Phantom dendrites

My fingers hurt.

for the trees

can't see the forest for the trees

surrounded by all these tall, tall trees and don't know whether to walk past, climb, run away or dig a hole and fall asleep

i do it to myself

that's how my life gets sometimes - i just overdo it, slosh away, waves up, into the deeps, riding the crest, crash, over the banks and into the shallows

skidding all the way out here into the woods

i do it to myself

computer tech, english teacher, mom, cello, arabic, cub scouts, house, tech teaching, bollywood, hindi - what the fuck am i doing? where am i going? if i can only keep my stress level down it can be ok. must keep whacking down the woods, must forge path, must move forward

i do it to myself

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Dense forest, dusk. Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, USA
Photo by Q.T. Luong

Sturdy Oak, Flimsy Me

Then again, I'm pretty sturdy. I started work this week for real and have been obsessively throwing myself into it, doing more work than I'm getting paid to do and feeling pretty good because I am busy and appreciated and doing something others can't here on campus. In any case, I need to feed people now.

* & * & * & * & * & * & * & * & * & * & * & * & * &

They're fed and to bed. My sweet boys.

Even Older Beans

The pantry is mostly done. All that needs doing is the floor to be mopped. My hands are raw. There is a box of old canned beans that need to go to the food bank.

Photo credit Sara Heinrich

Old Lavender

Sounds rawther nostalgic, doesn't it? Looks rawther bland but it does still smell lovely, despite being over a year old. I don't know how long old lavender, dried lavender, keeps its fragrance. Leila gave me this crop to use in soap-making with the cub scouts, which we did last year. The rest is now in a nice round jar.

Today I started to tackle the pantry. I worked for 3 hours and am about a third done. There were napkins and cans of beans and plastic bags and boxes of pasta strewn all over the ground, making it difficult to reach the inner sanctum of the pantry, which was (is) all likewise chaotic and filthy. It has to be done. It is a big job. There are lots of big jobs to do around here.

Bamboozled

Granted, I was very excited about all the greenery when we first moved here, yea these 13 years ago. Many, many books on West Coast horticulture, composting and xeriscaping were read and the data duly assimilated. Sadly, the upshot resulted in my knowing the Latin names for all the plants in my gardens, and little inclination (or experience) to care for them. It makes me sad and yes, ashamed.

It's a little like my problem with the refrigerator and pantry and other neglected spaces - I have some sort of block to fixing the problem. Something so simple as throwing out some rotting tomato sauce becomes a pathological source of dread until it becomes so bad that someone else has to throw it out, to my shame and helplessness. It's very, very stupid and I don't understand it. I'd like to chalk it up to laziness, but I'm really not that lazy. I can study for many hours, organize and execute many projects, work like crazy when needed. But in the domestic sphere, I have a block. What can I do to overcome it? The house and grounds are deteriorating.

Here is a picture of Nandina, a type of ornamental bamboo that was planted in my backyard close to some citrus trees. It is like a weed to me. It chokes out the citrus and was planted there irresponsibly, in my opinion. I want to yank it out. I decapitated a very sick rhododenron in the front yard because it was depressing me with its stricken, shrivelled leaves and thwarted, dried-out buds. I tried to add iron and keep it watered earlier in the summer but it only withered. Art is upset. If he is so upset he should pay for a gardener. I think I will end up doing that once I start getting paid for my computer job. Please, Good, let me get my act together with the house and grounds. This poor nandina deserves to be transplanted rather than killed off. It really could be lovely and ornamental if only in the right place.

Summertime

I can't wait for summer to be over. Yes, the kids are home and I don't have to wake up as early most days, but I don't like the heat and there's really too much sun for my constitution altogether here in California. The garden needs watering and no one has gotten it together (certainly not myself) to initiate any sort of auto-watering. The idealized plan is for me to hire a landscaper/gardner once my salary starts coming in. Then, of course, the rains will also have begun and it will be less of an issue. But once it all cools down (usually sometime in late October) I have more energy too and so will be able to do more about the situation myself. Then comes Halloween when we don't care so much about the decrepitude of the house, the broken door, the peling paint, the rampant spider webs and drifts of dry leaves.

It must be a symptom of my agoraphobia. The first inclination is to sequester myself in my dark little office and occupy myself here, shuffling papers, studying Arabic, researching whatever strikes my fancy at the moment. I only venture outside when I have to, which is quite a bit, considering that I have to shop and shuttle children around. I go to my appointments, my cello lesson, I try to be social, but it is all an effort and certainly against my primary inclination. If it were entirely up to me, I would have the groceries delivered and minimize strangers coming to the house. Now I'm being idiotic.

Here's what I recently discovered: an amazing similarity between the folk culture of Bulgaria and a secluded pagan enclave in the Hindu Kush mountains of Pakistan. Both have similarities with British folk culture as well. All do mumming around the winter solstice. The similarities between the Bulgarian and the Kalasha are more striking as both have a very well-preserved and seemingly complete suite of seasonal pagan holidays.

http://www.site-shara.net/_kalasha/eflm-kalasha.html

http://www.ishipress.com/kalasha.htm

Mimosa

There was a mimosa tree in front of our neighbor's house when I was growing up. It's such a summery tree, all wispy, pink and feathery. It's a lovely summer drink too.

These days are very nice. I love my family so much.

Persephone and the Pomegranite Tree

Crappy books kill trees. No more crappy books for me. I'm tired of this idiotic mother's book club. It was a frivolous undertaking 2 years ago but enough is enough already. I've wasted untold time reading very badly written books and then have felt snooty and guilty for confessing at book club that I found them awful.

I've renewed my subscription to Persephone Books with a purchase of three more of their marvelous offerings. Today I started William - An Englishman by Cicely Hamilton. It is refreshing to hear someone so matter-of-factly describe the hypocritical inflexibility of many self-described progressive thinkers. In a time of impending war the message is all the more relevant.

It was well for them, therefore, that their creed, like their code of manners and morals, was identical or practically identical. It was a simple creed and they held to it loyally and faithfully. They believed in a large, vague and beautifully undefined identity, called by William the People, and by Griselda, Woman; who in the time to come was to accomplish much beautiful and undefined Good; and in whose service they were prepared meanwhile to suffer any amount of obloquy and talk any amount of nonsense. They believed that Society could be straightened and set right by the well-meaning efforts of well-meaning souls like themselves - aided by the Ballot, the Voice of the People, and Woman. They believed, in defiance of the teachings of history, that Democracy is another word for peace and goodwill towards men. They believed (quite rightly) in the purity of their own intentions; and concluded (quite wrongly) that the intentions of all persons who did not agree with them must therefore be evil and impure....They were, in short, very honest and devout sectarians - cocksure, contemptuous, intolerant, self-sacrificing after the manner of their kind.

Pretty cynical stuff coming from a feminist, a feminist who experienced first-hand the political strategies of the suffragettes in Britain, and who lived and worked through World War I.

Cedars of Lebanon

The lady who came to tune the piano today knew very little of what is going on in the world. Blissful ignorance.

Cedars of Lebanon. I don't remember seeing many trees in the photos of blown-up buildings.

Here is a very interesting article on the Cedars of Lebanon.

The Cedar of Lebanon: Culture, History, and Ecology by Rania Masri

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In college I bought a lovely cedar chest at an estate sale. It was heavy, warm reddish-brown and the pink wood inside is naturally perfumed. Earlier this year my mother said that she would be shipping the chest to me across the continent. I was excited as I could use this sturdy, fragrant chest. One day it arrived at my front door in an enormous dilapidated box secured with packing tape and dented on all sides. It arrived on its side, ridiculously vertical and arousing alarm once I realized what it was supposed to be. It turned out to be another chest entirely, a much older and more brittle pine one which my maternal great-aunt had used on her trips to Sweden. The cedar chest must be somewhere else.

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Beirut is supposed to be a very glamorous partying town. I think of the neighborhoods in New York City. The gangs of Lebanon are probably better armed than the gangs of New York. Yeah, I haven't heard of any Katyusha rocket wars among the gangs and goons of New York.

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Here is a picture of the Beirut skyline at night with a bridge in the background, a bridge probably no longer there. (You can see the detail of the bridge above right.) The psychology of this whole mess is tribal and religious - ugh. It's appalling nothing more has been done on all sides to offer better options for the Palestinians. I wonder how many emigrated where. I remember hearing something about Arab nations not being willing to accept them as full citizens. I certainly hope that's not true. I know much more about the Holocaust than I do about Palestinians. In any case, both warring factions seem to think they have God on their side. God, maybe, but Good? Funny how zealots so exemplify moral relativism when slaughtering in the name of Good. Blood feuders.

Weeping Willow

There are willows down by the creek. I hardly ever see them. I avoid going down by the creek near the house because the last time the boys and I went down there we found a deer carcass and shredded porno mags in an encampment strewn with beer cans.

People have written about the shady side of suburbia, the weepy side, the venal and banal behavior of the would-be petty gentry. This certainly exists.

On the other hand, although more rare, there are recluses, mostly sequestered at home, rarely venturing out to risk the rays of the sun, harsh elements, overexposure. A whispering veil of featherlight fingers, gathering downwards, keeping out the sun, would be welcome. Birds of prey roam open plains, skim parched meadows this time of year. A willow grove by the creek would be a shelter. If it weren't frequented by substance-abusing hobos, that is.

So which willow is preferable? One is the safe, well-clipped specimen tastefully placed on manicured lawn, sporting a swing or a bench, romantic and melancholy as it squeezes the living daylights out of your sewage tank. The other is the untamed version that resides among the underbrush with roots oozing shamelessly into the mud, home to the likes of the homeless. And putative witches. There's a scene in Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter in which Hester and Dimsdale meet on such a shaded creek. Yes, there's still love on the forest floor, if reality weren't such a relentless bully.

Gravenstein the Great

Walking Charlie this morning I noticed that the Gravenstein apple trees in the neighborhood all have little apples on them. We have a couple of Gravenstein trees in the side yard (near the pear), one of which was there when we moved in, the other which has since grown as a volunteer. Unfortunately, I have proven myself such an incorrigible cosmopolitan as to neglect these trees too, leaving most of their harvest to the birds.

Gravenstein makes the best apple sauce. It has a lovely sharp-sweet fragrance, redolent of impending fall.

I'm off to the computer lab now to get ready for the school year. There's a truckload of website updating I have to do. The boys are still sailing in Sausalito this week. They complain a lot. It's been very windy.

13 years later - Not Prepared for Pears

The year Alfred was born we planted a 5-in-1 pear tree at the side of the house. Seven years later it bore its first fruit. Not all five of the promised variants bore, and I still don't know which graft is which. Despite good intentions, like the rest of the grove, the pear has been neglected. Its location in an unseen semi-shaded side of the house doesn't help its cause. It's still alive. Every year I harbor romantic notions of attaching a bottle to one of the baby pears and having it grow inside, later to be supplanted with homemade pear brandy. It's been 13 years and it hasn't happened yet. I should go check on the pear tree. During the heat wave a couple of weeks ago I shot some water at it and the apples trees (which are another story). There was so much hope and vision when we first moved here 13 years ago. I read so much on local horticulture. Then I let so much die with neglect. Bastardy, be damned, it killed my garden. Give birth to a bastard nation, kill a community of plants. I still feel guilty.

The Bay - Laurel

We're near the bay, and laurel groves are everywhere. Stews are conveniently flavored with all manner of local leaves, the bay laurel being the most masterful and plenty of the trees furnishing said spices. A victory for the sauces of the neighborhood.

The leaves are better the older they get, mellower and full-bodied. The young leaves burn your tongue and inflame your nostrils.

Here is some information on the California Bay Laurel from our local children.

The California Bay Laurel

We made wreaths for the heads of our boys in cub scouts. They performed an adapted version of C. Cavafy's "Waiting for the Barbarians" while dressed in togic garb. It's a timely poem, although I've always feared the barbarians and still do. The word is a bit like "terrorist" though. Can you really argue with the supremacy of good plumbing and plasma flat-screen TVs? And such tasty sauces.


Waiting for the Barbarians

Today

Today is just another day. A day when I decided to start writing.

The boys were off to sailing camp this morning, as they have been all week. Sheltered dears, they're getting a taste of what strong wind and hard knocks will give you. Art and I want to protect them from the unpleasant experiences of our own youths, but it's clear that they need a dose of adversity and the guidance on how to bear it with grace rather than despair or madness. If it were so simple.

Last week I took Charlie, our beloved canine companion, to the veterinarian. I hadn't taken him since we got him, which was three years ago. As I neglect myself, so I've neglected him. We're two homebodies who really need to get out, both for our bodies and our spirits. Damn the fear, let's go.

So this morning we walked the shaded road by old Lucas Valley. It was close to noon and so it was more as less deserted, which, of course, is ideal. Charlie is such a good companion: so appreciative, so earnest. It's a pleasure to be with someone so uncomplicated, someone enjoying the moment fully, without complaint. We heard the creek rush below, watched the pipsqueak sparrows come and go, were assaulted by a painted lady butterfly who I guess was flying round us for a whiff. I wonder if butterflies can smell us. I wonder if that butterfly had just drunk some nectar, unravelling its curly tongue into some buttercup, luxuriating, then refurling that probiscis with a flourish. PROBOSCIS!!!

I love to be alone with my thoughts.

I worry about my health. It's time (how many times have I said this?) to balance myself out. I tried the social interaction thing with that (arg) mothers' book club and enough is enough. Two years of trying books I would not have otherwise read. An education of sorts, but alas, one that has left me as cynical as I was to start with, if not moreso. Otherwise I try to stay sequestered, focusing on my various domestically-based pursuits and duties. Mainly sedentary, but this can change. It involves forcing myself. If only I felt more comfortable. If only the cozy womb of my office weren't so safe and absorbing. And yet..

The house is in disrepair. The land around the house is utterly neglected, wild, dry and dying with the rest of us giving the excuse that it is a "habitat" or "meadow". I'm really sick of it but am at a loss as to what to do. If I could get over my fear of the sun, of explosure. Explosure. Haha.

Well, here I am.