field notes:

12.15.2004

posted by Lisa on 4:09 PM link |

12.09.2004

Good morning from the end of the continent where I'm thankful for the recent storms that raised temperatures here by at least 20 degrees. I don't even mind that I left my woodpile uncovered--I hope the wood rat don't mind. I saw him scampering about in my back yard recently. Quite a big fellow, less furtive than others of his kind. He didn't look in the window to see that he was being observed. Don't the animals smell my dog and thus stay away, or perhaps they can also smell that she is too old to put up much of a chase. She's become a grandmother, sleeping most of the day with an afghan throw over her extremely comfy bed. She rouses for meals and walks, and usually for greetings, some of them quite rambunctious, especially when Stuart visits. Sunday might have been her first time not being able to stand up, though. I found her lying outside on the road in a place I'd never seen her. When I came back some time later she was still there. It was on a slope, so I went over and helped her up, without testing her to see if she could do it on her own. I think I didn't want to know...but I do know. It was the first time and sometime will be her last. I know it's coming and partly I'm prepared, already steeped in the rituals of caring for the aged: the doctor visits, the pills and vitamins, surgery recently, a stool to help her get in the car, very short, slow walks. But today she is still here, still able and willing, happy to be alive--her legacy really. Out for a walk we go!

posted by Lisa on 7:08 AM link |

12.08.2004

(Apparently my comments feature won't accept large posts. I apologize and will replace it. I'm responding here to a comment left on the post of 12.5.04 by Coup de Vent.)

Art carries the seeds of hope. At least for me. The body of art tells us that people have been through dark times before, and have survived, and even thrived. The fact of your writing going out into the world, and any political activism, if it comes from an honest place, is a counterweight by its very existence to oppression.

Dark times force us to go deeper within ourselves, within the brokenness of our culture, into the sorrow and difficulty of being alive. It seems to me that if we-- artists, activists and creative thinkers--face all that darkness, and bring authentic expression out of it, the result will be a true addition of depth to the culture. It is the very lack of that depth now that allows it to be this much of a mess.

Activism that seeks to mimic forms of the past (hey, it worked in the 60's) isn't authentic enough to break through the flatness, the unseeing state of our culture. The actions need to be alive, they must be born from the startling act of seeing and feeling, and express that revelation. Revealing the hidden.

Protest marches don't seem to be the way to make things happen. They don't carry that seed of art, at least for the most part. I don't know what the answer is, but I think it lies somewhere in the area of the personal, and that it must be authentic, and that it must carry beauty.

The role of poets is to remind that each person and thing is resonant with the meanings that sustain life. Poets weave the nets of art and language that can catch the images and ideas that alone can heal the ailments of the soul, the troubles of the age. Poetic speech is the universal language; the one foreign language that everyone must learn.
--from an essay by Michael Meade

posted by Lisa on 7:17 AM link |

12.05.2004

from 'What is Found There, Notebooks on Poetry and Peace'
--Adrienne Rich

What is political activism, anyway? I've been asking myself.
It's something both prepared for and spontaneous--like making poetry.
When we do and think and feel certain things privately and in secret, even when thousands of people are doing, thinking, whispering these things privately and in secret, there is still no general, collective understanding from which to move. Each takes her or his risks in isolation. We may think of ourselves as individual rebels, and individual rebels can easily be shot down. The relationship among so many feelings remains unclear. But these thoughts and feelings, suppressed and stored-up and whispered, have an incendiary component. You cannot tell where or how they will connect, spreading underground from rootlet to rootlet till every grass blade is afire from every other. This is that "spontaneity" which party "leaders," secret governments, and closed systems dread. Poetry, in its own way, is a carrier of the sparks, because it too comes out of silence, seeking connection with unseen others.

posted by Lisa on 9:38 AM link |

12.02.2004

It occurred to me last night that my job here is to continue writing about Inverness life, but in new ways which I do not yet know. Lately I spin a fictional West Marin in my short stories, having abandoned my place-writing practice. I won’t make any promises about coming back to a more regular schedule at Field Notes, but I think it might happen naturally now.

I’ve been deeply engaged with a struggle about living here. I feel isolated, and wonder if I should move to a more urban area, or at least a town with more than a thousand people in it. And yet, I can’t bear to think about leaving this amazing place—the beauty, the people who live here who are committed to good food and good growing practices, political ideas, art, and community itself. Imagine walking into a beautifully converted barn filled with local organic produce, a creamery that also sells delightful cheeses from around the world, and a fantastic catering company with a deli counter. People call out to you, the merchants whom you know, your friends and neighbors, all there to buy lunch or food for dinner. You have more conversations than you can count as you move from one end of the barn to the other, gathering food that you can trust, that will nourish your spirit as well as your body, that was grown organically in order to give back to the planet which produced it. Whenever I feel lonely, a visit to the barn fills me with belonging.

Last night I gathered for dinner with some amazing people, talking about the birth of something called The Pulse of Science. It will be dedicated to imagining, protecting and promoting scientific pursuit free from the damning influence of corporate interests, especially around the issue of GMOs and the food supply. The Pulse of Science Fund will also focus on Professor Ignacio Chapela’s tenure case against the University of California.

An excerpt from Ignacio Chapela’s recent writings about his case:

Pods, cocoons and other places. On November 21st, I will announce the creation of a space of support, quite simply, of uncompromising questions and their questioners (that which some of us understand as Science). In the absence of a university able to confront a time of catastrophic loss in diversity, I want to weigh in not by advocating reform, but by helping build safe spaces where inquiry could take place, to inform the present, but more importantly to help define what options (not necessarily what outcomes) we can and desire to leave behind for those coming in the future. Thinking of biological processes as developmental ones, and thinking of humanity in a trajectory unavoidably entwined with that of the rest of the world, I want to bring my work to bear on the developmental spaces that will allow futures that we might not only survive, but also desire. The obvious analogies are those of seed-pods, cocoons and the uterus, spaces where development is possible, capsules in a journey through time and inimical environment, into a future where such development will be necessary...

We ate amazing food at this dinner, by the way. First an appetizer of sliced persimmon with duck confit. I never learned what was in the squash soup, but it was glorious, and topped with treats from a variety of little bowls that passed from hand to hand, chantrelles and hedgehogs, chantrelles wrapped in prosciutto, goat cheese, and pomegranate seeds. A big salmon caught in Half Moon Bay came next with a platter filled with several varieties of roasted potatoes and golden beets. Afterwards a 2 foot long squash and apples glazed with butter and brown sugar were served with a chilled pureed persimmon sauce. I only tasted two of the wines, but they were wonderful, all organic (except for the bottle that I brought!). As somebody said last night, in addition to the requirement of eating from the basic food groups, there should be added another requirement, and that is company.

Lastly, from the poet Hölderlin:

"For the mindful God abhors untimely growth."

posted by Lisa on 8:55 AM link |