26.2.10
23.2.10
22.2.10
20.2.10
Light Fantastic
The heavy hand of winter is slowly lifting: the sun has made an appearance for the past four days, along with mild temperatures and a seemingly widespread social zaniness (people wandering lazily around Portland, wearing t-shirts and shorts and sandals, bicycling their strong little butts off, smiling deliriously). It's remarkable how the dismal rainy season managed to seep into my very being, and now that it is nearly over, it's as though I am slowly shedding layers of scowls, lowered eyes, tired arms, weary feet. Jace (6 months) and I go for long walks and swing about in the hammock. I'm hoping he learns to crawl in the fresh uncut grass. Avi & Marley (nearly 3 and 16 months, respectively) are so much happier when we can be out in the garden for hours at a time, eating kale off the stalk and playing with the dogs.
Interestingly enough, I feel far more connected with weather and seasonal shifts than I did back East. There is something more pronounced about the Pacific Northwest climate, and people seem to exist in sync with their immediate environment. Ever since I arrived here, I have felt compelled by my body to eat according to current harvest, to sleep according to my genuine level of fatigue (not according to feelings of should or shouldn't), to make my yoga practice a priority amongst all the constant going, and to be outside as much as possible, rain or shine. The upside of rain in Portland is that it usually consists of light sputterings, followed by brief interludes of moist air but no precipitation. There have been cats-and-dogs days but not many, so taking a walk in the rain usually isn't out of the question. The world looks different in allegedly 'bad' weather; meaning, when one has the opportunity to be outside and travel daily routes in all kinds of weather, one's experience of the roles of observer/participant become somewhat clearer, or at least more intriguing. It can become a fascinating investigation of ecology and community.
Much of my desire to be outside, not only in the much appreciated sunlight but also in the rain, comes from taking care of children five days a week, and realizing that the last thing I want to do is teach them how to fear exploration beyond the House, even beyond the Backyard. Although my parents encouraged my brother and I to frolic, I became more of an indoor person, and, as a child, even strove to modify my outdoor activities with the comforts of my bedroom - I dragged blankets, pillows and books to a corner of our backyard and set up camp, taking great pains to flick every ant or spider away, trying to secure my little cotton nest against any organic insurgent. In high school I refused to participate in outdoor sports and spent most of my senior year reading on the bleachers while other kids played sports and ran track. None of which I actually regret. But my resistance to finding joy outside came from a general distaste for perspiring, getting filthy, being far from a bathroom, and the headache one gets from squinting one's eyes against the sun. Not to mention the seeming unpredictability of the real ground, sky, air. Heaven forbid it begins to rain, or it gets too hot, or the wind blows hard. For the longest time, I simply couldn't manage that uncertainty.
These habits of mind have been difficult to overcome. Overcome is, perhaps, the incorrect word. I haven't overcome my love of the indoors, because I've decided it isn't something that needs overcoming. Rather, it is a habit that begs for a companion habit in order to locate balance. And so I have cultivated a love of the outdoors, which includes but is not limited to: a fondness for dirt, worms, rain, grass stains, sweat, sore muscles, quick thinking, picnics, tackling steep hills, navigating suburban canyons, weeding, harvesting, running, jumping, sun salutations, keeping an eye out for dog poop and roadkill, paying attention to bird calls, neighborhood cat-titudes, the shape and height and character of trees, the ubiquity of water and sound and change.
Water and sound and change: it's all there.
Water and sound and change: it's all there.
19.2.10
this book is astounding
I did not see the forms whirl until they vanished
in unmoving clarity,
the being without substance of the Sufis.
I did not drink the plentitude of the void
I saw a blue sky and all the blues,
from white to green,
the spread fan of the poplars,
and on a pine, more air than bird,
a black and white mynah.
I saw the world resting on itself.
I saw the appearances.
And I named that half hour:
The Perfection of the Finite.
Paz.
10.2.10
don't go to the zoo
don't go to the zoo, especially the Oregon Zoo.
all zoos are depressing, but the folks at the Oregon Zoo have made little to no effort to recreate natural habitats for their african and southeast asian animal captives. the monkeys jump around behind glass, between beige concrete walls, and stare forlornly at the gawking crowds of screaming children and their frazzled parents. the elephants live on what looks to be a large circus stage without a tent. the giraffe was confined to giraffe prison: a narrow, high-ceiling room secured by two steel gates. the giraffe ate from a box and drank from a small sink, and defecated in the corner. the cougar exists on a small strip of land behind a fence. each and every animal we saw at the zoo looked miserable, even the cows and the goats. the only animal who appeared somewhat content was the otter: he glided back and forth in his little pond, retreated halfway into his den, reappeared, swam, retreated, reappeared, etc., all with a pleasant otter smile on his sweet face.
i felt grossly hypocritical to be one of the crowd, pressing up against the glass, leaning over the fence, craning my neck to really see.
not to mention, it was $2 tuesday, so every family in the portland metro area was crammed into the place, and for every adult there seemed to be four kids, and these kids were everywhere, screaming, hitting, running into people. some of the children were on leashes, and the guardians pulled their kids right along, redirecting them if need be with a quick shortening of the rope. we witnessed a little boy walk up to a stranger and take her ice cream. we saw a brother smack his sister in the face as their mother looked on and laughed hysterically.
before yesterday's excursion, i hadn't been to a zoo since my parents last took me to the Bronx Zoo when i was a teenager, unless you count the Look Park petting zoo in Florence, MA. i had forgotten how wrong it feels to stare, even with wonder, at these animals that simply don't belong where they are. elephants and giraffes and cougars and lions don't belong in oregon. i imagine that parents would want their children to see firsthand the most magnificent beasts and birds from faraway lands, but the zoo is a sad way for children to learn about wild animals. the entire experience lacks all authenticity and reality. one of the most irritating aspects of the Oregon Zoo is the Africa exhibit, complete with mud huts and drum circles. a skeletal and halfhearted approximation of culture. what i want to know is, why not sell the zoo, return the animals to their true land, and donate all of the money to furthering the protection and conservation movements in the third world?
do:
see fantastic mr. fox
do:
read island by aldous huxley
all zoos are depressing, but the folks at the Oregon Zoo have made little to no effort to recreate natural habitats for their african and southeast asian animal captives. the monkeys jump around behind glass, between beige concrete walls, and stare forlornly at the gawking crowds of screaming children and their frazzled parents. the elephants live on what looks to be a large circus stage without a tent. the giraffe was confined to giraffe prison: a narrow, high-ceiling room secured by two steel gates. the giraffe ate from a box and drank from a small sink, and defecated in the corner. the cougar exists on a small strip of land behind a fence. each and every animal we saw at the zoo looked miserable, even the cows and the goats. the only animal who appeared somewhat content was the otter: he glided back and forth in his little pond, retreated halfway into his den, reappeared, swam, retreated, reappeared, etc., all with a pleasant otter smile on his sweet face.
i felt grossly hypocritical to be one of the crowd, pressing up against the glass, leaning over the fence, craning my neck to really see.
not to mention, it was $2 tuesday, so every family in the portland metro area was crammed into the place, and for every adult there seemed to be four kids, and these kids were everywhere, screaming, hitting, running into people. some of the children were on leashes, and the guardians pulled their kids right along, redirecting them if need be with a quick shortening of the rope. we witnessed a little boy walk up to a stranger and take her ice cream. we saw a brother smack his sister in the face as their mother looked on and laughed hysterically.
before yesterday's excursion, i hadn't been to a zoo since my parents last took me to the Bronx Zoo when i was a teenager, unless you count the Look Park petting zoo in Florence, MA. i had forgotten how wrong it feels to stare, even with wonder, at these animals that simply don't belong where they are. elephants and giraffes and cougars and lions don't belong in oregon. i imagine that parents would want their children to see firsthand the most magnificent beasts and birds from faraway lands, but the zoo is a sad way for children to learn about wild animals. the entire experience lacks all authenticity and reality. one of the most irritating aspects of the Oregon Zoo is the Africa exhibit, complete with mud huts and drum circles. a skeletal and halfhearted approximation of culture. what i want to know is, why not sell the zoo, return the animals to their true land, and donate all of the money to furthering the protection and conservation movements in the third world?
do:
see fantastic mr. fox
do:
read island by aldous huxley
8.2.10
7.2.10
yurt
this style feature on the new york times website makes me feel terribly unimaginative and bland:
alaskan yurt living
alaskan yurt living
super nourishing soup
1/2 lb root ginger
1 large daikon radish
1 lb shitake mushrooms
1 lb bok choy
2 lbs pearled barley
6-8 scallion stalks
1/2 lb loose spinach
vegetable broth
3 tbsp peanut oil
red pepper
begin by sorting through the pearled barley for any hard, inedible rocks.
combine water, vegetable broth and barley. ratio = 2:1. (water and broth = 2)
bring water and barley to a boil, then turn down the heat and add:
chopped ginger (big chunks so they are easy to detect and avoid, if you don't wish to actually eat the ginger)
sliced daikon radish
sliced mushrooms
sliced bok choy leaves
chopped scallion
3 tbsp. peanut oil
a healthy pinch of red pepper
let the soup cook for about an hour or so.
you'll need a big pot, about 4-5 gallons. this is enough soup for about 8-9 people, maybe more, maybe less if those 8-9 people really, really like the soup.
delicious, clarifying, and hearty. i want to eat it for every meal, even breakfast.
1 large daikon radish
1 lb shitake mushrooms
1 lb bok choy
2 lbs pearled barley
6-8 scallion stalks
1/2 lb loose spinach
vegetable broth
3 tbsp peanut oil
red pepper
begin by sorting through the pearled barley for any hard, inedible rocks.
combine water, vegetable broth and barley. ratio = 2:1. (water and broth = 2)
bring water and barley to a boil, then turn down the heat and add:
chopped ginger (big chunks so they are easy to detect and avoid, if you don't wish to actually eat the ginger)
sliced daikon radish
sliced mushrooms
sliced bok choy leaves
chopped scallion
3 tbsp. peanut oil
a healthy pinch of red pepper
let the soup cook for about an hour or so.
you'll need a big pot, about 4-5 gallons. this is enough soup for about 8-9 people, maybe more, maybe less if those 8-9 people really, really like the soup.
delicious, clarifying, and hearty. i want to eat it for every meal, even breakfast.
6.2.10
henry miller
Henry Miller: Asleep & Awake
"about love and often very perverse aspects of love"
"he doesn't look like a man who's holding a naked woman, does he? he looks sorrowful there, he looks meditative, reflective"
"the lips that you want to bite when you see"
"yeah yeah, oh"
"i'm harassed by this question of identity"
"today i think it's the ugliest, filthiest, shittiest city in the world"
"my whole past seems like one long dream punctured with nightmares"
"about love and often very perverse aspects of love"
"he doesn't look like a man who's holding a naked woman, does he? he looks sorrowful there, he looks meditative, reflective"
"the lips that you want to bite when you see"
"yeah yeah, oh"
"i'm harassed by this question of identity"
"today i think it's the ugliest, filthiest, shittiest city in the world"
"my whole past seems like one long dream punctured with nightmares"
3.2.10
the books and primary colors
my room is small.
it is populated by books.
when i can't sleep i sit at the edge of my bed and look at the selection
and i want to tear my hair out
knowing how many many many
books there are in the world
and how few of those
i have read and how few of those
i will actually be able to read
with the time i have left.
1.2.10
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