minimalism, continued

definition of minimalism: a style or technique (as in music, literature, or design) that is characterized by extreme spareness and simplicity.

See you tomorrow.

minimalism

Expect minimalism here, on Ocean. Today and tomorrow. I have a long week-end away ahead of me and an endless number of projects that need my gentle touch before I leave.

The reasons for this particular trip across the ocean are not of importance here. I will say that there is very little work involved and what work there is will be most pleasant indeed, as it will be conducted in a café.

I have been asked if I mind the long journey for such a short, short spell over there, you know, where I’m going. I should mind, I know I should, but I mind it no more than I mind a ride on a cold bus or a night with too little sleep and too much casebook reading. Besides, fewer nights there means less spent on hotels. So it’s a bargain! Of sorts.

But really, there isn’t a lot these days that bothers me. Rudeness, meanness – the usual culprits, typically coming from the usual suspects. Other than that, days are filled with a mixture of gentle inclines and downspurts, like an a bikeride across the hills of south-central Wisconsin. All you can hope for is good weather and a huge supply of energy and recently, I have had both.

[Though today, the weather turned on me. That’s okay, I was working. At home. Inside, looking out:]

from UP to UW: warm weather thoughts

Yesterday, having in complete laziness taken multiple hours to cross a small lake by canoe, I began to think that this cottage by the lake thing wasn’t such a bad idea. I pictured week-ends “up north,” summer, fall, even winter breaks up around here, maybe with snow shoe hikes and midnight skating on the lake. Berry picking, too. This is Michigan – land of the blueberry, right?

It has been said of me that I fall for things with reckless abandon.

Ed burst that bubble fast enough. Vacation home? That’s rich people’s talk.

He is, of course, correct. No matter. I had only been daydreaming about how to treat the million I’m likely to get for publishing my book. The one that I need time to write. The one that crawls along at a sentence a day. That one.

But a few hours out on a lake, two lakes in fact, joined together by this stream…




… does funny things to the mind.

In the late afternoon, we turned off the electricity, the water, drained the pipes, locked the doors and turned south, following the long trail of cars home. With only an occasional pause, to let the important residents of this region get to the other side.





Today, it’s back to the books. And the routine of bike, work, bike, cook, work, sleep.

I did note that I’m not the only one especially attached to my bike routines. It seemed this day was “take your bike to Bascom Mall” day. Who needs a bike rack on a day like this…

[That’s Bascom Mall for you: to the left, to the right, looking up, looking down. The first photo includes, of course, the buildings of our Law School.]
















It’s the persistently hot weather, I tell you. Can’t get tight about anything. Ride, rest, read, rest, read, ride. The patterns of a late September summerlike day.

from the UP: the best of the best

Idea: if you want to take someone to a cabin that may or may not be up to her neat-freak standards, drive up near midnight, after a storm, and say things like “thank God we found the dirt road that leads up to this place.” She’ll likely collapse with relief and when she wakes up the next morning, all she’ll notice will be the beautiful lake and maple forest.

Clarification: no, I do not photoshop color into my photos, to make them look like the canvases they sell by the roadside at $5 a piece. With black velvet trim. I cannot help it that we chose the most perfect week-end to be up north. Deeply clear skies, maples, exploding with brilliance, I mean, what can I do – mute my camera?


Chicago, Detroit and the UP -- linked by big time iron and big name boys, zipping up here for a break from city life. The McCormick and Ford men, the Firestone boys – oh, the whole lot of them. They bought land and settled in and the ones with a conscience handed it over, eventually, to the government, so that the likes of us could download maps and make our way up here to admire the views.

Ed and I hiked the McCormick Wilderness (I read that moose were airlifted here from Canada and now there are hundreds roaming the UP; so how come I saw not a single moose hair, let alone moose paw print the whole while I was here?) – up to the remains of the McCormick retreat.

You could not imagine a more beautiful fall day. Let me stay silent on the details and put up a few photos from the day, shown chronologically.




to the McCormick Wilderness



color



stream to jump over



path



brilliant



Ocean author, getting into the Yellow Dog River falls



at sunset: Marquette lighthouse on Lake Superior

from the UP: chasing cranes, storms and a sunrise

Cranes? Pull over. There, in the wetlands.
A hard maneuver and still, no access road.

We abandon the little pink-striped Geo, pick up trails that go nowhere and smell, for the first time, the autumn air of the north.





But we cannot get to the wetlands.

Loop around and let’s see if we can find a path from the highway.

Yes, they are still there. We try to get closer, but birds have this habit of flying away when they see my camera. Shy creatures.





The skies cloud over. Rain. What rain! And lightening. And the winds, pushing us up toward the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

In Iron Mountain, just over the border, we look for one of the three traditional Italian eateries. It’s very Italian up here, in Iron Mountain.

Let me call. Maybe they’re closed because of the storms.
They’re closed alright. Burned down in a heap of embers not too long ago. Oops.

Discouraged, we head for the next – Fontana – and it’s hoppin!’ Becky, the owner (I would put her at around ninety), shows us to a table. All you can eat fish fry, if you want it. $8.95, she tells us. No, no – we want to pick up on the Italian theme.

Four women, in ages somewhere between Becky and myself, all with very poofy hair, are reviewing the day’s weather. We’re under a tornado watch. It's a mess out there, Edna.

We get drinks, we get menus, but Becky makes no effort to take our orders. Becky isn't feeling warm toward us. Possibly we did not show excitement at the mention of fried cod. Oh, to be liked by the head of the Italian family that has served food here for generations! Ed shrugs, but I smile at her, a big toothy grin, everytime she looks our way (which is rarely).

We’re hungry. We ask the bartender for a plate of sautéed mushrooms. People have those with steak, you know, with dinner. That’s fine, but could we have some anyway? We have given up on the elusive intractable woman in control.

But eventually she comes over, poised to write down all that we ask for.

I ask my usual. I don’t mean to be difficult, it’s just that I really really care about these things:
Where are the shrimp from?
She looks at me over her thick glasses.
Randy’s distributor, like all our seafood.
I’ll have the Canadian scallops over mushrooms, with a side of gnocchi with marinara sauce.

We’ll seat you at your proper table when the salads are ready.

Ah, so there is a procedure. I see that the four women with poofy hair have made their way to the second room. In another hour or so, we are there as well.

I’m ready to eat anything and everything, even very average food.

Except that the food is not average. The homemade salad dressing, pungent with olive oil, is perfectly herbed, the scallops are picking up the flavors of the garlic mushrooms, the gnocchi are clearly home made.





Welcome to the UP.

It’s very late as we make our way down the dirt road to Little Squaw Lake. An A frame cottage at the water’s edge. We fall asleep in the utter quiet of the woods.

And in the morning, as the sun throws its first light on the trees across the water, we push the canoe out onto the lake and watch.

whirlwind

..a blurr of fun last night (with students -- truly a brilliant bunch!)...




...and out the door I go this afternoon, heading north. With a smiling traveling companion. And Lysol.

on a day like this...

...late in September, no less, I mean, really, who can blame them?

tell me more, tell me more…

It was the kind of day where every living being in Madison wanted to take in those last warm rays.





Me too. On my balcony, my work in my lap, squinting against the sun.

Looking up from my text, though, I could tell: these are autumnal colors. And I don’t mean the turning leaves. Every month has its distinctive light. This tree has late September written all over it.




[Yes, bingo! Correct. A day of work and a bike ride home and then more work. You expect a longer post? Something tells me that the week-end will offer material. But not until then.]

one man’s dream…

So, my friend has this house up north…
(translation: a pal who professes not to see dirt, ever, has recently purchased a summer home from a very old couple whose eyesight and physical stamina were such that they could hardly care for themselves let alone a place they hung out in occasionally; said house is a good five hour drive up from Madison)

…and he’s letting us use it for the week-end!
So what state is it in?
Great!
Says who?
Well, I visited there last month, as did his son, as did another buddy of his…
(translation: four guys, none of them ever noticing any dirt anywhere, as opposed to me, who notices it even where it doesn’t exist, recently went up and had a good time hangin’ out in a shack which probably has not seen the likes of Lysol in the last, maybe forty years)

Has the bathroom ever seen the likes of Lysol?
What’s Lysol?
(case in point)

So anyway, we could hang out there and you could write…
(translation: I could write if it didn’t get too cold or if the animals and/or bugs that have probably taken over in the absence of a human scent don’t absolutely get to me, and I could then post things on Ocean about it all, only not while there because, nat, there’s no Internet)

…and we could go swimming in the lake and take some hikes up there and we could take nuts and stuff…
(translation: there’s no store within miles and not only would I need to take provisions, which I then would not cook because I don’t even want to contemplate the state of the kitchen, but I would have to take coffee and that means milk and of course, the refrigerator is likely to be turned off, possibly taken over by a family of mice because it’s warm and comfy and snug in there, when it’s standing empty and turned off)

Are there linens and towels?
Linens and towels? (here, my occasional travel companion, Ed, pauses and rubs his chin, trying to recall his very recent visit there) I’m sure I slept on something and wiped myself off with something…
(translation: one of the guys had a towel and they all used it and then “forgot” to wash it, most likely)
…Anyway, we can wash up stuff there. And take Lysol.
(translation: said week-end will require a half-assed cleaning job, of the type that leaves the strong smell of cleaning product on your hands)

So, I said no to the idea, right?

Oh, but the sun is warm outside and Ed is so eager and excited about this quick jaunt into the northwoods. I imagine that for him, staying up in his buddy’s cabin is like me spending a week-end in Paris. I’m not that unkind.

In the meantime, I’m reveling in the weather and appreciating, while I can, a nice skim double cappuccino. Outside. At a café. In a clean cup, with a yummy scone. You appreciate the things that are soon to be in short supply.

from d.c.: food and water

Is there anything as important? Okay, love. Warmth. Yeah, I need a warm abode.

But as it’s well documented that I am rich in the latter two, so let’s just focus on food and water. My twenty-four hours had so much of it! Let me go back to Saturday night’s dinner and run through the next twenty-four hours, chronologically:



Dinner:
Corn bisque with a shrimp



Breakfast:
French toast




Snack:
fresh and honest cupcakes




Canal:
The C&O, again. This time running through Georgetown




Canal:
taking water from it




River:
The Potomac, again, at the end of the day




Canal:
…and back to the C&O




Dinner:
ending with a berry pavlova

from d.c.: marching

Early in the day, I go to the White House. A pleasant half hour walk. A march is scheduled for noon. I watch people assemble, I listen to speeches. I take photos. It's been a while since I have been to a peace rally.


























In the late afternoon we set out for a hike along the Capital Crescent trail. We leave DC behind and make our way along the tow path of the C&O Canal. Between the trees, we catch glimpses of the Potomac. The greenery is different here. More southern. Though the birds could be straight out of Wisconsin.









We march along, briskly, engrossed in each other’s stories, and in the deep warm colors of a fading sun.




And so we lose the trail. Somewhere, on mile 6.5 we should have turned toward Bethesda. We are, instead, by the water’s edge. How far can we continue like this? Hundreds of miles. The canal is long. We’re already in Maryland.

We turn in search of a metro stop. There aren't many out here.

It’s good and dark when we get home. Thankfully, at the end of the day, there is always a terrific meal to be had here. With a side dish of goat cheese grits. Because, well, it’s the south.

from d.c.: people

Oh, do I appreciate the challenge of taking photos of people! I have, in fact, a hugely complicated explanation in my mind as to why I like it as much as I do, but I wont spell it out here. Ocean readers know this about me anyway. I’ll risk being banged with my camera over my head but I’ll try for it. I’ll take the picture that, in my mind at least, is an interesting statement about the place I’m visiting. It’s especially rewarding if I am in a setting far from home.

So in the short while I had before setting out for dinner, I took a stroll. These were all taken within a few blocks of where I’m staying. Chronologically:

quiet

My day is that. Immersed in the quiet of work. And then, a ride home, by the lake.



[oh, by the way, Madisonians: you need no longer say that you have to travel to France to get a good steak frites; but shhhhh! I want to be able to get a table when the fancy strikes me; you can go there, but only on the weekends, when I’m likely to be elsewhere. You want the name? Okay, okay, Brasserie V. On Monroe. Damn close to perfect. And get the endive salad. And the rosé. What a place. But shhhh!]

preoccupied

And again work intrudes into just about every waking hour this week. The pay off? Enjoying doing things not haphazardly. Enjoying work. Working ahead. Looking ahead. Including to four out of the next five week-ends poking around interesting, distant places. WAS, UP, CDG and BOS. Three out of four promise good food. One out of four promises quiet. Four out of four suggest great company. And time to write.

For now, I battle the cold in the morning (it was in the low forties and very shady) and the desire to fall asleep before I want to in the evening.

Oh, wait. I did take a ride to the airport. To pick up a friend. On the way, I stopped at Madison Park. Who wouldn’t? The most brilliantly blue (but cold) day turned into a waterfall of sunset colors. So at least you have that.

color

It was such a windy day! The waters of Lake Mendota looked like the Baltic on an especially choppy day. Perhaps I exaggerate. But only slightly.






I may have had time to write an interesting post today, but Jason laid claim to a substantial chunk of my afternoon hours. Yes, yes, long-time Ocean readers, my man Jason continues to be a significant force in my life. The man of color and conviction.

Ed (another force to reckon with) asks me – why do you color your hair?
And I respond – I do NOT color my hair. I only touch up the roots.
Why?
Because they are of the color a mouse would be, were she to live to a ripe old age.

Ed studies the roots. They seem fine to me…
That’s because you are not seeing them as they would be, were they not touched up a bit.
To me, it seems like your roots are brown with highlights. So, you pay Jason huge sums of money (for Ed, anything done at a hair place that costs more than $12 is a huge sum of money; particularly if it does not even include a beard trim) to turn what’s brown with highlights into what’s another shade of brown with highlights.
The highlights are the sun’s doing! They are entirely natural!
…Besides, I like your hair when it’s longer.

What’s the matter with men?! in my experience, they all say they prefer longer hair. Hair that gets in the way of most everything. Hair that looks ridiculously unkempt when it is on my scalp (because, truthfully, I run a comb through it just once in the course of the day – when I am straight out of the shower; otherwise, I can’t be bothered).

Jason, it has been suggested that I should stay with longer hair.
Jason regards me with that a look of great benevolence, which is only slightly better than an eye-roll. You mean, you don’t want me to take off more than, say, an inch?
(I have just visited Jason 4.5 weeks back; it is nearly impossible to imagine that my hair grew by an inch since then; so let’s interpret this for what it is: my man Jason is flexing his tattooed arm against my occasional travel companion, Ed. Fine, he is saying. Grow it out. Slowly. So slowly that it must get shorter before it, in a decade or so, gets longer.)

I stay silent.
Okay, three fourths of an inch. Jason is no fool. He knows and I know that generally, I tend to tip big (a relic from my upbringing in communist Poland). Generally.

Of course, tomorrow, when I bike to work, it will all look terribly unkempt, but tonight, my scalp is aglow with the Jason touch. The man’s a genius.

an excuse

I wake up and, for the first time since maybe April, I get up to shut the window a bit. Because it is cold outside.

Biking to or from work is not an option. Not for me. The rain is coming down hard. I’d look bewitching with strands of wet hair plastered to my face, clothes dripping the dirty puddle water, fingers purple red from the cold.

Still, poor weather is sort of liberating, isn’t it?

I finish teaching, I look out my office window – this one, right here:





…and I see no reason to exert myself. Biking, hiking, sunning, dashing, accomplishing things that require movement from one place to another? Forget it.

I settle in for a comfortable, long period of writing.