Listening to bowhead whales is its own sort of music, strangely rich and simultaneously made hollow by the electricity that captured it. The low moans of the bowheads are accented by the out-of-this-world sound effects of ice seals. If you've never heard it I can hardly describe it, other than to say that seals are other-worldly.
It does not endear me to them.
Belugas whistle monotonic in my ear, and look like an answer to a year long problem, but sound more like the problem itself.
Listening to bowheads is its own sort of music, made manifest by an underscore of the Alaskan Folk Festival which I play in the background... two ends of the same world whispering in my ears. But it is not raining in Oregon, there is no ice in my home. There is a sleepy puppy staring longingly at the warm belly of an older pup, who may or may not snuggle with her. There is a maple tree with young leave, budding peas, sunflowers just starting life.
I feel new, or ready to be new, I look ahead of me and wonder if I'm starting the same life again, or do I play a new character this time?
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Goat Rodeo
Today I am grateful for music to disappear into.
Today I am grateful for wind and sun.
Today I am grateful for the moments when the system works.
But mostly I am grateful for the tenacity to survive the goat rodeo.
Goat Rodeo (n): A chaotic situation, often one that involves several people, each with a different agenda/vision/perception of what's going on; a situation that is very difficult, despite energy and efforts, to instill any sense or order into
Today I am grateful for wind and sun.
Today I am grateful for the moments when the system works.
But mostly I am grateful for the tenacity to survive the goat rodeo.
Goat Rodeo (n): A chaotic situation, often one that involves several people, each with a different agenda/vision/perception of what's going on; a situation that is very difficult, despite energy and efforts, to instill any sense or order into
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Faith in a Gimmick
I had a wonderful night with a girlfriend last night. We sat on her couch, laying half on top of each other in one of those blissful girlfriend type piles and laughed and laughed and laughed....
In between laughs we talked seriously about what made us happy. Amelia is a watcher. She watches birds, waves, art, and her Lizzard Jet Li. She also watches Ted talks. She told me she'd been learning about things that are meant to help you be happier. I didn't like the idea that there was some sort of cookie cutter "path" to happiness, but the more she talked, the more I began to really like what she had to say...
She played me part of the Ted Talk. I don't know who it was, and this isn't the post to explain what it said or why I think it's a good idea... or any of the explanation type things. This post is really just a tool. It isn't meant for anybody to read (though I don't mind if you do).
This is a place for me to document something today that made me happy.
It's one of the five things Amelia and I are going to try and do everyday.
I'll stay with her again next week and we'll check in, report back to see how it's going. Are we happier?
And I start these five things today-
1) Say out loud 3 things your grateful for
-John, Vista, and friends like Amelia who inspire me to be grateful
2) Exercise
- Bike ride with John (check), super easy morning floor stretching (check), super easy afternoon stretching (check)
3) Random act of kindness (well maybe not random)
- Accomplished. But for some reason it seems to cheapen it by writing it down.
4) Meditate
- I haven't done this yet today. I will though. I found myself fixated on something today and I tried to pass that off as meditation, but it wasn't.
5) Journal- write something down that made you happy today.
See Below
John and I built a table this weekend. It's the type of table that I've been dreaming about for years. Heavy and long. Wide enough for puzzles and board games, or poker nights, or Thanksgiving table for eight. Tonight we stained the table. It is beautiful. Working on our table together made me happy.
More specifically wiping away the excess stain on the first table leg to see what the finished product finally looked like- that moment made me downright gleeful. It was beautiful. It embodied the life that John and I are trying to build. Simple, sturdy, creative, and made with love and patience. Wiping away the stain and seeing something beautiful made me happy.
In between laughs we talked seriously about what made us happy. Amelia is a watcher. She watches birds, waves, art, and her Lizzard Jet Li. She also watches Ted talks. She told me she'd been learning about things that are meant to help you be happier. I didn't like the idea that there was some sort of cookie cutter "path" to happiness, but the more she talked, the more I began to really like what she had to say...
She played me part of the Ted Talk. I don't know who it was, and this isn't the post to explain what it said or why I think it's a good idea... or any of the explanation type things. This post is really just a tool. It isn't meant for anybody to read (though I don't mind if you do).
This is a place for me to document something today that made me happy.
It's one of the five things Amelia and I are going to try and do everyday.
I'll stay with her again next week and we'll check in, report back to see how it's going. Are we happier?
And I start these five things today-
1) Say out loud 3 things your grateful for
-John, Vista, and friends like Amelia who inspire me to be grateful
2) Exercise
- Bike ride with John (check), super easy morning floor stretching (check), super easy afternoon stretching (check)
3) Random act of kindness (well maybe not random)
- Accomplished. But for some reason it seems to cheapen it by writing it down.
4) Meditate
- I haven't done this yet today. I will though. I found myself fixated on something today and I tried to pass that off as meditation, but it wasn't.
5) Journal- write something down that made you happy today.
See Below
John and I built a table this weekend. It's the type of table that I've been dreaming about for years. Heavy and long. Wide enough for puzzles and board games, or poker nights, or Thanksgiving table for eight. Tonight we stained the table. It is beautiful. Working on our table together made me happy.
More specifically wiping away the excess stain on the first table leg to see what the finished product finally looked like- that moment made me downright gleeful. It was beautiful. It embodied the life that John and I are trying to build. Simple, sturdy, creative, and made with love and patience. Wiping away the stain and seeing something beautiful made me happy.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Getting the A
Grad school is an elongated state of triage... In chatting with a friend on my way from one study session to another I mentioned time, and currency, and trade offs. She accused me of becoming an economist (a topic we've covered often in our Marine Resource Management class these days- assigning 'value' to things which are intrinsically, though not monetarily 'valuable'. The whole thing makes me want to vomit. The degree with which I hate a cash based economy is almost enough to forgo this computer, this internet, and this school, and go live in the woods somewhere forever- I digress). After the good natured accusation I wondered (on my bike traveling from point A to point B) whether or not she was right? Had I abandoned the integrated life that I strove so hard to embody in exchange for this segmented, over-crowded head space, where I strove for this idea of school? Why does my coursework affect me so? When will I have not just the time, but the energy, to relax.
I coined a phrase, or I guess an idea (albeit a sad one): I said out loud to myself.
"The currency of grad school is time. And we are and will forever be poor of it."
Time cannot be hoarded (to my dear dragon's disappointment). So if we think of time as a thing to have, to borrow or to spend (as here in school I'm so want to do) we feel forever poor, empty, and clinging to this idea... this currency which is time.
I dole out my time in a miserly fashion. I give it to John when I can. To Vista as much as I dare. If it is evening and I think my productivity would be otherwise bereft, I allocate a moment to my friends.
Mostly I give my time to my assignments. To this strange idea of excellence. As if by making through all this within this arbitrary structure that says something about me.
I don't know what my B+ in Fluid Earth says about me... but I bet it isn't as much as any poem I've written, or any conversation with Sebastian that I ever imagined, or any story I ever told anyone (especially if it were about the ocean). But I strive for these classes, I pay for them.
Perhaps it is the promise that these ideas will make it into a story one day... that in casual conversation adiabatic lapse rate will become the pathway for a disgruntled parcel of air to rise and then settle... and that parcel of air will have a story... Perhaps understanding (at least basically) why we have lenticular clouds over Denali will make them more beautiful.
If the currency of life is time, we are poor in today, but rich in tomorrow. An unhappy present that I have faith is impermanent.
I coined a phrase, or I guess an idea (albeit a sad one): I said out loud to myself.
"The currency of grad school is time. And we are and will forever be poor of it."
Time cannot be hoarded (to my dear dragon's disappointment). So if we think of time as a thing to have, to borrow or to spend (as here in school I'm so want to do) we feel forever poor, empty, and clinging to this idea... this currency which is time.
I dole out my time in a miserly fashion. I give it to John when I can. To Vista as much as I dare. If it is evening and I think my productivity would be otherwise bereft, I allocate a moment to my friends.
Mostly I give my time to my assignments. To this strange idea of excellence. As if by making through all this within this arbitrary structure that says something about me.
I don't know what my B+ in Fluid Earth says about me... but I bet it isn't as much as any poem I've written, or any conversation with Sebastian that I ever imagined, or any story I ever told anyone (especially if it were about the ocean). But I strive for these classes, I pay for them.
Perhaps it is the promise that these ideas will make it into a story one day... that in casual conversation adiabatic lapse rate will become the pathway for a disgruntled parcel of air to rise and then settle... and that parcel of air will have a story... Perhaps understanding (at least basically) why we have lenticular clouds over Denali will make them more beautiful.
If the currency of life is time, we are poor in today, but rich in tomorrow. An unhappy present that I have faith is impermanent.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Beause I May Die Today
And that's ok. It's true everyday, and one day will become inevitable.
I will die imperfect. So will you. It may be sad, and it may be tolerable. If I die suddenly and soon, you will be unprepared (I imagine, so will I). That will be harder than if you remind yourself- as I will- that I may die today. If I die young, and since I think anyone shy of 60 young, it is a certain possibility, then it may feel tragic. You may want to idolize my memory, my name, the things I used to say. I give you permission in advance to let these things go. To remember me warts and all, for how I am ornery at times, and for how I have a tendency to go crazy when living in cold dark climates too long, or when I choose to not say what I mean and by the time I'm ready to talk I blame you for it, even if it's not your fault. I give you permission to be sad, but also a little relieved, because I can be difficult even though you love me.
I will die imperfect. So will you. It may be sad, and it may be tolerable. If I die suddenly and soon, you will be unprepared (I imagine, so will I). That will be harder than if you remind yourself- as I will- that I may die today. If I die young, and since I think anyone shy of 60 young, it is a certain possibility, then it may feel tragic. You may want to idolize my memory, my name, the things I used to say. I give you permission in advance to let these things go. To remember me warts and all, for how I am ornery at times, and for how I have a tendency to go crazy when living in cold dark climates too long, or when I choose to not say what I mean and by the time I'm ready to talk I blame you for it, even if it's not your fault. I give you permission to be sad, but also a little relieved, because I can be difficult even though you love me.
5am airport cupcakes
I turn 28 today, sitting at the airport moving from one type of family to the other with equal importance, and two vegan red velvet cupcakes.
In the past two weeks I have been to Massachusetts, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. I feel like my life has flashed before my eyes. I can see in my minds eye the long strait house my grandmother grew up in with her family of 13, before I or even my mother had yet become an idea. I can feel the weight of the bench that lived alongside the table where they all ate meals in a single room of their shotgun double in downtown New Orleans. I know now that on Halloween they wore no costumes, but carried small pumpkins (before the days of GMOs made them big and watery) with candles in them. There was no candy handed out door to door.
Down the street on the corner was Mrs. White's sweet shop where a nickel would get your box of ginger snaps. Aunt Irma sent little Edna in to ask for the nickels, cause she was the smallest and cutest. My gullible baby grandmother wouldn't see that her sweetness was being exploited by her sister, and really maybe it wasn't since they both got to eat the cookies.
Pop was mean mean mean, my Momie tells me, my mom reiterates, and my uncle Johnny too. But when he was drinking tea and not alcohol you could sit on his lap and he'd be sweet. But he was drunk walking all the girls down the aisle in their beautifully built handmade dresses.
Ole mom would buy the beer and the cokes for the weddings, she'd make chilli and someone would make ham sandwiches, the kids got their own cakes, and were they ever beautiful. For the first few kids they'd have the reception in the house, open up the French doors that separated the main room and the kitchen... Or was it the main room and the bedroom? Dining room? I'd need to see a sketch of the house to be sure.
In the past two weeks I have been to Massachusetts, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. I feel like my life has flashed before my eyes. I can see in my minds eye the long strait house my grandmother grew up in with her family of 13, before I or even my mother had yet become an idea. I can feel the weight of the bench that lived alongside the table where they all ate meals in a single room of their shotgun double in downtown New Orleans. I know now that on Halloween they wore no costumes, but carried small pumpkins (before the days of GMOs made them big and watery) with candles in them. There was no candy handed out door to door.
Down the street on the corner was Mrs. White's sweet shop where a nickel would get your box of ginger snaps. Aunt Irma sent little Edna in to ask for the nickels, cause she was the smallest and cutest. My gullible baby grandmother wouldn't see that her sweetness was being exploited by her sister, and really maybe it wasn't since they both got to eat the cookies.
Pop was mean mean mean, my Momie tells me, my mom reiterates, and my uncle Johnny too. But when he was drinking tea and not alcohol you could sit on his lap and he'd be sweet. But he was drunk walking all the girls down the aisle in their beautifully built handmade dresses.
Ole mom would buy the beer and the cokes for the weddings, she'd make chilli and someone would make ham sandwiches, the kids got their own cakes, and were they ever beautiful. For the first few kids they'd have the reception in the house, open up the French doors that separated the main room and the kitchen... Or was it the main room and the bedroom? Dining room? I'd need to see a sketch of the house to be sure.
One could write a dissertation on the legislation involved with the Massachusetts Right Whale Dilemma. The problem started over a century ago when whalers realized there was a "Right" whale to hunt...
For the slow, quiet, 40 ton whale this marked the beginning of the end. Now, it's an international problem, a federal problem, a state problem, a community problem. It's a human problem... meaning that we caused it, and may have the ability to remedy it.
On September 11th, 2001 the ports of the eastern seaboard went quiet. The large vessels that pass in and out and in and out, for a moment were forced to stop. The ocean took a moment of silence. For the first time in years, the right whales could relax.
A team of researchers were out that week, and despite the tragedy of the day, they took to the water to find the handful of whales that were left. What they discovered was that in the days following 9/11 when the ocean was calm, so were the whales. Stress levels were low, much lower than were ever seen before, or have been seen since.
It was a tragic way to find silence. When tragedy strikes humanity, we take a moment of silence, reverence. Our culture, many cultures, value that moment. For 9/11 quiet was a gift that we gave to nature, to each other, and to ourselves.
Calm begin with quieting the mind. I don't yet know how quieting the mind will lead to quieting the ocean, though I'm certain one leads to the other.
When I quiet my mind, I find peace. Peace is an absence of longing. An absence of want leads to an absence of material things. The absence of things leads to the absence of production, which leads to a decrease in shipping. Quiet.
For the slow, quiet, 40 ton whale this marked the beginning of the end. Now, it's an international problem, a federal problem, a state problem, a community problem. It's a human problem... meaning that we caused it, and may have the ability to remedy it.
On September 11th, 2001 the ports of the eastern seaboard went quiet. The large vessels that pass in and out and in and out, for a moment were forced to stop. The ocean took a moment of silence. For the first time in years, the right whales could relax.
A team of researchers were out that week, and despite the tragedy of the day, they took to the water to find the handful of whales that were left. What they discovered was that in the days following 9/11 when the ocean was calm, so were the whales. Stress levels were low, much lower than were ever seen before, or have been seen since.
It was a tragic way to find silence. When tragedy strikes humanity, we take a moment of silence, reverence. Our culture, many cultures, value that moment. For 9/11 quiet was a gift that we gave to nature, to each other, and to ourselves.
Calm begin with quieting the mind. I don't yet know how quieting the mind will lead to quieting the ocean, though I'm certain one leads to the other.
When I quiet my mind, I find peace. Peace is an absence of longing. An absence of want leads to an absence of material things. The absence of things leads to the absence of production, which leads to a decrease in shipping. Quiet.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
The lives our things live
Philosophy tells me there is life essence in everything. Theatre tells me that props are endowed with importance when an actor takes the time to build their story. Science (well... at least some science) tells me that the world is made of energy and vibration. My hat tells me today that it is willing to help me out through grad school- no simple 'thing' could tell me that.
In my life John wakes up first. Vista wakes up second, she eats breakfast and comes back to bed... so in essence she's out of bed second, but stays in bed the longest. I get up after roughly 10 minuts of unadulterated pup snuggling. I shower while John cleans the house (He does this every morning for us), I dress, gather my bag and my bicycle, and head out the door for the coffee shop at approximately the same time John packs Vista out for her morning romp.
I am well loved.
I spend at hour or two sipping tea and sorting through my five e-mail addresses, my multivariate thesis research, my graduate classes, and my job as orchestrator of Salmon Bowl. I search for grants and donations to support my research, to support my interns, to support our non-profit, and if I find the time I search for ways to support myself. I try (to the best of my long distance ability) to prepare my 12 incoming interns, to tend to my newly single friend in Alaska, and my dabbling vegetarian friend in Boston, my pregnant sister in California, and sadly my sick grandmother in Louisiana.
I do pieces of this every morning... at the coffee shop... I haven't even made it to my 10am class yet.
But I don't do it alone. I bring with me a bag of things and pieces and ticky-tackies to support me through my day. What keeps me alive, is the hat on my head, the gloves on my hands, the shoes on my feet, and the jacket on my back. These things are closer to me than, well anything.
Fast forward through the day. Statistics assignment completed? Check. Salmon Bowl volunteers e-mailed? Check. Spring classes registered for? Check. Flowers sent to grandmother? Check. Papers read for ecology? Well... Half-Check. Resume and personal statement reviewed for friend in Minnesota? Check. Research questions elaborated for meeting with committee? Check. Hat, gloves, jacket, bag? No check.
My hat is gone. I frantically check bag jacket pockets, office, bathrooms, classrooms. I skip my statistics lab as I walk, in rain and hail, stair stepping through my day. For a moment, forget the assignments, forget the emails, forget the schedule- think about just one thing.
It's just a hat.
But it is more than that. It's the hat that my mom gave me for Christmas 4 years ago to go with an outfit, that honestly, I never got around to wearing because it was just too cute and too nice for Alaska, but even Alaska appreciates a good hat.
I saved it, and one day when I needed it most I rediscovered the hat and now wear it 6 days a week to survive the Pacific Northwest winter. Almost daily someone tells me how great it is. I let them in on the secret: my mom gave it to me.
It's just a thing, but it's bigger than that. It's my relationship with my mom. It's the past I left in Alaska. It's how I'll survive the bike ride home. It is the one stylish thing that makes me feel like at least on the outside I'm holding it all together. A thing that, if I had it when I ran into my sister would inspire her to tousle my head and say, "You look just like you should." It's just a thing, but it's the thing that daily touches my bare body most, and no matter how many times I toss it in the closet, or drop it on the floor, or tenderly lay it out to dry in front of the dryer, it waits for me.
It's just a hat.
Funny thing about retracing one's steps. You always ended up where you started. I'm standing by my bicycle, outside of the coffee shop. No hat. It's noon now, and I haven't eaten anything in this busy day. I won't get another chance until 7 o'clock. I should give up on the hat. My mind asks me what it is I want to eat, but my body is disheartened, not hungry, and it starts to rain. So I give up on the idea of food, and head into the library coffee shop for my second cup of tea. I'm tired. But for the first time in months, my mind is relaxed. For almost an hour I only thought about one thing. Just one.
It's a university coffee shop. At noon, you can't find a table. Tea in hand I look out over the swarm of students for a place to sit. Every table is taken.
Except for one. A small, high table, tall chairs, near a window, is being reserved. Someone left a hat on it.
In my life John wakes up first. Vista wakes up second, she eats breakfast and comes back to bed... so in essence she's out of bed second, but stays in bed the longest. I get up after roughly 10 minuts of unadulterated pup snuggling. I shower while John cleans the house (He does this every morning for us), I dress, gather my bag and my bicycle, and head out the door for the coffee shop at approximately the same time John packs Vista out for her morning romp.
I am well loved.
I spend at hour or two sipping tea and sorting through my five e-mail addresses, my multivariate thesis research, my graduate classes, and my job as orchestrator of Salmon Bowl. I search for grants and donations to support my research, to support my interns, to support our non-profit, and if I find the time I search for ways to support myself. I try (to the best of my long distance ability) to prepare my 12 incoming interns, to tend to my newly single friend in Alaska, and my dabbling vegetarian friend in Boston, my pregnant sister in California, and sadly my sick grandmother in Louisiana.
I do pieces of this every morning... at the coffee shop... I haven't even made it to my 10am class yet.
But I don't do it alone. I bring with me a bag of things and pieces and ticky-tackies to support me through my day. What keeps me alive, is the hat on my head, the gloves on my hands, the shoes on my feet, and the jacket on my back. These things are closer to me than, well anything.
Fast forward through the day. Statistics assignment completed? Check. Salmon Bowl volunteers e-mailed? Check. Spring classes registered for? Check. Flowers sent to grandmother? Check. Papers read for ecology? Well... Half-Check. Resume and personal statement reviewed for friend in Minnesota? Check. Research questions elaborated for meeting with committee? Check. Hat, gloves, jacket, bag? No check.
My hat is gone. I frantically check bag jacket pockets, office, bathrooms, classrooms. I skip my statistics lab as I walk, in rain and hail, stair stepping through my day. For a moment, forget the assignments, forget the emails, forget the schedule- think about just one thing.
It's just a hat.
But it is more than that. It's the hat that my mom gave me for Christmas 4 years ago to go with an outfit, that honestly, I never got around to wearing because it was just too cute and too nice for Alaska, but even Alaska appreciates a good hat.
I saved it, and one day when I needed it most I rediscovered the hat and now wear it 6 days a week to survive the Pacific Northwest winter. Almost daily someone tells me how great it is. I let them in on the secret: my mom gave it to me.
It's just a thing, but it's bigger than that. It's my relationship with my mom. It's the past I left in Alaska. It's how I'll survive the bike ride home. It is the one stylish thing that makes me feel like at least on the outside I'm holding it all together. A thing that, if I had it when I ran into my sister would inspire her to tousle my head and say, "You look just like you should." It's just a thing, but it's the thing that daily touches my bare body most, and no matter how many times I toss it in the closet, or drop it on the floor, or tenderly lay it out to dry in front of the dryer, it waits for me.
It's just a hat.
Funny thing about retracing one's steps. You always ended up where you started. I'm standing by my bicycle, outside of the coffee shop. No hat. It's noon now, and I haven't eaten anything in this busy day. I won't get another chance until 7 o'clock. I should give up on the hat. My mind asks me what it is I want to eat, but my body is disheartened, not hungry, and it starts to rain. So I give up on the idea of food, and head into the library coffee shop for my second cup of tea. I'm tired. But for the first time in months, my mind is relaxed. For almost an hour I only thought about one thing. Just one.
It's a university coffee shop. At noon, you can't find a table. Tea in hand I look out over the swarm of students for a place to sit. Every table is taken.
Except for one. A small, high table, tall chairs, near a window, is being reserved. Someone left a hat on it.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Colors I'd Forgotten
The Alaskan sun doesn't burn, it blushes, and in the islands day skipped straight to night with no reference to dawn or dusk...
But this week I began to see value in the in-betweens. Sunsets. Autumns. These moments are not transitions, they are now.
But this week I began to see value in the in-betweens. Sunsets. Autumns. These moments are not transitions, they are now.
 |
| An evening walk with Vista along the river |
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Anti-Pitta
My cheeks are rosy again today- a feature lauded by victorian poets as romantic, delicate, impishly innocent in its likeness to childlike whimsy. I love these descriptions- but I know better today.
My cheeks are rosy as my head grows tight, my skin grows rough, begins to burn... and my Ayurvedic senses tell me (calmly as they are bound to do) and with compassion (as my Buddha nature is apt to be) to breathe in, breathe out, and return to an anti-pitta lifestyle.
Add sandalwood and sleep. Take cool showers- though refrain from hot bathing.
Take a month off from a few things... the delicious things that are apt to stoke the inner fire of my Miche-self... an inner fire stoked by my will, my brain, my fears, dreams, frustrations, and the serrano peppers littering my table.
Forget... for a short month or so
Chocolate and coffee
Vinegar and lime
Forgo garlic, onions- favor ginger instead.
Tomatoes, spinach, alcohols do little to smooth the roughness of the disposition or the fire on the skin... don't eat them. Ever again.
More cucumbers, dandelion shoots, cilantro, burdock root.
Less cheese, no peppers, no chilis, no salt, no white sugar.
More fruit.
Less seasoning.
Kitchari daily. Miso only in dire need... when umami strikes unavoidably.
Calm the mind by calming the body. More forward bends.
Breathe in. Breath out. Cool down.
My cheeks are rosy as my head grows tight, my skin grows rough, begins to burn... and my Ayurvedic senses tell me (calmly as they are bound to do) and with compassion (as my Buddha nature is apt to be) to breathe in, breathe out, and return to an anti-pitta lifestyle.
Add sandalwood and sleep. Take cool showers- though refrain from hot bathing.
Take a month off from a few things... the delicious things that are apt to stoke the inner fire of my Miche-self... an inner fire stoked by my will, my brain, my fears, dreams, frustrations, and the serrano peppers littering my table.
Forget... for a short month or so
Chocolate and coffee
Vinegar and lime
Forgo garlic, onions- favor ginger instead.
Tomatoes, spinach, alcohols do little to smooth the roughness of the disposition or the fire on the skin... don't eat them. Ever again.
More cucumbers, dandelion shoots, cilantro, burdock root.
Less cheese, no peppers, no chilis, no salt, no white sugar.
More fruit.
Less seasoning.
Kitchari daily. Miso only in dire need... when umami strikes unavoidably.
Calm the mind by calming the body. More forward bends.
Breathe in. Breath out. Cool down.
Friday, September 16, 2011
"The opposite of dread"
Dread:
The feeling in your stomach that is all consuming when something is encroaching that you simply cannot bear to do, eat, watch, experience, or lose. The feeling that, if empowered enough, prevents humanity from fulfilling its dreams, falling in love, facing our fears, painting masterpieces, or going to graduate school. The obsession that sits in the pit of your stomach when you know that you must confront someone about something they’ve done… that you’ve just found out about. The same heavy stomach that comes with confessing great atrocities, and small ones. The feeling that permeates dreams when we fear the death of the people we love, or ourselves. The sound of a whining dog at 4am who you did not take to the bathroom knowing full well it is raining outside. ‘Gut-wrenching’ by definition. In many cases (my own included) the inability to eat or drink due to the total incapacitating-ness of the impending fearful future.
The opposite of dread:
The feeling of delicious confident anticipation. The positive reinforcement that an individual needs (and often imaginatively creates) to perpetuate actions like- sending love notes, opening Christmas presents, falling in love, cooking great meals, (or in some cases, growing great food, or in my case hours spent grocery shopping in preparation for cooking the perfect meal). The emotional embodiment of umami. The warm feeling that swells up in ones chest when they catch a glimpse of someone they may one day, but can not yet, wrap their arms around. The small positive reinforcements that so outweigh the feeling of dread that we cannot help but wait for them, hope for them, dream about them, invent them, and relish them, even when in reality the instance that is inspiring the moment is miniscule. Delicious delicious waiting. Staring at unopened letters. The idea of what the letter will say (though not what is actually does say, which is never enough to encompass the feeling of what it might say).
The opposite of dread: the space between texts messages
The opposite of dread: getting ready for the date
The opposite of dread: two people and the same full moon
The opposite of dread: the promise of a vacation
The opposite of dread: an imaginary puppy
The opposite of dread: almost falling in love
It is the opposite of dread that inspires us to move forward to the things and spaces and relationships that are the object of our creativity- the same creativity that makes up “the opposite of dread.” It is felt with the same intensity as heartbreak. (In fact one may call it the opposite of heartbreak… though that implies the feeling of being in love- which though close is not the opposite of dread. Indeed it is more like the feeling of falling in love, rather than being in it). It is enjoying the pure unadulterated potential of it all.
The feeling in your stomach that is all consuming when something is encroaching that you simply cannot bear to do, eat, watch, experience, or lose. The feeling that, if empowered enough, prevents humanity from fulfilling its dreams, falling in love, facing our fears, painting masterpieces, or going to graduate school. The obsession that sits in the pit of your stomach when you know that you must confront someone about something they’ve done… that you’ve just found out about. The same heavy stomach that comes with confessing great atrocities, and small ones. The feeling that permeates dreams when we fear the death of the people we love, or ourselves. The sound of a whining dog at 4am who you did not take to the bathroom knowing full well it is raining outside. ‘Gut-wrenching’ by definition. In many cases (my own included) the inability to eat or drink due to the total incapacitating-ness of the impending fearful future.
The opposite of dread:
The feeling of delicious confident anticipation. The positive reinforcement that an individual needs (and often imaginatively creates) to perpetuate actions like- sending love notes, opening Christmas presents, falling in love, cooking great meals, (or in some cases, growing great food, or in my case hours spent grocery shopping in preparation for cooking the perfect meal). The emotional embodiment of umami. The warm feeling that swells up in ones chest when they catch a glimpse of someone they may one day, but can not yet, wrap their arms around. The small positive reinforcements that so outweigh the feeling of dread that we cannot help but wait for them, hope for them, dream about them, invent them, and relish them, even when in reality the instance that is inspiring the moment is miniscule. Delicious delicious waiting. Staring at unopened letters. The idea of what the letter will say (though not what is actually does say, which is never enough to encompass the feeling of what it might say).
The opposite of dread: the space between texts messages
The opposite of dread: getting ready for the date
The opposite of dread: two people and the same full moon
The opposite of dread: the promise of a vacation
The opposite of dread: an imaginary puppy
The opposite of dread: almost falling in love
It is the opposite of dread that inspires us to move forward to the things and spaces and relationships that are the object of our creativity- the same creativity that makes up “the opposite of dread.” It is felt with the same intensity as heartbreak. (In fact one may call it the opposite of heartbreak… though that implies the feeling of being in love- which though close is not the opposite of dread. Indeed it is more like the feeling of falling in love, rather than being in it). It is enjoying the pure unadulterated potential of it all.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
A good window
A good window may not aid in inputting all of this data. It does not help me to focus to watch the snow turn to rain turn to snow. Like a cat, or a bird, or my own sweet Vista, I look out and imagine the green grass on the either side of the glass.
And yet... something it helps. I wouldn't leave it and haven't left it all day.
Save of course for the moment or two (or forty-seven) when I ventured out to the other side to see if the wind howled louder in my imagination or in the real life out there. Real life usually wins in these situations and I assure you it won today with howling snowsleetrain.
Now I am back behind the glass. Watching water poke holes in the white ground so the earth can stare back at me. I am surrounded by living plants that could not survive without a good window to protect them from the cold harsh Alaska. Living plants that could not survive without a good window to let in the scant light from the cold harsh Alaska.
I am nose deep in whale tails that may or may not still be in the cold clearing waters just past the trees. I'm told if you stand outside at night you can hear them breathing from the porch. But I have on soft slippers and they get wet if I stand outside so I trust the boys who heard it themselves keeping company breath for breath with the whales. Each exhaling visible breath into the air- only one is steam the other smoke.
There is even a light underneath this window. Giving me reason to stay past here past the 3 p.m. sunsets that might otherwise herd me toward the warmth of my bed. After all, Vista's in bed. She's been there all day (save of course the 47 minute interlude mentioned above- where she ran and ran. Though you wouldn't know it from looking at her that any energy lurks within the pile of blankets she hides under). So here I sit.
And yet... something it helps. I wouldn't leave it and haven't left it all day.
Save of course for the moment or two (or forty-seven) when I ventured out to the other side to see if the wind howled louder in my imagination or in the real life out there. Real life usually wins in these situations and I assure you it won today with howling snowsleetrain.
Now I am back behind the glass. Watching water poke holes in the white ground so the earth can stare back at me. I am surrounded by living plants that could not survive without a good window to protect them from the cold harsh Alaska. Living plants that could not survive without a good window to let in the scant light from the cold harsh Alaska.
I am nose deep in whale tails that may or may not still be in the cold clearing waters just past the trees. I'm told if you stand outside at night you can hear them breathing from the porch. But I have on soft slippers and they get wet if I stand outside so I trust the boys who heard it themselves keeping company breath for breath with the whales. Each exhaling visible breath into the air- only one is steam the other smoke.
There is even a light underneath this window. Giving me reason to stay past here past the 3 p.m. sunsets that might otherwise herd me toward the warmth of my bed. After all, Vista's in bed. She's been there all day (save of course the 47 minute interlude mentioned above- where she ran and ran. Though you wouldn't know it from looking at her that any energy lurks within the pile of blankets she hides under). So here I sit.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Rough Draft... thoughts on the future
Everybody wants to work with whales. To look into their grapefruit sized eyes and see something of eternity in them, a relationship between man and nature proving the existence of inter-species communication. And even though I count myself one of the masses who wants this, who looks at the open ocean with the same sense of adventure that the naive boys bound to the enslavement of industrial whaling did- I find the whole thing a bit nauseating.
It is hard to hear the words "I want to work with whales" without somehow- consciously or sub-consciously- envisioning the marketing genius who spearheaded the "Save the Whales" campaign and giving her a good hard pat on the back.
Despite this I stand proudly before you and say straight faced and sober- I want to work with whales. I have spent the past four years as a Marine Naturalist observing the intricate behavior of humpback whales in Southeast Alaskan waters. It has been both my privilege and my job to interpret this behavior and find a way to make sense of it for the ten thousand cruise ship passengers who make their way to our waters annually because secretly they want to work with whales too.
There's more. I don't just want to watch whales. If I did I would continue to be a Marine Naturalist. I want to actively participate in understanding the behavior of these animals and link that to human activities modern and historic. That is why I am applying to your program. My background in anthropology, in the arts, and as a lifelong public speaker, push me into the realm of social science. My unabashed passion for the natural world as well as my work experience marine sciences pushes me toward the biological sciences. The delicate line balancing between the two fields is Environmental Science.
My research goals include examining the migration patterns of humpback whales and determining, through both biological analysis and ethnographic study, how human technology changes the migration patterns and social behaviors of humpback whales. I prefer to work with the Northern Pacific Humpback population and to study the history of industrial whaling in both Hawaiian and Alaskan waters. Additionally I think a valuable to study of Alaska and Hawaiian native people's relationship with humpback whales would provide insight into the historical changes of Humpback whale migration. This ethnographic information will provide insight into patterns of behavior in humpback whales....
It is hard to hear the words "I want to work with whales" without somehow- consciously or sub-consciously- envisioning the marketing genius who spearheaded the "Save the Whales" campaign and giving her a good hard pat on the back.
Despite this I stand proudly before you and say straight faced and sober- I want to work with whales. I have spent the past four years as a Marine Naturalist observing the intricate behavior of humpback whales in Southeast Alaskan waters. It has been both my privilege and my job to interpret this behavior and find a way to make sense of it for the ten thousand cruise ship passengers who make their way to our waters annually because secretly they want to work with whales too.
There's more. I don't just want to watch whales. If I did I would continue to be a Marine Naturalist. I want to actively participate in understanding the behavior of these animals and link that to human activities modern and historic. That is why I am applying to your program. My background in anthropology, in the arts, and as a lifelong public speaker, push me into the realm of social science. My unabashed passion for the natural world as well as my work experience marine sciences pushes me toward the biological sciences. The delicate line balancing between the two fields is Environmental Science.
My research goals include examining the migration patterns of humpback whales and determining, through both biological analysis and ethnographic study, how human technology changes the migration patterns and social behaviors of humpback whales. I prefer to work with the Northern Pacific Humpback population and to study the history of industrial whaling in both Hawaiian and Alaskan waters. Additionally I think a valuable to study of Alaska and Hawaiian native people's relationship with humpback whales would provide insight into the historical changes of Humpback whale migration. This ethnographic information will provide insight into patterns of behavior in humpback whales....
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The weddng story
The sun broke the waters edge evenly and in lavender. It was subtle enough that they didn't notice the shift from the cloudy sedges of the milky way turning into the crisp edges of 4:30 dawn and the sleepy five, sweatshirted and toddied hardly knew the night was over as they ended their conversation on infinity and impermanence. The moment was made all the more ironic by the presence of a lobster fisherman just out of sight behind the islands culling in the shellfish with a cynical thought about the wedding the animals would be sacrificed too and how intensely the two in love had scoured the waterline for sight of the midnight boat. They were water people in the company of responsible charmers and the night party made a joyous ruckus to the stars in celebration of the upcoming ceremony. They jeered the couple on knowing that the anticipation of the event would far outweigh the exactly six and one half minutes that it would consume.
In the house with butterflies for bellies the parents restlessly and joyously watched the lavender turn to periwinkle to pink and they prepared to rise just as the vagabonds laid their heads down for sleep... It was a happy meeting unfortunately avoided by moments when the paths did not quite cross in the stairwell of the old Maine house. When wisdom woke and enthusiasm slept and one energy eeked into the other... as is meant for in weddings of this type.
In the house with butterflies for bellies the parents restlessly and joyously watched the lavender turn to periwinkle to pink and they prepared to rise just as the vagabonds laid their heads down for sleep... It was a happy meeting unfortunately avoided by moments when the paths did not quite cross in the stairwell of the old Maine house. When wisdom woke and enthusiasm slept and one energy eeked into the other... as is meant for in weddings of this type.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
This morning
Driving to work this morning felt like moving from life into art. As if the road itself grew smeared with the weight of it's own oil paint... and the clouds hanging low over the water and glancing coyly up to the mountains above them were the breath of water colors and imagination. Just for a moment she wakes up- this great something- to sigh gently with kindness and reminds me that it is no crime to have faith in something... even when I have yet to begin to imagine what that something is. The sky so long absent from the reality of this winter stretches her legs and yawns as if she has not been hiding maliciously these months, but merely napping through the lesser part of a harsh wet winter. And I, like all indulgent women, remind myself only in retrospect that I am not being punished as I want to believe, this is no martyrdom, it is simply life on a scale much grander than my own. My frustrations lies in my inability to raise my own awareness to the level of that sleepy monster, that coy compassion, which is the sky, the mountains, the glaciers, and the water. The art I drove into this morning when I momentarily forgot the importance of my life.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
It is here that I skip ahead.
It is here that I skip ahead. I want to tell you of how the boy’s eyes grew when he saw his first whale thrashing about the waves. I want to tell you how suspicion rose aboard the ship as men left ranks to join the sea and the ambitious young cabin boy began to climb the shipboard ladder. I want to tell you of the ruddy faced young man who wooed the daughter of a ship builder in Bristol only to have her locked inside the tallest lighthouse on the Irish coast, waiting for her fair man to return. But each of these moments, incidents, has a history in its own right- belittered with nuance and detail- so that I have not enough time to address them all with the mystery and grief they are owe. Instead we will skip ahead to our crew, living underneath our sullied captain, with neither sight of civilized land, nor proper water to drink, nor a kind hand to fall upon, for the better part of eighteen months.
You'll see now how it is helpful to know something of whaling. Signing on with a captain required little skill, rather it required the foolery of a man in debt, a love for turgid waters, or a suicidal commitment to money. Each sailor signing on with Captain McKay read the clause-it was the only reason for the contract- stating that without consultation, without hesitation, and under no burden to increase ration wages or intent, a whaling ship captain may extend the duration of the voyage, indefinitely in six month increments. His only bound duty was to pay the men a share of whatever was caught in those six months. If the catch was low, so was the compensation. It sat low on the contract of every man boarding a whale bound vessel, hidden in the legal jargon and grazed through by those who could read. Few captains exercised the right if the catch was moderate, and nearly none if the catch was high. So sailors had little to fear in terms of slave labor, and much to gain if the takes were low. McKay’s ship always took high, the men never assumed another six months at sea. They were tired men, moving forward on the promise of riches and soft women. McKay denied them that.
You'll see now how it is helpful to know something of whaling. Signing on with a captain required little skill, rather it required the foolery of a man in debt, a love for turgid waters, or a suicidal commitment to money. Each sailor signing on with Captain McKay read the clause-it was the only reason for the contract- stating that without consultation, without hesitation, and under no burden to increase ration wages or intent, a whaling ship captain may extend the duration of the voyage, indefinitely in six month increments. His only bound duty was to pay the men a share of whatever was caught in those six months. If the catch was low, so was the compensation. It sat low on the contract of every man boarding a whale bound vessel, hidden in the legal jargon and grazed through by those who could read. Few captains exercised the right if the catch was moderate, and nearly none if the catch was high. So sailors had little to fear in terms of slave labor, and much to gain if the takes were low. McKay’s ship always took high, the men never assumed another six months at sea. They were tired men, moving forward on the promise of riches and soft women. McKay denied them that.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
He was a young man, even a boy, when ill-fate stumbled him onto the water.
He was a young man, even a boy, when ill-fate stumbled him onto the water. His mother dead and his father a stranger, the lad had no family to gather care for or from. All he knew of his past was a love-sick mother and a father’s affair with the torrents of a great ocean. All he knew of his future was the grime of the streets he was left with in her death. That he survived the plague ridden gutters of his youth with neither alcoholism nor the clap speaks well enough for his strength of character, and at the age of sixteen- as best any records from that time might show- he signed on as a cabin boy with his sights set on the water and what might remain of his family.
Or that’s how one version of the story goes. This story, after all, may or may not be true.
Some say that he wasn’t orphaned at all, that even as a child he was obsessed with the vastness of the ocean. The ocean in his child’s eyes was God’s Magnum Opus. Perfection carved by the liquid hand of the divine. Any man seeking to test his might and worth in the eyes of God must at least once set out upon the open sea- to meet Him face-to-face. His childlike piety grew from endearing to obsessive and where his well-to-do parents had encouraged religion in the boy, his watery version of a malevolent God did not fit with the daily goings on of a protestant household. When they sought to placate the boy with weekends at the sea shore disaster ensued. Nights better spent in bed the not-yet-captain would be found rowing a dory toward the eddies and waves. Father and mother screaming from the waterline would watch the pale face of young McKay begging for God to challenge his devotion. When one such night the boy failed to return to shore his parents were overwhelmed with both the intensity of grief and the guilt of relief. Perhaps it was not their right after all to keep the child from reaching his divinity. When they were informed some years later that their disobedient son had signed with a merchant ship as a cabin boy they let their memory of him fade away, and concentrated instead on the docile girl they had given birth to in his absence.
But that’s just another version of the story. Whether searching for his father or searching for eternity one thing remains true. He lost faith in the power of both God and man when he first set eyes on the Great Whale.
Or that’s how one version of the story goes. This story, after all, may or may not be true.
Some say that he wasn’t orphaned at all, that even as a child he was obsessed with the vastness of the ocean. The ocean in his child’s eyes was God’s Magnum Opus. Perfection carved by the liquid hand of the divine. Any man seeking to test his might and worth in the eyes of God must at least once set out upon the open sea- to meet Him face-to-face. His childlike piety grew from endearing to obsessive and where his well-to-do parents had encouraged religion in the boy, his watery version of a malevolent God did not fit with the daily goings on of a protestant household. When they sought to placate the boy with weekends at the sea shore disaster ensued. Nights better spent in bed the not-yet-captain would be found rowing a dory toward the eddies and waves. Father and mother screaming from the waterline would watch the pale face of young McKay begging for God to challenge his devotion. When one such night the boy failed to return to shore his parents were overwhelmed with both the intensity of grief and the guilt of relief. Perhaps it was not their right after all to keep the child from reaching his divinity. When they were informed some years later that their disobedient son had signed with a merchant ship as a cabin boy they let their memory of him fade away, and concentrated instead on the docile girl they had given birth to in his absence.
But that’s just another version of the story. Whether searching for his father or searching for eternity one thing remains true. He lost faith in the power of both God and man when he first set eyes on the Great Whale.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
It started with a question about whales
It is valuable to know something about whaling, but it is necessary to know something about greed. The kind of greed which consumes a man beyond any shadow of humanity and pushes him into the well of indignity, cruelty, and obsession. Not all men are susceptible to it, few succumb to it, but for those who are lured b the charms it is well said that all is lost. It is the greed men are consumed by when they begin the hunt for the great fish. The greatness of this devilfish is well underestimated by modern men. If you cannot understand these things, my friend, you are better off moving on from this tale. For without that at least an awe for the great whale you will not understand how this one captain dredged his crew through such a misshapen adventure.
A history lesson. In the late seventeen hundreds the world reached the brink of a new age. A shift in human behavior arose that depended solely on the availability of light- artificial light. Invention, commerce, extended shop hours, and later bedtimes riddled cities and towns as for the first time lamps graced tables and counter tops. In the bulb of each lamp, oil from the body of a whale. Unlike the early parts of the century when families treated this phenomena as both privilege and miracle, with the influx of whales came something man has not yet since been able to tear itself away from- a dependency on oil.
It is with this in mind that I ask you to frame the following piece of legality. Come the late eighteenth century whaling boat captains had their crew members sign contracts. These contracts authorized the captain to extend a whaling voyage by six month increments at will and without the cooperation of the crew. With the money to be had on the bounty of the sea few sailors refused to sign, but this contract tested the limits of even the heartiest of men.
With that in mind allow me to introduce our crew. A ramshackled group of 37 men aboard a ninety foot whaling vessel named Misery’s Madame. Strange bedfellows the sailors. Some barely through with pirating, others green to the ocean’s seductive charms. Most with families tucked away safely inland so to remain ignorant of both the rough seas faced by husbands and fathers, as well as the rough women tumbled about the trade. Some good men, some foul-mouthed, and all with the roughness and blight of life enough to fill their own stories. And although without doubt this story belongs to these men- for some those months at sea dominate their biographies- it first and foremost is a story about a captain.
Captain McKay was as charming a man could be at port, to the reverend he was a dear friend, to the tippler a mate, and to the British council a gentleman who paid his dues- but ask any man who’d sailed beneath him and they will tell you the man was nothing short of a cunning beast set to dredge each man of his worth. When he wrangled his crew he saw nothing of the story twinkling inside each eye, he saw only an arms length closer to the belly of a whale. He measured the weight of his crew in barrels of oil, and any man who drained rather than filled would be noted under the watchful stare of Captain McKay. He disliked dishonest men and braggarts. Any man at port who overestimated his skills before the mast was unlikely to keep his post when discovered aloof at sea. Many accidents occur aboard a ship. Many a man disappeared under the court of the Captain.
A history lesson. In the late seventeen hundreds the world reached the brink of a new age. A shift in human behavior arose that depended solely on the availability of light- artificial light. Invention, commerce, extended shop hours, and later bedtimes riddled cities and towns as for the first time lamps graced tables and counter tops. In the bulb of each lamp, oil from the body of a whale. Unlike the early parts of the century when families treated this phenomena as both privilege and miracle, with the influx of whales came something man has not yet since been able to tear itself away from- a dependency on oil.
It is with this in mind that I ask you to frame the following piece of legality. Come the late eighteenth century whaling boat captains had their crew members sign contracts. These contracts authorized the captain to extend a whaling voyage by six month increments at will and without the cooperation of the crew. With the money to be had on the bounty of the sea few sailors refused to sign, but this contract tested the limits of even the heartiest of men.
With that in mind allow me to introduce our crew. A ramshackled group of 37 men aboard a ninety foot whaling vessel named Misery’s Madame. Strange bedfellows the sailors. Some barely through with pirating, others green to the ocean’s seductive charms. Most with families tucked away safely inland so to remain ignorant of both the rough seas faced by husbands and fathers, as well as the rough women tumbled about the trade. Some good men, some foul-mouthed, and all with the roughness and blight of life enough to fill their own stories. And although without doubt this story belongs to these men- for some those months at sea dominate their biographies- it first and foremost is a story about a captain.
Captain McKay was as charming a man could be at port, to the reverend he was a dear friend, to the tippler a mate, and to the British council a gentleman who paid his dues- but ask any man who’d sailed beneath him and they will tell you the man was nothing short of a cunning beast set to dredge each man of his worth. When he wrangled his crew he saw nothing of the story twinkling inside each eye, he saw only an arms length closer to the belly of a whale. He measured the weight of his crew in barrels of oil, and any man who drained rather than filled would be noted under the watchful stare of Captain McKay. He disliked dishonest men and braggarts. Any man at port who overestimated his skills before the mast was unlikely to keep his post when discovered aloof at sea. Many accidents occur aboard a ship. Many a man disappeared under the court of the Captain.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Nature and Man
Dear Mr. Echoes,
From my apartment I hear wind. The room is small and I am grateful for the wooden stairs that lead into it from the harsh outdoors. I would not tolerate the sound of an elevator ringing in my brain. It would create incohesion, such a blatant contradiction between the world I’ve invested myself in and the one I tiptoe around to avoid depression. It is a constant battle, reframing the human world to more fully understand the essence of humanity.
I find myself observing the water, seeking out the reflections of Juneau as if I were the fish, believing if I step outside of myself and attempt to observe from their world I might understand this story. I tried to explain my human perspective to Odessa. When she did not understand she assumed there were quintessential differences between human thought and animal thought. I might agree. What man calls order, Mother Nature knows as destruction. Where man sees chaos, Mother Natures sees potential. We seek the same thing, but the earth is torn between two masters, one wildly more successful at symbiosis than the other.
Odessa… sweet Odessa… could not see how our worlds were at odds. She sighted the shipwreck, a meeting of our metaphorical minds. The world of man met the world of nature, Odessa claimed, and a new world emerged as a compromise. Men died so anemones might live! As she was sure that, from time to time, on land anemones died so that men might live. Certainly humans could comprehend that!
I did not have the heart to tell her that men would not see justice in dying for invertebrates. I don’t believe it would have been helpful- for either of us.
Imagine Reflections. You’re insight into the movement of water has proved helpful before. Any magic up that sleeve of yours Oliver?
Best,
Sebastian
From my apartment I hear wind. The room is small and I am grateful for the wooden stairs that lead into it from the harsh outdoors. I would not tolerate the sound of an elevator ringing in my brain. It would create incohesion, such a blatant contradiction between the world I’ve invested myself in and the one I tiptoe around to avoid depression. It is a constant battle, reframing the human world to more fully understand the essence of humanity.
I find myself observing the water, seeking out the reflections of Juneau as if I were the fish, believing if I step outside of myself and attempt to observe from their world I might understand this story. I tried to explain my human perspective to Odessa. When she did not understand she assumed there were quintessential differences between human thought and animal thought. I might agree. What man calls order, Mother Nature knows as destruction. Where man sees chaos, Mother Natures sees potential. We seek the same thing, but the earth is torn between two masters, one wildly more successful at symbiosis than the other.
Odessa… sweet Odessa… could not see how our worlds were at odds. She sighted the shipwreck, a meeting of our metaphorical minds. The world of man met the world of nature, Odessa claimed, and a new world emerged as a compromise. Men died so anemones might live! As she was sure that, from time to time, on land anemones died so that men might live. Certainly humans could comprehend that!
I did not have the heart to tell her that men would not see justice in dying for invertebrates. I don’t believe it would have been helpful- for either of us.
Imagine Reflections. You’re insight into the movement of water has proved helpful before. Any magic up that sleeve of yours Oliver?
Best,
Sebastian
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