A Googly Map of My Mind, or, Who Moved the Damn River?

At least once on a layover at the Denver Airport, I assured Cosmo we had plenty of time to track down our gate, only to drag him a half-mile down the B concourse, reverse direction when I didn't see the Starbucks, jog along the moving sidewalks to the ever-lengthening Haunted Mansion-type corridor of small-town departure gates, and slump into our seats just before the door slammed shut.
This wasn’t our only near-miss. When we stopped in Dallas on our return from Paris, we didn’t have much time to get through customs and make our connecting flight. So I was quite proud of myself for getting in line way ahead of everyone else. The line didn’t move very fast, but that was okay, because we were way ahead of everyone else! In fact, the line moved so slowly that I began to notice that everyone else was lugging baggage from that carousel over there, and we had only our carry-ons.  (To the man who held our place while we made the end-run to the baggage claim and back, bless you still.)

So my record as a travel guide has not been spotless, even when I’m on my own. When I first moved from Los Angeles to the coast of New Hampshire, for example, I went on a drive to explore my new home; in an attempt to get back to Durham, I ended up going about an hour out of my way before I realized that west meant away from the ocean.

The poet Wallace Stevens, who was concerned with the transformative power of the imagination, writes in “The Man with the Blue Guitar”:

The man bent over his guitar,

A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

They said, "You have a blue guitar,

You do not play things as they are."

The man replied, "Things as they are 

Are changed upon the blue guitar."

Just so, when I drove west to the Atlantic Ocean, I changed the orientation of the earth’s poles. In my imagination, that is; not so that anyone else noticed.  

Which brings me to Google Maps. Last spring I needed to take Cosmo (then fourteen) to a party at his friend’s house, and as I was unfamiliar with the address I studied Google’s directions. [n.b.: This was before we got iPhones and Siri.] Follow the blue line a little bit this way, take a jog that way, and then look for that funny orange thing that looks like the plastic pick you used to get in your steak telling you if it was cooked well or just okay.

I know the blue line is just a digital representation of a suggested route! But I saw it as the yellow brick road, as it were. I was looking for D Road, which should be straightforward enough, given that alphabetical order is a pretty standard, time-honored tradition. But Grand Junction, Colorado, cultivates a sense of humor in its street names. Imagine the laughs the city planners had when they decided that 7th Street should turn into 26 1/2 after it passes north of Patterson, which turns into F Road going east past 12th Street, otherwise known as 27th!

The blue line I envisioned, however, didn’t exactly correspond to the one that I left at home on the computer. Rather, my mind was the blue guitar, which does not play things as they are. Once across the river, I lost the virtual thread. I drove down a 20 mph residential street to C Road and turned around because, logically, if that was C, then D Road should be where we had just been, although it wasn’t. Cosmo asked if I knew where I was going. A ten-minute drive became twenty; the fresh pizza in the back seat, meant for the celebration, was deflating along with, I presumed, his faith in me.

Anyway, why did this girl live so far from school?

When I stopped at a gas station to ask where the hell is D Road and, more specifically, Broken Arrow Drive, the man adjusted his glasses and shook his head. I imagined him thinking, What does she think this is, an information center? Next she'll be asking for Gate B79.

Again, I bless the stranger. This man was paying for his power drink, two cans of chew, and ten dollars' worth of lottery tickets, but he took the time to pour over the map in the phone book, with its minuscule print, and find Broken Arrow Drive for me.

We arrived, late, and the kids welcomed Cosmo and the pizza. When I returned later to pick him up, I found the way easily. Still, I wonder if a GPS system that will talk directly to him would have been helpful: “Tell your mom to cross the railroad tracks and make an immediate left onto the Parkway (which turns into D Road). If you cross the river, she's gone too far. Too far! and all the blue guitars in the world are not going to change that.” 

Why Do Yoga?

In class, we read Paul Auster's essay "Why Write?" which appeared in the New Yorker six or eight years ago. In it, he provides five anecdotes of amazing coincidence (his particular sphere of interest), only one of which (being bereft of a pencil when he had the chance to get the great Willie Mays's signature) has anything to do with writing.

The subsequent assignment was to pose our own questions (Why Act? Why Go Vegan? Why Play Video Games When You're a Grown-Up and Should Have Better Things to Do?) without describing or even mentioning the thing itself. The exercise brings to mind Emily's Dickinson's poem 1263, which begins:

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb disguise

Here, then, is my attempt.

Why Do Yoga?

On the first day of Girl Scout camp on Catalina Island, we had to take a swimming test, which involved putting on some old clothes (which they provided), including tennis shoes; jumping off the dock into the freezing water; and taking off the clothes and folding them neatly on the dock (not really) before going into shock from hypothermia. I was a good swimmer, having spent most of my summers at the local pool (my hair turning green as a emblem of my dedication), so I was able to get the white swim cap that allowed me to try something new: snorkeling.

It was a strange sensation at first. The snorkel itself made me feel very conscious of my breathing, and it took a few shallow practice dives to reassure me that air was still available on the surface when I needed it. With a kick of my flippers I could glide through the water in any direction. I gradually came to understand that this wasn't about overcoming resistance and dragging myself through the water, which is how I felt doing laps; it was about taking advantage of a new element, letting it hold me up, relaxing into it. I didn't have to go anywhere in particular; I didn't have to turn around and go back the same way. I also learned to clean my mask so I could see through it clearly. Since the water is so cold, there isn't a lot of marine life, but I remember tall strands of undulating seaweed, opalescent abalone shells, and especially the bright orange Garibaldi fish that make their home there.

As I said, the water was freezing, and by the time I got out I was shivering uncontrollably. A long, hot shower was not enough to warm me up. Eventually, however, some dry clothes, sunshine, and dinner helped me re-acclimate, so that was all right.

Even better, lying in my sleeping bag that night, I could still feel the gentle movement of the waves, as though my cot were floating.

SSSAD at Summer's End

I've coined a new term, which shall henceforth be known by its acronym (like there aren't enough acronyms on the www) SSSAD: School Starts Soon Affective Disorder.

Those of you who actually take precious time to read this may think, Oh, boo hoo; their three-month vacation is almost over. They only have eleven days until they go back to work--which is about how much some people get each year!

Okay, okay: I hear you. I sympathize with you, friend. Why, I once had a job that allowed no vacation the first year and only two weeks in the second year. And it was hell to contemplate, I tell you, during the nine months I actually stayed on the job. (The amount of time it took to grow and birth a baby, which is another sort of employment, but here I refer to the kind where you exchange your on-site services for a paycheck).

What can I say? The sky is blue and so am I. There will be expectations, demands, confusion and peanut-butter sandwiches. I know; I know: there will also be people to talk to, pleasant surprises, and fresh coffee, with cream, in my office. On verra bien.

Snapshot of the Blues

Cosmo had a fantastic time in NYC in May with his school. They saw Lion King, went to the Top of the Roc, visited Ellis Island, and, maybe most memorably for C, saw the Blue Man Group. He even got a photo of himself with a Blue Man, who placed a blue hand on his face, Sauron-like. Cosmo was a proud Blue Man Uruk-hai.

But he lost the camera at the end of the trip.

I Feel a Rant Coming On...

...and since I can't say it over loudspeakers, like the effing Tea Partiers, whose rally is going strong two blocks away, I'll say it here, even though my lonely blog rarely has visitors. The effing Tea Partiers have parked on a public street in front of my house, gathered in the public park, and thrown their trash in the public trash bins to hold their protest. Hey, I pay taxes for all that! What gives them the right to...oh, yeah; I forgot. They pay taxes too.

I guess that's what you call irony.

Harley Come Home

For a couple of years, Harley lived inside a pen about twelve by eight square feet. His owners—our neighbors—had a regular yard, in which their other dog, Snoopy, a manic little Schnauzer who bears no resemblance to his laid-back namesake, was allowed to roam.  Most of the time, Snoopy hung out in the house, where he perched like a little tyrant king on the back of the couch, surveying his paltry kingdom through his picture window and barking obsessively at the indifferent citizens who dared walk past. Meanwhile, Harley sat in his pen, through rain, snow, and hail, freezing nights and scorching summer days. He had a doghouse but barely fit in it. He sat in his pen, which the owners cleaned infrequently, and waited for something to happen.

Harley, a big black dog, had a namesake, too.  His owner—let’s call him Tom—wanted a Harley Davidson, which are very expensive, so the family gave him the dog as a surrogate. It was a funny story until Tom got a motorized Harley, and our furry friend became redundant.

One side of his pen bordered part of our property. When a chance for human contact arrived, he’d put his front paws on top of the old wire fence, which swayed with his weight and gratitude. Then his paws gripped the arm that reached over; his tongue flapped at the hand that scratched his handsome head and the white blaze on his chest. It was only a passing visit, though, and he knew it: when you withdrew your arm he gripped it more tightly, desperately wanting to keep you there. Because otherwise it was just a pen full of shit, and his owner may have provided food and water but he left Harley empty.

What could we, should we do for that dog? Daily, we walked by Tom’s open garage, where he kept his Harley Davidson, all shiny black. Oddly, the radio was always playing a classic rock station, as though to keep the motorcycle company, but we hardly ever saw Tom. When we did, we were friendly. We didn’t mention that Harley was being terribly mistreated. What would we say? Would you please let him in the house once in a while? Would you clean up his shit? Would you treat him like a living creature and not an old tire? I didn’t have the courage to speak up.

Another neighbor, who fed Harley a warm hot dog every day, got Animal Control to come out and have a look, but as long as he had shelter and food and water, they said they couldn’t do anything.

One day, suddenly, he was gone. Soon after, his pen was cleaned out. I missed him and worried about him. A couple days went by and I didn’t see Tom or his wife, so I called the shelter, but they didn’t have a recent record of a black dog with a white blaze. I drove to the shelter to look for myself; I drove to the pound. There were plenty of dogs needing a home, but no Harley. Eventually, the hot-dog neighbor passed on the news: Tom had given Harley to a friend, presumably someone who would take better care of him.

I was glad his story had a happy ending. However, I wish I could rewrite my part in his story—my own shabby negligence, that is. I wish I’d knocked on Tom’s front door and asked him if I could take Harley for walks once in a while. Like twice a day. What’s the worst that could have happened? I’d have been embarrassed and Tom might have been offended, or he’d say “No” outright, or our neighborly relationship might have soured and we’d avoid each other from there on out (cringing if we took our trash out to the alley at the same time), even possibly never speaking to each other again—but wasn’t a dog’s welfare worth that?  

I wish, in fact, that I’d said to Tom, “Hi, how are you? Say, can I have Harley? I mean, for keeps?” Never mind that Harley wasn’t housetrained, that we’d have had to pay for vet bills and food, that we’d have to give him lots of exercise and find a place to board  him when we left town. The fact we already have a dearly loved older dog, who expects and deserves our undivided attention, would have posed a more compelling reason not to rescue Harley. Still. I’d liked to have said that at least I tried. I’d like to think that next time I’ll know the way, that I’ll just jump in. Shoes and all.

"But Why Is the Rum Gone?"

My computer crashed the other day. I thought that only happened to hapless students, but it turns out I was wrong. And everything was gone. Wiped clean as a blackboard on Friday afternoon. As an analog TV without a converter. Tabla rasa. Two-thirds of a brilliant novel I had just about finished; photos of Hillary and me yukking it up over a beer; Grandma's prize-winning recipes; records of my secret bank account; and a PowerPoint outlining how to cure global warming.

In a word: ______ .

Even if I put it more realistically--that I lost a substantial chunk of a third-rate novel I've been messing with for a long time (and especially this summer), photos of vacations and of Cosmo on Halloween, and a geology glossary that I've been adding to for several years--it's still a bummer. (Does anyone still say that? I'll have to ask my students.)

My first reaction was fatalistic: I guess I wasn't meant to write that novel after all. The second was more mercenary: I lost a good ten hours' worth of work translating geology documents from French, which I will have to redo, without pay. And third: Crap.

I'm not crying, but I could be.

Yahoo bookmarks, favorite apps, preferred wallpaper. Software for Office, the printer, and DSL all has to be re-installed--not a big deal, but time-consuming. (Ten hours of translating! And 60 student papers to grade! A drafty house to winterize!)

MP3 downloads.

Not a catastrophe. Not even a calamity. More of a bother, a nuisance, an inconvenience. (See, I got my thesaurus back!) In any case, at least there's always more music out there. (And Pandora's back on my favorites bar!)

Yours in cyber-ness,