It is so hard to write about regular stuff anymore. I want to, most of my life is still comprised of that regular stuff. But if my country is increasingly unrecognizable, shouldn’t I be screaming danger over and over and over, until someone listens, instead of blathering on about everyday life? But, you know what? The majority of human beings through all human time have experienced great changes, just as, or even more, dire than our own somewhat dramatic descent into fascism. I imagine they’ve experienced the same emotions—despair, resolve, fear, hope, disgust, pleasure—that we are going through on a daily basis (until one day, it’s all bad…?).
In the meantime, let me share a pleasant-enough story about a road trip my friend, Marge, and I just made to Taos, New Mexico. First photo up, my ear backgrounded by the glorious big blue skies of the high desert!
Marge, also known as Minnesota Marge, since I am New Mexico Marj, loves New Mexico (she once lived here) and usually visits every year. She has a timeshare so books into Santa Fe and/or another picturesque location, visits friends, and gorges on New Mexican food. This time, we agreed I would meet her in Santa Fe, we’d go up to Taos together and tourist for a few days.
Marge wanted to visit a few of her favorite sites, and wallow in the charms of art and enchiladas and personal history. I wanted to see if I still loved road trips and was as adaptable to different beds and food and simply hanging out as in the past.
For me, it turns out the road part was pretty much as pleasurable as ever. Except for being lost in Santa Fe for nearly an hour. But even google maps footnotes Santa Fe with a disclaimer about their information being correct! For Marge, the food was as fine as ever. Those giant plates of corn and meat and chiles called one thing or the other, including chili with an i.
Our first treat was a drive out to Rio Grande Gorge, probably more special for me than for Marge—because I remember twelve years ago visiting that grand site and sight with the Stifani Brothers, artistic twins originally from Italy, visiting us to perform the most charming of dance/theater pieces, Twin Pleasures, choreographed by Philippe Blanchard and appearing at Global DanceFest. I missed them and dance and North Fourth Art Center a lot this time, but I took the above brilliant selfie of my ear in the great blue sky of northern New Mexico in remembrance of that day. And there’s a picture of the art crew 12 years ago (see granddaughter Teresa, the traveling art girl, on the left) and just the tiniest of shots of ‘old me’ below for comparison sake.
We managed a few perfect Taos hours. The small but impressive Taos Art Museum and Fechin House, the latter fascinating at several levels: The artist, Russian Nicolai Fechin is, in my always humble art opinion, a brilliant painter of portraits; his story of life in Russia and the U.S. is the stuff of world history: and the house itself worth a long imagination-filled wander, thinking of me back there and then and what might different lives have been like.
Not to be diminished as an experience was lunch at La Luna in the old La Fonda Hotel. I was so happy…not being a fan of the Great New Mexican Dining Experience in its usual heavy, greasy (and, to me, boring) version. I wasn’t expecting much since Taos Plaza is slightly run-down and the sidewalk in front of the hotel had that unsurprising, but always disappointing, pee perfumery. Marge ignored my mumbling ‘let’s go someplace else.’ And good for her. The food was honestly as good as anything I’ve eaten anywhere. The owner/manager/chief chef/inventor has labeled the style Indigenous World Cuisine: At La Luna at La Fonda, we proudly present an indigenous World Cuisine that honors the ancestral foodways of North, Central and South America. Our menu is rooted in the traditions of the land, highlighting ingredients that have sustained Indigenous peoples for millennia – from heirloom corn, wild game, and native beans to seasonal fruits, herbs, and spices.
I had Albondigas Vegan: Mushroom and pine nut meatballs served with zoodle squash and butternut sauce, topped with pumpkin seeds. And for dessert: Sweet Corn Crème Brulee: Fresh corn modified with sugarcane, served with dairy-free custard. May I just say…OMG, it was perfect.
End of story…almost.
Turns out Marge really cannot breathe at high altitudes anymore. And I no longer sleep well on murphy beds. A bit of a struggle was had by both of us. Marge at some point said sadly, “I guess I won’t be coming to Taos anymore.” I said, at various points, also sadly, “I may be mostly through traveling anywhere for the sheer pleasure of traveling.” Yes, I said that. And meant it. And still do, a week later.I have imagined this moment, with its sense of something so big in my life being over, for a while now. And here it is. All good things and all that… After all I’ve been traveling since what you see below was what hotel rooms offered in the way of cleansing and grooming. Almost.
Since the beginning, I have been labeled as finicky, picky, a bad eater, the antithesis of a foodie. Although, I love bread and even-more-so butter. With coffee, with dessert, with a vegetable if one must; morning, noon, and night. Good bread, good butter. I’m of Norwegian ancestry (with a dash of Swede) and Norwegians make the world’s best butter (Setesdalmor Extra Salta) made in the Setesdal Valley where one-half of my people originate. And I grew up on my mom’s homemade, fresh from the oven bread, and Land O’Lakes butter back when it still resembled actual butter. I was doomed from the beginning—only ever able to fully acknowledge two worthwhile food categories.
This morning, in my early ruminations about reading and writing, I suddenly realized that I am in the process of completing a listen at the gym to Crying in H Mart (Michelle Zauner); and have just finished reading in bed, The Paris Novel (Ruth Reichl, editor-in-chief of Gourmet and author of Save Me the Plums and Tender at the Bone). And, yesterday, in a quick B&N drop-by on the way to lunch, I acquired Butter (Asako Yuzuki), offering “the transgressive pleasures of food in Japan” with a tasty helping of murder.
My present reads, H Mart and Paris, are chock-full of mouthwatering descriptions of Korean and French food, however no recipes. The first has me to begging my California grandchildren to take me to Korean restaurants anytime they’re available serve as my guides. The second…well there’s that trip Tom, Celia, and I talk about: Paris, September 2026. And me, this time with a happier stomach.
Enthusiastic about this morning’s discovery of a one of those unexpected caches of common themes in my life, I puzzled about why some of my favorite books have been about food. At the absolute top of that list is Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking: A Memoir of Food and Longing (Anya Von Bremzen). It’s been awhile since I read it but, in my memory, it’s the best of all kinds of books: history, geography, culture, and a life focused on the everyday (in this case, food) amidst all of those big topics. Additionally, there are recipes, in fact a most complicated borscht recipe that I talked my son into making a few years ago. It was delicious and our hands and countertops remained a vibrant red for days to come. I understand that including recipes does raise the question of whether a book is a proper novel or memoir… or a cookbook. Soviet Cooking manages to be all those things to readers like me.
Another set of books, most enjoyably within the cozy mysteries’ genre (and made into a television series), are the Tannie Maria mysteries (Sally Andrew) from South Africa. I own two: Recipes for Love and Murder and, Tannie Maria & the Satanic Mechanic. Of course, I would enjoy this series; there’s a bit of history, a lot of geography, enough murder, and, to me, fascinating discussions of food and recipes. The food descriptions and the recipes are less formidable than Korean and French—South Africa not known for its amazing cuisine (it’s a little more like Scandinavian/Minnesota food perhaps… simpler, not scary!)
And Then There’s…
NOMA: Time and Place in Nordic Cuisine. If you are interested in food and the world’s northlands, this book is a beauty. Food photography as art. Northlands culture and its geography. Recipes that people have paid hundreds (thousands!) of dollars to taste. NOMA, voted best restaurant in the world a few times. And, point of pride: I have actually stood in front of it on a Copenhagen street, gazing in awe at the front of a non-descript building, Rene Redzepi lurking somewhere inside…before my companions and I adjourned to an ordinary restaurant a street or few over. Son Scott and I actually discussed, half-seriously, making a NOMA reservation and flying specifically to Denmark to eat there! Me, for the book and interesting author and fantastic geography, and Scott, who is much more of a foodie (although I’m not sure oldish people can be appropriately called ‘foodies.’ Michelle Zauner in H Mart says they cannot!) actually wanted to eat the food. However as, according to our bank accounts, such a trip wasn’t practical, we never made it to NOMA. Now, it’s become a sort of experimental kitchen. Too late for another possible adventure.
Last but obviously certainly not least. Kitchen Confidential by the ever-amazing Mr. Anthony Bourdain. I have not read it for years. So many books, TV shows, public appearances, food/places/travel by the much-loved Tony since. And then death. I, like many of Bourdain’s fans, have not quite forgiven him. Selfish of us. Childish. But, Bourdain’s food never ever came without context and humanity…from Kitchen Confidential on. That and his caustic, but still somehow compassionate, persona is why he is still missed. My copy of Kitchen Confidential is long loaned and lost. It’s one of those books I’ll replace from Thriftbooks for a few dollars; not really because I’m going to read it again…but just because….
I also have a fine meatball cookbook, several cake recipe tomes (remember, I am Scandinavian), and of course the famous Sundays at the Moosewood Restaurant (which I think everyone with even a toe in hippydom was required to possess). I’m including a photo of the latter because it represents the phase in my life when I believed in cruelty-free food, free love, and honest politicians.
Now for my tomato sandwich lunch. Heavy white bread (Costco Rustic Italian better than most bakeries); a big fat very ripe vine-ripened tomato, medium-sliced; butter (European or New Zealand brand); and regular grocery store mayo, not-freed of any bad ingredients. Toast bread semi-darkly, spread with a whole bunch of butter (sitting out on counter, not brick hard from the frig), blob on some mayo, top with fat-enough tomato slice sprinkled with quite a lot of salt and pepper. A fine lunch it was but I ate it before I remembered to take a picture.
…south from Northome on Highway 71 about six miles, turn right on a gravel road, every year feeling a tingle of anticipation, another mile and a half and there it is, lane up to the house grown over, house collapsing into the earth, young spruce growing out of and into the old log kitchen. The Old Place.
The time when it was everything recedes further and further in the distance. My mind’s eye holds in reserve clear pictures of me the child and my small family on the farm in the northern woods, but I must remove myself from all distractions to see them. Now and then a smell or sound or touch also takes me back to the Old Place: vividly, sharply, poignantly. Oddly, or not, although the sense of ever greater distance is present for everything that went before in my life, I somehow experience the imagery, when present, more intimately. What does that even mean? I’m not sure…but it is true. In the last years of my mother’s life, she had powerful memories of childhood experiences on the Sioux River Valley farm where she grew up.
Robert, Marsha, Scott, Steve, and I went out home together once this summer and then I returned alone. It’s buggy this time of year so simply sitting somewhere in the grass or woods and listening for mom dad brother voices, Laddie or Pal or Buster woofs, sheep and cows commenting on their days, isn’t very comfortable. Besides it’s sentimental and more than a little silly, isn’t it? Yet I always do it.
This year, I sat in the car, all windows down, feet on the dash, closing my eyes and trying to beam myself back. I couldn’t. I love it up there, and it feels happily familiar and connected but I cannot see hear smell feel the past simply because I will it to be so. It’ll happen when I’m falling asleep or lonely back in New Mexico.
Around the house
Out on the land
The name of this blog is Time and Place because my life preoccupations are history and geography. History was my field of study as an undergraduate and geography at the heart of all my travels. In the case of my old home in northern Minnesota, those interests have become personal passions: my history on 80 acres of woods, swamp and fields.
The Old Place belongs to my sons now, and I think their intentions are to pass it on to their children. I had wished for a time with my grandchildren and their partners to spend there with Robert and me. I imagined us telling them tales of our free-range childhood and going with them to say hello to their great-grandparents at the Forest Hill Cemetery. For a while I was fixated on such a visit, but, although it is a most special place to me and, to a lesser degree my sons, that sort of attachment cannot be passed on. What I can pass forward are my writings about and pictures of one life growing up among the lakes and forests of one small green spot on the planet. They can be shared when grandchildren are older and curiosity strikes now and then, perhaps from their kids’ questions about the who, where, and when of their ancestry.
All that being said, I am going to hang out up there in that buggy north woods for a while in my 87th year. Perhaps I’ll make stories of a few more memories and take a thousand more pictures that look much like the ones from last year and the year before…and before. The idea that sentimentality is an unworthy emotion be damned.
Heading from home up the Big Hill (well, it was steeper when we were kids?)
Time for the grand summer blog post…or two. True, summer’s not officially over, but the temperature has dropped two, three degrees and I’m hopeful. Summer of 2025. Highlights. Scott visits. Steve and his dog hang out with us a lot. We visit Minnesota, Robert and friends and the Old Place. End of story. Unless something of great consequence happens between now and September 1st. No matter what anyone tells you, that is the day fall begins. Every morning after that when it’s hot and sunny and there’s not a turning leaf in sight, it’s appropriate to complain about climate change. (In New Mexico the first day of fall is officially October 1st because then it’s the balloon fiesta and there’s hope for some gray rainy days! Balloon festival aficionados pray for good weather but you know how god is, sometimes distracted and forgets to answer prayers and keep people alive and fed and safe and enjoying festivals.)
The Black Sheep: That would be son Scott. Actually, he’s quite a good guy, however he lives part of the year in the Philippines, far from his ancient mother. Therefore…black sheep, right? He really should be here all the time—painting walls, preparing salads so I eat an occasional vegetable, doing stuff for no no, I mean with me. Truth be told, he does well in that realm for a wandering-the-world dude.
Scott was here in July and will return for a short time in in the fall (…there are always more walls to paint…). He’s my biker son; I guess I mean cyclist son, since Hell’s Angels isn’t exactly his style. So, before we leave for Minnesota, here are a few heartwarming photos of a boy and his bicycle.
Minnesota: My outsize photographic obsession with Minnesota being what it is, I’ll divide Minnesota into two parts. The first will include everything except a visit out to the Old Place, which as you all know, is how Robert and I refer to the place we grew up—Home, in other words. That visit, about which I always wax most sentimental and take too many photos of the same places every year, just a little more bedraggled or overgrown each time (although always lovely to me), will be the next post.
Scott, Steven, and I flew into Minneapolis and rented a car for the roughly three-hour drive to Grand Rapids, the pleasant town where Robert and Marsha have lived or at least been based for much of their adult lives. It is famous for being the birthplace of Judy Garland…that’s it. Grand Rapids is probably as close to ideal as medium size (around 11,000) towns go: attractive and prosperous-looking, big grocers, restaurants, a good book store, an excellent clothing shop, several small breweries, coffee house or two (I think? Robert has plentiful coffee on hand so I’m not sure). Next time I’ll take town pictures. Good place to visit for a taste of life in the north woods. Best of all it’s on the Mississippi River and has a green and inviting forest trail for great year-round walking (unless you’re a southern sissy, terrified of the least bit of bad weather).
The photo album starts here:
Often, our first morning in up north, we take a walk along the Mississippi.
Hanging out at R & M’s. Friends visit. It’s as life and Minnesota and family should be.
Scott, Steve, and I took a overnight trip up to Roseau on the Canadian border so they could hang out after many years with a favorite cousin, Terri, the daughter of my much-loved cousin Audrey. Terri is one of the last of the aunts, uncles, cousins with whom I feel truly connected. This year was perhaps just a little sad since Terri is dealing with some uncomfortable health issue and Audrey is fading out of her and our lives. Nevertheless it was so fine to see Audrey, although not sure she knew me this time, and to get some Terri and Brian (best walleye fryer in the US and maybe Canada) time and a visit with her kids and some grandkids. I’m sad not to have captured pictures of a couple of her nearly grown-up grandkids with whom I had a fine conversation about their plans for life. I’m always so thrilled when people under 70 seem to enjoy even a few minutes of conversation with me!
Then it was back to Grand Rapids through the golden fields of canola and the Red Lake reservation where my sons felt compelled to stop for t-shirts and other stuff.
Finally, we had what was kind of a special treat for all of us. On our way out to the Old Place the first time, we stopped for a visit at Jack and Karen’s (Jack was Robert’s old school friends whom I’ve posted pictures of before). This time Jack had a trip planned throughout the fields and pastures of his land which is next to or almost next to our land. There were ATVs for all and we bounced over hill and dale. Jack has become a serious historian of the area and had stories of everything that’s transpired on this land in what is called Bridgie Township. A spectacular Minnesota afternoon.
Finally we stopped by to say hello to my mom and dad.
As you all know, I am not a fan of New Mexico weather, being a pluviophile, one who loves rain and feels at their best on rainy days. But it’s not just the peace or drama that rain provides, depending on its mood. It’s that rain, too much rain, all-day rainstorms, stay-inside-and-read rain are normal expected parts of life in a temperate climate, i.e., climate with four distinct seasons.
Here’s the thing. Growing up in a temperate climate renders many of us unfit for boring weather at whatever comfort level. We get no satisfaction from any environment that doesn’t make the journey from winter (real winter with blizzards and icy roads and endless complaints)—to spring—to summer—to autumn (with that morning thrill of the chill, foretelling an end to overheating; forests all crimson, orange, gold; important things like school and the best holidays and sentimental autumnal tunes filling our lives)—back to winter.
There’s also the communication boost that comes from living in a climate where change is the constant. What on earth besides the weather is safe to chat about when running into acquaintances at the grocers when you can’t remember their kids’ names or whether their mom’s in a nursing home or for certain what their politics are…? What can replace: “Geez, Jim, can’t remember it ever being this darn hot in June before, gonna kill the alfalfa if this keeps up.” “Yeah, ya betcha, Frank, never like this when I was a kid.” Or “Ya know, we haven’t had a snowstorm like that in years, lotta people going in the ditch, can’t remember how to drive on a little ice anymore!” “For sure, but if it keeps up there’s gonna be some spring flooding in Grand Forks.” Or ‘This is the latest spring or earliest fall in years…think there’ll be any wild blueberries, raspberries, deer flies, forest fires, good hunting/fishing next spring/summer/fall/winter?
If that sounds like I’m making fun of the way we talked back in olden times, that’s still the way we talk in the rural north. When we’re not complaining about “crap” on TV, damn crooked politicians (pretty bipartisan that one…), or the price of beer.
Okay, I am a northerner. Upper Midwesterner. And we had rain, quite a bit most years. Cold earth-awakening rain in the spring, dramatic thundery rain in the summer, long gray days of rain in the fall (a proper foil to those golden autumn days inspiring too much poetry…). We did not have winter rains when I was a kid, the moisture fell as god intended…as snow…back then.
I intended to get started blogging again with a catch-up of summer family goings-on. However, it is yet one more sunny day in New Mexico, temp to hover just below 100°. My doors are open now, inviting in the morning coolishness; shortly after noon, I’ll shut them, turn the AC on about 78°, half-close the shades, perhaps add a YouTube video of soft jazz in the rain on a device or two. Survival.
Honestly, I miss being a worker (or a student) when I was at my office or classroom or art center for most of these dreary sunny days.
Windows in the rain from a Norwegian train ride in the past.
About not being pathetic. Stay busy…a little too busy. Here’s where I am with that. In a discussion with myself about what causes/activities arouse my slumbering do-gooder passions enough to actually incorporate them into this lackadaisical lifestyle, I came up with the following: 1) the plight of refugees/displaced/homeless persons, 2) a brand-new political involvement, and 3) a more active writing presence that incorporates Window Seat. My life-long obsessions with books and travel still exist but they aren’t keeping me quite busy enough—pathos could creep in.
The unhoused people of the world. They are, to me, the most tragic of all vulnerable populations. Whether refugees fleeing their homeland or internally displaced, or the localized homeless of the planet…imagine…do it…close your eyes and imagine not having a single safe spot for yourself anywhere. Imagine, your small children with you, your elderly mom…no place to keep them safe. No warmth, no privacy, no rest, no help. Imagine.
For starters, I printed out the 2024 Global Report from UNHCR (United Nations High Commission on Refugees) and started scanning it. At least 129.9 million forcibly displaced and stateless people globally. Another 150 million or so homeless in their own regions around the world. A total 1.6 billion may be without adequate housing. Although most of these figures come from the United Nations, just driving around Albuquerque, New Mexico USA suggests they are probably low.
I next attended a zoom forum from UNHCR. The three people leading that discussion were, to me, worth any ten or twenty millionaire/billionaires or politicians. One point made was that in the last decade refugee numbers have doubled while the budget has remained the same. (So, let me not think about the 1%, the wedding in Venice, the Mar-a -Lago snake-pit, the profits from the maiming, killing, destroying weapons creating ever more members of the bloodsucking class as well as ever more refugees… or I will go mad.)
Meantime, I’ve made my initial proactive move of pulling every book, fiction or non-fiction from my shelves, making a tidy pile, and declaring I will read each and every one for a full understanding of the urgency of the actual situation. The problem is—I am very good at making study plans but often less purposeful about follow-through. Therefore, I’m committing right now to reading while doing. This week’s assignment: to make sufficient contacts to find a place where my small service offerings might make a difference. In other words: ‘put up or shut up.’
***
I’ll describe my other two “passion projects” next blog because here I want to be sarcastically disgusted as the US proves once again that our ability to bluster and bomb and bare super boobs all at pretty much the same time is unsurpassed.
You may have noticed we bombed another country last week. True it was another country with a leadership as dysfunctional and corrupt as our present regime. I mean it’s not like we bombed Canada or New Zealand, right? The question of whether the rest of us have the right to kill off bad regimes or even damage their killing potential may never be fully-resolvable—and at the present time in the good old USA, it’s probably best not to dwell on it—hypocrisy might rear its smirking head.
The week also brought us a press full of Jeff and the Boob-bride, and an excellent take on how that particular bride-of-oligarch look has emerged, courtesy Emma Brockes/Guardian/June 25, ’25. People with money can make poor choices about cosmetic surgery too, of course, but the uniformity of this particular look – so heavy on the filler, silicone and Botox as to make its wearers seem not younger, but weirder, and in a state of constant discomfort – suggests something closer to design. If you were the type of person to make liberal references to The Handmaid’s Tale, you might even speculate that this aesthetic has been tailored by the world’s richest men to symbolise just how completely – almost derisively – they can control the bodies of the women around them.
It seemed a disjointed week from the dangerous to the ridiculous—with stern talks to myself about life and meaning in between. I do believe it continues the theme of the unsettling dichotomy of our days. Death raining down here and there, while I’m pondering how to stay useful-while-old and also queasily chuckling over the tawdry insipidness of the new gilded age.
P.S.
Melissa Hortman, Minnesota state legislator, and her husband Mark were buried last week too. I’ve written about this a little before, but can hardly stand to contemplate the whole tragedy, because it’s a murder as close to actually being committed by Donald Trump and his minions as possible without one of them directly pulling the trigger. Who did it? The fascists and god did it.
My inability to even read much about it at this time is due to the fact so many of my neighbors, my fellow citizens, also had their fingers curled around that trigger. If I think too much about that right now, I must go live in a cave with only a cat who doesn’t like humans that much for company.
Melissa Hortman, her husband Mark Hortman, and their dog Gilbert, were killed in their home, on 27 June 2025. Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images
Just exactly how are we supposed to maintain a foothold in what should be a better-cherished state of ordinariness? I thought it would be possible to dwell on the news-of-the-world part of the day and still appreciate and enjoy regular old everyday life for some hours also. Maybe not.
We’re living under a bomb, brag, bully, wholly-fascist government that wants to kill most of us, certainly useless people like me. Best perhaps to just try to say whatever there is to be said in emojis. But I hate emojis so here are a few paragraphs about goals…one is never too old…? Whatever.
My goals for the next 10 years are clearer all of the time. 1. Stay a little too busy—do whatever I must (except for crocheting or volunteering as a hospital greeter) to feel like I can never get it all done, whatever IT is. 2. Always, without fail, go to the gym twice a week, walk three miles in an hour while listening to Brits narrating almost anything on Audible. 3. Do Not Be Pathetic.
Especially Do Not Be Pathetic. To avoid patheticness, one must be so involved in life as to not notice that your voice, actually your whole being, has disappeared, that to the world you are a ghost, a ghost unfortunately still consuming healthcare and housing and food that could better be going to a worthy oligarch—better yet a tech oligarch.
The thing is…I like this wafting about in a semi-transparent state better all of the time. Next thing you know I’ll be shopping at Walmart in my pajamas. Or shoplifting pop tarts at Walgreens. Truthfully, there is some real pleasure in caring little what people think. And some security in believing I’ve aged out of having the Nazis throw me in jail for trashing our new gods.
My favorite meme of today is a pretty 50s housewife saying something like ‘gosh, just barely got the pandemic decorations put away, and it’s already time to get ready for WWIII.’ Since the crash booms aren’t in my neighborhood yet, I’m going to watch some more of a not-great Luxembourgian murder mystery. I was in Luxembourg one time, 1984 to be exact, with my friend Sue. We took the train over from Paris for the night just to say we had been there. I only remember an organ grinder (was there a monkey?) on the high street and a leafy bridge.
Just thought I’d write something because I’m extremely distressed about the world and old age…and yet happyish (after all) in my own confused way.
Minnesota state representative, Melissa Hortman and her husband were murdered in the early hours of Saturday morning by a devout gun-toting, card-carrying MAGA Christian. This photo is from a site called Helping Paws on Facebook and is said to be the Hortman’s dog, also shot to death. Pictures of the Hortmans are not available without permission but they were a beautiful couple, valuable members of the human race. And as all dog people will tell you, they would want to be remembered by a photo of their beloved pooch anyway.
I have spent the past two days in a deeper state of shock than is normal for even these bizarre and troubling times. On Saturday, the juxtaposition of people wanting a better world for all others and people intent on murdering their selected ‘others’ was as stark as it gets. I was at a gathering of a few thousand people in a bright and sunny Albuquerque park who liked each other, loathed trump and his minions, and cared about something besides personal wealth. I was reading the news of a man (Netanyahu) in Israel and a man (who cares what his name is…) in Minnesota, killers true, armed with their gods and their guns, slaughtering away…their particular cults’ Kool-aid dripping down their chins.
For me, these two killers serve as personifications of a type with which the world has always been overrun. They’re fanatical god-botherers and fervent gun-lovers, the most dangerous of humans. Their gods appear on a spectrum, ranging from fire and brimstone-wrathful to going about saving lambs and butterflies (the former always wins). Their guns represent power and anger-relief and a never-ending pleasure in death dealing. The president of this country and his co-partners in crime, Netanyahu and Putin, along with their sycophants have learned to play to the neediness of the not-too-bright cult followers without even being clever—just their usual brute narcissistic selves. And it just goes on…and on…forever.
Okay, so of course that’s a huge simplification of a few recent events…but it’s not wrong is it? I’ll swear to god (whatever god humans are worshipping as the apocalypse wraps), across the last sunset, the words or symbols for gods and guns will appear…followed by “We Won.”
On the bright side: A couple of hours leaning against a tree in a West Side park with the cream of the human crop was so fine. Not so many places in the US to feel absolutely safe these days, to know we’re among friends, ‘normies,’ a bunch of intelligent, decent, wonderful-enough human beings.
Just a few pics. I’m not quite over the dark sick feeling of the past days…and on one hand, should it be ‘gotten over’? and on the other hand, yes, we need to live our lives as productively, joyfully, fully as is possible. And never give in to them. The bad guys.
Panicked after the inauguration, I read and wrote in my journal for many hours of the tropical nights at my son’s house on a small island in the South China Sea. So peaceful. My mind and soul were not at all peaceful though: picking up news of what began happening the minute Donald Trump took office and reading histories of France, UK, Germany, Japan, and US in the 1930s as catastrophe approached. I was not at peace; I was in a state of shock…I had not quite believed it would come to this.
***
Now, as one of the frogs in that huge pot where the water’s getting pretty warm, I’m surprisingly calm; my life pleasant-enough. I tried pulling away from the news for awhile after the initial panic, but that doesn’t work for me. So, now I’m studying—as though for a test: world history, geography, politics, philosophy. Perhaps relearning what I thought I knew would/will offer new perspectives and this sense of confusion and dread will let up.
It’s odd though what has actually resulted from this first round of reading about the leadup to the 1940s catastrophe: World War II. For the first time in my life, I’m experiencing a deep and abiding curiosity about the historical details and timeline of the wide world of that war, rather than the war as part of bigger and smaller literary narratives. Here is what is astonishing to me: I am finding my focused reading satisfying and even calming. “Well, it doesn’t feel like very much can be done to slow the advent of another earth-shattering calamity, but for me, at least I can know and understand how disaster births and grows and explodes,” I say to myself. If only I can focus simultaneously and as easily on AI, drones, and the contemporary reincarnation of the same old bad actors, I will be one of the most laid-back folks around as we humans, and perhaps the planet, take our death lap.
So, The New York Times Complete World War II: 1939 – 1945… phew… I’m only to January 1941. Up in Koochiching County, Minnesota, I would be two-years-old in three months. My dad and two or three friends had built for us a three-room stucco house (no plumbing or electricity) on eighty acres of woods, swamp, and fields about 60 miles straight south of the Canadian border. My dad was a lumberjack, my mom a farmer. We were poor. In my mom’s diary, kept from 1938 until 1941, the war is never mentioned. Doesn’t that seem strange? They had a radio; maybe it just wasn’t the kind of thing about which one wrote in a farm diary, especially if you had a new baby. Come to think of it, most entries were about me.
A German lived just down the road, about the distance of two blocks from us. He would later shoot my mom (not fatally), but that’s another story.
***
Back to the war and my reading. And fodder for the dark chuckle of the day. There must be at least two sides for every fight, right? In WWII that would be the Allies/good guys/liberal democracies (usually) and the Axis/bad guys/fascists.
Back in the Day (1939 – 1945 to be exact)
On the good side, the mostly liberal-democratic governments of:
UK/US/Soviet Union (not exactly a liberal democracy, but in a war, who’s counting)/France (until occupied)/China (fighting for its life against Japan/a mixed bag of ideologies at the time)
On the bad side, the fascist governments of:
Germany/Italy/Japan/Five other nations willingly (?) joined the Axis during the war: Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, Slovakia, and Croatia.
That was then, this is now. It is clear that the world is dividing up along those good guy/bad guy lines again. How different could the sides be, one might think; only 80 years since the end of WWII. I found it gloomily interesting to list those differences as we theoretically approach another ‘falling out.’
Since I access a number of reliable news sources on a regular basis, and did a quick and dirty scroll around the good old worldwide web for additional tidbits, I believe what I’m listing below is pretty accurate.
NOW 2025 (Today to be exact)
On the good side, the liberal-democratic governments of:
Germany/Japan/France/UK/Canada/Australia
On the bad side, the leaning-or full-on fascist governments of:
US/Russia/Israel/India/China (communist, not fascist, but certainly a major example of authoritarianism)/El Salvador/Argentina/A number of countries in Europe have strong hard-right, fascist-leaning parties (in fact, Poland’s just won an election) and Asia is not without its share, Myanmar comes to mind and Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos are not exactly democracies…but everything’s relative in politics and government, right? I won’t even dip into Africa where all is never well…but South Africa, while far from pure, is a democracy, fighting hard to stay that way. Yay, South Africa (my maybe-favorite country in the world).
This post is not intended to be a scholarly take on the situation, but after reviewing it several times, it feels accurate enough to stand behind. But, what it shows is absolutely shockingly unbelievable at some level…or would have been up until a few months ago. I guess I would just say…Believe it!
***
In line with my ongoing amazement of how our days are divided between flashes or even whole storm clouds of fear, and then happy examples of the good life… here’s a pretty cake I baked a few days ago for my son’s birthday. It turned out to be too dry under its surface beauty—isn’t that often the way—so my new goal in life is to continue to search for and find the perfect pineapple upside down cake recipe for my ageing kid, who needs to know his only relatively-older mother is still concerned about his well-being.
Watching the World
Mountainhead, an HBO Max film, is described by Decider as: “a Chilling and Hilarious Tech-bro Satire…” and is said by The Verge to be “a snapshot of everything that’s ridiculous and terrible about Silicon Valley’s billionaire class.” I’m trying to watch it; 15-minute segments is all I can handle at a time. For someone who’s only moderately tech/AI/that-world savvy, I’ve been inordinately fascinated by the bad tech boys. However, since the picture of them in the infamous front row seats at the infamous bad-taste celebration of the new droopy-ass sheriff in town, what was my own version of the US’s celebrity obsession has left me with an extremely queasy feeling.
Anyway, today, a beautiful rainy day, I started watching Mountainhead. Mistake. We do not get rain often enough in New Mexico for me to spend the storm crouched over the toilet bowl vomiting after each section of this movie. Slight exaggeration! I’ve thought for a while that Silicon Valley and its worldwide neighborhoods were probably going to kill the planet, so that aspect of the movie doesn’t shock me. What does…and hey, I know it’s dark comedy, satire, make-believe, okay. But from watching the characters in the film, it’s impossible not to get the feeling that Bezos, Zuckerberg, Musk, Altman, etc. are just this self-aggrandizing, greedy, thoughtless, stupidly junior-high-bully. Wow…Really? I say that a lot lately.
While I have loved every device acquired to date, for me the interaction with this brave new world really began with Facebook. We loved it, or many of us did. Keeping up with family and friends, everyday and special occasion stuff, what their kids and houses and travels looked like as time passed. We were like Sarah Wynn-Williams, author of Careless People, who so recently riled the Facebook rulers, but who way back was in love with the whole idea of what it represented. By the way, it’s a great book, and we get to follow Sarah’s almost desperate desire to work at this ‘magic kingdom’ where the world is truly connecting, and her success in finally landing a new and important position right there at the heart of things. Happy endings to such fairytales are rare and Sarah didn’t find hers at Facebook/META. She did however have an upfront and personal view as Mark Zuckerberg transformed from earnest, and sometimes appealing geek (who did, in his own way (!), want good things to happen in, to, and for the world) to front-row sycophant at a fascist-themed presidential inauguration. As a sort of aside, my slightly above and beyond interest in Silicon Valley and the tech bros may have been enhanced with a visit to Mountain View a few years ago. Cousins from Norway visiting, skeptical Bob from Albuquerque in town, granddaughter Teresa’s boyfriend in the mysterious field of ‘tech,’ and, as usual, I needed to see the geography of the story.
As time passed, Facebook became an emblem for all that was bad about social media, but meanwhile my interest in the Valley and its denizens intensified with Kara Swisher’s Burn Book: A Tech Love Story—highly recommended for anyone interested in the Silicon Valley/tech bro back story.
Like many Facebook members, I went through a period of time decrying its potential for allowing/almost-encouraging the darker side of human nature to gain an ever-firmer foothold in the site. Yes, I need to get off Facebook, I said. But my family, friends, and acquaintances live all over the country and the world. Give up being in touch with most, or vow to write a constant stream of real letters…yeah, right. So, needless to say, I am still on Facebook. And still feel, hate to admit this, a sort of skeptical love for it. I’ve learned how to curate what I see so that, by now, my interactions are either positively benign or occasionally damn near inspiring, which would be because all my ‘friends’ are politically progressive Democrats/Socialists/’normies’ at least as far as I know. Here’s an example from a couple-minute scroll—in the inspiring category, forwarded by a friend—ICE agents actually pushed back and back by a crowd of San Diegans who objected (successfully) to their fellow human beings hauled off by goons with guns as they gathered at a local restaurant for a pleasant evening meal. What’s that expression, ‘if we don’t hang together, we most assuredly will hang separately’? See. Inspiring.
Follow me through that quick scroll to see what I mean about benign: a silly Scandinavian slapstick comedy routine; Lonely Planet ad; site called Norway: Blessed with Nature; Americans Against the Republican Party poster; Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez fund-raising plea; cartoon from the New Yorker; ad for linen jackets (I ban most ads but not all); Andy Borowitz with a headline, “Mexico Renames the Liberty Bell the TACO Bell”; Surrealist art site; post from Al Franken; Feminist News; Classic literature quotes; friend forwarded ad for a planner titled: “Sorry, It’s Your Problem Now Because I’m Dead”; post from Delaware friend Tom; ditto: Minnesota friend Pat; Pluviophile site; Harvard University (graduation pictures); History and Archeology; California tourism; ProgressNow New Mexico, Michelle Obama, Coffee and Rain photography, The Atlantic, Psychotherapy.net; U.S. Democratic Socialists; SPCA International; Abandoned Houses and Unreal Places; The Dodo (animals); friends from here, there and everywhere posting news or forwarding tidbits that I enjoy…because, well, they are from friends…again… not a Nazi among them! I include these samples for the not-on-Facebook friends I have who are a little bit afraid of the site. Okay, so you get the picture. It’s actually quite calming to scroll the site in my case.
Back to why I started this ramble. Like many of us, I’m now baffled and angry at, and fearful of the “tech bros.” They’re really not a very attractive bunch. Musk, in some category(ies) of crazy, addicted, juvenile, etc.; Bezos, obsessed with boobs and showing off in his big-time mid-life crisis; and the still pale and stunned-looking Mr. Zuckerberg (even though he’s doing manly stuff!). None of them seem to have started off with bad intentions (Thiel an exception), even Musk, believe it or not (read Walter Isaacson’s bio), and at least Zuckerberg is still married to a doctor who appears quite normal. You see, I really want these guys to be better than they appear, because in spite of some awfulnesses, they are interesting. Also, they quite likely have the power to bring on the end times (not the ones in the bible; more like what Netflix comes up with from time to time), and I want to maintain enough knowledge to at least know how my killing is being orchestrated and who’s killing me. So, I guess it’s obvious I’m not getting rid of Facebook in the near future, unless Republican/MAGA/religious trash starts leaking into My Site.
Later. Getting ready to post. No, I cannot watch all of Mountainhead. Hannah Arendt’s quote about the ‘banality of evil’ keeps coming to mind. You guys are so ordinary in your selfishness. And we (and you) thought you were so smart, and in one area or the other, you were. Otherwise. Ordinary. And mean. Going to go watch serial killers on Britbox now.
Living the World
Speaking of family and friends: As you know, I make a random post now and then about life here in the poor (no one I ask can ever tell me why we’re poor since we have a lot of oil and gas/just saw a quote that we are “an energy powerhouse”) and violent land of Democratic New Mexico. Actually though, I still believe deep down that we’re a little bit enchanted as the state tag line claims. There’s so much space and absolute beauty running through our geography. And we’re kind of casual in our interactions, like we’ve all always known each other. I’m still too Minnesota to be a proper chile connoisseur but I have a red and green theme going in my home. I truly loath the fact that the sun is ever-present, but today’s cloudy so I am a happy New Mexican.
For posterity then (in my next blog book), here’s who I’ve been hanging out with this last couple of months.
Top: left to right. Patricia, Pat (the other grandma), Norah (Michele’s sister) Bottom: Birthday girl Sara and boyfriend Nick.
Old friends Willie and Bob “chewing the fat” or “shooting the bull” is what my dad would have called it.
We were in abs class together. Years of weird poses and fits of laughter and we still gather…a little older and so very much wiser. (clockwise: Beth, Bob, Ian, Dennis)
Do not all worthwhile gatherings begin and end with cake and dogs?