For everyone who dreams of someday moving to Portland, listen to the interview with John Raymond at OPB's Think Out Loud. The way he speaks, the cadence of it -- his gravelly voice, his droll, self-deprecating style of speaking -- and what he says is just so Portland.
[Update: OPB has this available as a podcast which you can download on iTunes. It's also on their web site, as I linked to above. You need to click on the teeny tiny "play" icon underneath the title.]
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Distracting myself from H1N1
The Deschutes County health department just announced, "We are seeing a surge in the number of people presenting to the medical system with influenza like symptoms" — followed by, "we will only be getting a portion of our expected flu vaccine."
Children are scheduled to be vaccinated through the schools on October 30, but that's still 14 days away. I've been trying to determine whether I can (or ought to) avoid all stores and other public places during that timeframe.
Are you all freaking out about it? My daughter has viral-induced asthma, so I am. A bit. My son is freaking out, too — not because of me, but because of conversations at school. Before he eats ANYTHING, even breakfast, he washes his hands.
So, so. So. I've been distracting myself by thinking about nouns. Nouns have hampered my ability to understand electricity. — Wait! Come back! Hear me out.
"Electricity" is a noun but what we mean by electricity is not a solid, touchable thing, the way you think a noun ought to be. The word "electricity" really describes electric current: an-electric-charge-flowing. It describes an electric charge in motion, the way the nouns "waterfall" or "river" describe water in motion. Or you could say that an electric charge in motion is an event-in-progress, like a song or a lecture.
An electric charge: too many or too few electrons: a state of unbalance. We sometimes say that something "has" an electric charge, but that's a misnomer. Something is electrically charged. It's unbalanced — and it would rather not be; it seeks balance. Often explosively. Rub your feet on the carpet and then touch a doorknob, and you'll see what I mean.
Swishing your feet on the carpet gives you an electric charge. You pick up too many electrons. When you scuff your feet and quick! touch a doorknob! then ZAP. Your extra electrons leap across space to bond with the metal knob. What leaps is the current.
So the flow of that-which-is-charged is an electric current, or electricity. Science books for kids often use a water/river metaphor to explain this concept, but I rather like comparing electricity with life. (Me and Deepak Chopra, right?)
Electricity: that-which-is-charged flowing in search of balance.
Life: that-which-is-alive moving toward...
Oh, great. Now I'm thinking about H1N1 again.
La la la, la la la.
Somebody tell a joke!
Children are scheduled to be vaccinated through the schools on October 30, but that's still 14 days away. I've been trying to determine whether I can (or ought to) avoid all stores and other public places during that timeframe.
Are you all freaking out about it? My daughter has viral-induced asthma, so I am. A bit. My son is freaking out, too — not because of me, but because of conversations at school. Before he eats ANYTHING, even breakfast, he washes his hands.
So, so. So. I've been distracting myself by thinking about nouns. Nouns have hampered my ability to understand electricity. — Wait! Come back! Hear me out.
"Electricity" is a noun but what we mean by electricity is not a solid, touchable thing, the way you think a noun ought to be. The word "electricity" really describes electric current: an-electric-charge-flowing. It describes an electric charge in motion, the way the nouns "waterfall" or "river" describe water in motion. Or you could say that an electric charge in motion is an event-in-progress, like a song or a lecture.
An electric charge: too many or too few electrons: a state of unbalance. We sometimes say that something "has" an electric charge, but that's a misnomer. Something is electrically charged. It's unbalanced — and it would rather not be; it seeks balance. Often explosively. Rub your feet on the carpet and then touch a doorknob, and you'll see what I mean.
Swishing your feet on the carpet gives you an electric charge. You pick up too many electrons. When you scuff your feet and quick! touch a doorknob! then ZAP. Your extra electrons leap across space to bond with the metal knob. What leaps is the current.
So the flow of that-which-is-charged is an electric current, or electricity. Science books for kids often use a water/river metaphor to explain this concept, but I rather like comparing electricity with life. (Me and Deepak Chopra, right?)
Electricity: that-which-is-charged flowing in search of balance.
Life: that-which-is-alive moving toward...
Oh, great. Now I'm thinking about H1N1 again.
La la la, la la la.
Somebody tell a joke!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Where
Once upon a time and long ago, this guy I know worked nights. He was going to school, too, at that time, so despite the job he hadn’t much money. He owned a truck but never seemed able to fill its tank completely. Sometimes on the way to work he’d run out of gas. He’d have to coast to the side of some silent thoroughfare. He’d swear, sigh, and then start walking, plastic gas can in hand – walking in the dark, in the rain, toward the bright lights of a gas station. Around him the city slept.
I always wondered what he encountered along the way. Surely each of these late-night hikes was a little adventure. What might he have encountered on a rainy night in Portland, back when Portland was a smaller, grubbier city?
*
I just finished reading Orson Scott Card’s book Shadow of the Giant, which was engaging but frustrating because I just couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t visualize the characters or their surroundings. Card didn’t provide enough detail. He’d write: The main characters went to Yerevan. Period. He never said if they’d gone to Yerevan during the day or at night, in winter or spring; he never said whether Yerevan was a tall modern noisy city or a short old musty village. Was it in the mountains or on a plain? Were there pine trees, or was it desert? They were in Yerevan; that’s all he said; so I couldn’t imagine the scene.
*
This past weekend my husband and I celebrated our anniversary in Portland, then drove home along a circuitous, scenic route – a driver’s route, really, following the kinds of unpopulated, narrow, serpentine roads that you see highlighted in Evo magazine. It was thrilling. I cinched my seatbelt.
When we got back on the highway (a one-lane state highway with no traffic; it was fun driving, too), my husband exclaimed at the gauges on his BMW. “We may run out of gas,” he commented. Oh, said I. Hm. We were just outside Dufur (population: 500), an outpost among rolling hills of wheat – hills rolling on and on, as far as one can see, covered in wheat and then patches of sagebrush and then wheat again. If we ran out of gas there, at dusk on a cold autumn day, what would we do? Try to hitch a ride to the next town, I guess. Maybe we could hoof it to a rancher’s house; surely ranchers have spare gas?
*
In the event we did not run out of gas. We made it 60 miles to the nearest (sizeable) town with plenty to spare. The whole way, though, I kept thinking about how the story “We ran out of gas, and then…” hinges on where one ran out of gas. The setting determines the action. Setting matters.
I always wondered what he encountered along the way. Surely each of these late-night hikes was a little adventure. What might he have encountered on a rainy night in Portland, back when Portland was a smaller, grubbier city?
*
I just finished reading Orson Scott Card’s book Shadow of the Giant, which was engaging but frustrating because I just couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t visualize the characters or their surroundings. Card didn’t provide enough detail. He’d write: The main characters went to Yerevan. Period. He never said if they’d gone to Yerevan during the day or at night, in winter or spring; he never said whether Yerevan was a tall modern noisy city or a short old musty village. Was it in the mountains or on a plain? Were there pine trees, or was it desert? They were in Yerevan; that’s all he said; so I couldn’t imagine the scene.
*
This past weekend my husband and I celebrated our anniversary in Portland, then drove home along a circuitous, scenic route – a driver’s route, really, following the kinds of unpopulated, narrow, serpentine roads that you see highlighted in Evo magazine. It was thrilling. I cinched my seatbelt.
When we got back on the highway (a one-lane state highway with no traffic; it was fun driving, too), my husband exclaimed at the gauges on his BMW. “We may run out of gas,” he commented. Oh, said I. Hm. We were just outside Dufur (population: 500), an outpost among rolling hills of wheat – hills rolling on and on, as far as one can see, covered in wheat and then patches of sagebrush and then wheat again. If we ran out of gas there, at dusk on a cold autumn day, what would we do? Try to hitch a ride to the next town, I guess. Maybe we could hoof it to a rancher’s house; surely ranchers have spare gas?
*
In the event we did not run out of gas. We made it 60 miles to the nearest (sizeable) town with plenty to spare. The whole way, though, I kept thinking about how the story “We ran out of gas, and then…” hinges on where one ran out of gas. The setting determines the action. Setting matters.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Stories that stick
All across Eastern Europe I bought books. Books in English, I mean. I'd been overseas for a year, stammering in incompetent Russian the whole time, only partially understanding what other people said to me: so I was desperate for stores. I couldn't find any English-language newspaper except The Financial Times (ack) nor any English-language magazine except The Economist (ack); I couldn't follow the local radio, and movies were all dubbed. I wasn't even able to eavesdrop on conversations. Lord, I was desperate for stories.
So as I traveled I stopped in bookstores and bought what they had in English. I was train-hopping around Eastern Europe in the early 1990's and my journals are laced with commentary on Annie Dillard, Joseph Conrad, John Barth. How odd.
These days I hardly ever read novels. They make me too distracted. If I'm in the midst of a novel I find myself staring into space, wondering about the characters, when I am supposed to be getting the children ready for school. Or listening in on staff meetings.
*
Thus ends my prelude to Sweet/Salty Kate's book meme, which I have via Magpie. I skipped the movie-related questions. I do not know anything about movies.
1) You are facing an epic journey. You may choose one companion, one tool and one vehicle from any book or film to accompany you. Or just one of the three. It's up to you. What do you choose?
I'd have Ged from Ursula LeGuin's Earthsea books accompany me. He can bring his wizard's staff and his little boat, the Lookfar. Any epic journey can be improved by the presence of a wizard, I imagine.
2) You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why?
To the Portuguese island which is the setting for Madeleine L'Engle's The Arm of the Starfish. It sounds absolutely lovely; also, I'd like to talk to Meg Murray as an adult.
3) You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why?
At this particular point in my life, I'd welcome the friendship of Stone Telling from LeGuin's Always Coming Home. It would be like having my mom live with me. She's quiet and helpful and knowledgable about homemaking, and she tells great stories.
4) [x] is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four.
I have several go-to books, depending on my mood. Half were written by Ursula LeGuin and the other half by Madeleine L'Engle.
5) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable?
Oh, Vicky Austin. She and Adam Eddington are so much in love that they can communicate telepathically. And he teaches her to ride a dolphin, which becomes her friend in need. And everyone recognizes that she's going to grow up to be a great poet.
Christine, the evil car! Omigod. When I was 12 my best friend loved horror movies. This one was her favorite. During sleep-overs she'd tell me a story in which Christine crashes through the window in her bedroom and kills us both. I NEVER SLEPT during her sleep-overs.
7) Every time I read The Dispossessed, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before.
11) After all these years, the closing scene in the book 2010: Odyssey II still manages to give me a thrill. ("ALL THESE WORLDS ARE YOURS, EXCEPT EUROPA. ATTEMPT NO LANDINGS THERE." Eeep!)
13) The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is Annie Dillard's An American Childhood. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to intone, out a window, "Hello, Horatio."
So as I traveled I stopped in bookstores and bought what they had in English. I was train-hopping around Eastern Europe in the early 1990's and my journals are laced with commentary on Annie Dillard, Joseph Conrad, John Barth. How odd.
These days I hardly ever read novels. They make me too distracted. If I'm in the midst of a novel I find myself staring into space, wondering about the characters, when I am supposed to be getting the children ready for school. Or listening in on staff meetings.
*
Thus ends my prelude to Sweet/Salty Kate's book meme, which I have via Magpie. I skipped the movie-related questions. I do not know anything about movies.
1) You are facing an epic journey. You may choose one companion, one tool and one vehicle from any book or film to accompany you. Or just one of the three. It's up to you. What do you choose?
I'd have Ged from Ursula LeGuin's Earthsea books accompany me. He can bring his wizard's staff and his little boat, the Lookfar. Any epic journey can be improved by the presence of a wizard, I imagine.
2) You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why?
To the Portuguese island which is the setting for Madeleine L'Engle's The Arm of the Starfish. It sounds absolutely lovely; also, I'd like to talk to Meg Murray as an adult.
3) You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why?
At this particular point in my life, I'd welcome the friendship of Stone Telling from LeGuin's Always Coming Home. It would be like having my mom live with me. She's quiet and helpful and knowledgable about homemaking, and she tells great stories.
4) [x] is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four.
I have several go-to books, depending on my mood. Half were written by Ursula LeGuin and the other half by Madeleine L'Engle.
5) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable?
Oh, Vicky Austin. She and Adam Eddington are so much in love that they can communicate telepathically. And he teaches her to ride a dolphin, which becomes her friend in need. And everyone recognizes that she's going to grow up to be a great poet.
Christine, the evil car! Omigod. When I was 12 my best friend loved horror movies. This one was her favorite. During sleep-overs she'd tell me a story in which Christine crashes through the window in her bedroom and kills us both. I NEVER SLEPT during her sleep-overs.
7) Every time I read The Dispossessed, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before.
11) After all these years, the closing scene in the book 2010: Odyssey II still manages to give me a thrill. ("ALL THESE WORLDS ARE YOURS, EXCEPT EUROPA. ATTEMPT NO LANDINGS THERE." Eeep!)
13) The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is Annie Dillard's An American Childhood. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to intone, out a window, "Hello, Horatio."
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Parsely, sage, etc. etc.
Once a week I make my way to a gravel alley on the edge of downtown Bend. It's not as seedy as it sounds. Downtown Bend is a cute, touristy place; the alley I visit is in an area that's also cute (but not touristy): it's quiet, shady, filled with little millworker-built houses. Some of the houses have been converted to shops. This particular alley runs behind what is now a nonprofit and a women's clinic. Weedy flowers and shrubs grow in the dirt there — and underneath one of the currant bushes, during the growing season, sit a couple of coolers.
The coolers hold my eggs and vegetables. Well, not just mine. The eggs and veggies come from Gigi, who has a farm east of town. She stops by the alleyway once a week with overflowing canvas bags, and then throughout the day we CSA members open the coolers to exchange an empty bag for a full one.
*
So once a week I unload a bag of just-picked vegetables onto my kitchen counter, getting dirt everywhere and grinning, because just-picked vegetables make me happy. I give the guinea pigs carrot tops and radish tops and onion tops and whatever else I won't eat and then I refrigerate the rest — everything except the herbs. Gigi grows lots of herbs: parsely, sage, basil, thyme, tarragon, oregano, fennel, rosemary. I couldn't possibly use them all in a week, so I dry them. It's easy to do in this climate. The small-leafed herbs will dry in two days just sitting on the counter, believe it or not. Usually, though, I bunch them with a twist-tie and hang them from the cabinet handles. My husband doesn't like this method — he opens a cabinet to get a coffee cup or a glass and, damn!, knocks down a sprig of herbs — but it works well, and I feel so Little-House-on-the-Prairie-ish with these herbs hanging every-which-way!
*
Now I recommend you read Charlotte Freeman's post at Bookslut, which is about, I think, the art of homemaking. It's also about cooking deliciously despite being broke.
The coolers hold my eggs and vegetables. Well, not just mine. The eggs and veggies come from Gigi, who has a farm east of town. She stops by the alleyway once a week with overflowing canvas bags, and then throughout the day we CSA members open the coolers to exchange an empty bag for a full one.
*
So once a week I unload a bag of just-picked vegetables onto my kitchen counter, getting dirt everywhere and grinning, because just-picked vegetables make me happy. I give the guinea pigs carrot tops and radish tops and onion tops and whatever else I won't eat and then I refrigerate the rest — everything except the herbs. Gigi grows lots of herbs: parsely, sage, basil, thyme, tarragon, oregano, fennel, rosemary. I couldn't possibly use them all in a week, so I dry them. It's easy to do in this climate. The small-leafed herbs will dry in two days just sitting on the counter, believe it or not. Usually, though, I bunch them with a twist-tie and hang them from the cabinet handles. My husband doesn't like this method — he opens a cabinet to get a coffee cup or a glass and, damn!, knocks down a sprig of herbs — but it works well, and I feel so Little-House-on-the-Prairie-ish with these herbs hanging every-which-way!
*
Now I recommend you read Charlotte Freeman's post at Bookslut, which is about, I think, the art of homemaking. It's also about cooking deliciously despite being broke.
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