In response to my birthday post, below, my friend Erik suggests that some folks missed my birthday because I affect an aspect of timelessness. Perhaps so, as with the Sybil in the jar in the marketplace at Cumae. But I’m tired.

I grow old … I grow old …

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

So the old dog and I shall limp and toddle off to bed, leaving you all, gentle readers, with a bit of Yeats.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Television’s perfect. You turn a few knobs, a few of those mechanical adjustments at which the higher apes are so proficient, and lean back and drain your mind of all thought. And there you are watching the bubbles in the primeval ooze. You don’t have to concentrate. You don’t have to react. You don’t have to remember. You don’t miss your brain because you don’t need it. Your heart and liver and lungs continue to function normally. Apart from that, all is peace and quiet. You are in the man’s nirvana. And if some poor nasty minded person comes along and says you look like a fly on a can of garbage, pay him no mind. He probably hasn’t got the price of a television set.

-Raymond Thornton Chandler, writer (1888-1959)

from wordsmith.org

Yeah, you missed it. I reached 43 yesterday, and I know you missed it, because everybody outside my immediate family did. Blew it off. Could have sent me a present. What a bunch of hosers. — I’m kidding. I don’t care.

I spent a quiet day with my family, which is what I wanted. We went to visit my Grandma, in a care facility in the San Joaquin Valley. She’s 93, though time has become something of an abstraction for her. She thinks I’m in my twenties, and was pretty incredulous when we told her I’m 43.

I love my Grandma. She always took such good care of me, in that way that grandmothers hold us in the world and make us feel safe and unconditionally loved. Spoiled is a better word, I guess.

After that visit, we went to the local cemetery, where we have seven relatives buried, including my other three grandparents. It was very warm – about 94 degrees in the shade – but there were lots of people there. They were placing flowers, praying, and in one case gathering on a grave for a family photo and lots of laughter. To each his own.

We weren’t laughing much. But it was good. A time to connect and assess our losses I suppose. Rumi said that everything comes down to loving and not loving. To me, it’s more like loving and holding on, then letting go.

My brother and I watched a really good movie tonight, Bowling for Columbine. I’ve been meaning to see it for a while — I’m a fan of Michael Moore. If you haven’t seen it, I recommend it strongly. For me, the overwhelming bottom line is that we Americans live in a culture of fear. We’re afraid of damn near everything, and all the wrong things. Our children are growing up steeped in fear. Our president takes his podium and says things like today, the justice department issued a blanket warning, based on general information. And we let him get away with it; we let him hand feed us fear, to bolster his chances for reelection. Then we go out and stock up on duct tape, soup and ammo.

It’s time to take back this country — and our minds — from the neocon fear-pushers.

Recently I visited my old friend George, a WWII veteran, in a nursing facility. George was an officer in the British special forces (airborne) in Asia. He parachuted behind enemy lines, fought bravely, and like our John McCain, suffered as a POW. George is an amazing guy, with a good heart. A class act. I’m very fond of him.

When I visited, he told me that he wished they would finally build a memorial in Washington to honor those who served in WWII. George has been out of touch a while, and I was happy to tell him that the memorial was almost complete. Today, I called him to make sure he knew that it was finished and dedicated.

I wonder if someone will call me in a nursing home, and let me know about the dedication of the memorial to those who serve in the war that’s going on now. I wonder if there will be a wall of names, and if I’ll know any of them. Why do I wonder this? Because it just keeps rolling on, a great wheel of war turns with the very planet. We just don’t seem willing or able to stop it. And so long as our fear continues to cause us to choose leaders like George W. Bush, we are beyond hope.

Therefore, let us build memorials.

Maybe you noticed (yeah right) that my blogroll has gotten a little smaller recently. I’ve been whitling away at it, getting rid of blogs that aren’t active anymore, etc.

Well I see the fear mongers are at it again, spewing forth a general warning that we all need to stay terrified, vigilant, stay the course, go about our daily lives, keep spending for the economy, and no matter what don’t dare to vote out any incumbant Republicans. I’ll bet a whole new circle is being built in hell for these jerks.

I’d rather see freaks eating worms on Fear Factor than one of Tom Ridge’s Fear Factors shows on CNN, though either one may cause me to jab sharpened #2 pencils in my eyes. Basta. … If they attack, they attack. But being terrorized by our own government in the mean time doesn’t help.

Pete and Erin are back from vacation — keep an eye out for good stuff on their blogs.

I love to go out in the orchards at night, alone with my dog and the trees. The farm is different at night. During the day, you walk around and the trees just stand there, only rustling a little if you mark the motion of leaves by the distant mountains or clouds. But at night they see you coming and depending on their mood maybe you’ll see them move. They’re shy by nature, so you walk along a row and they stand back. They watch you. They whisper with the wind.

I’ve heard them talking. I’ve listened, and the things they say aren’t so strange as you think. They talk about water, how cold it is, on their roots, rising through the xylem and dripping from their leaves. They love the water more than anything. And like most beings in the world, they are afraid of men.

The trees talk about mountains, the Santa Lucias to the west, about the sweet cool air the wind brings from there, smelling of anise and wild radish. But the best thing, they say, is the ocean. They can’t imagine it; some nights the wind brings smells the trees don’t understand. The trees love this beautiful mystery. And Zeke moves along a row of almonds just ahead of me, sniffing the trunks. The dog and me, we listen and brethe and try not to frighten the trees. What we learn at night, we keep secret.

Kyle Kimberlin

May 23, 2004

for a novel in process

Lives’ of great men oft remind us as we o’er their pages turn,

That we too many leave behind us–

Letters that we ought to burn.

— Thomas Hood

found at Writer’s Almanac

I think it’s great that Michael Moore’s anti-Bush, anti-War film “Fahrenheit 9/11” has won the top honors in Cannes. It shows that there is still a place for communication that aims at social and institutional change and that film can still effect us above the neck.

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