And there was a winter wind. Ice, snow, I can handle it. (So could these students, just outside my office.)
But my mind was on other places, other mornings. And food. Here, read about it on Ocean View, "Ingestibles" tab, of course.
1 day ago
Friday, January 26, 2007
ice and snow and blueberry pancakes
Tight days mean little time for a leisurely stroll to and from work. I biked. With wet hair and a scarf flying in the winter wind.
And there was a winter wind. Ice, snow, I can handle it. (So could these students, just outside my office.)
But my mind was on other places, other mornings. And food. Here, read about it on Ocean View, "Ingestibles" tab, of course.
And there was a winter wind. Ice, snow, I can handle it. (So could these students, just outside my office.)
But my mind was on other places, other mornings. And food. Here, read about it on Ocean View, "Ingestibles" tab, of course.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
waiting
…for the big thaw. It is of little significance that the big lakes haven’t been frozen for more than a handful of days. In my mind, frozen water is a poor substitute for the spray and splash of the warm summer stuff, bedazzling at sunset, probably splendid at sunrise for the odd types who are drawn to watching that sort of thing.
Still, there are people who consider walking along the snow topped ice a pleasant, romantic little adventure.
I applaud them. I am happy for them and they are happier with the date on the calendar than I am. (In truth, it is unreasonable to speak of thaws in Wisconsin in January).
Me, I wait for the Terrace chairs to be out again, not piled against a wall, pushed away, irrelevant, undesirable, cold.
The best thing about biting, crisp days like this is that you’re glad when they are done with.
Still, there are people who consider walking along the snow topped ice a pleasant, romantic little adventure.
I applaud them. I am happy for them and they are happier with the date on the calendar than I am. (In truth, it is unreasonable to speak of thaws in Wisconsin in January).
Me, I wait for the Terrace chairs to be out again, not piled against a wall, pushed away, irrelevant, undesirable, cold.
The best thing about biting, crisp days like this is that you’re glad when they are done with.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
wednesday woes
I may as well set this up as a regular Ocean feature for this semester. Because, fact is, I do not have the required minutes (and therefore the creative spirit) to make much of anything of this midweek day. It is, and will be for weeks on end, too busy (with work) for words.
But maybe not for photos. As long as one wakes up and gets out of bed, there is never no room for grabbing your digital and taking a shot of the world.
So there you have it. My day ends with a walk along the lake. I have to give support to a fundraiser at the Monona Terrace convention center. Within walking distance for me.
Once there, I am lost amidst swarms of unknown people. What do I do? Consider hitting the dessert tray. Worth it? You tell me.
But maybe not for photos. As long as one wakes up and gets out of bed, there is never no room for grabbing your digital and taking a shot of the world.
So there you have it. My day ends with a walk along the lake. I have to give support to a fundraiser at the Monona Terrace convention center. Within walking distance for me.
Once there, I am lost amidst swarms of unknown people. What do I do? Consider hitting the dessert tray. Worth it? You tell me.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
signs
What greater evidence is there of the beginning of a semester than the appearance of posts here, on Ocean, that are short, but not so crisp, and certainly not always to the point?
Walking home from work, with my camera dangling as usual in the hope that something wonderfully amusing or, in the alternative, fantastically clever will strike me, thereby forming the backbone of an evening story, I almost reached the loft before taking a single shot. And I chose to photograph this:
Why? Not for the cleverness nor amusement value, but for exactly what it is: the incongruous pairing of a sunshine motif with the reality of snow piled around bicycles.
Again, why is this of interest to me? I’m still contemplating my own March madness. Assume I have earned a week-end of downtime. Should it be in warm places (where oranges grow)? Oddly, I think it will be in a place that’s both cold (encased in snow) and warm (kissed by the sun) at the same time.
So many days between now and March. So many chances to change my mind.
Walking home from work, with my camera dangling as usual in the hope that something wonderfully amusing or, in the alternative, fantastically clever will strike me, thereby forming the backbone of an evening story, I almost reached the loft before taking a single shot. And I chose to photograph this:
Why? Not for the cleverness nor amusement value, but for exactly what it is: the incongruous pairing of a sunshine motif with the reality of snow piled around bicycles.
Again, why is this of interest to me? I’m still contemplating my own March madness. Assume I have earned a week-end of downtime. Should it be in warm places (where oranges grow)? Oddly, I think it will be in a place that’s both cold (encased in snow) and warm (kissed by the sun) at the same time.
So many days between now and March. So many chances to change my mind.
Monday, January 22, 2007
mammoth thoughts about mammoth people, plus a photo of a mammoth tree
It seems that sometimes, people just take charge. Of a conversation, of a life, of a problematic set of circumstances. They seize the reigns, grab the bull’s horn (or is it tail?), they jump in and suddenly, they are towering and omnipresent, and their inclinations, proclivities, ideas and belief systems are ferociously palpable.
You might think that I would regard this as a bad thing. It smells of an aggressive, domineering stance. Most unwelcome, right?
No. Over the years, I have felt the strength of people who can do this effectively and it is incredible to behold. They tower over you, they appear to strike against your most pernicious fears and worries and then, miraculously, they step back and let the free-wheeling, independent spirits roam again.
It doesn’t happen very often (not the seizing the reigns, not the stepping back), but in my mind at least there are the rare types who can do it, have done it, are willing to do it. Heroes, to me.
You might think that I would regard this as a bad thing. It smells of an aggressive, domineering stance. Most unwelcome, right?
No. Over the years, I have felt the strength of people who can do this effectively and it is incredible to behold. They tower over you, they appear to strike against your most pernicious fears and worries and then, miraculously, they step back and let the free-wheeling, independent spirits roam again.
It doesn’t happen very often (not the seizing the reigns, not the stepping back), but in my mind at least there are the rare types who can do it, have done it, are willing to do it. Heroes, to me.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
buried
If, looking outside today, you leapt out of bed, downed a hefty bowl of granola, with a steaming latte on the side, slid into your warmies and your winter boots and dashed outside to play in the immensely beautiful snow – you were not me. Or even remotely like me.
But, as the afternoon progressed, I caved. Ignoring paperwork, ignoring work demands, I went outside. Snow like this is rare.
I walked the block to the lake and sure enough, finally, the ice fishers were there. Some with children, some alone.
A year has passed. Last winter, these guys had me out there watching, photographing them constantly. This year, only now did I feel it is safe enough for me to walk out and look around.
But that was just an afternoon pause. Basically, I remain buried. Under a layer of a different kind of white stuff: paper.
But, as the afternoon progressed, I caved. Ignoring paperwork, ignoring work demands, I went outside. Snow like this is rare.
I walked the block to the lake and sure enough, finally, the ice fishers were there. Some with children, some alone.
A year has passed. Last winter, these guys had me out there watching, photographing them constantly. This year, only now did I feel it is safe enough for me to walk out and look around.
But that was just an afternoon pause. Basically, I remain buried. Under a layer of a different kind of white stuff: paper.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
week-end redirect
Looking for a story tonight? Ocean View (Save & Travel tab) has an update. What about? Oh, on this kind of journey:
It is far, far better to direct you there than to have me write about this cold, cold, work-filled day.
It is far, far better to direct you there than to have me write about this cold, cold, work-filled day.
Friday, January 19, 2007
dear little one,
I didn’t mean it. When I told you that you were stubborn (back when you were only a week old), I didn’t mean it. Or, I meant it then, but I think now you were just communicating your willfulness. And desire. For food, for life, for the winter season. Making a statement.
That photo? You look so little, there in that field, with a bunch of flowers in your hair and sporting a New York t-shirt. A successful parent is one who can make you appreciate both – nature and New York (and Istanbul and Buenos Aires). And so in this way, I have not failed.
We toddled along, you and I. You, more patiently than I, of that I am certain. I forgave you your long hours at work and play, I forgave you your way of scorning the vegetables on your plate. And you forgave me my insistence that there be room for everything in your life (even the vegetables). And you tested and tasted life and made up your own mind and the one minute we were not watching, there you were, holding onto a plateful of good things.
Bold steps, one after another -- an early start, you walked before anyone on the planet. No one has your concentration, your attention to the finer details of life. Thank you for not dwelling on the imperfections that are all around us, even as I try to get a handle on it all, realizing that one never does fully get a handle on it all.
You fit in. In life, you fit in. You are that flexible, that curious, that tolerant of those with strong convictions (yes, I have food convictions, I admit it – and you humor me and work next to me as we pile food onto plates and trays, side by side, you and I in the kitchen – thank you for this).
Twenty-two is like two twos, two terrible twos only you were never terrible. It’s as if you skipped from being one, to a confluence of ages and years so that you have always been a child and an adult and you worried along with me when I worried about you because you understood that sometimes one needs to worry.
But mostly, your face has been a barrelful of expressions. You can make lizards dance with that mouth down pout. You have made us laugh hard.
Your sister adores you, your dad does too, and your friends, but move over, people, there is room for me! I adore you so much, my little one!
Happy birthday!
…with so much love…
~muz
That photo? You look so little, there in that field, with a bunch of flowers in your hair and sporting a New York t-shirt. A successful parent is one who can make you appreciate both – nature and New York (and Istanbul and Buenos Aires). And so in this way, I have not failed.
We toddled along, you and I. You, more patiently than I, of that I am certain. I forgave you your long hours at work and play, I forgave you your way of scorning the vegetables on your plate. And you forgave me my insistence that there be room for everything in your life (even the vegetables). And you tested and tasted life and made up your own mind and the one minute we were not watching, there you were, holding onto a plateful of good things.
Bold steps, one after another -- an early start, you walked before anyone on the planet. No one has your concentration, your attention to the finer details of life. Thank you for not dwelling on the imperfections that are all around us, even as I try to get a handle on it all, realizing that one never does fully get a handle on it all.
You fit in. In life, you fit in. You are that flexible, that curious, that tolerant of those with strong convictions (yes, I have food convictions, I admit it – and you humor me and work next to me as we pile food onto plates and trays, side by side, you and I in the kitchen – thank you for this).
Twenty-two is like two twos, two terrible twos only you were never terrible. It’s as if you skipped from being one, to a confluence of ages and years so that you have always been a child and an adult and you worried along with me when I worried about you because you understood that sometimes one needs to worry.
But mostly, your face has been a barrelful of expressions. You can make lizards dance with that mouth down pout. You have made us laugh hard.
Your sister adores you, your dad does too, and your friends, but move over, people, there is room for me! I adore you so much, my little one!
Happy birthday!
…with so much love…
~muz
Thursday, January 18, 2007
PR
What’s in a word… Or in letters? What images do those two bring forth?
POLAR?
An obvious choice today. Light snow flurries, gray skies.
I need a break! It cannot be all work, I need a break! I meander. Just a handful of blocks, to Vilas Park, the zoo, empty now. No little children with cups of fizzy soda… So cold… Are there beings who do not mind this grayness, this utter chill?
PR... Public Relations?
In my days (are my days no more?), I heard a lot about PR. We need to do some PR work, our image is at an all time low. Do people still worry about Public Relations? Elected officials? Firms and corporations? Universities? Professors?
I do. Bloggers who use their real names have to worry about this. What image do you project when you write frivolously?
Whatever it is, it’s better than posting about the nonfrivolous: work. I love my job to death, but I rarely write about it. I am a photographer who does not turn on the power of the camera (I speak figuratively here) until the door of work slams behind me.
Thoughts like that come up as I sit immersed in materials, preparing for the next semester (which starts next week).
Puerto Rico
Of course! It had to be! An addendum to the post below:
What are you saying, that people should not go all the way to Puerto Rico for long week-ends? You’re kidding, right? It is the norm! That is why prices are so elevated Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Working people go away for week-ends. Self employed people do whatever they please. You are self-employed. I am not.
Puerto Rico is too far for a short trip. Five hours on the flight, each way…
I feel I am listening to my mother.
Too far…
No, I cannot listen to another too. I booked a room. Come or not, I’m off. A week-end in early March. So that I can smell the salt and listen to the steady ripple of waves.
Camping, would you consider camping? Hiking maybe?
No.
Some may consider a few days of warming one's toes in golden sands boring.
Not me.
POLAR?
An obvious choice today. Light snow flurries, gray skies.
I need a break! It cannot be all work, I need a break! I meander. Just a handful of blocks, to Vilas Park, the zoo, empty now. No little children with cups of fizzy soda… So cold… Are there beings who do not mind this grayness, this utter chill?
PR... Public Relations?
In my days (are my days no more?), I heard a lot about PR. We need to do some PR work, our image is at an all time low. Do people still worry about Public Relations? Elected officials? Firms and corporations? Universities? Professors?
I do. Bloggers who use their real names have to worry about this. What image do you project when you write frivolously?
Whatever it is, it’s better than posting about the nonfrivolous: work. I love my job to death, but I rarely write about it. I am a photographer who does not turn on the power of the camera (I speak figuratively here) until the door of work slams behind me.
Thoughts like that come up as I sit immersed in materials, preparing for the next semester (which starts next week).
Puerto Rico
Of course! It had to be! An addendum to the post below:
What are you saying, that people should not go all the way to Puerto Rico for long week-ends? You’re kidding, right? It is the norm! That is why prices are so elevated Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Working people go away for week-ends. Self employed people do whatever they please. You are self-employed. I am not.
Puerto Rico is too far for a short trip. Five hours on the flight, each way…
I feel I am listening to my mother.
Too far…
No, I cannot listen to another too. I booked a room. Come or not, I’m off. A week-end in early March. So that I can smell the salt and listen to the steady ripple of waves.
Camping, would you consider camping? Hiking maybe?
No.
Some may consider a few days of warming one's toes in golden sands boring.
Not me.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
fleeing the darker side of winter
Looks like the March sailing week-end is off. No boat to be had down there on the Keyes.
What?? (a sigh of relief… boats on choppy waters… go this way and that way, go this way and that)
But what I really say is – a week-end at a southern shore is what I long for on the cold dark days of January, February… What now?
What now… we’ll see… something will come up.
My occasional traveling companion just erased an image of boat decks and shorefront bars where sailors drink whiskey and smoke cigars. It’s what stories are made of. Gone.
Can we forget about the sailing bit and find a beach for the week-end? I have built my life around the image of the Caribbean blue waters in March.
Reluctantly: There are cheap fares to the Bahamas. People go there to gamble. Beach during the day, casino at night. You want to gamble?
No.
I don’t either… But that’s what you do down there…
(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a cheap airfare and gambling.)
I’ll look up some fun and funky places to stay, where fans spin in tile-floor rooms and locals sit on bar stools in the lounge and sip on whiskey and rum…
Can you keep it under $65 per night?
That wipes out the vast majority of winter Caribbean destinations!
How about Puerto Rico?
I’m surfing the Net as we speak…
So, cheap places. Have you found any?
(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a constant search for the very cheapest room to be had on whatever side of the ocean you may find yourself.)
Who needs a beach anyway… It’s pretty, here, in sunny cold Wisconsin. True, the picnic tables will stand empty for another six months or so…
…but one needs to look on the upside of a January day.
Driving home late in the evening I focus on the upside of a January day. I try not to pay attention to the smoke suspended from chimneys, never seeming to go anywhere at all, held back by the cold. I try not to see that.
I bring back my now polluted daydream of hammocks suspended between palm trees and bars filled with sailors and locals, drinking whiskey and rum. The remains of an image. They’ll get me through a day or two.
What?? (a sigh of relief… boats on choppy waters… go this way and that way, go this way and that)
But what I really say is – a week-end at a southern shore is what I long for on the cold dark days of January, February… What now?
What now… we’ll see… something will come up.
My occasional traveling companion just erased an image of boat decks and shorefront bars where sailors drink whiskey and smoke cigars. It’s what stories are made of. Gone.
Can we forget about the sailing bit and find a beach for the week-end? I have built my life around the image of the Caribbean blue waters in March.
Reluctantly: There are cheap fares to the Bahamas. People go there to gamble. Beach during the day, casino at night. You want to gamble?
No.
I don’t either… But that’s what you do down there…
(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a cheap airfare and gambling.)
I’ll look up some fun and funky places to stay, where fans spin in tile-floor rooms and locals sit on bar stools in the lounge and sip on whiskey and rum…
Can you keep it under $65 per night?
That wipes out the vast majority of winter Caribbean destinations!
How about Puerto Rico?
I’m surfing the Net as we speak…
So, cheap places. Have you found any?
(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a constant search for the very cheapest room to be had on whatever side of the ocean you may find yourself.)
Who needs a beach anyway… It’s pretty, here, in sunny cold Wisconsin. True, the picnic tables will stand empty for another six months or so…
…but one needs to look on the upside of a January day.
Driving home late in the evening I focus on the upside of a January day. I try not to pay attention to the smoke suspended from chimneys, never seeming to go anywhere at all, held back by the cold. I try not to see that.
I bring back my now polluted daydream of hammocks suspended between palm trees and bars filled with sailors and locals, drinking whiskey and rum. The remains of an image. They’ll get me through a day or two.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
when did I become an American?
Truth is, I don’t know. There was no defining moment, not at the level of awareness nor at the level of government bureaucracy.
Some two dozen years ago, I switched my status from that of a resident alien to a US citizen, but I really don’t remember exactly when it happened. I was never naturalized. At some point, during the looser times of the eighties, I requested a passport and, based on my familial history, too complicated to explain here, I was granted it.
So maybe, technically, I had always been an American, even though I was born and raised in Poland, was eligible to vote in Poland, left the country as a Pole and returned to it as a Pole?
In those early decades of my life, I was so Polish that the idea of a different identity would be shocking. Sort of like finding out that you were adopted. Guess what, you are an American!
When my first American passport came in the mail (when? when?? 1985? later?) I did not relinquish my Polish passport and so I am technically a Pole as well. Technically? I feel my formative mush inside is composed of more Polish identifiers than American ones. Even though, right now, I really have more in common with the folks on this side of the ocean.
Today I wanted to file for a new American passport. I had lost my “real one” back in Italy (or Switzerland?), in May and time was running out: replacement passports obtained abroad have to be switched over to the real thing within a year. I called the US Passport people and asked what it is that I need for filing purposes (it isn’t clear on the web for losers like me. Losers of passports. Losers of identities, maybe).
Easy! I am told. Submit form XXX, two photos, your temporary replacement passport, a copy a drivers license and, you know, because we are going through tough times, proof of citizenship: your birth certificate or naturalization papers.
But I have neither! I am a child of Poland, an adult of America, maybe I was always American, but I certainly didn’t know it until I was close to forty and if not, I do not know when I became an American.
No birth certificate?
A Polish one.
No naturalization papers?
No.
Hmmm. Do you have an old passport? An invalid one? That would do.
Notice to the general public of Switzerland and Italy: somewhere on your soil lies my true identity. I left it there. Could you help me locate it please? It bears testament to the fact that I am an American! (I am American, aren’t I?)
You don’t have any old passports at all, do you?
I remember getting rid of clutter as I moved to the loft a little over a year ago. Does an old passport constitute clutter? And if I trashed it, what now? Where is there proof that I am indeed an American?
Nowhere.
I think about how I have made travel my life (or so it sometimes seems). I think how ironic that my traveling days may be over. How can I leave the country if I have no papers giving me permission to return?
I drive around Madison, looking at the land that is suddenly not my homeland or at least not if I leave it, if I can leave it. Snow-covered, blue and yellow land, my favorite colors, snow is blue, sunlight is yellow, am I a Swede?
Of this I am certain: I am not a Swede.
Driving west, driving east, east meets west – I live in downtown Madison now where indeed the east meets the west. In the same way that my eastern roots met my western identity? Am I a median of the two? The halfway point to each? Is that why I like France? Or the ocean?
I pass my old neighborhood where I lived until recently. Until the time I threw out old papers. The snow looks clean and fresh here. It is a child’s neighborhood. A place to grow up, a place to be an American.
Wait, one more drawer of papers and mementos. I can check one more drawer. At the loft, I open it, a drawer that holds my identity. An envelope with a letter written just two years ago. It tells me to protect and take care of my new passport (I failed! I lost it in Italy or Switzerland or in crossing from one to the other!). The letter accompanies an old, canceled, dated passport.
I am American after all. I am, aren’t I? A cancelled identity, broken, rebuilt, resubmitted for a stamp of approval. You're one of us! Am I? You almost didn't claim me. No matter. Confusion is the story of my life. On either side of the ocean.
Some two dozen years ago, I switched my status from that of a resident alien to a US citizen, but I really don’t remember exactly when it happened. I was never naturalized. At some point, during the looser times of the eighties, I requested a passport and, based on my familial history, too complicated to explain here, I was granted it.
So maybe, technically, I had always been an American, even though I was born and raised in Poland, was eligible to vote in Poland, left the country as a Pole and returned to it as a Pole?
In those early decades of my life, I was so Polish that the idea of a different identity would be shocking. Sort of like finding out that you were adopted. Guess what, you are an American!
When my first American passport came in the mail (when? when?? 1985? later?) I did not relinquish my Polish passport and so I am technically a Pole as well. Technically? I feel my formative mush inside is composed of more Polish identifiers than American ones. Even though, right now, I really have more in common with the folks on this side of the ocean.
Today I wanted to file for a new American passport. I had lost my “real one” back in Italy (or Switzerland?), in May and time was running out: replacement passports obtained abroad have to be switched over to the real thing within a year. I called the US Passport people and asked what it is that I need for filing purposes (it isn’t clear on the web for losers like me. Losers of passports. Losers of identities, maybe).
Easy! I am told. Submit form XXX, two photos, your temporary replacement passport, a copy a drivers license and, you know, because we are going through tough times, proof of citizenship: your birth certificate or naturalization papers.
But I have neither! I am a child of Poland, an adult of America, maybe I was always American, but I certainly didn’t know it until I was close to forty and if not, I do not know when I became an American.
No birth certificate?
A Polish one.
No naturalization papers?
No.
Hmmm. Do you have an old passport? An invalid one? That would do.
Notice to the general public of Switzerland and Italy: somewhere on your soil lies my true identity. I left it there. Could you help me locate it please? It bears testament to the fact that I am an American! (I am American, aren’t I?)
You don’t have any old passports at all, do you?
I remember getting rid of clutter as I moved to the loft a little over a year ago. Does an old passport constitute clutter? And if I trashed it, what now? Where is there proof that I am indeed an American?
Nowhere.
I think about how I have made travel my life (or so it sometimes seems). I think how ironic that my traveling days may be over. How can I leave the country if I have no papers giving me permission to return?
I drive around Madison, looking at the land that is suddenly not my homeland or at least not if I leave it, if I can leave it. Snow-covered, blue and yellow land, my favorite colors, snow is blue, sunlight is yellow, am I a Swede?
Of this I am certain: I am not a Swede.
Driving west, driving east, east meets west – I live in downtown Madison now where indeed the east meets the west. In the same way that my eastern roots met my western identity? Am I a median of the two? The halfway point to each? Is that why I like France? Or the ocean?
I pass my old neighborhood where I lived until recently. Until the time I threw out old papers. The snow looks clean and fresh here. It is a child’s neighborhood. A place to grow up, a place to be an American.
Wait, one more drawer of papers and mementos. I can check one more drawer. At the loft, I open it, a drawer that holds my identity. An envelope with a letter written just two years ago. It tells me to protect and take care of my new passport (I failed! I lost it in Italy or Switzerland or in crossing from one to the other!). The letter accompanies an old, canceled, dated passport.
I am American after all. I am, aren’t I? A cancelled identity, broken, rebuilt, resubmitted for a stamp of approval. You're one of us! Am I? You almost didn't claim me. No matter. Confusion is the story of my life. On either side of the ocean.
Monday, January 15, 2007
think travel, read Ocean View
Two new stories for you on the Ask For an Ocean View website: one on how to pick a restaurant in Paris without really trying and another on flying free and rubbing shoulders with the business class.
It’s a snowy day here in the Midwest. Finally, winter. I can’t believe I was singing its seasonal virtues just a few days back. Damn cold out there. Time to think about getting away.
It’s a snowy day here in the Midwest. Finally, winter. I can’t believe I was singing its seasonal virtues just a few days back. Damn cold out there. Time to think about getting away.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
onion
A vegetable of tears, the name of a satirical paper, a food of central Europe. And as a food – unforgiving. Bad vibes, bad breath, sad days, long days.
One daughter returns to her home out east today and this causes me to think the following: daughters are irreplaceable. Sons must be as well, but I don’t know anything about sons. I only have daughters.
I wrote earlier to her that even in the silence of a sleeping daughter, there is the comforting noise of her presence. The anticipation of a waking moment. The knowledge that you can shout up and get a (mumbled, sleepy) response.
In the evening, I go to Whole Foods to buy vegetables for dinner. No onions. Forget nutrition, forget the good price. Dumb vegetable of sadness.
One daughter returns to her home out east today and this causes me to think the following: daughters are irreplaceable. Sons must be as well, but I don’t know anything about sons. I only have daughters.
I wrote earlier to her that even in the silence of a sleeping daughter, there is the comforting noise of her presence. The anticipation of a waking moment. The knowledge that you can shout up and get a (mumbled, sleepy) response.
In the evening, I go to Whole Foods to buy vegetables for dinner. No onions. Forget nutrition, forget the good price. Dumb vegetable of sadness.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
snow
…covers all. Doesn’t take much. A light flurry, like a sedative. What are the choice words? Under a blanket of snow, a dusting of snow… Forget about the grays, the departures, the tiredness, the work, the long period before spring. All hidden, blocked. Under a blanket of snow.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Flavors
Potatoes, and flour. Sage – lots of sage and olive oil. Porcini mushrooms, shallots, parmiggiano. Small tomatoes, fresh kernels of corn, arugula. Eggplant, mozzarella, oregano. Sage again, and olive oil and fontina cheese. Bread with this one. Oh! Celeriac and celery and nutmeg. How could I forget! And finally – pears, blackberries, raspberries, lavender buds, honey and oats.
There you have it – the principal items, assembled in the above combinations, creating dishes. No meats, no fish, none of that – just the veggies and cheeses of Sicily and Calabria, the fruits of, well, the Americas and lavender buds of the Mediterranean in general.
I have zapped away the gray that has hovered over Madison these past days. My mind, today, is focused on what the kitchen can create.
There you have it – the principal items, assembled in the above combinations, creating dishes. No meats, no fish, none of that – just the veggies and cheeses of Sicily and Calabria, the fruits of, well, the Americas and lavender buds of the Mediterranean in general.
I have zapped away the gray that has hovered over Madison these past days. My mind, today, is focused on what the kitchen can create.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
colors
When you have been inundated with the blues and delightful tones of virtual travel (especially in and around the Mediterranean), you begin to think that this really is the way the world presents itself. I mean this in the broadest sense: you begin to believe that life is made of days where all you have is the hot pursuit of all the beautiful rooms with views out there. I kid you not.
But, at the close of the day, the photos, the web site where you have been placing them, they all recede. The splash of reality. It’s like someone pouring a can of gray paint over your day. Work, chores, and the tones of a mid January afternoon in Madison seep in. I know it looks like Pittsburgh, or Detroit maybe. But it’s Madison.
Except, you know, you know, that in a matter of secs, okay, hours maybe, you can go back and reclaim the blues. Hang in there, blues! I’ll be back in a little while.
But, at the close of the day, the photos, the web site where you have been placing them, they all recede. The splash of reality. It’s like someone pouring a can of gray paint over your day. Work, chores, and the tones of a mid January afternoon in Madison seep in. I know it looks like Pittsburgh, or Detroit maybe. But it’s Madison.
Except, you know, you know, that in a matter of secs, okay, hours maybe, you can go back and reclaim the blues. Hang in there, blues! I’ll be back in a little while.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
it’s here!
There were the much needed pats on the head: there, there, you know most website launches are delayed for technical reasons.
And the encouraging words: I have never seen you so preoccupied. Come up for air! It will be fine! It already is fine.
Not good enough yesterday, nor the day before, but good enough to launch on the promised date: today.
If you are a travel enthusiast, an Ocean enthusiast, or just damn curious, click on this brand new website, brought to you by...me: Ask For an Ocean View.
The site will be updated several times each week, so keep checking for more.
And now, a pause for some fresh air. Haven’t had much of it lately.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
signs
Well, it can happen. One arm may work, the other may not. But the thing is, it's only a blog. It's only a website. It's not all that happens in a day. A taste, a fraction, a little piece comes up and gets posted. The rest continues, regardless of what happens on the Net.
Still, one gets invested in it. And one hopes for the best. And, walking down the stairs with a garbage bag for the trash bin, occasionally one gets rewarded with a storybook sign of good things to come.
Still, one gets invested in it. And one hopes for the best. And, walking down the stairs with a garbage bag for the trash bin, occasionally one gets rewarded with a storybook sign of good things to come.
Monday, January 08, 2007
the Internet
I think it came to us too late. Five years maybe, not more, but too late nonetheless. For those of us whose work doesn't rest on absolute Internet proficiency there is no hope. We are the lost generation.
We want to know it, understand it, work with it, benefit from it, but we cannot. We take a step, we feel competent and proficient and then something happens and we feel horribly undermined, discouraged, put down.
It is no mystery by now that I am working on a website. The frame of it is there, finally, after a week of hard labor and great assistance from a person who is able (as opposed to me).
I'm working away at filling things in, linking, writing, endlessly, happily and then I notice one of the pages is completely out of wack. The alignment suddenly looks off. And I cannot fix it. I try, but I am stumped. I call my able person, she asks me to zip it to her (people of my age don't routinely zip and unzip files and so I have to reeducate myself there). It may be that I have to start from scratch. A mess up on the computer can be costly.
I think about this now as I try to navigate and search and insert and adjust and replace. Skills no one ever taught us. Skills that make or break a project.
Inept, behind, without skills. Partially literate, wholly incompetent. My generation. Or at least me.
double latte for a pick me up
We want to know it, understand it, work with it, benefit from it, but we cannot. We take a step, we feel competent and proficient and then something happens and we feel horribly undermined, discouraged, put down.
It is no mystery by now that I am working on a website. The frame of it is there, finally, after a week of hard labor and great assistance from a person who is able (as opposed to me).
I'm working away at filling things in, linking, writing, endlessly, happily and then I notice one of the pages is completely out of wack. The alignment suddenly looks off. And I cannot fix it. I try, but I am stumped. I call my able person, she asks me to zip it to her (people of my age don't routinely zip and unzip files and so I have to reeducate myself there). It may be that I have to start from scratch. A mess up on the computer can be costly.
I think about this now as I try to navigate and search and insert and adjust and replace. Skills no one ever taught us. Skills that make or break a project.
Inept, behind, without skills. Partially literate, wholly incompetent. My generation. Or at least me.
double latte for a pick me up
Sunday, January 07, 2007
discarded
Ideas, activities, thoughts, more concrete plans and perspecitives -- discarded because I am so focused on something else.
along Lake Mendota: discarded tree, discarded pumpkin
After this coming January 10th I'll be more balanced. Of course I will. Hang in there for the unveiling of grand schemes. In the meantime, I am woking hard to permit Ocean to bloom in days where I should be sequestered in the bubble of my own work and... secret project making.
Patience, said so and so, is extraordinarily rewarding.
That better be true.
along Lake Mendota: discarded tree, discarded pumpkin
After this coming January 10th I'll be more balanced. Of course I will. Hang in there for the unveiling of grand schemes. In the meantime, I am woking hard to permit Ocean to bloom in days where I should be sequestered in the bubble of my own work and... secret project making.
Patience, said so and so, is extraordinarily rewarding.
That better be true.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
in transit
Leave one place, find another. Wake up, looking out on the alley and the house next door. It’s warm, inside and out. I crack the window. Mmmm, breezes, good breezes, gentle breezes.
How unpredictable it all is!
One last stop, with daughters, picking out sale items on a clothes rack. I learn from them. They steer me to the good stuff in life.
Oh, don’t let’s leave yet… there’s an Italian café, maybe a latte for the drive back?
It’s an easy drive. Three hours. I have done it maybe 159 times in my life, maybe more. Surely more.
We buy vegetables, grill them, eat them. Home, back at the loft.
How unpredictable it all is!
One last stop, with daughters, picking out sale items on a clothes rack. I learn from them. They steer me to the good stuff in life.
Oh, don’t let’s leave yet… there’s an Italian café, maybe a latte for the drive back?
It’s an easy drive. Three hours. I have done it maybe 159 times in my life, maybe more. Surely more.
We buy vegetables, grill them, eat them. Home, back at the loft.
Friday, January 05, 2007
from Chicago: questions
If someone tells you you’re swell, terrific, the best, how do you respond next time you work on a project with that person? Do you try even harder? Or, do you think -- eh, I already won the person over, let me put my efforts elsewhere?
Separately: if someone comes into a windfall and needs your help in spending his/her fortune, would you put great efforts into assisting him/her in acquiring his/her dream situation or would you pout at the unfairness of it all?
Separately: if you go out to dinner and one of your party announces that they are suffering terribly from a debilitating pain and potentially horrible illness, would you continue to chomp away at the food before you, or would you abandon all pretense of a fine evening and move on, perhaps to a local ER room?
Separately, if this were your last overnight in Evanston, probably ever in your life, because your family member who has heretofore provided housing in Evanston every time you stopped over in the greater Chicago area, would you feel compelled to do something Evanston-specific? Like, teeter along among the staid and proper? Or would you go to your favorite Chicago neighborhood and enjoy it, because it is oh so much more with-it than this northern city enclave?
leaving Evaston, finding the hipper neighborhood of Andersonville
All this to consider in one day. My last day in Evanston (Chicago). Tomorrow, back to Madison.
Separately: if someone comes into a windfall and needs your help in spending his/her fortune, would you put great efforts into assisting him/her in acquiring his/her dream situation or would you pout at the unfairness of it all?
Separately: if you go out to dinner and one of your party announces that they are suffering terribly from a debilitating pain and potentially horrible illness, would you continue to chomp away at the food before you, or would you abandon all pretense of a fine evening and move on, perhaps to a local ER room?
Separately, if this were your last overnight in Evanston, probably ever in your life, because your family member who has heretofore provided housing in Evanston every time you stopped over in the greater Chicago area, would you feel compelled to do something Evanston-specific? Like, teeter along among the staid and proper? Or would you go to your favorite Chicago neighborhood and enjoy it, because it is oh so much more with-it than this northern city enclave?
leaving Evaston, finding the hipper neighborhood of Andersonville
All this to consider in one day. My last day in Evanston (Chicago). Tomorrow, back to Madison.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
from chicago: is it night? day? what?
I wake up early, stumble to my computer and check for messages. Bingo! One from my partner in crime, the graphic designer who has been helping me change things from html to readable matter on my new website.
I read it. There is a suggestion and a question. I answer with ten emails, clarifying and asking for new things to be added.
Breakfast. Shake granola into bowl, drink coffee with warm milk. Back to corner of the room where I remain huddled over my screen for the rest of the day.
Work – does it ever grab you? So that there is nothing that you would rather be doing? I have periods like that and this is one of them.
I go over data from last semester’s exams, I make notes on a new class I am to teach in spring, I consider changing some of my travel ideas for spring and summer and then its back to the new website. Text, written a day ago seems flat. I want to change it. I don’t know how to put in changes. Not yet.
More emails back and forth. Jo, the designer, responds. She is quick. I need quick. I am not the wait, for God’s sake, patient type.
Out I go to move the car. City life. My day is punctuated in two hour intervals. Move the car, avoid ticket. Each trip out is my breath of fresh air. I walk to the car, take note of the warm temp, pull my polar bear pajama bottoms up to avoid puddles (do writer type people ever get out of their pajamas? why?), look for an empty spot, go back and write.
By three I need a latte. At least I tell myself that I must surely drink a latte. It is another marker of the passage of time.
I am in Chicago, but I may as well be in Poughkeepsie. I drift in and out of Starbucks (too preoccupied to think about going elsewhere), return home for the last stretch before dinner.
I read it. There is a suggestion and a question. I answer with ten emails, clarifying and asking for new things to be added.
Breakfast. Shake granola into bowl, drink coffee with warm milk. Back to corner of the room where I remain huddled over my screen for the rest of the day.
Work – does it ever grab you? So that there is nothing that you would rather be doing? I have periods like that and this is one of them.
I go over data from last semester’s exams, I make notes on a new class I am to teach in spring, I consider changing some of my travel ideas for spring and summer and then its back to the new website. Text, written a day ago seems flat. I want to change it. I don’t know how to put in changes. Not yet.
More emails back and forth. Jo, the designer, responds. She is quick. I need quick. I am not the wait, for God’s sake, patient type.
Out I go to move the car. City life. My day is punctuated in two hour intervals. Move the car, avoid ticket. Each trip out is my breath of fresh air. I walk to the car, take note of the warm temp, pull my polar bear pajama bottoms up to avoid puddles (do writer type people ever get out of their pajamas? why?), look for an empty spot, go back and write.
By three I need a latte. At least I tell myself that I must surely drink a latte. It is another marker of the passage of time.
I am in Chicago, but I may as well be in Poughkeepsie. I drift in and out of Starbucks (too preoccupied to think about going elsewhere), return home for the last stretch before dinner.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
from chicago: excess
I had an excess of blog-related writing today. Tons and gobs. A whole day’s worth. The webpage is getting a big push into the world. A few more days! Still, a fair warning: the waters haven’t burst yet. In fact, burst is exactly the wrong word. It is a slow and painful process. I may lose all friends and family along the way.
(Thank you those who are continuing to be patient and amused rather than ick-ed out in these days when I am preoccupied and admittedly a pain in all regions.)
In the meantime, the good weather is passing me by. Much is passing me by.
In the evening, I make my way to a strip mall and have myself a hell of a good green curry dish.
Then it’s back to the blog. World, I am busy. Be patient. It’s bang or bust. I am forging ahead.
(Thank you those who are continuing to be patient and amused rather than ick-ed out in these days when I am preoccupied and admittedly a pain in all regions.)
In the meantime, the good weather is passing me by. Much is passing me by.
In the evening, I make my way to a strip mall and have myself a hell of a good green curry dish.
Then it’s back to the blog. World, I am busy. Be patient. It’s bang or bust. I am forging ahead.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Ocean, 3
Today marks a three year anniversary for the Other Side of the Ocean.
Another year of daily posts, though some have come terribly close to midnight and on three occasions I missed posting altogether. No WiFi on mountain summits in Canada.
Just as the idea that I should blog came suddenly, moments before I published my first post, so too, in the last days of this December, the idea that I should do something completely new and different with Ocean morphed into a reality. Of sorts. The ends aren’t tied, the paint isn’t dry, but the decision has been made.
This month, something new will appear on the Net. An Ocean offshoot, a child, bearing the name of the parents and some awfully familiar traits, but taking them into directions that are only in part Ocean-esque.
Look for the newborn. She'll be here soon. And today, I get to announce her name: ask for an Ocean view.
Like a teetering old thing, Ocean itself will continue in a parallel universe. It’ll lend support and encouragement to the other young thing and then, the hope is that the young thing will make it on its own and maybe support Ocean in her old age.
If this all seems too oblique and mysterious, keep checking in. The exact date of birth, as in all births, is a more or less thing. Let’s just say labor has begun.
In the meantime, I’m ready for champagne. Three years of daily posts is a long time.
Thanks, to all you kind readers and patient souls, good commenters and out-of-the-blue emailiers – you have been Ocean’s fuel. To a year of good ideas and even better images, for all of us.
Another year of daily posts, though some have come terribly close to midnight and on three occasions I missed posting altogether. No WiFi on mountain summits in Canada.
Just as the idea that I should blog came suddenly, moments before I published my first post, so too, in the last days of this December, the idea that I should do something completely new and different with Ocean morphed into a reality. Of sorts. The ends aren’t tied, the paint isn’t dry, but the decision has been made.
This month, something new will appear on the Net. An Ocean offshoot, a child, bearing the name of the parents and some awfully familiar traits, but taking them into directions that are only in part Ocean-esque.
Look for the newborn. She'll be here soon. And today, I get to announce her name: ask for an Ocean view.
Like a teetering old thing, Ocean itself will continue in a parallel universe. It’ll lend support and encouragement to the other young thing and then, the hope is that the young thing will make it on its own and maybe support Ocean in her old age.
If this all seems too oblique and mysterious, keep checking in. The exact date of birth, as in all births, is a more or less thing. Let’s just say labor has begun.
In the meantime, I’m ready for champagne. Three years of daily posts is a long time.
Thanks, to all you kind readers and patient souls, good commenters and out-of-the-blue emailiers – you have been Ocean’s fuel. To a year of good ideas and even better images, for all of us.
Monday, January 01, 2007
in Chicago: clean dishes
And so midnight came and champagne (tinted a shade of rose) filled glasses and chunks of lobster sat precariously on fat scallops.
lobster on a scallop, over truffled leeks
Thrilling foods, reserved for this one extraordinary evening.
And then you wake up and it’s back to menu planning. Daily bread foods. Polenta with tomatoes, garlic, mushrooms. Field greens and rosemary flatbreads.
A clean plate on the table. Welcome, 2007.
lobster on a scallop, over truffled leeks
Thrilling foods, reserved for this one extraordinary evening.
And then you wake up and it’s back to menu planning. Daily bread foods. Polenta with tomatoes, garlic, mushrooms. Field greens and rosemary flatbreads.
A clean plate on the table. Welcome, 2007.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
eat, drink, be merry…
And travel far. Is there a better wish?
I didn’t travel too far for New Year’s Eve, but I am away from home. In Chicago for the week.
For the past two dozen years, I have celebrated the midnight hour that heralds in the New Year by savoring mouthfuls of great food. People blow horns and throw streamers at the stroke of midnight, they party and dance and play New Year’s Eve games. I eat.
I have wondered if this pattern of extremely festive and caloric consumption keeps me from taking New Year’s resolutions very seriously. How can I resolve to act reasonably and eat sensibly (isn’t that what people resolve?) when in the very first minute of the New Year I am doing neither?
So I don’t resolve much of anything except for telling myself in general to do better.
And a better, finer year ahead for all you Ocean readers. May great moments be yours, whether in the peace of a quiet home or the exuberance of a crowded market square. And thanks! You know, for being there and reading.
I didn’t travel too far for New Year’s Eve, but I am away from home. In Chicago for the week.
For the past two dozen years, I have celebrated the midnight hour that heralds in the New Year by savoring mouthfuls of great food. People blow horns and throw streamers at the stroke of midnight, they party and dance and play New Year’s Eve games. I eat.
I have wondered if this pattern of extremely festive and caloric consumption keeps me from taking New Year’s resolutions very seriously. How can I resolve to act reasonably and eat sensibly (isn’t that what people resolve?) when in the very first minute of the New Year I am doing neither?
So I don’t resolve much of anything except for telling myself in general to do better.
And a better, finer year ahead for all you Ocean readers. May great moments be yours, whether in the peace of a quiet home or the exuberance of a crowded market square. And thanks! You know, for being there and reading.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
bells
Someone told me recently that they do not believe in the institution of marriage. Yawn. I’ve heard this before: Marriage is a convention that doesn’t appeal to me. I am above it.
Yawn again.
I attended a wedding today.
Hey la, hey la, hey la! Come and sing together!
If you dance then you must have, boots of shining leather!
I think weddings are some of the best events ever. They speak of yay! feelings. Of determination to beat all odds. They celebrate hope. They speak to the belief in the life of someone other than yourself.
Marriage.
Hey, bride, I know where your tattoo is because I was there (in Krakow) when you got it! [True, you know where mine is and how desperate I was to get the tattooist to make up an image that suited my fancy. ]
Wedding bells go jinga-linga, toes and fingers freeze and tingle, in our hearts we gaily mingle as the snowflakes fall.
No snowflakes today. Balmy breezes, drizzle, cloudy skies, but who cares. There’s joy out there to be found, inside the glass-encased lounges of the Overture Center. Go find it. Mer and David did (you over-achievers, you!).
Wow. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.
Yawn again.
I attended a wedding today.
Hey la, hey la, hey la! Come and sing together!
If you dance then you must have, boots of shining leather!
I think weddings are some of the best events ever. They speak of yay! feelings. Of determination to beat all odds. They celebrate hope. They speak to the belief in the life of someone other than yourself.
Marriage.
Hey, bride, I know where your tattoo is because I was there (in Krakow) when you got it! [True, you know where mine is and how desperate I was to get the tattooist to make up an image that suited my fancy. ]
Wedding bells go jinga-linga, toes and fingers freeze and tingle, in our hearts we gaily mingle as the snowflakes fall.
No snowflakes today. Balmy breezes, drizzle, cloudy skies, but who cares. There’s joy out there to be found, inside the glass-encased lounges of the Overture Center. Go find it. Mer and David did (you over-achievers, you!).
Wow. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.
Friday, December 29, 2006
toward the end of the year
Sometimes, the hardest thing for me is to write lightly here, on Ocean. Events unfold. Floods, wars, executions; endless drama cumulatively played out in real life. How is it that I can draw attention to the free champagne on Air France flights (it’s true!), or write about the sheep slowing me down on roadways?
I bought a CD when I was in France. Pop music and, true to its genre, incredibly popular.
On m’appelait la cite pleine de grace (once called the city full of grace)
Dieu, comme le temps passe (God, how time passes)
On m’appelait capitale de lumiere (once called the capital of light)
Dieu, que tout se perd (God, how all is lost)
Je m’appelle Bagdad. (my name is Bagdad)
I’d say that in the summer, when I stayed in Pierrerue and listened to the radio daily just to have sound in the deeply cavernous studio apartment I had rented, I would hear this song at least half a dozen times each day.
Tina Arena, the performer, is Italian and she is one of the few non-French vocalists who has managed to excell on the French radio scene. True, she does sing in French, but so do I and no one is asking me for a return performance or even for a first run on French radio. Fine, it's not an apt comparison.
A hauntingly evocative melody, it would not leave me alone, all summer and fall.
Je m’appelle Bagdad (my name is Bagdad).
When I came back to France in September, this song was still… hot. Or at least it was played on Cherie FM (the equivalent of any of our light rock stations) over and over and over again.
So I wanted to buy it when I came home. Not so easy. Itunes did not list it. Okay, I did not try hard. But when I went to England (where it was also played, repeatedly) in November, I bought the CD.
Ocean is not exactly political, but then, in what way is this song political? It is a pop tune about a city that, over time (crucial unspoken query: what period of time are we talking about here?) has been destroyed. Arena herself says that it is an allegory: it’s not about Iraq, it’s about the destruction of physical beauty in general.
I suppose that one could sing it, therefore, in reflecting on the demise of spotted owl.
But for me, it is not about the spotted owl, nor about the demise of physical attractiveness over time. (Give me a break, Arena, you don’t really think anyone would buy that, did you?)
It’s the end of the year. I’m thinking about it – the year behind, the year ahead. There is nothing to be gained (but for administrative expediency) in numbering one year 2006 and the next 2007, except that in that break between the two you get to consider what is behind and what is ahead.
I bought a CD when I was in France. Pop music and, true to its genre, incredibly popular.
On m’appelait la cite pleine de grace (once called the city full of grace)
Dieu, comme le temps passe (God, how time passes)
On m’appelait capitale de lumiere (once called the capital of light)
Dieu, que tout se perd (God, how all is lost)
Je m’appelle Bagdad. (my name is Bagdad)
I’d say that in the summer, when I stayed in Pierrerue and listened to the radio daily just to have sound in the deeply cavernous studio apartment I had rented, I would hear this song at least half a dozen times each day.
Tina Arena, the performer, is Italian and she is one of the few non-French vocalists who has managed to excell on the French radio scene. True, she does sing in French, but so do I and no one is asking me for a return performance or even for a first run on French radio. Fine, it's not an apt comparison.
A hauntingly evocative melody, it would not leave me alone, all summer and fall.
Je m’appelle Bagdad (my name is Bagdad).
When I came back to France in September, this song was still… hot. Or at least it was played on Cherie FM (the equivalent of any of our light rock stations) over and over and over again.
So I wanted to buy it when I came home. Not so easy. Itunes did not list it. Okay, I did not try hard. But when I went to England (where it was also played, repeatedly) in November, I bought the CD.
Ocean is not exactly political, but then, in what way is this song political? It is a pop tune about a city that, over time (crucial unspoken query: what period of time are we talking about here?) has been destroyed. Arena herself says that it is an allegory: it’s not about Iraq, it’s about the destruction of physical beauty in general.
I suppose that one could sing it, therefore, in reflecting on the demise of spotted owl.
But for me, it is not about the spotted owl, nor about the demise of physical attractiveness over time. (Give me a break, Arena, you don’t really think anyone would buy that, did you?)
It’s the end of the year. I’m thinking about it – the year behind, the year ahead. There is nothing to be gained (but for administrative expediency) in numbering one year 2006 and the next 2007, except that in that break between the two you get to consider what is behind and what is ahead.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
from Minneapolis: fifteen hours
So brief was my stay here! So brief, that I could pick up the return boarding pass as I was checking in to fly out. So brief, that after dinner with my wonderful St Paul friend, no minutes were left to reflect on the fact that I was in the Twin Cities.
I would have had those spare minutes had I remembered correctly where expedia.com had booked a room for me. But, at midnight, I asked to be dropped off at the wrong hotel. Empty, with a sole wedding party attendee sleeping soundly on a leather couch, it reminded me of how quickly fullness drains into nothingness, how cities on this side of the ocean, so fast paced during working hours, slow down considerably at the close of the day.
I looked for my real hotel, found it finally at the other end of the city, chatted pleasantly to the night clerk about what brought me here for these few hours in the post-holiday world of low key travel, rode the elevator up up, to my room, to see a view that almost any city in America might offer the person who chooses to sleep in its commercial hub.
Normally, I love waking up in a new city. But waking up on a late December morning in Minneapolis gives you a view of the world that is remarkably similar to the one at midnight. It is dark at midnight, still so at six-thirty, seven-thirty…
By eight-thirty I am pacing the downtown streets. Nice buildings, clean buildings. And those passageways. Everyone has heard of the passageways of Minneapolis. Did I know each would be different? They are like the bridges of Minneapolis, the glass walkways, there to avoid the brutal winds and profusion of traffic below.
Except there are no brutal winds. It is a balmy 40 degrees. And the street is shut off to all but buses. And so the feeling again is of great emptiness. The party is elsewhere. You missed the beat. You are in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I turn back and eat a horrible breakfast at the Hyatt (included! It’s all included in my Minneapolis flight of fancy. Here I am, chasing fancy miles and fancy privileges in the city of northern lights). Chopped up melon and barely unfrozen pastries, served in a dining room that is, well, empty.
No people watching. No matter. In Minneapolis, you make do with building watching.
I take the bus to the airport and catch my flight home, in time for lunch with my family. Fifteen hours from take-off to return landing.
I saw Minneapolis in a terrifically unique light (or lack thereof). Beautiful, all of it.
I would have had those spare minutes had I remembered correctly where expedia.com had booked a room for me. But, at midnight, I asked to be dropped off at the wrong hotel. Empty, with a sole wedding party attendee sleeping soundly on a leather couch, it reminded me of how quickly fullness drains into nothingness, how cities on this side of the ocean, so fast paced during working hours, slow down considerably at the close of the day.
I looked for my real hotel, found it finally at the other end of the city, chatted pleasantly to the night clerk about what brought me here for these few hours in the post-holiday world of low key travel, rode the elevator up up, to my room, to see a view that almost any city in America might offer the person who chooses to sleep in its commercial hub.
Normally, I love waking up in a new city. But waking up on a late December morning in Minneapolis gives you a view of the world that is remarkably similar to the one at midnight. It is dark at midnight, still so at six-thirty, seven-thirty…
By eight-thirty I am pacing the downtown streets. Nice buildings, clean buildings. And those passageways. Everyone has heard of the passageways of Minneapolis. Did I know each would be different? They are like the bridges of Minneapolis, the glass walkways, there to avoid the brutal winds and profusion of traffic below.
Except there are no brutal winds. It is a balmy 40 degrees. And the street is shut off to all but buses. And so the feeling again is of great emptiness. The party is elsewhere. You missed the beat. You are in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I turn back and eat a horrible breakfast at the Hyatt (included! It’s all included in my Minneapolis flight of fancy. Here I am, chasing fancy miles and fancy privileges in the city of northern lights). Chopped up melon and barely unfrozen pastries, served in a dining room that is, well, empty.
No people watching. No matter. In Minneapolis, you make do with building watching.
I take the bus to the airport and catch my flight home, in time for lunch with my family. Fifteen hours from take-off to return landing.
I saw Minneapolis in a terrifically unique light (or lack thereof). Beautiful, all of it.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
from Minneapolis: which door?
Was it that I had had enough holiday excess? That I needed an escape, because me, resting under one roof for more than ten days in a row is inconceivable? [Nina, I could not believe it when you told me that you like to go away at least once a month… No wonder you’re so (fill in the blank)]
Or, is it guilt: I have gone to distant places, sure, but I know little of the cities north of where I live. In fact, I have never set foot in Minneapolis. Now is the time!
Or maybe it’s out of friendship: one of my very closest friends lives in St. Paul. She had a birthday this week. I’m into birthdays. Off I go to celebrate!
So true, yet so off the right track.
It’s the crazy game of miles and flight segments logged in for 2006. It’s airline games and, what’s the American phrase – manning the system.
It's a cost–benefit analysis: I needed one more flight in 2006 to keep those elite bonus miles and perks flowing in the year 2007. A flight to Minneapolis late tonight was the cheapest, easiest way to handle it.
The other suggested reasons for being here, up north, are good, but they do not quite a trip make. Oh, and just erase the first one. I am not in need of an escape. I am in need of a descape. Or, is that not proper English?
Or, is it guilt: I have gone to distant places, sure, but I know little of the cities north of where I live. In fact, I have never set foot in Minneapolis. Now is the time!
Or maybe it’s out of friendship: one of my very closest friends lives in St. Paul. She had a birthday this week. I’m into birthdays. Off I go to celebrate!
So true, yet so off the right track.
It’s the crazy game of miles and flight segments logged in for 2006. It’s airline games and, what’s the American phrase – manning the system.
It's a cost–benefit analysis: I needed one more flight in 2006 to keep those elite bonus miles and perks flowing in the year 2007. A flight to Minneapolis late tonight was the cheapest, easiest way to handle it.
The other suggested reasons for being here, up north, are good, but they do not quite a trip make. Oh, and just erase the first one. I am not in need of an escape. I am in need of a descape. Or, is that not proper English?
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
making sense
I wake up, it's dark and still, I have to make notes. Do it this way. And make the following corrections. And consider this…
Great plans, hatched at wee hours of the morning.
Other times, ideas percolate elsewhere, then get thrown my way. (Sometimes it’s better to rely on the stewardship of another.)
And, of course, there’s a symbiotic relationship at play too, so that some ideas are bounced between others and myself and what comes forth has an impossibly complicated genealogy.
Oh, life.
In 1972 I am ready to come back. I am nineteen and I am antsy. New York? Go live in New York again? Such a grand plan! There may have been many in Poland who would be equally enthused about coming to NY at the time of politically challenging times, but my reasons are personal. I want a break from my university studies. I want a break from my boyfriend. New York promises changes in both worlds.
I am an au pair to a fantastic family. I am supported, I am introduced to a world where people make money off of ideas! [None of that entrepreneurial spirit rubbed off, not then and maybe never, but I took note of it.] And, my new New York family, they are of the world where tickets to Broadway shows get thrown their way whether or not they put in a request for them. Nina, do you want to see Candide? We have two tickets. Take a friend.
Friend? I have no real friends here. My real friends are in Poland. Here, in New York, I am a student by day, an au pair by night.
I go alone.
And let us try,
Before we die,
To make some sense of life.
I sit on a bench (how fun! prime tickets and we get to sit on benches!) and I tear up from the splendidness of it all. The story, the music, they pull me in so that I am, the next day, buying Voltaire in the bookstore and Bernstein at Sam Goody’s. Impressionable, she is so impressionable!
Two years later I move to Chicago to attend graduate school. If I was lonely in New York (dear friends in Warsaw, I miss you, love, Nina), I am super lonely in Chicago. I buy a parakeet. I give her freedom. She does not live in a cage, she flies up and down my studio apartment and I name her Candide.
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
She flies as if possessed. Mostly, she aims for the windows. Tall windows, with a beautiful view toward downtown Chicago. She crashes into them again and again until I can’t stand it anymore. It’s either a cage or a new home.
A sweet family comes and picks her up. They have a cage for her. Thank you! Just what we wanted.
Out of Chicago, straight into the suburbs of Madison. My father visits from Poland. You wont make it here, he tells me. What does he know – he is a city boy. His life is one huge adventure story. From war-torn Poland to the United Nations and everywhere in between, what does he know about settling down. We are purchasing our dream home and I am planting hundreds of perennials in every conceivable space, including some where nothing has ever grown before nor will ever grow again. Thank you, little plants, for trying so hard all the years I lived there!
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow...
And make our garden grow.
It is the day after Christmas, 2006. I have been legally alone exactly 365 days. I have crossed the ocean since then a half dozen times each way, I have scaled mountains and pushed every conceivable (travel) button. I have written and photographed and I have agonized over how poorly I have written and photographed and now here we are, 365 days later and I am a mite poorer but now with a year’s worth of experience.
Let dreamers dream
What worlds they please
Those Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flowers,
The fairest trees
Are grown in solid ground.
Solid ground. Am I there yet? Am I there?
No. Those lyrics must have been written about someone else’s life. Still...
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
I sit down to write a post. A small little tidbit from a walk along State Street. (You wish!)
state street display
But it happens that someone at home flips on the TV and the Kennedy Center’s tribute to the year’s greats comes on. I listen to the music that celebrates Spielberg’s work on, among other things, Schindler’s List. Bernstein's Candide.
See you in a bit, post-war Poland, parakeets flying, perennials pushing through clay soil, long lines at the airport…
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
Great plans, hatched at wee hours of the morning.
Other times, ideas percolate elsewhere, then get thrown my way. (Sometimes it’s better to rely on the stewardship of another.)
And, of course, there’s a symbiotic relationship at play too, so that some ideas are bounced between others and myself and what comes forth has an impossibly complicated genealogy.
Oh, life.
In 1972 I am ready to come back. I am nineteen and I am antsy. New York? Go live in New York again? Such a grand plan! There may have been many in Poland who would be equally enthused about coming to NY at the time of politically challenging times, but my reasons are personal. I want a break from my university studies. I want a break from my boyfriend. New York promises changes in both worlds.
I am an au pair to a fantastic family. I am supported, I am introduced to a world where people make money off of ideas! [None of that entrepreneurial spirit rubbed off, not then and maybe never, but I took note of it.] And, my new New York family, they are of the world where tickets to Broadway shows get thrown their way whether or not they put in a request for them. Nina, do you want to see Candide? We have two tickets. Take a friend.
Friend? I have no real friends here. My real friends are in Poland. Here, in New York, I am a student by day, an au pair by night.
I go alone.
And let us try,
Before we die,
To make some sense of life.
I sit on a bench (how fun! prime tickets and we get to sit on benches!) and I tear up from the splendidness of it all. The story, the music, they pull me in so that I am, the next day, buying Voltaire in the bookstore and Bernstein at Sam Goody’s. Impressionable, she is so impressionable!
Two years later I move to Chicago to attend graduate school. If I was lonely in New York (dear friends in Warsaw, I miss you, love, Nina), I am super lonely in Chicago. I buy a parakeet. I give her freedom. She does not live in a cage, she flies up and down my studio apartment and I name her Candide.
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
She flies as if possessed. Mostly, she aims for the windows. Tall windows, with a beautiful view toward downtown Chicago. She crashes into them again and again until I can’t stand it anymore. It’s either a cage or a new home.
A sweet family comes and picks her up. They have a cage for her. Thank you! Just what we wanted.
Out of Chicago, straight into the suburbs of Madison. My father visits from Poland. You wont make it here, he tells me. What does he know – he is a city boy. His life is one huge adventure story. From war-torn Poland to the United Nations and everywhere in between, what does he know about settling down. We are purchasing our dream home and I am planting hundreds of perennials in every conceivable space, including some where nothing has ever grown before nor will ever grow again. Thank you, little plants, for trying so hard all the years I lived there!
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow...
And make our garden grow.
It is the day after Christmas, 2006. I have been legally alone exactly 365 days. I have crossed the ocean since then a half dozen times each way, I have scaled mountains and pushed every conceivable (travel) button. I have written and photographed and I have agonized over how poorly I have written and photographed and now here we are, 365 days later and I am a mite poorer but now with a year’s worth of experience.
Let dreamers dream
What worlds they please
Those Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flowers,
The fairest trees
Are grown in solid ground.
Solid ground. Am I there yet? Am I there?
No. Those lyrics must have been written about someone else’s life. Still...
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
I sit down to write a post. A small little tidbit from a walk along State Street. (You wish!)
state street display
But it happens that someone at home flips on the TV and the Kennedy Center’s tribute to the year’s greats comes on. I listen to the music that celebrates Spielberg’s work on, among other things, Schindler’s List. Bernstein's Candide.
See you in a bit, post-war Poland, parakeets flying, perennials pushing through clay soil, long lines at the airport…
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
Monday, December 25, 2006
delightfully small
This is the last time you’ll see such a packed stocking, I'm told. [Santa’s stuffing days, I fear, are numbered. Or, he has finally realized that he has been packing in little bundles into someone's stocking even though that someone has long passed the average age of his target audience (eight maybe?).]
But I delight in the image of the stuffed stocking! I hadn’t really known about stockings being stuffed until I came here, to the States and so the whole thing started late for me.
And because waste is not a big ticket item in this family, the rule is that Santa must think carefully about what goes in. I know, big burden on the big guy, but what with the environment and credit card debt and all the other horrors appended to waste-buying, we do insist on usefulness.
How beautiful small things can be! Toffee, the kind I used to love but never see anymore. Cassis hand soap, fresh dish towels. All will be consumed or worn threadbare in the year ahead.
Small is good, small is beautiful. When the kids looked for toys under the tree, I was stunned how much airspace was sold in a Mattel toy box. Airspace that I had to cover with paper.
Small packages with big hearts. A camisole from some who know how to buy camisoles, gloves, the warm kind, because I get so damn cold walking home.
In the world of food as well. Small corn pancakes with pieces of smoked salmon and dill. Big dinner follows, but do not forget the small, nor the tiny dessert profiteroles with pomegranate icecream.
Small, small, beautiful small things.
It leaves room to hatch great, big plans.
But I delight in the image of the stuffed stocking! I hadn’t really known about stockings being stuffed until I came here, to the States and so the whole thing started late for me.
And because waste is not a big ticket item in this family, the rule is that Santa must think carefully about what goes in. I know, big burden on the big guy, but what with the environment and credit card debt and all the other horrors appended to waste-buying, we do insist on usefulness.
How beautiful small things can be! Toffee, the kind I used to love but never see anymore. Cassis hand soap, fresh dish towels. All will be consumed or worn threadbare in the year ahead.
Small is good, small is beautiful. When the kids looked for toys under the tree, I was stunned how much airspace was sold in a Mattel toy box. Airspace that I had to cover with paper.
Small packages with big hearts. A camisole from some who know how to buy camisoles, gloves, the warm kind, because I get so damn cold walking home.
In the world of food as well. Small corn pancakes with pieces of smoked salmon and dill. Big dinner follows, but do not forget the small, nor the tiny dessert profiteroles with pomegranate icecream.
Small, small, beautiful small things.
It leaves room to hatch great, big plans.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
tinsel
They passed around the photo and nodded. Yes, she’s got that look on her – the “I’m ready to sprint and cause trouble” look. Trouble being a relative term, in this case, I think they meant it in a good way: harmless trouble.
I was three when it was taken. New to Warsaw (village life, with grandparents before that), new to nursery school (both parents working, long hours), seemingly un-shy about any of it. Relatives said – she’s always thinking – what next? Unstoppable.
We weren’t Christian, but there was always a tree and always in the room that my sister and I shared. Positioned between our beds. At first it was clear that it belonged there – we hadn’t a living room, just two rooms – a small apartment in Warsaw, there, this is it:
But later, in New York, we had a living room, a very nice living room indeed, overlooking 46th street, parquet floors and carpet, wow, and still the tree stood between our beds. A generous gesture (you’ll smell it all night long). But also a “Christmas is for children” statement.
Is a teen a child? At thirteen, back in Poland now, Christmas stopped. Again, there was no living room, but there was space. Ah, maybe it’s because we didn’t stay in the city. We were back to the village for school winter break.
There, the snow is deep, all is calm, all is bright. In New York, my images of Christmas had been like that. Straight out of the stories. Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? Suddenly I have snow up to my waist and farmers are moving from point A to point B in sleighs and the nostrils of horses throw out moisture that freezes, but we are non-Christian and the children are not children anymore and so the countdown to Christmas is no countdown at all and there is no tree.
I am three, moving to Warsaw, I am seven, moving to New York, I am thirteen, moving back to Warsaw, I am nineteen and back in New York and so on and so on. I’ll go find a tree. A farmer will chop it down for me because I, city girl by now, don’t know how to chop down trees, cherry, spruce or any other.
Over the years, sometimes I would continued to find the family tree, other times I did not. There were no children in the house. Christmas, of the secular kind, is, I am reminded, for children.
And now I have children. And even before, I had a husband who liked Christmas. There is, of course, a lot to like about Christmas.
Children grew, spouse is now close through affect and history rather than label and geography, but Christmas stayed. So that this year, the tree towers and the rituals are relived with meaning (to each her or his own) and gusto.
Happy Christmas, Ocean readers, in whatever way you wake up to it – with or without tree. And, if you see yourself as being outside the world of Christmas, may the affect and good cheer be yours nonetheless. And the tinsel. Fill your hearts with tinsel.
I was three when it was taken. New to Warsaw (village life, with grandparents before that), new to nursery school (both parents working, long hours), seemingly un-shy about any of it. Relatives said – she’s always thinking – what next? Unstoppable.
We weren’t Christian, but there was always a tree and always in the room that my sister and I shared. Positioned between our beds. At first it was clear that it belonged there – we hadn’t a living room, just two rooms – a small apartment in Warsaw, there, this is it:
But later, in New York, we had a living room, a very nice living room indeed, overlooking 46th street, parquet floors and carpet, wow, and still the tree stood between our beds. A generous gesture (you’ll smell it all night long). But also a “Christmas is for children” statement.
Is a teen a child? At thirteen, back in Poland now, Christmas stopped. Again, there was no living room, but there was space. Ah, maybe it’s because we didn’t stay in the city. We were back to the village for school winter break.
There, the snow is deep, all is calm, all is bright. In New York, my images of Christmas had been like that. Straight out of the stories. Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? Suddenly I have snow up to my waist and farmers are moving from point A to point B in sleighs and the nostrils of horses throw out moisture that freezes, but we are non-Christian and the children are not children anymore and so the countdown to Christmas is no countdown at all and there is no tree.
I am three, moving to Warsaw, I am seven, moving to New York, I am thirteen, moving back to Warsaw, I am nineteen and back in New York and so on and so on. I’ll go find a tree. A farmer will chop it down for me because I, city girl by now, don’t know how to chop down trees, cherry, spruce or any other.
Over the years, sometimes I would continued to find the family tree, other times I did not. There were no children in the house. Christmas, of the secular kind, is, I am reminded, for children.
And now I have children. And even before, I had a husband who liked Christmas. There is, of course, a lot to like about Christmas.
Children grew, spouse is now close through affect and history rather than label and geography, but Christmas stayed. So that this year, the tree towers and the rituals are relived with meaning (to each her or his own) and gusto.
Happy Christmas, Ocean readers, in whatever way you wake up to it – with or without tree. And, if you see yourself as being outside the world of Christmas, may the affect and good cheer be yours nonetheless. And the tinsel. Fill your hearts with tinsel.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
more of the same
Driving in every direction, doing any number of tasks, you can, out of the blue, or rather, out of the dark, come across this old faithful: the little tree that, each December, glows and glows, all alone, in the woods.
Friday, December 22, 2006
pack animals
People blog to put their voice out there. Their unique voice, telling a unique story, like no other. At the same time that they (we) spend so much of the year imitating the behaviors of others. Rituals and traditions, we say, as we scrape the same cookie off the sheet that someone else (and another and another) had scraped off just a few blocks (generations?) down.
If you looked at my day, you’d see all the markers of sameness. I hurried and made lists and made my way through crowded parking lots. Secrets, packed away in a back seat, or the trunk of a car.
And yes, I did my annual Christmas trip to the mall. It wasn’t even extraordinarily crowded, but it is such a boring thing to do at any other time and not so boring at all in these last days before the 25th.
Driving back, I passed the evocative stand, at the side of the gas station.
All gone. Or, almost all gone.
At home, the lights are on, the ornaments (yes, with a handful from Poland) are better than wonderful.
Pre-holiday silliness. Copied, with minor, individual twists and turns. But the magic is in the repetition, imitation. I did it all last year and, with luck, will get to do it all over again next year and the year after. Like others before me, next door to me, ahead of me.
If you looked at my day, you’d see all the markers of sameness. I hurried and made lists and made my way through crowded parking lots. Secrets, packed away in a back seat, or the trunk of a car.
And yes, I did my annual Christmas trip to the mall. It wasn’t even extraordinarily crowded, but it is such a boring thing to do at any other time and not so boring at all in these last days before the 25th.
Driving back, I passed the evocative stand, at the side of the gas station.
All gone. Or, almost all gone.
At home, the lights are on, the ornaments (yes, with a handful from Poland) are better than wonderful.
Pre-holiday silliness. Copied, with minor, individual twists and turns. But the magic is in the repetition, imitation. I did it all last year and, with luck, will get to do it all over again next year and the year after. Like others before me, next door to me, ahead of me.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
the tree
It's because of the Christmas tree. To come home, deal with all the details of life and then to put up this monster of height, widhth and depth -- it grabs the spirit out of you, that's all. In the nicest of ways.
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