Chloe, aka cinnamon girl, aka stinkopotamous – after a gleeful roll in a dead fish on the beach today (Yay!) – has at least one mental health issue we’re concerned about mildly amused by, Separation Anxiety. She gets indignant when we’re away. From the home that is. Left alone in the car, she’s been fine, so far. Although even there, we haven’t pushed our luck beyond the forty minutes or so it takes to shop at Costco. But at home, if HW and I leave for a couple hours, or her caretaker (house sitter when we travel) leaves to run an errand, Chloe’s MO has been to exhibit her displeasure with being left unaccompanied by selecting an item in the home and inflicting damage on it. Lately, her item of choice has been a book. It’s true that left-alone puppies often go for shoes first, I can confirm from personal experience – I’ve seen what a bored Airedale pup can do to turn a pair of stiletto pumps into perforated flats in the time it takes to walk to the mailbox and back. But one, Chloe’s not a puppy, and two, it doesn’t seem she takes the insult of our absence personally like that. Like by tearing into my OluKai sandals, which I’d left in plain site on the kitchen floor before leaving today to go get coffee beans (and stop for a Beer ‘n Bowl at one of my favorite haunts). No. When I returned home the sandals were untouched. It was later, in the fun room, where we go to kick back and chill, that I spotted the most recent victim of her terror: the book I’m reading. The damage this time was relatively superficial, she started in on the back cover, waded into the Index of Names, and then finally stopped about ten pages shy of my bookmark. And even there, only the corners of those pages bear evidence of her canine rage, before, evidently, she stopped and thought, That’ll show em. So the entire book is still readable. A couple weeks ago, while we were away traveling and the house sitter was watching Chloe, she was at it again. This time she shredded an entire paperback HW had kept bedside, fortunately not one she cared about. I got a photo text from the house sitter, Soooo sorry! I was with her the entire time can’t figur when she did this. I think I shot her back a LMAO emoji.

In time, this too shall pass. We’ll get older, Chloe will get older, and all of us will look forward to our alone time now and then. Until that time comes, and eventually it will, maybe I’ll go back to reading books on the Kindle. She hasn’t acquired a taste for electronics, yet.

Steady yourself for Mr. Lowry’s forthcoming, and eagerly anticipated, alternate history book on Cambodian genocide titled: Pol Pot Can Win on Compassion.

People talking lately about near death experiences. A friend asked me if I’d had one. Define near, I said.

His was the time he was underwater, trapped, out of air, hallucinating that this might be it. Then, at some point, he said, a miracle occurred. He’d managed somehow to get just his face above the water, gulped some air, then cried out as a deeply religious person does. Hard to describe the touch I felt, he said, but I knew then my cry had been answered, I wasn’t alone, none of us is.

This guy too had a near death experience with water. Though near the end of his story, he says that unlike the hallucinations of someone on LSD (even as he admits no personal experience with using psychedelic drugs), his experience was authentic, because, he claimed, the beings experienced in drug hallucinations are cynical, whereas the being of his experience was the real deal – mystic and multi-dimensional, benevolent, one that created in him a feeling of completeness, all of which, and more, he eventually concluded was God. One person said it was the most beautiful account of a spiritual experience she’s read all year. Thing is, though, with this guy, his experience was preceded by his attempt to drown himself, unlike my friend.

Near death experience, it seems, visits people of variable character. Interesting as well that both accounts involved water.

Speaking of which… there’s Cinnamon Girl, zooming over the surf so fast it seems like she walks on water. Miracle!

We left last week Thursday to travel to another land. A place we’ve both been before. They say you can never go home. They’re wrong.

We left here over a year ago. Not much has changed. Not that I expected much would in such a short period of time. After getting out and about these past few days, the overall vibe of this place, a place HW and I called home for the better part of thirty five years, has a palpable desperateness to it, but I feel like that impression might reveal a confirmation bias in me. Like, “Phew, honey, looks like we got out at just the right time.” But like midnight sun, sometimes you can’t tell dusk from dawn. There may be economic activity underway or in the works here that may turn the city’s fortune around. For instance, I read there’s tens of millions of dollars in federal infrastructure money just waiting to be spent here statewide. Not so much in terms of new private capital investment, so far as I can tell, but attracting that kind of investment has been a struggle here for quite a long time. It’s just so far away from the economic centers of lower-48 America, and on top of that there’s no commercially viable road system connecting the two. One thing that hasn’t changed is our love of the unique natural beauty here. And we’ve enjoyed re-connecting with friends who still live here. That’s priceless

I am reading around lately on the wisdom from experts, ways to craft good fiction, free of cliches, clumsy cadence, the importance of showing and not telling, etc.. As a student you have to be careful with your time, though. Else you end up blowing it all in lecture. I have my favorite bits. One powerful idea I’m especially fond of, one I’ve been aware of for quite some time now, and one consistent with the epistemic view that we, all of us, are fully determined Experience Machines (and not the author of our thoughts and actions), is this idea that a writer, pen in hand, is nothing more than a physical instrument rendering the words on the page. In essence, a writer is merely the vessel for telling a story, one that comes to her almost like a vision, unbidden. I read things like, “Get out of the way of your characters – let them tell their story!”; or, “The best crafted stories end up being very different from what the author intended when she started out.” The wisdom here, metaphorically given, is that if you try too hard to tell the story yourself, you (the writer) and your characters will wind up trapped inside your head. I like this advice but I’m not sure I regard it as only metaphorical, even though the experts likely do. To me it’s possibly quite literal. In a very real sense, if we are not the conductors of our own thoughts (stories), or able to will our own actions (writing), then of course it’s impossible to mute a character’s true voice, or in a real way pen words any other than what the brain precisely instructs the hand to pen. On this view then, alone at her desk, pencil in hand resting lightly on a blank sheet of paper, the writer has no alternative but to wait for the story to express itself, through her. There’s an insanity to this view, of course. It’s sort of like when you were a kid, with your hand resting gently on the Ouija Board puck, and that terrifying wait for the puck to move the hand.

A fine arrangement of clippings from plants around our Homestead, artfully rendered by HW. The Crocosmia especially provides a nice pop of color. Similar to the benefits of petting a dog or equine therapy, it’s interesting how pausing to observe a flower arrangement can lower blood pressure and calm the spirit. I doubt the effects are additive, though. Petting a dog and touching a horse at the same time while looking at flowers would not, I think, cause one to faint.

At low tide this is our turnaround point. Especially on warm days Chloe likes to wade into the sea to cool off, while I sit on a log in the shade to do the same. HW is not the least bit amused by this stretch of warm summer weather we’re having. Try as I might there is no consoling her that everything is going to be alright. Being on the water helps. So we bought another kayak so I can go out with her and feel what she feels. I need to get a life vest first. As for today, I think I’ll go out for a bike ride, head to the beach on the south side of the peninsula. It’s Saturday so I expect to see a lot of people down there, on the beach, in the water, chilling at bars and restaurants. This evening we’ve been invited to our friend’s house for dinner. It’s a mystery what they’re making, but we were asked in a text message last night what our heat tolerance is: mild, medium or hot. Should be fun.

Oh yeah, that’s Mt. Baker in the distance, waiting for the right time.

Compare. On the left, according to Mr. Vance, we have the exemplification of the problem with leadership in this country. On the right, his preferred female archetype. Moreover, were the woman on the right pregnant with another baby as she fed the first, better yet. And better still if she were pregnant with twins! Because on Mr. Vance’s worldview, experienced mothers, not childless cat women, make better leaders. Or maybe he’s just not a Swiftie, and his derision is really cloaked envy. Because surely he’s aware that Ms. Swift is her own economy. As such, given his unwavering reverence for avatars of capitalism, you would think Mr. Vance would find her GDP and economic independence praiseworthy, and in the spirit of full transparency come out and say so. While simultaneously noting that the mother on the right qualifies for child tax credits, which any swamp-cleaning republican would be quick to assure you, burdens the economy. Now, be honest Mr. Vance, which kind of woman more likely possesses superior leadership qualities? Or maybe a better question for you is: which model would you have your daughter aspire to?

A kiss of sorts from Dogasaurus. Supposedly they lick us to gain our affection, soothe themselves, show empathy, or simply because we taste good to them. I suppose two or more could be true at the same time.

…

What a difference a week makes. Who saw that coming. The False Idol had a close call, and a few days later the Somnambulist called it quits. With all this volatility in the political sphere, it’s hard to say whose names will appear next to the ovals come November.

It’s been widely reported the country is very divided right now. Some say our differences may be irreconcilable. “And then what?” Beats me.

If you’ve ever been divorced, you may recognize the most oft-cited reason declared on the final decree: irreconcilable differences. Marriage is a unique relationship in terms of its legally binding contract. There is no equivalent kind of contract underlying the relationship between us Americans, or, for that matter, between family and friends. Or between a man and his dog. When differences arise, and separation is not an option, you have to find a way to lick and make up. When it comes to human friends and family though, I wonder if it feels as though we need to surrender something important about ourselves to reconcile some difference with another. An unwillingness to surrender by one or both parties often leads to separation. Another option is to stay together while agreeing to disagree, but that can leave two people with a smoldering cold war of resentments to manage going forward. Might I suggest a third option. Next time you confront an irreconcilable difference, try disarming your adversary with a big lick smack dab in the middle of her face, “We good now?“

Where I write.

Imagine yourself, roughly four months from now, behind the curtain with a No. 2 pencil in hand, the empty ovals staring back at you. What are you gonna do? Your symptoms are real. Breathing is difficult, your eyes are sore, you’ve not slept well, you’re constipated, perspiring, when suddenly you’re beset with a constellation of even more symptoms brought on by the names next to those ovals. The world is counting on you to do the right thing. Which is what, really? A lump forms in your throat, the chest pain won’t go away. You feel faint. You’ve never had a nervous breakdown and wonder if this is what it feels like. You flash on what you were taught in high school, in that civics class you couldn’t wait to get out of. Suddenly, two images juxtapose in your mind: The vacuous stare of the old man at the podium paired with the inflatable orange Jesus in the UK sky. It’s down to a Somnambulist versus a False Idol. Seriously, what are you gonna do?

“The red ones are crazy!” What she (HW) meant was, if you interview a Husky at the shelter stick with the gray ones. Oops. Actually, to my eye she was more cinnamon than red, or even ginger, which is what HW meant when she said red, that and gray being the two most common flavors Huskies come in. And now that she’s blowin’ her coat, she’s transformed to something between dishwater and strawberry blonde. She likes water. We marvel to see her streak along the surf stirring a kind of Seagull Wave as a line of them rise and fall in sequence. For the most part our fellow beachgoers smile when they see her. The nicest ones swoon. Occasionally we’ll come across a prickly one. This person will see Chloe coming, freeze, then curl up tight like a cellar bug would to avoid detection. When that fails and Chloe comes close to introduce herself, we get the stink eye. My response is to never shout, “She’s friendly!” Because if you go online and read the vitriolic comments of people who are so put off by off-leash dogs in public spaces that they go online to vent, they often mock that response. I’d like to disarm them with kindness instead. Failing that, we feign apology and move along.