Fri 17 Nov 2006
Today I am thinking about all the empty space inside my face. Mouth, nose, sinuses, ears. It is mostly wet, squishy empty space. I’m wondering what landscape I might be able to compare it to. An undersea cavern? The structure of a sea sponge?
Wed 8 Nov 2006
The heat felt like smashed bananas, oozing down his scalp and over his ears. If it were car wash-like, he’d be okay with it; stepping out of a building into a sheet of moving heat didn’t seem so bad. But this type of heat was uncalled for, embarrassing, especially this late in the year. He had a giant yellow and orange arrow which he was supposed to point in a particular direction, for a certain amount of time, and in return he would receive $5.15 an hour. There were plastic arm straps affixed to the backside of the giant arrow, which also embarrassed him. He didn’t use them anyway, since he leaned against a post and kept the giant arrow pointed straight at the sky. “Luxury Homes! Tours All Day!” said the arrow in orange and yellow block letters. He tried to hold his head as still as possible to keep the sweat from dripping. With any luck it would be hours before the realtor drove by and fired him.
Tue 24 Oct 2006
This morning, climbing up the hill behind our house as doves, quail, lizards, and snakes leapt away from my oncoming feet, a recurring idea of mine re-recurred. It’s not an original idea but I find it fun to mull over: how much does the landscape affect one’s perception of How Things Really Are? Like, is the world full of possibility and opportunity, or something to be survived through great struggle and suffering? Do we have a sense of enveloping abundance, or looming menace? These are false dichotomies, but gimme a break, I’m just throwing out examples. I’m not up to the task of philosophizing at great length, so instead I’ll do an inventory of how I’ve been landscapeified.
Ages Birth to Two: Los Angeles basin. I don’t remember much from this era, if anything. A sense of ease and mildness. My parents took me to the ocean and when you’re that small, you have to assume that everything you experience is normative, the way things are supposed to be. So I think I have a semi-conscious belief that everywhere I live should be bordered by restless waters.
Ages Two to Fourteen: Small logging town below a mountain in Northern California. I remember the smell of pine trees everywhere. We used to build forts out of fallen branches and piled up pine needles. My hands would get covered with sap from tree-climbing and it would stick there for a couple days. My parents took us kids out rock climbing, hiking, camping, skiing, swimming, and fishing. They taught us wilderness survival skills and what you could eat in the forest. The whole world was cool and shady, and nothing could sneak up on you.
Ages Fourteen to Eighteen: Near an active volcano in a hot, sunny, agricultural valley (still Northern California). Driving in any direction from town, I’d pass by orchards of olives and nuts. The tree trunks were so carefully spaced that they’d create pulsing optical illusions as I went past. Open fields were dotted with basalt boulders that had blown out of the volcano, and slick lava channels in the hills had turned into creeks with underwater tunnels. They fed into wide, flat, straight rivers that flowed through the valleys. We’d ride down them for miles on inner tubes. For field trips we’d go to the volcano and climb down in the cindercone or visit Bumpass Hell, the boiling, sulfurous mudpot area where some explorers had run into trouble. The mix of textures in the enviroment in general hinted at upheaval, the unexpected hidden below the prosperous soil.
Ages Eighteen to Twenty-Four: Another agricultural valley, this time in Oregon. I will save this and other landscapes for a later installment.
Fri 20 Oct 2006
It’s two a.m. and I’m still hopped up on a chai latte I drank five hours ago. I’m thinking about garbage. We live at the end of a dead-end street. The opposite end, which intersects with a big road, has a very wide shoulder and a sign that says NO DUMPING. Propped against this sign is a green toilet and a giant stuffed cat. Or maybe I’d call it more of a cat-shaped pillow, white, with whiskers sticking out of the face part. It has a cute little smile. The cat is about the size of a small couch cushion and it seems to enjoy its pseudo-life. Kids and people waiting for the bus seem to enjoy moving the cat and the toilet around. One day, the cat will be perched jauntily inside the bowl. The next day, the toilet will be tipped over on its side, with the cat reclining against it. Recently a rusty old washing machine, a bike tire, and a bag of trash joined the toilet-cat combo, so now the cat has many more interesting places to perch.
For some reason I notice the flagrant dumping more at night, when the pile of junk gets caught in the flare of headlights as I turn onto the street; perhaps it’s because the objects no longer compete with the hillside or the traffic or the wild blue sky. It’s always interesting to see what configuration the stuff will take– will the toilet be hidden behind the washing machine? How far will the washing machine travel? The palette of burnt orange, avocado, and ( increasingly dirty) white works well, but how will the artistes keep the bulk of the largest objects from overwhelming the smaller ones? It’s like a private, constantly changing art exhibit. Once I saw a pair of ring-tailed cats contributing their own efforts to the piece, before racing off up the hillside. Once i had to slam on the brakes for a big black snake making right for it. That cat keeps on smiling.
Thu 5 Oct 2006
If I lived in an underwater society– the kind in which whole cities are built under clear domes suctioned to the seabed– I probably wouldn’t like swimming as much. Going in and out via the pressure chamber would just seem like too much hassle for a few minutes of waving my arms and legs around. Maybe it would be the kind of society that has pools inside the dome. Then I could float on my back and look up at the water above me and think about how ironic it all was. I could make it even more ironic by sipping water from my hydration pack. Wait, I don’t have a hydration pack. I only have a Nalgene bottle that I hook to my waist strap and then it thunks against my leg the whole time. There goes that fantasy.
P.S. here are some great pictures of Dr. G and his sister, in honor of his birthday, which was a factor of two for the mathematically inclined among you.
Wed 20 Sep 2006
Should I be talking about tacos? Last week my friends lost their son. I noted it on the blog, and then within a few days was onto squirmy wormies and tacos. It’s a version of a question that keeps recurring in my writing life, a choice that is never made once and for all. The first reason I ask the question is because, as fellow blogger Julie has so eloquently explained, after a death one feels the world should stop and acknowledge the enormous loss; the world should somehow show it is affected. The world will not stop, but friends and family can. We can create a space to honor and remember.
The second reason I ask is because devoting similar space to both large events and trivialities may appear to grant them equivalence. Newspapers give the most space and the best spots to the most important stories– does this quantitative representation of value in journalism carry over to essays and blog journals and fiction and poetry?
I tell my students that the chief requirement for a piece of writing to be worthy of a reader is that it be interesting. (An exaggeration). On the other end of the spectrum, I got fired from the university newspaper for refusing to write columns about anything other than religious virtues. I haven’t read those pieces in many years and so can’t testify to their literary merit one way or the other. At the time it seemed frivilous and vain to wastespace on random thoughts and irrelevant opinions, as I had done (rather successfully) the year before. My 20-year-old self would probably find this blog a crashing betrayal of her ideals.
And yet. To notice or desire one thing is not to forget or devalue another. My skin smells a little stale, my hair feels stiff due to tangles. The rock tumbler in the closet grinds like gnashing teeth in the closet. Beyond physical sensations there are the fragments of thought and influence. There is Ezekiel, who left that place with “anger and bitterness, and the strong hand of the Lord upon [him]”. There is my brother’s new song Groovybaby, LSU’s This is the Healing, Milton’s “mazy error” of nectar running through a soon-to-be-lost paradise. A few layers beneath that I find an area I might call constant prayer, where those I love remain. This is the part of me that is sort of metaphorically lifting each one up before God, into a big swoop of love, truth, and consolation. Sometimes a face or situation will push through the other layers and occupy my thoughts and prayers, canceling out all other concerns. Other times I drop down to visit and float through the love-swoop.
All these things coexist. I want tacos, and I grieve with a friend. I imagine how Project Runway will turn out tonight, and I rejoice about news of an upcoming marriage. Should I write only about what is most important? Do I need to give the big things more room?
I guess today I will let the big things themselves make room. Here, in one of the loveliest things I have read in months, is Mike’s tribute to his son.
Fri 11 Aug 2006
Wed 19 Jul 2006
The alarm to wake up and go to work has not yet sounded, yet she is dreaming of trying to leave work. She exits the building and is blocked from the parking lot by a holiday parade. There is a brief gap between the sleigh full of bikini-clad girls and the group of toddlers on belled goats. She darts through, but too late– she’s among the goats and someone with a walkie-talkie puts a “Staff” sticker on her shirt. She is in charge of the toddlers on goats. The toddlers keep falling off the goats as they head downhill, and whenever a goat bleats it sets three toddlers wailing. They are supposed to throw candy to the crowd lining the street but they really don’t have the coordination for it, so the sweets tend to dribble off of the goats’ backs and sides to get crushed underfoot. Pink and green candy dust melts into the pavement.
The process is as much herding as it is guiding. The goats keep veering off to nibble the azaelas. She becomes quite good at fishing toddlers out of bushes, and she uses a thin branch for a goat switch. By the time the parade reaches the bottom of the hill, she is short two goats and three toddlers. She looks back and realizes how far she will have to climb to reach the parking lot and her car.
Tue 13 Jun 2006
She tells everyone she has carpal tunnel though her wrists are fine. “Squeeze right here,” she says, proffering her tendons. “Feel that? You can sense the damage.” You squeeze, sensing nothing in particular, some fat, some bone and cartilage, and then both of you watch pale finger-marks disappear from her wrist.
After church she extends her arms to you from across the foyer. “Sweetie! So good to see you!” Her hands, advancing half a meter ahead of the rest of her, seem to wish they could detach from the whole slow unit and rush forward to grasp you. The only way to fend them off is to clasp them between both your own hands at the first opportunity; all four swing between you as you chit and chat.
And what damage does it do, really, to grasp and be grasped? None in particular. So you do it.
Wed 24 May 2006
Take a 5 pound mound of raw hamburger, 80 to 90 percent lean, and set it on a tray covered with waxed paper then cheese cloth. Pat the hamburger into the shape of a daisy and store the tray in a cool, dry place such as a closet (It is necessary to avoid overstimulating the hamburger).
Once a day, open the door of the closet and throw in handfuls of chopped fresh cilantro, cats eye marbles, ketchup, and eyelet lace. If, after throwing in one handful of each, you hear the daisy say thank you, double the amount and sing as you throw it. If you hear nothing, verbally abuse the daisy and slam the door behind you. Eventually, the daisy may sing the low part of “Roll With It” while you sing the high part.
Do not, under any circumstances, let the daisy out of the closet. Drizzle it with vinagrette. Decide if it is amenable to tortillas. If so, you’re 90 percent of the way to Schubble Roll-ups. Congratulations.