essential (noun)

wheat flour, water, salt., 2010

They walked up the road together to the old man's shack and went in through its open door. The old man leaned the mast with its wrapped sail against the wall and the boy put the box and the other gear beside it. The mast was nearly as long as the one room of the shack. The shack was made of the tough budshields of the royal palm which are called guano and in it there was a bed, a table, one chair, and a place on the dirt floor to cook with charcoal. On the brown walls of the flattened, overlapping leaves of the sturdy fibered guano there was a picture in color of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and another of the Virgin of Cobre. These were relics of his wife. Once there had been a tinted photograph of his wife on the wall but he had taken it down because it made him too lonely to see it and it was on the shelf in the corner under his clean shirt.

Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

Do you ever think about what you would own if you kept only your essentials? Only the basic, indispensable, and necessary elements of your life? It is something I think of often.

I'm not a very religious person, but I once spent several days in an Italian monastery. I traveled alone. My spare room housed a single bed, writing desk, and one window looking out onto a courtyard. The courtyard was a clean open space with a few large terracotta flower pots. I believe those pots held red geraniums. It was one of the most beautiful spaces I've spent time.

Days were quiet. While I was there I only met three English speaking individuals, one nun and two retired physics professors. It did not matter. This was not a place for idle chatter. It was a place for contemplation. The monastery was located in the mountains and I hiked every day. What to eat? never crossed my mind. Our two meals per day were served in a large dining hall during set times and we were not involved in menu planning.

Each morning a staff member would circulate around the breakfast tables with one pitcher of hot coffee and and another with rich steamed milk. We drank red wine with dinner each evening. For dessert we passed bowls of fresh whole fruit.

Following dinner, most of us leisurely strolled the grounds before contentedly retiring to our rooms. After 9:00 pm we were to remain in our rooms, respectfully quiet.

The monastery had a small shop that sold postcards, rosaries, and locally made hazelnut chocolate bars, you know, the essentials. I treasured each night, sitting propped up in bed reading, writing postcards, and eating chocolate, taking breaks every so often to look up from my book and appreciate the moment.

Almost Night

Home, 2006

I drank juice from a plastic apple,
They once were glass.
As I looked out at a blue-orange cellophane sky.
A tiny sliver of moon,
Resting,
As if cradled in an arm.
One glamorous streetlight.

As I turned,
The other sky arrived.
A deep purple.
Tiny lights dotting the bridge.
The illuminated arches of the tower.
The air clean and still.

And I thought,
This is where I live.
This is home.

17. Omit needless words.

Thinking, 2010

The Gumball and the Garden Hose

Maybe I Was Too Close, February 2010

February 18, 2010
This just isn't working for me. I'm making some changes.

Jimo

A smile.
A nod.
Today a wave.

I know you, he says.
From the corner.

You don’t,
But I won’t
Tell.

I'll smile and agree,
Like a politician.

You remind me of him.
And for you,
The truth will bend.

Shoot to kill.

Christoper Blossoms
Valentine's Week 2010

I was locked out of the house. I do not recall how this happened. I don't know why my sister wasn't with me. It was long ago and some fragments of detail have broken free from this memory. I do know that I was 16. Also, very important at the time, I owned a white bikini. I loved that white bikini.

We lived in the desert, just outside of Apache Junction. Our property bordered the Tonto National Forest. We were at the foot of the Superstition Mountains. The Lost Dutchman's Gold Mine was buried up there somewhere. The story of the Lost Dutchman was usually referenced in a comical sort of way, but I'd never been quick to dismiss such things. I was optimistic, but still unsure.

After living most of my life in Chicago, this was Wild West territory, for me. Mom had gone to Dallas. Dad grew a beard, shot rattle snakes, and decided to build his own house. When we were left at home alone, I was instructed to shoot to kill anyone daring to set foot on our property and come near my sister and me. I would always nod in agreement, but had secretly decided if such a situation occurred I'd go for the intruder's knees.

My English teacher was discussing poetry and she had my ear. We were experimenting with various forms and she responded to my work in a way that made me feel I had promise. I really needed that at the time. I think she knew. I'll never forget her.

I was a difficult student to engage. Fickle would be a generous description. But this felt different. It was as if the subject had been created for me. It didn't feel like work at all.

I daydreamed about words, placing them side by side, moving them from line to line, pronouncing them out loud, slowly, feeling every syllable, and then shaping and reshaping it all, over and over again.

So when I realized I was locked out, it wasn't such a big deal. The school bus had gone and even the dusty cloud it left behind was mostly settled. There wasn't much I could do. I decided to begin a new poem, hoping I'd be able to memorize it and write it down later.

It wasn't for class, it was for him. I was attempting to articulate my feelings. They say love at such a young age is not real love, but I disagree. Honestly, the core of what I believe to be love now and what I believed back then, they aren't so different.

I fidgeted and shifted about on a nice sized boulder until I felt comfortable, and then I began. I wrote and wrote, without paper or pen, and the time passed without my notice. I had not seen or heard a single thing for hours when Dad's truck broke through the quiet, kicking up gravel on our lonely road.

I looked up to a sinking sun, every dirty shrub and cactus glowing, and felt the air beginning to cool. I'd written a poem.

Was it for him, or for me? I'm not really sure. Both, I think.

I don't know what happened to my white bikini, but the poem, it stayed with me.

I remember each and every word.

Mourning

There were nine doves on the wire.

As I neared I counted again.

Yes, nine.

One dove sat apart from the rest, but just slightly.

Was he waiting?

Had he lost her?

It was not for me to know.

After passing I looked back hopefully,

counting one last time,

and then once more.

Nine.

Helen

September, 2009

She was practical.

To avoid passersby,

her bed was situated in the center of her apartment.

It did not solve the problem, but it did help.

The further from the walls the better,

especially when longing for sleep.

She would often wake, limbs stiffened,

body and blanket precisely where they had been
when she'd tucked in

the night before.

Stillness did not mean sleep.

I knew none of this,

back then,

when she first sat down in front of me

and smiled.

I did not know her name,

old like her soul.

My joy and my discomfort,

she felt them. There were no observations,

but sensations. They pulsed through her body,

uninvited.

I rested my needles

and she worried about what would never be.

I nodded off

and she breathed a sigh of relief.

She held it all, for everyone,

like that spot in the river

swirling with debris.

The Shape of a Smile

Looking Down, 2009

The bite,
it captured him.
I know it’s the truth.

It wasn’t your lipstick,
but your deep bottomless blue.

You floated above
and rested on shoulders,
like fog.

You dove down beneath,
twisting their heels,
until you felt their pain.

And you stood outside
in the sleet
and the sorrow,
with bare arms.

Your teeth grit tightly--
in the shape
of a smile.

She could be herself, by herself.

Painting by Vanessa Bell of her sister, Virginia Woolf.

image courtesy of National Gallery of Austraila

For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of--to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thus that she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the range of experience seemed limitless.

                                                                                     excerpt from Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse

in want of.

Sunday Morning - December 6, 2009

emptiness,
a space.
fenced,
without a gate.
built,
for protection.
a place,
to fill.
or just to keep open,
silent, and still.

I sleep all day and fish all night

Photograph by Indulis Ozers (Dad), 2009

As we drove away from the lake the words kept running through my mind, and it is there they remain.

I sleep all day and fish all night

Wisdom on the lake. Proof that it can be found in the most unlikely places. The key is being open to it. The art of observation.

The sun broke through the morning chill and warmed my skin. The air, still. The water, like glass. I was kayaking with my father when we saw him. A man standing alone at the end of a long pier. As we moved closer we noticed he was holding a fishing pole.

Any luck? my father asked casually.

The man answered so eagerly with his fully formed fish stories, I almost believed he'd been anticipating our arrival. He told tales of giant catfish and bass that he'd struggled to reel in, admired, and then returned to the lake. He stood tall as he told us I threw 'em back. They were too big to eat.

He was not a frivolous man. This was serious business. He respected his sport, the lake, the fish, and himself. He told us he was retired. They don't let ya camp overnight here, so I sleep all day and fish all night.

His best catch, a catfish he estimated at 20 lbs, was caught by moonlight at about 2:00 am.

Amazing...I thought. Amazing.

His life was fully functional and uniquely his own. He seemed a gentle, proud, and happy man.

There's more than one path to the Promised Land (or Lake)...

I admired his simple life, his focused goals, and his humble demeanor.

He made me think about my lifestyle, my goals, my demeanor. Were they uniquely my own? Did I need to refine things a bit, clear some clutter, polish up my list of priorities so I could see them--clean and clear? Most importantly, could I be completely open as I walk through this world?

Who knows how many options I've never even considered? I guess I'll never know the answer to that question, but I do know my opportunities are endless.

I sleep all day and and fish all night

Now I unravel.

To begin again.
To devour monotony.

Back then I struggled --
needy, clumsy,
distracted.

Longing to be dependent.

He, in the hospital.
She, the instructor.

Stiff with worry.
The world draped heavily over my shoulders.

Resting in the repetition.

No variation,
ever.

Rotten Apples

My Corner, 2008

Them.
I wanted to smash them,
like rotten apples.

WHACK --
with a mallet.

Because I,
I was a ripe tangerine,
with a bright orange peel.

Unblemished.
Sweet.
Pure.

And they,
they reminded me of
mushy and mealy things.

Old,
like God.
They were all knowing.

It must have been wonderful
to embody such wisdom.

Like Maman,
Louise’s giant spider.

But I didn’t care,
I doubted them.

And like a nasty little crab,
backed quietly into my corner.

Christopher

Christopher in Waitsfield, Vermont
Summer 2006

Curious and warm.
Growing uninhibitedly,
as a seed emerges from the earth.
Smiling at the sun.

On Perfectly Buttered Toast and other things

book, window, and wine glass of water, 2009

I've been away. I've taken a solo trip to the country to regroup, refuel, recharge, and all other such res. An early birthday gift to myself (along with A Platter of Figs and other recipes by David Tanis). No telephone, no computer, no one, but me.

written earlier...
It's about 9 o'clock in the morning. I'm looking out the large paned window which takes up most of the east wall of my petite one-room cottage. The sky is white and the sun is shining. I see a small dark bird with a white belly perched upon the old white fence that protects the sheep while they graze. Although it is November, the grass is bright green and wet with dew. The West Marin landscape drinks in the rain after a long dry summer and makes autumn look like spring.

I'm nestled in with a generous slice of sweet sticky Morning Bun Coffee Cake from Bovine Bakery. When I entered the bakery, just about 15 minutes ago, I was convinced my drive into town had been a waste of time. I saw just about everything but my favorite coffee cake inside the glass case. My heart sunk. I wasn't feeling hopeful at all when I hesitantly asked ...any chance you have Morning Bun Coffee Cake back there? The owner replied with It's just come out of the oven. We're about to slice it. Music to my ears.

This slice is so large it requires a sturdy fork and knife. As I savor my first bite, sip my tea, and read David's seemingly effortless guidelines for preparing Lobster Risotto I have to pause for a moment, a long moment, and take in the utter beauty of it all. Nothing going on here is expensive or at all difficult to arrange, yet it's exquisite. It's worth planning this sort of solo time, what I've been calling my retreat. It is this uninterrupted time alone that offers me the time and space to reflect on my life and appreciate others. Which brings me back to yesterday, my first morning alone.

It was a quiet day. I watched a little black sheep nibble on grasses beneath the apple trees. KWMR hummed in the background. As I wrapped yarn around my needles to and fro, knit, purl, knit, purl, I heard Reading to John announced. Reading to John is a radio show. Neshama Franklin read to her husband John for many years before he died and now she reads to her radio audience. Such a beautiful idea, yet also so sad. An experience once shared with a loved one is now read into a microphone from The Creamery Building in downtown Point Reyes Station. Where it goes nobody knows.

I love the indulgence of having a book read to me or having someone serve me a simple meal. Why do these things feel so indulgent? Perhaps it is because I'm an adult and such offerings are typically reserved for children. John was lucky. I'm lucky.

No one can prepare perfectly buttered slices of toast like my mother. I have bitten into many fine slices of buttered toast, but Mom's, it has some indescribable quality that cannot be duplicated. I believe this is the type of feeling we all long to conjure up again, those good ol' days when we were fragile and small, served nice slices of toast, and loved unconditionally.

Chris has prepared elaborate meals for me and surprised me with interesting new ingredients, but it's those little things (those things along the lines of buttered toast) that really make me happy. There's nothing that makes me love a man more than his placing a cutting board decorated with apple and cheese slices in front of me while I'm reading a nice book on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Oh, yes. That's what I'm talking about.

Reading a book to me works well too. I recall lounging in a little cottage on Block Island, watching the sun set, as Chris read from Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero. I also have some beautiful memories of listening to Chris read John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley to me while we camped in Yosemite. There were moments in the sun, sprawled out on mats beside our tent, late nights inside our tent when Chris read with a headlamp, and one day that is so clear in my memory, Chris reading as we both relaxed and dangled our feet from a bridge near Glen Aulin Falls. The light was so beautiful that day.

Why were these moments so special? Is it because I'm in love, because Chris is such a great guy, or is it because these moments take me back to the comfortable feeling of being a child--fine toast, bedtime stories...

It was a warm summer night. Our exhausted voices pleaded One more story, Mom! Just one more! One more! Please... Mom looked down at us, dressed in our cotton nighties and tucked beneath our cool sheets as she, tired from a day filled with two rambunctious little girls, gave in and said Okay...

Once upon a time there was a butterfly.
The butterfly flew away.
The end.

morning bun coffee cake, 2009

Like a Lullaby

Tulips, 2006

It was a dark day.
So much cold, so little light.
It had disappeared quickly.
 

A piece of my soul  

wrapped neatly, in plain
white paper, was sent off,

and cradled close 

to the buyer's chest.
 

Leaving me incomplete, 

as if I’d never been finished. 

But I had--I’d been finished
and even rebuilt.
 

I didn’t want to go, but they arrived
in the midst of my darkness
and brought a ball of bright. 

 

So warm, so nice.
And they carried me away, 

softly, quietly, like a lullaby.

Things I Learned Later

From Barbara Jean's Collection, 2009

The lost
description
of a nectarine
Yes,
a smooth skinned peach.

His dancing
on Halloween
with her,
before Lisa was born.

Fainting
at the sight
of his sister’s first needle,
before she was my godmother,
before she left us,

And the bridge
to the lighthouse
he could not cross.

Pimp My Blog

preserve, 2009

blog·o·sphere / ˈblägəˌsfi(ə)r/ • n. the world of weblogs.

If you are here, you are probably a member, at least in some small way, of this club we call the blogosphere.

How is it working out for you?

I have had my ups and downs, but I think I might finally be adjusting to this new method of communication and idea sharing. My largest problem is a good one. It's you. Access to this international forum is enabling me to find too many thought provoking individuals sharing their ideas and images in blog format. I'm referring to those of you who post on your own blog and those of you who don't write your own blog, but participate by sharing your thoughts and ideas in comments sections.

I'm currently managing this forum via Google Reader and have recently implemented computer-free Saturday. As this forum of intriguing individuals grows I'm sure we will all be seeking new ways to adjust to the volume. I know that I don't want to spend so much time reading about the lives of others that the life I live begins to shrink. I want to focus on my priorities and preserve what is most important in my life. For me, spending hours per day in front of any magic screen hinders this pursuit. As beautiful as this blogosphere may be, it also has its beast of burden qualities (...thinking Oh, what about breakfast? at 11 o'clock).

I just read some interesting statistics, a sneak preview of Technorati's State of the Blogosphere 2009 report. For instance, 2/3 of professional bloggers are male. Really? This surprised me. Professional bloggers are a well-educated bunch, 75% have college degrees and 40% have graduate degrees. 72% of the 2900 surveyed blog for hobby/fun and don't make money. Optimistically, 63% say they have become more involved with what they are passionate about as a result of blogging and only a tiny 6% say relationships with family or friends are suffering.

Of course, Twitter was also mentioned. 73% of bloggers surveyed use Twitter versus 14% of the general population. I'm sure you've heard or read that microblogging services such as Twitter are replacing traditional blogging. This might be true for a few, but this article claims that statistically, it just isn't so. They say the #1 reason bloggers are on Twitter is to promote their blogs, or "to pimp their blogs" as one audience member comically stated. I still haven't really wrapped my arms around Twitter and I'm not entirely sure how it fits into my life. Am I just using it to pimp my blog? Maybe.
So...I have a few questions pertaining to how you are managing the world of weblogs.

What technology are you using?
How are you managing your time?
Do you feel you are able to comfortably participate in the blogosphere and preserve what is most important in your life?

For myself, for me.

Seattle, WA - October 2009

Contracted
and expanded,
full
with nothing at all.

Is there still
a glimmer,
no matter how small?

A light floating fragment,
a ghost of the old you.

A tiny
yellow leaf.

Should I capture it?

That one last
piece, all that remains.

And keep it,
for myself.

Should I take it?

And press it,
hot with an iron,

between two sheets of wax.

So I can hold it,
preciously in my palm.

And cry.

For me,
just selfishly for me.

Suit

photograph by Dad

I once dated a bartender.
We met when I tried to play football.
He drove a jeep, called me a suit,
and bought me white chocolate chapstick
from the Gap.
He'd needed a clean shirt for work
and believed laundry to be a waste of time.
I knew it was all temporary.
I never even met his roommate, the actuary.
He wanted to be a cop,
like my dad,
and he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend.
She didn't bother with manicures.
He introduced me to
Everlong
and Aurora.