gyrlwryter

Adole-Scent

2012-01-31T13:35:00.000-08:00

Yesterday one thing led to another and I found myself ankle-deep in the contents of our bathroom. From under the sink and inside drawers sprung the band-aids and bottles, scents and salves, that have comforted us for years. And I mean YEARS. M came across a little pot of hair sculpting gel he'd had since his days of wearing floodwater pants, way before I ever knew him.

In addition to some pink hair extensions (college), Bumble and Bumble curl creme (2005), and Manic Panic hair dye (who knows?), I found a bottle of Navy perfume that I wore in 8th grade. I think it came from Wal-Mart. I actually remember spraying myself before school, wearing white blouse and brown uniform shorts, hopes high that the musty scent would last at least through lunch.

The memory felt so vivid and immediate that I had to momentarily abandon categorizing my allergy meds. So much came back to me: the stickered girlhood bathroom that I begrudgingly shared with my older brother, whose own Drakkar Noir trumped any scent of mine; my wavy bangs, forever getting greasy; the nagging anxiety that the scent would fade too fast, that perhaps I should save it for a special occasion.

There's still about half a bottle left. And as I tucked it back under the newly-cleaned sink, I felt a bit guilty. Surely I'm never really going to wear Navy perfume (Egyptian Goddess has been my scent du decade) and I've lugged it around now for TWENTY YEARS! Plus, I've spent the past week researching and writing about the tiny house movement, applauding the notion of living simply and sloughing off all the burdensome stuff we don't really need.

If only I could go back in time and have a word with my 13 year-old self. I'd tell her not to worry so freaking much, to go ahead and spritz herself every day, even twice a day. I'd tell her that the special occasion is her life, right now, at this moment.

Resolution Row

2012-01-12T22:02:00.000-08:00

12 days into 2012 and I've finally amassed a few goals for the coming year...

1. I know this might seem extreme, but I am not going to buy one single book this year. I've spent years supporting my local used bookstores so mightily that I could now open my own. Scores of unread novels beckon from the shelves: Roddy Doyle's Barrytown Trilogy, Danzy Senna's Caucasia, a couple of epic Isabel Allende's, not to mention the anthologies and story collections, and even a few candidates for a re-read (after all, isn't that why I've hoarded them for so long?) For books I long to read but don't have, like Joan Didion's Blue Nights, it's either the library or Paperbacks Unlimited, where I can trade the old for something new. It's time to appreciate what I already HAVE.

2. Perhaps this is all part of my nesting instinct, kicking into high gear as I hit gestational week 33, but I will continue to get rid of all extraneous things that sit wilting in closets and storage spaces. Next up? That plastic 3-drawer organizer I've had since freshman year of college (some of you must remember it!) that used to serve a noble purpose but which now serves as a holding tank for all things useless, sticky, expired, and dreadfully unorganized.

3. Dance more!

4. I want to publish at least ten new pieces in ten new places this year. This might be overly ambitious given that I'm going to be a new (exhausted?) mother, but I've got to aim high! Besides, I've already got one down, a piece coming out on mothering.com, the web-site of Mothering Magazine :)

5. It might seem hard to imagine how I'll do this, given all the reading, dancing, writing, and mothering ahead of me, but my final resolution is to RELAX. Allow myself more down time in which I have nothing planned. See where it might lead. Or even better: care not where it leads.

33!

2011-12-31T18:25:00.000-08:00

Every year, as I try hard to savor my birthday without suffocating it, I reflect on the past 365 days and all that they've wrought. 2011 has been especially transformative--the year I transitioned into a true freelance writer, took a hiatus from the classroom, got that much closer to surrendering control.

And this holiday season was the first I've spent in California! Though I cherish all those past Louisiana and East Coast Christmases, the lemony days and windy coastal nights have been lovely and serene. M and I kicked off Christmas Eve with fresh-baked blueberry muffins and a surprise package from Mom containing 12 presents for her future grandchild. (I never thought I could get so excited about white-knit booties :)

Then we headed down to LA to celebrate with M's family, which has become my family. These game-playing folks trotted out Apples to Apples, Guesstures, ping pong, and plenty of back gammon. Good times with my nieces, nephew, and sister-in-law! After a pit stop in the supremely clean, corporate, and stucco-roofed Santa Barbara, we came to San Luis Obispo for my birthday weekend.

So far, a charming day, beginning with a quick stop at Gum Alley, then breakfast at the ultra-hip Kreuzberg Cafe and Book Bar, whose menu items are named after famous authors. We feasted on the J.D. Salinger (bagel with lox and capers) and the Victor Hugo (hot beignets), then headed out to the coast for a gorgeous, windy beach hike.

Here I am, completing my 33rd trip around the sun...

I Love Being Pregnant

2011-12-08T10:25:00.000-08:00

I love feeling the baby squirm around inside of me

I love being asked "when are you due?" by strangers and grocery store clerks who take one look at my round belly and grin

I love collecting soft swaddle blankets

I love the ferocious urge to purge, cleaning out shelves and closets, organizing the mud room and attic, making even fluffier and cozier our sweet little nest

I love meeting other pregnant women at prenatal yoga, our instant comraderie and connection

I love watching my taut belly jiggle when M makes me laugh

I love the love that we feel right now, from everyone. I love that we were thrown a Nonesuch baby shower and got to celebrate with lots of former students who seem as excited as we are, who even gave us gifts of baby Doc Martens and hand-made knit hats and little cardboard books...

I love talking about birth, babies, and breast-feeding with any and every mom who crosses my path

I love reading about things I never would've thought about, like baby's first bowel movement

I love the anticipation of meeting our baby, girl or boy, looking into those giant eyes and saying, welcome to our world

Crash

2011-11-27T23:18:00.000-08:00

My computer is dead. I spent an indecent amount of money on it four years ago, wrote more than I've ever written on it, and now it's at Office Depot with an infected, irrevocable motherboard.

I never backed up. Four years' worth of photos, music, and writing will likely be retrieved from my hard-drive, but I won't know for sure until tomorrow afternoon. To top it all off, I just spent nearly an hour writing a long, involved, and to my mind quite insightful blog post about the whole experience, replete with lessons learned and a tidy ending, and just as I was finishing the final sentence, the entire document was highlighted, deleted, and the changes automatically saved. It happened so fast I couldn't even make sense of it.

It's easy to feel devastated. It's easy to loathe computers and their insidious ways. But the truth is, I'm darn grateful to be typing this on M's lap-top, which he defragmented, cleaned up, and gifted to me today. It's smaller and lighter than mine, more square, less gloss. It's already proving to have some issues (the aforementioned erasure of my blog post). Still, I've adorned it with some stickers, I'm enjoying the tight clank of the keys.

And no matter what, from now on, I'm taking the time to back it up.

They Might Be the Best Band Ever!

2011-11-16T10:28:00.000-08:00

M started listening to them in the late 80s, charmed by their new sound and sharp lyrics. I'd like to say that I joined the 90s as a savvy music-lover myself, but I'd be lying big-time: as a newly minted fifth grader, Air Supply and Dr. Hook were spinning in my CD player. Fast forward almost two decades and I marry M, a veritable musicologist whose knowledge of chord progressions, drummers, bass lines, and album covers makes my head spin. On one of our sun-filled road trips he introduced me to the song Cowtown, an evolutionary science lesson packaged as peppy fun alternative rock. I fell hard.

So it was with great excitement that we saw They Might Be Giants at the Fillmore on Saturday night, me for the first time, M for the first time in almost 20 years!

The Fillmore, for me, has long been defined by patchouli-scented long-skirt-spinning jam bands (Dark Star, JGB, String Cheese, Greyboy Allstars) or down-home folksy swaying to the likes of Willie Nelson, Gillian Welch, and Ani Difranco. Never have I seen a show there with so much laughter and so few graying ponytails.

John cracked us up with his spiel about why people should buy their new 6-foot tall poster (This neon pink color will fade to a lovely patina, he quipped) because people don't buy records anymore. At one point, he divided the audience down the middle with a strobe light and held a chanting contest. They also had a puppet show and nick-named random audience members things like "Byzantium."

And then, of course, their delightful music, which entices all sorts of giggle and wiggle, but which also makes reference to the poetry of Wallace Stevens. Unlike, say, Dark Star, which always digresses into a tedious 45 minute rendition of Drums in Space, their show was refreshingly unpredictable and alive. They played some old favorites like Particle Man and Birdhouse in Your Soul, did a set of about 17 REALLY short songs, sang their awesome alphabet song, talked about the Occupy Wall Street movement, and played lots of new stuff, too.

Their first encore song, How Can I Sing Like a Girl?, off their latest album, embodies the kind of cultural observation and intimate honesty that make them so brilliant:

How can I sing like a girl
And not be stigmatized
By the rest of the world?

Gourd-eous

2011-11-01T21:23:00.000-07:00

I wait the WHOLE year to carve pumpkins.

In addition to the five we had glowing on our porch last night, M and I each added our personal touch: his freaky owl picture hung above a sound machine that emanated an ominous beating heart; candles burned atop my Day of the Dead altar.

We took turns answering the doorbell and delighting in all the trick-or-treaters--the big-eyed toddlers who haven't a clue, the shy five year-olds clinging to their parents' legs, the ecstatic packs of pre-pubescent girls, the awkward adolescent boys with their giant pillowcases and embarrassed grins, and my favorite, the old man dressed like Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Ride Me On Language

2011-10-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

Five days with Dorothy Allison at the Tomales Bay Workshop has me feeling a desperate urgency to "get naked on the page." I also feel sad, like I just said good-bye to an old friend I might never see again. And I feel, of all things, southern-proud, half-wishing my tongue still held onto home as gracefully as Dorothy's does. At 62 years old, Dorothy has long silky gray hair that she's constantly brushing away from her face. Her glasses cannot conceal the fire that burns behind them. When she talks, people listen hard, laugh often, even cry. She loves profanity.

Over the course of thirteen hours of workshop, she told us that writing is hard, thankless work, that salvation sometimes comes in the form of poetry in the middle of the night, that she sold 30 years worth of her journals to Duke University to pay for her son's college education. About my writing, she said she didn't believe the narrator, that she's hiding herself, that she needs to get emotionally raw. She also said it was "a damn good story."

And my favorites:

"Writing is deliberate seduction:
Take risks, put embarrassing stuff on the page, be DARING."

"You have permission to take revenge.
But you better be honest about how you were a motherf*^#ker too."

"You are an anthropologist of your own culture--write from where you came from. Write from hurt. Hurt has power."

"After we had a baby, I lost a year just staring at his feet."

"I get up in the night, an’ I need a story. I need a book. I need somebody to invite me into a world they have imagined whole. Or stolen. I genuinely don’t care. Just take me there. Ride me on language. Charm me. Fascinate me. Scare me or excite me, but take me out of myself. We are lonely. We are scared. We need story. That does not change."

Beat the Bank!

2011-10-13T17:43:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, after a journalism workshop with a bad-ass writer/mother/former editor of Mother Jones, I decided to take the Embarcadero to the Golden Gate Bridge. Big mistake. San Francisco was seething with people on that lovely sunshine day. I literally sat at a stop-light, not moving, and watched it go through SEVEN cycles of red to green. An old man thumped my bumper with his Mercedes. Someone's 50 Cent drowned out my Nick Drake. I blamed the whole thing on Fleet Week (sailors? ships? who cares?) until I realized, after finally reaching the bridge AN HOUR LATER, that it might also have to do with the Occupy SF movement.

Which made it all seem better somehow: a noble suffering. After all, what's the inconvenience of a traffic jam compared to having the bank foreclose on your home? I used to lead the bullhorn at protests, my righteous anger sweating out of my pores. Now my anger has given way to a muted disillusionment, a tragic cynicism that makes me seriously consider never voting in a Presidential election again.

But the beauty of this current movement is that we don't even need a bullhorn to be heard. All of us who have money in the big banks have power. Imagine what would happen if we all decided to put our money in credit unions, to infuse our LOCAL economies with the hard-won fruits of our labor?

M and I opened a shared account at Bank of America because it was easy, he already banked there, and they were willing to cash the savings bonds my dad gifted me for our wedding. Convenient? Yes. Ethical? I don't think so. We're pulling out of there ASAP, moving all of our banking to the Redwood Credit Union. Because there are some things that matter more than nation-wide access to ATMs and savings bonds, because somehow we've got to believe that people like us can still make a difference.

Love in the Time of Blackberries

2011-09-27T20:01:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, M and I celebrated our one-year anniversary! He made me a darling wedding video; I baked us a heart-shaped cake and surprised him with concert tickets. Together we stood on our front steps, me with my dried-up bouquet, and remembered the glorious front-yard celebration last year. We crushed the year-old flowers and sprinkled them down the wedding path to our garden.

But the real highlight was blackberry picking--serious picking, for hours, until our fingers were sore and stained a deep purple. M clipped the vicious thorny branches away so I could duck into little coves filled with fat, juicy, beyond-reach clusters. We braved poison oak and bees as the sky turned from cloudy drizzle to hot breezy sunshine. We took one picnic break halfway through, then soldiered on, foragers by the lake-side, sharp primate eyes, determined to fill our deep second bowl. I cooled off with a dip in the velvety lake. We came home with almost 10 cups of berries!

This morning we made jam. First we rinsed and mashed up the berries.

We washed all the jars in hot water and boiled the lids. (Small poison oak rashes are blooming all over my face, neck, and arms. M, ever-empathetic, is more upset about it than me).

Then we simmered the berries and strained out half of the seeds. We added lemon juice, sugar, and pectin, and stirred it all up to a boil. A bee flew in the window and I cursed its attempt to lick my spoon. M reminded me that we wouldn't have any of these berries if it weren't for "those cute little bees."

Next we filled the jars, plopped 'em back in a boil bath, and voila: a delightful bounty of blackberry jam to last us through the winter. An incredibly satisfying and fun way to spend the morning with my dear husband, who makes every day rife with possibility and sweetness.

Mother of Us All

2011-09-22T16:03:00.000-07:00

In Louisiana on Sunday, at my aunt's bayou-side home, we celebrated my Maw-Maw's 80th birthday with two kinds of gumbo (shrimp and okra, chicken and sausage), potato salad, and a big white cake with pink flowers of icing. In attendance were all 6 of her children, 7 out of 10 grand-children, 4 out of 5 greats. The sixth one--now about the size of a sweet potato--elicited plenty of cooing and conversation. Even I'm growing more and more charmed at my stomach, whose bulge will not be restrained by spandex.

Since my mom has four sisters, family gatherings often consist of the women chatting in the dining room while the men watch the Saints on TV. Over birthday cake and iced tea, as I asked and they answered, I entered the sisterhood of Mothers. Alicia, my younger cousin, wishes someone would have told her how painful the recovery of childbirth is. My Aunt Sandy gained only 19 pounds in her first pregnancy. My cousin-in-law celebrated the epidural as joyfully as the birth, whereas my mother chose my dad over the anesthesiologist (the doc said only one other person could be in the room with her).

But perhaps most shocking of all is Maw-Maw, who delivered all six of her children without any epidurals. "When it was time to push, they gave me ether," she told me, "which numbs the pain for only a second." When her first grand-child arrived, Maw-Maw was only 40, still raising her own small kids. "But now I have all the time in the world," she smiled, "for my great-grand-children."

Answer Me This

2011-09-11T19:06:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago I was working my very first job out of college, beginning my first serious relationship, living for the first time in my own apartment. I wanted to write, but never really made the time. I was taking a ballet class, watching Sex and the City, and eating plenty of Amy's vegan pot pies. My world was transitioning from friend-centered to boyfriend-centered, which was kind of thrilling but mostly terrifying. Life was about to get much more complicated.

I must admit that when 9/11 happened I paused long enough to be shocked and saddened, then went about trying to figure out my own life. I was haunted by difficult pirouettes and an increasingly jealous boyfriend, not America-hating terrorists. So it took me awhile to start asking the kinds of questions that I wish more people were asking, even ten years later. Here I will issue a disclaimer: since I recognize that 9/11 is a highly taboo subject matter that even good liberals don't dare question, I am not in any way claiming to know "the truth." I am, however, intrigued by a number of FACTS, which raise some chilling questions. For example:

Why did scores of people (firefighters, police officers, and eye-witness newscasters alike) report hearing explosions in the towers, as though it were a controlled demolition?

Why are these the only steel buildings in the history of the world that have fallen in their own footprint from fires?

Why were bomb-sniffing dogs removed from the site in the days before the attack?

Why did the government issue a stand-down order to air defense?

Why were the towers closed the weekend before the attacks for an unprecedented "power down," in which all security cameras were turned off?

Why does no one talk about the fact that George Bush's brother, Marvin Bush, was head of security for the World Trade Center?

Why was the mayor of San Francisco warned not to fly on September 11?

And I could go on. There's so much information out there it's really rather daunting. Aside from way too many discrepancies about the attacks, there were the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan afterward. Ten years later, our military is still in both countries and our economy is in the toilet.

So, yes, I agree with the media and all those patriotic folks who declare that we should never forget the tragic events of September 11. But what good is memory without inquiry? What could be more patriotic than insisting that the government be held accountable to its citizens?

Skool Daze

2011-08-22T14:14:00.000-07:00

This fall will be the first time in 27 years that I am not returning to school as either a student or a teacher. 27 YEARS, folks!

After graduating from college, I promptly went to work in education, as an aide with emotionally disturbed high school kids and then as a substitute teacher, which led me to realize I wanted a classroom all my own. Then it was on to grad school for two years (during which I got to teach comp classes at SSU), and after that, Nonesuch, where I taught for the past six years before deciding it was time to set sail.

As a kid boating around on Crystal Lake during the summer, I fantasized about new penny loafers and uniform blouses (with puffed sleeves!) But even better than new school clothes was shopping for school supplies: Trapper Keepers, five subject notebooks with pocket folders, glittery pencils... even picking out a new ruler felt like a divine treat. And then there were the added treasures that came with teaching, like accordion file folders and felt-tipped grading pens. Usually at this time of year I'm excitedly scratching out unit plans, salivating over grammar workbooks in catalogs, dusting my classroom, and picking out my new lesson plan book at Skool Daze.

But this year is different. This year I'm rounding the corner into my second trimester of pregnancy, consuming an alarming amount of birthing books and ginger ale, collapsing into late afternoon naps. And, don't get me wrong, it's marvelous. Never have I understood the corporal better than now, as another being invades my body and leaves me chronically queasy, tired, and fighting hard to button my pants. It's funny, because part of my motivation to take a reprieve from teaching was to focus more on my own creative expression, to allow myself to embody the writing life that I've craved for far too long. And yet this summer has felt like the ultimate sacrifice of self. Good-bye bikini pride. So long, vanity.

Still, it's a beautiful, surreal experience to hear the horse-trotting heartbeat of something that is growing inside of me. It's humbling to realize that as challenging as the first trimester has been, it's surely nothing compared to the actual labor, birth, and life-altering event that is to come. And though I'm grieving the back-to-school madness that I am no longer a part of, I'm also celebrating the incredibly fortunate timing of this pregnancy. For the next six months I am free to nurture myself through creative labor. I've already got a couple of journalistic assignments, a 5,000 word manuscript to whittle down for an October writing workshop, scores of shorter works to tinker with, and plenty of pregnancy-related pitches to toss at editors.

And with my waning nausea and waxing energy, I am free, for the first time in 27 years, to devote my creative energy to myself, without the clutter of grades and gold stars. Just me, my laptop, and the budding of new life.

Mountain Nuptials

2011-08-12T18:53:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, on a cool summer mountain in central coastal California, M and I attended our first wedding (other than our own) together. Raina and Paul hosted nearly 100 people for an entire weekend event that was kicked off with an Indian feast and bonfire on Friday night. The next morning people helped string paper lanterns above the outdoor dance floor and concoct mason jar photo-and-lavender displays. Guests slept in cabins or tents (we chose the latter) at this beautiful Buddhist retreat center where we were asked not to swat or kill the mosquitoes :)

M, who knows me well enough to know that this is my tendency, cautioned early on: Now don't you go comparing every little thing to our wedding and making yourself feel bad. Who, me?

What's life without making myself feel bad? I joked, to which he responded by hugging me close. The beauty of getting older, though, is the realization that the world is not one giant competition unless you make it one. Maybe it was the very genuine and friendly guests, maybe it was all those fireside S'mores, but not only did I feel totally serene in my enjoyment, I had no desire to chastise myself for not thinking of stacks of classic books as table centerpieces (seriously, how cute is that?)

For our own ceremony, I'd asked my friend Judith to choose a reading. I decided to wait until the wedding to hear it (we share a love of words; I trusted her judgment). When she read "The Invitation" by Oriah Mountain Dreamer I couldn't help but cry; serious choked-up snort-like sobs came out of me, not polite, elegant tears. So it was with total delight that I listened to the groom's mother recite the same poem for their ceremony, held in a hushed grove of towering redwoods. (The newlyweds told us later that our own ceremony, and especially our vows, had inspired theirs. We were beyond honored.)

The rest of the evening was dreamy: the bride in her retro veil and boots, the groom in his rock-n-roll jacket, dancing to The Pixies' Here Comes Your Man; sparkling cider toasts that were by turns hilarious and weepy, with a perfect joke made by the (single) best man's mother (I'm so glad you two have found each other, she deadpanned. I wish someone else would find somebody); and enough booty-shaking, foot-stomping glory to keep everyone warm as the ocean air rolled in.

Later that night, exhausted and cozy in our tent, M and I listened to the sounds of the die-hard wedding party. We remembered our own wedding celebration, that feeling of being on top of the world. The best part is, we still are.

A Day at the Fair

2011-08-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

I remember fairs being mostly about the Zipper, candy apples, and corn dogs. But not the Sonoma County Fair! This here is a true down-home, farm fresh event that yielded more adventure than I ever imagined.

We saw Kenyan acrobats, the world's smartest pig (with the cutest old lady trainer), a heifer-judging contest, a toothpick sculpture of San Francisco that took 36 years and nothing more than Elmer's glue to construct. Lots of quilts, decorative cakes, canned goods, Lego sculptures, and incredible flower displays. Ditto elderly couples with giant hats and slow gaits.

We watched a former student gracelessly ride the mechanical bull and cigarette-smoking betters clamor around the horse track. And then it was on to my very favorite part of the event, the animal barns. M cooed and mooned over chickens, rabbits, sheep, goats, and cattle. We watched a giant heifer nurse her eager calf.

And then, after a wonderfully corny sing-along to This Land Is Your Land, after butter-soaked baked potatoes and a half-gallon of lemonade, it was time to follow the setting sun and head on home. We didn't even ride any rides (too expensive), but I can't remember ever having so much fun at a fair.

Some Ideas For Improving My Blog:

2011-07-29T20:37:00.000-07:00

1. Include photos with the posts. Everyone (including me) enjoys some nice visual stimuli to accompany the otherwise verbally-insistent chronicles of the life of a 32 year-old woman "in transition."

2. Post more videos, songs, and links to outrageously enticing things, like the Paddy-Cake Cats and the Drunk Baby! 2a. Learn how to insert such links.

3. Vary the content: less solipsism, more cultural critique; less narcissistic blather, more meaningful social commentary.

4. Find A Focus. Not something already-taken and obvious, like DIY projects and veganism, but something catchy and mind-bending, like Why the 90s Were Awesome and Under-appreciated.

5. Make controversial claims that elicit unruly commentary. Respond to commentary.

6. Join Facebook, post a link to my blog, and watch the readership spike, along with my self-esteem and overall feeling of love and connectedness in this otherwise isolating behemoth of 21st century intimacy.

Bugs and Thunder

2011-07-15T08:31:00.000-07:00

It's been seven years since I've been in the USA for the month of July...

Usually I'm in some balmy foreign locale where the 4th passes in a muted, unrecognizable way, too busy am I feasting on new food, language, people, and all manner of cultural hullabaloo to remember to get misty-eyed about my own country's "independence." But this year, I was back in Burlington, Vermont, where I lived for six gloriously transformative years, and where I graduated from college a decade ago (!?!) Together with my best college friends and our respective partners, I joined throngs of Vermonters down at Lake Champlain's waterfront for an hour-long fireworks display whose spastic awesomeness not even the swarms of feathery, mysterious bugs could taint.

After spending the day kayaking and swimming on the lake (loads of fun) and then walking for a couple of miles down the bike path in a warm downpour (also fun), we were freshly showered, fed, and hopeful that the rain would spare our last night of nostalgic good times. We gorged on cotton candy and memories, both sweet and fuzzy and reassuring, and watched the sun go down to the tune of thousands of expectant celebrants. Endlessly entertaining were the 12 year-old boys who seemed veritable authorities on explosives ("this one's called The Secret! ") and the crazy drunk guy who dubbed himself a Bicentennial Soldier and who greeted each new explosion with "Rock-N-Roll!" And even though our bras became bug cemeteries and the rain did eventually catch up to us in a dramatic midnight thunderstorm, I relished the heated fanfare of what is no longer my least favorite holiday (I think St Patrick's Day has always held that title anyway).

We've been in New England now for over two weeks, and though I loved swimming in the icy Atlantic and strolling the quaint streets of Providence, nothing comes close to the resplendent beauty of Vermont. I love the endless fields of bright green grass punctuated with red barns and white steeples, the road-side junk shops and spontaneous covered bridges, the wild orange irises and middle-of-the-night trains blowing through the tiniest of towns.

And I've loved getting to show M my other home, the one I chose for myself when I was 18 years old and desperate for something new, the one that taught me how to bike up hills and eat vegetables and substantiate my opinions and form friendships that have weathered the storms of time and space. If I had to stay in-country this summer, at least I got to come back to Vermont.

Blades of Spunk

2011-06-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

Summer, in all her pink dusky beauty, has finally arrived. In Seattle last week, I roller-bladed for the first time. Picture it: the afternoon sun fighting hard to reign supreme over the coastal clouds, the clean, radiant city spread out across the bay to my left, the smell of fried fish wafting over from the rickety restaurants to my right, and up ahead, my two littlest sisters, coasting along in perfect firm-bodied insouciance, their tight buns the focal point of my heart-thumping, arm-pumping effort to stay balanced. After what felt like hours of thirsty, sweaty, thigh-aching glory, my own (thankfully more padded) butt served as a graceless brake on the grassy slope, inches from where my other sister sat reading with Sparky perched on her shoulder. I gave her and the cockatoo a good laugh.

Lake of Tears

2011-06-13T18:08:00.000-07:00

The hot sun reigned over our end of the year Nonesuch camping trip.
It was glorious!

I swam across Lake Mendocino with Jackie in tow
I swam until my neck ached
I swam like I hadn't seen water in years
I swam laps of butterfly and sidestroke
I swam until I turned brown
I swam until I could not possibly swim another stroke...

and then I water-skied! I felt my arms getting sore and my wet hair flapping behind me and I let out a whoop of joy and the kids on the boat cheered me on and when I finally let go of the rope, I swam a little bit more.

Back in Sebastopol after the 3-day trip, we were all totally spent. In the parking lot of the community center, I hugged students and parents and co-workers good-bye, and (just like at graduation a few days before) I waited for the tears that just didn't come.

For the six years I've worked for her, I've never known Lynne to gush. She's not a hugger or a sentimentalist. I didn't want some awkward goodbye full of inadequate words to express my deep gratitude to her for letting me grow up as a teacher at her school. Instead I caught her eye and blew her a kiss. She did the same.

After we got home, unpacked the camping gear, popped open the champagne--that's when the tears came. And though it's been a few days, they keep coming.

Good-bye Nonesuch

2011-06-01T21:25:00.000-07:00

Today, after six years, I taught my final classes at Nonesuch.

I gave away lots of books, sifted through the endless contents of my file cabinet, and wrote my final comments on students' papers. Here are some of the things I hope I always remember:

-Marisa rolling up the battered, torn, and loved Jack Kerouac poster that's hung on my classroom door for years, excited to put it on her bedroom wall.

-Brogan trying not to cry.

-Maddy writing at the end of her final essay: "Some kids say you're too strict, which (no offense) I agree with sometimes, but I also think you're pretty awesome."

-Lynne wearing the same exact purple shirt that she was wearing the day she interviewed me for the job :)

-Weston writing about how to survive my English class: "Be humble, don't talk over Jess, and don't talk racial." (he meant racist)

-M and I standing at the bottom of the hill, looking at the sun shine on the basketball court, after the last staff meeting we'll likely ever have together.

You're Always Kenickie To Me

2011-05-27T16:13:00.000-07:00

I grew up watching Grease constantly.

I knew every song by heart, loved all the dance moves, and at eleven years old, was totally and properly scandalized by the racy Greased Lightning scene. And even though John Travolta's Danny was the real heart-throb, I always had a soft spot for the weird-talking Kenickie with the goofy laugh who gets hit in the head with the car door right before his big drag race.

I saw Grease on Broadway when I was a senior in high school, wrote an essay about Grease's influence on my adolescence, and have spent countless Nonesuch road trips singing along to the soundtrack with newer, younger Grease fans who adore "Freddy My Love" as much as me. And I might as well admit it: I even liked Grease 2, the inferior sequel.

So the news that Jeff Conaway passed away today at the still-young age of 60 makes me sad indeed. Until today, I had no idea he'd become an incoherent, flailing drug addict on Celebrity Rehab thanks (in small part) to a back injury suffered during the filming of that gyrating Greased Lightning scene. No idea he'd lived a life beyond the grinning Rizzo-loving bad-boy who cheers with delight when he finds out she isn't pregnant after all.

I guess life goes on no matter how hard we cling to our childhood iconography and mythology. And yet I'll always be grateful to Jeff Conaway for teaching me that the side-kick can be just as cool as the leading role, that it's okay to back down sometimes and let someone else be the hero.

Turn Turn Turn

2011-05-15T11:50:00.000-07:00

A short history of my weekend:

On Thursday a student called me a f*$&*ing bitch! and slammed out of my classroom, leaving me with enough adrenaline to break my bike trail record on the way home. I haven't been yelled at by a student since my very first year at Nonesuch, when take-no-shit Ariel screamed "suck my cock" after I made her leave class for antagonizing another student. But at least her insult was peppered with verve, creative license, and, dare I say it, an admirable use of metaphor.

Friday was our annual photo scavenger hunt in San Francisco, and thanks in large part to my giggly group of students, I had a blast. Highlights included dressing Maddy and Alana up in biker gear, creating a found object masterpiece on a sidewalk in Fisherman's Wharf, blowing up balloons with a spry old man, getting the paw print of an adorable black and white hound, and all of us rolling down a grassy hill together.

By Saturday I felt so wiped out that I slept through my Pilates class. In a rare show of self-forgiveness, I let myself spend a good part of the day lounging on the couch, finishing Hamlet, reading about Osama bin Laden in the New Yorker, and watching my two new favorite shows: Parks and Recreation and The Twilight Zone.

I woke up this morning to a hail storm. I love the quiet calm of Sunday. Everything feels just right: iced coffee and journal writing, a great yoga class, M still sleeping off his accumulated debt. I've been trying to keep my mornings Internet-free, but boy am I glad I checked my email this morning. Perched in my in-box, like a bright piece of candy, was an acceptance letter from Frostwriting, the online literary journal that has chosen to publish my story "The Girls." Suddenly that f*^&*ing b*&tch outburst seems so far away, and so small.

happy may!

2011-05-01T20:33:00.000-07:00

there were so many things going on today, a may pole gathering I once cherished, an immigration march I usually attend, but instead of doing the obligatory I did just what I wanted, which meant coffee and croissants in the cemetery this morning, an hour of glorious lane-all-to-myself lap swimming, digging up (with permission) and replanting poppies, lilies, and lambs ear in our exploding garden, reading Hamlet on the front porch, eating lots of purple cabbage salad and tangerines, and last but verily not least, preparing for my interview tomorrow with acclaimed author Pam Houston, whose writing makes me glad to be alive...

bunnies and swallows

2011-04-25T19:10:00.000-07:00

Just back from an impromptu camping trip that bequeathed four wholesome days and three nights without showering, being indoors, touching a keyboard, or looking at a screen. I feel refreshed, grateful, clean, and flummoxed. What do I do with myself? Take another walk? Photograph the exquisite wild roses growing by the back porch? Prepare to start teaching Hamlet tomorrow? Respond to e-mails? Blog?

Too many choices and commitments and distractions flood my life.
I love being away from all of it.
I love traveling more than anything (except writing)
(And M) 7 mos ago I wed him :)

There is a magic for me in experiencing life blow by blow, not knowing who or what or where or when. I'll never forget the terrible excitement of landing in Bangkok the first time, at midnight, without a plan of any kind.

I love the surprises of travel.
Even this long unexpected Easter weekend yielded a few...

... a super cheap and quiet campground for ten bucks a night,
that just happens to be on a military fort in the valley of the oaks,
a surreal place of army jeeps, camouflage, target practice, rivers, wildflowers, lone roads, and lots of merry cottontails, including one little rascal that raced our car.

... a remote mission where we went to Easter mass with a bunch of soldiers and cute squirmy babies, and where the first ever Christian marriage in California took place.

... our own Eden, just a short mile hike from the campsite: we bathed in a cool flowing river while swallows performed in the afternoon sunlight.

... a big ole hike at pinnacles, through caves and up steep deserted trails, watching our food supply dwindle right down to a humble evening meal of tortillas, veggies, cheese, instant soup, red vines, whiskey cokes, and of course, roasted marshmallows.

What I loved most was the fire.
Each night I'd just stand (stretch, dance, gyrate)
close by the fire,
watching it go from twiggy to fierce to smoky
to nothing but a bunch of sparkly orange nuggets
whose captured heat I took with me
into the cozy tent.

Fiction

2011-04-18T17:36:00.000-07:00

I'm obsessed with fiction these days--writing it (or trying to), reading it, studying it, wishing I could use it to re-write my own reality. If I could, I'd edit out my allergy attack on Saturday, which left my eyes swollen and goopy, and the really gross enchilada I ate on Friday out of desperate hunger and thriftiness.

I'd alter a couple of things, too: less people at the packed roller derby match on Saturday so me and the Nonesuch kids could all sit together, and more money back on our tax return. Oh, and how about 9 comments on my last blog entry. (Okay, I'd settle for just 1...)

Still, the weekend also yielded a few story-perfect moments that need no revising: moon-light bright enough to burn, a tender new dahlia shoot, a new bike trail that led to a new journal-writing rock, a sweet bug-exploding hike with Zoe.

And today, on a misty gray Monday afternoon, there's the supreme satisfaction of clicking on www.shareable.net and seeing not one, but two pieces written by yours truly: one about how to throw a DIY wedding, another an interview with T.C. Boyle. Check them out!

Ruined

2011-04-07T10:23:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday evening I saw the play "Ruined" at the Berkeley Rep. It's about the civil war that continues to rage in the Congo, thanks to the tragic irony that one of the poorest countries in the world also happens to be one rich in natural resources: gold, diamonds, tin, copper, petroleum, and coltan (short for columbite-tantalite, which is used as a high-charge conductor for cell phones, laptops, and other electronic equipment). So as the world continues to crave Play Stations and digital cameras, miners dig through muddy pits at gunpoint (militias with AK-47s) and receive hardly any compensation even though the Congo exports a million dollars worth of coltan a day. But if you think this is the saddest part of the story, you're mistaken.

As "Ruined" beautifully reveals, the true casualties of the war are the women. In fact, the Democratic Republic of the Congo has been named the Rape Capital of the World because of the rampant abuse suffered by women who, as usual, are armed with babies instead of guns. Though the Pulitzer Prize-winning play, written by Lynn Nottage, is brutally honest in its devastation, it also manages to be funny, irreverent, and dare I say it, uplifting. Much like Dave Eggers' "What is the What," the story is so emotionally gripping that I couldn't stand for it to end.

Which brings me to my question, readers: what stories (plays, novels, shorts, etc) have broken your heart lately? How about when you were in high school? I'm looking for the right book (preferably female-authored!) for my eleventh graders to read this spring, after a year of Tony Kushner, Tennessee Williams, Aristophanes, and Jonathan Swift. Help!

Spring (finally) Breaks

2011-03-20T20:43:00.000-07:00

A perfectly-timed spring break is upon us, and as I face down a bleak forecast of gloomy rain, and our Santa Barbara camping trip threatens to become a Half Moon Bay hostel over-nighter, I reflect on some of my more memorable spring breaks:

1. Nothing like March in New England to make California rain seem like a holy benediction. Freshman year of college I desperately needed to earn some dough for my upcoming summer backpacking trip to Europe. Why else would I have agreed to alphabetize and label my dad's cavernous wine cellar? A perpetual fifty degrees inside, dirty rotten snow outside, bright fluorescent boredom, and a never-ending cavalcade of Merlot at eight bucks an hour. Of course, I realize now (despite the dingy memories) how very privileged I was.

2. By senior year of college I'd seen the light of Alternative Spring Break, the civic-minded undergrad's antidote to tequila-soaked foam parties in Cancun. So together with a dozen other rosy-cheeked college kids, I headed south in a giant conversion van thick with the smell of Doritos and expectation. We spent the week hammering houses into being with Habitat for Humanity in beautiful Almost Heaven, West Virginia. I remember the monotony of the work sometimes broken by jokes and stories and local kids. It's those moments of young-adult bonding--Audrey and I performing a dance routine for the talent show, the video we all made using kitchen utensils and food scraps late one night--that still burn brightest in the sanctuary of my memory.

3. There was that time I went to Vero Beach, Florida, with my first serious boyfriend who played golf every day while I swam and jogged the flat beaches and got the worst haircut I've ever had (and which still elicits horrified laughter from my sisters who were later charged with the task of chopping down the mushroom that had grown atop my head). What can I say? I was 23, making Kraft mac and cheese for dinner, and reading 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.' Some things, thankfully, really do change.

4. I've spent a couple of spring breaks down in Louisiana, where Easter looms large, warm, and eternally sunny. Eggs are boiled, dyed, and pock-pocked (which means they are knocked together to see which one breaks first), and sometimes eaten. And then there's the annual crawfish boil (solid proof of my Cajun roots). The whole family sitting outside around newspaper-covered tables heaped high with steaming red boiled crawfish and corn-on-the-cob will always and forever mean spring to me. Ditto Mom's sumptuous calla-lilies unfurling dramatically all over the yard.

5. The last two years M and I have taken to the road with a car full of camping gear, books, maps, and vague plans. Each time we found adventure: old saloon towns, windy cliffs, salt flats, LA hot tubs, occasional fast food, and glorious desert. This year, armed with home-baked calzone and 'Madame Bovary', who knows what we'll do?

Last night the storm clouds obscured the biggest-in-18-years 'super' moon as Nonesuch rocked a sold-out benefit featuring David Grisman and the haunts of my boyfriends past. I had so much fun joking around the silent auction tables with the co-workers, students, and parents I've done this with for years, who have seen me grow into a married woman, who have become my community. I had so much fun taking tickets at the door, swaying to a legendary mandolin player, eating cake, and amusing the kids with my (wine-loosened:) southern accent.

Ten Year-Old Tomfoolery

2011-03-12T18:48:00.000-08:00

There's a little boy on a bike at the stoplight. He can't be more than nine years old, maybe ten. I pull up behind him in my car--three hours of Saturday country driving and I'm hungry, ready to get home.

The light is taking its sweet time, so I notice a few things: he's wearing glasses, thin-rimmed it seems, and he's got ear-buds in both ears. No helmet. Khaki pants, short-sleeves, fat mountain bike tires. He's so small! Do his parents know he's cruising the busy Rosa streets, sans helmet? How can he possibly hear the bleat of a horn?

Green, finally. His front tire goes wobbly as he rises on his pedals. We each give a cursory glance as I drive past him. Just a little boy. In the rear-view I see him gaining momentum, pumping fast. Charming. I ease over and shift into reverse, the perfect parking spot. M and I are worried, about his safety, his hearing, his (lack of?) parental guidance.

But just as I turn off the ignition with an afternoon sigh, he comes sailing past, hands behind his head, feet propped on the handlebars, steering. A daredevil on wheels; the freedom of a Saturday afternoon. We laugh so hard we tear up.

Cake

2011-03-06T20:41:00.000-08:00

Today M turned 42. We kept things mellow, but sweet.

A couple of walks that turned rainy--one to Safeway for powdered sugar, another just for the heck of it, through our neighborhood alleys. We learned how to play Peaceful Easy Feeling on the piano. Games and wine and coziness.

He played loud bass; I bought fresh daisies, crafted a card, and made my famous chocolate cake with vanilla butter-cream frosting. Everyone should make this cake, from the Moosewood cookbook, which you can mix directly in the pan, and which you would never, ever guess is vegan.

Here's how:

1. preheat oven to 375 degrees

2. Sift together: 1.5 cups white flour, 1 cup sugar, 1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 teaspoon baking soda, 1/2 teaspoon salt, directly into an un-greased 8 or 9 inch baking pan.

3. Mix together: 1 cup of cold coffee, 1/2 cup vegetable oil, 2 teaspoons vanilla extract. Then pour the liquid ingredients into the baking pan and mix the batter with a fork.

4. When the batter is smooth, add 2 tablespoons of vinegar (yes, vinegar; apple cider works great). The reaction of the baking soda and vinegar will make pale swirls in the batter. Stir until the vinegar is just evenly distributed.

5. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes. Set aside to let cool.

You can eat it plain and still taste heaven. But you can also top with slices of fruit, whipped cream, ice cream, etc. I like to whip up a butter-cream frosting that is to die for, and certainly not vegan.

It's so easy: just cream half a stick of butter (softened), then, using an electric mixer, slowly beat in 2 cups of powdered sugar and 3 tablespoons of cream, alternating between the two. Beat in a teaspoon of vanilla extract.

Apply liberally to the cooled cake, and taste immediately.

Snow Trip

2011-03-03T21:41:00.000-08:00

Night has fallen here in Tahoe, a hidden moon, an abundance of snow-light.

Sitting on a couch over-run with pillows, blankets, and exhausted teens, cozy in their post-dinner respite. One is reading, some look comatose, most are flocked around the pool table, shouting alliances and antagonisms. It's the third and final night of our annual snow trip. Everything's a mess, and no one cares.

Yesterday I skied a black diamond for the first time. The snow fell thick, my thighs burned, and my heart pumped me full of warmth as I struggled down the steepest slope I'd ever conquered. Afterwards, I went back to soaring down the blue runs, faster and faster, wetter and wetter.

Two hours ago I romped through the deep, thick powder on snow-shoes I hadn't worn since I lived in Vermont, nearly eight years ago.

Picture it: a forest of pines heavy with fresh snow, the last of the sun pinking a few wispy clouds, five of us huffing and stomping ungracefully up a hill to the most magnificent view of the stony lake. We stopped. We sent snow balls and discs rolling down the slant and watched the waves grow rough and dark. For those few moments, all we could hear was the crunch of the snow and the holler of our laughter.

A Nearly Perfect Sunday

2011-02-20T21:32:00.000-08:00

A nearly perfect Sunday looks like blue sky sunshine after a week of stormy drizzle, cold enough for jeans but warm enough to sit out in the old cemetery with your iced coffee and ginger scone listening to your honey-pie's sweet voice mingle with the birdsong. Fancy footwork through the muddy paths and dewy morning grasses.

A nearly perfect February Sunday looks like streets rinsed clean and shiny, like windows opened up, dirt being swept down the steps, the comforter draped over the shrubbery outside. Four stacks of paperbacks on the sidewalk. It looks like air touches everything.

It looks like three writers at a coffee shop sharing their momentum with each other. Only writers could call it a submitting party, on a Sunday so nearly perfect because you release some stories from your lap-top, get a sore back from so much writing.

A nearly perfect Sunday smells of smoked Gouda and steamed broccoli and pine-fresh hardwood floors. It's the hot shower waiting at the end of the day.

It's the memory of what makes you cry, what made you cry just last night, and the shock of coming home and finding nearly all the books gone from the sidewalk, four stacks of paperbacks gone, given away, working their way now into other people's lives, hearts.

Clearly Beloved

2011-02-12T12:35:00.000-08:00

Copy and Paste the link below to see my new cover story in this week's Bohemian :)

I had so much fun researching this piece--got to interview some savvy therapists, dear friends, and other people who just stumbled into my path. Also got to revisit Elizabeth Gilbert in her new book "Committed" which, I must admit, is quite good. All in all, a very satisfying way to bring in a few extra bucks.

And now, on this gorgeous Saturday afternoon, I'm heading down to the city for my good friend Raina's bridal shower. I was just reminiscing about the first time we ever hung out, a good seven years ago, at the Russian River Brewery. I cracked her up by ordering a root beer. I'm grateful that some things never change.

http://www.bohemian.com/bohemian/02.09.11/feature-1106.html

Quiet

2011-02-05T10:41:00.000-08:00

I have the house to myself this weekend, for the first time in months.

And though I love the company of my husband, there is something luxurious about waking up, making tea and eggs, firing up the heat and opening up the blinds, in complete silence. I will read on the couch in the slant of sunlight. I might brave the local pool for an hour of laps. Or bike to the park with a journal and an apple in my backpack.

On this lovely Saturday, hours spreading their wings before me, I have no real plans other than to seek stillness in my solitude.

Up Here

2011-01-27T09:33:00.000-08:00

Blog-neglecting busy lately, but in the best possible way!

For the first time ever, I feel like a real writer, and though I know that blogging and journaling and poetry are all valid forms of writing, there is nothing like seeing my name in print. Fingertips smudging the words I labored over at my kitchen table for days. Even more thrilling: getting to conduct interviews, chase down stories, sort the truths from the half-truths in the deep well of Internet research.

On Tuesday afternoon (thanks to a glorious day off of school) I got to interview Pulitzer Prize-winning nationally-recognized animated cartoonist Mark Fiore, at his studio in an undisclosed location in San Francisco. I thought I might melt with anxiety and anticipation. We talked for an hour, my papers sprouting notes like weeds, and when it was over, I drove straight to a cozy cafe and pounded out my story. Now it just needs some serious tinkering, which my obsessive mind sometimes takes a wee too seriously. I know I'm being overly dramatic here, but I don't want to wind up like poor Joan Rivers, driven to do nothing but work for some idealized perfection, too consumed to enjoy the fresh air and birdies.

Luckily, my other life as a teacher keeps me grounded and humble. On Monday we took a field trip to San Francisco and had a grand time cruising the botanical gardens in Golden Gate Park before heading to the marina beach and the hyped-up House of Air, a giant warehouse filled with interconnecting trampolines. We jumped until we were sweaty, played trampoline dodge-ball, then jumped some more. By the end of our hour-long session, I'd learned how to literally jump off the walls. Afterward, on the way back home, In and Out Burger never tasted so good.

The pinnacle of relaxation happened a couple of weeks ago, when M and I went to Osmosis spa for enzyme baths (the perfect wedding gift). We drank tea in a private meditation room overlooking a Japanese garden with a waterfall. Then we sank into a hot bath full of pencil-shavings (not really, but that's what it looks like) heated to 130 degrees by the natural fermentation of enzymes eating away at the sawdust. Like fancy, detoxifying, skin-enriching compost. An attendant came by with cool cloths for our faces and sips of water. Afterward I felt light, smooth, and ravenously hungry.

We ate a four course Italian meal at Negri's restaurant in the perfect 19th century village of Occidental. I sipped grenadine and munched on salami and pickled cauliflower and felt like I was on vacation. We climbed the hill above the white church, breathing hard in the cool evening fog, a huge lit-up peace sign reigning over everything. No success in the world like feeling peaceful and content in your own body, your own life.

Exploding Myths

2011-01-10T10:02:00.001-08:00

In 2011, let's hear it for myth-busting. Yep. I'd like to challenge my dearly-held beliefs about myself and my life to a round in the ring.

“I don't like the cold.” It's true that I am a summer creature at heart, but this should not mean that each winter Saturday that dawns gloomy must besmirch my mood. No more letting myself succumb to interior rainy weather just because the sun refuses to shine. Yesterday I took an epic muddy bike ride all around Spring Lake, came home with icy hands and ears, but felt amazing.

“I have no time to write.” Just a week into the new year and already this one's been knocked about. If I have deadlines, I have (I make!) the time to write, and somehow I always end up finishing something I'm at the least not embarrassed of, but often that I really like. Now, I know those literary magazines out there are not waiting around for my essays, so I've got to figure out a way to impose deadlines on myself, to actually finish tinkering, and release my words by submitting them.

“At 32, life is ripening too rapidly, I'm getting too old to...” This is just poppycock lunacy that I succumb to in my worst moments, like when I feel wiped out after a late night in San Francisco. I refuse to go gray-hair searching in the mirror just to make myself feel bad anymore! And: if I can learn Auld Lang Syne on the piano by reading the notes, I can still learn all kinds of songs.

“There is nothing to do in Sonoma County.” After nearly eight years in this county, sometimes it feels like I've explored every last forest meadow and beach cove, have seen the same bands too many times, have strolled the same neighborhood streets in the same little towns over and over again. And yet. I know there are still plenty of rocks to overturn. Just this past Friday, in fact, I took some students hiking at Shiloh Regional Park, a wholly new slice of green foggy goodness, and M and I discovered the Schulz museum's movie night: Alfred Hitchcock and candy bars for only three bucks each.

“I lack discipline for rituals.” Maybe it's my Catholic upbringing, but I absolutely love ritualistic living, prayers before meals and reading before bed-time. I want to take my spiritual exploration to new heights in order to better ground myself and enhance my marriage. Focusing on intentions and releasing worries are things that are easy to talk about, harder to actually do. Last Sunday, finally home after our harrowing travel experience, M and I took all of our travel-related documents and set them aflame atop our altar in the garden. Then we took turns throwing poppers on the pavement and shouting our good-byes to the junk of last year.

You Would Cry Too

2010-12-31T07:53:00.001-08:00

Okay, so I'm lucky to be alive, to be in good health, relatively good spirits, with my very loving and gentle husband to slide through this day with me. And that's where my appreciation ends and my pity party begins.

Because I was supposed to wake up in the glow of my Santa Rosa home this morning, bake a strawberry tart with fresh whipped cream, go hiking somewhere verdant and lush, field phone calls from my front porch with a cup of steamy tea, concoct some exciting evening plan that involves champagne, a new skirt, and spinning around a dance floor (or at least my living room) before the inevitable shrieks and countdown to a new, brilliant year.

Yeah, that's what I was supposed to be looking forward to, on this, my birthday, my 32nd birthday. Sigh. Instead I'm stranded in the bleak sprawl of Dallas, where they packed up the free continental breakfast a few minutes early.

To back pedal: yesterday our flight to San Francisco was canceled, due to mechanical errors, and round after round of sparring with airline reps yielded the news that all flights to ANYWHERE in California are booked solid until Saturday. We were numbers 20 and 21 on the stand-by list, which bore no fruit. We were comped a hotel room and a Denny's supper, and managed to get on a flight to Fresno leaving Dallas at 8pm tonight. Which means, if we're lucky enough to find a rental agency open when we land (so far the ones we've called will be closing early), we might be able to ring in the new year from a car driving up the 101. If luck is not on our side (and luck, folks, seems to have flown far away from this holiday travel hell), then we'll spend the night in a hotel in the central valley. Three days just to get home.

I know, I know, it could be worse, but how? Did I mention that my bag DID make it to San Francisco, with all of my clothing, toiletries, and phone charger?

Here's the grand irony: I wrote this little piece for the Bohemian (copy and paste the link below) about how air travel continues to get worse and worse, never imagining that I would be struck down by the unfriendly skies on my own New Year's Eve birthday.

http://www.bohemian.com/bohemian/12.29.10/feature-1052.html

I will, of course, try my best to glimpse some joy in this day, for who knows where it might be lurking? Perhaps we'll make it to the fateful grassy knoll in downtown Dallas, and my own birthday ruination will be thrown into sharp perspective as M and I discuss the tragedy of JFK's assassination. Or maybe I'll look out of some shuttle or airplane window and see a bright world spinning, and realize that it's enough just to be a part of it.

Then again, it is my party, and I'll surely cry if I want to.

Merry

2010-12-25T13:48:00.000-08:00

Cold, rainy Christmas day here in Lafayette, Louisiana.

M marvels at our family: the same thing every year, traditions etched deep as smile lines, recipes by heart.

Year after year, so many things don't change-- Christmas Eve honey ham, a table filled with pralines and sand tarts, the coziness of ankle-deep wrapping paper, the thrill of the still-wrapped gift, hugs good night until the next day, when we all come together again, this time for the formality of Christmas dinner, all the once-a-year treats (cornbread dressing, pecan-encrusted yams) eaten off of the finest china, silver goblets and towering candles, coaxing stories from the aunts about their teenage escapades, two-timing dates and ratting each other out. So much continuity that I register even the slightest of changes: whiskey balls this year, instead of cherry pie.

M is here for the second year, first time in official family capacity, as my husband (and today, our three month anniversary). A new groove in the holiday pavement. I look across the living room and he's teaching Darth Vader's Imperial March to my younger cousin on piano, delighting my grandmother with his old 1930s standards. His effortless ivory becomes the backdrop to our familiar noise and flutter. Not a seismic shift, but the pattern is altered, the tradition is enriched.

The Office

2010-12-14T09:26:00.001-08:00

Sitting in my office at SSU, for the last time this year, feeling a bit blue.

One student e-mailed already to say she was sad to leave the classroom this morning, she really enjoyed the class.

Another lingered after class to chit chat about her future plans.

Another student just blew into the office with sleep creases on her cheeks to hand in her final essay.

This leaves only one no-show student for the final day of class, but I'm worried. She's the one who sits front and center with a huge smile on her face, who comes to my office hours after every single class, who always needs to work on her thesis statement, who tells me things like "you feel like my big sister." Last week she bemoaned the end of the semester because we wouldn't be hanging out anymore. She has a tendency to oversleep.

Sigh. My hungry minds chews on worry:
How much longer can I wait for her to show?
How will she pass the class if she doesn't hand in her final essay?

I could have left this office half an hour ago. I've got keys and a copy card to hand in. I've got my class evaluations sitting in the English department, can't wait to go and read them. I've got three other English classes to teach today. I've got a dining table full of crafting materials and a coffee belly begging for carbohydrates.

If she isn't here in seven minutes, I'm going to turn off the light, lock the door, and head out into the gray mist. It won't be easy, but neither is being a teacher, neither is saying good-bye.

10 Things to Love about December

2010-12-10T21:37:00.000-08:00

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.

City of Angels

2010-11-29T09:47:00.000-08:00

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.

The Sisters Dur

2010-11-15T18:10:00.000-08:00

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.

Wordy

2010-11-06T10:33:00.000-07:00

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.

All She Wants To Do

2010-10-25T10:40:00.000-07:00

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.)

happy

2010-10-13T21:12:00.000-07:00

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!

The Art of Work, Play, Nothing

2010-10-10T12:26:00.000-07:00

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.

Love Chose Us

2010-10-03T17:56:00.000-07:00

A glance around our lazy Sunday home reveals the wedding revelry of last weekend.

Dried cupcake icing smeared into the living room floor, piles of ribbons and wishes, leftover Brie and apples we can't eat fast enough, mason jars of ever-dwindling (but shockingly still vibrant) flowers, hand-drawn gifts competing for bookshelf space, a quiet cloudy melancholy creeping around the baseboards. Fall is here.

But a week ago our wedding went down in a hot blast of merriment, tears, laughter, cake-fueled dancing, and mending in the bridal chamber. Nearly eleven hours of straight party, starting with my weepy walk down the aisle of our front yard to the flowered porch altar.

The pre-wedding week spun on coffee, adrenaline, out-of-towner verve, and sheer elation. We stocked up on champagne and lists and tried to sleep. Friends sat on our living room floor making center-piece bouquets and door signs, mint-mashing in the kitchen and song-gathering in the cyber sphere. Mom brought over a present for each of the three days she was here before the wedding. My sisters, all four of them, swarmed me with hugs when I walked into the restaurant Friday evening, a giant inter-family gourmet Chinese meal to get everyone acquainted before the big day.

Later, in the dark chill of night, M and I sat on our porch couch and talked about our fears for the future. The next morning we took turns typing up our finalized vows. Sitting in front of the computer screen, I cried and cried and wondered how I would read them again, in front of sixty people, four hours later.

I had seven of my closest females helping me get ready, which consisted mainly of lacing up the back of my mother's 1972 union-made dress (altered a bit to fit me just right) and fastening some white flowers into my air-dried hair. One sister had a spot of powder, another one some lip gloss. I intended on clear nail polish and gold unicorn earrings, but they slipped my anxious mind. At the last minute, I decided to forgo sandals.

The ceremony was perfect. Our kindred friend married us, our vows surprised each other, and when it was all over we trounced hand in hand down the sidewalk to Karen Carpenter singing “I'm on the top of the world...”

The whole day wore a smile.

We chose the perfect date, right smack in the middle of summer's final victory lap. The day after the wedding was light and fluffy: cupcake for breakfast, mimosa for lunch, and serenity for dinner. We frolicked with dear ones in the surf at the warm tangy beach. Drove familiar vacation streets and showed everyone why we love where we live.

And then the post-wedding week spat me out on the petal-crushed lawn. Back to school on Tuesday morning, 8 o'clock. Mom, Dad, friends, sisters, gone. A dirty kitchen and a routine again. Nothing to plan anymore. Scrutinizing photos, finding ways to eat salmon at every meal, slowly paying off a steep sleep debt. So much sugar (we just couldn't let that exquisite butter-cream passion-fruit cake go to waste) that I felt crashed up on the shores of post-nuptial aimless burnout. Wishing I could just go back and play the day over and over again. Since I can't, though, is why it's magical.

Yesterday we celebrated our one-week anniversary by driving south with a picnic and a dim plan. We struck Bolinas fog and hiked on a new Marin trail. We uncovered handfuls of treasure at a church sale on Highway 1 and landed in full-blown afternoon Petaluma sunshine just in time to get warmed up again. New restaurants remind us that the exploration of the familiar is never-ending, as long as we are willing to do the footwork.

Memories keep distracting me. I've got an intimidating stack of English 101 essays to grade, a play to read, cards inadequate to express my thanks to write, a dress with a dirty train begging to be put back on (still hanging in the living room), and a cozy music-filled house missing all its visitors. But no matter.

I also have a husband.

Dr Baker

2010-09-22T10:31:00.001-07:00

Last week I went to the dentist for the first time in nearly a decade.
I was terrified.

But Dr. Baker is no ordinary dentist. He spent an hour and a half talking to me about my teeth, my gums, the irreversible damage of my zealous over-brushing, and why using a toothpick is number one on his list of good hygiene. He complimented my professionally-straightened smile and sniffed the white fuzz, aka plaque, coming off my teeth. 'Wow! Not even a scent! You've got the best-smelling bacteria I've ever encountered!' His laugh is reminiscent of an animal's happy snort at meal-time. When I groaned about flossing, he merrily chimed, 'You don't have to floss. We can pull every other tooth, and then, no flossing necessary!'

After this initial appointment, in which he painstakingly explained my X-rays, the anatomy of the tooth, and why ballroom dancing is an act of spiritual worship, I returned two days later for a cleaning. Again, he was impressed. As he began round one (of three) with the tooth scalpel, he marveled at how little tartar had built up over all these years (the perk of my vigorous brushing which, if continued unabated, would eventually wear the enamel down to the nerve). When he came to those sensitive places, he instructed me to let him know if I felt ANY pain whatsoever; he is so concerned about hurting his patients that he takes a half-hour walk after each appointment, to de-stress.

Dr. Baker sees only three people a day. He has no secretary, and answers all phone calls himself. He refuses to hurry. 'You're the most important thing in my life right now,' he says as he gently brushes my teeth, and he means it. He does not accept insurance, charges the lowest prices in the county, and genuinely loves his practice. His office is cluttered with paperwork, photos of him and his 'sweetie,' and a stereo that plays soothing classical music. Even though he is razor-science-sharp, often referring to the periodic table that hangs on the wall, it is his roomy heart that is most impressive.

After I paid him the discounted $40 (for having easy-to-scrape teeth), he congratulated me on my upcoming wedding to M (whose teeth he knows well).

'I've seen the Grand Canyon,' he said, 'and Yosemite Falls when they are roaring. But nothing compares to the beauty of a bride on her wedding day.'

Full Circle

2010-09-06T14:09:00.001-07:00

Seven years ago, a 24 year-old girl drove her dusty blue Volvo up through the straw-gold hills of Sonoma County for the first time. Already she loved the reliable sunshine and the fortune-scented air. She knew she could stay awhile.

She'd driven over the Golden Gate Bridge in such a state of awe that she'd immediately exited, turned around, and headed back over it, driving right through the alarming toll stop that demanded five dollars to enter San Francisco. With a Vermont license plate and a giddy invincibility, she soared down to the Marina beach to sift her fingers through the cold sand.

She had directions to take the Rohnert Park/Sebastopol exit, drive a ways down highway 116, turn right not too long after the Hard Core coffee shop. She guessed her new house-mates, a 60-something fading beauty queen and a 20-something Japanese journalist, would be nice. She hoped they'd give her space to unpack and settle immediately into her new room. The only way she knew how to land was with both feet, firmly planted.

Approximately seven minutes after pulling into the driveway of the pink bungalow house, she was on the cordless phone to her mother, her voice tear-shaken. She couldn't pinpoint what she didn't like exactly, but as soon as she walked into her new room, with only one window and a noxious Glade-scented air freshener plugged into the wall, she wanted to walk back out. It would take two months for her to find a studio of her own, high white walls and silver-sleek carpeting and the sunshine forever nosing in.

Those were blissful discovery times. The winding country wine roads smelling of tart cherries and sweet grass. The blazing heat giving way to a dry sun-down coolness she'd never felt before. The creeping night-time fog and nutty thrift store where she found a child's desk painted cream and red. The quiet Sebastopol nights, eating dried squid with Rio, making fun of bossy Gloria. Foxy, her vanilla-scented Volvo, taking her to the coast---saltwater taffy and gloomy chill and yet the Pacific more stunning than the Atlantic any day.

On campus at SSU, the late summer smelled of spice, a steady simmer. She gulped the evening air and got to her classes early. She lingered afterward to chat with her new cohort. Grad school felt like college all grown up, adults who wrote papers in the interim between work and cooking dinner for their kids. She'd stop for tacos on the way home, unlock her door and immediately turn on her new lap-top. Quick bites between mad typing, deleting, daring. The professor read her essay aloud to the class.

She thought maybe she could become a teacher AND a writer.

Silly Bus

2010-08-27T12:25:00.000-07:00

A week of hectic nightmarish frantic syllabus-writing/perfecting/copying culminated in my first class yesterday. I told the 27 shiny eager freshman comp students to bring that syllabus to class every day, never lose it, my work of art. They could never understand the painstaking care I put into formatting that eight page monster. The relentless proof-reading and re-wording, not to mention planning out an entire semester's worth of readings, essays, and workshops, when I am used to a more organic blend of vision and spontaneity. Whew.

Thursday morning at 8:00, in a third floor windowed classroom bright with coastal fog, those wide-eyed teenagers could not know that I sat on my living room floor, carefully collating each 8 page packet. That at 10:00 the night before, in the warm inky moonlit, I walked downtown to Kinko's to staple each of them. That at 5:00 that morning, I woke with a heart-thump, remembering the poem that I had, in my syllabus-induced madness, forgotten to photo-copy, and that, according to the syllabus, had to be read by our next class. That I crawled out of bed at 6:52, numb with wakefulness and nerves. That I retrieved my leather teaching bag from the top shelf of the closet, poured my iced coffee into a travel mug, kissed the eye-masked M good-bye, and headed downtown, back to Kinko's. Spent three bucks on 27 copies of the “Wussy Boy Manifesto.”

There are other concerns. Will the textbook arrive by Monday, in time for them to do their first assignment? Will they have looked up the word “manifesto” in the dictionary? Is that guy really using his laptop to assuage his learning disability, or will I catch him on Face-book?

But I can relax now. First class went well. Everyone was on time, or, shockingly, even early. They raised their hands to ask questions. They nodded when I explained the difference between revision and editing. Two of them even stayed after class, to say they are excited about English 101. And, thanks to the syllabus, next week is already planned out. Too easy.

Oh what a fortnight it's been

2010-08-18T13:02:00.000-07:00

Home from my travels for two weeks now. Glorious lit-up days, swimming trips to the river, refurbishing old furniture, watching my garden grow. Late afternoon lunches and twilight dessert. Thirty sweaty minutes at the YMCA with a forbidden People magazine. My days spin about on a charmed axis. And yet---that little cretin, anxiety, ever lurking, ever resentful of peace, comes a-trouncing. She whispers to me. Shouldn't you be working on your syllabus? Planning your English classes? Writing brilliant essays about Cuba that The New York Times will trip over themselves to pay you for? Shouldn't you be doing... more?

I wake up in fog and while I wait for the sun to poke through, I lament being home. On the road, I should only ever be doing what I'm doing. I scribble in my dusty journal and I dream large. I let myself sit by a body of water without figuring out how to get across it. I get misty-marveled at the immensity of time, never cowed by its fervent passage.

I travel to escape anxiety, that aggressive little bitch who is never satisfied until she gets a bite out of my heels. She wants me to worry sick over my English 101 class at SSU, teaching college kids, oh my; I want to celebrate with wild dance moves that make my wood floor creak. She wants me to obsess over my syllabus until the letters run together; I want to assign Matt Groening's “School is Hell” and make cookies. She wants me to believe that I'm a pretender; I want to stop pretending.

Yes--- I miss being on the go, carrying everything I need in my back-pack, with all its secrets pockets and zippered pouches. Every last thing, from the extra batteries to the Bubble Yum, nestled in its exact place. I miss wandering into a cafe and hoping for good espresso. But I would be lying if I didn't admit to you (to myself) that I travel, really, so that I can come back home and start anew. Confident in my own powerful rhythm.

Seeds

2010-08-09T12:11:00.001-07:00

Strawberries and yogurt!
Fresh greens, home-cooked pasta sauce and garlic salad dressing!
Clean, soft sheets!
Friends! Sweet, loving friends!
A quiet little neighborhood and a cozy house!
Biking in the noon-time sun!

These are just a few reasons why coming home is so lovely.
It's all so... easy.

And inspiring. This I know--- I am most on fire with artistic prowess, most aware of my creative potential, least afraid of failure and humiliation, when I have just returned from my summer travels. After weeks of reading and simmering ideas in the inky juices of my journal, I'm ready to make stuff! I'm relaxed and confident and brimming with ambition.

I spread my treasures out on the kitchen table---shells, feathers, coins, an amber bottle, candles, ticket stubs, currency, maps, newspapers, all the found and collected spoils, the containers of memory and experience. I survey my photos, hundreds of them, on the computer screen.

I have a new set of eyes for an old piece of writing, and in two days I spin the straw into something silkier and submit it to a bad-ass Zine. I paint an old wooden wine container bright blue and pink, the zygote of an altar/shrine that's been on my mind for awhile now.

I (along with M) dig into the garden, plant begonias, gardenias, impatiens, daisies, and flowers whose names are not as stunning as they are. We also plant three new beds of vegetables---kale, chard, onions, beets, arugula, chives, broccoli, parsley, and an intimidating amount of lettuce. We buy a pineapple at Grocery Outlet and remember Cuba. Our back-packs spill their crusty clothes onto the living room floor and the recycling bin fills up. Home for just a few days now, I am savoring this interim of play, when a Monday means... practicing chords on the piano, starting some hand-sewn curtains, and letting the sun shine inside.

Travel Song

2010-08-03T17:13:00.000-07:00

Sometimes travel is hard.

Sometimes it´s endless waiting in lines, delayed flights, lumpy pillows, weird tropical rashes, lobster that tastes like salty pleather, bored waiters who laugh at you, a squeaky chirp that starts around 6 am. Damn cute-looking bird. Sometimes travel is like the day we arrived at Playa del Estes, hopes high, the great yawning void of the unknown wide open with possibility. Who knows where we´ll stay? How we´ll get there? Who cares?

An hour of walking later, our guidebook´s "diamond-dust sand" acrawl with thousands of vacationing Cubans, the soul-crushing beats of Reggaetone mocking our search for peace and quiet, not a casa in sight, and a loud smack of thunder. M´s backpack is chafing him, my sandals are coming apart beneath my feet, and though the rain feels good, we do not want our money, passports, cameras, and ipods to get soaked. M curses my stubbornness, I curse the hungry mosquitoes, as we huddle under a tree, sweat mixing with hot rain mixing with fear. Less than 24 hours later we are on the standing-room-only public bus headed back to Havana, our tummies aching from the previous night´s UFOs (Unidentifiable Fried Options).

Redemption comes in many forms.

A sunset walk on the Malecon, unbroken ocean to the right, Havana´s balconies and French-shuttered homes aflame in gold and pink to the left.

An unexpected pink-marbled casa with real water pressure.

Pineapple pinwheels, mischief-making involving the CDR (Committee for the Defense of the Revolution) and a poster, the moon from our rooftop.

Handing out cheap plastic whistles to the kids of Cuba, swarms of them with out-stretched hands and loud GRACIAS!, their piercing cries following our retreating footsteps for miles.

A little boy who tosses a bucket of bath-water from his balcony, a naked still-wet precocious giggle, which just misses us.

His surprise as we toss a whistle up to him in return.

And M, the newer traveler, more sensitive to the stony stares and jack-hammer craziness of unplanned budget traveling in high summer: happy to get back to Mexico City, where the air is cooler, the smiles are more plentiful, and the pianos are unlocked. Our first morning back on the mainland he treated the cafe patrons to his beautiful renditions of Summertime, Imagine, and the Darth Vader theme song. They applauded. And then Lacha, a Cuban artist who lives in Mexico, gave M a portrait he´d sketched on the paper placemat, by way of thanks.

Mi Abuela

2010-07-27T14:16:00.000-07:00

Grandma always insisted she was from Madrid. She never spoke about her native Cuba, never told stories about growing up on this long crocodile island. Her name was Maria Elena Delgado. She never learned to drive, she washed dishes with scalding hot water, and her wedding ring had long since grown into her finger, never to budge. She had a temper like a firecracker. She used to say, Jessica, don't tell Sara or Courtney, but you're my favorite grand-daughter. Then she'd watch John and I shoot baskets outside in her driveway. Nearly a month here in this sweltering country and she has been on my mind.

I don't even know where she grew up. When I tell people, in my crumbled Spanish, that mi abuela was from Cuba, their eyes grow wide. Si! Si, they say, your smile, your brown skin, you look like a Cubana! And even though they don't say it, I can tell what they are thinking: Why don't you speak Spanish then? How can you not know where she came from? She is family!

Still, I feel her everywhere.

In the fiery woman screaming at her son on the sidewalk (and there's Grandma, shouting at Grandpa, calling him a criminal! for some minor infraction that was over as quickly as it started)

In the great restless waves off the coast of Baracoa, tossing me just hard enough to make my heart quicken without panic (I can't quite recall her story of the sea, but I know it involved her being dragged out and nearly drowned and she never swam again)

In the generosity of the older women whose homes we stay in (many of whom are named Maria Elena). Just yesterday we received free espresso, ice cream (strawberry of course) and cake.

In the way you know people are just telling you what you want to hear, not because they are liars necessarily, but because in Cuba the truth has acrobatic qualities. We've learned the hard way there is no such thing as a reservation here. (and, again, Grandma, serving us her special home-made soup, though the Campbell's can pokes out of the trash)

Aye Dios Mio! Oh My God! she would exclaim, and now I know why. So many reasons, both good and bad, to take that name in vain here:

M and I swimming beneath a rainforest waterfall, so cool and delicious after a grueling hot hike.

We ride in a 1949 Chevrolet (so many old cars, like I've never ever seen) to a 200 year old colonial house where we get to stay for about 25 dollars.

The incessant Where are you from?--- the hustlers who see dollar signs in our eyes and won't take no for an answer.

The rivers of urine on the streets of Carnaval; the sheer beauty of life in the kids screaming from their 1950s rides as they eat cotton candy at Carnaval.

Rusty Jewels

2010-07-18T07:55:00.000-07:00

We've made it clear across the island, to the easternmost city of Baracoa, where Columbus first landed in 1492 and planted a wooden cross that foreshadowed a seismic shift whose ripples we are still riding. We had to ride through Guantanamo province to get here, military checkpoints and dry scrub giving way to a verdant valley flanked by ocean and mountains. We are closer to Haiti than Havana, tucked into a sweet little village that was only accessible by sea until the 1960s. Fresh sugarcane juice for sale on the sidewalks, trumpets and percussions treating us to a Cuban rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In" as we sip our Sunday morning espresso on the triangular plaza, just a slow minute stroll from the crashing waves. It's one of those places you never want to leave.

It took a total of 24 hours by bus to make it here, stopping in cities aglow with filth and beauty. A quick run-down of the places we've called home, if only for a couple of restless nights:

Cienfuegos, city of a hundred fires, which the hyperbolic Lonely Planet called "the Paris of Cuba," and which we quickly renamed "the Fort Bragg of Cuba"on account of its treeless dishwater hue. We walked around, sticky with sweat and car exhaust grime, until the punishing sun forced us into pool-crashing at the lovely Hotel Colonial. After a dip and a hamburger in the plant-filled gazebo, we were restored, but still ready to move on.

Next was Trinidad, a little glowing ember of bright colonial homes and pineapple every morning for breakfast. We swam and shell-collected on the beach by day. At night, under the eerie swooping bats, on the hardscrabble yard of a run-down compound, we swayed to the infernal rhythms of a six-piece acoustic band playing for an audience of eight. Their eyes were all alight, their joy palpable, not missing a beat even as babies cried from the doorways and chickens scratched amongst their feet.

It's safe to say that Camaguey, the labyrinth city designed to foible invading pirates, was the best place to leave. Chewed-up streets clogged with hustlers and sad parks, but luckily a few hushed churches to escape the constant car bleating.

It was a long six and a half hour bus ride to Santiago, a lively artsy Caribbean-vibing city, where the people are darker and the mood lighter. We explored a vast cemetery where Cuba's hero of independence, Jose Marti, is buried (his tomb is guarded round the clock) and where countless revolutionaries are at peace, at last. We walked around the plazas at night, watching boys play crushed-can soccer (no limit to Cuba ingenuity) and girls play tag around ancient statues.

And now, off to pry into the secrets of Baracoa....

Stars and Rain and Strawberry Ice Cream

2010-07-14T15:08:00.000-07:00

Viva Fidel!
Socialism! Si!
Siempre el Revolucion!
Viva Cuba Libre!
Viva el 26!
Socialismo o Muerte!
Viva Raul!
Unidos con La Patria!
Patria o Muerte!

These are but a sampling of the slogans that are neatly painted in flowing cursive in black and red on buildings and billboards all over Cuba. Socialism or Death. Unity, Strength, Liberty. Everything for the Revolution. Revolution Always. And here I am, idealist American, proud teacher of Fidel´s Socialist Revolution, my heart breaking and spilling its blood all over this wide lonely world, full to bursting because of a rainstorm or a line in a book that I can´t stop underlining, and, not for the first time, my world has been shattered. Whew, how´s that for Cuban drama?

Cuba is most definitely not a capitalist country, and before you think my disillusionment runs too deep, there are some truly admirable things that I relish about it. No ads, for one. Imagine a world without commercials, without twenty brands of competing toothpaste, without billboards on the highways (except for revolution slogans). Refreshing as the afternoon rain. No marketing, no bowing to the unholy dollar, unambitious display cases. And gardens everywhere! Looking out the window of the Chinese bus, brown rivers slinking through groves of banana trees, and rows upon rows of produce grown without pesticides. Cows and chickens that are actually roaming free, never caged or penned. No trucks hauling food across the island; it´s every hippie´s sustainable dream! People bring their own containers to ice-cream shops and women get a year of paid maternity leave. And since stores and restaurants are state-run, prices are regulated, which means easy budgeting and no getting ripped off.

But, alas, there are the downsides that I just couldn´t have foreseen. Today, for instance, as M and I walked in the steamy sun after visiting the Moncada barracks (where Fidel launched his very first insurrection in 1953), we saw people walking with cups of heavenly strawberry ice cream, but when we located the stand, a line snaked the length of an unfurled racetrack. Ditto for banks, internet shops (I´ve been trying for days to get on a computer!), birthday party supply stores, pizzerias, markets of all kinds. Buying a bottle of water in a market is a highly regulated procedure, whereby you must first check your bag, make your purchase, and then show your receipt to a guard at the door, who then folds it in half and makes a rip.

Since most people seem to need money, people have taken to renting out rooms of their homes, which is where we stay. Great for us, who get an intimate, personal experience of Cuban cooking (heavy on the butter and carbs and absolutely delicious!), decor (a fondness for fake flowers prevails), architecture (courtyards in the middle of the home, so when it rains you´re right there with it), and attitude (friendly and honest-- our current host built a special two-story bedroom for him and his wife, which he is now forced to rent out for 25 dollars a night to people like us).

And there´s more, but as usual, the hourglass is nearly empty. Despite the contradictions and heartbreaks of a post-socialist country badly in need of inkpens and hair conditioner, M and I are having a splendid time hopping across the lush island. We spent a few days bonding with a sugar-sweet Swiss family, swimming with 9 year old Kaspar at the beach, pushing one year old Marilyn in her baby carriage down cobblestone streets, dancing to back-alley music with more soul than this island can contain, but contain it does. When the lines are short enough, we wait for a taste of the sublime strawberry ice cream and curse Fidel for not putting fans in the grimy ice-cream shops. We walk around on poorly-lit streets in the rain, we swim in the warm Caribbean, and we thank those hazy stars, night after night, for all that we have.

Cuba Libre?

2010-07-05T09:03:00.000-07:00

Havanna is unlike any other city I've ever been to, my head spinning with images and ideas as I try to type fast, because using the internet (which is legal only for foreigners, not Cubans) is incredibly expensive and as slow as it was in the mid-90s and I have only eight minutes left of my half hour time allotment after dutifully emailing my mom.

On our first day here, M and I scored a fifth floor apartment from the sweet tobacco-and-domino-loving Rolando, which looks out over the Centro Historico, Havanna's beautiful crumbling center. Despite the dog poop on the sidewalks, the little kids peeing in gutters, the rank dumpsters, and the sad disrepair of the gorgeous old buildings, the Centro pulses with a ferocious heartbeat. Music spills out of cafes all day and night; little rowdy packs of shirtless boys play soccer on any available patch of pavement; girls hold hands and eat ice cream cones and break into spontaneous dance; we feel safe and cushioned, anonymous, though the edge of economic sanctions appears to cut deep.

We were thrilled to have a kitchen until we took a trip into a grocery store, where fifteen people waited in line for a pint of yogurt or a hunk of cheese, which are kept in display cases and doled out according to ration cards. The shelves are not stocked. Long lines snake down the sidewalks, people waiting for fresh bread, eggs, and a turn at the bank teller.

Yikes! Time is up.... what else? So much! The mojitos run sweet and strong, the night-time rain last night as locals danced in the streets to the tunes of the bars that they can't afford to drink in, polished and preserved for the tourists, was surreal and enlightening. I can't believe this place.

This Is Not Here

2010-07-01T17:24:00.000-07:00

Landing at the Cancun airport at night in a rainstorm is an eerie experience. The wet heat crawls down your back and you don´t want to imagine what it feels like when the sun is shining.

For some people, Cancun is paradise. For us, it´s more like the ninth realm of hell. There´s no escaping it, however, if you´re flying to the Yucatan peninsula with visions of jungle lakes and Mayan ruins in your intrepid mind. Dazed from the exhorbitant price of the taxi ride, the bright lights of McDonald´s, and the sad town center, we finally found a greasy hotel room. The whiny air conditioner stopped working in the middle of the night (not that my achy stomach was allowing me to sleep much anyway).

The next day we ventured out to the beach, which, aside from the ocean, no less stunning under a thick gray sky, is like a run-down Las Vegas where American corporations come to wink and wilt. Carl´s Jr, Chili´s, Office Depot, Subway, you name it, the Cun probably has it. Inside a giant mall-like dome the Hard Rock Cafe displays a sign over its doorway that says This Is Not Here. Wise words---this simulated inelegant environment is nowhere and everywhere. Eerie indeed.

So we headed to the nicest seaside resort we could find, exploited our tourist-looks, and spent a sultry afternoon dipping into the cool luxury of the pool while a wedding party posed for pictures. Just as the pretty bride managed to cross one of the pool´s quaint bridges with her train intact, the clouds broke open to the tune of Sade´s heart-wrenching croons.

Though we´d planned on exploring the interior of the peninsula, our unhappy bowels had other plans, which consisted of getting all too acquainted with Mexican toilets and farmacias, and which ruled out any bus trips longer than twenty minutes. So we took the ferry to Isla Mujeres, a true island paradise, where, thanks to the low (meaning unbearably sticky) season we got to stay in a fancy (for us) hotel room we´d otherwise never be able to afford. The days drifted by in a tropical haze of swimming, reading, cautious nibbling, and sprawling out on our plush king-sized bed for cool naps and so-bad-they´re-great reruns of Beverly Hills, 90210.

The bright gum-drop buildings, the friendly locals who greeted M by name (thanks to his Vote for Mike T-shirt), the turquoise-clear water, and even the punishing sun did much to restore my weary travel-tummy. Last night the island hosted a raucous political rally for the local elections. As we chatted up two sweet British girls and ate our fish tacos at a sidewalk table, throngs of people on foot, golf-cart, and motorcycle howled and honked in the choked narrow streets. Their excitement swelled inside me (¿or was it the diesel fumes?) as I recalled my long-ago days as a proud socialist behind the bullhorn.

Later, while M nursed another bout of Montezuma´s Revenge, I savored an ice cream cone and watched a basketball game in the town square. As the languid players sweated and cajoled each other on an ancient court beneath a statue of the Virgin Mary, I searched in vain for the fat moon in the sky.

Viva La Vida!

2010-06-26T12:01:00.000-07:00

Mexico City is for lovers. M and I, on our pre-honeymoon (luna de miel), feel right at home amidst the couples kissing on the crowded sidewalks, flirting at the feet of splashing fountains. Compared to Turkey, where hand-holding seemed a risky gratuity, this is as refreshing as the cool mountain air that keeps the largest city in the world breezy and light. Smiles are easy to come by. No one is in a hurry, except in the giant pastry shops, which are apparently a requisite for an enjoyable Saturday afternoon. You can set your watch by the late afternoon thunderstorms that let loose a fury of warm rain to drive everyone home. Whether cozy inside our high-ceilinged hotel room, reading, or tromping around in my Tevas, I relish these storms.

Yesterday we rode the metro, which, at 3 pesos (about 23 cents) a ride, is the cheapest in the world. It rocked us to Coyoacan, place of the Coyotes, a quaint tree-lined village that was Frida Khalo´s hood from birth until adulthood. (thank you Leilani for the recommendation!) We visited her Casa Azul, a lovely courtyard-enclosed home where she painted from her bed and navigated her tumultuous relationship with Diego Rivera, whose toad-like appearance is hard to reconcile next to her smoldering beauty. I marveled at her painting entitled Still Life, a sensuous ode to fertility, in a wooden frame Frida designed to look like a womb. After a delicious late lunch of fried fish and bean soup, we pranced through the crescendo of rain that drove us back to our hotel for a rest.

Today we leave for Cancun, where we will explore the Yucatan. ¿Is it possible to feel nostalgia for a place after only four nights? My heart is full: with the teenage boys playing twilight soccer in the courtyard of a cathedral, the chubby-cheeked ninos holding tight to their parents´ hands as they cross the busy streets, the vibrant colorful shops filled with art supplies that look good enough to eat.

That Time Again

2010-06-22T10:07:00.001-07:00

23 minutes until the cab arrives.

Back-pack is full but not too full.

I'm still debating, do I really need my cozy pants? After the plane ride, will I ever wear them in the 90 degree humidity of Cuba?

Plants are watered, bed is made, windows locked, YMCA membership on hold, fridge is empty and defrosted. Loved ones notified.

And just as the solstice ripens, we're off.

Recess

2010-06-19T21:06:00.000-07:00

Sociologists (like my sharp fiance) have long opined that you can learn a whole lot more about someone based on what they choose to do with their leisure time than what they do to make a living. It makes a lot of sense, since our leisure time is ours alone to choose what to do with; lots of people work jobs they don't love, but why would anyone spend their free time doing stuff they didn't love?

It happens every year. School grinds to its alarming halt, graduation speeches are recited, report cards are finished, and I am free. For a couple of days I lay around and read, I go for long walks, I harvest the garden for dinnertime salads, I cruise the neighborhood streets on my bike. I flash my teeth at strangers. My wardrobe shrinks to the same few skirts and shirts piled conveniently in a corner on the floor and I lose track of when I last showered. At night I sip ginger ale (sometimes spiked with whiskey) and watch straight-to-DVD movies on Netflix and then complain with M about how they must have ran out of money halfway through filming. I don't know what time it is when I bed down, am shocked to find that it's ten thirty when I wake up. It's all quite grand.

Until I get restless. No classes to plan, no writer's salon until deep summer, no obligation greater than Pilates on Saturday morning. I sniff around and find myself at the helm of an unwieldy ship known as free time.

So what do I do? Well, other than try to write (God, I wish I could say that the bulk of my leisure time was spent writing) and sniff my luscious coconut-scented hair, my favorite way to wile away the hours is doing artistic DIY projects. I use the term artistic very loosely here; most of these projects involve little more than paint and collages of some sort. Still, few things are more satisfying than turning a beat-up chair into a funky artsy (there's that word again) sea-foam green and pink number that makes you proud every time you sit down. Or turning a boring black lap-top bag into a visual delight with strips of bright duct tape, stickers, and a cassette tape patch. Or ripping cool pictures from magazines and making an autobiographical collage (mine includes the Smurfs, a basketball, Lucky Charms, jack-o-lanterns and a burning heart).

After my summer travels, I return home with millions of receipts, ticket stubs, business cards, mini-maps, newspaper clippings, that are too significant to recycle, too unremarkable to frame. So I make collages: a giant picture frame with my Indonesia rabble and a magazine holder with my Turkish rubble. (Now I'm just itching for my next... Cuban bread box? Mexican stool? )

And so, as the longest days of the year shine their honey freedom light, I get inspired with my next project: turning our coffee table even cuter with a fresh coat of deep ocean blue paint and a decoupage of treasured artwork. Tables are perfect opportunities to make good use of those drawings and postcards and other bits of rad debris you have amassed. For me that includes a Berenstain Bears postcard, a watercolor from Thailand, a photo of a graveyard in Bulgaria, a Pretty in Pink movie jacket, a Turkish currency note and, the crown jewel, a classic Wayne Thiebaud print of pastries and a wedding cake. Now that I've done the lay-out, all that's left is to glue them down with Mod Podge, seal them with polyurethane, and voila: a one-of-a-kind coffee table that will spark conversations during evening soirees for years to come. Even better, a sweet reminder that fun and productivity can be close friends when it comes to my recess time.

What about you? What do you do with your leisure time?

Nothing But Flowers

2010-06-10T14:29:00.000-07:00

Just back from our end of the year camping trip and feeling wiped out, worn down, aimless and excited. In years past we've camped at Lake Mendocino in a forested beach-side group camp-site that spills down into the water. The time floated dreamily by on a sea of talent show goofiness, soccer on thick green grass, and hours of splashing, canoeing, and, my favorite, swimming across the lake. I'd stay up late with the kids, playing word games around the fire-pit, warmed inside and out.

The end of the year trip was always as light and buoyant as the banana boat the kids clamored to ride over and over again, even if it meant getting thrown off in a menacing amble of sharp elbows and knees. On the third and final day I'd linger long as I could, one last swim, one last sun bath, one final dip to get cooled.... it was a wonder I'd ever leave, with a car full of girls who insisted on shouting the lyrics along to the Grease sound-track as we soared hot down highway 101. We'd stop for ice cream in Hopland; once we even pulled off the highway for a decadent float down the Russian River where it gushes green through Squaw Rock. Those were the days---when the end always came too fast, when my yearbook overflowed with long letters from dozens of students.

This year was different. The Lake Mendo group site is closed due to budget cuts, so we camped at Benbow on the Eel River, which was rocky, frigid, and definitely too shallow to tug a banana boat. Drastically fewer kids, quieter, so mellow I actually felt restless, burned by a hazy sun, swept down river by a fierce current. Too many blank pages in my yearbook, too much leftover cake from graduation. Just after the talent show, which was still goofy, still great, I felt water graze my face. We stood around the roaring bonfire and flashed stunned smiles, hastily saving the wilting books and edibles from this unexpected rainfall. I was in the tent earlier than usual, listening to the sky cry above me as kids, determined to stay up all night, murmured and chewed on candy. In the morning the gray sky warned against a swim. On the drive home, in the shade of a thick redwood grove, I listened to David Byrne sing “it was a shopping mall, now it’s all covered in daisies...” and I thought, there is no stopping time. “You got it, you got it.”

We took the two students who also live in Santa Rosa, so this year, for the first time, we didn't have to return to the community center in Sebastopol and wait for the parents to pick up their tired and dirty children. Cami and Marisa lingered at our house for over an hour after we got home. I fixed them a snack of cheese and bread and we looked at old yearbooks, marveling at the baby faces of those now grown. We all seemed too tired to say good-bye. They tinkered on the piano and surveyed my book shelves. We talked lazily about nothing in particular.

We held on tight, but inevitably the banana boat always flips. When they finally left, Cami with an old Nonesuch student who came to pick her up, Marisa on foot to catch the bus, I left the front door open, half expecting them to come right back.

School's Out

2010-06-04T16:54:00.000-07:00

One thing I've learned: endings are almost always anti-climactic. So it's over. Now what?

On my final day of high school, Lauren, best Camel-smoking co-conspirator a girl could ask for, drove us out to the tiny Cajun town of Breaux Bridge for lemon ice-box pie at the famous Cafe Des Amis. We sat under the whir of a high-ceilinged fan and lazily ate our dessert, wondering why we didn't feel the ecstasy we were supposed to. We walked over the bridge and watched the bayou, its coffee and milk-colored waters moving so slowly it was impossible to tell which way it flowed. Summer already damp on our white uniform blouses and running shorts.

On the last day of school at Nonesuch its heavy and warm. Gray clouds hover close outside the window as my first period class scratches out their final. By afternoon, the schoolhouse smells like old slippers and forgotten sandwiches. The kids are restless and cheery, greedily spreading cream cheese on another bagel no one will finish, leaving trails of hastily graded papers in their freedom wake. I, too, feel a bit frantic, filling out report cards, slapping my red-inked enthusiasm all over their writing, made more brilliant by its sudden surrender.

Plans are corrupted. I slack on my advanced comp final, focus instead on the "final" final celebration I'll have with them. Vanilla ice cream with crushed Oreos! Then lunch-time and two realizations: these are my over-achievers, they want a challenging final! And: the ice cream never made it into the freezer as promised. Uh-oh. I cover the board with questions, assemble bowls and spoons for the soupy dessert, and in they come. Their eyes widen as they notice the board. What's all this? they ask. We thought you were gonna go easy on us, just hang out and chat. Do we really have to answer ALL those questions?! Melted ice-cream, anyone?

The air is thick with questions no one can answer. Will school open again come fall? At the end of five years, Nonesuch is a sinking ship and I can't bring myself to jump. A few of the girls linger in my classroom, and we talk about Israel, blue eye shadow, books. I don't leave school until the kids are all loaded in the van, lumbering down the hill, over the bridge, and up Bones Road one final time.

Feeling Fine

2010-05-29T12:07:00.001-07:00

On this lazy Saturday morning, here's why:

1. Only one more week of teaching. Endings come so fast, and by my very nature I do not like them. But I do like summer. Last night as M and I strolled downtown for some Puerto Rican cuisine, we were surrounded by adolescent merrymaking (beeping horns, deep-throated yells) and realized that Santa Rosa high school had just celebrated their graduation. Youth glowed all around us.

I remembered singing Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" with my best friend Lauren as we cruised out of our own graduation, 13 years ago, giddy with freedom and possibility. Bittersweet joy welled up inside of me. I confronted my own impending ending, my fifth graduation as a Nonesuch teacher, letting go another crop of kids I've come to love. And just as that reality hit, I saw a graduate lingering in a parking lot with his mom, looking bored and friendless. It just broke my heart. But who knows what life will bring him?

2. After days and days of being betrayed by the sky, dumping out-of-season rain from thick gloomy clouds, the sun is finally shining.

3. Free Mind Media, the anarchist info center/lending library is closing its doors because they can't pay their rent. There is nothing happy about this, especially since more than ever people need access to alternative ideas. The bright side? I got to prowl through shelves and boxes plucking books, zines, and all manner of inspiring reading material. Nothing feeds me like reading, not even that warm nutmeg French toast digesting in my belly.

4. I feel so loved. My fiancé spontaneously cooked dinner for me and my girlfriends the other night. He served us champagne and picked a garden-fresh salad, then whisked the plates away and gave us space to chatter and laugh and have our sweet girl time.

5. There is nothing that I absolutely have to do today. And a long weekend unfurls...

I Like Anything

2010-05-27T23:09:00.000-07:00

Imagine if everyone, every day, looked in the mirror and said I can do anything good.

Seriously, I am not a you tube boob, but I cannot stop watching this video!

It makes me feel joy all over. You won't regret it, I promise.

No Writer Is An Island (In Praise of the Archipelago)

2010-05-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

Writing is necessarily a solitary activity, since only the communication from your brain to your fingers can result in the magical string of words you bead together on the page. I've always viewed my writing as something I suffer through alone, triumph in alone, read aloud to cringe at the corniness, alone.

But increasingly I realize that any form of expression--be it basketball or baking--naturally unites people in an inescapable hive of sorts. All these bees, buzzing about the same thing. Honey potential.

For three years now I've been part of a monthly writer's salon with two dear writer friends. We spill our writing guts to each other and we listen. I never finish things, except blogs that nobody reads, I moan, and they nod, they validate and empathize and suggest.

We much on corn chips and spit salsa when we laugh. They read my latest essay about Jesus, the one I've been hanging my head over, and they say, Jess, I love this opening description, I sunk into the story like teeth into cake. And I give myself some credit for creating something that someone else enjoyed. They suggest that I thread one storyline into another, and something clicks, the insight I've been searching for, and that night I confront the keyboard without fear. Thanks to them, I've progressed from someone who wants to write, to someone who actually does it.

Last Saturday I went to a workshop run by two talented writers (Petals and Bones, look into it) that brought together eight people so excited about writing that we ran feverishly over time. We responded to prompts on the fly, my hand awkwardly clutching the pen, no time to wonder how silly my sentences, how raw my emotion. When I read it aloud, people listened and made comments. I thrilled at hearing other people recite their lovely sentences, so different from my own. After three hours of this, we were all glowing.

As I read Ariel Gore's "How to become a famous writer before you're dead" I realize, too, that I am part of a larger community of writers who do not know me and who I may never meet. But so what? I just found out that Ariel Gore starting publishing in Sonoma County Women's Voices, which is the local newspaper I co-edited when I first moved out here, nearly seven years ago! It's also the place I first published my writing. Just like that, I feel a kinship, a sense of hope. Maybe all of our lives are sewn with similar thread; its all about how we weave them.

Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I can probe into many writers' lives. I can admire their work, draw inspiration from them, and smile with pride when they suggest that I start a blog. Check, I've already got one. (Now how do I get folks--other than my writers' salon--to read it?)

I'm a writer, I think, just like them. For don't I, too, offer up the words, and then let them go?

Blues on the Rez

2010-05-11T20:03:00.000-07:00

I cried when it was time to leave. I didn't want to go. It felt tragic, like a broken promise, like a birthday cake smashed on the kitchen floor.

For the past four days I'd been here, on this plot of dry red land, and I'd come to know it intimately. The forgotten tricycle underneath the only tree, the modest home whose walls I'd helped to pound into dust, the shed I'd helped to nail into life, the trash-strewn desert wash, the cars parked for eternity. It was my first time on reservation land, here in the Navajo nation of northwestern New Mexico.

At first it appeared sparse and quiet, the workmen shy and unorganized. I'd looked at my students (four girls, four boys) and at M (fiancé, co-teacher, co-chaperone) and sighed: this is going to be one of those community service project trips that benefits us more than them, I'd thought. We're the white burden. They don't even want us here, there doesn't seem to be enough to do, and if there is one thing I really can't stand, it's not having enough to do.

Shows what I know. The spirit of a place takes time to emerge. When I silence my mind is when the life around me has the chance to wiggle into being.

Our second day on the rez threw things into sharp relief. I saw the shy workmen smiling, appreciating our eager teenage boys doing the man dance. I looked into the great grandmother's eyes (the owner of the house that we were helping to remodel) and saw the fear of her home being torn apart, her vital energy as she instructed me with hand gestures how to box her numerous nonstick pans. I couldn't understand why she had me sweeping the dirt outside until her sister explained, we are cleaning it, getting rid of the old dirt. I smelled the wood-stove and felt the wind nag at my sunburn. I dug and smashed and hauled and packed and nailed and devoured a turkey and cheese sandwich at lunchtime. I spotted a giant black beetle crawling through the wash.

On the third day we met Kaylee, great granddaughter, infused with the playful exuberance of a three year-old life. Her cheeks were soft and spongy, black curls and sporadic teeth and fierce eyes and her whole being sent a postcard straight to my heart. When she saw what we had done to the house, she exclaimed, Grandma's house is broken! She hated the sound of the saw cutting up wood, loved the stray puppy tied to an old truck-bed.

On our final day I sat inside with her, munching fresh hot fry-bread dusted with salt. She peacefully nursed her bottle of milk and I took stock of the house I'd been sweating in, the house I'd never see again: magazine cut-outs of Twilight on the wall, buckets of lard on the counter, an old metal school locker tucked into the corner.

Some weeks roll by with nothing much to distinguish them from the next. Our week in New Mexico caught sparks that cling to me like tumbleweeds:

There were the trains, graffiti-bitten and noiseless, dutiful veins pumping America's consumerist blood.

There was the sun-bleached Cafe sign on the side of the highway, eerily familiar.

There was the sage-sprinkled desert floor.

There was Pancho, aka "the stare master," always laughing, always looking, hardly working.

There was the broken pottery (probably from Wal-Mart, we joked), sole survivor of the charred remnants of a night bruised with alcohol.

There was Sylvia, who hid beer in her jacket and said I love you guys, I love you, as M and I dropped her off halfway to town.

There was the sound of nothing.

There was the night we all stayed up talking, about everything, opinions bumping elbows with emotions, tiredness forgotten.

There were the Little Sisters of the Poor, a Catholic charity, housing us in their cottages, stocked with plenty of soda and butterscotch pudding.

There was Sister Andrea with the small body and big eyes, who took her vows 55 years ago, a reminder to the kids that religion isn't all bad.

There were the prairie dogs sniffing the air and guarding their holes.

There was the pool in Needles, perfectly cool after a nine hour car ride (that included a dash into the Grand Canyon).

There was reality TV in the hotel room to remind me why TV makes us dumb, and why I still crave its absurdity.

And there was Kaylee, who clung to me and said you stay here, as I hugged her good-bye, not sad for her but sad for me, for my own return to life as I know it.

Trip the Light Fantastic

2010-04-24T16:59:00.000-07:00

So now that I'm engaged I think about marriage, but it just seems surreal and nebulous, more of an abstraction than an event. But a wedding, why, a wedding is corporal, sensual! All of my senses are on high alert. Ideas flutter about and I tuck them into my pocket, to see how they fit, how they feel:

Wildflowers gathered in mason jars, my mother's faded cream wedding dress from 1972 (a 'union made' tag stitched inside), exchanging vows outside in September sunlight on waxy-fresh grass.

After the school-yard ceremony, a parade down Humboldt Street, noisemakers and trumpet and hand drums, announcing our love to the neighbors. My dear friends, the ones I see often and hardly, parents and siblings, his family not quite mine yet, a couple of our sweetest students, with bare feet and pimples.

A party at our home, swept clean, doors open, and simply decorated with candles and pink satin ribbons blowing in the warm Santa Ana winds.

I can practically taste the blackberry vanilla cream cake and almond champagne. See the twinkling lights as dusk bruises the sky. Hear Dr. Hook croon Years from now, I want you years from now during our first wedded dance. 'Trip the light fantastic' is how M described dancing on a long ago afternoon, our romance just beginning to blossom.

Hope

2010-04-16T18:28:00.000-07:00

Three cheers for animated cartoonist Mark Fiore who just won a Pulitzer Prize!

Check out his politically raucous biting commentary that will leave you laughing and thinking, provoked and charmed, at

http://www.markfiore.com/

Spring Break

2010-04-13T09:28:00.001-07:00

Spring break is over, but thanks to the power of teaching, I am reliving it again and again, through words, some randomly picked by the kids, some my own. In English class we each write a scene from our break, incorporating words we've brainstormed in categories like river, fruit, city, occupation, month. Here are some scenes from the glorious past week that I want to keep alive.

On spring break we drive all over, dipping and climbing into valleys, M (my fiance) at the wheel and me cracking open peanut shells, scattering papery skins everywhere. My hair is desert-straight, not a hint of moisture in the air. Instead of a campfire, we walk around the campground at night, the familiar faces of Orion and The Seven Sisters burning me up. The stars shine extra bright with the big bully moon not rising until deep into the night.

I wake up warm and thirsty, tasting metal on my breath. The desert is full of metal---silver, gold, iron, all packed tightly beneath the surface of the earth like tuna squished in a can. At least this isn't the wet heat of August in Jakarta, a heat that breathes hot and heavy in your face like a nasty drunk date. No, this heat is a fresh kiwi clean---I wash my feet at the spigot and rinse the crust from my eyes. A spring flows through the campground. It is our sacred Ganges, and we chase it up into the ash-colored hills, cracking beneath our feet. All along the spring, tufts of green life scream water! water! until I can't take it and I ease myself down into the magical liquid. The wildflowers are the mailmen of this valley, bearing the news of winter's rain, in spring's fine lettering.

The car becomes home, each valuable item pressed into its special place. Daily round-ups of trash and debris keep it tidy. The McCafe cup, from M's to-go coffee on the way out of town, becomes our impromptu trash receptacle for the week. We empty it when it gets full. I am so content to have such a slim sphere to live in; the dashboard is my shelf and table, sometimes foot rest. In the passenger seat I can nap, read, write, dance, listen.

We drive like bandits, with a burning purpose, to get to the new place. M grows silent while I gulp down the last of Stephen King's "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon." It is late morning on Easter Sunday, fresh hard-boiled eggs in our stomachs, wind kicking sand outside. I don't realize that M is waiting for me to cry, as he knows I will, at the ending. He strokes my hair tenderly and I know that he cried, too. You will too when you read it.

We bathe only twice during our week on the road. Once after the desert, the dry crevices of my body like the parched valley floor nourished by the Texas springs. I use orange ginger conditioner that I can smell on my hair all evening, as M and I stroll the Santa Monica boardwalk and the beach, suddenly thronged by people. The city of Los Angeles startles the soft desert peace inside of me. We watch the sun set over Malibu and the ocean.

I get to see my brother in LA. It's been two and a half years. Then he was skinny, barking from a hollow shell. Now he looks, for the first time ever, like a man. Weight has aged his face, sobriety has calmed him. We eat at The Village Idiot. Our waitress says things like 'what are we drinking?!' and 'it has a citrus undertone, a ceviche kind of resonance.'

We walk, browse stores, and drink iced tea at Starbucks. He shows me face-book profiles on his blackberry and we crack up at all the people we know. When we are not laughing, we are silent. I think about Badwater, the lowest point in all of the Western Hemisphere. M and I walked all over the salt flats there. I think of my brother down in Badwater just now, heart sunken under grief and regret, and I think, too, that this is his chance to crouch low. From the bowl of Death Valley you are surrounded by mountains, including the highest, Mt. Whitney. It takes the valley to see the peaks. I burst out crying as soon as we leave his house and in the hot-tub later that night I feel weightless and free and wiped out.

Leaving L.A. there is the sound of a helicopter hovering above our car as it zips down the final descent of the Grapevine. M slows down and the whine grows louder. Then the car rattles and shakes and I breathe hard and M says, Yep, it's the tire, it's the tire! He coasts off at the exit ramp, the Escort sliding to a stop just in time for us to watch the tire tread roll past the window, smoking, until it finally collapses like a giant spent centipede. It takes us a few hours to get a new tire, all of it happening in too-good-to-waste sunshine, but at least I get to post a blog from the tire shop. We camp that night under gray skies, and in the morning it looks like rain and home and I am not ready.

We thrift shop on the way home, finding treasures in San Juan Batista and San Francisco--- drinking glasses with gold flowers, an oil lantern, a Talking Heads cassette tape, and, best of all, roller skates. Barely used, white, size nine, comfortable. And look at that, the sun is out again.

Life in Death Valley

2010-04-09T15:09:00.000-07:00

Life in the desert seems sparse, almost dormant. There are scrubs and shrubs and sand and dirt and rocks and everything from the same washed-out, hazy color pallette. At first. Then I start to notice the movement among the quiet stillness---wind, alive and terrible, tiny critters like chipmunks and lizards, bright green tufts growing out of the Texas spring that runs right through our campground.

In Death Valley, I feel alive. As I hike the dry hills, feet sweaty inside my boots, I climb, and my throat hurts, and yet I don't want to stop, destination-bound, not even to notice the life. The life! Wildflowers blanket the hills, little blossoms of yellow and pink, white and purple. When people talk about the desert blooming in springtime, I pictured giant showy diva flowers, like orchids and lilies and birds of paradise. I felt a little let-down, a little womp womp womp about these little buds, so humble and timid. I had to get right down, face to face, to examine the dark red heart-like shapes stamped on the inside of delicate pink petals. I shoved a tiny white tuft, like a furry lollipop, up my nose to breathe its sugar. I sneezed for an hour afterward, and knew, at once, the majesty of these wildflowers.

Life in the desert is sparse; for what is life without water? So when you do find it, it's tame, gentle, the small offering of a child, not the proud present of an adult. The desert must conserve its energy, not waste it. The flowers are even more beautiful to me now that I've walked through their valley of death, slept in its parched arms, woken to brand new sunshine to quell the wind.

Material Girl (?)

2010-03-30T21:15:00.000-07:00

Being a kid in the 80s meant caring, deeply, about the material possessions that informed my identity. My brother and I craved name brand clothing so much that we named our first bunny rabbits Guess and Polo. We counted our unopened Christmas presents. Despite these excesses, though, our single mother modeled opposite behavior: she never used a paper towel to wipe a spill without swiping the entire kitchen floor with it, until it hung limp and greasy as an old man's balding ponytail. Mom hated shopping, grew a garden, and saved any leftover food, no matter how small the amount, to be eaten later. When recycling became a household choice, she embraced it wholeheartedly, dutifully rinsing out the soda cans before plunking them into the plastic bin.

My relationship with stuff has undergone a radical transformation. I love the feel of a well-worn pair of jeans; I love finding that creative non-corporate edge of "fashion"; I love saving money, so I shop at thrift stores, where an outfit costs less than a trip to the movies. I, too, grow a garden, recycle, hand-make birthday cards, try never to waste even a few bites of food. I am grateful for this consciousness, mostly because it feels good.

Still, I consume, often unconsciously, because I am still a child of the 80s burned up with desire for a new bangle bracelet and striped leg warmers. In Berkeley on Friday I came dangerously close to blowing some hard-earned cash on a new pair of earrings at a hipper-than-thou boutique. But instead I crossed the street, browsed the Lonely Planet guidebooks in the bookstore, then joined a friend for a rollicking poetry slam where twelve to nineteen year-olds hollered raw truths like the Beats blowing lyrical mad genius symphonies into America's heart.

On Saturday, the holiest of holy days for me, pure do-nothing or do-everything day, we (that is, my fiance and I) headed north under a bright sunny sky. We wandered the ramshackle streets of Geyserville, landed at an antique store, where (surprise surprise) I found a darling hand-painted jewelry box that I wanted. It cost only twelve dollars, and somehow that fact momentarily trumped the fact that I already have two jewelry boxes, and, ironically, that I hardly ever wear jewelry. I strolled around the store trying to convince myself that this thing would enhance the quality of my life, but ultimately left empty-handed.

We walked along the railroad tracks, overgrown with sweet peas, poppies, and fennel, and picked a bouquet of wildflowers, and thought how pretty our wedding would be, with flowers just like these. We stopped by a cemetery where we listened to the quietness of life already lived, and picnicked in the grass. We were sitting near the Russian River, talking, when the sun began its cool descent. It was about as lovely a day as it gets, here in this spring-green Sonoma County paradise, and part of what made it so luscious and inspiring, was not having to buy anything, being free enough to not spend money, to appreciate the sublime beauty of partnership and grass and decrepit buildings.

The difference between me and wealthy people, as someone very wise once said, is that I have enough. I am not poor, but I'm starting to realize I should thank heavens that I'm not and never will be rich, either.

Love Those Kids!

2010-03-26T14:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I cannot imagine my life without teaching. Specifically, teaching the sweet, bright, and crusty-eyed misfits that inhabit the kooky world of Nonesuch, where redwood trees shade our cozy fire-lighted schoolhouse. As financial woes threaten our sacred plot of bliss and love and havoc, as I imagine life beyond Bones Road, as I consider teaching in the big bad scary world of college or, dare I even think it, public school, I find myself relishing the teenagers I spend my days with.

Like Marisa, who brought me a bundle of freshly-ripped scallions from her garden, left them on my table in the morning. On the wipe board she'd written the couplet "What is this life, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare." Marisa has short wild hair the color of strawberry lip gloss; she's got dirt under her fingernails and hairy armpits; she volunteers, reads voraciously, and wanders through Santa Rosa's scrubby blond hills. When she's really passionate about an opinion in class, she blushes, and it reminds me of me, except I can only wish I were a tenth as savvy and smart as she when I was fourteen.

Like Mike, who has resisted reading novels for years, trudging through the rhetorical swamp of "The Color Purple" like a soldier who's lost all his ammo. In the past, he's gone months without doing homework. But yesterday he helped to lead the class discussion of "Slaughterhouse Five," his philosophical mind accessing Kurt Vonnegut with ease and beauty. He even researched the three types of irony. Our discussion ran five minutes over, and still, we could have kept going and going.

Like Jackie, who French braids my hair and draws pictures of me with a huge loud mouth and unruly locks. At fifteen, she's an old pro at dumpster diving, scoring bags of Traditional Medicinal tea that staff and students drink throughout the day. Sometimes she "dumpsters" a frilly hoodie she thinks I might like, or a copy of Dante's Inferno. I have never witnessed her being unkind to anyone, ever.

Like Jora, who is seventeen going on thirty-five, with knowledge and experience that would make Madonna blush. She wears tight low-cut shirts, swears like a sailor, tells me when my body odor is out of control. She recently wrote an essay exploring how she, unlike most of her cohorts, doesn't smoke pot; she's naturally high. It's easy to forget she's a kid. But then I notice her smooth sincere face in class, absorbing my mini-lecture about "The Scarlet Letter," patiently waiting for her turn to talk, excitedly, about what she thinks Hester and Dimmesdale will do, and why they love each other so.

Like Cody, who has given me a hug every day for the past four and a half years, since he was a tiny shaggy-haired sixth grader who would jump out of my classroom closet to scare me. As a tenth grader, no amount of black T-shirts, visor-tipped beanies, or baritone can mask his pure essential sweetness, his eagerness to get back to school when he's away for more than a week.

Ode To Spring

2010-03-18T19:08:00.000-07:00

All the flowers in all the pots on my porch are unfurling their tight-fisted little buds, like a toddler who finally releases her hold on mommy's finger.

We brew a jug of sun tea in the garden for two days, sweeten the warm amber liquid after a game of thunder on the basketball court. Served over ice it's the best thing all day.

A week ago I was skiing in Tahoe, at seven thousand feet above sea level, fresh powder from an early morning snowfall. Ease, quiet, solitude, focus, bliss. A prayer. May I bring that mountain meditation home with me, snap it into it's rightful place in the puzzle of my hectic life. Let be be all there needs to be.

Kids take St. Patrick's Day very seriously. I completely forget about the requisite green excitement, so thrilled am I at seeing my first paid articles in print. What surprises me most is Nate, fifteen-year-old punk kid, cultivator of nonchalance, in bright green sneakers and dark green bandanna, waiting for me in the morning with an elfish grin and pinched fingers.

I lay on the trampoline at school, reading "The Scarlet Letter," glad I'm the teacher and not the student wrestling this heavy prose to the ground for the first time. I'm tempted to hurl the black novel into the mint-laden grass and drift off to sleep. I wonder if Cami and Jora will actually read the assigned fifty pages by tomorrow. I am almost sure I wouldn't have when I was in high school.

Boy it sure feels good to break out the sandals! The old crusty ones still bearing the outline of last summer's escapades, the spiffy new red ones I bought in the mall at Christmastime, the new-to-me baby blue pumps I found in the thrift store the other day, a steal at five bucks.

On the basketball court I balk at my winter body. Pale legs, with hair grown dark during these months of hibernation. Softer around the belly. Motivation kicks in: I'm ready to tone and strengthen, to shed winter's insulation. Can't wait to swim and run barefoot through the grass, and watch my nose freckles multiply.

So we change the time, robbing from morning's sleeping hours to pay afternoon's play-time hours. I've been tired all week long, grumpily snoozing through the alarm, lazily marveling at the endless warm afternoons. I think about Kurt Vonnegut's Tralfamadorians (if you haven't yet read "Slaughterhouse Five," trust me, you won't regret it), who pity the human concept of chronological time, in which moments are over and gone forever. To them, "all moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist."

Manifesto Against AT&T

2010-03-08T13:43:00.000-08:00

The history of all hitherto existing cell phone companies is the history of class struggle. Corporation and customer, greedy owner and desperate consumer, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stand in constant opposition to one another, carrying on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ends, either in total ruin and demoralization of the contending classes, or, as can only be hoped, in a revolutionary reconstitution of cell phone companies at large.

How do these companies do it? They amass huge customer bases because no one can do without their product. They offer an overwhelming assortment of service plans that seduce you with words like "unlimited" and "roll-over." They outsource their customer service jobs to places like India and Pakistan, where their workers learn to mask their accents, adopt American names, and live like hamsters, toiling on the Western treadmill all night, sleeping when the sun shines. When you talk to these people, because eventually you will, they sound like tired foreigners who just want to get some sleep. They will tell you what you want to hear, just to get you off the phone. Can you blame them?

You will talk to them for so many reasons: you will break up with your boyfriend and need to scratch his account from your joint plan; you will move to a new house and want your internet service transferred; you will reduce your cell phone plan, given that you've accrued all these roll-over minutes; you will realize, with profound aggravation, that you are still paying for your ex-boyfriend's cell phone; you will realize, with horror, that you are still paying for internet at your old house; you will realize, with stunning bewilderment, that your bill is still sixty-something dollars, even after you've reduced your plan.

As you wait on hold, your ear sore and sweaty, your heart pounding, your feet frantically apace, you wonder how this nightmare began. You vaguely remember the golden old days of your cell phone inception, when that shiny new gadget gleamed with possibility and convenience, when the company, known as Cingular, seemed almost quaint with their jolly salesman and simple paper bills. You trace the problem to the buy-out, when Cingular, a mere trout in the corporate world, was eaten by AT$T, a veritable shark. How many times have you been bitten? How many times has an AT$T representative made you feel better, induced that warm feeling of accomplishment, time well spent, crooked places straight? How many times has that feeling been shattered by the next bill, a cruel slap of systematic fraudulence?

You know you are not alone. You tire of the constant battle. You badly want an alternative, but in this bleak corporate-dominated world you are weary and tired, afraid of wasting anymore precious time. You understand why AT$T survives: because people get demoralized, stop fighting, pay the extra money, acquiesce to the erroneous bill, anything to get off that damned phone.

You've heard whispers about this newer company, called Credo Mobile, but they sound too good to be true. Admittedly "progressive," they contribute a percentage of their profits to good causes; their coverage is the same as AT$T; you get a thousand minutes and a thousand texts for fifty bucks a month; they will cancel your existing account for you, saving you yet another call to AT$T; they pride themselves on, are you ready for this, no hidden fees!

The phone call was so easy you've practically forgotten about it. In a few days you can expect a new phone; in a few weeks, a bill that has already been explained. Even better, something that you cannot put a price on, you will never, ever have to call AT$T again, you will never have to ponder a tear-stained bill with that sinking feeling of dread and hopelessness.

Or will you?

You actually aren't certain that Credo Mobile will be any better; after all, they're a corporation out to make money too. What you are certain of is that AT$T has one less prisoner. What might happen if everyone who has ever been f**ked by this company decided to stop giving them money?

Cell phone users of the world unite! We have nothing to lose but our chains!

Forgive Me

2010-02-28T21:14:00.000-08:00

When I finished grad school five and a half years ago, I sent out DIY announcements to far-flung family members. I was proud of myself for earning a Master's degree and teaching freshman composition at a university in my mid-20s; prouder still that I'd financed the venture myself, had written a thesis in one semester. On a sunny May afternoon Mom called to say she'd received my precious home-made card in the mail. I detected the tremor in her voice immediately; what she said next made me dizzy. "But sweetheart, doesn't 'announcement' have two Ns in it?"

After screaming and sobbing and desperately venting to my fellow grads, I decided not to resend the announcements, not to write a mea culpa post-script. After all, I was the one suffering; some people probably never noticed. But I can honestly say that even as I was trekking through the June-green jungle of Costa Rica a month later, the horror of spelling "anouncement" as I announced my graduate (English!) degree made me cringe. Eventually I got over it, and even came to savor the awful comedic irony.

But, oh, the pain of forgiving myself.

This episode has been on my mind this weekend, as I again try to have mercy on myself. On a rainy Friday afternoon nothing is better than a handful of rag-tag high school kids---playing harmonica, sharing a giant cookie, looking forward to a sleep-over---bouncing around inside the creaky school van on our way home from viewing the fantastical animated Oscar shorts. What a treat, to go to the movies during the day-time, to watch Wallace and Gromit for the first time, to relish every minute. But then trouble comes, in the form of a belligerent old grump who steals our parking spot and then yells at us for parking the van in front of his house. I don't yell or scream or curse, but in the most caustic sarcastic tone I can muster, I do let this man know that his joyless existence is annoying the heck out of me. I'm fuming as I climb back into the van. And then I turn around and see my sweet-cheeked little students, all wide-eyed and befuddled at the stupidity of grown-up grouchiness. I feel awful. Aren't I supposed to be a role model? Shouldn't I be gracious and kind, full of deep breaths?

Not twenty-four hours later I'm congratulating myself for writing five short pieces for the Bohemian's upcoming issue, for interviewing people and fashioning clever titles and greeting the Friday deadline like an old chum. And then something makes me look again at the jacket of the book I reviewed, and there's that dizziness: I added a word to the title and a "c" to the author's last name. Now, sure, I made the corrections, re-sent the document, managed a light-hearted apology to the editor, and can rest easy knowing that tragedy has been averted. But still there's the lingering doubt that tagged along all day today, as I huffed up a hill in the Glen Ellen wilderness and munched a sandwich in the glary afternoon sunshine, that uninvited intruder that would rather taunt than forgive.

I could go on and on about all the missteps and failures of late: not doing those 30 daily push-ups, missing a fun hootenanny last night, not finishing Eudora Welty's autobiography, leaving dirty dishes in a Sunday evening sink. But damn, do these really matter all that much? Does it really matter that I post this blog tonight, the final night of February, so that I don't fail to post four blogs a month, roughly one a week, my goal?

Sadly, it does.

beautiful sadness

2010-02-16T21:18:00.000-08:00

One of the challenges of my life is finding balance. I've constructed a black and white world that often smacks me with its brightness and rigidity. I need more gray. I need fuzziness and shadows and opportunities to pull away from the magnetic polarities that seduce me into believing that things are either fantastic or hopeless. Today is Mardi Gras, a day devoted to over-indulgence, to final binging before the subdued asceticism of Lent. It's a holiday of extremes. Exactly what I want to get away from.

Which reminds me of two heartbreaking pieces of art where both suffering and joy shimmer because they are linked, not absolute, not separate. The Diving Bell and The Butterfly is a book to savor slowly, like fine chocolate. It melts on the tongue and warms the belly. Jean-Dominique Bauby, editor of Elle magazine in France, had a sudden stroke that left him completely mute and rigid except for the blinking of his left eye, which is how he wrote this gut-stirring testament to life. Though his corporeal life is over, his mind, his spirit, rustles with vibrant urgency. I read it easily in a day, from the car ride through the forest to the couch, bathed in evening
light.

Dirty Filthy Love is a movie about a man suffering with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Turrets Syndrome. He suffers because he is aware of what he is doing and yet he can’t help it. He suffers because anxiety is isolating. And yet he also experiences some of the sweetest moments life can possibly offer up, even a transcendental intimacy with a lovely woman. Set in London, this film has smartly satisfying camera work; it approaches the characters with the utmost compassion, as if stroking them gently on the cheek. I haven’t cried this much since The Wrestler---the good, heaving kind of crying that feels like all the beautiful sadness of the world is breathing right through me.

Who dat?

2010-02-08T17:14:00.000-08:00

When you grow up in Louisiana, you know that the Saints are a joke. Even in my single-mother household, where the only male was my older brother who would rather make brownies than field goals, where Nickelodeon, not organized sports, ruled afternoon television, I still knew that the New Orleans Saints stunk. Even their slogan---Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say they gonna beat dem Saints?---made me blush with shame.

If there was any reason to pay attention to the Saints it was because they represent New Orleans: one of those cities, like San Francisco or Istanbul, that is unlike any other metropolis on earth. As teenagers, my grandfather courted my grandmother in the Magazine district, with its second-storied corner stores and big front porches. There’s nothing like having beignets (French doughnuts) and coffee at the open-air Cafe du Monde, powdered sugar on your shoes and black waiters in long aprons leaned against the wall smoking cigarettes on break. Behind you the chocolate Mississippi so lazy you can't tell which way it flows.

I've always been ready to criticize football. It reminds me of dog or cock fighting, a primitive blood-sport that sanctifies aggressive competition. A modern gladiator match that degrades the human body for the pleasure and greed of the audience. Football emphasizes hyper-masculinity, a scary trend that encourages men to perpetrate violence to validate their egos. And then there's the Super Bowl---a circus that, like most of television, keeps Americans placated and inactive. I want to retch when I think about 30 seconds of commercial airspace costing more than three million dollars.

But no matter how analytical us big-brained creatures are, no matter how intellectual, still we are animals, excitable and instinctual. And what are organized sports if not microcosms of our primal behaviors? When we choose teams, we render loyalty to a tribe. When we form crowds of screaming fans, we show just how comfortable we are in a herd, everyone bleating and barking their victories and grief together.

And so, last night, despite all of my heady objections to the sport, I tuned in to the most watched program in all of American history; I yelped with glee when the Saints (my team! my home state team!) made their fourth quarter interception; I even gnawed on a couple of buffalo wings. And boy did it feel good to let my inner critter roam off the leash for awhile.

Another Revolution

2010-02-04T21:57:00.000-08:00

In memory of Dennis, who would have been (unbelievable) 47 years old today.

Bandito

loss is sudden

no time to back up
no chance to retreat

then: you're not even a heartbeat

but you made everything happen
like magic, it was done

forget Marx and Lenin
your revolution was fun

your dead tunes your incense your 80s tight jeans
your rebellion your sadness your impossible dreams

all glowing red inside the coziest lair
socialist provocateur meets mechanic extraordinaire

fall in love with a broken heart, they said
go ahead, if you dare

but breaking the rules never felt better
bamboo windows and borders,
we snuck through them together

june green silver wet night
i was the sky, and you were my weather

those weeks of scheming through dense jungle heat
rainbows and water slides, two hearts, one beat---

escapes usually come with a price
but if i had to do it over again i wouldn’t think twice

wouldn’t wish for a warning beneath the tropical moon
forever and always the warning would come too soon

Thank You Howard Zinn

2010-01-30T13:03:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday I gave my ninth and tenth grade students a history mid-term---an hour and a half long test that spanned centuries and continents. As I read over the questions I'd written on the board (my school cannot afford photo-copies), and listened to the choir of pencils scratching, I marveled that these teenagers were capable of explaining the crippling effects of colonialism and analyzing the convergence of geography and history.

Later that evening I found out that Howard Zinn, author of "The People's History of the United States" had died. His brilliant history book is one of the reasons my students are such critical thinkers (I wish I could take the bulk of the credit, but really, I am a conduit). His approach to history reminds me of this African proverb: "Until lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter."

Zinn re-wrote our history from the point of view of the lions, the people who were often (brutally) mistreated by conquerors, masters, and capitalists, not to glorify or simplify or patronize them, but to humanize them. He reveals the humanity of the conquered, the enslaved, and the workers, in order to reveal the humanity of us all. He uncovers the darkest moments of our history so that we might also see the light. When my students ask why history is so depressing, I remind them of Zinn: "I am supposing, or perhaps only hoping, that our future may be found in the past's fugitive moments of compassion rather than in its solid centuries of warfare."

Thank you, Howard Zinn, for making my classroom come to life with truth and compassion.

(For a lovely tribute by the editor of The Progressive), click here: http://www.commondreams.org/view/2010/01/29-6

Rainbow

2010-01-23T23:55:00.000-08:00

Lured outside today by the sun, that hussy.

In the state park we climbed slippery trails, slowly peeling off layers. I relished the view of Santa Rosa, our little valley town cradled by bright green foothills. A storm hugged the downtown buildings, fuzzy and gray and insistent. I watched it blow towards us.

The damp forest was so quiet that I heard the drops before I felt them on my skin. Suddenly, faced with the decision to turn back or keep going, we chose neither, veering off onto an unknown trail. Rain came on as we knew it would, and still we climbed, wondering where we were headed and why. Finally with numb fingers and saturated tendrils, we surrendered. Our hike now loomed laborious and fearsome: Isn't it at least an hour back to the car? Is my new Tin House getting soaked in the back-pack? How long til my feet are cold? And I thought, how quick my descent into worry.

Sure enough, soon came nature's gentle remonstrance: as we emerged from the forest, the sun came out. Standing in a meadow fit for hobbits, so homey and green, warmed by that brilliant yolk, the gentlest rain falling, I felt like God had a secret to share with me. A clean rainbow hovered over us. The storm rolled on. We sat in the grass on a raincoat, shared a tart apple, and stared hard back at her, that fickle sun, until she weakened, as we knew she would, and we were left with a muddy trail back into the trees.

Haiti: The Heartbreak of Colonialism

2010-01-17T16:41:00.000-08:00

In 1492 the Spanish crown made a fateful decision. Europe was in need of a water route to Asia, now that the Turks had turned Constantinople (once the capital of Eastern Orthodox Christianity) into Istanbul (now the capital of a Muslim empire). Portugal was experimenting with rounding the cape of Africa; Spain decided to chance crossing an unknown ocean. Of course, when Columbus landed in the Bahamas, met by dark lean natives who greeted him with generosity and warmth, he thought he had made it to India (which he insisted upon until his dying day).

On that first voyage to the New World, Columbus's ship, the Santa Maria, ran aground on the western side of a large island that he named Hispaniola (which translates to "The Spanish Isle," but which was home to thousands of Taino people). The native Taino called their land Ayiti, meaning "land of mountains," and eventually this name became Haiti.

With the timbers from his wrecked ship, Columbus and his men built Fort Navidad---the first military base in the Western Hemisphere. Then he left two dozen men behind, with instructions to find gold, and sailed back to Spain with some captive natives to show to the king and queen. The Spanish government granted Columbus a second voyage, with seventeen ships and twelve hundred men, and when they returned to Navidad, he found that the men he'd left behind had been killed. After raping and plundering the Taino in search of gold, these outnumbered Spaniards were finally killed by an otherwise peaceful people. This would be the last time this balance of power occurred; within a hundred and fifty years of Columbus's "discovery," through mass murder, mass suicide, and enslavement, the island of Hispaniola had not one Taino left. The genocide was complete.

Of course, now that the Spaniards had established a lucrative plantation system, growing sugarcane for export, they imported thousands of Africans as slave labor. Today 95% of Haitians are of African descent; they practice a mix of voodoo and Catholicism, the religion of the slaves and of their oppressors. The French came next, and under their rule, Haiti became the most profitable slave colony in the world.

But here is where history turns. In 1791 Boukman Dutty, a voodoo priest, urged his fellow citizens to take up arms against the plantation owners, with the words "Throw away the thoughts of the Whitegod who thirsts for our tears, listen to freedom that speaks from our hearts." This incited the only successful slave revolt that led to independence, the second independent republic in the Western Hemisphere (after the USA), and the very first Black Republic. But the venom of colonialism continued to spread, though the snake had slinked away.

For decades the people of Haiti have seen their government vacillate between corrupt dictatorships, military coups, violence, rigged elections, and martial law. In 1915 Haitian law prevented foreign ownership of Haitian land or businesses, which prompted the U.S. to invade under the pretext of.... you guessed it, national security. Many people cite the positive outcomes of the U.S. occupation: infrastructure was built, including roads, schools, hospitals, and lighthouses. But Haitians opposed the martial law and military occupation of their country, sometimes violently, and thousands of Haitians died in the rebellions.

Today, Haiti is still the poorest country in the West, with adult literacy and life expectancy hovering around 50. It is no wonder that in the wake of a devastating earth-quake, the country is ill-equipped to handle the fall-out. Is it unfair to blame colonialism?

Only if you don't know your history.

The Long Loneliness

2010-01-08T16:36:00.000-08:00

This year, for the first time ever, I took my boyfriend home to Lafayette, Louisiana for Christmas week. Going home is like going back to the womb, coziness and comfort and ease. And, of course, indulgence. This year, gifts of luxury, like white satin pillowcases, leather-bound journal, and sugared body scrub. Practical gifts, too---stamps and manuscript mailers and patchouli soap. The living room carpet flooded with ribbons and shiny paper, half-eaten plates of ham and potato salad. A dozen different kinds of candies and cookies---sand tarts, pralines, pecan fudge, peanut butter balls.

At the center of it all is Maw-Maw---mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the sun who keeps everyone in orbit. Her magnetism is polar: she is at once provincial (a born and bred Cajun who grew up in New Orleans and can understand that old bayou French) and cosmopolitan (not even a weakened heart can keep her from jet-setting to France in a few weeks).

Her suffering has become a joyful wisdom. Her burdens have bequeathed wit. She is religious, a devout Catholic, but so too is she spiritual. Last year, when she gave me the autobiography of Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker Movement, I shelved it in favor of Dave Eggers' "What is the What." An old Catholic lady's mission, I thought, what's exciting about that?

I love when I'm wrong about a book. Dorothy Day's "The Long Loneliness" felt like it was written for me. Day was born in 1897, and came of age in Chicago during the height of the labor movement. The long bread lines and unsanitary working conditions moved and confused her. "I felt even at fifteen, that God meant man to be happy." Though her family was not religious, she was compelled to go to church, where she wondered: "Where were the saints to try to change the social order, not just to minister to the slaves but to do away with slavery?"

Her mission in life was to serve people, to uplift them from the drudgery of soul-bribing work, because she intimately understood "the initial agony of having to live." It was this spiritual connection with humanity that informed her political views---Day was an unabashed feminist and anti-capitalist. She not only espoused, but lived the concept of voluntary poverty, forgoing non-essential luxuries like cars, cosmetics, cigarettes, movie tickets, even privacy, so that other people might have access to the necessary food and shelter. (And here I thought my four dollar thrift store shoes and twice yearly haircuts were frugal.)

Having been raised Catholic, witnessing first hand the incongruities of the organized institution with the vision of the revolutionary Jesus---wealthy priests, segregated churches, its patriarchal subterfuge of women's rights---I read with trepidation about Day's conversion to the Catholic church. Why? But it was after her daughter was born (Day never married), so flooded with joy and love, that she felt "the need to worship, to adore." And, she wrote, "My very experience as a radical led me to want to associate myself with the masses in loving and praising God."

Never have I read such an eloquent synthesis of radicalism and spirituality. For Day, class consciousness and Christianity were inseparable. After all, she said, "Christ came to make the rich poor and the poor holy." She was not a missionary; in fact she felt uncomfortable with the idea of "preaching to empty stomachs." She did not try to convert the poor, sick, drunk, criminal people who sought refuge in the ever-multiplying community houses and farms that she helped set up all over the country---and world (and which are still in existence today). Instead, she lived to create community, the cure to "the long loneliness" that too many people experience. As St. John of the Cross, the Christian mystic said, "Where there is no love, put love, and you will find love."

Day is an inspiration to me---to the fiery feminist, anti-capitalist, and radical teacher, and to the spirit seeker. I realize that my spirituality and my revolutionary ideals need not be at odds. In fact, as long as I strive to emulate Jesus, who wanted to heal society's greed and oppression, then I am a Christian in the truest sense of the word. And my community are all of those people out there---my friends, co-workers, family members---who also try as best we can to do unto others as we would like them to do unto us.

Blue Moon Birthday

2009-12-30T19:08:00.000-08:00

Me and time, we have an uneasy truce. Since it insists on passing, I insist on tracking it. Anniversaries, ends and beginnings of months, new moons, solstices, equinoxes, half-birthdays, even the very passage of the day‘s hours, I am tuned in to frequencies both natural and arbitrary.

To give an example: 24 hours ago I wandered the French Quarter, sipping an iced coffee and Kahlua, cozy beneath a bright white scarf and furry boots in the meager wintry sunlight. One week ago I introduced my boyfriend to the women of my family as they chopped, rolled, grated, dipped, and simmered the Christmas delights we feasted on for the next three days. Two seasons ago I swam in the Mediterranean off the coast of Turkey as the sun sunk low. A year ago I bought champagne and raspberries for my 30th birthday party. I ate a savory brunch and pondered what it actually meant---what I should feel---why it felt so essential to feel---that it was my last day of being 29, my last day as a 20-something year-old.

So here I am again. Only get this: this year, my last day of being 30 is the 30th. Tomorrow, my 31st birthday is the 31st of December. This will happen but once in my lifetime. There's more: tomorrow night is the first full winter moon (and a blue one at that!) How can I possibly honor/record/appreciate/celebrate this unthinkably profound day?! How can I relish the fun without imbuing it with such meaning that all meaning slips from my desperate fist?

Around puberty my birthday started to feel burdensome, a too-warm blanket, a too-full stomach. Why did I have to be born on the last day of the year? Why did I have to share my birthday with THE most significant time-tracking holiday? Just six days after Jesus, fellow Capricorn, I bear the cross of order: my age perfectly aligned with the new year. It's not just 2010, it's the year of being 31, no longer in contact with the 20s, no longer a newbie to this decade of the 30s. Here is where Fear flaps down from her perch and insinuates: What are you doing with this one precious life?

Typically I've answered her by imposing the utmost order on the day itself, minutely mapped out, time tables strictly adhered to. Anticipation and anxiety double-team me. Except this planning denies my essence: I thrive on spontaneity; I find inspiration in the unknown spaces (the silent pauses)that life has yet to fill in. Too often my birthday is so hyped with expectations of PERFECTION that inevitably it winds up being just another sweet day: never special enough, never long enough, sunny enough, cool enough, active enough, contemplative enough, loved enough.

How can it be anything when it has to be everything?

Time gives me a piggyback and I remember: puberty ushered in more than braces and perms. It was when I first became aware of my obsessions and compulsions. Mailing letters was a minefield loaded with potential mistakes. Wearing perfume too risky---it might wear off. My room so sacrosanct that not even friends were allowed in---who knew what they might do while I was in the bathroom? Order became my saving grace, a cushion floating me above a sea fraught with mistakes, incongruities, sabotages. Curse the messy waves that spilled into my lap! I had to navigate to shore; I had to save myself somehow.

This year I've already received a blessed birthday present. On Christmas evening, sated and slow, Mom went digging into the VHS archeology and unearthed a long forgotten tape. There I was, in eighth grade, 13 years old. Me plus three best friends equals Silly. We sang Christian pop songs, we danced, we bashfully (except for me) revealed our crushes to the camera. We laughed constantly and hard. We poked sugary fun at each other, savoring our wit and embarrassment, our clever spoofs, our effortless goofs.

Mom watched with rapt attention, her face pure joy. At first I cringed at my blemished face and shiny metal smile and thick Louisiana accent (still lurking, I now gladly realize). I scrutinized my body: were my legs thin enough to pull off those short basketball shorts? Why did I wear such baggy T-shirts? But as the tape rolled on, from backyard trampoline to Kart Ranch to Jeannine's room, I let go my fear that I would say something to incriminate my pubescent self.

And I noticed happiness. Innocent happiness. I saw a 13 year old who loved her life and her friends, who felt at home in her (always moving) body, who wasn't cowered by adults, who relished each opportunity to laugh. I heard a 13 year old confident in her voice as she exclaimed: I am a Louisianan and proud of it! I saw a girl living every moment, not striving for anything, least of all perfection.

Now, on the eve of my 31st birthday, may I surrender to life as faithfully as she did. May I continue to know how perfect she already was.

Colored Arrows: A Tribute to Sylvia Plath and Jenna Dur

2009-12-12T12:07:00.001-08:00

Reading and teaching Sylvia Plath has been an unexpected treat, like warm cookies on a rainy day, like a found twenty crumbled in a pocket. Sure, I had read the anthologized poems in college, knew the whole head-in-the-oven suicide. But there was so much I didn't know, like the brilliant balance of darkness and playfulness in "The Bell Jar," like Plath's deep reverence for villanelles.

Plath's autobiographical novel captures the stale stage upon which women were supposed to perform in the 1950s. The heroine, Esther Greenwood, is pressured to learn short-hand and get married, but she would rather write and read. Her desire for men is less about the physique--- "The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed"---but about "discarding" a virginity that weighs "like a millstone" around her neck. Even at the ripe age of twenty, she challenges the gender specific sacredness of virginity. The novel is full of these sharp moments of cultural critique as Esther is seduced by suicide and slips further into a debilitating mental illness. When Esther's mother advises that she put her institutionalization behind her, like a "bad dream," she reflects on the absurdity of such dishonesty, recalling her painful memories, noting that "They were my landscape."

Plath finally succeeded in killing herself (a wish that her body, with its insistent heartbeat, trumped for years) when she was thirty. She'd already published a novel, grieved a failed marriage, and given birth to two kids. Now that I am thirty, I take stock of my own landscape---I can't deny the jagged mountains of regret and the sea of shame. But, thankfully, in sharper relief: a meadow vibrant with wildflowers, a trail of curiosity winding through June-green forest.

I realize that I need to be grateful that I'm a blogger with a few (minor) publication credits to my name, still giddy about my romantically budding relationship, still dreaming about kids. Is it a blessing that I haven't "succeeded" as Plath had? Perhaps. Then again, I surely can identify with her intense need for validation, her fear and self doubt. But it is this sentiment, from "The Bell Jar," that made me sit up, grab for my pen, and decorate the margins with exclamation points:

"I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket."

Inspired by Plath's use of form as a way of grounding and ordering her fierce dreamy words, I wrote my own villanelle about my arch nemesis. And then one about liquid rainbows running bright through moonscapes. And then one about the writing craft. And then one for my youngest sister, Jenna, who turns eighteen years old today. The thirteen years and hundreds of miles that separate us are dwarfed by the ancient, sturdy bridge of reading and writing where we meet above that swift moving river of time. Here's to Jenna, and the budding of her own landscape:

Blooming, blooming as her birthday nears
A wordsmith, a phoenix, a bohemian doll
Hard to believe she's breathed eighteen years

The last to be born in the kingdom of tears
Shivers warmed by curiosity's shawl
Blooming, blooming as her birthday nears

Like cave-cradled crystals, insight so clear
Humbled since birth, an ego grown small
Hard to believe she's breathed eighteen years

Safe is she who can see through her fears
Calmly answering panic's call
Blooming, blooming as her birthday nears

She slices lies with the sharpest of sheers
For peace to build, the Empire must fall
Hard to believe she's breathed eighteen years

A childlike madcappery she engineers
Join her party, she's open to all
Keep blooming, blooming as each birthday nears
Hard to believe you've breathed eighteen years

Shame on You, Obama

2009-12-03T12:44:00.000-08:00

The term "blowback" first appeared in a document entitled "Operation Ajax," the CIA's now declassified plan to overthrow Mohammad Mossadeq, the popular nationalist prime minister of Iran, in 1953. Even though Mossadeq was appointed prime minister of his country by the Shah (king), and the people overwhelmingly supported him, Britain asked for the U.S.'s help in getting rid of him.

Why? Because Mossadeq, with the support of Parliament, voted to nationalize Iran's oil, which meant that the revenue from Iran's greatest natural resource would directly benefit the Iranian people. The British had established the Ango-Iranian Oil Company decades before and were not happy about losing their enormous profits. (Not only were the British siphoning oil profits from Iran, but they were treating the Iranians like second-class citizens, having established "British-only" water fountains at the company's site.) The U.S. complied and the CIA undertook a coup that resulted in Mossadeq's imprisonment and the Shah's heightened power.

When the Shah fled Iran on January 16, 1979, a ferocious revolution nipping at his heels, the country exploded into spontaneous excitement as Iranians danced in the streets and cut his image from their bank notes. The Iranians were thrilled to be rid of this greedy, ostentatious American puppet. Who knows what might have happened had the CIA not interfered with the fate of their government back in 1953. What we do know is that the CIA was well aware that their coups (and Iran is just one of many) would probably blow back to the American people, in the form of retributive attacks.

So why is it that 56 years later, the U.S. government is still involving itself in unpopular wars against countries in the Middle East? Why is President Obama sending more troops to Afghanistan? If the goal is to get rid of tyrannical governments, then why hasn't the U.S. invaded Saudi Arabia or Sudan?

We are told that Al Qaeda perpetrated the attacks on 9/11. Is the U.S. military really going to be able to sleuth out and kill every Al Qaeda operative? Could there be any other reason for increased troops in Afghanistan? Isn't the U.S. invested in an oil pipeline that runs through the country to the Caspian Sea? If the U.S. government had no qualms about taking out Mossadeq in order to ensure a steady flow of oil, despite the possibility of blowback, then doesn't that prove that the American people's safety is not the number one priority of the military?

And finally, is there anyone else out there who finds it unbearably ironic that the recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize is authorizing increased military force against a country?

Roller Skatin': An Exercise in Gratitude

2009-11-26T16:32:00.000-08:00

There is so much to be grateful for, too much. I mean, how can I consciously appreciate everything---my honey love, my momma, my sweet friends, my house, my health, my body and mind, my spirit connection with the world, my bike, my extended family, my job, my literacy, my lap-top, my students---and still have time to write and play back gammon? Leave it to me to find a way to be overwhelmed by all that I am lucky enough to have and experience. Leave it to me to turn gratitude into a burden.

Yesterday was one of those glory days: by high noon I was racing the waves up the smooth beach, so warmed by the sun that had I not been with students, I would have stripped down to my underwear and plunged in. After a ceremony around a canopy of bells and a hike over rugged sand dunes, I felt the zing of aliveness. I watched the boys doing back flips off the dunes, running wild and fearless into the ocean. I hiked back with my pants rolled above my knees, my calves and feet salted and sandy and grower tougher with each step.

As a school, we feasted on turkey and green beans, countless pies and dairy-free ice cream. We sat outside and sipped sparkling cider and felt the coastal winds start to pick up speed. After stopping by a co-worker's house for a sampling of her home-made cordials (blackberry, rose love potion, apricot), I came home to a sunset nap. Then an early evening walk to Community Market for last minute Thanksgiving essentials. I felt a sense of peace that, I realized sadly, escapes me on a daily basis.

So happy and energized, what else to do but go roller skating? Though I go ice-skating with students every year, I hadn't been roller skating since the Clinton administration. Right away I felt at home---the smell of wax and nachos, those brown-carpeted boxed seats, the tan skates with orange wheels. And, of course, the resident weirdos, like the white-haired man who ogled all the girls while gyrating/skating backwards, or the greasers who did hand stands in the middle of the rink.

Oh, the fun of it! I skated so fast I couldn't imagine braking. I skated so hard and fast I quickly needed to fold down my knee socks, hike up my long sleeves. I skated so long and hard that today I have a walnut-sized blister on the bottom of my right foot. I skated for nearly two hours, my boyfriend intermittently video-taping me rap to Vanilla Ice or bust some dance moves to "Livin' on a Prayer." Then he'd skate off to attempt twirls and single-foot stunts, sometimes crouching low to better tape the synchronized footing of an older couple.

I loved the feeling of my knotty hair flying behind me. I loved singing the lyrics to "Like a Virgin" and "Can't Touch This." I loved slowing down to hold hands. I loved that by the end of the night I'd nearly mastered the cross over on the turns. At ten o'clock we shared a handful of dispenser candy as we walked out into the cool night air. I am so very thankful that at thirty years old, as I am coming more fully into adulthood, I am still tickled by skates, skirts, skittles, giggles, corny tunes, and star-splattered knee socks.

Stuck (Or So It Feels)

2009-11-20T18:21:00.000-08:00

This week I've felt stagnant, despite all the changes in my life (new home, new relationship contours, new class schedule, new curricula, new rain, even a slim new moon). The rain today reminds me of the constancy of change and possibility. And even though I do not feel like unpacking boxes and shelving books, do not feel like exercising my tight limbs, do not feel like it should be ink black by 5:45, I am writing villanelles inspired by Sylvia Plath. I am allowing the stillness. I wrote this little essay a few months ago, in March, but in re-reading it today, it seemed to matter more than ever. Soon enough, this time, these last months of the year, will have flown by, and I will be in a new place, maybe moving, maybe stuck. (And my brother, thank the good Lord, is now on his way to a treatment center). Here it is:

I celebrated the last few days of this rainy winter in Tahoe, frolicking in a bright snow-capped wonderland. Lucky enough to teach at a small private high school whose philosophy includes thrice yearly trips to take us beyond the classroom's limited potential for learning, I accompanied 16 students and 5 fellow staff on our annual snow trip.

The first and final days are spent traveling to and fro, setting up and breaking down camp (in this case camp is a giant 6 bedroom home with a hot-tub and a pool table). But sandwiched in between, those two blissful days of skiing are more than worth sharing a bathroom with twenty people.

This year I soar down the intermediate runs with grace. For once, I don't have to work too hard to tame my hamster-wheel mind. This sport requires graceful focus, and somehow the sticky sugar beneath my feet and the spun sugar clouds above my head and the impossible blue of lake and sky squeeze out all the anxiety of teaching, writing, (not) publishing. I am free. Not free like a bird, but free like a woman one season in to thirty, free like a girl who still thinks giggles and charades are the funnest way to spend an evening.

And then I come home to the news that Natasha Richardson has died, tragically, in a skiing accident in Quebec. Why am I so saddened? After all, the only movie I can recall her in is The Parent Trap, a cutesy remake of the far-superior Hailey Mills version. (Her performance was certainly beautiful though). I spent the exhausted car ride home talking to co-workers about my childhood, my tyrannical father and doting mother, my meth-addicted brother who worries me so much that my hamster wheel can’t even slow down enough to let him on. It’s too much to bear. The idea that he is tempting death just like that ski jump tempted my recklessness. I came away with bruised and swollen knuckles, yes, but even more, I felt alive.

Was Natasha being reckless? Was she under the influence of some substance, challenging herself too much? Or was she just enjoying, like me, the final days of this season of dormancy before emerging into the new life of spring? And if death does just take us so unawares, might the opposite also be true?

Might life somehow, some way, continue to take my aching brother under its wing? Might life bear him upon her strong back, and eventually drop him atop a mountain of potential and purpose? Might he glimpse the impossible beauty of life as he soars down, his troubles momentarily frozen, his body free once more? Might he remember to giggle about the charades he pulled as a boy, remember that as adults, even in our thirties, we can continue to glisten with possibility, mischievous ambitions, uncertainty?

Things I am grateful for, brought into sharp relief yesterday, as I suffered with a nasty queasy illness:

2009-11-13T13:25:00.000-08:00

1. My boyfriend. He took such good care of me--- tracked down grape juice, the only thing I could imagine consuming, brought home a digital thermometer (fever was 101.5!), researched my symptoms on the internet to quell my disaster-prone fears of swine flu and rapid death.

2. My job. I showed up at school feeling like a pile of poop, "taught" three classes (to the junior high: "take out your journal and write about something for ten minutes"), got loads of sympathy and hugs from my teenaged students, left after lunch. Granted, being a teacher is often hard thankless work, but being a teacher at Nonesuch is sweet like candy corn. I teach what I want, in a quiet country setting, and when I'm sick, my Advanced Comp class dutifully writes in-class essays on Lysistrata while I lay my head on my arms. They are extra quiet and obedient.

3. My home. As I lay on the couch in bone-aching misery, too weak to lift my head off the pillow for a sip of liquid, all I could do was watch the orange and yellow sycamore leaves sway gently in the breeze as sunlight poured in through the huge living room windows.

Our House

2009-11-05T17:40:00.000-08:00

All we want is a house. A stand-alone house with some garden space in a quiet place. That's it. Sure, there are the dreamy ideals: hardwood floors, closet space, front porch, an office, a garage, a laundry room, a kitchen with counter space to spare. But nothing fancy, nothing extravagant, just a little house to make home.

Simple, right? I mean, isn't that what we hard-working Americans are supposedly entitled to? Isn't that the dream that we're supposed to wake up to? But instead I feel like I've been traveling through Dante's nine realms of hell, a nightmare that I can't shake.

Quiet? Just go to the Press Democrat web-site and click on the map of available places: 9 out of 10 pop up along the thick red coils of highway snaking through town.

Un-shared walls? Like fishing for trout in a mall fountain. Apartments, duplexes, triplexes, quadplexes abound. But an actual house? Sure, as long as you don't mind the windows rattling from the semis that fly by on highway 101.

Garden space? Better you look for affordable produce at Whole Foods.

Closet space? When the property owners are dividing giant Victorians into five apartments, squeezing bodies into square inches the way cattle are herded into pens, the casualties are brutal: no closets, window-less bathrooms, claustrophobic lofts that masquerade as bedrooms.

But then there are the factors that you don't anticipate, like crazy, insensitive landlords. A strapping old house that seems just right. Baited, all ready to bite when the landlords (a groovy couple who installed solar panels on the roof) give us the snag: we use one of the two bedrooms for our office, which we inhabit pretty much 24/7. Ouch.

Or the sweet elderly accented couple who courted us like an eager sixteen year old boy desperate for another date. They couldn't meet us fast enough, were tickled by our travel tales, wanted the application ASAP. Never mentioned anyone else who was interested. Until the phone call that shattered the dream: we decided to give it to an older couple. But the good news? We really like you, will keep you on file. Gee, thanks.

Another wide-grinning landlady probed us for flaws: you seem too perfect, there must be a catch. There was. Her manic tongue held us captive for half an hour after we realized that the dingy carpet and concrete "yard" were not for us.

We were getting desperate. Weeks of searching to no avail. Day of the Dead, a Monday afternoon, a trip to the grocery store, prayer candles on sale. That evening, as the flame flickered and the internet flashed page after page of ads, we came across one that looked good. Next day we met the landlord, a sweet gentle soul who loves to garden and camp. Next day we got the call: it’s ours.

If the past three weeks resembled the fiery depths, this feels like floating, like roaming timeless through the Elysian Fields. Our new house, which we get to move into in a week, is perfect. It stands alone. Raised beds all ready for gardening. Tucked away in a quiet neighborhood full of American-dreamers. Built in the 1930s, it bears the regal simplicity of the old Victorian, with wide open rooms, tall windows, hardwood floors, built-in cabinetry, a front porch for watching the world spin by. And though there is no laundry room or garage, though we are paying a little more than we wanted to, there is no beating the feeling that, like the Jefferson’s, we are moving on up.

That we, too, finally, have a piece of the pie.

Happy Halloween

2009-10-31T12:07:00.000-07:00

So, what's the best thing about teaching at a small, private school nestled in the Redwoods? Other than the fact that I have complete academic freedom and get to fly on the rope swing during my free periods, I get to celebrate Halloween---that most joyous of kid's holidays---like a kid. Each year I dress as one of the students; this year I chose Nate, a fifteen year old punk rocking mischief-maker. The kids loved seeing me, their 30 year old English teacher, dressed in his skinny plaid pants and Misfits t-shirt. We dunked apples into hot caramel, carved punkins, made cookies, and, the crown jewel of the day, had a poetry contest out on the sun-splashed deck. Here is my entry, co-written with my boyfriend, who also happens to teach with me:

Welcome to Nonesuch

Just take a look around, and you'll quickly see,
whatever you're afraid of you shouldn't be

Yes, there are freaks and geeks galore
but I can assure you you'll never be bored

No, that's not big-foot, it's just Victor you see
his padlock is missing so his feet roam free

Oh him--- that's just Nate, he might look mean,
but he only really rages against the Christine

And no that's not the love child of Hugh Hefner and Michael Jackson,
it's Elijah, in a bathrobe, and he'll strip if you ask him

And this little blonde one is smart as a whip
but don't be surprised if Gabe gives you some lip

When it comes to the right word Jora's never stuck
so if you need a verb or an adjective how about FUCK

And Cami's got lots of poetry inside her
but don't be surprised if she kisses a spider

And--no Mindless Self Indulgence there
just a wise cracking Cody who keeps sprouting hair

And don't be fooled by her soft spoken style
Maya's grades show who goes the extra mile

And just because you can't see her eyes doesn't mean she's not there
there's much more to Shara than her bangs and curly hair

And that being over there, on the couch, please don't scream,
it's not a giant multi-limbed monster here to haunt your dreams,

It's just our resident cuddle puddle,

See--there's Luna's new shoes and Amber's jet black hair--
and, wait, is that Brogan poking out of there?
be careful--- get too close and you may fall into the lair

And that one over there who seems to fear none
he used to be Aaron but now he's Kiernan

And when you need some puffy paint or some positivity
follow the sound of the didgeridoo to Mike B's wisdom tree

One Rowan good, two Rowans better
hope you have time to listen forever

And you've met the one who keeps the Barr raised
being a bad-ass is her latest craze

And sometimes two visions will suddenly appear
it's just Angel and Andrea who aren't always here

And no, it's not Barney's daughter on the loose
Wynn has purple hair, purple skirts, even purple boots

So you just talked to Skyler and he showed you the way
but please be patient he has much more to say

A lot of girls think that Nico's caliente
but then he went to Earthdance and became excremente

If you haven't heard her speak yet give her a chance
there's a lot more to Madeline than her sweet subtle glance

Marisa just might kiss ya if you're cute enough and sweet
especially if you don't got no shoes upon your feet

If you hear the sounds of guitar strings cracklin'
its probably just the newest single released by our Jaclyn

And here's our newest student whose come to Nonesuch School
we sure hope that Lucas isn't too cool for rules

You've probably noticed all the sweetness he's bequeathin'
cause there aint no reason to not be loving Ethan

And if our school appears to be somewhat of a mess
as these sloppily written lines surely attest

Don’t blame Nonesuch School:
blame Michael and blame Jess!

Smashing the Printer

2009-10-23T14:03:00.000-07:00

Had had enough of this printer. All it caused me was grief.

I'd stay up late working on an essay assignment for my advanced composition class, go to bed wrapped in the warm satisfaction of creative accomplishment. Wake up happy that all I had to do was print the puppy out.

But unless the printer happened to turn on properly, sans blinking green light, and I fed the paper into the receptacle at exactly the right moment, listening intently to its internal workings like a new mother listens to her baby's breathing, and unless the stars were so aligned that God and all his angels were on my side, something would go wrong. It would eat the paper too early, choke on it and spit it out.

I'd try to stay calm but after three or four failed attempts, I'd lose it. I'd cry, scream, curse Best Buy to rot in the filthy flames of hell, and, after I knew the fight was lost, I'd usually try once more, this time with a calm sweet prayer. Dear God. Just please be with me. The printer would bleep and hoot and choke and seethe and I would flee the house in a hot tear-stained rage.

Until the warm June night that I walked the hated appliance over to the steps of the museum downtown. My boyfriend (bless his soul for the idea) monitored pedestrian activity while I readied my aim. When he gave me the all clear, I hurled the ugly plastic beast down onto the concrete. External hardware and little plastic gadgets popped off. Feverishly, I retrieved it, threw it again. And then again. Each time, more noise, more plastic debris, more satisfaction. The eighth toss yielded the total destruction of the motherboard, her shiny metallic innards finally succumbing to the cold raw concrete. My ponytail falling out, my face a-flush, I galloped to the garbage can and tossed the many-splintered printer inside.

This story came to mind this week, as I waded through ankle-deep stress. Car troubles. Late paycheck. Loud neighbor and too-small duplex. Stubborn tick heads, restless sleep, painful mouth ulcers. Even the minutia seemed big: my tangled hair, papers to grade, Monday morning rain, squeaky bike brakes.

Life was just like that printer, a one-eyed monster mocking me, a piece of machinery that no longer runs well. But understanding my problem has yielded a solution. It's time to shakes things up, make some drastic changes, toss life's struggles from the balcony of my mind and watch them crack open. Time to smash the printer, again, and see what's inside.

I want to do Nothing

2009-10-16T20:11:00.000-07:00

For once in my thirty years, I want to truly learn how to be unproductive, idle, lazy, contemplative. Why? Because it is essential to my spirit. And it is my spirit that inspires me to write. And it is becoming ever more clear to me that writing is life, that creative expression is why I am here.

I grew up like too many Americans do: with that most awful nasty concept---duty---pumped into my veins like a bad drug. And now it's beyond addiction, it's as though the need to produce and accomplish is wired into my body on a cellular level. If I don't do enough every day, I start to feel anxious, nervous, dare I even admit it, worthless.

The irony is that I absolutely love nearly all that I fill up my days with: I love teaching, love crafting an exciting new writing prompt, love planning a history lecture on Turkey's revolution, love reading, love riding my bike, love exercising my limbs, love cooking, love going to the library, love spilling my guts to my therapist, love learning new songs on the piano, love noodling around on my lap-top, love courting ideas onto the page, love taking a long hot shower at the end of the day. The problem is that my sense of duty often smothers the inherent fun out of these things, turns them into shoulds and musts and have-tos, until my poor spirit keels over with nervous dread. The problem is that I hold impossible expectations for myself, raising the bar so damn high that I fail to even notice the sky.

It's time to relax. In fact, at this very moment, I am supposed to be at a benefit, wearing a fancy dress and an enthusiastic smile. And up until two hours ago I was going to drag myself there, despite my fatigue and guts urging me otherwise. But thanks to that nurturing impulse that beats louder by the day (and thanks to my sweet love who encourages me to chill), I stayed home, curled up on the couch, and read fifty pages of Brenda Ueland's "If You Want to Write."

And like magic, like double sixes to win the back gammon game, like a fat yellow moon, like a warm California night, like a forgotten melody from childhood, she spoke right to me, across years and miles and impossibilities, she had this to say to me:

"Do not feel, any more, guilty about idleness and solitude."

"For what we write today slipped into our souls some other day when we were alone and doing nothing."

Amen.

It's Just a Ride

2009-10-13T15:21:00.000-07:00

So here I go.

I am starting to blog today, October 13, 2009, a day significant in so many ways, because:

1. It is the very first rain-storm of fall, after months and months of nothing but summer sun.

2. Therefore I spent an hour walking in the rain with my love, near the Santa Rosa creek, watching the brown rapids and long-legged birds, as I got soaked to the bone.

3. It is also the birthday of my best friend, Mel, at whose wedding a month ago I gave a rollicking maid of honor speech.

4. It is an extremely rare day off from school, in the middle of the week, due to Nonesuch's camping and rafting trip over the weekend, where I dove for white egg rocks on the bottom of the cold clear river.

5. It is the day that I have finished---finally! after months and months of revision!---my Balloon Essay, which I will submit for publication to as many places I can find, by the end of the week.

6. When you inverse the number 13 you get 31: which is the date of Halloween, my favorite holiday; which is the date of my birth, in December; which is the age I will turn in two and a half months.

7. It is the day that I finally decided to stand up to my fierce inner critic, who has been bullying me for a year about how I can't start a blog until it is PERFECT, how it will never be PERFECT, and how I should just give it all up. It's the day I realized, while walking in the rain, that all I ever have is right now, and right now I want to write. Even more, I want to urge my writing into the world, where people other than me can read it. I want to stop being so damn afraid of PERFECT, I want to accept and let go, I want to write. I want to stop listening to all the tales I've spun about how everything should be. I want to spin tales about how it is, right now, about how life is far from PERFECT, and thank God, because what a burden perfection is.

I want to make peace with that critic, who cowers on the other side of the couch, hoping I will find a reason to stop before I post this. I want to hug her, hard, and tell her it's all okay, everything is always okay, and look, I'm not free of her, I started my first blog trying to imbue this day, this very experience, with significance and meaning, just like she wants me to do. She desperately wants order, control, because for so long, way too long, she's feared chaos. But it's in the chaos that I am born. The chaos is the rain and the peeling eucalyptus bark and the smoky campfire and the messy gluey collage and the birthday party and the whole wide unplanned day.

I want to blog to escape, if only for a little while, the order. I want to blog to remind myself of what Bill Hicks, that brilliant prophet/comedian said: It's just a ride.