I was in Phoenix last weekend with my cousin, visiting our ailing grandmother. I came in from the east, K came in from the west and we met up for one of the best weekends I have had in years. Between hospitals visits, a full day of rain and a lingering flu-like sickness for K, we managed to laugh and reminisce and come into our grown-up selves. Though gma continued to call us kids and apologize each time, we would simply smile and tell her we are always going to be "kids" in her eyes. K and I tempered gma's needs and ailments with short outings, mostly to the local Starbucks and grocer, but once on a leisurely stroll among the neighborhood. While walking K pointed out that she found the desert landscape to be "desperate", and quite unpleasant to be surrounded by. Though she has found beauty and inspiration in the cactus which thrive, there was something about the desert that seemed to drain the beauty out of everything else within it. K is an artist of the highest caliber, and her work is absolutely stunning. One of my most favorite pieces she created was in fact based on one of these prodigal cactus': a yellow background with retro-esque "bursts" of green. And by the way, this is fabric K is creating. You roll your fingers over her "landscape" and they tumble from cool and smooth to an almost prickly softness within the green. It has been years since I have seen or felt this piece, but this is what I remember. And the beauty of it can never be adequately preserved by words. This revelation that K found her inspiration's surroundings to be desperate was not entirely shocking to me. I completely understand where she is coming from. The conversation continued with me telling her how mystical Santa Fe is, though very different from Phoenix, the beauty and inspiration stems from similar landscapes. Later, she thought she may of offended me with her statements about the desert and I told her absolutely not. In fact, many people feel the same way as K does and it's not offensive at all, though it absolutely made me ponder my love for such an empty space. These are my thoughts upon further consideration, though to be honest, I still wonder WHY I keep such a strong connection to a place I have spent so little time.
The desperation on the outset is in fact an oasis for incredible, mysterious life that would never survive in the abundance of water and temperate climates. The sunsets are magnificent due to the lack of trees marring the skyline and soaking up it's rays. The mountains do not resonate greens and reds and oranges in the fall; instead they act as mirrors, reflecting the purity of the sunrises and sunsets. When it rains the ground does not remain damp. You can almost see the moisture evaporate back into the atmosphere and the cactus drink only what they need. It's a lesson in survival and primitive spirituality. The vast landscapes of our deserts are often peppered with shrubs, giving off an illusion of life that is unlike any other desert in the world. Native Americans have suffered on these lands, yet they anticipate each day by reading the signs of this mysterious landscape. They have forged their way through the unwelcoming temperatures and spines of growth and found the beauty hidden beneath the surface in the shades of turquoise and silver. The inspiration I find there is simply in the pure frankness of what it is. In many ways I find the desert indicative of my own search within me for peace and beauty. It forces me to take nothing for granted in terms of survival, which is why the apricot trees, sage brush and coyotes are completely enticing to me. The inspiration of the cactus will continue to tingle within K, and the rest of you should only hope to find your own desolate beauty that inspires as much talent as K has. Good luck.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Oh Chicago
So I am having my students write about one of their most memorable moments, and I decided to read them this tomorrow . . . . I think they will be baffled, and if there are swears in it, no problem, I will omit them . . . More to come on their moments, at this point I am humbled by their experiences . . .
Chicago’s Union Station is filled with food vendors, bars and newsstands but not a single book that has been written by anyone other than Danielle Steele and contemporaries. My twelve-hour layover looked daunting without the prospect of a nearby bookstore. I asked all sorts of Chicagoans if they could point me to a bookstore within walking distance, and with wrinkled brows and shaking heads they all gave me the terrible news. In the heart of one of the most prosperous and active cities, there was no bookstore to be found!
I sulked away, defeated, tired and angry and I wondered how I could incorporate the latest issue of People Magazine or Cosmopolitan into my thesis on Short stories. The irony of the situation was tearing me apart! I had twelve, full, uninterrupted hours, with no looming obligations or friendly distractions to potentially work on my study. Although I had a lap top, writing was out of the question due to my exhaustion and complete lack of creativity. I settled on drowning my sorrows in comfort food from McDonalds.
There’s nothing like a Big Mac and French fries to console you through the blues, but when I scanned my seating options I realized I would have to share my space with a stranger. After spending the past 24 hours with strangers giving me cannibalistic stares in Amtrak’s smoking car and harassing me for the last bottle of white zinfandel on board, the last thing I wanted to do was interact with another stranger. Before I had time to contemplate my options I was shoved into a table by a man who was more eager than I to acquire his Big Mac. The occupant was a guy in a suit and trench coat and as I repositioned myself so I was not sitting on the table, I gave him a sheepish grin before I plopped myself down next to his chicken tenders.
He smiled and said, “Hi!” but I turned away from him and proceeded to stuff my face. I was on my third bite when I heard a buddy from the train say, “Hey! Did you find a bookstore yet?” I looked up, wiping the Special Sauce from the corners of my mouth, and shook my head. “No. And I am fucking all set with The Windy City. Intellectual my ass!” Chicken Tenders stopped mid bite and my train buddy held a fry suspended in the air. I have GOT to work on that inside voice I thought, and then proceeded to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude. It’s just that I am stuck in this train station and I really wanted to find a bookstore and there doesn’t seem to be one anywhere near here.”
The conversation that followed was a positive example of why it pays to let your inside voice squeak out now and then. Chicken Tenders drew me a map on a napkin and explained where the closest bookstore was. Within the next ten minutes I was standing in the Sears Tower in a local bookstore holding three collections of short stories! I stood in the fiction section and breathed in the woody smell of paper and ink. I ran my fingers over the glossy spines of paperbacks and the rough jackets of the newest releases. I listened as the clerk answered the phone and graciously explained to a customer that although they did not currently have it in stock, he would be happy to order it and she could pick it up in two days.
I realized then, that I was standing in the tallest building in North America with no desire to tour the observation deck or buy souvenir key chains and shot glasses; I was tingling with ecstasy as I read the index cards scribbled with staff persuasions beneath their favorite books. On the second floor of the Sears Tower, in a room the size of my country kitchen, I viewed the skyline of the city through the titles of the books.
Joyce Carol Oates and Alice Walker glistened with familiarity; Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf glowed with compassion from their ranks on the shelves; Stephen King nodded a New Englander’s welcome while Chris Bojalian flashed his Vermont signature on the front table. My rising anxiety had been completely halted with this unlikely source of comfort.
I paid for my three books and asked the clerk if he had any Annie Proulx stories. He told me that her new volume of Wyoming shorts was on its way and asked me if I would like to reserve one for pick up later that week. I hesitated, with an unexplainable longing to say “Yes”, realizing that this enormous metropolis was only as big as its smallest bookstore. I wished that my twelve hours in Chicago would not pass so quickly. “No. No thank you, I’m only here for a few more hours.”
Maybe the clerk heard the disappointment in my voice and suspected it was because Annie Proulx wasn’t in yet. Or maybe he could sense the real disappointment, like having to leave an old friend you have just met. Or perhaps he was simply treating me like any other local customer who comes in. Regardless, he allowed me a few more minutes of bliss by asking about the stories I chose.
“Hey, that one you have by Brockmeier,” he said pointing to the green paperback in my hand, Ait=s really good. Not super well known yet, but he=s won some O. Henry’s. Did you read the staff pick on it? I looked at the book and tried to come up with a more intelligent answer than, “Um, no. I just looked at the cover and liked it.” Before I could answer he was walking toward a shelf, pointing at an index card. “Check it out if you want. I wrote it.” He walked away, back to his register, while I stood staring at his recommendation. It’s really not that big of a place after all. I whispered to myself.
Chicago’s Union Station is filled with food vendors, bars and newsstands but not a single book that has been written by anyone other than Danielle Steele and contemporaries. My twelve-hour layover looked daunting without the prospect of a nearby bookstore. I asked all sorts of Chicagoans if they could point me to a bookstore within walking distance, and with wrinkled brows and shaking heads they all gave me the terrible news. In the heart of one of the most prosperous and active cities, there was no bookstore to be found!
I sulked away, defeated, tired and angry and I wondered how I could incorporate the latest issue of People Magazine or Cosmopolitan into my thesis on Short stories. The irony of the situation was tearing me apart! I had twelve, full, uninterrupted hours, with no looming obligations or friendly distractions to potentially work on my study. Although I had a lap top, writing was out of the question due to my exhaustion and complete lack of creativity. I settled on drowning my sorrows in comfort food from McDonalds.
There’s nothing like a Big Mac and French fries to console you through the blues, but when I scanned my seating options I realized I would have to share my space with a stranger. After spending the past 24 hours with strangers giving me cannibalistic stares in Amtrak’s smoking car and harassing me for the last bottle of white zinfandel on board, the last thing I wanted to do was interact with another stranger. Before I had time to contemplate my options I was shoved into a table by a man who was more eager than I to acquire his Big Mac. The occupant was a guy in a suit and trench coat and as I repositioned myself so I was not sitting on the table, I gave him a sheepish grin before I plopped myself down next to his chicken tenders.
He smiled and said, “Hi!” but I turned away from him and proceeded to stuff my face. I was on my third bite when I heard a buddy from the train say, “Hey! Did you find a bookstore yet?” I looked up, wiping the Special Sauce from the corners of my mouth, and shook my head. “No. And I am fucking all set with The Windy City. Intellectual my ass!” Chicken Tenders stopped mid bite and my train buddy held a fry suspended in the air. I have GOT to work on that inside voice I thought, and then proceeded to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude. It’s just that I am stuck in this train station and I really wanted to find a bookstore and there doesn’t seem to be one anywhere near here.”
The conversation that followed was a positive example of why it pays to let your inside voice squeak out now and then. Chicken Tenders drew me a map on a napkin and explained where the closest bookstore was. Within the next ten minutes I was standing in the Sears Tower in a local bookstore holding three collections of short stories! I stood in the fiction section and breathed in the woody smell of paper and ink. I ran my fingers over the glossy spines of paperbacks and the rough jackets of the newest releases. I listened as the clerk answered the phone and graciously explained to a customer that although they did not currently have it in stock, he would be happy to order it and she could pick it up in two days.
I realized then, that I was standing in the tallest building in North America with no desire to tour the observation deck or buy souvenir key chains and shot glasses; I was tingling with ecstasy as I read the index cards scribbled with staff persuasions beneath their favorite books. On the second floor of the Sears Tower, in a room the size of my country kitchen, I viewed the skyline of the city through the titles of the books.
Joyce Carol Oates and Alice Walker glistened with familiarity; Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf glowed with compassion from their ranks on the shelves; Stephen King nodded a New Englander’s welcome while Chris Bojalian flashed his Vermont signature on the front table. My rising anxiety had been completely halted with this unlikely source of comfort.
I paid for my three books and asked the clerk if he had any Annie Proulx stories. He told me that her new volume of Wyoming shorts was on its way and asked me if I would like to reserve one for pick up later that week. I hesitated, with an unexplainable longing to say “Yes”, realizing that this enormous metropolis was only as big as its smallest bookstore. I wished that my twelve hours in Chicago would not pass so quickly. “No. No thank you, I’m only here for a few more hours.”
Maybe the clerk heard the disappointment in my voice and suspected it was because Annie Proulx wasn’t in yet. Or maybe he could sense the real disappointment, like having to leave an old friend you have just met. Or perhaps he was simply treating me like any other local customer who comes in. Regardless, he allowed me a few more minutes of bliss by asking about the stories I chose.
“Hey, that one you have by Brockmeier,” he said pointing to the green paperback in my hand, Ait=s really good. Not super well known yet, but he=s won some O. Henry’s. Did you read the staff pick on it? I looked at the book and tried to come up with a more intelligent answer than, “Um, no. I just looked at the cover and liked it.” Before I could answer he was walking toward a shelf, pointing at an index card. “Check it out if you want. I wrote it.” He walked away, back to his register, while I stood staring at his recommendation. It’s really not that big of a place after all. I whispered to myself.
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