On Wednesday, I attended my friend Miriam's poetry reading in Sausalito, a small well-to-do town just north of San Francisco. During her reading, she explained that her work intentionally evokes the "cultural landscape" of her childhood, a small indigent rural farm where everything is old, dilapidated, and mystical.*
Her comment got me thinking...a burden common to all narrative -- in literature, film, and music -- is to successfully conjure up a shared landscape for the author and her audience. While the scale of these landscapes can vary -- they can be as vast as entire worlds or as small as single emotions or thoughts -- they must be clearly delineated within the course of the narrative.
Something to keep in mind if I ever attempt to write a story.
* I enjoyed her poetry very much. This poem is one of my favorites.
Friday, November 6, 2009
A Year of Weddings
Earlier in the year, someone from my high school updated her Facebook status to read: "You know you're getting old when your friends are posting photos of weddings on Facebook instead of photos of drunken frat parties."
So true. Jess and I been invited to six wedding this year, and we've attended four. We're getting old!!
So true. Jess and I been invited to six wedding this year, and we've attended four. We're getting old!!
Lebenskunstler
Yesterday, I met up with N. for the first time. Like me, N. quit his job last year, traveled around for a bit, and has been living off his savings.
When I told him my situation, he smiled in knowing delight, "Oh, you're a bum like me!" He continued, "In Germany, we have a saying for people like us. They call us lebenskunstler, which literally means 'life artist' in English."
I like that term -- it certainly has a better ring to it than "bum."
When I told him my situation, he smiled in knowing delight, "Oh, you're a bum like me!" He continued, "In Germany, we have a saying for people like us. They call us lebenskunstler, which literally means 'life artist' in English."
I like that term -- it certainly has a better ring to it than "bum."
The Golden Hills and Nike Women's Marathon
On October 10, I completed the Golden Hills Marathon, a point-to-point trail run through the East Bay Hills. The next weekend, my girlfriend Jessica ran her first 26.2 miler at the the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco.
The Golden Hills Marathon is a small event that features just under 110 participants. Although a handful of elite runners participate in the marathon, most of the participants are just average runners like me. It is run in conjunction with the Dick Collins' Firetrail 50, a competitive 50-mile ultramarathon.
The main appeal for the GHM and DCFT is the beautiful setting along the hills of Berkeley, Oakland, and Castro Valley. Much of the course traces the East Bay's Skyline Trail, which offers fantastic views of Mt. Diablo to the west and the San Francisco Bay to the east. My favorite portion of the race came about halfway through the course, along the French Trail in Redwood Regional Park, which immersed us in an old-growth redwood forest just a few miles away from downtown Oakland.
Before the race, I worried about the conditioning needed to complete a trail marathon that included 4800 ft. of climb. I had only run one marathon before, and it was a relatively flat course. My fears, though, ended up being unfounded. Even though I walked up all of the hilly portions of the course, my finishing time was only 1 hour slower than my previous marathon time.
The Nike Women's Marathon is a completely different animal. San Francisco swells with runners and spectators from around the country, even though a lottery culls the event to just under 20,000 participants. Still, the race is so massive it takes 20 minutes just to get all the runners across the starting line at Union Square.
The course makes it way through some of the most scenic places in the city, including North Beach, Crissy Field, Golden Gate Park, and the Great Highway.
Many spectators pay an extra few bucks to sign up for text messages that help locate their loved ones throughout the course. I wasn't aware of the service, so I picked a spot near the finish line and waited for Jessica the old fashioned way. Even though I was waiting for an hour to spot her, the DJ made the waiting seem more like a party than a spectating event.
Overall, we were both very happy with our respective events. Jess was thrilled to be running in the largest women's marathon in the world, and I was thrilled to participate in a small, well-organized marathon in a beautiful setting.
My Own History of Plagues
by Miriam Bird Greenberg
The year of drought was followed by the year of locusts,
the year of grass fires, the year when daffodils
threaded with cyanide seeds got all the goats.
Then it was the seventeen-year cicadas.
Next the two moons in the sky
looking askance with their white eyes
like a rabbit shucked of its skin in one fluid motion.
The year of my flea-bait boyfriend
with his flock of coonhounds. The year my father
took a long swig from a can of Sterno
and didn't make it back up the basement steps.
The year Jennie got lockjaw turned stiff
and gray as an old board.
Cats got the kitchen mice, but a possum
got the cats and some chickens too,
and Bill shot the possum but didn't count
on the kick, broke his collarbone like a hacksaw gone toothless.
At the end of twelve days ants had got the possum,
and maggots and fifteen kinds of fly,
and we all sat on the porch where the boards hadn't rotted through
drinking gin out of old jam jars as the sun sank
behind grain elevators. Then grandma excused herself,
and Lolly who'd been the hired hand for about a hundred years
left after her, and when I got up for the kitchen
I saw from the corner of my eye
him brushing hair out of her face,
and she had her hand on his waist,
and I knew both would be gone by next year
and the well caved in besides.
Read more of her poems at No Tell Motel.
The year of drought was followed by the year of locusts,
the year of grass fires, the year when daffodils
threaded with cyanide seeds got all the goats.
Then it was the seventeen-year cicadas.
Next the two moons in the sky
looking askance with their white eyes
like a rabbit shucked of its skin in one fluid motion.
The year of my flea-bait boyfriend
with his flock of coonhounds. The year my father
took a long swig from a can of Sterno
and didn't make it back up the basement steps.
The year Jennie got lockjaw turned stiff
and gray as an old board.
Cats got the kitchen mice, but a possum
got the cats and some chickens too,
and Bill shot the possum but didn't count
on the kick, broke his collarbone like a hacksaw gone toothless.
At the end of twelve days ants had got the possum,
and maggots and fifteen kinds of fly,
and we all sat on the porch where the boards hadn't rotted through
drinking gin out of old jam jars as the sun sank
behind grain elevators. Then grandma excused herself,
and Lolly who'd been the hired hand for about a hundred years
left after her, and when I got up for the kitchen
I saw from the corner of my eye
him brushing hair out of her face,
and she had her hand on his waist,
and I knew both would be gone by next year
and the well caved in besides.
Read more of her poems at No Tell Motel.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Stop Junk Mail
Via the Oakland Recycles website:
In order to cut down on the amount of junk mail you receive, you will need to prevent your name form being traded, rented or sold. This page will help you do just that.
Be patient. It may take three to six months to see the results of your actions. However, your time and effort are well worth a reduction in the amount of unwanted mail you receive.
You can also visit www.stopjunkmail.org for simple instructions.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Conditional Parenting is Counterproductive
Author Alfie Kohn cites recent research that "conditional parenting" -- i.e., rewarding children with praise for desirable behavior and/or punishing them for undesirable behavior -- is counterproductive. Using a system of punishment and rewards does not promote moral development; instead, it increases negative feelings toward parents/teachers and promotes unhealthy emotions in a child, like anxiety, guilt, and shame.
Instead, parents/teachers should practice unconditional acceptance accompanied by "autonomy support": explaining reasons for requests, maximizing opportunities for the child to participate in making decisions, being encouraging without manipulating, and actively imagining how things look from the child’s point of view.
Kohn states, "Most of us would protest that of course we love our children without any strings attached. But what counts is how things look from the perspective of the children — whether they feel just as loved when they mess up or fall short."
Read the full article at the New York Times.
Instead, parents/teachers should practice unconditional acceptance accompanied by "autonomy support": explaining reasons for requests, maximizing opportunities for the child to participate in making decisions, being encouraging without manipulating, and actively imagining how things look from the child’s point of view.
Kohn states, "Most of us would protest that of course we love our children without any strings attached. But what counts is how things look from the perspective of the children — whether they feel just as loved when they mess up or fall short."
Read the full article at the New York Times.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
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