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2008 | 2007
August 24, 2008:
Something has been going on this week in Beijing which everybody except me seems to know everything about. This is the cultural cost of not subscribing to cable tv, I suppose. While humanity has been held spellbound by some guy named Phelps and the spectacle of sport, Spencer and I have been watching Tommy & Tuppence videos. Stuck in the 1920's while China ushers in its very own 21st century. I've felt more than usually out of the loop.
To make matters worse, I've been grappling with a severe case of book lag. As with jet lag, the circadian rhythms have lost the beat. But the problem in this case is too many books instead of too many time zones. The first night you're up until 2:00 because the book is so good, the next night you aren't sleepy until 3:00 so you might as well keep reading, and so on, until you're hauling yourself out of bed at noon, barely able to function. It wouldn't be a problem if you didn't have to be in town by 11:00 on occasion. Biking first thing after waking up from five hours of sleep does not work well. The temptation to pull over and have a nap on the nearest available surface is overpowering. Concrete never looked so comfortable.
But of course you resist the siren song of the sidewalk and roll on into town. Business is conducted in a fog punctuated by glimpses of synchronized swimming on random televisions, and somehow you manage to get home without registering the transition. The rest of the day blurs past as you alternatively collapse on the sofa, catch a little beach volleyball on the neighbor's tv, and see a bit more Tommy & Tuppence in the evening. Not until bedtime do things come clear, when you return to the books. They will never make you feel like a backwoods Luddite, only like a zombie on wheels.
August 17, 2008:
Technically it's still summer, but it feels like we've come around the bend to head into fall. Days are shorter and frequently rainy (often with lovely results), and nights are cold enough that windows must be closed before bedtime. We've managed to keep the chill secret from the greenhouse, however, so there's still a steady supply of tomatoes for salads, enchiladas, and other colorful meals.
I suppose it is getting on toward September. This season feels more like the start of a new year than January does, due to decades of scholastic brainwashing. Maybe that's why I signed up for poetry class, again. One of these days the university will figure out that if I haven't learned about meter and metaphor by now it's a lost cause, and will blacklist me from my favorite course in the world. Hopefully that won't be until I've had six or seven cracks at it.
But what really matters about heading back to school, as we all know, is the fashion, and here I find myself in deep and dangerous waters. My closet is full of fraying, stained clothes from 2002 (which weren't really in style even then), and to make matters worse Spencer just came into possession of a snazzy new wardrobe. I am the queen of frump when I stand next to him. But how does one navigate a mall? Or catalogs? The models are all beautiful but stoned, judging by their expressions, and dressed in appalling scraps of fabric that bristle with ruffles and sequins. What am I supposed to do, pay money for something like that? I think not. So the crisis deepens, with no solution in sight. Can they bar me from poetry class because of peasant clothing?
August 10, 2008:
If you've been casting about for a literary journal to fall in love with, you can call off the search and pick up a copy of Many Mountains Moving. The title page of Volume VIII reads, "Many Mountains Moving: A Literary Journal of Diverse Contemporary Voices." Then down at the bottom, "Arts for a Sustainable Civilization, www.mmminc.org." Hooked already? But wait, there's more! Turning the page, we find a gorgeous little poem from which the journal takes its name, "The Day When Mountains Move" by Akiko Asano. It gave me goosebumps it's so beautiful. And finally, in addition to excellent fiction and poetry they also have a section of nothing but Ecopoetry! So buy a copy, or enter the poetry or flash fiction contests. Readers and contributors keep gems like this viable.
One reason I'm so excited about MMM (pronounced like it's spelled) is that I am volunteering with them as an assistant fiction editor. That means I spent quite a bit of time this week reading stories submitted by authors from every corner of creation. I'm still getting the hang of things but couldn't be happier for the chance to play. Every time I send out a story or packet of poems, I think of the editors on the receiving end and all the hours they work, and I'm grateful. This feels like a chance to say thanks by helping out with the world's collective pool of submissions.
And on a completely unrelated note, I must share with you this photo and this one, taken by Jason from the patio. And then there's this, snapped by my brave little PowerShot. The sky has been inclined to show off lately.
August 3, 2008:
Wow, what a week. Monday: saw The Marriage of Figaro at the Santa Fe Opera - beautiful production; Tuesday: hiked along the East Fork of the Jemez River; Wednesday: found a gigantic beetle on the way to Taos; Thursday: hiked to Williams Lake; Saturday: played Rock Band with Rohan and Kelly and Mary and Gar, which is like Guitar Hero but also includes a drum kit and microphones. It is all too easy to bond with the drums in that game. I now have a much deeper understanding of Animal the Muppet.
But while I was goofing off so assiduously, the folks at Fickle Muses were hard at work. FM is "an online journal of myth and legend... that connects the contemporary reader with ancient tradition." This week they're running a story of mine, "After Vespers."
And now, to return to playtime, I must add a few words about The Dark Knight, which we saw Friday. I know I'm in the minority on this but here are the words anyway: too loud, too long, too empty. This movie takes itself way too seriously by keeping the lighting low and by sprinkling the script with claptrap dialogue. Harvey Dent actually utters the words, "The night is always darkest just before the dawn," in all earnestness! And did we really need two and a half hours of fights and car chases and explosions, one after another after another? Not to mention Christian Bale, who could have been replaced with a growling inflatable doll. The best part of the movie was the theater's air conditioning, but I was happy to step back into the heat outside because that meant the movie was over at last and I would never have to see it ever again.
July 27, 2008:
Today we headed into the mountains in hopes of ogling elk. We did see several pale brown dabs in the distance through binoculars (which in other circumstances let you see the moons of Jupiter), but I'm not sure that counts as ogling. There was plenty of other stuff to ogle, however, so I was glad to have the camera along. I think the camera was, too. It feels it's capable of more than just Mesa Cam assignments and photo essays of garden atrocities.
Speaking of which, I must report that the ground squirrels have been stymied for now in their incursions into the greenhouse. Spencer built a gorgeous cage over the vent that allows air free passage but not rodents. Let's see them chew through an inch of plywood, eh? They'd be a spent force, reduced to gumming basil and tomatoes.
I didn't mean to start in on the garden stuff but since we're this far in already, let me just add that I have ordered four elderberry trees and four blackberry canes. Knowledgeable gardeners assure me that these species are aggressive, invasive, and impossible to beat back. To which I say Perfect! That's exactly the kind of plant attitude we're looking for: a voracious ambition for world domination. Don't tell the camera, but it's going to have it's work cut out documenting the rise to power of the dark little berries. I hope.
July 20, 2008:
If you've ever wondered if you ought to attend the Taos Summer Writers Conference, the answer is a big huge Absolutely! Especially if you take the workshop taught by Pam Houston, with magnificent classmates such as Heather, Ian, Jeannette, Joyce, Lynne, Barbara, Sally, Nancy, Petrine, Kirk and Robin. Fine writers and perceptive reviewers, every one of them.
Although you shouldn't go in thinking you can relax with your afternoons and evenings free to catch up on those two half-finished stories you've been meaning to get around to. No. You'll have an intense week crammed full of classes, critiquing, homework writing, and readings that really just can't be missed. Monday night I had the distinct sensation of drowning in manuscripts, but we all survived somehow and wow, was it worth it.
But now the problem is re-entering the atmosphere, as Sister Sal calls it. It's hard to face laundry, for instance, after a week devoted entirely to stories. And what is this thing called supper? Last night I spaced the need for food so long that we wound up eating hasty plates of spaghetti at 9:30. But chopping the garlic for the sauce helped. I plan to stay up late making a midnight batch of cookies tonight in case that provides any kind of fortitude for facing Monday morning.
July 13, 2008:
Hello from Taos! That's right, I am away from home. I plan to spend this week up here in the northerly latitudes in order to attend a workshop on writing stories, as part of the University of New Mexico's summer writing conference. I've said before and I'll say again that this feels a lot like summer camp back in the day, minus the mosquitoes and outhouses. And where there used to be drafty cabins and fire pits, substitute flat-roofed adobe and kiva fireplaces. But the other essentials are covered: for campfire skits we have open mikes, the campers break up into clusters according to their intended tasks, and class itself will be like learning how to tie knots and braid lanyards. At least that's my hope. It's possible it could be more like the snipe hunt.
Meanwhile, back in civilization, the latest issue of Terrain.org is now live and includes a couple of my poems. The magazine is pretty interesting in general, as you'll see from their home page, and they'd be thrilled to have you drop in and visit awhile.
I, however, will not be surfing much this week. Part of summer camp seems to be internet connection done the old-fashioned way, with some wet-behind-the-ears yearling on the roof earning a merit badge by holding signs with 1's and 0's up toward the satellites. So it will be a medium-sized miracle if I'm able to post this update at all. But we believe in miracles, right? If I get really lucky the web page will post, and the housekeeping service will drape toilet paper all over my room when they stop by to tidy up.
July 6, 2008:
Last Tuesday two DVDs arrived from Netflix, and we all know what that means—double feature! One envelope held a French film, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, which I had added to the queue without consulting Spencer. The other was English, Mr. Bean's Holiday, which Spencer had added without consulting me. Grumbling ensued from both sides, it must be confessed. But which to watch first? On the theory that he wanted the suffering to end quickly, Spencer voted for Diving Bell. I agreed, on the theory that I wanted to put off seeing that stupid Bean thing as long as possible.
Diving Bell was good, but undeniably French: a story told from the point of view of a paralytic named Jean-Do who can only communicate by blinking his left eye. Yes, you read that right. Now add all the ennui, despair, and alarming seafood we've come to expect from French movie-making, and you should have a fair idea of the situation. The song that played when we popped the DVD into the player seemed perfect: "La Mer," by Charles Trénet. Ok, fine, time for Mr. Bean. In goes the DVD, and... what's that we heard? "La Mer," by Charles Trénet! Weird, but just a coincidence, right? Then followed a perfect example of ridiculous English humor: a doofus wins a vacation to Cannes and bumbles his way southward from London, unwittingly making fun of the French, their movies, and yes, their alarming seafood, all along the way.
Mr. Bean was a moving body without a brain; Jean-Do was a brain without a moving body. What's more, a woman named Emma de Caunes appeared in a fancy pastel dress in each film. Yin and yang, two halves of a whole, Brits and Frogs living together... Had we watched cosmic opposites, or the same movie in different disguises? Had fate orchestrated this bizarre conjunction, or were larger forces at work, like Netflix, or Ms. de Caunes? In any case, I can no longer separate the two movies in my mind. And "La Mer" is the only song anyone could have chosen to introduce them, together or on their own.
June 30, 2008:
Woops, is it Monday already? Apologies for the late update; I was plumb tuckered out when I got home last night after a long day of travel. I won't pretend it was easy to face the desert after a week in the greenery, not to mention the apparently effortless exuberance of Mom's garden, but adjustment is underway.
Although I'm adjusting to more than just dry air and high altitude. Last week was intense. We made strawberry jam, chopped vegetables by the gallon, washed dozens of loads of dishes, talked and talked and talked. The family bonding was running in overdrive, with the funeral itself as the fulcrum of the week. You plan and arrange and dress up for the event, then there's this moment when a life is distilled into photos and songs and poems and stories, and after that you're a puddle that must gather itself back together and pretend to be a human again.
And now I keep going back to the last line of Roger's eulogy, which was a quote from a letter he once wrote: "Life is not a dress rehearsal." Yeah, man. The big night is right now, no matter where you happen to be, no matter what you're doing. No matter to what extent you still feel like that puddle.
June 22, 2008:
I had a whole bunch of stuff to talk about this week, but it all got left at home and forgotten when I jumped onto an airplane on Saturday to fly to New York. My hilarious and unorthodox brother-in-law Roger passed away on Friday morning. Here's to him, with love and gratitude for all the Attitude Adjustment Hours we spent together at the Naples Tavern.
And instead of me blabbing any further, I'll leave you with some of Roger's wisdom, shared frequently in letters and over glasses of cheap beer:
Keep your stick on the ice.
Keep your snorkel above water.
Always get paid in advance, and don't take any wooden nickels.
Avoid gratuitous swearing.
Don't ever draw to an inside straight.
Keep your powder dry and your weapon clean.
Don't volunteer for anything. The nail that sticks up gets pounded down first.
June 15, 2008:
Summer is here and the garden is gone, fallen to the depradations of the varmints. Ground squirrels, according to the county extension office, which also says there's nothing to be done about them short of building concrete bunkers over the vegetable beds. The little creeps have leaped or crawled or chewed or dug their way around every other obstacle we put up. For years now the dogs have been trying to explain the menace these rodents pose, but did I listen? Noooo.
What to do in this bleak situation? Obviously it was time to speed-dial Mom and moan about what a failure of a woman I am. "Oh, I've had my share of garden troubles too," she said. "We didn't get much of a harvest the year we moved to Middleport." That was 1973, to give you a sense of the feminine ideal we're up against here. I know, I know, we should no longer be bound by the strictures of outmoded gender identifications, but that would be much easier to accomplish if only I could grow some peas.
So the score remains Ground Squirrels, 87; Womankind, 0. Instead of weeding and watering, the summer's work is now to release my impotent rage at the critter machine and to accept the absence of homegrown salsa on the table. Step 1 will be to let the healing begin with lemonade.
June 8, 2008:
I am too pleased about Barack Obama winning the Democratic primary to keep quiet. Let's face it, when was the last time either party put up a president with this kind of vision, passion, compassion, intelligence, authenticity, and sex appeal? Bill Clinton must be disqualified right away for wobbling in the authenticity category. The first George Bush, like his son, fails decisively on all counts. We'll be generous and excuse Ronald Reagan for having developed Alzheimer's disease while in office. And Jimmy Carter, although I admire him very much, has the sex appeal of a peanut.
By way of full disclosure, I didn't even vote for Obama. Nope, I checked the box next to Hillary Clinton's name. Think of it, I got to vote for a woman to lead this country. I got to help her chip away at the male stranglehold on power that has been defended—with words and violence—for most of recorded history. And, his preeminent qualifications aside, this November I'll get to help Obama chip away at the white strangehold on power that began with colonization and the slave trade. And there are 18 million other voters out there who will also have the chance to vote for both candidates. This year the status quo is getting nudged.
But anyway, back to Obama. I loved his victory speech, and I also loved Clinton's concession. I am a happy Democrat today. Now if we could just do something about this useless Senate of ours, which on Friday refused to take action on climate change. According to a Dot Earth blog post yesterday, a wonk named Joe Romm says, "Only one path exists to serious climate legislation. The president of the United States must make it a top priority. Then he can use the full weight of the bully pulpit to speak to the American people realistically about the costs and benefits." I ask you, who would look better bullying us than Obama? Except maybe Will Smith. Or possibly Daniel Craig.
June 1, 2008:
The other day Spencer shouted from the greenhouse, "That is the biggest black widow I've ever seen!" Now, this is generally not a good thing to say within earshot of someone experiencing PMS, but I think I held things together pretty well. Well enough, at least, to maintain a stunned silence (as opposed to screaming) while watching the old gal chew the head off a beetle. I can only suppose she'd run out of husbands, or maybe the beetle made an offhand comment at the wrong moment and found himself on the business end of some spider hormones.
And Spencer was right; she was as big as a silver dollar. The beetle was no slouch, clocking in at the size of quarter, but clearly no match for Shelob. She held him still and munched in perfect calm. I will leave you to imagine what a relief it was when Spencer escorted her off the premises. Which brings us to the point: how long does it take to get used to encountering venomous critters?
First it was the rattlesnakes, then scorpions, and now this. Every time it happens all I can think about is putting the house on the market immediately, without even pausing to sweep the stairs, and moving someplace tame and safe like New York City. On the other hand, New Yorkers call out SWAT teams and helicopters when a coyote shows up in the park. Maybe someday the creepy-crawlies will seem as natural to have around as the mammals.
May 25, 2008:
Yesterday I read an article called, "Oil shock threatens lasting changes to economy," which said that Americans are shopping less and driving less. Surely it's not too Pollyanna to see a silver lining in this threat. Doesn't it translate into more time for things we'd rather be doing, such as biking, gardening, walking the dogs? And doesn't it result in reduced carbon emissions, which means fewer weather disasters and a healthier place to live? Certainly there will be pockets of pain in a transition like this, but there are also opportunities. "Oil shock promises lasting changes to economy" would have worked just as well as a title for that article.
Speaking of pain, the psycho tomato killer has struck again. And again. And again. Blood meal and pepper spray failed to render the plants unattractive to the forces of evil, and our fortified fence poses no obstacle. What's left to do but buy more tomatoes and send them out to the slaughter? In the meantime flags are flying at half-mast, and if you venture near the mesa don't be surprised to hear weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. This is Hrothgar's hall, and Grendel rules the night. Mom says it's time to begin all-night stakeouts on the front deck, me and my trusty BB gun. I never noticed before, but she and Beowulf have a similar outlook.
And finally, let me leave you this week with some installation art by Spencer, or more precisely, installation-of-the-deck art. This dynamic yet relevant sculpture came into existence during a recent repair project and now graces the guest room wall. The roller handle even swings back and forth. The artist's statement is as follows: "Um... er... there was no room in the garbage."
May 18, 2008:
This week we were hailed on, rained on, and snowed on. The hail was the most fun since we were biking at the time, on our way to see a matinee of Ironman (fun movie—go see it!) and ice goes ting-ting-ting! on plastic helmets. The rain was cool too, as it did such a marvelous job of watering the plants all by itself while pouring off the roof and into the catchment tanks. It was an eerie sensation on those days when absolutely nothing needed doing in the garden. And the snowstorm, well, that was just plain weird.
But not as weird as this freaky David Hasselhoff video, courtesy of Erin. What makes that man the way he is? And how does he keep a straight face while working? I surely don't know, but I'm glad he's out there, doing his wackadoodle thang. And now that your perceptions have been tinged by the surreal, check out this video from India, also pointed out by Erin (warning: PG-13 rating). My loony bun is fine, Benny Lava. How about yours?
P.S. This just in from Sal: an important follow-up Benny Lava video!
May 11, 2008:
The news came out this week that the video game Grand Theft Auto 4 has been "lavished with near-universal accolades." Naturally I was all set to post an update here adding a voice to those who have not accoladed the thing. The update was going to be a substantive reflection on the state of the media, what it says about a society when 6 million of its members choose to entertain themselves through digital brutality, and when exactly we got so confused about the pursuit of happiness. In short, I was going to give you campers a break from all the garden chatter. Then two tomato plants died.
I knew it was a gamble setting them outside so soon, but they were outgrowing their containers in the greenhouse and being gnawed by aphids and greenflies. I had already planted two other tomatoes out with decent results, and in the balance it seemed that the indoor threats outweighed the risk of frost. Turns out that temperature was the least of their worries. They seemed chipper and upbeat about moving into the ground on that final day of their young lives, bouncing on their toes like Rocky about to enter the ring. The next morning, however, a grisly sight awaited outside: two tomato stumps, each weeping a bead of sap from its severed neck. I swear I heard the fading strains of "Taps" in the distance.
But what degenerate creature could be responsible for this outrage? Probably not rabbits, given the fencing, and the stems seemed too cleanly severed for the work of a beak. I smelled the M.O. of a chiseling squirrel, although Sister Beth says we ought not rule out cobras and she usually knows these things. No doubt it was a pack of them, marauding serpents who had just been honing their criminal technique through a multiplayer game of GTA4.
May 4, 2008:
Amy called last Monday. "Have you seen the weather forecast???" I scrambled to Weather.com and saw a week with lows in the 40's, highs in the 60's or 70's. No big deal, right? Well, Amy directed my attention to the National Weather Service instead, which was predicting lows in the 20's. 20's? Criminy! The seedlings! The greenhouse holds some heat during the night, but it can't be expected to keep the darlings alive during arctic conditions like that.
I didn't know who was lying, Weather.com or the NWS, so on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, every mobile plant in the greenhouse moved inside. We're talking mass migration, like Moses leading the people, except for the minor detail of marching them back into Egypt every morning. But during those cold nights the multitudes bivouacked in a makeshift refugee camp on the kitchen counter, trading tales about the late frost back in the old days of April and speculating on whether they could use silverware to make a serviceable golden calf.
Still, the question remained: which meteorologists were the filthy liars? If only we were someplace with some scientists around to help us figure this out... But wait—we were, and there are! Los Alamos came through in fine style: the scientist next door happened to have a whiz-bang thermometer gizmo which registers overnight low temperatures in two locations. We borrowed it, set it up outdoors and in the greenhouse, and the results are in: everybody lies. The government was actually a bit closer to the truth, but Weather.com's whopper is a respectable prediction of greenhouse lows. Here's the executive summary in case you were hoping for an overabundance of detail. Operation Junior Weather Detective has officially concluded, although it was so much fun that I may keep track for a few more days, or possibly until I have to give the thermometer back.
April 27, 2008:
Have I mentioned how rich in seedlings the house is? Specifically the greenhouse. The current situation is a result of my own babes outgrowing their initial cradles and being repotted, as well as a whole flock of new arrivals who need temporary sun and shelter until they can be planted in Amy's, Katie's, or Erin's gardens. JoJo's Foster Home for Seedlings, that's what we've got here, and this is the kind of work I can get behind.
Much like the work of hauling compost, putting up bunny-proof fencing, and installing water catchment tanks. We still have a few more weeks of manual labor before there's a real garden up and running. But "manual" isn't quite the right word for it. You don't use just your hands; you use your whole body, and if you manage not to overdo it, your body thanks you. My hands, arms, and back all feel springy and alive lately, and generally eager for the next project.
The remaining question is whether the projects will allow us to coax anything to grow outside. The greenhouse is one thing, but the New Mexico climate takes no prisoners: hot days, cold nights, and scouring winds. Maybe the foster home should be more of a boot camp, the better to prepare rookie plants for the conditions into which they'll soon be flung.
April 20, 2008:
Didn't make it home in time for a Mesa Cam update tonight due to the insidious influence of friends who kept me out playing games until long after sunset. Very sorry about that, for those of you campers who tune in solely for the glimpse of the wilderness. I'll post a new photo tomorrow for sure. In the meantime, perhaps this tidbit can tide you over: the camera and the telescope collaborated for a look at the moon at 9:04 PM, which has to count as its own kind of wilderness.
And here is what the creche looked like around the same time. Check out the buxom basil! Also note that the godzilla cucumbers have been replaced with brand new parsley starts. The cukes grew so fast they irritated their nursery-mates, and so were promoted out of harm's way and into bigger pots. Also, it's my pleasure to announce that the seedling stork flew over the house yet again this week and left a whole new brood, which currently looks like this.
And that's it for tonight's photographic check-in. In non-visual news, spring winds have started, poetry class ended, the house needs cleaning, and my back is sore from digging outdoor vegetable beds. Who could blame me for neglecting housework? Everything else has been far more important lately, up to and including games with friends.
April 13, 2008:
As some of you campers may already know, Spencer and I get together with a group of friends in town every Sunday for bagels and coffee. Today at our little assembly we had an unusually interesting topic of conversation: body odor, and the pros and cons of combatting it with deodorants and antiperspirants. B.O.—are you for it or against it?
Coincidentally, I spent some time yesterday reading ingredient lists for shampoo and laundry soap. It turns out that if one wants to grow vegetables with graywater, one shouldn't use hygiene products containing sodium, chlorine, or boron. And that rules out most of them, even those that claim environmental consciousness. Baking soda, for instance, is no good; it's sodium bicarbonate. Anything with Borax has boron. And a sample deodorant gel taken from my medicine cabinet is 20% aluminum zirconium tetrachlorohydrex GLY. I've no idea what that is but I do see the "chloro" lurking in the belly of those syllables, and I don't want it anywhere near the darlings.
So getting back to body odor. A reasonably clean human smells ok. No, I'll go further. A reasonably clean human smells good. So let's call an end to the war on aroma, let's reframe the issue. It isn't body odor, it's body bouquet. A bouquet that I hope will still be welcome at bagel shops even after it bikes into town without deodorant.
April 6, 2008:
I'm beginning to suspect that I might not be 16 anymore. Because really, would a 16-year-old be wiped out after biking into town and back? The routine lately has been 1) get up an hour early to write, 2) bike to the day's activity, poetry posse or class or coffee with the gang, 3) bike home, and 4) collapse into an afternoon coma. I was a reputable napper even in adolescence, but the art seems to be ripening with the years.
Also, this week I started the summer's first wave of seedlings. The creche looked like this last Monday, and like this today. If the babes continue growing in this enchanting fashion I'm afraid I'll have to post more pictures here by way of eye candy. Which brings us to the point: my definition of eye candy was different at 16.
Last night I dreamed I was playing volleyball with my high school team, and we sucked. We sprayed passes all over the gym, the ref kept calling our sets, and we never once put an actual play together, all because we had spent the first half of the training season vacationing together in Europe. Was the sleeping mind poking fun at the passage of time? It's not often I wake up laughing.
March 30, 2008:
I may have gone loony once and for all. I've had that suspicion before, but this time there's evidence. Exhibit A is one of the cherry trees we planted this week, Exhibit B is a 'purple robe' locust tree, and Exhibit C is a mock orange and two peppermint plants. Along with a thimbleful of chive seeds scattered at the base of the cherry trees, these poor plants represent Phase 1 of Operation Forest Garden.
But look at where I'm asking them to grow! What can I have been thinking? Sure, they've had some nicely disgusting fish fertilizer, and they'll have plenty to drink thanks to rainwater catchment and graywater from showers and laundry, but can those little roots work their way into stone? Bandelier tuff is tough stuff, I learned firsthand while hacking holes in the ground with a pick. And this is ground that hasn't been disturbed in 1.1 million years, not since a neighborhood volcano blew its top and spewed the ash that turned into mesas. Do sapling cherry trees have the fortitude to overcome 1.1 million years of unbudged obstinacy?
If I had any frayed tatters of sanity left, I would have stopped digging. I would have given the trees to people up the street who are blessed with dirt, or at least let Spencer rent the jackhammer he so dearly longed for. I would not have ordered half a dozen hazelnut bushes, nor be scheming when and where to plant raspberries in this desert I call a yard. What's the definition of crazy? Something about whacking stone again and again and hoping it will turn into soil.
March 23, 2008:
O campers! My campers! Our posse trip is done! Well, not quite; we drive home tomorrow morning, but I can already assure you that our adventure was way more fun than that Whitman poem. But before I tell you about the weekend, a little backstory: the Poetry Posse is a group of lovely, lively, local poets. We normally meet once a week for a couple hours, one hour of studying brand-name poetry and one of workshopping our own stuff. This week our meeting began at 11:00 AM on Friday as usual, but instead of going home afterwards, we piled into Mary's car and drove to Boulder for the weekend, where Beth was already encamped at a condo waiting for us.
Now, this might sound like misery to those of you whose poetry antennae were ripped out in your youth by malevolent English teachers, but it was luxury for me. We sat around the living room reading Pablo Neruda out loud, we scattered to corners of the condo for writing breaks, we staggered from bookstores to cafes and back to bookstores shotgunning tea and apologizing for the books we weren't able to resist buying, and we soberly discussed the question of whether Terrance Hayes is the planet's most handsome poet, living or dead. I made that last bit up: we weren't sober about it at all. You've seen commercials for Girls Gone Wild in Cancun? This was Poets Gone Wild in Boulder. If only we had a video camera.
And Boulder makes the perfect setting for this, all dramatic mountain backdrops, fabulous restaurants, and the aforementioned bookstores and cafes. I think it's safe to say that this was only the first of many field trips. Yes, the Posse will saddle up and ride again, deputized by the shade of Sappho and armed with too many books.
March 16, 2008:
This has been an especially good week. Highlights include a girls' night out, games at Pete's house, and a movie night at John and Amy's for which Amy made espresso cheesecake decorated with chocolate leaves. She claims it was easy, but so did Michelangelo after finishing the David. We also went on a bike & hike where we watched a red-tailed hawk soaring beneath us when we stopped at a lookout for tea and treats. See what I mean? Weeks don't come much better than this.
The coming week aims to try, though. Friday I am carpooling up to Boulder with my friendly neighborhood Poetry Posse. Yes, we are planning a poetry road trip, like Thelma & Louise except with less tequila and more metaphors. Not that T&L was lacking in metaphors, but ours will be the kind that makes friends and loved ones look at you like you've got fish swimming out your ears. So if Boulder has an internet cafe, I will post next week's update from the land of Mork & Mindy. Na-nu na-nu.
I realize all this joy may not be widespread. Elliot Spitzer is probably well insulated from good times about now, his previous good times having come home to roost, and antacids are the only things selling on Wall Street. So many times it's all about the money, which seems like it doesn't leave much room for fun. But what do I know? Maybe Ashley Alexandra provided Spitzer with fun worth $4300 + one career.
March 9, 2008:
When I am crowned Empress of All Known Universes, my first order of business will be to outlaw cars. Or at least tax them into oblivion. A tailpipe tax for fumes farted into the faces of bikers, a road-hog tax for lane space monopolized, and a disturber-of-the-peace tax for deafening engines. And a hazard-to-life-and-limb tax for the dangers presented to bikers, passengers, animals, and atmospheres. How did we hypnotize ourselves into believing that civilization requires so many of these machines? And with gas prices promising to go nowhere but up, isn't this the perfect time to rethink how we get around?
Every time I bike, my anti-car prejudice hardens further. Which might explain why I was so excited to learn about the county's new bus system. Yes, we now have mass transit right here in little old Los Alamos! The routes aren't exactly comprehensive yet, but I managed to get into town and home again the other day, much to my smug delight. I hope the bus will be a backup for biking when the weather is bad.
That reminds me, remember all that hoody-hoo last week about spring is here, birds are singing, blah blah blah? Joke's on me: winter roared back this week like Hillary Clinton. The birds were shocked into stunned silence, and it's snowing again at this moment. Anything can happen in a world this unpredictable. Buses can run through suburbia, cars can go out of fashion, and yes, I could get a call from Stephen Hawking asking if I'm ready to begin that stint as empress.
March 2, 2008:
Spring is here, according to the birds. There are other signs as well, like snow melting and shorts being rummaged from closets, but the din of twipping and chittering along the street seems more convincing. Woodpeckers and blue jays are back, and the other day a flock of cranes flew north over the house. Even the ravens are up and doing. One cussed me out as I biked past, I surprised a pair gurgling pillow talk to each other in a ponderosa, and we watched another build a nest in the woods.
But the birds aren't the only fauna on the move. This week has seen the return of a handful of friends, some who had been gone for a few weeks and some for a few years. I won't name names because they all know exactly who they are, but these are the kind of friends who you see after a separation and feel that no time has passed at all, that they weren't ever gone in any way that matters, regardless of how short or long the absence. It's a feeling that goes perfectly with the sense of winged sociability in the air. Welcome back, all you travelers.
February 24, 2008:
People have been asking what Spencer is doing with all his free time now that he's retired. You heard it here first: he has been making cookies. From scratch. Yes, Spencer. Mr. Bran Flakes, for whom it used to be torment to make anything beyond cold cereal or, in a pinch, peanut butter sandwiches. But now he's Mr. Oatmeal Chocolate Chip, measuring ingredients like a madman and filling the house with the fragrance of a patisserie. Good thing my foot is able to bike again. I rode into town and back three times this week in a desperate attempt to hold cookie calories at bay. Biking and baking, that's what life is like around here.
I've also been loving the Mesa Cam. It's so much fun to see a moment out the window, point-and-shoot and point-and-click at it, and then see that moment again here where any camper who likes can come groove on it too. Speaking of which, the photo for the 24th looks foggy because it was. A cloud swallowed us up just before dark. It felt like stepping into an aquarium when the camera and I ventured outside, and it's still raining even as I type.
February 17, 2008:
Virginia Woolf first lectured me about a room of one's own in 1993. Fifteen years to do something about it isn't so bad. I've been getting by with a computer desk in the guest room, a writing desk tucked in a closet, and piles of books basically all over the house. But Virginia can finally go nag someone else, because the former guest room is now officially mine. We spent the weekend dragging furniture around so that the computer desk and writing desk are together at last, along with two sets of bookshelves and best of all, a sofa! The room is nothing short of dreamy, although I'm not sure if our next guests will agree. All you guests out there can consider this your punishment for not showing up more often. On the bright side, your bed is now in Spencer's office so you can play foosball all night long if you're so inclined.
In mostly unrelated news, the magical realism e-zine Serendipity has a story of mine in the current issue. The zine is based in the UK and for some reason I love seeing that .co.uk in the web address. It's a little like the joy of visiting, except without the jet lag or the scary food.
February 10, 2008:
Well, I intended the Mesa Cam to be a "webcam" with a frame rate of 1 per week, since there aren't any video cameras lying around the house, but that didn't quite work out as planned. I had to keep posting extra photos last week due to urgently beautiful conditions out the window, and there is every reason to think such conditions will persist. We can probably expect an actual frame rate of about 3 per week, plus or minus. I'll post the most recent picture here on the home page and archive past views on the new Mesa Cam page (accessible via the link beneath the raven).
In other news my foot is psyched to be out of its moonboot and back in normal shoes for (nearly) normal walks. It feels so good to move again. If all goes well, this week will see the first bike ride since the injury and I can hardly wait. Although I have to admit that the body's process of healing is an amazing thing to witness. Some days I've thought I could actually hear the bone laying new calcium girders across the fracture, clickety click. Or maybe that was just the sound of the camera snapping one last picture.
February 3, 2008:
I am happy to announce that we have a new Artifacts page on the site, thanks to Sal who let me adopt one of her spare scanners. I often come across paper scraps that stop me for a minute, photos or letters or postcards that seem to be evidence of something, and now they can be digitized. I plan to post something over there every week as part of our regularly scheduled update, so you can keep tabs on it via the link up top, just beneath the raven.
But wait, there's more! You may now feast your eyes upon the new Mesa Cam below this update, brought to you by popular demand. This is a weekly peek at the what the mesas are up to for those of you trapped outside New Mexico. I suppose New Mexicans are allowed to look too.
Any other changes you'd like to see around here? Consider yourself an official participant in the official focus group. If you submit your requests via comments or email, our tiger team of web professionals (Sal) will review, scope, prioritize, execute, deploy, and operationalize your action items.
January 27, 2008:
I have until now kept my secret life secret, but it's time to tell all: yes, I am an operative in an underground literary organization, and yes, we smuggle poetry broadsides into books to ambush unsuspecting readers. If Madeline Bassett were to start a revolution, it might look a lot like this.
My first shipment of broadsides arrived yesterday for covert distribution (operative status: wee rookie), and they are gorgeous! Here are some pixels that inadequately describe one of them, and here are some others, but jpegs are as dust compared to the real versions. I keep picking them up for the pleasure of touching the paper. The texture, the smell, the pressed ink of letters born into poems—if words can be made flesh, these are it.
So I'll do my damnedest to scatter the lovelies, and I hope you find one. If not, you could always sign up to be an operative yourself. Operatives get to keep a copy of every poem, and that has to beat the perks offered by la Résistance, or Cosa Nostra, or even Fight Club. Ooh, Tyler Durden would make an excellent foot soldier for Madeline Bassett. Think of it, Madeline and Tyler together. Would he be Madeline's bad dream? Or would she be his?
January 20, 2008:
I'm afraid there won't be many biking updates for awhile because I broke my foot. Spencer has been spreading the word around town that the injury happened when I was rescuing babies from a burning car as it teetered on the edge of a cliff, but that only throws the klutzy truth into a harsher glare: I took the dogs outside for their nightly ablutions, tripped on the step, and found myself curled up on the ground gurgling and clutching the troubled flipper.
But this compulsory confinement feels like an invitation to turn my attention back to the novel. It was getting to be about time again anyway, but this has accelerated the schedule. So I've set aside poetry and short fiction, with reluctance and anticipation, and am ready to re-enter the strange land of long stories where I am still very much a stranger.
I also expect to read a fair amount from my new sofa residence, so any book recommendations are more than ordinarily welcome. Also movie recommendations. And blogs. Especially any of the above with gentle hints for improving grace and coordination.
January 13, 2008:
The big news this week is that Spencer has (joyfully) quit his job and joined me in the ranks of cheapskates who goof around full-time. Goofing doesn't happen by itself, you know. One must apply oneself. And although he's had only three days to practice, Spencer shows astounding aptitude.
One of his early successes was dragging me on a bike & hike, which means you bike to a trailhead and then hike the trail. At first I thought he was trying to wear me out so I'd be better behaved (a la the Dog Whisperer), but it turns out that this is goofing at lofty levels. One minute you're biking along, happy happy, and the next you're wondering how you crossed into a forest world where unbroken snow carpets the ground and ravens swoop through the deep blue sky. The only things that weren't beautiful were the two of us in our silly biking clothes. Which raises the question: if you wear a helmet in the woods, do you still look like a dork?
Maybe we can put Spencer to work on that riddle. In the meantime, I'll leave you with two videos that Sally found to illustrate key aspects of this new life, one with music and one without.
January 6, 2008:
I'm a fan of 2008. The six days so far have been routine and placid yet ineluctably winsome. It's like meeting someone at a party and an immediate rapport springs up based on no evidence at all. '08 has good ether, as Spencer would say, ether being his technical term for an indefinable quality of likeability.
But enough about my crush on the year. In actual news, three of my poems are in the January 2008 issue of The Ghazal Page. The ghazal (pronounced guzzle) is a very old poetic form, big in medieval Persia and composed of a series of couplets. I usually ignore the other rules about structure and rhyme, but I love the spirit of the form. The couplets seem entirely unrelated until you listen closer, when you realize that they're all intertwined and that none of them could exist without the others.
And finally, for those of you who have been anxious for an update on the worm farm, I'm delighted to report that the little darlings are doing magnificent work. Through some sublime process of alchemy they have transformed egg shells, tangerine rinds, and tea leaves into compost as dark and moist as chocolate cake. It's almost ready to harvest, too. The greenhouse can hardly wait for its first ever dessert course, and the worms have earned themselves a brand new luxury bed of newspaper strips and kitchen scraps.
Copyright 2008, Joanna Gardner. All rights reserved.