A blue, enamel sky shelters me as I perch on the concrete sidewalk once more. Not a single cloud scuffs its surface. The trees, the parched grass, the glittering fragments of rock all glow in the unencumbered sunlight. I am warm. I am light. I am happy.
There is no evolution of place in a human lifetime. Seasons pass- that is not an evolution. It is simply a cycle. I will not live long enough to watch new mountains push from the center of the Earth. I won't see the centimeters as they rise up. It takes almost no time at all for what was strange to become usual. I have lived in this city for two months today. I have perched on this spot week after week, contemplated its totality and juxtaposition. I now belong. This is not a strange place; this is my place. Change is only the interval between two sames. This is a season passing.
In the distance to my left, I see the tops of Georgia pines. I think of Janisse Ray, whose book I have recommended to so many people. I consider the way I felt reading her work. It was the first time I have ever recognized myself in a nature writer.
There are moments that happen (randomly?) in life where you feel the infinite connectivity between yourself and the world you occupy. Suddenly you know that you are meant to be in the world, and the world could not be without you. Most nature writing, I believe, is an attempt to explore connectivity. There is something happening all around us, all the time. We are vibing, giving off and receiving energy. Everything is connected and nature writing attempts to parse it apart for a moment. There are infinite ways to be connected- being disconnected is also one. Encapsulating these points is what nature writing can/should do.
A couple stroll by with a baby and a leashed puppy. All of them smile at me while I sit with my notebook. I smile back, feeling the vibrations from my lips echo through them, into the clear, cerulean sky.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Place Entry 7
1:34 pm
The corner at the end of my street (Atlanta, GA)
The heat has nestled in. The days of jumping from 75 degrees back down to 50 are over. We won't see another day below 70 for months and months.
Everything is weighed down. The branches droop slightly. Leaves turn downward, sighing, uninterested in the brutal sun. I am in the middle of a cacophony of bird calls. Their chattering seems eager, excited, rushed. Maybe I am projecting.
A car- red, covered with the yellow-green pollen layer that has blanketed the entire city- takes the turn at the corner too fast, narrowly avoiding hitting a silver sedan, kicking up gravel, dust and exhaust.
An open-faced sun highlights the insidious pollen. I see it on my black and white shoes, along the white concrete edge of the sidewalk. I can see it on the leaves of the ivy growing up my oak tree pal. This has been torture for most of the city's residents. I am struggling not to itch my hands and face. Liquid fills every cavity in my face, creating pressure and a struggle to breathe.
Atlanta, I was recently informed, is the worst city in the country for allergy sufferers. It is not just the thick, yellow dust of pollen. It is the pollution as well. In the past 15 years, Atlanta's population has boomed so greatly that the majority of the state (63%) now lives in the metro area. Fourteen lanes of traffic on city thoroughfares spew exhaust in all directions. This layer of detritus is invisible but thick. It is pulled into my lungs as I breathe the hot, dusty air.
Another car drives by. A woman pushes a baby in a stroller. The chubby child sleeps heavily, scratching at its eyes through dreams.
The corner at the end of my street (Atlanta, GA)
The heat has nestled in. The days of jumping from 75 degrees back down to 50 are over. We won't see another day below 70 for months and months.
Everything is weighed down. The branches droop slightly. Leaves turn downward, sighing, uninterested in the brutal sun. I am in the middle of a cacophony of bird calls. Their chattering seems eager, excited, rushed. Maybe I am projecting.
A car- red, covered with the yellow-green pollen layer that has blanketed the entire city- takes the turn at the corner too fast, narrowly avoiding hitting a silver sedan, kicking up gravel, dust and exhaust.
An open-faced sun highlights the insidious pollen. I see it on my black and white shoes, along the white concrete edge of the sidewalk. I can see it on the leaves of the ivy growing up my oak tree pal. This has been torture for most of the city's residents. I am struggling not to itch my hands and face. Liquid fills every cavity in my face, creating pressure and a struggle to breathe.
Atlanta, I was recently informed, is the worst city in the country for allergy sufferers. It is not just the thick, yellow dust of pollen. It is the pollution as well. In the past 15 years, Atlanta's population has boomed so greatly that the majority of the state (63%) now lives in the metro area. Fourteen lanes of traffic on city thoroughfares spew exhaust in all directions. This layer of detritus is invisible but thick. It is pulled into my lungs as I breathe the hot, dusty air.
Another car drives by. A woman pushes a baby in a stroller. The chubby child sleeps heavily, scratching at its eyes through dreams.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Prompt Entry 7
At the base, my heart begins to palpitate. A succession of steps, no more than twenty, ascending to a height no more than 12 feet. The walls-- I am not entirely sure they won't close in on me. They never have before, but, after all, a thing can never be proven, only disproven. It only needs to happen the one time.
A creak with the first step. My right foot hesitates briefly. I weigh the importance of the trip, clutch the rail and proceed to the second.
There's no one here but me. Sure. No one else.
I break into a running climb. In less than 30 seconds the whole ordeal is over. My ribs relax a little around my lungs and heart. I do the thing I want to do the least; I have to be sure.
I look back. Nobody's there.
It was probably the horror movies that did it. I've been watching them since childhood. Much to the chagrin of my parents, my grandmother used to let me stay up late every weekend watching marathons with her. The Omen, Psycho, The Good Son, Salem's Lot, Halloween. I devoured them happily and with as much pleasure as the chocolate bars and 2 am popcorn. I love to be scared of a movie, to give myself over completely to the terror of the storyline, to take simultaneous comfort in having control over my actual, physical situation. Michael Myers wasn't in Grandma's living room; my only company was her and the dogs.
The problem is that I am a severely anxious person. I cannot and won't blame horror movies for this. In my mother's words, I come from "a long line of worriers." My mom won't watch a scary movie if you pay her. She will, however, spend every minute of a flight obsessing over the remote possibility of a crash. Horror movies don't make people fearful-- they simply posit new things to fear.
I am afraid of stairs. Well, not exactly. I am specifically afraid of being followed up the stairs, of the sensation that someone is behind me. The classic mistake of the female lead in a horror movie is to flee the killer by climbing the stairs. She ascends, glances over her shoulder and- SLICE. Her neck is cut first. The killer proceeds to slice and stab her vulnerable frame.
Every time I am confronted with a set of stairs, panic grips me. If I am in a group of people, I make them climb first-- to the point of being "weird" about it. It doesn't matter who's behind me; I am afraid of any and everyone following me up a set. The rhythm of footsteps so close behind me makes vomit rise in my throat. I become clammy and faint. I run. This becomes problematic in public places. Perhaps that's the secret reason why I sought acting as a hobby- to learn how to mask my anxiety.
Masking as the innocuous bottom of the wall-ceiling-wall rectangle, the base of the staircase forces me to question whether or not the trip is warranted. Do I absolutely need to go up? It is the last place for questioning. Slats of wood (bare in my home, fabric-covered in others) rest atop one another in the seemingly narrowing corridor. This optical illusion raises my blood pressure. Surely I won't fit through. Surely something will trap me before I reach the top.
The railing is my enemy in disguise. I can grip it for support, but what if it collapses? What if it slows my pace and gives the killer a split second advantage? What if I forgo it and trip, shattering my occipital lobes and nose, beginning the killer's work for him?
The victorious feeling of reaching the top stair is short-lived. That horrible moment must come immediately afterward. The look. Over the shoulder and down.
No one's there.
A creak with the first step. My right foot hesitates briefly. I weigh the importance of the trip, clutch the rail and proceed to the second.
There's no one here but me. Sure. No one else.
I break into a running climb. In less than 30 seconds the whole ordeal is over. My ribs relax a little around my lungs and heart. I do the thing I want to do the least; I have to be sure.
I look back. Nobody's there.
It was probably the horror movies that did it. I've been watching them since childhood. Much to the chagrin of my parents, my grandmother used to let me stay up late every weekend watching marathons with her. The Omen, Psycho, The Good Son, Salem's Lot, Halloween. I devoured them happily and with as much pleasure as the chocolate bars and 2 am popcorn. I love to be scared of a movie, to give myself over completely to the terror of the storyline, to take simultaneous comfort in having control over my actual, physical situation. Michael Myers wasn't in Grandma's living room; my only company was her and the dogs.
The problem is that I am a severely anxious person. I cannot and won't blame horror movies for this. In my mother's words, I come from "a long line of worriers." My mom won't watch a scary movie if you pay her. She will, however, spend every minute of a flight obsessing over the remote possibility of a crash. Horror movies don't make people fearful-- they simply posit new things to fear.
I am afraid of stairs. Well, not exactly. I am specifically afraid of being followed up the stairs, of the sensation that someone is behind me. The classic mistake of the female lead in a horror movie is to flee the killer by climbing the stairs. She ascends, glances over her shoulder and- SLICE. Her neck is cut first. The killer proceeds to slice and stab her vulnerable frame.
Every time I am confronted with a set of stairs, panic grips me. If I am in a group of people, I make them climb first-- to the point of being "weird" about it. It doesn't matter who's behind me; I am afraid of any and everyone following me up a set. The rhythm of footsteps so close behind me makes vomit rise in my throat. I become clammy and faint. I run. This becomes problematic in public places. Perhaps that's the secret reason why I sought acting as a hobby- to learn how to mask my anxiety.
Masking as the innocuous bottom of the wall-ceiling-wall rectangle, the base of the staircase forces me to question whether or not the trip is warranted. Do I absolutely need to go up? It is the last place for questioning. Slats of wood (bare in my home, fabric-covered in others) rest atop one another in the seemingly narrowing corridor. This optical illusion raises my blood pressure. Surely I won't fit through. Surely something will trap me before I reach the top.
The railing is my enemy in disguise. I can grip it for support, but what if it collapses? What if it slows my pace and gives the killer a split second advantage? What if I forgo it and trip, shattering my occipital lobes and nose, beginning the killer's work for him?
The victorious feeling of reaching the top stair is short-lived. That horrible moment must come immediately afterward. The look. Over the shoulder and down.
No one's there.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Place Entry 6
The air is chilly, and the scent of water is thick. Silver skies confirm the threat of rain. I like to be outside on sunless days. There are no shadows. Everything is sapped slightly of its pigment; the difference between painting with acrylics and watercolor. The cars at the intersection are as numerous as ever but seem to be moving slower than usual. They too must feel, as I do, that today is a day for reflection rather than action.
Deciduous trees have begun to flower. A few, like the sprawling oak behind me, remain bare of leaves, save the tangles of ivy growing up the trunk. Above me, I hear birds in careful conversation. A quick "kwe-kwe-kwe-kwe-kwe-kwe-kwe," and a longer, "kuhwehh." I don't know anything about bird calls. I see a dark brown shadow fly from a branch. I wonder if he is the responsible party.
Directly across from my perch is a sign welcoming residents to the COLUMBIA CITIHOMES APARTMENTS: AN ANDP & COLUMBIA RESIDENTIAL DEVELOPMENT. It is flanked by perfectly placed lavender and yellow pansies. A wrought iron fence keeps out unwanted visitors and the tumbling foliage of the older side of the street.
I wanted to get out here in the morning, early, to see this place at sunrise. I wanted to but I am not a morning person and never have been. So instead I'm here at midafternoon in the midst of the slower bustling Sunday. The lack of sunshine doesn't upset me; I got a taste of southern summer yesterday as the temperature climbed over 80 degrees. I'll never complain about the heat but, right now, I won't complain about the coolness either.
A couple of brown ants share the curb with me. They seem relaxed. Or maybe lost. I don't see their hill anywhere. Does a lost ant simply start over grain by grain- rebuild and forget? Does an ant know to be lost?
The gray sky sucks the color from the leaves, the birds, the pansies. The rain will come and then the sun and the technicolor world will exist again. The shadows will all be cast and the ants will move faster to avoid the burning rays.
Deciduous trees have begun to flower. A few, like the sprawling oak behind me, remain bare of leaves, save the tangles of ivy growing up the trunk. Above me, I hear birds in careful conversation. A quick "kwe-kwe-kwe-kwe-kwe-kwe-kwe," and a longer, "kuhwehh." I don't know anything about bird calls. I see a dark brown shadow fly from a branch. I wonder if he is the responsible party.
Directly across from my perch is a sign welcoming residents to the COLUMBIA CITIHOMES APARTMENTS: AN ANDP & COLUMBIA RESIDENTIAL DEVELOPMENT. It is flanked by perfectly placed lavender and yellow pansies. A wrought iron fence keeps out unwanted visitors and the tumbling foliage of the older side of the street.
I wanted to get out here in the morning, early, to see this place at sunrise. I wanted to but I am not a morning person and never have been. So instead I'm here at midafternoon in the midst of the slower bustling Sunday. The lack of sunshine doesn't upset me; I got a taste of southern summer yesterday as the temperature climbed over 80 degrees. I'll never complain about the heat but, right now, I won't complain about the coolness either.
A couple of brown ants share the curb with me. They seem relaxed. Or maybe lost. I don't see their hill anywhere. Does a lost ant simply start over grain by grain- rebuild and forget? Does an ant know to be lost?
The gray sky sucks the color from the leaves, the birds, the pansies. The rain will come and then the sun and the technicolor world will exist again. The shadows will all be cast and the ants will move faster to avoid the burning rays.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Prompt Entry 6
In front of my mother's house is a 50-foot cottonwood. Its branches have been trimmed away from the ground about seven feet up. From there the limbs splay gracefully, turning slightly upward, toward the sun.
Its trunk is a purposeful hug's width around. It is planted on a small mound five or six feet from the front porch where a great, old pine was thrown from the ground during a windstorm in 1997. That had been the first year my family lived in the home which I now think of as "my mother's house."
I love this tree. When I come home from whatever faraway city I live in, I stop on the way to the door to say hello to the tree. I pat its thickly grooved trunk. My voice raises a half an octave when I speak to it, as speaking to a child or a pet. More than any room in my mother's house, or the house as a totality, the cottonwood is my place. I sit on the ground below it and its roots fit my hips and back perfectly. On warm evenings when my family eats or drinks together, I perch on a chair directly below its shady limbs and bask in the tinkling melody of its spade-shaped leaves. I have, on more than one drunken occasion, cried in the arms of the tree, clung to it in early morning hours, imagined I could feel its lifeblood flowing up from the ground to the tips of its branches, begged it for mercy or good luck or a second chance.
If this seems unnatural, it's because it is. I am overcompensating in the present for past mistakes. I identify too strongly with the tree. This is the nature of abuse.
You see, the tree began its life in the gutter on the south side of the house during the summer of 1999. My mom's then boyfriend plucked it and suggested we plant it in the front yard where the pine had been lost. My brother Jim and I hated her boyfriend and thought every idea he had was worthless. Our father had gone the way of the pine the year before.
So the cottonwood was planted, and the abuse began. It looked like an awkward stick plopped in the center of a pile of earth. "Stupid fucking tree, I hope you fucking die." Jim and I took cruel pleasure in the fact that our mother no longer punished us for swearing, forgiving us the extra anger. We ripped its leaves off and shredded them in front of it. Pathetic thing, it only had nine or ten.
The next summer the boyfriend was gone. This meant that Jim and I could have friends over whenever we wanted, which was often. We sat on the front porch and took pot-shots at the tree. Travis Panizzoli rode his bike over it and took out a third of its branches. It had grown some, but we were still bigger. Anthony McCormick lit a branch on fire. Jim smashed cigarette butts on its trunk. I tore off leaves in handfuls.
"Stupid tree," I leaned over it so my lips nearly touched it and whispered, "You're a waste. No one likes you."
By the following summer, I had lost interest in abusing the tree. Instead, I treated it with the same sneering indifference that my 16-year-old self treated everything and everyone. I didn't bother to look at the tree when I came up the driveway from Sarah and Heather Simms' house every night. It could have been that I was already beginning to feel the shame; I was just too much of a coward to face it.
The tree grew. It grew and grew. So did I, so did Jim. Grew and grew and grew. I read articles about the secret thoughts of plants, about how speaking to a plant makes a difference in the way it matures. Had we harmed the plant forever? Would it have thicker branches, more lustrous leaves, fluffier and more numerous cottonballs if we hadn't treated it so badly those first years?
This is when I began to make amends. This is when I began to cling to the tree.
Have you ever harmed a thing? On accident, you can forgive yourself and take solace in your bad luck/ignorance/lack of control. On purpose, there is no forgiving yourself, only attempts to atone. Today I hug the cottonwood every time I come home, I whisper niceties to strange trees in the new cities I traverse, and I attempt to treat every living thing with respect.
I hope that is enough.
Its trunk is a purposeful hug's width around. It is planted on a small mound five or six feet from the front porch where a great, old pine was thrown from the ground during a windstorm in 1997. That had been the first year my family lived in the home which I now think of as "my mother's house."
I love this tree. When I come home from whatever faraway city I live in, I stop on the way to the door to say hello to the tree. I pat its thickly grooved trunk. My voice raises a half an octave when I speak to it, as speaking to a child or a pet. More than any room in my mother's house, or the house as a totality, the cottonwood is my place. I sit on the ground below it and its roots fit my hips and back perfectly. On warm evenings when my family eats or drinks together, I perch on a chair directly below its shady limbs and bask in the tinkling melody of its spade-shaped leaves. I have, on more than one drunken occasion, cried in the arms of the tree, clung to it in early morning hours, imagined I could feel its lifeblood flowing up from the ground to the tips of its branches, begged it for mercy or good luck or a second chance.
If this seems unnatural, it's because it is. I am overcompensating in the present for past mistakes. I identify too strongly with the tree. This is the nature of abuse.
You see, the tree began its life in the gutter on the south side of the house during the summer of 1999. My mom's then boyfriend plucked it and suggested we plant it in the front yard where the pine had been lost. My brother Jim and I hated her boyfriend and thought every idea he had was worthless. Our father had gone the way of the pine the year before.
So the cottonwood was planted, and the abuse began. It looked like an awkward stick plopped in the center of a pile of earth. "Stupid fucking tree, I hope you fucking die." Jim and I took cruel pleasure in the fact that our mother no longer punished us for swearing, forgiving us the extra anger. We ripped its leaves off and shredded them in front of it. Pathetic thing, it only had nine or ten.
The next summer the boyfriend was gone. This meant that Jim and I could have friends over whenever we wanted, which was often. We sat on the front porch and took pot-shots at the tree. Travis Panizzoli rode his bike over it and took out a third of its branches. It had grown some, but we were still bigger. Anthony McCormick lit a branch on fire. Jim smashed cigarette butts on its trunk. I tore off leaves in handfuls.
"Stupid tree," I leaned over it so my lips nearly touched it and whispered, "You're a waste. No one likes you."
By the following summer, I had lost interest in abusing the tree. Instead, I treated it with the same sneering indifference that my 16-year-old self treated everything and everyone. I didn't bother to look at the tree when I came up the driveway from Sarah and Heather Simms' house every night. It could have been that I was already beginning to feel the shame; I was just too much of a coward to face it.
The tree grew. It grew and grew. So did I, so did Jim. Grew and grew and grew. I read articles about the secret thoughts of plants, about how speaking to a plant makes a difference in the way it matures. Had we harmed the plant forever? Would it have thicker branches, more lustrous leaves, fluffier and more numerous cottonballs if we hadn't treated it so badly those first years?
This is when I began to make amends. This is when I began to cling to the tree.
Have you ever harmed a thing? On accident, you can forgive yourself and take solace in your bad luck/ignorance/lack of control. On purpose, there is no forgiving yourself, only attempts to atone. Today I hug the cottonwood every time I come home, I whisper niceties to strange trees in the new cities I traverse, and I attempt to treat every living thing with respect.
I hope that is enough.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Prompt Entry 5
Lead.
Arsenic.
Mercury. Cadmium.
Selenium, chromium, silver.
Non-point source means you can't point the finger. A little bit of rain collides with a little bit of metal, bears a mobile babe. Babe rolls, crawls and grows. Over, under, into. Compounding, expanding exponentially. Metal unable or unwilling to extricate itself from other metals. This is the most common type of water pollution in this (any)city. Non-point source: we know we don't know exactly where it came from.
I can't get away from water or I won't. I haven't seen a lake since I've been in Atlanta. I haven't seen a river. A creek snakes through newly developed lofts behind the train station. I am a frequent visitor. The water is a murky graygreen. If I focus, I can see the sparkle of heavy metals. I conjecture whereabout those poisons are coming from.
Calcium, iron, nitrogen.
Potassium. Sodium.
Hydrogen.
Oxygen.
This is the great paradox.
Our bodies thump a lovely assemblage of elements. Mostly we are two: hydrogen and oxygen. Mostly we are water. We need others: calcium, iron, nitrogen, potassium, sodium. The problem is that we need them in exact amounts. A human being is a delicate balance. Every red blood cell is surrounded by a membrane whose constitution is virtually the same ratio of salt to water as an ocean. Scientists point to this as evidence that we evolved from the sea. An ocean made solid.
I point to this as evidence that we need to pay attention to the water.
The water.
We use nitrates to fertilize our fields. The rain takes the nitrates to our stream and upsets the water's perfect balance. This kills certain wildlife, causing bacteria to reproduce grossly. Our water becomes bloated with nitrogen, potassium, sodium. Salts. When our blood becomes bloated with salt, our heart chokes and explodes. A heart attack. Think of the land as our heart.
It rained tonight. I was inside so I couldn't taste the drops as they thudded from the sky. It is ok; I will cry tonight at the illness of the Earth. I will taste the sickness I have consumed.
Arsenic.
Mercury. Cadmium.
Selenium, chromium, silver.
Non-point source means you can't point the finger. A little bit of rain collides with a little bit of metal, bears a mobile babe. Babe rolls, crawls and grows. Over, under, into. Compounding, expanding exponentially. Metal unable or unwilling to extricate itself from other metals. This is the most common type of water pollution in this (any)city. Non-point source: we know we don't know exactly where it came from.
I can't get away from water or I won't. I haven't seen a lake since I've been in Atlanta. I haven't seen a river. A creek snakes through newly developed lofts behind the train station. I am a frequent visitor. The water is a murky graygreen. If I focus, I can see the sparkle of heavy metals. I conjecture whereabout those poisons are coming from.
Calcium, iron, nitrogen.
Potassium. Sodium.
Hydrogen.
Oxygen.
This is the great paradox.
Our bodies thump a lovely assemblage of elements. Mostly we are two: hydrogen and oxygen. Mostly we are water. We need others: calcium, iron, nitrogen, potassium, sodium. The problem is that we need them in exact amounts. A human being is a delicate balance. Every red blood cell is surrounded by a membrane whose constitution is virtually the same ratio of salt to water as an ocean. Scientists point to this as evidence that we evolved from the sea. An ocean made solid.
I point to this as evidence that we need to pay attention to the water.
The water.
We use nitrates to fertilize our fields. The rain takes the nitrates to our stream and upsets the water's perfect balance. This kills certain wildlife, causing bacteria to reproduce grossly. Our water becomes bloated with nitrogen, potassium, sodium. Salts. When our blood becomes bloated with salt, our heart chokes and explodes. A heart attack. Think of the land as our heart.
It rained tonight. I was inside so I couldn't taste the drops as they thudded from the sky. It is ok; I will cry tonight at the illness of the Earth. I will taste the sickness I have consumed.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Place Entry 5
11:00 am
the corner at the end of my street (Atlanta, Georgia)
The first week of March and early in the day. It is 65 degrees already and the high, hot sun is freckling my face. I can feel its rays deeply. This southern sun radiates more powerfully in the spring than my Midwestern sun manages all summer. I am getting used to this.
I perch on the northeast curb. This is the safest spot to sit, as a constant stream of cars enters the intersection from the west and turns north. Face south: a road leading into an apartment complex. Face east: a dead end, its finality a cluster of pecan trees and dusty, overgrown grass. Face west: a brand new asphalt road snaking through a glittering new shopping complex. Face north: a neighborhood in the lurch. That's where I live-- a squat little duplex on the northeast side of the street. It is old, brick and has stood stoic through the changes as they've come.
The sun illuminates the dangerous snow of broken glass. It covers much of the street; I suspect the brand new, three-story condos across the street are the culprit. I wonder what got broken to make way for them.
I try to keep an eye out for critters in the red clay and glass. I haven't seen anything yet- not an ant or a palmetto. I wondered about the roaches- if they scuttled their way into town for the promise of garbage and warmth. I haven't seen one yet. Maybe they're hiding. Yellow-brown leaves, vestiges of the fall, still dance across the ground. When I lived in Savannah, Georgia no one raked their leaves. Perhaps they understood the futility of it. I liked to think they left them as an offering to the gods of spring. A brutal winter has destroyed the grass. The patch behind the sidewalk where I sit is urine yellow and brittle as aged bones. I run my fingers across it- it bites at me and swirls dust into the air.
Finally, I notice a brown moth. He is crawling across the ground slowly. I wonder about his species and why he isn't flying. I stand up from the curb and dust myself off. I bid adieu to the meandering moth and head north up the hill to my new home.
the corner at the end of my street (Atlanta, Georgia)
The first week of March and early in the day. It is 65 degrees already and the high, hot sun is freckling my face. I can feel its rays deeply. This southern sun radiates more powerfully in the spring than my Midwestern sun manages all summer. I am getting used to this.
I perch on the northeast curb. This is the safest spot to sit, as a constant stream of cars enters the intersection from the west and turns north. Face south: a road leading into an apartment complex. Face east: a dead end, its finality a cluster of pecan trees and dusty, overgrown grass. Face west: a brand new asphalt road snaking through a glittering new shopping complex. Face north: a neighborhood in the lurch. That's where I live-- a squat little duplex on the northeast side of the street. It is old, brick and has stood stoic through the changes as they've come.
The sun illuminates the dangerous snow of broken glass. It covers much of the street; I suspect the brand new, three-story condos across the street are the culprit. I wonder what got broken to make way for them.
I try to keep an eye out for critters in the red clay and glass. I haven't seen anything yet- not an ant or a palmetto. I wondered about the roaches- if they scuttled their way into town for the promise of garbage and warmth. I haven't seen one yet. Maybe they're hiding. Yellow-brown leaves, vestiges of the fall, still dance across the ground. When I lived in Savannah, Georgia no one raked their leaves. Perhaps they understood the futility of it. I liked to think they left them as an offering to the gods of spring. A brutal winter has destroyed the grass. The patch behind the sidewalk where I sit is urine yellow and brittle as aged bones. I run my fingers across it- it bites at me and swirls dust into the air.
Finally, I notice a brown moth. He is crawling across the ground slowly. I wonder about his species and why he isn't flying. I stand up from the curb and dust myself off. I bid adieu to the meandering moth and head north up the hill to my new home.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Prompt Entry 4
Periplaneta americana.
Let us begin with a little etymology:
Peri-, prefix meaning "around, about, enclosing." Comes from the Greek "peri-" meaning "around, about, beyond."
Planeta- a word that does not exist in modern usage, it is Latin with its origin in the Greek phrase asteres planetai, "wandering stars." Planetai is further traced back to planesthai, "to wander."
Americana, logically, means "American."
A name is an entryway. A name can contain some sense of a thing but never encompasses it wholly. A name is a place to start.
The first time I saw a cockroach, I was laying on Sarah Hyder's grandma's bed in Punta Gorda, Florida, on my way to college spring break in Daytona. Oma had forewarned us. Sort of.
"Oeh, thzey are evrewhzere, thze Palmettoze. Looke ouht."
Sarah, Liz and I got the master suite. Oma, a traditional, German hostess, refused to stay in her own room and chose the smaller guest bedroom. We were drinking cheap rum mixed with orange juice when Liz screamed.
"(Unintelligible, loud hysteria)!!!"
Sarah and I whipped our heads around. She spotted it seconds before I did and began to laugh. I leaped back.
On the middle of the creamy beige wall, a brown monstrosity hung motionless. It was the size and shape of an overlong almond. Even from my position cowering in the back of the room, I could see its segmented body and antennae.
"You two are ridiculous. It's just a palmetto." Sarah chided us as she rolled up a magazine for the kill.
"That. Is. A. Cockroach." Liz gasped.
"Duh. They're basically the same thing." Sarah struck and missed. A dreadful thing happened.
"(Angry, unintelligible hysteria)!!! IT CAN FLY!!!!!!!" Liz brought a pillow to her face and yelled into it. Sarah jumped from the bed to the ground. It happened quickly. SLAP! Squish...
"Yeah," Sarah whipped her hair back and stood. "They can do that."
When I saw them in movies, cockroaches indicated filth. The man with the cockroach infestation was the creep, the killer, the hobo. The protagonist reflected on scuttling cockroaches in his childhood home, safe in the spotless residence of his adulthood.
In Savannah, the palmettos were everywhere. I came to the conclusion that southerners couldn't shed the plague of the roaches so they shed the name. A palmetto could be beautiful if you let it.
A cockroach can travel up to 50 times its body length in a second. That's the equivalent of a human being running 330 miles per hour. As it is, it's about 3.4 mph, or a leisurely walking pace for Homo sapiens. The roaches accompanied me as I walked to and from work. At first, I went to great lengths to avoid them. If I saw a roach, I jumped into the street and jogged a few paces before returning to the sidewalk. Roaches. They disgusted me. I feared their entry into my home, armed my apartment with traps to insure their demise. When they scuttled alongside me, I imagined I could hear the clickity clack of their multiple legs. They darted between my feet unexpectedly. I was sure this was an attempt at torture. Shiny brown bodies blended with the fallen leaves of live oak trees, providing the perfect cover for the infestation.
After weeks, months of journeying with them, I lost my fear of the roach. I conceded defeat and began addressing them as palmettos. When they showed up in my path, I shared it. They, after all, had been there first.
Periplaneta americana, the American cockroach, the palmetto bug. Despite their species name, the palmetto isn't even American. Palmettos came to the states from Africa during the slave trade. The southerners renamed the slaves too. P. americana sought out the warmest, moistest climates, the ones reminiscent of Mother Africa. They have been unjustly labeled a household pest. Cockroaches will do almost anything to avoid a human home. They want to live out of doors beneath the stars.
All around the planet. Wandering around, looking for stars.
Let us begin with a little etymology:
Peri-, prefix meaning "around, about, enclosing." Comes from the Greek "peri-" meaning "around, about, beyond."
Planeta- a word that does not exist in modern usage, it is Latin with its origin in the Greek phrase asteres planetai, "wandering stars." Planetai is further traced back to planesthai, "to wander."
Americana, logically, means "American."
A name is an entryway. A name can contain some sense of a thing but never encompasses it wholly. A name is a place to start.
The first time I saw a cockroach, I was laying on Sarah Hyder's grandma's bed in Punta Gorda, Florida, on my way to college spring break in Daytona. Oma had forewarned us. Sort of.
"Oeh, thzey are evrewhzere, thze Palmettoze. Looke ouht."
Sarah, Liz and I got the master suite. Oma, a traditional, German hostess, refused to stay in her own room and chose the smaller guest bedroom. We were drinking cheap rum mixed with orange juice when Liz screamed.
"(Unintelligible, loud hysteria)!!!"
Sarah and I whipped our heads around. She spotted it seconds before I did and began to laugh. I leaped back.
On the middle of the creamy beige wall, a brown monstrosity hung motionless. It was the size and shape of an overlong almond. Even from my position cowering in the back of the room, I could see its segmented body and antennae.
"You two are ridiculous. It's just a palmetto." Sarah chided us as she rolled up a magazine for the kill.
"That. Is. A. Cockroach." Liz gasped.
"Duh. They're basically the same thing." Sarah struck and missed. A dreadful thing happened.
"(Angry, unintelligible hysteria)!!! IT CAN FLY!!!!!!!" Liz brought a pillow to her face and yelled into it. Sarah jumped from the bed to the ground. It happened quickly. SLAP! Squish...
"Yeah," Sarah whipped her hair back and stood. "They can do that."
When I saw them in movies, cockroaches indicated filth. The man with the cockroach infestation was the creep, the killer, the hobo. The protagonist reflected on scuttling cockroaches in his childhood home, safe in the spotless residence of his adulthood.
In Savannah, the palmettos were everywhere. I came to the conclusion that southerners couldn't shed the plague of the roaches so they shed the name. A palmetto could be beautiful if you let it.
A cockroach can travel up to 50 times its body length in a second. That's the equivalent of a human being running 330 miles per hour. As it is, it's about 3.4 mph, or a leisurely walking pace for Homo sapiens. The roaches accompanied me as I walked to and from work. At first, I went to great lengths to avoid them. If I saw a roach, I jumped into the street and jogged a few paces before returning to the sidewalk. Roaches. They disgusted me. I feared their entry into my home, armed my apartment with traps to insure their demise. When they scuttled alongside me, I imagined I could hear the clickity clack of their multiple legs. They darted between my feet unexpectedly. I was sure this was an attempt at torture. Shiny brown bodies blended with the fallen leaves of live oak trees, providing the perfect cover for the infestation.
After weeks, months of journeying with them, I lost my fear of the roach. I conceded defeat and began addressing them as palmettos. When they showed up in my path, I shared it. They, after all, had been there first.
Periplaneta americana, the American cockroach, the palmetto bug. Despite their species name, the palmetto isn't even American. Palmettos came to the states from Africa during the slave trade. The southerners renamed the slaves too. P. americana sought out the warmest, moistest climates, the ones reminiscent of Mother Africa. They have been unjustly labeled a household pest. Cockroaches will do almost anything to avoid a human home. They want to live out of doors beneath the stars.
All around the planet. Wandering around, looking for stars.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Place Entry 4
5:45 pm
the corner of my street (metro Detroit)
The absence of critters made sense last week and the week before and the week before and the week before when the weather was below freezing, below livable.
But today it is beautiful: 52 degrees, pink-skyed and fresh. Still, not an animal stirs.
A car whizzes by, threatening me with spray from its tires. The potholes have worsened, and I suspect the animals know to avoid bustling intersections. They move covertly, take side streets, like drunks at closing time. I breathe deeply. The air is wet and the sidewalk sopping with mud. The snow has melted, save foot high piles where the plows were, stubborn reminders of a season that hasn't finished.
But I have finished. I have finished with metro Detroit-- for now, at least. Tomorrow I will be on I-75, winding through the Smokies to the end of the Appalachian trail 'til I reach the ATL. Back to Georgia. Back to the heat, the peaches and the southern slang. A new city to claim. A new self to invent.
Walking down the road to my home- my mother's home, I ought to say- I look up at the barren trees. Melting snow and humidity has rendered them inky black. They are stark against the coral sky. There is no wind, and I can feel them breathe with me. They are expectant, sensing spring in the unseasonable heat. They don't care I am abandoning them.
The ground is mostly mud with sparse tufts of green grass. I imagine there are earthworms wriggling just beneath the surface. They are nearly ready to see the sun.
the corner of my street (metro Detroit)
The absence of critters made sense last week and the week before and the week before and the week before when the weather was below freezing, below livable.
But today it is beautiful: 52 degrees, pink-skyed and fresh. Still, not an animal stirs.
A car whizzes by, threatening me with spray from its tires. The potholes have worsened, and I suspect the animals know to avoid bustling intersections. They move covertly, take side streets, like drunks at closing time. I breathe deeply. The air is wet and the sidewalk sopping with mud. The snow has melted, save foot high piles where the plows were, stubborn reminders of a season that hasn't finished.
But I have finished. I have finished with metro Detroit-- for now, at least. Tomorrow I will be on I-75, winding through the Smokies to the end of the Appalachian trail 'til I reach the ATL. Back to Georgia. Back to the heat, the peaches and the southern slang. A new city to claim. A new self to invent.
Walking down the road to my home- my mother's home, I ought to say- I look up at the barren trees. Melting snow and humidity has rendered them inky black. They are stark against the coral sky. There is no wind, and I can feel them breathe with me. They are expectant, sensing spring in the unseasonable heat. They don't care I am abandoning them.
The ground is mostly mud with sparse tufts of green grass. I imagine there are earthworms wriggling just beneath the surface. They are nearly ready to see the sun.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Prompt Entry 3
I grew up fat. Not baby-fat, middle-school-extra-10-pounds fat. Fat. Morbidly obese fat. For real.
Savannah, Georgia is 10 minutes from the ocean. A certified aqua-phile, I am spending my only day off at the beach. Jaimie and I scamper through sand so hot it's threatening to become glass below our feet. The mid-morning sun is climbing to the east. The sky is cerulean and cloudless. The Atlantic drums the shore. A few other die-hards are on the beach, but at 93 degrees and climbing, it's too hot for most people. Not us. We throw our towels into the wind, wrestle them to the ground and lay down.
I'm stiff. Knowledge of my bare limbs, my stomach swarthed in skin-tight fabric overshadows my consciousness of the fact no one is looking at me. I do not relax my body. The sun pulsates.
In college I started eating well and exercising. By my junior year I had lost 65 pounds and began seeing my first boyfriend. He cared deeply for me. I loved the fact that he seemed to think I was beautiful, that he held and kissed me sincerely.
"Just relax!" He feigned exasperation, kissing me as we embraced.
"What do you mean?"
"You're always so tense," he stroked my back and hair, "I just want you to be comfortable."
The tide is coming in. Jaimie and I have returned to our towels after spending a half-hour in the salty sea. This time of year, it is impossible to lay on the beach for more than an hour. At that point, heat stroke becomes a risk. I snuggle into my towel, salty and wet. Seagulls caw above me, hoping Jaimie and I have packed snacks for them to scavenge. The gulls flap away; they must have spotted something interesting down the shore. Their absence is the silence of a snooze alarm and the crashing waves, the hollow of deep sleep. I breathe in. Exhale. I breathe more deeply, consciously mimicking the waves.
Our bodies pulsate as waves. On the shore of the ocean, our internal rhythm has found a harmony part in the ever-crashing sea. As internal and external begin to coalesce, our consciousness seeps out of our bodies into the sand, pulsates into the sky. We become soft and heavy and relax fully, completely. We lose anxiety, fear. We simply are.
"This is my favorite part," I barely hear him, I'm so far away. He holds me tighter. "When you fall asleep and finally relax."
Savannah, Georgia is 10 minutes from the ocean. A certified aqua-phile, I am spending my only day off at the beach. Jaimie and I scamper through sand so hot it's threatening to become glass below our feet. The mid-morning sun is climbing to the east. The sky is cerulean and cloudless. The Atlantic drums the shore. A few other die-hards are on the beach, but at 93 degrees and climbing, it's too hot for most people. Not us. We throw our towels into the wind, wrestle them to the ground and lay down.
I'm stiff. Knowledge of my bare limbs, my stomach swarthed in skin-tight fabric overshadows my consciousness of the fact no one is looking at me. I do not relax my body. The sun pulsates.
In college I started eating well and exercising. By my junior year I had lost 65 pounds and began seeing my first boyfriend. He cared deeply for me. I loved the fact that he seemed to think I was beautiful, that he held and kissed me sincerely.
"Just relax!" He feigned exasperation, kissing me as we embraced.
"What do you mean?"
"You're always so tense," he stroked my back and hair, "I just want you to be comfortable."
The tide is coming in. Jaimie and I have returned to our towels after spending a half-hour in the salty sea. This time of year, it is impossible to lay on the beach for more than an hour. At that point, heat stroke becomes a risk. I snuggle into my towel, salty and wet. Seagulls caw above me, hoping Jaimie and I have packed snacks for them to scavenge. The gulls flap away; they must have spotted something interesting down the shore. Their absence is the silence of a snooze alarm and the crashing waves, the hollow of deep sleep. I breathe in. Exhale. I breathe more deeply, consciously mimicking the waves.
Our bodies pulsate as waves. On the shore of the ocean, our internal rhythm has found a harmony part in the ever-crashing sea. As internal and external begin to coalesce, our consciousness seeps out of our bodies into the sand, pulsates into the sky. We become soft and heavy and relax fully, completely. We lose anxiety, fear. We simply are.
"This is my favorite part," I barely hear him, I'm so far away. He holds me tighter. "When you fall asleep and finally relax."
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Place Entry 3
4:42 am
The corner of my street (suburban Detroit)
It's four am and I am numb three steps outside of my door. This process began in the garage. Someone else might have waited til morning for this activity but I am compelled to write. Right now. I exist an awful lot at four am: obsessing, inebriated, the machine of my brain combusting. Right now, I want to write. I am going outside to exist in my place whether it is -3 degrees or not.
There is nothing happening- nothing- as I start down the street. Not a branch moves beneath a bounding bird. Not a cat skulks. No human stirs. One car passes. Just one. The streetlight emits a deafening hum as I stand beneath it. My corner has been frostbitten for a week. All water has become ice. The purple-orange of the night sky makes dust of the rime, dulling daytime's white sparkles to a dingy, gleaming brown. Even the thick snow is blanketed with frost. Everything appears glittery/drab beneath the dust/frost. Cold has crystallized us all, imprisoned us in ice and slowly carved us back out. I have only just begun to regain my motor skills, the effort to walk myself is a great success.
This is one of those nights where everything seems a coincidence and I am struck with the awe-inspiring and cruel re-realization that I am the great star of my life as well as the butt of the joke. This is funny to me-- the fact that I never know where I am or what is going on because I'm always, always in motion. Next week I'll be on a street corner 600 miles away and that is what's happening. The turn has been made and I'm making the turn. It has passed. It is coming.
It is too cold to stand out here 20 minutes- I walk back toward my house after 10. Everything is frozen: cold, quiet, still. I move.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Place Entry 2
1:33 pm.
The corner of my street (Suburban Detroit)
I misread the bright sun as an indication of warmth and leave my house in a sweatshirt and jeans. Once outside, I notice the porch thermometer read 30.6 F and one gust of wind makes me sure that is a generous estimate. I venture back inside for a second sweatshirt and a scarf.
My fingertips grow numb around the red, leather-bound notebook as I begin the walk to the corner. There are no city regulations on sidewalks- they vary neighborhood to neighborhood. That said, the sidewalk begins at my neighbor's place (absent in front of my own home) and stretches to the end of Pierce where it crosses its parallel compatriot along Merriman Road. I begin my walk in the wet, asphalt street, fearful of splash-back from passing vehicles driving through the puddles of thick, gray slush. A quick hop over the foot-wide puddle at the base of Glenn and Claire's driveway puts me safely on the sidewalk.
Not quite every other square of the sidewalk is salted-- it seems to go two or three on, two or three off. The salted squares have returned to their usual shade of notice-me-not beige. This hue is especially lackluster and stark next to the squares still covered in snow now glowing blue-white and brilliant in the sun. The variance between the two types of squares is geometric. The whole thing looks like a column in an inexpertly crafted chessboard.
I stop at the corner. Looking down, I notice I am on a beige square. I stoop to examine the pile of rock salt that rests in the center. Each chunk of salt is maybe a 1/3" in diameter, a polygon varying from cube to tetrahedron. I wonder if its crystalline structure resembles a magnified version of the snowflake it so readily destroys. It seems strange the two should have such a volatile relationship; salt and water seem to get on rather well in the sea. I drop the salt rock I am handling into a pile of undisturbed snow. Immediately, it begins to burn through the layers of frozen water. I swear I hear a sizzle. The salt on the roads and sidewalk changes the smell of this cold, adds a sharp, metallic note to the air. I walk back breathing deeply, imagining I can smell the difference as I cross from a salted square to an unsalted one and back.
The corner of my street (Suburban Detroit)
I misread the bright sun as an indication of warmth and leave my house in a sweatshirt and jeans. Once outside, I notice the porch thermometer read 30.6 F and one gust of wind makes me sure that is a generous estimate. I venture back inside for a second sweatshirt and a scarf.
My fingertips grow numb around the red, leather-bound notebook as I begin the walk to the corner. There are no city regulations on sidewalks- they vary neighborhood to neighborhood. That said, the sidewalk begins at my neighbor's place (absent in front of my own home) and stretches to the end of Pierce where it crosses its parallel compatriot along Merriman Road. I begin my walk in the wet, asphalt street, fearful of splash-back from passing vehicles driving through the puddles of thick, gray slush. A quick hop over the foot-wide puddle at the base of Glenn and Claire's driveway puts me safely on the sidewalk.
Not quite every other square of the sidewalk is salted-- it seems to go two or three on, two or three off. The salted squares have returned to their usual shade of notice-me-not beige. This hue is especially lackluster and stark next to the squares still covered in snow now glowing blue-white and brilliant in the sun. The variance between the two types of squares is geometric. The whole thing looks like a column in an inexpertly crafted chessboard.
I stop at the corner. Looking down, I notice I am on a beige square. I stoop to examine the pile of rock salt that rests in the center. Each chunk of salt is maybe a 1/3" in diameter, a polygon varying from cube to tetrahedron. I wonder if its crystalline structure resembles a magnified version of the snowflake it so readily destroys. It seems strange the two should have such a volatile relationship; salt and water seem to get on rather well in the sea. I drop the salt rock I am handling into a pile of undisturbed snow. Immediately, it begins to burn through the layers of frozen water. I swear I hear a sizzle. The salt on the roads and sidewalk changes the smell of this cold, adds a sharp, metallic note to the air. I walk back breathing deeply, imagining I can smell the difference as I cross from a salted square to an unsalted one and back.
Prompt Entry 2
10:40 am. 21F, Wind Chill -1F
I would give anything for summer. It doesn't matter how many winters I've spent in this godforsaken part of the world; I never get used to the cold, and I certainly never enjoy it. I can wax poetic about the crisp air and the reflection of moonlight on icicles but, mostly, winter is nothing to me except a mumbled string of curse-words every time I set foot outside. Twenty feet from my front door to the car. Shitgoddamnitsonofa. I hate the instantaneous coldburn on exposed skin. I hate that it is impossible to cover yourself completely. Lips, eyeballs, wrists. Something is always left exposed.
10:44 am. 20F, Wind Chill -1F
My dad died on the most lovely spring day. It was the end of April and the lilac bushes were beginning to bloom. Their heavy, sweet scent hung in the dense, pollinated air. I remember in the days before his death the temperatures had risen sharply, which often happens in Michigan in the springtime. The whole state is frozen well into March and April, and then one day the sun burns hotter, the snow drifts melt and the cold disappears.
10:45 am. 20F, Wind Chill -2F
I sit in my car as it begins to warm up. I could go back inside but I'd rather not expose myself to the wind again. I bundle further into myself, sinking into the seat, chin to chest, hands over my face, knees pulling toward my hips. What is it like to be born in a warm place? I always wondered that. I never liked winter, even as a child, and envied those kids who got to grow up in Florida or Texas or California. What would it be like to never know the cruel indifference of a bitter, sneering winter? What would it be like to never feel tears freeze in the corners of your eyes?
10:47 am. 22F, Wind Chill 0F
My first experience with death happened in the dead of the winter. I was 10 and in fifth grade. My grandmother got sick before Christmas, went into the hospital as I started winter break and died in January after I returned to school. My mother had melted into a pool of grief. I remember listening to my father on the phone after the funeral. I'm not sure who he was talking to.
"Oh, yeah, Michelle's really having a rough time with it, crying all the time, you know. Her and Jimmy are both really upset. Yeah, you know how it is. Yeah, Cassie's doing alright. She's kind of like me-- kind of cold."
I've never forgotten the way I felt at that moment, the way my heart fluttered as my face hardened. I'll never forget how it felt to be called the thing I hated most. I didn't cry.
My mother swears this never happened.
But she wasn't there.
10:48 am. 22F, Wind Chill -1F
It takes an extraordinary amount of effort to pilot an automobile on the ice. My city has been losing money steadily since the 90's and infrequently salts the side streets. I begin my drive to work slowly. I keep my gaze steely and direct. I maintain control.
10:59 am. 23F, Wind Chill 0F
The world is cruel. The world is cruel and indifferent and cold. I learned this mere months into life, when below-freezing winds crystallized the newborn tears in my eyes.
I would give anything for summer. It doesn't matter how many winters I've spent in this godforsaken part of the world; I never get used to the cold, and I certainly never enjoy it. I can wax poetic about the crisp air and the reflection of moonlight on icicles but, mostly, winter is nothing to me except a mumbled string of curse-words every time I set foot outside. Twenty feet from my front door to the car. Shitgoddamnitsonofa. I hate the instantaneous coldburn on exposed skin. I hate that it is impossible to cover yourself completely. Lips, eyeballs, wrists. Something is always left exposed.
10:44 am. 20F, Wind Chill -1F
My dad died on the most lovely spring day. It was the end of April and the lilac bushes were beginning to bloom. Their heavy, sweet scent hung in the dense, pollinated air. I remember in the days before his death the temperatures had risen sharply, which often happens in Michigan in the springtime. The whole state is frozen well into March and April, and then one day the sun burns hotter, the snow drifts melt and the cold disappears.
10:45 am. 20F, Wind Chill -2F
I sit in my car as it begins to warm up. I could go back inside but I'd rather not expose myself to the wind again. I bundle further into myself, sinking into the seat, chin to chest, hands over my face, knees pulling toward my hips. What is it like to be born in a warm place? I always wondered that. I never liked winter, even as a child, and envied those kids who got to grow up in Florida or Texas or California. What would it be like to never know the cruel indifference of a bitter, sneering winter? What would it be like to never feel tears freeze in the corners of your eyes?
10:47 am. 22F, Wind Chill 0F
My first experience with death happened in the dead of the winter. I was 10 and in fifth grade. My grandmother got sick before Christmas, went into the hospital as I started winter break and died in January after I returned to school. My mother had melted into a pool of grief. I remember listening to my father on the phone after the funeral. I'm not sure who he was talking to.
"Oh, yeah, Michelle's really having a rough time with it, crying all the time, you know. Her and Jimmy are both really upset. Yeah, you know how it is. Yeah, Cassie's doing alright. She's kind of like me-- kind of cold."
I've never forgotten the way I felt at that moment, the way my heart fluttered as my face hardened. I'll never forget how it felt to be called the thing I hated most. I didn't cry.
My mother swears this never happened.
But she wasn't there.
10:48 am. 22F, Wind Chill -1F
It takes an extraordinary amount of effort to pilot an automobile on the ice. My city has been losing money steadily since the 90's and infrequently salts the side streets. I begin my drive to work slowly. I keep my gaze steely and direct. I maintain control.
10:59 am. 23F, Wind Chill 0F
The world is cruel. The world is cruel and indifferent and cold. I learned this mere months into life, when below-freezing winds crystallized the newborn tears in my eyes.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Prompt Entry 1
Statistically speaking, I don't know whether or not most people grow up in the same house for the majority of their youth. I know I didn't. By the time I was 18 and out on my own, I'd been through five houses in three different cities with my family. My childhood moved swiftly. Hintz Road, Dean Drive, Division Street. Owosso, Gaines, Garden City. The years with my father, his death, everything after.
Michigan is The Great Lakes State. It is a fact that anywhere you are in Michigan, you are no more that six miles from a body of water. I love water in all its forms. Grandma Pat still calls me her water baby. I spent every summer swimming in her pool until we moved out of town. Grandma Pat and I would walk across the street to the Shiawassee River with stale bread to feed the geese. Sometimes we'd drive to Higgins Lake to feed the geese over there. Every summer my mom, my brothers and I spent a week at Sage Lake with cousins. We'd bring inflatable rafts, tie them together and float in shallow water. One year, the older girls and I took our rafts and went tubing down the Rifle River. It was shallow but moved fast and I delighted in the free feeling of bouncing around in the currents, sure of where I would arrive, not knowing quite how I would get there.
My first out-of-state move took me to the Georgia coast. I was awed by the ocean but less so than people who never saw Lakes Huron, Michigan and Superior's freshwater coasts swallow the horizon. When I left Georgia for New York City, I would take the L-train to 1st Avenue, walk down, through the financial district and stop at Battery Park. I would walk down to the Pier, to the very edge and look down at the cold, black saltwater as it slopped the concrete border of the city. I left New York City to come home. The vitality flowing through me had been drained, siphoned away and dispersed as a fog.
The deepest connection I have to Michigan is to the water I grew up loving. I change form: stagnate, evaporate and collect myself again. I move constantly: walk, bicycle, run away. My life is full of abrupt turns, swiftly changing directions and inconstant currents. I seek out my source only to move away from it again, to come back, to move away...
(me in the middle, on my Grandpa Willie's property on the Grand River)
Michigan is The Great Lakes State. It is a fact that anywhere you are in Michigan, you are no more that six miles from a body of water. I love water in all its forms. Grandma Pat still calls me her water baby. I spent every summer swimming in her pool until we moved out of town. Grandma Pat and I would walk across the street to the Shiawassee River with stale bread to feed the geese. Sometimes we'd drive to Higgins Lake to feed the geese over there. Every summer my mom, my brothers and I spent a week at Sage Lake with cousins. We'd bring inflatable rafts, tie them together and float in shallow water. One year, the older girls and I took our rafts and went tubing down the Rifle River. It was shallow but moved fast and I delighted in the free feeling of bouncing around in the currents, sure of where I would arrive, not knowing quite how I would get there.
My first out-of-state move took me to the Georgia coast. I was awed by the ocean but less so than people who never saw Lakes Huron, Michigan and Superior's freshwater coasts swallow the horizon. When I left Georgia for New York City, I would take the L-train to 1st Avenue, walk down, through the financial district and stop at Battery Park. I would walk down to the Pier, to the very edge and look down at the cold, black saltwater as it slopped the concrete border of the city. I left New York City to come home. The vitality flowing through me had been drained, siphoned away and dispersed as a fog.
The deepest connection I have to Michigan is to the water I grew up loving. I change form: stagnate, evaporate and collect myself again. I move constantly: walk, bicycle, run away. My life is full of abrupt turns, swiftly changing directions and inconstant currents. I seek out my source only to move away from it again, to come back, to move away...
(me in the middle, on my Grandpa Willie's property on the Grand River)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Place Entry 1
11:33 pm
The corner of my street (Suburban Detroit)
I'm the first person to walk down the sidewalk. I can tell because snow has been falling for the last six hours and there isn't a single track other than mine. The toes of my boot kick up miniature snowstorms that fall behind me as I trod.
Even though it is snowing, the air is dry. It's as if there is only enough moisture to sustain the few flakes as they meander in spirals to their resting place. When the air is humid, snowflakes stick together in drop-like clumps. Those snows tend to be warmer, and in them you can feel that the sky longed desperately for rain.
Tonight there is little wind-- a blessing in the 16 degree weather.
I reach the corner. The road is slick black, and cars splatter a mix of water, oil and dirt from beneath their tires, tingeing the newly-fallen snow gray at the edges. Snow is always beautiful until human intervention. In fact, tonight's snow is falling atop old snow that has been a dreary shade of frozen brown-gray for days. I dig into the ground with the toe of my boot until I reach frozen soil and reveal a gradient scale of white to black.
It is almost midnight and still light enough for me to write. This is only partially due to the orange and white streetlights (every other of which has been put out to save the city government on their electric bills). Even when you manage to reach those rare places beyond the municipal halos, all the lights of man (headlights, neon signs, porch lights, televisions, cell phones, airplanes) reflect onto the white snow reflect onto the canopy of clouds reflect onto the white snow... This ping-ponging of light obscures the rich darkness. Occasionally a blue-black smear flutters like a raven in the distance. But it is never truly dark. Not in winter. Not in the suburbs.
I walk back slowly, pausing beneath a humming, white streetlight to look up. It is lovely weather to breathe. The cold oxygen respires thorough and deep in the lungs. The resultant carbon dioxide is visible momentarily, a reminder of vitality. A dozen flakes dance above me in pairs, countering each other rhythmically, waltzing to the ground.
The corner of my street (Suburban Detroit)
I'm the first person to walk down the sidewalk. I can tell because snow has been falling for the last six hours and there isn't a single track other than mine. The toes of my boot kick up miniature snowstorms that fall behind me as I trod.
Even though it is snowing, the air is dry. It's as if there is only enough moisture to sustain the few flakes as they meander in spirals to their resting place. When the air is humid, snowflakes stick together in drop-like clumps. Those snows tend to be warmer, and in them you can feel that the sky longed desperately for rain.
Tonight there is little wind-- a blessing in the 16 degree weather.
I reach the corner. The road is slick black, and cars splatter a mix of water, oil and dirt from beneath their tires, tingeing the newly-fallen snow gray at the edges. Snow is always beautiful until human intervention. In fact, tonight's snow is falling atop old snow that has been a dreary shade of frozen brown-gray for days. I dig into the ground with the toe of my boot until I reach frozen soil and reveal a gradient scale of white to black.
It is almost midnight and still light enough for me to write. This is only partially due to the orange and white streetlights (every other of which has been put out to save the city government on their electric bills). Even when you manage to reach those rare places beyond the municipal halos, all the lights of man (headlights, neon signs, porch lights, televisions, cell phones, airplanes) reflect onto the white snow reflect onto the canopy of clouds reflect onto the white snow... This ping-ponging of light obscures the rich darkness. Occasionally a blue-black smear flutters like a raven in the distance. But it is never truly dark. Not in winter. Not in the suburbs.
I walk back slowly, pausing beneath a humming, white streetlight to look up. It is lovely weather to breathe. The cold oxygen respires thorough and deep in the lungs. The resultant carbon dioxide is visible momentarily, a reminder of vitality. A dozen flakes dance above me in pairs, countering each other rhythmically, waltzing to the ground.
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