Wool and berries

   During my childhood and early adult years, my sister, my father and I would go out to the grandparents' house for family gatherings. These were generally on Jewish holidays, but sometimes included Thanksgiving, I believe. but I might be wrong about that.
    After a long train ride to the Van Wyck station in Queens, my grandfather (and sometimes grandmother) would pick us up and drive us to their home, which had a smell that I recall as particular, but has over so much time for me become vague. Perhaps it was of moth balls. I remember more specifically the candies that they would offer us younger ones from a heavy glass bowl. They were shaped and colored like blackberries and raspberries. The light grey poly blend wool gloves that I often wear for my morning walks in early morning and chilly Golden Gate Park have a smell that remind me of those candies. Mustier, with a slight sweetness. I am often amazed that I am able to experience some things so vaguely yet with so much force.
   I kind of half-enjoyed going way out there to Jamaica, and even though it felt like we were interlopers, Emily, dad and I still felt like some kind of unit. The rest of the family, the cousins, aunts and grandparents, seemed to exist in a world so complete before we would arrive and we would leave. We were there, seemingly out-of nowhere, then gone. When I think about my own death, I imagine it similarly.

Living in the valley

In our hotel room in Purmamarca, in the country where Fernanda was born
(much closer to her comfort zone than mine)
she and I looked at a map,
a pamphlet really
that is given to tourists like us to inform them of nearby sights to see
and which I am a bit embarrassed to say was not only useful
but also entertaining.
After reading the destinations, we decided to go to "Salinas Grandes",
and set out the next morning,
And as the driver drove, and Argentine tourists repeatedly sang songs that quickly fluttered out in that bus we were on,
I looked ahead and out of the windows.
And while not feeling pressured by them, the mountains that bordered us
impressed on me the sensation that we were being wedged in
and I thought how often I feel stifled by the ideas I have about the world.

At that moment
I wished that my vision of the world was as lush as I imagined that valley could be
between me and those hills, fed by rain
and melting snow.
Probably, they held their moisture well, using every last droplet.
And as we passively eased through that landscape
I remembered that the hard crust of the earth shifts, and is flexible enough to alleviate built up pressure.

Cézanne and I

   The park can be a place where I can feel remarkably free. Sometimes, I am bothered by the people there, but when I focus on other things, I feel liberated, and can sometimes perceive things in ways that are fantastic.

   I saw the tree in the picture below during a recent morning. It seemed as though I could not fix my vision as I walked towards it. The branches were undulating, there and not there, perhaps partially due to the light wind. They seemed to be moving in a space as unfixed as mine, it's leaves, blurry. The lack of a fixed point of view upended the sense I generally have of being somewhere, and although the sensation struck me at the time as very beautiful, it now makes me a bit anxious as I think more about it.
   I  remember many years ago visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York with my friends while we were all under the influence of psychedelic mushrooms, and when I saw the way the artist Paul Cézanne painted leaves in some of his landscape paintings, I understood that he had seen them much the same way I had in Central Park during the walk to see the museum. Although there has been things written that the drink absinthe (popular with many during his time), caused hallucinations, I imagine that he had altered his attitude, not his mind.
   I have found that opening my eyes just a little, squinting even, can sometimes change my perspective a lot, as can the mindful exercise of looking at things as if I had never seen them before.    
   There have been times that I have been able to see without the use of drugs.

Splinters

 In my parents' apartment I had to walk down a long hall, turn right, then turn right again to reach my room. Hanging in a recessed panel above the door was a sign that my father had painted, with the name Adam in letters the color of ripe oranges. That name was, and usually remains, as foreign to me then as now. My sister had a sign too, just a little ways from mine across a short hall; hers had purple I believe. It said "Emily" on it. That was her name.
   The front door to the apartment, which would make a large clang when it shut due to all of those locks and heavy frame, would deposit me at one end of that long front hall. Sometimes, when I had been inside for a while, I would run alone, or with my sister down that expansive space, and would end up with a splinter in a foot. Sliding with socks on, in the wood went. It was strange to have to remove a tube sock to find it, and it could be very difficult to locate. Layered calluses. I might still have some slivers down there. Sometimes, my emotions seem inundated with slivers from that time.
   The overwhelming sensation I had as a child was that I was completely alone, and my room, although usually messy and chaotic, still seemed safer than anywhere else. Of course, this kind of security was relational. I imagine that I would feel more safe with a bulletproof vest on knowing that I'm about to be shot in the chest with a bullet. I'd prefer not to have to make that choice.
   I do not recall caring about much of anything then, but a new Elton John record or KISS' "Alive" album, which I would beg my father to buy for me, provided comfort. The records had booklets sometimes and notes on the back that I would read with the music playing in headphones, totally immersed. I cared about those things. I also cared about the AM radio that kept me company in that apartment. Harry Harrison, 77WABC. AM was music back then.
    Luckily, and perhaps as a form of self-protection, I was only able to vaguely sense the desperation I experienced during those years. The nightly panic attacks during a couple of them came with such regularity that they produced a kind of rhythm.
   Although I still feel some forty five years later many of the feelings that I must have had then, I do now know that they are feelings. As a child, my anger and despair, like those splinters I could feel but not find, did not seem to even near the surface. Little daggers in the feet of a neglected boy. The floors which produced them, rough and uncaring.

Bird behavior

   I'm sitting in a coffee shop called Latte Da in Lee Vining, California. Drinking a decaf and watching birds around a feeder, I feel at peace and satisfied watching their energy and apparent etiquette over who feeds first. The cool weather and my place in the warming sun feels good.

   What at first seemed like a complete free-for-all now appears to possess some kind of order in the process, though I certainly don't understand it. It would seem that the larger birds (in this case, sparrows) should be able to take their turns when they wished to, but they appear to be in no rush to eat. In fact, they look at bit nervous and confused over the apparent chaos. 

   Some of the smaller birds rush from nearby branches to eat, then back, then quickly to the feeder again, but it is difficult for me, a non-bird, to accurately determine who is who, and sometimes even what species they are. I believe there are only three there in total, including the sparrows.

   While I find all of the birds to be just so beautiful, I see as most enjoyable the mystery of their collective behaviors. Amid apparent chaos, there seems to be some kind of loose etiquette. Most likely, from my vantage point, I'm either be too close or far to see it.

   

Lost inside

  I was feeling feeling extremely angry and confused by Fernanda'a actions as I began my morning walk in the park in the early morning. I recognized from a distance two women coming towards me as Betty and her friend, whom I recognized but whose name I don't know. She always acknowledged me with a greeting that came out as, "ga mawnig".

I wanted to both scream a and hide from everyone.

As they neared me, I looked over at them, feeling that I shouldn't simply ignore them, despite my mood, but they did not seem to see me. It was quite strange. There are times, though irregular, when I feel so bad about myself that I wonder if everyone can see inside of me. In this instance, I seemed to have been partly right. but appeared to have been seen through.

I continued my walk, hoping that the exercise, scenery and fresh air might help to alter my pained mood for the better. I started to think about my mother, and how she often seemed to look at both familiar faces and complete strangers as if she were not there looking at them. She would stare at them until one of them would look back at her as if to say, “what the hell are you looking at?!” 

I wondered what it must have been like for me as an infant, looking up at this person who must have been looking at others rather than me. I imagined that when her gaze did turn to my direction, that it might be somewhat bewildering. What I had really needed were her assurances.
Although I've thought and talked about this subject quite a bit, I now have a conviction that what I was experiencing at that moment the very kind of hopelessness that I had felt when my mother was not able to show me that I existed. Although Fernanda is my wife and not mother, she provides a powerful anchor which helps me to feel visible and alive. When I feel distant from her, I want to escape, but find that there is nowhere to go.

Waiting, beginning and anticipation

   This is the morning that I began in earnest looking forward to returning home to San Francisco after nearly two weeks in Buenos Aires with Fernanda. I think that we have together, and hopefully separately, had a pretty good time on this trip.
   After showering, I prepared myself to go to one of the local coffee shops to write a bit before being joined by her, and thought as I readied myself to leave the hotel about what waiting, which I seemed to be experiencing, really feels like.
   Writing about it now, a little later in the day, I realize that delaying or being delayed, beginning and ending are simply ways that I have always managed the powerful and frightening sense that things are actually continuing.
   I remember in my early teen years convincing my father to buy me tickets to see the rock group KISS, the ticket sales beginning so early that there were several months before the actual day of the show. I had those two tickets push-pinned to a cork board in my room, and though very excited at the prospect of seeing my favorite band, I recall that anticipation was at times excruciating. I remember thinking that it was too far away to ever happen, that it couldn't be worth that pain.
   So it is that now, with one and a half days left here and looking forward to being both here and home, I am able to imagine without too much difficulty being back in our apartment. I trust, or rather imagine that it will happen, and perhaps imagination is what I have always been needed to fill the abyss I face when looking towards the unknown.

Robert's passing

   I was a bit shocked when Betty told me that Robert had died. Although I hadn't seen him for some time, I was still fully that he had touched me. I just needed to remember.
   Because I hadn't been at the park for quite some time, I must have thought at some recent time that he might not still be alive. Still, the news surprised me. I imagine that although we might fully expect someone to die, perhaps even anticipate it, its difficult to fathom it.
   I  remember being at my father's deathbed in the hospital in Oneonta, New York, waiting for his last breath. I was shocked when it happened.
   When Betty stopped me as we walked in opposite directions around Stow Lake, I felt guilty for thanking her for telling me about Robert. I meant to thank her for informing me, but it felt afterwards like I was thanking her for his death. It's hard to know what to say when you're told of a passing of a person important to someone else; it's confusing when it's someone that you knew only a bit.
   Robert was a man that I talked with only for short periods of time when I had finished my morning walk in the park. He would sometimes tell me a not-very-funny joke, and honestly, I can't really remember much of what else we would speak of. Still, I was moved that he would come out of his car to talk with me as I neared. I don't know what we had in common that might have formed a bond between us, but I felt one, and I believe he did, too.
   Once, I wanted to hug him, but didn't. I don't really understand why I felt so close to him, but he felt like a family member that had always accepted me fully. The news of his death reminded me that I miss him.

Barn smells

   From the ages of about eleven to fifteen, I went to a kind of hippie summer camp in upstate New York, parts of which were a small, working farm. One year, I was assigned to stay with a group of boys in a converted chicken coop.
   During those summers, some of us would play floor hockey in the storage floor of a nearby barn. I loved the smell of the hay there, and although those years were not the happiest for me, there was still something about the aromas there that I have sweet memories of. The smell of the weeds burned to keep away the insects during outdoor evening events, the biodegradable soap we used at the bathing stream, and that hay.
   I  am surprised when I reminded of it that people don't talk more about smelling in a positive sense. I cannot offhand think of another example of a thing that can so powerfully illicit memories seemingly dormant for so long. When people talk of smelling something, it usually is of something they find unpleasant.
   Perhaps most interesting is how the olfactory seems to bring forth past experiences in an almost non-linguistic way. And although I am someone who finds language to possess so much potential beauty, I also can see it as being too dominant and reaching. My nose can often have a better sense of things.































  

Calling dad

   I thought about calling my father as I got into my car early earlier. I think this every couple of months or so, though my father's been dead for eleven years at the time of this writing. I don't know whether that's a little or a lot. Anyway, I didn't feel particularly close to him as an adult when he was alive.

   It's not strange to me that I should have thought to call him in the morning (I regularly think to call other people at this time), but the idea of calling him made me think more today why I do so. Surprisingly to me, I even thought of telling him that I loved him.  

   I imagine my wish to call him and others as I go out into the world is an attempt on my part to feel more related and less afraid; perhaps less or more me. Maybe the thought of telling my father that I loved him was a merely a wish to feel closer to a world that I often find so antagonistic.

Why do I dislike theater, but not film?

    While we spoke via phone when she was still in Argentina, my wife Fernanda told me about the play that she had just seen there. When she returned, she told me more about it, adding that it was only a small, neighborhood production, but had been very good. She added that she wished that there were more like it here in San Francisco.

   Although she knows that I really don't care for theater, she relayed her feelings to me in a way that a person does when they have regrets about a thing. At least that's how it sounded to me. And while I am fully aware that I probably read that aspect into it, it still saddened me. I imagined too that she may also feel remorseful that she married someone that doesn't generally like plays as she does.
   These thoughts set me off me asking myself, yet again, why it is that I don't enjoy theater, but am liable to be moved by certain films, It seems to me to logically follow that if a person likes one, then shouldn't they also enjoy the other?
   In terms of how these two forms appear, how they present, there is something about the lack of border, really an end, that the finite space of a film frame is able to create and define in a clear way that theater does not. The play, whether on a stage or not, is for me too enacted, but not restrictive or discerned enough in a way that makes sense to me as the artifice that I see it as.
   While I often find in-between spaces, such as the difficult physical location that I see plays existing in, to offer a stretch of freedom for me as a viewer, the theatrical place instead leads me to feeling confined, and sometimes, even short of breath. I find that feeling often occurring in art museums, too.
   Perhaps because of this problematic area, the actions of the players in the productions often seem laughable to me. I actually am embarrassed at times for the actresses and actors, as they seem to be trying too hard to convince me of something (though I don't know what). It just looks ridiculous to me.
   In contrast, I rarely question the form of film, even when I don't like what I am seeing, because the artifice is pronounced in a way that I can enjoy without continually questioning it. The same is true for me of television. It seems that neither medium attempts to be anything besides artificial, and this approach is for me both refreshing and easy to consume.
   Of course, I have considered the idea that I have become more naturalized to the television (whose screen, though smaller, is not terribly unlike a movie theater screen), but I don't think that it is the resounding influence.
   Instead, it is more likely the rigidity of the screen's borders that allows me to float more freely as a consumer within the tale it depicts. The subsequent lightness allows me to interpret more freely, feeling less constrained and determined. And for me, to feel even a little less weighed down, is so wonderful.

Perceiving dimensions

   I became aware as I walked this morning my tendency to perceive the world in negative ways, and wondered what might happen if I were to try to comprehend things differently.  I was aware that thinking about things as I do makes me feel bad about others and myself.
   I decided to try a quick experiment, squinting my eyes as if I was nearly asleep or high on marijuana. As I propelled forward, I immediately realized that I had a qualitatively different sense of space. It was beautiful and unexpected.
   Instead of feeling that things around me were static, they seemed to be moving, somewhat like being looked at through a kaleidoscope. The trees moved as I moved.
   As I think about it now, I imagine that if someone were to tell me about the sense I had of those trees as if they had experienced them like that, I would figure that the person had themselves become rigid; the trees had appeared to bounce due to the movement of the individual's gait.
   But that's not how it seemed. Actually, I had perceived that myself and my world had become less rigid, and I had the impression that the less I fixed my view, the less my views were fixed. And although it was frightening to know that things could feel so much less rooted, there was also something wonderful about the fact that the world could seem so different, even for only that moment.
   

The smell of my gloves

   In the trunk of my car there are perhaps four or five pairs of gloves that I use during the (sometimes chilly) early morning walks that I take daily in Golden Gate Park. Although I wear the same old stained, Reebok sneakers daily, I do prefer to try to match my gloves in some manner to either my clothing, the weather, or both.
   The gloves that I generally wear on the more mild days are a neutral grey (one of which is shown below), and which I often notice have an odor which is at once familiar and murky. Although I'm not certain, and the association certainly may be misplaced, I believe that the smell reminds me of the blackberry and raspberry jelly candies that my Grandma Jean would have available for us kids when we would visit their home in Jamaica, Queens.
   I find it quite interesting that this fabric, which is made of an acrylic, nylon and wool blend, should remind me of these candies, and wonder if perhaps what I am reminded of is actually of that same grandma's basement (which had a lot of wool clothing, moth balls), one floor below the candies. It's certainly possible that I have attached the association to both levels.
   Whereas I normally write in these blogs to try to better understand my feelings and thoughts, sometimes, as now, I feel the need to elucidate for myself my associations only to give them possibilities. Rather than looking for answers, I find that these wonderful and often perplexing associative mental links make my existence richer. I write in part to understand some of these things better, and to hopefully, better realize the depths of these kinds of wonder.

If only you could smell it from there

Dog grandma

   There is a car that is sometimes see parked around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park when I go walking there that has a sticker on it which read, Dog Grandma. Located just behind the gas tank cover, I have only recently noticed it, even though I have seen the car there for at least a year now. I believe that the sticker must be new, because knowing myself well (if only in this regard), I cannot imagine that I have not seen it before. I say this because of the impact it has on me now.
   I find the statement in the picture below interesting not only for what I see as its' ridiculousness, but because I find its' message is so difficult to tease out. Is the driver of this car someone that has three generations of dogs from the same family, and if so, how many dogs might she have? Maybe she is a grandmother to human beings, with one of them owning a dog. Or, perhaps she herself is a a dog and grandmother that is also able to drive a car?
   When I began writing this blog, I honestly couldn't wrap my head around what the sticker was referring to, but as I write, I realize that she must have a grandchild with a dog, but I love that the two words seemed, at least temporarily, so strange together as to bewilder me. I probably would benefit from more of that feeling.

Not known

   I walked by the object in the picture below twice before taking a picture of it, thirty five minutes or so later. I had difficulty making out what it was as I first walked past it, and the second time seemed to add nothing to my understanding. I now believe that it might have taken me as long as it did to stop and take this picture, at least partially, because I did not want to have a record of it to examine more closely.
   It seems that often times, knowledge of things ruins their allure for me.
   I have written quite a bit in these blogs about what I find mysterious, and what I will call here the unknown, hard to know, and not known, even though they may describe essentially the same thing. Still, I continue to write on the subject because I feel so alive when I do, finding so much wonder and freedom in the what I fail to capture adequately. Perhaps this failure is part of what I find most beautiful.
   Just as I seemed to initially, and continue to lack the desire to better understand what is shown in the picture below, I often relish in the fact that the words that I choose, perhaps all words, cannot do better than to point to my own lack of knowledge.

Seeking silence

  One of the things that I enjoy so much about my early morning walks in Golden Gate Park is how quiet it is when I arrive. This environment helps me to focus on what is going on inside, rather than outside out of me.
    Although complete silence is not necessary for me being able to have a clear vision of my thoughts, jarring and difficult to predict sounds do tend to seriously challenge my feeling at ease. If there are sounds, those with a kind of all over quality usually lead me back to the feel of quiet.
    I italicized the word feel above because I find sounds of all kind to create more of a state than a particular volume or cadence that can be measured, though these can influence the senses I have of them.
   For example, the rustle of leaves in the wind, or the tapping of light rain falling on concrete, I find quite relaxing. Mechanical sounds too, such as air conditioners or some car engines running also can help to create a pleasant environment.
   As I think more about the early mornings in Golden Gate Park, it becomes apparent that places like it allow me to think and feel more clearly because I find the stimulation more manageable. When this is the case, I am better able to focus, connecting me more to the outside.
   The key then becomes how to carry these states within me when the world feels loud and blaring.

Company and security

   This morning I had some time before an appointment, so I decided to take a short walk to the ATM to get some cash. Although it was about eight thirty, the Pacific Heights neighborhood I was in was still bustling with morning rush hour activity. As I passed three young adults waiting for a bus (or some other transportation), I noticed that they were all standing, on this beautiful spring morning, heads down and seemingly transfixed by their phone screens.
   It almost never fails to make me wonder what people could possibly be looking at so often and long on their devices. Sometimes, seeing them do so makes me long for the interactive street life I grew up with.
   Let me add here that I'm  not trying to idealize these reminsences, as there were many times that these experiences felt both hostile and frightening; still, people did tend to look at each other, instead of elsewhere.
   After my stop at the bank, I walked up the hill on Fillmore Street, continuing to see people with their phones out, but noticed that many of them were simply carrying them; I immediately thought of baby blankets, and the comfort they provided.
   I want to be clear that I am not meaning to infer anything condescending, or to imply that these people were like babies emotionally, but it made me a little sad. It reminded me of how difficult and scary being in the world can be, and for how many years I tried to numb and avoid these feelings through various methods.
   I felt good this morning, aware of myself and my body, which helped me to see others with compassion rather than judgment.
   I wondered a bit more about these people, their phones, and myself, and my thoughts turned to the notion of companionship. It occured to me that these screens, and the information they contained, could perhaps help one to access past positive experiences to assist in the negotiation of the potentially terrifying streets of the present.
   I realized at that moment that these people's aims were probably not very different from mine, though I personally find it more necessary and satisfying to look for that similar sense of connection within myself and my actual surroundings, in that order. I felt proud at that moment to be as bare to the world as I was.

Adam Cooperstein

   Adam Cooperstein.
   Like my own body, my name is something that I was born with, and have needed to more or less accept. Until recently, I really haven't thought that deeply aboout it, but just seem to have become accustomed to it. When I use the word accustomed here, I mean it more in the sense of indoctrinated.
   For many years I felt quite ashamed of my name, especially the surname, as I wished that it sounded somehow less ethnic.
   When I was growing up, I wished I had a last name like Jones or Smith, and while I no longer feel so uncomfortable at the sound of it, trying to getting a better sense of my association with it, and how I represent it (or vice versa) has taken regular and deep looking at it on my part.

   By employing different methods to loosen my own conditioning to the words Adam Cooperstein has been helpful, and I've found that photographing it, as written by myself and by others, has been particularly useful. Taking pictures seems to give me a kind of objective distance that is sometimes difficult to achieve otherwise.

   Yesterday morning, as I thought about these things, I wondered about my father, and if he too had ever thought about these things. Was he ever embarrassed about it, or wonder if it accurately stood for what he felt himself to be?
   It is a kind of cultural given that parents are proud (I assume to varying degrees) of their offspring, but I wonder to what extent they think about the surname aspect of this connection. For example, is it ordinary for a man to look past the pride of passing on his own name, and think about the fact that this new person will now be tied to it?
   Although growing up without a name would surely make some forms of identification quite difficult for a young person, I wonder if it could help one to figure out who they are for themselves, without having to adapt to something that they've been branded with.
   While I'm aware, probably for the first time in a very concrete way, that I am free to change my name, as well as my body, it just seems like I would be supplanting one older definition for a newer one. Still, I would in a sense  represent or be represented by that word or words.
   Although difficult and frightening, might it not be wonderful to be that much less defined in the world?

Penny on the ledge

   It had been unseasonably warm here in San Francisco, and I had stuck my head out of one of our living room windows, as I sometimes do, to feel the temperature and see what was going on outside my one bedroom apartment.

     

   Looking straight, and then down, I noticed that there was a penny perched on our window ledge, which is shown above (the penny was no longer there when I took the picture). Somehow lodged on that thin ledge, I wondered how it could have gotten there, and if it had been thrown, how it had managed to stay. It seemed to me that it could only have been placed there gently, which could only have been done from our window, which neither my wife nor I had done.
   It was quite a wonderful feeling that I experienced at that moment, and it supplanted the self-critical thoughts that I had had from an earlier naptime dream. This fantastic experience gave me pause to clear that fear and replace it with something of mystery.

Thoughts on caffeine, doing without, and other things.

   At the time that I began writing this blog, I had decided to try to kick caffeine, and had gone roughly thirty six hours without drinking coffee (and it was rough). About halfway through that second day, I drank a long espresso, and that ended that experiment. Although short lived, it was the first time that I can remember going without caffeine as an adult,
   Before making the conscious decision to drink that cup, I had been back-and forth over whether or not to do so, considering both the potential benefits and drawbacks. Unusually for me, this difficulty in deciding didn't feel particularly stressful or anxiety producing. I'm glad I realize this aspect.
   Towards the end of my ruminations, I suddenly remembered how many emotions had surfaced when I stopped smoking cigarettes all of those years ago, and how difficult that aspect of it in particular had been to deal with (aside from the nicotine addiction). Eventually, I got a bit more used to having such a wide breadth of feelings. Still, it's only a bit.
   I have come to realize over the years that there's a lot to be considered when it comes to changing my habits. Of course, the idea of having more control of my body and desires feels empowering, but it doesn't avoid this particular problem; are the potential outcomes worth the freedoms sacrificed in the process?
   I'd like to imagine that there is a way to not feel the need to look at things in this way, but at this point in time, I cannot fathom it significantly differently. I don't know if it's cynicism, a cultural "ism", or just the way the world is, but it seems to me that something has to be lost for something else to be gained.