Water

There was once a time when I was deathly afraid of water.  Lake water, particularly.  The dark depth of it, the squish of the shallow beds, the squirming, slithering creatures I couldn't see.  I remember when Madeline and I were just old enough to take the old canoe out to the peninsula on our own.  We'd wake with the sun, throw the sheets off our bare legs, pack a lunch of pickles and string cheese, steal our sisters' sunglasses and dark tanning oil, and slip quietly off into the water.  Our canoe, filled with innocence and penny toads, muddy bare feet and summery secrets, collided with the peninsula's shore.  Madeline would peel of all of her clothes down to her swim suit and jump out, tying our vessel to an unexpecting tree branch.  She'd plunge her toes deep into the muck, and search around to find skipping stones.  I stayed in the canoe, leaning over the edge, running my fingertips along the top of a body of my biggest fear.  I kept myself busy braiding my bleached hair into tiny braids, organizing the shells Madeline tossed in by size, color, magical capability.  She'd splash me, throw seaweed at me, squeeze her nose and make me count how many seconds she could hold her breath underwater. I squirmed when she'd catch tadpoles and hold them in the pool her cupped hands made, jumped back when she'd hold a crawdaddy between her fingers.

Eventually, I got over my fear of water.  But I miss it.  Now I'm afraid of bigger things... like confrontation, or loss of senses.

The Cottage

All of the trinkets, all of the sayings on the wall that I was once too young to read, all of the tattered children's books tucked on shelves, coloring books tucked in drawers, animal sculls stuck on wreaths, little notes and ancient photos... they're all. still. here.  The slightly sandy carpet and the flowered chairs, the hats hanging in the front bathroom, all of which we promptly tried on. The driftwood - all the driftwood in it's tangled shapes, with it's ponderous facial expressions.  I'm taken so far back - farther back than I've gone in a while.  And they are all of a sudden still here too.  On the white chairs, sitting on the beach, laughing together and waiting for us all to swim back from the second sandbar.  

I walked around in the dusk light trying to find her memory stone under the brush, kicking leaves aside with my feet.  Panicky after a while, like in a bad dream where the light was quickly fading, I eventually found it had been moved years ago when the old piece of property was sold.  Now it's near the swing set, where we used to give each other underdogs and try to make it all the way around the pole.  When I found it, Weston walked over, set one of the little ceramic angels upright, and put his arms around me.  When I found it, I felt better. 

We ate Jack's pizza, drank beers from Central Waters Brewery, listened to Fleetwood Mac on the portable CD player, and read from the 1998 New Yorker Cartoon book.  He said that he realized why I like 70's-style decor so much.  I smiled.  He talked about how he appreciated Lake Michigan a little more than he ever has.  Here, you have to give the lake some attention.  Here, like on an ocean, you have to slow down and look at everything.  The dune grass, the wicker cups in the cabinets, the made bunkbeds.  Everything.

Farewell to the Animal House

We first moved in to the 120-year-old red stone house in January, the acre lawn in front of it white with snow.  To welcome us, the steam radiators banged, hissed, and clanged.  The basement, dark and dank, seemed to breathe upward into the house.  Faded orange and green wallpaper from the 1940’s led through the foyer and up the spiral staircase into the second floor.  Nobody had lived here for at least a year.  The rooms echoed as we placed boxes in them, books in the dining room, paintings in the living room, a few pots and pans in the pantry.  Upstairs, we couldn’t decide which of the three rooms to sleep in. There were too many rooms to fill up with our few belongings, but the house filled up soon enough on its own.  

The first time I did laundry in the basement, as I fished the last pair of socks and boxers from the bottom of the washing machine, I found a dead bat, wet and clean and folded peacefully among our clothes.  Another one appeared in a bag of salt for the driveway, and a few more, these ones very alive, could be heard making love under our staircase while we ate dinner.  

The expected spider here and there reminded us of the house’s age, and of our location under tall trees and vast stretches of grass.  The cold feeling and slight awareness of ghosts began accompanying me as I placed the dishes into the cabinets.  I assumed that in a house this old, there must be visitors from the afterworld, and I found them rather friendly.  Invisible company while I was alone for hours on end in this quiet winter in this enormous house.

When the weather started to get warmer, the ants arrived.  We came downstairs to thousands of them, following one another in perfect lines, coming from holes in the walls we hadn’t noticed before, across the kitchen floor, up the sides of the cupboards, in the deep sink.  So, we cleaned up all of our crumbs and wiped down all of our countertops, and crossed our fingers.  The next morning, the sun shone on even more thin black lines, moving quickly and criss-crossing the white surfaces of the kitchen.  Eventually, we busted them all with boric acid, but now our kitchen seems so … empty. 

And then, the animals we became, when a spring thunderstorm would wrap itself around us, wet, loud and crashing.  When we were slowly surrounded by night and darkness, when we were slowly surrounded by our own beasts, crawling out from within, our real selves falling to pieces like shedding fur or molted skin.  At times, it was like looking into a mirror side by side, finally seeing our reflections.  Those times are gone now.  They were necessary, to tuck into the pockets of our relationship, to read in past diaries when we’re older.

With the onset of summer came our next guest: the woodchuck.  Weston found him under the front porch while gardening in the yard. He aptly named him Woody, and though I have never seen him, and fear the Dickens might be scared right out of me if I do, I know he’s still there, drinking last sips from empty PBR cans behind the lattice and watching out for intruders.    

Amber dropped the kittens off for a weekend while she was away.  One black one, Lucy, and one gray one, Charlie.  Someone else apparently named them after my cousins.  We tried to contain them in the library, a big space they could roam and play and read Harry Potter at their leisure.  Within a half hour, though, they escaped, wanting desperately to be near us, wanting desperately to explore.  Attacking one another every chance they got.  Attacking our noses with the smell of their litter box.

And finally, as we begin to take down the maps from the walls, fill boxes with books, and look around at the traces of the life that we’ve had here, we had one last four-legged guest.  We arrived home one Sunday evening to a rabbit, lounging in our living room.  I didn’t believe Weston when he told me, but then I heard the skittering of paws on our hallway floor, and found tiny bits of scat all around the house.  A trail of where he’d been all day, depositing little hints that he’d been in the pantry, the kitchen, on the couch, down the stairs of the basement.  We got him out the humane way, through the cellar door back into wild world where he belongs, with all the other animals that might eventually knock on these doors or slip through the cracks in the inviting walls.  Unfortunately, we won’t be here to greet them.

Ancient Footskin

It happened on a Saturday in June, about 2:00pm, on a strawberry farm in Fairfax, Vermont.  Weston and I had been commissioned to help our friend Corbett scrape, chisel, and brush at an archaeological dig site he and some of his students have been working on for the last 2 years.  Corbett's girlfriend, Maggie, and their dog Josie had come along too. They had found three fire pits among fields of Swiss chard and romaine, buried 2 feet below the worked soil.  They knew the pits belonged to the Abenaki tribes, and they knew the last of the coals of the fires had gone out nearly 2,000 years ago, right around the turn of the first millennium. 

We knelt barefoot next to one of the pits, dug out in a perfect square (3 feet by 3 feet in diameter), methodically scraping the top of the mud - or "Chocolate" as Corbett called it - until we got to black.  Black being the coal, the coal being the remnants of a meal cooked hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years ago.  We scraped while Corbett told us the history of the world, as slowly and as meticulously as our blades were moving across the ancient ground.  He started with 4,000 BC, ("When there were two miles of ice over our heads"), and went from there, in what seemed like 10  year increments.  As the afternoon sun beat down on my back, my sweat dripped into the pit, and I was fascinated at how much modern man knew, and also at how much we still don't know.  Here, we were looking for bits of discarded seeds or animal bones or tools that might tell us more about the lives of the original people of Vermont, back when there weren't state lines or political leanings or the Kardashians.  Just food, shelter, and survival. 

I took a break when there was a pause in the story of our earth's history (probably around 400 BC), and went behind Corbett's truck to pee.  Josie was happy to have the company; she had been tied up to the truck all afternoon.  When I started walking back through the fields to the pit, Maggie let out a piercing squeal.  I watched as everyone gathered around to see what she had sifted out of the soil.  Corbett looked fascinated, pulling and tugging on something small in his hands.  When I finally returned to the site, they had gone back to work. 

"It looked like someone had left a thumb print," Maggie told me, excited. "It was the perfect cut-out."  After being significantly grossed out, the archaeologists tossed the piece of skin into the lettuce rows, surely shaken by the strangeness of the find.  Corbett told us that if they found any part of a homo sapien, they'd have to pack up their shovels and go home.  It's illegal to dig on Native American burial grounds.  Things were quiet for the rest of the afternoon.  Though we hadn't found a scull or a recognizable human remain, we still felt a blanket of silence come over us as we realized that real people, people with forefingers and thumbs, actually existed here, so long ago.

We drove home after a couple of hours with dirt stuck in all of our pores and redness from the sun spreading across our shoulders.  We ate strawberries that we had picked and listened to Crosby, Stills & Nash, not talking much still. When we got home, I took a shower right away to wash the grime from off my hands and my feet, barely able to stand from exhaustion.  I had to sit on the edge of the tub to wash my feet, and as I scrubbed I felt something odd and looked down.  On the ball of my foot, there was a perfect circle missing just below my big toe.  An old blister from a few weeks ago.  A new artifact, tossed into the romaine leaves. 

Gator Jerky

We took the day off from Disney World, traded amusement parks for a State Park: from 4D ride to canoe.  At Wekiwa Springs, we were on the look out for wildlife.  Alligators, specifically.  As we paddled slowly along the river, canopied in Spanish moss, we saw mangy swamp birds, mating dragonflies, bullfrogs, red-bellied cooters, and loud Memorial Day revelers, but no gators.  When the rain began to fill our vessel we decided to turn upstream and drive back to Orlando. 

Just before Kissimmee, on Route 4, we passed two hand-written signs that shouted “GATOR JERKY” in big, bold capitals.  We figured if we couldn’t see them in the wild, the least we could do was eat them.  We pulled over to the side of the highway where a rusty blue pickup truck had parked, ass-out, under an overpass.  Rainbow-striped umbrellas gave the contents of the bed shade, and a woman with a few teeth missing grinned at us as we approached, cars zooming past.  She offered us a sample of the jerky right away, knowing that this was why we were here: two pasty tourists looking for an off-the-beaten-path Florida experience.  I was afraid to try it, so I stalled by asking how they caught the gators.  Weston was already munching.

“His uncle does it.” She pointed behind her at a man sitting with his tattooed legs dangling out the passenger door.  He was smoking a fat cigar.  “We give him a six pack of beer, he takes his airboat out on the St. John River, gets drunk, and comes back with ‘em.”  I took a bite, and it tasted, well, like jerky.  “I don’t get involved with the process,” she flashes her half empty smile again.  “I just sell it.”  She offered us a package – a Ziploc of jerky and a watermelon, but we told her we were just here for the meat.  I handed her a ten-dollar bill and we kicked dust back onto the highway.

Feeling good, like we had had an authentic gator experience, we munched on the jerky and turned up the base-heavy Cuban tunes on the radio.  A few bites in, Weston turned to me.  “This is beef jerky.”  Sure enough, it was a waxy, dark, salty meat straight out of a convenient store bag and repackaged for our willingness and gullibility. 

Weston immediately called the Kissimmee police to report the crime, not about to get jerked around.  I kept eating it.  

Fort Allen Park, Portland

Pine needles carpeting a ceiling made of three pine trees, their old homes that dropped them – set them free. Displaced drifters laying and looking longingly upward at their home. The salt in the wind is displaced - it used to be in the water. I breathe in the smell of sun, pine, dirt and sea. The rocks on the beach are displaced – they used to be part of a formation deep within the sea or high up on a mountain. A displaced seagull walks upon these rocks, not because he’s away from home, but because he’s home. And you can feel that way there too.

The smell of shit surprises me, makes me wonder if there is a port-a-potty nearby or if a displaced person without a home has used the park as their uninviting toilet. The seaweed sunbathing at the edge of the waves found a new home here at low tide, and is ready to be swept away, displaced but not forgotten, when the tide comes back to carry it away. This is where I feel most calm. Alone in a park, alone with the wind and the water and my wandering, haphazard thoughts. Each person in the park - a woman on a mat doing yoga with the bobbing boats as audience, a man jogging, an old couple making out, (yes, making out), and a young boy walking his enormous mastiff – each of them with thoughts whirling around their heads, each of them happy it’s Friday.

I count 54 boats tied to buoys, 54 boats with bright masts and lolling sterns, resting after long rides, or anticipating their next trip. A man in a Red Sox t-shirt rows towards land on his paint-chipped dinghy. The paddles dip and slide, dip, and slide across the waves, through the moving dark blue water. He paddles left a little and I see an old man in front of him, bending over the side of the boat to see what is below, how far down they’d be if they jumped in, his father probably. A musty, thick cloth lines the top of their small boat. Dad pulls out fishing gear while his son pulls in the boat, his hat backwards, his shoes topsiders. Dad takes his hat off and wipes his brow. He replaces his hat and takes a moment to consider the water. He’s happy to have spent the day with his son, happy that his son has told him that he’s going to propose to Amanda. Happy the sun is up, and his back’s not bothering him. His son backs up to latch the boat onto the hitch. Their shoes slide along the seaweed, but they’ve done this before. Back before the son went away, back before everything was moved around, displaced, changed. They drive away without a look back, leaving nothing but the waves to move forward and back, forward and back, glinting in the sun.

New York Loves Japan (Montreal)

We found Bob & Mariko's Bed & Breakfast the easy way. Google gave them to us without a blink. We had tried Priceline and Airbnb but found our wallets to thin and our expectations too high for both. Two hours before we planned to arrive, I found the website and the reviews were perfect, so Weston called. Bob's booming Bronx voice caught him off-guard, his tone seemed annoyed and crotchety.

"We have a room in the basement with a big bed but no windows." Weston whispered that to me and then told Bob he'd call back. We wouldn't be spending too much time in the room anyway, but his voice was extremely rude and so we called around some more with no luck. Bob & Mariko's it was. We grabbed a Dr. Pepper, tossed our bags in the car, and drove northwest into the setting sun. Literally. At one point Weston was wearing 3 pairs of sunglasses. Two hours later, we rolled up to the shady Park Slope-esque Rue Laval, and I saw a 70-year-old old man in a plaid shirt and a fedora sitting on the steps chatting with neighbors. Bob.

His voice was jarring at first, but he immediately morphed into a grandfather figure to me, his words slow and soothing, explaining that we should park on the other side of the road, that we're in the heart of dinner time, that they'll get you if you don't. His words all blended slowly together as he unlocked the bottom apartment door, asking if we got here alright, if the traffic was bad, and here's the corner where everyone looks at their computers, and breakfast is served between 9 and 10:15 and we have plenty of space and you have to stand on the bed to turn on the air conditioner and Mariko or myself will help get you all organized in the morning. He says he's like a Jewish grandmother (he sure sounded like one), he likes people, been doing this for 30 years. "Get yourselves a nice bottle of wine around the corner," he said, "they let you bring it into restaurants because of the province's ridiculous taxes on alcohol." He didn't dote or linger, just gave us the keys and told us to go have fun. After browsing the bookshelves in a corner nook of the basement, I was convinced that Bob and Mariko were lovers of the same sex, but you should never judge a book by his bookshelves, apparently.

The next morning, the creek and groan of the floorboards above our heads told us that it was time to make our way upstairs for breakfast. We were greeted at the top of the stairs by a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Mariko, a short, thin, John Lennon-bespectacled Japanese woman, which explained the bamboo and sumo theme in our guest room. I was way off. We were way off from the get go. Bob was hovering at the end of the breakfast table, a bit of jam dangling from his shaggy moustasche, getting everyone organized for the day - and invited us up to their apartment on the third floor to sign a few papers. After croissants, coffee, and a hard boiled egg, we climbed the winding stairs to Bob and Mariko's lair.

I was afraid it would smell like old people. I was afraid they would be smokers, or hoarders. But yet again I was wrong about Bob and Mariko. Their hardwood floors were clean and shined, their furniture sparse and practical. Bob had a typewriter balancing precariously on a pile of pillows in the bay window seat, along with the 1980's black and white television on mute. Their cat, Schwartz, slept quietly in a red sleigh on the floor. We sat on the couch and Bob told Weston where the market is, and what part of Mount Royal park there would be a drum concert. "There are a lot of alternative people there, you could go there to get a good contact high." His thick New York accent still didn't make sense to me in this posh French Canadian neighborhood, so we asked him how he got here. "I came on vacation 30 years ago and never left." I couldn't help but glance over at Mariko, smiling in the chair in the corner, pretending to read.

It goes without saying that if we had stayed anywhere else our experience in beautiful and strange Montreal would have been vastly different. We still would have tried on leather coats and cowboy boots at the vintage store down Rue St. Laurent, we would have bicycled too far past the old Olympic Stadium, and gotten caught int he rain on our way home. We would have still stumbled upon oddities like people in a vacant lot carving stones and people in wheelchairs watching children play in the park and drunk men stumbling into and out of fountains in the moonlight. But Bob and Mariko made the trip unexpectedly and extremely comfortable.

Musings (for Nick and Liz Metcalf)

If we zoom in close, right up close, we see two pairs of hands. Holding tight to one
another, tight to the life they’ve lived together, the work they’ve done to get here, the
prospects they have for one another. These hands have found each other, felt each
other’s skin, soft and rough, tan and pale, prepared for rings that will wrap around their
fingers.

Now zoom out and see the hands of the audience, clasping to one another or to
themselves, hands who know the work that love takes, the way it feels under our finger
tips. Hands ready for a rousing applause.

Now zoom in, and see two sets of eyes. Both blue, both deep and full of life. These eyes
locked many years ago, and were unable to resist one another’s gaze to this day. They’ve
seen all of the other’s beauty and generosity, as well as flaws and shortcomings. They’ve
watched each other grow.

If we zoom out, we see all of the eyes of their friends and families, watching a white
dress next to a grey suit, some of them wet with tears, all of them filled with happiness
and hope.

Now zoom in again, where we see two mouths, smiling at one another. Two mouths that
have shared the stories of their pasts and the anticipation of their futures, open wide and
laughing most of the time. Two mouths who have kissed, probably once or twice before
… and will kiss with promise and sanctity today in front of all of us.

Zoom out to over a hundred mouths, smiling and laughing along with them, quivering a
bit if crying, but happy and spread wide like the sky.

Now zoom back in, wayyyy in, to see beneath these fancy clothes and these layers of skin
and bone and muscle, two hearts. They are in sync now, bursting with excitement, ready
to spend the rest of their days in a happy, thumping dance, together.

Notice to Visitors : Henry Miller (Big Sur)

The undersigned wishes to inform all and sundry that he has long since left the Abode of Peace, that he no longer has any comfort or inspiration to offer, and that even the migratory birds avoid this spot. Prayers are offered up daily - without charge. The garden has been transformed into an open air Vespasienne. Look toward Nepenthe when you water the flowers. If you are seeking Truth travel a little farther south : you will find it at Ojai Chez Krishnamurti. Be kind to the children - they abide. For a metaphysical treat stop at the Big Sur Inn which is also a haven for stray cats and dogs. Life along the South Coast is just a bed of roses, with a few thorns and nettles interspersed. The life class meets every Monday regardless. Refreshments are served when demanded. Those interested in celestial navigation are advised to first obtain a rudimentary knowledge of integral calculus, phlebotomy, astral physics and related subjects. The use of liquor is strictly forbidden on interplanetary flights. When you come please be so kind as to check your neuroses and psychoses at the gate. Gossip may be exchanged during the wee hours of the morning when the gremlins have left. Please bear in mind that this is a small community and news travels fast. (Carrier pigeons are provided when necessary.) Fans and other obnoxious pests would do well to maintain silence. Questions relating to work-in-progress will be answered in stereotype fashion in the columns of the Big Sur Guide at the usual space rates. God is Love - and in the ultimate Love will prevail. Remember, man is the ruler, not Saturn! Let us do our best, even it if gets us nowhere. In the midst of darkness there is light. “I am the light of the world,” said Jesus. He said a mouthful. Light, more light!

Respectfully,

Henry Miller

Gabriel

An hour and a half train ride brought me to the rickety streets of Astoria each Monday and Friday for the last 6 months. Astoria is a neighborhood in Queens so jam-packed with different ethnicities that you can walk 8 blocks and hear 8 languages and eat 8 meals that all include a flat piece of bread but each are from different corners of the earth.

Lauren introduced me to Joanna about a year ago at a birthday party. Joanna came here 6 years ago from Buenos Aires, Argentina, to start a life for herself and her family. She came first, and became a speech pathologist at a charter school not far from where she lived. (This is where she met Lauren). Her father came at the same time, and got a job as well. Joanna is gorgeous, hard working, and loves her family more than life itself. Her mother and 13-year-old brother, Gabriel, stayed in Buenos Aires until a year ago, when she and her father had finally made enough money (and the proper paperwork) to bring the remaining two members of their family to America.

My charge was to tutor Gabriel on his homework and most importantly in preparation for the State Tests, which would happen in June. Gabriel is extremely intelligent, and was always kind to me even though I could tell he never wanted to be studying. He would rather be playing basketball with his friends, texting with his many lady friends, or listening to Lady Gaga. He is extremely good at math, and we talked about how the reason why is because it's a universal language. I remember loving teaching math to my kids in Thailand - they understood every word I said during those hours.

His mother is a beautiful, friendly Argentinean woman who smiles as she gives me a kiss on the cheek as I enter their cozy apartment, saying "how are you?" with a thick accent. She speaks only Spanish other than that, brings me coffee and always asks if I want sugar even though I never do. Pound cakes follow, or apple bread or strawberry short cake or one time even an enormous plate of home made pasta. When they all found out that I speak Spanish they got really excited, talked about it to one another for a while as I listened, understanding what they said. I think their excitement possibly shielded an underlying difficulty with the fact that they could not speak to one another so bluntly in Spanish while I was around.

Each Monday and Friday afternoon, Gabriel and I would sit at their dining room table, overlooked by an enormous painting of Jesus, working through math problems or typing out a book report. The back door was always open, what ever weather the day brought would join us at the table - bright sunlight, misty rain. I love doing Social Studies homework with him. We did questions on a chapter about the "Roaring 20's," and it was so interesting to explain to him who Babe Ruth was, and Hemingway, and what a flapper is. I take for granted all of the things I learned growing up just because I was an American. He confessed once that he loved when I came because I motivated him to finish things, that he wouldn't get them done as quickly if I wasn't there.

I said goodbye to Gabriel last week. He's finished with this year and will spend the summer with his mom in Argentina. What a life he has already lived. A childhood in Argentina. And an adulthood in New York City.

That Will Be $29.50

When I was young one of my dream jobs was to be a grocery store cashier. I'd stand in line at the Piggly Wiggly and watch as the gum-snapping 17 year old would "beep" each of our carefully chosen items through the scanner. I loved when the produce came along, because she'd have to type a long number into her keyboard, her purple eye shadow glinting in the fluorescent lights.

Yogurt - beep. Milk - beep. Apples - type type type. Honey Nut Cheerios - beep. Oranges - type type type. Cheddar - beep. Beer - beep. Carrots - type type type. Lunch meat - beep.

"That will be $29.50." I loved this part. My mom would hand her the cash, and she'd slide open the magical money drawer, perfectly organized with piles of green bills and compartments of coins. She'd flip up the little arm that held the bills down, add my mom's cash, and then slide out the change without even blinking, or realizing how cool her job was. I had a little experience with this part because I had played Monopoly with my brother a few times, and he let me be the banker. But this was the real deal! She had her own drawer!

"Would you like paper or plastic?" she'd say. I'd look up at my mom, who would always say "paper, please" but I didn't understand why until years later.

Now I go to the grocery store and watch the sad, bored girls slide my purchases across the scanner without looking me in the eye, fighting with their boyfriends via text underneath the counter, typing the wrong produce code into their computers, putting everything into plastic bags without asking. I still have the dream to be one of them someday, but for different reasons. I want to know what people are buying, how they are feeding their families, how much money they are spending on cheese, what the percentage of people who are bringing canvas bags is. I guess in some ways dreams never die.

Today is Paradise - Constant and Conquerable

She wore lace on her dress and in her hair, his smile was wide and their vows were proud. To stand next to a friend as she marries the one she loves is the highest honor, and to speak to them on a breezy June afternoon in the presence of loved ones is even higher. With a friend like Carrie, there are secrets hidden deep within our red right ankles and down under the quiet pillows of our friendship, and there are elaborate stories that only our imaginations can understand, so all I could say was this:

One way of knowing love is to furtively act with courage. To swim in all of it whenever something somewhere whispers it. And in those moments, vivid, beautiful hallucinations of strength and hope live for a moment in you. Heart and hands, sweat and dust. The songs, the processions, the banners. We shall explode in enormous love. We think of happy yesterday, we survive on it. Party if joyless, make love in the dim lamplight. Kissing life - thinking bigger, healthier, stronger, happier. Today is unchangeable and your heart is working, so roar and bleed and hope and drink gin like in the old days. Oh zigzagging, oh revolution, oh tiny sea. It feels like a kind of dance, it is oranges and lemons and not fright or pain – but peace – freedom – strength. The heart bangs – I.LOVE.YOU. It remembers everything, it smiles. Love is love – powerful and troubling. Love is virtuosity and singing, breathing fast, kneeling face-to-face, pleasant helplessness and communication. Zealous love, kaleidoscope love. Love love love love love love love – magenta, sun blazed ripe heart – pleasant tomorrow tenderness. Love – sweet summer air, happy melancholy – lips, cheeks, nose, eyes, cavernous mouth, naked calves and ankles, hands – a man and a woman and a spontaneous tomorrow. Alive with love. The most necessary and overwhelming task is to settle into bliss, to understand bodies and to progress as a united being. The world is explosive and arbitrary. It’s marvelous. Today is paradise – constant and conquerable. Party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party. Relaxation and enthusiasm. Continuous possession of absolute truth. Concessions to and fro of fear and hatred. The love, the craving, the porcelain cheekbones, the poetry, the pain. The furious stream of blood and saliva, the humming and the laughing – elbows and eyelids – ears and weeping and confessions and sleep and silent breath. All of us sweat and pulse. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes, we exist, we grasp happiness, we realize the universes inside of love. You are beginning, I can see, to realize what that world will be like. Life will zip forward and snap you suddenly into character and after that it is all improvisation. The one certain thing is that love is without thought – it is a deep ocean, violent and calm. An extraordinary medley of you and you, of life, death, and of triumphant victory.

Two Songs for a Friday

The Park // Feist

Because sometimes we all need a reminder to slow down, a space where we can be quiet, a park to step across with green grass beneath us. Because we all question our reality and we all know deep down that what ever it is, no matter how crazy and inconceivable, it's ours.

Once and For All // The Bellville Outfit

This one goes out to everyone who has someone not close enough that you can reach out and squeeze them, but close enough that you won't let go. Over telephone wires and internet connections and texts and thoughts and dreams, we nail our hearts to the wall and hope for the best. It reminds me of a Decemberists' song called Yankee Bayonett, in which the last verse says it all.

A Quiet Church in Manhattan

We were fifteen minutes late to Tim's funeral. I had gotten there as quickly as possible. Elsa wanted an Icee after school, Julien didn't want to wear a button up shirt, and Anouk's hair needed braiding. We sprinted from classroom to schoolyard over sidewalks to bedroom wardrobes into the subway under the river and up into Chelsea. I had never been to a church service in Manhattan. Neither had the kids. We talked about staying quiet and calm during the service.

"Why?" they asked.

"Because there are going to be a lot of people there who are sad, and taking this time to remember your mommy and daddy's friend Tim."

"Why?" they asked.

"Because he passed away, and they are thinking about him and want to share stories about him and use this time together to do that."

There is a surrealness to entering a quiet, dark, spired building in the middle of a bright and boisterous New York City afternoon. Once you walk in the doors, the honking horns and the rushing crowds and the pretzel vendors and the graffiti walls immediately fade away behind you. We were fifteen minutes late, and Jamie, Emmanuelle and Landon were in the fifth row. I carried Elsa and held Julien's hand, and Anouk pursed her mouth shut and we walked quickly up towards the front of the church.

Their parents smiled at them as they sat down, their eyes wet but their confidence drawn. Never have I met two more intelligent, strong, or noble people than these two. Never would I have imagined becoming part of such a unique family when I moved to Brooklyn. Never will they be able to be replaced.

Journalists and friends of Tim spoke at the podium to the jam-packed, humid church. Sebastian Junger talked about how he was always the word guy and Tim was always the picture guy. They spoke about how Tim lived and how he died. They spoke mostly about war, about how Tim took every detail of it and found ways to show it to the world. They spoke about how the last decade, ever since 9/11, had been incredibly violent and devastating for journalists. Soldiers spoke of their relationships with him, how he became a brother to anyone he met, instantly. His girlfriend spoke about how Tim had taught her not only how to live, but how to love - fully and openly and without hesitation. His sister spoke with an elegant British accent about Christmas' in the past with her brother, how he always had a joke to tell and how friendly he was with everyone he met. She also mentioned the children sitting on either side of me and on my lap, how Tim adored them. Their eyes widened at the mention of their name. They were so quiet and wonderful throughout the entire service.

The more people spoke about him, the more it sank in how incredible this person really was. It felt strange being at the memorial service of someone I had never met. Through Emmanuelle and Jamie's stories I had put pieces together about him, but this solidified the man. As we stood in the church yard afterwards, Julien and Elsa chased a squirrel and Anouk held my hand. They hugged many friends, introduced me to their people, whose names I will forget but whose faces have left a mark... tearful and worn, but hopeful. These people have influence on the media, positive influence. And Tim's death will inspire them to continue on, to live with passion, and to love fully. How tragically beautiful it was to be there with them.

Two Songs for a Friday

All My Days // Alexi Murdoch

This song reminds me of a number of scattered chapters of my life. Days when I had nothing to worry about except what to wear to the Union for a concert, or whether I was going to be late to work to blend smoothies, or whether love would last. Every time I listen to Alexi, I am reminded that each chapter, each day has influence on the next, and that I should go about them calmly, one step at a time.

Calgary // Bon Iver

The first single to be released on YouTube from Bon Iver's new eponymous album, set to release in June. It's what we've all been waiting for since For Emma, Forever Ago. This time, he has climbed out of his cabin in the Northern Woods of Wisconsin, and bucked up a bit. This time, there are more smiles than tears heard in the lyrics. One of the comments under this video says "Porn, for the blind." I couldn't agree more. Get excited. Get very excited.

Showering Off the Fjords

After day 4 of our fjord hike through the northwestern curve of Norway, I finally took a hot shower. Never had I felt so relieved, so grateful for the invention of water falling slowly down our backs in cleansing. The water came from a spout on a hose in the basement of a red barn that sat on top of a hill overlooking a dark green forest that ran along the base of a towering black mountain dusted with snow. We had walked to that barn, up that hill, through that forest and over that mountain. Before the mountain was a lake, clear as glass, and on that lake was the cabin we had stayed at last night. This was the way of it. This was what we had done. We'd wake up each morning and eat bland oatmeal decorated in raisins, crystallized pineapple, nuts, granola, and cinnamon, and dark coffee. We'd stretch our legs and backs and pack our packs full to the brim with our food and clothes and hats and books and we'd set out onto the trail to walk our day away to the next place we would sleep.

I thought about these days, these trails, these hikes, the bright green moss and the trickling rivers, the crisp skies and the snow as I washed the four days off my skin. I thought of the way the sun had slanted its never-setting rays on the four of us - Seb first usually, then Robbi, then myself and then Weston. The order of our Lord of the Rings-style walking established itself a few days in, after we encountered our first snake. That way, Seb could spot them, Rob and I could scream bloody murder and run off the trail and then Weston could get excited and take a picture. We wound ourselves around copses of black alder and beech trees, enormous rock faces, enormous blue fingers of the fjord, and our conversation wound around through the delicious Norwegian air as well. I laughed in the shower as I realized how many topics you can cover when there are four intelligent, like-minded people spending minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day together, discussing - literally - everything. From the farms and people that Robbi and Seb have worked with this past year to each member of each of our families in detail to global warming to South Park to the Rally to Restore Sanity to Maine accents to Wisconsin Accents to Northern Norwegian accents...

I thought about our ability to withhold a conversation for four days straight, about the ease of the transitions, the lengthiness and the breathiness and the silences in between. I thought about each of our thoughts during the pauses - four individual bubbles above four heads, following the landscape, loving the beauty, contemplating what's next on the trail and what's next in our lives, remembering the trails that brought us here.

My Landscaper

It is still so new & all we see is the possibility of empty space, but that is not how it is in the landscape of the heart. There, there is no empty space & he still laughs & grapples with ideas & plans & nods wisely with each of us in turn. We are proud to know him. We are proud to call him dad.

*Compliments of Story People

Two Songs for a Friday

Carousel // Iron & Wine

This one goes out to Robbi Strandemo and Sebastian Corby, two Nordic-skiing, strawberry-farming, wood-chopping, utter-milking fjord-walkers who are returning to the United States of America tomorrow, after a year in Norway. Because, while going away is the most incredible thing to do with oneself, coming home trumps all. Cheers to skiing, farming, chopping and milking - and cheers to flying across the Atlantic Ocean, chasing the sun.

Teach Your Children // CSNY

For my daddio, who turned 60 today. He always says he's "approaching middle age." So true, so true. Thank you dad for teaching me so well. I love you.

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

*An adaptation of the Footnote to HOWL by Allen Ginsberg*

The fjord is holy! The sky is holy! The feet are holy! The air is holy! The Kemps and rain and snow and whiskey holy!

Everything is holy! We are all four holy! The map is holy! Every day was an eternity! We were all angels!

The snake's as holy as the muckox!

The bearded smoking man is holy as we our souls are holy!

The backpack is holy the sleeping bag holy the voice is holy the conversations holy the podcast is holy!

Holy Weston Holy Sebastian Holy Robbi Holy Lisa Holy busdriver holy high schoolers holy the unknown souls written in logbooks and suffering animals beneath our feet holy the wizards and witches we spoke of!

Holy my father in the hospital! Holy the wombs of the women who bore us!

Holy the loud yodeling! Holy the trompings of ear-popping silence! Holy the like-minded air breathing hikers energy & muscle & thumbs!

Holy the solitudes of mountain tops and sea shores and white snow! Holy the cabins filled with comforts! Holy the raging rivers of clear cold water under moss!

Holy the lone thought! Holy the broad basis of friendship! Holy the ice cold bathings and pot bellied fires! Who walks Norway IS Norway!

Holy Oslo Holy Oppdal Holy Kristiansund & Aure Holy Tronheim Holy Eidsvoll Holy Boston Holy Milwaukee!

Holy shoes in motion holy motion in shoes the bringers of place the places they bring us north in love north in love north!

Holy the trees holy the swamps holy the blessed red screaming "T"'s holy the hard dreaming holy the never setting sun holy the toilet!

Holy laughter! Adventure! Innocence! Growth! Holy! Ours! Bodies! Suffering! Hot dogs!

Holy the neverending extra breathtaking mysterious wonder of the fjord!

Two Songs for a Friday

Hips Don't Lie // Shakira featuring Wyclef Jean

Trumpets are an enormous part of the Latin American music scene, as are the beats that follow throughout this song. Every time we heard the first trumpet diddy that is played in this song on the radio on the crazy Panamanian buses and in the pick-up trucks we rode in the back of and out on the hot, sweaty streets, we thought it was this song... but realized that it's just how ALL songs start there. These beats resonated through Lauren, Riki and I as our hips told the absolute truth throughout the Isthmus.

What's Love Got to Do With It // Tina Turner

We realized that in pretty much all ways, but especially music, Panama is just a little bit behind the times. Songs from the 80's and 90's blasted from small radios held by town locos and scratchy cab speakers through the dark Panama City nights. This one in particular got us going pretty hard. Because I don't ever really go back this far, and because everybody's Friday needs a little TINA.