7.30.2004

Relay call connected
Please wait the caller is typing
Be advised this call may be monitored for quality
Speak to the caller not to relay and answer when you hear go ahead
Reminds me
of learning voice inflection for a foreign language
What's that in the road, a head?
Go ahead
There are no objections noticed
No stipulations entered
Go ahead
Long long pauses five way line everyone hushed
That tap and hiss like steam pipes
The phone lines sigh inaudibly and it's like being in the dark and something is breathing
Please wait the caller is typing
Relay has received
It's like outerspace right here
There's a voice from far away
Imperceptible it sounds like me
Go ahead
Go ahead

7.29.2004

The soles of my feet turned black because the hip hop girlies dance in their shoes, black skid marks all over the studio floor. I arrived five minutes early for class, enough time to watch them in their last minutes of sweat, hard-core aerobics. I don't understand the monkey arms thing or the hunched-up back thing or the overstated and vulgar pelvic thrusts, but the hipping and hopping, the quick turns and level changes, the agility and speed and the blatant raw power, yeah those girlies got the boom boom goin on.

Bellydancing keeps those motions internalized, under close control. I have seen a dancer work the tiny floorspace between three tables loaded with drinks and clapping stomping people with jaw-dropping effect, her whole body electric and alive with the music, while maintaining a seemingly effortless grace. Hip hop makes no pretense for grace, it is hard and serious.

If dancing were compared to athletic sports, hip hop must be like kickboxing; bellydancing like swimming. Both take time and training, and although they can be compared in terms of physicality they cannot be compared in terms of value because each style of dance reflects each style of music. The difference falls entirely in the instrumentation, and the physical embodiment of sound must be taken in its own context. That said, I think hip hop would hurt my knees.

We took over the studio in our coins and bells jangling, stretched and warmed up, and the lesson involved a step combination with a turn and then some shimmy hip work. It is work, too, and the execution of the move depends on abdominal strength. In out in slide to the right in out in slide to the left, the body balanced and poised, moving sideways as though through two panes of glass. Funhouse mirrors with a trick exit.

I love the girls around me as we turn and turn and shimmy shimmy twist, drop the hip rise, drop the hip in a step combination too complicated to explain with words. There's Jesi and Jen, Em and M, and I watch their strong ankles feet toes as we travel triplet-step gliding on demi-point, like we're floating through the heat waves. I know our thighs all are burning and I can see the shapes of legs beneath the skirts, muscular pillars with hinges and springs, the motion of the legs terminating in the hips.

Our torsos and shoulders remain poised and lifted, unaffected by the intense motion shaking our hips and all the skin and flesh from the belly down. Remember the diamond beneath the shoulderblades, that point opposite the solar plexus, this is the torso's fulcrum, the hips can shift to any direction. The center of gravity is lower, cradled by the hips. The back is long and strong and the abdominal muscles hold the weight of the body.

We were all glistening and glowing after the hour and a half, flushed skin and smiles. Such delight, pleasure in pain.

 
This morning the air smelled like summer and S rode with me to work on our bicycles. It's a half-hour's ride, half through the industrial part of town and the other half along the bike path that runs on either side of the river. The air felt fresh and cool and sunlight glinted and sparkled on the cold fast river river. Lazy trees dangled their limbs in the water and I wanted to keep riding, the river on my left, heading upstream into the sun as it climbed the pale curtain of blue.

7.28.2004

Some iced tea sounds pleasant, not too sweet, a bit of lemon, summertime in liquid form. Everything was so breathless this morning I could hear the trains in the yard three miles away. I'm embarrassed of my pajamas, comic book blue, and the neighbor lady was out watering her flowers when I let the dogs outside at 5 so I hid behind the door. Funny the space we give ourselves, the room to avoid the obligatory wave. 

I slept well last night, better than I have in weeks. 

 


Except for in summer because I love my Saturday mornings, I teach beginning bellydance for the little community college. I have folks calling me to dance or to teach often but I still wasn't prepared for the call from a woman who is trying to organize a Hawaiian-theme dinner at a senior center because she needs a volunteer to teach any brave elderly ladies how to sway the skirt.

I know nothing of hula dancing. In fact when I hear the word hula I always imagine our local Cowgirl with her boots & hat & dred locks & she dances with two hula hoops like nobody's business, one on the arm, one around her waist, then switching so one's around her neck & the other's on her wrist-- she's awesome with those big plastic hoops. But that's not grass skirt and tropical skin and graceful hands telling a story.

Once I had the fortune to entice my girl friend from Borneo to show me the traditional dances she learned as a girl. She told stories with her hands and feet, drew patterns in the air. I have studied some Persian dance and it seems remarkably similar to what Vey showed me, river reeds swaying underwater, birds in the trees, stars in the sky, the boats on the water, the love returned from voyage; showing emotion through refined motions. I know hula dancing also presents stories, and prayers, and blessings, but I don't know what they are, and it's not as though I could fake it, or take a crash course. I wouldn't pick up a ukelele and expect to be able to play it, either.

7.27.2004

Skin slick too hot. I can redefine exude. I dream of cold cold rain but there are three more months to go. There's no air here it's too thick to be air. Stuck in this paper cage with greenhouse glass on the south side oh sure it's a great view and no air conditioning and no relief except for the fan blowing hot air around, at least there aren't any flies. I'm sweating in my bra, I can feel it tickle as it rolls down my saturated skin. Water following gravity and so I'd love to simply lie down on the floor, maybe even the cool tile floor in the bathroom, it's not that dirty. The thermometer on the deck says 87 and I took the one out of the fridge after standing in front of the open door as long as I dared and it's 90 in here. That's too hot to think too hot to sit at a computer and work too hot too hot too hot. Inclement and uncomfortable and I'm leaving before I start heaving.

I just wanted dried Italian salami that's all. It was hot and the air conditioner at work doesn't work, it was 92 degrees in there when I left, and I was crabby and I just wanted cheese and salami on the bread S had baked, some olive oil, fresh tomatoes, red wine, call it dinner. So because it's on my way home from work, and because I like to support local small businesses, I stopped at the little specialized organic grocery store. I enjoy stopping there because the wholesome home-grown girlies behind the counter all look like they bathe in rivers and they all have friendly smiles. 

I walked in and admired the fresh fruits and vegetables, took note of their interesting albeit limited wine selection, looked at the huge assortment of cheese and tofu spreads, wandered past the cookbooks and incense and hand-made pot holders and... pot holders, and finally found the meat section. The extremely limited meat section. No Italian sausage had ever tainted these refrigerated shelves with its wrapper. I had my choice of organic whole cut-up fryer chickens for $5 a pound; organic free-range beef patties $2 each; organic pork roast for $7 a pound; or tofurkey... which I guess is meat? There was lots of tempeh and packs of kosher organic no-meat hot dogs. I just wanted Italian sausage.

Alright, not willing to give up I thought maybe it wouldn't be refrigerated because some times in quaint little shops it is hung from hooks, strategically placed near crackers and wine. I made the rounds again.

There is here in the Pacific Northwest, and there may be elsewhere, a new type of suburban punk hippy I have not encountered before. They are not to be confused with the anarchists who roam the streets dressed in black, freeloading in the system they claim they want to smash but that's fodder for another blah. First let me say I have no problem with the way people want to dress, or behave, or wear their hair, or tattoo or pierce their persons, but please, please, bathe.

The three standing in the aisle who blatantly ignored me and my request to get past them looked like they had stolen my grandfather's clothing and then rolled around on the railroad tracks. The girl's hair failed miserably at dred locks and although I admired her knee-high black boots I didn't find the big black torn ruffled mini-skirt with pantalons to be practical for such a hot day. And the three rings in the bridge of her nose gave her a decidedly cross-eyed look.

The one fellow in shiny wing-tip shoes with dyed orange hair had so much metal in his bottom lip that he couldn't keep his mouth closed, displaying his orthodontically-straight and super-white teeth. He was rakish with his black tribal tattoo spiralling down the side of his neck, his tatty pastel shirt ripped in just the right places, suspenders affixed to pants too tight and too short, all the rage no doubt, just give it half a chance.

They smelled like patchouli and body odor and shit and it's not for lack of money or a place to bathe, oh no these kids had money or else they wouldn't be wearing $500 worth of metal in their faces with big elaborate strategically-placed tattoos and shopping for $10 a pound plums. Having reached my too-fucking-hot too-much-bullshit-on-a-Monday level, and having not found anything resembling dry salami except for the tube of tofurkey, I headed for the door. Past the punkippies. And one of them, insouciant and self-righteous and snide, said to me as I passed, "Hey it's all good, it's all organic." Which elicited stupid giggles from the other two and I ignored it because I know they'll just morph into yuppies in five years when they're done with college and have to look for jobs and then revenge will be mine, but really I felt like saying don't fuck with me because I will kick you in those pearly white teeth.

I just wanted dry Italian salami.



7.26.2004

Steam rises while the sun pounds on the broad face of the valley, people walking around with their faces all screwed against the light looking like they've smelled something rancid. The trees all slumber with wilted leaves, the road turns into a mirror. The green grass flops and that cooked vegetable and hot asphalt smell hangs heavy in the air. I didn't run through the sprinkler. Instead I stood and let the cold water shower on me in the shade of the neighbor's catalpa tree. Not a breath of air. Spider weather, webs everywhere inside and outside. I walked through a doorway and a small orange weaver dangled from my chin, invisible thread sticking to my bare sweaty arms.

We had a yard sale and when I was a little girl I thought that meant someone was trying to sell a portion of their yard. S took a big leftover "that's not going back in the garage" load of books and knick-knack bric-a-brac how-did-this-get-in-our-house-crap to the goodwill and homeless shelter this morning. We made almost $100 selling a lot of stuff we didn't need including 6 broken chairs and some lady is interested in our little fridge to use for brewing beer. She said she'd call. I won't hold my breath.

In the heat of the day I caught a dog out on the street, a pretty skinny skittish scared thing with a new collar and I figured she was someone's baby who somehow escaped. She had long but wiry golden hair and her ribs were sticking out and she had her back all hunched up because she was scared. She tried to twist away from me but I didn't let go, and I took her inside for some water and a small handful of food. S helped me isolate her in a corner of the dog yard under much barking protest from our two dogs, and we gave her food and water and put an umbrella up for her. In the evening her owner put up a poster on the street sign post less than 100 feet from the dog, so S called and Molly got to go home.

After the yard sale we went to a garden party (just the term "garden party" sounds so  pretentious but that's what it was, complete with acoustic guitar and goat cheese and damn good wine); some friends of friends are landscape artiste-architects and have completely transformed a dumpy lawn into an interesting space, using concrete block walls and corrugated tin and hog wire and a giant cattle trough with koi and water plants. It is austere and artful; something like a Japanese garden with the ferns and delicate maples and all the big slabs of rock. There is even a four-foot tall stacked-rock sphere a la Andy Goldsworthy in an eye-catching spot of the yard. S said the total effect is Jeffersonian in strict design but with an industrialized twist. Very modern. If it were mine it would be overwhelmed by weeds in two weeks.

When we first arrived, our hostess grabbed me and requested I call my girl JJ, who was supposed to help out with serving food & washing dishes but who left when Tebone arrived. I shut myself into a small room with a big map on the wall and talked to her for an hour. Some things are more important than socializing.

JJ said she said some embarrassing things after the last show on Thursday night, had made herself feel a fool, and Tebone was resolute in denying her the love she wishes were mutual. I told her I think really and truly she needs time away from him. Maybe someday they can be just friends like he wants them to be but not right now, right now her heart is big and sore and it hurts. I can't imagine the strength she has displayed over the past month, dealing not only with a broken heart and a new job and an unexpected move and a car accident but also with performing all those heartbreak songs on a stage with the man who broke it. Most amazing is she doesn't embark on the whole pity-poor-me route; I think if I were in her shoes I would have crawled into bed and stayed there indefinitely.

I also mentioned she should consider cancelling the last two performances scheduled in Portland next month, since she's so miserable and jangled and feels like drinking and then says things she regrets when she's around him. She needs time to heal her heart. She cancelled and he's furious but she said it was a huge weight off her shoulders. And we made plans to go backpacking that weekend in the mountains to a high little cauldron lake, clear and cold and towering trees casting long shadows across the still and deep water, and I can't wait to see the stars. It will be good to go, for all of us.

 

7.23.2004

It was like loving the last time, when you fumble like it's the first time and it's sweet and mutual you want to please. You've already decided it's over but want to say goodbye. JJ missed some words and Tebone missed some chords and the whole band didn't sound together but it was full of such love and ache, so much tension, I thought they sounded better than ever. It was JJ's last show with the band, she waves bye bye. Her voice sounded like laughter through the tears, it was shining and sweet last night, clear as a bell and then smooth as silk and then growly and deep, she really pushed it, flexed it, worked it.

It hurts it hurts it hurts so bad
Oooh you are the best man I ever had
Why was I so blind to see?
There was no bigger fool than me...

She got tears in her eyes but her voice never wavered, never shook, never faded, it rang out hard and clear and tapped everyone's heart, said, "Look, pay attention." And we did. We all watched a beautiful girl sing her heart out in a way few ever do.

She & Tebone did three songs just the two of them, and her favorite, a cover of a Patty Griffin song, brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes, not just the words and the meaning of the words, but her powerful and hauntingly sweet sad voice raising the hair on the back of my neck with its strength and beauty. The words do not translate in written form how this song felt to me, but here they are.

We are swimming with the snakes
    at the bottom of the well
So silent and peaceful in the darkness where we fell

But we are not snakes and what's more we never will be
And if we stay swimming here forever we will never be free

I heard them ringing the bell between heaven and hell
They got a secret
     they're getting ready to tell

It's falling from the skies
It's calling from the grave

Open your eyes boy, I think we are saved

Let's take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess

Don't need to tell me a thing baby, we already confessed

And I raise my voice to the air
And we were blessed

It's hard to give
It's hard to get
But everybody needs
A little forgiveness

We are calling for help tonight on a thin phone line
As usual we're having ourselves one hell of a time
And the planes keep flying over our heads
No matter how loud we shout Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!

And we keep wavin and wavin our arms in the air
But we're all tired out

I heard somebody say
   today's the day
Big old hurricane she's blowing our way
Knockin over the buildings
Killing all the lights

Open your eyes boy, we made it through the night

Let's take a walk on the bridge right over this mess

Don't need to tell me a thing baby, we already confessed
And I raise my voice to the air
And we were blessed

It's hard to give
It's hard to get
It's hard to live
But still I think it's the best bet

Hard to give
Never gonna forget
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
Everybody needs a little forgiveness

Dance class Wednesday night was a mind bender and muscle builder, full of stepwork and muscle control. Middle Eastern dance oh belly rolling pleasures, intense muscular isolations combined with accurate timing; it is about the skeletal structure motions as well as muscle strength and flexibility. The motion is internalized, concentration on isolation and control. I've been doing sit ups and push ups and leg lifts and stretches all week and still today I am sore.

Feet staggered front to back up on the balls of the feet, demi-point, we slide the hips to the left then the right then the left as we slowly bend the knees, down down down for three counts how low can we go and still slide the hips side to side, serpentine, don't arch the back. On the fourth count we rise from the floor all the way back up to demi-point and begin again, slide down slide down slide down rise. Breathe as you rise, exhale as you drop.

It's hot outside it's hot inside and our throats and thighs are burning but we all fall and rise like dove wings, twenty two of us, hips sliding in unison, down down down then back up again for five minutes, switching which foot is in front every eight repetitions. We are all shapes and sizes and colors, the iridescent feathers on the wing of a bird. When we pause there are gasps and stretchings and grimaces, and then we launch into the next drill, a rocking step forward and back with a turn.

Spinning in a line, it builds up rhythm like bouncing on a trampoline, momentum swings us around at the ends, step step turn rock back, step step turn rock back. It feels like a very folkloric motion and in my mind's eye I can see full heavy brightly colored peasant skirts swirling around the ankles during the steps and flaring out during the turns.

We did drills for seven new stylistic moves, and then used them for an impromptu choreography, an Arabic pop song, and our instructor told us about how the nightclubs in Cairo would play the video every fifth or sixth song, and how in the video the girl is riding an exercise bike and had a pouty mouth & the camera fixated on her ass, so in the nightclubs the dancing often included pouty mouths and butt-bumping. She said the words are gibberish, completely nonsensical, something like "Hey can we do whatever," and the music is catchy and easy to whistle. She always brings us a slice of life from Cairo when she comes home.

 
After class I went with my girls Belle, a gothie burgundyhead with cheekbones to die for and freckles and green eyes, and Lia, who has the longest legs in the world and pale Irish skin and wild dark hair, to a downtown downstairs swank smoky mirrors bar. But first we tried to take Charlie's Angels pictures since we were all in black sassy tank tops and yoga pants next to the High Voltage sign on the fence by the warehouse loading dock. I think we were too giddy and high from dance class to do anything right with the little disposable camera and then Lia ran out of film. Belle climbed into a big empty cardboard box and I called her a cat and she said damn straight.

We crossed the street to the bar and talked about the flyer for a band coming to town, Lia asked if they were British because of their hair and teeth I said no they're American and the old man with skin the color of dark chocolate coming up the stairs from the bar-- we waited for him because he was reeling and using both handrails-- started singing drunk "No they're not British they're Amerrrricaaaan." He reached the top of the stairs and gave Lia a high five and sang again "They're Amerrricaaaaaaan." He had a voice like butterscotch and he didn't have his two front teeth but he was happy and he made us all smile.

Down the stairs and into the dark bar where a torch band made music on upright bass and muted trumpet and piano, the singer in a black suit with a pink carnation and white shoes using an old fasioned chrome plated microphone. He had the jawline and the little spectacles resting on his nose, dapper with his short black unruly hair slicked back, velvet voice and the mannerisms and soft head-tilts and gentle hand motions of a 1940s nightclub crooner. We had to walk right in front of him in between songs to get to our destined little corner nook, first Lia then Belle and when I passed in front of him he said into the microphone, "Hey how you doin?" for which I was teased. Lia joked, "Brunette, redhead... He'll take... the blond!" And then they made sure I was seated in his line of sight. Belle said oooh he's a sugar, too young, and the menus came and I excused myself to use the funky little bathroom.

While I was gone, Lia ordered drinks and got me a neat shot of whisky from the top shelf. She's afforded expenses per day for meals and loves to treat when she's in town. She & Belle got something with a lot of chocolate and sugar in it that tastes far too sweet after the sip of whisky but they like that sort of thing. Give it to me hard and straight I said, and Belle almost climbed into my lap with her giggles. Their friend showed up, having just escaped the university genetics lab... no that doesn't sound right. She works there and is doing research to try and eliminate deafness in infants.

She said there's nothing they can do for deafness caused by natural occurances but they hope to isolate and identify and eradicate the gene that causes babies to be born deaf. I didn't say that I thought those were natural occurances too, oh no I kept my mouth shut. The interesting part is that they're using little tiny minnow-type zebra fish to isolate the gene; I guess zebra fish have ears that develop much like our own. She said they can't tell if the fish is deaf other than by examining whether its ear isn't developed correctly. I want to know who decided zebra fish. Was this some sort of revelation, "Hey, look, this fish has ears and we can't tell if it's deaf but we should be able to isolate the deafness gene..." call me skeptical but I think messing with genetics is akin to building the Tower of Babel. I kept my lips sealed.

When the band took a break the singer came straight to our table and politely and quietly thanked us for coming, and asked if he could join us for the break so he sat next to me, which was the only available seat. I have been known to be loud and talkative but on average I don't say much, I prefer to sit in the corner and watch. Thankfully my girl Belle is not only a waitress but a waitress in a 50's style diner and can talk to anyone, anywhere, anytime. Any moment the talk slowed she had a new and thoughtful question to ask or a comment to make. She made him a plate of food from our appetizers and passed him a glass of water. Up close he had the kind of features any mother wants to see her daughter marry, the neat haircut, the high cheekbones, the strong well-manicured hands, and his glasses afforded him a decidedly sweet geeky element. He even mentioned Elvis Costello and I thought oh wow yes that's what it is. We all enjoyed chatting with him, and he thanked us for bringing class to the show which elicited many giggles because he just doesn't know. Then he left to chase down the long-legged waitress for a martini.

I left before they started the second set, while Belle & Lia & Genie were still eating and drinking, and maybe at 10:30 the night is still young but it feels late without my man, who was home with an earache, who greeted me with the sweetest love. 

 

7.21.2004

Did he think he thought a crooked little stab, the tease like ostrich feathers and brown lashes bleached white on the tips from sun, some small coincidence or perhaps fate.
Could he think he thought an apology, dried blood and vomit in a corner of a condemned house, rafters warped, walls fallen.
Should he think he thought against hope, a discarded memory that should have been different in the first place, a wide slow river to drown sorrow.
Does he think he thought a sweet revenge, lost in the cold shadows of night, silent soft wings but the instinct blunted by time, the dish was broken and swept into the fire long ago.
Would he think he thought a safety's sake, beware the beast that eats a false or bitter heart, the disease that rots the soul, we have nothing and nothing has us.
May he think he thought an untethered dream, lost in the pine barrens, a long hot dusty road barefoot.
Shall he think he thought a misconception, a conflict of refusal, the butterfly effect on a windshield.
Can he think he thought an affront, a forget it all, too many words between the lines, boiled down and finally reduced to idiocy.

After seven years of marriage, during which we've explored all sorts of things about the other, I learned a somewhat disturbing thing about my husband.

He can't roll his tongue.
 
I understand it's genetic, and that poses a quandry. What if we have a child who can't roll his or her tongue? Then I'll be the only tongue-roller in the family. Then instead of this strange haughty ha ha you can't roll your tongue feeling, I might end up being viewed as a genetic mutant tongue-rolling freak, the odd one out.

Shall I conform, and cease my tongue-rolling ways? Or shall I be proud of my heritage and practice it with pleasure, display my difference for all to see? Look, my tongue can do amazing things. I can rifle a pea with insane accuracy. I can wrap my tongue around the straw. What talents I have to pass on to any offspring! But then S might feel left out, with his non-tongue-rolling self. I wouldn't really want him to feel alienated, I'm no star-bellied sneech.

But my tongue is super-tricksy.

7.19.2004

Blackberries oh no please don't throw me in the briar patch I wore jeans and big boots and a thick cotton shirt and the thorns managed to puncture my cowskin gloves. Great care must be taken-- the thorns angle down and are tender on the new growth. They weren't as painful as those damned Canadian thistles, with inch-long thorns that work their way into the flesh and then break off at the tips. Although my joints all feel great right now this is hardly recompense for the many miniature stabbings I suffered of a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Pulling thistles and briars in the drizzly rain felt almost meditative; something about cold raindrops and the hot sting of thorns put me in a soft frame of mind. I'm not saying this is a regular recreation or hobby but it wasn't totally unpleasant.
 
I thought about a lot of things, and people, and the machinations and ways of the world.
There are forces at work we just don't understand; we can't predict storms and yet we try so desperately to predict favorable outcomes for political situations. No one knows which way the wind will blow. It is tempestuous and inconstant, churning like water in a storm-tossed sea. I have seen the ocean during a winter storm, the blue Pacific whipped and frothed, turned hard and sharp like iron. Great waves thunder white against hundred-foot cliffs and roar back out to sea, wind taking my breath, water tearing away the land.
 
I have also seen it hushed and still, holding its breath, deserving of its name, seven miles to the horizon and twice as blue as the sky, no trace of the wind. I can't count the number of times I have watched the sun sink into that great wide blue, or watched clouds or fog roll inland. Some dissipate, others build in size and intent and leap the mountains. Errors in forecast, the lines are down, something is coming.

I could write a book but it would never be finished because there will always be more blackberries and thistles to pull out of the ground.

I don't care what your party affiliation happens to be-- personally I can't see why anyone would want to put themselves in a box with a label on it (come out come out wherever you are)-- but that aside, go see Michael Moore's film. I mentioned seeing it to a coworker and her immediate response was, "Bush-bashing." Well yes and no. There are many times when he manages to look like a mean idiot without any skew or assistance from the film. Sure there are some jabs, but his pride and boasting invites them. The rest of it is highly-researched information about big business-family ties and a lot of money; as Bush himself states, the haves and the have-mores are his "base." Crypto means hidden, fascist means government controlled by business. Tell me he's not a crypto-fascist. Of this I am certain-- he is no Republican. He has nothing in common with the staunch honest hard-working people like my Grandmother, who told me with great worry in her voice that she thinks for the first time in 60 years she'll vote Democrat.  
 
The two party system fails to represent the silent majority. People tend to have balanced views about the world in which we all have to live together. Some may be fiscally conservative and morally liberal, believe that the government should have limited power, expect health care and schools to be high quality, and vice versa, or any combination of the above. There are people who are morally conservative but don't think it's their right to limit the rights of others, and there are people who are morally liberal and demand the whole country agree with them. That infamous liberal whine can't we all just get along rings hollow, especially because those we elect fail to accurately represent their constituency. They are bought and paid for by the biggest businesses in the world, and those corporations want only to get rich.
 
Don't define yourself as an -ism. Understand that ignorance and power and pride are a deadly mixture, and that the love of money (not money, but the love of it-- think about it) is the root of all evil. So these are the problems. What's your solution?
    
 



7.15.2004

7.14.2004

Think of it, turn it in your mind as you would a stone in your hand, inspect the surface, the structure, the weight. Look at the color and shape, the size of the matter, and identify all edges. Is it smooth or rough? Has it been touched before? Is it a new thought or a well-worn favorite?

Jade and quartz are hard and beautiful; obsidian sometimes shatters. Clay crumbles and granite does not polish. And what hides inside? Some thoughts seem solid and enclosed, like some stones, but when you find a tool to slice them open you find pockets, hollow places, sometimes water, sometimes a quartz crystalline structure called drusy.

I have had thoughts I've skipped like a stone on a smooth river, tossed them away, where they sink, lost in the depths or rolling on the bottom; maybe I'll find them again, pick them off a gravel bar, but they'll be changed by time and friction. Some thoughts are half-buried in deep dark mud, and only one side can be examined, the danger of a neurotic fixation around which there is no resolve. The tools do not always present themselves, the hand for skipping, the shovel for digging.

I've learned the hard way to beware trying to guess the thoughts of others. Sometimes their thoughts are big and blatant but with hidden edges and a secret deep within. Others are lovely and transparent, they catch the light and freely show my reflection, but they are still not mine to keep. And I am curious but careful about the thoughts that are too large to hold, or those that are too big to imagine-- it is fine to look, and touch, but I don't want to knock it over and get pinned beneath it.

I appreciate the new thoughts, sometimes ones I've stepped over numerous times and never noticed, or sometimes they get my attention by making me stumble. It's not always easy to think of some things, but often necessary. Some things will not be ignored.

Favorites have been lovingly polished, like jade pebbles washed to the shore, turned and touched, moments of memory I trace mentally. The hardness of a thought changes the ease of polishing, but also makes the end result that much more satisfying.

Gold country, the steep and narrow. Wild hills with big trees and breezy air like a warm bath, almost paradise and dry as paper. The rolling oak hills climb into the steeper granite and marble and quartz, buckeyes and pines and manzanita cling to cliffs. Along narrow ditch banks timothy grows tall, waving slender stalks and perfuming the air with that sweet grass smell.

The towns are old with crooked streets and narrow brick sidewalks and narrow storefronts, tucked into narrow valleys and up against hillsides. Ravines carve the landscape in surprising folds. Glimpses through the trees show pale grey free-standing marble boulders, the ghosts of quarries past. Rattlesnakes and red dust, a clarity of air, gold mines and machinery long ago forgotten.

My Grandparents live five miles out of a small gold mine town, far enough out so the road turns into gravel. They live halfway up an incredibly steep hillside in the house my Grandpa built. It's an amazing place. From the porch it is possible to see the valley and big hills, and on a clear day the distant snow-caps of the Sierras. The air is clear as a bell and sounds travel from the valley below, the woman down the hill who trains horses, and across the road there's a sheep ranch. The sounds of hooves and neighs and baaas and the bells on the sheep.

Crickets and tree frogs sing so softly and constant it's only noticeable when they stop, when some unknown creature rustles in the bushes down the hill. A skunk, raccoon, rabbit, coyote. My Grandpa showed us the fruit tree just down the hill from the house that was split and broken by a bear. The night has many prowlers when the moon is down. Night hawks shriek at each other from the tall pine and a pale shape of an owl flies silently overhead. At night the stars are so vivid, and so many of them, it almost feels like looking at music. The individual constellations are lost in a wash of glinting lights. The world is a small thing and I am a mote of dust.


7.13.2004

I'm spinning wool, drinking hard lemonade, and I'm easily distracted. Yesterday the locusts were buzzing, ninety degrees and oh so humid, we had lightning flash and thunder rumble in the distance during the night. Can the crows not caw? I wish for a longer dawn.

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California. We drove the crazy road through San Jose, hills to the west of the highway covered with stucco houses all the ticky tacky, postage stamp yards, but look at the view. Bigger hills with oaks and Yertle the Turtle Oh marvelous me I am the king of all that I see houses on top of the hills. My spouse said McMansions. It's nice land, it's beautiful land, but like John Steinbeck said, you can't have none of that land, that land was stolen a long time ago. And now it's all shrouded in a layer of smog so it doesn't really matter but the sunsets are stunning.

We saw a bumper sticker on a bigass blue sedan that said LIMBAA and couldn't decide if it were appropriate, or a tongue-in-cheek joke. Some people think they're in the middle of a movie car chase scene, and the speed limit signs are mere suggestions. I have no respect for people who drive beyond their ability, who think speed and lane-changing are indications of a good driver. There are good drivers and then there are assholes and idiots. None of them have any idea what I keep under the car seat. That's all I gotta say about driving in Cali.

It was cold and foggy driving through the rocky coastal mountains and eucalytus groves heading towards the coast, that fresh smell of the ocean trapped by the marine layer of clouds that blankets the valley. The road narrows and the hills end gradually, row farms of lettuce, strawberries, artichokes unfurl across gently sloping hills. Some fields seem to stretch forever, the rows long and straight, perspective guides. The dirt is black and smells dark and rich, and sometimes it smells of rotting vegetables and dairy air. Produce, such a mutifaceted word.

We visited with S's family, everyone very big and loud and very practical and emotional and very sweet natured but don't make them mad and this is what happens when no-nonsense Scots marry wild moody gypsies. The new baby has blond hair that stands straight up like Billy Idol's and big blue eyes with amazing eyelashes. She is only 7 months and is forming words and can walk with assistance, drunk-sailor style, wobbly legs and grunting the whole time. She has the sweetest smile and a will of iron.

We went to the Aquarium and she loved the fish and sea otters and jellyfish. I liked watching the bat rays glide in their pool, and I could see the octopus swell and deflate with the tank's false tide. I watched its tiny eyes and it rolled its sinuous tentacles like water over the glass, suction cups in pairs, pulsing and writhing. The baby didn't care about it. She touched the starfish and the velvety sea slugs in the petting pool and was happy to let everyone take turns carrying her. Even S held her for a short time and seemed amazed and surprised she didn't cry or fuss. I had fun with her and took secret pleasure knowing some people probably assumed she was mine. Not yet, though, not yet.

We ate lunch on Cannery Row and of all the people I could run into, my ex-boyfriend's kid sister was having lunch in the same restaurant. She still looks like three miles of bad road, pale eyes and wispy hair, teeth gapped and pointing out of her mouth and more were missing than last time I saw her. My ex was a jerk, and that's letting him off nicely; time and perspective have left me with no desire to ever get in contact with him. I smiled and nodded and she told me all about her life, and about how my ex has a job as a sheriff, which she said seems to satisfy all his control issues and I thought yeah, thank God I broke up with him. I managed to get away from her without telling her anything other than I live in Oregon. Strange encounters. The world is not so big after all.

We celebrated the Fourth of July, which doubles as my otherMother's birthday, with good food and much laughter. We joked about S's brother, who was being sassy about something and his wife said, "Just wait, we'll get the yard-stick!" and she meant about beating him for his sass but his super-quick Dad threw up his hands and said, "You win!"
Probably you had to be there.

My in-laws are moving to the big mountains in Colorado next year, escaping California's increasing insanity. They're both native Californians and find it hard to live with the noise and pollution and population. It's not what it was 50 years ago. It's not even what it was 5 years ago. The little house on the levee road where S & I lived when we first got married has been plowed under, paved, and had 10,000 new homes built upon those fields, none of which we could afford to buy. Maybe this is what they mean when they say you can never go home again.

But it is a beautiful place. And there's a lot of it. Although you can't have none of that land. It was stolen a long, long time ago.

After leaving the Salinas Valley we drove north and east, over the steep rocky crags and golden hillsides of the Gabilan Mountains, then across the San Juaquin Valley, up into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, to where the manzanita chapparal and red clay meets the big pines and granite cliffs. Gold country.

More tomorrow.

7.12.2004

California cypress spires, a starched pressed hard bleached landscape dotted with black oaks and palm trees and stands of eucalyptus. I had forgotten what a big hot windy bitch she is; it's all about velocity and sunshine. We drove south for ten hours the same way the birds migrate and the trains cross the mountains, up through the high wide lonesome land, monstrous Shasta's snow-covered facets rising from the range both monolithic and graceful, draped with pale clouds. Pelicans and terns and gulls glide white across the surface of Klamath Lake, hot springs, cattails waving in the wind. Perspective stretches away for miles and the wind blows hard.

Down down down we rode south, down into the dusty dry valley, the color of gold, deceptively cool in the evening. The sun went sinking into the distant hills, making the sky blush pink through the smog. My parents live near the wide river delta in a neighborhood with big trees and private yards. It gets hot and when I was a child we'd sometimes fry eggs on the road. The wind kicks up in the evening but dies down once the sun has set, and it was hushed and still when we rolled across the river just before midnight.

My folks had spent the day helping friends move into a new house, and they were as exhausted as we were from our long drive. We sat and drank whiskey and stargazed and yawned and discussed travel plans. Sleeping in the bed and in the room I had as a child always sparks some nostalgia; the world feels close and small and it seems odd to awaken and have a man slumbering beside me. I chased away a mockingbird warbling his song outside the open window at four in the morning. The next day we left our dogs with my parents, who were planning to stay home for the fireworks holiday, and headed south again.

More later.



7.01.2004

Tomorrow we trip 600 miles south, through mountains and forests and high basin and range, down into valleys, back up steep ridges, and finally down into a monstrous river valley that broadens and widens until the hills fall away in the distance. The sky gets bigger and all the trees get smaller and fewer, the wind and sun get harder, the houses get closer together, and still we roll south.

The colors and the light change with the topography. Instead of a million shades of green and umber I will notice all the yellows and rusty reds. Gold and topaz instead of silver and emerald. The rivers change, too. Instead of bright water raging in torrents through mountain canyons and millions of little creeks and streams and rills, the big valley's wide slow dark rivers are banked and leveed and constrained, dredged from farmland silt.

We'll stay one night beside the wide San Juaquin, under the shadow of Diablo, and listen to the wind whistle to the east, the smell of salt marshes. The next nights will find us in the Salinas Valley farther south, the coastal fog blanket rolling over us at night and scraping against the hawk mountains. Fields of artichokes and strawberries, the smell of fertilizer and earth.

We travel to visit family; there's a new baby, siblings, cousins, parents, and grandparents to see and hug. After three days in farmland we'll head east, across the wide valley, into the gold rush hills, where my grandparents live on a steep hillside five miles from town. I love that land of red clay and sheer granite cliffs, manzanita, buck brush, big pines and oaks. The smell of iron and pine duff. Last year when we were visiting we saw what looked like a shimmering silver cloud across the tops of the trees, and upon investigation discovered it was thousands of dragonflies hatched and rising from the wild river in the canyon down below.

We have many miles to travel, and many more before we return to the place I love best, where cherry trees grow wild and the light is jade green and the air smells like rain.

I'll return in twelve days.