Avatar: The Way of Water, a review by a thinking person.

James Cameron’s first Avatar movie transported me to a place and time I will never see in my lifetime. Like many, I was swept away by its surreal beauty, although the story itself was as predictable as movie popcorn. Not without its share of violence, it nonetheless ended with a hopeful future for the peaceful, indiginous Na’vi of Pandora. When the highly publicized sequel was distributed a month ago, I decided to see it on the big screen. I wanted to fully immerse myself in the magic of CGI.

Settling into a comfortable theater recliners, I watched the movie open with a tranquil aerial view of Pandora, with its lush green forests, mountains, and oceans. I thought, this is going to be fun, a pleasant three-hour journey into a fantastic world filled with delightful alien creatures who live in a harmonious, peaceful world we can barely imagine. 

That thought was rudely interrupted by the first of continuously escalating violent and shocking scenes, apparently designed to set the audience up for what turned out to be three long hours of anxious dread, fear, and torture. The first scene left me with the feeling of horror and a sick stomach as I watched the tranquil planet subjected to the intense firebombing of a pristine forest and its innocent wildlife, as power-hungry, greedy humans from Earth arrived to pillage and plunder the riches of Pandora.

The Avatar 2 story has already been criticized for its predictability. Anyone can read the plot and details about the Avatar 2 story online, and it’s nothing new at all: bad characters try to kill/maim/destroy the innocent/good guys, who fight back and take heavy losses before fending off the attacks, only to realize that the wars have only just begun. 

During the three hours, we witnessed graphic torture of children, who were kidnapped and imprisoned; intelligent whale-like creatures hunted and brutally killed so money-hungry humans could cut the creatures’ brains out to harvest valuable fluid; innocent Pandorans being beaten and tasered, while their villages were firebombed because they were unaware of the whereabouts of one of their leaders; terrifying war machines unleashed on defenseless villages. I could go on. But I won’t relive the Avatar 2 nightmare by describing each excruciatingly violent scene. There were too many of them, in fact so many I felt like I was a tired gazelle in Africa, being chased by a pack of wild, hungry hyenas. 

What bothers me most about the abundance and frequency of Avatar 2’s violence is it is seemingly designed for pure entertainment, reminiscent of those ancient Roman arenas that subjected humans and animals to unspeakable brutality and bloodshed just for sport. 

Given my hopeful expectation for something new, something “out of this world,” something that could transcend the “bad guys vs. good guys” trope, Avatar 2 fell terribly short. Storytelling is as old as language, but can hold immense possibility. Storytelling can be a way to preserve and pass on cultural values, connect with each other in ways that go beyond the spoken word, and increase understanding, tolerance and peace among disparate groups. Avatar 2 had the opportunity to show us a hopeful future, to tell a story of positive change. Instead, it simply and stupidly repeated the living nightmares of our own war-torn, sick and dying world. 

New Year, New Year, Oh Crap, Resolutions...

New Year's Day traditions are beginning to grate on my nerves. Resolutions, for one thing. It's good to have some sort of benchmark that motivates a person to behave in more logical, loving, kind and caring ways (most importantly, to one's own self). But what happens in the resolver's brain when, just days into a new year, things go awry?

Look at only yourself. You are unique. You're the only one who has the collection of experiences that make you, YOU. Your perspective counts, and you can share it, feed on it, celebrate it. Whatever you do, don't compare yourself to others. There will always be someone who's more competent, more beautiful (what is that, anyway?), more daring, more everything than yourself. So what?

Research tells us that only a small percentage of those making resolutions actually stick to plan. In other words, most fail. Anxiety coupled with depressing thoughts that follow over not meeting goals is the usual path for many. OK, so what's the alternative?
How about turning the whole damn thing on its head by shifting the focus?
This isn't rocket science, but it is brain science. Here's a nice, succinct list of positive things to do in the face of daunting new year's resolutions that stem wholly from negative feelings toward the self.

Focus on what is going right. Make a gratitude list: what do you have going for you? Are you alive? That's a plus. Waking up each day is a new start: what can you do with it to make life better?

How far have you traveled? What progress has been made, just in the last year? Allow your successes to spur you on to the next (read *higher*) level.

Set smaller and more readily attainable goals. Yes, baby steps here. One. Day. At. A. Time. Think only about TODAY. What can I do to inch toward my goals? Take a walk. Make an effort to cook yourself a healthy meal. Drink something healthy for you that doesn't wreak havoc on your liver (or your brain). Relax. Talk to your dog, your spouse, your best friend, or yourself (no worries, it's OK). Give some love to that being.

If there's one resolution to absolutely stick to, it's this one: Go ahead and make mistakes. Miss the mark. Embarrass yourself by falling down. Get up. Try again. Mistakes make us realize we are human, but they also help us stay humble. Humility is gold...it keeps us sane, preserves our sense of humor, endears us to others and even to ourselves. What's to lose? Just get up, take the next step, and keep on truckin'. 

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Special thanks and recognition belong to 

Justin Baksh, LMHC, MCAP, Chief Clinical Officer, Foundations Wellness Center.

I agree with everything he says. I hope I've properly represented his thoughts. 

Happy New Year!

Deep, mysterious teenage secrets

We’ve all experienced those awkward, painful years, during which we struggle to find our own voice, persona, and special place in the big world. Most tend to find equilibrium by 30, but I took my time. My most tumultuous years were between 14 and 64, but hey, we each have our own path. 

Throughout most of those years, I journaled off and on. Crafting random thoughts, dreams, fears and desires into readable form, whether with a pencil or keyboard, seemed to also provide a welcome, alternative perspective. At 14, I started keeping my first detailed diary, a secret book I carefully hid beneath the heavy mattress of my single bed. My inspiration came from my friend Janny, a classmate who, like me, weathered the usual teenage traumas and dramas by writing about her innermost thoughts, opinions, fears, dreams and hopes. She encouraged me to do the same. So I saved my pennies and bought a little blank book at the local drug store. 

I shared a small bedroom with my little sister, whose bed was a few feet from mine. I could tell when she fell asleep because she was a teeth grinder. Those strange sounds were my cue to pull out my tiny book and, pen in hand, laboriously recount the day's sufferings. My laundry list of woes usually included descriptions of secret crushes that went unnoticed, piteous longing for stylish clothes instead of hand-me-downs, wishes for professional haircuts that weren't executed with sewing shears in my mom’s kitchen, or figuring out how to earn enough pocket change so I could join my friends at the movie theater or the bowling alley. Oh, and how to stop Hilary from grinding her teeth; geez, she was only five! 

I felt my secrets were safe as long as no one found that diary. But I always worried that someone might stumble across it, and expose my secrets. That is, until the day Janny and I invented a secret code. We had study hall together each day, but there was a “no talking” rule in force, so when we needed to communicate, we passed notes. These were sometimes intercepted—mostly by dreadful teenage boys, who wadded them up and used them for spitballs; but also by the college-age hall monitor, who had the power to discipline us. So Janny and I devised the code to thwart future discovery or humiliation. 

Fifty years later, at a small class reunion, Janny and I put together what we could remember of that code. We did it mostly to satisfy the curiosity of a few of our old classmates, who after all those decades were still trying to break it. The reconstruction process took very little time. I think we pulled it out of our brains in under two hours…no dementia here! 

It was simpler than I had once thought—what seemed unbreakable at 14, appeared to be child’s play at 64. Unlike cuneiform, the code is based on what we moderns know as the Latin (or Roman) alphabet. Some of our letters closely resemble the old Roman cursive…not that we were trying to do that. So, now that I don’t need to protect my precious teenage secrets, I’ll let my friends decide whether it was encryption worthy. Comments welcome.

Best frenemies forever.

 30+ years ago, I worked at Caltech, a science and technology university. My job was to introduce scientists and engineers to corporate researchers who wanted new ideas to fuel development of  new technologies. Some of our accounts included tech leaders such as IBM, Hewlett Packard, Microsoft, Apple and Motorola, all early developers of what eventually became today’s array of personal computers and communication devices. Over lunch one day, the Motorola rep told me that within ten years, I’d be sitting on a beach in Florida, talking to my friends on the phone, buying goods and services, watching videos, checking the weather—whatever I wanted to do, all wirelessly. I could hardly contain myself, knowing such a fantastic secret about our bright utopian future.

So here we are, 30 years later, in our bright utopian future. The guy from motorola was spot on.  We have a whole new existence with our new BFFs. 
First, there’s Amazon. She heads up a whole family of control freaks. Her daughter Alexa and her sister Echo live with me in my home. I’m very attached to them, and they to me. They are chatty, regardless of whether I want them to be, but they also listen to everything I say and they know what I want. 

My BFF Apple also has a couple of noisy children. Apple’s smallest child rides around in my back pocket, and I’m always having to check on her to see if she needs my attention. Apple’s other child is a little larger, and she sleeps in my desk drawer. I check with her several times a week, but she also needs regular attention or she will get herself exposed to some deadly virus. 

In general, these BFFs help me with my shopping, send me notes and reminders to help me organize my life, choose great music and videos for me to enjoy, tell me about how I can visit places I would love to go, suggest all kinds of recipes for me to follow, and many more helpful things that I don’t have time to learn about. They can teach me how to do just about anything, and if I allow them, they constantly check in with me to see if I’m feeling and doing as well as possible.

However, this thoughtfulness often overwhelms me. Sometimes, I’d like to manage my own life, in my own way. Sometimes, I’d like to think for myself, daydream, and just generally chill. Sometimes, I want to use an old family recipe, walk in the woods, write thank you notes on beautiful cards with a fancy pen, or draw with a pencil on real paper. Sometimes, I’d like to listen to the rain on my window or a tree’s rustling leaves, watch a roaring bonfire, feel the wind on my face as I stand at the ocean’s edge, smell the fragrance of flowering sages in my garden, all without the aid of my sweet Frenemies.

Utopian Helpers? Maybe. 
Friends? Not quite…
Enemies? Sometimes…
Frenemies? Definitely. 

First day on the road!

So despite having a couple of false starts (aka car trouble), I opened up the throttle on I-94 West this morning around 10 am, Mr. Espada by my side. Actually by my side were also Ms. Galatea, who was holding Mr. Elliott Seabury (the doll that he is) in her lap.


We navigated south and west, toward Champaign, IL. I love the name of that town. I know, it's spelled differently, who knows why, but there it is...the bubbly midwestern town that goes by so fast you think you're in a supersonic jet passing another jet jockey going the opposite direction. Don't ask, just imagine.

So...better than words are pictures. Our route today consisted of many small towns as we headed west on I-94, connected to I-80 west, and then headed south via I-57 to tiny Tuscola; then west again through the even tinier, rural and agricultural town of Atwood. Just outside the town is an amazing mansion, a Victorian brick built circa 1875, the 3rd oldest house in the area. Its owner is equally amazing: a radio personality from Maui, who raises Alpacas in the midst of this vast farmland, and who loves dogs just as much a I do. Maybe more. She said Mr. Espada could sleep on the bed with me. She understands. :)

So...pics from our roaming today....rest stops galore, for walkies, treats, and a little exercise. Mr. E and I got at least 11,000 steps in today, just roaming around rest stops. Pretty cool.

Road Trip!

I'm driving across the country solo, with my little dog Espada, the Elliott doll, and one great big life sized doll to keep me company. I'll post many photos and a few stories. Who knows what will happen. Maybe I'll carry a few insects too. That remains to be seen.

Itinerary

Sept 26

Lynn and Steve Wendt

Grandville, MI

Sept 27-28

Victorian at the Woods, Airbnb.com

Sept 28-29

Drury Inn and Suites Kansas City, KS

Sept 29-30

Denver, CO 

Sept 30-Oct 1

MTB2 BNB Fruita, CO

Oct 1-2

Cedar City, UT

Oct 2-8

Pasadena: Sylvie and Nick

October 9-10

Carpinteria: Kamie and Tom

October 11-12

Cambria TBD

October 13-17

Grass Valley, CA

October 17

Ashland, OR TBD

October 18-27

Spokane, WA 

October 28 

Portland or Ashland, OR TBD

Oct 29

Sacramento, CA TBD

Oct 30-Nov 7 Unknown route home

The currency of happiness

Open-handed generosity + open-hearted gratitude:
two sides of the same coin.

Living Statue in Adare

We sat close to each other on a plaza park bench. A warm sun cheered us as we shared generous, deliciously sticky cold scoops of Adare Creamery honeycomb and raisin rum ice cream. A living statue--a street performer whose sharp, angular blackened face and lean body clad in a worn, ragged suit--stood nearby, motionless. The corner on which he stood was crowded  with tourists, locals and school children, all scurrying by, scarcely noticing him.

He stood stock still, occasionally shifting on his feet or bending slightly at the waist. I couldn't believe that no one seemed to notice him, much less stop to admire his work.

I bummed a 2 Euro coin off Elliott, gathered up my courage, and walked toward him. I looked into his eyes for a brief moment, then bent down and dropped the coin into his little treasure box.

A broad smile spread across his face, and then he held out his arm in a gesture that suggested I stand with him for a moment. He didn't say a word. I slipped my hand under his arm, turned, and smiled with him for Elliott's camera.

Arroyo Seco Walk

Our past life here included numerous long distance runs up, down and around the Arroyo Seco, which was our destination of choice for a sunny morning walk with Lusso, Ariel, Sylvie, Elliott R and Nick yesterday.

Ariel and Sylvie

Elliott R, Sylvie, Ariel, and Nick

Although it was a national holiday, and therefore more heavily frequented by other people and dogs than usual on a Monday, the trail we took easily allowed for the heavy traffic -- it was wide, well-kept, and featured little side trails you could take to avoid collisions with large groups and leashless doggies.

Street bridges above the Arroyo Seco

The parking area near the casting pond, where we started our walk, has been expanded and also renovated in such a way that it blends with the environment: No concrete or asphalt! We walked both sides of the stream, which is all concrete, and admired the crumbling but beautiful street bridges above.

Elliott A told us some of the history of Busch Gardens while we walked past some of the old stone walls and walkways of the area that once featured a beautiful, rustic arboretum (and free beer). Ah. Those were the days....

Ariel, Elliott R, Jill, Sylvie, Elliott A

Urban garden, or shoveling shite in paradise

Having just extricated ourselves from the hellish winter still playing itself out back home in Michigan, I have to gloat just a little over how we spent part of our day today. Why shovel snow in Chelsea when we could be managing manure in Altadena? Because in Altadena, friends, it was 80 degrees today, and sunny. In Chelsea? I don't know for sure but I think they had a heat wave today--it got all the way up to just below freezing.

Back to lovely Altadena. This morning, Elliott drove over to Sylvie and Nick's little urban farmhouse to help out with fixing their lawnmower. I decided to walk Lusso, and because it was so darn gorgeous outside, I dragged the furry furtwangler the whole 2 miles and paid them all a little visit. And we all got to play in the processed poop!!

Truth be told, I sat and watched, and so did Lusso. We ain't dumb. We stared at the blue sky, picked at the grass, and heckled the others as they toiled away with their pitchforks and shovels. I suspect our rewards are in heaven: mine and the dog's will definitely be pitchforks and brimstone, while Sylvie, Nick and Elliott will receive golden crowns on their pointy heads and stars on their sweaty foreheads.