REVOLUTIONARY ROAD

Today, I awoke with a sense of purpose.  I was nearly 15 years old but had never attempted anything like this before.

My feet strode resolutely towards the Palace Green.  Papa had instructed me to sweep street corners with my eyes, searching for moving shadows.  A secret dispatch, in cipher, was tucked between my petticoat and navy Brunswick.  I scratched at it, wishing I had used it to line my straw hat instead.  The paper was folded and sealed.  Just this morning, Papa had impressed the wax with his twisted horn emblem -- the Unicorn's horn.  

I thought back to a week ago, when Papa had sat me at his desk. He had wanted a key for a cipher.  (He trusted no one else, and knew I had a head for puzzles.  He often said I was the best son he never had.)  

Papa had pulled out a Bible from the shelf.  But lo!  it was hollow, nesting another book within.  The binding read "Montesquieu."  Together, we had settled on a key based on the book.  My eyes had questioned Papa wordlessly:  Who is this for?  His only reply had been a stern shake of the head.

Now, I strolled to the Palace Green, forcing nonchalance into my steps.  I wondered if the Governor and his daughters were home. Perhaps they were in England?  I was lucky enough to have been invited to the Governor's Palace for tea by his daughter last summer.  

We'd had a lovely time losing ourselves in the labyrinth.  Tired of wandering, I had clambered up the hilltop, shouting to the girls "Left!  Right!" The governess had told me to shush, but the girls had giggled encouragingly.  That was long ago now.  Since then, Papa had told me not to get too friendly with the Governor's family.

My mind snapped back to my mission.  The instructions were to leave the secret dispatch with the basket maker, just off the Green, and so I did.  Someone else was supposed to retrieve it, but neither she nor Papa would tell me more.

The basket maker concealed the paper in the straw.  Ah, a needle in the hay stack, I thought.  But my eyes flew to a little fleur-de-lis etched into the wood next to the hearth, barely perceptible behind the straw.  The basket maker followed my gaze.  Had she been the recipient of the key last week?  ...  probably not.  Mixing keys and ciphers seemed awfully foolish, and Papa was never foolish.

Only two fortnights ago, he'd relayed the story of our neighbor's slave who had been thrown into the Public Gaol for treason. He'd gotten caught with both halves of a secret letter, to be delivered.  Papa knew not to make that mistake.

So, I casually went about my business, just as Papa had trained me.  I bade the basket maker good day.  Then, I checked my purse for the few shillings Mama had handed me for some fabric and ribbon,

and turned into Duke of Gloucester Street towards the Millinery.  

The Tailor was there.  Papa trusted him.  He not only made our gowns and Papa's coats.  The Tailor and the Milliner were secretly supplying shirts to the continental army!  

(Papa thinks I know nothing.  I was re-shaping Mama's wig one afternoon in the small room by Papa's study.  Low voices were murmuring about an army.  A quick peek through the keyhole revealed the back of a man in a powdered wig and General's uniform.  Fearing discovery, I ceased all motion until they had left.)

I supposed I could trust the Tailor as well.  He always showed me the latest in English and European fashions.  Occasionally, he'd even give me pretty feathers for my hat. 

This time, he generously offered up some bolts of fabric.  The linen was coarse to the touch.  But the watery silk felt smooth, bordered by nubs of embroidery.  The rhythmic nubs under my fingers suddenly unlatched a memory of keys and ciphers.  Startled, I looked up and found the Tailor eyeing me sideways.  A vague discomfort crept up behind my ears, so I excused myself quickly.

Back along Duke of Gloucester Street, everyone seemed rapt in conversation.  As I walked by, I heard snatches of names I'd heard from Papa before.  Montesquieu, Rousseau, Locke.  None of them sounded like anyone we knew from the colonies.  

Nervous whispers and furtive glances were thrown my way as I passed by.  An occasional gentleman tipped his tricorn hat.

The only smiles I received were from the sun-worn gardeners by the Church.  They offered me fresh herbs to take home to Mama.  

I suppose the old man driving the oxen had nothing to hide either.

I kept on course and swung by Mary Dickinson's shop.  Mama needed her frayed hat ribbon replaced.  

The luxurious scents of soap, freshly shipped from England, engulfed me as I swung the door open.  I took a delicious whiff, but Papa had warned me that all those goods were heavily taxed.  I didn't understand too well, but the taxes apparently gave us no equivalent voice in government.  So, ribbons in hand, I satisfied myself with the memory of gardenia and lavender for my next bath.

I had dawdled enough.  It was time to meet Papa behind Shield's Tavern.  I came upon him nervously pacing, jaw clenched.  He was about to confer with an important General inside the Tavern.  Tentatively, I mentioned my visit to the basket maker.  His brow immediately uncreased, and a soft twinkle returned to his eyes.  "That's my daughter," he said approvingly.

Then he was lost in thought again, rumbling about a "revolution", a transformation, a new government, a new life.  I shifted anxiously.  Brought back by my presence, he drew up to his full stature, planted a kiss on my head, then marched into Shield's.

Papa's mumblings frightened me.  I didn't want anything to change.  I thought of going home, to Mama, to our quiet house on Nicholson Street.  I wanted everything as it had been from the previous day.

And yet, my childhood prelude of games and puzzles stirred something inside me.  The uncharted future - a future I was now part of with my cryptographic work for Papa - was like gibberish waiting to be deciphered.  And I thought on the message I had cast in cipher, still a mystery to me.  Papa had said I would understand words like "Congress" in time.  (I shan't say any more or I would be undoing my own encryption.)

Despite myself, I was curious to see where this Revolutionary road might lead to.

-- Pages from a girl's diary in Williamsburg, VA.  The edges were smudged but revealed a period around the 1770s.

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This fanciful escapade was inspired by my recent trip to Virginia.  We visited Colonial Williamsburg, a place I hadn't explored since I was a young teenager.  It brought back memories of youth -- when I couldn't quite grasp the full context of history, but sensed the excitement and uncertainty leading to the Revolution, and the nervousness surrounding double agents loyal to the King.  

Caveat: These are loosely based on American colonial/revolutionary history.  All photos are mine, taken in Colonial Williamsburg.

SEE NO EVIL

Do you sometimes wonder what century you live in?

I've just been on vacation in the East Coast, and hit the ground working upon my return West.  While East in Washington, DC and Virginia, I was immersed in the Age of Enlightenment, absorbed in the modern ideals of the Founding Fathers.  But returning West, my time travel simply overshot the clock face dials.  Somehow, I'd left the Age of Reason only to be ejected into the Dark Ages.  Information is still feared in some places.

I am fortunate to be entrusted with shaping minds, young and old, in my roles within non-profit organizations here.  But once in a while, the cautious nature of institutions gets in the way of encouraging critical thought.  So I ask you, my blog sphere friends whom I know are sophisticated and independent thinkers:


Is it improper to show teenagers Michelangelo's "David", Botticelli's "Birth of Venus", Manet's "Luncheon on the Grass", and other seminal works of art, simply because their subjects are unclad?  (The underlying discussion was meant to show developments in art accompanying shifts in philosophy, politics, society, etc.)

Edouard Manet's "Le déjeuner sur l'herbe",  Musée d'Orsay
edited by The Foolish Aesthete

"Controversial" is not a typical adjective I would assign myself.  But my little effort in sharing mankind's cultural heritage, or explaining shifts in art history, was met with resistance.  It's surprising to be a radical in this corner of the world, in this day and age.  Suddenly, I have a deeper sense for what intellectuals in China or the Middle East experience.

Manet would be scratching his head to see the cause célèbre of the 1863 Salon des Refusés suffering the same notoriety today -- for much the same reasons!

Ah me, the tortuous course of human history.  Our march forward remains fraught with detours in reverse.

*****

Curious to see what you all think!  I hope you are all well and I'll be dropping by soon ...

ALL STRAIGHTENED OUT

Many of us were raised in strait-laced families, taught to walk on the straight and narrow, and encouraged to wear straight-lined suits to work.

So how does one deal with a rebellious streak?  Maybe we can take Marc Jacobs' approach.  Take the streak and make it straight, but slap some humor into prim-and-proper.  This is not your father's pinstriped suit.

What I wore to a part-meeting, part-social gathering:
Skirt suit:  Marc by Marc Jacobs
Silk Shirt: Urban Outfitters

The central zipper running from collar to hem feels like a thumb in the nose.  And my clunky clog boots, not shown, serve as a kick in the pants.  Hmmm ... now I wonder if the outfit was screaming "Back off!" before I even got through the door.

It's difficult to see
(because I chose to backlight the Japanese screen)
but the fabric is pinstriped and accented by the heavy piping

Interestingly, things seem to be straightening out in life.  A ballet friend remarked, "You are standing so straight and leaping like you never have before!"  I guess all those strengthening exercises throughout my recovery have made me a better dancer.  Who would have thought.  Maybe humans are a bit like machines.  Give them a bit of a thump and they work a little better.


******

Thank you for the spam reduction advice.  If I get really exasperated, I will turn on the word verification.  I hope that doesn't exasperate you in return.  I want to make sure the blogging experience remains a two-way conversation!

SPRING OUT

Spring has sprung ...

...  and shadows now sprout flowers ...

De Young Sculpture Garden, San Francisco

...  and all that's left of Fall are memories of fallen apples.

As Time marches on, I seem to be dragging in the opposite direction.  I'm still in a state of forced indolence, mentally and physically.  So contrary to my usual hustling pace.  Too much triggers a relapse of symptoms.  Can you imagine having to cut back on reading, even thinking, bustling about and, saddest of all, ballet?  (I had to cede my roles for our ballet show.)  

Treetop blooms seen from our living room window

In this reduced state, I'm still fortunate to be able to enjoy the outdoors.  Even if it means I have begun to empathize with humble vegetables -- noble but immobile.  

Beyond commiserating with foliage, I've also taken a cue from the Duck Philosophy of Life:

• It's cool to chill in a shady pond 
• Just go with the flow

Ducks happily etching concentric circles
Vasona Lake, Los Gatos

The other day, I was out for a walk (my runs have been curtailed too).  I saw some ducks on the creek bank waiting for just the right moment to hop onto the current.  Then -- plop!  All strapped in, they rode the current like a water theme park ride.  They really meant it when they said go with the flow.


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Hope you are having a marvelous springtime where ever you are!  And thank you for all the good wishes and messages of concern.

By the way, does anyone have a good way of eliminating spam messages without manually marking and deleting them?

LOST MY HEAD

I never thought that metaphor and hyperbole could morph into accuracy.

Fog by the Bay

Nothing quite like a concussion to thump home what it means to be in a fog.  Or, in the act of sustaining it, what it is to be stunned and dazed.  Spacey doesn't just describe the daydreaming kid in class next to you.  Words no longer exaggerate.  They convey reality in my post-concussion world.

Sunlight trying to pierce through
on a hiking trail by the Bay

For weeks now, it's taken concentrated effort to pierce through the mists.  Interesting things are easier to focus on.  But the mindless multi-tasking?  Forget it.  Literally.

It's been rather humorous to be a young(ish) person exhibiting Alzheimer's-like symptoms.  And for a while, I felt humor was all I had left.  During a follow-up test with a doctor to determine the extent of my concussion:

Neurologist:  Name as many words as you can beginning with the letter "f" in the next 60 seconds. 

Me: Ummm ... quickly editing out the first word we all know that begins with "f" ... ok, fundamental, foundation, fibula, ... nearly followed that with fistula, but figured the neurologist would think I was being facetious ... flabbergast, fiendish, furious, ... and so on 

Neurologist:  interrupting his own counting mid-60 seconds ...  I've never heard fibula nor flabbergast mentioned in these tests before.

Me:  Do I get extra credit for the quality of the words?

In truth, the only way for me to stay focused was to turn the question into a word game -- no monosyllabic "f" words!

From the bedroom window

Mind tricks aside, I've spent a lot of time recently lying in the dark and slowing my life down outside of deadlines and meetings.  (Too bad there's no slo-mo button for Life, or even freeze frame.)  Hopefully, I'll make better judgment calls next time on the ski slopes.  But the post-concussion experience is rather fascinating.  It's like being in someone else's body.  Or rather, someone else's head.

Good news: the neurologist assures me I will get my old brain back.

ABSTRACT DISTRACTIONS

The Abstract.  

Mathematicians and Philosophers have long utilized it for elegant argumentation.  After all, discarding details can make ideas much clearer.

The geometry, color, lines of a crisp, winter afternoon.
The holiday bustle of  downtown
Santa Cruz is off frame.

Artists, from the time of the Modernists on, have experimented along this path too.  Reduce Art to its elements, they thought, and extract it's essence.

I was just considering a Mark Rothko today.  With luminous color fields as his subject, he sought to bring forth poetry from the canvas.  Go sit and ponder, preferably in the museum, and let me know if you see it too.

Mark Rothko at the SF MoMA
This image does not do justice to
the colors emanating from the canvas.

Not to be left out, novelists also pen thought-provoking abstract ideas, sometimes with great humor.  One of my favorite books, "Flatland," is by a Victorian mathematician/writer with a gift for social satire.  (Warning: Oncoming geek out.)  Imagine flattening Victorian society onto a two-dimensional plane -- England with no depth.  The inhabitants appear as geometric shapes associated with their status in society.  Triangles line the bottom.  Squares and greater-sided polygons rank higher.  Circles comprise the Elite, for aren't circles just regular polygons with so many sides, they've managed to smooth their kinks out.  Note, all these descriptions apply only to Men.  Women do not even get to be polygons.  They are merely line segments!  

Due to the limitations of two dimensions, identifying each member of Flatland society is done with some difficulty.  Along comes a three-dimensional Sphere - with the ability to see all their shapes.  It doesn't take much to point out how dull, blind and lacking these ridiculous Flatlanders are!  Imagine how much more enlightened a four-dimensional Being would be looking at the world.

Black, white, and red.
The tiles were an installation at the SF MoMA.
50% black, 50% white, 100% randomly laid out.

If I've gotten your head completely whirled with talk of polygons and planes, ignore me (and take an aspirin).  I'm simply distracted and abstracted.  And thinking of all those dimensions I am blind to, so far.

100 CANDLES

Greetings for the New Year, dear eFriends!

Thank you so much for all your notes and thoughts.  My online absence hasn't been due to some cosmic chasm.  Blame my cephalopod way of life (and sorry for referencing myself -- smacks of geriatric reminiscing) with multiple projects reaching in all directions. There must be some sensible name for this chronic condition?

Happy New Year!
Also celebrating my Grandmère's 100th birthday from afar.
I missed the grand family reunion in Asia
so we sent a video greeting instead.

The holidays were an opportunity to reconnect with family and old friends from around the world.  Too much to tell you.  Recent life has resembled a merry innkeeper's.  We've been welcoming a stream of out-of-town guests at home with just enough time for fresh linens in between.  Our evenings have been marked by live music, good spirits (libation and disposition, both), and interesting discourse!  It's been a marvelous month-and-a-half.

Which brings me to an homage I wanted to make.  My dearest grandmother, Grandmère to us, just turned 100 this week.  Her legendary wit is undimmed though her own memory might be.  Call her the upbeat version of Downton Abbey's Dowager Countess -- barbs not meant to cut but rather to induce laughter!  Her biggest accessory is a broad smile (and perhaps, huge dark glasses).

I find the sweater's asymmetric hemline -
short in front, long in the back -
an interesting counterpoint
to the horizontal stripes

Our Grandmère was the pillar behind our Granddaddy, now gone but a towering public figure for us, whose life was driven by principles of integrity and civic duty.  (Meritocracy and anti-Nepotism were indelibly imprinted in us through them ...  Pardon me but big words tend to surface whenever we think of our grandparents.)  We are so proud that my grandmother and her sisters earned their Bachelors of Science back in the '30s, at a time and place when few women were encouraged to do so.  Their role model?  Florence Nightingale (whom many may not know was a gifted mathematician)!  Emulating the Lady with the Lamp, they believed intellectual gifts were meant to be bundled with public service - all tied up with ribbons of gaiety and song for the loveliest of packages.  

My grandparents also believed in a simple life beyond reproach.  I still recall their insistence on receiving gifts only from family and close friends lest anything be considered a bribe, or worse, turn out to be a bomb!  (Trojan horses come in all shapes and sizes.)  Coming from a country cleft by poverty and antiquated rules of Class, they wanted no part in a lavish lifestyle which could be misinterpreted.

So here I am, beginning 2013 in my comfortable, "everyday" clothes of sweater dresses and jeans, accessorized only with large sunglasses and a smile - just like my dear Grandmère.

Wishing you all a wonderful start to the year!