Thursday, February 05, 2015

ISIS: A virtual reality

"Virtual" is a difficult term to define, especially in the modern phrase, "virtual reality." Of course, by the time kids are in middle school they know what virtual reality is, but ask them to define it. Then ask yourself.  In this essay I've assembled what knowledge I could about "virtual reality" and the role the concept plays in modern society.  At the end I relate what I find to our conception of the terrorist group ISIS.

A good dictionary covers the basics: "Virtual" is related to the noun, "virtue," which we know to mean, "a morally good quality," like integrity or honesty, from Latin virtus, "merit," "perfection," from vir, "man."  The transition from vir to the rest is a challenging etymological puzzle (while you're at it, consider "woman of virtue," a woman who has not had sex with a man), but my focus here is the equally mystifying modern usage of "virtual."

Back to the dictionary- there are three broad definitions of "virtual":

Number 1: "Almost or nearly as described, but not completely or according to strict definition : the troops stopped at the virtual border."   Virtual borders are not official borders on a map, but de facto borders, determined by use.

[Note: Only definition Number 1 clearly references the historic usage of virtue, in the sense of "possessing certain virtues."  In the example above, virtual borders have the "virtue" of being observed by practice, though not the virtue of being indicated on maps.]

Number 2: "In computing, not physically existing as such but made by software to appear to do so : a virtual computer;"  In other words, imaginary.

Number 3: "Physics, denoting particles or interactions with extremely short lifetimes and indefinitely great energies, postulated as intermediates in some processes."  In other words, particles, or things, that exist for such a brief period of time that their reality as things is questionable.

I would have guessed that "virtual reality" derived from Number 3, since Number 3 is the most confusing.  Does the length of time that something exists have bearing on whether it exists?  How long do individual humans exist?  In galactic time, it's not very long.   So is ours a lesser existence?  That subject will have to wait for another essay, however, since "virtual reality" derives from definition Number 2, which means, as noted, imaginary.

Under virtual reality we get: "The computer-generated simulation of a three-dimensional image or environment that can be interacted with in a seemingly real or physical way by a person using special electronic equipment, such as a helmet with a screen inside or gloves fitted with sensors."

The question I ask at this point is, why do we need to call computer-generated simulation any sort of reality, as if it were a type of reality?  We never had this need with novels, plays or movies.  Those are not types of realities.  They are imaginary.

In modern, media based culture, we do seem to have a need to think, or feel, that we create our reality.  It is a sort of honesty, in one sense.  After all, when we turn on the news and see what is happening in far away parts of the world, the news show is constructing reality, so that what we receive is not reality only, but a reality put together by the show.  We have "reality shows," in which people behave in stage-managed ways, real only in the sense that we've made the behavior real on the show.

I'm calling this usage "honest" because, unlike past ages when, for instance, young men recruited for the Crusades were told that various things were happening in the Holy Land that required invasion, those various things were held to be real, not virtually real.  So our culture, by holding that certain things can be virtually real, as opposed to just real, admits a pervasive doubt into our discourse, and doubt is a virtue.

The extended context is not so hopeful, however, because it suggests that we don't require actual reality from our media, that it is enough to produce simulated, virtual reality, as video games do.

In this context we're ready to consider ISIS, which, with its professionally produced, ready for prime time video of a man burning to death, has realized the predictions of numerous science fiction novels, from the media-mediated wars of George Orwell's 1984 to the blurred lines between war and mass entertainment in Suzanne Collins' Hunger Games.  On the day of the ISIS video, our national news anchors breathlessly described the "high production values" of the video, Scott Pelly of CBS marvelling that no Hollywood studio could have done "better," as if he were delivering a movie review.  In a sense he was.

The next day my friend showed me a video on his computer that his girlfriend had sent him.  It purported to be a recording of the transmission from a drone that was conducting an attack on ISIS ground troops who were attacking the peshmerga (Kurdish enemies of ISIS, thus our allies).  It was a nighttime attack, the ground troops glowing white through infrared lenses.  The chatter from drone control, which was hundreds or thousands of miles from the scene, was dispassionate though highly engaged, technical, referencing targets and coordinates, ordering rocket and 30mm fire that resulted moments later in white flashes where running forms had been.  It looked exactly like a video game.  My friend and I could have been blasting aliens or Kazakhs (a favorite game foe for a while).  Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game came to mind, in which hot-shot 9th grade gamers are told by the military that they are trying out a new training video, while they are in fact fighting real aliens (spoiler alert: Book III reveals that the invading force was actually on a peaceful mission).

What do these musing have to do with the real ISIS?  And by the way, my point is not that ISIS is not real (or evil).  It's hard to see how their actions could be faked.  That man was really burned, and the earlier victims were really beheaded.  I'm talking about the thinking behind ISIS, specifically their marketing department, and they clearly have one.  The War of ISIS is packaged for young men the way a video game would be packaged.  You know how you'll be watching a TV show that young people also watch, and suddenly there's a commercial, long minutes of CGI heroes blasting a variety of monsters, with forceful titles, like End of Doom Part III!  Now it's The Rise of ISIS Part I!

Our commentators are wondering where ISIS came from, and what it wants.  It is not a country.  It has no past as an established enemy, no clear parentage.  Its psychology seems not to reference anything in the surrounding world.

In other words, ISIS somehow does not seem real.  Virtually, though, it's real enough.  And it certainly has no problem with ratings.  There's no question that we'll have to win this war, virtually and really.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Mystical kicks on Route 66

Our driving trip the first week of 2015, like our last to Havasu City, took me and Susan into the Southwest, this time as far as Sante Fe, New Mexico.  Our itinerary paralleled old Route 66, the romanticized predecessor of the Interstate Highway System, surviving stretches of which feature commercial clusters which promise and often deliver nostalgic glimpses of early automotive America.  This trip was different from our Havasu getaway in another respect: We did not get away from the world, but were immersed in it by the car radio and our mobile devices as word of the French massacres at Charlie Hebdo and the kosher deli invaded our space and seemed to stain even the open deserts.  

Our first stop, Williams, Arizona, where we stayed at the Railway Hotel and took the delightful old narrow gauge train to the Grand Canyon, occurred before the awful news, so we could relax and enjoy the Americana.  The train was built when there were no drivable roads leading to the canyon and was taken by many notables in the 1920’s, including movie stars and presidents.  It chugged along for two hours each way, past beautiful snowy terrain. 

At the canyon, after some minutes staring into the seeming endless depths, it seemed to me that, thanks to the Colorado River, one can look into private parts of the earth.  The guide explained that it is a common misperception that the river cut into a motionless plain; in fact the plain rose as part of the Colorado Plateau, the river just keeping level.  The result in any case is an assault on the earth’s integrity, allowing the viewer to look where we normally can’t look.  I wondered if the earth was in pain from this violation.  Or was it a sexual penetration?  Is the earth ravished here, in the throes of rapture from the river’s thrust?  When such thoughts come over me I take a cautionary moment to think of the scorn a geologist might have for them.  The earth alive?  Native Americans were allowed to think that, but we are not, as the dogma of our state religion, Science, has it that matter is a random chaos of unconscious reaction.  Our permitted mystical focus, which we call “God,” is not matter, but spirit, guiding us in our manipulation of matter.  Our drive to colonize the extra-terrestrial universe is a crusade to force all matter to conform to our will.  Such, anyway, were my thoughts at the Grand Canyon.   

The next day we toured Meteor Crater, Az., a wonderful gigantic dent in the earth, surrounded to the horizon by the Colorado Plateau, dated to a meteor collision about 50,000 years ago.  The crater and visitor center are privately owned by the descendants of a man who staked a mining claim here and dug several hundred feet below the crater floor in the mistaken belief that a mass of extraterrestrial iron that he could sell to the railroads was buried there.  In fact the nickel-iron mass had disintegrated on impact into myriad small particles which lay everywhere around the site.  The largest intact piece of the meteor, about two feet long, is in the visitor center.  I touched it eagerly, wondering what far away mind, what “other”, I might be in contact with, again, obviously, deviating from the state religion, where iron and nickel atoms are “materials,” in effect dead things. 

On the tour of the rim I had forgotten my water bottle and the guide suggested I eat snow.  I did and it was delicious, and I wondered if any of the dispersed iron atoms were in the snow.  Could it be that I would metabolize pieces from “outer-space,” that they would become part of me?  Looking down into the crater I again had the thought that something sexual had occurred.  Was the earth fucked here?  If so, perhaps there was a resonance in the ground beneath my feet, detectable even in the snow I was eating.  And I thought, not for the first time, that it’s a good thing our state religion does not have an Inquisition (or, at any rate, a formal one).

At about this time the news of the Charlie Hebdo attack broke, followed soon after by news of the kosher deli attack, and our trip from then on was not, strictly speaking, a vacation, in the etymological sense of a vacated mind, though we found some escape our first night in Santa Fe.  We arrived late.  It was cold and dark; most stores and restaurants around the historic city center were closed.  Luckily we found that the Hotel La Fonda’s restaurant was not only open but featured a lively country band and a group of people who had been dancing there for 35 years (per our waitress, who seated us close to the band).  Several of the dancing couples were quite expert, one in particular whose precision moves looked professional, so, although we love dancing, we felt a certain hesitation to join in.  The first martini took care of that (we learned the next day that, at 7,000 feet, the effects of alcohol in Santa Fe are notably enhanced), and we danced through a number of songs (the regulars were quite tolerant of our lurching about, for which we were grateful).

The next day we took a walking tour of the city, our initial mood somewhat dour, both because of the aftereffects of our revelries the night before and the deepening horror on the news.  But that news proved to be an engaging backdrop to the tour.  Santa Fe is one of those cities where history informs everything.  It embodies the living memory of Native Americans, the Spanish Conquest, the Catholic Church, the Mexican period, the early American period, and something else we did not know about.  The guide took us into a sprawling 19th Century hacienda, through room after room added over the years, and in the furthest room was the former office of Robert Oppenheimer, where he met, towards the end of World War II, with other people with familiar names, like Edward Teller, as these men, engaged in the Manhattan Project, oversaw the invention of the atom bomb in the nearby desert.  Touching the preserved objects on Oppenheimer’s desk, I thought of the atom, and again my heresy was aroused, probably more so in the context of events unfolding in France.  What is an atom?  It comes from the Greek, meaning, “that which cannot be cut,” but of course we have cut it.  What does that mean, to “cut” an atom?  We have split it into “sub-atomic” particles, an oxymoron in the etymological sense, although, as if attempting to make semantic amends, science journals often assert that within the atom we've found new “basic building blocks” which cannot be cut, like quarks, or whatever particle we have not cut yet. 

We’ve found that when we cut an atom, a burst of something we call “energy” emerges.  This energy can be used to do things, like heat cities or incinerate hundreds of thousands of people.  The latter is what Oppenheimer et al had in mind. 

But what is an atom?  To find out, we hurl them at great speeds at each other, causing collisions that rip apart their structure so that tiny components spill out.  In my blasphemy, I consider that a strange way to find out what an atom is.  What if you were an advanced being from another galaxy and you wondered what people were?  You note that they move excitedly over the planet, changing everything, often rubbing against each other, activity that apparently produces more of them.  To further your understanding of people-particles, you deem it necessary to hurl them against each other, ripping apart their structure so that their components spill out.  That does not seem a likely scenario, as an advanced being would probably figure that nothing much would be learned about people that way.  I guess what I’m saying is, we’re not advanced.

After the first atom bomb was detonated in New Mexico in 1945, Oppenheimer is said to have quoted the Bhagavad Gita: “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”  That occurred to me as we walked out into the cold sun in the courtyard.  What underlying phenomenon is happening in France, and almost everywhere in the world?  Are we becoming Death?  Does our state religion of dead matter mask a religion of murder and suicide?

Fortunately we had a few more kicks on Route 66 to revive the sense of carefree getaway, like a stop in Winslow, Arizona, where we sought coffee and parked at random on a corner memorializing the Eagle’s song, “Take it Easy.”  The corner store featured a plaster statue of a young dude flashing a smile and waving across the street at a permanently parked flatbed Ford, a plaster girl at the wheel.  Above the statue was a sign reading “Route 66."  While Susan checked the stores, I wandered down from the Ford, finding a gap between buildings featuring a lonely hut,  big enough for one person to stand in, with a wooden sign reading, "World's Smallest Church! Come in and Pray!"  I went in and closed my eyes, hearing only the cars on Route 66, and I saw everything that had attached to my ego since I was one year old suddently stripped away, as by a tournado or an atom bomb, and from everyone around me and the culture of the whole world, a vast layer was stripped away, and we were all souls, basic building blocks of consciousness.  I jumped out after a few seconds, wondering what spirits I had disturbed here.  I looked over to the plaster girl in the flatbed Ford for an answer, but she gave none.

Through the long and rainy deserts on the final stretch from Phoenix to L.A., we heard that the male French terrorists (one female escaped) had been killed.  I spent the hours navigating the deserts and L.A.’s freeways wondering if there was any logic to feeling good that these men were dead.  I think everyone would agree that those deaths do not represent the end of something, but a mere beginning in our religious quest to become death, destroyer of worlds.  

We give thanks to the Southwest, and Route 66, and the earth as it expresses itself here, for providing a backdrop to our thoughts and our mysterious lives.

Friday, December 26, 2014

The urge to write

In my case it's sporadic and unpredictable, the current urge coming this morning at the Van Nuys Keyes Toyota where I'm waiting for my 2007 Camry, so that I have to write this on my cell phone, an aggravating process in terms of proofreading, but the urge is strong, pushing me into stream of consciousness mode, probably the default mode of my brain anyway, and I want to present the salient sensations of my holiday season, starting with last night, Christmas day night, when Susan and I saw the new Hobbit movie, a creation beyond the book, sensual and gorgeous, seductive as Tolkien was 40 years ago when my friend Steve in Berkeley who opposed the Vietnam War said Tolkien had solved the problem of war by making clear distinctions between good and evil.  I felt Tolkien's magic again last night as war loomed between the Good (intensely beautiful and pure Humans and Elves, in alliance with grumpy yet righteous Dwarves) and the Evil (reptilian humanoids, orcs and their ilk, deformed, perverse in the thrall of sadism and hatred).  There was much beheading in the movie on all sides, and I thought of ISIS and wondered if Steve would agree with my musings about the impulse to war the movie generated in me.  I wanted to be swinging a sword, chopping Evil into bits.  Who would not want to fight for the Lady Galadriel or the re-born King Thorin, off the charts virtuous and noble?  The movie, which was expertly done in 3-D, the CGI visuals a work of art, was fictional propaganda, inspiring me to drop everything and enlist in a non-existent army.  In the parking lot after the movie I said to Susan, "I want to go to war against the Darkness!"  Of course, although the parking lot was dark per its being 7:00 pm, that was not the Darkness in question.  What was the Darkness in question?  Unfortunately that was back in the movie theater.  How about the psychopaths of ISIS? Aren't they dark?  Don't I want to fight them?  Well, I wonder if I can express a thought of such complexity on a Droid that makes proofreading a form of torture similar perhaps to waterboarding in that you can survive it then have people laugh at you for calling it torture.  I will not be a crybaby so here's the complete thought: Tolkien wrote about pure Evil and pure Good, and these are not things of this world.  Do we have evil in our world?   Yes we do.  It is evil to behead people who are circumstantial bystanders to your situation, post recordings of the beheadings on Youtube and force everyone to go to war with you when war is just about the worst idea among humankind's current options.  Ok, I hear some conservatives with whom I have sparred in the past moving in for a kill.  I pray that my Droid will carry me through and permit me to formulate the completion of my thought (though I expect the reader has already determined agreement or otherwise) because for many years I have taught teenagers that an incomplete thought is, well, a sort of Pure Evil because the Darkness can turn an incomplete thought into anything it wants, so then I lift my mighty Droid to the heavens, pray for The Force (which also promises a return to a theater near you) to descend like a cinematic bolt and guide my numerous corrections and re-writes, and I forge on!  Here it is: We have pure evil and pure good poured into our mix like streams of black and white paint, flowing everywhere, sometimes congealing in concentrated and seemingly pure forms, as when a sadist consumes human pain for sustenance, or when someone helps someone when no one is looking and there will be no credit, but those are local accumulations of black or white, and they are not pure.  Where on the spectrum are people who love the TV show "Criminal Minds," or James Patterson novels, because they're drawn to stories of beautiful families tormented and killed?  What does the Lady Galadriel read?  Would she like that Patterson book where the two cops keep a harem of kidnapped women in their basement to torture and rape?  What if Tolkien wrote that the Lady Galadriel relaxed the night before the clash of the Five Armies by reading that book?  Tolkien would not write that because Pure Good does not indulge in schadenfreude.  Do orcs have families, children they love?  You would think so because otherwise how would they reproduce?  But Tolkien gives zero consideration to that question because love of family is not of the Darkness.  Conservatives about to pounce take heed:  We still need to kill or otherwise impede everyone in ISIS, since they cause harm and misery with no chance of building a better world out of it, but we should not go to war against the Darkness defined as entire populations, because entire populations are not Dark, anymore than they are Light.  In other words, if we go to war in the sense of becoming a mobilized community reveling in its virtuous charge, we will be ignorant pawns in a much larger game.  I always thought that when Bob Dylan was old enough that I didn't have to be jealous of him anymore I might quote him, and that day has come: "You're only a paaaaaaawwwwn in their game!"  That's the game in which general warfare of the sort we might end up calling World War III, if it comes per the apparent current plan, will not be a fight between Light and Darkness.  It will be Darkness itself, at least for those caught in the midst of it, not for the fortunate chess players watching from a distance.  For them it will be Pure Light, the end of the masses of humans gumming up the works, the climax of the Industrial Revolution in which, as Aldous Huxley foresaw in "Brave New World," humans will emerge from test tubes to fit jobs in a corporate, highly efficient society.   In this society there is no more war, dramatically less pain and suffering, no overpopulation, easy sex and mandatory recreational drugs.  Hey wait a minute, is this the Darkness?  I have to admit it doesn't sound entirely bad.  But that's my point.  Anyone who enlists now in a War Against Darkness will lose big time: you'll lose your whole life with all its Goodness, as will likely your enemies.  For readers wondering what exactly I propose, here it is: We turn governance of the species over to groups of smart people who are, as much as possible, not sadists or insufferable narcissists.  Caveat: these groups of smart people do not cover up their existence or lie about what they are doing, but say things outright.  The nation-state system, so clearly incapable of figuring out the current mess, concedes governing power to these groups of smart people.  The smart people enact the following measures, which apply to them as well:

1. Worldwide family planning is mandated, with limits on the number of children couples can have, calculated as much as possible to produce a decrease in overall population.

2. The stigma against early term abortion is removed, because the world is turning from quantity of life to quality.  Children will be taught, as they should be now, that, although a recognizable fetus is human, a recently fertilized egg is not, any more than a cell from your fingertip is.

3.  There will be no more teaching that the human race is the apex of evolution, since there is no evidence to that effect.  Children will be taught that our progenitors experienced some sort of overwhelming catastrophe and we're still trying to figure out what the hell happened.

4.  Terrorists are defined as groups of people, with a dozen or less people in each group's management, who wreak destruction in the name of their surrounding populations though they are themselves governed from various pockets of the nation-state system.  The small management groups are terminated.  There is no problem doing this.

5.  Total freedom of religion will be enforced, though any religion that proclaims that it is the best or only valid religion will need to be quiet about it in public.  No one cares.

6. Religious people will be encouraged to define "God" as the collective forces that impelled our evolution to this point, in particular those forces we don't understand, which is most of them.

Don't worry, I have a back-up plan in the event that my Six Point Plan for Saving Humanity does not immediately take hold: All the smart people who would have functioned in the Six Point Plan for Saving Humanity will use their smarts to convince the nation-states to allow them to create a "place" (for want of a better term since I don't want to call it a "state" or "country") where, in return for their wisdom and technical advice, no one would bomb them or cyber or bio attack them- a sort of Switzerland.  I'm thinking the Pacific Northwest, since that is an area with a history of interest in such a political unit.  Then the people who are not tricked into this stage-managed war would have some place to live a decent life.

Friday, November 28, 2014

Bad words

Isn’t it odd that a word can be bad? Odd, that is, that the word itself is bad, not its referent. And odd that there’s no clear logic behind the bad word’s badness. For instance, “murder” and “torture” refer, in most people’s minds, to bad things, but the words are not bad. The word “fuck,” however, is bad, though it doesn’t refer to anything bad in an absolute sense.

"Fuck" is probably the most bad of the bad words, though, as noted, its referent, expressed acceptably in Latin as "copulation," ("a coupling together") is morally neutral.  How does such a word become bad?

History demonstrates the agonized process.  Christian Konrad Sprengel, 18th century German naturalist, was the first academician to suggest that flowers are sexual organs. For his pains he was hounded out of polite society and his work vilified. Today it is common knowledge that a wholly female flower is a type of vagina, that male-only flowers are types of penises, and hermaphroditic flowers are cocks with pussies attached that fuck themselves.

Sorry for the cheap shock value of my prose, but I’m trying to make a point: Sprengel turned “flower” into a bad word.

As an elementary and high school teacher I spent a lot of time and energy trying to dissuade children from saying bad words that denoted sexual organs, various sex acts and, of course, excrement. In this essay I ponder what I was trying to accomplish, and what our culture is trying to accomplish.

I’m a crossover person who remembers bygone eras. In 1955 my family went to see the movie “Picnic” because we’d heard that William Holden said “damn." A hushed, almost worshipful audience awaited the big moment, and when the word was uttered a gasp in unison pervaded the theater. The movie producer’s gamble had paid off: box office dividends from a bad word. Few at that time realized that the dam was about to burst (sorry).

Fast forward to San Francisco State, 1969- my Chaucer professor has just charged breathlessly into the classroom. Instead of giving us a page number to find, he asks if we’ve heard what’s going on at U.C. Berkeley. Mario Savio and an army of dedicated young people have taken a stand for free speech, he informs us. We can say “fuck” if we want to!  Add cable TV a few years later, and the rest is history.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Thank you Mario!

Fast forward from the 60's to 1983, when, as a new elementary school teacher in inner-city L.A., I face a demure little black girl who, standing before my desk, has just said, “fuck.” There is no context, just the word, hanging understated in the air. I track down the mother’s work number and call. The mother’s response: “Let me get this straight. You called me at work to tell me my daughter said ‘fuck’?”

“Er…yes…” I stammer, and realize I need a zeitgeist upgrade.

Fast forward a few years and I'm a high school English teacher, listening all day to kids speak in 60's style linguistic abandon.

Like everything else in our society, our language protocols are in a state of flux.  At times of head-spinning change, it's helpful to ponder history.  The Norman invasion of England in 1066 gives some needed background. The Normans spoke French (though they were only two generations removed from their Viking ancestry) and imposed their language on the indigenous Anglo-Saxons, whom they despised beyond words, especially four letter words. The Anglo-Saxons said things like “fuck” and “shit,” scum that they were, while the Normans, heirs to Latin, could say, in the French versions, “copulate” and “defecate.” Thus Savio's battle for free speech represents a continuation of the thousand year struggle for the Anglo-Saxons' right to speak the mother tongue.

The "four-letter" words do of course have another property: they carry emotion.  Compare these two sentences:

1. There are dog feces on the mat.

2. There's dog shit on the fucking mat!

The first sentence is devoid of emotion, an expression of information only; the second, identical to the first except for two bad words, a contraction and an exclamation mark, explodes with emotion.   It is their prohibition that has attached emotional power to the bad words.  They are forbidden... special.  The process has given us useful words which express levels of emotion that other words cannot.

Once the prohibition has been gone long enough, the words' power will diminish.

In the high school portion of my teaching career I was able to formulate a policy on the goodness or badness of words based on their usefulness. “Plethora" I identified as a bad word because it’s ugly and show-offy, making its common synonyms more useful.  When we read an Anglo-Saxon bad word in literature, I encouraged students to assess the word's usefulness in its context.  Words are either useful or they're not. They are useful if they carry meaning and force; they are not useful if they don’t. If I have to hear “mother-fucker” all fucking day, that phrase is not useful. If it's only used once in a while, well then, maybe….

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Havasu getaway

Susan and I fell into three free nights at a time-share in Havasu City, a sprawling collection of townhouses and malls on a gentle bajada leading down to the Arizona  (eastern) shore of Lake Havasu, which straddles the southern California/Arizona border.

It was good just to experience again the California deserts.  I used to argue with my dad about whether there would be room on the planet for all the world's people.  I thought there would not, but my dad pointed to the big empty deserts of the west and said there would be plenty of room for new cities.  He was proven partially right, as two major cities, Palmdale and Lancaster, popped up in later years in the desert north of L.A. (they look like Havasu City except flat and without a lake).

On Pearblossom Highway, heading east into the still vast and empty desert, my dad seemed further vindicated.  You could build dozens of Palmdales and Lancasters in these deserts, but now I would ask my dad, "Do you want to cover the planet with townhouses, franchise restaurants and malls?"  Just to spar with me, he might have answered, "Yes."

My dad and I would have argued about Havasu City.  I would have moaned from the back seat that it was ugly.  On this trip Susan and I arrived at sunset, a beautiful red splash across the desert horizon, and in the foreground RV lots, warehouses, high tension wires, stray Taco Bells and Burger Kings, and then finally malls, Denny's, Starbucks, Chili's and thousands of townhouses.

I'm older now than my dad was when we had those arguments, and I've accepted certain things, for instance, the importance of comfort.  It didn't take long for me to love our Havasu time-share, with its king bed and big plump pillows.  The two mile walk to the nearest mall was aided by wonderful air, warm and cool at the same time, somehow buoyant, as if you were swimming in it. Beautiful desert canyons are everywhere around the city, with isolated trails that go for miles.  The old downtown, where we watched the Veteran's Day parade, has a lot of charm and character, as did the parade.  Not a bad retirement spot, really.  I must channel the 14 year old me and tell him to dull some of his sharp edges.

The history of Havasu is poignant.  It was the last refuge of the Chemehuevi tribe.  Their name might mean, "people who play with fish," or it might mean, "nose in the air like a roadrunner." As the meaning of their name is forgotten, so they are largely forgotten, except in Havasu City in the waiting room for the ferry that takes you to the California side and the Indian casino.  On our visit most of the passengers waited outside, but I wanted the air conditioning in the waiting room.  Inside, several teenagers were enjoying an adult free atmosphere.  I noticed a series of posters around the room that told the story of a Native American tribe.  A boy and girl were horsing around by the first poster, so I had to nudge towards them until they moved aside.  I read that the Chemehuevi were nomadic hunters and gatherers.  Their ancestral territory covered thousand of square miles from the San Gabriel Mountains, through Nevada and Arizona.  They liked to take long trips in small groups, but sometimes men traveled long distances alone.  They were an inquisitive people who "liked to visit all tribes, whether friends or enemies; to speak strange tongues, sing strange songs, and marry strange wives."

They were not particular to the Havasu area, but were hemmed in by European settlement and, at times, hostile Mojave Indians.  Early in the 20th Century a Chemehuevi reservation was created at the low point in the Havasu Valley, no doubt chosen because of frequent flooding.  At this time there were only a few hundred Chemehuevi left.  In the 1930's, Parker Dam, built to supply water to L.A. from the Colorado River, created Lake Havasu, at the bottom of which are the remains of the Chemehuevi reservation.  To make amends, the tribe was offered land on the western shore, which, as it happened, was traditional enemy territory for them.  At this point most members left, or married out of the tribe. Some of the bloodline were able to establish the casino, and these remnants of the tribe, although they no longer command the deserts and mountains- let alone the strange wives- receive boatloads of money.

Is this a happy ending?  It depends on how you look at it.  Certainly the story entails the death of a culture, which is an all-American story.  When my grandfather left Ukraine around 1900, he left a culture that had existed for over a thousand years.  That culture is now gone, though people who were formed by it live on.  Just about every American can say something like that.  We are all Chemehuevi, with our village at the bottom of a man-made lake.

Havasu City is not a great city.  There are no central areas for people to interact- unless you count Starbucks- and little in the way of arresting architecture.  But Havasu City does have the desert, the river, the big sky, the mountains, canyons, friendly people and the spirit of the Chemehuevi. When you think about it, that's a lot.

Sunday, October 05, 2014

Happy Yom Kippur!

Not really: Yom Kippur is the Jewish Day of Atonement, when you stand before God and He sees you, really sees you, not normally a "happy" experience.  Before the last (second) Jewish temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE., the temple contained a physical space for the Yom Kippur meeting with God: the "Holy of Holies," in which a high priest or (according to some traditions) a common person who represented everyone, entered the space, where this person would be joined by God. Today, at least before we fight World War III to get the space back, we must conceptualize that space, and each Jew is supposed to enter it on Yom Kippur to confront, or be confronted by God.

Imagine how it would be to stand in an enclosed space the size of a closet, no one in there with you except God.  Clearly an intense experience.  To add to the intensity, Jews must fast for 24 hours, the duration of Yom Kippur.  I have made the decision not to fast, because I see the holiday as a meditative one, and I can't meditate when I have a headache and can't think of anything but a grilled Reuben. Further, I'm not sure that being in the presence of God (defined here as any force affecting human life that we can neither see nor understand) requires mortification of the flesh.  I find guidance in the Book of Genesis where Jacob struggles all night with the angel of God.  In the morning the angel proclaims that Jacob's name will now be "Israel," meaning, "He who struggles with God and prevails."  In my personal Yom Kippur meeting with God, I don't seek to "prevail, " but to make contact, to communicate, laying bare my weaknesses and mistakes, and my strengths, and then, as in a conversation, awaiting a response.  Mortification may ensue, but that's not my job.

Yom Kippur comes one week after Rosh Hashonah, the Jewish new year.  As noted in the previous essay on this blog ("Happy Jewish new year!"), my wife and I celebrated Rosh Hashona at our Reform temple in L.A., but planned to observe Yom Kippur in the Twin Cities, the morning service at the Orthodox temple in St. Paul where we were married, the evening service at my sister-in-law's Conservative temple in Minneapolis.  So here I sit in a St. Paul Caribou Coffee the day after Yom Kippur, enjoying the 40 degree early fall outside (it's 105 in L.A.), recounting my experiences yesterday.

In the morning, my father-in-law, Max, my brother-in-law Steven and I, with my wife Susan and her mother Edith, set off for their Orthodox temple in St. Paul.  I describe us separated by gender because the temple experience described us so.  On arrival, Max, Steven and I entered the sanctuary, where I saw the Lubavitcher rabbi who married me and Susan 43 years ago, standing at one of several podiums before a prayer book, chanting and rocking back and forth in a form of physically expressive prayer called "davening," scores of men around him absorbed in similar fashion, creating a soothing cacaphony of recitation.

I took note of the gender screen at the back of the sanctuary, actually a wooden partition topped with tinted glass through which I could see all the women- daughters, mothers, sisters, wives- wearing hats (as the men wear kippahs) and watching the mens' service intently.  I was surprised, because in my memories of the segregated women I see them talking and laughing, basking (as I wrote in "Happy Jewish new year") in a secret knowledge that Judaism, if not human culture in general, is female driven and directed. But Susan told me that my new impression was correct: the women were fascinated by the men's service and watched it quietly for the many hours duration.   I found this revision in my understanding so surprising as to be almost disorienting.  The "war of the sexes," as we used to jokingly call it, does not seem a joke anymore, but, at least in certain arenas, a real war for dominance and redefinition.  Yet here these women sit, many of them younger, reverently watching the men monopolize spirituality.  I don't think this precludes their having a female world of irony and revisionist history, but it's startling enough to see, anywhere in the modern world, a seeming acceptance of patriarchy.  Susan, who normally views patriarchy as the failed experiment it increasingly appears to be, explained that the experience behind the partition was comforting: viewing the men, not as megalomaniac, but humbled, joining with each other in common search for sense in the universe, with entire extended families together in the small building, youngest to oldest, set to come together in a communal meal at sundown.

In the sanctuary, my memories of freedom of movement and expression and family togetherness were confirmed. Young boys davened or horsed around with each other amongst the men, accepted both as spiritual and childlike.  How often do you see that?  A little girl wandered in to try to tickle her praying brother.  I expected some sort of outrage, but she stayed for a long time, her father clearly happy to see her.

It appeared to me that the magic of orthodox Judaism is that, for those it fits, many modern obstructions to family life are transcended. The need for men to think and feel like men; their need to be loved by women even though they think and feel like men; the reciprocal need of women; the need for adults and children to be "on the same page," to see the same world and agree on what they see: these treasures, so hard to come by in the "real world," seem to magically arrive, at least once a year, for orthodox Jewry.

Further notes: doctrinally, I could find no major distinctions between the orthodox and other Jewish denominations.  I did note an indifference to architecture.  The temple is an unremarkable structure on a residential street, the sanctuary all dry wall and plaster, even the Ark of the Torah a simple plywood cabinet.

Which brings me to the Conservative temple in St. Louis Park (a suburb of Minneapolis) where we attended evening services.  This temple was architecture intensive: visible from many blocks away, its imposingly arced and thrusting spire enveloped in a huge stained glass window which, from within, rises above the altar, beautifully illuminated by the setting sun.  Women, of course, were everywhere, sitting with the men, standing and singing on the bema, though the rabbis were men.  A final note: Conservative services entail considerably more mortification of the flesh than do Orthodox, with long periods of motionless standing (one such period lasting about a half hour).

Today we relax and re-enter the secular world, later this afternoon mediated by art at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. Will I be able to meet God there in other ways?  Stay tuned.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Happy Jewish new year!

Or, Shanah Tovah!  Sundown, Friday, 9/26, marked the end of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year.  It is now the year 5775, meaning that it's been 5,775 years since God created the universe and us.  Thus Rosh Hashanah is not in doctrinal conflict with the Christian new year, which indicates that 2,015 years have passed since the life of Jesus.

Of course, we don't choose religions based on our own calculations of when things happened.  The typical religious adherent is not an astrophysicist with a personally derived figure for the age of the universe.  We let the idea that the universe is less than six thousand years old slide by; we're interested more in the rest of the message.

The essence of Rosh Hashanah is that the closing of the old year, and the opening of the new, entail an accounting of things, a thinking about loose ends- especially involving people.  To this end, I wrote a college friend I hadn't spoken to in a while, telling him I wanted him to remain in my "book of life" in the new year.  He replied that he would.

Rosh Hashanah is part of an extended period of several weeks called the High Holy Days that culminate in Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, which begins at sundown tonight (Friday, 10/3), and concludes at sundown tomorrow, when people fast and visualize themselves standing before God.  The experience is expected to be wrenching, as God sees into your every part, and judges what He sees.

The High Holy Days are a catharsis, a way to deal with questions of self-worth, of human limitation.  It's interesting that synagogue attendance approaches 100% of congregants for the High Holy Days, which is the only time that many Jews attend services.  Attention Madison Avenue: Pain sells.

This year my wife and I will be celebrating the High Holy Days in two different ways.  We celebrated Rosh Hashanah at our Reform temple in L.A., "reform" indicating a loosening of ritual (dress codes, types of music, use of English as well as Hebrew), rather than doctrinal differences, and next week we'll be in St. Paul for Yom Kippur services at the orthodox temple my in-laws attend, where my wife and I were married 43 years ago.

That wedding marked a dramatic turn in my family, which had become entirely secular, on my dad's side, since my paternal great grandfather was killed in a pogrom in his village south of Kiev.  He had refused to interrupt Shabbat prayers and hide in the fields with the rest of the family (including my 10 year old grandfather), and so was cut down.  My grandfather, who with his mother and one brother emigrated to America, showed his reaction to his father's sacrifice by saying things like, "When you're dead, you're dead."  My parents, though they taught us that we were definitively Jewish, continued a secular tradition, eschewing all ritual, including observance of Jewish holidays and bar mitzvahs for their three sons.  Only my maternal grandmother was not happy with this (when I was 12 she defiantly took me to Yom Kippur services at her Hollywood temple, while the rest of the family went shopping).

The 1960's excited my inner Ukrainian's need for disorder, but it really was too disorderly.  After all the conventional sacraments- career, marriage, family and middle-class life- had been scornfully discarded, there was nothing left.  The orthodoxy and structure of my wife's family seemed like a balm.  I liked their "Lubavitcher" temple in St. Paul, which was surprising in its freedom of expression.  First of all, women are separated from men, in an ostensibly rather insulting fashion: the men are in the temple proper, where praying and relating to God happen.  Such activities are, apparently, not the domain of women, who are segregated behind a screen and tend to congregate in the kitchen.  Why did I like this?  I didn't at first, because it seemed a statement that spirituality is essentially male, that women's place is in earthly pursuits like cooking.  That would be a pretty outrageous idea all right, but it's not the idea of the women of the temple.  Spirits are high behind the screen, as the women share their views about male egotism and self-importance, laughing happily in the knowledge that they are actually running the whole show, including the spiritual part.

Regarding the men on their side of the screen, their form of prayer is considerably freer than in Reform temples, where congregants are restricted to their seats until told to stand, where all recitation is simultaneous and directed from the bema.  In an orthodox service, men stand and read in solitary fashion, engaged in "davening," a form of prayer involving physical expression of ecstatic visions.  Small children also experience quite a bit of freedom, and are allowed to swarm through the congregants and onto the bema.

To give our reform temple its due, its experimentation with music has led to some beautiful sounds which very much enhance the services.

Next week I will file a full report on my Yom Kippur experience at the Lubavitcher temple in St. Paul, as well as my wife's experience from behind the screen.  One thing I will be watching for is expression of political matters.  I was somewhat surprised to find that there was little mention of this summer's Gaza/Israeli war at Rosh Hashanah services.  That war is front and center in my mind as I consider the new year, but possibly it's too disturbing and unsettled to emphasize at what has become a family celebration.  We'll see if that's the case at the Lubavitcher temple.

Shanah Tova!