one hand clapping

An inescapable fact is that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

I could try to convince you of the opposite, weave a tale of string theory and the elasticity of the universe and the human mind, toss about words like nanoparticulate and Higgs Boson and Heidegger's Cat, show some cleavage, toss my hair, cover a chalkboard in difficult equations based on advanced calculus and graph-based illustrations in three and four dimensions using theories from the cutting edge of advanced super collider projects, tossed in with some SAT words like incalculable and a stern look of assumed superiority -- and you'd probably be convinced.

If the cleavage and the chalkboard and the graphs weren't enough, I'd give the entire presentation again, only in a miniskirt, and admit it: you'd follow the concept of an elastic band string theory that contradicted the basic laws of thermodynamics without hesitation, trust that I had been to Geneva, done my research, knew what was afoot in the deepest darkest circles of the dark matter loving, improbability loving, theory obsessed physicists.

If I claimed to be a member of a panel to change the law of thermodynamics to read
"it is rare but not unknown for two objects to occupy the same space at the same time,"
if I had a jaunty white monogrammed lab coat and a spiffy screen printed folder with the orbits of atoms and the shapes of subatomic particles neatly illustrated in a metallic holographic effect that changed depending on the angle of light which hit the folder

-- admit it, you'd subscribe to the popular press version of the scientific journal, peer reviewed as Contemporary International Theories and Observations on the Malleability of Thermodynamics then watered down and interspersed with glossy advertisements and reset in a larger, bolder typeface with wide margins and full color illustrations with the title WORLDWORKS! -- you'd subscribe to WORLDWORKS! after such a presentation even if your paid subscription didn't come with a holographic folder with images of the orbits of atoms and shapes of subatomic particles.

You'd have a quiet thrill of superiority whenever the over-designed quarterly WORLDWORKS! arrived in your mailbox, following the previous twelve weeks when you had sat, pored over the previous issue, with that lovely modern typesetting and so detailed illustrations that you almost allowed yourself to believe that you actually understood the articles, and the theories behind the articles, and the universe as depicted by late twentieth and early twenty-first century string theory and particle theory and engineering on a nano scale, even if the truth is that you've had problems getting through National Geographic's more technical articles and sometimes even Popular Mechanics seems a bit esoteric.

Even though WORLDWORKS! is there in a reassuring, science isn't for nerds, it's just for people who like a bit of a challenge, find daily life shallow and vapid, yearn for an understanding of the unseen everything way, even though WORLDWORKS! taunts with this promise, admit that you couldn't recreate any of the illustrations or discuss any of the theories with a teenager, much less the teenager's high school physics teacher, even if the teenager's high school physics teacher happens to primarily be the basketball coach.

You subscribed to WORLDWORKS! and got the holograph illustrated folder and sit down with strong coffee at your desk several times a month -- but honestly, secretly, you were happier when the laws of thermodynamics meant something, when science was understood not to change or to evolve, just to expand to admit further details about theories that made sense, were observable, didn't rely on math that was so esoteric and far-fetched that the answer wasn't any less complicated and superficially meaningless than the equation at the beginning. This talk of particles that can't be observed funded by projects whose costs are calculated in billions and billions of dollars isn't in the same comfortable line-up as the geometry and biology of your own school days, when Pluto was a planet and even little bitty far away concepts were rooted in reality.

Then WORLDWORKS! arrives, and the universe as something cohesive and comprehensible and once understood always known begins to slip between your fingers, replaced by an existential uncertainty that either the world really exists or that scientists have a clue or that the human mind -- yours in particular -- must be atrophying brain cells because all of this should make sense, but doesn't.

The subscription renewal card arrives in the mail, and you think, wow $125 for four issues, and is that science elastic string theory stuff even real, and what on earth is a subatomic particle, but there, on the dvd that came with the last issue, they go through the malleability of the universe facet by facet, explain supercolliders particle by particle, explore an otherwise unimaginable world, and feel like -- admit it -- you're seeing into god's own brain and becoming the person you could have developed into all those years ago, and the hope of that past identity is so strong, and the deep beauty of WORLDWORKS! so enticing, that you re-subscribe for another two years, eager for the follow up dvd promised sometime in the next eight issues.

Unfortunately, though, you'd stumbled into a project based performance art spectacle, staffed with artists who think that less money should be diverted to deep space exploration and lunar landings and superconducting supercolliders, and more money should go to education and healthcare and social justice, problems scientists only notice tangentially and from a point far, far away, and this art installation was set out specifically to demonstrate how easily average people, like politicians, don't have a clue what they're signing on for but can't bear to admit their ignorance, and so faced with nifty holographed folders and dvd's and illustrations and nice page layout, they are certain they understand each and every one of the facts.

The truth is that the artists created a random word generator using the top 100 buzz words from the scientific press, and press a button for the next word to use. Illustrations are montages from reputable journals altered with color filters and overlaid with Renaissance alchemy symbolism, and the text to accompany the graphics is chosen by rolling a dice and comparing the number rolled with the corresponding pages, paragraphs, and lines in a combination of reputable scientific peer reviewed journals and high school science textbooks and sometimes the Kabbalah or i-ching. The dvd was recorded by splicing together cable science television shows and You Tube clips and podcasts of science professors at Ivy League universities, with subtitles translated from early twentieth century German and French surrealist films and science fiction recorded shows from 1970s London archives.

A few graduate students and underemployed artists mastermind the entire production, from science presentation extravaganza to journal to dvd, and much of the production takes place under the influence of various conscious-altering substances. The grant money and subscription money pays not only for said substances and production costs, but sometimes also even covers studio rent.

Unfortunately, though, the laws of thermodynamics do hold true, and two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time, string theory and nanoparticles be damned. That's why you're now avoided as the pseudo-scientific intellectual at cocktail parties and church events and even basketball games where the physics teacher is the head coach, because they all know that, and you don't have a clue what you're talking about.

Don't worry, though, the holographic imaged folder with the orbits of atoms and the shapes of subatomic particles is yours to keep, with your paid subscription to WORLDWORKS!

---

reading
fashion magazines, library books, high, middle, & low brow, and becoming rather bored of the can't-do-ness of it all

weather
Scotch, neat, two Advil, & a spare hand, please

Nepenthe

A Gallery of Readers : read aloud

SG introduces MBB : {listen} | {read}

Mary Beth Brooker : {listen}

MBB introduces Stephanie Gibbs : {listen}

SG : Bonnie & Cyde [On the Lam] : {listen} | {read}

SG : The Journey [On the River] : {listen} | {read}

---

Since typing is proceeding at the pace of an escargot (add melted butter and slurp delicately), it will take some time to input writings for the next month or so. Please excuse all probable typo's caused by physical inefficiencies.

---

reading
the elegant and enticing Almost No Memory / Lydia Davis

weather
quack quack quack

field notes

Leave the kitchen. Now. Turn around and take five paces into the hallway or ten paces into the living room. Here's your coffee, take it with you. No, I don't want your shortcut. No, that is an awful idea. Stop getting in the way. Don't touch that. Go away. Now.

Really, you're not helping. Don't eat that. Will you please move? Now. Out of the kitchen. I'll lock you with the dogs in the backyard. That isn't even remotely helpful. Out of the way, back off from the table, put down the knife, stop snacking on the ingredients. No, that won't work. I know what I'm doing, stop messing with my project. Go. Now.

Here's your coffee, there's the living room, work on your knitting, talk to one of your other children, hang out the laundry, darn socks, stop heckling me and leave the kitchen immediately. I know what I'm doing, you're in the way, and don't eat that. Really. Out.


The recipes we remember are not the dishes that stand out for whatever culinary golden age they represent; they are not the show stoppers or the glossy magazine photos. The recipes we remember are not even recipes; somewhere an ingredient list might exist, but it is holding the memory of the meal or the memory of preparation that glistens and sparkles in the mind.

The granola recipe -- 2 cups liquid, melted butter / peanut butter / honey, poured over 6 cups raw oatmeal, one cup nuts, one cup wheat germ, cinnamon, coconut to taste, bake at 350 stirring every fifteen minutes for an hour, add raisins or similar when cooled: granola shared and prepared and passed on through the least recipe friendly medium there is, the text message, which easily passed the limit of 140 characters, but then was instantly referable in the grocery store.

One third cup sugar, one egg yolk, three cups milk or soymilk but not rice milk which curdles, one third cup tapioca, cooked in the milk stirring endlessly until thickened, sugar and egg whisked in at the end, a bowl of nursery caviar, best served warm and with strawberry compote. That one is probably based on the New York Times, who also provide the best possible macaroni and cheese recipe, cottage cheese, cheddar, mozzarella, pasta, milk, baked until golden and followed by cardiac arrest. Add a bit of mustard to the milk for zip, substitute soymilk if the quantity of dairy paralyzes, but don't get fancy; leave out the caramelized onions, the toasted garlic, the roasted bell peppers, the broccoli, the shitake mushrooms, all of which are better suited to the polenta stirred until thick (the Deborah Madison recipe) then grilled or baked, topped with a vinaigrette reduction and whatever vegetables materialize; the thirty to forty five minutes of constant stirring assisted greatly by a glass of wine and a kitchen full of companions. Before pouring the polenta onto a cookie sheet to cool, stir in a half stick of butter and a cup of Parmesan. The arteries won't appreciate it, but the gourmet will.

When making rice pudding, use any combination of old Chinese take-out steamed rice gone stale and crunchy, burnt rice from the bottom of the pan (1 cup white rice in 1 tablespoon olive oil, 1 1/2 cup water, bring to a boil, cover, simmer on the lowest possible flame for 17 minutes, thank you Craig Claiborne), a glollop of brown rice, or the huge quantity of barley that was left over after forgetting how much it expands and cooking far too much for the beef stew or tomato soup (a chopped onion and head of minced garlic sauteed in butter until golden brown, add three or four diced carrots, cook until bored, puree in blender, add to a stock made of ham hocks or something else and a half gallon of tomato puree, cooked down with generous amounts of dried basil and left over wine then frozen several weeks ago, allow all to simmer together for an hour or so with the barley, serve with gobs of cheddar cheese) and the left over barley or brown rice or white rice is scattered over a glass baking dish with three or four times as much milk, some butter and raisins and cinnamon or not, coconut milk or soymilk or not, bake at 325 for 2 hours stirring every fifteen minutes, but when making rice pudding, remember that acid -- artistic touches of cranberry or lemon -- will make the milk curdle instead of caramelize, and it will still taste passably comforting and, in the case of cranberries, be pink, but curdled rice pudding probably shouldn't be served to guests.

Of course, if one is the guest and not the cook or the financial backer of the meal, go for grilled bacon wrapped sea scallops, by delegating the simmering of bacon in a shallow pan, the wrapping and anchoring with toothpicks, and the grilling over a wood flame, but be sure to delegate to someone who understands that over-grilled scallops become the consistency of Teflon rather than melting in the mouth lusciousness (a family recipe).

The vast majority of edibles don't require a recipe, just an imagination. Potatoes mash with butter and milk, to which garlic, mustard, sauteed mushrooms, and bacon are worthwhile additions, as is goat cheese. Grilled cheese sandwiches are improved by the addition of basil, tomato, monterey jack, and mustard, and a slice of ham rarely hurts. Bake a chicken until it stops looking raw at 350 or so, but stuff it first with an onion or lemon, coat it in spices, and cover it with foil for the first 45 minutes. Serve with mashed potatoes or rice or polenta.

Dessert recipes are rarely memorized, the balance of brown sugar, white sugar, egg, flour, baking powder, salt integrating with anise seeds or raisins or chocolate chips or peanut butter or molasses to produce many delicately balanced variations on a theme; likewise does the chemistry of a carrot cake, chocolate cake, poppy seed cake, pound cake, coffee cake not allow for too much spur of the moment activity.

Pie recipes undeniably improve with authenticity, and no Yankee has ever made a decent pecan or chocolate creme or cobbler, just as what a Southern belle claims as an apple pie or crisp would scarcely be presentable north of Dixie. Add bourbon and dark chocolate to the pecan and dance the night away in New Orleans; add cinnamon and ancho chile to the custard or the chocolate, and enter the lushness of Mexico. Skip ice cream; decent pie never benefits from over-processed, over-sweetened, artificially enhanced too-cold dairy, especially since all pie should be served warm, always.

In any but the most dire straights, pumpkin pie isn't worth the bother, but with a command performance and a crust of melted butter mashed into Graham crackers pounded into submission in a Ziplock bag, then a home cooked sugar pumpkin can be scooped out (the pepitas toasted and added to the granola), and pureed with spices, milk, and eggs. Butternut or acorn squash can be substituted, especially if following a squash baking day when the innards were scooped but not labeled. If it ever even occurred to anyone in the kitchen to use canned pumpkin and condensed milk, please immediately refer back to the initial discussion detailed above.

Brownie recipes vary from the fudge-like to the cake-like and back again; any addition besides nuts really misses the point of cooking with decent chocolate, although the recipe on the Ghirardelli unsweetened cocoa powder container can be gussied up by a topping of homemade orange marmalade; it becomes like a Jaffa Cake, only more so. When the recipient is educated enough to be worth cooking for, search Epicurious, the memory of the archive of Gourmet, for the brownie recipe that uses melted bittersweet chocolate squares. It's worth paging through the search results to locate, and, no, cocoa powder cannot be substituted for bittersweet baking chocolate.

The pound cake in The Joy of Cooking is improved by the addition of local blueberries, and best served toasted in butter with a scoop of home-whipped heavy cream from local Jersey cows who munch contentedly on grass. Speaking of, always grind pepper into ground beef before making hamburger patties, and if they -- and the buns -- aren't grilled over a wood fire, then ignore the patty and sauté the meat with broccoli, since it couldn't otherwise aspire to be a hamburger.

Use real plates and glasses and napkins and silver, and serve with a warm heart and ready wit. Someone else will see to the dishes.

---

reading
waiting for the arrival of a host of material through interlibrary loan. wait. wait. wait.

weather
not even November, and it is all about wool and flannel

introductions

When one lacks ready knowledge, there remains the exploration of negative space.
Inspired by an actual conversation held in (of course) San Francisco.

Mary Beth Brooker : the unauthorized anti-biography

There once was a girl who was born in the outer reaches of Tasmania, leaving the island to manage a wildlife refuge on the western coast of Australia at the age of fifteen. She became internationally famous for her work domesticating the duck-billed platypus as a childhood pet alternative to the traditional hamster or gerbil; as an adult she formed a non-profit organization dedicated to preserving the barrier reef and had a new type of submarine named in her honor. This girl, however, was not Mary Beth Brooker.

On a stormy morning on the coast of the Isle of Jersey, a small infant was found washed upon the shore. She was in a small boat, barely ocean worthy, made of a battered Louis Vuitton traveling case, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, with a bottle of goat’s milk placed next to her. No one on the island was certain if she was the child of gypsies, fairies, or pirates, and no one knew if she would bring a blessing or a curse. The local priest recited a blessing over her; the postmaster’s wife brought the infant into their cottage to be raised with her other five children. At the age of ten, she left home as a stow-away on a fishing boat, seeking her forefathers, or, in light of that, adventures of an unknown type. That infant, however, was not Mary Beth Brooker.

Although many historians argue that the role of Benedict Arnold has been incorrectly interpreted by American patriots, their research has continued to be called “unnecessary, revisionist, socialist propaganda” by the Union of High School History Teachers, a group who favor the deification of George Washington and whose financial backers are known to include the Masons as well as the Mount Rushmore Society, the League of Women for a Sober Society, and the Antiquarian Genealogical Club of the Sons and Daughters of the Glorious Republic. Those who struggle against the efforts of the Union of High School History Teachers include the descendants of Benedict Arnold, a group whose eloquence, knowledge of central intelligence gathering, inside access to Hollywood, inherited wealth from years of gun-running to unstable countries, and insatiable curiosity has led them into many unnecessary tangles with the mainstream media and congressional representatives. Mary Beth Brooker is neither a descendant of Benedict Arnold nor a member of the Union of High School History Teachers, the Masons, the Mount Rushmore Society, the League of Women for a Sober Society, or the Antiquarian Genealogical Club of the Sons and Daughters of the Glorious Republic.

There are many other backgrounds which do not describe Mary Beth Brooker, including felon (civil or criminal); con artist; shaman; charlatan; lumberjack; sea captain; astronaut; flea-circus impresario; hobo; drug-runner; descendant of Marie Antoinette; Arctic explorer; car mechanic; dog sled racer; tug-boat operator, and NASCAR driver. She does, however, tell stories, of which the following is one.

---

reading
The Village Baker's Wife
which has managed to completely and totally intimidate me
also, the Wikipedia entry on the circus, which has lovely illustrations

weather
winter all too soon

The Burmese Python; Or, The End

I always knew it was a bad idea. A rotten idea. An idea from which no good could come. An idea which would cause regret, pain, and misery, not to mention loss of peripheral vision, hair loss, potential decrease of bone density, heart murmurs, epileptic fits, periods of OCD or MPD, cravings for pickled eggs, the smell of putrefying flesh, and a colossal loss of time and money, not to say cumulative exhaustion, lingering anxiety, weeks of unwashed laundry, unreturned phone calls, unpaid bills, and lost socks.

So we can all acknowledge and agree that it was a thoroughly bad idea. But what a way to go, and how much less interesting had I listened to sage wisdom and well-intentioned advice and avoided the whole fiasco. Hindsight may be 20/20, but near-sighted astigmatism results in some pretty amusing misconceptions.

So it was a bad idea, but a brilliant concept, a creative stroke of genius, a singularly amazing potential opportunity, a chance for excitement and wild exploration and an opportunity to fall into a world of rapturous experimentation, even though I knew at the time that it was probably one of the worst ideas that I had ever seriously entertained.

There's a lot to be said for toying with ideas, playing with ideas, as one plays with a Slinky or Etch-a-Sketch or card houses or Tinker Toys, rather than falling full-tilt into design, flowchart, and execution of ideas of completely dubious merit. Think of all the jail time that would have been avoided, all the emergency room visits that would have been unnecessary, all the midnight phone calls to tow trucks and plumbers and the FBI that simply would not have happened if thoroughly preposterous or worthless or questionable or lackluster or ill-advised or unconsidered ideas had, instead of being integrated into one's Rolodex and bank account, been written on a 3"x5" lined index card, and placed in the card file labeled, simply and nonjudgementally,
            "Ideas of Questionable Merit,
to be further explored with a calm mind and after a two month cooling off period."

What a treasure trove of adventures that card catalog would contain! Schemes to overthrow or undermine the government, methods for extracting carrot juice without a juicer, journeys to sub-Sahara Africa in the guise of a Methodist missionary, trips to Brazilian ranches listed as "For Sale: Investment and Growth Opportunity" in the back pages of the New York Times, assignations with spiritualists or conspiracy theorists at the stroke of midnight at the new moon under the glass pyramid at the Louvre, a slew of US Patents applied for, some of which were bound to be approved, just on the basis of statistical likelihood, hot air balloon rides across the Pacific and dog sled journeys across Russia. Each of these would have a card, or perhaps a subject heading under which an entire profusion of sub-ideas would grow and cluster.

However, I don't own a card catalog, I don't have any 3"x5" lined index cards, and, anyway, my ideas tend to scrawl across the backs of envelopes and electricity bills and bits of old to-do lists and maps from previous trips rather than be drawn into a three point bulleted description of
              IDEA No. 308:
      a method for extracting gold from raw soil
      (a) find location of known shipwreck
      (b) find location of potential pirate lair
      (c) travel to Sierra Madre and live off of beef jerky and whiskey
Of course, if FIND CASH NOW were neatly diagrammed as IDEA No. 308, I probably never would have used the Treasure of the Sierra Madre as a nonfiction guide to finding gold in the mountains of Mexico, and would have avoided several months of beef jerky and the unfortunate episode of doing a bit of temporary freelance work for a drug cartel, all of which is neither here nor there, since, though it was an ill-advised idea, everything worked out in the end, unlike the current episode, which really doesn't have any of the redeeming qualities of FIND CASH NOW / IDEA No. 308.

So I always knew this one was a really awful idea, even when the concept first crossed the dizzying light-show of my conscious mind. This idea really had not a single redeeming feature, aside from the amusement factor (which is a given, really) and the opportunity to raise a ruckus and see what happened. Neither of which is a particularly mature, responsible grounding for a plan, but these ideas that never make it on to 3"x5" lined index cards are never noteworthy for representing the best in accepted traditional Life Plans and mature behavior. Really, the best thing about this idea was that no one had ever done it before, or, if someone had, it wasn't anyone I knew so it didn't count. Of course, novelty alone doesn't make a bad idea worthwhile, but try rationalizing with a mind on a high speed journey from Here to There without any scheduled stops or layovers in the land of Practical Considerations.

Perhaps at this point my time could best be spent exploring how the project could have been implemented without involving the fire department, Board of Health, manager of the grocery store and head of the produce department, damage control phone calls to the local television news station, irate letters to the editor, a maimed dog, three flat tires, increasingly agitated phone calls from my downstairs neighbor, and receiving the contractors' discount for purchase volume from the local hardware store.

It is undeniably possible that I could have avoided all of these completely foreseeable secondary effects and still had the adventure inherent in a Bad Idea, but at this point, the damage is done, and all I can do is wait on this bench in this off-white linoleum floored hallway under the glare of buzzing florescent lights and the intermittent beep of a smoke alarm that needs a new battery, and wait for the judge and the two lawyers and a jury of people that I promise you are not even remotely my peers, any more than the illiterate crew of a merchant ship were peers to the scientists accused of heresy by the Church, and wait for this room full of people whom I disdain (beyond the abilities of language to describe) to pass judgment on my actions and assign appropriate penance.

I have a feeling it won't be ten Hail Mary's and a week volunteering at the soup kitchen; even my defense lawyer was trying hard for an insanity plea and mental counseling instead of whatever six figure fine and 20-30 without parole that the DA is trying for. Lawyers, they have no sense of humor, no ability to see the world between the lines, the countries that don't appear on maps. I actually think my lawyer -- court appointed, they wouldn't let me represent myself -- is having an affair with the DA, and I don't think any action they've undertaken in the law library has helped my case.

I'd prefer the prison sentence to the mental hospital: from what I've heard, the food is better and one gets regular exercise, which is more than can be said for a place where partially qualified psychiatrists try out experimental cocktails of drugs undergoing testing for FDA approval. So it was a bad idea, but to receive shock treatments or spend the prime of my life without access to realizing the creative potential of my mind? Surely that is beyond any just punishment for the crime of a bad idea ---
        shoulders back, now, the judge is calling.

---

reading
price and product comparisons of GPS systems, before deciding that paper map technology is much less confusing

weather
trees dropping leaves to reveal the restrained glory of branches and sky

ten down

Ten days later, he laid down and died.

The previous efforts had yielded lackluster results; his engine had a cracked cylinder head; his graduate student won a Nobel prize for research conducted in his laboratory; his ex-wife won the Booker for a thinly veiled exposé on the unraveling of their marriage. He tripped going upstairs, lost his keys then his spare set of keys; had food poisoning from questionable sushi; and decided that the number of years he had remaining -- was it perhaps 20? 30? -- were simply not necessary; it was time to clear out now.

Ten days isn't really enough time to sort through all the detritus of a life lived, lived either all too well or all too poorly. He wanted to leave behind a sense of order, a series of loose ends neatly tied, a narrative, or at least a thesis sentence.

But where to start? With his old school records that his mother had saved, a hodge-podge of report cards, class newsletters, notices from teachers, essays, test scores, second grade class photographs, ticket stubs from the homecoming game which she had attended, where he had fumbled a pass and lost the final opportunity for a touchdown in the last five minutes of play? Was this a necessary part of his narrative, more or less important than his notebooks from undergraduate biology classes, rough drafts of his final dissertation on cell division, the framed diploma that still hung in his office?

Should he clean out, sort, organize his office, try to fit his not-quite-sufficient academic career into the same story as his not-quite-sufficient domestic world, or should he let his secretary tell the academic story, let a graduate student piece together what they could of his current research, and reclaim the story of his life outside the lab?

For three days he frittered, pacing the living room, library, attic, basement, office, lab without accomplishing any sort of archive or organization or purge or compilation, drinking cups of sweetened tea and twirling his pencil. In the morning of the forth day, realizing that less than a week remained for his time on the earth (not that he believed so much in an afterlife, but he wasn't quite sure, so didn't want to plan too formally for reincarnation when he could instead end up endlessly playing Handel oratorios on the harp or shoveling coal into a furnace, he wasn't certain which would be worse), he decided that this final less than a week should be spent doing something other than paperwork and filing.

He wasn't seized by a last minute urge to join forces with Habitat for Humanity and build a few houses in his final days; he didn't see any need to retrace the steps of his honeymoon in Italy, debacle that it was; his memories of South America were quite sharp and not in need of refreshing; and he saw not the slightest need for alcohol and women and hemorrhaging money in Las Vegas. He simply packed his toothbrush, from habit, knowing at this point that cavities, gum disease, the threat of a root canal were no longer tangible concerns, but habits of a lifetime that are hard to discard, even in the final week, a set of clean underwear, and a thousand dollars from his checking account, and started walking.

He thought about driving, wondering exactly how far a V-8 engine with a cracked cylinder head would go, either with or without regular topping up of oil, but he wasn't willing to spend the time or the money nursing a car just to abandon it on a state highway somewhere, which seemed slovenly. There was no place he was trying to get, no specific destination, and so instead of pacing the house or the halls of the University, he decided to walk the back roads, vaguely south, vaguely west, carrying a sleeping bag and water and brandy, and, a last minute addition, the Field Guide to the Birds of North America. There was still time enough to update his bird count for the year.

He didn't want to start off in his own neighborhood, too many prying eyes and too much memory, so he took a cab downtown, then took a local bus to the end of the line. He had forgotten to pack a map or a compass; he left his cell phone on the kitchen counter, with the greeting recorded as:
-- "I've gone walking. You won't be able to reach me before the fifteenth, and you won't be able to reach me after the fifteenth. Leave a message if you must."
He hadn't bothered to cancel phone service, electrical service, to turn off the water, to close out his email account, to forward his mail. These were all projects which could just as easily be accomplished by someone else, and he wasn't inclined to see to them.

So the bus dropped him off on the outskirts of a state highway and a Trustees of Reservations forest, and he followed a back road vaguely southerly, past a house where he and his then-wife had attended a dinner party held in honor of a visiting professor, where they served an unfortunate meal of sausages and sauerkraut to a German mathematician who was, it turned out, a vegetarian Jew who was allergic to cabbage. In the end they all just drank the red wine and played canasta until escaping at ten. It was when his wife returned to Germany with the mathematician that he swore to never engage socially outside the biology department; vowing never to attend another academic dinner party regardless of departmental politics or necessity.

The house of the fateful dinner party had been sold many years ago, and he didn't notice anything especially compelling about the new inhabitants as he strolled past, stopping in the shade of a tree across the street for a calming sip of brandy. He couldn't remember where this road went, after the academic's house, but at the close of the afternoon had followed a network of insufficiently labeled back roads to a point which he was relatively sure led into the foothills on the west or the river valley to the south. He stopped, considered his options, and fell asleep under a tree, without bothering to brush his teeth or unroll his sleeping bag.

He awoke in the pre-dawn light, and cursed himself for neglecting to bring a watch; not only was he uncertain of the time, but he was beginning to doubt if he would be aware of when the tenth day arrived, and he saw no glory in unmet deadlines, even self-imposed ones. Lacking a pen or pocket notebook, he decided to tear a page out of the Field Guide to the Birds of North America every morning, judging that the system would at least keep him within a day or two of his schedule, and folding the removed pages into the back cover, so they could still be referenced if needed. He had thought about just folding the page over in the morning, but found the act of physically tearing out the page that much more rewarding, more satisfying on a spiritual level; anyway, it wasn't a library book, or particularly valuable.

So on the fifth day he continued his walk, close to the original thousand dollars still intact, toothbrush and bird guide accompaniment to the half-completed countdown. I met him on the eighth day, fellow travelers having an early eggs and toast at an out of the way diner, and he must have been feeling the effects of fresh air and solitude and rough sleeping, for he shared his plan for his final ten days (two remaining) and graciously allowed me to join him for part of the time on the road.

It didn't occur to me that people watching the two of us journeying together by foot might assume more than a casual relationship, nor did I ever consider that the planned death he envisioned could ever be blamed on the actions of a traveling companion, much less that I would face charges of intentional homicide for reasons unknown. He was a man on a walk with a narrative to disclose, and I was an interested audience. On the tenth day, he laid down and died; but it was neither at my instigation nor with my encouragement. We were just travelers, sharing a footpath and a story, until parting ways at the crossroads.

---

reading
ah, the relief of mercury finally leaving retrograde, and the delightful arrival of a plethora of [platonic] love letters

weather
In this world, right here, a pool of light gathered closely around a lamp, dusk settling under clouds passing deeply through an autumnal afternoon, the reflected glow of red maples lengthening the evening. Cats saunter across the street, intent on dinner or adventures or a soft cushion; cars work their way towards driveways and dinner. A change of seasons, animals growing thicker pelts and people airing woolen overcoats, the wind and rain battling for supremacy with the lengthening rays of sunlight. Someone sneezes, someone coughs, someone makes soup.

reminder!

interviews with myself

Twenty Questions

1. Animal, vegetable, or mineral?

2. By land, by sea, or by air?

3. Inside, outside, or upside down?

4. Accidental or intentional?

5. Business or pleasure?

6. Chicken or fish?

7. Truth or dare?

8. Is it covered by insurance?

9. Will it hurt?

10. Are there prerequisites?

11. Is there extra credit?

12. Could you say that again, more slowly, using different words?

13. Did you actually mean that?

14. Are you sure?

15. Is this tax deductible?

16. Can I get back to you?

17. Would more time help?

18. Pen or pencil?

19. Can you see it, there, just over the hill?

20. Can I take it back?

Twenty Answers
{work in progress} | {part 2}

1. Animal, vegetable, or mineral?

In Buddhist philosophy, there is actually no distinction between where life exists, so I will dodge carefully into the abyss of other constructed philosophies and hide out of sight. Whether animal
bear coyote rabbit elk seahorse jellyfish scorpion spider mouse cockroach horsefly donkey farmer duck-billed platypus aardvark anteater hyena box turtle goldfish sand shark sand dollar
or vegetable
fir tree kelp sunflower safflower grass onion rose kale carrot oak sequoia redwood madrone morning glory cactus papyrus rice barley wheat rye maple birch cherry
or mineral
graphite slate sand diamond quartz petroleum iodine talc granite obsidian lava pumice calcium
whether animal vegetable or mineral there is still the drapery beyond which nothing can be seen or measured or quantified, only sensed and perceived, a product as much of wishful thinking, intentional abstraction, as actual observable quantifiable matter. It's immaterial, simultaneously animal, vegetable, and mineral and also none of the above.

2. By land, by sea, or by air?

Pulled by donkey mule draft horse in covered wagon or sledge or cart or three hundred horsepower engine pottering along the road at thirty miles per hour or perambulating on the basis of shoe leather or barefoot or propelled by sled dog and skids or skateboard or roller skates or skis or bicycle or tandem bicycle or on the train or hopping onto a freight train or hitchhiking in a range of Buicks Volkswagons Volvos Pontiacs Chevys 18 wheelers or Greyhound bus
or propelled by the forward crawl or the backstroke or the breast stroke or the butterfly or the side stroke or amongst a group of synchronized swimmers or held aloft by a passing log or the greatest advances in life preservers or the seat cushion flotation device from seat 18F on American Airlines flight 1776 service to San Francisco or aboard a canoe with or without a paddle or in a barrel perilously close to Niagara Falls or with an outboard motor or on waterskis behind an outboard motor or in a dinghy or a trawler or a schooner or a forty foot yacht or a longship or a little celadon sailboat skirting along the Greek islands or in a submarine or with scuba gear or floundering because years of swimming lessons obviously didn't take or an attack of the bends or on a steamship or a paddleboat or with the Merchant Marines or pirates or HM Royal Navy or a dug-out canoe or purloined kayak
or the Red Baron's snazzy biplane or by parachute or UFO or fighter jet or hot air balloon or AA flight 1776 to SFO before it became a part of the ocean or a sesna or 747 or space shuttle or rocket or hovercraft or paraglider or free falling from a cliff planning on benign air currents and correct tidal flow or wing walking or levitation following years of meditation or out of body experience induced by pain or by pain relievers or launching from a cannon or tossing oneself from a bridge,
yes, by land, by sea, or by air, some destination will eventually be reached, but it might not be on the map.

3. Inside, outside, or upside down?

Arrived in a box, neatly labeled fragile this end up perishable open with care high value contents fully insured with delivery confirmation sent with return receipt by registered mail, inside a sleeping bag a house a cave, inside my own head surrounded by the cacophony of a chorus of advice and obligations and would rathers, inside the system, inside the loop, in bed, in the bath, inside the kitchen eating cooking cleaning organizing spices alphabetically by country of cuisine separating the inside of the fridge according to the food group system stymied by potatoes and sweetcorn which are technically vegetables but nutritionally starches but aren't they supposed to be kept in the crisper which is overflowing with as yet uneaten apples and somewhere there are milk and eggs and an awful lot of tonic water whereas inside the oven a certain amount of scrubbing is necessary to avoid setting off the smoke alarm again, and inside the basement surrounded by piles of laundry in various stages of purification while the monster in the furnace burbles just
outside the door and everything in life is a construction to avoid exposure to the outside of rain cold sunburn traffic expectations other people's reality excuses justifications timelines plots assignations responsibilities uncontrolled randomness verging on chaos outside leaves fall and water rises and potholes sink and boots crunch over gravel and leave prints in the first frost and the sun sets and aliens consider using the high school football field for a landing place which would really turn everything
upside down, the zero gravity free fall of space or vertigo or cliff diving or swimming or gymnastics with the uneven parallel bars or the trapeze or swinging along a rope and jumping into the river and somersaulting just under the surface as sun rays pierce through the water sending stripes of illumination to the depths whose orientation remains mysterious as the fish seem to be swimming in all directions and there are no arrows pointing to you are here but the natural buoyancy of the body meets the current of the river and though still upside down it is floating along the surface of the river with the sun on my back, thinking of picnics and trees.

---

reading
glanced at the calendar and a week to meet deadlines, ouch

weather
sun? maybe? please?

notes from above

Standing at attention, a sentinel among the trees, protecting the fortress from marauders journeying with ill intent from distant lands, beyond city limits, across the street, panthers in the alleyway, the ill-intentions of garbage men, bus drivers, dog walkers, mailmen, these approaching personages are actually spies, their cover of mundane respectability can be broken by seeing them from above, from this perch among the branches, towering above the perceived reality.

The mailman only looks quiet and unassuming, wearing a uniform of blue just a shade lighter than policemen's blue, carrying a satchel filled with the usual circulars for fire sales, pizza delivery, church newsletters, report cards, electricity bills. He walks nonchalantly, an even pace that doesn't vary regardless of rain, snow, sleet, or hail; his uniform switching from discreet shorts to woolen trousers and monogrammed vests, perhaps a switch from sandals (worn with the requisite black socks) to trainers (worn with the requisite black socks) to snow boots (worn with the requisite black socks), but never sunglasses or a shady hat or a flamboyant cashmere scarf.

Watch the mailman on his rounds from this treetop perch, closely now, closely, closer still, borrow the binoculars from the desk drawer and remember the advice from Secrets of a Soviet Spy (4th Vintage paperback edition, expanded and revised, copyright 1962) to pay attention to the details, the deliberateness of his walk, the unchanging half-smile on his lips. This is a man who knows the schedules of every person in the neighborhood: who picks up their mail dutifully every day; who meets him at the door; who lets days go by before collecting their assortment of envelopes, postcards, magazines; who is on vacation; who has lost a job; who has a new infant, and elderly relative recently moved in, is preparing for college, has a birthday.

This is only the superficial knowledge the mailman handles and processes each and every day. Who reads Mother Jones and who reads Reader's Digest and who reads Utne Reader and who reads Playboy and who reads Business Week and who reads Foreign Affairs and who reads Women's Wear Daily and really the demographics for each subscription aren't as classically delineated as the most obvious marketing ploys might lead one to assume. The mailman observes, remembers, recognizes each subscription, each recipient, perhaps plays matchmaker between residents of large apartment buildings based on compatibility of magazine subscriptions alone.

This information, carefully noted in shorthand code in pencil in a small pocket notebook, transcribed and delivered to his superiors at the CIA or the KGB or both if he is a particularly organized spy, supplying the Soviets with information on potential left-leaning conspiracy theorist recruits and supplying the Yanks with information on red diaper families and intellectuals whose leanings merit closer observation. The mailman knows when families move, children embark on their futures, children reconsider the reality of embarking and return home to a stocked refrigerator and on-site non-pay laundry facilities, marriages dissolve, new lovers move in, foreclosures are enacted, vacations are planned.

The mailman holds the skeleton key to the workings of each house, can assist in scheduling robberies, kidnappings, dog-nappings, ransoms, or simply borrowing unused real estate to install a conterfeit ring, the heart of operations for an underground newspaper, a house of ill-repute, a safe haven for discovered spies, a technological center of communications, or all of the above. The mailman is someone to keep an eye on.

Then there are the dog walkers. Their route is not as intimate and thorough as the mailman, but it is a network that spreads beyond the window of 11 am to 3 pm, it is a tightly choreographed loop around the other domestic systems of the neighborhood: six a.m. dog walk, observing the havoc of the night before: vandalism, break-ins, graffiti, abandoned shopping carts, sleeping drunks, residual parties, strange cars in driveways, lights on in houses, early commuters, sidewalks just beginning to be swept of the refuse of the night before, as the sun rises and the morning breeze brings with it the scent of coffee and baking bread, the cars still heard in singularity rather than as a herd migration, the whirr and click as stoplights change.

Morning dogwalkers are units of two crossing paths and sharing information across the street networks, dogs communicating by marking and scent, leash-holders by a subtle range of nods, half-smiles, discreet waves, a slightly rough morning voice greeting of "hello" or "good morning" or simply "morning" or "hi."

Then the noon dog walk, accomplished by either the same walker or a paid stand-in, but the dog remains the labrador or poodle or spaniel that took the six a.m. walk, now taking information at perhaps a slightly brisker pace along a slightly altered route, sharing the micro-happenings of the morning with the canine communication system, the dog-walker alternating between houses on a circuit or perhaps home for lunch, cross fertilizing domestic and workplace gossip. At noon, are the newspapers brought in or still gathering on the doorstep; has the mail been delivered; which neighbors are home; has the trash been picked up; is the city trimming trees or filling potholes or painting traffic stripes or fixing electrical pylons or cleaning sewer drains or has school been let out early.

The evening walk, the dog-infested happy hours, meeting at dog parks and outdoor cafes, sharing news about neighborhood business, real estate, utilities, politics with individuals recognized by breed of companion rather than by human identity. The curt six a.m. recognition is replaced by a broader exchange of knowledge with the owners of likeminded beasts, the opportunities for this network to be exploited for nefarious or merely questionable purposes continue to multiply.

Messages left tied to the dog's collar, picked up and transmitted across households by the noon dog walker; a communication system that involves the extrasensory perception of the dogs added knowledge of impending illness, changes in weather, recent movements to the more superficial human observations. Messages can be exchanged in a system far more discreet and secure than over the telephone lines, breed of dog, format of morning greeting standing in as code for a host of other meanings:
collie, gruff "good morning": defense budget increased by 20% for a new fighter jet
collie, gruff "morning": defense budget increased by 10% for a new generation of helicopters
golden retriever, curt nod: invasion of South American country imminent, further information to follow
golden retriever, curt nod, red baseball cap: invasion of South American country imminent, further information now as we wait in line for morning coffee
Cavalier spaniel, chirpy "hello": the information you provided has been shared with the proper authorities
Cavalier spaniel, chirpy "hi": the information you requested is now available and will be divulged in the dog park this evening
terrier, refusal to make eye contact: your cover has been breached
terrier, refusal to make eye contact, tweed hat: you will be detained for questioning in the next 24 hours, take precautions
All this superficial information shared amongst the six a.m. dog walkers; watch and observe how the relationships shift and conversations grow and are curtailed through the machinations of dog exercise and socialization. There is an active secret society in the city, operating in plain sight, observing each hour of movement and interaction, communicating clearly and without any ability to be traced, except in the echo of conversations and the scent of trails followed. The dog-walkers are worth keeping an eye on.

From this secluded fortress in the branches, binoculars at the ready, pencil and notepaper spread on the floor, diagrams of interactions marked out like steps to a foxtrot or waltz, connections diagrammed and paths overlaid onto hand drawn or photocopied maps, watch the pathways develop between people who would not know each other, or would not otherwise have the chisel to break into the code of each other's lives.

The mailman connects intentions and inclinations, the dog walkers convey news and communications, and the garbage men see everything, unfiltered, for even those paranoid or protective citizens who shred sensitive documents discard a trail of identity and activity into a collection of plastic bags, plastic bins, metal dumpsters. Archaeologists describe the rise, evolution, and fall of entire civilizations through the shell heaps, middens, burial sites, refuse piles that grew over generations and offer a glimpse of the machinations of daily life.

No less information is available while the trash remains unsorted, undecayed, pristine, a battered accumulation of recycled junk mail, discarded clothing, broken toys, shards of glassware, paperback books, grocery packaging, scratched cd's, outdated electronics, diapers, bill stubs, to-do lists, cola cans, arm chairs, lamps, newspapers, wine bottles, drug paraphernalia, proof copies of extortion letters or counterfeited money or mail scams or business cards for companies whose preposterous innocuousness demonstrates that they can only be covers for any number of unpatriotic purposes. The garbage men duly make the rounds, claiming anonymity in the mixture of bagged and unbagged miscellany fermenting in the back of the truck, claiming to keep refuse separate from paper recyclables separate from plastics, but the garbage men see it all, and the sorters at the dump know more about the domestic and business changes of the community than one would assume.

From this perch, watch the deliberation with which trash is carefully piled in sedimentary layers, follow the route to the dump one day, observe the grace and speed with which everything is processed, information gathered. The garbage men are no fools; they're worth keeping an eye on.

Then what? From the quiet and secluded lair of the treehouse, the systems observed, mapped out, and annotated, the structure of how the city and country are actually run delineated and all too clearly understood, what can be done with this knowledge, this insight, to counter the spies and the counterspies, to claim a territory beyond the workings of the network? Treehouses are linked, too; no one is an island, even if such is the recluse's intent, and twelve year olds and their brothers are a force to be reckoned with, seventh graders and third graders united to protect the world from people who know too much.

Learn from the spies, perfect the secret handshake, the insouciant "hey", the untied shoe, the safe haven for leaving notes written in a code which has been memorized and the key, which was written in invisible ink, burnt, or, better, eaten, followed by a glass of milk.

Listen to the dinner table conversation, send messages in morse code by lamplight from an upstairs bedroom window, arrange rocks into patterns while waiting for the school bus, and don't trust anyone who hasn't proven themselves, sworn by blood oath, signed the book (in invisible ink, in code, using a top secret nickname, no, spy name), and never anyone over fifteen, once they're in high school their vision begins to cloud and they can't see the dashed lines connecting plots and plans throughout the city, their mind becomes polluted with the stories of impending adulthood, the treehouse forgotten in the fumes of a car's exhaust. Once they're fifteen, they're lost, even if they pretend otherwise.

It's up to us, the twelve year olds and the eight year olds and yes, your little sister, too, even though she doesn't really understand yet and tells Mom and her diary everything, but she swore the pledge and signed the book so she can come up into the treehouse, and help us map out our plan, the counter insurgency against the agendas of the league of mailmen, dog walkers, garbage men who too closely observe and process our lives, who spy and counterspy and make alliances and betray trusts with the casualness and the callousness of adults caught in the web of their own superstitions. We are the sentinels, standing at attention, the guards in the trees, and we see everything.

---

reading
the Scrabble board, and losing valiantly

weather
drizzle drizzle and the delights of a woodstove

notes from the home front

With an extra morning in every day, there would be room to accommodate both the ideal and the actual.

Dishes carrying the memory of culinary adventures from the previous evening, washed, dried, put away, a quick run of the vacuum and short walk to the recycling bin, a heart-healthy rib-sticking breakfast incorporating the pinnacle of California dietary philosophies (the green smoothie) with the tried and true Yankee recipe (apple pie and strong coffee), the payment of due invoices, watering of plants, feeding of cats, all followed or preceded or accompanied by bed making, laundry folding, hair washing, letter writing, newspaper reading, and, lest it be forgotten, silent meditation preceded or followed by gentle stretching and yoga, perhaps a jog or brisk walk, and, this being New England and not California, shoveling the car out from a foot of freshly fallen snow, de-icing the windows, evacuating the driveway to allow the snowplough access to the greatest possible surface area.

This is reality, though, and of the above list the only item which occurs with any regularity whatsoever is the feeding of cats, as they do not sit idly by waiting for their turn in the queue of to-do and good intentions whereas the plants suffer in silence, the car sits just beyond visibility, newspapers nestle quietly away from intruding on the realities of the schedule, and any yoga preceding or following silent meditation tends to focus on the Savasana ("corpse") pose, just as easily accomplished with the accessories of duvet and pillows as on the living room floor, which anyway needs vacuuming and is currently playing host to a laundry rack filled from a midnight washing several days ago.

Paying bills in the morning is, of course, the ideal, sleep remaining foremost and so no trauma is experienced in the writing of checks, since the numbers look like so much make-believe and do not yet have a meaning attached to them: that hemisphere of the brain takes three hours (with coffee) to operate, or five hours (sober). Even this idealized morning bill paying doesn't happen, though, since actually assembling pen, stamp, checkbook, envelopes in the make-bed-wash-hair-feed-cat-find-breakfast-attempt-to-match-clothing-remove-cat-hair-from-clothing rush of foggy mindlessness is a series of steps too advanced to be successfully accomplished without the aid of regular habit.

By now it is two in the afternoon and perhaps a quarter of the chores, tasks, responsibilities, and promises have been accomplished, the morning is well over, lunch is a significant consideration on the horizon, and imagine the beauty of self, awake at 2 pm, filled with the joy of completion, being handed a mug of coffee and slice of warm toast with strawberry jam, and realizing that it is only seven-thirty in the morning, the mundane has been neatly tucked out of sight, and:

With coffee and toast, locate patch of golden sunlight streaming through window; sit on cushion in light, cats perched nearby. In the quiet and stillness feel the city awaken, the house reverberate, the rain on the roof and the wind in the trees. Stretch. Remove the cat from the other side and stretch in that direction, too. As the blood makes its circuit successfully through each system, limb, chakra, awakens each toe and each memory, write a letter, listen to Chopin, brew a pot of tea, experiment with a new schematic or design, then catch up on the articles in the New Yorker, rather than just the skimming of the cartoons that took place while on the phone the previous evening.

It's time for lunch, the chores accomplished in the pre-morning, life accomplished in the post-morning, and on the table a bowl of homemade soup, a glass of water, a loaf of bread, the sun still at its zenith, to be followed by a day of work or a day of play, nothing forgotten or rushed.

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reading
in front of the wood stove
weather
first rice pudding (coconut, with fresh mango) of the season