A sad pumpkin story

A few weeks before Halloween K and I headed out to our local pumpkin patch for a crazy pumpkin patch and corn maze adventure. Never having lived in pumpkin-growing country I eagerly awaited my first pumpkin patch experience with more excitement than many of the kids there.

We pulled up in K's shiny red truck and I was immediately struck by the family nature of the event. Clearly we should have borrowed a few kids to make our appearance seem more legitimate. After paying the $6 entrance fee we circled the pumpkin patches clearly planted in stages, making fun of the gourds already succumbing to rot. Once around and the pumpkins seemed puny, not quite worthy of my years of carving practice. Although after having carved a three-foot tall pumpkin for someone in Germany it would be hard to find an equally impressive challenge.

The corn maze was, for me at least, a bigger draw. We wandered around the themed maze having to rely on our knowledge of local geography to find our way around. Eventually, we found the big pile of hay bales that were supposed to represent Mt. Hood. Up we climbed to survey the corn and pumpkins, and the families clustered by the food stand, the livestock and waiting for the hay ride.

After mastering the maze and hay bale Mt. Hood, we required rehydration. Sticky fresh pressed apple cider was for sale. Two bottles were placed into our wheelbarrow and we bumped along to focus on pumpkin selection. K found lots of adorable baby pumpkins, but wanted mostly the ones with the cute curly vines still attached. The rotting pumpkins distracted me often in my search. Imploded, exploded, half rotten, flattened, even one one healthy one placed inside the carcass of a rotten one making it look very much like a skull with an exposed brain, it was the same facination that causes people to stare a train wreck. For a while K and I debated which rotting pumpkin most accurately depicted the state out the current economic situation. We were going to use pictures to make a survey, but unfortunately I accidentially deleted them from my camera before finding a good format for the survey. As for my personal pumpkin, it was a hard choice. I was tickled by the albino and varigated pumpkins. However, I went for the traditional orange with a smooth carvable side and a cute stem. The abundant selection and my indecisiveness led me to find a second that I just could not part with. In the end, one tall and one squat pumpkin followed me home.

For a while they sat on my back porch out in the cold October air. I had big plans to carve them up on Halloween eve. A one-man carving party on my kitchen floor with roasted pumpkin seeds to munch on the next week. Two jack-o-lanterns to set outside my door and greet trick-or-treaters. It all excited me, because I remembered how much fun I had as a kid, both with carving and dressing up. I chose to hold off that long, because last year my pumpkins began to sag and smell before Halloween. Therefore, waiting seemed best. Then came the call I desperately needed, but it also put an end to my plans. My pumpkins sat neglected on my back porch while I went to work, second shift for more than a week. My porch light remained dark and I had to eat the candy myself. Next year, perhaps my pumpkin story will have a happier ending.

The last fruits of summer and a bit of Frost

As the fog lifted I headed toward the local park to explore the trails along the river. I wandered around thinking to myself about the great blue sky, the changing leaves and everything that has happened over the last few months. The smell of nature all around me was intoxicating. My miniature camera took pictures of everything, but later as I reviewed them, the pictures seemed less impressive without all of those intermingling scents or the feeling of sun on my face.

I spent hours there walking only a portion of the miles and miles of trails. At one point as I stood there about to choose between branching paths, that Robert Frost poem I had to memorize in 8th grade came back to me about two roads in a yellow wood. Unlike Frost, I did not stop to question what was down that untaken trail, knowing well I would return that way another day to trample upon the leaves strewn there. Instead, I eagerly chose the path muddy and lined with blackberry brambles. Unconcerned for the remote and unpopulated location I might have skipped a step or two, but there were no witnesses. Also unwitnessed was my tasting of blackberries straight from the vine. Some raced tart to my brain and others, in a slow sweet memory of summer, carried me off to other delicious blackberry remembrances. I shuffled my feet through the leaves to hear that glorious sound crinkling and crackling, longing for a rake to create a giant leaf pile. On that path where anything could have happened, I left behind shoulders strained with worry and a heart full of indecision.

As one hour turned to two, and two to three, I returned to a happy place. Not wanting to lose that euphoria of summer blackberries, dragonflies close enough to touch, gaggles of geese in flight overhead, the strong smell of crab apples growing along one trail, or the landscape festooned with autumn colors, I walked on. When finally my muscles began to betray fatigue, I returned to my little old car.

My happiness was tinted with loneliness though. After an amazing yet ordinary adventure the only one who would remember it was me. And that was one road I rather not be taking. But sometimes, as Frost suggests, we'd miss out on the unique experiences that brought us to this point and stage in our lives if we had taken another road. So I'll eat my blackberries where I find them; I'll stop to smell wild pears along the road; and I'll wonder at the strange animal slithering against the river's current, because there is no point in denying ourselves real moments of happiness just because we believe life might have been better down a different hypothetical road.

Chasing Waterfalls and Smelling Roses

Rounding out two months in a new location I thought it was time for a new hiking adventure. The weather was cooperative today with cool, crisp air and a clear blue autumn sky. After spending nearly $50 on a tank of gas with the gas gauge extended beyond full, I was ready to drive my old car anywhere the roads would take me. I decided on a trip to Silver Falls because there is always something magical about a waterfall. What it is about them that mesmerizes us, draws us out in masses I cannot explain; but anywhere I've lived waterfalls have coaxed dollars out of peoples pockets time and time again. Why does gravity at work fascinate us so?

I debated stopping at the bank bank first. I knew that the state park required a $3 day use fee and I had less than one in change. My feet, however, were eager to trample through the mud and convinced me that I could find one somewhere along the 25 mile route to the falls. No need to drive three miles in the wrong direction I reasoned. Ha!

That warm sun and a fully functioning heater kept me toasty and smiling. Driving on out of town I sang along to my favorite country stations, selecting songs happy and upbeat like "All American Girl". The speed limit creeped up as I rolled on out. 25 mph and I was still shivering. 30 and I was just praying the car would make it up the steep hill. Forty and I started looking for some sign of a bank, but there wasn't one. 45 and I thought maybe I should have stopped at Walmart because they would at least give me cash back. 55 and I just hoped that there would be an AMT in one of the towns along the way. At that seven mile turn off I looked out at nothing but fields and an empty road. I considered turning back, but optimistically pushed forward. At the first junction with a road leading elsewhere I turned right and raced 55mph toward a settlement of 3,000 people. If there was a bank, I didn't see it. There was a grocery store. So I bought some water and apples, (good for hiking), and a cucumber to take home to my falafels. As I went to pay with my new debit card I forgot the pin number, but it didn't matter I wasn't going to be able to get cash back anyway. So that was three miles out of the way to make a tastier falafel when I meant to be hiking.

Back on the road to the country highway I debated turning back again, but rationalized against it by telling myself there was one more even bigger town along the way. So I sped through the sunshine until I saw that sign for my next detour. The Oregon countryside, hilly and green, spread out like a hundred other views, more ordinary than the short rolling hills of Wisconsin and none dotted with fences and horse pastures so familiar in the hilly Kentucky countryside. The occasional Christmas tree farm reminded me that beautiful bright days like this are coming to an end and maybe, just maybe, we'll have snow this year. As I continued, I wondered what it was about my driving that caused my engine light to turn on and off at random intervals even after it had just been reset. A good twelve miles later, the town finally emerged from behind a clump of tall dark green trees at the top of a hill. Unfortunately, when I reached the center of town I turned the only way I could on a one way street. It was unfortunate because I soon realized I was at the end of town, any ATM there might be was definitely behind me, and I couldn't find a street to turn left onto. Finally, I did, and had to share the narrow space with a large black truck going the other way.

Headed back into town I still couldn't locate an ATM. As I was about to turn left to head back up that one way street I saw a sign for a grocery store ahead of me, so I changed my mind and my lane. But as I was about to pull into the parking lot, I remembered that they too do not give cash back, so there was no need to buy more stuff there to romance up my falafels. Instead I turned into a fast food place, ate, and mentally regrouped for my ATM hunt. Again behind the wheel I still couldn't find one. I was doing 27-30 in a 25 zone despite trying to go slower and there was a cop in my rear view mirror. Frustration had me unwilling to care, I figured he could go ahead an pull me over, maybe then at least he could give me directions to an ATM too. Instead, after following me for several blocks, he disappeared from my mirror when it seemed there was no place to go. Having passed another supermarket I stopped and turned my car around on a narrow road with ditches on either side. This time I loaded up on enchilada sauce and shoe polish, proudly getting my cash back!

With two crisp tens rubbing against each other in my wallet I motivated my little car up the hills back to that main road. As I go closer to the state park, I found more people set on the same adventure. The car two spots ahead of me set the pace for the slalom into the park. At the entrance to the parking lot I happily got in the long line of cars leading up to the ranger booth. I was going to go hiking! I didn't even mind paying for it. But then, I noticed that people weren't paying at the booth. They were using the automatic machine. No big deal, I thought. That is, until I saw the sign that they only took ones and fives. I could have risked putting my ten in, but didn't want to. I made a u-turn around the empty booth and checked my change, but no there really wasn't enough. Briefly, it occurred to me that I might just park without paying and risk getting caught. After coming all this way, it was disappointing to turn around. I wasn't about to give up just yet. So I went back out to the road and further down in search of another alternative. A few miles down there a smaller parking lot appeared. Needing to use the facilities, I parked and got in line to use the smelly, sink-less outhouse style toilet. Under other circumstances I might not have, but well, sometimes you use what you find. Next to the same was another automated parking machine, unwilling to accept anything other than ones and fives. So I shuffled back to my car shivering at the chill still stiffening the air like starch on a shirt collar.

I figured there must still be some place where a real human being would happily accept my Mr. Hamilton. If anywhere, there ought to be someone at the campground entrance. As I tried to pull back onto the road from the outhouse experience, a car came rushing down the blind hill honking angrily at me for pulling out in front of it. In all fairness, I couldn't seen it when I started; it only appeared in my rearview mirror. Annoyed already, that honk pushed the last button I had to push. At the first chance, I pulled off the road and was thanked with another angry honk. I sat there for a moment fuming, mentally throwing pebbles at the little red car zipping away. I know it isn't nice, but I figure if they felt inclined to honk twice they'd given me a few new not-so-nice names and modified them with a few unnecessary expletives.

Eventually I got out of the car and headed over to the fence to grab my only glimpse of a waterfall. Gravity in motion.

Back in my car I ventured over to the campground and once again found a closed up booth, this time without even an automated pay machine. That was enough for me. I could have just gone on and not paid. Probably most people out there would have, and no doubt they think I'm stupid to drive around in circles and then leave without getting any exercise, but that is exactly what I did.

When I got home I walked over to the large park two blocks from my apartment and took a half an hour walk around it. That worked off most of my frustration. Then I stopped in the rose garden section because I felt I really needed to stop and smell the roses. Fall really does seem to be coming. Most of the blooms are post peak, with bleached, withering petals and a thickening carpet of them on the ground. But there was still was still beauty there. I wished I had brought my camera. I sniffed around, but only found one type of rose with a deep, intoxicating fragrance. It was pale yellow with a blushing pink on the petal tips. Beautiful and seductively innocent. Cliche as it sounds, after a long annoying drive to nowhere two whiffs of that rose made it a not-bad day.

An unadventure

Somehow I decided to make a major change. So I left my home of four years and school to move back to Oregon for no reason in particular except that it is closer to my family. It is a struggle to make people understand why I would choose to leave and pick some other place to live. But I'm happier here. Well, I'll miss those great hikes back in Hawaii, but I'm sure I can find something to do here too. Somehow people seem to think that smart people have to achieve things, and somehow I was lumped into that category. So I've been trying to fit into that mold, but really I do not want to argue about things that most people cannot understand. I don't want to be committed to a career or a course of education that leaves no time for anything else. If it comes down to a choice, academia loses. When I started in academia it was for something other than the to impress other academics; but I feel like there is a message that only academics matter.

So now that that decision has been made and there is time for life, what does one do to fill the time to make it more meaningful? So far, most have my time has been dedicated to arranging a living space, as well as getting financial institutions and the government to recognize me as an Oregonian. With the new restrictions it can be downright maddening. No proof of residency, no bank account. No proof of residency, no driver license, no car titling, no car registration. With too many bills paid online this could have been a maddening circle of no evidence. At least it finally all did come together in time to register to vote.

So now things are winding down and this little fish needs to figure how how best to get about exploring her new fish bowl and making new fish friends.

Bring on Bali

So I finally got around to booking my next great adventure. Soon I'll be swimming off for a summer of exploring Indonesia. Not since Peru has a trip made me so nervous. See, I love to travel and visit new places, especially those off the beaten track. But somehow the anticipation of traveling alone overwhelms me. If I knew that it would all be okay, that I couldn't possibly get sick or robbed or injured in any other way, I'd go with much more abandon.

There is so much to do between now and then, so much to prepare. I'd much rather just get on the plane and go. Everything will be fine once I get there. I'll deal with the challenges that arise because I'll have to, and it will be okay. I know this, I just have to remind myself.

Tonight I'll dream about climbing more mountains, photographing mist on rice fields, layovers in airports, temples and ruins, hikes to villages I've never heard of before, ferry rides between islands under a hot equatorial sun, collecting word lists and hiking up volcanoes. Tonight I'll dream of all these things, and wish that my airplane had already landed.

Peru Part 4: The way to Chivay

From Arequipa I engaged in one of my least favorite forms of travel. Since my time was limited and I couldn't rent a car, a guided tour was my only option for traveling down into the Colca Canyon to Chivay and Cruz del Condor.

Carlos, the guide for the Colca Canyon tour, showed up late with a van full of other tourists, so I had the privilege of squeezing in up front with him and the driver. The group was made up of an Italian couple, an English couple, two young English guys backpacking across South America, and a Finnish couple with their adopted Peruvian daughter. Carlos explained everything in English and Spanish and our little fish took to only listening to him in Spanish. Since we were sitting so cozily together in the front we got to talking non-stop. In that privileged position, I got five times the information out of him as the rest of the travelers, who probably weren’t that interested in what he had to say anyway.

The drive to the canyon was a long four hours. We passed through large ranges where we were lucky enough to spot vicunas grazing and were given a detailed lesson on the differences between llamas, alpacas, vicunas, and guanacos. We continued ascending in altitude and even passed through the crater of a volcano. Before reaching too great a height, we stopped at a small restaurant surrounded by nothing else for a cup of Mate tea. Mate is a special highland drink made from leaves of the coca plant that supposedly helps people become acclimatized to the altitude. With two heaping spoonfuls of sugar it is drinkable. Afterward in the parking lot, I had my first opportunity to put my knowledge of llama/alpaca classification into practice and correctly identified the animal hanging around by the restrooms as an alpaca.

The minivan continued up and up passing small highland lakes while the towering volcanoes shrank into undaunting hills. When we reached the highest point of the trip we all stopped, scrambled out of the van and felt the dizzying and chilling effect of 16,000ft. Surrounding our daring explorers were pyramids of rocks, some small, some large. Not just a few pyramids, but hundreds, thousands covering the top of the mountain. According to Carlos, it is an Incan tradition. Each rock in the pyramid is a wish. One builds a pyramid to communicate those wishes to the gods, and the pyramids must be built at high altitudes so as to be closer to the gods. Amidst the wishes of who-knows how many years sat five women all trying to sell identical alpaca sweaters, gloves and hats.

From this point the road began its descent towards Chivay a town down in the canyon. Our group stopped once or twice more to photograph llamas and alpacas grazing. Funny how back home no one would even consider stopping to photograph a field of sheep, yet in the Andes a flurry of shutter clicks accosted the local livestock. Further along we hopped out again to admire the canyon. The snowcapped volcanoes slid down behind the other side of the canyon. The slopes that tapered down inside it were terraced in the Incan tradition and irrigated by the runoff from the snow packs of the volcanoes. At other times of the year the valley turned a lush green and the fields were ripe with crops, but in August when this tourista visited the soil was resting and the locals were paying their respects to the Pachamama or Mother Earth. Therefore, the dormant patches of land painted a rather dreary landscape in varied shades of brown and gold.

Once in the town of Chivay the excursion stopped at a local restaurant and all filed in and ordered the menu del día, except for the Finnish couple who went off in search of something that they considered more suitable. For 12 soles the menu del día included one of three different kinds of soup or salad, a choice of about ten different main courses, a drink and dessert. Since it was late, all of the famished travelers greedily welcomed the food though it took Carlos a while to translate the menu for everyone. Carlos’ meal came last. I being safe with the lomo saltado, asked our guide what his rather odd looking main course was after noting something that looked like a tiny leg and foot on his plate. He explained that he had ordered cuy, a typical highland dish. Once again Lonely Planet trivia came in handy and I quickly recalled that roast guinea pig is called cuy. Friendly Carlos offered to let his traveling companion taste his food, but I politely refused.

Without another glance at the guide’s fare, I finished of the last of the lomo saltado while Carlos chided me for not being brave enough to order the alpaca steak. With lunch finished each tourist was shuttled off to his or her accommodations. The Finnish couple and Fish Girl were ushered off to a cold wind tunnel that called itself a hotel. Finding the wind chill factor unacceptable and noting that at night the temperature would drop well below freezing and the hotel was not equipped with any means of heating, the Finnish couple let out a squawk and set off in search of a more suitable establishment. This traveler, who will always be a Southern California girl at heart, shivered and quivered, but I was also traveling on a budget and so I made due by piling all of the blankets from the extra bed in my room onto mine and burrowing into it. A bit later Carlos herded the group together and whisked us off to the local hot springs. This un-bathed, starting-to-smell, still-plagued–by-Huacachina-sand traveler welcomed the opportunity to sink into a pool of hot water even if it did reek of sulfur.

After two hours at the hot springs I found myself waiting near the minivan talking to the driver. He noticed me staring at the sky and asked if I could locate the Southern Cross. As I confessed that Icould not he got out and pointed at a general section of sky. “There, there is the Southern Cross.” I looked there and next to there, and to its left and right and just to be safe above there and below there but somehow could not make out the Cross. Carlos returned and joined the driver in pointing and insisting that the Southern Cross was there. This confounded fish stared and strained and imagined that every set of four stars formed the Southern Cross. Finally, Carlos pointed out a hill and told me to imagine a line going up. Then suddenly, it was there.

The others returned to the van, most not interested in star gazing, and the troop returned to their hotels. Time was allowed for freshening up before a group meal and show. The Finnish couple had the right idea, they passed on the evening. The rest of us were herded into a large room given a menu of everything typical to choose from. Then the music began. I doubt that any traveler in Peru, at least one who spent more than a day there, has managed to eat a meal without hearing pan pipe music. In limited doses it is quite beautiful music, but it becomes a pathetic cliché when it accompanies nearly every feeding stop. So as not to loose our attention dancers who went through a whirlwind of costume changes pepped up the music. Near the end they expected us to join them and the pair went around the room pleading with tourists to dance with them. Most were willing to watch, listen and eat, but only a daring few accepted the challenge of the dance floor. At around nine we began begging Carlos to let us return to our hotels. Departure time for the next morning was scheduled for an aching 6:30am. That meant, waking, dressing, packing and eating all before chugging off to gape at the condors. At 9:30 Carlos finally consented to our leaving.

Peru Part 3: Arequipa

As already narrated, after a few days in Huacachina and Nazca I traveled to Arequipa on a long night bus. It was still very early when I arrived, so this little fish swam around the bus station inquiring into schedules for buses to Puno. Then I stopped into a shop, bought some water and chocolate and had a chat with the shopkeeper. Before leaving the station I surveyed the facilities, paying the nominal fee and receiving a bit of toilet paper, even though I always carried my own.

In Arequipa I found a hotel, but due to the early hour the room had not yet been made up, so I left to walk about a bit. Upon returning, the room still had not been cleaned and this little fish traveler found signs of the last inhabitants evening pastime. When I went to ask about the room, it was cleaned straight away. I then left to make plans to visit the Colca Canyon, perhaps the deepest in the world (there is another more remote canyon in Peru which some claim is deeper). The agency recommended the two-day trip rather than the one-day trip claiming that the one-day trip left at 2am and returned at 8pm. The difference in price was minimal and the two-day trip included a hotel room, so this little fish changed her plans a bit and signed up for the two days.

With the rest of the day ahead of me I headed for the Santa Catalina Monastery, which, in its day, was like a self-contained city. Despite the name it was populated with nuns, mostly the daughters of the well-to-do. The bright blue and salmon-colored walls and cobblestone paths were enchanting and I told myself that I could have lived there peacefully as a nun, even if it had meant being celibate (note the irony).

Across from the convent was the museum housing the remains of Juanita the Ice Princess. Our celibate fish chose not to visit Juanita, as she had had enough of mummies in Nazca and she had seen plenty of photos of Juanita with her eerie smile and therefore had no desire to see her up close. For the rest of the afternoon the fish wandered around the town looking for something to take away with her. She visited a church or two but found nothing remarkable in them.

That evening I broke my “no internet while in Peru” rule, which I would break again, and found a message from L #2. It was a bit shocking; he came just short of declaring his love for me. Or perhaps in his own way he did, I just didn’t see it that way yet.

That evening I tried a dish called lomo saltado, which I remembered having read about in my trusty Lonely Planet, but had forgotten what it was. When the plate came I was amazed. It was piled high with two large scoops of rice accompanying it. It was enough food for two or three people. At first it seemed a bit strange, but soon it became an addiction. Lomo saltado is marinated strips of beef cooked together with tomatoes, french fries and chopped onion. This traveler, who usually is not a culinary adventurer, did try several other “typical” dishes (including alpaca) throughout her journey, but found none so appealing as lomo saltado.

Not having bathed since my arrival in Nazca two days earlier, I craved a nice warm shower to wash off the grains of sand that had plagued me ever since Huacachina. Unfortunately the water was biting ice-cold. I held off on bathing for another day and went to bed.

All pictures from Santa Catalina Monastery.

Fish Girl and Honu the Second

I've lived in Hawai'i for nearly four years now. Despite my love for the beach and my occasional snorkeling adventures, I've come across relatively few sea turtles (or honu as they are called in Hawaiian). In fact, up until two days ago I'd only seen one.


I feel an affinity with animals that seem to lack rippling gracefulness and seem to plod through life awkwardly. Knowing I'm not the only creature on this planet who is a little less than refined and sophisticated helps a little. In short, I adore sea turtles. When at the beach I secretly hope that one will come over with that look that says, 'yup, I understand how you feel, we are kindred spirits.' But instead, I bob up and down in the water in a sea of mounting melancholy, surrounded only by the ocean's glamorous denizens.


On my first encounter with a turtle I was reminded that they are just animals, not kindred spirits. For this one begged me to keep my distance. When I approached Honu the First he began to take an interest in me a flipped his way toward me. Cool, should have been my first thought. But the massive creature seemed peeved at the intrusion into his morning dance in the sunlight. As best I could I backed off to watch him from further away.


Another opportunity to find turtles to commune with presented itself when J. came to visit. He wanted to go to the beach where all the turtles go (apparently there is one and I've missed it). But we had just met and I wasn't letting him take me anywhere yet. So my next major chance to find these lovable swimming rock-like animals drifted away when I made an excuse to leave.


Finally, Honu the Second and I met two days ago. It took a trip to another island and just 20 minutes of snorkeling before I discerned his outline in the distance. He was floating back and forth in the surge - flippers outstretched, like he was enjoying the ride. At that moment I realized that sea turtles aren't as gawky as I imagined. Rocking in murky water Honu the Second appeared to dance with the rays of sunlight piercing through the water. Wanting to swim closer and play with him, I figured it was best to leave him be lest he take to chasing me as Honu the first did. So I floated there a while watching Honu enjoy life, wishing I enjoyed mine just a bit more.

Kafka and Geertz

I never thought that the sad neurotic author Franz Kafka and the well-traveled anthropologist Clifford Geertz had much in common, and perhaps they don't. Yet strange things happen when I take to reading their works out in public...

While picnicking with Kafka in a park in one of those far off places of my past, I attracted too much attention. No one would have mistaken me for underfed, yet I was offered food. My foreign appearance may have linked me with a love of Mcfood, but I really wasn't in the mood. Kafka had a much bigger draw. In turn three men old enough to be my grandfather approached me offering me food or money. At first the language barrier confused me, but body language could not obscure what they were really after. The first, the most gregarious of the three, offered to take me for food, give me money, and take me back to his place just across the park. Now one would think that having rejected the first the remaining onlookers would feel discouraged. But no. The second waited less than ten minutes to slide into the space vacated by the first and take up the dirty sign language. A firm repeated 'no' in several languages and an insistence that Kafka was all the man I needed finally scared him off. The third waited even less time to seize the opportunity to conquer me and Kafka. But he too kept his money and got nothing. Since he refused to accept my refusal, I had no choice but to collect my things and leave. Later I learned from a coworker that the picturesque park I had chosen for my afternoon picnic was also frequented by prostitutes. They must have figured I was one of them. For some inexplicable reason I blame Kafka.

Geertz is another matter. And another story. Maybe the comparison isn't quite fair. But I can't help seeing similarities. But let's not retell that story now...

Suspicious spam

Shortly after nine my normal morning routine came to a halt in front of the computer screen. Like every other day I clicked my way through my daily dose of friendly e-mails and sighed as I confronted my spam box. Sometimes e-mails intended for me wind up in the long list of unsolicited offers of Viagra, debt consolidation, e-dating services and products to lengthen, enlarge or reduce the size of various body parts. At seven messages, today’s list was pleasantly short. I scanned down the names of senders when one near the bottom slapped me with memories. My stomach took a dive for my toes which curled like claws into the carpet. The dot com of the address and I glared at each other for a painfully prolonged second. Repeatedly my eyes traced each letter of the name before a spark of reason shook my head clear. Certainly this unexpected and unwelcome message in my spam box was just a strange and unhappy coincidence. By now that blue-eyed apparition from the past must have lost all interest in corresponding with this over-flung fling. However, the “what if” worm kept wiggling and boring into my brain, painting absurdities with the perfection of Salvador Dali until I had no choice but to open the dreadful message.

I held my breath while my stomach performed another flip-flop. My hand trembled on the mouse as I clicked on the message. A voice in my head scolded my cowardice, my sense of self-importance, and my silliness at even caring whether that obscure name could be so prolific. When it came up I checked to see how many others had received the message, but my name stood alone in the recipient row.

Our two cryptic names in such close proximity seemed odd together, just like the two of us back when a well-intentioned person invited us as a “couple” on a day trip. We floated through it like oil and vinegar salad dressing, side by side, mixable, but distant. Pressed close in the back seat of a small car we drove for several hours, touching without intent or interest, seeing each other only peripherally, and speaking solely to those hosting our misery fest. The message revived the feeling of being near him and yet invisible. A thought crystallized in my psyche; he had painted my portrait as would a blind man who had never experienced me with any of his remaining senses. Hostility toward the wasted canvas inappropriately carrying my name lead me to fume.

Another deep breath allowed me to scroll down to the message from the potential past acquaintance. It consisted of a single line made up of 4 words and a question mark, but my eyes couldn’t focus on them immediately. “Is this from you?” it asked followed by a zipped attachment. Was it disappointment or relief that fed my paranoia? Under normal circumstances I would rapidly delete such an e-mail with a huff or a silent curse, but here was that ridiculous name stirring up questions, muddying my mind. Realizing that the name would hypnotize me as long as it continued charging up my optic nerves, I logged out and stared at the innocuous screen.

A few minutes later, I checked in again like the child whose curiosity overrides his fear so he reopens the closet door to see if the monster is still there. And he was. And I couldn’t delete him. But never fear, in thirty days my e-mail provider will do that for me.

~2004

Quest for the golden deity

originally written: March 16, 2000

(Taiwan)

That far off city, now enveloped in a fog of memory, no longer real, no longer tangible, only offered me one great adventure. My purpose there it would seem was simple, absurdly so. One day, not long after settling in, it greeted me under the afternoon sun. It, a golden statue high up on a hill surrounded by leafy trees, called out to me – I’m waiting for you. The early summer sun radiated enough heat to suppress the shiver that wanted to creep down my spine. There was no one I could go to, with whom I could have discussed the strange attraction I felt towards this golden monstrosity on the hillside.

At first, I tried to ignore it--it was just another statue after all, just another statue. But then I would see it gleaming in that afternoon sun and my curiosity would awaken. Every time my gaze landed on it I felt the call—I’m waiting for you. After a few days I began wondering about how long it would take to reach the deity, if I could get anywhere near it. I told myself that one weekend, one day, maybe a Saturday, I would set out before it got too hot and make a day trip out of it. That all planned out, I sat on it. Yeah, yeah, one day I’ll get up to that golden statue, but the days went by. Finally, one day when some forgotten depression was drowning me, I got up without thinking, only hoping to get lost while running away so that I could not turn coward and find my way home. I decided in an instant to head up the hill and find the golden deity, not because he offered me any answers or any peace, but because I thought that there was something to be gained in the search.

There is something quite fascinating to me about finding one’s way by feel. I tend to annoy traveling companions with my aversion to asking for directions. The search, the journey is (for me anyway) usually more rewarding than the destination. It is when we get lost that we are found again, when we stumble down the wrong path that we discover the peace of knowing the way. It is way of learning to appreciate our stability. So when I arrived at the statue’s feet only twenty minutes after setting out without even encountering a single wrong turn, I could not help feeling disappointed.

Looming on the roof of a monastery, the statue appeared quite eerie up close. The usual glow that it emanated from afar was gone. In its place, was a green-hued shine that did little to comfort me. I stared at the figure remembering that it symbolized something to the natives that I would never really understand, and maybe that I did not really want to understand. “He’s just another inanimate god,” I thought to myself before turning my back on him. I did not go home right away, I was still looking to lose myself somewhere, so I walked up the next hill to the cemetery. Yes the cemetery is up on the hill while the living live together squashed into the unenlightened valley. While passing by—I did not have the nerve to enter it— I saw large clouds of smoke rising from the desolate looking place. It formed quite a picture in my mind, the grass withered, brown, the tombs like miniature mansions with windows and doors, the sky almost a Greek blue and then this thick, dark, sooty cloud strong with the scent of living flames. Soon the fire engine came crying up the hill, rushing into the cemetery and down over the crest to where the fire must have been.

I continued along the road hoping to find something more welcoming, but there was just the one road optionless, leading down into another valley. It left nothing to decide, but I wanted that freedom, that power. Since it offered me no choices and only dictated the future, I turned back taking an unfamiliar route home.

Mortals and Mount Olympus

(This is another take on the last post)

I'd like to dance a jig on a mountain ridge and scale a wall of mud without the fear of falling to a premature death. Or stand rooted in the wind and stretch out my arms and let my clothes flap like drying laundry, and not dream of the gust that topples me. No, there should be no dreams of tripping or falling, at least until I've sprouted wings. Nor should any real falling occur. I'll shimmy down those rocks with my inelegant style, sigh 'oh my,' and mentally rehearse each carefully timed series of bounding steps to the next point of safety, but there's no need for death just yet. I'd like to reach that mountaintop someday uninjured (and even splinters are included in that prohibition).

Before you hold my sex against me, I'll have you know that my girliness is not so extreme as for me to bemoan the dirt that rushed up under my recently painted nails, or the mud caking on my lower body. I didn't even curse at the occasional mosquito that got a little fresh with me. But 40 ft of mud and tree roots had me wondering just which part of my body was the doing the hiking and lamenting our lack of universal health coverage. I wouldn't mind a mild battle wound, but only if I could afford to have it repaired to 'like new' condition and it saved me from the prelims.

The hike ended undramatically with a 'I'm not climbing down that, I'm not sure I could get back up' at a spot that was comparatively unimpressive. My fear of heights finally got the better of me. Yet, had we continued we would have been late returning home. So we slowly headed back taking in the view and scanning the bordering foliage for tart strawberry guavas. The mud had me momentarily reflecting on becoming the hermit of the ridgeline. That would take care of the prelims and a few other nagging inconveniences of modern life. The wind made me reconsider. A rather large L-shaped log embedded in the muck received my salacious greetings and promises of affection with a stern rigidity. Then came the bit with the rope, but it wasn't quite enough to get a good bounce out of. Perhaps mountains need more rope. Our baby roller coaster chugged back to the big rock face and up, up, up we went. I am happy to report that I almost fell off only once. Only once and only almost.

That night as my pectorals did more of the aching than my calves or hamstrings, I dreamt of our almost adventure to Mt. Olympus. At every possible moment I slipped, I tripped, I fell, and I slid right off the ridge, only to find myself further along, but meeting the same disastrous end. Not even in my dreams did this mortal make it to Mt. Olympus. One of those spills was my last. At least this time I awoke to tell the tale.