Africa

Johannesburg, March 27th, 1985

The jet lag is overwhelming but the journey has just begun. Our hostess Sheila, a tall beautiful blonde with a precise accent, greeted us with hugs and giggles. Her reunion with Patty, my travel companion, is clearly cause for celebration – Patty will be the maid of honor at Sheila’s wedding.
I’ve forgotten the itinerary for our trip even though Patty and Sheila went over it at least three times in the car to the compound. Sheila lives in what is called “a communal living space” with five others. They have scheduled dinners and explicit chore lists.
Johannesburg reminds me of California with its open air spaces and much greenery. Wrong side of the road driving and headlines screaming blood murder quickly wipes away that perception. There’s a pool and a tennis court, a maid, a gardener, and a driver/helper. Sheila’s wedding is going to be a grand affair.

Africa

Nairobi Airport, March 27th, 1985

A chilly good morning to you, my precious journal. We arrived in pitch black darkness as the day prepared to open. We walked briefly through the morgue-like airport on our stopover but chose to re-board immediately and wait for our flight to Johannesberg to take off. A young African soldier dressed in fatigues, machine gun at his side, walked right by us. There was death in his eyes but life in his walk. Another face I wanted to know more about on my travels but never would.

Shame

I went and saw the much anticipated "Shame" yesterday at the Kabuki Sundance Theaters on Post Street. The story of a so-called sex addict in oh so stimulating Manhattan, it stars a frequently naked Michael Fassbender and a frequently makeup-smeared Carey Mulligan as brother and sister both suffering from a crippling loneliness manifested in very different ways. Unfortunately we never find out where their pain comes from, we only see the symptoms. Those symptoms include random sex and inappropriate sex and dangerous sex, etc.  I think the Director Steve McQueen cast two terrific actors (and a strong supporting cast especially James Badge Dale) in great performances but totally dropped the ball on the story. I left the theater thinking all the hype was much ado about nothing. A surprise highlight though is Carey Mulligan singing a stripped down version of "New York, New York."  That was brilliant.

J. Edgar

J. Edgar is perhaps the first movie I've ever seen about a gay bully (there's Roy Cohn of course).  Well, actually a repressed man who seeks power to fill the void. A strong overpowering mother, a 'secret' friend who's not so secret. Who knew that J. Edgar Hoover fulfilled so many stereotypes? The movie is compelling, well-acted, and insightful. But don't go expecting to see J. Edgar prancing around in women's clothing - the only time he puts on a dress is when he misses his Mother.

What's Your Noise

Everywhere you go,
From house to street to row,
From the ground to the water to the air
From fort to shack to lair,
Everything makes a sound:
Up, down and all around
That's sound.

A pip, a burp, a plop and a squeak
A tittle, a tattle, a drop and a leak.
A chewy, a spit, a kachunk and a squeal
A louie, a gasp, a perplunk, and a deal.
Everything makes a sound
Above and below ground.
Yes, that's sound.

What's your noise?
Do you huff when you're upset?
Are you gruff when all wet?
Do you smile when told a riddle?
Tap your feet at the stroke of a fiddle?
Is there a noise for you?
Does your noise rings true?

Your noise could be as low as a wisp
Or warm and soothing and brisk
It could be as loud as a rocket ship
Blasting off for yet another moon trip.

What's your noise?
Mine goes like this:

KA KAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Sunday

The chilly weather is flooding me with memories of my first years here in SF.  I used to drive up from LA at Thanksgiving and Christmas to see my brother and sister in law – this was before I moved here, before the kids came along. I remember slipping off to have coffee at Tassahara in Cole Valley.  I remember that wonderful smell of wood burning fireplaces and watching people rush around getting last minute supplies for their holiday meals. I remember dinners full of friends and fun and too much wine.  I remember thinking that I would live here someday.

Intelligent Children

I've owned the book "Stories and Poems for Extremely Intelligent Children of All Ages" by Harold Bloom for at least two years.  I'd read maybe two or three poems in it. Last night, I picked it up and started reading the introduction. An hour later I was emotionally, physically, spiritually free! Instead of gushing, I'm simply going to share a quote from the introduction, one of many wonderful, hopeful, insightful snippets from Mr. Bloom:
"The romance of reading, like all experiential romance, depends upon enchantment, and enchantment relies upon the potential of power rather than upon complete knowledge. You are unlikely to fall in love with someone, however charming such a person may be, if you have known one another all your lives. What you can know fully will not induce you to fall in love, so that falling in love with a book is not wholly unlike falling in love with a person."

We Wonder

We wonder why we're here,
Why we're dying,
Why those we love
Smirk
At our long preparation.

We wonder why lemons go sour
In full spring yellow,
Why those we miss
Yawn
In their own Distance.

We wonder why kitties meow
A thousand ways,
Yet dogs bark the same
Bark
In distant backyards.

We wonder why we're here,
Why we're dying,
Why those we laugh with
Smile
At the shadow of our own best light.

Bryan 2.0

GO PLAY

     After two quakes in Berkeley yesterday, and a rather chilly evening last night, I woke up to beautiful clear skies and sunshine this morning. Amen! Thankfully, my tennis partner James and I timed our match well to the week’s weather.
     An interesting thing happened on my way to Golden Gate Park; I was happily jacked up on some Peet’s espresso as I practically flew out my front door, tennis bag slung around my shoulders anticipating a great match with James.
     As I passed my neighbor, a middle aged man who lives in a beautiful Edwardian with his partner, we both said ‘Good Morning,’ and I was about to be on my way when I noticed an odd look on his face.
     “Wow, you’re really dedicated, aren’t you?” he said.
     “Yeah, with tennis you have to be…” I said.
     “It’s not necessarily good for you,” he said,  “A friend of mine really messed up his shoulder while playing.  You might want to consider stopping .”
     I was flummoxed.  Really?
     All I could muster was some quip about how I stretch a lot.  But as I walked to Golden  Gate Park, a nice two mile walk, all I could think about was how fearful he sounded. How afraid he sounded. How…cautious.
     I play tennis once or twice a week and I have for twenty years. I know something about injuries, let me tell you.  I’ve had a torn meniscus. I endure tendinitis here and there, on and off. Sometimes I hobble out of bed in the morning before I get down on the carpet with the cats and stretch it out. But I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to stop playing. Hell no.
     When I don’t play, when I don’t exercise, I feel far worse than I ever have from any injury or weekly wear and tear. I feel like crap when I don’t exercise. I understand prevention and taking care of your body after vigorous exercise. I get that. But I don’t understand not getting out there if you’re blessed enough to have the opportunity.
     And there’s no greater sight than Golden Gate Park on a sunny morning.  Just ask the ‘diehards’ – the two dozen 60, 70, and 80 year-olds who play tennis five days a week in the park, first thing in the morning.
     They inspire me because nothing stops them from getting out there.
     I’m just happy yesterday’s earthquakes didn’t crack the courts.


Wars
October 19th, 2011 by Bryan Stillman

Some wars touch you, some wars don’t.  The war on Drugs didn’t touch me at all; it was just too vague. Actually it was a real piece of propaganda bullshit.  The war on Terror touched me every time I flew to Chicago to see my father during his battle with liver and pancreatic cancer. All those security checks gave me too much time to think about what he was going through – the big ugly C word. The war on Cancer is a catastrophe. My dad had lung cancer first, got it cut out, five years later he got liver/pancreatic cancer, got that chemo’ed, twice, and still died overwhelmed by agony, pain, and confusion. Diagnosis, chemo, radiation, surgery, chemo, decline, death: Cancer is way, way ahead in that war.
The war on AIDS is a tricky one. It’s been going on in this country for 30 years and it’s kind of a draw. There were a huge number of casualties in the first ten or fifteen years, then the drugs got better, controlling the virus became more like managing a chronic disease than a killer. and people stopped talking about it as much. But it took its toll in lives and confusion and disillusion. I just read a review in the New York Times about a book called The Origins of AIDS. The author Dr. Jacques Pepin (not to be confused with the famous chef) traces the long history of the HIV viruses. Here’s the lead paragraph from the article written by Donald G. McNeil Jr.: 

“Our story begins sometime close to 1921, somewhere between the Sanaga River in Cameroon and the Congo River in the former Belgian Congo. It involves chimps and monkeys, hunters and butchers, “free women” and prostitutes, syringes and plasma-sellers, evil colonial lawmakers and decent colonial doctors with the best of intentions. And a virus that, against all odds, appears to have made it from one ape in the central African jungle to one Haitian bureaucrat leaving Zaire for home and then to a few dozen men in California gay bars before it was even noticed — about 60 years after its journey began.” 

This is one long war.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/18/health/18aids.html?_r=2&pagewanted=1&hpw


The Chef of Chefs   October 17th, 2011 by Bryan Stillman

The greatest Chef in the world, when annointed, will be raised in France, roll pastry in Switzerland, stir soups in Moscow, stuff sausages in Germany, arrange antipasti in Italy; and after all that come to America to watch a Southern grandmother fry chicken, an east coast Lady work a clambake, a Midwestern farmer’s daughter bake an apple pie, and the cart-pushing lady in the Mission district of San Francisco sell Empanada Mexacanas.  Once he or she has disgested all of that; they will be recruited to Heaven so the angels above can sample the fare…all of it.  Works for me.


American Horror Story
October 14th, 2011 by Bryan Stillman 

     The first two episodes of American Horror Story on Fox aren’t exactly scary but they are definitely fun. Not unlike creator Ryan Murphy’s other show “Glee,” less is never more here. While I appreciate Glee’s ‘defend the gays and the geeks’ mentality, I’ve never been able to sit through more than one song; the show is just too overwrought with bitchy battle plans and twenty-something actors playing teenagers.
     American Horror Story is set in Los Angeles, in a haunted house with an unlimited backlog of unfortunate incidents and grisly murders. Twin Peaks meets Amityville Horror meets a half dozen other twisted, familiar stories. Laying it on thick works in a series like this if only in hopes that the more interesting storylines will eventually rise to the occasion.
     While the show is cast with several terrific actors, the standout, over the top performance comes from Jessica Lange. A toxic brew of Norma Desmond, Blanche Dubois and the Mother Alien in Aliens, Lange’s character knows every secret and every piece of history about the house next door and she’s willing to share – at her own pace.      And no, she won’t knock before entering.
     Again, the show isn’t exactly scary – jumpy is more like it: flickering images and hammering music are the main delivery methods for the intended frights. There’s an abundance of story in American Horror Story but restraint and suspense are what’s needed.

          Changed my mind after watching the 2nd episode again and the 3rd episode...this show is just
          getting warmed up and I find myself eagerly looking forward to the next episode.  10/25/11

Rilke
October 14th, 2011 by Bryan Stillman 

“There exists only one aloneness, and it is great, and it is not easy to bear.  To nearly everyone come those hours that we would gladly exchange for any cheap or even the most banal camaraderie, for even the slightest inclination to choose the second-best or the most unworthy thing.”
From “Letters to A Young Poet” by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Granola
October 13th, 2011 by Bryan Stillman 

Just discovered something called the KIND community through a bag of granola. I was getting a sandwich at Mollie Stone’s on California Street, not worrying much about my fiber intake (far more concerned about what potato chips to enjoy) and I saw these bags of granola hanging in the chocolate chip aisle. Instead of costing an insane eight or nine bucks, this bag was around $5. Still not exactly a deal but with a catchy line like “Ingredients you can see & pronounce” on the front of the bag, I was sold. Whole grains like Amaranth, Quinoa, Oats, Millet & Buckwheat plus flax seeds, chicory root fiber and several fruit purees. I chose Blueberry Vanilla and to be perfectly honest, since 3pm yesterday afternoon, I’ve had three bowls. One of those bowls accompanied my 3am reading session with the 3rd Dragon Tattoo book. I’m sure I’ll give the website a glance as well: http://www.KINDsnacks.com/world


Read It Again
October 13th, 2011 by Bryan Stillman 

I have a habit of re-reading books that I’ve only recently read. This weekend I started in on The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I finished the The Girl Who Played With Fire late last night. I’m starting the The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest as soon as I finish writing this. I’ve asked myself repeatedly why I’m reading them again when I read them all barely two years ago. I have other books to read, unread magazines, short story collections, etc. The best answer I can come up is that I’ve never been to Sweden. Politics and Finance and the inner workings of a character like Lisbeth Salander are completely foreign to me. I’m reading these books again because I love being taken away into new worlds especially worlds I don’t relate to and don’t fully understand. That’s why I’m aching to travel right now. I’ve been out of work for a month and the thought of starting another job irks me to no end. I want to travel and sit in cafes and ponder. Just like when I was 18, and 19, and 25, and 35, and…well you get the point. Either I haven’t grown up or I’m realizing that there’s no need to…


His Bliss
October 13th, 2011 by Bryan Stillman

On a day still memorable to me, I boarded a 24 Divisadero Bus to get over to Haight Street and met a new Driver. He sat on a big red cushion which kept him upright. He was short, squat and light brown, immaculate, and his eyes held the wisdom of the ages and peace with this world. As I paused to pay for my pass I said hello and noticed how clean and neat he kept his immediate surroundings. His steering wheel and equipment gleamed and sparkled; instead of soda cups and disheveled backpacks. I found some conscious order. When I asked the driver how he managed to make driving a bus seem so spectacular – I was feeling cheeky that day – he answered in easy words that made my day:
     “Young Man,” he said (generously), sweeping his hand towards the riders behind and in front of me, “it’s like this: I found my Bliss.”
     Giving bus rides full of peace and wonder was his glory in life, and in knowing this he had more than most.
     Unfortunately, I’ve never seen him since.

•