Memorial Day

On Memorial Day our West Coast weather was cool and gray. It wasn't a good day for a picnic so I stayed inside and worked on my journals. That was OK since I've never really been into Memorial Day. To me, it's a false holiday. I know we're supposed to be honoring our dead soldiers, but after being inundated with constant media hype and hearing the same old speeches regurgitated from our politicians' lips about the sacrifices of our noble fallen, I feel like what we're really honoring is war itself. Or sacrifice. The very word "sacrifice" makes me want to puke -- like sacrificing your life in a pointless war is a noble act. It's not a noble act. It's very, very sad.

I'm sad when I reflect on the wasted lives of these young soldiers. World War II may have been a necessary war, but I can't see the point of the rest of them, the ones that have been going on since my birth. I'm 60 now so my life has been a backdrop to 60 years of pointless tragic wars. I find that very depressing. Our glorification of our military's heroism and bravery (like that justifies the endless carnage) makes me sick. Anyhow, we have Veterans Day coming up on November 11 so Memorial Day seems redundant. Mournful November is a much more appropriate time for honoring our dead.

Let's face it: what Memorial Day really commemorates is the beginning of summer and that's a time for celebration, not for mourning -- while Labor Day marks the end of summer (as determined by the school calendar, that is). Since I don't have kids and I'm not a teacher, I don't really care.

A Mexican Touch

It was a lovely lazy day: first I got a massage from Hilda at the gym, followed by water walking with Bob in the pool. On the way home, a stop in Chinatown for Vietnamese sandwiches. We ate them at the dining room table, first picking out all the Jalapeno peppers. The sandwiches are delicious, mainly because of their crunchiness -- what with the Daikon radishes, cucumber slices and sprigs of cilantro stuffed inside. They're also cross-cultural: pork pate is layered between the Asian ingredients, cradled between two slices of crusty French bread. The Jalapenos add a Mexican touch.

My masseuse is Mexican. As she massaged me, she told me about the Quinceanera that she attended to celebrate her niece's fifteenth birthday. "It was an old-fashioned kind of Quinceanera. My niece looked beautiful, dressed all in white. But I ate way too much." Then she told me about her recent trip to Puerto Vallarta, her birthplace. "Though I haven't lived there since I was a little girl so I really don't remember it."

She goes back for vacations and to visit relatives. "I love that place: the beaches, the sea, the blue skies, but it was so hot!!" As she talked, her massage became a bit overwrought. Her movements were nervous, her energy jangled. "Have you been getting enough sleep?" I asked.

"No, no, I have insomnia!  Ever since Mexico. It was much too hot there to sleep. Four, four thirty in the morning, I'm wide awake. I've been back to California for two weeks and it's cool here, but I still can't sleep." She calmed down as she spoke and her massage improved. Soon her magic hands were putting me to sleep. As I dozed, I dreamed of little girls running along the beach.

Bookstore Heaven and Hippie Hell

Bob feels guilty because he hasn't cut the grass. He got out the plug to the lawn mower and opened the back door. Just then it began to rain. "I guess me cutting the grass is not part of God's plan," he said. So we went to Berkeley. First we ate at our favorite naan place, but the naan wasn't up to standard. Then we went to Moe's Bookstore. I had $20 dollars worth of credit there and wanted to buy a particular cookbook. "We're all sold out," the clerk informed me. "We have to wait for a shipment from the publisher."

I never liked Moe's much, anyway. I rarely go there, but I used to love Cody's located just a couple of doors down. That was back in the golden days when that stretch of Telegraph Avenue was Bookstore Heaven and Hippie Hell. The street used to be crowded with crazed-looking people panhandling, selling tie-died T-shirts, incense sticks, jewelry, marijuana, hard drugs or whatever -- or just wandering through the streets raving and frothing at the mouth, declaiming poetry or prophecies, protesting, passing out pamphlets, shooting up or passed out on the sidewalks. The street is still like that, but it's no longer as crowded, scary and colorful as it once was.

A visit to Cody's was worth the fight through the crowds. You could find whatever printed matter you were looking for there. Besides, it was a happening place. The owners held weekly readings by interesting poets, novelists and anyone else who was someone or conversely, no one. It didn't matter whether famous or obscure; poets, madmen, dreamers, feminists, communists, gurus and best-selling authors; they all passed through Cody's doors.

With competition from Borders and Barnes and Nobles, followed by Amazon and the Internet, Cody's could no longer make it. They moved to two different locations before they finally went out of business, but their Telegraph Avenue building still stands empty on the corner. I felt sad when I passed its dark deserted windows. Even the street made me sad, a shabby shadow of its former raucous self.

In the Tea Garden

I wrote with my friend Deb today. Over the last few months, our cafe sessions have dwindled down to nothing so it was good to do free-writing with her again, but I wasn't exactly fired with inspiration. My writing muscles have become flabby through lack of practice. We went to Julie's, a coffeehouse in Alameda. We sat in the garden. Deb ordered tea and I sipped a lavender-flavored lemonade while I munched on an excellent Greek salad. Two young women at the table next to ours asked us to take their pictures. They handed me the camera. First they posed in front of an olive tree; then in front of a shed decorated with ceramic masks of the sun and other garden knickknacks. Not that there was any sun. It was a gray day, warm enough to sit outside in my hooded sweat jacket yet cool enough to be glad I was wearing it. We sat at an old picnic table under a faded umbrella. A breeze stirred the leaves of the potted plants and wind chimes clinked melodiously as we wrote. Moving the pen across the page relaxed me. The chatter of the women next to us also soothed me. Deb coughed and continued to write while I read over entries that I'd written months before, re-acquainting myself with the "self" who wrote this stuff. She's not exactly a stranger, but she's someone I'd forgotten about for a while.

Champagne and Chipotle

I just indulged in a chocolate binge. I was walking down Grand Avenue when I suddenly had the urge so I dipped into Michael Mischer's store.  I bought three dark chocolate truffles: Champagne, Chipotle and Orange Zest. The clerk weighed them on a tiny scale, put them in ruffled paper cups and inserted the cups into a plastic bag, which he carefully tied.

"There are some here I mean to try, but I never get around to it," I told him. I can't remember his nationality, but I do remember him telling me once that he wasn't homesick for his country because he ABSOLUTELY loves California.  Anyhow, he said, "What kinds do you mean to try?"

"Well, the Tamarind sounds interesting."

"So here's a  sample. Try it. No, I insist. It's free. What have you got to lose? Bite into it and tell me what you think." He presented me with a square of dark chocolate decorated with squiggly purple stripes.

Readers, what could I do? Out of politeness, I had to partake. Of course, it was ABSOLUTELY delicious.

"Yes," he said wickedly. "First that intense hit of chocolate followed by the aftertaste of sour tamarind. It tingles your tongue."

Is this like wine-tasting? You have a few sips and then go home to devour the whole bottle? I'm not into wine, but I am a chocoholic so you know what happened next. Sour Tamarind, spicy Chipotle, fizzy Champagne, and wake-up Orange. Surely that's a balanced meal.

"We're here, we're dead and we don't want our books unread!"

Here's a picture of the Zombie March that was held in support of the Oakland Public Library's budget crisis.

Check out the link: http://kalwnews.org/blogs/producer/2011/05/25/oakland-zombies-protest-keep-libraries-open-and-brains-big-and-tasty_10053.

Daily Practice

This daily practice of blogging has been an interesting experience. Mostly it's fun, but sometimes it's a challenge to come up with something to say. On the days when I draw a blank, I often end up with a longer post than usual. Either that means I get long-winded when I'm at loss for a topic or it means that having to search for a topic makes my posts deeper and more thoughtful. I'd like to think it was the latter. That sounds more Zen.

Speaking of Zen, I probably should meditate to quiet my anxious thoughts. Sometimes that doesn't work. In my late twenties I accompanied my boyfriend to a Buddhist retreat center. We did sitting practice all day long. We did take breaks for meals and work duty, but for the rest of the time we sat cross-legged on our zafus, our palms open. My boyfriend sat with his spine erect, his face calm and contemplative. I don't know what he was actually experiencing, but he was the image of a young Buddha: serene, peaceful and filled with loving kindness. I, on the other hand, was sulky and restless. I constantly squirmed around on my cushion and made frequent trips to the bathroom. The bathroom was an outhouse. Summer in the Colorado mountains, squatting on the toilet as I meditated on a fly crawling up the wall; that's probably as enlightened as I got.

Tasty Brains

Something weird is going on astrologically. I can't remember what, but the planets are doing something that pushes reality into the Twilight Zone. I read that on the Web a few weeks ago. The current headlines certainly back it up: first Donald Trump and the Obama birth certificate absurdity, then the Osama Bin Laden assassination and Strauss-Kahn's arrest for the rape of a hotel maid resulting in his resignation from the IMF, followed by Arnie's sordid housekeeper scandal. Last but not least, Oakland's own Harold Camping predicted The Rapture, due to occur on May 21st. I was surprised that my friends from coast-to-coast were making jokes about it, but I guess these days every bit of media trivia instantly spreads world-wide. 

"Are you enraptured yet?" asked Christina in San Leandro. That was yesterday, the End of Days. In the middle of our phone conversation the earth moved. Literally. The couch suddenly jerked beneath me and the whole house gave a violent shudder. "Earthquake!"  I gasped. She started to laugh "You're right. I can hear sirens going off in the neighborhood." It was only a 3.4, but what a coincidence. I didn't realize that the preacher-man had predicted earthquakes as part of the apocalyptic package, but I guess we northern Californians were right on schedule.

Bob went to a Save the Library meeting. When he got home, he told me about the Zombie Crawl that was to take place afterwards. I checked it out on the Web: "Libraries provide books, free of charge, to ALL people. Libraries help Oakland's living grow huge, delicious, tasty brains. Zombies need brains. Librarians feed brains. Zombies support the Oakland Public Library."

Southern Comfort

Margaret Maron is one of my tried and true mystery authors, not the best but reliable and fun to read. By "reliable," I mean that the books never let you down; that is, if you're searching for a good dose of Southern comfort. Maron wrote two series, one set in New York and one set in her native state of North Carolina. I much prefer the Carolina series featuring Deborah Knott. Deborah is a county judge who comes from a large happy North Carolina family.

Since storyline plays second fiddle to the books' engaging characters and well-described locales, I suppose you could call these mysteries "cozies." The term was invented in the late eighties to describe the feel-good type of mystery, the kind you want to get cozy with in bed before you go to sleep. In general, I have a poor opinion of this genre. Formulaic books about small English villages or single mothers who knit, cater, or run bookstores bore me.

But I've wandered off the subject: Margaret Maron's North Carolina series. If the books are cozies, they're a cut above most of them. (I must confess to liking some cozies: Patricia Wentworth's Miss Silver series, for example. Miss Silver is a retired schoolteacher who knits socks, sweaters and baby booties for her friends and relatives. She's a gentler kinder version of Miss Marple.)  But there, I've wandered off the subject again. I'm beginning to sound like Miss Silver. What was I saying, dear? Oh, my, I seem to have dropped a stitch...

Ahem. Margaret Maron. Well, her plots, though not brilliant, are solidly constructed, but its her characters who really shine -- and her descriptions of Carolina's countryside and culture. I read the latest one last night, Christmas Mourning. Her descriptions of North Carolina's winter landscape were so vivid that I got homesick for my own native state of Kentucky.

Measure Q

I visited Diana at the Oakland Public Library. She used to be my supervisor when I worked there. She was sitting at her desk looking glum. I felt glum, too. We talked about the library's future, which made us more glum. Our new mayor, Jean Quan, is talking about making deep budget cuts in all city departments. In the library's case that would be a disaster because of Measure Q. Measure Q is a tax that was passed in 2004. It was intended to protect the libraries from budget cuts and to prevent the City Council from taking money away from the library to spend somewhere else. The caveat is that the City of Oakland has to provide $9 million dollars for the library from its general fund or else the $14 million dollars from Measure Q cannot be collected. If the budget cuts come to pass, then the library is in danger of losing the Measure Q funds. This means that a 10% cut in the library's budget could lead to an 80% cut in services. Of the sixteen branches, thirteen would have to close and services in the remaining branches would be greatly reduced.

Of course, we both hope that won't happen, but Diana is pessimistic about the library staff's ability to get the message out to the public and I'm skeptical about the public's reaction. The citizens of Oakland have consistently supported the library with their tax dollars, but despite their best efforts, a financial crisis comes around every few years. I suspect people are tired of paying more taxes for less services.

Four branches were built between 1916 and 1918 with money donated by Andrew Carnegie. More were built in the twenties. All of them remained open during the Great Depression. It seems rather pathetic that they will probably have to close now.

PS: I called the library to fact-check the above statement. They told me that not only had the branches remained open, but that three more branches were added during the Depression, two in 1930 and one in 1932.

The Perilous Gard

Elizabeth Marie Pope was an author and teacher specializing in Shakespeare and Milton. In the course of her distinguished career as a professor at Mills College in Oakland, she wrote two books for young adults: The Sherwood Ring, published in 1958 and The Perilous Gard, published in 1974, sixteen years later. I enjoyed both of them, but The Perilous Gard is my favorite. The story is based on the legend of Tam Lin, a ballad so old that there are countless versions of it. Pope used the legend's basic storyline for her book, but she omitted the sex bits. In the original versions these included the seduction (or rape) and impregnation of the heroine and her attempt to abort the babe. Pope's version is cleaned up, but still very magical, featuring a strong independent heroine. It is a young adult book primarily aimed at girls, but I would recommend it for any age and gender.

In Praise of Librarians

I was in the children's room of the Oakland Public Library searching for a particular book, but I couldn't remember its title or the author's name. Naturally, I was reluctant to ask the librarian, but I was desperate for the book so I decided to make a fool of myself and ask anyhow. Despite my lack of information, she was willing to search for it; in fact, she had an eager gleam in her eye. "What time period?"

"It was probably written in the late fifties or early sixties."

"What subject matter?"

"I don't know, but she wrote another book that won an award. That one took place in Elizabethan England and was about fairies who live underground. Well, they're not fairies exactly..."  She was already typing away on her computer as I spoke. "Elizabethan England? The Perilous Gard by Elizabeth Marie Pope won the Newberry Honor Award in 1976. Does that ring a bell?"

"That's it, but I thought it was written earlier."

"No, but she did write another book. Here it is: The Sherwood Ring, published in 1958. We have a copy, but it's at the Montclair Branch.  Do you want us to put it on hold for you?"

"Yes, that's it. You're brilliant. How did you do that?"

She beamed, basking modestly in her glory. "Google helped."

Homeland Insecurity

I love libraries. Unfortunately, the Oakland Public Library is in big trouble. Sadly, this is not the first time that the library has been in crisis mode due to the City of Oakland's monetary woes. In fact, crisis mode is par for the course. I worked there as an aide in the Acquisitions Department from the spring of 2001 to the spring of 2003. That was an odd time. When I first started my job, we were still in an economic boom. Everyone in the library was excited by the prosperity. The librarians talked excitedly of ordering new books, starting new programs and even building a new Main Library.

The Main Library building was built in 1949, an oblong concrete structure that is woefully inadequate to serve the public's needs today. I'm not sure it's earthquake-safe and I know it's not safe in other ways. I worked in the basement where the roof leaked for an entire winter. We taped a plastic garbage bag over the flimsy ceiling tiles to catch the water that was dripping -- or sometimes rushing -- from the leak. The City took months to fix it. In the meantime, we joked grimly about inhaling asbestos. That was one of the more dramatic malfunctions, but there were scores of others. The elevator from the basement to the first floor regularly broke down. The wall clock was permanently stopped at half past three. There was no air conditioning so the basement became a sweltering furnace during the summer. We didn't have enough paper supplies and had to re-use manila envelopes for mailing out our inter-library loan books. The windows were coated with layers of grime, the bookshelves with dust. It was embarrassing to show my friends my workspace. On the whole, the library had the air of a run-down thrift shop; in particular my department (with its stacks of incoming and discarded books and desks crowded with huge, out-of-date computers) resembled Grey Gardens.

911 changed everything. The City had to pay so much out in needless "homeland security" expenses that all talk of expansion and improvement immediately ceased. The library employees walked around looking grim and depressed, their hopes dashed.  Some of the best and brightest left, getting jobs at better libraries. Then, about one month after 911, we had our Anthrax Scare --  suspicious white powder in one of the book deliveries. We were required to attend a City Hall Meeting where a federal employee flew in to explain about the dangers of anthrax. We should immediately take showers if exposed, we were told.  Like the library is lined with shower stalls.  "Who do they think we are? The YMCA?  If that powder was anthrax, we'd already be dead," was the general consensus, followed by "Yeah, I'm sure Islamic Fundamentalists really have it in for the Oakland Public Library."

Trifles

I'm enamored of the dessert section in Michael Robert's Parisian Home Cooking.  From yesterday's pound cake I constructed Strawberry Trifle. It was quite a construction. It involved layering wine glasses with home-made whipped cream, pound cake dowsed with kirsch and macerated strawberries. Then you let the concoction chill in the refrigerator for several hours so that the kirsch can soak into the pound cake. You can't imagine how pretty the final concoction turned out to be -- and how decadent. (Perhaps "decadent" is the wrong word. "Frivolous" or "luxurious," those might be better terms.)  Unfortunately, the whipped cream disagreed with Bob so I had to finish off the trifles by myself.

Later, we went to the gym. We soaked in the Jacuzzi and walked in the swimming pool until we felt satiated with the soothing sensation of moving through water -- or in the case of the Jacuzzi, letting the water move over us.

A Domestic Day

In the morning, I baked a pound cake using a recipe from Michael Robert's Parisian Home Cooking. I'd never made a pound cake before. I discovered that the ingredients were quite sinful: two sticks of butter, five eggs and a vast quantity of sugar mixed with mace, cardamom, lemon zest and cake flour. It came out beautifully, though: dense, rich and sweet.

Then I went to the Farmer's Market to buy strawberries. On the way back, I stopped by the Lakeview Library to pick up a book on hold. The book was The Sherwood Ring, a children's book written by Elizabeth Marie Pope. I spent the afternoon reading it. It's about a young woman who comes to live with her uncle in New England where she encounters the ghosts of her Revolutionary War ancestors. It was the perfect book to read on a cool overcast day, followed by a cup of lemon-ginger tea with a slice of pound cake and strawberries.

In the evening Bob made us beef stew, the perfect meal for a rainy night; then we both sat at our computers and played endless games of Spider Solitaire until it was time to toddle off to bed.

Exit Through The Gift Shop

Bob and I just saw a very odd and interesting movie called "Exit Through the Gift Shop." It purports to be a documentary about street artists made by a Frenchman named Thierry Guetta, but after a while it morphs into a film about the Frenchman who becomes a street artist himself, made by Banksy, one of the street artists whose work he has been documenting. In other words, they exchange roles: Banksy becomes the film-maker and Guetta becomes a street artist. Then Guetta gets famous (aided by a lot of self-hype), as do the other graffiti artists who begin to show their work in galleries. But is his "art" just a big hoax, a commercial scam put over on the unsuspecting public? Is he even who he actually says he is? Is the film itself a hoax? Banksy, one of the world's most famous graffiti artists, has kept his identity secret for years. No one really knows who he is or what he looks like. Has Guetta been put up to this by Banksy -- or is Banksy actually the Frenchman? If street art becomes gallery art, has its original intention been lost? What is "art" anyhow? Can anyone be an artist?

Paint It Black

Christina and I went to Artist & Craftsman Supply in Berkeley to be near the holy healing art products. Of course, we bought a few, too, but first we had to walk around the store ooh-ing and ah-ing as we examined various styles and sizes of blank notebooks, admired rows of glass jars filled with iridescent paint and fondled sheets of soft handmade paper.

She bought a jar of Yes Glue and some of the handmade paper -- stiff crinkly sheets of lime green and white. I bought a small blank notebook, a jar of black Gesso and a pen that writes in white ink. I'm determined to make an art journal even though I have no particular aptitude for it. (Collage is more my game.) Christina, mistress extraordinaire of art journaling, gave me a few tips about pens and helped me pick out the notebook.

I'm excited, but cautious about starting. It's less intimidating to think of my new project as an experiment, meaning that I want to try out a few techniques and materials rather than actually "make art." I usually have a plan in mind so to work in this open-ended way feels scary. All I know is that I want to paint the first few pages of my notebook BLACK!

History of Harbin Part 2

At one time there were dozens upon dozens of hot springs resorts in Lake County. Harbin was one of the largest. Unfortunately, that area is subject to fires, which decimated many of the resorts. After they burned down, the owners often didn't have the capital to rebuild so that was the end of them. Some of the hot springs dried up after the 1906 earthquake and others declined in popularity after major highways were installed that bypassed their locations.

Harbin had several serious hotel fires, but survived them to rebuild and adapt with the times. At the turn of the century, a gymnasium was built on the premises and the resort became a popular place for fighters to do their summer training. Irish boxers came up from San Francisco's Mission District to undergo a conditioning regimen. Later, professional baseball teams did part of their summer training there. After the summer season was over, men's clubs arrived on the premises to hunt deer and other game.

In the twenties, with the widespread use of cars, Harbin became more accessible. One could motor up for a night or two instead of staying for months on end. There was a nightly jazz band, a bar and a dance hall on the premises. Many local associations met there, such as the Elks and the Masons. The place continued as a prosperous concern throughout the Depression and the Forties even though spas declined in popularity throughout the 20th century. People wanted something more modern and stimulating when they went on vacation.  Motor lodges and motels sprang up and Harbin had to compete with them for business so they built more cabins plus a hotel along the cabin model: two stories, each with a row of separate self-sufficient rooms that opened out to one long verandah.

In the fifties and early sixties (and with the advent of large chain hotels like Howard Johnson's as competition) Harbin's business began to decline. People could afford to travel further so they flew to other parts of the country or went abroad instead of making local trips. Harbin had always been a family-run business, which is why it survived so long, but the family couldn't make it financially anymore so they sold it off to an out-of-town buyer. After that, it fell into hippie hands and the premises deteriorated until the health authorities finally closed it down. Too much sex, drugs, and rock n'roll.  Finally, the resort was bought by its present owner and gradually regained respectability (sort of ) in its current New Age incarnation.

The Book

Bob found a book in the library about the history of Harbin Hot Springs. It's called "Harbin Hot Springs, Healing Waters, Sacred Land." It's actually quite interesting.  Miwok Indians once lived on the land. They were hunter/gatherers and basket weavers who lived off deer, small game, fish and acorns. The hot springs was a revered place for them, a communal space where tribes from other areas sometimes traveled to gather at the sacred waters.

The Spanish came, saw and conquered. As usual, they enslaved or killed off the Indians with a combination of religion, hard work, and disease -- or so I gather. I don't know the grisly details because I skipped that chapter. I couldn't bear to read it.

After that, the first Americans arrived. Spanish land grants, avaricious speculators, shady real estate deals and ruthless property acquisitions abounded. The Gold Rush increased the number of settlers. There was a lot of wheeling and dealing, skullduggery and greed. California was a land of squatters and squabblers, impecunious adventurers and wealthy entrepreneurs.  Sometimes the wealthy entrepreneurs became impecunious or vice versa. It was not unusual for the rags-to-riches cycle to repeat several times in one man's life. Then again, a few men became tremendously wealthy and stayed that way. Those were the men that shaped the California that we know today.

Borax was discovered in Lake County and mining it became a major industry. A Welshman named Richard Williams ended up owning Harbin Hot Springs, which he developed into a resort. In time, it became a popular Victorian spa. Several large hotels were built on the property and people came up from San Francisco and Oakland to "take the waters." The mineral waters were supposed to cure rheumatism, dropsy, and all manner of other diseases.

It was a nine hour journey from San Francisco to Harbin so once arrived, a guest or a family of guests tended to stay for the whole season, which lasted from June to September. One drove one's buggy to the San Francisco wharf, took the ferry to Oakland, met the train to Vallejo Junction (now Crockett), took another ferry over the Carquinez Straight to the city of Vallejo, caught the Napa Valley train that traveled through the vineyards to Calistoga and from there traveled in (or on top of) a private stagecoach that climbed the steep narrow road to Harbin. I don't know how elderly people with rheumatism endured the trip. It sounds utterly exhausting.

The Look

Now that I'm sixty, I'm having a problem communicating with most people under thirty. Those arrogant young whippersnappers! When we arrived at Harbin, we were greeted at the reception desk by just such a one, a tattooed chick in the uniform of her tribe, a batiked sarong. We told her we'd been coming up to Harbin for about thirty years and commented on how much it had changed during those decades.

"Change? What change?" she challenged us.

"Well, there's been a lot of construction," we stammered in response to her feisty attitude. "New buildings and such."

"New buildings? There aren't any new buildings," she said in her know-it-all, sassy young whippersnapper way.

We crumbled under the pressure. "Well, how about the gate? That wasn't there before. And additions to the old buildings. What about The Dome? That's new, isn't it?" But our voices faded off in response to her impatient stare. You know, The Look, the one young people give to old people when they're being a nuisance. I know The Look well since I used to give it myself to The Invisibles Ones when I was but a haughty young girl.

The truth is, there's been constant construction at Harbin since we first discovered it in the early 80's. Back then, there were only a few rundown buildings on the property, inhabited by the so-called "residents" (seedy hippies and crazies living a marginal existence "off the land"). But there were the warm pools, of course, and the beautiful unspoiled land, which is why we put up with their bullshit.

Since then a veritable labyrinth of buildings, remodels, and additions have sprung up, not to mention an actual labyrinth, built for spiritual purposes, of course. Everything at Harbin is built for spiritual purposes: the serpent gate, the gardens, the restaurant, the Internet cafe, the conference center where New Age workshops are held, the Temple where people gather to dance and practice yoga, the movie room, (a tiered space covered with cushions where rented DVDs are viewed nightly ) and the new dome, which looks like a science fiction movie set. Actually, it resembles the buildings in Woody Allen's movie "Sleeper, " his 70's comedy set in a pretentious New Age future. Welcome to Harbin.

In Situ

One of the problems I had at Harbin was that my knees were giving out. Harbin has a lot of hills and stairs so it was difficult for me to get around. Bob kept wanting to go on walks, but I refused because I knew that my aching knees would only ache more. He thought it was a shame that I couldn't get out "in nature." I thought so, too, but as it turned out, I was able to experience nature without exerting myself much.

The main buildings and hot springs are surrounded by trees and gardens. One morning two blue jays settled on the railing just a few feet from where I was sitting. They were so near that when they spread their wings, I could admire the iridescent blue sheen of their feathers in intimate detail. It was a pretty spectacular sight.

That afternoon, two deer strolled up the lawn and then stopped about three feet from the seated statues in the photo. I had to wait for them to move before I could continue up the path, but they didn't move. They stood completely still, as immobile as the statues. They weren't scared of me at all. I finally detoured around them, but for a few minutes they were so close that I could have reached out and touched them. I didn't, afraid that I 'd catch lime disease, but I could have. They were that close.

In the day, one could sit on the porch and look out at the dramatic panorama of hills; at night, the stars. One night I saw a whirling circle of color moving through the trees; then I heard voices and laughter. It was a large hoop of flashing neon -- like a hula hoop, only larger. Its owner was spinning it; then tossing it up in the air -- so I'd glimpse it whirling through the branches -- flashes of red, blue and white dancing through the dark.

The next day Bob took me up to The Dome, a new building complex at Harbin. Again, I couldn't walk much so I sat in the car while he explored the site. Before me was a row of boulders dotted with small solar lamps. One lamp seemed oddly shaped until I realized it was a lizard. He was sunning himself on the rocks, so still that I thought he was an inanimate object.  Then another lizard came scurrying out of the crevices and he turned his head to say hello.

Soaks and Sulks

Hello, All. I'm back from our trip to Harbin Hot Springs. I took a few days off from blogging while we were up there because I didn't have access to a computer. Actually, not having access to a computer was quite relaxing. In case you didn't know, Harbin Hot Springs is a resort located on a 1600 square mile tract of land north of Calistoga. It's the hippie version of a spa, meaning pared down to basics. At Harbin, nudity, tattoos, and long-haired New Age types abound.

Bob and I have been making trips up there for 30 years or so. We usually find it restorative, returning to the urban world refreshed and at peace with ourselves. This was the first time that didn't work for me. It wasn't Harbin's fault. I just got into a very bad mood. I spent much of my time up there sulking. I was still in a foul mood after I returned home so I waited a couple of days before resuming my blog -- so as not to take it out on you, dear readers.

Harbin is a good place to sulk. While Bob took walks and soaked in the pool, I stayed in our room and read books that I filched out of the Harbin Library. No one messes with you there so I could pretty much brood in peace. I did take a few dips in the warm pool, but mostly I hid in our room.

Double Feature

I saw two movies at the film festival, The Trip and Incendies. The two films couldn't have been more different. The Trip is a buddy film, a simple story about a road trip that two old friends take to the north of England. The characters carry on a love affair with language: word-play taken to absurd extremes with wonderful build-up and impeccable timing. I laughed the whole way through. 

Incendies, on the other hand, is a family epic with a Shakespearian plot (complicated and improbable) and the dimensions of a Greek tragedy. It's the story of a woman who emigrates to Canada from a war-torn Middle Eastern country. After her death, her children embark on a quest to find their roots. Their quest takes them to an unnamed country that closely resembles Lebanon in its geography and political history. The movie is horrifying. It shows the grim reality of war and its long-term consequences. I usually shy away from war films, but this one was so powerful that I was gripped by it from beginning to end, even though it was two hours long. 

Only at the film festival could I have seen two films back to back that were so different in tone and subject matter. I'm glad I saw the comedy first!

Remembrance

I had a peaceful, non-eventful day. Bob spent the night in San Francisco at his friend's house so that they could attend a 11 pm movie at the film festival. Since he's retired, we spend a lot of time together so it was nice to have some time alone. I spent it reading The London Review of Books, cleaning out the fridge, and lazing about on the couch. I picked two perfect pink roses from the backyard bush and arranged them in a bud vase, which I then placed in the center of our dining room table. 

The roses reminded me of my friend Ralph McNeill, who died almost a decade ago. Once when I brought him two roses from our yard, he did a painting of them, which he then gave to me. (See above.) Ralph was generous in that way -- in all ways, really -- generous with jokes, laughter, friendship and advice. He was a gifted artist who worked hard at his art and he enthusiastically collaborated in any wild project that I came up with. He let me use his drawings for Samwich, my now defunct home-made "zine" and he designed a hilarious rabbit Tarot deck at my request. I wish I could link to a Ralph McNeill site on the Web to show you his work, but he lived in the pre-Internet world.  Actually, the Internet did exist back then, but Ralph wasn't very interested in it. He was too busy making art. 

Later in the evening, Bob, returned home, was sorting his wash and I was lying on the bed half-listening to the radio when the BBC reported that Osama Bin Laden was dead. We were surprised at the news, but not as surprised as we were back in 2001 when we heard that the Twin Towers had fallen. The pundits and news reporters kept saying that Bin Laden's death was "symbolic." Symbolic of what? The end of a nasty era, one would like to hope.

Mangoes and Birdsong

I went to the Farmer's Market again. This time I bought a roast chicken and two cartons of strawberries. I had unrealistically envisioned the chicken lasting over the weekend, but since we had it at lunch and then again for an early dinner, most of it was gone by the late afternoon. Our friends Carol and Wu stopped by. They brought us two ripe mangoes. Wu sliced them up and we shared them on a single plate. It was a warm day so we had both the front and back doors open. Carol kept walking from one to the other, pressing her face against the screens and exclaiming how lovely it was to hear the birdsong. Their flat in San Francisco is too cold and dark, she says, and not as many birds outside, though she does love it. She's been living there for over thirty years.