectively marginalizing an entire segment of the population at a time when they most desperately needed to be attended to. His inane focus on feeling good distracted the nation from his lunatic policies that favored the religious right. His Supreme Court appointment of Clarence Thomas reflected his total commitment to ideology over judgment. George H.W. Bush continued Reagan’s approach but in a subdued just-following-this-guy sort of way. But I do remember feeling that someone had been beating me with a large stick for twelve years and had finally stopped the day after Clinton was elected. He wasn’t my first choice, but finally “family values” as code for straight/christian/married-with-children/religious-fundamentalist values was going away.
All these guys were bad. Awful. But none as bad as this George W. Bush. Not even close. Our president is a criminal, an idiot, an ideologue, a true believer in the worst way. He should be prosecuted for war crimes, his vice president should be imprisoned in a bricked up room, his cabinet secretaries (many of them at least) should be held accountable in court for all their crimes. I respect the office of president. I do. But I don’t think I could behave civilly were I to find myself in the same room with this man. I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to stand at the playing of Hail to the Chief, I wouldn’t be able to shake his hand, I wouldn’t even be able to speak to him without boiling over with rage.
So this is my favorite thing about the upcoming year change. We will finally be rid of Bush. I can’t believe they get to do what they’ve done and get off scott free. It’s like the country’s been run by a bunch of thugs for eight years and all we’re going to do is send them off to the country homes they’ve built on the backs of the people whose lives they’ve ruined. But I suppose we will have to be satisfied with simply having done with them. Done. Finally.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
VA Hospital I
Getting into the VA Hospital was not an easy task. The fence surrounding the complex was simple to breach; holes all along the perimeter allowed someone willing to get dirty underneath access. But the buildings were boarded up tight. Not many windows even within climbing-in distance, and none of them broken. A hulking main hospital building was joined on the grounds by what looked to be a smaller hospital building, an office building, a few duplex homes, several outbuildings, and a neat row of private houses. Inside the first house we just felt like we’d broken into someone’s home – and a nervous raccoon was upstairs – we ignored the houses and aimed at the institutional buildings. We found access to the office building, but – hard for an explorer to say – nothing of interest was inside. Upstairs were dormitory style bedrooms done in boxy wooden 1970’s institutional furniture, portending things to come. We left without shooting and headed for the big hulk.
The main hospital building had been retrofitted with countless other buildings attached to it by a web of trailer-built hallways; like an octopus it had reached out and suckered onto the smaller buildings around it. But all those attached buildings, and still…no open windows. Circling the building was no easy task with all the appendages it had grown, and three vehicles were parked in front of a much smaller building across a large parking lot. We worried they were associated with human beings who might catch us. Surreally at one point, a fire truck made a circuit of the road around the complex. We hid behind one of the attached trailers. We tried everything: air ducts (too slippery – only works in the movies), lowering the tops of windows (they stuck on pieces of plastic designed to stop them from lowering), climbing down into cellar window areas (none opened). It was hard to believe we were going to be stymied. That’s happened only once before and at a place that was not abandoned, only closed. This place was definitely abandoned.
The main hospital building had been retrofitted with countless other buildings attached to it by a web of trailer-built hallways; like an octopus it had reached out and suckered onto the smaller buildings around it. But all those attached buildings, and still…no open windows. Circling the building was no easy task with all the appendages it had grown, and three vehicles were parked in front of a much smaller building across a large parking lot. We worried they were associated with human beings who might catch us. Surreally at one point, a fire truck made a circuit of the road around the complex. We hid behind one of the attached trailers. We tried everything: air ducts (too slippery – only works in the movies), lowering the tops of windows (they stuck on pieces of plastic designed to stop them from lowering), climbing down into cellar window areas (none opened). It was hard to believe we were going to be stymied. That’s happened only once before and at a place that was not abandoned, only closed. This place was definitely abandoned.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
old friend
A couple of weeks ago my mother, who is a hospice chaplain, sent the family an article from the NY Times about hospice chaplains. I read part of it, it was two pages long, and left it open on my desktop to finish later. As is my habit, it remained there for a long time as I kept seeing it and not having time to finish it. But last night I was trying to catch up on old reading and instead of ignoring this article as I’d been doing for weeks, I decided to simply finish it. I scanned the first page for a review and clicked to page two. In the very first paragraph it mentioned a name I recognized as someone who was using a hospice chaplain to help her die. I thought, well there have to be several people with this name and I continued on. But like coming upon a wreck that’s broken apart and strewn pieces over a debris field I found more clues: she lived on the lower east side of Manhattan (so did my Karen Gilbert), she was the same age as my Karen Gilbert. At least she was the age I thought my Karen Gilbert was, I’d not communicated with my old friend in over 24 years. We’d been in graduate school together, working on our Master’s degrees. She married a lovely man, a guy we’d all thought was pretty cool. The wedding was in Goshen, NY – a bunch of us took the train up. Her wedding cake was homemade with loving hands, not bakery bought, decorated with real flowers. We kidded often about how her husband, Paul, was one of the few good men in the world and how mostly they were just pretty well useless. When she got pregnant I asked what she’d do if she had a boy and she answered that would be bad because then she would have to leave it at the hospital. Her beautiful baby girl came home a few months later. Thanks be to the gods for that one, huh?
The hospice chaplain article said its Karen Gilbert had died of colon cancer; and a narrated slide show was attached to the piece. I still hadn’t discovered the hulking shell of the wreck that my debris field was pointing toward. But when I played the slide show, there was her husband’s name, Paul Gregory, yes that was him. I knew it was impossible that all these clues could not be adding up to my old friend and there in the slide were pictures of her. It was difficult to find in the photos of a 56-year-old woman dying of colon cancer the same woman I’d known a quarter century ago. But when it showed photos of her and Paul from their wedding I knew my long ago friend had died on September 29, of this year attended by her friends, husband, and a Buddhist hospice chaplain.
How odd, to find out someone you knew a long time ago as a vibrant young woman has died a sad and painful death – or any kind of death. How should one react to this sort of news? Should you be sad even though you’ve not seen each other in years? Years of missed opportunity for reconnection have passed and now the chance is over. Are you allowed to miss a person you haven’t talked to in two and a half decades, someone you’ve not been close to, someone who simply passed through your life for a few years – years ago? One death summons all loss and particularly Karen Gilbert’s death for me. The article mentioned her sadness and guilt at having to leave her children. She died of colon cancer, the same disease that claimed my mother, who also had to leave her child. I recall our months and months together in classes, late night conversations, the people we knew. I think about how many of them have died in the intervening years – the roommate I lived with when I met Karen died of breast cancer several years ago. I think of the number that counted her years and it seems foreign to me. How could we be that age? How could we die at that age? How can we leave children, husbands, a life well-made? How could we have come from graduate students to here?
The hospice chaplain article said its Karen Gilbert had died of colon cancer; and a narrated slide show was attached to the piece. I still hadn’t discovered the hulking shell of the wreck that my debris field was pointing toward. But when I played the slide show, there was her husband’s name, Paul Gregory, yes that was him. I knew it was impossible that all these clues could not be adding up to my old friend and there in the slide were pictures of her. It was difficult to find in the photos of a 56-year-old woman dying of colon cancer the same woman I’d known a quarter century ago. But when it showed photos of her and Paul from their wedding I knew my long ago friend had died on September 29, of this year attended by her friends, husband, and a Buddhist hospice chaplain.
How odd, to find out someone you knew a long time ago as a vibrant young woman has died a sad and painful death – or any kind of death. How should one react to this sort of news? Should you be sad even though you’ve not seen each other in years? Years of missed opportunity for reconnection have passed and now the chance is over. Are you allowed to miss a person you haven’t talked to in two and a half decades, someone you’ve not been close to, someone who simply passed through your life for a few years – years ago? One death summons all loss and particularly Karen Gilbert’s death for me. The article mentioned her sadness and guilt at having to leave her children. She died of colon cancer, the same disease that claimed my mother, who also had to leave her child. I recall our months and months together in classes, late night conversations, the people we knew. I think about how many of them have died in the intervening years – the roommate I lived with when I met Karen died of breast cancer several years ago. I think of the number that counted her years and it seems foreign to me. How could we be that age? How could we die at that age? How can we leave children, husbands, a life well-made? How could we have come from graduate students to here?
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
what to write
I’ve missed talking about a couple of abandonments we’ve visited lately. I can’t quite remember, but I may have also missed putting up the address of my new website (built for me by my exploring partner) where all my photos are now going. The site for seeing my photos is secondlaw.net – the main text has appeared here. I will now also be setting off as a blogger to blog the exploring on that site. But I am not abandoning this blogsite. I will not leave this site to deteriorate and be explored by virtual explorers in some dark electron-disintegrated future. I will maintain this blog and continue my writing practice here. Promise.
A colleague just published a book wherein she writes short essays about people who’ve influenced her life in various ways but who are now dead. I wish I’d thought of that. I would like to present a twist on the theme. What could it be? People who’ve influenced my life who are now executed? People who’ve influenced the lives of people who are close to me but who are now dead? I’ve always loved (among pretty much all her review writing) Dorothy Parker’s assessment of Margot Asquith (wife of the 1908-16, British Prime Minister, she was a writer well known in London’s social circles). Asquith’s autobiography told of her many encounters with important folk. Parker noted “I don’t say that Margot Asquith actually permits us to rub elbows with them ourselves, but she willingly shows us her own elbow which has been, so to say, honed on the mighty.” So I thought I might write about other people’s dead folks, show off my elbow that I’ve rubbed with them. We shall see how it comes out.
A colleague just published a book wherein she writes short essays about people who’ve influenced her life in various ways but who are now dead. I wish I’d thought of that. I would like to present a twist on the theme. What could it be? People who’ve influenced my life who are now executed? People who’ve influenced the lives of people who are close to me but who are now dead? I’ve always loved (among pretty much all her review writing) Dorothy Parker’s assessment of Margot Asquith (wife of the 1908-16, British Prime Minister, she was a writer well known in London’s social circles). Asquith’s autobiography told of her many encounters with important folk. Parker noted “I don’t say that Margot Asquith actually permits us to rub elbows with them ourselves, but she willingly shows us her own elbow which has been, so to say, honed on the mighty.” So I thought I might write about other people’s dead folks, show off my elbow that I’ve rubbed with them. We shall see how it comes out.
Friday, November 21, 2008
what I remember
What do I remember from what came before? Garrison Keillor says we remember things from childhood more vividly than those things that occurred last week. Especially as we age, the things lodged more effectively in the memory are those that have had long to find their place. So what do I remember?
One day when I was five or six I wanted my dad to come play with me. He was on his bed, newspaper spread in front of him. When I asked him to come on out and play he said he would as soon as he finished “this article.” “What’s an article,” I wanted to know. “An article is the word a, an, or the.” Well that is true. Those three words are articles. But why? Why would a grown man tell a six-year-old child, to whom he’s just said “wait till I finish this article,” that this is the definition of an article. Did he, in the ten or fifteen seconds between my first question – “come play” – and my second question – “what’s an article?” – forget that the two questions were linked together by his answer in between? Was he intentionally trying to mess with the kid? Did he somehow think that those three words were the most essential meaning of the word article, such that it trumped having his tiny daughter know what he meant? Did he think I wouldn’t notice that he’d performed a semantic slight of hand? What? What was he thinking?
It’s not as if I didn’t notice the incongruity. In fact, I spent many hours between the moment of his utterance and my learning parts of speech years later wondering how it could have possibly taken him so long to finish reading one of those tiny words. Even if he’d been reading all three of them, how could that have taken the 15 minutes that passed until he emerged from the bedroom for some play? When he did appear, I couldn’t figure out how to articulate a question that would indicate perplexed-ness. I was, after all, only half way through the single digits. But I was terribly confused. And I never forgot it. I never forgot how he absent-mindedly answered me and how I tried desperately to make sense of what he’d said.
That absent-mindedness, I think, accounts for many confused children. A friend told me that she once, at about the same age, asked he mother why, when addressing an envelope, she was supposed to write “New York” twice. Her mother’s reply? “I don’t know.” It seems impossible that her mother really didn’t know. But it was one of those “oh really” answers you give to three-year-olds whose speech is still unintelligible, one of those “don’t bother me,” or “I’m not paying attention to you” replies. Usually those answers rush by in the heat of a thousand a day. But every now and then one lodges in a child’s mind and you can have years of wondering...what did she mean by that?
One day when I was five or six I wanted my dad to come play with me. He was on his bed, newspaper spread in front of him. When I asked him to come on out and play he said he would as soon as he finished “this article.” “What’s an article,” I wanted to know. “An article is the word a, an, or the.” Well that is true. Those three words are articles. But why? Why would a grown man tell a six-year-old child, to whom he’s just said “wait till I finish this article,” that this is the definition of an article. Did he, in the ten or fifteen seconds between my first question – “come play” – and my second question – “what’s an article?” – forget that the two questions were linked together by his answer in between? Was he intentionally trying to mess with the kid? Did he somehow think that those three words were the most essential meaning of the word article, such that it trumped having his tiny daughter know what he meant? Did he think I wouldn’t notice that he’d performed a semantic slight of hand? What? What was he thinking?
It’s not as if I didn’t notice the incongruity. In fact, I spent many hours between the moment of his utterance and my learning parts of speech years later wondering how it could have possibly taken him so long to finish reading one of those tiny words. Even if he’d been reading all three of them, how could that have taken the 15 minutes that passed until he emerged from the bedroom for some play? When he did appear, I couldn’t figure out how to articulate a question that would indicate perplexed-ness. I was, after all, only half way through the single digits. But I was terribly confused. And I never forgot it. I never forgot how he absent-mindedly answered me and how I tried desperately to make sense of what he’d said.
That absent-mindedness, I think, accounts for many confused children. A friend told me that she once, at about the same age, asked he mother why, when addressing an envelope, she was supposed to write “New York” twice. Her mother’s reply? “I don’t know.” It seems impossible that her mother really didn’t know. But it was one of those “oh really” answers you give to three-year-olds whose speech is still unintelligible, one of those “don’t bother me,” or “I’m not paying attention to you” replies. Usually those answers rush by in the heat of a thousand a day. But every now and then one lodges in a child’s mind and you can have years of wondering...what did she mean by that?
Sunday, November 16, 2008
second law II
To continue some ideas about my photos:
Each abandoned site was once a humming, functioning, part of American culture. But each has been consigned to obsolescence as society moved past them. Factories closed down as manufacturing processes shifted in both location and method; hospitals that warehoused and prisons that tried not to were replaced by different institutional approaches; theatres, resorts, and other entertainment venues slipped into disuse as patrons abandoned them for other amusements and the economy forced them off their rails. What were once ways of life in America have become our distant past, with the clock turning ever more rapidly.
Technology goes not alone into obsolescence. It is joined (in Kuhnian style) by our worldviews and our ever-fluid relationship to the environment. This trajectory toward entropy becomes opportunity another McLuhan dictum: that all things once useful return eventually as art. Here, then, is my humble recording of the journey of these places as they slouch toward their destiny.
Each abandoned site was once a humming, functioning, part of American culture. But each has been consigned to obsolescence as society moved past them. Factories closed down as manufacturing processes shifted in both location and method; hospitals that warehoused and prisons that tried not to were replaced by different institutional approaches; theatres, resorts, and other entertainment venues slipped into disuse as patrons abandoned them for other amusements and the economy forced them off their rails. What were once ways of life in America have become our distant past, with the clock turning ever more rapidly.
Technology goes not alone into obsolescence. It is joined (in Kuhnian style) by our worldviews and our ever-fluid relationship to the environment. This trajectory toward entropy becomes opportunity another McLuhan dictum: that all things once useful return eventually as art. Here, then, is my humble recording of the journey of these places as they slouch toward their destiny.
Friday, November 14, 2008
The moment before
There’s that moment, the moment before it happens, that the world is still the same. Everything is in its place, all you know is as is always has been, nothing you see is any different from what it’s always looked like. Just before the car is broadsided, just before you open the door to find the stereo missing, just before the diagnosis arrives, just before you touch her forehead and find it cold. And then…the world changes. Irrevocably. Eternally. Nothing will ever feel the same. No matter how much time passes, you will always be a woman who lost a child. Never again just a teacher. Never again just a dancer. Never again just a parent. But always a teacher who’s lost a child, a dancer who’s child died Sudden Infant Death, a parent who’s child was kidnapped from her tent.
After that moment comes another moment. The moment in the pocket, when only you and the few gathered with you know. To everyone else in the world she is still alive, the murder has not yet occurred, her body not yet turned on her; everyone still loves a living, breathing woman. But soon the echo chamber will cry out the news and slowly the darkness is populated with eyes filled with sympathy. The world is forever changed. You are forever changed.
The moment has far less to do with the event than with knowledge of the event. We live in a constant state of not knowing, altered periodically by searing tragedy. The trajectory of our lives bounces wildly off these moments, atoms carving paths through the ether. The moments in the pocket are precious moments, moments of held silence where the news hovers before its ignition. The moments we long to recreate.
After that moment comes another moment. The moment in the pocket, when only you and the few gathered with you know. To everyone else in the world she is still alive, the murder has not yet occurred, her body not yet turned on her; everyone still loves a living, breathing woman. But soon the echo chamber will cry out the news and slowly the darkness is populated with eyes filled with sympathy. The world is forever changed. You are forever changed.
The moment has far less to do with the event than with knowledge of the event. We live in a constant state of not knowing, altered periodically by searing tragedy. The trajectory of our lives bounces wildly off these moments, atoms carving paths through the ether. The moments in the pocket are precious moments, moments of held silence where the news hovers before its ignition. The moments we long to recreate.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Veteran's day
Tuesday was Veteran’s Day. Or as it used to be called: Armistice Day. When the first of our republican idiot presidents signed the Uniform Holiday act in 1968, he moved four holidays to Mondays: Washington’s birthday, Memorial day, Veteran’s day, and Columbus day. Washington’s birthday has become President’s day; I won’t address the stupidity of celebrating Christopher Columbus (although I am surprised it hasn’t become Explorer’s day); Memorial day has stuck. But veterans throughout the land were unwilling to give up their date. Everyone remembered – soldiers, children of soldiers, people who cared about the country’s wars – that the armistice ending The Great War (World War I, before World War II appeared on the scene) was signed on November 11, and celebrating it on a random Monday (for some odd reason I can’t explain the first one after the UHA was celebrated in October) violated the symbolic sensibilities of the nation. Hooray for the veterans who insisted on the symbolic meaning of 11/11. They knew that their treaty, signed at 11 AM on the eleventh day of the eleventh month had meaning beyond ending this particular war. By the eleventh hour we must end all war. If we don’t we are surely consigned to the abyss of mutual suicide that any war eventually becomes.
Friday, November 07, 2008
end of election week
Listening to the news is safe again. Well almost – 74 days till the ass is out of office. I heard my first Obama press conference on the way home from work. What delicious cadences, what a marvelous deep and sonorous voice, what intelligence, confidence and thoughtfulness. So much the opposite of what we have had for the last eight years. No more of that idiot, no more of that twang, no more mispronunciation, no more misunderstanding, no more ridicule of ideas, or hostility to reason. Praise be to the gods.
Now. Can the damage be undone?
Now. Can the damage be undone?
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
post election day
I spent last night in front of the TV as I do every election night. Unlike twenty years ago when they took down Dukakis’s picture and put up Reagan’s vice president (GW Bush) by half an hour after the polls closed in New York, tonight they waited until polls on the West coast were closed. But just moments after 11, the election was called for Barak Obama. Tears streamed down my face. And Jesse Jackson’s face. And Oprah Winfrey’s face. And the faces of people all across the country. So incredibly emotional was yesterday’s election. A catharsis.
For the first time in a long, long time, I’m hopeful again, proud again to be an American. I’m not ashamed of my country or my president. We may be just reinvigorating that old 60s idealism, but I genuinely feel this man can change politics. Maybe we can have a government that works again. There’s still the religious right that’s infected the other party to deal with. That party will need to do some soul searching. And find ways to reconnect with actual people and not just corporate interests. Real people and not just ideology. Real people and not just hatemongerers. But this man’s presence is the picture of hope and calm, he is this generation’s inspiration.
How far we have come. I never thought I would see this in my lifetime; I never thought I’d see a black person even contend for the nomination. But now he is our president. President Obama. The words have come smoothly for months, it always felt right. He is powerful and calm and reasoned and smart and he ran a perfect campaign. Never wavering from his primary message, never reacting to unreasonable and silly attacks, never changing approaches, never making ad hominem his tactic, never losing faith in his ability to scale the height. When he came out last night, “America’s next first family,” he looked so calm and in command. This is our next president. Our smart president. Our president who was actually elected, not one who stole an election and then drove every important element of government into a ditch, leaving it there twisted and burning. This president will surround himself with smart people not afraid to speak their minds. He will base his decisions in sound reasoning after listening to what he needs to hear. This will be a good president, an honorable president, a president for the 21st century. Our eight year long nightmare is over, it’s morning in America. Now is the time, and yes we did.
For the first time in a long, long time, I’m hopeful again, proud again to be an American. I’m not ashamed of my country or my president. We may be just reinvigorating that old 60s idealism, but I genuinely feel this man can change politics. Maybe we can have a government that works again. There’s still the religious right that’s infected the other party to deal with. That party will need to do some soul searching. And find ways to reconnect with actual people and not just corporate interests. Real people and not just ideology. Real people and not just hatemongerers. But this man’s presence is the picture of hope and calm, he is this generation’s inspiration.
How far we have come. I never thought I would see this in my lifetime; I never thought I’d see a black person even contend for the nomination. But now he is our president. President Obama. The words have come smoothly for months, it always felt right. He is powerful and calm and reasoned and smart and he ran a perfect campaign. Never wavering from his primary message, never reacting to unreasonable and silly attacks, never changing approaches, never making ad hominem his tactic, never losing faith in his ability to scale the height. When he came out last night, “America’s next first family,” he looked so calm and in command. This is our next president. Our smart president. Our president who was actually elected, not one who stole an election and then drove every important element of government into a ditch, leaving it there twisted and burning. This president will surround himself with smart people not afraid to speak their minds. He will base his decisions in sound reasoning after listening to what he needs to hear. This will be a good president, an honorable president, a president for the 21st century. Our eight year long nightmare is over, it’s morning in America. Now is the time, and yes we did.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
election day
I cast my vote early this morning. Too excited to remain in bed, I got up at 6 AM. Arriving at my polling place at 6:30 I found a line awaiting the 7 AM opening. I talked eagerly to the folks in line near me for a short while then read the magazine I’d brought and put in my iPod headphones. I found it difficult to contain my excitement. A small cheer went up at 7 when the line began to move into the building. It didn’t take as long as I thought it would to get to the registration table. I assisted the blind man in line behind me and then took my registration card to the next line where a man stickered me with an “I voted” sticker. He put it on vertically as if it didn’t matter. But it does matter, it matters so much.
The Provisional Ballot Booth, off to my left, was a piece of cardboard table display tri-folded to look like the voting booth privacy sides – like a child’s copy of a real voting booth. In magic marker the poll workers had written “Provisional Ballot Booth,” seeming almost a joke. It sat low on a child’s desk, this being the elementary school gym.
Finally I was called to the booth. It’s not a booth any more, but a small Diebold machine on thin metal legs, plastic privacy sides stand up left and right, the cover of the machine forms the front barrier. My first choice was for president and my guy was listed first. Barak Obama and Joseph Biden. I voted. As I ran through the rest of the ballot – bond issues, judges, constitutional questions – I was eager to get to the end. I reached the end of the ballot and it gave me the page for review; I saw at the bottom right corner a large button titled “cast ballot.” As I touched it my eyes welled up with tears. I just can’t believe I’m getting to do this. I never thought, in my lifetime, never, that I’d be able to vote for a black man for president. I never thought, ever, that there would be a man who energized the electorate like this man. I never thought, ever, that I’d be cast a vote in an election where the choices were so stark – between a mechanical, twentieth century approach to the world and a twenty first century digital-age understanding. I never thought.
I’m beside myself with excitement. I’ve been ferrying voters to the polls from the senior center near me. But many of them voted absentee so the load is light. Later today I’ll go to the gym for a little work out. I’m just trying to pass the time until 6 PM when some polls start to close and I can start listening to results.
The Provisional Ballot Booth, off to my left, was a piece of cardboard table display tri-folded to look like the voting booth privacy sides – like a child’s copy of a real voting booth. In magic marker the poll workers had written “Provisional Ballot Booth,” seeming almost a joke. It sat low on a child’s desk, this being the elementary school gym.
Finally I was called to the booth. It’s not a booth any more, but a small Diebold machine on thin metal legs, plastic privacy sides stand up left and right, the cover of the machine forms the front barrier. My first choice was for president and my guy was listed first. Barak Obama and Joseph Biden. I voted. As I ran through the rest of the ballot – bond issues, judges, constitutional questions – I was eager to get to the end. I reached the end of the ballot and it gave me the page for review; I saw at the bottom right corner a large button titled “cast ballot.” As I touched it my eyes welled up with tears. I just can’t believe I’m getting to do this. I never thought, in my lifetime, never, that I’d be able to vote for a black man for president. I never thought, ever, that there would be a man who energized the electorate like this man. I never thought, ever, that I’d be cast a vote in an election where the choices were so stark – between a mechanical, twentieth century approach to the world and a twenty first century digital-age understanding. I never thought.
I’m beside myself with excitement. I’ve been ferrying voters to the polls from the senior center near me. But many of them voted absentee so the load is light. Later today I’ll go to the gym for a little work out. I’m just trying to pass the time until 6 PM when some polls start to close and I can start listening to results.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I'm back
Blogging is slowing down, but running in the background my brain is humming with things to write about. It’s bad being out of practice because what I want to remember runs away from me like mercury. I still haven’t written about our trip to the Forest Haven Asylum this past Sunday. And the task of putting up the website is also an adventure. The photo website is up, but still in need of some major cleaning up. I can't tell you where it is yet, but as soon as it's a little cleaner we'll have a little coming out party.
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