Tanta Vive

This isn't the same, it's never the same.

It was someone quoting the Buddha who observed, you can't enter the same stream twice.

In 2008 the markets crashed, and the die was cast: save the rentier class, save the banks, too big to fail.

Meanwhile over at my favorite blog, Calculated Risk, the astute, brilliant, hilarious, wonderfully prescient and amazing blogger, Doris Dungey, under the nom de plume Tanta, was slowly dying of ovarian cancer.  She cut to the heart of the issues underlying the bubble and then the collapse, and in a cruel twist, was cut down, too young, too soon.

"Tanta Vive" became a rallying cry, a salute, a cyber call-to-arms.

Naturally no policies changed, though it came to light she was read and respected throughout industry, government, and the economics web.

What would she say now that the markets are plummeting again?

People much smarter than I say, history doesn't repeat, but it rhymes.

So here we are again.

Fear spikes. The economy is on the brink. What of the poor? What of the nearly poor, those without insurance or pensions but with jobs they trudge to? What of the remains of the middle class - will they lean out, dropping ranks, or shoulder up to the gates of the well-heeled and demand entry? What of the large landlords, the CEO's, the board members?

The shortest sentence in the English language is, "Jesus wept." I doubt it was over a 600 point drop in the Dow Jones, but still, long sentences don't often contain that much emotional impact, or get to the heart of the matter.

We are up to no good, those of us who forget history.  We can cry about lost futures. We can bemoan the lack of enforced regulation, rail against the greedy, demand justice!  In the final wash, though, maybe we just need to remember something a good friend shared: all that matters is love.

It's not a cop out. It's not a descent into religiosity, either. It's just an observation: we can learn to observe, respect, and honor one another.

Or we can descend into hell, into the chaos of civil unrest, assassinations, institutionalized theft and the attendant further disparities between income classes.

It really is up to us, one heartbeat at a time.

Witness

I witnessed a facebook friend get excoriated yesterday for her devotion to variety.

Perhaps it's not so simple as that; still, the criticism was petty, mean-spirited, and unnecessary.

She posts photos of herself in a multitude of outfits - costumes, really - invariably with a smile or grin. It turns out that she is also beautiful. So a small-minded person close to her inner circle took umbrage.

Why?

Her fiance is quite ill, and the critic is this man's sister. Sister intimated that friend was devoting too much time to facebook self-aggrandizement and narcissism, and insufficient time to care for fiance/ brother.

Which he refuted. Friend was defended, by just a few, sister was defended by one (he later withdrew his comment), and in the end, fiance came on scene and with a few choice words, told sister to butt-outski.

Obviously, the pain and fear of loss create tremendous stress. Why has it become so prevalent to witness people react with outrage and criticism before finding out the situation?  With this outburst, sister appears to have harbored enmity against friend for some time. But shouldn't adults be able to question, and discuss, and even agree to disagree, without publicly attempting to humiliate (only to have it backfire)?

Here is a man stricken with cancer, undergoing significant medical procedures, who greatly enjoys his lovely love's devotion to variety, to exploration, to beauty - he is entitled to focus his strength on recovery, and on celebration of life and love - which is what his fiance does; not have to address and waste time dealing with pettiness no matter how 'well-intentioned' (if it was that.)

I am fortunate to witness their friends support of them. We should all be so lucky, when the chips are down, to have friends that want to fill our days with joy, love, and support.

Titanic

Two boats, two problems. In a previous life, did I travel on the Lusitania, or the Titanic?

The 22' sailboat Gerard took the boys and me out on in Carmel Bay, off Stillwater Cove in Pebble Beach, seemed fine.  Someone else had taken it out, so while we awaited its return, we paddled around in kayaks. There are drain holes in kayaks, beneath your butt. So our pants got soaking wet, paddling out to the seal rock, Poop Rock, as Jax christened it.

Then it was our turn. George, the Harbor Master, putted us out to the buoy where it was moored.  We came aboard, and Gerard set us to work - not that there was much, as it was still warm from the previous sailors.  Gerard motored us past the seaweed - it wouldn't do to get stuck there.  Once clear, we set the main and jib sails, and since Jax wasn't interested in steering, Lang took the tiller and pointed us toward Pt. Lobos. After a bit of jostling, he settled in nicely, rolling us over the increasingly large swells. Once they got overhead, Jax, nervous, went below. Gerard estimated 15' rollers. Lang took it in stride (as much as one can stride a wave.)

We tacked about, and then Gerard thought to take us back out and toward the Pebble Beach castles that lined the bluff north of Pebble Beach Links. Ten minutes later, he exclaimed - "whaaa?? What happened to the rudder?"

I looked at him. I didn't do anything with it. Then it hit me - another boat, another problem.

He said, "I have no tools," as he hopelessly swung the tiller back and forth, "the rudder is broken," while the boat bobbed in the now even-larger feeling swells. Jax uttered something akin to an 'Eeep!' and retreated below, again. Hearing bickering, I poke my head below, where Lang was now resting.  Jax is yelling something about Lang claiming to have wiped his seagull-poop-stained sleeve on the neck of Jackson's sweatshirt, before disclaiming, "It was a joke!" Jax rips it off. Behind me, Gerard laughs. He has two sons, ages 15 and 13.

I glance back at him. "Not much we could do with a toolset anyways, unless one of us swam under the keel."  He shrugs.

"We'll motor in." Firing up the outboard, he aims us toward land, some 3 miles distant. We immediately start circling. "What now?" Gerard exclaims. "Dammit, I think the rudder is jammed open. I'm going have to tack."

"With the outboard? I didn't know you did that, with a motor."

"You don't... but the rudder is causing drag, so we have no choice."  Gerard is very calm, thankfully. He tells the story of breaking another rudder, on another trip, I suppose to make us feel better. Jax, who had come back up, goes back down.

We hear a rend, a snap, and a scratch, and the boat lurches forward. Gerard looks back. "Hey, there's the rudder! Let's circle back for it." He maneuvers, and Lang volunteers to grab it before I can say anything.  He rolls up his sleeve and reaches over the starboard rail, as I grab the back of his life-vest, and then he grasps the blue fiberglass and foam rudder (about a yard square), and with Gerard pulls it in. The hole where it attached to the tiller post spits out a foul looking brown liquid on the seat.  "Well, we'll go faster now," Gerard observes, "without that blocking us."

On the ride in, we see hundreds of large jellyfish that look like giant egg-yolks. We come back through the kelp forest, and George, who has been alerted, comes and picks us up from the buoy, with his assistant, a 10 year old named Mark.

We debark, still wet in the pants from the kayaks, shake hands, laugh, and promise to do it again.

Soon.

Long legs

Ten hours into the day-long drive from Havasu to Monterey, commenting on the rippling crop rows in Spreckles, Jax noted, "Ever since I was a little kid, coming up to Grandmom's house, looking out the window at the farms going by, I always thought the rows looked like a giant friend with long legs running beside the car, trying to catch up."

Grapeling

Koa is 3. She chases balls. Swim, retrieve, return. Drop, panting, waiting.

She and Jonnie B. Goode used to grapple in the cul-de-sac, sprinting from one lawn to the next, twirling and nipping and racing to the thrown ball.  At first, when Koa was just a puppy, JBG would dominate, but friendly-like, knocking her over and catching the ball, slowing until Koa caught up, showing the ball in his mouth to her then turning when she went to grab it. Finally she caught up in size, equaling his (but no more) and then in her youth surpassed him in speed, until he'd just take a few steps, let her get it... then steal it as soon as her attention lapsed.

She'd hurtle into the pool. His ears or something kept him out; he never really liked the water, for a lab.

They were a happy pair, these neighbors. I wonder if she misses him.

Over the weekend the boys and I went to Lake Havasu with Koa and her owners. She chased into the water and chased and chased and finally on one in-bound swim looked at me, chest-deep, and swam right on up into my arms. She dropped the ball into the water and let me hold her; I was closer than land. Koa leaned into me, the way I held JBG lifting him out of the car last month on the last trudge to the vet, lighter than usual, light as though he were floating in water, ball at the ready.

Then Koa snorted and pushed off, retrieving that sopping wet mess of a tennis ball, and swam to shore.

Later, at the house she rested her head on my foot and fell asleep, snorting heavily, and when I went to bed, she noiselessly got up and slept at the foot of my bed.

It makes me wonder what dogs remember - if she remembered the lawn grapeling, the way Jonnie and she used to gambol about and how I'd steal an ear scratch if they came into range, if she knew what it means for a man to feel the heft of his dog in his arms.

It's just a little thing, nothing, I'm sure, how this chocolate lab favored me with the drop of the ball; I'm sure I was just a convenient stopping point, between chases and rest.