a stop on the Silk Road

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This isn't another ode to turquoise - but it could be.

You know those guys who threaded along the Silk Route with tin pots and trinkets clanging from their shoulders - from Chang'an to the Caspian Sea? I'm pretty sure Don was one of them in a former life. Lucky us we got to stay overnight in a caravansaray near Izmir, Turkey - one of the lodges for travelers on the Silk Road. I must say we felt very much at home there with the simple, modest furnishings, and was it ever something to look out our room's window like looking out a horizontal well through four feet of stone. As for me, maybe I trekked with Gurdjieff in a former life while he offered repairs of small machinery in the tiny villages of those mountain passes through the Ural Mountains. I had to get all my hyper-self-examination from someplace. Oh, and have you been to one of Yo-Yo Ma's Silk Road Project concerts? I love how he promotes budding young artists from the U.S. and Asia in order to connect the world's neighborhoods through the arts.

Even before I met Don, back in the mid-1970s when he worked the night shift, he went yardsale-ing with his mom on Fridays. There are still little affectionate grudges over who got to what treasure first. "See that Victorian rocker [in Mom's family room]? I spied it first across a table, but Mom nabbed it before I could get to it."

He has since proven again and again that he has an eye for the treasure in the junk. I have slid down out of view in the passenger seat when he stopped the car to curb pick through other people's cast-offs. At home, after the humiliation subsides, I am always pleased with his "purchases."

So a couple of Saturdays ago when I was planting flowers and mentally preparing the yard for the upcoming wedding here at the farm, Don announced he was leaving his veggie beds for a break and heading into town where he'd seen yard sale signs the day before. I asked him to look out for vessels for flowers to be placed among seating arrangements where people will visit during appetizers and the reception on Farm Wedding Day.

He returned with what you see in the three tiered photos upper left, and more. All of it - in toto - cost $5. The turquoise vintage metal chair alone goes for $20-40 on eBay.

So picture the canning jars and containers filled with sunflowers on long reception tables under the tent and on makeshift hay bale tables between old wooden chairs around the yard for wedding guests to relax and enjoy.





Years ago I found this chap on the right at an antique store, who now carries his load on our guest room wall. I can definitely see a resemblance to Don.













And this is my mountain trekking partner in a former life, G.I. Gurdjieff



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first lines & last lines

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I had fun reading the list of 100 best first lines from novels and 100 best last lines from novels, at American Book Review. Made me want to write a novel, just to start and end it. Here are a few good ones from each list, from books I haven't read.

I never knew where this first line came from:

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. —Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. —William Gibson, Neuromancer (1984)

Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. "Stop!" cried the groaning old man at last, "Stop! I did not drag my father beyond this tree." —Gertrude Stein, The Making of Americans (1925)

For a long time, I went to bed early. —Marcel Proust, Swann's Way (1913; trans. Lydia Davis)

The moment one learns English, complications set in. —Felipe Alfau, Chromos (1990)

Dr. Weiss, at forty, knew that her life had been ruined by literature. —Anita Brookner, The Debut (1981)

We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall. —Louise Erdrich, Tracks (1988)

Most really pretty girls have pretty ugly feet, and so does Mindy Metalman, Lenore notices, all of a sudden. —David Foster Wallace, The Broom of the System (1987)

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. —Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle (1948)

Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women. —Charles Johnson, Middle Passage (1990)

This is not the scene I dreamed of. Like much else nowadays I leave it feeling stupid, like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere. –J.M. Coetzee, Waiting for the Barbarians (1980)

For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate. –Albert Camus, The Stranger (1942; trans. Matthew Ward)

It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow. –Toni Morrison, Sula (1973)

“All that is very well,” answered Candide, “but let us cultivate our garden.” –Voltaire, Candide (1759; trans. Robert M. Adams)

Everything had gone right with me since he had died, but how I wished there existed someone to whom I could say that I was sorry. – Graham Greene, The Quiet American (1956)

“Maybe I will go to Paris. Who knows? But I’ll sure as hell never go back to Texas again." –James Crumley, The Final Country (2001)

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we don't have to eat what they feed us

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David Gray of "Babylon" fame has an album I love called Life in Slow Motion, from 2005, with this song called "Hospital food." When I'm on the treadmill with earphones on and get to this eighth song on the album I start singing out loud with it - top of my voice loud. I just can't help myself. It's always the last song of my workout, so when it's done, I'm done (which makes me happy), but the song itself is wonderful and so the combination is thrilling. Then I bring my sweaty self out to the family room to find Don and Peter also looking happy. I do like to make them happy.

"‘Hospital Food’, says David, “is what we all eat every day. The nanny state, TV-gobbling idiocy that we call passing time is basically hospital food. You get a lot of shit thrown on your plate, and you eat it.” (This quote is at his bio site.)

Hospital Food

Just a little something for the pain
Hospital food getting you down?
Honey now I'm not one to complain
But this hangin' around
Is wearing me out

So patch me up boys take me home
Are you not hearing a word I say?
She sounds so different on the phone
I just sink like a stone
Back to the day

Tell me something
Tell me something
I don't already know
Tell me something
Tell me something I don't know

Don't seem to have that much to show
For all the hard work, the sweat and toil
You say 'well that's right,' and you should know
You've been there before
You've basked in the glow
You've stood in the roar
You've tasted the snow

Tell me something
Tell me something
I don't already know
Tell me something
Tell me something
I don't already

Seeing it all so beautiful
The way it oughta be
Seeing it all so beautiful
And turning away
Turning away
Turning away

Tell me something
Tell me something
I don't already know
Tell me something
Tell me something
I don't already know

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Happy-Making

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I watched two movies on my laptop last weekend, something that will be more common now. Don isn't into movies like I am, and the red Netflix envelopes have sat accusingly like overripe tomatoes, waiting for us to devour their contents while the $15.99/month fee for unlimited movies goes on getting billed. I finally relinquished the necessity of watching movies together, so he can do something he enjoys while I do what I enjoy and watch a movie in another room. I'm pretty sure Don was happier watching the Redwings play ice hockey in the Stanley Cup playoffs than he would have been watching those two movies with me. Duh.

And me? I really liked watching these two films on my own about women whose goal in life is to make people happy. Both of them came out in 2008. The first was "27 Dresses" about a woman who has been a bridesmaid in 27 weddings. It was a typical - and mediocre (though it had its moments) - Hollywood romantic comedy about a woman who spends too much time making everyone else happy and doesn't have a life, or love, of her own. The second was "Happy-Go-Lucky" - a Mike Leigh (thus British) film that still has me thankful I watched it. I hadn't seen one of his films since "Secrets & Lies" - which I loved thirteen years ago. No Hollywood gloss here - which I appreciate.

I won't spoil anything for you, but please watch "Happy-Go-Lucky" - about a woman named Poppy who first annoyed me, then made me laugh, then cry, then wish I were more like her. Poppy has actually shaped my behavior toward people this week, helping me stop and imagine not just how to make someone happy, but also what it's like to be in someone else's shoes. Don't let the title and the DVD photo below fool you. The movie is intense and moving.

There is a lot of blur around the ways women try to keep others happy. In general I believe there are innate traits in women to appease, to be in relationship, to communicate, to nurture, to self sacrifice - we can argue about whether conditioned or genetic (probably some of both). During the past five decades especially we have been working to balance that with ways to bust free from solely living in a nurturing role and do other things we love. Maybe in another few decades women won't be expected to sacrifice their desires to please others. Both these films in their own ways show the vulnerabilities of being a woman and how difficult it can be for us to do exactly what we want - with the kind of support and acknowledgment we deserve.

And a lot of the time - like Don and me watching movies together - it just takes a little breaking loose of expectations, for myself especially. It's really silly when you realize that what you thought you should do wasn't even making anyone happy!


"27 Dresses" - 40% Fresh at rottentomatoes

"Happy-Go-Lucky" - 92% Fresh at rottentomatoes

Next on my queue: "Visions of Light" about the art of cinematography in American movies.

"Visions of Light" synopsis from rottentomatoes: An exceptional documentary about the craft of cinematography, featuring behind the scenes looks at some of the greatest films down through the decades in Hollywood, with secrets and insight into... An exceptional documentary about the craft of cinematography, featuring behind the scenes looks at some of the greatest films down through the decades in Hollywood, with secrets and insight into the look of great films such as CITIZEN KANE, THE GODFATHER, film noir, and much more. The film received very high critical praise for its comprehensive look at the art of filmmaking and the unapologetic love of the form.

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tree swallows and the "Genius of the Wood"

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In the meadow near the pond, Pa stayed on the branch and Ma in the house as the photographer tried to simultaneously swat mosquitoes and keep the camera still. They quietly protected their babes in the box, never leaving in spite of my lurky-jerky loitering. Though I didn't hear it, they have a sweet song.

Henry David Thoreau (whom Louisa May Alcott called "the Genius of the Wood") said:

I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment, while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance that I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn.

You think if a sparrow landed on Mr. Thoreau's shoulder while he was hoeing, a swallow or sparrow or bluebird might land on mine while swatting? I doubt it. Emerson said Thoreau would sit so still the birds came after a while and watched him.

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MEMORY: Jacob Maarse - free luxury

I might live on a farm - scuttling around with chickens in the yard, hanging laundry on the line in bare feet, slopping leftovers onto the compost pile and digging up dandelions from between bricks in the walkway. I might be a cheapskate, a rustic, a bohemian wannabe. I might even romanticize all that for you, showing you just the right peeling paint on the porch floor but hiding the wrong chipped paint on the deck skirt. One looks "shabby chic," while the other just looks hillbilly. (How carefully and purposefully we blog.)

But while part of me wants rustic, frugal and simple, another part of me revels in luxury, through the eyes, fingertips, mouth. Paris kind of luxury. I am the first to argue that my life is full of luxury - of the "best" kind - ample feathers, weathered wood, fresh eggs and veggies and overflowing goodness and kindness are but a few, what Thoreau and Emerson might call "the art of living well" - but just humor me.

Jacob Maarse Florists in Pasadena, California was my second-hand luxury in a previous lifetime. We were in our twenties living in this neighboring city of LA, with a tiny toddler and a new baby. We had no money to spare. This would have been around 1982, it was Christmas, and in Pasadena that meant it was 70 degrees F (21 C) - poinsettias were growing as shrubs outdoors. It was the year we couldn't afford Christmas gifts, so friends loaned us their Playskool jungle gym for Lesley and Peter to climb on when they woke up Christmas morning.

One Saturday before Christmas I put on my nicest casual outfit, smoothed back my long wavy hair with a headband, left the babies in Don's expert hands, and escaped alone downtown for some holiday inspiration.

On display in Jacob Maarse were effusive dried flower arrangements as well as evergreen ones with red holly berries, silver candlesticks and frames, potpourris, bath salts and soaps, stiff linens with lace borders, red velvet ribbons and plaid pillows. The place smelled rich. The wood door frames were old but well hung. Older Pasadena money'd ladies floated through the store as they awaited a floral order. I tried not to feel out of place. I even worked up some courage to ask the florist who was artistically filling a dozen grapevine Christmas baskets who had ordered them? They were full of every good thing the store had to offer, and I imagined them to be worth at least $100 apiece - a fortune to me at the time. She replied, "Julie Andrews."

Julie Andrews. Suddenly all the floating women in the store looked just like her - aging gracefully (she was only 47 then, but I was 20 years younger!), smooth, simple hair around a pretty face, and modest but fine clothes only a woman with old money would wear.

I stared at those copious gift baskets and - in spite of my own personal lack of means - felt that something was right in the world. A successful woman remembered her friends at Christmas by sending a basket of luxury. Would I have liked to be one of the recipients?

Maybe in a way, I was. I received the visual exuberance and generosity and still carry it in my heart and mind 27 years later.

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season of the black locust - "the poverty tree"

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In a morning walk to the meadow, feet soaked with dew, I was surprised to find trees in flower that I hadn't seen closely yet in our five previous springs at the farm. Don't ask me how that is possible, but it's true. It wasn't that the dozen or so trees hadn't blossomed, because I had smelled their eye-closing fragrance. But I had not really noticed the blossoms closely or even remembered the trees' name.

I didn't know this is the season of the black locust.

See how like pea blossoms they are, falling in racemes. In fact black locust trees are in the Faboideae subfamily of the pea family Fabaceae. At times these blossoms are swarmed by bees; black locust is one of the prime sources of honey in the U.S.

We could call them bees' peas. Wish I'd caught a bee in the frame.





It's named black locust because of its dark bark, which rises in deep furrows. You know how Abe Lincoln famously chopped wood? Well it was black locust logs he chopped - probably for fence posts and the famous log cabin, because it's very sturdy wood. The locust part was named mistakenly for what sustained St. John the Baptist in the wilderness - but this tree is native to North America. The correct tree of "honey and locust" fame is the locust tree of Spain - Ceratonia siliqua (carob tree).





Because the tree grows where nothing else will (it has nitrogen-fixing bacteria in its root system), poet Gerald Stern said:

My identity with that tree has something to do with Judasism and with persecution. The tree is short-lived--forty years maybe--it's asymmetrical, considered ugly, worthless. Farmers value it only as a source of fence posts. People, when they buy land, chop them down to replace them with shade trees--I love that tree, I identify with it; it's my poverty tree. I sometimes see the concentration camp number on the forearm, or forelimb.

x x x x - from Making the Light Come, by Jane Somerville

See how the black branches stand out when the white blossoms are spread full. It sure isn't ugly if you ask me.



You're right to exclaim: How did you miss that!



Robinia pseudoacacia information gathered at wiki.

Here is a sweet poem by Gerald Stern in his choppy, talky style:

The Preacher [As if the one tree you love]

As if the one tree you love so well and hardly
can embrace it is so huge so that with-
out it there might be a hole in the universe
explains how the killing of any one thing can
likewise make a hole except that without
its existence there was neither a hole nor not a hole
I said to my friend Peter and after he left
I walked to the tree again and put my arms
around the trunk or almost did for I was
embracing it preparatory should I say
to its dying for it was one of the many
dying trees along my river mainly
sycamore and locust—

Finish reading the long-ish poem here . . .

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