I'm expecting a book. Namely, For the Time Being by Annie Dillard.
I'm expecting more than a book. She will, of course, answer all unanswerable questions.
The mailman holds a key to the apartment complex.
If expecting a note from my sister, Emma, or from my grandmother, I meet him in the hallway.
I asked him once if he loved his job-- delivering snail-mail-- time travel shooting him back to the romanticism of Samuel Clemens.
He answered by handing me an issue of Kiplinger's Magazine, a practical, if relentless, Christmas present.
The cover read, "Sell Your Stocks!* *but not all of them" and, "Practical Investing: The Impact of Dividends!" [No, the exclamation marks are not added by me for emphasis. ]
Upon seeing my crinkled nose, he laughed, "Honey, I deliver lots of bills."
I thought that vintage clothing and philosophical thoughts came with a barista position- until I became one. Now I smell like ham and caramel.
There's a cocker spaniel in East Grand Rapids. She's chained to a fence and, if she pulls the chain taught, can make it to the sidewalk. She's nice if you bend down and talk to her, though her fur will cover your hand in a thick film. Be weary, though, if you must leave. She bites Deserters. It's best to sit in a comfortable long-term position-- where one can retreat quickly. She's worth a visit. I'd give you her address but for her owners.
For the Time Being should arrive at any moment. Annie Dillard will, of course, answer all unanswerable questions and I'll probably skip out into the sunshine and serenade a bird.
Well, either that or she won't answer the unanswerable questions. In that case, I'll probably skip out into the sunshine and serenade a bird.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Friday, April 25, 2014
To the Pear Tree Out Back
To the Pear Tree
Out Back
Will you never
learn? We went over this last year. I climbed you --sawed, clipped and trimmed
you for hours.
And didn’t you feel
better?
Didn’t you have
more energy?
Energy to put
towards your creative endeavors?
Beginning with the
fabrication of buds from which
Emerge white blooms--
easily smelled from the vegetable garden.
Finally finishing
with
The Pear.
How inspired you
are, my Dear Tree-- a spectacle.
I’d carry you to a studio
and share your artistry.
Yet you insist on
wasting ener-I’ll call you Hydra.
Where I trimmed a branch last year, you generate
five miniatures this year. Shoots
protrude from amputated limbs where phantoms would be better.
So once again, the
saw rests against you. The clippers extend from me as I sever the parasites you’ve
constructed.
Why do you exert
yourself so?
Why not utilize the
energy you claim from sun from rain
And produce flowers fruits and such?
Add strength to
your trunk--mass to fruitful limbs?
Why waste your vitality
on fruitless endeavors?
Please, Wouldn’t you rather
create a Pear?
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Emma
Emma and I trudge through the snow. That year the snow began
in late January and lasted until the middle of March. Winter started late. It
wouldn’t let go. We two sisters walk regardless;
our boots fatten cross-country ski tracks.
We don’t talk.
We don’t need to.
We trudge.
Eventually, we come to the bridge, our turn-around
point. We’re tired and lay down in the
snow.
We don’t talk.
We don’t need to.
Emma and I were born a year apart. She’s pale with long, dark
hair and glasses. She freckles in the sun, but just across the bridge of her nose.
They’re pretty, her freckles; it’s as if she strategically placed each one. I’m taller than Emma, with blonde curls and
dimples.
At the moment, these differences are hidden beneath hats and
scarves. We watch the snow fall on and around us. We start as a skier comes upon us,
“Whew, you moved! I was afraid you were dead.”
We laugh and allow him to pass.
Emma joined the army late last year, looking to use her forensic science degree in the criminal investigation department. Right now she sends letters—letters in which she instructs me
to read Phantom of the Opera because
it’s dark, and also to read the first paragraph of Moby Dick because (in her words), “it makes you swoon every time.”
In return I send her excerpts I’ve copied by hand from Walden and The Writing Life to supplement the Army’s allowance of just one
book. I also inform her that the Barenaked Ladies’ new album is okay, but they’re sorely
missing Steven Page. We’ll listen to the new album when we see each
other next and reminisce about “Be My
Yoko Ono.”
On the trek back we do talk.
And I don't remember if I remember what we talked about.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
A Story About A Kinkajou (but not really)
A baggy, leopard-printed woman roams the streets of Broad Ripple. She stores a shopping bag beneath her armpit. It's creases match the wrinkles folded into her neck.
When the weather is hot, make-up cracks and melts off her face.
She keeps talking.
Why won't she stop talking?
We're in Starbucks now. A girl walks by outside, her pet kinkajou in tow. Leopard-print woman storms the window. "A kinkajou, a kinkajou!" She screams.
She turns to me, "Look, a kinkajou!"
Lacing a smile with condescension, I offer it to her,
"I'm reading [Steinbeck]," I say.
"Look! A kinkajou!" I think.
A few days later I ask for her name.
"Grace," she says.
"Me too!" I blurt and look at the ground.
No. I'm Hannah. But it means grace.
She extends her free hand. Her thick make-up cracks, streams melt down into the creases of her neck,
"It's good to meet you,
Grace"
When the weather is hot, make-up cracks and melts off her face.
She keeps talking.
Why won't she stop talking?
We're in Starbucks now. A girl walks by outside, her pet kinkajou in tow. Leopard-print woman storms the window. "A kinkajou, a kinkajou!" She screams.
She turns to me, "Look, a kinkajou!"
Lacing a smile with condescension, I offer it to her,
"I'm reading [Steinbeck]," I say.
"Look! A kinkajou!" I think.
A few days later I ask for her name.
"Grace," she says.
"Me too!" I blurt and look at the ground.
No. I'm Hannah. But it means grace.
She extends her free hand. Her thick make-up cracks, streams melt down into the creases of her neck,
"It's good to meet you,
Grace"
Friday, March 21, 2014
Chelsea: From the Point of View of Sister #2
Two sisters run down the street. One runs as straight as a Ringer girl can
possibly run. She’s the younger of the two. She’s short, but tells people she’s
tall and sometimes the confidence with which she speaks forces them to do a
double-take. She walks with purpose, like it ain’t nobody’s business.
The other
really is tall and tends to trip when she walks, which
makes her more prone to running. She’s often distracted, attempting to catch
leaves in her hands, snowflakes on her tongue, or whatever else may be falling
from the sky.
Sister #1 feigns frustration: You’re swerving into the road again. That’s
it! I’m doing it! I’m buying you a leash!
Sister #2: Good
grief, Lady! I won’t get hit by a car. And, by the way, I’m winning the
leaf-catching competition.
Sister #1: You
haven’t caught anything. How could you possibly be winning?
Sister #2: I
get 50 points just for trying… and then 10 after that for every leaf caught. You, my dear friend, haven’t even tried!
Sister #1 sticks her hand out. A leaf floats into the
open palm.
Sister #2 purses her lips, narrows her eyes and gives
sister #1 a harrowing look.
Sister #1 ignores the look and continues to run as
straight as a Ringer girl can possibly run. 60 points. Beat that.
And sister #1 doesn’t even crack a smile…though she does know the
moment is worth one. And sister #2, though older and taller, looks up to sister
#1 and is humbled. She secretly knows she can’t possibly “beat that” and
wouldn’t trade that graceful moment to catch 100 leaves of her own.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Galveston, Texas, in 2014
I'm here in Galveston, Texas, exactly 119 years after Stephen Crane visited, and acted as its correspondent. He visited in early March and wrote an essay, Galveston, Texas, in 1895. This essay stressed the ordinariness of Galveston. The notes how quickly the west is being "easternized."
From what I've learned, in 1895, people called Galveston the Wall Street of the southwest. It was ordinary in the sense that it was like any other port city at the time. I personally find Stephen Crane's observations fascinating because he recorded his Galveston-inspired thoughts in 1895 and (hang with me here, we're getting morbid) he died in June of 1900. He was only 28 when he died of tuberculosis*. Shortly thereafter, in September of 1900, a hurricane hit Galveston. Known here as "The Great Storm", it killed around 8,000 people and completely devastated the island. So, nutshelling: Crane visits Galveston, a port city, and ironically, is most surprised at its normality ; after making himself famous for naturalism, Crane dies at 28 in June of 1900; the Great Storm takes place in September of 1900.
One can't discuss Stephen Crane without discussing his use of naturalism --his best works depict nature as glorious, even living:
A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after
successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind
it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective
in the way of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dingey one can get an idea of
the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the
average experience, which is never at sea in a dingey. As each slaty wall of
water approached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and
it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last
effort of the grim water.
There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in
silence, save for the snarling of the crests. -Excerpt from Crane's "The Open Boat"
Where man can be reasoned with and persuaded, nature is indifferent--most of the time tragically indifferent. In 1897, he published one of his most famous pieces, "The Open Boat". The short story is based on a shipwreck experienced by Crane himself. He shared a lifeboat with three others-- a cook, a captain, and an oiler. In Crane's portrayal of the wreck, the oiler, Billie, is the only one mentioned by name. Not coincidentally, he's also the only one who ends up dying.
Earlier I mentioned that the Great Storm killed around 8,000 people, as in approximately, as in the numbers range-- from 6,000 to 15,000. I can't help but think that if Crane had been around to write about Galveston in September of the year he died, he could have figured out how to name the 6,000 to 15,000 (approximately 8,000) people.
Galveston, Texas, in 2014
It's a tourist town--famous for hurricanes, pirates, and birds. After the Great Storm of 1900, the entire city was raised 17 feet. This included over 2,100 buildings. Some people just filled the first floor of buildings with sand. In 1895, Stephen Crane would have had to walk up a flight of stairs. I can just walk in the door.
In addition to raising Galveston's elevation, a seawall, also 17-feet high, was constructed for protection. The city began construction in 1903 and finished in 1911. Come 1915, a hurricane, similar in size to the "Great Storm of 1900," struck Galveston. 53 people died. Apart from protecting the city, the wall serves other purposes. This past weekend being Mardi Gras, the city hosted a few parades along it. High school marching bands and floats filled with extraordinarily happy people made their way along the wall. The float-mongers throw beads. People are supposed to dive for these beads. I'm more of a "ducker" or a "get hit in the facer." The city has also placed historical landmarks along the wall where one can learn about Balinese ballrooms and a hotel that used to be there but were turned into a not-so-amusing amusement park. As for me, well, I use the wall for running.
I often run on the eastern side of the island, which is composed of beaches, pelicans, oil tankers and condos. Wealthy people live in the condos. If these condos were in a Scott Fitzgerald novel they'd be comprised of women who marry men for money and men who wear white shorts and cheat on their wives. Sometimes the wind wafts the oil-tanker's sulfurous smells up to the beach, past where the pelicans gather. Binocular-clad birdwatchers explore the swampy areas of east beach, gathering around Roseate Spoonbills and American Wigeons.
I visited Galveston for the first time in June of 2011, 3 years after Hurricane Ike struck the city. Hurricane Ike didn't hit the seawall directly. If it had, the extent of the damage would have been limited. As it so happens, the hurricane wound itself into the bay side of the island, beating buildings with waves and covering the island with water. Then the storm receded, taking debris and people with it. Ike killed over 40,000 trees. Chainsaw artists have come to Galveston and crafted the tree skeletons into mermaids, birds, and turtles. Someone chiseled the Tin Man. Another chiseled a new tree from the old, filled with wooden birds, flowers, insects.
Today I drank coffee with a man named Rory. He made sound effects to describe 35-foot waves hitting the side of his home. When the roof flipped off his house, he jumped into it and rode the waves, floating 45 nautical miles before landing west of Houston. He said the insects were worse than the alligators: "The red ants were hell."
Rory is 56 but looks about 70. He's tall and skinny. His skin is weathered, feathery around the eyes. As I sat typing, he sat in the chair across from me with a, "What are you typing so fervently about, young lady?" After receiving a swoony, "Stephen Crane," he told me his own story. He grew up in Houston, an artist in a band. After a failed marriage and giving up the band lifestyle, he moved to Galveston for the last third of his life (ages 40-60...he's thinking he'll be "taking a long dirt nap" by 60). At one point, Rory tipped back his chair and closed his eyes, "We here in Galveston live in mañana time. If you want something done by Friday, tell us you want it done by Monday because we'll start tomorrow."
In a couple of days I'm headed back to the mainland, up to the snow-covered Michigan mitten. I'll return to work, attend business classes, and trade summer dresses for sweaters. In Michigan, I'll put away my Stephen Crane novels. I'll turn to Earnest Hemingway, Thoreau, Annie Dillard, and other writers of the northern states. I'll study their lives on my own time and try to figure out why Thoreau, who doesn't seem materialistic, spends so much time writing about clothing or why Annie Dillard uses an entire page to describe an inchworm-- only to end by saying that the darn thing should throw itself off the piece of grass to which it has been clinging.
But that's mañana.
Right now? Well, I'll study more Crane. I'll walk 17-feet above where he walked and try to figure out what it means to name a person.
*Fun fact: Sorry to jump on the vampire train, but way back when, people often mistook tuberculosis victims for vampire victims. To test the theory, they'd often exhume the consumption-ridden body a few days after burial. Then (because, honestly, why not?!) they'd drive a stake through the heart. The body, bloated with all sorts of accumulated gases would appear to spring to life and let out a gasp.
From what I've learned, in 1895, people called Galveston the Wall Street of the southwest. It was ordinary in the sense that it was like any other port city at the time. I personally find Stephen Crane's observations fascinating because he recorded his Galveston-inspired thoughts in 1895 and (hang with me here, we're getting morbid) he died in June of 1900. He was only 28 when he died of tuberculosis*. Shortly thereafter, in September of 1900, a hurricane hit Galveston. Known here as "The Great Storm", it killed around 8,000 people and completely devastated the island. So, nutshelling: Crane visits Galveston, a port city, and ironically, is most surprised at its normality ; after making himself famous for naturalism, Crane dies at 28 in June of 1900; the Great Storm takes place in September of 1900.
One can't discuss Stephen Crane without discussing his use of naturalism --his best works depict nature as glorious, even living:
A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after
successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind
it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective
in the way of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dingey one can get an idea of
the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the
average experience, which is never at sea in a dingey. As each slaty wall of
water approached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and
it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last
effort of the grim water.
There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in
silence, save for the snarling of the crests. -Excerpt from Crane's "The Open Boat"
Where man can be reasoned with and persuaded, nature is indifferent--most of the time tragically indifferent. In 1897, he published one of his most famous pieces, "The Open Boat". The short story is based on a shipwreck experienced by Crane himself. He shared a lifeboat with three others-- a cook, a captain, and an oiler. In Crane's portrayal of the wreck, the oiler, Billie, is the only one mentioned by name. Not coincidentally, he's also the only one who ends up dying.
Earlier I mentioned that the Great Storm killed around 8,000 people, as in approximately, as in the numbers range-- from 6,000 to 15,000. I can't help but think that if Crane had been around to write about Galveston in September of the year he died, he could have figured out how to name the 6,000 to 15,000 (approximately 8,000) people.
Galveston, Texas, in 2014
It's a tourist town--famous for hurricanes, pirates, and birds. After the Great Storm of 1900, the entire city was raised 17 feet. This included over 2,100 buildings. Some people just filled the first floor of buildings with sand. In 1895, Stephen Crane would have had to walk up a flight of stairs. I can just walk in the door.
In addition to raising Galveston's elevation, a seawall, also 17-feet high, was constructed for protection. The city began construction in 1903 and finished in 1911. Come 1915, a hurricane, similar in size to the "Great Storm of 1900," struck Galveston. 53 people died. Apart from protecting the city, the wall serves other purposes. This past weekend being Mardi Gras, the city hosted a few parades along it. High school marching bands and floats filled with extraordinarily happy people made their way along the wall. The float-mongers throw beads. People are supposed to dive for these beads. I'm more of a "ducker" or a "get hit in the facer." The city has also placed historical landmarks along the wall where one can learn about Balinese ballrooms and a hotel that used to be there but were turned into a not-so-amusing amusement park. As for me, well, I use the wall for running.
I often run on the eastern side of the island, which is composed of beaches, pelicans, oil tankers and condos. Wealthy people live in the condos. If these condos were in a Scott Fitzgerald novel they'd be comprised of women who marry men for money and men who wear white shorts and cheat on their wives. Sometimes the wind wafts the oil-tanker's sulfurous smells up to the beach, past where the pelicans gather. Binocular-clad birdwatchers explore the swampy areas of east beach, gathering around Roseate Spoonbills and American Wigeons.
I visited Galveston for the first time in June of 2011, 3 years after Hurricane Ike struck the city. Hurricane Ike didn't hit the seawall directly. If it had, the extent of the damage would have been limited. As it so happens, the hurricane wound itself into the bay side of the island, beating buildings with waves and covering the island with water. Then the storm receded, taking debris and people with it. Ike killed over 40,000 trees. Chainsaw artists have come to Galveston and crafted the tree skeletons into mermaids, birds, and turtles. Someone chiseled the Tin Man. Another chiseled a new tree from the old, filled with wooden birds, flowers, insects.
Today I drank coffee with a man named Rory. He made sound effects to describe 35-foot waves hitting the side of his home. When the roof flipped off his house, he jumped into it and rode the waves, floating 45 nautical miles before landing west of Houston. He said the insects were worse than the alligators: "The red ants were hell."
Rory is 56 but looks about 70. He's tall and skinny. His skin is weathered, feathery around the eyes. As I sat typing, he sat in the chair across from me with a, "What are you typing so fervently about, young lady?" After receiving a swoony, "Stephen Crane," he told me his own story. He grew up in Houston, an artist in a band. After a failed marriage and giving up the band lifestyle, he moved to Galveston for the last third of his life (ages 40-60...he's thinking he'll be "taking a long dirt nap" by 60). At one point, Rory tipped back his chair and closed his eyes, "We here in Galveston live in mañana time. If you want something done by Friday, tell us you want it done by Monday because we'll start tomorrow."
In a couple of days I'm headed back to the mainland, up to the snow-covered Michigan mitten. I'll return to work, attend business classes, and trade summer dresses for sweaters. In Michigan, I'll put away my Stephen Crane novels. I'll turn to Earnest Hemingway, Thoreau, Annie Dillard, and other writers of the northern states. I'll study their lives on my own time and try to figure out why Thoreau, who doesn't seem materialistic, spends so much time writing about clothing or why Annie Dillard uses an entire page to describe an inchworm-- only to end by saying that the darn thing should throw itself off the piece of grass to which it has been clinging.
But that's mañana.
Right now? Well, I'll study more Crane. I'll walk 17-feet above where he walked and try to figure out what it means to name a person.
*Fun fact: Sorry to jump on the vampire train, but way back when, people often mistook tuberculosis victims for vampire victims. To test the theory, they'd often exhume the consumption-ridden body a few days after burial. Then (because, honestly, why not?!) they'd drive a stake through the heart. The body, bloated with all sorts of accumulated gases would appear to spring to life and let out a gasp.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Laughing Out Loud at Airports
"There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted. It is human, it is divine, carrion. If I knew for a certainty that a man was coming to my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I should run for my life, as from that dry and parching wind of the African deserts called the simoom, which fills the mouth and nose and ears and eyes with dust till you are suffocated, for fear that I should get some of his good done to me,--some of its virus mingled with my blood." -Henry David Thoreau
His argument? We should be good, not do good.
p.s. I started reading a short story from my Nathaniel Hawthorne Anthology today and found that I couldn't continue. The first sentence began with Mr. Hawthorne comparing life to a funeral procession... he would. Sometimes I wish he'd surprise me and start a story with an emoticon or something. But I get it. He had daddy issues, grandaddy issues, great grandaddy issues, great great grandaddy issues...whew. Maybe we'll talk Hawthorne ancestry later this week.
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