Traffic
Did half an hour of birding this morning at Stearn's Lake. There was a swallows convention--cliff, tree, and violet-green--and they were flying over the lake like the space vehicles in Fifth Element. Remember that scene when Bruce Willis is flying Milla J around in his cab? Or the scene in Minority Report when Cruise is trying to escape from the police? Or some of the traffic scenes in the new Star Wars?
I kept waiting for a crash, but there was none. Just a cormorant getting the hell out. It must have been like the death of a thousand whooshes.
As a spectacle, it was stunning. I tried to follow one swallow for a while and eventually lost track of it.
I find it hard to believe there are that many insects over Stearn's Lake. There must have been 500 swallows there. They were flying that way for the sheer joy of it.
Update:
As I was riding the AB bus from Boulder to Broomfield Wednesday night, I remembered the swallows. The bus pulled off the highway toward 287, and a sedan kept going past us. I was reminded of Jeanette Winterson's concept that all the lives we might have had, all the paths we might have chosen, exist somewhere and can be accessed. That car reminded me of some other choice I might have made, and so did the swallows, winging around and past each other over the choppy surface of Stearns Lake.
So that means that my life as a famous writer is out there somewhere, and I just have to find my way to it.
Are you suggestive?
Recently I bought a book titled "Rise and Dine" by Joey Porcelli, a woman who was in my screenwriting class two years ago. It lists places to go for breakfast in the Denver metro area.
Today I really wanted to try a place called Burnt Toast in Boulder, but then Todd reminded me that today was the Bolder Boulder, and it would be hell getting to the Hill, if we could even do it. So we settled for Huckleberry in Louisville. We'd been there for dinner before, and it had been good, but breakfast was something of a disappointment.
For one, I strongly believe that blueberry pancakes should have fruit INSIDE them, not just ON them. For another, they were far too thick--close to half an inch thick. I like the thin ones that remind you why they're sometimes called flapjacks.
In fact, for much of the meal I was daydreaming about explaining breakfast terms to a group of Saudi men. Don't ask me why I picked Saudi--just accept it. Suppose I were an ESL teacher writing this list on the board:
over easy
sunny side up
scrambled
omelette
poached
fried
Rather suggestive, wouldn't you say? If you didn't know the idiom, what would you make of "over easy," given the reputation of American women in some quarters? Over a barrel? Bend over?
And sunny side up? I guess that depends on your attitude toward sex--just think what happens when you cut into the yolk, for instance.
OK, now I'm grossing myself out.
You could do lots with poached and fried too.
Dedication or wallflower?
Saturday morning: more birding.
I wanted to get up extra early, but the best I could manage was to get to Gregory Canyon, at the very bottom of Flagstaff Road where it meets Baseline, at about 7 or 7:30 (keep in mind it's a 20-minute drive). I was afraid that the tiny circular lot would have filled up, but it hadn't--I snagged a prime spot. Then I traipsed up to the trailhead and started climbing. On the way I watched a Macgillivray's warbler singing. Two weeks ago, I went on a birding trip with a man who can bird by ear. He said if we wanted to learn to recognize bird calls, we had to watch the bird singing--about a 1,000 times. Between this morning and the trip with him, I figure I've made it to at least 30. There are a lot of bird songs blending together in my head. By the end of this summer, I hope to sort out a number of them--to know the birds by their sound. That way I can become one of those cool birders who point to the left and identify a bird and then whip over to the right and find two more.
Right now, I just fucking hate people like that.
I've decided I'll be spending a lot of time at Gregory Canyon this summer. If you hike up to the Bowl, you can look out over Boulder and see, from right to left, Baseline Reservoir, Valmont Reservoir with the power plant, and Boulder Reservoir. The birds there are songbirds that I don't get in my backyard.
Here's my list:
house finch, which I tried to make into a purple finch
warbling vireo
plumbleous vireo
Western tanager, male and female
spotted towhee, singing
green-tailed towhee, singing
Virginia's warbler
lazuli bunting--just a turquoise flash
yellow-breasted chat
catbird--I meowed at it, and it flew away--was I too catty?
chickadee calling
blue-gray gnatcatcher
turkey vultures in a "kettle" (that is, a flock)
a light red-tailed hawk--may have been a Krider's, but I'm reluctant to pretend I know what I'm talking about here. It could also have been a ferruginous hawk, but I don't remember an all white belly--it attacked some of the vultures
black-headed grosbeak
grackles
robins
violet-green swallow
Birders have their own language. I birded once with Wayne and Diana Johnson, who are experts on raptors (hawks, falcons, and eagles but not owls), and they talked about PFs (can't remember whether that was prairie or peregrine falcons), roughies (rough-legged hawks), red-tails (that's pretty obvious), ferrug (ferruginous hawks), balds and goldens (eagles), sharpies (sharp-shinned hawks), and so on. It seems that birders are always abbreviating the names of birds, as if the act of putting binoculars to our eyes short-circuits the speech centers in the brain.
Watching
I spent mucho time this weekend birding. Friday night I dragged Todd out to a twilight poorwill walk.
What's a poorwill, some of you may ask? (Others have already hit "next blog.")
It's a stumpy little bird with such a big mouth that people used to think they sucked goats' milk (hence the other name, "goatsuckers"). In the East, they have whipporwills. We have poorwills. Westerners are impatient--we like shorter names.
So it was me, the forty-something, Todd, the thirty-something, and a bunch of old white people. There is no diversity in birding.
We were standing in the Heil Ranch parking lot, and Suzi was using a taped recording of a poorwill to call them in. It took a while for me to hear them. Todd heard them first. He has a musician's ears. A couple of them flew right toward us, looking like brown streaks.
But the best part was when the poorwill would land on a rock and we would mark them with the flashlight. If you're standing right in front of them, you can see their red eyes. I think our flashlights mesmerized them for a second.
There were other sounds in the night, the most noticeable being the nighthawks (relatives of poorwills) flying over and making their buzzy sound. They also make a booming sound when they dive for insects. If somebody hadn't told me what it was, I would have assumed it was a distant cow.
I would have liked to stay up there longer and listen to the night. But instead we went home, and I watched part of Jerry Maguire for the second time in a row. That movie got to me. Something about Cameron Crowe movies--I like every one I see. The first was Say Anything, which is one of my favorite movies of all time.
One birder asked why Swainson's hawks, which go to South America in the winter, return to North America in the summer. Myron said that the migratory return was based on the amount of food available. If they're willing to fly all the way from Argentina to Colorado every spring, it's because Colorado has the right amount of food at the right time (when they're breeding).
East Coast talks
Last night was fun, even if Autumn Sonata was not a fun movie. It had Ingrid Bergman (Casablanca) in her next to last role and Liv Ullman as her daughter. The woman who played the other daughter was a phenomenal actress--she had to play a woman with some kind of degenerative disease, and the way she struggled to talk was simply amazing.
I honestly did NOT recognize Ingrid Bergman in this movie. Now I want to see Casablanca again.
Afterward, we talked to Ted and his wife, his father (I can see what Ted's going to look like when he's old--his father has a very nice face), his stepmother, who used to be a writer for the Today show, and a friend.
There's this myth in Hollywood (at least, I think it's a myth) that they have to make movies for 12 to 29 year old males because they're the audience. I don't buy it. I have no proof of it, but since women are in the majority and spend most of the money in this country, I think women and older people (especially now, with the population aging) really dwarf that young audience.
I think the REAL reason is that all these older, fat, balding executives are trying to relive their youth. And they use young men as the excuse.
Repeat
Tonight we're going to see an Ingmar Bergman movie at a friend's house in Denver. Apparently they have a huge new flat TV (wish we could get one!) and are doing regular movie nights.
With all the remakes coming out these days, I've been thinking that a great movie night would be to see an old version of a film and then the remake. I'm not sure how many people are film-famished enough to watch the "same" story twice over, but I'll bet it would be a hoot in the case of, say, Bewitched. Though I guess that was a TV show.
Could do the radio show of War of the Worlds and then go watch the Tom Cruise vehicle.
Speaking of Bergman, when I was at Georgetown University, we had to take a year of theology and a year of philosophy. One of my theology courses was entitled "Ingmar Bergman and the Problem of God," taught by Father Rocco Porecco. He was so memorable I named a character after him.
I guess I'm partial to Jesuits.
Astrology is destiny
I've often wondered why I obsess over my yard. For years now I've been revising it into a combination of xeriscape and meadow, which causes me back trouble, heel trouble, sweat, dirt, and mosquito bites. Not to mention all the times I'm out in the yard "working" and thinking how unfair it is that Todd is inside playing computer games.
Strange man. He'd rather be sitting in air-conditioned comfort than pull up weeds or sod or rototill. What's wrong with him?
Other times I'll think, "Why am I not writing?"
But I keep doing it summer after summer--and look for ways to extend it into the winter.
You'd think that the work I do with Wildlands Restoration Volunteers would give me a native plants fix. But it doesn't, even though I'm very proud of the work I've done to restore public lands along the Front Range.
No, I want them in my own yard. In my own little universe, where I get to arrange everything the way I want, create a landscape that works for me.
Once a Virgo, always a Virgo, I suppose.
"Pet" peeves
I put my hair up today!
It's actually long enough that I can twist it up in the back. I fastened it with a
Juvel bird clip.
Oh yes, it's eco-friendly. Don't you just hate eco-snobs?
Am I blue?
There are blue tulips. I did not know that.
Breck'sI've dreamed of having my own tulips, low-growing, blue, star-shaped with white centers, that only grow in difficult soil.
Well, I know what I'll be doing this fall.
Last Saturday I met a vendor at the farmer's market who expressed his wish to own every species of tulip. I told him that was a worthy goal.
Not a joiner
The previous post made me think about my social life—all of it, from childhood till now.
I’ve hardly ever been a part of a group of friends. Usually I’ve had friends in different groups and tried to bring them together.
It’s funny—two of my best friends in high school are now best friends in Kansas City, and I hardly ever see them. In high school and college, they didn’t appreciate each other very much. Now they discuss their kids and embroider socks together.
I miss them.
I guess there were a couple of times in college when I was part of a group—most notably when I spent my junior year at Sussex in England and spent my time with a mostly American group of friends. I had British friends too but didn’t see them as often. And yet, there always comes a time when I feel alone in the group, and I’ve decided that this is something I do somehow.
Why? Because Mr. Arnall said so.
Mr. Arnall was my high school sex ed teacher. And though he didn’t teach me enough about sex to keep me from getting pregnant at age 18, he did say one thing that has stuck with me all these years: “If the same thing keeps happening to you, you’re doing something to bring it on.” Or maybe he said, “If the same thing keeps happening, it does something for you.”
You get the gist of it, I hope.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes the same bad things happens to the same person more than once, and I don’t mean to blame rape victims for their rape or load guilt onto people who’ve been traumatized. But I do recognize a certain wisdom in his answer.
I just can’t help but hold myself back a little. Maybe it comes from being a writer and not wanting to get too close to these people who are going to be fodder for my creativity. Maybe it’s the way I guarantee freedom. I’m not sure, but it almost always happens. I can talk myself out of it for a while, but not forever.
I’m just not a joiner. In my heart I still think that someday I’ll set out for the rest of the world and spend my last days passing in and out of people’s lives, with no permanent home. I used to think that would definitely be how my life would go—no settled place, no family, no mortgage, etc. Now I’m not so sure, but that dream of movement still has a romance to it that draws me.
Maybe this dream of mine is part of that universal human dream to set out for the west or for the farthest islands or for the end of the world. Maybe that's why I'm a Lord of the Rings fan--because it ends that way, with a journey (though Sam, of course, does come home. But do you really want to be Sam?).
Party, party, party
It was a solo Friday night. I went to the Eco-Cycle fundraiser alone, and I went to my friends’ party alone. But I didn’t feel lonely. I saw all kind of people at both places that I hardly ever see, and it was fun to catch up with them. The Eco-Cycle event seemed to be a success. I worked on it for two years when it was called Artful Recreations and was an art show fundraiser. This year they had only a few art items, but it seemed much more successful as a fundraiser. When I walked into the UMC, I could hear voices echoing down the empty dining room. The room was lined with things to bid on and had food tables snaking across the center.
I talked to my ward councilman about putting Broomfield on a pay-as-you-throw system (that means, the more trash you throw away, the more you pay; the more you recycle, the less you pay). He was feeling cautious, of course, because he’s running for mayor, and he recommended “study.”
Well, I tried. I can’t help if it he’s reluctant.
Did I mention the chocolate fountain? They had fruit to dip in it. It was a wonderful thing. I want one.
Sometimes it’s such fun to watch people at these events, their walk, their talk, their intimacy, their aloneness. One man was trying to steer a woman into the fountain. Other people focused intently on the auction, pulling their ears and nodding their heads. The auctioneer was hilarious and had a language all his own. I can’t even begin to replicate it…
I was standing in a doorway at the end of the night and a woman needed to get by. I moved out of her way and said to the fat, drunk, funny guy next to me, “I guess I’m in the way.” He replied, “You’re beautiful, and you’re not in the way.”
I really must go to more fundraisers.
Then I drove north to find my friends’ house and watch Bubba Hotep. Todd and I actually saw this film when it was in theaters, and I liked it as much the second time as I did the first. It’s a sweet, silly movie, but it has the correct amount of respect for itself. It had Bruce Campbell (Army of Darkness) as Elvis and Ossie Davis (Malcolm X…our black shining prince) as a “dyed” President Kennedy. They conquer…well, that would be a spoiler, wouldn’t it? Just go rent it.
I drove home about midnight. I fell asleep fine, but I kept waking up because Todd wasn’t there.
Minor notes
My weekend started yesterday, thank god. I have gotten so burned out by copyediting I needed a break, so I'm taking as long a weekend as I need to get caught up on things, especially sending out stories. Got to get this book published sometime soon!
It's a beautiful almost-summer night, and later I'm going to a fundraiser for Eco-Cycle, the Green Tie Gala. After that I'm going to watch movies with some friends in Boulder who always throw great parties. This one is last-minute, but that's fine with me. One of the virtues of not having children, I guess.
And then tomorrow it's birding, birding, birding! My in-laws and I will go to the Big Sit at Walden Ponds and see how many bird species we see (and eat donuts, etc.).
No time
I feel exhausted. In my head mostly, not in my body. I just can't seem to catch up on anything, and I haven't done any writing in far too long.
Somebody needs to send me to one of those islands you can rent for $$$$$ a week and let me do nothing but read and write.
At least I've got a massage scheduled for Friday.
Wrestling with faith
Here's a an article I came across this morning by David Brooks. It pretty much expresses my views about the culture wars.
Stuck in Lincoln's Land
I just can't cope with people like Robertson (activists judges will cause more damage than 9/11), Falwell (Tinky-Winky), and Dobson (Sen. Patrick Leahy is a "God's people hater"; SpongeBob is gay). I think they're freaks. But I've known lots of truly religious people over the years, and by and large I think they're good for the world.
Dream on
Check out this post from
JeRI want to go back to Amsterdam
If I could be...
Sex asked me to do this. Check out "I got served" on her blog:
If I could be a librarian...
I'm a copyeditor, all fucking right? That's close enough.
If I could be a witch...
I'd have a recumbent broomstick and a fedora. I wouldn't cackle; I would always speak in a Veronica Lake voice (somebody told me once I had one. I don't know what the fuck it means). Actually, I wouldn't have a broomstick; I'd just fly; I'd turn into a bird. I'd be like Ged in A Wizard of Earth-Sea. I'd be a namer like the woman in the Elizabeth Hayden novels. I'd have a magic chocolate factory. I'd be able to remember all my lives and turn into any person I've ever been in the past. I'd do time travel. I would go all Krav Maga on demons and rapists.
Oooh, maybe I'd be a vengeance witch. That would be fun; I tend to hold grudges sometimes, so I know I could come up with particularly evil, quirky revenge. Stuff that would make people gape in astonishment at my cleverness before they were cut in two or whatever.
If I were an actor...
you know, I've been wondering if I could do this lately. It never looks that hard onscreen, except when you're watching a truly bad actor. But I really don't have the faintest idea what acting FEELS like, whereas I do know what writing feels like.
If I could be a paratrooper...
I wouldn't be scared of heights. I would freefall with peregrine falcons at 200 miles per hour. I would have jet boots like Spock in one of the Star Trek movies, just in case the parachute failed. I would always land and do three somersaults and a backflip. Then I'd get into my fighting stance. I would casually eat protein bars on the way down. I would hum. I would fall through clouds but never get struck by lightning.
Fun poetry?!
Sex, this is for you. I know you don’t care much for poetry, but you might get a kick out of this poem, titled “
Anna Karenina, or, like, most of it.”It’s the surfer dude’s Cliff Notes to Anna Karenina.
Only one set of words
Went to see The Last Laugh tonight, a silent movie from 1924. It had amazingly mobile camera work. There was one sequence—I think it was the dream sequence—where the camera was twirling as if it were some sort of amusement park ride. It made me dizzy.
The only written words in it appeared on a wedding cake that said “Welcome wedding guests.” There were some spoken words before the epilogue that were added in 1952.
Other than that, nothing but faces and gestures.
At first I thought such acting must be very limited, compared to what can be done today. But I wonder if silence in films is like form in poetry: it forces you to do something a little different.
I noticed that this movie, like The Diary of a Lost Girl that I saw last week, had its main character go into a trance stance. He is a doorman at a hotel, and when the bosses notice that he’s grown old (apparently it crept up on them), they strip him of his uniform and send him to the men’s washroom in the basement, where he holds soap and towels for the flapper dudes. When they take off his uniform, he loses his identity and slumps, just as Louise Brooks did when she was being seduced in Lost Girl. I thought it was cool—that this same gesture appeared in these two movies to represent the different things that men and women could lose, at least in the 1920s.
Just last night, I was watching A Few Good Men, which has many scenes in which men (and one woman) spar with each other to see who is really in charge. Nicholson was great, of course, but so were Bacon and Kiefer Sutherland. Demi Moore didn’t have the greatest role—it seemed that she was being strong-jawed throughout, and her character’s changing attitudes toward Tom Cruise’s character were forced by plot. As always, my favorite moments from him are not the Cruisesque ones (such as “Did you order the code red?”) but rather the quirky ones, like the conversation between him and Kevin Pollak on the baseball diamond, or the conversations with Kevin Bacon. Though I have to admit I love the scene where he questions Nicholson—the intensity works there but not in the drunken night before the big trial scene.
Not sure where I’m going with this, except to note these two movies were about militarism in different ways.
Cruisesque—that’s my new word for the year.
Turn Down the Volume
Is it just me, or is the problem with the modern age how much we can be exhorted?
I have 60 or so emails right now, and most of them are from groups I wanted to exhort me. But lately I feel so swamped--I'm not sure why. Is it spring fever?--and just want them all to go away.
I get very few emails that I would consider "fun." As in coming from someone I know in person who wants to tell me something about life. The same is true of snail mail. Most of it is junk mail. And I have so many other things to deal with in life that I don't get around to telling the Direct Marketing Association to get these marketers off my back.
I have a vague sense that it didn't use to be this way, but maybe that's just nostalgia. I still have the letters from my grandmother and mother that they sent through college and after. I never get letters like that anymore. People send cards or they send email.
I remember a woman from college talking about how she was a great letter-writer. I never have been, but I admire it in other people, and I certainly like receiving it.
Now it's all electronic.
Or Hallmark.
Or an action alert.
Is that sad, or am I just depressed because I turned on the TV tonight after a week without (TV Turnoff Week)?
