2008 DNC in Denver – Pre-Convention Impressions

We drive into the Mile High City to see what we can see on Saturday before the Democratic National Convention. At 9:30 am in Lodo, Denver’s streets are pretty empty as they usually are on a Saturday morning—mainly tired people who’ve worked all night waiting for the bus to go home. As we walk among the tall buildings more people gradually emerge, some with convention passes already dangling from their necks and taking pictures. People stand on each street corner collecting money for the homeless.

Security on the 16th Street Mall is on high alert; quintets of cops biking the full length of the street, others on foot in cumbersome riot gear randomly searching inside flower pots and underneath tree grates. Cardboard boxes lined with trash bags have replaced the usual trashcans perhaps because they are much more easily checked and searched; the cops peer into them as they walk by. In front of the Paramount Theater at least 20 officers exit a bus and stand waiting for something. This is more cops than I have seen at one time since January 1973 in Washington, DC at the Nixon inaugural parade when Mark and I illegally marched too near the festivities and suddenly found ourselves fleeing a line of gendarmes waving billy clubs. The guys today seem a lot calmer, at least so far.

We stroll over to the Pepsi Center, now surrounded by rusty metal grid fence segments. At a security check that looks like a press entry point we see the white CNN logo on many dark blue t-shirts. A brick wall has huge stenciled lettering: CNN = POLITICS. A cop and K-9 unit wait to one side of this entryway eying all of those who wait in line to enter and a man takes his time searching a row of bags, backpacks and camera equipment one by one on the sidelines. Men with dark blue vests that say POLICE on the back and SECRET SERVICE on the front vet each person in line. (By the way, what is secret about people who wears clothing labeled “secret service?”)

Three serious people speak French as they stand to one side with bags and camera equipment labeled “French International Television.” Various security personnel inside the iron grid patrol the perimeter as the red, white and blue star decorations on outer walls of the Pepsi Center rise up behind them.

By 10:50 am we hear our first helicopter go over, and after lunch the crowds have increased significantly and all manner of street vendors are out selling food and convention paraphernalia. We buy two patriotic hats and three Obama buttons across the street from Larimer Square where every state flag in the union has been strung in colorful banners over the street. It is time to head home to Boulder.

As we reach the car we pass a woman unloading a stack of “Hillary” signs and I tell her I want a picture for “old time’s sake.” She says she is part of the Texas delegation, from Austin. I tell her to have a great convention and she wishes me the same, not knowing that the closest I will get is television each night next week. Yes, I was for Hillary – but now it is Barack Obama’s time with his newly chosen VP Joe Biden by his side, and we are all ready for a change in this country. Let’s do this.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

I’ve just finished rereading “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values” by Robert Pirsig circa 1974. I think I first read this book about 30 years ago, and I certainly understood it and got more out of it this time around. If you get it yourself, be sure to get the Perennial Classics Edition with extra insights and a new introduction by the author.

Three threads intertwine in the book: the story of a man and his son trying to connect with each other as they travel cross-country on a motorcycle, an examination of the indefinable concept of quality and the balance necessary between intuition and technology, and a man’s inner struggle to retain his sanity as he reconciles two essential parts of his being into one, for his son’s sake.

The narrator talks about a friend traveling with him who has no interest or patience for learning how to maintain the motorcycle he rides - foresaking technology to focus only art and intuition – and how this is a mistake. To have Quality (Oneness) in one’s life both art and knowledge are needed. He makes the point that this is true for any work or activity and uses motorcycle maintenance as the analogy. Although Quality cannot be defined, you know it when you see it. Quality in an activity is recognizable by the peace of mind a person feels during the activity. Without peace of mind there is no Quality.

These ideas seem very relevant in this election year. From p. 270:

To put it in more concrete terms: If you want to build a factory, or fix a motorcycle, or set a nation right without getting stuck, then classical, structured, dualistic subject-object knowledge, although necessary, isn’t enough. You have to have some feeling for the quality of the work. You have to have a sense of what’s good. That is what carries you forward. This sense isn’t just something you are born with, although you are born with it. It’s also something you can develop. It’s not just “intuition,” not just unexplainable “skill” or “talent.” It’s the direct result of contact with basic reality, Quality, which dualistic reason has in the past tended to conceal.

It all sounds so far out and esoteric when it’s put like that. It comes as a shock to discover that it is one of the most homespun, down-to-earth views of reality you can have. Harry Truman, of all people, comes to mind, when he said concerning his administration’s programs, “We’ll just try them…and if they don’t work…why then we’ll just try something else.” That may not be an exact quote, but that’s close…The reality of the American government isn’t static, he said, it’s dynamic. If we don’t like it we’ll get something better.

(Yes. In January, we will get something better. Don’t forget to vote in November.)

I recognize in these ideas the reason why I am unhappy at work when there is too much focus on numbers, metrics and people as interchangeable “components” and not enough focus on the essence of good work and good results which is represented by Quality.

Meanwhile, I think of my brother, who also read this book thirty years ago and related especially strongly to it. Paul was a mechanical genius – he could fix almost anything. He just knew how machines worked. He was highly interested in Philosophy and could hold his own in philosophical exchanges with my husband, which is no small feat. And Paul struggled to reconcile dueling parts of his personality at war with each other in a way that only a person who is bipolar can really understand.

Pirsig talks about the issue of “stuckness” – how seemingly insurmountable roadblocks and problems are actually opportunities to step back and open mindedly re-examine the facts and their relative importance. This also reminds me of my brother as well as myself and our experiences in the high tech world. P. 292:

Stuckness shouldn’t be avoided. It’s the psychic predecessor to all real understanding. An egoless acceptance of stuckness is a key to an understanding of all Quality, in mechanical work as in other endeavors. It’s the understanding of Quality as revealed by stuckness which so often makes self-taught mechanics so superior to institute-trained men, who have learned how to handle everything except a new situation.

In other words, you must set aside ego enough to admit you’re stuck (even if you’re supposed to be a pro) before you can start down the path toward a solution. At the time he wrote this book Pirsig, onetime professor of Rhetoric and Philosophy, was writing technical documentation for IBM computers. So, high tech folk, the question of Quality as peace of mind comes into play. P. 301:

Peace of mind isn’t at all superficial to technical work. It’s the whole thing. That which produces it is good work and that which destroys it is bad work. The specs, the measuring instruments, the quality control, the final check-out, these are all means toward the end of satisfying the peace of mind of those responsible for the work. What really counts in the end is their peace of mind, nothing else…The way to see what looks good and understand the reasons it looks good, and to be one with this goodness as the work proceeds, is to cultivate an inner quietness, a peace of mind so that goodness can shine through.

He says that this inner peace of mind, “involves unselfconciousness, which produces a complete identification with one’s circumstances…levels and levels of quietness quite as profound and difficult of attainment as the more familiar levels of activity.”

In other words - the profound quietness that can be found in the Now. I want to believe that somewhere, somehow, Paul has also finally found this peace of mind.

The year was 1965 and I was twelve years old. I wanted to learn to play the guitar, so my parents got me a golden-bodied acoustic and signed me up for lessons at Tom Pickett’s Guitar Gallery on East Kirkwood Avenue.

In the Hoosier town of Bloomington it was not a happening scene yet in 1965. A leather vest here, some long-haired guys there, but not so much love and peace and psychedelia. But Kirkwood was right down the street from the Indiana University campus and in the next few years as I was folksinging more and more, barefooted beings called hippies began to frequent the avenue in fringe, brightly colored clothes, and beaded headbands, smelling of incense and patchouli oil. Many of them also had guitars, slung over their backs like apparel.

My long-haired (and very exotic, I thought) teacher started me out with D and A7, and at first I had to work hard just to simply strum and smoothly change back and forth between these two chords. I was heartened to learn that a person could play hundreds of songs just with two chords. The first song I learned was “Good News”:

Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
And I don't want it to leave a me behind.

I picked up other songs along the same lines like “Hush Little Baby.” Soon I had graduated to 3(!) chords, adding G. I learned how to read tablature, and then I learned the magic of minor chords with Dm and Am. With just these chords and another progression: G-Em-C-D, thousands of songs could be played. Eventually I learned bar chords, and then almost anything (theoretically) was possible.

I began to play and sing everywhere I got the chance – for my friends and family, in Dunn Meadow next to IU, in talent shows, even once on a local TV station at a very early hour one morning. My father loved to harmonize on some songs like “Tell Me Why” and “Kumbuya.” By then I had learned a lot of anti-war songs as the draft and the raging Vietnam War started to take more of my friends. “Strangest Dream” was one of these:

Last night I had the strangest dream
I'd ever dreamed before.
I dreamed that all the world had agreed
To put an end to war.

I also sang “Simple Song of Freedom.”

Come and sing a simple song of freedom.
Sing it like it’s never been sung before.
Let it fill the air, tell people everywhere
We the people here don’t want a war.

And of course, “We Shall Overcome.” Not to mention Dylan’s “The Times They Are a’ Changin.’” The guitar teacher mischievously taught me that one at a very young age, perhaps hoping to introduce a mild insurrection in my distinctly unrebellious young life – but my parents never seemed to object, perhaps because I was an incredibly well-behaved little thing until I diverged from their plan in my twenties and started living with Mark (shacking up, as my Dad called it). They were worried about our level of commitment to each other. Thirty-five years later Mark and I are still together, so there you have it.

I learned lots of folk songs, playing and singing for hours a day sitting on the edge of the bed in my room, probably driving my entire family crazy. Folk songs were a great form of expression for me and are to this day. I loved the lyrics and had a knack for memorizing them – learning whole sets of songs made famous by Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan. It was one of the most exciting and inspiring periods of learning and growth in my life and I’ll never forget it.

Of Lady Mondegreen

I have learned a new word (where has it been all my life?): mondegreen. It comes from a 17th century ballad about how they have slain the Earl of Murray and Lady Mondegreen. Only the real words are “laid him on the green.”

The word “mondegreen” was coined by writer Sylvia Wright for misheard poetry or lyrics. In her original discussion of this in 1954 she defined the mondegreen as actually better than the original—but few samples I have seen meet this criterion. Some are better than the original, some are hilarious, and some are simply stupid.

Another example Sylvia Wright gave was “Surely good Mrs. Murphy will follow me all the days of my life,” which is really Psalm 23’s “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.”

One of my favorites is “’Scuse me while I kiss this guy,” for Jimi Hendrix’s “’Scuse me while I kiss the sky.”

Then there is “A gay pair of guys put up a parking lot” for Joni Mitchell’s “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” As well as “We’d like to know a little bit about your far-off isles,” for Paul Simon’s “Mrs. Robinson.” The real words: “We’d like to know a little bit about you for our files.”

And “the ants are my friends, they are blowing in the wind” for Dylan’s “the answer my friend is blowing in the wind.”

Since I am a great fan of lyrics and have memorized many songs, mondegreens are particularly amusing. I know I’ve been amazed at what I thought I was hearing in a song and what the actual words were when I looked them up. Sometimes when you look lyrics up on the Internet you find a bad version which is actually a series of mondegreens, so beware as always of anything you discover there.

The word mondegreen, after 54 years, has finally made it into the Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary, and is a welcome addition. Feel free to post your favorite ones in comments below.

Wild Basin Hike

On the Monday after July 4th we all drove up to the southern corner of Rocky Mountain National Park to hike Wild Basin. The trail leads past a rushing mountain stream and Copeland and Ouzel Falls are quite spectacular. The day was a little overcast but it seemed to make the white froth of the waterfalls glow even brighter, and the Indian paintbrush too.

I remembered again how fine it is to have kids who have grown up and still like hanging out with us once in awhile and found a moment to be grateful. We had some good conversation hiking up the trail. There were a lot of people of all ilks hiking along, including several youth groups, who we found a couple of times sitting on logs lining the trail having their own heartfelt conversations.

We saw a chipmunk, and later on the way back down a deer crossed the trail a few feet in front of us. The doe was skittish, but willing to be photographed from a distance.

A fire rushed through parts of Wild Basin a few years ago, so there are areas still rejuvenating from the burn in a way I find quite fascinating - it reminds me of hope. The brilliant green of the ferns in these areas always draws my attention as well as the green tips of the pine needles; who says it isn’t green in Colorado (ex-Hoosiers sometimes say this, but they are wrong).

Boulder has a special relationship with prairie dogs. One has only to peruse headlines from the Boulder Camera in recent months or do a search on prairie dogs at its website to get a clear sense of the place they hold in the hearts of the citizenry. Headlines like: “Prairie Dogs Tapping Toxins,” “Tests Show No Sign of Plague in Valmont Butte Prairie Dogs” and “Public Input on Prairie Dog Endangered Status Commenced,” not to mention “Activists Alarmed by Bulldozing of Prairie Dog Burrows.”

The Camera seems to be quite open to first-page placement for prairie dog stories and I have even seen two stories at once on the front page during particularly dire times. Even Boulder’s close neighbor Louisville gets into the act with a letter to the editor: "Louisville Should Act to Protect Prairie Dogs."

I have nothing against prairie dogs. I have walked on paths by their burrows, listening to their alert warning calls to each other. The sound has been likened to barking, which is why an animal that is clearly a rodent has the word “dog” in its name. I think it sounds more like a whiny little squeak.

When a field has become their habitat, it is riddled with these burrows, which alas make the field unusable by any other species and can produce a mean sprained ankle if one is not careful. Debates have been had on whether the prairie dog is really endangered in Colorado (conclusions varying depending on facts like whether the tail is black or white), and the place that the prairie dog should hold, relatively speaking, in the ecosystem. He’s a dear little creature as you can see here, and tasty for the raptors. We have many brilliant scientists in Boulder who surely can find ways for city parks and prairie dogs to coexist without cramping each other’s style.

In any case, I captured this picture of a prairie dog today on a walk in Valmont City Park, location of Colony #9. Against his better judgment, he let me come pretty close before ducking into his burrow, but sounded his alarm a couple of times to his compatriots nonetheless. I don’t blame him since at one point the city was thinking about killing him and his friends –clearly this plan was revisited.

An Update on Emily

Emily the cat got her feeding tube removed Wednesday morning, leaving behind a round wound that the vet recommended we allow to heal in the open air. She has been reveling in the outdoors, rumors of the lurking neighborhood fox be damned, and seems pretty much back to her old demanding self with many requests for treats, entrance or exit through front or back doors, petting, and laptime - all this punctuated by luxurious naps on various beds and couches throughout the house. She is none the worse for wear after her ordeal except for furless patches on the side of her neck, belly, and one front ankle which all suffered various indignities during her medical treatment. I am very grateful for her recovery, and attempting to finish out administration of the "healthy liver" pills the vet recommended, with little cooperation from Emily herself. "A cat will do what it wants when it wants, and there's not a thing you can do about it." - Frank Perkins.