Category Archives: people

A Long Productive Life

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Today I was a guest teacher at a university and I met a remarkable elderly man named Hiroshi.  I had the students pair up and talk about jobs they’ve had.  Then each partner would summarize what the other had said.  So Hiroshi’s partner told us that he had been a doctor for 30 years at a public hospital, then he had a private practice for 13 years.  

But Hiroshi corrected her and said, “No, 30 years at the clinic.”

“So 13 years at the hospital, then 30 years at the clinic?”

“No, 30 years at the hospital, and 30 years at my clinic.”

Everyone was incredulous and asked more questions to see if they had heard correctly.  Finally he said, “Hey, I’m 86 years old.  I worked for 60 years.  I only retired 5 years ago.”

So Hiroshi became a doctor at age 21 in the 1940′s and worked into the following century. That’s 6 decades of service as a doctor. And he seemed just as alert and sharp as anyone in that room. I estimate that he’s worked more years than all the people in that classroom combined. That’s amazing. That’s a long productive life.

The Nymph and Her Pack of Rats: The Windiad no. 7

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beneath the stairs

Calypso the Nymph
Near the end of Odysseus’s journey, while he was adrift, clinging onto one of the planks of his ship, a nymph named Calypso rescued him. It’s fairer to say that he was fished out like a netful of squid.

Nymphs by nature go hunting for lost men and tempt them with immortality. It’s a game they play. Many men live to tell later that a nymph (who is like a fairy but human-size, without the wings, and much hotter) had fallen in love with him and begged him to stay with her. But it’s all egotistical nonsense.

As if any man would hesitate to choose immortality and bed down with a semi-divine knock-out. Nymphs get together for tea and laugh about how many sailors or woodcutters they’ve tempted in the last week. Immortality is rarely, if ever, granted. After a time, when the nymph is bored, the man is thrown back into the water to swim back home and go bragging to his mates.

Calypso had played the game for an eternity and decided she’d keep the next man she captured. Fortunately or unfortunately, it happened to be Odysseus. And she kept him around for 7 years. He’d be the first to admit, he would have stayed there longer, but he really did miss his dog, wife, son, and his kingdom, in that order. So during the night he felt an uncontrollable attraction to Calypso, but during the day when she was off tending her forest, or whatever nymphs do, he was bored and antsy.

In the end, it was Calypso who had had enough of domesticity, and she sent him off on a raft.

Portlandia
The Calypso on this trip is a whole city.

If Eugene is the city of my past, then Portland represents the city of my possible future. Just upriver of Eugene, where the laid back Willamette Rivers empties into the colossal Columbia River, Portland is like a bigger more urban version of Eugene. Or it’s like the smaller-scale version of Seattle. It’s a city of green and water, built for biking and strolling, drinking microbrews and strong coffee. It’s a magnetic city, having attracted most of my friends. Even high school classmates from Southern California have found their ways there.

Not only does my oldest childhood friend live here, but the three guys I hung out with the most in Eugene also live here. Calypso has them good. I doubt they’re leaving her island anytime soon.

me and kev

Wind’s Oldest Friend
I’ve known Kevin since we were ten years old. We go way way way back. Backer than back even.

We survived a grumpy alcoholic elementary school teacher who we adored.
We spent endless summer days swimming in his pool and then secretly smoking his mom’s cigarettes in his garage.
We snuck out late at night for midnight bike rides around the empty streets of our suburban wasteland.
We attended, somewhat accidentally, a fundamentalist Christian summer camp that didn’t allow anyone to wear shorts or hold hands, or really do anything other than to praise God (except without musical instruments and women’s voices in church).

And we’ve logged thousands of hours of deep discussions on spirituality, philosophy, existence, the universe, astronomy and mysticism.

It’s been great to see him evolve from a teenage slacker to marrying his junior high school sweetheart, Shamron, who I’ve long since counted among my closest friends, and raise two lively intelligent girls, and now a little newly-minted infant.

the rat pack

The Rat Pack or the Marx Brothers?
Then there are my boys, Gil, Omid and Jerry. Jerry I wrote about at length and you can read it here. I met them all at the YMCA. I really didn’t like any of them when I shared the gym with them. I barely tolerate them now, but I’ve kept them around because we have so much fun.

We’ve been compared to the Rat Pack. But we’re nowhere near as cool as the original. First of all, I don’t think we’ve ever worn suits with each other. But we did a lot of late night shenanigans and trouble-making. And only Jerry was smooth with the ladies. Indiscriminately so. Before he met his fiance, Omid was as subtle as a roundhouse kick. Gil was as aggressive as a stuffed bunny. And I could never close a deal.

The four of us combined were a lot cooler than we were individually.  We were a traveling sideshow, wreaking unintentional comedy everywhere we went.

It’d be easy to say Jerry is Sammy Davis Jr, but aside from their smoothness they’re nothing alike. Jerry is really the Frank Sinatra of the bunch. Charming, edgy, preening and talented, a dark cloud sometimes casting shadows on his glittery personality.

Omid is Sammy, deceptively self-effacing, cultivating an aura of trustworthiness, seemingly humble but is really sometimes just a reckless shark. He kept things exciting by keeping everything a little off balance.

Gil is Joey Bishop, kind of in the background, perhaps overshadowed by the oftentimes loud presence of us other three. But really he was the glue that held us together. Or maybe he was a roll of duct tape and staples. Gil used to chauffeur us everywhere. We coordinated our adventures through him. And he was always the most generous with his time and his place.

While Jerry and I hogged center stage and Omid glad-handed the audience, Gil was content to watch the show and be entertained. Then he’d sweep us all up in his tin-can Camry and make sure we got home safely, or at least within a few blocks of our doorsteps.

And me? I guess that leaves Dean Martin. Martin portrayed himself as a hard-drinking womanizer. It was just an act. His long-time 2nd wife wrote that he came home for dinner every night. And Shirley MacLaine said that he sipped apple juice at parties. I also come across as a party fiend. I do like to raise the energy , rile people up, make sure everyone’s having a good time. But I go home to read poetry while sipping herb tea. That’s how I roll.

That’s pretty much how we all roll these days. We’ll brag about how we spent those wild years stranded on that island, but then we’ll settle into a cozy evening with Frost and chamomile.

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On the Banks of Rivers Past: the Windiad no. 6

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The Ghosts of the Past
The reason Odysseus knew so much about Helios’s cattle and Charybdis and Scylla was because he consulted with Tiresias. Tiresias was a blind prophet who was consulted by everyone. At one point he dressed in drag for 7 years. Basically, he was a unique character. He gave Odysseus a lot of advice on how to get home. He also gave him fashion and skin care tips because the sea salt air was murder on the complexion.

Tiresias also happened to be dead and lived in Hades. So after sailing to the River Acheron which bordered the underworld, and making all manner of sacrifices, Odysseus was allowed to contact the dead.

Not only did he meet Tiresias, he also ran into his late mother, some old friends from school, and numerous other people he knew who had died during the Trojan War. He was able to reach closure on his past and so it was a fruitful detour. Although, while he was busy with his reunions, his men were a little freaked out, shivering in the bone-chilling creepiness of the underworld.

erika and keanThen and Now
If there’s a town that represents my past (but not the underworld!), it’s Eugene. I’ve already reached closure on many levels. Many of my friends have moved north to Portland, just up the highway. I still keep in touch with a handful of very special people, but the rest I’ve long fallen out of touch with.

Eugene is where I lived for a decade, performed modern dance, played guitar like every other guy, and held court at one of the oldest natural foods stores in the US. I biked everywhere, year-round, didn’t wear a watch, didn’t have a cell phone, always had fruit and bread in my bag (usually challah), a nalgene bottle of water, and a notebook.

I had a Mohawk ponytail that I tied back, wore sunglasses, a pair of shorts, and a tank top. My wallet was a tacky retro brown velcro thing that never had more than $20 in it. And that was it. It was a simpler life.

I ate only organic food, usually bought in bulk, assiduously avoided sugar, rarely drank alcohol or coffee, consumed gallons of green and herb teas, sometimes baked my own bread, grew my own fruit, vegetables, and herbs.

Now I wear a tie to work, have several watches, have a cell phone, a mobile phone and a keitai (that’s 3 handsets for 3 countries), buy sports drinks from vending machines, use hair wax. I usually carry around a digital camera, an ipod, and probably an implanted tracking device that I don’t know about.

My wallet now bulges with point cards, a commuter pass, lots of cash like everyone else in Japan, an immigration card that I must carry at all times, all encased in a nice leather wallet that I was shamed into buying many years ago. Life is a little less simpler now.

family portrait

Sometimes, I wonder how I lived in Eugene for so long. Passing through there this time around, it felt like an unfamiliar place. Many of my favorite restaurants are gone. And I’m out of touch with most of the people that I knew. By my last year in Eugene, I knew just about everyone. Biking around town, I’d be greeted by soccer moms, street musicians, skater punks, police officers, and homeless artists. Now I feel like any other tourist.

The city has become a little more gentrified, a little more suburban. In the six years I’ve been away, there have been all sorts of new construction. My favorite is the gleaming public library. When I lived there, Time magazine called Eugene the anarchist capital of the US, because of the high density of activists, protesters and hippies, some of whom professed to be anarcho-syndicalists. I have a feeling this title has passed onto another city.

What made Eugene unique for me was the thriving dance scene. In terms of quality of dancers, the number of dance companies, the varieties of dance, and the frequency of performances, as well as the opportunities to join in, it surpassed Seattle and was comparable to San Francisco, in my opinion.

Eugene has a number of, who I consider, high priestesses of dance.  And these are some of the people who I’m most in touch with.  They are fabulously creative and charismatic.  I met two of them while in Eugene.

margo and child

There’s the incomparable, innovative Margo. Her choreography resonated deeply with audiences, her movements rooted in emotional authenticity. And she’s always been able to attract a devoted fan base.

And I also met with the magnetic Nanci, whose choreography was imbued with a sense of soaring and expansive space often with a political message.

father and daughter

Tiresias
If there’s a Tiresias on this trip, that would have to be Mike. He’s not blind, nor particularly prophetic. Nor have I ever seen him in a skirt. He does, however, offer a kind of support that could be mistaken for advice. But it’s nothing so pretentious. He’s always been a great friend. And people seek him out for something that could be called guidance, but it’s nothing so presumptuous. He’s just a sincerely, good guy who people trust. The kind of friend you would go to Hades for, just to have a chat and a few laughs.

Blown Back to Ashland: the Windiad no. 4

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praise

The Wind Bag
Aeolus is the wind god, or he controlled the winds anyway. In exchange for stories from Odysseus, Aeolus gave a bag of winds that would help Odysseus find his way back home. Odysseus told mostly stories from the Trojan War, with other tales of fishing trips and crazy relatives in between to pad the mostly uneventful decade of half-heartedly laying siege to Troy. Aeolus wasn’t really into the stories, but he liked to listen to people talk while he cracked open a beer.

The bag of winds was really big, made of blue silk and lined with the feathers of doves and peacocks. Odysseus’s men thought it was treasure that he didn’t want to share, so they opened the bag to see what was inside. The winds were released and the ships got blown back to where they started.

One place I find myself blown back to often is Ashland.

Shakespeareville
Ashland and I go back a long way. Back when I was in high school I first visited my buddy Kevin who had just moved here. For a Southern California boy, my image of Oregon was of log cabins, rednecks, bears and forests. They all certainly exist here, but I also found a town full of artists, musicians, dancers, hippies, America’s largest Shakespeare festival, fresh air, rivers, and a sky full of stars I’d never seen through the haze of Los Angeles.

It was a revelatory vacation. I got to see an alternative to the materialistic, status-loving, car culture of Hollywood. And I questioned everything about the superficial life that I felt I’d been living. Once I returned to LA, I went through more than a decade of navel-gazing, studying religions and philosophies, to try to break through the veil of the illusory, physical world. I read a lot. And pondered over Sartre, Nietzsche, Chuang Tzu, Krishnamurti, Alan Watts, bell hooks and many others.

That was a heavy time. Since them I’ve discovered the meaning of life and I’d like to share it with you. Just send $49.99 to: Universal Secrets, P.O. Box 13, Lagos, Nigeria.

lithia fountain detail

Ramana
If you really want answers to the big questions you want to consult with my long-time friend, Ramana.

We met with her and her husband, Stacy, at a Japanese restaurant called Kobe. Surprisingly the sushi was outstanding, but very California. The delicious rolls had stereotypical names like, Red Dragon and Kamikaze, with sushi ingredients never seen in Japan like avocado and sun-dried tomatoes. When we asked for more shoyu, the waitress had a perplexed look on her face until we said, soy sauce.

Ramana is a dedicated Soto Zen practitioner. She’s the seer in my life story. She’s a combination of spacey mystic and grounded explorer. At various times in her life, she went to a prestigious art school to study film, wandered in the desert as an apprentice shaman, collected lovers in Europe like Starbuck’s city mugs, lived in Buddhist monasteries, wrote erotica.

During one of the many times I’ve crashed at her place, she kept parakeets and lived in a charming house with a sloping floor. Another time she lived in an even cuter house behind the bakery where she worked. Now as a mother and wife, she still has a priestly vibe to her, and her house is like a redwood cathedral.

In short, she’s led a fascinating life. And she’s filled my bag of winds many times over.

Bloomsbury Café
Cafes are the best places to find meaning. One café I get blown back to often, and so I guess is my favorite Ashland café, is Bloomsbury Café. It’s upstairs from the Bloomsbury bookstore. They have a large shady outdoor seating area, a cozy interior with lots of stuffed chairs. Here, I suggest reading children’s books with dark themes, after meeting a friend you haven’t seen since you were a teenager.

sycamore bark

Lithia Park
Nature is also a good place to seek answers. One of my favorite parks in the world is Lithia Park. It’s enormous, stretching for miles it seems, along Lithia Creek, which has natural lithium. Lithium water tastes like rotten eggs and the element is used to treat schizophrenia. So it’s an excellent place to stop hearing the voices in your head. The park has a pond with a pair of swans (though I didn’t see them this time around), a sycamore tree grove, a crumbling white fountain, an amphitheatre, tennis courts, roses, deer, and at one time had monkeys.

Yup, I love Ashland.

Mr. Vey the Tuk-tuk Driver: Khmer Notes no. 8

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ladder

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything about my Cambodia trip. It’s been over 6 months now and I still haven’t finished downloading all the pictures from that trip into flickr. I put in another batch tonight and now I’m halfway through. While linking to those pictures, I’ve decided to reprint some parts of my journal from the trip.

In this excerpt, I’ve put together some passages about our tuk-tuk driver, Mr. Vey. A tuk-tuk is a moped-driven carriage. I’ve seen them all over Southeast Asia. I was surprised that T wanted to travel around exclusively in them. They’re open to the wind, dust and exhaust. The ride is bumpy and in the early mornings it’s quite chilly. But T loved them and that’s how we got around. Thankfully, we had the good fortune to have a great, reliable, courteous driver.

Mr. Vey and his tut-tut

Mr. Vey, December 2007
Our driver is a young-looking man named Mr. Vey (pronounced “By”). The hotel referred him to us on the first day, and we’ve been hiring him every day. We like him because he’s not aggressive, pesky or talkative. Most drivers try to arrange other trips or take you to shops where they get a commission. But he’s totally mellow. We like that.

In fact, he seems reluctant to be hired every day. It’s almost comical. Maybe he’s doing pretty well already. Doesn’t need the money. Or maybe he doesn’t want to pick us up at 7:30 am. I know I wouldn’t. But he’s stuck with us. And leaving for the temples at 7:30 is the only way to avoid the heat and the busloads of the tourist hordes.

On the second day, in a hushed tone he asked us to pick us up around the corner because the hotel charges him some amount. I’m not sure what the system is but the hotel staff appear to be very powerful since they can heavily influence where and to whom tourist dollars are spent.

After a few days he warmed up to us and I started asking him questions about him. It turns out that he’s not so young. In fact he’s 38, a little older than me. He shook my hand when I told him my age. It also turns out he has a wife and two daughters, lives in a village near the Central Market, and has been driving for seven years. He couldn’t understand that I didn’t have kids. He asked me several times just to be sure. And then looked on us in pity.

He has an understated sense of humor like when I asked to take a picture with him and he mimicked a street urchin and said, “one dollar, one dollar” with a straight face that broke into a mischievous smile. I get the feeling he’s a pretty sarcastic guy when he’s relaxing with his buddies. But he’s low-key about it.

On the last day, he was supposed to pick us up to go to the airport. But, uncharacteristically, he never showed up. After an hour of waiting we hired another driver to take us there. After over a week of punctuality, we were afraid that maybe he’d gotten into an accident or had some kind of trouble. Hopefully he’s okay.

Thank you Mr. Vey for driving us around safely!

For more posts about Cambodia click here. For the burgeoning photo set click here.