Losing televised sports as an interest

   When I was a kid, I loved sports. I enjoyed playing and watching them, and baseball was my favorite. I very much liked seeing the games in person at the stadium, but the television experience was still plenty exciting to me. In those years I was a big fan of very non-local teams like the Reds (from Cincinnati) and the A's (from Oakland), I imagine at least partly because they were so successful back then. I certainly didn't know where Cincinnati or Oakland were located, nor did I seem to care.
   A few years later, perhaps in my mid-teens, I recall going to Yankee stadium with my father and being amazed that he would get bored so early in the game and want to leave. At this point I was beginning to prefer other sports (I believe that hockey, being a sport that my friends at that time would play, was becoming a new favorite), and these preferences would continue to change the older I became. Still, I couldn't understand the boredom on my father's part.
   Now I can.
   I don't know exactly when it happened, when the actual break took place, but I realized perhaps a week ago that I generally cannot watch any sport on television for more than a little while without becoming extremely bored.
   This change did not occur suddenly, but over time I did notice that the different type of sports I watched had shrunken, as had the time I could bear to do so. Baseball was the first to go, then hockey, and now American football, which seemed for a time to take the reins and keep my sports interest from completely disappearing altogether. For a few weeks, European football (soccer in the U.S.), and even basketball had briefly appeared as a possible replacement sports interest, but these were short lived.
   At some point, I had developed the boredom and lack of interest of my father that had so perplexed me years earlier.
   For years, televised sports were something that I used to unwind after work, a passive activity that I could engage in without having to care much about the outcome. For a nervous person such as myself, being able to engage without invested attachment to something was alluring and relaxing, and it worked most of the time. My wife and I even coined a term, 'stupid t.v.' to signify watching television for this same effect, and we would often watch different programs together (She also allowed me to watch the sports I wanted, even though she absolutely hates them. and I am thankful to her for that).
   So it is that this lack of interest in sports has meant not only a change, but also the disappearance of an avenue for me that was useful for decompressing from a world that I often feel quite fearful in. I mourn this loss, truly, but hope that it signifies that I will be moving on to discover new methods that are more in fitting with the person I am currently and will become. This is not only a hope, but also a wish.

An altered view

   Below is a picture that I took as I walked around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. About a week ago, we had a good rainstorm accompanied by strong winds here in San Francisco, and one of the large trees fell into the lake. It had stood next to the bench seen below.
   For some days the car path located just outside of the picture was cordoned off for what the people that walk here said was a crane to remove the trunk, but after a few days the fallen tree and cones remained.
   It's interesting to me that somehow the area had appeared relatively unchanged from how I'd known it for some years (even with the tree laying horizontally in the water), but today I noticed that something was different; it had finally been removed.
   Although I have passed this spot more than a thousand times, and seen here much more than just this specific tree, the visual absence of it made the area appear completely new. It really fascinated me that my perception could be so radically altered by the removal of just one thing, no matter the size, from my field of vision.
   I realized at that moment in a very visceral way that my eyes did not in fact translate empirical information, but rather helped to form the subjective beliefs that I use to determine what is true and not in the world. It was a powerful reminder that what I often determine to be irrevocably correct can conceivably be so to the contrary.

The recent and distant past

   I'm confident that I'm not alone when I say that the idea of time is a very elusive thing, but to me, it just feels entirely too subjective sometimes. Actually, I guess that it feels as unreal to the physicists that deny it exists as a linear thing.
   Like most people, I follow the clocks, and am quite obedient when it comes to being early, on-time or late according to them, but in terms of my memory and my own experiences (as well as my experience of people that have had or have some importance in my life), I cannot say that this obedience seems to carry any weight; either the clock, or my allegiance to it fails me.
   When I have some reminder that nudges me to think about the past, it often feels like I was both there and not, or as if the event thought of might have occurred a week, a month, or even  many years in the past. Sometimes, more recent events seem stronger, while other times the strength of the memory or sensation associated with it seems of greater import. It reminds me of paintings before the renaissance, when the size of objects depended on their cultural importance, rather than their portrayed closeness to the viewer.
   As hazy as the past can sometimes be, so can the future, so I rarely think about it, other than worrying over short-term things like getting paperwork done at my job or planning on what clothing I might need on an upcoming vacation. If events that happened when I was younger are unreal, the future is unfathomable. It's not that I do such a good job of living in the present that there is no need for a planned future, but rather that the sense of one remains too imagined.
   So it is that when I recall memories or sensations that have occured in my life, I am often happy and delighted to try to employ them to learn more about how they have contributed to the person that I am now. More tellingly, to the man that thinks about who they are, because the sense of self needed to feel wholly like me, like Adam Cooperstein, is as hard to fathom as is my own past.
 
 

Marxism as a style

   I was recently working on an entry in this blog about outdoor clothing, and the writing and thinking on the subject led me to think about clothing made from coarse materials. As I thought on clothing made from these less-refined textiles (and who might have worn them years ago), images came to my mind of the early twentieth century worker proletariat. As it turned out, I chose not to include these ideas in that particular entry because the post seemed too rambling, but the idea has stayed in my head, so I'm writing about it here.
   I don't know why exactly I thought of these image-ideas, but I do know that this history has at times been very important to me, as I have in the past considered myself a radical Marxist, at least in theory. I still believe in many Marxist economic ideas, in particular, the exposition of capitalist ideologies as written about by people like Antonio Gramsci. I also suspect that old posters celebrating the worker proletariat, and the films of Sergei Eisenstein, had very much to do with it.
   So it is that as a person that very much likes particular styles of clothing (I wouldn't however consider myself fashion-conscious or fashionable), I have always associated clothing with particular times and social movements, and my current obsession with water repellent clothing has led me to discover the wonders of clothing that places these properties over comfort, and the connotations with workers and their struggles from one hundred or so years ago that it holds for me.
   So as I sit here writing in a pair of 65/35 polyester-cotton blend pants designed to be water resistant, I am thinking about how Marxist-proletariat idea(l)s have become for me more an interest in retro fashion and design than in active political movement.
   I think about the visual design style of Constructivism in what was then the Soviet Union, the buttoned-up-to-the-top suit jacket made popular by Mao (but originally called the Zhongshan Suit), and the early twentieth century newsboy hats often seen in posters from that era propagating popular struggle and worker strikes. I myself wore a kind of newsboy hat almost twenty years ago (also favoring buttoning the top button on my wool jackets at that time), and although I don't wear clothing in that way anymore, I still have a kind of leftist belief that there's probably nothing worse in personal style than trying to show that you've got money in the way that you dress.
   So as I finish up this short entry on the idea of certain clothing fabrics connoting a classic radical leftism, I realize that although it's true that I have very little interest in active political struggle, I still retain a place in my heart for a style associated with one of its' applications. Marxist? I doubt it. Materialist? Perhaps.
 

Outdoor clothing

   I walk everyday around Stow Lake, which I enjoy very much, both for exercise and to help clear my head of the seemingly endless chatter that occurs there (though this aspect of my walks is not always so successful). I have set myself the strict routine of walking there no matter what the weather, and because I dislike using an umbrella, I sometimes find myself getting wetter than I prefer to, especially when I have to be at work for the rest of the day. Even if I do use an umbrella when it's raining hard, my lower legs often get pretty soaked (my waterproof jackets and water resistant/proof shoes take care of the rest of my body), and I absolutely refuse to use an umbrella large enough to cover this area (I find huge, dome-like umbrellas a bit obnoxious).

   But then, 'outdoor clothing' enters my life

   By perusing different websites for clothing in general, I came across a brand named Fjallraven from an English website called Oi Polloi, and through further exploration found that they make a 'jeans' style (i.e.-slimmer fitting) hiking pant that doesn't look so much like well, hiking pants. I bought two pairs online in different sizes from a discount website, and decided on the smaller pair, which were very tight around the waist, but slimmer fitting.

   Because they felt so restricting, I decided to try to lose a few pounds, which I did, and now they are pretty damn comfortable. This is in consideration of the fact that they are made of a cotton/polyester blend that the company calls "g-1000", and which is not, let us say, the most flowing of materials. I've gotten pretty into the idea of being somewhat waterproof in my clothing, and can't help thinking that there's a subconscious aspect to it for me as well; something like being bulletproof.
   It was a few years ago that I first bought some rather heavy canvas pants from a local company here in San Francisco called Taylor Stitch, who make a sort of slimmed-down version of classic Carhartt work pants, and when I first became interested in the idea of clothing that wasn't so comfortable. Like the bulletproof notion, I assume there's a similar association with stiff clothing, but there's also a quality to it that I think I also like in a very tactile way. It feels in some way that I am wearing clothing that was made a very long time ago, when production techniques were not so fully automated, and which produced rougher, more imperfect articles. I really like imperfect.
   When it is raining, and I am wearing my 'outdoor clothing', I feel like I can go where I want, unfettered by anything in the world at that moment, and for a man that can at times feel too vulnerable for my own comfort, that is a nice feeling, even if I'm receiving it vicariously from my clothing.

Smelling marijuana

   When I am home in San Francisco, I use my car daily, but when my wife and I go on vacation to another city, we always try to take the local mass transit system. This is a wonderful relief for me from driving, especially when I am not particularly familiar with the place I am visiting, as I am usually more nervous behind the wheel, making it harder to enjoy the place I am visiting. Another wonderful thing about taking buses and trains on vacation is that it enables me to see the place without having to concentrate on anything in particular, and to see it the way that the local people do, but with the fresh eyes of a visitor.
   So, there my wife Fernanda and I were, on one of the TriMet loop trains in Portland, Oregon (I can't remember if it was the A or B loop), and had recently gone over what I believe was the Broadway Bridge. We were passing the Oregon Convention Center, when we saw a sleek retail facade, which we quickly realized was some kind of marijuana business (it actually looked a bit like a contemporary high end clothing store). My wife and I marveled at its' very professional looking exterior (the medical marijuana dispensaries back home in San Francisco look to me from the outside to be engaged in something very illegal), and agreed that it would be fun to see what it was like inside. We remembered that our taxi driver from the airport had told us that a recreational marijuana bill had recently been passed locally, and decided to get off the train to check it out (we were equipped with an all day pass for the TriMet, curious minds, and were on vacation).
   As we approached the entrance, I was filled with nervous excitement; I very much enjoy new experiences, but also have intentionally not smoked marijuana for a very long time, and thought I might be tempting fate a bit. Anyway, we entered, and after having our names entered into the system by the nice people at the front of the place, were buzzed into the main room in the back, where we were welcomed by a very friendly, burly looking gentlemen. He proceeded to tell us about the contents of the store, as well as what was available for purchase and what we would need medical marijuana cards to buy. I had a lot of questions, and the man there was very informative and seemed happy to answer them.
   There was a lot of information on the labels of the different cylindrical glass jars, and he told me (with the help of a woman from the front desk that had come back to either assist, listen or monitor), what each strain was beneficial for, medically speaking (in my experience, all marijuana was good for basically one thing; getting high). Most of all, I was interested in who got to name the strains, as many had names that I found quite amusing, such as platinum animal cookies, Tyra Banks, and my personal favorite, headband (seen in the picture below). He told me that they were all named by the individual growers, and I was a little disappointed. I think that perhaps in the back of my mind I was hoping that I could perhaps be a person that names these strains for a living.
   Next, the burly gentleman asked if I would like to smell some of the strains (I could already get a kind of group smell just by being in the room), and I was amazed how unique some of them smelled. When he said for example, "this one smells like grapefruit", it really did, and when he said "this one smells like petrol", amazingly it did too. I found it quite remarkable, and I'm as sure as I can be that it was not his power of suggestion which made them smell as he said they would for me.
   As I slowly read and smelled a number of varieties, I came across a palm-sized burlap sack, and the man told me to sniff it (it was filled with whole coffee beans) before smelling each variety to clear my nostril palette, if that's the correct way to put it. He said that the judges at marijuana growing competitions do that. I certainly had never thought about the idea of such a thing existing!
   I remembered that when I used to buy and smoke marijuana that smelling it was the best way that I knew how to ascertain the quality and grade of the stuff; never did I think that smelling the substance could be so interesting in itself.
   Although we didn't buy any of the products, I did leave a nice tip to the worker who provided us with all of the friendly, useful information, and I felt like I had just been given the best marijuana experience I had in immediate memory, and my clear-headed state had allowed this to occur.

Smelled, not smoked

The very, very sad disappearance of music blogs

   Most of the music that I've discovered during the past five or six years I've done so through music blogs. I was going to say most of the new music I've discovered, but the reality is that almost none of the music is new at all. In fact, most of it is at least one generation or older, as well as being otherwise unavailable or extremely difficult to find for purchase in any form. Of course, I am aware that there is new music being released all the time, but I find so much of it to lack the soul of older music, due in part to modern production techniques, but also, I believe, because the artists who are making new music are writing during a time when the expectations of who will be listening to it are an audience of people raised on smartphones with, in my belief, less patience for imperfection and a differing view of what it means to be in the world than I have. I'm trying not to be bias in this idea, but we all generally respond to the eras when we are born, and I am very much a product of mine.
   I wish that this blog entry was written only to praise the writers and researchers who brought to my attention (and made available) so much of this music, but unfortunately it is being written as a kind of eulogy, because very few of these blogs exist anymore, and the ones that do don't make any of the music being written about available to hear. I find music to be most moving when I can listen to it.
   The reader who knows nothing of this subject might wonder why it is that such a wonderful service, one that helps people to broaden their musical horizons, maybe the ways that see the world, and share the discoveries they've made, would be written about in a sad memorial; and the answer is, unfortunately, because these blogs are all but dead.
   It seems that the music industry (and their trade association/watchdog, the Recording Industry Association of America), in an over reaching effort to combat file sharing, has put the lean on the blog sites that post this music, forcing them to fold under legal threats from this powerful group and their financial allies.  From what I can tell, the music industry is not really interested in music at all, because their laws and lawsuits against music sharing services have had the effect, planned or not, of making otherwise beautiful, forgotten or unknown unavailable music now completely unavailable and unknowable.
   When I think about how many wonderful and varied artists I first learned about by reading and downloading music from the numerous blogs of just a few years ago, it makes me sad that it will be that much harder to have these kind of consciousness expanding musical experiences going forward.
 

An aggregate of berries and ideas

   Sometimes writing is easier for me, other times, more difficult. This particular blog entry has been one of the more difficult ones, and so I begin again with a slate that has been cleared of written words, but a brain that is still full of ideas from previous attempts at this subject. Generally, the way I write about a particular subject is to form some ideas with words, fine tune them, and edit, which usually involves me removing a few words or a sentence here and there. For this entry, I have chosen to delete everything that I have written, as I had lost control of my ideas, and felt that I had to abandon ship.

   I have never thought of myself as a writer, and only began writing four years or so ago as a way to express some thoughts that I felt needed to be exercised from my brain's exclusivity, and my visual art background and interest did not seem to offer an avenue for them. Perhaps I just needed a change of form.

   As a visual artist, I had for years taken the approach of an assembler (putting visual elements together), and the act of writing has turned out to be exactly that for me, though I never knew that would be the case. I find it beautiful that words are so impermanent and so easy to change, as it allows me to be so free when I use them, and I can just add and remove them at will, and even reuse the same one again if I so choose. Together, they form sentences and hopefully, coherent thoughts that are true to what I want to convey. Often, I end up writing about something in a way that has seemingly taken shape only through the process of writing, devoid of what I was trying to elicit.

   I began this blog entry with the intent of writing about blackberries, learning through previous attempts that they are called an aggregate fruit, as a single berry is an aggregate of sixty to one hundred berries. The challenges that I have had in finishing this piece has fostered the idea of writing and blackberries as an aggregate subject, and I consider both to be special in their own way.

   Below is a picture that I took of a blackberry that I was soon going to eat, and marveled, as I usually do, at it's intricate structure. I eat a lot of blackberries, much more so than any other fruit, because they are low in sugar (which I have to be careful of, as my blood sugar tends to run a bit high), easily transportable, and often times very delicious. Each individual berry contributes to the cluster in a way that I cannot see what holds them together, and one of my finished blog pieces feels like a similar construction. Although blackberries have a short shelf life (even when refrigerated) which pushes me to buy them regularly and often, I still do what is necessary to keep me stocked up, because I feel like I'm taking care of myself when I do so. Writing feels the same way.

Ian Matthews

   When I first started knowingly listening to the music of Ian Matthews, I didn't know that I had heard him before. It turns out that he was a member of the English folk group,  Fairport Convention, which I knew of from a friend of years ago named Belinda Langner. I didn't like them as I was not interested in that kind of music at that time, but had a couple of years ago discovered an Ian Matthews album on one of the many music blogs that I used to frequent, and which help me to discover so much music new to me.
   I had become progressively more and more interested in folk types of music during those music blog years, and when I discovered the Ian Matthews album, "Journeys From Gospel Oak", I was immediately moved by it, especially the opening track, "Knowing The Game". This album got me interested in his other music, and although I never found any of his albums to be that wonderful a listen throughout, there are songs on each of them that I find quite moving, and are the reason that I choose to write about him here.
   The songs that I like the most are slow, sad and country-tinged, and like Gene Clark (another artist that I like a lot and who Matthews covers on "Gospel Oak") sound to me like they are written by wounded hearts.. Unlike Clark, however, who's voice carries the pain, it's in the instruments and song structure in Mathews' music, though no less moving for it. Although I believe that it is not terribly difficult to write a song that references sadness in the listener, I think that capturing a deep ache within the writer or receiver probably requires a musician that can honestly access that place.

Why I still (kind of) root for New York sports teams

   I recently watched an NFL football game on television between the San Francisco 49ers and the New York Giants, and the matchup gave me pause to think about my relation to the two cities where I have lived my life. As a person that spent their first forty two in New York City, I pretty much always find myself rooting for New York sports teams when I do happen to see them play on television, and always like to see the San Francisco teams lose, even though I have chosen to live here for the past nine and a half years.
   It bothers me as I think about it here that I have not fully adopted the city I live in as I thought I wanted to. If I had truly given myself over to this beautiful place, I wouldn't take such delight in seeing their sports teams lose, but as I think about it here further (and give myself a fair shake), I realize that this is a small city compared to where I come from, and when the sports teams here are champions, it feels like a small town, complete with small town pride in their teams. Everywhere I go, everyone seems to be talking about it for a long time afterwards. In New York, when one of the teams achieve championship status, many celebrate, but it is soon forgotten, and many just don't give a shit at all. That large bloc that cares nothing about it adds a kind of buffer, whereas here, everybody seems to care.
   I recall asking one of the social workers at my job why she, who I'd never really heard talk about sports, seemed so excited when the San Francisco Giants baseball team had won the world series, and she said that she didn't care so much about baseball, but that her excitement was about San Francisco pride. That statement made me feel bad about my own feelings in relation to the team and the whole city that seemed to be celebrating, but I realize now that I do have San Francisco pride, but in regards to sports, I need that buffer that there was in New York.
   I no longer consider myself a New Yorker, as I chose to leave that city close to ten years ago, but as a young boy that grew up loving baseball and my local New York Yankees, I guess that I will probably always root for the team tied to those years when I cared about sports, no matter how long I have been absent and how far removed I am from that place.
 

Interviewing at Starbucks

   I was sitting in Starbucks a couple of weeks ago, and noticed that some of the tables had folded pieces of paper on them which read, "reserved for event", or something like that. I was unaware that tables could be reserved at Starbucks, and asked one of the workers about it; she said that they were having a hiring event. I didn't know that hiring was an event.
   I was annoyed that there didn't seem to be anywhere available where I could work on my blogs with some privacy, but soon a couple of tables became available, and I opened up my cheap but reliable little computer and began to work. I was making some good progress (I always feeling better when and after I am writing), when some people sat down for the event that the table placards had foretold. What Starbucks had referred to as an event was actually some Starbucks managers interviewing prospective employees for their managing locations.
   One of these managers sat behind me and commenced explaining what the interview was going to be like. I didn't see either him or the person being interviewed, but he spoke loudly, and with great pride about the company that he works for. He went on, each time his applicant would finish a sentence, about the 'Starbucks philosophy' and how 'we at Starbucks' believe in this or that particular thing, repeatedly referring to the store that he manages as 'his store'. I felt saddened by what I was hearing. I imagined that he must be an important part of the Starbucks world that he seemed to feel so powerful in, but couldn't help from thinking that he was a dot, a potential nobody in the Starbucks corporation.

Work kills

   A couple of weeks ago I was taking a walk here in The Presidio of San Francisco when I passed a middle- aged man wearing a black t-shirt with white letters on it that stated "WORK KILLS". I remember quickly surmising that perhaps this statement was made from a leftist or anarchist worldview, but then later rethought my assessment, and decided instead that it was a blanket statement that work of any kind was to be avoided.
   I started thinking as I continued on about this idea that work is evil, and remembered a quote from Sigmund Freud that I couldn't recall completely at that time, but which basically meant to me that humans need to love and work to be happy (After looking it up, I found that it is "Love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness"). I can't say that the quote rings necessarily true for me, but know for myself that work can make me feel very good, and that I feel a great amount of self-worth through the work that I do. This includes the job I go to, but also the work I am doing writing this blog right now.
   I have it in my mind that it would be a sign of inner strength and deep belief in myself if I did not need work (especially the work I do at my job) to make me feel better emotionally. This would signify that I needn't rely on 'outside influences" to bolster my esteem. I continue writing this blog entry because this is not the case, and really haven't thought that concept out, anyway.
   Besides writing blogs and sometimes creating visual art, I also have a job that I go to that not only remunerates me economically, but also provides me with a great deal of self esteem for much of the time, and for that I consider myself pretty lucky. I like my job, and although I love the idea of not working, I'm not sure that it's a practical concept for my mental health. I guess I need the 'outside influence' of my work, even if it does kill.

The feet of superheroes

   When I was a boy, I had a good friend named Alexander Skolnick, and he and I used to like to invent and draw superheroes. We would almost always draw them frontally, the figures looking directly at the viewer, but with their feet facing outwards to better show the designs on their boots. I don't remember why we always drew them with boots on (as opposed to wearing shoes), but seem to recall that classic superheroes always wore them.
   One day, my father, me and Alexander were visiting at Alexander's father's country house in rural Massachusetts, when his father began berating me and Alexander for the way we depicted our characters' feet. Like my father, Arnold Skolnick was a painter, and objected to the poses in our drawings, which he felt unnatural and anatomically incorrect (they were, but we liked depicting them in this manner). After a moment or two, my father interjected, and explained why he thought we drew the feet that way, which he was correct about (to better show their boots), and which surprises me to this day that he was able to understand. It didn't occur to me consciously at the time, but thinking about it now makes it even clearer how important that interaction was for me. The memory of it remains very powerful, and I believe this is because I had the feeling of being supported by someone, and that is a feeling that I basically never had throughout my childhood, teenage years, and has persisted into much of my adult life; I still struggle to not feel that way at times currently.
   I've been thinking quite a bit over the last couple of months about how completely alone and vulnerable I felt as a child, and it took me many years to understand that in many ways, certainly emotionally, I really was alone, and that is a difficult thing for a child; at least it was for me.
   I don't have many memories of my childhood years at this time in my life, and although this fact may change, it seems that the positive ones that I do recall remain so vivid precisely because of their scarcity. The feeling of being understood and my ideas approved of is always memorable.

Imagining myself as a Californian in the 1960's

I have lived in California for almost nine and a half years, since I was forty two years old. In those early years, I considered myself a "New Yorker" that lived in San Francisco, but for the past four or five I have thought of myself as a Californian from New York.
   Having choices is a wonderful thing: I feel like one can at times, if the circumstances are good, have some choice in where they live, but cannot determine where they are born. Although feeling an integral part of place or thing is sometimes a bit tenuous for me, I still wanted to be a "Californian" during those first years, no matter how I thought of myself.
   I remember buying quite a few pairs of shoes by a brand called Seavees, whose motto is and was "Authentic California". I would catch myself looking at my feet, sometimes drifting off, imagining being on the beach in the mid-nineteen sixties, a part of some laid back culture that I have no background or familiarity with. I also recall first listening to the Zombies' classic album, "Odessey and Oracle", believing I could be in a room somewhere in California, maybe high, as the music seemed to give sound to the world around me.  It was probably my way of easing into a culture that felt very different to me.
   When I was around seventeen years old, I dressed primarily like I lived in the 1950's, as I liked listening to rockabilly music, but never really thought of myself as somehow living in that time. Perhaps it is because I was actually alive during a good part of the 1960's that I am able to better imagine myself as a part of the culture of that time than I was for the 1950's. I've also thought that because I never really cared for the politics of that earlier time that I never envisioned myself there, but I think that the fact that I search for how I felt during the early year of my life makes the 1960's more interesting for me to explore, and seeing myself in California then is an attempt to bridge gap between how I was and who I am today.

One method of transport

80s music

   Being born in late 1963, I think of myself as a product of the 70's, having been between the ages of mostly seven through seventeen during that decade. These years were very informative as I look back over my life, and were instrumental in helping to shape the person I am currently. Of course, being a baby and young boy during the 1960's also contributed heavily to the present me, but I am more cognizant of the music and feel of the 1970's, and have more memories of this time, too.
   Thinking about it as I write, I have mostly chosen to ignore the period of the 1980's, I have been telling myself for years that it was horrible in every way, and while I still don't care for the aesthetics, I believe that hidden behind this opinion lies my mostly ignored and often repressed feelings that I experienced then. A slow coming around on my part to being willing to delve into some of those thoughts are the reason that I am writing about this time now.
   A consistent memory that I have is from (as far as I can remember) the early to mid part of that decade, being at the house of my friend Chris Orlow, watching MTV consistently high on marijuana. I had no regular job for much of this period, a girlfriend only intermittently, and being stoned was a way to be even less aware of what was going on inside of me than would have been the case if I was straight. Even before I started smoking pot regularly, I was already in a kind of haze, and never once during those anesthetized years did it occur to me that I could not be high; I now realize that marijuana certainly wasn't the ideal drug for this already somewhat paranoiac person anyway.
   Before a couple of months ago, I could think of very few songs from the 80's, but as I began to listen to more of this music, I began to remember more than I had previously, and realized that I really knew a lot of the music really well, some of which gave me great pleasure to hear again. This music also began to jostle loose some of my memories and feelings from the time as well (that process is, I hope, still in its' infancy).
   I first heard (and often in what seemed like in endless repetition) much of this music sunken deeply and depressed into my friend's couch, so these songs came to me in a bad way, but I also received them like that, and much of that reception has stayed with me over the ensuing years.
   So I've become mostly open to the big hair and bright colors of the time, aware that in some way, perhaps, my dislike of the 80's aesthetic is a blind spot to my own emotional history.

Posing for selfies

   A week or so ago I saw two people taking their own picture in what is now known as a selfie. They had their phone or  camera (I couldn't tell which from where I was sitting at the time) on a metal rod that I understand is known as a selfie stick, but until recently I never really noticed being used by anyone. Perhaps I had failed to notice it because I didn't know what to call it.
   So this couple were there taking their own picture, but while they were doing this they were also being photographed by someone else, which struck me in a very powerful way. It made the posing appear that much more posed, suddenly breaking through the cultural ideology and repetition which had served to mask it to some degree for me. I like to believe that I am not fooled by these naturalizing effects, but this image showed my that I am not immune.
   I have for most of my adult life been keenly aware of the staged aspect of reproducing something visually, and photography, film and theater have often been more about the production for me than what is being portrayed, (the scene) in the medium. Perhaps partly because my father worked in advertising, and certainly due to my own cynicism and Marxist-influenced approach to cultural readings, I rarely see images produced by human beings as in any way 'natural', yet even with all of these years of awareness, I can still be surprised by how all of these elements can deceive me, as this selfie moment showed me.
   When I first saw this couple and their photographer, I was struck by the beauty and strangeness of the moment, and I don't want to detract from that by focusing only on how it showed me how fooled I have been, The experience of breaking free from cultural mores, even if only by witnessing my perceptions of others, has been exhilarating at times, but they do also show me to be a captor.

Poor posture

   I have been experiencing a pinched nerve for the past couple of months, and although it symptoms of numbness and tingling rather than pain, it also causes me to worry; that it will become worse and eventually damage the nerve irreparably. It doesn't take me to cause me to worry in any case.
   After being diagnosed with this condition by my primary doctor, I saw a physical therapist, who assessed me and gave me a number of exercises to do to help relieve the condition. I continued to see this therapist seven or eight times, and one of the things that we often speak about is my posture. She often reiterated that maintaining the optimum body alignment is key to my recovery, and to keeping the condition from worsening or recurring in the future.
   I quickly realized how much my posture has been tied to my emotional state, and more specifically how I feel about myself, which in turn influences how I position my body. I believe that a person who feels strong and upright in their place in the world probably hold themselves in that way, and one who doesn't, well, you get the picture.
   I remember that when I was in my early twenties a friend of my father noted how hunched over my shoulders appeared, and although I recall that it was rude and out of place that he had said this, I realized also that he was probably right, and it made me feel bad. I didn't really connect it in the same way that I 'm able to now, but I sensed it enough that it hurt, and then I never really thought about it again consciously.
   Now that I've been in some form of analysis/psychotherapy for quite a few years, I tend to put things together quite a bit better, and hopefully retain some of what I discover as well. I also believe that my age and genuine desire to be happier in life has contributed too, but some things take longer than others to really connect in a deeply emotional way.
   So as the way I feel about myself has affected my body, which has in turn caused symptoms which impact my emotional state, it is clear that things have come full circle. There's an old Christian hymn called "Will The Circle Be Unbroken"; I hope that it can.

Wasting away

   When I am in nature, more so than when I am not, I take pleasure in looking closely at things, especially things that are small, delicate, or in some way unique or unusual to me. I find that there is a great deal to see when I take the time to slow down, and these small discoveries tend to make me happy, often staying with me for some time. Once I have seen something, it becomes easier to see again, and this blog entry is about something that I've managed to see numerous times, allowing me to witness the changes that has occurred over time to it.
   I first saw this small bundle of thin sticks about six or seven days ago during my morning walk, and interestingly, I found it in almost the identical where where I discovered a turtle shell some months ago (and also wrote about in a different blog, picturesthoughts.blogspot.com). For the first three to four days it appeared relatively unchanged, a sort of thin hourglass shape with a denser amount of branches forming both ends, of which one end is still somewhat visible in the photograph below. Each time I would arrive for my morning walk and come upon it I fully expected it to be completely disintegrated due to its fragile appearance and location so near a heavily used footpath, but was daily surprised that it had managed to stay somewhat intact for so long.
   A couple of days ago I noticed that it had begun to alter in shape; one end of the hourglass had become dislodged, and the small branches in the middle had thinned. The day after that, it had begun to show its delicate nature, and more of it had been swept or trampled back into the park where it emanated from. Yesterday,when I took the photograph, it's state had further changed, yet in its dilapidation I can still clearly see the shape of it from that first day. There is something beautiful to me about this, like a kernel of an idea which has altereded, and perhaps grown a little more open over time.
   Today, at a different location, I saw an object which reminded of this bundle, but half-sized, with just one side of the hourglass shape. It looked like some very dried twigs or grass that had been pulled from the earth, and it occurred to me that this may what the object I originally saw was, yet somehow joined at the ends. I thought for a moment that this idea somehow diminished what I had originally imagined this thing to be, but my mind turned quickly, and surprisingly, back to wonder.

Hanging in there

   I saw this small branch in Golden Gate Park a few weeks ago during a morning walk, and was drawn to it. I was especially impressed by the small, firm flower-like form at the tip of it, amazed that it had remained intact on the road before I found it. I passed it once before returning to the spot where it lay, and where I decided to pick it up, fifteen minutes or so later. I carried it to my car as I finished my walk, and placed it on the left side of my car's dashboard, as you can see in the picture below.
   It stayed on the dashboard for a week or so, sometimes having to be readjusted by me as it would slide if I made a sharp turn, but was pretty good at not moving too much, A week or so later, I decided to have my car washed, and placed it gently in the trunk to protect it. I thought I had been quite thoughtful in how I placed it there, but when I went to retrieve it, some seltzer water bottles that I stored near it had toppled, and a significant part of the stem and end had broken off.
   I was saddened and a bit annoyed annoyed at myself for allowing this to happen, but I placed the damaged remainder back on the dashboard, and there it has remained for the past four three to four weeks. It has been in direct sunlight and heat on occasion, but doesn't seem to be any the worse for it, and appears generally unchanged since the car trunk incident.
   When I am approaching my car from the front, I am proud to see it there on the dash, and once in the car, my wife and I marvel at the fact that it still is in one piece. It is a little treasure to me.
   I become hopeful and inspired when I see things that are small and delicate flourish; it helps to instill in me the belief that I, delicate feeling as I do, also have a place that's safe in the world.

Wild animals

   I am writing this blog entry while away on a weekend retreat to the Point Reyes National Seashore area of Northern California, staying in a lovely hotel in nearby Inverness. During the day, my wife and I have done a variety of activities, including hiking, driving around to explore the sights, and drinking espresso drinks in a nearby coffee bar, but the late afternoon and dusk hours have been devoted to seeing wild animals. On both nights, we have gotten into our car and taken the thirty minute or so ride to an area called the Tule Elk Preserve to see what animals we could spot.
   Seeing animals in the wild is a special treat to me, a feeling similar to the one that I get when I'm walking on the beach and find a unique piece of beach glass; it gives me a bit of extra strength in the present and a belief in good things that may possibly come.
   Growing up in New York City, having a feeling of connection to the life of animals was not apparent to me, save for some pets and cockroaches. Animals seemed to exist in a world that I didn't exist in (My ship seemed to pass theirs on a foggy night, unaware of their presence), but through the years my curiosity has grown, and my wife and I (who was also raised in a large city) have fueled each others interest in this regard. When we take vacations or weekend trips, the pursuit of seeing animals in the wild is often part of the planning process.
   This weekend, after seeing so many rabbits, mice, quail and surprisingly a badger, I still feel like me and wild animals live in a kind of alternate universe, but the worlds seem to intersect on occasion, and their world seems so much fuller and real than I ever imagined it to be, no longer appearing to be something that exists only when I see it.
 

A picture of a badger that I took this weekend; 

the picture quality was the only poor part of the experience.

The rustling of leaves

   Ever since I can remember I have enjoyed the sound of leaves blowing in the wind. In the warmer weather, the sound signifies to me that a breeze is nearby to cool me. In the fall, it tells me that it's time to adjust my jacket or scarf against my neck for warmth, but assures me that's it's still not so cold that it's uncomfortable to be outside amongst the trees. Here in San Francisco, there are still leaves on many trees in the winter, but when I was growing up in New York City, winter meant no leaves, so no rustling sound was to be had in the sometimes too frigid weather (luckily for me, the quiet of snowfall provided me with another relaxing sound).
   For many years, I have slept to the quiet hum of a sound machine, making me both sleepy and relaxed, perfect for drowning out some of the noise of the street, but also helping to deaden the noise inside of my head. The rustling of leaves feels similar, but is able to ease some of the sounds and movement that can sometimes make me to feel nervous when I'm out in the world.
   The wind as an invisible force, except as it impacts other things, such as leaves, helps me to see the unseen good in the world, no matter how hard I try to believe that it doesn't exist.

An unusually docile day for these leaves

My city?

I took these two pictures this morning before I came to work. I start my work week on Sundays, and although it's a bit sad at times to have to work when most people will be enjoying the day off, it is mostly quiet and pretty relaxed both on the street in the early morning, as well as at my job. I was earlier than I needed to be to start working, so I decided to drive up to Twin Peaks, a hill with great views near where I work, and an often visited tourist locale as well.
   I have been thinking about my future in San Francisco the last few months, wondering how long I imagined staying here amid the ever increasing flow of young technology professionals that are beginning to make the city feel more crowded and too young for this particular fifty one year old man. Just yesterday, while discussing this issue with my wife, I began to feel a sense of urgency about moving, and almost broke into a sort of panic because of it.
   I calmed down a bit later after sitting and writing in a small, quiet coffee shop in the hip area which had helped to elicit these negative feelings within me, and some of the intensity began to subside. I started to think about how I can spend the greater part of my time in places that I love here, such as the parks, beach, and hills like the one where I took the pictures below. I realized that to live in the middle of nowhere would not afford me the choice to look in trendy shops or sample many new restaurants should I choose to, and choice is important to me. I realized that there are a kind of two parts of the city for me, and I can choose, for the most part, when I want to leave the quieter, western part of the city where I live.
   I can't imagine that there are many even remotely cosmopolitan places in the world that can offer me the kind of natural environments that San Francisco does, that still thrill me at times even after more than nine years, and that can offer me secluded woods just a short drive out of the city.

A panoramic view of the city (facing northeast)

 

View to the west

A city map

Collapsing side mirrors

   Whether or not people have been folding in the side view windows of their cars for a long time I don't know, but I've certainly been noticing it more over the last year or so. I'm sure that these mirrors have been collapsible for some time now, but my focus on them seems to have accelerated over time, probably due to my negative feelings about the types of cars that people seem to exercise this option with.
   Let me state here that certain people with money make me uncomfortable, in particular when I believe that the appearance of it is diplayed ostentatiously, and like most things that annoy me, I seem to spend more time dwelling on then I do on things that don't. Almost without fail, when I see a car with it's side mirrors folded in, it is on a luxury car, such as an Audi, Lexus, or Mercedes Benz, as pictured below.
   The reason that the mirrors on these cars tend to be folded in more than on other cars seems apparent to me; the cars mentioned are expensive, and the owners want to protect them. What interests me is why people with pricey cars should want to protect them more than people with ones that don't cost as much. Should I assume that if one has a fairly inexpensive car than they don't need to worry about it being damaged because they could easily buy another one, or is it a matter of investment, and people with expensive cars want their resale value to remain high? I own an inexpensive car, and although it would not be without financial pain for me to have to buy a new one, I don't fold in my mirrors as a matter of practice.
   I believe that ir's because the cars being talked about here mean a lot as status symbols to the people that own them, and that is what I am writing this blog entry. To me, anything that a person can buy says nothing positive about that individual; in fact, it seems kind of sad, but most cultures do teach their inhabitants that symbols of wealth are good, and perhaps it is that which makes me so angry.
   I generally choose to write about things that fascinate or bother me, as a way to get a better understanding on the subjects, and if the subject bothers me, to hopefully find a place of peace with it, at least temporarily.
In this particular case, I don't believe that thinking and writing on this subject will necessarily help me to feel more understanding of the people with these cars, but writing as a practice does make me feel better as an act of creative expression, and sometimes that is good enough.

A Mercedes Benz, windows folded in (even on 

the right side where no cars could inadvertantly clip it).

Country-tinged music from when I was a kid

   I never really cared much for American country music, in fact, I never liked it at all, until the last few years, when I began to discover some of it that I found both soothing and sad, in ways that spoke to my own inner hurt. I discovered most of this music, mostly country-tinged music rather than standard country, by searching the internet and music blogs that I respected, and found that nearly all of the music from this category that I liked had been recorded in the period from the late nineteen sixties through the mid nineteen seventies. I can't tell whether knowing the years that the music was recorded somehow influenced my choice to like it, or if the music from that period had a flavor and sound distinct to that time, but pretty much without fail it is only that period which I like.
   I don't believe it a coincidence that this country music that I like is sad in sound (not all country music is sad), because the music from this time that I am writing about coincides with a time in my life that started as seemingly stable (as far as I can remember), to a time filled with pain and crippling anxiety, due in no small part to my parent's bitter separation and eventual divorce. It's as if the music is able to bring me back emotionally to that time, drop me in the pain there, and allow me to gradually experience it as an adult in a way that I couldn't withstand years ago, so I just stuffed it down the best that I could.
   So now, when I listen to certain country-styled music from that time, it's like I've split off into two people, and one of these people has the task of experiencing new things in a way that connects some of the past to the other half that still lives mostly in the present. It's helps me to get back to places that I had previously shut out emotionally, and although it can make me sad, I feel like it helps me to partially loosen some of the knots that restrict me internally.
   When I used to engage in visual art-making regularly, I used to subscribe to the idea that content, or ideas, should determine the form. When it comes to my emotional life and memories, it seems that form can justifiably help to determine content as well; without this possibility, I doubt that I would have expereienced some of these feelings enabled by my exploration of this music.

The cover from the album featuring a song which never fails
to move me, released when I was four or five years old.

Quiet music

   I can''t say that I am easily shocked by much besides the intensity of my feelings at times, but when I think a bit about how some of my tastes have changed about music, I am surprised. As an example, I remember thinking that I'd never listen to folk music unless it had an important connection to my past (an example might be a song from a record that my father played when I was growing up), and while my interest in some of this music ebbs and flows, I do listen to it, despite my past absolute belief to the contrary.
   Along these lines would also be included jazz, which I had no interest in or experience with, only the complete disdain for. I now often listen to a jazz radio station in my car when I drive, and have begun exploring more of this genre, listening to it at home as well on occasion.
   While jazz can often be quite uptempo and vibrant, both of these forms of music could for me be put in the category I would call "quiet music" (or at least quieter music than I used to listen to).  I find that music which is less aggressive and forceful provides not only a calming respite, but also just seems to go better with my temperament at this time in my life. It's not that I am so much calmer and relaxed as a person in the world, but I seek to have these qualities more now, and that is a change, albeit a gradual one. I have not found that being more relaxed is necessarily easier as I get older, but feel that doing something concrete to create that environment around me seems more vital.
   Not only do I prefer a quieter music these days, but more tranquil surroundings as well. I now would choose visiting a beautiful park or forest over visiting a city on almost any occasion, as I've grown to accept, through experience, that places without a lot of commotion help to calm my internal commotion. Because I feel like a savage beast at times, I turn to quiet music for it's charms, to paraphrase the famous quote.

 

Immigration policy

   I have been thinking quite a bit recently about my relationship with immigrants, and how it informs the ways that I think of myself ethnically and culturally. As an adult, I have often found myself living in neighborhoods with high minority populations, so have often felt like the outsider culturally there. Although I probably have been the minority in those enclaves, I imagine that it has been those residents that has felt that way in the wider society, yet even in that larger culture, I still tend to feel something like a tolerated guest at best.
   I should mention here that although I am white, I am ethnically (though non-religiously) Jewish, and that fact has tended to make it difficult for me to fully identify with other Caucasian people; like the pork industry states about their product, I feel like the other white meat.
   This feeling of being this other in a majority population is a confusing place; like an entity that is forever in between other things, I can't quite figure out to whom or where I belong, and although I have never wanted to belong to groups (most likely as a way to try to verify my uniqueness to myself), I suspect that I in fact don't feel like I belong, rather than not really wanting to belong.
   I recall on multiple occasions seeing programs on television about life in prison, and when prisoners talk of the need for 'staying with your race' for one's own safety, I become puzzled; I suspect the 'white' groups (the apparent group for me) would have neo-Nazi tendencies, and then what place would I have there?
   Born in New York City and a resident there for fourty two years, I had always thought of myself as a "New Yorker", even for some years after living in my current state of California. I now think of myself as a person from New York, and although I try to think of myself as a Californian, I'm not sure that I believe myself.
   Here in the United States, there has been a lot of discussion about immigration over the last few years, and it has given me pause to think about my own policy; am I allowing myself to emigrate, or shall I forever be the 'wandering Jew', remaining the diaspora that I may or may not want to be?

Preparing for possibility

   This is the time of year for babies around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. There are ducklings and goslings, to name just a couple, while other birds are preparing for their newborns, including herons and small back birds whose name I do not know, but who do a great job of harassing squirrels and human passersby who venture too close to their nests.
   Most of the people that I see on my daily walks marvel at the infant and juvenile animals there, but I am much more interested in the gathering, building and waiting than the 'finished products'. I first started to realize this when on multiple occasions I saw a large bird (a heron) clumsily land on a branch some distance from the tree it's normally associated with, and a minute or so l later taking flight again, this time with some sticks in its mouth. There was something about this image that stuck with me.
   It would be easy to surmise that I appreciate and feel more comfortable with process than with ending, but the reality is that little could be farther from the truth. I am very uncomfortable with unfinished things, and do all I can to avoid them as often as possible.
   One could also say that I am drawn to the building and construction because it is a creative endeavor, like an artist whose art is only meaningful for them as an act of creation. That wouldn't be true for me, either. I have some history as a visual artist, and there too, I generally preferred finishing the artwork to the making of it, though there were times that the creation aspect was fun and educational.
   It's strange then to me that what I'm drawn to here at the lake doesn't strike me as preparation as much as something else, something more like readying for possibility. This notion feels like freedom to me. In it lies the hope that I can feel more unencumbered by limits, and more filled with the excitement of possibility.

The home base of the small, harassing black birds.

Lovin' you?

   I don't listen to music of my own choosing as much as I used to. I now often prefer silence, the radio (usually classical, jazz or progressive talk radio) and the (sometime) desire to listen to what's going on within me physically and emotionally, though when I do want to choose my music, I'm often in my car, so I plug in my iPhone to play what I've loaded onto it.
   Every so often I connect the phone to my computer at home to change what I've put there, but over the last three years or so there's almost always a consistent selection of soft pop music from the nineteen seventies.
   For most of the year ninety seventy I was six years old (turning seven only in December), and the music  years that I generally find myself drawn to the most are those from approximately nineteen seventy three to nineteen seventy six. Much of the music on these playlists is pretty commercial pop stuff, and though I usually dislike pretty intensely most pop music, this music has content for me that surpasses its' sound; it indexes a time in my life that carries strong emotional weight, and coincides with a very painful time. This is the period when my parents marriage was falling apart as was I on the inside.
   If you had asked me in my earlier adult life if I would want to listen to music that elicits painful memories, I'm pretty sure that I would have said no, but as I've gotten older I've learned that these associations can help to bring forth things that I had previously consciously forgotten, and having these come to light allows me to look at them, if I choose.
   If someone that I know sees me listening to this kind of music they are generally surprised, and will sometimes say to me, "do you like this music?". If I am asked this, I will usually reply, "I'm not sure, but I know it", and that answer, although sounding somewhat cryptic, is in fact straight to the point.

The single record cover of one of the songs often on my iPhone, circa 1975

 

Chosen culture

   New York City, where I am originally from (and spent the first forty two and a half years of my life) has more than 2 million Jews, second only to Tel Aviv, Israel in Jewish population. San Francisco, California, where I have lived for the past nine years, is supposed to have more than 220,000 in it's greater bay area (a not insignificant number considering the population here is much less dense than in my hometown), yet I often feel more like an ethnic afterthought when it comes to the culture that surrounds me.

   According to numerous figures that I've read, Jews account for roughly twenty percent of the population of Manhattan, where I grew up and spent much of my young adult life, second only to Catholics in term of percentage; so even in Jew York, I was part of a minority, albeit, a very visible one. 

   I bring all of this up, because I have a difficult time not feeling culturally invisible here, and although I have always been an atheist and therefore non-religious, there is an ethnic component to being Jewish that I've always identified with. As an old friend of mine used to say about me; "Adam your not so much of a Jew, but very Jewish". It comes as no surprise to me that I may feel a bit culturally invisible, because I am prone to feeling that way at times surrounded by other Jews (I've felt very alone at a Bar Mitzvah), but the Jews that I've met here in San Francisco are, like people are about many things here, kind of laid back about being Jewish. I don't think those words ever came to mind relating to the Jews that I knew growing up, and I knew A lot!

   So it seems that what is really at issue here is a question of cultural style, rather than ethnic invisibility. I always thought of myself as being Jewish, though I think I relate more to it over time, and it's really hard to tease out whether this is because I find it harder to relate to it here on the west coast, or whether it's simply a product of me getting older (I was told that my father's father was a Bolshevik for much of his life, but became more religious in his later years).

   I do consider myself a Californian at this point in my life, and I should make an effort to acclimate to how things are where I live now. If I could do that a bit more, I may not become a 'good Jew', but perhaps feel a bit more Jewish.

     

Your author, pretending to prepare for Passover

Other world

   I went to Ocean Beach, here in the west end of San Francisco a few months ago, and when I arrived I was greeted by this incredible sight. I didn't see any equipment around, but it was evident that some work was either in process or completed to move large amounts of sand around the area. It was hard to tell whether this sand had been brought here from somewhere else or whether the sand already here had been displaced, but either way it made the beach look completely new to me, strange in a way that a planet might seem be to a first time visitor. To see a place that I've visited so many times appear nearly unrecognizable and new is for me a truly wonderful experience. It shifts my perception in a very visceral way, and that's something that I've been interested in for as long as I can remember.

Little thing

   My wife has an endearing term which she sometimes uses to refer to me: she says I am her "little thing". When I first heard this, it struck me as odd, and a little belittling. I am not very small in stature, and although I'm not particularly macho, I don't think that any man really relishes in being referred to as 'small'. For me, the idea of being small also alludes to a feeling I have in the world as being inconsequential and unseen, and perhaps that is why I take such great comfort in recognizing the small and delicate around me.
   Both in the arts and in nature, I relish in looking closely and intently at things, examining the nuances of a brushstroke, the way a textile is woven, or the sometimes subtle iridescent feathers on a duck's back. When I walk among trees and animals, I like to give myself time to look closely at the small things around, things that I have to approach slowly and sometimes bend over to see at all. I usually find that engaging in this kind of practice can make me feel very calm, and it is generally the only kind of meditation that I really enjoy.
   Appreciating the delicate and fine does not, however, generally apply to myself in the world, though I do in fact exist there. I am prone at times to thoughts of being invisible to those around me, and the beauty of the small and particular gets twisted in my head into feelings of being inconsequential. It would be good for me to apply the same values that I do to the world's smaller things towards myself, but I often forget to do this; It certainly doesn't seem to come naturally.
    I now take it for granted that it is only with love that my wife calls me her "little thing", and recognize it as being rooted in her native Spanish language, where adding "ito" to the end of a word connotes an endearing (but still small) quality.
   I have recently seen the "little thing" pictured below (near the top of the tree), as I round a particular curve during my morning walks in Golden Gate Park, and I'm as amazed that there often seems to be this bird at the same approximate time and in the same location on multiple occasions (the same bird, or same species) as I am that I actually see it at all. There are no leaves on this tree at this time I've year, and I don't see anything nearby that this small bird should be interested in, so I assume that it's using this tree as a kind of lookout, a place to look for things. As a fellow "ito", I hope that I can take my place as beautifully.

Imagining myself out of nothingness

   I remember pretty clearly the days when I thought of myself as a punk rocker, later as a rockabilly music lover, and later still as a conceptual artist. Although envisioning myself as an artist now looks a bit less restrictive as a way to posit who I am than the other roles I mentioned, it still provided a clear, and I believe now overly simplified sense of definitive 'being' in the world, a way to be Adam (this Adam, and not the other people named Adam I knew), without being anyone in particular.
   As I grew older (and I like to think became at least a little bit more mature), the titles I previously held formerly to define me, and ways to locate that me in the world became a bit less clear. During the past couple of years in particular, my own sense of self has become downright murky. I can't really put a word or image anymore to the idea of who I am, and although I see it as a sign of growth, it can be uncomfortable, as I feel like my body doesn't have the physical integrity, the wholeness, to exist in the world without a way to be thought of definitively. 
   I have been spending much of my free time over the past year or so listening to music from my childhood and early teen years, and this music has helped me to uncover thoughts and ideas from that time that has served as a kind of time memory time machine that helps me to remember parts of my past, and to re-imagine them, though with me as an adult, rather than the child and young man that I was. It's as if I can revisit that time in the somewhat stronger condition that I now see myself in, and that seems to function as a new kind of way for me to think about myself. The music reminds me of the many years that I've lived, and the time gaps formed by the time when the music was new and how it functions for me now creates a kind of feeling of being in between lives. Interestingly, this feeling of being without an anchor seems to create a continuity where there previously seemed to be only nothingness.
   During this past year, I have also spent a great deal of time thinking quietly, especially during my morning walks and as I lay down to sleep, and this has also helped me to think more clearly, allowing my mind to float and make connections that I hadn't previously envisioned.
   I remember a song from my younger years by Billy Preston called "Nothing from Nothing", where the lyrics state that "nothing from nothing leaves nothing". I now believe quite firmly that something very powerful and alive can in fact come from what seems like nothing, and I hope that I never forget that.

Your author, beginning his search for identity

Arnold Skolnick

   I don't remember for sure where I was when I took this picture, but I do seem to recall that it was when I was in a restaurant. It may have been The Yellow Deli, a casual restaurant in Oneonta, New York  (and affiliated with the twelve tribes religious group, which I found interesting), where I ate a few times when I was visiting my mother. Wherever it was, I recall that the part of this poster that you see below was very close to me, at my eye level, and it reminded of a part of my childhood, as the poster was done by the father of my oldest friend, Alexander Skolnick (our parents were good friends, and he was born one month after me). The picture you see here is a snapshot of what is probably the most iconic poster of the 1960's; the poster for the Woodstock festival.

   Alexander's family was a very interesting one, meaning that they were to me unique (and somewhat crazy) in the way that in my opinion makes people memorable. I remember being afraid of Arnold (the creator of the poster) as a child. He was loud, at times vulgar, and I remember him telling stories about his friend Jeremiah, who according to the story as Arnold told it, "punched a cop" on at least one occasion. Arnold had a house in the woods in Springfield, Massachusetts, where he used to spend his weekends (he later moved there full time), and I recall riding up from New York City with him in his old Volvo station wagon (which seemed like a kind of unknown car at that time), and he would loudly tell me stories for what seemed like the seemingly endless, three hour trip. On one occasion, he was eating a meatball hero sandwich, and I remember his mouth full of meatballs and bread as he laughed and cursed loudly.

   I also remember Arnold fondly for a man who was very independent in his thinking, who started many of his own companies (producing books about artists he liked and a company which made stained glass are two that I remember), and who used to say about a person that had a lot of money that they were "richer than God".

   Arnold went to Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York, with my father, and they were good friends. I remember him seeming to be both perplexed and hurt about my father's condition, who had suffered an emotional break, and never really bounced back from it. The look of concern on his face about my father, when he saw me on the day that his own son, Alexander, had their wedding ceremony on the property at his Springfield home, still is with me and touches me up until this day when I think about it. 

   Even though the poster that he made far eclipsed Arnold Skolnick's own fame (which I thought was basically non-existent, though there is a Wikipedia entry on him), to me he is a person who can elicit in me feelings which seem both highly personal and nearly global at the same time.

   This is for you, Arnold Skolnick.

  

Shoes and security

   I like to think of myself as having rather simple taste in clothing, and have had a similar taste in shoe style for quite a few years, I don't believe that wearing any brand name or style makes a person better than someone else, so you might gather that shoes are not that important to me, but they are; enough so that they have warranted that I write this blog entry.

   Shoes are listed on most clothing websites as accessories rather than as their own category like 'shirts', 'pants' or 'outerwear' are. They are regarded mostly as something that adds to some other thing, rather than as the basis, but when I look at shoes on my feet, I see them as very base; they mark where I meet the earth, where I begin and the rest of the world exists, and they are the buffer for that coming together, which can feel harmonious, but at times seems volatile and hazardous. Under these conditions, shoes must be for me something more than just a covering and protection for my feet against the hardness of the ground below me.
   I should also add here that I have a condition in my feet called plantar fasciitis (which requires that I wear orthotic shoe inserts or shoes with excellent arch support), as well as being prone to foot calluses, but these conditions have only heightened my anxiety about where I meet the world; I don't believe they gave rise to it.
   Phillip Guston and Alberto Giacometti are two artists which have dealt with similar issues in their work, and I've always felt that the most interesting artists are the ones whose anxieties dominate their work. Problematic relations to oneself and the world are not necessarily enjoyable, but they can be productive, and possibly interesting. They produce something which is perplexing and hard to describe.
   Shoes for me then must possess extra powers. Like the spacesuit of an astronaut, they must be both in and 'out of this world'.

The Clarks Desert Trek...at one time my only pair of shoes

Poor Steering

   I drive my car, at least a little, just about every day. This has been the case for only the last 8 years or so, since my wife and I came to San Francisco from New York City, where I almost never drove. Being behind the wheel of the car can help me to feel free, but it can also give rise to feelings of agitation and anger, as other drivers (and often bicyclists) do things which I find at times to be disrespectful, dumb and downright dangerous. Being in control of a car seems to give me the illusion that I am in control over other things, and when other people do things that I don't like, the illusion is shattered, and I become frustrated. 

   Recently in my life I have taken time to learn better how to keep focus on my feelings by practicing self-reflection and meditating during my regular morning walks, but when I get into my car, I often forget these; it's as if I've opened the window in the car and my consciousness has been sucked out. I try listening to quiet music, talk radio, or sit while driving in relative silence (which does seem to help a bit), but still I find myself stymied at times by this strange powerlessness I seem to have when I am on the road. Perhaps if I can focus more on feeling out of control when I am behind the wheel, I can gain greater power over myself.

Nearing my apartment, as seen from the driver's side of my car