Sunday, July 25, 2004
fast impressions of a full summer
These days have passed in a happy blur. Here are some of the moments that stopped long enough to show up in clear outline.
--Long Lake with Tita. Every summer, we go for one, indolent day. We met on the Southworth ferry terminal, at the junky general store at the end of the dock. Coffee granitas and string cheese in hand, we drove off, down the curving roads. Set up our towels near the tree, the food on a picnic bench under the shade. Peeled off our clothing to reveal our bathing suits, then sauntered into the lake. Swimming in the lake was like a nostalgic dream of summer as it happened. The water silty with algae, everything porous, like memory. And looking down, I could see my arms stretching forward in brown-green water, like a daguerrotype. Like an archetypal swimming memory. Like a photograph of my life. And then laying in the sun for fifteen minutes at a time, to dry our skin. And then food. Conversations about art and why it feels imperative for some people, and why others can leave it on the side of the road as they drive into the next part of their lives. Catching up on every person we know in common. And the ones we know from past stories alone. Silence. Grinning. Looking at the silver-green leaves glimmering in the trees. Childhood stories. More swimming. And at one moment, every year, we stretch our arms out to find each other and say, "You know, you feel like a friend from grade school. You feel deep in me, like I've known you forever. You're the one friend I know I will always have." One of us says it, the other says ditto, and then we return to the water.
--Carrying Elliott on my shoulders as Andy and Dana walked us around a property on Vashon that they want to buy. Nothing but madrona trees, pine trees, soaring sky, and cleared field. Heaven. As they showed it to Jim, and he offered suggestions of where to put the dream house they want to build, I just felt my steps in the uneven grass and held onto Elliott's legs. And he reached down with his hands and patted my cheeks while we walked.
--Leaping like a little frog in the Magnolia pool, the sunlight hot on my head, bodies surrounding me, and I feel alive.
--Walking away from Uptown Espresso, back to my car, Meri and I talking slow and calm. A woman approached us, muttering, I thought at us. She wasn't talking to us. Tight velvet pants, cinched up to her waist. All her hair tumbling down onto her face. Contorted, the lips in a snarl. And she shouted, her voice increasing in volume with each sound, "I'm going to find a fucking hammer and smash him in the head myself, murder him." And she was sobbing, I noticed, as she passed us. We stopped to look after her, then moved on, shaking our heads. Poor woman.
--Elliott dancing, all the fans blowing on the hottest day of the year in Seattle. He's wearing only his diaper, and he's perfectly happy. His dad is there, and his grandparents, and me. Missing Mom, these are the most important people in his life. All watching him, perfectly content to be there. Andy put on this disc of West African music he found, all double-time beats and surging rhythms. I picked up Ellliott and began dancing him around the living room on my hip. And he pumped his body up and down in time to the beats. This kid has been listening to eclectic music since he was two days old. (When he was really little, and had colic, only Gamelan music from Bali would soothe him. And Andy started playing him the Hoosier Hot Shots from his first week.) He arched his back, which meant he wanted me to turn him upside down at my ankles. So I did. And all I could see was his chin and wide grin. Andy picked him up, to dance. Elliott threw his arm in the air, pumping his fist in exultation, perfectly in time with the music. We all laughed and participated, even my mom from the chair. At one point, Elliott asked to be put on the floor. He sat, cross-legged, and watched us dance. I started stamping my bare feet on the rug, in time with the hurly-burly music. One foot in the circle toward him, and then the next. Back and forth, foot forward, music propelling me forward. For a few moments, I felt like I was back in the days before the car accident, when I spent every Sunday afternoon in African Dance class, shaking off the thoughts of the day, and any sense of self, losing myself in the music and the feeling of my feet on the floor. And Elliott watched my feet, studied them, so he would know what t do when he stood up. He stood up. Shook his hips. Moved his feet. Waved his arms. And looked as happy as I felt.
--And in just a few moments, I'm about to climb in the car with my suitcase, a bunch of cds, and snacks. Time for a little road trip. I'm off to Port Townsend, to spend a few days with Kristin Korb. "AAAAHHH!" we always shout at each other when we see the other for the first time. And then lift each other up for a big bear hug. One of my dearest Sitka friends, she's going to be in PT for a music camp. And I'm going to camp out with her for a few days. She'll work during the day, and I'll find a suitable coffee shop in the small town and work on my novel for hours at a time. And in the evening, we'll break open bottles of wine, bars of dark chocolate, put on dvds, and laugh until late in the night. Life is good. I'm going to stop at Easy Street records first, and buy the new Magnetic Fields cd. And drive with the sunroof open, the wind blowing through my hair, singing along to the songs I'll know soon. Leave everything else behind me, as much as I can. I love road trips--even three-hours ones. So I won't be writing here for a few days.
But I'll be back with new stories soon.
These days have passed in a happy blur. Here are some of the moments that stopped long enough to show up in clear outline.
--Long Lake with Tita. Every summer, we go for one, indolent day. We met on the Southworth ferry terminal, at the junky general store at the end of the dock. Coffee granitas and string cheese in hand, we drove off, down the curving roads. Set up our towels near the tree, the food on a picnic bench under the shade. Peeled off our clothing to reveal our bathing suits, then sauntered into the lake. Swimming in the lake was like a nostalgic dream of summer as it happened. The water silty with algae, everything porous, like memory. And looking down, I could see my arms stretching forward in brown-green water, like a daguerrotype. Like an archetypal swimming memory. Like a photograph of my life. And then laying in the sun for fifteen minutes at a time, to dry our skin. And then food. Conversations about art and why it feels imperative for some people, and why others can leave it on the side of the road as they drive into the next part of their lives. Catching up on every person we know in common. And the ones we know from past stories alone. Silence. Grinning. Looking at the silver-green leaves glimmering in the trees. Childhood stories. More swimming. And at one moment, every year, we stretch our arms out to find each other and say, "You know, you feel like a friend from grade school. You feel deep in me, like I've known you forever. You're the one friend I know I will always have." One of us says it, the other says ditto, and then we return to the water.
--Carrying Elliott on my shoulders as Andy and Dana walked us around a property on Vashon that they want to buy. Nothing but madrona trees, pine trees, soaring sky, and cleared field. Heaven. As they showed it to Jim, and he offered suggestions of where to put the dream house they want to build, I just felt my steps in the uneven grass and held onto Elliott's legs. And he reached down with his hands and patted my cheeks while we walked.
--Leaping like a little frog in the Magnolia pool, the sunlight hot on my head, bodies surrounding me, and I feel alive.
--Walking away from Uptown Espresso, back to my car, Meri and I talking slow and calm. A woman approached us, muttering, I thought at us. She wasn't talking to us. Tight velvet pants, cinched up to her waist. All her hair tumbling down onto her face. Contorted, the lips in a snarl. And she shouted, her voice increasing in volume with each sound, "I'm going to find a fucking hammer and smash him in the head myself, murder him." And she was sobbing, I noticed, as she passed us. We stopped to look after her, then moved on, shaking our heads. Poor woman.
--Elliott dancing, all the fans blowing on the hottest day of the year in Seattle. He's wearing only his diaper, and he's perfectly happy. His dad is there, and his grandparents, and me. Missing Mom, these are the most important people in his life. All watching him, perfectly content to be there. Andy put on this disc of West African music he found, all double-time beats and surging rhythms. I picked up Ellliott and began dancing him around the living room on my hip. And he pumped his body up and down in time to the beats. This kid has been listening to eclectic music since he was two days old. (When he was really little, and had colic, only Gamelan music from Bali would soothe him. And Andy started playing him the Hoosier Hot Shots from his first week.) He arched his back, which meant he wanted me to turn him upside down at my ankles. So I did. And all I could see was his chin and wide grin. Andy picked him up, to dance. Elliott threw his arm in the air, pumping his fist in exultation, perfectly in time with the music. We all laughed and participated, even my mom from the chair. At one point, Elliott asked to be put on the floor. He sat, cross-legged, and watched us dance. I started stamping my bare feet on the rug, in time with the hurly-burly music. One foot in the circle toward him, and then the next. Back and forth, foot forward, music propelling me forward. For a few moments, I felt like I was back in the days before the car accident, when I spent every Sunday afternoon in African Dance class, shaking off the thoughts of the day, and any sense of self, losing myself in the music and the feeling of my feet on the floor. And Elliott watched my feet, studied them, so he would know what t do when he stood up. He stood up. Shook his hips. Moved his feet. Waved his arms. And looked as happy as I felt.
--And in just a few moments, I'm about to climb in the car with my suitcase, a bunch of cds, and snacks. Time for a little road trip. I'm off to Port Townsend, to spend a few days with Kristin Korb. "AAAAHHH!" we always shout at each other when we see the other for the first time. And then lift each other up for a big bear hug. One of my dearest Sitka friends, she's going to be in PT for a music camp. And I'm going to camp out with her for a few days. She'll work during the day, and I'll find a suitable coffee shop in the small town and work on my novel for hours at a time. And in the evening, we'll break open bottles of wine, bars of dark chocolate, put on dvds, and laugh until late in the night. Life is good. I'm going to stop at Easy Street records first, and buy the new Magnetic Fields cd. And drive with the sunroof open, the wind blowing through my hair, singing along to the songs I'll know soon. Leave everything else behind me, as much as I can. I love road trips--even three-hours ones. So I won't be writing here for a few days.
But I'll be back with new stories soon.
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