Happy Holidaze

It's kind of the end of the vacation, though since I was working Sunday and today, I wonder whether I gave myself an actual holiday. Well, there wasn't too much work involved, and I will be taking Friday off (I was initially going to work that day, but I've already put in a good 2/3 day of work for this client). Still, I look forward to when I can totally tune out for numerous days at a time.

We're supposed to leave Carlsbad tomorrow for our return trip to Austin, but now I have been told there are going to be gale-force winds. Well, at least they'll be at our back from the time we get to El Paso. Hopefully the client work I need to do will be done by mid morning, so we can hit the road in time to miss the worst of the crosswinds.

The holiday itself was nice and mellow. And I get to continue my mid-30s breakout against the classical music training I had by pretending to be a 15-year-old boy, a wannabe rock star, or possibly both when we get home and crank up the shiny new PS3. I guess Roy doesn't want conversations with me any more, since he got me the machine, plus Rock Star, Elder Scrolls Oblivion and Half Life 2. *smile*.

Looking forward to the following in the new year:

* More improv classes
* Renewed yoga practice
* More bicycling
* A possible return to Bonaire
* More writing for me
* Continuing to chip away at the depression

zen != punk ska

Last night we went to San Antonio to see the Police in their reunion tour. After some heinous traffic, we took at break at the Blue Star brew pub. We had some so-so beer and decent eats, then traveled the 10 minutes to the AT&T Center, where we arrived just in time to hear most of Sting's son's band, Fictionplane. Aside from the numerous times the progeny's voice hearkened back to his father's, evoking a visceral, emotional response, it was rarely more than respectable, at least in my opinion.

Seemingly endless iterations of ads (Spurs, Purina, Blue Man Group, Celine freaking Dion) blazed in LED around the coliseum, and weird interpretive video loops on the large screens accompanied snippets of songs followed Fictionplane. Then THEY finally took the stage. Stewart Copeland, Andy Summers, and Gordon Sumner. The Police. They looked happy. Separate, but that could have been an effect of the huge stage. Sting occasionally backed Andy on his solos, literally, leaning into his companion's back. more often, though, he played to the sides while Andy tore it up (damn!). Sting wore the Zen of his TrudyLife. He smiled, dressed in his sexy tight pants and tshirt, and Stood. Through songs that would have benefited from pogosticking around the stage. Stewart, who obviously likes to hit things for a living, was the most rock-n-roll of the three. Andy seemed downbeat but was hyper-concentrated on his music. And Sting, holding his well-worn bass guitar, wearing several inches of gold bracelets, well, he looked positively blissed out. And moved about as much as you would while holding a sivasana at the end of yoga class. Guess all that tantra is working for him.

And I couldn't argue with the musical skill. But peace of mind may not be very punk. And that's how I remember my Police. Punk-ska-frenetic. I don't care much for the smooth adult sounds of the Sting of Now. And, of course, Sting's current musical proclivities color the reunion's sound.

I had a great time. I heard some great music. Roy heard a band he has wanted to hear for decades. Sting is probably a lot happier than he used to be. And, with my current journey into the sources of my own rage, I feel perhaps punky freneticism is not something that follows naturally when you're, at core, peaceful and not angry. I guess it's okay for Sting that he's in the Zen zone. But it's pretty apparent that we're not going to return to the early 1980s. And I suppose that's good. In fact, it did make me look forward to getting some of that Stand Blissfully feeling for myself.

My poor blog, languishing like a neglected hydrangea. It's not as though stuff hasn't been happening. There was a music festival, a party or 4, in-law visitation. I'm taking improv and sketch writing classes! Oh yeah, and the delving into really intense brain stuff. Some day I'll go into the deep briny of the deep brainy, but not today. Today (well starting yesterday) there was the Big Shakeup at work. Having been there only three and a half months, it's more than a little disconcerting to have half of your team leave (your manager involuntarily) in the midst of a process change transition. And that shakeup is compounding the ick I feel from drudging through the dark uncomfortable, really really scary places (you know, the ones away from which you run and run--only to find yourself deeper and more lost in the fear once you actually admit that you're scared).

It has been a really tough fall. And winter looks like it will be hard, as well. But at least I'm looking for a way out, and asking for guides to help. Admitting I can't do it myself is frightening, but it also feels like a victory. And, these days, I'll take a small one of those. And, perhaps, a comforting malty beverage.

Into my ears

I've started working. A real job. Real Job. All capital-lettery! With the feeling of being appreciated and being part of something! This is extremely novel, after 8 years of contracting.

I knew it was going to be a fun place when I walked in for the interview and saw the place covered with concert posters, including Queens of the Stone Age, Social Distortion, Foo Fighters and No Doubt. The President of the company is one of the only people I know who reveres Arcade Fire more than I do.

I have to hide in sound often to be able to concentrate, and I've been getting much music, because many of my favorite bands have been releasing albums. So I thought I'd write a short entry about some of the music that I've bought lately.

We're in the concert dull zone. Next month we have Austin City Limits festival, Henry Rollins' spoken word event and Interpol.

The new Interpol album, Our Love to Admire, was something I was anticipating with quivering joy. They are brooding, owe perhaps far too much to Bauhaus and Joy Division, and have obtuse lyrics. And I love them. Intensely. Let me be more specific: I loved their first two albums, Turn on the Bright Lights and Antics. The third album is fine, and I definitely love, so far, several of the tracks. But I'm not sure whether it is as stunning as I had hoped. I will have to give it more listens, but I was not overwhelmed. It almost hurts to type that, since I was so looking forward to it. Ah well.

Editors' sophomore effort, An End Has a Start, impressed me far more than I expected, especially after the first single didn't excite me nearly as much as Munich did more than a year ago. Smokers Outside the Hospital Doors is not quite the Coldplay-esque anthem some have deemed it, but there are some far better tracks on the album. In fact, the only song I could skip is the last one. Roy is not nearly so fond of it.

The National is a fairly recent discovery. I have all their albums, I think, but I need to listen more to give a better critique comparing them. This little piece isn't really an in-depth anything anyway. MY blog, MY lazy! HA! Anyhow... I suppose I enjoy the morose in music. And somewhat obtuse lyrics. The Bauhaus/Joy Division/Tom Waits/Smiths influence is obvious in this band. The vocal range of the lead singer, Matt Berninger, is perhaps limited, but it does seem to exceed that of Interpol's Paul Banks. Yes, a recovering opera singer is fond of lazy vocal stylings. The fact that they must be coupled with exceptional, heady lyrics speaks more to the writer/poet I might be than the vocal craftsperson I was.

Other worthwhile new music: Crowded House's Time on Earth, an emotional but highly listenable elegy to their former drummer, Paul Hester, who committed suicide some years back; The Black Dog Book of Dogma, appealing if a bit mellow electronica; Mocean Worker Cinco de Mowo, drum and bass with heavy 50s-60s lounge and jazz influence (with "Tickle This", "Shake ya Boogie" and all tracks with flutist Rahsaan Roland Kirk being my faves... and not at all because of my fondness for China Mieville's King Rat).

I'm eagerly awaiting more material from Louis XIV, Future of the Left, and Bob Mould. What's a post-punk gal supposed to do with herself?? I suppose I'll just get more black clothing, practice the irony and the mope, and.... go to bed.

For goodness' sake

He has said, “You’re a good person,” meaning me, more times than I can recall.

A couple of weeks ago, while walking the puppy and feeling impatient, violent, angry, and any number of other unpleasant emotions, I said out loud to myself, and to Vlad, “I’m not a good person.” The dog didn’t much care what I said one way or the other, as long as it didn’t mean anything bad was going to happen to him. But I started ruminating.

Was I berating myself? Why did I feel impelled to come out with that statement three-quarters of a mile into our walk? And I wondered, “What is a good person? Is anyone I know truly good?”

I think goodness, pure, at-heart goodness, is something that comes naturally. It’s unstudied. It’s not a reaction to some learned moral imperative. It’s not what a person does to avoid unpleasant reactions from others. Pure goodness is something that flows easily from within.

And I don’t think it’s common among humans. It’s by far the exception and not the rule. It seems counter-intuitive, from a survival standpoint. If you give your share of the food away out of the goodness of your heart, how will you survive? Most of us want that food. We realize being nice to other people increases our chances of getting the food, but our primary instinct is to bash other people on the head in order to get it. That assumption is not comfortable. My initial reaction was to deny that was how I was. But, honestly, it’s true. At least for me, it is. Much of the structure we call society is in place so we can get our share of the food while not cracking the heads of others. Morals and ethics have, at their root, a goodness I believe we have inside—but it is deep under the other instincts at whose whims we act out, subversively, passive-aggressively — and, of course, just aggressively. The small, sweet voice of goodness is more often than not drowned out by the frightened caterwauls of “Do I have what I want?” and “Is that person going to keep me from getting it?”

So what about the people whose instincts seem to incline them, naturally, toward selflessness? Why was that behavior not bred out of humanity long ago? Without the drive for acquisition/food as the chief motivator, how does a person survive?

I think also of the spiritual centers of communities who are fed and cared for by the ones who adulate them. They sometimes are good. Perhaps it’s the goodness within those few people that makes their communities revere them as spiritual superiors. Per haps it’s why that tendency survives, in very few people. I may have known one, perhaps two, whose goodness outweighed their drive to acquire and outperform others. One was looked upon as eccentric and not quite within the realm of sanity. The other was one of those people who could operate in the world in which most of us operate. However, concerns I would consider practical, like making sure to eat somewhat regularly and having a place to live, didn’t really top her list of priorities. We may have considered her lucky to have friends who would see that she was fed and cared for, but I think she was just happy to have friends.

I think of people who sacrifice themselves, figuratively or literally, and don’t view what they do as sacrifice. It’s just what they do. That is goodness. Those of us who make sacrifices as a matter of choice practice goodness, but it doesn’t seem to me as though that is intrinsic goodness.

There is another way to look at the issue. In my experience as an opera student and a somewhat professional opera singer, I may have met one person who was a “natural singer.” All the rest of us had to learn the manner of singing that would allow us to project over a 100-piece orchestra for hours and still be able to sing beautifully the next day.

Similarly, there are few people who naturally run very fast. I never hope to be a true race contender, but I strive to do better than the last race. Runners, like me or like most professional racers, can train to increase speed, but the natural propensity for tremendous speed is a rare attribute.

I’m not saying the people who are natural singers, or natural good people, or natural fast runners, are superior to the rest of us. And there is something noble about striving to better one’s self. Reaching beyond that which comes comfortably to us is part of what makes us human. Just like those not-so-noble impulses to bash our neighbors on the head and take their tasty treats for ourselves.

And you can say I try to do good things. Sometimes I even succeed. Just don’t call me a good person. Or I might just disappoint you… or take your ice cream while you’re not looking.

Bonaire, Part the Second

Like many establishments in Bonaire, the Lion’s Den restaurant at Buddy Dive is open to the elements. Obviously, Roy and I noted, they don’t get much rain there. We staggered into the breakfast section, like many of our fellow travelers, and grabbed sustenance from the bins of bread products, then the chilled section of yogurt, fruit, cheese, cold cuts… Then we reached tea and coffee, juices, water, all offered in extremely small mugs and glasses. Finally, the eggs, bacon, sausage, French toast, and pancakes rounded out the pre-made items, snug in their chafing dishes. The omelet and waffle station at the end of the buffet, ably operated by Magda, was something we would try later in the week. But, on negligible sleep, we were not inclined to wait, or to make decisions about what would go into an omelet.

Coffee was good. I was convinced I would spend most of the afternoon sleeping, so I was trying to avoid tanking up on coffee. I figured a relaxing breakfast, followed by the resort orientation, would lead nicely to a nap. Bananas in Bonaire were inordinately good. Unfortunately, the only time we had them offered was that Saturday. The papaya with yogurt was also good. A side note on the yogurt: Bonaire is not the place to get fresh milk products. There are no cows on or near the island, so the most common type of milk substance other than powdered milk was drinkable yogurt, preserved so it could be stored and shipped at room temperature. The resulting product is a good deal tangier than the sweet stuff to which the American tongue has become accustomed. However, I thought it was nice. And there was a passion fruit peach flavor… yummy.

During breakfast, I got my first real taste of Bonaire Fauna (other than the type that had enjoyed my company earlier, in a feeding on kind of way). The seagulls speak a different language than the ones I’m used to from all over the States. These lovelies had black heads and white bodies and a much less unpleasant call. They also were not nearly as ragged and dirty as North American gulls. The pigeons, mainly brownish, were your typical winged rats. The doves, nicer-sounding pigeons, were dark brown, a contrast to the pale grey-brown ones in Austin whose calls fill the morning air and that commit hari-kari against our windows with distressing frequency. The resort forbade feeding the birds, no surprise, but they were all quite persistent. It was nice watching them over the ocean as we relaxed a bit.

After food, we made our way back across the resort to the front desk area, where we were told our room was ready. So we grabbed our bags and trundled back to Room 702 for an initial unpack, most of which entailed putting the expensive stuff into the room safe. By 8:45, it was time to head up to the cabana for our orientation.

One incredibly nifty thing about Buddy Dive resort is that it has its own dock for diving. We walked along that dock with the rest of our group and the dive master (who has black kitties tattooed on his calves, an endearing scarification), and I saw hundreds of fish swimming below the surface. While hearing about checking out tanks, getting weights and learning where to rinse and hang gear, I was thinking maybe I could do a snorkel… after a nap. We went to the dive shop and paid for our Bonaire marine park admittance, which everyone using the island must do before entering the water. We browsed through some fish books while waiting to give over our $25 each for the privilege to dive. And I thought, “Maybe one dive later… after a nap…”

So, of course, after unpacking some more and resting a bit, no nap, we decided we would do just one dive. I followed Roy, getting gear ready to lug downstairs to the dock area. I moved through my murky mind as though it was Jell-O. I wasn’t entirely there, but I was going somewhere interesting. (And, all the heavy stuff was already down at the dock, so I wouldn’t do too much damage if I fell down the staircase, especially if I carried my cushy wetsuit in front of me…)

The preparation for diving is something with which I was familiar. Last summer we spent a decent amount of time logging dives in Lake Travis, near Austin. Check enriched air in tank, soak buoyancy control device (BCD), pull BCD over the tank, secure BCD, attach regs to tank and BCD and turn on air, make sure air is flowing through the reg, add weight to BCD, turn tank et al on the side. Then put hood on, put wetsuit on (wiggle, wiggle, curse, tug), put on Tank/BCD combo (groan under the weight), put on computer, grab mask, snorkel and fins and head for the water. Simple!

Once in the water, I was used to communicating with my buddy (Roy, always) when we’d go underwater, and then spending the dive trying not to lose Roy in the murky water of Lake Travis. At the surface of the Caribbean Ocean, we said down, and thereafter diving became something entirely different from my previous experience.

I could see. I could see for long distances. And I could see more living things in one glance than I believe I had ever seen underwater before. Go get a Bonaire diving guide to learn what met our eyes… or check out http://ahpook.smugmug.com/ for vacation snaps. I know when we first submerged, I saw parrotfish, urchins, nursefish, and snappers. We swam out several minutes across the beautiful white sand. As we approached the end of the mooring rope that led seaward from the dock, we started to see more coral. At the end of the rope, there was even more coral. And there was even more as the ocean floor sloped down. At 30 feet below the surface, more breeds of coral flourished than I could count on my fingers. And in that coral, and above, and within, and around it there swam, floated, crawled, mated, tussled, and amazed thousands of fish. My dive computer yelled at me for breathing too fast as I gasped in awe, completely awake, at the wonderland through which I moved.

The gentle current swayed the few soft corals and numerous anemones that clung to the hard corals’ rocky surfaces. Cobalt blue tangs swam through lavender tube sponges. Tiny, tri-colored wrasse chased coral-chomping parrotfish as moray eels glowered inside crevasses in the brain coral, occasionally lunging forward, toothy mouths opening. Shiny royal blue chromis schooled, while their brown cousins swam up to the surface, then down again, then up… Angelfish sailed like underwater boats. White and yellow goatfish hovered at the ocean floor, stirring up sand and food with their Fu Manchu whiskers. We didn’t really know what most of the creatures we were seeing at that point were. We just kept pointing, eyes wide behind our masks, at every amazing sight. And every sight was amazing.

At the end of the snorkel-turned-short-dive, which lasted the better part of an hour, we emerged back at the Buddy Dock, thunderstruck. And ready to go again.

Bonaire, Part the First

Being the first installment in who knows how many of the recent trip to Diving Disneyland...

Wherever you go…. there you are.

This platitude made a lot of sense while traveling.

Bonaire was wonderful. I mean, wonderful in a way that was somewhere completely else, where, beneficent heavens be praised, hardly a thought of work went through my tired little mind. Where flamingos and donkey roamed free on land, salt made snowy mounds just yards from the surf, and spiky succulents’ predominance on land belied the lush world just past the glimmering surface of the sea, I explored and rejoiced and moved in wonderment for a too-short week.

Spotted Eagle Ray, Hidden Beach, Bonaire (Photo copyright 2007, Roy Moore)

But I could not escape the fact that I brought myself along. What do I mean by that? Well, the same neuroses that plague me and have made me damn near apoplectic in the Current Job were right along waiting to come out in the water. I had to be a grand and glorious diver… I had to… see the good stuff. I had to… have fun? Relax? Get my money’s worth? For about three days I was pursuing my vacation. And making myself a bit of a wreck.

Don’t get me wrong. There are much worse things to be doing when trying to suss out what a vacation might be than diving three to four times a day in a coral playground.

And about that playground. Well, the only diving experience I’d had until 2 weeks ago tomorrow was Lake Travis, Austin Texas. While a lovely cool place to be in the Texas heat, there isn’t a lot to see besides algae, catfish, carp, drum, murky rocks, and the occasional sunken boat or bathtub. Occasionally you can see your dive buddy, but it’s not a good idea to count on that too much. While the lake is fine for a local trip, and I learned how to dive there well enough, I was in no way prepared for the effect my first Caribbean dive would have on my extremely sleep-deprived psyche. But first, let me explain how we got that tired.

We had been traveling since about 4:45 p.m. Friday, when K drove Roy and me to the Austin airport. Our 7:15 flight got to Houston at 8:30, after which we waited for the nonstop to Bonaire, which left at 11:50. We touched down in Bonaire, as scheduled, at 5:15 in the morning, Saturday. I tried sleeping on the flight, and I did get some shut-eye. But I’m not sure whether sleeping was better than just trying to read would have been.

Airplane seats are bearable while sitting, awake and rested, for about 3 hours. New York to San Francisco, fine. I can do that. Anything over that, and my back starts to get cranky, not to mention my legs and hip joints. I think perhaps I’m getting old. Anyhow, when one sleeps in one of those airplane seats, one’s spine goes right out of alignment. You think a crick in your neck from the nice bed in your own bedroom is bad? Try the Continental Airlines Iron Maiden Seats. Unmedicated, you might sleep 15-30 minutes without waking up from some form or another of discomfort. For 5 hours, it was not exactly restful. But we landed! In Bonaire!

This was my first time, ever, in the tropics. My first time on an island that was not Angel Island or Manhattan. My first actual non work, non-family vacation not associated with some form of mental anguish (we’re not counting the job) in more than five years. And it was my first opportunity to use my passport since I was nine years old. I was, understandably, beside myself. We exited the plane down the stairs, across the tarmac and through customs, hoping we’d meet our luggage before we left the airport. we had a—luxurious—amount of time to ponder the surroundings before we would have our joyous bag reunion.

Bonaire’s Flamingo Airport is, well, pink. And the luggage claim area (one carousel) is open to the sky, the elements—and the mosquitoes. Watching the sun appear, I remembered the warnings about hungry bugs waiting for the weekly deliveries of fresh American meat. In the roseate glow of Bonaire’s airport in/ex-terior, as the sun rose on a typical, 90-degree morning, I had my first taste of island cuisine. Or, rather, I was my first island cuisineurs’ taste. After our first experience of island time, when we got our baggage about an hour after getting into the country, I had amassed several impressive welcome welts on my shoulders and ankles. The bug spray, with lovely Deet flavor, was the first item retrieved from the finally-appearing bags.

A mere hour after getting the bags, we left the airport on the school bus that took us to Buddy Dive resort, just north of Kralendijk, the main town on the island. On the trip, for which Roy and I were (appropriately, both dressed in our skull-covered finest) in the back seat, we were treated to a barely audible resort primer from the purple-shirted Buddy Dive guide at the front.

Thirty minutes after pulling up to the resort, we were told our room might be ready in an hour, so we should head to the Lion’s Head and have breakfast. I was so tired by that point that it hurt to try to think of an excuse not to go. So, Roy and I left the silly, stinking drunk fellow traveler, the one who must have been pickled from the time he got on the plane in Houston, who grabbed Heinekens the moment he got off the plane and who was still drinking when we got to the resort. And we negotiated our way to the restaurant.