On April 30, 1970, President Richard Nixon announced to a national television audience that he was ordering troops into Cambodia. Although the stated purpose of this so-called “incursion” was to hasten an end to the ongoing slaughter in Vietnam, many Americans, myself included, thought this a wholly-unwarranted expansion of the war effort.

I was in the last semester of my undergraduate college days at this time: politically-active and fervently anti-war. I had received a draft notice in June of 1969 and spent 22 days in the Air Force until a chronic knee condition led to a medical discharge. Although I was (because of my discharge) no longer at risk of losing my life to this insane activity, I had spent four long college years with the specter of the military draft – and the prospect of a gruesome, lonely death in a jungle a million miles away from home. For me, the war was personal.

Richard Nixon had been elected, at least in part, on the basis of his “secret plan” to end the war. Yet, here he was, less than two years later, ordering an obvious escalation.

I was pissed. I remember spending the remainder of the evening after Nixon’s speech composing a letter to the editor of my local newspaper. My writing skills were not too finely developed then and my letter was not the most eloquent piece of prose. But what I lacked in style, I hope I made up for in passion: Nixon was wrong. He was a madman. He had to go. The war must end.

Many, many people agreed with me. Unrest on the nation’s campuses, especially, took a dramatic turn. On May 4, 1970, my letter was published in the Eau Claire (WI) Leader-Telegram, the same day that four full-time college students (Allison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, Sandra Scheuer and William Schroeder) at Kent State University were gunned down by Ohio National Guard troops on their own campus. Another nine students (Joseph Lewis, John Cleary, Thomas Grace, Robbie Stamps, Donald Scott MacKenzie, Alan Canfora, Douglas Wrentmore, James Russell and Dean Kahler) were wounded; one was paralyzed for life, the others seriously maimed.

The students of the University of Wisconsin - Eau Claire, in the days immediately following the Kent State massacre, rallied. I, for one, picketed the Science building where I had spent the majority of my time as a chemistry student. On May 6th we held a campus-wide protest, gathering on the lawn right outside the student union building. And we planted four trees in memory of the dead in Ohio. The plaque from that memorial service is still there today, as are three of the four original trees.

May 4, 1970, was thirty-six years ago. On this day, today, let us not forget the madness that can afflict us as a nation.

Let us also not forget that we always have a voice. Let’s remember that protest can lead to change. We must know that when we perceive injustice in the world, we can stand, march, shout and be heard. We can make a difference.

Thought for the day: We have the ability to put an end to the killing. All it takes is the will.

Soundtrack Suggestion

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.
Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?
Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?
Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.

(“Ohio” – Neil Young)

Here’s a picture taken during an interview trip to Aberdeen, Washington, earlier this month. My travels didn’t yield a job offer, but I was able to take some photos both on and off campus while I was there. I took this one right outside my hotel room fairly early in the morning the day of the interview. (I actually went out shooting before I’d even had breakfast!)

I have had very little opportunity to spend time on photography in recent months. Well, perhaps the past two years would be a more accurate time frame: ever since I’ve been here in Portland, working a very big job and searching for another one at the same time. There’s just so little time to pursue my “art.”

I have to admit I’m hungry – more like starving – to have some time to devote this part of my life. (Well, what used to be a big part of my life.)

And, this weekend, I ended up feeling so desperate that I actually agreed to work professionally two weeks from today: shooting the graduation ceremonies (there’s more than one) at Willamette University.

This may not be the wisest move I’ve ever made, as I know I’ll be very tired out from two interviews I’m doing the previous week. And, I remember two years ago when I shot this event, it was a very, very exhausting experience. What am I thinking?!

I spent part of the day today going through my equipment, making sure that I know where everything is, and starting to pack for the job. (I’m driving to Wenatchee, Washington, next weekend for an interview, so there is little time between now and May 14th to actually prepare.)

I have to admit, though…just handling the camera equipment made me feel good. I am aching to get out there. Oh, I wish I had more time for art!

My body is doing another number on me. It’s one stress symptom after another, it seems. This time: gastric distress. Really, honestly, I’m sure you don’t want to read about this latest development, so you should probably just stop right here.

After the interview in Washington last week, as I was driving back to Portland, I succumbed to hunger pangs late in the evening and took the Cougar, Washington, exit from the freeway and indulged in a McDonald’s fish sandwich. I’ve had lots of these meals in the past, of course, but it seems the combination of the stress of the interview day and this particular fast-food fix were a potent combination. I felt ill almost immediately, but went to work the next morning anyway despite obvious intestinal issues. I only made it a couple hours before I gave up and came home, though. The bathroom here is simply more convenient!

Just when it seemed I had recovered from that episode, I went to San Mateo, California, three days later for another interview. I had been eating only the blandest foods I could find, so my insides made it through that meeting just fine. Afterwards, however, at the San Francisco airport, I needed to eat before flying home later in the evening (I had almost five hours to kill, given how my schedule turned out). I had a chicken-salad sandwich at an eatery I’d had success with on other trips. Well, approximately the same thing happened to my body, only this time instead of a half-hour drive to get home (in my own car), I had an almost two-hour wait plus an hour-and-a-half in the air (sitting in a window seat!).

I honestly didn’t know if I was going to be able to handle the air travel. I was queasy and needed frequent visits to the rest room. How was this possibly going to work?

I had no idea. But, if there was any chance that I was actually going to get on that airplane, there was no way I could cope with a window seat. Luckily, it was possible to get an aisle seat, so I snapped that right up.

I thought about alerting a flight attendant about my unstable condition, but decided against it…I’d keep this little secret to myself unless it became an obvious and disruptive problem. A risky, but, as it turned out, good decision.

Then, the moment I got on the plane (I was alone in my new row!), I put on my headphones, with my iPod set to one of my quieter playlists.

I breathed. And breathed some more. And continued to focus on my breath.

An hour-and-a-half in the air. Can I do this? Yes, one minute of focusing on my breath at a time.

When the flight attendant came by, I asked for a 7-Up, thinking that would calm my stomach a bit. Nope, it didn’t. It had rather the opposite effect, so I drank very little.

When we were doing our initial climb, the pilot indicated we were at 27,000 feet headed for a cruising altitude of 40,000 feet. Ohmygod, I thought: 40,000 feet up, 40,000 feet down. Feeling like this. Oh. My. God.

Somewhere, at some point, when we were likely at that 40,000 foot level, I started sweating a little bit. I actually felt a bit feverish. And, I just could have sworn that I was sweating out chicken salad. I was thinking that if there had been anyone sitting next to me, they would have certainly detected perspiration with the distinct odor of my evening meal.

Oh, but that couldn’t be. Who’s ever heard of such a thing?

Fortunately, the story ends well. I made it through the flight with no major impossible urges. My shuttle was on time, and it rushed me home.

Whew! What a trip…

…and for what? I got the rejection call from San Mateo earlier today.

My colleague Wendall died swiftly of a heart-attack on Thursday evening. A co-worker was able to drive him from campus to the emergency room during the crisis (it’s just down the street), but they were apparently able to do little for him. He was one day short of his 56th birthday, and leaves behind a wife, kids, grandkids, and a large number of stunned colleagues in his department and on the entire campus.

I worked with Wendall for nearly two years. When I accepted this interim job in 2004, I was slated initially to take over the supervision of the Science Division, but by the time I actually got to campus, the president had reorganized things a bit and I found myself leading the “Science & Technology Division.” The technology portion included the Industrial Technology Department (consisting of the Automotive, Machine Tool, and Welding Technologies), of which Wendall was the department chair.

Wendall was a weldor and welding instructor; from my perspective he loved his trade and he had a deep and abiding affection for his students. He was exceptionally dedicated to the mission of the Industrial Technology department, and worked long hours to make sure everything was moving along as it should. Most importantly he was, simply, a very decent human being.

I will miss him.

This event seems to be triggering, for me, overwhelming feelings of loss. Even though I know that loss is integral to our existence, I still am sad. Despite the length of time I’ve lived and how much I’ve learned, I guess I’ve never been able to accept the impermanent nature of the universe. One would think that, by now, I would know that any relationship is temporary. To begin a relationship with anyone, with anything, is to know that it will someday end.

This loss, taken with my other large losses in the last couple years, is serving to keep me, I believe, in a rather deep and prolonged melancholic state. I apparently cling to some kind of ideal that I can, at some point, “get it together.” It’s likely my perfectionist tendencies, and my sense of what’s “fair,” that lead to disappointment and my sense of loss and failure. And, I suppose it’s what keeps me “stuck” in whatever uncomfortable place this is that I am in.

“To think that we can finally get it all together is unrealistic. To seek for some lasting security is futile…Suffering begins to dissolve when we can question the belief or the hope that there is anywhere to hide.

Hopelessness means that we no longer have the spirit for holding our trip together…Trying to get lasting security teaches us a lot, because if we never try to do it, we never notice that it can’t be done.” (Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart, p. 39)

On April 4, 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated in Memphis, TN. Two days later, as the country was experiencing utter turmoil from coast to coast, M and I were married at Trinity Lutheran Church in Eau Claire, WI. If that marriage had lasted, today we would have been celebrating 38 years of married life. Holy smokerinos, do these kinds of thoughts make me feel old!

I now find it interesting that I chose to get married in a year that was one of the most turbulent and definitive ones of the times. M and I went honeymooning when many of the major metropolitan areas of the country were experiencing riots in the aftermath of MLK’s murder. Bobby Kennedy was killed in California just a couple months later; two more months after that was the Democratic National Convention debacle in Chicago. My oh my, the flashbacks I’m having as I write this…

I guess if I can have memories this old, then feeling old, at least at times, isn’t all that surprising.

Lately, the energy I’ve been able to summon to make blog entries (well, actually, just to make it through the day) has waned a tad. Since last week, for sure, I’ve been trying to pace myself even more conscientiously that I usually do. Seeing my life’s blood literally gush from my body in the nosebleed episode had a big impact on me, I think. And, too, I was diagnosed with another eye infection last week. So, I’ve been fighting with that condition, which has led to diminished motivation to stare at a computer screen. Anyway, if you’re out there checking blog entries, you’ll probably have noticed less productivity from ol’ TechnoMonk.

I had a chat with a fellow I work with today. He’s a couple years younger than me, and he disclosed that, physically, he’s been struggling as well. It seems as if his energy level has taken an unexplained, precipitous drop. It wasn’t a gradual thing. Suddenly he’s fatigued all the time. All the medical tests that he’s had so far have turned up nothing; still, this kind of stuff can weigh mightily on one’s mind. I sure know about that firsthand.

It just another example of the fact: we never, really, have any control…

“Seeking security or perfection, rejoicing in feeling confirmed and whole, self-contained and comfortable, is some kind of death…[and is] setting ourselves up for failure, because sooner or later we’re going to have an experience we can’t control: our house will burn down, someone we love is going to die, we’re going to find out we have cancer, a brick is going to fall out of the sky and hit us on the head…to be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man’s land…” (Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart, p. 71).

Postscript for the day ... As I was just putting the finishing touches on this entry, the phone rang. My supervisor, who normally does not call me at home, just did. The news is: one of our colleagues, a good man, and a department chair who reported directly to me, died this evening, apparently of a heart-attack. I don’t have the details. I am in shock. More later...