You know that funny definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? I've never been a big fan of that definition. But, that's been my story. Over and over again.
Somehow the patience to look at myself and see my encore performances continues to be available. That's enough for now.
Spring continues to creep in here in Seattle. More like "infiltrates." This spring has the feel of home. Maybe it's because for the first time in many years, I have distinct seasons and time-specific markers. Here are some of the shows that are a block or two from where I live. I am always excited about the onset of poppies. Not for the heroin so much, but the flowers. Just wanted to be clear. Of course, I continue to look at rocks, take pictures of them, try to make paintings as well. They bloom year round and pose patiently for those of us with minimal skills. Perennials.
Mike Herring, my good tall friend, had no sense of smell. Technically I mean. He couldn't smell anything. This inability was a kind of ghost in his life, and we'd talk often about it.
One of the few services I could provide him was describing smells that he might not know existed. He knew about the obvious, perfumy ones. He could sometimes almost taste them. That was why he was a big fan of the stinking cheeses and leathery tobaccos that most of us flee. He could almost smell them.
Once, while we were walking down High Street on a swollen Summer day in Columbus, we passed a woman wearing a load of makeup. "Hey Mike, that woman we just passed, her makeup's frying. It smelled like burning tires." Or another time, some change included silver coin. I told him how silver has a acrid greasy smell when humans handle it. He always liked hearing about these glimpses into a world that he was locked out of.
I remembered Michael in conversation on Thursday and was reminded by laundry on Friday. As I was sloting quarters (yes, for the first time in memory, I don't have in-apartment w/d), I spotted an off-colored slug. Blame Canada, I figured. No, a 1958 silver jobbie, my birth year to boot.
The 1958 quarter is now sitting on my work/dining table. I like to ting it and hear the different music it makes compared to the dull coin of the realm. It seems like a vending machine to me. It stops me when I spot it and I get a toy or a candy or a mystery just by peering inside. It took me back to my youth and trying to fill one of those useless cardboard penny hotels with Lincolns dating back to 1909. (Copper smells funny too, like how blood tastes in your mouth.) I was fascinated with old coins. Amazed that they weren't all locked up in museums. Amazed that I could touch an object that was like a mini time machine. A penny from 1929 saw hard times. That was the penny that you'd hope to save.
So on that laundry day, I had my little Proustian scent moment, all so quick. Michael's often around me but his quirky power has diminished for me over the years. I looked our late correspondence, when he and I wrote a ton each month. His writing was like a ton of bricks (mine like a ton of feathers, I suspect).
On reading some of the letters, I was amazed at his devotion to process and detail. His mind loved the grain of sand as much as the beach. If he had time, I suspect that he would have enjoyed looking into how each grain of sand got to its place on the beach. Worthwhile sure, but he probably would have been just as pleased to hear about the coconut fog that surrounded sunbathers as they roasted.
That nice Michael Caine recently taught me that obsessions are a young man's game (see The Prestige, now on DVD). No matter, I'm doing what I can to build a new set of them. This doesn't mean that I'm throwing out the old ones. It's more like one of those corporate mergers where the existing employees all get to reapply for the jobs that they current hold.
One of my life long obsessions, never fully cultivated, is hanging out by stony riverbeds. I'm pretty happy with what the Seattle area has to offer. In fact, much of the region's natural world is sitting on my dining table:
Okay, calling this a dining room table might not be accurate. It's more like a Paper, Rock, Scissors court where Rock has a serious home-field advantage. The only wrinkle in this game is the abundance of water. Water wets Rock. Rock stinks.
Most of these rocks came from the Cascades or Port Townsend. Both fine places, full of rocks. Every now and then, I lift my head (and camera) and click at some differently-configured rock features.
This is a pic of Crescent Lake. Saw nothing shaped like a crescent or anything like a yeasty roll. Probably named by some lunatic who saw the crystal reflection of a gibbous moon. Just a guess.
Another sharply arranged pile of rocks is breathtaking from the ferry ride to PT. Mt. Rainier is beyond the abilities of my modest little camera but Rainier makes everything seem modest and little in comparison.
I didn't really talk about obsessions as much as I had planned. Rock and taking pictures of rocks are pencilled into the obsessions category. I might branch out and make painting rocks an obsession as well. Maybe I'll expand into eggs as well. That would be exciting!
I've been mentally trying on different career hats. The pace of the activity brings to mind the kid's book that I loved about the wandering cap salesman who wore like 50 soft caps on his head. In the Italian countryside, while he napped, a scrum of monkeys took his hats! He finally got the better of those monkeys, who I secretly rooted for.
While I'm trying to find a job, I'm still sorting through new possibilities. Rather than recount the laundry list of possibilities, let me tell you about two of my other childhood book favorites: Birds Eat and Eat and Eat and Go Dog Go. There was a book about trains as well but my memory has left the station on that one.
Go Dog Go doesn't show up on many of those "most influential" lists that famous writers compile. For a while, those driving dogs were the coolest, most exciting thing to me. Where were they driving to? A big party in a tree! I wonder if I associated them with my '57 T-Bird driving Uncle?
Birds Eat was probably of interest because my family ate and ate and ate too. How did those birds remain flight-ready? God knows few in my family have. Sorry guys. I suspect that the trains book also held interest since some of my family worked on the railroad, all the live-long day.
What these books have to do with my career search is unclear. Maybe it's just part of my relaxing Sunday. Maybe it's species envy. Birds fly. They don't have to enter the military, they just lift off. While it's pretty clear that dogs can't drive cars, they do seem to enjoy cars more than we do, from what I can tell. I'd have to go with species envy. Those animals have skills and propensities and they are their career.
I often traipse through my undifferentiated early childhood. You know what I mean: there's not a timeline, just a swirl of talismen or events. I'd like to say that there's a big kid vs. adultdifference between my decision-making or recognition powers. I'd like to say that I possess tools more sophisticated than an undifferentiated swirl. I'd like to say that. Hey you monkeys, give me back my hats!
Okay, calling this a dining room table might not be accurate. It's more like a Paper, Rock, Scissors court where Rock has a serious home-field advantage. The only wrinkle in this game is the abundance of water. Water wets Rock. Rock stinks.
This is a pic of Crescent Lake. Saw nothing shaped like a crescent or anything like a yeasty roll. Probably named by some lunatic who saw the crystal reflection of a gibbous moon. Just a guess.
I didn't really talk about obsessions as much as I had planned. Rock and taking pictures of rocks are pencilled into the obsessions category. I might branch out and make painting rocks an obsession as well. Maybe I'll expand into eggs as well. That would be exciting!
