Thank dog for the Onion.
Here''s my current fave:
Mildfires Amble Through California
OJAI, CA—A series of mildfires ambled casually through California this week, lazily threatening nearby homes, warming helpless wildlife, and cozying up to almost everything in its path. "We barely evacuated our home in time," said resident Paul Krempel, whose backyard has been threatened by the loitering fire for days. "First, the boxes we ordered arrived a day late, and then there was a mix-up at the van rental place, which took forever. Plus, Margaret had to go pick up the kids from soccer practice before we could really start packing. It was definitely a close call." Firefighters have rushed to the scene of the mellow inferno and are currently sitting around it in lawn chairs, exchanging old stories and telling jokes.
5.28.2009
Consider yourself warned.
I just learned what a polyvore is, and suddenly I feel like an artist.
You'll be seeing lots of pretty soon....
You'll be seeing lots of pretty soon....
5.15.2009
I've Got the Fever
When my mom was in high school, she moved with her family from blue-collar Scranton, Pennsylvania to a sprawling rambler on a quiet, wooded lot in Memphis, Tennessee. Johnny Cash, then a rising star on the country music scene, lived across the street; it was a new world for my mom and her three younger siblings. While my aunt and uncles took to the South, adopting the drawl and traditions like they were born to them, my mom loathed the Southern culture of the 1960s, the prevalent racism and bigotry, the lack of opportunities for women. In search of progress, feminism and open-minds, she followed a well-worn path to freedom and scampered North as soon as she turned 18.
Lately I’ve been thinking about the concept of home and all that it implies, and it’s interesting to me that my mom and my aunt, who are exactly one year to the day apart, who were raised with the same opportunities and experiences, grew up to find their homes in such vastly different places, among such different traditions and beliefs and ideas about right and wrong.
I grew up in the mid-Atlantic, which I love deeply and consider my home. I’m proud to say that I’m from Pittsburgh, with its history of hard work and ability to keep generations of families living in the same neighborhood. It’s the only place I lived as a child, so I have no context for whether it’s better or worse than anywhere else, but I can say this for sure: I had the opportunity to grow up exactly where my parents wanted to raise their family. They chose their home, and there’s something to that for me, something to knowing where you belong, to understanding that you’re at home in one culture and an alien in another.
Still, though, there’s a bit of the South in me, as much as my leftist politics and feminist tendencies make it seem otherwise. But we absorb our parents’ beliefs—what they love as well as all they resist. And though I grew up hearing horror stories about the injustice of Memphis in the 60s, I also saw pictures of oak and chestnut-lined avenues, of flowers so verdant you could almost feel that dripping, sweet humidity right through the Polaroid.
I love that humidity, that lushness, that sweetness, and it’s springtime—when the mid-Atlantic takes on those Southern characteristics—that I think of home the most.
Or else, it could be all that spring recalls for me: State College, Pennsylvania; runoff feeding Spring Creek; muddy trails in Rothrock State Forest; Dave Matthews; West Virginia; the smell of grass; and the first warm evening of the year, when my friends and I flocked to the patio of Café 210 West to drink long island iced teas around small glass tables and watch people walk down College Avenue. Even when graduation was within easy reach—just one paper or exam away—those evenings were sacred enough to render us, usually so focused on the future, fully present.
Indeed, similar languid evenings in my backyard now seem the only antidote to my constant need to be somewhere else.
But it’s all relative, and a few years ago the Café was torn down in favor of, I don’t know, an Abercrombie and Fitch or something. It’s not that big a deal, of course; it’s happening all over the country—soulful, single-owner places being razed in favor of chain stores, diversity yielding to homogeneity.
Still, though, this illustrates how so much—music, home, seasons—is so intimate, so specific to a person, place or time. My association with, say, Crush, is different than anyone else’s; it means something different to me, because while yes, it’s just a song, it’s also the spring of 1999, Ben and Sean and Bethany, long trail runs, long bike rides, drumming sessions with my friend Melissa, handmade patchwork halters, pot-lucks, trampolines, sweat lodges, wonder, possibility, that nervous and sickening feeling you get when everything is about to change.
It’s all those things, you see, so poignant that even now, 10 years later, they are my springtime traditions. I’ve been listening to Dave Matthews in a near continuous stream, all the while enjoying ridiculously strong cocktails and making plans to visit Pennsylvania, trail run with friends, play music, dance, go to concerts, smell grass and flowers and close my eyes and want to be nowhere else.
At no other time of year am I this grounded, this certain about what I want to be doing. I love spring.
Lately I’ve been thinking about the concept of home and all that it implies, and it’s interesting to me that my mom and my aunt, who are exactly one year to the day apart, who were raised with the same opportunities and experiences, grew up to find their homes in such vastly different places, among such different traditions and beliefs and ideas about right and wrong.
I grew up in the mid-Atlantic, which I love deeply and consider my home. I’m proud to say that I’m from Pittsburgh, with its history of hard work and ability to keep generations of families living in the same neighborhood. It’s the only place I lived as a child, so I have no context for whether it’s better or worse than anywhere else, but I can say this for sure: I had the opportunity to grow up exactly where my parents wanted to raise their family. They chose their home, and there’s something to that for me, something to knowing where you belong, to understanding that you’re at home in one culture and an alien in another.
Still, though, there’s a bit of the South in me, as much as my leftist politics and feminist tendencies make it seem otherwise. But we absorb our parents’ beliefs—what they love as well as all they resist. And though I grew up hearing horror stories about the injustice of Memphis in the 60s, I also saw pictures of oak and chestnut-lined avenues, of flowers so verdant you could almost feel that dripping, sweet humidity right through the Polaroid.
I love that humidity, that lushness, that sweetness, and it’s springtime—when the mid-Atlantic takes on those Southern characteristics—that I think of home the most.
Or else, it could be all that spring recalls for me: State College, Pennsylvania; runoff feeding Spring Creek; muddy trails in Rothrock State Forest; Dave Matthews; West Virginia; the smell of grass; and the first warm evening of the year, when my friends and I flocked to the patio of Café 210 West to drink long island iced teas around small glass tables and watch people walk down College Avenue. Even when graduation was within easy reach—just one paper or exam away—those evenings were sacred enough to render us, usually so focused on the future, fully present.
Indeed, similar languid evenings in my backyard now seem the only antidote to my constant need to be somewhere else.
But it’s all relative, and a few years ago the Café was torn down in favor of, I don’t know, an Abercrombie and Fitch or something. It’s not that big a deal, of course; it’s happening all over the country—soulful, single-owner places being razed in favor of chain stores, diversity yielding to homogeneity.
Still, though, this illustrates how so much—music, home, seasons—is so intimate, so specific to a person, place or time. My association with, say, Crush, is different than anyone else’s; it means something different to me, because while yes, it’s just a song, it’s also the spring of 1999, Ben and Sean and Bethany, long trail runs, long bike rides, drumming sessions with my friend Melissa, handmade patchwork halters, pot-lucks, trampolines, sweat lodges, wonder, possibility, that nervous and sickening feeling you get when everything is about to change.
It’s all those things, you see, so poignant that even now, 10 years later, they are my springtime traditions. I’ve been listening to Dave Matthews in a near continuous stream, all the while enjoying ridiculously strong cocktails and making plans to visit Pennsylvania, trail run with friends, play music, dance, go to concerts, smell grass and flowers and close my eyes and want to be nowhere else.
At no other time of year am I this grounded, this certain about what I want to be doing. I love spring.
While I've been away...
Sorry for the lack of posts lately. Truth is, I've been on the plains of Africa, working for a very important cause: Save the Antelopes. Here's a short video of some of the vital work this organization does:
4.25.2009
The Love Post
Little Cottonwood Canyon on spring evenings, when the final traces of sun illuminate the granite, the cool air smells like earth and we are all alone.
Arnie asleep in Brad’s arms, sighing and dreaming and stretching his paws.
Wedding anniversaries spent surfing in Mexico.
Summer road trips to California, for surfing and running and swimming and catching up with friends and people watching and thrift store shopping and emigration market eating and teaching the boys to ride big waves.
The recent discovery of an Indian restaurant in my neighborhood.
Board shorts.
An open back door, a green back yard, my dogs snoozing in the grass, daylight till 9:00 pm.
Arnie asleep in Brad’s arms, sighing and dreaming and stretching his paws.
Wedding anniversaries spent surfing in Mexico.
Summer road trips to California, for surfing and running and swimming and catching up with friends and people watching and thrift store shopping and emigration market eating and teaching the boys to ride big waves.
The recent discovery of an Indian restaurant in my neighborhood.
Board shorts.
An open back door, a green back yard, my dogs snoozing in the grass, daylight till 9:00 pm.
4.14.2009
Hardwood Burns Slowly
I love my home, perched between Big and Little Cottonwood, with its shady yard and vegetable garden and birdfeeders and Paolo Soleri bells, which are so sweet and soothing that I always wake up smiling on breezy mornings. Waking up in Boulder this weekend, the first thing I noticed was the absence of their song, though I'm so used to them here at home that I don't even notice them anymore.
Interesting. Even the best things grow routine or boring. We stop paying attention to - or find fault in - what we once found so breathtaking.
And eventually, while we sit still looking out, we become such a part of our surroundings that we become our surroundings, the way temples have become banyan trees, and vice versa, in the jungles of Thailand and Cambodia.
So even though - as I said - I love my home and husband and this community, the stasis and finality of here seems to oppose my nature. I almost always feel like I should be elsewhere, traveling or exploring new places, new people, new opportunities. I'm not good at settling, even when the place and people and opportunities I'm "settling" for are so wonderful, are so sacred.
But some dear friends of mine just went to Vietnam for a few weeks, and before they left, I suggested sites and inns and restaurants and, well, Thailand, because I like it better, and as I talked, I thought about some of the things I've been lucky enough to experience: fabric shops in hard-to-find alleys and stooped old women who run guest houses and tend terraced gardens in the Himalayas and the way the centuries-old pubs in Gammla Stan stay open all night, even for a group of kids nursing Carlsbergs and being way too loud.
For years, I focused on going climbing as frequently as possible. That meant making it happen after work and on weekends, leaving little time for much else. Now that I've backed off a bit, I have more time to think. I feel like I'm finding my direction by remembering where I've been, and while that might seem like I'm navigating by way of the rearview mirror, I just can't fight this nostalgia; it's like I lost my way somewhere back there and am retracing my steps until I figure everything out.
Some friends and I went out for sushi in Boulder on Saturday night, and as we cracked each other up with stories about our lives now - so different than when we all lived in the same small mountain town five years ago - we watched a group of kids at a nearby table celebrate the 21st birthday of one of their own.
To me, they looked no older than 16, and I couldn't believe the waitresses weren't running their ids under black lights. "How can they be of age?" I thought, as we watched them tie on paper Samurai headbands - the Japanese equivalent of lobster bibs, I suppose. Then I realized that my context was off; I was still thinking of myself as 21 - young and rowdy and fighting for the spotlight - when, actually, I'm a decade beyond.
Maybe that's what this is all about. I don't know. Usually I just keep writing until I run across some sort of resolution; I never force it, I just seem to find one. Tonight, though, I'm writing in waves, taking breaks to play with Arnie and read the new issue of Surfer .
This month's "Last Wave" essay deals with the author's uncertainty about traveling to a spot in Baja based on the violence that area has experienced lately. He suggests that these world changes - unimaginable a few years ago - will affect surfing, will change how people can access and experience it. I paid close attention to the article, because Brad and I have spent time in that very place. When I think now about how safe we felt there, about how we - or at least I - felt then like I was in a haven of good energy and possibility, I'm almost embarrassed by my lack of foresight, by my inability to predict the warzone the place would become.
But maybe that's just it. Maybe, as we age and as the world changes in once unimaginable ways, we need to remember what it was like before, what we were like before. Maybe that's what gets us back on track and makes things better.
Good night, all.
Interesting. Even the best things grow routine or boring. We stop paying attention to - or find fault in - what we once found so breathtaking.
And eventually, while we sit still looking out, we become such a part of our surroundings that we become our surroundings, the way temples have become banyan trees, and vice versa, in the jungles of Thailand and Cambodia.
So even though - as I said - I love my home and husband and this community, the stasis and finality of here seems to oppose my nature. I almost always feel like I should be elsewhere, traveling or exploring new places, new people, new opportunities. I'm not good at settling, even when the place and people and opportunities I'm "settling" for are so wonderful, are so sacred.
But some dear friends of mine just went to Vietnam for a few weeks, and before they left, I suggested sites and inns and restaurants and, well, Thailand, because I like it better, and as I talked, I thought about some of the things I've been lucky enough to experience: fabric shops in hard-to-find alleys and stooped old women who run guest houses and tend terraced gardens in the Himalayas and the way the centuries-old pubs in Gammla Stan stay open all night, even for a group of kids nursing Carlsbergs and being way too loud.
For years, I focused on going climbing as frequently as possible. That meant making it happen after work and on weekends, leaving little time for much else. Now that I've backed off a bit, I have more time to think. I feel like I'm finding my direction by remembering where I've been, and while that might seem like I'm navigating by way of the rearview mirror, I just can't fight this nostalgia; it's like I lost my way somewhere back there and am retracing my steps until I figure everything out.
Some friends and I went out for sushi in Boulder on Saturday night, and as we cracked each other up with stories about our lives now - so different than when we all lived in the same small mountain town five years ago - we watched a group of kids at a nearby table celebrate the 21st birthday of one of their own.
To me, they looked no older than 16, and I couldn't believe the waitresses weren't running their ids under black lights. "How can they be of age?" I thought, as we watched them tie on paper Samurai headbands - the Japanese equivalent of lobster bibs, I suppose. Then I realized that my context was off; I was still thinking of myself as 21 - young and rowdy and fighting for the spotlight - when, actually, I'm a decade beyond.
Maybe that's what this is all about. I don't know. Usually I just keep writing until I run across some sort of resolution; I never force it, I just seem to find one. Tonight, though, I'm writing in waves, taking breaks to play with Arnie and read the new issue of Surfer .
This month's "Last Wave" essay deals with the author's uncertainty about traveling to a spot in Baja based on the violence that area has experienced lately. He suggests that these world changes - unimaginable a few years ago - will affect surfing, will change how people can access and experience it. I paid close attention to the article, because Brad and I have spent time in that very place. When I think now about how safe we felt there, about how we - or at least I - felt then like I was in a haven of good energy and possibility, I'm almost embarrassed by my lack of foresight, by my inability to predict the warzone the place would become.
But maybe that's just it. Maybe, as we age and as the world changes in once unimaginable ways, we need to remember what it was like before, what we were like before. Maybe that's what gets us back on track and makes things better.
Good night, all.
4.08.2009
They Know Too Much
Those hawk-eyed soothsayers over at Stuff White People Like are really starting to annoy me. I like to think of myself as a little avant-garde, a little outrageous, but the culture vultures have cut me down to average yet again.
Back when I thought I was cool because I still listened to the Roots, I stumbled - dismayed – upon this site, and since then, I haven't been able to tear myself away.
Damn them and their intimate knowledge of my tendencies.
Bangs? Check.
Mad Men? Love it.
Scarves? I'm not exaggerating when I say I wear one every day. Every Day. Today it’s white and orange gingham, yesterday it was white silk with bold chartreuse streaks, tomorrow it’ll be purple Pashmina, Friday something big and wrappy to wear on the plane. Dammit.
Moleskine "legendary notebooks"? Actually, I hate those pretentious little books. Carrying one is like wearing a sign that says, "I'm a sucker who hates my money and fancies my every thought so important that its needs writing down.”
Taking a year off? HA! They're wrong again! I didn't take one year off - I took three!
Coffee? Come on, EVERYBODY likes coffee. Just look at the Turks!
Facebook? Over 600 friends!
Self-aware hiphop references? Ok, this I do not do.
Grammar? Don’t get me started.
Free healthcare? If I had a nickel for every time I’ve proposed socialism, I’d be rich enough to buy non-generic meds.
David Sedaris, Not Having a TV, Arrested Development, Dogs, Juno, Living By The Water (I don’t, but I’d love to)…the list goes on and on.
But really, that's ok, because it's that transparency that enables you (and strangers who run an eerily accurate website) to know me so well, and to know how to help me out of a blue time.
Thank you for your insightful comments, phone calls and emails after my sad post a week or so ago. Such a tremendous outpouring of love—I feel so lucky.
And just like that, everything feels ok again. As soon as I took an honest look at what makes me happy (now - what makes me happy now, not what made me happy 5 years ago or 3 years ago or last year), all the stress—of climbing or not climbing, of skiing or not skiing—melted away. Instead of feeling directionless and overwhelmed, I was able to approach the world with some perspective.
So where do I go from here? I probably won’t revisit the therapist I saw a couple weeks ago, the woman who, after listening to me for a while, asked, “Why don’t you and your husband take up snowshoeing*? That might be a nice way to spend time together in the winter!”
I stared at her, unable to speak, because she just didn’t get it, and with 45 minutes left in my session – a fucking eternity – I suddenly felt exhausted. I missed the therapist I saw in college, Patti, who knew how to say, “try something new” without making me want to scratch my eyeballs out.
The thing is, though, I’ve been trying new things my whole life, preferring the novelty of change to the head-down-dedication of perfecting one sport or hobby. Yes, that spontaneity has allowed me to do myriad wonderful things, but I often wonder where I’d be if I'd ever truly stuck to something.
Oh. Wait ...
There's Arnie, all sprawled out with his paw flung across my foot.
I stuck to him.
When I got him five years ago, my life was at its most frenetic. I was barely hanging on financially and my emotions were completely unmanageable. So, naturally, because I couldn't deal with myself, I decided to throw another living thing into the mix. (WTF?)
But somehow - even with my roommate admonishing me for being so irresponsible - I knew it would work. I could fail myself - continually - without it mattering enough to change my behavior, but after smacking eyes on Arnie for the first time, I knew I could never, ever fail the fuzzy golden baby animal who was depending on me for food and love and shelter and walks and pets and companionship. He deserved all the compassion in the world, and in caring for him, I started to address the matters in my own life.
Hm. I never thought about that before. No wonder I love Arnie so much.
No wonder I didn't meet Brad until after I got Arnie. I wasn't ready to meet him any sooner.
Obviously, I have bad memories of high school. I had a lovely childhood, so it goes without saying that I spent my teen years looking for an enemy to battle, finding no one but myself, and taking it out on my parents.
I grew up with the sense of entitlement that comes from living in a house where the TV is turned off for dinner and my main chores were finishing my homework, writing thank you notes and practicing the piano. Chores finished, I spent most Friday and Saturday nights like the rest of my suburban American generation - at the local mall.
Juggling Aunt Annie’s pretzels and sugar-free lemonades, my friends and I trolled the sale racks at The Gap and pretended to ignore any classmates we saw. It's mostly a blur now, the drama and dialogue that seemed so paramount, the standing around that I used to beg an extra hour of curfew for. But one moment remains clear. My friend Janice and I were looking at purses at Kauffmanns, a regional department store now part of the Macy's family. Rather than fawning over the Liz Clairborne "Triangle Bag," which most of our peers paraded up and down the halls at school, Janice pointed to a locked glass case that held what looked to me like boring but expensive "Mom" purses.
"Someday I'm going to buy myself a Coach bag," she said.
I know, I know. These are the words of spoiled brats and little girls with no ambition. But Janice didn't say, "I want that," or "My dad is buying me that bag," or even, "I'm going to ask my parents for one of those." She said that she was going to buy one for herself, and that's what stuck with me, even after 15 years and numerous fancy bags (though no Coach...still not my style).
Figuring it out for yourself, whatever it is, matters.
Yes, plenty of people told me that I was on a path of destruction, but until I saw for myself how my actions could negatively affect little Arnie, I ignored all the static and ground noise and continued digging my own grave. Just as Janice, whose parents probably would have given her a Coach bag for her birthday or graduation or whatever, realized that earning it on her own would make carrying it feel all the better.
Just like my figuring out, over these past few weeks, what my priorities are right now, validates them - makes them mine.
* Snowshoeing? Just, NO.
Back when I thought I was cool because I still listened to the Roots, I stumbled - dismayed – upon this site, and since then, I haven't been able to tear myself away.
Damn them and their intimate knowledge of my tendencies.
Bangs? Check.
Mad Men? Love it.
Scarves? I'm not exaggerating when I say I wear one every day. Every Day. Today it’s white and orange gingham, yesterday it was white silk with bold chartreuse streaks, tomorrow it’ll be purple Pashmina, Friday something big and wrappy to wear on the plane. Dammit.
Moleskine "legendary notebooks"? Actually, I hate those pretentious little books. Carrying one is like wearing a sign that says, "I'm a sucker who hates my money and fancies my every thought so important that its needs writing down.”
Taking a year off? HA! They're wrong again! I didn't take one year off - I took three!
Coffee? Come on, EVERYBODY likes coffee. Just look at the Turks!
Facebook? Over 600 friends!
Self-aware hiphop references? Ok, this I do not do.
Grammar? Don’t get me started.
Free healthcare? If I had a nickel for every time I’ve proposed socialism, I’d be rich enough to buy non-generic meds.
David Sedaris, Not Having a TV, Arrested Development, Dogs, Juno, Living By The Water (I don’t, but I’d love to)…the list goes on and on.
But really, that's ok, because it's that transparency that enables you (and strangers who run an eerily accurate website) to know me so well, and to know how to help me out of a blue time.
Thank you for your insightful comments, phone calls and emails after my sad post a week or so ago. Such a tremendous outpouring of love—I feel so lucky.
And just like that, everything feels ok again. As soon as I took an honest look at what makes me happy (now - what makes me happy now, not what made me happy 5 years ago or 3 years ago or last year), all the stress—of climbing or not climbing, of skiing or not skiing—melted away. Instead of feeling directionless and overwhelmed, I was able to approach the world with some perspective.
So where do I go from here? I probably won’t revisit the therapist I saw a couple weeks ago, the woman who, after listening to me for a while, asked, “Why don’t you and your husband take up snowshoeing*? That might be a nice way to spend time together in the winter!”
I stared at her, unable to speak, because she just didn’t get it, and with 45 minutes left in my session – a fucking eternity – I suddenly felt exhausted. I missed the therapist I saw in college, Patti, who knew how to say, “try something new” without making me want to scratch my eyeballs out.
The thing is, though, I’ve been trying new things my whole life, preferring the novelty of change to the head-down-dedication of perfecting one sport or hobby. Yes, that spontaneity has allowed me to do myriad wonderful things, but I often wonder where I’d be if I'd ever truly stuck to something.
Oh. Wait ...
There's Arnie, all sprawled out with his paw flung across my foot.
I stuck to him.
When I got him five years ago, my life was at its most frenetic. I was barely hanging on financially and my emotions were completely unmanageable. So, naturally, because I couldn't deal with myself, I decided to throw another living thing into the mix. (WTF?)
But somehow - even with my roommate admonishing me for being so irresponsible - I knew it would work. I could fail myself - continually - without it mattering enough to change my behavior, but after smacking eyes on Arnie for the first time, I knew I could never, ever fail the fuzzy golden baby animal who was depending on me for food and love and shelter and walks and pets and companionship. He deserved all the compassion in the world, and in caring for him, I started to address the matters in my own life.
Hm. I never thought about that before. No wonder I love Arnie so much.
No wonder I didn't meet Brad until after I got Arnie. I wasn't ready to meet him any sooner.
Obviously, I have bad memories of high school. I had a lovely childhood, so it goes without saying that I spent my teen years looking for an enemy to battle, finding no one but myself, and taking it out on my parents.
I grew up with the sense of entitlement that comes from living in a house where the TV is turned off for dinner and my main chores were finishing my homework, writing thank you notes and practicing the piano. Chores finished, I spent most Friday and Saturday nights like the rest of my suburban American generation - at the local mall.
Juggling Aunt Annie’s pretzels and sugar-free lemonades, my friends and I trolled the sale racks at The Gap and pretended to ignore any classmates we saw. It's mostly a blur now, the drama and dialogue that seemed so paramount, the standing around that I used to beg an extra hour of curfew for. But one moment remains clear. My friend Janice and I were looking at purses at Kauffmanns, a regional department store now part of the Macy's family. Rather than fawning over the Liz Clairborne "Triangle Bag," which most of our peers paraded up and down the halls at school, Janice pointed to a locked glass case that held what looked to me like boring but expensive "Mom" purses.
"Someday I'm going to buy myself a Coach bag," she said.
I know, I know. These are the words of spoiled brats and little girls with no ambition. But Janice didn't say, "I want that," or "My dad is buying me that bag," or even, "I'm going to ask my parents for one of those." She said that she was going to buy one for herself, and that's what stuck with me, even after 15 years and numerous fancy bags (though no Coach...still not my style).
Figuring it out for yourself, whatever it is, matters.
Yes, plenty of people told me that I was on a path of destruction, but until I saw for myself how my actions could negatively affect little Arnie, I ignored all the static and ground noise and continued digging my own grave. Just as Janice, whose parents probably would have given her a Coach bag for her birthday or graduation or whatever, realized that earning it on her own would make carrying it feel all the better.
Just like my figuring out, over these past few weeks, what my priorities are right now, validates them - makes them mine.
* Snowshoeing? Just, NO.
4.06.2009
It's weird now.
I know I've said this before, but it feels a bit like the wheels are coming off the bus. Today, the Earthquake in Italy. Yesterday a huge avalanche in-bounds at Brighton ski resort. On Saturday, a man in Pittsburgh mowed down three cops because he was afraid Barack Obama was going to take his guns away. On Friday (or what it Thursday?), the shooting spree and hostage situation in Binghamton.
Destruction and despair everywhere, it seems, which makes me think of William Stafford's beautiful Yes:
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out – no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
And oh, he's so right. A wonderful weekend with Brad and the boys, Arnie warming my feet right now. Food growing outside, the sun still above the mountains even though it's nearly eight o'clock.
There's so much to be thankful for.
Destruction and despair everywhere, it seems, which makes me think of William Stafford's beautiful Yes:
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out – no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
And oh, he's so right. A wonderful weekend with Brad and the boys, Arnie warming my feet right now. Food growing outside, the sun still above the mountains even though it's nearly eight o'clock.
There's so much to be thankful for.
4.04.2009
This One's for Anonymous
It's nice to know that the dynamic duo of Beeker and Animal have another fan.
I promise a real post next, but for now, one of my favorites:
I promise a real post next, but for now, one of my favorites:
4.03.2009
Don't Be Nervous
They won't all be depressing rants and raves from now on. I promise.
Tonight, for example, a classic Muppet video - reminds me of the old days of TWR, back when it was all furry animals and funny videos.
And now, Master of Muppets.
Tonight, for example, a classic Muppet video - reminds me of the old days of TWR, back when it was all furry animals and funny videos.
And now, Master of Muppets.
3.27.2009
Because one can only eat so many tomatillos.
I’ve always been inspired by landscape.
Of course, most writers are.
For John Updike it was the industrial mid-Atlantic and, later, the buttoned-up coastal towns of New England. For Gary Snyder it was the Cascades and the High Sierra, for Faulkner the humid, dripping South.
As we all know, WBY had County Sligo, and James Joyce, of course, was inseparable – in prose if not geography – from his beloved Dublin.
Ed Abbey and many like him had the desert of Southern Utah, and for years, I did, too.
In college, in my cold bedroom on Buckhout Street, I stayed up all night reading about red rock country through the words of Abbey and Terry Tempest Williams. At that point, I’d seen the desert only once, on a winter trip to Indian Creek. Back home in the sad Pennsylvania spring, I felt Utah calling me back.
In the years since, I’ve moved west and traveled to the desert dozens of times. Until now, I’ve maintained that the desert is my soul’s home, that its filagree of sage and tamarack inspires and sustains me.
But they don't, and neither do the improbable sandstone towers or stoic buttresses. The place has lost its enigma; it’s come to mean too much – a venue climbing successes and failures, a place to feel clumsy and awkward, a stage for letting Brad down.
And that’s the problem.
Brad loves the desert more than anyone I’ve ever seen. Normally reserved and calculated, he goes a little bit crazy as soon as Moab’s in the rearview and we’re barreling toward the highway 211 turn-off.
As I sit in the passenger seat, growing increasingly intimidated by my surroundings, Brad opens the windows and howls and calls the dogs to the front of the van to do the same. If they spot a rabbit, Brad brakes so hard the vehicle fishtails on the gravel. They clamor outside to where they last saw poor thumper, and I sit there praying for that rabbit’s deliverance from Arnie’s teeth.
You must understand: none of them – Arnie, Brad or Red – would ever purposely inflict pain on another creature (sure, Red gets a little bossy sometimes, but he’s mostly bark). They just get excited when they’re in the middle of nowhere—sans leashes and rules and schedules and pretense.
The desert is Brad’s Grateful Dead tour, his frat party, his drum circle, his dance club. It is the one place I’ve ever seen him drop his guard, throw his head back and relax completely.
So I feel guilty for not feeling the same.
Oh, I’ll still go there, of course. And I’ll have a wonderful time. But when we met, we connected over our shared love of climbing on sandstone. Years later, I’m more interested in rolling waves and rolling hills than I am desert sunsets, so where does that leave us?
I crave change – new sights and people and activities and experiences. Doing the same thing over and over causes me to compare one experience to the previous, causes me to compare myself to who I used to be, and somehow I keep falling short of my own expectations.
What was I saying about letting Brad down in the desert? Yeah, that's probably projection.
I guess I just need to remember that my life really isn't all that hard. I'm so lucky, so blessed - why create drama and stamp my feet and throw fits when, christ, I'm in the desert with the man and dogs I love; who cares how I'm climbing? Why not just have fun?
But that's what I do - I make a big deal out of things that aren't. Part of it, of course, is guilt. My life is so easy, if I were to only worry about huge problems, I'd never worry at all...I'd be just like Arnie. Sure, that'd probably be healthier, and god knows it'd be easier for my family and friends (and blog readers, because oh my god, believe me, even I'm getting tired of this love-hate-but-mostly-hate-lately affair I have with climbing; I can't imagine how you feel when you open up TWR and see yet another climbing post), but I'm not sure it's possible.
I love moving water more than anything else in nature. Its constant state of flux is calming to me because I, too, change moment to moment. I'm soothed by surf reports - even hundreds of miles from the nearest break - because they remind me that nothing is static, everything is a little bit different than it just was, and that's ok - it's natural. Exhausted and empty, I'm often a different person at 5 pm than I was at 5 am, when I hopped out of bed feeling happy. Like rivers and oceans, my moods surge and drain throughout the day.
The desert is different. Steadfast and still, its change is visible - just look at the arches - but slow. It ebbs and flows over decades, not hours, and while not always safe, it at least warns you when a storm is coming, when the calm is about to be rocked. My storms are far more sudden and unpredictable.
My friend, Kate, has recently begun to experiment with raw eating, and it sounds like it's working very well for her. Part of me wonders if a change in diet wouldn't help me regulate my energy and mood levels, but I'm so stubborn that as soon as I establish a rule for myself, I go out of my way to break it, just to prove that I can.
Maybe a better diet would help, but I'm so tired by the time I leave work and drive home that all my healthy, wholesome plans for the evening get trumped by eating chips and salsa for dinner and watching reruns of 30 Rock online. Since when am I so damn lazy?
I need to figure this out, though, because where I once ran 6 miles in the morning and did yoga and hiked with Arnie for two hours after work, I'm lucky now if I get out for a short jog or dog walk. I suppose I'm comparing myself to myself of fitness past again, but the thing is, I don't know where this new slothy version of myself is coming from. I don't like it, though - it's affecting my marriage, my happiness, my dog (I'm not the only one who could use more exercise...)...Where is this coming from? How do I fix it?
Of course, most writers are.
For John Updike it was the industrial mid-Atlantic and, later, the buttoned-up coastal towns of New England. For Gary Snyder it was the Cascades and the High Sierra, for Faulkner the humid, dripping South.
As we all know, WBY had County Sligo, and James Joyce, of course, was inseparable – in prose if not geography – from his beloved Dublin.
Ed Abbey and many like him had the desert of Southern Utah, and for years, I did, too.
In college, in my cold bedroom on Buckhout Street, I stayed up all night reading about red rock country through the words of Abbey and Terry Tempest Williams. At that point, I’d seen the desert only once, on a winter trip to Indian Creek. Back home in the sad Pennsylvania spring, I felt Utah calling me back.
In the years since, I’ve moved west and traveled to the desert dozens of times. Until now, I’ve maintained that the desert is my soul’s home, that its filagree of sage and tamarack inspires and sustains me.
But they don't, and neither do the improbable sandstone towers or stoic buttresses. The place has lost its enigma; it’s come to mean too much – a venue climbing successes and failures, a place to feel clumsy and awkward, a stage for letting Brad down.
And that’s the problem.
Brad loves the desert more than anyone I’ve ever seen. Normally reserved and calculated, he goes a little bit crazy as soon as Moab’s in the rearview and we’re barreling toward the highway 211 turn-off.
As I sit in the passenger seat, growing increasingly intimidated by my surroundings, Brad opens the windows and howls and calls the dogs to the front of the van to do the same. If they spot a rabbit, Brad brakes so hard the vehicle fishtails on the gravel. They clamor outside to where they last saw poor thumper, and I sit there praying for that rabbit’s deliverance from Arnie’s teeth.
You must understand: none of them – Arnie, Brad or Red – would ever purposely inflict pain on another creature (sure, Red gets a little bossy sometimes, but he’s mostly bark). They just get excited when they’re in the middle of nowhere—sans leashes and rules and schedules and pretense.
The desert is Brad’s Grateful Dead tour, his frat party, his drum circle, his dance club. It is the one place I’ve ever seen him drop his guard, throw his head back and relax completely.
So I feel guilty for not feeling the same.
Oh, I’ll still go there, of course. And I’ll have a wonderful time. But when we met, we connected over our shared love of climbing on sandstone. Years later, I’m more interested in rolling waves and rolling hills than I am desert sunsets, so where does that leave us?
I crave change – new sights and people and activities and experiences. Doing the same thing over and over causes me to compare one experience to the previous, causes me to compare myself to who I used to be, and somehow I keep falling short of my own expectations.
What was I saying about letting Brad down in the desert? Yeah, that's probably projection.
I guess I just need to remember that my life really isn't all that hard. I'm so lucky, so blessed - why create drama and stamp my feet and throw fits when, christ, I'm in the desert with the man and dogs I love; who cares how I'm climbing? Why not just have fun?
But that's what I do - I make a big deal out of things that aren't. Part of it, of course, is guilt. My life is so easy, if I were to only worry about huge problems, I'd never worry at all...I'd be just like Arnie. Sure, that'd probably be healthier, and god knows it'd be easier for my family and friends (and blog readers, because oh my god, believe me, even I'm getting tired of this love-hate-but-mostly-hate-lately affair I have with climbing; I can't imagine how you feel when you open up TWR and see yet another climbing post), but I'm not sure it's possible.
I love moving water more than anything else in nature. Its constant state of flux is calming to me because I, too, change moment to moment. I'm soothed by surf reports - even hundreds of miles from the nearest break - because they remind me that nothing is static, everything is a little bit different than it just was, and that's ok - it's natural. Exhausted and empty, I'm often a different person at 5 pm than I was at 5 am, when I hopped out of bed feeling happy. Like rivers and oceans, my moods surge and drain throughout the day.
The desert is different. Steadfast and still, its change is visible - just look at the arches - but slow. It ebbs and flows over decades, not hours, and while not always safe, it at least warns you when a storm is coming, when the calm is about to be rocked. My storms are far more sudden and unpredictable.
My friend, Kate, has recently begun to experiment with raw eating, and it sounds like it's working very well for her. Part of me wonders if a change in diet wouldn't help me regulate my energy and mood levels, but I'm so stubborn that as soon as I establish a rule for myself, I go out of my way to break it, just to prove that I can.
Maybe a better diet would help, but I'm so tired by the time I leave work and drive home that all my healthy, wholesome plans for the evening get trumped by eating chips and salsa for dinner and watching reruns of 30 Rock online. Since when am I so damn lazy?
I need to figure this out, though, because where I once ran 6 miles in the morning and did yoga and hiked with Arnie for two hours after work, I'm lucky now if I get out for a short jog or dog walk. I suppose I'm comparing myself to myself of fitness past again, but the thing is, I don't know where this new slothy version of myself is coming from. I don't like it, though - it's affecting my marriage, my happiness, my dog (I'm not the only one who could use more exercise...)...Where is this coming from? How do I fix it?
3.23.2009
What do you expect from a country whose treasury secretary resembles Frodo Baggins?
Don’t you think?
A little unnerving. Me thinks he might blow the whole $350 large buying rounds of mead for his short-statured buddies at the Prancing Pony.
Of course, he also resembles a leprechaun, which might indicate that he’s fiercely guarding our hard won pot of gold.
3.20.2009
Another “I should have gone to grad school but I didn’t so I’m taking it out on you” Post.
In my recent Yeats-reading fervor, I’ve been doing some external research (ahem, Wikipedia*, or Wikipaedia if you want to be fancy) on the man’s life. I know, I know, skimming a wiki page doesn’t count as “research,” but for all its shortcomings (lies, inaccuracies, completely made-up bullshit), it still provides a good lot of information, especially when it comes to lists of works – or oeuvres, if you want to be fancy**.
So I was reading Yeats’ list of works last night, deciding which of his poems or stories to tackle next, and I noticed an interesting statement in his bio.
“In 1997, (Yeats’) biographer R. F. Foster observed that Napoleon's dictum that to understand the man you have to know what was happening in the world when he was twenty ‘is manifestly true of W.B.Y.’”
I’d never heard that dictum, as I haven’t made a study of Napoleon’s quotes part of my oeuvre (ok, ok, I’ll stop). But I’m amazed at how true it seems. It brings to mind something I’m always yammering about – authenticity*** in writing. I recently accosted a new friend on the same subject, when he innocently asked who some of my favorite writers are. I’m sure he expected a list of four or five, not a three-page email explaining why, exactly, I adore Kay Boyle’s Death of a Man (because it is so tethered to its cultural and physical landscape, because it couldn’t have existed in any other time or place, because without the events of the world at the time of its writing, I wouldn’t have a highlighted, dog-eared copy of it on my bookshelf today).
And what I love about Yeats’ work (the little I’ve read) is sort of the same. He writes in the language of Ireland – his work firmly rooted in the landscape. But even so, he integrates mysticism and magic and possibility, which, in Ireland in the 1900s, one might truly have needed. Those weren’t the years of the Celtic Tiger, after all.
So it’s that. It’s that he can be authentic while spinning tales.
But good lord, no one asked. Next post? Back to pictures of dogs and climbing. I promise.
*Want to learn more about Wikiality? Check this out.
** I’ve been thinking about pretentious language lately, about how we use all-dolled-up words when a word in sweatpants would do. Part of it, I think, stems from cultural colloquialisms – the English of New England and the English of SoCal are vastly different. Same with the English of North America and that of the UK, especially in the way we hedge, or stall for time, or avoid saying what we want to say. Here, we’re prone to long “uummms,” and lots of “like, I means.” There, they say far cuter and more charming things, like, “so it would."
***I have no idea where my obsession with authenticity in writing came from. It’s especially weird because I read almost exclusively fiction…of course, I also frequently say, “there’s no such thing as fiction…it all comes from somewhere.”
So I was reading Yeats’ list of works last night, deciding which of his poems or stories to tackle next, and I noticed an interesting statement in his bio.
“In 1997, (Yeats’) biographer R. F. Foster observed that Napoleon's dictum that to understand the man you have to know what was happening in the world when he was twenty ‘is manifestly true of W.B.Y.’”
I’d never heard that dictum, as I haven’t made a study of Napoleon’s quotes part of my oeuvre (ok, ok, I’ll stop). But I’m amazed at how true it seems. It brings to mind something I’m always yammering about – authenticity*** in writing. I recently accosted a new friend on the same subject, when he innocently asked who some of my favorite writers are. I’m sure he expected a list of four or five, not a three-page email explaining why, exactly, I adore Kay Boyle’s Death of a Man (because it is so tethered to its cultural and physical landscape, because it couldn’t have existed in any other time or place, because without the events of the world at the time of its writing, I wouldn’t have a highlighted, dog-eared copy of it on my bookshelf today).
And what I love about Yeats’ work (the little I’ve read) is sort of the same. He writes in the language of Ireland – his work firmly rooted in the landscape. But even so, he integrates mysticism and magic and possibility, which, in Ireland in the 1900s, one might truly have needed. Those weren’t the years of the Celtic Tiger, after all.
So it’s that. It’s that he can be authentic while spinning tales.
But good lord, no one asked. Next post? Back to pictures of dogs and climbing. I promise.
*Want to learn more about Wikiality? Check this out.
** I’ve been thinking about pretentious language lately, about how we use all-dolled-up words when a word in sweatpants would do. Part of it, I think, stems from cultural colloquialisms – the English of New England and the English of SoCal are vastly different. Same with the English of North America and that of the UK, especially in the way we hedge, or stall for time, or avoid saying what we want to say. Here, we’re prone to long “uummms,” and lots of “like, I means.” There, they say far cuter and more charming things, like, “so it would."
***I have no idea where my obsession with authenticity in writing came from. It’s especially weird because I read almost exclusively fiction…of course, I also frequently say, “there’s no such thing as fiction…it all comes from somewhere.”
3.19.2009
Wisdom - now playing on a tea bag tag near you.
“Your greatest strength is love,” said the tag on my tea bag this morning.
And for some reason, it stopped me. I read my tea bag tags every morning and afternoon, and usually I just nod in agreement – the adages are always pleasant enough – and move right on.
But today was different. As I flipped the tag over on my way up the stairs to my office, I stopped abruptly, the words hitting me hard.
“Of course it is,” I thought. “Why don’t I use it more?”
I think about my physical strengths constantly. In yoga class, pulling hard on my heels in pada-mustasana, I think about my engaging biceps and locking my knees. Climbing, I think about my core, core, core. Running, I think about my quads. Even at work, sitting on my ball at my desk, I think about straightening my spine, sitting tall, dropping my shoulders….it’s never-ending.
But all those things are limited. I only have so much physical strength, and when it’s tapped, that’s it. I can’t give any more.
But love and compassion? Those wells run so deep I don’t believe I’ve ever touched the bottom. This morning, cleaning Arnie’s ears (he is getting over a nasty ear infection), I thought, “I would do this every day – ten times a day – if that’s what it took to keep Arnie healthy and happy.”
And kissing Brad goodbye, I said, “Call me if you need anything today.” And now, remembering that, I realize that I’d stop everything to help him, to make sure he’s as happy as possible….
And that’s totally true, though, I suppose I don’t always show it. I don’t allow my love to be stronger than all the other, weaker emotions I’m feeling.
And sure, “we’re always hardest on those we love,” or whatever that expression is…but what a lame thing to say—and an even lamer to practice. I’m guilty of it, of course. Poor Brad withstands my wrath when it’s 11pm and I have to get up at 4:30 to fit a run in before yoga and I can’t sleep and “why is it so goddamn hot in this room?” Or when were climbing and he makes a minor suggestion that will only help me but I get defensive and angry and storm off and leave him there, partner-less.
Christ, I’m hard on him. The poor guy. There are times when he’d be justified in doubting my bottomless well of love.
I’ve always been strong. Strong muscles, strong back, strong will (to an extent). Even at my least fit I can do a dozen pull-ups and the Lord of the Dance pose.
So if love is my GREATEST strength – stronger than my shoulders and my quads and my arm-wrestling prowess – imagine what I could do with it.
…If I put it to use; if I let it beat all the other bullshit that clouds my judgment.
And for some reason, it stopped me. I read my tea bag tags every morning and afternoon, and usually I just nod in agreement – the adages are always pleasant enough – and move right on.
But today was different. As I flipped the tag over on my way up the stairs to my office, I stopped abruptly, the words hitting me hard.
“Of course it is,” I thought. “Why don’t I use it more?”
I think about my physical strengths constantly. In yoga class, pulling hard on my heels in pada-mustasana, I think about my engaging biceps and locking my knees. Climbing, I think about my core, core, core. Running, I think about my quads. Even at work, sitting on my ball at my desk, I think about straightening my spine, sitting tall, dropping my shoulders….it’s never-ending.
But all those things are limited. I only have so much physical strength, and when it’s tapped, that’s it. I can’t give any more.
But love and compassion? Those wells run so deep I don’t believe I’ve ever touched the bottom. This morning, cleaning Arnie’s ears (he is getting over a nasty ear infection), I thought, “I would do this every day – ten times a day – if that’s what it took to keep Arnie healthy and happy.”
And kissing Brad goodbye, I said, “Call me if you need anything today.” And now, remembering that, I realize that I’d stop everything to help him, to make sure he’s as happy as possible….
And that’s totally true, though, I suppose I don’t always show it. I don’t allow my love to be stronger than all the other, weaker emotions I’m feeling.
And sure, “we’re always hardest on those we love,” or whatever that expression is…but what a lame thing to say—and an even lamer to practice. I’m guilty of it, of course. Poor Brad withstands my wrath when it’s 11pm and I have to get up at 4:30 to fit a run in before yoga and I can’t sleep and “why is it so goddamn hot in this room?” Or when were climbing and he makes a minor suggestion that will only help me but I get defensive and angry and storm off and leave him there, partner-less.
Christ, I’m hard on him. The poor guy. There are times when he’d be justified in doubting my bottomless well of love.
I’ve always been strong. Strong muscles, strong back, strong will (to an extent). Even at my least fit I can do a dozen pull-ups and the Lord of the Dance pose.
So if love is my GREATEST strength – stronger than my shoulders and my quads and my arm-wrestling prowess – imagine what I could do with it.
…If I put it to use; if I let it beat all the other bullshit that clouds my judgment.
3.18.2009
Of course, well sure, so there you go.
I’ve mentioned this before, but my current travel obsession is the UK, and lately it’s expanded to include Ireland. Aside from my mild obsession with Celtic Thunder, I adore the work of William Butler Yeats – his belief in the possibility of the supernatural so strong one can’t help but agree with him, one can’t help but think that, perchance, the finches flocking to her backyard are there because they know how happy they make her husband, and did that small one just wink at her?
So there’s Yeats, of course, himself having grown up in County Sligo, near Strandhill and surfing and the Warrior’s Run, which I’d like to do if I ever happen to find myself on the coast of Ireland in late August.
But there’s more. There’s the lushness, the saturation of color and Earth and culture. It seems one can’t escape Ireland in Ireland, whereas one can barely find American culture in parts of this country. Christ, I grew up in a place where half the population handles snakes and speaks in tongues.
Ok, not really.
But that’s about it. Other than petting the dogs, climbing a little bit and doing some yoga, I’ve mostly been reading about Northern Ireland (fantastic Smithsonian article about the same) and the tenuous peace there…thinking about how lucky I am that I’ve never been targeted because of my beliefs or my last name or the street on which I live. It’s so far out of my realm of understanding – the unyielding tension that must come with such strife. And yet, for decades, the violent, tireless terrorism that has plagued Northern Ireland has been called, simply, "the troubles." Like, the guy at the petrol station in Derry should ask, "Well, having a bit of trouble with your car, so you are?" Or the guy in the surf shop in Strandhill should comment, "Having a wee bit of trouble on the white horses, aye?" But nothing, it seems, it too horrifying for the Irish to make quaint. I love that. I guess that's how they sleep at night. Like Julie, my favrite yoga teacher, mentioned recently: "Yeah, it's hot in this room, but you can't do anything about it, so why waste energy thinking about it?"
All this makes me think of a recent Onion headline, “Vacation to Israel Cancelled due to History of Israel.” That of course, reminds me of others, including one from Ireland, “Bar Fight Entering Third Year.”
Ah, I know I’m failing you, readers. I haven’t been keeping up with this blog, and when I do, it’s not really to impart anything super worthy or recall a cool trip; it’s just sort of, well, blahheresalltheboringstuffonmymindblah.
The truth? I’m actually writing a ton—for work, of course, but also personal stuff: poems, essays, spec articles. I’m not sharing that work here, though, because I’m not totally comfortable with it yet. I don’t know quite why. And as for the lack of trip reports, well, I’ve been a homebody lately, choosing to pore over maps and guidebooks that will lead to future big trips rather than driving 6 hours to climb for a day and a half before driving 6 hours back home. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a phase.
On another note? My garden is growing! I'll post pictures soon.
So there’s Yeats, of course, himself having grown up in County Sligo, near Strandhill and surfing and the Warrior’s Run, which I’d like to do if I ever happen to find myself on the coast of Ireland in late August.
But there’s more. There’s the lushness, the saturation of color and Earth and culture. It seems one can’t escape Ireland in Ireland, whereas one can barely find American culture in parts of this country. Christ, I grew up in a place where half the population handles snakes and speaks in tongues.
Ok, not really.
But that’s about it. Other than petting the dogs, climbing a little bit and doing some yoga, I’ve mostly been reading about Northern Ireland (fantastic Smithsonian article about the same) and the tenuous peace there…thinking about how lucky I am that I’ve never been targeted because of my beliefs or my last name or the street on which I live. It’s so far out of my realm of understanding – the unyielding tension that must come with such strife. And yet, for decades, the violent, tireless terrorism that has plagued Northern Ireland has been called, simply, "the troubles." Like, the guy at the petrol station in Derry should ask, "Well, having a bit of trouble with your car, so you are?" Or the guy in the surf shop in Strandhill should comment, "Having a wee bit of trouble on the white horses, aye?" But nothing, it seems, it too horrifying for the Irish to make quaint. I love that. I guess that's how they sleep at night. Like Julie, my favrite yoga teacher, mentioned recently: "Yeah, it's hot in this room, but you can't do anything about it, so why waste energy thinking about it?"
All this makes me think of a recent Onion headline, “Vacation to Israel Cancelled due to History of Israel.” That of course, reminds me of others, including one from Ireland, “Bar Fight Entering Third Year.”
Ah, I know I’m failing you, readers. I haven’t been keeping up with this blog, and when I do, it’s not really to impart anything super worthy or recall a cool trip; it’s just sort of, well, blahheresalltheboringstuffonmymindblah.
The truth? I’m actually writing a ton—for work, of course, but also personal stuff: poems, essays, spec articles. I’m not sharing that work here, though, because I’m not totally comfortable with it yet. I don’t know quite why. And as for the lack of trip reports, well, I’ve been a homebody lately, choosing to pore over maps and guidebooks that will lead to future big trips rather than driving 6 hours to climb for a day and a half before driving 6 hours back home. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a phase.
On another note? My garden is growing! I'll post pictures soon.
2.27.2009
The Word "Whom" Deserves a Defender*
I often face questions of grammatical style in my day job; medical writing rivals the deepest Southern dialects for “most made up words.” When people come to my cubicle to ask if “flowability” is hyphenated, my first response is, “I don’t know. Is flowability a word?”
With no grammatical style guide to reference, I’m free to make up my own rules. I get to decide, for example, that a comma before the “or” or “and” in a series is superfluous. Why? Because I think they’re stupid, and with no concrete rule telling me otherwise, I’m the boss on this one!
So is flowability hyphenated? No! Why? Because I said so!
Perhaps all this power has gone to my head. What was it Lord Acton said about absolute power? That it corrupts absol…oh who cares. He should have diversified his adjective and adverb.
But now a secret: I don’t know everything. At leastthree eleven times a week I’m stumped by a grammatical question, and because I don’t trust printed language manuals that are out of date before they’re fully printed (after all, “ours is a living language,” as one of my colleagues eloquently pointed out yesterday), I usually turn to that source of all that is true and good, the Internet.
Many of you may know Grammar Girl from her popular podcasts. For me, podcasts are kind of “meh,” because I can’t sing along to them at the top of my lungs while imagining myself in old jeans and a western shirt playing a beat-up Gibson in a Nashville studio alongside Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons (I know, he’s dead, but this is my fantasy and I can resurrect whomever I please). I just have to sit there and listen, and is it any surprise that I’m not very good at that?
But Grammar Girl also maintains a delightful website, where she posts transcripts of her podcasts for pod-non-believers like me. I visit her sitehourly to check usage or recall a rule. The other day, I noticed her post on style guides.
It’s another in a string of great resources from Grammar Girl. She links to the Economist’s style guide, my favourite for its snooty disdain of "Americanisms" (it’s hilarious; I imagine it being read aloud from a parliamentary bench by a powdered-wig-wearing John Cleese-type sillyman). She also links to a map of language from the MLA, which I imagined as a map of colloquial language, of regional dialects. In fact, it's just a map of who speaks what language where, and isn't quite as detailed as I'd like it to be. Imagine, though, a map of the United States with the dialects in place. So, for example, Western PA would be listed as a place where people pronouce the "ow" sound like "ah." So it's "dahntahn," not "downtown." And Utah would be noted for its peoples' love of the past perfect and past future tenses. "She had gone with me. Were you going to come with us?" What? That doesn't even make sense! Here's another example, frequently used by receptionists, "What was your name?" No! No! My name IS what it is, was and will be! It hasn't changed, it won't be different tomorrow!
Good lord, I feel like one of these guys:
Well, anyway, you get my point. That's all I have for you tonight. Tomorrow will be a big day, so I'm off to bed.
* Many thanks to Liz Lemon for her dedication to good grammar.
With no grammatical style guide to reference, I’m free to make up my own rules. I get to decide, for example, that a comma before the “or” or “and” in a series is superfluous. Why? Because I think they’re stupid, and with no concrete rule telling me otherwise, I’m the boss on this one!
So is flowability hyphenated? No! Why? Because I said so!
Perhaps all this power has gone to my head. What was it Lord Acton said about absolute power? That it corrupts absol…oh who cares. He should have diversified his adjective and adverb.
But now a secret: I don’t know everything. At least
Many of you may know Grammar Girl from her popular podcasts. For me, podcasts are kind of “meh,” because I can’t sing along to them at the top of my lungs while imagining myself in old jeans and a western shirt playing a beat-up Gibson in a Nashville studio alongside Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons (I know, he’s dead, but this is my fantasy and I can resurrect whomever I please). I just have to sit there and listen, and is it any surprise that I’m not very good at that?
But Grammar Girl also maintains a delightful website, where she posts transcripts of her podcasts for pod-non-believers like me. I visit her site
It’s another in a string of great resources from Grammar Girl. She links to the Economist’s style guide, my favourite for its snooty disdain of "Americanisms" (it’s hilarious; I imagine it being read aloud from a parliamentary bench by a powdered-wig-wearing John Cleese-type sillyman). She also links to a map of language from the MLA, which I imagined as a map of colloquial language, of regional dialects. In fact, it's just a map of who speaks what language where, and isn't quite as detailed as I'd like it to be. Imagine, though, a map of the United States with the dialects in place. So, for example, Western PA would be listed as a place where people pronouce the "ow" sound like "ah." So it's "dahntahn," not "downtown." And Utah would be noted for its peoples' love of the past perfect and past future tenses. "She had gone with me. Were you going to come with us?" What? That doesn't even make sense! Here's another example, frequently used by receptionists, "What was your name?" No! No! My name IS what it is, was and will be! It hasn't changed, it won't be different tomorrow!
Good lord, I feel like one of these guys:
Well, anyway, you get my point. That's all I have for you tonight. Tomorrow will be a big day, so I'm off to bed.
* Many thanks to Liz Lemon for her dedication to good grammar.
2.26.2009
What Updike Taught Me
Over the weekend, I spent some quality time with The New Yorker.
The February 9th & 16th issue was largely Updike focused, in the wake of the great man’s death, and included two obituary tributes as well as several pages of snippets from the writing he’d done for the magazine over the years.
One of the snippets, from an early short story, “The Happiest I’ve Been,” hit me so squarely that I gasped – actually audibly, right there in the salon chair, prompting the woman applying my foils to drop the whole lot to the floor – in comprehension. Once again, as I have so many times before, I felt like the tall skinny man with the big nose was speaking directly to me.
It’s partially my huge ego, partially the Pennsylvania connection.
In the story, the main character, a younger Updike, according to popular opinion, says this of his – and my – homeland:
“There was the quality of the 10 a.m. sunlight as it existed in the air ahead of the windshield, filtered by the thin overcast, blessing irresponsibility—you felt you could slice forever through such a cool pure element—and springing, by implying how high these hills had become, a widespreading pride: Pennsylvania, your state—as if you had made your life.”
This is not a sentence oft critiqued by scholars reviewing “The Happiest I’ve Been.” This is not a sentence overly quoted by college freshmen, idealistic and hopeful in the development of their own writing styles. This is nothing, really, just another Updike sentence—but to me, it is poetry.
I know that 10:00 a.m. sunlight; I know those high hills. I love Pennsylvania with a ferocity otherwise reserved for my family and furry animals, so for me, that sentence makes the piece.
In a New York Times review of The Same Door, the book in which “The Happiest I’ve Been” appeared, William H. Pritchard comments on how Updike “taps the rich vein of nostalgic, guilty affection.” And it’s true. So poignant, the memories of home, but so small now, the buildings, the distances, the dreams. Where do you go once you’ve achieved everything you hoped for – staring out the window above your desk, bored by the familiar landscape – when you were 17?
A couple nights ago, climbing with a friend, I got on a new route rated near the limit of my redpoint ability. Whether it was softly graded or just my style, I climbed the first 25 feet with unusual grace. It felt easy. As I clipped the 5th bolt, I thought, “Oh shit, now I have to keep going.”
And isn’t that telling? I mean, suddenly it was so obvious to me why I haven’t climbed anything hard for years, why I can’t seem to improve. In that rare moment of unguarded thinking, when honesty trumped expectation, I said it all: I’m terrified of success, because I don’t know what the other side looks like. I don’t know how it feels to try something, not knowing the outcome.
I used to. I spent entire years floating from one thing to the next – mountain bike racing to African drumming to rock climbing to third world travel. I didn’t know what was coming next, and I didn’t care. I embarked on a year-long solo journey to Southeast Asia without even glancing at a guidebook. My mom knew more about Nepal than I did, and even as my parents sat with me at the airport gate (pre-9/11, they probably could have walked me right onto the plane if they’d wanted to), she was telling me about the climate, the currency, the cultural mores.
But, it’s scary now. Planes seem to be falling out of the sky with increased frequency. Our snow season has been, pardon the pun, unsettling. With several in-bounds avalanches early in the season, the mountains feel like a place far wilder and more unpredictable than the Wasatch. Every day there are more job cuts and bankruptcies; industries that built this country are collapsing around us.
How can we plan for the future when we don’t know what the future will look like?
So I’ve become a planner. My to do lists include such obvious reminders as, “play with dogs,” and “vacuum.” It’s compulsive, but it keeps me calm.
Of course, it also stops me from going too far, from trying too hard, from seeing what will happen. I don’t let the day unfold as it will; I force the day to fit my needs. I say, “Take!” while climbing, because if I don’t, I don’t know whether I’ll fail or succeed, and I don’t like not knowing.
(Is it any wonder I always have hamstring pain? Look how I constantly hamstring myself.)
Maybe this spring, as I plant my first garden and learn to accept growth as it comes – or doesn’t – in its own time, I’ll also learn to release the white-knuckled grip I feel like I need to have on every single aspect of my life. Maybe I’ll decide to try – really try – to climb a route, and not worry about falling off. Maybe in letting go, I’ll learn to hold on.
The February 9th & 16th issue was largely Updike focused, in the wake of the great man’s death, and included two obituary tributes as well as several pages of snippets from the writing he’d done for the magazine over the years.
One of the snippets, from an early short story, “The Happiest I’ve Been,” hit me so squarely that I gasped – actually audibly, right there in the salon chair, prompting the woman applying my foils to drop the whole lot to the floor – in comprehension. Once again, as I have so many times before, I felt like the tall skinny man with the big nose was speaking directly to me.
It’s partially my huge ego, partially the Pennsylvania connection.
In the story, the main character, a younger Updike, according to popular opinion, says this of his – and my – homeland:
“There was the quality of the 10 a.m. sunlight as it existed in the air ahead of the windshield, filtered by the thin overcast, blessing irresponsibility—you felt you could slice forever through such a cool pure element—and springing, by implying how high these hills had become, a widespreading pride: Pennsylvania, your state—as if you had made your life.”
This is not a sentence oft critiqued by scholars reviewing “The Happiest I’ve Been.” This is not a sentence overly quoted by college freshmen, idealistic and hopeful in the development of their own writing styles. This is nothing, really, just another Updike sentence—but to me, it is poetry.
I know that 10:00 a.m. sunlight; I know those high hills. I love Pennsylvania with a ferocity otherwise reserved for my family and furry animals, so for me, that sentence makes the piece.
In a New York Times review of The Same Door, the book in which “The Happiest I’ve Been” appeared, William H. Pritchard comments on how Updike “taps the rich vein of nostalgic, guilty affection.” And it’s true. So poignant, the memories of home, but so small now, the buildings, the distances, the dreams. Where do you go once you’ve achieved everything you hoped for – staring out the window above your desk, bored by the familiar landscape – when you were 17?
A couple nights ago, climbing with a friend, I got on a new route rated near the limit of my redpoint ability. Whether it was softly graded or just my style, I climbed the first 25 feet with unusual grace. It felt easy. As I clipped the 5th bolt, I thought, “Oh shit, now I have to keep going.”
And isn’t that telling? I mean, suddenly it was so obvious to me why I haven’t climbed anything hard for years, why I can’t seem to improve. In that rare moment of unguarded thinking, when honesty trumped expectation, I said it all: I’m terrified of success, because I don’t know what the other side looks like. I don’t know how it feels to try something, not knowing the outcome.
I used to. I spent entire years floating from one thing to the next – mountain bike racing to African drumming to rock climbing to third world travel. I didn’t know what was coming next, and I didn’t care. I embarked on a year-long solo journey to Southeast Asia without even glancing at a guidebook. My mom knew more about Nepal than I did, and even as my parents sat with me at the airport gate (pre-9/11, they probably could have walked me right onto the plane if they’d wanted to), she was telling me about the climate, the currency, the cultural mores.
But, it’s scary now. Planes seem to be falling out of the sky with increased frequency. Our snow season has been, pardon the pun, unsettling. With several in-bounds avalanches early in the season, the mountains feel like a place far wilder and more unpredictable than the Wasatch. Every day there are more job cuts and bankruptcies; industries that built this country are collapsing around us.
How can we plan for the future when we don’t know what the future will look like?
So I’ve become a planner. My to do lists include such obvious reminders as, “play with dogs,” and “vacuum.” It’s compulsive, but it keeps me calm.
Of course, it also stops me from going too far, from trying too hard, from seeing what will happen. I don’t let the day unfold as it will; I force the day to fit my needs. I say, “Take!” while climbing, because if I don’t, I don’t know whether I’ll fail or succeed, and I don’t like not knowing.
(Is it any wonder I always have hamstring pain? Look how I constantly hamstring myself.)
Maybe this spring, as I plant my first garden and learn to accept growth as it comes – or doesn’t – in its own time, I’ll also learn to release the white-knuckled grip I feel like I need to have on every single aspect of my life. Maybe I’ll decide to try – really try – to climb a route, and not worry about falling off. Maybe in letting go, I’ll learn to hold on.
2.20.2009
The only cure is a sundress
It was 50 degrees today, sunny and clear. I bolted out of work at 3:00 pm and sped home to fetch the dogs; we made it to the trailhead by 3:27.
My old New Balance sneaks left deep prints on the soft ground. The boys splashed in the mud and sniffed the air - grass and earth and freshness and promise.
I love this time of year. All I can think about is going south to climb for the weekend, camping in the desert and heading home again on Sunday night dirty and tired and happy.
We have lots of plans for the next couple months. There's gardening, of course, but there's also Red Rocks and the Red River Gorge and Santa Barbara and Mexico and Elephant's Perch and the City of Rocks and, obviously, Indian Creek. Oh, and Zion.
Oh dear. Hard to fit it all in, but fun to try. Arnold and Red are game, too, and will be our constant companions, looking up and wagging their tails at us as we try and try and try to climb our projects before our strength fails, before dark, before the weekend is over and we have to drive home to shower up for work on Monday.
I'm looking forward to wearing sundresses and flip flops and being tan and having a sock line from running and approaches.
I never liked spring when I was younger. I always wanted to keep skiing. I still love to ski - it makes me really happy - but something about spring, about newness, growth, possibility, the ease of warm weather (ahem, not HOT weather, mind you...I'll be bitching about Utah temps come July), the desire to hightail it out of town, swimming with the dogs in the resovoir at the base of Big Cottonwood Canyon, daylight till 9 pm....
It feels right for me right now.
My old New Balance sneaks left deep prints on the soft ground. The boys splashed in the mud and sniffed the air - grass and earth and freshness and promise.
I love this time of year. All I can think about is going south to climb for the weekend, camping in the desert and heading home again on Sunday night dirty and tired and happy.
We have lots of plans for the next couple months. There's gardening, of course, but there's also Red Rocks and the Red River Gorge and Santa Barbara and Mexico and Elephant's Perch and the City of Rocks and, obviously, Indian Creek. Oh, and Zion.
Oh dear. Hard to fit it all in, but fun to try. Arnold and Red are game, too, and will be our constant companions, looking up and wagging their tails at us as we try and try and try to climb our projects before our strength fails, before dark, before the weekend is over and we have to drive home to shower up for work on Monday.
I'm looking forward to wearing sundresses and flip flops and being tan and having a sock line from running and approaches.
I never liked spring when I was younger. I always wanted to keep skiing. I still love to ski - it makes me really happy - but something about spring, about newness, growth, possibility, the ease of warm weather (ahem, not HOT weather, mind you...I'll be bitching about Utah temps come July), the desire to hightail it out of town, swimming with the dogs in the resovoir at the base of Big Cottonwood Canyon, daylight till 9 pm....
It feels right for me right now.
2.17.2009
Well then. No excuses but laziness.
Before I do anything else, there’s this:
Thank you, Jen.
This talented, generous woman, whom I adore despite having never even met her in person (we’ll remedy that soon), sent me a gorgeous scarf, intricately knitted in regal, deep purples. Here it is, up close so you can see the beautiful quality of the knit. Jen, I’ve asked this before, but seriously – is there anything you can’t do?
Here's the beautiful new addition to my wardrobe (shown on me as model, because I have not removed it for days):
I feel so lucky. Everyone should have a Jen in their lives.
Now then, as to what I’ve been doing that’s taken all my focus away from blogging:
I've been admiring this print,
And this artist,
And this artist,
And this blog.
My goodness. Donkeys and sheep and dogs, oh my!
I also just finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver. Please read it; it’s beautiful.
A memoir of her family’s year growing most of its own food and committing to eating as locally as possible, Kingsolver’s book was never preachy or judgmental. In fact, it was hopeful and eye-opening. I am not a gardener; I do not like manual labor. That said, after reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I’ve decided that it’s time to start “voting with my dollars” in terms of our nation’s food industry. For the record, I’ll be voting with Brad’s dollars, too.
So I’m going to grow fruits and vegetables (we already have absurdly prolific peach and apricot trees). I’m going to till and plant and tend and harvest. Then I’m going to dry and blanche and freeze and can. In doing so, I hope that we can convey to the food industry that we do not approve of the excessive petroleum required to ship us bananas in Utah in February, of the minimal wages paid to the farmer, of the majority of our food dollars going to the shipment of the food, rather than the farmer.) We’ve bought a share of a grass-fed cow (the noshing fellow was raised just a few miles away from our house), so that, from our own little kitchen, we can tell world that we do not approve of the way that feedlots raise animals and our corn production.
So there.
Hhhmph.
That's all I have for you tonight.
Thank you, Jen.
This talented, generous woman, whom I adore despite having never even met her in person (we’ll remedy that soon), sent me a gorgeous scarf, intricately knitted in regal, deep purples. Here it is, up close so you can see the beautiful quality of the knit. Jen, I’ve asked this before, but seriously – is there anything you can’t do?
Here's the beautiful new addition to my wardrobe (shown on me as model, because I have not removed it for days):
I feel so lucky. Everyone should have a Jen in their lives.
Now then, as to what I’ve been doing that’s taken all my focus away from blogging:
I've been admiring this print,
And this artist,
And this artist,
And this blog.
My goodness. Donkeys and sheep and dogs, oh my!
I also just finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver. Please read it; it’s beautiful.
A memoir of her family’s year growing most of its own food and committing to eating as locally as possible, Kingsolver’s book was never preachy or judgmental. In fact, it was hopeful and eye-opening. I am not a gardener; I do not like manual labor. That said, after reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I’ve decided that it’s time to start “voting with my dollars” in terms of our nation’s food industry. For the record, I’ll be voting with Brad’s dollars, too.
So I’m going to grow fruits and vegetables (we already have absurdly prolific peach and apricot trees). I’m going to till and plant and tend and harvest. Then I’m going to dry and blanche and freeze and can. In doing so, I hope that we can convey to the food industry that we do not approve of the excessive petroleum required to ship us bananas in Utah in February, of the minimal wages paid to the farmer, of the majority of our food dollars going to the shipment of the food, rather than the farmer.) We’ve bought a share of a grass-fed cow (the noshing fellow was raised just a few miles away from our house), so that, from our own little kitchen, we can tell world that we do not approve of the way that feedlots raise animals and our corn production.
So there.
Hhhmph.
That's all I have for you tonight.
2.10.2009
When the News Makes Me Smile
Ah, another delightful story in the morning’s news – this one about the origins of some of the Muppets.
We all know how much I adore the Muppets – the combination of furry animals and silly nonsense completely delights my inner child. And my outer adult.
My favorite take-aways from this story are the “other” Oscars the grouch – “In Pakistan, his name is Akhtar and he lives in an oil barrel. In Turkey, he is Kirpik and lives in a basket. And in Israel, it's not Oscar at all -- it's his cousin, Moishe Oofnik, who lives in an old car” – and the knowledge that the Count was quite the ladies’ man, having been romantically “linked to Countess von Backward, who loves to count backward; Countess Dahling von Dahling and Lady Two.”
What a nice way to start the day.
We all know how much I adore the Muppets – the combination of furry animals and silly nonsense completely delights my inner child. And my outer adult.
My favorite take-aways from this story are the “other” Oscars the grouch – “In Pakistan, his name is Akhtar and he lives in an oil barrel. In Turkey, he is Kirpik and lives in a basket. And in Israel, it's not Oscar at all -- it's his cousin, Moishe Oofnik, who lives in an old car” – and the knowledge that the Count was quite the ladies’ man, having been romantically “linked to Countess von Backward, who loves to count backward; Countess Dahling von Dahling and Lady Two.”
What a nice way to start the day.
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