An evening jog through streets warm with light and fireplace smoke.
Holiday parties. The bites are buttery, the wine is free, and the conversation is like tinsel, shiny and fun.
Coming home from school on a rainy afternoon and baking butterscotch oatmeal cookies to enjoy with vanilla tea and Barbara Streisand's dewy sadness in “Funny Girl.”
Anticipation.
The inspiration of craft fairs, where I realize that most of the impossibly hip yet woefully overpriced feather-and-collage-laden treasures can be made by yours truly. I've got the glue gun, the materials, and the motivation; now I just gotta do it.
Wrapping presents.
Riding my bike through warm blankets of cloud and fog.
The promise of the luxurious, indulgent, seemingly endless Christmas break, closer each and every day.
I love the coziness of a lit-up tree peeking out of a living room window, even though on the car-ride home it looks more like a carcass.
That feeling of being nestled in at the bottom of the year, the darkest time, where fall goes sliding into winter and Capricorn comes to rest, at last.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
City of Angels
I finished reading Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking" on Thanksgiving Day, as M drove us down the 5 to Los Angeles and the sun burned my western cheekbone. This is one of those books that I started and just had to finish, as quickly as possible, because Didion's shiny honest prose goes down so smooth and nourishes me full.
She wrote this book during the last two months of the year following the (sudden) death of her husband John Dunne. He died while their daughter was in a coma. Didion explores the buoyancy and the heavy weight of memory, the way grief pries open a vortex of memory. I loved following her sharp sequences, gardenias being sucked into a pool vacuum brings her back to him, her husband, who sat down to dinner one evening and stopped beating.
Joan and John lived a glamorous bohemian lifestyle in 1970s LA, co-writing screenplays together and hosting parties at their Malibu home; they were together constantly, for forty years. M and I were in LA to visit his sister and her three kids, my new nieces and nephew. Diana (who is 20) and Clara (12) called me Auntie Jess and kissed me on the cheek to say good-night. I watched Jason (a giant boy-man of 14) wrestle and pin his laughing mother to the carpet. For the first time, I was exposed to the video game sensation wii; I tried to keep up with the dance moves on screen, but was no match for Clara.
Our weekend was full of friendlies--the guy who sold us a set of 1950s drinking glasses and gold-plated ice bucket, the woman who liked M's piano playing in American Thrift, just about everyone hiking in Griffith Park, cheered by the opening of blossoms in November.
On Saturday evening, in line at a crowded cathedraled cafe, a woman with blond curls bounced up to me. "I'm not trying to weird you out or anything, but can I just tell you? I have those exact boots and that exact blazer and I was going to wear them out tonight!" "Frye and Gap?" I pointed down and up, feeling exposed. "Yep." Then she went in for a high-five---"Nice style, girl"---and I blushed as we smacked palms. LA seemed so effortless, like happening upon a pair of hardly-worn purple Kangaroo sneakers with zippers, in my size.
That night M and I went out to Spaceland, the venue that launched Beck. We played two games of pool and watched a few bands from the comfort of white leather seats. One guy sang biting lyrics about how annoying teenagers are, and I found myself laughing savagely (must be time for Christmas vacation). Just before we went inside, we sat trapped in the rain-battered car, sipping coke and whiskey. I was eating raspberry candy and listening to the sound of the water rushing down the slope of asphalt and thinking of how I was witnessing the making of a vortex of memory.
It took eleven hours to drive home on Sunday. Everyone crawled home on Sunday, over the 5 and the 101, stricken by their misfortune. We down-shifted into despair, the hours passing and getting nowhere. We stopped at Taco Bell and devoured bean burritos. I wanted to order more, but the line had swelled. It was 5:30, darkness hitting hard, we'd been driving about six hours, and we were only halfway home. Another vortex, this one glum. A rotten cap to our little getaway.
But there was one bright spot. We stopped in San Juan Batista to stretch the traffic out of our legs. The stars lit the field next to the mission church, where Joan Didion wept behind sunglasses all through her wedding ceremony to John Dunne in January of 1964. I, too, have cried in San Juan Bastista, for a different man heading too quickly to death. And I, too, felt the love of my husband inside that mission church.
She wrote this book during the last two months of the year following the (sudden) death of her husband John Dunne. He died while their daughter was in a coma. Didion explores the buoyancy and the heavy weight of memory, the way grief pries open a vortex of memory. I loved following her sharp sequences, gardenias being sucked into a pool vacuum brings her back to him, her husband, who sat down to dinner one evening and stopped beating.
Joan and John lived a glamorous bohemian lifestyle in 1970s LA, co-writing screenplays together and hosting parties at their Malibu home; they were together constantly, for forty years. M and I were in LA to visit his sister and her three kids, my new nieces and nephew. Diana (who is 20) and Clara (12) called me Auntie Jess and kissed me on the cheek to say good-night. I watched Jason (a giant boy-man of 14) wrestle and pin his laughing mother to the carpet. For the first time, I was exposed to the video game sensation wii; I tried to keep up with the dance moves on screen, but was no match for Clara.
Our weekend was full of friendlies--the guy who sold us a set of 1950s drinking glasses and gold-plated ice bucket, the woman who liked M's piano playing in American Thrift, just about everyone hiking in Griffith Park, cheered by the opening of blossoms in November.
On Saturday evening, in line at a crowded cathedraled cafe, a woman with blond curls bounced up to me. "I'm not trying to weird you out or anything, but can I just tell you? I have those exact boots and that exact blazer and I was going to wear them out tonight!" "Frye and Gap?" I pointed down and up, feeling exposed. "Yep." Then she went in for a high-five---"Nice style, girl"---and I blushed as we smacked palms. LA seemed so effortless, like happening upon a pair of hardly-worn purple Kangaroo sneakers with zippers, in my size.
That night M and I went out to Spaceland, the venue that launched Beck. We played two games of pool and watched a few bands from the comfort of white leather seats. One guy sang biting lyrics about how annoying teenagers are, and I found myself laughing savagely (must be time for Christmas vacation). Just before we went inside, we sat trapped in the rain-battered car, sipping coke and whiskey. I was eating raspberry candy and listening to the sound of the water rushing down the slope of asphalt and thinking of how I was witnessing the making of a vortex of memory.
It took eleven hours to drive home on Sunday. Everyone crawled home on Sunday, over the 5 and the 101, stricken by their misfortune. We down-shifted into despair, the hours passing and getting nowhere. We stopped at Taco Bell and devoured bean burritos. I wanted to order more, but the line had swelled. It was 5:30, darkness hitting hard, we'd been driving about six hours, and we were only halfway home. Another vortex, this one glum. A rotten cap to our little getaway.
But there was one bright spot. We stopped in San Juan Batista to stretch the traffic out of our legs. The stars lit the field next to the mission church, where Joan Didion wept behind sunglasses all through her wedding ceremony to John Dunne in January of 1964. I, too, have cried in San Juan Bastista, for a different man heading too quickly to death. And I, too, felt the love of my husband inside that mission church.
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Sisters Dur
I spent the weekend in Seattle with three of my four sisters.
Four sisters!
Yep.
We share the same father, different mothers. I'm the oldest, older by six, seven, eleven, and thirteen years. Which means they worshiped me for a long time, until they each, in turn, learned better. Now they're all grown up, with lives and debts and struggles of their own.
Sometimes I pine for those days when I was living in Vermont, just a two hour drive from their home in New Hampshire. As soon as I'd park my Volvo in the driveway, they were there, whisking me down to the basement (oh, hi Dad) where we'd practice dance moves and fight over couch space. Once we even made a horror movie using Dad's old video camera that no longer rewound. We were happy with one take.
I moved to California and the distance between us grew. Goofy tracks don't play well over the phone. I stubbornly refuse to Facebook my relationships. Luckily, they all came to my wedding a few weeks ago, and we retransmitted our sister synapses.
Jilli, who lives in Maine, could not join our Seattle reunion. She is studying to be a doctor, which might come in handy for her uninsured older sister one day. While holding her as a baby, I took a nasty spill down a set of steps and did not let go.
Jo, who spent a few years wander-lusting around India and Nepal, is now rooming with her younger sister in a downtown apartment. She spends her days doing yoga and painting (gorgeous) mystical vistas of forest and ocean. She rarely gives up the ghost.
Jamie recently turned 21, though to me she will always be a baby who mispronounces big words. She waits tables at a bistro, loves playing hostess (she prepared smoked salmon and mushroom tapas for my arrival dinner), and demands immediate attention. She never answers her phone.
Jenna is in her first year of college at the University of British Columbia and has read an impressive number of books in her 19 years. She just celebrated her one-year anniversary with a devoted boyfriend (who, to my surprise, I really like).
Over the weekend we did what we sisters do best---laugh, tease, play, joke, eat, shop, frolic, and dance. (Oh did we dance. My hips are still sore.) We talked of our ever-shifting lives (and father, and brother). We drank at the fountain of unconditional sister love, nearly fell in, then said a quick and casual good-bye because I hate saying good-bye.
Yesterday I got a text from Jamie: We miss u already.
Ditto.
Four sisters!
Yep.
We share the same father, different mothers. I'm the oldest, older by six, seven, eleven, and thirteen years. Which means they worshiped me for a long time, until they each, in turn, learned better. Now they're all grown up, with lives and debts and struggles of their own.
Sometimes I pine for those days when I was living in Vermont, just a two hour drive from their home in New Hampshire. As soon as I'd park my Volvo in the driveway, they were there, whisking me down to the basement (oh, hi Dad) where we'd practice dance moves and fight over couch space. Once we even made a horror movie using Dad's old video camera that no longer rewound. We were happy with one take.
I moved to California and the distance between us grew. Goofy tracks don't play well over the phone. I stubbornly refuse to Facebook my relationships. Luckily, they all came to my wedding a few weeks ago, and we retransmitted our sister synapses.
Jilli, who lives in Maine, could not join our Seattle reunion. She is studying to be a doctor, which might come in handy for her uninsured older sister one day. While holding her as a baby, I took a nasty spill down a set of steps and did not let go.
Jo, who spent a few years wander-lusting around India and Nepal, is now rooming with her younger sister in a downtown apartment. She spends her days doing yoga and painting (gorgeous) mystical vistas of forest and ocean. She rarely gives up the ghost.
Jamie recently turned 21, though to me she will always be a baby who mispronounces big words. She waits tables at a bistro, loves playing hostess (she prepared smoked salmon and mushroom tapas for my arrival dinner), and demands immediate attention. She never answers her phone.
Jenna is in her first year of college at the University of British Columbia and has read an impressive number of books in her 19 years. She just celebrated her one-year anniversary with a devoted boyfriend (who, to my surprise, I really like).
Over the weekend we did what we sisters do best---laugh, tease, play, joke, eat, shop, frolic, and dance. (Oh did we dance. My hips are still sore.) We talked of our ever-shifting lives (and father, and brother). We drank at the fountain of unconditional sister love, nearly fell in, then said a quick and casual good-bye because I hate saying good-bye.
Yesterday I got a text from Jamie: We miss u already.
Ditto.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Wordy
I've been busy, too busy to blog, which is beautifully ironic since I've been busy writing. And it's just as it always is, a paradox, a labor of love and sweat, both fun and painful, fulfilling and yet never enough.
A couple of weeks ago, I published this article in the Bohemian, which also happened to be the very last issue with the fiesty Gretchen Giles as editor:
www.bohemian.com/bohemian/10.20.10/news-1042.html
I had a great time crunching that deadline, re-reading paragraphs until I had them memorized, editing as tightly as I possibly could. On the opposite extreme, I had an absolute blast letting my uncensored voice romp the pages of my journal in a Day of the Dead-inspired workshop last weekend. Nestled in the back of an herb shop, with fresh-baked empanadas and pumpkin cookies for fuel, five of us found words for our uncoiling honesty. We laughed a ton and teared a little. I channeled something potent. I turned one ten minute writing exercise into a short story. All thanks to the fabulous Petals and Bones, which you should check out:
www.petalsandbones.com
On Thursday I completed another Petals and Bones workshop, this one a four week series in which I got to workshop a few essays that are striving for completion. I came away inspired, ready to try writing fiction, ready to enter some contests, and unable to stop working on my Jesus essay. That's all I've been doing since I got out of bed this morning.
A couple of weeks ago, I published this article in the Bohemian, which also happened to be the very last issue with the fiesty Gretchen Giles as editor:
www.bohemian.com/bohemian/10.20.10/news-1042.html
I had a great time crunching that deadline, re-reading paragraphs until I had them memorized, editing as tightly as I possibly could. On the opposite extreme, I had an absolute blast letting my uncensored voice romp the pages of my journal in a Day of the Dead-inspired workshop last weekend. Nestled in the back of an herb shop, with fresh-baked empanadas and pumpkin cookies for fuel, five of us found words for our uncoiling honesty. We laughed a ton and teared a little. I channeled something potent. I turned one ten minute writing exercise into a short story. All thanks to the fabulous Petals and Bones, which you should check out:
www.petalsandbones.com
On Thursday I completed another Petals and Bones workshop, this one a four week series in which I got to workshop a few essays that are striving for completion. I came away inspired, ready to try writing fiction, ready to enter some contests, and unable to stop working on my Jesus essay. That's all I've been doing since I got out of bed this morning.
Monday, October 25, 2010
All She Wants To Do
I've been dancing my whole life.
When I was an awkward 9 year-old, my dancing took the form of dramatic ballerina-like twirls around my pink-carpeted bedroom. I'd call my mom to watch from the doorway. I re-played Dirty Dancing and Girls Just Want to Have Fun like they contained the secrets of the universe, marveling at my heroes of movement, Patrick Swayze and Sarah Jessica Parker.
By junior high I had a tight circle of friends, bound together by our common interests of junk food, Saved by the Bell, and endless silliness. We danced on trampolines, beds, porches, basketball courts, basically anywhere we could find footing and an audience. Sometimes we video-taped our moves. Were we any good at it? Who cares?
In college I found another tight group of friends, this time bound by our love of Mr. Hanky, dining hall veggie burgers, and snowy goofiness. In the scores of sticky-floored venues across Burlington, we swirled in smoky bliss, relishing show after show: Rat Dog, Leftover Salmon, Israel Vibrations, Dark Star Orchestra, Pork Tornado, and of course, Ani Difranco all spring to mind. I'll never forget the feeling of stepping into the fresh night air, my body's internal heat a shield against the freezing dagger of Vermont wind.
Today my dance posse consists mainly of familiar yet name-less faces. On Sundays at noon, 30 or 40 of us pack into a mirrored studio and writhe, wiggle, gyrate, shake ourselves exhausted. We are bound by the common goal of burning calories, something I never ever thought about in all of my previous dance modes. But it's much more than that. Emboldened by our anonymity, we are fearless, a sisterhood (with the random male thrown in) of acceptance. Any faithful follower of Zumba will tell you that it's really about having a blast. I would laugh way more if I weren't struggling for breath.
***
For all of you who love cutting up the dance floor, go to You-tube and search for "Dancing at the Movies." Four minutes of fun. (I spent way too much time today trying unsuccessfully to post that video here. Sorry.)
When I was an awkward 9 year-old, my dancing took the form of dramatic ballerina-like twirls around my pink-carpeted bedroom. I'd call my mom to watch from the doorway. I re-played Dirty Dancing and Girls Just Want to Have Fun like they contained the secrets of the universe, marveling at my heroes of movement, Patrick Swayze and Sarah Jessica Parker.
By junior high I had a tight circle of friends, bound together by our common interests of junk food, Saved by the Bell, and endless silliness. We danced on trampolines, beds, porches, basketball courts, basically anywhere we could find footing and an audience. Sometimes we video-taped our moves. Were we any good at it? Who cares?
In college I found another tight group of friends, this time bound by our love of Mr. Hanky, dining hall veggie burgers, and snowy goofiness. In the scores of sticky-floored venues across Burlington, we swirled in smoky bliss, relishing show after show: Rat Dog, Leftover Salmon, Israel Vibrations, Dark Star Orchestra, Pork Tornado, and of course, Ani Difranco all spring to mind. I'll never forget the feeling of stepping into the fresh night air, my body's internal heat a shield against the freezing dagger of Vermont wind.
Today my dance posse consists mainly of familiar yet name-less faces. On Sundays at noon, 30 or 40 of us pack into a mirrored studio and writhe, wiggle, gyrate, shake ourselves exhausted. We are bound by the common goal of burning calories, something I never ever thought about in all of my previous dance modes. But it's much more than that. Emboldened by our anonymity, we are fearless, a sisterhood (with the random male thrown in) of acceptance. Any faithful follower of Zumba will tell you that it's really about having a blast. I would laugh way more if I weren't struggling for breath.
***
For all of you who love cutting up the dance floor, go to You-tube and search for "Dancing at the Movies." Four minutes of fun. (I spent way too much time today trying unsuccessfully to post that video here. Sorry.)
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
happy
dear blog:
on this, our one year anniversary, i'd like to thank you for the essential role you play in my life, that of providing me the incentive and opportunity to complete a piece of writing roughly once a week for people to read if they so choose.
may this next year take us even higher!
on this, our one year anniversary, i'd like to thank you for the essential role you play in my life, that of providing me the incentive and opportunity to complete a piece of writing roughly once a week for people to read if they so choose.
may this next year take us even higher!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Art of Work, Play, Nothing
My days have been passing like this:
week days, particularly Tuesday through Thursday, are grueling hard work. Early morning class at SSU, exceptionally fun, but I keep running out of time for what I've planned. I find myself rushing with five minutes of class left, the clock pulling their worried eyes, and me hurriedly collecting and dispensing papers. Not how I want to end our stimulating discussions and creative play. Not how I want to end anything, really.
At Nonesuch in the afternoons I watch my high school students get wide-eyed about the symbolism in Lord of the Flies and the risque dialogue of Angels in America. I teach them the steps of good persuasive writing and get so passionately attached it's hard not to write their essays for them. I come home exhausted, with papers to grade and more lessons to plan. By Thursday afternoon I feel like I could sleep until Sunday.
But then the weekend descends---magical and wide open. I work on my upcoming article for the Bohemian, pull my confidence out of the gutter and give it a good hose-down. I wash the week's pile of dishes and take a long walk around the Santa Rosa cemetery, breathing peacefulness and repose.
Saturdays are for adventure! Yesterday we headed to San Francisco for twelve hours of non-stop fun. We hiked at Land's End, where the cliffs are eroding into the Pacific and a few brave sailboats leave the enclave of the bay. I love watching the tankers roll in and the birds dive for fish. We walked ourselves famished, then headed to the land of the self-serve salad bar and thrift store wardrobes, the Mission.
And it just so happened to be the night of the Lit Crawl, where all the bars and cafes and bookstores are tuned into the hushed wisdom of the spoken word. We watched M's long-time friend Michele perform eight different characters in a puppet show retelling of classic fairy tales (using her own hand-crafted props). I bought a book called The Art of Swimming (first published in 1874) and Halloween masks. And I braved the overheated cafe to hear five poets proclaim their lyrical offerings, each one different, each one prompting me to think, I could do that, I could do that.
But Sunday should be for doing nothing. Nothing is the only thing I haven't done in weeks.
week days, particularly Tuesday through Thursday, are grueling hard work. Early morning class at SSU, exceptionally fun, but I keep running out of time for what I've planned. I find myself rushing with five minutes of class left, the clock pulling their worried eyes, and me hurriedly collecting and dispensing papers. Not how I want to end our stimulating discussions and creative play. Not how I want to end anything, really.
At Nonesuch in the afternoons I watch my high school students get wide-eyed about the symbolism in Lord of the Flies and the risque dialogue of Angels in America. I teach them the steps of good persuasive writing and get so passionately attached it's hard not to write their essays for them. I come home exhausted, with papers to grade and more lessons to plan. By Thursday afternoon I feel like I could sleep until Sunday.
But then the weekend descends---magical and wide open. I work on my upcoming article for the Bohemian, pull my confidence out of the gutter and give it a good hose-down. I wash the week's pile of dishes and take a long walk around the Santa Rosa cemetery, breathing peacefulness and repose.
Saturdays are for adventure! Yesterday we headed to San Francisco for twelve hours of non-stop fun. We hiked at Land's End, where the cliffs are eroding into the Pacific and a few brave sailboats leave the enclave of the bay. I love watching the tankers roll in and the birds dive for fish. We walked ourselves famished, then headed to the land of the self-serve salad bar and thrift store wardrobes, the Mission.
And it just so happened to be the night of the Lit Crawl, where all the bars and cafes and bookstores are tuned into the hushed wisdom of the spoken word. We watched M's long-time friend Michele perform eight different characters in a puppet show retelling of classic fairy tales (using her own hand-crafted props). I bought a book called The Art of Swimming (first published in 1874) and Halloween masks. And I braved the overheated cafe to hear five poets proclaim their lyrical offerings, each one different, each one prompting me to think, I could do that, I could do that.
But Sunday should be for doing nothing. Nothing is the only thing I haven't done in weeks.
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