I was
17 when JFK was murdered. At first I didn't believe the news, since I
imagined that such a thing would not be possible. But the agitation of
my fellow high-schoolers and our teachers soon convinced me. For the
past week or so, there have been many programs on radio and television
about JFK's life and death, about his killer, and about the physics of
the event itself. All this has brought the
period back to me. At the time, I was impressed by the drama of the
succession, the grandeur of great events in high places. The human
dimension of it, its meaning for his family and others, reached me only
later. Ever since, I've had a strong sense of the unpredictability of
life, of what the old Prayer Book calls "the changes and chances of this
fleeting world."
This
afternoon I took myself to the Legion of Honor, to look at the Anders
Zorn exhibition, and a much smaller display of works by Matisse. The
Zorn pieces are technically very impressive and interesting. There are
many of them, watercolors, etchings, and oils, and a few small bronzes.
The paintings are conservative in technique and subject
matter: rich Americans and such, and a dollop
of Swedish and other lower class types, and waterscapes and so on. Zorn
clearly intended to make money, and he did. Pots of it, which he and his wife
used to create a museum of his works and Swedish folk art. The pieces showing promise of becoming real art, since they weren't made to flatter rich patrons, are the
small bronzes. Some of the paintings looked familiar to me; I must have
seen them in Stockholm. The Matisse paintings are joyful,
colorful, playful even, unselfconscious products of a free, creative
mind, unbeholden to social ambition. A huge relief after the too-perfect
Zorn pieces. I will see them again. And, as I always do when I visit
the Legion, I went to one of the permanent galleries, to look at
Konstantin Makovsky's 'The Russian Bride's Attire,' a piece from 1887.
This massive work is a riot of interest, to me at least. Although it
portrays well-to-do women (Romanov royalty of the 1600s) preparing for a wedding, it has none of the
slickness of society portraiture. It has cultural depth, charm, and
dignity. There is action in the picture: a mother combing her
daughter's hair, a woman shooing the bridegroom away from the doorway,
young women singing, and so on. The work is rich in historical detail,
in the clothing, furnishings, headdresses, and more. A joy to behold.
67
years old today. A prime number. A friend gave me the
somewhat disconcerting news that this number is known as an "unhappy
prime!" Recreational mathematicians will know what this means.
The
Eve of All Hallows, When Spirits Walk the Earth. On the 31 bus in the
early evening, a small boy humorously but resolutely would not let his
mother anywhere near the bagful of candy he was hauling. He would not be
parted from his loot. His charm won the day, or, at least, the
occasion.
A
Word to the Wise. After I left the de Young Museum this afternoon, I
noticed a passing car bearing the license plate CYBERIA. I promised
myself to think of it every time I turn on my laptop.
A
Day in The Life, or, Vita Brevis, Ars Longa. I took myself this
afternoon to the De Young, to look at the Hockney exhibition. This
stunning show is worth several visits. The number and variety of pieces
are beyond what I expected, most of them contributed by the artist
himself. The most recent piece in the show is no more than a month old! I
came out of the exhibition feeling invigorated and cheerful,
thanks I'm sure to the energy and vision of the artist. In the museum
shop, a nice Russian lady said to me, "Excuse me, sir. What kind of
artist is David Hockney? Modernist? Surrealist?" "David Hockney is David
Hockney," I replied; "I don't think that we can place him in any
school!" The Russian lady appeared to be satisfied with my response.
Of
sailing ships and sealing wax. This afternoon I took myself to Pier 40,
to look at the Lady Washington, berthed there. Her sister ship, the
Hawaiian Chieftain, was out on the Bay, I believe. Four young sailors,
in their 18th-century clothes, were aloft on the Lady Washington,
furling sails and tightening ropes and whatnot. A few years ago, I met
one of the crew of this vessel, a young man with a bright red Mohawk
haircut and an eagerness to visit the "cool" Mission district. God bless
the young people who sail in these ships.
I took myself down to Pier 17, to look at the Colombian training
ship ARC Gloria. Its beauty and simplicity are a joy to behold.
In
Leah Garchik's column in today's Chronicle, appears the following quote
in her 'Public Eavesdropping' feature: "There are two ways you can live
in San Francisco. You can be very rich or have nothing at all. I choose
to have nothing at all." I live close to the 'nothing at all' side of
this demographic spread. Soaring rents and increasing numbers of
evictions have ordinary folk looking nervously over their shoulders. My
building and neighborhood appear not to be attractive to hipsters and
overpaid techies, so far.
Him: "Handel's 'Israel in Egypt': okay, is it just me, or is this piece really, really radical, out on a limb?"
Me: "Lemme see.... 'radical' means 'pertaining to the root,' so 'root' is to 'limb' as 'Handel' is to 'way out there!' "
Some
days ago, I was walking near Land's End, on my way to meet a friend,
with whom I later walked along the coastal trail. I was approached by
two tourists, a couple from Australia, who asked advice on a good place
to eat. Since we were near the Seal Rock Inn, I pointed in its
direction, and said, "You'll get a decent meal there. I've eaten there
many times. You won't find it in the Michelin Guide, but you'll be
satisfied." "Honest food?" the husband asked. "Yes, honest food!" I
replied.
A
few days ago, I noticed, in a parking lot at Stonestown, a VW bus,
probably from the 60s or 70s. It looked like it was well taken care of.
Painted red, white, and blue, it was adorned with peace signs, little
flags, a smiley face or two, and so on. I saw it again this afternoon,
on Geary Boulevard. The sight cheered me, and reminded me of the summer
of 1968, when I and four friends travelled in a
VW bus down the west coast, from Vancouver to Los Angeles, and on
across the United States, to Detroit, where the three of us who
remained, returned to Canada. We dropped one person off in Hamilton, and
went on to Montreal, where I got off. The owner, the last person in the
VW, drove on. The trip included one very wet night along the Oregon
coast, when the five of us crammed into the van and tried to sleep,
unsuccessfully. There was a breakdown early one morning on a very lonely
highway in Arizona, a layover of several days in Seligman AZ, while we
waited for parts to come from Phoenix, and a 54-hour non-stop dash
across the country, to get the van's owner as close as possible to Yale
U, where he had to register for a PhD program in a few days. He made it.
I've never had a road trip like it since, although I had a driving
adventure in Sweden a few years ago, which featured a blow-out, a brake
failure, and other excitements. But that is another story.
A
week or two ago, at Palo Alto Caltrain station, as I was purchasing a
ticket, a young girl at the machine next to me said, "Can I have a
quarter?" "Well," I said, "why not?" as I handed her a coin. After she
completed her purchase, she turned to me with nickels in her hand and
said, "Want the change?" "Sure," I said, "why not?"
At
Aardvark Books the other day I came across M J Chatsworth's translation
and edition of Anselm's 'Proslogion,' with Latin and English text, and
commentary by the translator. All this for $5. How can I go wrong? "Sed
heu me miserum,... quid incepi, quid effeci? Quo tendebam, quo deveni?
Ad quid aspirabam, in quibus suspiro?" I know the feeling, believe me I
do.
At
The Creamery in Palo Alto, an old-style soda fountain and coffee shop,
the three counter staff wore T-shirts emblazoned with encouragements.
The first proclaimed: Fuhgetaboutit. The second announced: It's going to
be all right. The third said: It really does matter. Thus fortified,
and having refueled on iced tea and apple pie, I walked a few doors up
the street, to Bell's Books, where I bought Teilhard de Chardin's 'The
Future of Man.' $7.50. I
read Teilhard in my student days, and always wanted to study him more
deeply. His understanding of evolution in theological terms (and of
theology in evolutionary terms) appeals to me, and convinces me that the
reductionist scientistic delusion (the notion that science "explains"
everything) of our time is not the last word in our understanding of the
universe.
This
morning I attended the funeral of Jose Sarria, "the Widow Norton," at
Grace Cathedral. The church was full. I have never before seen so much
black lace, black tulle, black satin and silk, black taffeta, and so
many elaborately veiled mourners, in one place. And there were more
diadems, tiaras, yards of necklaces, ribbons, chains of office,
pendants, brooches, and more, than anyone will ever see
at a royal funeral, anywhere. A man in the pew in front of me said, "I
would love to have the rhinestone concession!" But, over-the-top as the
outfits and accoutrements were, the event was dignified, sober,
respectful, and laced with humor in several eulogies, all in all a
splendid tribute to the creative and courageous life of Jose Julio
Sarria. RIP.
On
the 5 Fulton bus, a young man and woman at the back of the bus, were
entwined in a passionate embrace. "Excuse me, young lady," said the
driver, somewhat loudly. This remark easily got her attention, since,
unusually for a Saturday night, the bus was more than half empty. "Young
lady," he said; "you told me that he was your uncle!" "Yeah!" she
replied. "That," said the driver, "was not an uncle kiss!"
The
older I get, the more astonished I am, that so many people prefer
delusion to reality. I don't know what the cure is. Reality certainly
isn't.
After
breakfast with a friend, I said, "We agree about practically
everything. We're going to have to fight about something one of these
days!" "I don't like the color of your hat!" he said. "Tough!" I
replied.
O
tempora! O mores! On Caltrain this afternoon, a charming young man
began a conversation by remarking on the unusual humidity. The young man
works for a new startup, which he is eager to leave. "It's hard to sell
a product that doesn't exist!" he said.
A
Theme in The Life. A few weeks ago, I bought a chess set, in a standard
modern style. The pieces are magnetic, and adhere nicely to the board,
which folds into a handsome box to carry them. I played chess, badly,
when I was young, and gave it up in my university days. I resolved that
one day I would turn my attention to it again. That day has arrived. At
Aardvark, I bought a splendid book, dating
from 1935, on the game. I love the old notation. Modern chess notation
is unreadable, and reminds me of the metalogic matrices I studied in
school. This afternoon, at the Mechanics' Institute Library, I watched
awhile a young man play chess online. And of course, there's the chess
club, on the 5th floor, which I will visit one day. Outside, as I passed
through the Crocker Galleria, I came upon a very large chess set, in
which the kings and queens were between 3 and 4 feet tall. A group of
young people were playing. One sporting young fellow was standing on the
white queen's square, evidently replacing her. They were a few moves
into the opening.
For
years I have known that the world that "conservatives" describe is not
there. It does not exist. I simply don't recognize the world that they
live in. I'm not an imperceptive person. Surely there is something,
somewhere. But there isn't.
A
Moment in The Life: At the Caltrain station this morning, the
newsvendor sold me the Chronicle (only $.50; the usual price elsewhere
is $1.00) and said, "I'll give you the [free] Examiner, so you can do
the puzzles." "Puzzles?" I queried; "I'm not that clever!" "Guess!" he
replied.
I
read in the Chronicle the other day that there are 200 pay phones in
San Francisco. 200! Where, I don't know. I've seen only a few. But there are people
who don't have mobile phones.
I
worked in the Yukon Territory, in my student days, as a geologist's
assistant with a mining company looking for molybdenum and copper.
Worked there two summers, out in the bush, in
various places along the Yukon River and elsewhere, in tents in the
forests, doing magnetometer surveys up and down mountainsides,
collecting soil and rock samples along creeks, mapping magnetic
anomalies, flying in helicopters from camp to camp, etc etc.. I spent
very little time in towns. I was briefly in Whitehorse and Dawson and
other places. My team got lost along some mountain ridge, trying to find
our way to a road back to the mine where we were headquartered (I'm the
hero of that story......I'll tell you about it sometime). Long , long
time before GPS. We used paper maps, geological surveys, compasses
almost useless thanks to the deflections of the magnetic field, and so
on. A great adventure, really. In
my day, Dawson was small, decaying, with one or two small hotels,
neither of which would be out of place in the Tenderloin today. There
were some tourists and trekkers, but not many. I remember a tiny cinema
(a quonset hut, perhaps?). Mostly I recall ruined buildings, empty lots,
a population too poor to live anywhere else, gravel roads, and so on.
Generally, the ambience was one of a ruined past, and hopeless present.
This
afternoon, a uniformed security guard boarded the 31 bus. He was
carrying a gun (a Glock) in a holster. "That's a serious weapon you
have," I said, as I was leaving the bus. "I use it only when I have to,"
he said with a smile. "Good to know!" I replied.
A
Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (see 'drab,' 'nondescript' below).
From Caffe Zephyr this afternoon, I saw, and heard, two lion dancers,
with accompanying drummers and fireworks, spread their good luck and
drive away demons, up and down the block between 37th and 38th. A short
time later, a young man in a wetsuit, carrying a surfboard, rolled by
on a skateboard, on his way to Ocean Beach. A man and his daughter
walked by, carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows, brilliantly fletched.
Summer in The City.
A
Day In The Llfe, or, What Comes Around Goes Around. After exiting the
Muni Underground at Montgomery Street, I came across a dime on the
sidewalk. I picked up the coin and pocketed it. I proceeded on my way to
the bank, and made a few other stops. On my way back down Montgomery, I
observed an older gent, briskly walking north, dressed as Emperor
Norton, Emperor of the United States and Protector
of Mexico. The uniform and beard were accurate, resembling photos of
the Emperor. This older gent is Norton II, I presume. Cheered by the
realization that What Is Old Is New Again, I went on to Stonestown, to
shop at Trader Joe's. After I had finished shopping, and was waiting for
a bus (the 18) I was approached by two teen boys, one of whom asked me
for a dime. After a brief admonition on the perils of begging on the
streets, I gave him the dime I had found. He handed it off to his
friend. They went happily on their way. No doubt The Universe Is
Unfolding As It Should.
A
Day in the Life. Tuesday afternoon, I was offered a bag of
chocolate-covered bacon, obtained from a county fair nearby. This
confection was new to me. Delicious. There were several other items,
like deep-fried chocolate bars, but I forbore.
A
Sign of the Times, in the restroom of The Social Study, on Geary at
Fillmore: Employees must recite the alphabet backwards before returning
to work.
I
have lived to see, proudly seated in the back seat of a Mercedes Benz
convertible, a dog, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. He's a
Yankees fan.
A streetcar motorman this afternoon announced the '2nd & King/AT&T Park' stop as "the House that Barry Built!"
I
live in a small studio apartment. I like to think that I know what and
where everything is. But I frequently come across objects which prompt
me to ask, "Where did this come from? And when?"
Zephyr
changed hands June 1. The surfboard and the teapots disappeared, along
with a large collection of posters and framed photos and prints that
were on offer. The disintegrating wicker chairs, which I remember from
the first time I visited the cafe, in 1992, vanished. This afternoon, a
workman was tearing up the equally ancient carpet. Meanwhile, the new
owners continue to serve lattes and regular coffees, and the posted
menus are intact, so far.
Lunch
at a restaurant in Hayes Valley. My tea bag read, "Smooth green tea
leaves harmoniously blend with sweet tropical fruits of pineapple and
guava. Fragrant and uplifting, this bouquet will transport you to
tropical bliss." ....I'm waiting..
Life in The City. My local cafe is offering a surfboard for sale. $50. Plus assorted Chinese teapots, $18 each.
On
the 31 bus this afternoon, I overhead a young man, on his mobile phone,
explain to his father just why, and how, his place of employment (a
large, hip retail store) is haunted. Poltergeists, evidently. The building was a hospital in a former existence.
Tonight's
fortune cookie, from Mandarin Villa at Oak and Franklin, reads: You
will soon receive an unusual gift, freely given. Accept!
I
have elephant bells. I have to ring them every morning at 8:30, to make
sure that an elephant won't appear at my front door. It's worked well,
so far.