BRIAN LIBBY

Dharma Cat

Recently I noticed that when Ruthie gets keyed up over something (and that happens frequently with a two-year-old cat), she tends to stop and wash herself for at least a few seconds. I can’t remember where I read this, but apparently that’s an inherent feline behavioral trait. They do it to collect their thoughts. Relatedly, meditation has been on my mind these days. Valarie bought a Buddhist magazine a week or two ago, and there was an article in which marathon runner Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche cites the importance of meditation to physical well being:

“We might be sleeping well and eating well, but if we’re not working with our mind, its weakness and wildness can sabotage our happiness. We’re caught up in fear, anger and worry.”

I’ve long meant to make a serious attempt at regular meditation, concentrating on my breathing patterns and focusing, as instructors suggest, on a pleasant, far away place—in my case an obvious example: the beach. (I’ve always loved the ambient white noise of the ocean, not to mention the cool temperatures it brings.) And as it happens, I’m also re-reading Jack Kerouac’s novel The Dharma Bums after fist picking it up a decade ago. Even more than in On The Road, Kerouac displays a contagious passion for life, and his attempts to live by Buddhist strictures and philosophies play a big role. His autobiographical protagonist, Ray—in keeping with the larger Beat movent context—has found ways to detach from ordinary American life and all its petty obsessions.

These various references to either outright meditation or even just escaping into ritual in order to drive away stress—be they human or animal in origin—have helped me get through a temporary gig working in a suburban office. The people are very nice there, and I've learned a lot. But I’m often frustrated by the half-hour drive there and back in heavy freeway traffic, as well as the inevitably sterile, stifling office environment and its bad coffee. Being in an office park in the burbs it means you can't just take a walk around the block (unless you have an hour and a compass). So with nowhere to get away from it all for a break, sometimes the only thing to do is just go to the bathroom. Even though I don’t always really need to go that bad, I’ve found that the ritual of washing my hands is, at least for a few seconds, rather meditative.

In other words, thanks Ruthie!

London Calling (Among Others)

Valarie and I are in the throes of planning a trip to Europe: London, Paris, Bruge, and Amsterdam. Actually most of the airline and hotel arrangements are already made, since we’re going in just under three weeks. But now is the time when we’re really starting to study the city maps and get seriously thinking about where we want to go while we’re there.

There’s a little nervousness that comes with anticipating all the subway systems, foreign languages and other issues, but excitement too. I’ve already been to London and Paris, but that was nine years ago. Despite those cities being great, though, I’m most looking forward to the new places. In a foreign city for the first time you have an enhanced sensitivity and a heightened awareness. That’s an essential so you don’t get lost, robbed or look silly. But it also means you’re all the more aware of the small details that cumulatively comprise a sense of place, from the taste of beer to the amount of trash on the street to the friendliness of the people.

Surely we’ll make mistakes and suffer misfortunes along the way, but we’ll also come back richer for the experience. At least, that’s what happened for me in Tokyo and (to a lesser extent) Nassau this year. Otherwise, I want my two thousand bucks back.

Every Four Years

The past couple weeks it seems like most everyone I know has been watching the Olympics. I love swimmer Gary Hall, Jr.'s playful brashness, beach vollyballer Karrie Walsh's lanky net play, and those insanely iron-lunged Kenyan and Ethiopan distance runners. In most cases, whether a fan of other mainstream athletics (football, baseball, etc.) or not, I and others have been enjoying watching Olympic sports we almost never watch otherwise: swimming, gymnastics, even track & field. If NBC is so willing to hype the Olympics every four years, and if so many people are tuning in (the network had all the first seven from the top 10 Nielson-ranked shows this week, all Olympics coverage), why is it that not even the World Championships for these sports seem to make it to television at all? NBC, for example, doesn't have any professional basketball, football, baseball or hockey contracts. So why don't they really focus on making Olympic sports something people watch more than just every four years? I'm not saying that beach vollyball or the 10,000 meter run will ever overtake the NFL or NBA in popularity. But if it were a lazy Sunday afternoon and I had the choice between an Olympic sport and, say, golf or NASCAR, I'd definitely go for one of the Olympic sports. Unless you're a rich dork or a redneck, wouldn't you?

The Politics of Candidates' Past

Leading the headlines lately is the controversy over John Kerry's war record and a Republican commercial that questions whether the Democrat's actions in Vietnam were as heroic as portrayed. It reminds me of a similar campaign issue twelve years ago when George H.W. Bush questioned Bill Clinton's participation in demonstrations against the Vietnam War while a graduate student at Oxford. The similarity isn't just that both accusations came from Republican father and son presidents named George Bush. What's more important, I think, is that these ploys were and are sure signs of the GOP getting desperate.

Unless there is a major terrorist event conveniently timed to happen just before the presidential election (and I wouldn't be surprised at this point), I see Kerry as having a very good chance of knocking off Bush. So let's just sit back and see over the next few weeks which presidential candidate plays the dirtiest. Admittedly I'm partisan, but I think it'll be Bush. Will the president and advisor Karl Rove (a close fiend of the man bankrolling these controversial anti-Kerry ads) score with voters in the same underhanded way his father and late strategist Lee Atwater did against Dukakis in 1988 with the Willie Horton TV ads? Or will it smack of futility like it did in 1992, when Bush's playing the Vietnam card seemed in comparison to Clinton's razor-sharp focus upon substantive policy issues in the campaign?

And then there's the unequivocal double standard at work here. What if we were to go digging into George W. Bush's past in the 70s and early 80s? Honestly I don't know the truth from the exaggerations, but there have been a lot of whisperings about cocaine use and alcoholism. Are they all 100% unfounded? Hmm. And that's not even touching the more indisputable fact that the younger Bush easily avoided Vietnam as a child of privilege.

Let's say for argument's sake that John Kerry's heroism in Vietnam has been highly exaggerated. Isn't how he spent the late 1960s still a lot more honorable?

Calm Before the Kickoff

Each fall I experience a love-hate relationship with Oregon Ducks college football. When the team wins a big game, there is little in life I find more exhilarating. But along the way, I exhibit a lot more stress than is really necessary for a meaningless game. Maybe that's why this time of year -- the last days before the season starts -- is always a quietly special moment. I got into the Ducks because I love football. I hesitate to describe in too much detail precisely why I love the game, because it's opening a whole other can of worms. But there are definitely elements of strategy, physical agility, pageantry and personal nostalgia involved. At this time of year, there is a palpable anticipation for football season enhanced by the ebbing of oppressive summer heat in favor of mild autumn days. I love to sit back on Saturday afternoons and eat my favorite guilty pleasure food -- Kraft macaroni and cheese -- in front of a string of games on television...especially if it's a team other than the Ducks. I can't stand to watch my own team play. That's too much stress. Why? I know that with only 11 or 12 games per year, there is very little margin for error in Oregon's season. Lose one game and you're out of the national championship picture. Lose two and you're probably not going to win the conference or go to the Rose Bowl. There's also some personal psychological issues that bleed into my fandom, but like I said, this isn't the time to go there. But every year I try to keep things in perspective and not get so stressed about the Ducks. And this year I'm going to try again. Will I succeed? Probably not. But I want my love of college football in general to prevail over my worrisome anxiety over the Ducks. I want to sit back and enjoy watching Michigan, Florida State, USC, Georgia, Notre Dame and lots of other teams battle it out. All the while I'll be manically checking the Ducks game score to see if they're ahead. Wish me -- and them -- good luck.

"You see? I knew it. I'm psycho."

This quote came courtesy of a waiter at a Moroccan restaurant last year when we were celebrating my sister’s birthday. It’s something Valarie and I love to mockingly recite now and then. But what I really want to write about is my cat Ruthie’s visit today with a pet psychic, Faye Pietrokowski.

I had an assignment to take Faye’s picture last week for a small paper I work with regularly as a photographer. We had a little mix-up about where and when we were meeting, so in return Faye offered to give Ruthie a free reading.

Now, I know some surely will approach the very idea of a pet psychic with skepticism. But I choose to believe, because if Faye is right, her advice can be helpful, and if she’s wrong, there’s no harm done.

As it happens, the pet psychic had some interesting insight, some of which could be chalked up to common sense, of course, but not all of it. Ruthie is very emotionally attached to us, Faye says, but our cat is still getting to know us. Affection has to be on her terms, which probably results from some bad episode that predated Ruthie’s coming to us as a stray with a collar—in other words either an escapee or refugee from a previous home. That’s what I was told in response to a question about why Ruthie kneads almost maniacally on my chest in the middle of the night, yet won’t come to my lap when I call for her.

Faye also emphasized how cats understand far more than you'd ever rightfully expect. I knew Valarie and I connect with Ruthie on some level, especially when it has to do with food or playing, but it never really occurred to me that our cat actually understands English. But Faye says we should assume that is actually the case. I have sometimes kind of cringed when owners talk to their pets as if they were human, kind of like I do with people who can only read by saying the words outloud to themselves. But at least in the privacy of my own home I may be joining the pet-talkers' ranks.

So many of us think of our pets as children—minus most of the crying and whining, of course. Faye’s advice reinforced the notion that Valarie’s and my bond with Ruthie is strong. Could I have figured that out on my own? Yeah, but I really treasure her insight.

I wonder how Faye would have reacted to the other photo assignment I had this week, in which I visited a farm outside Salem that serves as a sanctuary for mistreated or neglected farm animals: horses, goats, lamas, sheep, geese. I'll bet there are some harrowing stories to be told, if people were willing and able to listen.

Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia

I saw this 1974 movie for the first time this week, and it was long overdue. This is without question the best Sam Peckinpah film I’ve seen, and after seeing The Wild Bunch, Straw Dogs and Pat Garrett I know that’s saying a lot. First of all, I absolutely love Alfredo Garcia’s star, Warren Oates. The only other two films I’ve seen him in, Two Lane Blacktop and Cockfighter, both directed by the great Monte Hellman, were sublime. Oates’s character kills a lot of people in Alfredo Garcia, and yet he still comes across as a sweet and gentle soul (at least before he’s subjected to a lot of abuse). And physically Oates shows a strong Tom Waits resemblance, possessing that irony of being kind of hideous and handsome at the same time. Plus, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is downright surreal with a love story paired with enough gorgeously choreographed violence to practically make Tarantino blush. It's over the top, for sure, but here it's a strength, with the filmmaking only enhancing the feeling of madness generated in the script. As many people know, this was Peckinpah’s most personal film, made at the height of his alcoholism, and Warren Oates even based his performance on the personality and mannerisms of Peckinpah. This is a truly operatic movie, and I mean that in the best sense of the word.

Walk This Way

This afternoon Valarie and I walked from our apartment near Southeast 12th & Hawthorne across the river to downtown Portland, about a thirty-minute walk, and then continued on to the Pearl District, another quarter-hour or so. Nothing special was on the agenda, although we wound up stopping for clothes shopping, tea and scones (for Valarie), browsing a sale on Scandinavian furniture, espresso (for me), books, pizza (for me again) and CDs in addition to perusing a few art galleries. But the best part was just the walking itself. Weather was in the low to mid-70s with sunshine and passing white clouds. While explicitly not a summer weather person, I must say it was beautiful out today.

Much as I love my car, it was soothing to be without for a day. I love that we live in a neighborhood and a city where it’s possible to enjoy a variety of activities as pedestrians. Last night two friends of ours, Scott and Andrea, got married at the Riverplace Hotel, by the marina near downtown and just across the Hawthorne Bridge from us. We were able to take a five-minute bus ride there and walk back, without any of the hassles that would have come with parking. Plus the night breeze was lovely, especially after a few glasses of wine.

This walking versus driving issue has been on my mind because I’ve been driving out to Tualatin four days a week for the last couple weeks while working on a temporary web-copyrighting gig. It’s made me realize how spoiled usually working at home. Even though I’m going against the direction of most commuter traffic on the way to Tualatin, and I avoid rush hour by working just 11-4, the driving back and forth has me stressed out. There’s constantly at least some kind of slowing on the freeway, not always stop and go but never 55+ all the way. And besides this issue of which speed I’m able to go, which is obsession enough, I can’t stop myself from lots of lane changing. If I’m in a lane that slows down to a lesser pace than I prefer, and suddenly I see cars in another lane going faster, it feels impossible not to jump over to that one. But of course it’s an endless cycle, a pointless exercise. I just wish knowing that intellectually was enough to prevent me from weaving—but it isn’t. When you add couple this with the annoyance I get when people either forget or refuse to use their turn signals, it’s enough to get the stress level climbing a bit, however needlessly.

Years ago as a kid I used to hate walking, and longed to be able to drive. And even today, when I can be out on the open road, driving is still fun. But in most any large and reasonably dense city, I’m far more content to walk whenever possible. It’s not that I can’t drive in traffic. I feel completely confident negotiating packed streets and highways. It just, the price is high psychologically. So I really can’t fathom living in a place where an alternative to driving wasn’t possible.

Put the Needle on the Record

Yesterday, to escape a hot afternoon in the mid-80s, I went into the basement for awhile and listened to records on my parents' old turntable, which I have set up down there. The featured album was 25 Rock Revival Greats, a collection of 50s hits I got in grade school when a neighborhood friend, Joe Czekalski, stole it from his dad and passed on to me. Two thoughts came to mind: One was the reminder that nostalgia is never comprehensive. That record was pressed in the 1970s, and its collection is in some ways different than what would comprise a collection of 50s hits assembled today. For example, the only artist to have two different songs on the album was Lloyd Price, who is all but forgotten today. His song "Just Because" has always been one of my favorites. The other thought was how much I enjoy the ritual of playing an LP: setting it on the turntable, lifting the needle and setting it on the spinning vinyl, even hearing the cracks and pops of the aging album. Of course some of these steps would grow old if I had to employ them every day, but there's definitely a nostalgia that exists for old technologies. I also love filming with my Super-8 movie camera, and I love my uncle Allan's reel-to-reel tape recorder. It's not to say any of these older generation technologies are superior, but I would hate to see them disappear, for there are nuances associated with recording and playing audio and video on these machines that are lost on today's devices. Like Lloyd Price's simple mix of piano, stand-up bass and horns, I'd hate to see these old friends go away just because they're not popular anymore.

Summer's Home Stretch

Today is August 1. I want to make a point of that, because it means that July is outta here! In the last 31 days I have experience on multiple occasions temperatures exheeding 100 degrees. I'm sorry, but that kind of weather is just not appropriate for human habitation. In Portland the July monthly average high is 79 degrees. That's already a good 9 or 10 degrees above what I find remotely tolerable, let alone the countless days this month that have far exheeded the average. What I don't understand is how in a climate-controlled room indoors, regardless of the time of year people prefer a setting of anywhere from 68-72 or so. But then when summer comes, everybody is so excited, even though temperatures are about to get much higher than that. And although the dark skies of winter can be a downer, it's usually much easier to warm up in cold temperatures than it is to cool down when it's hot. So while some of you may call me a curmudgeon, I say, good fucking riddance, July. August, I know you're just getting started, but in a few short weeks it will be Labor Day, and then the leaves will start falling, and it will be tolerable to walk outside without fearing the sun.