The sky is clear today. It’s one of those perfect Oregon winter mornings, when Mother Nature scrapes away the cloud layer and the sky looks brand new again. As the train rolls by, the valley is a book I have read too many times.
My heart, that which was born in this state and has been nurtured, broken, and repaired in this state has left me. Fled south, a monarch searching for mangrove trees.
An earthquake has hit Chile. A massive, 8.8 earthquake. I have friends in Chile. In Valparaiso. In Viña del Mar. I have rubbed my hands along the spray paint covered walls of that beautiful beach town, hummed Neruda under my breath on the sands of Con Con , eaten Mote with indigenous street vendors in the back alleys of Santiago. While Argentina was allusive, a lover that haunted my dreams and stole away from me at night, Chile wrapped me in the mystery of the Andes and promised eternal love. Seduction came in the words of Isabel Allende, the rhythm of Chilean Castellano, and the knowledge that my time there was fleeting, a shooting star across the black South American sky.
And now…
To imagine Santiago wounded. To imagine the Chileans, as the BBC described them, “sobbing in the streets”. What logic is there in earthquakes? What justice in 250,000 dead Haitians? 700 dead Chileans? Our world is turning on us, don’t you see?
The Cascades stand rock solid outside of the glass. The sky is tranquil in the lazy morning sunlight and cows doze quietly in their pastures. I keep closing my eyes and hoping, praying, that when I open them I won’t be looking at trees barren from the harsh grasp of winter. Maybe if I wish hard enough, I can be back there. In the arms of Chile.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Running Away
The Oregon Coast has secrets. Of that Anna was sure. As she drove along the endless miles of twisted, one-lane roads, she couldn’t help but peer into the impenetrable forest of evergreens and wonder what they were hiding.
She was headed towards a dumpy, wind worn, two-bedroom beach house that sat 50 yards off of the rocky shore. She had found it on craigslist, posted by an elderly couple whose only child had moved herself and their grandchild to the east coast, leaving them with a family beach house and no family. With no desire to live on the Oregon Coast in the frigid Northwest winter, they had posted a desperate ad describing the house as a “cozy, bright, lived in beach cottage, fully furnished, with two bedrooms, one bathroom and a studio loft. Perfect for a winter getaway from the hustle and bustle of city life!”
Anna should have asked what "lived in" meant, or exactly how "fully furnished" the house was. But, to be honest, she had stopped reading and started packing when she read "studio loft".
She had not told her boyfriend, Jon, about her plan to flee to the coast. He wouldn’t understand, she was sure. Anna was sure about many things, actually. She was sure that Jon didn’t really love her. That her one eyed blue heeler mix, Tanya, had a kindness greater than any human being. She was sure that she had been followed by a ghost since she was five. She was sure that smelling lavender could cure headaches, insomnia and impotence and that painting the spirits she saw at night was her greatest calling in life.
The night before her lease began, Anna slid out of the bed she shared with Jon in Beaverton. The city was an industrial suburb of Portland that grew like a malignant tumor, eating up fields and pastures and spitting out Taco Bells and dirty beige apartment buildings that sickened Anna and made it hard for her to breathe. She quietly collected her few things from his apartment, packed them into her small lavender suitcase, clipped Tanya to her leash, and slipped out the door. She left no note, no explanation, only whispering a sad goodbye to the spirits she had met there.
The night air bit through Anna’s pajamas and she shivered as she opened the door of her 1990 convertible Chevy Lebaron. Tanya hopped in the back obediently, giving Anna’s face a singular comforting lick before she shut the door again. Without a glance back toward the apartment and her sleeping boyfriend; she, Tanya and the ghost fled to the coast.
She was headed towards a dumpy, wind worn, two-bedroom beach house that sat 50 yards off of the rocky shore. She had found it on craigslist, posted by an elderly couple whose only child had moved herself and their grandchild to the east coast, leaving them with a family beach house and no family. With no desire to live on the Oregon Coast in the frigid Northwest winter, they had posted a desperate ad describing the house as a “cozy, bright, lived in beach cottage, fully furnished, with two bedrooms, one bathroom and a studio loft. Perfect for a winter getaway from the hustle and bustle of city life!”
Anna should have asked what "lived in" meant, or exactly how "fully furnished" the house was. But, to be honest, she had stopped reading and started packing when she read "studio loft".
She had not told her boyfriend, Jon, about her plan to flee to the coast. He wouldn’t understand, she was sure. Anna was sure about many things, actually. She was sure that Jon didn’t really love her. That her one eyed blue heeler mix, Tanya, had a kindness greater than any human being. She was sure that she had been followed by a ghost since she was five. She was sure that smelling lavender could cure headaches, insomnia and impotence and that painting the spirits she saw at night was her greatest calling in life.
The night before her lease began, Anna slid out of the bed she shared with Jon in Beaverton. The city was an industrial suburb of Portland that grew like a malignant tumor, eating up fields and pastures and spitting out Taco Bells and dirty beige apartment buildings that sickened Anna and made it hard for her to breathe. She quietly collected her few things from his apartment, packed them into her small lavender suitcase, clipped Tanya to her leash, and slipped out the door. She left no note, no explanation, only whispering a sad goodbye to the spirits she had met there.
The night air bit through Anna’s pajamas and she shivered as she opened the door of her 1990 convertible Chevy Lebaron. Tanya hopped in the back obediently, giving Anna’s face a singular comforting lick before she shut the door again. Without a glance back toward the apartment and her sleeping boyfriend; she, Tanya and the ghost fled to the coast.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Running
Elizabeth Jane Prendergast fell down a staircase in 1988 and never walked again.
(But this entry will not be about an absence of steps)
Exactly a year later, I was born, and became an Elizabeth J too.
My childhood is sprinkled with the sound of her hundred silver bracelets tinkling as she wheeled through her house, painting rocks and writing poetry together under the company of a millions stars, comparing her light strawberry hair to my auburn curls, and..oh...I'm starting to forget.
On a horrible day when I was 17, I lost her. We all lost her. And since then, I haven't stopped running.
She was my namesake. The only other member of the family with red hair. And with every step I take, I feel like I am redeeming her in some way. Making up for the fact that she spent my whole life sitting. It's something in my head, a way of dealing with the fact that she wasn't at my graduation, didn't see her third grandchild born, won't be at my wedding. And so, I run. And I run far. Last May I ran a marathon. Last year I ran over six hundred miles. Yesterday I ran ten miles. This week, I will run thirty. I run distances that don't make sense, that are almost masochistic. Sometimes, I can't eat for a day after I run because my body is at such a high level of distress. I run when I'm exhausted, sick, hung over. Marathon training is a mess of ice, Advil and self doubt.
But within all that pain, there is a tiny piece of hope.
I will take every step she never had the chance too. I will make up for the miles that were robbed from her. Maybe it is crazy; but this...this is why I run.
(But this entry will not be about an absence of steps)
Exactly a year later, I was born, and became an Elizabeth J too.
My childhood is sprinkled with the sound of her hundred silver bracelets tinkling as she wheeled through her house, painting rocks and writing poetry together under the company of a millions stars, comparing her light strawberry hair to my auburn curls, and..oh...I'm starting to forget.
On a horrible day when I was 17, I lost her. We all lost her. And since then, I haven't stopped running.
She was my namesake. The only other member of the family with red hair. And with every step I take, I feel like I am redeeming her in some way. Making up for the fact that she spent my whole life sitting. It's something in my head, a way of dealing with the fact that she wasn't at my graduation, didn't see her third grandchild born, won't be at my wedding. And so, I run. And I run far. Last May I ran a marathon. Last year I ran over six hundred miles. Yesterday I ran ten miles. This week, I will run thirty. I run distances that don't make sense, that are almost masochistic. Sometimes, I can't eat for a day after I run because my body is at such a high level of distress. I run when I'm exhausted, sick, hung over. Marathon training is a mess of ice, Advil and self doubt.
But within all that pain, there is a tiny piece of hope.
I will take every step she never had the chance too. I will make up for the miles that were robbed from her. Maybe it is crazy; but this...this is why I run.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Candles
Mama loved candles. If you woulda come to our house back in '65, you'd a seen exactly how far her craziness with those little wax statues went. They was everywhere. On the table, on the counter, around the sink, above the toilet, on top of the TV, in the bookshelves... hell she even put them near where the dog ate. Oh, and they were all different types too. Long ones, short ones, fat ones. She really loved those skinny ones that come in the glass bottles and have weird saints and stuff on the front. You know what I'm talkin' bout? With Mary and baby Jesus and...uh...other people I should recognize after spending all those years kneeling and asking for forgiveness. Thinkin bout it, that's probably why Mama always loved those candles. Reminded her of church. Though why she'd want to bring that cold, dark place back to our house I don't know. Sometimes, if me or Jimmy was acting up real bad, she would light ten candles, for the 10 commandments, and make us sit and recite the Lord's Prayer until the house went dark. The wax would slide down the walls but Mama would just keep watchin' and listenin', makin sure we never skipped any parts. I'd be right tired by the time we finally finished. The next day we'd have to use our pocket money to go out and buy candles to replace the ones we'd burned.
Lookin' back, it's no surprise what happened. I done told her. I done told her to clean the wax off the floor. All I know is one morning Jimmy and I got on the bus and when we got home, the only thing left were some scorched glass bottles.
Lookin' back, it's no surprise what happened. I done told her. I done told her to clean the wax off the floor. All I know is one morning Jimmy and I got on the bus and when we got home, the only thing left were some scorched glass bottles.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Shooting stars
Marie had never seen a shooting star.
She had heard of them, in the thick bound books she would read at night, and how they granted wishes. And she had a wish she wanted granted more than anything in her whole life.
After dinner she would spend hours, face pressed up against the glass, staring out at the absent ocean sky. Sometimes, if she had washed the dishes and daddy wasn't too tired, he would walk her down the steep concretes steps to the beach front, where they would sit on the sand. Daddy would set down his old black radio and tune it just right, until the soft whispering of sea captains accompanied them.
"Hear that Marie?" He would say, his eyes closed, softening the wrinkles around his eyes.
"Backing wind.." a ghostly voice murmured "19 knots.."
"Good night to be on the ocean." He would say to himself, and Marie wondered how he could understand these haunting phrases of men he didn't know, when she was sitting right in front of him.
Often times, exhausted from her sky search, she would fall asleep on the cold, sticky sand and wake up in her own bed, grains still stuck between her tiny fingers and toes.
One night, as winter turned to spring, and the nights became warmer, Marie and her daddy sat watching the blackness and listening to static. She had been waiting for a shooting star for months now, but every time daddy saw one, Marie missed it. She wondered if they even existed, or if the books and daddy had been lying about them too.
She looked up at the sky. The limitless black ceiling that framed her world, full of tiny immobile light.
"Daddy, what makes shooting stars so special?"
He paused, placing his rough hand on hers.
"Oh honey, they're not actually stars. Just pieces of leftover rock falling into the atmosphere and burning up. Then they're gone. They're special because they exist only for a second."
Leftover. Burning. Dying. Disappeared. She knew what that meant. She knew what gone meant. She knew that "gone" meant an empty chair at the dinner table, Daddy's hair going gray, adults sneaking glances at her and hushed conversations in the living room. She knew that gone meant black, and an ache in her little chest that kept her up at night.
Why would someone wish on something dying? Her eyelashes glistened with tears, and in that moment, Marie decided that she didn't believe in shooting stars. There was nothing special about existing for only a second, because behind you there was only emptiness.
So for the rest of the night- Daddy quietly at her side- she looked at every glistening, stable star in the sky and whispered:
"I wish for mama back."
She had heard of them, in the thick bound books she would read at night, and how they granted wishes. And she had a wish she wanted granted more than anything in her whole life.
After dinner she would spend hours, face pressed up against the glass, staring out at the absent ocean sky. Sometimes, if she had washed the dishes and daddy wasn't too tired, he would walk her down the steep concretes steps to the beach front, where they would sit on the sand. Daddy would set down his old black radio and tune it just right, until the soft whispering of sea captains accompanied them.
"Hear that Marie?" He would say, his eyes closed, softening the wrinkles around his eyes.
"Backing wind.." a ghostly voice murmured "19 knots.."
"Good night to be on the ocean." He would say to himself, and Marie wondered how he could understand these haunting phrases of men he didn't know, when she was sitting right in front of him.
Often times, exhausted from her sky search, she would fall asleep on the cold, sticky sand and wake up in her own bed, grains still stuck between her tiny fingers and toes.
One night, as winter turned to spring, and the nights became warmer, Marie and her daddy sat watching the blackness and listening to static. She had been waiting for a shooting star for months now, but every time daddy saw one, Marie missed it. She wondered if they even existed, or if the books and daddy had been lying about them too.
She looked up at the sky. The limitless black ceiling that framed her world, full of tiny immobile light.
"Daddy, what makes shooting stars so special?"
He paused, placing his rough hand on hers.
"Oh honey, they're not actually stars. Just pieces of leftover rock falling into the atmosphere and burning up. Then they're gone. They're special because they exist only for a second."
Leftover. Burning. Dying. Disappeared. She knew what that meant. She knew what gone meant. She knew that "gone" meant an empty chair at the dinner table, Daddy's hair going gray, adults sneaking glances at her and hushed conversations in the living room. She knew that gone meant black, and an ache in her little chest that kept her up at night.
Why would someone wish on something dying? Her eyelashes glistened with tears, and in that moment, Marie decided that she didn't believe in shooting stars. There was nothing special about existing for only a second, because behind you there was only emptiness.
So for the rest of the night- Daddy quietly at her side- she looked at every glistening, stable star in the sky and whispered:
"I wish for mama back."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Villains
He shouldn't have been a villain. That was never the plan.
He was supposed to be the knight, the fairytale, my neoplatonic other half, the Eros to my Aphrodite. Hercules. Sampson. The light to where I was dark. The answer to all my god damn questions.
And he was, for a time. We were selfish in our all consuming, magical, centuries-old Love. That is, until our meshed dreams began to unravel. We looked at each other and realized we had misread our pounding hearts and dizzy minds. He changed, his light eyes going dark, his half smile a grimace, his words poison to my dying heart.
And I, enraged and hateful, broke down my statues of the gods with sledgehammers and stories. Practically shouted his infidelities and lies to anyone who would listen, cried until rivers flooded and my very own light eyes went dark, my smile cracked and broken.
Which makes me wonder: Maybe, in the stories I spun and the enlarged, bloated truths I spoke-- I created a Villain. Maybe in my attempt to destroy him in vindication for my battle wounds, I became the Villain.
He was supposed to be the knight, the fairytale, my neoplatonic other half, the Eros to my Aphrodite. Hercules. Sampson. The light to where I was dark. The answer to all my god damn questions.
And he was, for a time. We were selfish in our all consuming, magical, centuries-old Love. That is, until our meshed dreams began to unravel. We looked at each other and realized we had misread our pounding hearts and dizzy minds. He changed, his light eyes going dark, his half smile a grimace, his words poison to my dying heart.
And I, enraged and hateful, broke down my statues of the gods with sledgehammers and stories. Practically shouted his infidelities and lies to anyone who would listen, cried until rivers flooded and my very own light eyes went dark, my smile cracked and broken.
Which makes me wonder: Maybe, in the stories I spun and the enlarged, bloated truths I spoke-- I created a Villain. Maybe in my attempt to destroy him in vindication for my battle wounds, I became the Villain.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Taking Notes
"Todas íbamos a ser reinas,
De cuatro reinos sobre el mar:
Rosalía con Efigenia
Y Lucila con Soledad
En el valle de Elqui, ceñido
De cien montañas o de más
Que como ofrendas o tributos
Arden en rojo azafrán "
-Gabriela Mistra "Todas íbamos a ser reinas"
“En el valle de Elqui, ceñido/ De cien montañas o de más” es una referencia a su pueblo, Montegrande. Montegrande es un pueblo en la mitad de los Andes en Chile. Chile es un país que está construyendo de los Andes, las montañas son una parte fundamental de su país natal, y la imagen de el valle de Elqui que está ubicada dentro de ellas pone el énfasis en la naturaleza de Chile. El segunda parte del estrofa tiene otro tono, “Que como ofrendas o tributos/ Arden en rojo azafrán” que significa que las montañas son volcanes también, son violentas, son peligrosos. Mientras las montañas puedan protegerlas también puedan destruirlas. Es un tono lleno de violencia, una referencia a la instabilidad de la vida y también de la políticas en Chile. “Ofrendas o tributos/Arden en rojo azafrán” puede ser una referencia a la iglesia, a catolicismo y el tributo de la sangre de Jesús Cristo y su muerte. Catolicismo es el religión mas popular en Chile y su influencia está sentido en todo los aspectos de la vida y en la poesía de Mistral.
(Midterms on the brain. These are notes on my 5 page paper for Spanish 437 due on Thursday. Real inspiration will show up again soon.)
De cuatro reinos sobre el mar:
Rosalía con Efigenia
Y Lucila con Soledad
En el valle de Elqui, ceñido
De cien montañas o de más
Que como ofrendas o tributos
Arden en rojo azafrán "
-Gabriela Mistra "Todas íbamos a ser reinas"
“En el valle de Elqui, ceñido/ De cien montañas o de más” es una referencia a su pueblo, Montegrande. Montegrande es un pueblo en la mitad de los Andes en Chile. Chile es un país que está construyendo de los Andes, las montañas son una parte fundamental de su país natal, y la imagen de el valle de Elqui que está ubicada dentro de ellas pone el énfasis en la naturaleza de Chile. El segunda parte del estrofa tiene otro tono, “Que como ofrendas o tributos/ Arden en rojo azafrán” que significa que las montañas son volcanes también, son violentas, son peligrosos. Mientras las montañas puedan protegerlas también puedan destruirlas. Es un tono lleno de violencia, una referencia a la instabilidad de la vida y también de la políticas en Chile. “Ofrendas o tributos/Arden en rojo azafrán” puede ser una referencia a la iglesia, a catolicismo y el tributo de la sangre de Jesús Cristo y su muerte. Catolicismo es el religión mas popular en Chile y su influencia está sentido en todo los aspectos de la vida y en la poesía de Mistral.
(Midterms on the brain. These are notes on my 5 page paper for Spanish 437 due on Thursday. Real inspiration will show up again soon.)
Monday, February 1, 2010
Grilled Cheese
It started Senior Year, when days were long and the future was a distant blur that really didn't have anything to do with us. Did it?
We were restless, thinking we were ready to Get The Hell Out. In an attempt to break the monotony, we organized GCW.
From the back of our Senior Class President's pickup, we grilled cheese sandwiches at lunch in the parking lot. We called it 'Grilled Cheese Wednesdays' and talk of the event would begin Monday, wondering if anyone would bring tomato soup or cookies to share. The bell would ring for lunch and we would race out to Jake's truck, calling "Me next!" as he stood hunched over his camping stove, flipping white bread and singing along to Weezer, until the bread bled golden from the butter and cheese.
It was a time when "we" was clearly defined. Before we broke out and nearly drowned in the tides of college, trying to define ourselves without the others. It was a hard first year without our community, our ritual days where we would return to class with grease on our hands and "Buddy Holly" still ringing in our ears.
But somehow we managed. And now I can't help but remember with GWC with a twinge of nostalgia, and wonder if we really understood that those days were the last of their kind. A beautiful testiment to our love for each other, and the end of an era.
Funny how a sandwich can make you feel so many things.
We were restless, thinking we were ready to Get The Hell Out. In an attempt to break the monotony, we organized GCW.
From the back of our Senior Class President's pickup, we grilled cheese sandwiches at lunch in the parking lot. We called it 'Grilled Cheese Wednesdays' and talk of the event would begin Monday, wondering if anyone would bring tomato soup or cookies to share. The bell would ring for lunch and we would race out to Jake's truck, calling "Me next!" as he stood hunched over his camping stove, flipping white bread and singing along to Weezer, until the bread bled golden from the butter and cheese.
It was a time when "we" was clearly defined. Before we broke out and nearly drowned in the tides of college, trying to define ourselves without the others. It was a hard first year without our community, our ritual days where we would return to class with grease on our hands and "Buddy Holly" still ringing in our ears.
But somehow we managed. And now I can't help but remember with GWC with a twinge of nostalgia, and wonder if we really understood that those days were the last of their kind. A beautiful testiment to our love for each other, and the end of an era.
Funny how a sandwich can make you feel so many things.
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