Cologne Bound

November 27

2005-11-27T07:54:00.000+01:00

Today I've started a new blog ... a diary of life in Germany.

Indecision ...

2005-11-26T05:03:00.000+01:00

Yesterday we rented a temporary apartment in the Belgian Quarter very near the center of town. We also submitted an application for an apartment in Sulz, where we hope to be living shortly after the first of the year. The process of getting the apartment will include an interview with the owner some time in the next few weeks, so it isn’t a done deal by any means. We will therefore continue to look at alternative spaces.
We like the Sulz area very much and had pretty much decided that is was our first choice for a neighborhood – that is until we decided to take a look at Nippes. Early in the day yesterday we met an owner, a man who was showing us another temporary space in Koln. He mentioned that he also had space in Nippes, in an old house, and we were intrigued. We decided to take a look. We drove to the area and parked the car. We were early so we stepped into a little café/wine bar just a few doors down from our appointment. We were met by the cool blue eyes of the young woman tending bar. She greeted us warmly and suggested a particularly tasty glass of Burgundy. As we sat chatting with her about why she loved the neighborhood, one of her friends came in and we began chatting with him about his take on Nippes. Eventually our circle widened to include an American ex-pat from Detroit who had been living in Nippes for the last 20 years and another German man who joined the conversation near the end. It was as if the community had opened its arms to us and invited us in – quite literally. This café was clearly the favored watering spot for this crowd and we just happened in at the right time of day to catch them all gathered at the bar. Now we were genuinely confused and dreaded indecision began to creep in. To make matters more complicated, the apartment was lovely – modern appliances and fixtures in a late 19th century building, one of the few spared the devastating Allied bombings during World War II. The price was a little high and it had one less bedroom than we wanted so we weren’t that tempted to take it – but we were certainly taken with the area and in the coming days we will be searching very hard to see if there is a space that calls to us as clearly as the neighborhood already has.

Thanksgiving Day

2005-11-24T06:19:00.000+01:00

Thursday, November 24, 2005
Nideggen-Rath
German

In the back of my mind I knew Thanksgiving was near. I’m not yet so removed from my former routine to forget such an important day. That said, it wasn’t something I was thinking about, nor did it have its usual significance. I’m not cooking today for example, and haven’t been shopping for ingredients the past week or searching through the old Fannie Farmer for recipes my New England grandmother used on Thanksgiving Day meals long ago. Tonight I will probably make pork chops and although I might say a few words to mark the day, they will mean little to the group assembled. Only His Holiness and I were born in America and he doesn’t yet have any awareness of the Holiday – or of any other Holiday for that matter. One day I will begin to tell him the stories I was told as a young boy, about our ancestors, the ones who came over on small wooden boats many hundreds of years ago and settled on the rocky coast of Massachusetts. We have lived continuously in the same small town and on the same piece of land for over four hundred years. One crusty old Uncle still lives in the house his father gave him almost seventy years ago, just off the side yard from the building in which he was born very near the beginning of the last century. His Holiness carries one of Pilgrim names in his, as I do in mine, the poor kid has a name as long as your arm because I never expected him to be in my life and I am quite sure there will never be another like him, so he got them all, all the family names, and he will have to carry them around for at least a decade or two. When he’s older he may chose to discard them, but by that point I will have told him what each of them signifies, and his decision will be an informed one. Today when we sit together for our evening meal we will give thanks for our safe arrival in this new land, where this wayward wing of the family is making a new home.

First Impressions ...

2005-11-23T08:24:00.000+01:00

November 23, 2005
Nideggen-Rath
Germany

Yesterday we spent the day looking at neighborhoods in Cologne and my perspective on this move began to take shape with actual places and textures and colors and smells to work with instead of the imagined contexts I’ve been rambling through for the last few months. All of my senses came into play, and almost immediately I smelled the difference. Outside the air was scented with a bit too much automobile exhaust and there is a hint of coal dust in the background, while indoors the overwhelming smell is cigarette smoke, something I had forgotten was a possibility, because in both Los Angeles and Manhattan, two of the cities I’ve lived in during the last ten years in America, smoking indoors has been banned completely. Well, yesterday I got a face full of it – everywhere, in every café and restaurant. His Holiness didn’t mind and took it in stride, bouncing around and babbling, “Café … Café” … he loves going out for coffee or lunch or dinner in a restaurant and since we were looking at apartments from 10 in the morning until 7 at night, he had lunch, dinner and two coffee breaks worth – he was in heaven. I, on the other hand, was sniffing my new coat at the end of the day, recalling earlier years, and nights spent in smoky rooms … I just hope I don’t start smoking cigarettes again!

We had a chance to look at all the neighborhoods on our list; Lindenthal, Sulz, Belgian Quarter, Klettenberg, Nippes & Braunsfeld. Sulz was the clear favorite with Belgian Quarter and Lindenthal runners up in that order. In Sulz we found a small Platz with a playground and no through traffic. In two days we will see an apartment overlooking the playground and we hope it works – we really like the area. There were two mothers in the playground looking after their children and we spoke with them about the area. They agreed that it was a very desirable spot – good for children, safe, quiet. There is a bar/café on the corner with a pretty good menu and a BIO store just down the street with every imaginable organic food product, a handful of bright bakeries, a nice second-hand bookstore (which to me is a clear sign of a keeper neighborhood), lot’s of coffee shops, Italian and Turkish restaurants, a dry cleaner, tailor and an Aldi! All of this and a large public Park in easy walking distance from the prospective apartment. Finally, the mass transit connections are ideal. Ok, so our hopes are way too high that we will both like and be somehow able to snag this apartment on Friday. We will not be the first people to see it – which we have been promised will not compromise our application. In true New York fashion I tried to be first in line to see the space and was prepared with a deposit check before we even had a chance to look at the inside of the space – the location being more than ideal – it is dreamlike. I will try to temper my expectations and allow fate and karma to do their thing…

We also looked at Lindenthal – which wasn’t bad – but felt a bit stuffy and disconnected. The first thing I noticed when crossing the boundary between Sulz and Lindenthal was fewer smiles and it was too tidy for my taste. I don’t like trashy (that’s not entirely true either) but Lindenthal felt like a place where I would feel obliged to pick up the crumbs from the sidewalk if my roll fell apart … In fact, I don’t think I would even feel comfortable strolling through Lindenthal with a crusty roll in hand.

The Belgian Quarter is the other location we are considering, a completely different feeling from Sulz, more urbane, intense, grown-up. We saw a wonderful apartment there in an old building, high ceilings, lot’s of architectural detail, hardwood floors … But it was just a little too small and it was a four-floor walkup – one story more than comfortable – not Oma-friendly enough. The neighborhood on the other hand was interesting. We had dinner in a terrific little café called Ticino, met the owner and had a good, albeit brief, meal. There was also a wine shop with a good selection of German and other European wines – I bought a recommended German Pinto Noir for later. There were elegant clothing stores and internet cafes and the vibe reminded me somewhat of Manhattan, while Sulz felt like Brooklyn Heights or Cobble Hill or the Upper West Side … If His Holiness wasn’t with us (perish the thought) the Belgian Quarter would probably be a first choice – it sounded like home, it hummed.
None of the other neighborhoods felt even remotely right – and at one point in the waning light of late afternoon, on one particular stretch of street, I had a revelation – more like a waking nightmare. As his energy flagged and his diaper needed changing, His Holiness began repeating, “Go home, New York City” and the realization of what I had done, the magnitude of the change in lifestyle that we had put into motion – hit me smack in the face. My heart rate picked up and I felt a small current of anxiety pulse through my belly … What are we doing here? What was I thinking? How could I possibly leave the bright lights of New York for this? I have made a terrible mistake and we are going to be miserable for the rest of our lives.

Dear Mom

2005-11-22T07:15:00.000+01:00

November 22, 2005

Dear Mom:

We have arrived safely – the flight over was quite nice, and for a charter airline, LTU was wonderful, very good service and friendly from start to finish.

Yesterday we went into the town hall in Nideggen and registered ourselves as residents of Germany. I had heard all sorts of horror stories about how difficult this process could be, but in fact we had two very friendly folks who took care with us and the entire process went without a hitch. It helped that U. was very well prepared with all of the needed forms and documents, but our first experience with the dreaded German beurocracy was a positive one.

His Holiness met his cousins J. and M. on Sunday and fell in love with M., the younger one. They played together all day and he awoke yesterday asking for her … I expect they will be fast friends.

This morning we go into Cologne to look at neighborhoods and an apartment we might rent on a temporary basis until we find something permanent. Already we have been shown photos of a possible long-term apartment by an agent who was referred to us by a friend in the states. The apartment is just what we are looking for – with an extra bedroom for guests, a decent sized kitchen, dining room and living room and a long entrance hallway for His Holiness to run and play in during the inevitable cold, wet days of the German winter.
We will send pictures when we make a decision …

We are well and happy here and looking forward to getting on with life … don’t worry about us – but send your positive thoughts our way – as we send love in your direction.

Your son,

Richard

November 21

2005-11-21T08:59:00.000+01:00

Nideggen-Rath, Germany

The first day of the first week of a new chapter in a long life … His Holiness is sleeping with Mama in the room down the hall. As usual, I have been up for hours padding around this still unfamiliar, rambling old farmhouse where Mama grew up, nestled in the gentle hills of the Eifel in Western Germany. It’s very quiet here and very clean.

Later this morning we will venture into Cologne for our first look at potential neighborhoods. It is all becoming real, but slowly. In between: having neither ended the process of saying good bye to New York nor begun the process of admitting that I live in Germany, but I can feel something happening, a well of emotions churning. There are things unsettled back in the states that I would have preferred to have behind me but which remain stubbornly unfinished. I hope soon to be able to let go … but letting go is … well, what much of this is about.
At the same time I feel some relief at being here, as if I have shed a skin that had grown heavy and worn and now have the rare opportunity to grow a new one, even if my capacity to renew is somewhat diminished. Turning points such as this are an opportunity to take a fresh look. So I choose today to view the world from thirty-six inches above the ground, to both lead and follow His Holiness as we explore life together in the coming years.

November 21

2005-11-21T08:13:00.000+01:00

Good morning …

Well, we made it. I will write about the trip at length in the coming days – but suffice to say it was a good trip and we are safely home at Oma’s farmhouse in the Eifel … with cows and horses and green fields out the window. This morning we venture into Cologne to start the process of locating a new place to live. We are very excited.

A word to all of my blogger friends – thank you. Thank you for your greetings and advice and support. I sincerely appreciate it …

I am not going to stay too long this morning because I am online at Oma’s and paying a fortune in local dial-up costs …

More anon …
Richard

Travel Day

2005-11-18T12:23:00.000+01:00

We leave in four hours.

I can't really believe it.

It's a clear cold morning, I can see the sun rising behind the pine trees.

Ok ... I'm outa here!

November 17

2005-11-17T12:56:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow morning we leave. Today I will be closing the cabin for the winter, securing in plastic tubs anything the mice might find tasty, tossing out anything I don’t really, really want to keep, locking the windows, making certain for the umpteenth time that everything is turned off, confirming that the plumber is coming to drain the pipes, going to the dump, turning in the license plates for the cars, picking up the rental I will drive to the airport and packing – I haven’t even begun to pack my suitcase yet. I shipped my guitar yesterday, I was planning to take it with me on the plane but the airline called and said there wasn’t room in the cabin – Oh great! – that makes me feel good knowing the damn cabin in the plane is too crowded for my guitar – we will probably be sandwiched in for seven hours between smelly, overweight wheezers with too much luggage and too little time for personal hygiene. So I spent $300 to ship the guitar I’ve been playing for 30 years – you read that right boys and girls, my guitar is older than 87% of the people who will read this post! But the upside is that I have the right to check one extra piece of luggage, so if I’ve guessed incorrectly about what I can fit in my bag, I can always add another. I had great plans about pre-packing and even made lists of what to do and when so that today would not be the mad, frantic, hair-pulling shit storm that it promises to be …
It’s almost 7AM and His Holiness will be calling me soon, officially sounding the call to begin the day … Wish me luck!

November 16, 2005

2005-11-16T12:43:00.000+01:00

It’s Wednesday … Friday we leave. His Holiness has turned into a wild man, I think he’s picking up on all the unusual energy in the house and the only way he can process it is to turn the dishwasher on over and over, pull the computer of it’s stand, toss toys on the floor, toss his food and beverages on the floor and generally run amuck.

I feel like I’ve been pumped full of Styrofoam peanuts. I’m sneeze constantly from some unknown irritant and the Benedryl I’m taking makes me feel bloated and sleepy. Nice …

Yesterday I was in Manhattan wrapping up my affairs, although it wasn’t quite as tidy as I had hoped. There are loose ends slapping and flapping behind me and they are going to probably remain unresolved for now. I am eager to just be in Germany – start living this new life and finally exit this Twilight Zone tunnel of transition …

Manhattan ... at last

2005-11-16T03:50:00.000+01:00

Today was my last full day in Manhattan and I took my camera along with me ... I will have a bit more to say about today - tomorrow.

2005-11-16T03:47:00.000+01:00

Christmas Lights going up in midtown

2005-11-16T03:46:00.000+01:00

Times Square this morning ....

Dear Mom

2005-11-15T12:03:00.000+01:00

Dear Mom:

I’m sorry I was unable to speak with you at length when you called. His Holiness was having dinner and that can be a full-court-press, particularly now, when the house is filled with boxes and computer wires and things are generally in a state of transition and his toys have already been sent to Germany. He doesn’t have much of an appetite at night, he eats enough, but generally he has a few bites of his dinner and then is back down on the floor looking for something to get into and Mama and Papa are sent trailing after him as he runs through the house getting into all measure of mischief.

The move is progressing; we are in much better shape this morning than we were just a few days ago. It will require all of our attention and effort, to get into the car and down to Manhattan and on the plane by Friday afternoon. There is so much to do just to move, let alone moving to Europe, but it will all work out in the end and once we are strapped into our seats and the cabin doors close, we can take a deep breath and know that we did all we could do. It’s not like we are moving to Mongolia – If we forget something we can always find a replacement in Cologne.

Don’t worry about us. Regardless of my complaining, we are young (well, young at heart anyway) and strong and will do just fine. We are still just a phone call or an email away (and you must get a laptop for yourself so you and I can exchange emails regularly!) and we will be back in the states at least once a year during the summer …

It was wonderful being home last week, spending time with you all and seeing how much His Holiness loves you and loves being around the family. He still talks about Aunt Mary’s house and when we are out doing errands in the car, he asks me to drive him there …

We love you and think of you every day – don’t forget that.

Yours,
Richard

Anna

2005-11-14T12:47:00.000+01:00

November 14, 2005

It is Monday morning of my last week in New York. Later this morning I will go down to Manhattan and have lunch with the star of our show and coffee with a young friend who needs advice about changing her job and later in the day I will meet with a friend from college, a woman I have known longer than anyone else in New York, an artist and a true New Yorker, raised here, schooled here and as urbane as it is possible to be. She is also one of the calmest human beings I know. One thing I've observed over the years is that people who were born and raised in Manhattan have a certain serenity about them that distinguishes them from people from any of the other boros or from any place else for that matter. I don’t know why that is, perhaps it’s because they have grown so accustomed to the noise and hurry and fever of the city, that it takes something really amazing to raise their blood pressure.

Anna is my dear New York friend of long standing. We have been meeting for coffee and conversation for about 20 years and today will be our last for a while. We met in college; we were both working our way through night school by serving as Administrative Assistants to Deans of two of NYU’s colleges. We also shared a love for Italian and took language courses and practiced our new skills in the Italian Cafes that line Washington Square Park. She was the person who initiated me to Chumley’s, the former speak-easy in the West Village that had a secret back door you entered by slipping through the alley behind a group of buildings on Barrow Street, then down a set of stairs and into the bar. We drank more beer that day than we ever drank together before or after and we came as close as we would ever come to crossing the line between friend and lover, but we didn’t cross it and we never have and I’m glad we didn’t because I might missed the chance to have a life-long friend.

November 12

2005-11-12T11:21:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I said good-bye to two old friends; one in the morning the other in the afternoon. Then I drove back to this cabin at the dark end of that cold, cold day and tonight, just moments ago, I woke to see the sky completely alive with the sparkle of a billion stars and I opened the window and felt the freezing air on my face and heard a distant jet moving through the night but nothing else. The crickets have settled deep in the soil, even the owls have retreated in the face of early winter. It is beautiful, the brilliant stillness, those stars we share but seldom see. They make me think of friends and lovers and people I’ve known for a nod and whether they too are looking at the stars early early in the morning when I can never sleep.

I’ll miss the two men I said good bye to yesterday, one in an office, the other in a bar on 18th street, a bar I had come to know after one of the romantic collisions in my life left me lonely and hungry for company of any kind.

One of them was crying just a bit, when we said good-bye on the corner of 21st street and Fifth Avenue, I suspect the other never cries but his farewell warmed me just the same. I will miss them both in different ways but from the same place in my heart. They are men with whom I have worked and played and whose character I came to know from the tests that life displays. They are good men, good at what they do, men who have made contributions to their art and it has been a pleasure and an honor for me to have had the opportunity to know them and work with them.

It is one thing to feel nostalgic for a streetscape or a notion of a neighborhood that you must leave behind, it is quite another to say goodbye to the companions with whom you have shared the creation of your life’s work, the daily build and strike of creation, the labor of art and commerce that we do together. It is the end of our camaraderie of accomplishment, of challenge and effort and success at the end of the day, that makes these partings, two of the hardest I will make.

November 11

2005-11-11T11:50:00.000+01:00

The time remaining to sort and pack is dwindling, while the “to do” list is getting longer, anxiety is increasing, pimples are erupting, tempers flash and sleep is a distant memory. One week before lift off and you could cut the tension in this cabin with a knife … I’m not too impressed with myself. I thought I was cooler than this, better organized than the average bear but I’m not and if I was honest about it, which I am about to be, I would have to admit that I’ve not given this move my full commitment, my full energy. I’ve let my wife carry most of the load while I dealt with the care and feeding of His Holiness … I’ve taken a secondary role and waited for instructions, not something I am accustomed to doing, but a role I’ve fallen into quite easily during the last few months. I’m not feeling very happy with myself this morning – and that is a massive understatement – but will have to suffice here in these very public pages.

2005-11-10T17:33:00.000+01:00

Maple Tree

November 10

2005-11-10T17:27:00.000+01:00

The last red leaves of the Maple tree in the side yard have fallen
and deer families prowl the grounds for any remaining green.In seven days hunters will sight them though their scopes as the annual Fall ritual of killing begins. The next morning we leave for Europe.

2005-11-09T10:01:00.000+01:00

Mountain Lake - Autumn

November 9

2005-11-09T09:50:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was a major packing, sorting and throwing away day. Things were strewn all over the driveway, pouring out of the garage onto the lawn, the porch, boxes half filled, suitcases, packing tape, old CD’s, clothes and photo albums, things I hadn’t seen in years and of course the inevitable mementos long forgotten that surface like floaters in the East River when the air warms each spring … long forgotten but never really that far away, waiting to reappear and haunt. I even found the photo album my mother started for me when I was born. I had forgotten it existed, but there it was with my birth announcement and newspaper clippings from my illustrious high school years. Then there was nothing, just fields of empty paper where the events of my life left the pages of the photo album when I left home. I have never been one to keep organized recollections – not until laptops that is. I started a diary in 1981 and wrote in it fairly regularly until the LA earthquake in 1992, when it was set aside and only rediscovered in the late 90’s by an old friend who was rummaging through the basement of the Hollywood apartment building in which we had both lived. She came across it years later amidst the rubble of the much larger 1993 earthquake that nearly rattled our old building, once owned by Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, to the ground. Yesterday I separated those things I wanted to keep, but would leave here in New York, from those things I felt I had to have with me in Germany. I will go through the piles again today because there are far too many “take to DE” boxes. I will review it all once more and decide what amidst this clutter of things serves my life and what serves only to tie me to my past. I am leaving after all; carrying my history with me only weighs me down.

November 6

2005-11-06T12:53:00.000+01:00

Twelve days left in America and everything I do, particularly the most mundane events of the day … such as going to the grocery store on Sunday morning to get milk for His Holiness (can’t do in Germany), listening to Click and Clack the Tap-it Brothers on the “Car Talk” radio show while driving nowhere (can’t do in Germany), calling my brother on Saturday morning to meet for a quick cup of coffee at the corner café (can’t do in Germany) … all these little things are taking on added significance. I am trying to pay attention to it all. Writing this blog is part of the process of observing my world more closely.

And then there is His Holiness … he is the constant. It is the smell of his skin, the softness of his small fingers, the first sound of his voice each day calling me to pick him up from his crib and carry him into the living room where he often sits with me quietly while I finish my early morning tappings here at the keyboard. The hope is that his life will be better there … our lives … in the Old world … We are unimpressed with the New world, feel lost in it at the same time that we know it best. It is no longer a place we love, although there are things about it we will miss terribly.
What will we say when he is old enough to ask why?

November 5

2005-11-05T11:01:00.000+01:00

Outrageous! Two in the morning and I am wide-awake. I may need to see a doctor; I think I have insomnia. I get very sleepy at about 9:00PM and then at two or three or four I wake up and can’t go back to sleep. I get tired during the day and often take long naps – I hate this. I just want to sleep like a normal person.

Yesterday I went to the Citadel in Charleston, SC with my stepfather to hear him address a class of cadets (See: November 4). It was an unusual day for me, an anti-war New Yorker who never served in the military, sitting in a room with a group of young people in uniform, heads shaved, gray shirts pressed stiff and tightly fitted to their youthful frames, young men, and a few women, many of whom will soon put on the uniform of their country and go to war and die. They sat and listened to an old soldier tell his stories from the Great War, stories of death and triumph. I could not help but feel that many of the students in the room felt that what they were hearing had little or no relevance to what might be awaiting them in some yet un-named war in their future. The old man who stood before them fought with primitive weapons, he was a civilian soldier unlike the soldiers of today, who are all “professionals”, armed with the latest killing instruments, an army of superior force and technology. Those distinctions aside, there was an unmistakable kinship among the men and women present. They were all soldiers, people who were prepared to die in the service of their country. As much as I loathe violence of any kind, I could not help but admire their commitment to sacrifice.
Following the lecture we ate lunch in the Mess Hall. We sat in a huge room with 2000 cadets. Ear-splitting shouts went up from the rigid-backed freshmen cadets as they addressed their superior officers. The atmosphere was not conducive to digestion, and neither was the food, which consisted of a breaded chicken filet on a white bun, Doritos and some variety of pancake. I could not imagine how these young soldiers could survive on such paltry rations.

We went out to dinner together last night for the first time in a long, long time. I drank three glasses of wine with dinner – far more than I’ve had to drink in months and this morning my head hurts. My brother and sister took care of His Holiness and reports were that he was a happy little boy all night, watched Bambi twice and went to bed without incident at 8:30 … He was sleeping soundly when we got in and sleeps still as I sit here typing into the coming day.

November 4

2005-11-04T12:35:00.000+01:00

Later this morning I will be driving to Charleston, SC to attend a lecture at the Citadel, the south’s oldest and most prestigious military school. My stepfather is speaking about his recent book, which recounts his experiences as a highly decorated paratrooper during the Second World War. I’ve read the book and find it nearly impossible to image myself surviving as he did. I look forward to sitting in the back of the lecture hall while the students, all enrolled in officer candidate classes, ask questions. My stepfather is a remarkable man with immense energy and unfailing good humor. He is also a man who believes deeply that America is the finest country on earth and that it is worth giving your life to preserve it. As gentle as he is to his friends and family, he is also capable of great and terrible violence in defense of his values. It is a dichotomy of character and experience I will never completely understand.

Coming home

2005-11-03T10:23:00.000+01:00

Visiting with my family this week. His Holiness stole the show last night as we gathered at mother’s house for a terrific dinner prepared by my older brother. He played the piano and sang and generally endeared himself to everyone by being able to say his or her names. I didn’t sleep any better here than I have been at home and so find myself at four in the morning in the den typing out this post. I’m sitting in the room where this family circled around the TV one Sunday night ages ago eating peanut butter and crackers and watched the Beatles perform for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show. Yes, I am probably older than you, and by some considerable margin. Coming home always seems to point out to me just how old I really am … Seeing my brothers and sister after a stretch of time heightens the realization of passing time - the graying hair, the spreading waistlines … Mother uses a walker now. I saw it for the first time yesterday when we got home from the airport. Knowing mother as I do I know she is mortified to need such a device to get around. Nothing was said about it, and during dinner it just sat in the corner like a discreet assistant waiting for it’s employer to turn for advice. But it was there behind her, an unavoidable presence in the room, another sign of passing time and impermanence. The family is gathered here to send us off on our move to Europe. I look forward to spending time with them this week in what is unfortunately a reunion with a rapidly diminishing number of repeat performances.

October 30

2005-10-30T13:16:00.000+01:00

Up at four this morning, only to learn it was actually three. My two-year-old son was also restless and started calling for me shortly after I got up. The embers in the fireplace were still red from last night’s fire, so I threw in some fresh logs and they are now gently blazing. It is as still as the middle of the night can be; the only sounds in the cabin are my fingertips on the keyboard, the occasional crackle of the fire and my son’s raspy breathing, sprinkled now and then with a whimper. Something is bothering him tonight and I wonder if it might be our upcoming move. I took him by the local airfield yesterday afternoon and we saw a small single-engine plane take off into the Autumn sky. I told him we would soon be riding in a plane, traveling to our new home. I’ve been talking with him about the move since we made the decision, trying to prepare him for it, for the leaving of familiar things and places. He has been curled up in my arms tonight, not sleeping really, just dozing, cuddling, and holding onto me and me to him. This move has stirred up so many emotions, movement does that, it causes you to make choices about what to save and what to leave behind, and those choices aren’t limited to clothing and books and mementos, but to people, relationships, expectations, dreams … things that keep you awake at night.

Good Byes

2005-10-27T13:21:00.000+02:00

It’s 3 in the morning and I have been awake in my bed making lists of people I want to see today in New York, people I want to say good-bye to in person. I’m cleaning the apartment out today.

Arthur, who used to own the second-hand book store on West 4th street but now works for the man who bought it from him.

Rhonda, who runs the most perfect neighborhood Italian restaurant in the world, the restaurant that I must have spent thousands of hours and dollars in over the last ten years, the restaurant where we sat almost every night for a year and planned the ill-fated film that brought our relationship down and the restaurant a few years later where the new we held our wedding dinner. Rhonda, I hope you are in today.

Ping, I know you are no longer at the Chinese laundry down the street from my apartment (it’s still MY apartment for another four days), I know your heart finally retired you but I would so like to tell you goodbye and thank you for all the rush jobs you did on my clothes when I was about to get on a plane for some last minute job. Thank you for the beautiful sweater you gave to my son when he was one year old and for waving to us every time we walked past your window.

Humdee and Sam at the Deli … I could not begin to count the bagels and tuna fish sandwiches you have made for me, or the lentil soup that Sam makes every Wednesday. Thank you for ordering the case of Animal crackers we gave away as souvenirs at the opening of the film. Thank you for always remembering how I like my coffee and for always having a smile on your face when I walked in.

Ramon, the super of the building on the corner, who was probably as excited as anyone when he saw us walking down the street with His Holiness in the basket when we got home from St. Vincent’s and who has had something nice to say every day since.

Jesus at the cigar shop, the lady behind the counter at the Spanish breakfast stand, the one-armed homeless man who lives in our neighborhood and always greets me politely when I see him, whether or not I have anything to give him that day, the old couple on the block who wave from their chairs in the garden as we walk by, Jason the hair cutter on the corner, the girls at the Chinese restaurant near the playground, the lady at the bookstore on Bleaker street who always knows just the right thing to recommend and who told me about “A Winter’s Tale” …
The list goes on and the longer I sit here thinking about it the farther back in time I go … to the first neighborhood I lived in when I moved to New York in the late 1970’s … I’ve forgotten their names now but not their kindness or wit or intensity or the sounds of their voices, the accents from the old worlds of Cuba and Germany and others … the immigrants who settled in New York after WWII and whose numbers were dwindling when I arrived … I can’t list them this morning but I will never forget them, any of them.

October 25

2005-10-25T16:10:00.000+02:00

We bought the airline tickets and yesterday I cancelled the phone service, the cable TV, closed my bank account (I kept one NY account open for all the checks I’m expecting!) sent change of address forms everywhere and signed up for electronic debit bill paying for any remaining stateside-based services … So the check list is dwindling. Thursday I will go to the apartment and breakdown my garden.

I started building this garden in 1998 on the terrace of my apartment. It’s a large terrace, over 300 square feet, so I had some space to play with. It is by necessity a container garden. I built planters and found containers of all sorts wherever I traveled; sap buckles from Vermont, decorative tin buckets from Venice, stainless steel mop buckets from the trash pile down the street. Almost any container could be used and at the height of summer it didn’t much matter what the container looked like because the plants were always overflowing their nests onto the retaining wall in search of light and space and freedom. I had planned to transplant some of the larger and older plants to the grounds of the cabin here upstate, but I may have waited too long. Last night the first snow fell a few hundred feet in elevation north if us. It will only be a matter of days, maybe weeks, before the temperatures drop below freezing here and snow begins to fall regularly.
There is one tree I want to save. It was a drug store miniature Christmas tree, about 12 inches tall and when that first Christmas season was passed I set it in the corner of the terrace in a large planter all it’s own. Over the years it has flourished, weathered bitter winters and ice storms and cigarette butts tossed from the neighboring building on dry summer nights and grown to be almost five feet tall. Each year I drag it over to the middle of the terrace and draped it in Christmas lights – it’s annual dress up. It’s so large now that I need two strands of lights to wrap around it … Thursday I will take it down and pack it in a van, transport it upstate, plant it and hope for the best.

October 22

2005-10-23T05:59:00.000+02:00

This afternoon my two-year-old son got dressed up in a fire truck costume and went to a Halloween party at the firehouse in Kaneonga Lake. He wore a colorful sponge fire truck hung from his shoulders with straps, a red plastic fire hat, red pants and a red Wallace Berry shirt. The party is sponsored each year by the Town of Bethel, New York, which is where we have been living this Summer and now Fall … since we left the apartment in New York and began preparing for our move to Cologne. There was a small parade (12 children) around the fire trucks and then back into the dining hall. After the parade there was a contest where every child won something … Sebastian’s costume was voted most original …
It’s difficult to write about the emotions summoned by a day like today – the feelings I have toward my son and the feelings I have about living in a small town in rural New York, getting to know the folks here and feeling a part of it, with the knowledge that in less than a month it will be over. This afternoon at the party I saw a woman I had known a few years back. I had interviewed her for a documentary I was doing on the 35th Anniversary of the Woodstock Music Festival which was held here in Bethel, about three miles from where I am writing this tonight. She and her husband ran a small grocery store in town and during the week or so that the town of Bethel became the center of the universe for a generation, she opened the doors of her store and fed the hungry children who showed up. She is something of a legend in the town. Her husband, who was featured prominently in the movie Woodstock, died a year before I came to town to do the film, so I never had the chance to meet him. Today I saw her again, at the children’s Halloween party at the firehouse. She was there with her great grandson, who was dressed as Superman. She told me that her father had worked as a carpenter in the area and had probably built the cabin we live in, that his initials are some place in the house. Later in the day we stopped at the Lutheran Church just down the road for their Annual Turkey Dinner Fundraiser … For $8.00 a person you could have all the turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes and gravy and string beans and cranberry sauce you could eat … I ate until I could eat no more, thinking all along this might be the last dinner of this sort that I would have for a long time.

October 19

2005-10-19T10:23:00.000+02:00

I am beginning to have regrets, as the days become fewer and fewer until I leave America. Yesteday my former landlord called to say my apartment had been rented about 15 minutes after we put it on the market. I knew it wouldn’t last long, it was a perfect NYC apartment and I will miss it terribly – but I don’t want to think about that because it will make me terribly sad and I am afraid that if I allow myself to be sad right now I will just open some kind of floodgate of melancholy that I will be wading in for the rest of my life. But I am having regrets, for example I didn’t take my camera with me yesterday when I was in the city for a video shoot – my still camera that is – so that I could take a few more shots of the city. I just didn’t carry my camera around with me enough during the last 25 years or so that I've lived in Manhattan – I never thought I would leave.

Saturday Night

2005-10-16T09:00:00.000+02:00

This is early even for me – not yet 2AM and I’m sitting at the keyboard which I can barely focus on my eyes are so jumpy – I’m awake and can’t go back to sleep, not after being awakened twice in the course of the previous two hours. I have a difficult time as it is getting nearly through a night – but with two interruptions I’m shot! So here I am. Should I consider this a continuation of Saturday or the beginning of Sunday? I know technically it’s Sunday but it feels like Saturday night …

Saturday night: what does that mean to me any more? What has it meant to me for a long, long time? It used to mean going out on a date or going out with a friend to look for girls. I was not one of those people for whom Saturday night was about getting dressed up and taking myself downtown to a club or mixing it up with the locals in a bar, nor was I ever really “one of the guys” who would hang out in groups and talk sports and ride around in their cars and drink, unless I count the period from 14-16 years of age when one of the older boys in high school let another friend and I ride around in his Cherry Red Chevy SS-396. Looking back I don’t know how he ever got to drive that car or why he let us ride with him, but he did and we did and we would often end up at the A&W Root Beer Drive-In where they had curb service and hung those metal trays on the side of your car. Late on a Saturday night in Columbia, South Carolina it was a scene, with cars cruising through the parking lot one after another, like toy trains linked at the nose and tail, around and around and around, some with couples inside, some with just girls and most with horny young boys like us who only knew we wanted a girl, but had no idea what to do if we were to actually get one in the car with us – which of course we never did.
Saturday night in the back seat of that car was also about drinking beer from a can and smoking cigarettes, about feeling almost old enough to matter but not quite, because at 14 you know you shouldn’t be doing the things you are doing, so as cool as you try to be you are always holding a little something back, never rising too far out of your seat as you participate in the merry-go-round the parking lot, less you actually catch someone’s attention.
Now Saturday night is just the night before Sunday morning, and I’m most often sitting here, not in the black leather back seat of a hot red muscle car, but in a squeaky old rocking chair in a cabin in the Catskill Mountains wide awake.

Europe v. Cologne

2005-10-15T13:04:00.000+02:00

Coming on one month before we leave New York and America for good and begin our life in Europe. I am having some trouble saying or writing the word “Cologne” when thinking about the upcoming move, when naming the destination. I am so accustomed to being a New Yorker, a person who lives in the center of the world, and being foolishly proud in some way of having this crazy place as my hometown. I wear it like a badge of honor, saying to the world – I am able to cope with New York – to thrive in it - to love it and almost understand it. And now I am about to say good bye to it and move to a small city in the middle of Germany where the sun doesn’t shine nearly enough and where I know I will be assaulted on a daily basis for being an American and somehow responsible for George Bush and all the ridiculous crap he is propagating in the world. Living in New York – we all KNOW we didn’t vote for him and that the world will be better off when he retires. But the rest of the world often lumps all Americans together (for convenience no doubt) with comments like, “Well you elected him.” And my answer is; NO I DIDN’T! He stole the first election and lied his way into a second tern by scaring 51% of the voters into thinking he could protect them from Weapons of Mass Destruction, which only existed in his speeches, and from the hidden armies of international Terrorism, whose ranks he has successfully increased by giving them a new rallying cry and focus in Iraq! Ok – enough of the ANTI-BUSH rant …
I was writing about my ambivalence in naming Cologne as my new destination, in favor of the much sexier “Europe” and I think I will just stick with Europe for now because I don’t know a thing about Cologne and I genuinely hope to use Cologne, in my remaining years, as a point of departure to discover a part of the world I know just enough about to be curious …

Hour of the Wolf

2005-10-14T11:52:00.000+02:00

In a recent interview the horror writer and dare-devil Dan Greenburg was asked what actually scared him.

A: Waking up at the hour of the wolf, that hour just before the sky starts turning pink, when the comforting sounds of crickets and cicadas and the bugs that sound like ratchet tools have stopped for the night and nature is holding its breath before dawn, the hour when the most truly horrifying things happen to people. Wait, did you hear that? A kind of eerie scratching and snuffling at the back door? No? Uh-oh. You know, I think I forgot to double-lock the back door, and the one thing they warned me never to do in these woods is to forget to double-lock the back door. I'd better go check it out.

There is something about getting up at 4:00 in the morning that is qualitatively different from getting up earlier or later. At some point in my early 20’s I accepted the notion that the hour between 4AM and 5AM was the “hour of the wolf” - it was something I read somewhere or heard on the radio late one night driving home from a date. I genuinely believe this hour is somehow haunted and that whatever evil there is in the world surfaces at this time. Without any evidence to support it, I'm sure that most of the murders and beatings and rapes and other bad things people do to other people, occur during this hour and therefore it isn’t a good thing to be out and about in the world until 5:01AM or thereabouts. And I have this notion that whatever evil might lurk within me has a better chance of acting on me if I’m awake, so I don’t particularly like it when I can’t sleep for one reason or another and get up and go into the kitchen and see the clock above the oven reads four-something in the morning as it did today.

It is now safely past 5:00AM. I can hear the early birds chirping outside. I’ve made it through another hour of the wolf unscathed.

October 12

2005-10-12T12:09:00.000+02:00

It has been raining for a week. It began with morning fog which would burn off my late morning, then the rain came in earnest, biblical amounts, flooding, trees falling – that sort of rain. It let off for two days to a steady, soft drizzle but this morning the heavy rain is back and the lights are flickering as I write this, no doubt because a tree somewhere has fallen and is leaning against the wire and any moment now will come crashing to the ground ushering in a few hours of power-free living before the New York Electric Authority (or whatever it’s called out here) sends a crew to repair the line and clear the trees. His Holiness had asked for pancakes this morning but may have to settle for cereal.

On a completely unrelated matter … I woke up this morning wondering how it was that we elected George Bush to two terms as President of the United States. I really don’t understand. I like to think of myself as a person who pays attention to the world around him – but for the life of me I just can figure out what might have brought over half of the voters in the recent election (and slightly less than half in the first election which was stolen – not won) to vote for this numbskull. He is the most corrupt, incompetent half-wit to occupy the office of President in history … (I went through the list of Presidents to see if I might have missed someone, but no, Bush is the dullest of them all.) The only explanation I can think of is that the voters looked at Laura Bush and thought to themselves that anyone with a wife as smart and attractive as she is can’t be a total looser – WRONG!

The siren at the firehouse has just started – it is blaring wildly – cutting the pre-dawn calm like a butcher knife and calling the volunteer firemen to their trucks … Whatever it is – I hope everyone is safe – I hate to hear that wail.

October 11, 2005

2005-10-11T13:22:00.000+02:00

I haven’t been writing much lately, the odd letter to the editor but nothing here or in my diary, no travel pieces, and no visits with pen in hand to the places I normally frequent. Maybe the impending move has temporarily frozen me. I do feel a bit like I’m incased in wax – not a part of the New York scene anymore and not having a clue what life will be like in Cologne. Although I have a pretty good idea I won’t be strolling down the street seeing beautiful people everywhere or window-shopping or without thinking about it just stop in for a good cup of coffee in some small café. I know Cologne is not Manhattan, it never will be the same nor should it and I will never be the same, nor should I be, but I am apprehensive about the move, coming from this place I know to a city I have visited but really know nothing about, where people speak a language I don’t yet understand and where they eat food too bold for daily consumption…

October 7

2005-10-07T12:25:00.000+02:00

It is very early in the morning, crickets are still singing outside my window. I haven’t been able to sleep these last few weeks; I suppose it’s the impending move to Europe that has my mind racing, and I love this old cabin in the woods and hate the thought of leaving it, even though I expect to be back in the spring. There is something holy about the sounds of the stillness here … when the only breaks in the silence are hoot owl calls, insect songs and coyotes weeping at the moon.
Last night I tried going to bed early, I was exhausted and got under the covers right after dinner … Then my two year old son came in and crawled up on the bed with a book and tossed it in my direction, his face filled with a huge wet smile. He was in his pajamas and his hair was damp and curly. He is at is most cuddly at times like this, and I sat up in bed and read to him and thought to myself how precious these moments are, when all he wants is to share time and space with his mother and father, to glow in their love. It will feel like a heartbeat when he is grown and gone and that moment, just a dream from a sleepless night.

Found in Boxes

2005-10-05T13:04:00.000+02:00

October 5, 2005

While preparing for this current move to Europe I started the packing and sorting out process with my most valued things, the items I keep in small leather boxes and envelops near my chest of drawers, where I can always get to them. And even though the pile has become cluttered in the last ten years and nearly impossible to get to, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what was there. This area is something like the cigar box that little boys keep under their beds, with magic rocks and toy soldiers and other treasure and secret things picked up in their travels. Well, so too are the things I collect and keep in my special place.

Two items in particular caught my attention this weekend; brought me up short, made me stop what I was doing and get out my glasses for a closer look. One was a picture taken of me early one morning on the bike path on the beach between Venice Beach and Santa Monica. It was taken by a woman who was never quite my girlfriend. We tried, but it just didn’t work. We liked each other a great deal and had so much fun riding our bikes around Santa Monica in the morning and visiting friends together and hiking and talking about the world. She was an expat southerner like myself and had the familiar, soft-spoken sound to her voice that felt like home and best friends left behind. To this day I think about her and miss her company. We ran into each other on Madison Avenue one day a few years back. She had married and looked very happy and I was happy for her. In the picture I am standing next to my bike, wearing a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt I picked up during the filming of a movie. The picture was taken 13 years ago and in it I looked happy. The moment is so clear in my mind I can smell it. I don’t have many pictures from that time or from any time in my past really, so this one is special and will certainly be among the things I bring with me wherever I go.

The other item I found was a large brown envelope filled with stories given to me by a bar tender I met during the last movie I made. She worked in a terrible little bar on the ground floor of the building we had rented for our offices. Years later it would be the nearest bar to the World Trade Center site still open for business after the bombings of September 11th. In the days directly following the disaster I remember walking by and seeing the sign out front advertising “nearest beer to WTC” and thinking what an unsavory character the owner of that place was and remained. There were more than a few nights when she pulled down the gates out front and bolted the door and kept the bar open for me. We would sit and drink and talk about writing and life. It wasn’t until sometime later, after I’d finished the film and moved on, that she showed me her stories. They were still works-in-progress but they bowled me over. In them her main character describes her feelings as she goes out on her first night as a call girl. She describes getting dressed for the night, the clothing, lipstick, hose, shoes – every detail of the evening down to the sound her Honda civic made as she pulled up to the curb a block away from her customer’s house. This was the first story I read but there were others in which she described her coming of age in a sub-culture of flesh and commerce where her main character was the commodity, and it was all so real, the details so vivid that reading the stories was like looking over her shoulder. I could smell the heat of the dressing room of the strippers preparing themselves for a show, I could feel the tension of the John as he watched her dance to the music she played on the boom box she brought with her and placed on the coffee table in the living room.

It all came back to me as I pulled the pages from the envelope this weekend. She’s married now and had a child and I still hear from her now and then. Her stories will travel with me when I go.

Reflections on New York

2005-10-02T10:06:00.000+02:00

As I prepare to leave America for Europe, I realize that in one month I will celebrate my 28th year in New York City, less a couple of years spent lost in LA and the nearly one year following, hold up in a very small town in Pennsylvania, a time when I was falling apart and an old friend held out his hand to me and pulled me up just as my head was about to settle under the water. Aside from that interlude in the west I’ve considered myself a New Yorker for nearly three decades and been proud of my association with this majestic, razzle-dazzle town where, for moments now and then, I’ve felt I belonged.

For two years I worked for the Mayor Rudy Giuliani and that job took me into all the boros of the city. I got to know someone in just about every part of town and if I didn’t know someone in a certain neighborhood, I knew someone who knew the person I needed to get to. I guess it was during that time that I felt most connected to the city – carrying a business card emblazoned with the New York City seal and driving a big black car with “official” license tags. I don’t know what it was like to work in the administrations of other mayors, but working in the Giuliani administration was pretty exciting, things got done, people paid attention when you called them and at the end of the day you actually felt you had accomplished something, even though the next day you would have a new “to do” list as long as your arm. That’s one of the things about New York that makes it the most terrific city on the planet, if you have the inclination you can do something exciting just about every day of your life. I didn’t take full advantage of everything New York had to offer but I think I got a pretty good taste.

I was in my 20’s when I arrived and attended night school at NYU in Washington Square. I was married to the girl I followed up here from home in the South. She had dreams of becoming an actress and one day informed me that she was moving to New York and I could follow her or not as I wished. We stayed married for too long and it was the end of that marriage that my sojourn in the west was all about. When I returned to Manhattan I had been reborn with a perspective on life one can only gain from having visited the deepest reaches of your soul. I’ve had more than one of those revelations – working in Africa being one and the birth of my son another.
Sebastian is now two years old, born at St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village. I’m happy he was born in Manhattan – in Greenwich Village. He has a connection to this city he will carry with him for the rest of his life. And should he decide to return to America one day, he can say he’s a native New Yorker, born in the West Village, something that distinguishes him and at the same time roots him in this town, the locus of his father’s dreams and the best years of his life - thus far.

Bank Street

2005-09-29T13:39:00.000+02:00

We are deep into preparations for the move to Cologne. Yesterday I gave notice to the landlord that I would be leaving the apartment in the West Village where I have lived for the last ten years. It is more a tree house than a conventional apartment, in the rear of a townhouse built in 1840, on the second floor, with a balcony that overlooks the heavily planted gardens of the neighbors and trees and trees and trees. The apartment sits among the trees and is elevated by them, suspended above the city and insulated from the noise and bustle of it all. In late May the crabapple tree blooms in massive fragrant pick blossoms. The display is so huge that from my living room chair I see nothing but a field of pink flowers as I look outside through the double French doors. In Winter I stack wood out there for the fireplace I keep lit for days at a time in February and March when icy winds blow through the window cracks and into the room. During the two blizzards we’ve had in the last ten years, I’ve had to shovel the accumulated snow off the balcony and into the yard below for fear that the roof might collapse from the added weight. Even as I write this I can hear the heavy thumping plops of damp snow dropping from my shovel to the ground below. Each Spring I planted a garden where Morning Glories flourish and Day Lilies and Fuscia, Chamomile and Lavender, Rosemary and Mint, Hollyhocks, Tulips, Bacopa, Lamium and during certain Summers when I was very ambitious, dozens of other varieties I found early on Saturday mornings at the Farmer’s market in Union Square. I will miss it – and the neighborhood it rests within, the tree-lined cobblestone streets peopled with a magnificent variety of folks like the beautiful couple next door, two women in their eighties who have lived in the village all their adult lives and to this day hold afternoon card games for other aging ladies and their equally ancient lovers, once girls whose love brought them here, to this oasis of tolerance.

September 24

2005-09-24T11:14:00.000+02:00

September 24, 2005

It’s been officially Fall for three days but the leaves have been falling for weeks now. We haven’t had enough rain this summer and everything is very dry. Mountain Lake is so low you can see the tree stumps in the middle and the boat dock, which usually floats in the water just off shore, is now sitting completely on dry land.
Last week we ran out of water. I was planting a little patch of grass by the side of the house where I’d been doing some work and suddenly the water stopped running. We have a well and it seems the water table has dropped below the level where our normal water consumption can be sustained. It scares me a bit and serves as a reminder that water is not something to be taken for granted.
I’ve been very conscious of just how precious water is after working in Africa and seeing the results of draught and famine. I’ve also lived in the desert west of America - the fantasyland we have created out there, where the indigenous water supply is sufficient to maintain maybe a tenth of the population - something will give one day and it won’t be pretty.

In just under two months we will be leaving the US and settling in Cologne. We had thought Berlin would be our destination but there is work in Cologne so that will be our base. More thoughts on this move in days to come …

Paris

2005-09-16T19:30:00.000+02:00

Someone asked me the other day about Paris, then yesterday I was reading a story about a writer who lived in the first half of the 20th century. And in this story there was a piece of a poem by another man, about the streets of Paris and the way they speak to you in a thousand different voices and colors and volumes, some whisper like soft skinned ladies with pale brown hair and light cotton blouses and then, on a different twist of a gray stone way you hear the voice change.
I've decided to freeze it - the image of Paris that I carry around - late 1950's Black & White film images ... the stories of Jacque Tati and his frequently bright, loving and sometimes melancholic descriptions of France as a collection of communities, each held together by shared experience and loyalty to each other as human beings and citizens of the Republic. Paris is also about love ... and anyone who has a story about Paris, also has a story about a girl, or a guy, who they met one stormy, windy, humid night, a night of dancing without parallel ... and they burned bright for a very long time. And even now ... in Paris windows, on any October afternoon, I expect to see her dark brown hair fold away and brush the window frame as she turns from the street and away.

State of the Planet

2005-09-03T13:15:00.000+02:00

September 2, 2005

These times cry out for honest leadership to guide us through the dangers that beset us in every corner of this planet. It is the very planet itself, and our species continued existence that is at risk as we find ourselves governed by selfish, small-minded men with no vision for a future that does not resemble the past. We are at war with the earth and with ourselves. Violence in the form of armed warfare is tearing vast regions of the planet apart, violating families and sewing seeds of vengeance and hate that will torture us all for generations. Violence against our environment has destroyed our planet’s ability to regenerate the resources necessary to sustain life and has created conditions that spawn great and horrible storms, deep droughts and spreading deserts slowly encroaching on previously fertile land, sucking life itself from the surface of the earth. Violence against the poor, by ignoring their suffering and perpetuating a system of commerce and selfish accumulation and exploitation of resources by the privileged few, produces a massive daily death toll, an accumulation of suffering and despair that tears at the very essence of humanity and cries out for remedy. Our situation is no longer tenable; we are perishing but are too frightened to acknowledge the truth of our imminent demise.

The Decline of David Brooks

2005-08-31T12:35:00.000+02:00

New York Times August 29, 2004

"Today, public opinion is turning against the war not because people have given up on the goal of advancing freedom, but because they are not sure this war is winnable." David Brooks

David Brooks had a shred of credibility when he joined the ranks of the New York Times. But did I miss something? Is he moonlighting? Does his second pay stub read Office of the President?
Mr. Brooks is clever enough to pull the wool very near the eyes of the weary. But his skills are taxed beyond their limit and his credibility severely challenged, when in the service of defending Administration policy in Iraq. Nice work Mr. Brooks; trotting out the next strategy to win the war Â again? Do you blow up these trial balloons in the basement of the Pentagon all by yourself?
You concede that public opinion is turning against the war. How bold! But do you believe the American people think for one minute that advancing freedom is the reason our children are being sent to die in Iraq? The American people donÂt care if this war is winnable Mr. Brooks Â that is not the point and never has been. When an undertaking is immoral, which this war certainly is, it matters not if it is winnable Â it matters only that we cease the immoral activity immediately. Iraq is an immoral war because our leaders knowingly and repeatedly lied to us about threats they knew did not exist in order to rush us to engagement. They have no moral authority to spend the lives of our children in this war. Now that thousands of people have died and countless thousands have been grievously injured, we are admonished to stay the course because to do otherwise would be to dishonor those who have sacrificed for the cause. Shame on members of the Bush Administration who wasted the lives of these young men and women as pawns to advance their petty political careers. And shame on all of you who persist in defending this policy today, for dishonoring those dead by continuing to use them, to justify the ongoing slaughter in Iraq.

Dean Gaskill

2005-08-20T12:06:00.000+02:00

August 20, 2005

Yesterday morning, very early in the new day, Dean Gaskill died. I wish I could have called him a friend, but that wouldn’t be true. We hadn’t known each other long enough and he was the kind of man who had friends – true friends, people with whom he had shared his life and work and who, upon waking this morning, feel the profound emptiness of loss while I can only wonder about a life I had but glimpsed from the edge of a day.

I know this much; he was a man people loved and that quality derived from some place deep within him. I don’t know if it was confidence or inner peace or love of life but it was a disposition that caused his footsteps on this earth to be gentle, but the footprints he left quite deep.

Middle of the Night

2005-08-17T10:12:00.000+02:00

August 17, 2005

It is the middle of the night, a place I sometimes find myself, troubled with fears of fleeting time, with truth that will face me when the world wakes and phones ring and dates pass and the deep cold returns to these mountains and a man had better be ready for it. These are the thoughts that bring me to this chair and this pen in the middle of this late summer night. The baby is restless as well, we are so close the two of us that my sleeplessness unsettles him, not the rustling sounds I make moving through the cabin to scratch the biscuit box for something sweet, but my very nature, and here in the middle of tonight my nature is keenly awake. Outside the window inches from my head I hear an owl calling and another answering, hooting in the hollow darkness, spreading news of the night. The crickets’ chirp is sharp and rolls through the room and pounds my brain. There is no silence here, only cautious stillness.

Chinese Girls

2005-08-06T12:43:00.000+02:00

August 6, 2005

When the Chinese girls next door woke me with their laughter at 4:00AM, I was dreaming about the 1970’s, about a dark-haired girl in a plaid shirt and low-cut blue jeans, filling a bamboo pipe and drawing deeply then settling down to sleep, naked and peaceful. That was also a part of my life – thirty years ago, more really because it was over by 1975. Things had begun to change even earlier but by the mid-70’s the culture of drugs had swamped the culture of love – replacing ideas with empty-headedness and drawing a generation or so of young minds into a descending spiral of self-indulgent meaninglessness. A culture that took it’s creative spark from Beat poets and folk singers and burned hot with the rage of heady rock and roll, fizzled out under the fractured light of a disco ball in Queens, New York only to be resurrected in the dreams of aging men like me, easily awakened on a summer night.

August 1

2005-08-02T03:37:00.000+02:00

I must confess that I am totally inadequate when it comes to playdoh animal making. It is one of the long list of parental failures I am racking up ... I can just barely make a reasonable pig - at least my two year old son Sebastian recognizes it as a pig - so I suppose I'm not a total failure. We spend most of our playdoh time opening and closing the individual playdoh containers ... taking the dough out putting it back in - and so it goes.

It was rainy this morning and Sebastian and I spent the first part of the day shopping, in and out of farmer's markets, and a mattress shop and I even found a small Italian bakery in this backwoods hamlet that makes pretty good biscotti. I ended up eating the biscotti - Sebastian spit his out - he didn't really care for the anisette but he enjoys going out and behaved himself like a proper little gentleman.

The skies cleared this afternoon and we took the kayak out and paddled to the small beach on the lake and spent a hour or so playing in the shallow water and talking with the older women who inhabit the beach here in Smallwood ... women who have been coming here for decades and who cluster in the shade under the leafy sugar maples. Sebastian has a ready-made group of Grandmothers who fuss over him and bring him cookies ... he has a wonderful time there but my plan to keep him cookie-free is totally shot! So be it ...

We took a bath together tonight - what fun that was - and now he's sleeping soundly and the crickets outside are making their nighttime noise...

Summer in Smallwood

2005-07-29T21:01:00.000+02:00

I had posted another blog here earlier but after re-reading it I felt it was too angry. I’m spending the summer in a cabin in the Catskill Mountains with my two-year-old son. Taking a break from Manhattan and the busy life and thinking about what our new life in Germany might be like. Lot’s of reading and research this summer, on schools and culture and apartments in Berlin and Cologne (the two destinations we are considering).
I have serious reservations about leaving America … about being just that much farther away from old friends and family and the food and language I have grown up with. But our son is equal parts American and German and I want him to have the opportunity to know the world and I worry that the country I love has become mean spirited and the source of a great deal of anguish around the world. These are my thoughts this afternoon, on a near perfect day, rich blue sky, cool breeze, bright sun … and nothing but the sound of bird song outside the window.