Part One of a Series

First, my apologies for being absent for a bit. No, I wasn’t on some three-week trip to Bora Bora. Just one of my all-too frequent forays into a medical/health diversion. But things are on the upswing again. Now, where was I when I started this draft two weeks ago. Oh yes, I was starting a series on how I write or, speaking of diversions, how things get in the way of writing.

So, what served as the spark for my interest in writing? It could have been when I was in high school and had a small piece selected for publication in the National Essay Association’s “Young America Speaks.” About the same time I was assistant editor of my high school’s yearbook, “The Crest.” Or, somewhere buried in my ancestral genes there could have been an author or two. My wife Peggy infers that my strong spelling instincts may have come from my mother who was a school teacher. Whatever the case, here I am with an unabashed love for what I like to call, the “sport of writing,” implying a need for tactics, tenacity, and a tolerance for absorbing the wins with the losses.

I hesitate to imply that I have a particular writing style or habit. Personal writing styles are about as varied as Stephen King’s relentless-full-speed ahead-method, shooting for five pages a day while Hemingway (short simple sentences) was comfortable with five hundred words. I am more Hemingway-like (I wish) and am elated if I get six-to-eight-hundred words in. Some days are like walking in deep mud. I question everything I write and then revise and reshape like I’m working on a clay sculpture. Other days, words flow out with resolve and I’m a happy camper. For one or two days a week I go to Page Street in San Francisco, a membership-based coworking space that used to house a cafe/teahouse in the Lower Haight Ashbury area. Here writers work on laptops in silence (until someone grinds some coffee beans in the nearby kitchen). Around 12:30 PM most folks assemble at a large table in the upper level for a forty-five-minute lunch where talk ranges from what everyone is working on to the cost of daycare in the city. There are occasional events and writing contests where members can be chosen to read their winning submissions either at Page Street or at a larger venue in the city. I have had the good luck to do both. (See my posting of December 3rd, 2025.) These are very low key upbeat experiences that can hone one’s public speaking skills.

Otherwise I write at home on my computer—yes, the computer, not paper—which gives me a bigger screen to be able to pull up more files at a time than I can on a laptop. But then there are those pesky diversions. Did I finish that crossword today? I don’t think I read that magazine lying there. I really should get the car washed. There are also advantages. If I am stuck on my writing, I can swivel my chair one-hundred-eighty-degrees to my art work table where I make small tabletop sculptures (see my posts on December 17, 2024 and July 8, 2026) from my art pieces. This way I get to enjoy a hands-on craft that brings more immediate gains than slogging through a first draft of a novel.

Two more things. Do I listen to music while I write? You betcha! When I write I typically listen to soft jazz or piano music. This has a peaceful settling effect while I save the more energized stuff for my art work (60’s, 70’s, dixieland, orchestral, etc.). My AirPods are essential. I now have the new kind that have an ambient noise reduction feature. You can understand why I was wigged out when I dropped one of them down the elevator shaft at my building. Helplessly, eyes bugged out, I watched as it bounced a few times before it found the gap at the floor’s edge. I now have a replacement one and order in the house has been restored.

Next: In Parts Two and Three I will delve into how I approach writing a novel, including setting up chapters, characters, vignettes, notebooks, editing, and how I deal with research.

A good many of us were following the World Cup. My wife and I enjoyed watching a few games even though a good many complexities and subtleties went flying right over our heads. Still fun. The big screen in our lounge where we live was often lit up with a match in progress. Outside, the atmosphere all over was palpable. If you were within a block of a pub, an onrush of exuberant cheering hit you without notice like a shock wave from a howitzer. Multi-colored shirts with team logos gave a splashy new feel to the streets, upstaging, for the moment, the iconic Smiley Face and I Love New York versions. Rivals Curaçao and Ecuador tied at 0-0 in Kansas City. Fans of both teams saw it as a win. People were supporting teams from countries they have never even heard of. So, what’s my point? I have been musing (that’s an enhanced version of thinking) about how the Cup has moved the needle on our typical cultural predilections and allegiances, giving a temporary pass for some countries that are otherwise controversial or deep in the shadows for various reasons. Whoa! Iraq versus France? Switzerland versus Bosnia and Herzegovina? I’ll jump to the premise: why not start a World Forum where the founding charter integrates a sporting event (soccer?) with mandates to hold conferences after games aimed at eliminating war and subsequently cementing peace. Oh, sure you say. I’ll be quick to point out that our 193-member United Nations has failed miserably to prevent armed conflicts and enforce the Charter of the United Nations. G7 represents ten percent of the world population. The World Series involves two countries. Not very worldly. So, we start with the current World Cup size of 48 teams and gradually add teams to increase the impact. To kick things off (pun intended), Lionel Messi the all-time leading goalscorer in World Cup history would be named chairman. I haven’t worked out all the other details yet, but we have a lot of bright people out there. All we have to do is do what all great civilizations have done from the beginning of time: form a committee. That committee would report to our San Francisco Board of Supervisors and our mayor. I’m sure even the mayor of New York would jump in. In the end we might shut down a street for a block party and stencil a miniature soccer field—all ages welcome. Well, I better stop. I’ve got to go take my medicine. I forgot it yesterday and tried to buy the Bay Bridge.

You might recall that the earlier sculptures (below) come from printing bits from my photos, etchings, and sketches and gluing them onto pine wood blocks of various sizes.

This “city block” (top) uses the same process, but the graphics come from my wall sculptures that I made from my photographs of three neighborhoods in San Francisco. The one below is based on the the Dog Patch neighborhood. The city block uses the images from the Marina District wall hanging that I showed on a previous post.

I love making these even though they are tedious and time consuming. It’s hard to deny the perfectionism hidden in my veins (I think that’s where it’s stored). Making these also gives me a nice break from writing my novel, especially when I’m stuck—which is an all too familiar experience. Making something with my hands is a passion that has stuck with me, quite probably from making all those architectural models over the years. When we architects moved from pencil-on-mylar into digital I went with the flow. I do a lot of manipulation of my images with Photoshop. But like other software I use there are frustrations lurking if one doesn’t keep up the pace with the updates and nuances of technology. There will be a progress posting on this latest concoction shortly…well, when it decides it’s ready for the next chapter—they’re very unpredictable you know.

As I got comfortable I suddenly was aware of some shadows creeping my way. When I looked around, about eight young boys were approaching. They had to be eleven- or twelve-year-olds. Knowing that this age group has the potential for friskiness I braced for whatever might develop. To my surprise they were just filled with curiosity about what this foreign white guy was drawing. They settled in and became part of my new neighborhood in the pastures on the outskirts of Hanoi. We only could nod and smile at one another. I took a picture of the group (below top) which became the basis for a later line etching (below bottom).

So, I can officially say that I have done figure sketching (well, sort of). One memorable takeaway was convening with a delightful group of boys from a country that is roughly 7,300 miles from San Francisco. A second takeaway was the friendly spirit of the people of Hanoi only thirty some years distant from an unnecessary and brutal war with the U.S. Now, if only we could apply these global lessons today. Maybe we should put the young people in charge.

My term ‘Trumphal’ has an appropriately idiosyncratic foundation (just like Trump’s arch): a head-on collision of ‘Trump’ and ‘Triumphal.’ On a scale that is consistent with his oversized girth, his proposed Triumphal Arch stands at a bulky 250-feet tall, including the golden figure on top. This colossus, at double the height of the Lincoln Memorial on the other side of the Potomac, even exceeds his buddy Kim Jong Un’s arch in North Korea by 53 feet and the Arc de Triomphe by 86 feet. In a recent New York Times article, an architectural critic “encouraged Mr. Trump to build a triumphal arch,” arguing that “Washington is the only major Western capital without a monumental arch.” Initially, modesty was in play: the arch was to be 76 feet tall to commemorate our birth year, 1776. But Trump being Trump, the race was on to reach higher into the heavens to create yet another ego-driven monstrosity (think The White House ballroom). It soon became 250-feet tall to honor our 250^th year as a nation (good thing our country wasn’t born in the year 1726). Like our leader, it just looks like it needs to go on a diet.

Paris’s Arc de Triomphe sits proudly at the center of the Place Charles de Gaulle where, if you’ve ever had the nerve to try driving around the monument, it feels like you’re on the last lap of the Le Mans car race. Then, the challenge is—if your wits are still functioning—you need to choose which of the twelve radiating avenues (below) to take. Designed in 1806, its foundation alone took two years. It is an elegant testament to those who fought and died for France during the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.

On the other hand, our friend Donald’s arch, as it is proposed, would be plopped onto the very tight grassy roundabout (red circle below) just off the Potomac River near the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Historians and critics have also pointed to its negative impact on the view between the Lincoln Memorial and the Arlington National Cemetery as well as its infringement on the sacred grounds of the cemetery. “The cemetery is supposed to do the speaking,” to quote one critic.

The Lincoln Memorial would become the poor cousin to the ‘Trumphal Arch’, slipping further in stature along the National Mall. But apparently the POTUS arch must have swagger as the representation of our country’s big anniversary. When I think of the impact the Vietnam Memorial has with its simple but dramatic black granite walls it speaks volumes without puffery. Of course it is a very different kind of memorial and I don’t suggest that we can’t have some kind of monument, but the whole process seems hurried and ad hoc. The fear is that this celebration of a particular individual’s vanity will result in a hastily produced shrine that will mock the intent and weaken its true relevancy.

But worry not, for the U.S. Commission of Fine Arts (not surprisingly, a panel appointed by Trump) feels it’s just fine. On April 16, 2026 it gave preliminary approval to the project, but suggested the review of certain features, including access, foundations, and the gilded adornments scattered like barnacles in various places: golden eagles, lions, and even Lady Liberty spreading her wings on the roof like a wedding cake topper. No doubt the Lady will be sold in fake gold versions on Trumpstore.com. The sources of funding for this enterprise are yet to be revealed; there will no doubt be sizeable dents in the public coffers.

Let me suggest an alternative site for the ‘Trumphal Arch’: the land sandwiched between the Donbas region and Eastern Ukraine. In attempts to pull Trump back into the fold re: the war in the Ukraine, officials in that country have suggested naming this ”depopulated, decimated swath of Ukrainian coal-and-steel country” “Donnyland,” a mashup of Disneyland and Donald. There are unconfirmed reports that a Ukranian negotiator has actually created a flag for Donnyland (in green and gold) and a national anthem ginned up by ChatGPT. I can just see this flag flapping right next door to the Trumpster’s arch somewhere near the only coal mine left in this desolate 50-mile by 40-mile area. I think it’s worth careful consideration. But we’d have to set up another Комиссия по изящным искусствам (Commission of Fine Arts) for the purpose. A side perk: Vladimir and Donald could have their own concession stands.

San Francisco has world-admired scenery, vistas, and open spaces. The new parks in the Mission Rock and Mission Bay neighborhoods along with Tunnel Tops in the Presidio all add gems to these exceptional assets. But there is still a noticeable lack of comfortable pedestrian havens that speak to the style and grace of European spaces. The Embarcadero Plaza project at the foot of Market Street gives hope for a park-like space scaled for residents, workers, and tourists to enjoy. Right now there is a mix of “things” (below) that degrade the plaza, including two padel courts, the tangled tubes of the Vaillancourt Fountain, and an ugly expanse of discolored and patched brick paving.

Formerly the head of the San Francisco Redevelopment Agency starting in 1959, Justin Herman and his gang were responsible for a wide variety of notorious projects that destroyed communities throughout the city, including the Western Addition where 10,000 people (predominantly Black) were displaced through the clearing of more than 60 blocks. Nowhere was the impact of “urban renewal” felt more than in the communities of The Fillmore and Japantown where massive relocations were coupled with the devastating Geary Boulevard depression that, to this day, is an unsightly and divisive element. Justin Herman’s urban planning hi-jinks in these and many sectors of the city finally caused the San Francisco Recreation and Park Commission to rename Justin Herman Plaza the Embarcadero Plaza in 2017. This is all to say that we need to get it right in these new projects; we have plenty of examples of how not to do it.

An influential report way back in 1962 put together by renowned landscape architect Lawrence Halprin and architects Don Carter, and George Rockrise, suggested that if the Plaza became a vibrant, alive, colorful place, used by day and night, it would '“send a tingle up the spine of Market Street.” While Halprin & Co.’s intentions were bold for the time, the spine of Market Street really never tingled to my knowledge. The plaza has frequently held demonstrations and gatherings over the years as well as a skating rink, but it never rose to the intentions cited in that 1962 report. Its low-water mark is arguably the installation of a phenomenally gross 45-foot-tall R-Evolution sculpture of a naked woman with sixteen motors in her chest to simulate breathing…brought to us by that bombastic event in the Nevada desert, Burning Man. Really?

The owner of Embarcadero Center, BXP (formerly Boston Properties) and the City’s Park & Recreation Dept. have been working to explore a new bold concept for this 5-acre site which could give a big boost to the downtown revival. The boundaries would absorb the existing Sue Bierman Park, retaining the actively-used children’s playground. The site of the existing underused bocce court across the bottom of Market Street would ideally come into play as well, not to mention the totally underused Harry Bridges Plaza in the middle of the Embarcadero that fronts the Ferry Building and is currently a playground for skateboarders whose sport includes harassing pedestrians. Finally, what about those upper level promenades that wind their way through the four-building Embarcadero complex. I used to spend my lunch hour eating among the pleasant greenery and varied views on one of the levels. Why not rethink the contribution that important network of pedestrian ways offers.

But lets take a step back and take a look at some images I took of Bryant Park in New York City (below) a few years back. Named after the poet and editor William Cullen Bryant, it is located in the heart of the city at the back door of the main branch of the public library. It has a rich history, starting with the 17th century. In the 1930’s a new layout included lawns and promenades, but by the 1960’s it fell into serious decline becoming crime-ridden and a serious blight on the neighborhood. A major redesign in 1988-92 brought new life to the square. Fast forward to today: Bryant Park is one of the busiest and most successful urban parks in the world, hosting outdoor movies, fashion shows, and seasonal markets. Landscaping is a balance between paved and green zones that accommodate areas for chess, ping pong, cafes, bars, and an area just for children. And, what’s that? A newsstand? Of special note: The Bryant Park Corporation, formed in 1980, stands as a model for public-private partnerships. I would also add, a model for good urban design.

Now for a glance at some early proposals developed for our Embarcadero Plaza. The one at top left appears to be an outdoor sculpture museum, hardly a model for a diverse range of activities. On the top right we see another example of a collision of ill-defined spaces put together for eye candy no doubt. On the bottom left we see a super-charged fantasy of discordant pieces. What’s with the sweeping bridges connecting both sides of the Embarcadero like freeway ramps? The bottom right rendering gives us some hope, but again, there doesn’t seem to be any discipline to reaching any carefully thought out plan. It’s as though those tiny pedestrians on those paths will be wandering for hours trying to figure out why they even came. There are many talented folks at the Park & Rec group and in the offices of our local architects and landscape architects, but do we have the right team to be at the top yet? Do we need to cast a wider net with a competition? We can’t let this one slip away. Bryant Park shows what can be accomplished if a thoughtful and coordinated approach is there from the start. Let’s not go from zero to sixty miles an hour in a second. Admittedly, the conceptual work at the beginning is typically used as a series of marketing images. But too often they begin to take on a life of their own.

The Railyards

This project is right up there in terms of major importance in San Francisco as a gateway and mixed-use complex. Bounded by Mission Bay, Central SoMa, Oracle Park, and Showplace Square, it is linked to The Portal project which ultimately (and hopefully) will see Caltrain and High Speed Rail connected, underground, to the downtown Salesforce rail and bus terminal. Currently, the Caltrain station at 4th and King Streets is the front door to the site. Things have settled down a bit since the electrification of Caltrain. A fleet of sleek new trains has replaced the shabby diesel locomotives and passenger cars that used to test the nerves and health of the neighbors (and the pa

ssengers). For the past ten years the site has been the subject of a raft of studies. It is generally agreed that there should be a vital, high density, mixed-used neighborhood here that knits together the tattered edges of the railyards. How to do that is the real challenge.

The project is a joint venture between Prologis and Caltrain. What is a Prologis you ask. It is a real estate investment trust (REIT for short) located on Pier 1 in San Francisco. They invest in logistics facilities. What are logistics facilities you ask. I had to have Google sort that one out. Apparently they are giant warehouses, distribution centers, and fulfillment hubs—designed to store, manage, and transport goods efficiently. Hopefully we don’t have PG&E doing the power grid. Prologis is the largest industrial real estate company in the world. “Its business strategy is focused on warehouses that are located close to huge urban areas where land is scarce,” according to an article in the 2020 issue of The Economist. Hmmm…warehouses, logistics facilities, railyards. It strikes me that we have some strange bedfellows here. Just looking at the rough diagrams one can only sense the warehouse feeling of the massing (below). Pieces of open spaces live 5-to-6 stories above ground on podiums. Previous studies were scaled in ways that had more to do with connections to the neighborhood both in scale and in the mix of activities. This version seems to me an attempt to max out the real estate footprint at the expense of livability.

Prologis expects to include 7-to-8 million square feet at build-out on this 18 ½-acre property with the tallest tower reaching 850 feet. The site plan below includes some tight-looking plazas and parks. I’m wondering who will actually be promenading along Townsend Street.

The preliminary renderings are well done, but for my money, they give the feeling of one more office park. The children’s playground is an afterthought. The new train station is buried in one of the towers when it should be celebrated and made one of the more prominent elements. I’m all for density, but sometimes it comes at the expense of including some of the features that Bryant Park has included, like fountains, a dining pavilion, a place to play chess or ping pong, or even a branch library with seating for reading. So maybe one has to downsize the expectations of those investors in the Prologis REIT.

Hallidie Plaza

This plaza is located at the entrance to the Powell Street Muni and BART stations on Market Street in the Union Square area of downtown. With all good intentions in 1967, landscape architect Lawrence Halprin, architects Mario J. Ciampi and John Carl Warnecke developed the scheme for Hallidie Plaza. This is (or should be) a major gateway for the City since it is a huge tourist destination. The Powell Street cable car turnaround and boarding area sits just adjacent. The BART and Muni station complex is one of the most active transit facilities in the region. Right now, Hallidie Plaza is an embarrassing mess of functions and circulation. The view on the left (below), shows the Flood Building and the open-air escalators connecting the plaza below with the street level. For years, the plaza has been inhabited by druggies and miscreants.One typically has to gird yourself for the trip up (or down) these escalators. The view on the right (below) shows the jumbled plaza with the shabby green-roofed food wagon. Rough-formed concrete retaining walls at the terraces add a further harshness to the setting.

John King, the former urban design critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, often bemoaned the lack of a real solution for Hallidie Plaza. The City’s Department of Public Works held a workshop a few years back that tried to come up with answers. But, as workshops go, this was another light touch that was a “design by committee” exercise.

A few years ago, I said okay, I’m going to take a whack at it and developed a series of 3D views (this was way before AI) of what might happen if it were to become something. Again, we’re talking conceptual only here. The scheme included a sizable information center, enclosed stations for both BART and Muni, a plaza for relaxing and events, a below-grade transit museum, and landscaped areas. The development was to be funded from the sale of air rights over the two city-owned parcels that straddle Cyril Magnin Street. A public-private entity was to be established for the whole development. I showed my concept to authorities oat the Union Square Alliance and SPUR (formerly the San Francisco Planning & Urban Research Association). It got a positive reception, but, clearly there would need to be an overriding entity that had the horsepower to put such a complicated package together. Maybe it’s time to knock on Mayor Lurie’s door. We desperately need a better face on transportation in the region to bring in more riders and to finally make something of this site.

As part of a recent trip to Sarasota, Florida, to visit family and friends, my wife Peggy, daughter Margot, and I stopped in at the The John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art. In one building is the wonderfully restored private rail car of John Ringling, The Wisconsin, built in 1896. In another building is the spectacular ¾-inch-to-one-foot scale model of the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. As an architect I have built an unknown number of models, so this enormous display was a particular joy to me. It also brought back warm memories of going to the circus (long before the issue of animal treatment was brought up).

Called the Howard Bros. Circus Model it is the world’s largest circus model at more than 3,800 square feet. The craftsman, Howard Tibbals, created thousands of pieces including hand-painted miniature figures of all types, circus wagons, hundreds of animals, a “big top,” a cookhouse, rail cars, trucks, and cars. The images below that I took represent a tiny fraction of the overall exhibit.

Where does one start to compute the amount of time consumed in making this entire complex? We can only trace the process. He was hooked at the age of three when he watched his first circus. In 1943, seeing a circus unload inspired him to “play circus.” Then, after being given his first lathe and jigsaw for his twelfth birthday in 1948, he started crafting in earnest in 1956 when he was a freshman in college. The whole assembly was essentially finished in 1974, but it did not premier until 1982 at the World’s Fair in Knoxville, Tennessee. He continued to create model pieces, making the last wagon in April of 2021. He died at the age of 85 in March of 2022.

Horse-drawn streetcars were the norm in 1870 in Peoria. Around 1875 cable cars and horse-drawn cars were introduced in San Francisco at the original Ferry Building, ushering in Market Street’s role as the dominant transportation artery. An Historic Trolley Festival was held in 1983 when the San Francisco Municipal Railway (Muni), along with Mayor Feinstein and business, neighborhood, and preservation leaders, brought in vintage streetcars from around the world. A new non-profit group was launched: the Market Street Railway.

Muni now owns more than 50 of these vintage streetcars. A placard at the center of each car identifies their history. The collection includes: Car #1, America’s first publicly-owned trolley; a New Orleans “Streetcar Named Desire” (Number 952); a Moscow tram; and an open air “boat tram” from England (my favorite). Most streetcars are PCC’s (Presidents’ Conference Committee—don’t ask) from the 40’s and 50’s. Muni and the Market Street Railway operate 17 PCC’s on the F-Market line. Then there are the granddaddies: the Peter Witt cars, designed in 1920 by Cleveland transit leader Peter Witt. These ran in many cities but not in San Francisco. Milan ended up buying hundreds. Then San Francisco was the lucky recipient of one in 1984 and liked them so much they bought ten more in 1998. While these clank and clatter a bit more than the PCC’s, they are a fun ride.

From an urban design standpoint, I consider these streetcars part of the city’s fabric. The colorful exteriors of the PCC’s brighten my day when they pass by. Each one is painted with a meticulousness that reflects the devoted skills of the workers.

I have volunteered for the Market Street Railway on various occasions--once as a docent riding different cars and pointing out the history of them. It just took me one time to realize that maybe I wasn’t cut out for this duty since tourists are unrelenting in their questions, many of which I had absolutely no answers for.

Street trams (what we call streetcars) in European cities are sleek and modern with more advanced technologies, but I still like the personality of these old geezer cars. I still look back on my ride in the Peoria streetcar in the 1940’s; it had a lasting impression on me in many ways.

I set out on what-should-have-been a simple quest for a clock. You see, we were bereft of a decent timepiece in our living room. Glancing at my wrist watch consumes far too many seconds. I wanted something to eyeball instantly on a straight line from the couch.

So, off I go, dipping into the vast internet universe. After fifteen-odd minutes, a handsome little fellow pops up that suits all the design-y criteria of my architect’s sensibility. Nothing klunky or over-designed for this one. It’s a cute blonde cube clock with a very subtle face and color LED numbers peeking from inside. And it has a very reasonable price tag. What’s not to like? I boldly add my credit card to the “Buy Now” section and wait for the confirmation to appear. Two days pass and nothing. Oh well, I figure that their processing department is handling a lot of orders. On the other hand, maybe I should have been more suspicious of the company name, BiLo.

A week goes by without any confirmation. I call the support number listed. A rather groggy voice pushes out a greeting: “Welcome y’all to BiLo customer support.” Interference on the line made his voice sound like someone who is riding one of those mechanical bulls.

"Can y’all tell me how to track my order. I never got a confirmation.”

“Whass your name my friend?" His boozy voice not a good sign.

“Jess. Jess Banford.”

“Well Jess Blanford, you jess relax, we’ve gotcha covered here at BiLo. Bit o’ humor. Jess Relax. Hah. How’s your day goin’ so far Jess? Out here in Smokescreen Virginia we got a bit o’ drizzle comin’ down. S’pose ta rain buckets later on. How’s the weather at your place—what’s it, Cumberland Ohio? Used ta have a third cousin in a suburb of Cumberland. In the used tire trade. Moved on to fixin’ lawnmowers. So now, you jess give me—there I go again—that order number and we’ll fix ya right up.”

“But that’s the problem. I never got a confirmation, so I don’t have an order number.”

“Ah, should’ve said something. This here’s customer support. You need the BiLo customer service. You jess hang on while I transfer ya.”

“Hello, this is the BiLo customer service. Jus’ so you know, we use AI in our comms network—that’s communications for the tech-challenged folks. We’re jus’ gettin’ into it so bear with us. Hope yer doin’ well. We’ve got a nice sale today on autographed ceramic elephants. Looks good on any mantle. Hey, the boss also just told me to let you folks out there know about…

“Whoa! whoa! I just want to find out about my order. It’s been two weeks and I have no word from you guys. The charge is sitting on my account. I need information now!”

“I’m sorry Mr. ahh…I need to tell you that our AI sensitivity gauge needle is getting into the red. You’ll have to calm down before it will let us proceed.”

“YOUR WHAT ?!?

“Oops, Mr. ahh…needle is now in the purple. You will need to learn to deal with your emotions. Have you seen anyone about that?

“ABOUT WHAT!??!!

…click

»»»»»» four weeks go by »»»»»»

By now I had tired of the BiLo dance and attempted a reset of my composure. And then, lo! A package arrives from the very company in question. Excited to finally get my cute little blonde cube clock I pulled back the cardboard lid with the BiLo label and—what’s this? It was a ceramic crock with striations of various colors. Actually very nice, but… A small envelope was enclosed with a picture of the clock I ordered along with instructions in Chinese. When I finally doused the fires coming from my nose, I called BiLo with every ounce of self-restraint at my disposal. When I inquired about the bizarre package I received, they said, with apologies, that their Chinese supplier had mistaken the word “clock” for “crock.” Feeling my face reddening I said I will send the crock back if they could cancel my original order and rebate my money. After I received my rebate I sent in a written note filled with some fiery assessments (&^%$$$#*(()^!!!) of the company knowing that the needle on their AI sensitivity gauge was insensitive to text. That evening, I smiled as I sat on my couch in front of the tv and checked my wrist watch for the time.

I now go to write in quietude at a writers collective called Page Street, a few blocks from where I live. Started by author Janis Newman, it is a membership-driven haven where writers go to write and discuss their projects around a large table at lunch time. There are numerous activities and speakers each month. Most recently, I participated in Lit Crawl, a part of the wider Lit Quake throughout the city. Starting at Page Street, we were given an assignment to write for 40 minutes on the theme “Love and/or Death,” roughly 240 words. (You think writing and editing 240 words in 40 minutes is easy? If you’re so damn smart you try it.) From there roughly 20 out of 30 of us were chosen to go down to The Drawing Room on Valencia Street in the Mission District. We then read our little mini projects. Mine follows.

Deadly thoughts lead to deadly deeds. I wish I could get that out of my mind. But it’s that bloody ringing in my ears and…well, now I have an instinct to pull out my knife. I know it’s wrong, but the ringing tells me I need to off that dude that’s been giving me grief. Oh no! I didn’t really mean to. No! For god’s sake. Now he’s making a fool of me by bleeding all over the place. But you know he did me wrong in that NBA betting parlor thing. Now I need to get after Vinny and that mafia group that’s behind it all. But first, I need to tell my wife that I love her and that I probably won’t be home for a while. What? I need to get on the ground and put my hands behind my back? You coppers need to arrest those mafia kooks. What’s a little spilled blood? I got some killer (pardon me) info from my buddy from courtside. Really, I’m more than happy to cut you guys in on it if you...ouch! Those cuffs are too tight! I know I maybe should’na done what I did but hey, our Lord of the Fries is doin’ all sortsa stuff. Why can’t I? Then I jolt up in bed sweating in my soaked pajamas. Phew, glad it was just a nightmare. Now, I gotta get online—it’s betting time!

Enough for now. I’ll keep the lights on.

The penguins of the Falk-Land Islands live in several colonies. The mayor, Sir Waddington, has decided to set up a swoon, a kind of bird social. As Activities Director, Captain Swagger, a bird with a haughty manner, is in charge.

One group, the Windward Colony is a ragtag bunch of lustful and hot-blooded birds. They reek of eclectic personalities. Take Flipper, the insufferable one. He is often spraying stale fish water indiscriminately. Early on, he has taken cute Oreo as his mate. She has a sensuous wobble and warble. Tuxedo has a kind of Charlie Chaplin strut that Pebbles finds seductive. The two have been nuzzling belly to belly, an act of affection that annoys Surfer Dude no end, since he would like to snorkel with Pebbles. Maybe even dig a nest and mate. His friend Briny has even promised something burrowed, something blue.

Over in the Leeward Colony, Whitecaps, a frothy fellow, lusts after Briny. She is spritely and eager to please but always has an unsightly ring of sea spittle around her beak. Bubbles and Barnacle are a couple with a history of togetherness, but Bubbles thought it might be fun to explore a new tide pool. She was informed that penguins are monogamous, but she was ready to beachcomb on her own. That gave Barnacle similar thoughts.

Then there’s Breakers. She comes at you hard and fast. Her partner, Drifter, feels he’s the catch of the day, constantly strutting among the females like he was in a fish market. Breakers is now on the prowl for a proxy penguin, no longer able to tolerate Drifter’s carousing and his squid breath.

Back in Windward, Surfer Dude finally invites Pebbles to a nearby concrete drainpipe for a romantic interlude. Pebbles’ companion Tuxedo says fine, there are plenty of penguins in the sea. Then, Bubbles nudges Drifter and prods him to meet her in a thicket nearby. He sees a chance for his catch of the day.

Now Barnacle, in a spate of revenge, grabs a young hussy passing by. Her name turns out to be Kathy Kelp, and she is as slippery as they come, with a breath like fermented algae.

Captain Swagger decides to have all birds play “pass the fish.” Whoever drops a fish is eliminated from further competition. Their beaks engage with other beaks, bringing on a sense of euphoric arousal. Many are eager to move on to mate and incubate. Captain Swagger awards both Breakers and Surfer Dude the top award by default since their beaks are stuck together. Breakers’ prize is a bag of Goldfish crackers; Surfer Dude’s is a snow globe with a tiny penguin inside. Finally, the mayor instructs them all to run into the sea for a cooling off, ending the swoon. And, so it goes in the Falk-land Islands.

My car was looking kind of scummy, so I decided to take it to the car wash. The various brushes vigorously and sensuously massaged my car’s parts and the blower machine practically sent it off to another neighborhood. It finally emerged from the tunnel of torture, dripping but in good spirits, knowing that those warm fluffy rags would restore its vanity.

Driving off in my now-sparkling car, I had a close-to-euphoric feeling, akin to the conceited attitude when you have just driven a new car off the dealer’s lot: this is mine sucker, get your own. But it didn’t take more than forty-five minutes to lose the handle on my inflated sense of good cheer. A large-bladdered bird dumped its cargo all over my bright shiny car. Now, everyone knows that your car is most vulnerable just after a car wash. I think they say the odds are 50-50. Same thing applies to washing the windows of your home. Rain starts falling the instant the guy in the sling chair packs up for the day.

After I bruised my fist from a vigorous pounding of the dash, I composed myself and conjured a suitable recourse that seemed imminently astute and a chance to gain new insights. I would interview one of our fine feathered friends to see what is upstairs in that noggin—admittedly a kind of bird-brained idea, but hey, it would be a rare opportunity to bond with a member of our avian community.

Later that day, I found my subject: a proud looking seagull, chest puffed out, perched on the top of a post of a pier down by the bay. I took a chance. I waddled up to it, thinking this bird-like shimmy would make it mistakenly think that I fit vaguely into some remote or uncatalogued bird species. More likely, it was thinking I was just another twisted lamer from the community. Looking askance at me, he nonetheless agreed to my request to question him.

Uh...Mr. Seagull, how do you go about seeking out your targets?

Name’s Fred. First off, you need to work on that waddle of yours pal. As for targets, that’s typically classified information, but you seem like a harmless fellow, so I’ll give you the basics. We’re divided up into wings throughout the city—pardon the awk-ward reference. I’m in the Squawk Squad. We tried for Blue Angels but that name was taken. Anyway, several of us may be assigned to key locations: car washes, places where large groups of lame tourists are oohing and aahing, concerts, sporting events, traffic jams, and huddles of messenger bikes. The messenger guys give us giggle fests. They’re all bunched up side-by-side looking down at their phones. And then, whamo! I do feel sorry for them, but hey, this is a business. We get award points for each target we hit.

Did you do my car?

Yeah, but I’ll only get five out of ten possible points because it wasn’t a direct hit. Most of it went on the windshield, not on the top of the car. Our aces can drop their payload within inches of the bullseye. These guys even know the vector of approach before opening their cargo doors. But, come in at a bad angle and you may have to go around again.

Do you have any kind of organization that you belong to?

We call it a Roost. To belong, you need to fly so many missions and bring back a certain amount of edibles from ball parks, picnic grounds, and open dumpsters. We have a few pigeons in our Roost, but those guys are lazy. They’d rather suck up to some guy tossing seeds at ‘em than going to the skies where the real action is. Then, when they do go up, their payloads are half of what ours are. And, their accuracy is a joke. And, they’re like, okay, I’ll just do any ol’ drop when I’m good and ready. Us gulls are disciplined. We have a slogan, “When Duty Calls, Drop Everything.” And, our special leg bands are a neat feature. Mine says F-22 Raptor, after the fighter aircraft. Pigeons and sparrows have special wing markings; no one seems to know what they say. Someone said they’re Coo-R codes, whatever those are. Oops, I’ve got another sighting over at the car wash. Looks like it’s a spanking clean MC20 Maserati just pulling out. Gotta go!

Got it. Have a good flight! I’m going home to clean off my car.

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A Leaf

I had a difficult birth. At least that’s what my branch-mate tells me. Tommy hangs out two leaves above me. He said that my stipule and petiole were slow to emerge from the branch. At first I was thinking he was talking gibberish. But then, Amelia, who lives right next to Tommy confirmed it. She said she had been afraid that I wouldn’t make it, but then, she said, my midrib and veins started to form nicely.

These words were all new to me for sure; this experience rattled my whole being, right to the margin, even to the apex. There I go again, rattling off terms like I’m an expert. I’m only spitting out stuff I’ve heard from my neighbors.

I blushed when Amelia said my cuticle has a nice form to it. I told her, hers isn’t so bad either. I could see her lower epidermis do a little shimmy when I said that.

Speaking of shimmying, my new friends warned me about something called wind just in time. Something was making me shudder involuntarily. I had to get a firmer grip on my base or I would experience what they apparently call a branch launch at the stipule. You can see I am already utilizing the botanical thesaurus from the branch library. This library has tons of useful stuff if you’re a leaf—or even a branch.

Tommy all of a sudden shrieked, “Oh no, Chloé, don’t leaf us. We’ve only gotten to know you.” We all watched as Chloé did a slow spiral to the ground. Tears formed in Amelia’s phloem…yet another term I had to learn. Is there no end?

With the warmer weather, I felt my palisade cells strengthening and my stomas gaining in texture. Hopefully this will get me through what my friends refer to as summer. Just as I was getting the hang of things, a rather sickly looking leaf two branches over named Oliver, starts quizzing me on my family tree. I said I thought this was my family tree. “No, Dumbo,” he called out insultingly, “you have to look up your tree at the branch library.” This made no sense whatsoever, as my tree is right here. Why should I have to go somewhere?

I decided to ignore Oliver. I had other more pressing concerns, like survival. I decide that Tommy is an alarmist. He explained that one of the seasons is fall. Just the name alone starts me dwelling on my existence. After all, I am still a green initiate to this colorful band of fluttering mates. Why do they taunt me with existential expressions. (Pardon me if I use another exotic term from my new thesaurus).

So, as I age, I apparently need to get accustomed to all sorts of abusive behavior from the humanoids. The other day, a rambunctious group of what I am told are called teens, tossed an unending stream of toilet paper into my tree. A section partially blocked my breathing apparatus and if it were not for a strong wind that solved my predicament, I may have…well, I’d rather not go down that speculative path.

Amelia questioned whether my photosynthesis ability had been compromised. Embarrassingly, I was unaware of the term. I quietly assumed that it must have something to do with combining photos. I said, “Not that I’m aware. But, I can always synthesize some again if need be.” Her midrib and margins vibrated a bit, reflecting a profound state of confusion.

The first encounter with water was devastating. Rain pelted me to the point of despair. For the first time, I had to reach for my leaf survival manual. It was largely useless except for one passage that spoke to the positive aspects of the pelting: the clearing off of dust and bird droppings. Don’t get me started on birds and their residue. Where is it written that birds have the right to dump their excrement freely--and onto leaves that have done nothing to offend them? The other day, a squadron came by, opened their cargo hatches and nailed a whole leaf neighborhood.

When the heat of summer came I found a cool sanctuary in my vast canopy of friends. But this collective menagerie also brought a drape over the sights and activities below me. Like the mothers and fathers pulling their offspring in a red wagon. Or the boy playfully wrestling another boy until their grandmother called them to dinner. Or two lovers embracing at the base of our tree. I say “our tree” because we feel very attached to it. And, now, with this curtain drawn over the ground level activity, we all find ourselves talking to one another more. Or talking to oneself.

I find that I learn a lot from my neighbors but that my discussions with myself can be interesting—and often unsettling. I often conjure up imaginary banter among my friends; like Oliver talking about a fine sheen on his blade. I asked what his blade was and even more, what the heck a sheen was. He then yelled out, “Go look it up in your stupid thesaurus.” Lilly, who is normally placid and seldom talks, said, “Yeah, use your vascular bundle and work it out. Stop bothering us.” This was a sign that I should revisit my concept of self-discussion.

So, gradually, after the warmth had blessed our community, the weather chilled and we all took on coats of various hues. At first, it was a spectacle to behold. Oliver’s stunning amber. Gertrude’s hearty orange. Or Manny’s pastel purple—with a tinge of vermillion. But, we all had to confront that term Fall again--A word that has everything to do with our very existence.

One day, at the beginning of this thing called Fall, I was jarred awake by a vigorous gust of wind. It was so strong that it jarred me right out of the tree and onto the ground. Here I lie with a good many of my friends pondering our future, when this monstrous noise erupts from nearby. It appears to be a mechanical thing worn by a young man. It has a long dragon-like snout that sends a force of air that sends some of our leaf community skyward. This is not a good omen. This contraption is heading our way. Oh my…

…

• suggesting the name Enola Gay be stripped from the Pentagon’s website as part of its DEI purge. Does he know it was named after the pilot's mother, Enola Gay Tibbets.

• the Department of Justice has stripped Harvey Milk's name off a ship honoring the assassinated gay rights icon; now it will be the USNS Harvey. Really? The guy served in the Navy—has our Maga-man served? I think we know the answer.

What’s next? Well, I can think of a few.

fairy tale. This will now just be tale. Just when little Johnny was getting attached to reading fairy tales, he and his parents will now only be able to use just tales. While tale is to-the-point and does not venture into the messy world of genetics it somehow lacks the quaintness of fairy tales.

Tooth fairy. There’s that word again. Since using the word tooth by itself won’t cut it, daddy might have to say, “Hey Susie, you better be good because the tooth goblin is scheduled to come tonight.” Probably scare the bejesus out of the little ones. No daddy, I don’t need the extra cash, thanks.

Fairy godmother. Whoa! This is a tough one. May have to go to something like magical godmother. Sounds flat, but better than hero godmother. What would Cinderella or Tinker Bell think if we redefine their persona?

Gay. Where to go with this one? People often say, “I’m having a gay old time,” or “That’s such a gay tune.” Probably use “I’m having such a lighthearted time,” or “That’s such a merry tune.” I told you this would be tough.

Trans. Don’t get me started. We’re hearing about a number of possibilities. First and foremost, we’ve heard that DJT has proposed that the Trans-Siberian Railway be modified to simply the Siberian Railway. Doesn’t quite have the same ring. If he gets a buy-in from Putin he still would have to deal with folks near all the stops along the 5,772-mile system, such as those in Krasnoyarsk or Vladivostok.

There is an unending array of trans words. What to do about: transition, transcend, transitory, transgress, transfigure, transfix, translate, transparent, and transaction? Ultimately, our Trumpster will need to acquire the likes of Merriam-Webster, Thesaurus.com, Dictionary.com, and others so that revisions and deletions can be made to these and others cited here.

In San Francisco we have the Transbay Joint Powers Authority and Transbay Transit Center. Whoof! The name Bay Joint Powers Authority falls flat as a pancake. Sounds like a group in charge of dealing with critical parts of a tan horse or sections of a building, not a major transportation entity. Tough one.

Pride. The phrase gay pride is a double whammy. We’ve covered gay so let’s isolate on pride, particularly its impact on animals. Now we refer to a pride of lions as a social species. Maybe a bunch of lions will have to work. Pretty demeaning to our muscular cat friends though. While we’re at it, let’s go further (I know you were hoping). I will no longer be able to say, “I take a lot of pride in my work.” Instead, I will just have to say, “My work is so good that I am content to have a lot of satisfaction.” Cumbersome? Sure, but I think it might even give a certain nonchalance to my understated ego.

Nonbinary. This one’s heading for the trash can, unless we just use the binary part. Problem is, if we lose the whole phrase, it will eliminate our ability to do square roots and other important math functions since they’re based on…oh well, you get the picture.

In summary, we’re in deep doorknobs if Mr. fly-away-hair gets his way.

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One flew over the cuckoo’s nest…and must have headed right through our window and into our screen-less unit. It was a bright, but confused bird. Quite small but firm of wing. My first sighting was in the bedroom where our bird—let’s call it Alex—was bashing his little beak to a nub trying to exit through a fixed pane of glass. I tried to impart some advice on how to use his bird noggin and exit through the open window just above. Alex was stubborn and wasn’t about to listen to a non-avian. Apparently he missed the last Audubon Society class on escapism.

I decided to use the bristle end of a broom in an attempt to gently sweep him toward greener pastures in the living room where an open sliding door awaited. This really got his feathers up and he flew back to the bedroom where he took refuge under the bed. I then, again, gently poked beneath the bed with the pole end of the broom. The right side of his little bird brain employed the spatial awareness facility and flew from beneath the bed and under the counter in the bathroom (the chaser had a senior moment and forgot to close the bathroom door; the chasee figured this out). I, once again, had to use the broomstick poker and shooed him from beneath the counter. One more reason to remind contractors to put baseboards below counters. It keeps out birds, lotions, pills, and other sundry items.

So now, I really had him on the run—or on the fly. He made a beeline back to the living room where he began another session of beak bashing against the slider door pane. I had generously opened the sliding door but this one chose to use his now-bent beak to try the fixed part. I mentioned earlier that he was a bright, but confused bird. (I held back on using the term stupid.) Forty-five minutes later, amidst more frantic flapping, Alex finally found the open part and flew into the neighborhood so he could pester some other unsuspecting party. I could have sworn it was singing “Fly me to the Moon.”

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To my paid subscribers…this is a rough draft with all its pimples and warts and subject to more serious editing. I am currently on Chapter Four and will send out occasional draft postings. This is about a boy growing up in Kentucky with an unfortunate childhood. I won’t release any spoilers about the actual theme and story arc. …

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Janine was feeling the damp chill penetrating through several layers of cardboard as she sat cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of the Tools ‘n All Hardware Store. For the last three weeks she tried to figure out how she ended up being homeless. It happened quickly: lay-offs at the glove factory, a boyfriend seeking greener pastures, and insurmountable debt. Gloves. Ha! That's a rich one. She doesn't even own a pair now. A shredded parka looked more like a second-hand parachute had landed on her. Her denim pants reeked of must from weeks of wear. Shoes that barely counted as shoes, their soles exposing sock-less feet.

She had learned to ignore the physical pain that came with so many hours of sitting, lotus-like. But, the biggest hurt came from the blows struck against her humility and self-esteem. This was next to intolerable. Each day seemed like the sink hole was growing deeper, until...

A tall man sauntered by in a dark olive raincoat, tan wool beret, and rimless glasses snugged around his broad nose. His gait was almost imperial. Just as he reached Janine he dug into his trench-coat and pulled out a mobile phone. His brisk motion had also dislodged a money clip full of very large bills which then fell tantalizing near Janine.

"Hey mister, you dropped some money," she called out. Why in god's name did I do that, she thought. Stunned, the man swept the wad up and started to walk off. Three steps later he reversed himself and, without speaking, dumped five one-dollar bills in Janine's lap. She almost convulsed with a giddiness approaching euphoria; mostly to do with this unexpectedly humane gesture. Ten minutes later she returned to her normal state of melancholy.

The next day she had a revelation, maybe even an epiphany. Normally, passersby would put on their best evasion techniques: eyes that bored a hole in the horizon, a jerk of a neck to see just what pathetic soul lay panhandling, or the worst, a "Sorry." Sorry! I'm the one's that sorry!! Who the hell do you think you are?

Through her fog of depression, she spotted a woman—thirty-something she guessed—gripping the hand of her young daughter who appeared to be seven or eight. Time for action. What do I have to lose? As the couple approached, Janine held out one of the dollar bills the man had given her. At first, the mother yanked on her child's arm who had, by now, a gleam in her eye seeing the money. "Mommy, Mommy, she's offering me money. Please, please, can I take it? My piggy bank is almost empty."

The mother, reeking of skepticism, slowly led her daughter over to Janine. "What's your name, Sweetie," prodded Janine.

"Angie," the little girl replied.

"Angie, I told you to never give your name out to strangers!" The mother warned, about to give another tug on Angie's sleeve.

"It's okay, I won't bite, promised Janine, and this is perfectly good money.”

As Angie took the dollar bill from Janine, her mother said, "Oh, all right, I guess it's okay."

The mother, starting to walk away, pivoted, and returned to lay four dollar bills into Janine's lap, clearly not wanting to make physical contact with this shabby street person.

Wow, thought Janine, this concept may have merit. Twice in one day she had witnessed the better side of human nature. But, of course, she thought, this can't last and began hearing the ugly gremlins bark loudly in her head again. What are you doing, you fool? You're not supposed to be giving money away, you're supposed to be stashing it away.

For the next several days, she tried moving further out into the sidewalk to gain a better prominence. No luck, until a young man with dreadlocks and one of those Dr. Seuss Cat-in-the-Hat hats that partly concealed a set of AirPods came along.

Almost past her, he braked his skateboard into the paving, picked it up, and approached Janine. "Hey girlie, you givin’ the greenies away?"

"Just one of them, dearie," she clarified.

"Tell you what," the boy countered, "Since the freaks at the surfboard shop where I work just paid me, I'll take your one and give you some cabbage in return. Deal?"

Janine wasn't sure how many weeds the boy had smoked, but she handed the boy the dollar bill.

"Thanks mama," The boy half-growled, as he spun around to leave. "Jest spiffin ya, here ya go." He handed a crisp five-dollar bill to Janine and slammed his skateboard down and rattled off down the street.

She had felt this temporary euphoria before and was not inclined to give in to it. The real world was the real world, after all.

The next day, slipping back into her melancholic fog, she looked up and there was Angie and her mother. This time, Angie skipped over to Janine and asked, "Do you have any more money or did you spend it all?"

Temporarily stung by this accusation, Janine realized it had probably originated with her mother. "I sure do," pronounced Janine as she pulled a one dollar bill from her pocket.

"I told everyone in my class at school about you," blurted Angie, "I said I now have a homeless friend who gives me money. Everyone giggled and told me I was crazy. But I know I'm not."

"You're certainly not Angie, countered Janine. "I look forward to seeing you. In fact, when you don't come by I am sad."

Angie tentatively placed her arm around Janine as her mother cautiously placed a ten-dollar bill into Janine's shirt pocket.

Angie became a frequent visitor to what she called Janine's sidewalk hotel. She brought a small stuffed lizard, a bag of Slime, a slinky, and a yo-yo, convinced that these were all necessary for sidewalk living. And Janine's nest egg kept growing. Soon she was not giving any more money away.

A week later, Janine sat slumped on her cardboard rug. Her face was black and blue and she was leaning to one side. When Angie finally came by again, she raced over to her friend and asked what had happened. Janine said that the nearby commune of homeless people found out about her money and had beaten her and stolen all the cash.

Angie's mother had seen enough. She shuttled Janine to an urgent care facility and one of those mobile shower units. Then she found her a place in an emergency shelter until Janine could find a more permanent place to live and begin looking for work.

Over the next year, Angie and her mother lost track of Janine. Angie was increasingly sad when she walked past the bare piece of concrete that normally held the cardboard “rug.” Then, as the two stopped in at their local coffee house, they spotted Janine behind a counter. She had just been hired as a barista as part of the shop’s Working Your Way Back program. She had told the owners that two wonderful people in the community became her soul mates, her confidants, and more than anything, her caring friends. And, of course, there had been a dash of accident and a pinch of epiphany.

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"Dying in the company of strangers — that was what was going through my mind."

Salman Rushdie is an Indian-born, British and American novelist. After his fourth novel, The Satanic Verses (1988), Rushdie became the subject of several assassination attempts and death threats, including a fatwa calling for his death issued by Ruhollah Khomeini, the leader of Iran. The Japanese translator of the book, Hitoshi Igarashi was stabbed to death in 1991. It was the recipient of several book awards, and was seen as the most ambitious novel published at the time that dealt with the immigrant experience in Britain. His latest book Knife speaks to the attack. When Rushdie was asked if the writing of the book had therapeutic value he quoted another author who said, “Only write books you can’t avoid writing.” While my essay here is not a book, I guess it follows that logic. Mine is a narrative that allows me to reflect on and recall what the human body can endure with the proper dose of determination. Salman describes that determination as key to his ability to endure his own private hell.

I am in no way comparing my experience to Mr. Rushdie’s. His was an instantaneous horrifying event that he describes as a piñata being knifed many times by a madman. It took seven weeks of hospitalization and the skills of many specialists. My own journey has been a roller coaster of hope, trials, and treatments that, in many ways, has echoed some of the emotional trauma that Salman experienced.

It all started in November of 2002 at the age of 62. At a routine checkup I had a 4.2 PSA reading which normally would not raise eyebrows. PSA is a test that measures the amount of prostate specific antigen in your blood, a principal marker for detecting prostate cancer. But since my reading was borderline, a “free PSA” test was given. Without getting too deep in medical esoterica, the “free” part gives a more definitive take on things—a test that in this case sent me to the next level of investigation: a biopsy. Bingo! On December 9th of ‘02 a probe of the prostate indicated cancer in five out of six core samples, plus a 4+4 Gleason score, or 8, with 10 being the worst. This indicated a high-grade cancer. When I was shown a picture of a cross section of the cell it looked like a war between amoebas. In other words, it was a highly disorganized mass whereas the masses with better behavior—better organized—are less dangerous. Kind of like an unruly classroom versus one that is well-behaved.

When the doctor presented me with the news it was just before Christmas of 2002. As those who get a cancer prognosis will tell you, it takes the air out of your lungs. Your thinking immediately gravitates to the dark side. After an anguished mulling of the options and in concurrence with my family’s and doctors’ thinking, I decided to have a Radical Prostatectomy, a surgery to totally remove the prostate and several adjoining lymph nodes. I wanted it out! So, on February 23rd, 2003, Dr. Peter Carroll at UCSF performed the surgery. All went well and there was no sign of any rebel cells outside the fascia (external skin). Dr. Carroll originally organized the Urologic Oncology Service at UCSF and is a Professor of Urology. He is not only a gifted surgeon and doctor but a very approachable, bright, and warm human being. We still keep in touch all these years later.

The post-op PSA was low but began rising for the next four years. It was climbing enough so that in 2004 they started me on Lupron, a synthetic hormone that reduces testosterone and slows cancer growth. Of course there are always side effects: I had hot flashes and night sweats, although not as bad as other prostate cancer patients. They also started me on Casodex, another type of hormone therapy with its own side effects. In August of that year I had my first round of radiation therapy just to throw something else at it since the PSA was not to the doctors’ liking. Then, things started to go in the wrong direction with a rising PSA by the latter part of 2010. The Lupron and Casodex were administered off and on through early 2014.

By May of 2014 a PET scan of my bones showed some small lesions forming along with more increases in the PSA. In July I was put on a double-blind clinical trial called ARN-509, a study for improving non-metastatic prostate cancer. I was on this while on a tour of Turkey with my wife. While I found the sites we visited there fascinating, I was distracted by my thoughts about what this drug might be doing. Later, I found that I was on the placebo, meaning that I wasn’t receiving whatever benefits may have accrued from the real drug.

By the end of October, 2015, my PSA had shot up to over 18. Enter Xtandi (Enzalutamide), a drug that is used for patients that have a high risk of their cancer spreading to other parts of the body. This brought the PSA down but not low enough. PET and CT scans showed more issues, with uptake of the contrast fluid to lesions in my ribs. Sleep was becoming more difficult not knowing what lay ahead.

At the end of January, 2017, another round of radiation, this time IMRT or Intensity Modulated Radiation Therapy. Then, hopeful thoughts until May of 2018 when I experienced four days of nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea, requiring a visit to the ER. With some CTs showing metastases, several sessions of radiation ensued targeting ribs, neck, and lungs into February of 2018.

Intermission

Phew! This is hard work—for the reader as well as the author. Let’s just take a moment to reflect on something Salman Rushdie said after his horrible incident. He said that he now has a new relationship with his body. When I reflected on that comment, I began to wonder whether our bodies do indeed have personalities of their own. It’s possible that I now respect and admire my own body for what it has endured; this would include other surgeries over time: shoulder, hernia, sinus, cataracts, vasectomy, tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy as a child (I came close to folding my cards after those last two), dental, femurs, and spinal.

For those who are still with me, it gets more interesting. The PSA continued its march until even more “stuff” was showing up on the CT scans. Next: a decision to give stereotactic body radiotherapy (SBRT), a precise, high-dose form of radiation therapy that allows physicians to treat cancer in just one to five treatments, rather than the multiple doses over many weeks required in conventional radiation. These were delivered to a rib, a lung, and neck nodes.

Yet another visit to the ER in November, 2019, with an upper respiratory infection, pneumonia, shortness of breath and fatigue. These problems have since been recurring themes with me and relate to a weakening of the immune system caused by the many cancer treatments. By August of 2020, things were heating up. A PSMA PET scan showed an advanced spread of the cancer. On a PET scan, "uptake" refers to the amount of a radioactive tracer absorbed by tissues or cells. Some mild fractures were beginning to show. I had been on a drug called Enzalutamide, or Xtandi, to treat patients who have metastatic prostate cancer. At that point metastatic lesions had filled the full diameter of my femurs (upper leg bones). Because I was then at risk for pathologic failure (i.e., broken bones), it was decided to surgically place titanium rods in both of my femurs—within three days of each other. I had the good fortune to have another top flight UCSF surgeon, Dr. Melissa Zimel who deals with orthopedic oncology. Dr. Zimel is not only a very skilled surgeon but a delightful and calming presence in the operating room.

A PSA of over 20 made me a candidate for yet another clinical trial, Keynote-921. By January of 2021 my PSA had risen to 30. More trips to the ER for various reasons. An MRI of the spine showed fractures of the L2 and L4 vertebrae and then metastatic prostate adenocarcinoma, a spread of the cancer throughout the body. A lesion was now pressing into the spinal column and compressing the spinal fluid. This was decision time. Things were looking grayer all the time. The choices were between more radiation or surgery to remove the lesion. At one point consideration was given to emergency spinal surgery. About this time, I was lucky enough to get referred to Dr. Praveen Mummaneni who is the co-director of the UCSF Spine Center and vice chair of the neurosurgery department. He has been selected by U.S. News & World Report as one of the best doctors in the nation every year since 2005. In other words, I was in great hands for a very delicate procedure. He performed a spinal fusion of T12-L4 with bone cement augmentation of L2 and L4. Rods, screws, and bars were placed for rigidity. I always say it’s like owning an aisle in the local hardware store. Bottom line: this operation was a life saver.

While the surgery was successful, I was immobile and in considerable pain. This meant three weeks in the CPMC acute rehab department of the Ralph K. Davies Medical Center. At first, I couldn’t even get to the bathroom. I was loaded into a sling that was hooked up to a track system in the ceiling. This sounds like a lot of fun but it was painful. I couldn’t help but think about the historic transit system, the monorail in Wuppertal, Germany, that still zips around on a suspended rail. The folks at Davies were amazing in getting me back as a functioning human being. No wonder they call it the Boot Camp. Non-stop daily activities and exercises were not only done with purpose and rigor, but also with compassion. I was discharged in February of 2022.

In May of 2022 I fell, which was diagnosed as the result of pneumonia (what else?) and pleural effusion which is a build up of fluid between the layers of tissue that line the lungs and chest cavity. When I hit a wall with my head I was left with a small fracture where the skull meets the spine. They insisted on giving me one of those bulky neck braces. I wore it three times and only once in public. I said that I was pretty certain that my head wasn’t going to fall off. My attempt at humor was underappreciated.

By mid-May of ‘22, both my PSA and metastases were increasing pretty dramatically. Traces of the cancer were now found pretty much everywhere—ribs, bones, spinal column, lymph nodes, and abdomen. My PSA rose from 70 on May 11 to 94 on June 6. I was started on Keytruda (Pembrolizumab), a type of immunotherapy. This caused acute respiratory distress bringing on another round of shortness of breath and pneumonia. By June 21, my PSA had increased to 153, and then to 210 by July 6.

To make things even more interesting, I acquired a mean case of shingles in October of ‘23. After some delay in diagnosis and acute weakness, it was discovered that I had sepsis, a potentially fatal blood disease. Large doses of antibiotics finally corralled the extent of the condition and I was released from isolation in the hospital. I had had the two-part dosage of the vaccine, but at least that may have prevented a more serious case. I still have nerve sensitivity around my hip where the infection seemed to have had its headquarters.

Help is on the way

For some time my wife Peggy and I had been following the potential use of a drug called PSMA-lu or Pluvicto by Novartis. We had heard good things about it but, after all the treatments to date, false hopes and frustrations ruled my mind. In order to qualify for the drug you had to have prostate-specific membrane antigen­–­positive metastatic castration-resistant prostate cancer. In shorthand you had to have prostate cancer that has spread beyond the prostate and metastasized after treatments with other therapies: hormonal, chemotherapy, and radiation. Basically, you’ve tried everything. A while back I had chemo sessions for ten weeks which was 4 sessions more than they normally give. These were increasingly brutal and kept me in bed for periods at a time. It also left me with neuropathy in my feet which, to this day, still affects my walking. I just had my first experimental laser treatment of the feet to minimize the sensitivity and pain of the neuropathy.

Dr. Thomas Hope, a professor of radiology at UCSF, guides the Pluvicto program. In mid-2023, he scheduled a PSMA PET scan which showed that I had very high potential for successful treatment under the Pluvicto drug. The scan showed black patches (lesions) throughout my body—not a pretty picture. I was indeed a prime candidate. The drug is administered once a week over six weeks. I had my first dose in July of 2023 and my second one in August of that year. By December, I had a non-detectable PSA. I continue to be the poster boy for the Pluvicto drug at UCSF. This means that my cancer is in remission and I have another four treatments remaining should I need them (I call it money in the bank). Dr. Hope reminds me that my cancer could return (doctors unfortunately have to give all sides). In the meantime, I am enjoying an incredible run, roughly 19-months-long since my last treatment.

During this overall 23-year period I also had innumerable PET and CT scans, MRIs, injections, and blood draws—too many to itemize, fortunately for the reader.

My support team

Back to Salman Rushdie. One of his points was the role his American wife played. During his seven weeks of hospitalization and beyond, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, herself an accomplished poet, novelist, visual artist, and photographer, basically had to modify her lifestyle and become supporter, caregiver, and advocate for her husband after the attempt on his life.

My wife Peggy, over a period of the last 23 years has, on innumerable occasions, played morale booster, caregiver, advisor, and confidant. That period represents forty percent of our married life. She was present with me in physician meetings where critical decisions were being made and quite often at my side in the hospital. There is no amount of thanks that can repay her devotion and loving support.

My daughter Margot frequently acted as a key supporter and on many occasions helped prepare my travel bag to take to the hospital (my frequent visits required a packing list). She made sacrifices in both her career and social life to accommodate many a last minute rush to the ER. Her calming influence helped smooth out the often rough periods.

My son Peter would, on occasion, come up from Southern California and spend quality time with me. His presence helped take the pressure off other family members.

There have been too many doctors to mention that attended to me over this time period. I have been blessed with the finest and most professional medical personnel around. I just hope I don’t need their services again in the near future.

Thanks to a Christmas present from my daughter Margot, I am enjoying his compendium of masterful tales and sketches from his illustrated notebooks from the period 2009-2022. In this beefy book, Memories of Distant Mountains, he fills 373 pages with notes and colorful vignettes conjured from locales such as Goa, Granada, New York, and beyond. I found that even the truncated bits of text on these pages brought forth insights for the novel I am currently in the process of writing.

Each double spread contains vivid drawings overlaid by his script that has been translated into English. I found myself gorging on the extent of detail that kept me turning page after page just to take the journey with him. The back cover gives a more concise overview:

“He writes about his travels around the world, his family, his writing process, and his thoughts about and impressions of his native Turkey. He also charts the seeds of his novels and the ways that the places he visits and the people he encounters inspire his work. Memories of Distant Mountains is an invitation into Pamuk’s inner world and a fascinating, intimate encounter with the art, culture, and charged political currents that have shaped one of literature’s most important voices.”

I find his forthrightness and candor refreshing. In some cases he reaches back into his childhood for pertinent imagery. In others, he pensively dotes on hypotheticals:

“I would like to learn more about PALLADIO and to be the Turkish Palladio.”

I have always traveled to various cities around the world with sketchbook in hand. Only in limited cases did I record a kind of diary at Pamuk’s level that includes notes on daily observations and happenings—typical exceptions being my trip to Jubail, Saudia Arabia, when I worked on an urban planning project and another to the south of France for a home exchange. But, these were separate from my sketchbooks. As an architect-traveler, I tended to sketch buildings and landscapes in pen and ink. Later on, I overlaid colors in Photoshop to “dress them up a bit” (below).

So, one never knows where concepts are born as Mr. Pamuk so aptly points out. While I don’t aspire to be Andrea Palladio, the famous 16th century Italian Renaissance architect, I might do well to reread Memories of Distant Mountains when the well is running dry.

This is my first short story (download below). It is a fiction piece with some historical bits blended in. I am now at work on my next novel, Letters from the Hollow. It takes place in Kentucky. My first one, Shu Wei’s Revenge, is a story about a Chinese family whose fortunes rise and fall around events in China and in San Francisco’s Chinatown. It is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. I will be discussing the writing of this book in a future post.

The Retrospectrum

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a short story about a future version of AI

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Crillon le Brave, Provence, France; my original sketch with digitized color