Posts filed under 'Just Life'
I love it when my old St. Louis neighborhood makes national news. This time it appears to be a standoff between a gunman and police and it’s already resulted in one firefighter dead and two police officers injured.
Nice.
When I saw the headline on MSNBC.com, I was thinking it was probably my next door neighbor. The same one who, when he saw some people break into our house while the renters were on vacation, decided that instead of calling the police, he’d grab his gun and enter the house and threaten to blow their fucking heads off.
Fortunately, it’s not. It’s a good three blocks or so away. Fantastic. This should really help ratchet up the neighborhood’s reputation when we finally get our house on the market.
July 21st, 2008
I just realized, to my great surprise, that I hadn’t actually written a new post in nearly three weeks. I know; I’m a terrible blogger. It’s just that I’ve been spending most of my mental energy doing something that’s also surprising: writing. My work’s coming along painfully slowly, but progress is being made in between bouts of writer’s block and self-doubt (although those may be the same things.)
On the jay front, the nest has been empty for some days now. The babies ventured out from one branch to another, then on to the next nearest tree, then the next. For a few days we could still find them in the morning by following the cacophony of squawking and wing flapping when the parents brought them food. And we can hear and see the parents in the neighborhood sometimes, but the kiddies have graduated to higher branches and have moved on.
Sigh. Would I be the world’s biggest dope if I said it was a little sad?
July 13th, 2008
Literally within a handful of days the baby blue jays went from looking like baby pterodactyls with see-through craniums to looking like baby, well, birds. Complete with downy fluff and the emergence of blue feathers. Amazing. Over the past few days, I’ve kept a close eye on their progress. (Too close, at times, including the time I pulled a chair over and stood on it, peering into the nest and was dive-bombed by one of the parental blue jays, who made actual contact with my hair. Message received.)
A couple of days ago, the most advanced of the bunch was tottering on the edge of the nest. Another followed suit and in the past 48 hours they’ve all tried their hand at flying. I watched them as they took their first tentative steps, hopping from one branch to another, unsteady and wobbling into branches. I watched as they practiced flapping their wings, sometimes comically as if they didn’t have much control, getting them tangled up in leaves and if I’d been close enough I’m sure I would have seen their little birdy-cheeks turn bright red.
By Tuesday afternoon, all four had ventured out to varying degrees and to varying degrees of comfort. (Pictured at top is the early adapter, who was so exhausted by his/her progress that he/she fell asleep right on the branch, hanging upside down like that.) By yesterday afternoon, two of them had made it into branches on nearby trees. By this afternoon? Can’t spot a one of them. No one’s in the nest. No one’s in the nearby trees unless they’ve made it to the highest-up branches.
Judging by the calendar, the babies are about two weeks old and are probably on schedule for fledging. I’m sure that, even if they do return to the nest tonight, it won’t be long before the whole family is gone for good. And I know it’s their thing. I mean, I know it’s what they’re meant to do. But it doesn’t mean that I won’t miss watching them.
On the other hand, I won’t miss being dive-bombed on my own back deck, either. So have at it, nature!
July 3rd, 2008
From CNN.com today:
Obama is ‘arrogant,’ charges Karl Rove.
Also in breaking news:
Kettle is black, charges pot.
June 26th, 2008
We have a truly magnificent back deck at our house. I can say that sort of thing because we’re renters and I didn’t have a damn thing to do with it. A couple of weeks ago, I was enjoying an afternoon reading on said deck when I noticed a particular blue jay making himself apparent. I should note that I’m not exactly a bird person. (Enough of a not-a-bird-person that I told Chris we had a blue finch out back only to be told, in gentle terms, that there’s no such thing.) That is to say, I recognize their existence, acknowledge their remarkable engineering and, at times, their notable plumage but, in general, ignore them. This particular blue jay wasn’t having it. He was flying from tree to tree, making all kinds of racket, demanding I put down my book and notice him.
I did. And soon I noticed something else — a nest in the high branches of one of the bigger lilac trees that flanks the deck. There, in the nest, was another blue jay. I watched them pretty closely, wondering if this was a permanent move or a stop-over. Within days, the population of the nest had tripled. When I peeked up to take a look, there were four tiny heads visible just above the top of the nest, all translucent orange beaks and bobbly, unsupported eagerness. (You can barely make out their wide-open mouths in the photo below. Grainy for all kinds of obvious “bad access” and “privacy rights” reasons.)
With the arrival of the baby birdies, the blue jays became slightly more aggressive, one of them fairly dive-bombing our heads whenever we went outside to sit. A few times we’ve been drawn outside by their loud squawking, only to discover two of them chasing off a squirrel or warning one another about a neighborhood cat on the premises.
I’ve spent part of the past week observing the birds — who have, graciously enough, gotten much more generous and less cranky about our hanging out on our own deck — and, intrigued by their behavior, I did a little readin’ up on them. Turns out their very aggressive nature and loud cries often get them a bad rap. Many home owners don’t like them. They’re known to gang up on other birds and hog the seeds in feeders. They have a mob mentality. Me? I kind of admire that about them. (Of course, I probably wouldn’t admire it if they weren’t also awfully pretty. I forgive a lot in the face of pretty.)
But this is what I learned that endeared me most to our blue jay family: blue jays are monogamous for life. They pair up, man-birdie and lady-birdie, and with brains the size of peas manage to pull off a commitment most humans can’t make work. During the brooding season — when the female keeps the eggs warm — the male goes out and gets her food, brings it back and feeds it to her. This is a lot like my own marriage, only without the eggs. Just me, on my ass, making my husband fetch me food. I feel I understand these birds.
And get this: after the babies are born and ready to fly the coop the blue jays travel together as a family unit for a couple of months. Not until fall, when the folks are certain the wee ones are ready to strike out on their own do they split up — the kids heading off to their new lives and the parents setting out on the next adventure on their own. Kind of remarkable, no?
June 23rd, 2008
Not ever, or anything. Just the first in our backyard this summer. Enjoy.
June 22nd, 2008
That’s where I am right now. Not a lot going on. Not a lot to say. Still riding the post-Effexor wave of completely uncontrollable emotion coupled with inexplicable rage and anxiety at the drop of a hat. It’s a real treat, I tell you. Writing some, but not a lot. A bit for me, a bit for clients. Concentration does not come easily these days. I’m not even tackling major projects right now — just some mindless, stash-busting knitting projects in front of the TV. (Did I ever tell you we got cable and DVR and the latter is the greatest invention EVER and completely terrible for my productivity? Why would I ever work when there is so much TV to watch?)
So, like I said, not much of an update, but just a little post to let you know I’m still alive. ALIVE!
June 18th, 2008
Among the many, many reasons you should feel sorry for me is the fact that I never went to camp as a child. In Britain, people just didn’t send their kids off to camp. (They may today, but I’m not certain.) When we moved to the states when I was about 10, camp was a distinctly American tradition, largely saved for people who had the means and, I thought, didn’t like their kids so much. So while a handful of my friends trotted off to camp for weeks on end during the summer, I remained behind, largely puzzled and only mildly envious. I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy camp nor was I sure why kids would want to sleep in bug-filled cabins, swim in murky lakes and fashion macrame bracelets when they could stay indoors all summer watching sitcoms.
So you can imagine it was a little odd and, surprisingly, a little thrilling for me to shop for my trip up north to the Bear River Writer’s Conference at Camp Michigania last weekend. As I tossed bug spray into my basket at Target and mulled over the right flashlight to take (who knew there were so many flashlights?), Chris assured me that if I got lonely and the other writers made fun of me, I could come home at anytime.
As it turns out, the conference was a terrific experience. For the past few years, I’ve made a point of attending a summer writing workshop, saving my pennies and signing up for five-day sessions at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. But at the urging of the generous and lovely Nick Delbanco, I opted for Bear River this year — largely because the special guest was, as I’ve noted here, one of my favorite authors, Amy Hempel.
One of the unique things about Bear River, as compared with other writing conferences and workshops, is that it focuses squarely on producing new work. It’s not the place to drag along the manuscript you’ve been working on merely to expose it to a new set of critical eyes — or as often happens, let’s face it, in the hopes of receiving unqualified praise and encouragement. Instead, it’s about inspiration, greasing the wheel and writing on the spot. Which is just as well, because I’m so far behind where I’d like to be with my current writing project that being in an environment that forced me to exercise my writing muscles was precisely what I needed.
I took a workshop on Painting and Fiction with Elizabeth Kostova, she of the best-selling vampire epic, The Historian. It was, in retrospect, perhaps not precisely the right workshop for me. While I thought we would focus on how the process of writing compares with the process of painting, and how the latter could inform and influence the former, the workshop leaned more strongly towards the use of paintings in our writing — as inspiration but, more directly, as subject. And I confess to being surprised by the number of people in our ten-person group who were specifically interested in including paintings in their fiction, for the most part in historical novels.
But the experience of attending Bear River was still good for me for two key reasons. First, I tend to forget that I know how to write. As silly as that may sound, and despite the fact I make my living as a freelancer, I do. I get so cowed by my fears and what feels like the weight of writing that I forget I’m even capable of it. Confidence among writers — more specifically, among this writer — is so fleeting, so difficult to maintain. Our free writing exercises and our homework, as rusty and slap shod as they were given time restraints, reminded me that I can do this, that I can string words together.
The second reason is that I remembered I like to be around people and that I am, for the most part, pretty good at it. As someone still relatively new to Ann Arbor and who works from home, I spend a tremendous amount of time by myself. Most of my time, in fact. Again, my memory proves tricky and, locked away in my office typing on my keyboard, I forget that I can meet new people, that I can make conversation with strangers and that I am, at least as a general proposition, likeable. I forget that I’m funny. I forget that I can find things in common with writers from all different backgrounds, from all walks of life, with all different interests. I was fortunate to be paired with cabin mates who were friendly and funny and I crossed paths with all sorts of interesting folk I’m grateful to have known, however briefly.
I think when I sit at home alone in my office, my fear can so easily eclipse my passion and, as a result, my productivity (which is weak under the best of circumstances) grinds to a halt. Over dinner the night of my return, Chris noted the extent to which I come home from these things energized and excited about writing and he suggested I look for at least one more to attend during the year. Such a smart man that husband of mine. (If you have any suggestions for great writing workshops, perhaps during the winter to balance my summer excursion, please let me know!)
Of course, the real initial draw for me to Bear River was the chance to meet Amy Hempel. She is, as I’ve noted here, pretty much the reason I wanted to become a writer. And when I glimpsed her across the room the first night — petite and pretty beneath a mass of long white hair — I was practically catatonic. I became a bumbling dork, moving closer to where she sat and glancing furtively at her out of the corner of my eye.
By the second day I worked up the courage to assault her, just as she was on the way into the craft talk she was scheduled to give. Clutching my hard copy of her collected stories, I blabbered on, slathering her with praise and actually (I kid you not) getting misty as I spoke with her. She was, fortunately and not surprisingly, extremely gracious and was kind enough to sign my book rather than having me escorted from the building.
I have to say, even in my starry-eyed state, I found her craft talk a little hard to follow. She warned us at the start that it would not be linear as she doesn’t think in a linear way and, in turn, doesn’t write linear stories. And while that’s part of what I admire most about her stories — along with her use of humor and pathos and her ability to plum the depths of emotion without being sentimental — it doesn’t necessarily make for a riveting craft talk. I came away with a page full of notes that included the names of poets she likes, some quotes from writers and not much sense of how Amy Hempel writes or how to apply it all to my own writing life. While a tad disappointing, it was also somehow comforting. I’m not sure that I want my writers to be completely polished, to be dazzling orators, to be good at every mode of expression. It helps to know they are imperfect in life, even as I may make them perfect on the page.
Hempel also did a reading in the nearby town of Petoskey, along with the very funny and talented poet Jim Daniels, at the Crooked Tree Arts Center. It was a brief but enjoyable reading and the Center is stunning — a Victorian church repurposed, and beautifully so, into a community Arts Center with a small stage and gallery space. I have a feeling the world might be a much better place if we repurposed all the churches in this manner. (We also had time to visit the current show, a collection of photographer Bill Eppridge’s 1968 campaign photos of Robert F. Kennedy. Extremely moving and while it could be argued that I’ve been crying at everything of late, I’m certain this would have yielded the same results under any circumstances.)
The Bear River experience was so different from that of the Iowa workshops I’ve attended and, at the risk of blasphemy (although, given the previous paragraph, that may seem a disingenuous concern), I enjoyed it far more. At Iowa, the workshops and homework seemed a bit more intensive, but once you’re outside of the classroom, you’re largely on your own. Everyone stays different places and no meals are provided and although the isolation can prove productive, it can also be, well, extremely isolating.
At Bear River, you share a cabin (that’s mine above, #14) with other writers and take all your meals in the dining hall. (You can, of course, skip them if you like and wander off grounds or hole up in your cabin with a bag of nuts, so to speak.) The result is a much greater sense of community. With about 90 attendees, by the end of four days, you know just about everyone by sight if not by name. And while I’m blaspheming, I’ll even go so far as to suggest that, in my limited experience, the overall talent at Bear River was superior to what I’ve encountered thus far at Iowa. Again, no offense. To anyone. Anywhere. Ever.
In addition, the setting is so bucolic, with meandering camp grounds along the shore of the same Lake Walloon that inspired Hemingway. I found it a great deal more inspiring than the campus of the University of Iowa, with its sterile air-conditioned classrooms, and the surrounding streets of Iowa City. (No offense, Iowa City.) Even on the rainy days — and two out of the four were overcast and drizzly — there was a mysterious fog that settled over Camp Michigania of precisely the sort we writers enjoy. Each morning, whether the lake was illuminated by the beating sun or hidden by mist, I felt a deep sense of peace as I trudged through the wet grass, warm coffee in hand, across the wooden foot bridge to my workshop in north camp. I don’t necessarily make a habit of communing with nature — we’ve found we don’t often have much to say to one another — but it was beautiful and quiet and I loved it.
On the last day, as tends to happen at these things, participants signed up to read their work. (I never sign up for these things; I’m never sure I have anything I want to hear myself read.) While these things are always hit and miss, I was blown away by some of the writing, and especially moved by the funny, smart, emotionally surprising work of the Ann Arbor Youth Poetry Slam team members who were there. I’d seen these teenage boys bumbling around camp for three days, wondering who on earth were these yahoos playing football with a soda bottle on the front lawn — only to be wowed into reticence and deep admiration by their rhythm, vocabularies, perspectives and humor. (If you’re in Ann Arbor, you should find a way to check them out.)
Unfortunately, a pall was cast over our last afternoon when a woman suffered what turned out to be a cerebral hemorrhage while reading her poem. It was scary and threw everyone off and even though the evening’s reading continued as scheduled, I think we were all a bit shaken and worried. We learned at breakfast our last day, before heading out, that she’d been airlifted to a hospital in Detroit and was in critical care. Should anything awful happen as a result, I hope there’s some comfort to be taken in the fact that she was doing what she loved when tragedy struck.
June 5th, 2008
How can I tell, especially with temperatures still dipping into chilly-low places at night? Here’s how:
It’s the first Dirty Sheed of year, a summer tradition, a Zingerman’s concoction of espresso and Mexican vanilla syrup (sugar free, in my case) and half-and-half over ice. Like a cup of rich, melted coffee ice cream. Taken during our walk to Kerrytown last Saturday morning to the farmer’s market. Sipped from a prime people-watching bench from which we also spotted:
A couple with their hands full of doggies. And, out of the corner of our eyes, prompting an up-close ooh-ing and ahh-ing:
A riot of gorgeous bright orange poppies. Not a great photo, but you get the idea. Such a crazy, reckless kind of flower, no? All or nothing, putting themselves way out there. No wonder they don’t last long. It must be exhausting. Then, on the walk back home, with a sack full of fresh asparagus and overpriced home-grown lettuce, a few other oddities soaking up the sun:
Three random chairs catching some rays. (If this is a race, the one at the front has a considerable lead, it seems.) Also, this little fella:
I think we could all learn something here. This seems like an optimal position to avoid awkward tan lines. (I worried a little that this was actually the fallout from an unsuccessful attempt to fly, but I wanted to afford him some dignity and at least pretend that he totally meant to land there.)
May 28th, 2008
I’ll be missing not one but TWO shows over in Royal Oak this week — Rilo Kiley on Sunday night and Kids in the Hall next Friday. So if you have tickets and are able to attend either or (cruel Gods!) both, be sure to have a swell time.
Just don’t go tellin’ me all about it.
p.s. I will also be missing the Magic ’80s Prom featuring John Waite, apparently, but I’m not exactly broken up about that. (I think it’s ironic that this show is 18 and over…considering that no one under the age of 18 has any idea who John Waite is. In fact, using that standard, it should be 35 and over.)
p.p.s. I suppose the bright side is that I can put off figuring out where the hell Royal Oak is for a while longer…
May 22nd, 2008
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