June Fragments

Fragment #1

“…he that loveth a book will never want a faithful friend, a wholesome counsellor, a cheerful companion, an effectual comforter…The reading of books, what is it but conversing with the wisest of men [and women] of all ages and all countries…

Isaac Barrow

Of Industry in Our Particular Calling as Scholars

Fragment #2

“Light falls from distant planets

The stars test us—do we measure up?

The Jury is still out.”

Fragment #3

“I am too poor to pay attention

The light too dazzling to comprehend

Use every crayon to color this world

But still I keep to the grayscale

                              Of safety”

Fragment #4

“Read wise books

Miss the point”

Fragment #5

“Here are the pieces I found

Of this fragment life

It must be fashioned again

From clay and water and time”

Fragment #6

It is good the world breaks

                        Occasionally

So we can rebuild it all

                        Again

We can remake it over and over

                        In Every Time

Rich fabrics or in stone

                        Bricks and mortar

Remember, it is always coming

                        Falling again

We work from memory

                        And dust”

Conclusion

These are the jagged shards of my thinking, while listening to ghosts in the still-dark morning.

This is the sadness of the world, and in time, hope.

Vaccines and Votes

ABC News

Two weeks before the presidential election in 2016, I went to a funeral for a friend.  At the wake immediately following the service, I found myself sitting next to a woman who exhibited a confident and professional demeanor that I found interesting.  I asked her what she did for a living, and she proudly told me she worked at a county-run public health clinic in one of the poorer neighborhoods of Los Angeles.  She was a nurse-practitioner and specialized in patient education and services, which meant she could use both her RN degree and her masters in healthcare policy.  “I take the most pleasure,” she said, “in working with families to make sure everyone is vaccinated, getting more exercise and keeping to a good diet.”

She asked about my health and I told her I had a few issues.  “Well, have you gotten your flu vaccine yet?  It’s highly recommended for people your age with chronic health conditions.”

“No, I haven’t,” I replied.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Actually,” I said, “I never get the flu shot and I don’t plan to this year.”

She launched into a tirade about how irresponsible I was being.  Not only was I endangering my own health, I was endangering the health of the people I encountered every day, including my students and teaching colleagues, as well as my family.  In haranguing me, she turned a funereal occasion into a tense argument.

“Fact is,” I countered, “in the last twenty years I have had three people I cared about die from getting the flu shot.”

She waved her hand dismissively.

“No, really,” I insisted.  “I know for a fact that their doctors all recommended a flu shot because they were of a certain age and health profile.  They got the shot, and within a few days, contracted a severe case of the flu and died.”

“Do you really think the vaccine would still be on the market if it were dangerous to people?  That’s anecdotal evidence and not supported by any data.”

“Three people dead is not an anecdote.  And pharmaceutical companies have not had to pull other medications and vaccines off the market because they realized they were harming people?  Tell that to the people who had their livers destroyed by that diabetes drug a few years ago.”  She made a sound of disagreement and shook her head.  “And how do they know what strain of flu to vaccinate for?”

“It is the one strain the CDC finds most prevalent for that particular year.”

“Yeah, and how often have they gotten that wrong?  How many times do other strains of the flu sicken people who have been properly vaccinated?  My anecdotal friends died because they had pre-existing health conditions that made them too weak to fight off the very strain they were vaccinated for.”

Her formerly professional demeanor was now smug and offensive. I changed the subject.

“I assume you are seeing a lot more insured patients now with the Affordable Care Act,” I said.

She assured me that the Obama administration’s work really benefited patients from poorer neighborhoods and those who could not afford their own insurance, although many could still not get insured or were afraid to get a policy because they did not have documents.  Her mission was to find a way to get them coverage and educate them about how to enroll and work within the system.

“So you will be voting for Hillary then, right?”

She shook her head again and made that sound of disapproval.  “Nope.  I hate that woman,” she continued.  “I’m a diehard Bernie fan and I voted for him.”

“Yes, but he is not the nominee.”

“That’s why I refuse to vote for Hillary.  The party pushed her out front and ignored all the people who wanted Bernie.”

I was still trying to understand where she was going with this when she blurted out:  “I’m gonna vote for Trump as a protest vote.  If you don’t want to let Bernie in, to hell with you all and you get Trump.”

She could not hide her pleasure in this position.

“Trump is going to destroy Obama Care; he is going to declare war on poor people, the very people you serve; he is someone who has revealed his misogyny, his racism, his contempt for the Constitution, and he hasn’t even won the election yet.”

“Oh, he’s not going to win,” she waved her hand dismissively.  “I’m just registering my protest vote.  It’s Bernie or you can have the orange idiot.”

I wished her good luck and excused myself.

Many times over the last four years, I have thought about that conversation.  I would like to talk to her again if only to ask a single question in light of the last four years:  “That whole vote of protest for Trump that probably got him elected, how’s that working out for you?”

I think I know the answer.

Eavesdropping On The Pandemic

David and Griselda live in the adjacent apartment building with a patio directly under my office windows.  Since this whole work-from-home situation started, I have had the distinct annoyance to be privy to their one-sided conversations on the phone, nonstop, every day.  They have a small toddler who, blessedly, never speaks, proving that noisy, obnoxious parents can produce children fit for society.

David is some kind of mid-level worker in an insurance company.  However, his real vocation is to be a screenwriter.  He sees this moment as the perfect time for him to catch the wave and become famous.

Griselda wants to be an actress.  She shot her own portraits to send to agents on the front lawn of their building.  She mounted a cell phone on a tripod and snapped away, flipping her long, curly, honey-colored hair back and forth over her shoulder.  She also did a number of stretches and yoga poses to photograph.  When not preparing to act, she is a stay-at-home mom.

I eavesdropped on the couple’s conversations; here is a transcript.

David (Tuesday evening, 7:22 PM)—His Screenwriting Class

It’s just not going to work for me, you know.  They just destroyed my writing.  Not one positive thing to say.  I told them, I’m not coming here every week to be torn down.  I don’t need that kind of depression.  I signed up for the class to get positive feedback.  I want to hear what’s good about my writing.  (pause—other person is talking)  I checked her out before I signed up.  She has a couple of credits, you know, like a Star Trek back in the day.  I don’t know if she even knows what she’s talking about.  She said my characters are unmotivated and they don’t change.  No one changes!  That’s the beauty of it!  Everyone just stays the same.  My writing deserves better!

Griselda (Thursday morning, 9:45 AM)—Her Yoga Class

I did not sign up for hot yoga, yet the place was always a steam bath and smelled like butt.  So it’s a relief to Zoom it now, except I’m wondering, you know, it’s 250 a week.  Is it worth it?  I can do it right here at home and I don’t need an instructor or child care.  Why pay someone to make me sweat over the computer?  Thankfully, David and I do our separate things in the apartment.  I walk twice a day.  I keep the mask around my neck in case I see somebody.  It’s good because I usually shower once a day and with a mask no one can see me or my stubble.  No, my face, I mean.  Don’t you have that?  I thought you did, your hair is so thick.  I just figured…no I didn’t mean anything by it.  Sorry.

David (Friday evening, 6:10 PM—What’s For Dinner?

Yeah, we’re eating.  (sounds of scraping plates).  No, we eat out on the patio.  Can’t stand it inside all the time.  (pause)  We’re having corn on the cob, chicken…hey why don’t you come over?  No, no, I know, the quarantine thing.  Sure.  But it is good corn and chicken.  We had it delivered.  We know you, so we’re safe.  (pause)  Come on over.  I’ll tell you about my pilot.

Griselda (Monday morning, 9:01 AM—Play Dates

How can we live normal if there are no play dates?  Meanwhile, I’m saddled with her.  No, no, I don’t mean saddled.  Well, yes I do, in a way.  I mean, she is not as much trouble as David but potty time, that just eats up your day.

David (Wednesday morning, 7:15 AM—Working Out

No, she does yoga.  That’s Griselda’s thing.  (lowers voice but still loud)  I don’t get it.  Yoga!  Bunch of people twisting themselves into pretzels and farting.  Must smell great in that workout.  No, give me a good run, although I don’t like running on the sidewalk.  Too uneven; I like the asphalt or the dirt track at the park.  Clears the head unlike Griselda who probably clears the room, you know what I’m saying?  I try to not be around when she does the Zoom yoga class.

Griselda (Tuesday evening, 8:19 PM—This Is It For Me

I was asking my acting coach this very thing:  how long can you play a twenty-something?  I mean, I am still close to that age, but you know, with the wrong lighting, I can look way older.  (pause)  Well, you wouldn’t understand unless you spent time on set.  Lighting is everything.  (pause)  I’ve been on set before; that commercial for dentures.  No, I was the office assistant.  (pause)  I did too have a part—I had two lines.  (pause)  Well of course they cut it!  It was too long.

David (Saturday afternoon, 2:38 PM)—Relocating

I can’t leave L.A.  My work’s here.  No, not that, my writing work.  (pause)  The group keeps tearing down everything I submit.  I mean, who ever heard of a class where it’s all so competitive?  (pause)  I was thinking about Victorville.  It’s supposed to be cheap there.  And I can still drive back to L.A. for filming when the pilot goes into production.

Griselda (Sunday evening 9:14 PM)—How Young Do I Have To Look?

Jesus, how young do I have to look?  I can pull off twenty-two, trust me.  But sixteen?  It is all in the lighting.  And hey, at this point, I’ll play anything.  I’ll take anything.  (pause)  Well, I don’t know about that.  I’d have to ask David.  If it was done tastefully.  I have standards.  Mom, I have standards!  You’re not listening.  Why wouldn’t you be proud?

David (Monday morning, 11:55 AM)—Public Bathrooms

To hell with it.  We went north.  Less restrictions at the beaches.  My only worry was the bathroom.  We stopped at a Denny’s.  Griselda changed the kid in the women’s.  The men’s, awful.  Petri dish.  Aren’t they always like that?  The men’s is disgusting, the women’s, not too bad.  How do I know?  I went in once.  Much cleaner.  I think it was cleaner than the one at home.  Yeah, the women’s.  You just ease open the door and see if anyone is in there.  If not, you can use it.  Not a problem.  Unisex is the thing now.  You’re enlightened if you use the women’s.  You are forward thinking, a real feminist.  (pause, laughing)  Yeah I’m saving that for my comedy pilot.  Did I tell you about it?  It is hilarious.

At this point, I stopped listening and realized, to paraphrase Rilke, I must change my life and keep the windows closed for the rest of the summer.

"Thirty-Seven Days of Peril" by Truman Everts

It is a story that would be considered a comedy of errors if it were not so dangerous and potentially tragic.  Truman Everts’ tale was, in fact, a big seller for Scribner’s Monthly, a general interest magazine that thrilled readers with his lost-in-the-wilderness epic called “Thirty-Seven Days of Peril” (Project Gutenberg Ebook), published in November, 1871.

This whole exploration for Everts could be attributed to boredom.  Finding himself at loose ends and newly unemployed, he decides to visit “the remarkable region” he has heard so much about in Montana but has never had the time to visit:  Yellowstone.  He wants to see the “stupendous scenery of the Rocky Mountains,” and explore the places he has read about in “all the strange stories” told of this land well on its way to becoming a National Park.  He joins the Washburn-Langford-Doane Expedition (1870) and sets off on horseback into the wild country.

“I engaged in the enterprise with enthusiasm,” our intrepid explorer writes, “feeling that all the hardships and exposures of a month’s horseback travel through an unexplored region would be more than compensated by the grandeur and novelty of the natural objects with which it was crowded.”  He has no idea he will be stranded there, on foot, alone and without any of the resources for survival in the difficult terrain.

Separated from his colleagues, Everts loses his packhorse with all of his supplies.  When he dismounts to look at several vistas that might offer a path back to the main group, his horse promptly runs away.  He loses his blankets, gun, pistols, fishing tackle, and matches, leaving him with only two knives, opera glasses and the clothing on his back.  The opera glasses add a nice cultured touch:  not binoculars or a spyglass but opera glasses!  He fully expects to be laughed at by his comrades once he finds the expedition again, for they must still be in the area, he reasons.  He just has to find them.  He thinks getting lost might make a “thrilling episode” in a journal of the trip.  No matter how he retraces his steps, though, he cannot find the expedition again.

His second night alone, sans horse and supplies or even a way to light a fire, he hears every sound in the forest come alive.  Coyotes, wolves, owls, big cats, bears—all these hidden demons terrify him, and the gravity of his situation begins to sink in.  He consoles himself with the thought that “a thousand times afterwards in my wanderings, and I record this experience here, that any person who reads it, should he ever find himself in like circumstances, may not despair.  There is life in the thought.  It will revive hope, allay hunger, renew energy, encourage perseverance, and, as I have proved in my own case, bring a man out of the difficulty, when nothing else can avail.”

It seems as if the landscape taunts him.  General Washburn, leader of the expedition, names a nearby mountain after him:  Mount Everts.  He circles this prominent feature looking for a sign of his fellow travelers.  The mountain stands throughout his wandering, always in the distance:  Mount Everts.  Its namesake shivers from the cold, tries to ignore his hungry stomach, and assuages his hunger by eating thistle root, finding it “palatable and nutritious.”  He beds down for the night only to awaken to the screams of a mountain lion looking for him in the brush.  Everts scrambles up a tree and spends the rest of the night trying to avoid being eaten.  He breaks off branches from the tree and hurls them at the big cat until he is finally driven off.

His problems do not end with the mountain lion.  Sleeping near a hot spring for warmth, he is burned badly on the hip from a late night eruption of scalding water when he breaks through the shallow crust of earth.  On another occasion, he goes to sleep sitting next to his fire only to fall over into it and burn his hand.  He suffers frostbite on his feet which begin to fester.  He loses his knives but learns to start a fire with his opera glasses until he loses those as well and must retrace his steps to find them again.  He starts not one, but two forest fires accidentally.  He begins to experience hallucinations and visitations in the night, imaginary but just as real as the mountain lion to him.  One of them speaks to him:  “While there is life there is hope; take courage,” the disembodied voice whispers  He loses sense of time and place, realizing he is starving and near death.

Throughout his journey, Everts never loses his sense of awe and wonder at this most ethereal place.  He does not allow his pain and suffering to “obliterate all sense of natural grandeur and magnificence” that is Yellowstone  When he is found, he weighs barely fifty pounds and is nearly out of his head with fever and starvation.  Yet, he tells the reader he would gladly go back “to revisit scenes fraught for me with such thrilling interest” and to stand under the shadow of his own Mount Everts.  He never waivers in his belief that the region’s “power to delight, elevate, and overwhelm the mind with wondrous and majestic beauty” is well worth the dangers and injuries he suffers.

President Grant designated Yellowstone a National Park March 1, 1872, offering Truman Everts the position of the first park superintendent.  Everts declined because it was a job without a salary.  He went to work instead for the post office and died in 1901.  He is buried in Maryland, far away from the magic of Yellowstone and the land he loved that one time in history, nearly killed him.