field notes:

12.27.2002

Another day of rain and the forecast calls for at least five more gray, wet days. What price greenery, this. What gifts it brings...

I took a walk in the state park between here and Shell Beach this morning. A great place to be in the rain. Loamy earth, mossy trees, and some shelter from the biggest drops. Surprisingly, I wasn't alone there. The woods were filled with mushroomers carrying baskets and paper bags. I found a nice run of oyster mushrooms which we'll saute with some garlic for dinner.

Mushrooms. Rain's gift, earth's mystery: sweet morsel or poison dagger. Either way, a fungus worthy of words, maker of tragedy and fable, and object of passion. Frodo and company have a close call with the dark forces while following the call of the mushroom. Cautiously, I've limited myself to eating these from the wild: oyster, bolete, and chanterelle. For now.

I'm intrigued by another mushroom: the candy cap. It has a sweet odor when fresh, and is used in desserts. Last year, my friend brought me a handful which I dried and sat near the woodstove for a sublte maple syrup smell throughout the winter.

Silver and gold and a fine cloak--
these are easy to send with a messenger.
To trust him with mushrooms--
that is difficult!
-Martial

How beautiful,
beautiful indeed,
The poisonous mushrooms!
-Issa

posted by Lisa Thompson on 4:28 PM link | comments []

12.26.2002

I kept an audio journal while I drove back and forth to L.A. for the holidays. I haven't played it back yet, but I'm looking forward to hearing it: article ideas, reminders, what's on my mind, what I'm listening to, and a great little riff by my return-trip passenger on aikido and energy.

I've made this trip, journeying up and down highway 5 through the central valley, close to a hundred times since getting my driver's license and a car. I've often wished I could record my thoughts. This time I remembered not only to pack my tape recorder, but importantly, fresh batteries and blank tapes.

I can trace my adult life along this highway, along the length, the belly of California. I've made the trip with boyfriends, best friends, a brother; I've done it without a radio and with audio books; and I've done it high. Mostly though, I've driven alone, through the night, sober. The six or eight hours feed me. I may arrive at the other end tired, but I've certainly been somewhere, I've seen something, I've achieved a piece of clarity. These trips punctuate the text that is daily life, providing a long intermission where reflection is served.

My life lies in the northern half of California, my past and my family live in the southern half. My life consists of stitching these two quilts together, of rectifying the split. I've tried to live there, but have found it too difficult. The lighting isn't quite right: I can't take too many days of the white glaring sky that often covers the L.A. basin. But I can't live too long without seeing my family. I need the love and the attachment to the earth and to history that they provide me. I miss them.

So I drive. I move my self up and down the state alongside truckloads of goods, following the California aqueduct which delivers northern water to the south: a one-way flow. The valley used to be wet -- goods were moved by barge -- but that is hard to imagine now. The land is dry as bones without piped-in water paid for with political might. The valley has been sucked dry and the only visible waterway is as artificial as the highway. Have you seen Chinatown? Then you have an inkling about the nasty history and politics of California water stories. Los Angeles is a natural desert which supports 9.5 million people. The water has to come from somewhere.

Mostly, I don't stop on these trips. Or rather, I stop only for gas fill-ups, for letting the dog out, or for an occasional nap on the overnight trips. I've changed all that. On this trip I stopped extensively both south and north bound. On the way back my friend Nancy and I stopped just as we climbed up the Grapevine and passed Pyramid Lake at a place called Happy Valley. It's State Vehicular Recreation land. We were early enough to avoid the four-wheeling crowd. The sand was icy and crunched underfoot and the moon still hung high in the blue sky. From a mesa we had a big view of a shallow basin muted by high-desert colors. The water in my dog's dish froze while we picked a dry bouquet that graced the dashboard for the rest of the drive: juniper berries and sage.

Until now, I've only known the highway as a connective artery. I never explored the byways, the coastal ranges between the highway and the sea, the BLM lands, wilderness areas, the creeks and lakes. I didn't veer from the road I knew. But as long as it is my destiny to drive this state, I might as well enjoy the ride. I might as well explore the Sespi Range, take shortcuts and lunches on creeksides, find mapbound lakes, bird the walnut groves and pick wildflowers, leave my footprints on this land.
posted by Lisa Thompson on 11:14 AM link | comments []