Real Grande por el rio

Happy Birthday Dean, Happy Birthday Martin, Happy Birthday Sherry. Life is good. 2 new prickly additions to our prickly family, Scott & Sheryl Jr., aka; the juniors. ...and it's frikkin' January. Rowed yesterday, bathed in beauty. 

Post Engorgement Gratitude in Dysburbia

I don't believe I've had much to say about where I live now. It's the same place we chose on our second visit, when we gave ourselves 2 weeks to find a new place to live on the other side on the country. The house is rather ordinary, one of the least expensive styles in this neighborhood. It needed a bunch of work, and we were able to strike a deal with our new landlord. We did the work, he payed for the materials, and we got to do it up the way we wanted to.

It's cozy and pleasant, but, it's very close to the highway, like almost every home in Sacramento, because there's so much highway here, and the road racket is unusually loud here. The neighborhood is one of the many, down at the heels, built on the cheap, suburban ghetto neighborhoods of Sacramento. It's an interesting collection of dystopic disparities.

On Saturday night, kinda late-ish (around 9pm or so) while lounging in our living room watching Japanese animated video, we were interrupted; startled, by a loud syncopated knocking at our front door. When I swung open the door, I was faced with a skinny shaking, drug addled shell of a man who immediately began a rather frantic speil about some fictitious program that he claimed to be representing. I quickly shut him down, much to his relief, and mine, and closed the door.

This was not an unusual occurrence here, as there is, what seems to be, a crack/meth house right down the street. I've seen hookers trickin' pretty much right outside our home, the pickup framed by our living room picture window, and we've had lots of addicted appearing people at our front door offering to do whatever we might ask, in exchange for whatever we might give.

So, when I heard loud banging on front door the following morning, I tried to ignore it, but they were insistent. I finally swung open the door, ready to blast whomever might have dared to mistake my weakness for kindness, and found myself facing our 11 year old neighbor girl who walks our dog. She needed an egg.

After I had furnished the requested egg, and recovered my equanimity from the wash of guilt and embarrassment for the snarly, transgressive demeanor of my response, I wondered about the contrasts and inequities in these two situations.

I continued my rumination, as I ambled about the neighborhood, with the dog, about an hour later. In the soggy haze of Autumn in Sacramento, a few days after our national day of engorgement and obligatory declarations of gratitude, only two days after the official start of the Holiday Shopping Season, our peaceful little neighborhood felt more like a broken dream, an unfulfilled promise, the no longer operational gift of winter holidays past. Just another faded, cheap thrill, the empty shell of campaign promises, pledges of allegiance, hollow paternalism, and threats of fire and brimstone.

I am grateful, however, that we have these homes and walls, however thin, behind which we hide any and all aspects of ourselves, which might of reveal our common humanity, vulnerabilities, and weaknesses. I am grateful that we do not have to ogle any characteristic of each other, or ourselves, that is not shiny and new and brilliant enough to be proudly wrapped in sparkling ribbons and shiny paper, and placed under a slaughtered baby pine tree.

What I said to the poor guy who knocked on our door, as I closed it in his face, was, "Sorry, man". Sorry, but I'm not big enough, strong enough, or wise enough, to surmount my embarrassment over the cavernous gap between my good fortune and your misfortune. "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

2nite

There was this tear.

Large and wet and golden. It slid down the soft skin of his face, and just like that, it was gone. Nothing more than a little wet spot on the white cotton blanket he was wrapped in.

In the gravitational field of the spinning planet and the bright sunlight of the warm New England day, the tear fell quickly. That's just how those things happen. Quickly. But, in my mind, in my heart, and in my soul, that tear is always falling, slowly. Catching and reflecting the glistening golden sunlight. The light of our star. Shimmering as it falls. Reflecting all that is, has been, and ever will be, for me. That was the tear that my dying grandfather shed the last time I saw him. I was probably not even 5 years old. A skinny sweet little boy, just trying to climb into his Zayde's lap. I wondered about the tear. Wondered why my Zayde was so sad.

For a long time after that, I forgot about the tear, but it was always there, always falling. Waiting patiently for me. Loving me, whether I was aware of it or not.

That tear contained so much love, that it defied, and continues to defy, both time and gravity. It holds so much love, as much love as the entire sun held that day as it shone on the lush green lawn of the hospital. As much as our entire star holds today, as some other small sweet child visits their beloved grandparent for the last time. The love in that tear fills my heart. It fills me. It fills my life. It always has. The love in that tear never stops. It won't. Not even when I do.

That's my Zayde's love. Strong, gentle, sweet, and infinite. With me. Always.

I remember ...

when I was a kid, and we lived in Cromwell, Connecticut, of all places, there was an annual event just after dusk on an early summer evening. It seemed like it happened right outside my bedroom window. I was probably 5 when I first noticed it. It was a pea shooter fight, a big one. The next morning us littler kids would come out, and we would marvel at the sheer number of hard little white peas all over the intersection. Of course, the intersection and the streets were nowhere near as traveled as they are now. It was quite different then.

So, take a look...


View Larger Map

Oh, speaking of being different in a different time, I've got pix from my latest abdominal ultrasound up on picasa. Check out my gallstones! aren't they the cutest!

From 20110107 - US Abdomen

Welcome Wagon

Long ago, in the lush fetid greenery of new suburbia (ca. 1958), and later in the caustic dust of the later suburbia (ca. 1962), I remember the pink accented, white packages, and the meek and tenuously extended kindness of the welcome wagon. More recent invocations of this custom have been reduced to bulk rate mailings of advertisements which go straight into the recycling box.

Just yesterday, we returned from our first odyssey back to to the east coast. SFO was chilly, but bustling with the energy of San Francisco and the self actualization missions of every single San Franciscans and their copious visitors. The ritual of BART mediated translocation proceeded with its usual mix of solemnity and joyous impatience, accompanied by the holy shrieking choir of wheels against rails in the trans bay tube, and assorted other subterranean venues. The train ride from Richmond to Sacramento was beautiful and fascinating, mitigated by our neurotic anticipation of re-entry into the fray of our lives here, but cheerily whispering its portent of impending jank as our weary gaze caught abandoned boats, cars, and farm equipment. As we stepped out of the train into the heat of Sacramento in the late afternoon sun, we were dazzled and jarred awake by the heat and intensity of the place we live. Like lizards on a rock, we basked in the warmth that we had left behind.

Our ride appeared, in a faded white 81 Datsun B210 with a suitably cracked dashboard, and some tangled wiring where the radio once might have been. As we squeezed ourselves into the vehicle, one which truly fits the label "compact", and its fake leopard skin covered seats, we felt bathed a warm, dusty, familiarity. Our lovable, burly driver, and friend, Damon, chattered about recent Sacramento trivium, and regaled us with tales of his recent adventures in the more northerly regions of the state, and we truly felt welcomed. Welcomed back to this janky town we call home.

the evening

Not necessarily that subductive, deeply mysterious, time of the day just after dusk, but the blurring of the harsh, high definition textures of the bright light of day into the vague smoothness of the early night. Every tiny moment, every infinitesimal point of darkness is fraught with drama. Obscured by the secrecy of the shadows, of the unknown mysteries. The stifled groans and cries of the barely imagined struggles, with and against. The furtive passions. The lurking predation of cruelty, injury, and hurt. The entangling bondage of shame and the strident declaration of naked freedom. All enclosed by the quiet paucity of visible information, allowing, drawing, the imagination into the play of emotions over it's softly rippling surface. Even, and more, and less, than even. ...the evening.

Family Values

A robin family has inexplicably selected a crook in the drainpipe on the side of our garage, as their chosen land. The parents built a mud and grass nest. Eggs were layed. Babies hatched. A Parental Robin will often take a stand on the walk near the drainpipe, with a worm dangling from it's beak. If undisturbed, it will flutter up and feed the little ones. If anything feels amiss, however, the bird will fly away and wait out the untidiness in a nearby tree.

Sheryl, being the most observant, and the self-appointed hausfrau, was the first to notice the nest, and the mother robin sitting expectantly on the eggs. It wasn't long, a week or two, before they hatched. The babies have always been rather scruffy and unattractive. Their parents, however, are relentlessly dedicated to them. Sheryl has seen the parental robins chasing away hawks, which like to lurk threateningly.

We feel privileged to have the opportunity to share our good fortune with this little family. To watch the babies grow, and to watch the parents love them, and protect them.

Life is good, all the time.

---

addendum 20090826:

Early Wednesday afternoon the hawks attacked. Sheryl was home. They killed 3 of the babies, and carried off 2. The lone survivor was traumatized. He wouldn't eat. He didn't trust his own parents. Jumping from the nest, but too young to fly, he refused the raw chicken that Sheryl attempted to feed him. He refused the juicy worms his parents offered him. Sheryl carefully put him back into nest each time he jumped out, while his parents flew around making a fuss.

Eventually he stayed put. Probably exhausted.

Sheryl and I left to row. When we returned he was gone.

The nest is empty now. I looked inside, and was amazed at the smooth roundness of the interior.

I still believe that life is good, all the time.

Almost a Full Moon

Dear Norway,

This evening I was fortunate enough to have dined on a fine slab of barbecued salmon from one of your salmon farms. It was absolutely delicious. A huge improvement over those little red tins of sardines with the gold and black lettering on them. Congratulations to all of you, on a job well done. Keep up the good work.

It has not escaped my attention, however, that your people are called Norwegians, even though the name of your fine country is Norway. This inconsistency has probably had some subtle, and some not so subtle consequences in your dealings with the rest of the world. Since the population of your country is large, and they might not all like have their identities changed to "Norwayians", I would recommend that you change the name of your country to "Norwegia". That way all your people could still continue to be Norwegians, and things would just be more sensible. You just might notice some improvement in your interactions with the rest of the world as world as well.

Once you have changed your name, I might actually grace your fine country with a visit. In any case I'll look forward to hearing about it.

Your humble Friend and Saviour,

Life is Good

In Sac, it is springtime. I'm on-call this week, which means I get to work 16 hour days, except for the weekends, when I have to work 'round the clock. Right now I'm ok, and there's always the hope that it will be a calm night.

The nice part is that I've been home during daylight hours. I have to sleep through most of it, but I'm usually up by early afternoon, and I get to hang out on our patio, soak up the sunshine, tweak the dog, and Sheryl, and enjoy little sweet things like Sheryl's Icelandic Poppies. I'll enjoy Sac while I'm here, but it's becoming clear that my place may be elsewhere. California is a big place.

The dark side of feminity

Watched LOR with my baby brother last night, as we celebrated his 50th birthday. As when I first saw it, one of the things that struck me was Galadriel's soliloquy when Frodo offered her the ring;

And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!

This frank admission of the dark side of feminine mystique has haunted me ever since I first heard it. Probably because it so succinctly articulates that unfathomable and delicately balanced locus between fear and love that draws all men who love women and womanhood.

Winter in Sacramento

Winter is harsh, and it is harsh here as well; record lows for this region. Banana trees appear to be dying. Orange trees are a bit more hardy, but we have draped our little ones in holiday lights and plastic to keep them warm and frost-free through the night. Winter seems to have more mystique here. Real cold is largely an unknown phenomenon here. However people jump at the opportunity to put on warm snuggly clothing. I guess people need winter whether they have it or not.

The holiday lighting around here is quite interesting. Some of it quite lurid, like the huge inflatable snow globes with, what look like carcasses, hanging in them, swaying back and forth as the wind blows. ...and some of it quite pretty, like the blue plastic imitation icicles which people hang from their gutters, or the zillions of sparkly lights of all colors that twinkle all over some neighborhoods. I've only seen a single religious display, and nothing of the garishness commonly seen in New Haven.

There is a certain magic in winter, in the drama of the darkest coldest season. Atomic and molecular vibration slows, and the snow muffles any sound. The eerie cold stillness dominates. Yet life continues, in subterfuge, hidden away. It's our warm little secret. Tomorrow evening is the winter solstice. After that the days will get longer. The warmth of the Sun will increase, and the joy of life will once again burst into dominance. That drama is so apparent in New Haven, as the town is shuttered and nearly dead when the university closes for winter break. Here in Sacramento, people struggle to create that drama. They long for that magic. It gives meaning to the abundant sun.

I'd like to end this holiday navel gazing with best wishes to everyone, big and small, for a joyous and magical winter solstice season.

Vacation's over...

Now get back to work!!!

Ok. Ok. I'm starting Monday.

I still haven't finished documenting our big journey, and now I'm gonna have even less time and attention for this blog.

The real problem is, I'm having too much fun here...
...Biking around.
...Making our home homey
...Exploring Sac, and the river, and Berkley, and...
...Searching for a job. I guess I'm done with that one.

I'll try to stay in touch. Really I will. If I don't, however, a li'l nudge from you all wouldn't be unwelcome.

:)

Another threshold crossed

Well, we did it. We are now officially californians in the most californian way.

We went to the DMV this morning and got our California driver's licenses and I transferred my vehicle registration over to California. Since Lily bought her car here, it was already a cali car. Now we are all cali cars and drivers.

Yay!

Ola Sacramento!

Quite some time ago I adopted a policy against apology. I don't give them and I don't accept them, at least in principle.

This entry is a rather belated greeting, as we arrived here 14 days ago, two weeks ago, on the 15th, pretty much as we had planned. Our household belongings, traveling separately in a moving van, didn't arrive until the 16th. That was both fortunate and unfortunate. More about our abysmal experiences with All In One Moving later.

Cody, and the approach to Yellowstone

It was pretty dreary as we hightailed it outa Worland. It was not too long before we rolled into Cody, Wyoming, so named because it was the home of Buffalo Bill Cody. Yeah, Yeah, big deal.

As we rolled westward along the North Fork Highway, out of the town of Cody, and into mountains, however, the landscape began to change. We were winding through a narrow mountain pass, along the Shoshone river. The wind was whippin' and the river, which was more like a brook, was a long way down. We went through a short tunnel, and when we came out we were looking at the Buffalo Bill Reservoir. We pulled over and discovered that we were at the Buffalo Bill Dam.

It was freezin' ass cold, and very windy, so we didn't stay long. Continuing west along the North Fork Highway we rolled through Wapiti, and as land began to take on a spirit of it's own. We were approaching Yellowstone.

Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse, Ten Sleep ...

After the badlands we headed north, stopping for a very pleasant breakfast in Rapid City. Our waitress was pathologically nice.

Then onwards towards Mount Rushmore, and the Crazy Horse National Monument. It was raining softly as we headed back out on the road towards Wyoming.

As our little vehicle climbed high into the mountains, the dreary drizzle began to clear, and the air grew colder; more crisp and clear. We found ourselves in a most serene and beautiful place; Ten Sleep Canyon. As we emerged from the canyon, late in the afternoon, we came upon the tiny little town of Ten Sleep, Wyoming, population 287.

By early evening we were rolling into Worland, Wyoming, and figured that we wouldn't reach anyplace more likely to have lodging anytime soon. We stopped at the Motel 8, and Sheryl found out where the cheapest place in town was, and we went there. It was cheap in every sense of the word. The sign sez it all. I think T & C means Town and Country. That's us.

South Dakota

We didn't cross the border into South Dakota until well after dusk. We stopped in Sioux falls to eat dinner, and sleep at a friendly Motel 6. Motel 6 is generally fairly pet friendly, but this one even offered little green poo poo bags. After a fairly lurid breakfast, we were back on the road.

After western Minnesota, the landscape of eastern South Dakota was pretty interesting, but still quite flat. We followed the endless parade of signs to "Wall Drug", just because we didn't know any better. Wall Drug is your standard tired old tourist trap. We had a late lunch there and moved on, ...south to the badlands.

The badlands was absolutely breathtaking. Stark naked beauty.Quiet, humble, but windy and bustling with life and activity, if you listen and watch. We encountered a big old bison. Buffalos are more like cattle, think water buffalo. This was a big tatonka, majestic, sweet, and sad. To me, he spoke of the majesty of this great land, despoiled and discarded by..., well, by us.

There were prairie dogs. Fairly well camouflaged, they made themselves known by their cute, little squeaks, which, upon closer listening, were more evocative of the cry of the hawk. Quite communal, these busy little characters, worked and played well together, sharing space, but not food. There were warnings that they were carriers of the plague, which, I assume, meant the bubonic plague. Not desiring to be adorned by buboes, we kept our distance. Cute but deadly.

The context for all of this, the badlands themselves, sang softly, and danced lightly, in the sun. Large on a scale well outside the realm of common experience; intense, unforgiving, unwavering, but sweet and generous with their own beauty. These lands demand respect, but also encourage joy. It is a holy place. This is our holy land. The holy land of the new world.

By the way, these videos, and more, as well as links to still pictures, can be found at YouTube by searching for "unconxio.us".

Minneapolis

We continued southward and westward, past the not-so-great lakes of Wisconsin. We stopped for the night at Rice Lake, Wisconsin, and dined at the Roman lounge there. Surprisingly, the spaghetti and pizza was not draped with american cheese food product, like all the breakfast items were.

Aside from Rice Lake it was all pretty rural, with each town boundary marked by a sign stating the tiny population, many less than 100. It was pretty much the same as we drove past the not-so-great lakes of southeastern Minnesota, finally making Minneapolis, where we hung out, and had dinner with Sheryl's delightful cousin Chrystopher, and her daughter, Lisa.

Minneapolis is a really cool city. Pity it's so cold in the winter. Thursday morning after a fun breakfast at a somewhat punkish diner, Sheryl and I took a bike ride around the University section of the city. It's extremely bike friendly, and, despite hosting the RNC that week, quite progressive, which is more than I can say for Sac. The food was downright decent, a welcome relief from cheese food product laden eats of the more rural areas.

That afternoon, after tying up some of the dangling loose ends of the lives we left behind, we were on our way, past more of the not-so-great lakes of Minnesota, into the flat desolation of western Minnesota. It's a big state, and from what we could tell, most of it is occupied by acre upon acre of cornfields. As far as the eye could see, corn, corn, corn. Not much traffic, the odd semi here and there. Pretty desolate. It's gotta be pretty rough in the winter.

U.P.

After Niagra falls we made the mistake of trying to take a shortcut across Ontario, and spent most of that evening in Homeland Security Hell. We shook it off, however, and made our way to Michigan's upper peninsula, over the magnificent Mackinac Island Bridge, and arriving late that afternoon. We stayed in the charming town of St. Ignatius, self-described as a drinking town with a fishing problem. As we wended our way across the beautiful U.P. we learned about pasties; little meat and vegetable pies popularized by the Welsh miners who were hearty enough to populate this area, and marveled at the fact that this was a fresh water shoreline. The great lakes are fuckin' HUGE.

My only previous experience with one of the great lakes was in Cleveland, not the country's most attractive great lakes shore. The Northern Shores of Lakes Michigan and Huron, along Mackinac Island, are quite beautiful, and fairly deserted. Looking out onto the lake water, it seemed like looking out over the ocean. I guess that's why they call 'em the great lakes.

Niagra

The hotel was quite the retro dumpy experience. After showers, shaving, etc. we were disappointed to find only old pathetic coffee in tiny styrofoam cups. We packed our bags back into the xterra, this time via the back seat, as the rear lid was blocked by our bikes, and beat a hasty retreat.

We pulled off in a place called Weedsport, to seek breakfast. Being the Sunday before labor day, it was really quiet. We stopped at Arnold's Family Restaurant, and had a normative diner breakfast. However, the table where we were sitting was right under the HVAC system which was emitting some sort of ultra low frequency vibrations which made us all want to leave as soon as we could.

After a small eternity of dreary driving through upstate New York, we finally made it to Niagra Falls. As we approached the city we could see the mist rising from the center the city, even form a couple of miles, or so, away. It looked like a massive radiator or boiler malfunction. Allegedly the native american word Niagra means noisy river, or noisy water, heap big noise, or something like that. It certainly seemed apropos.

Being that it was Labor Day weekend, the place was packed. Awash with tourists, immigrants, and all the rest of the Great American Melting Pot, it was still quite a spectacle. We did not opt to stand in line for hours and wear little blue or yellow raincoats, but settled for the more distant, and pedestrian experience. We still got a little wet though. Check out the video...