Frogs and Ravens

Animeme

Well, I was contemplating writing another piece responding to Janisse Ray's essay (theme: the joys of being "in the choir") but then Chris Clarke tagged me with a meme (eyeroll) so I guess I'll do that instead (fetching groan).

(It's a pretty good one. jo(e), pica, you're up! And anyone else who'd like to do it!)

Quiet Season

Life these days is measured in small, subtle increments, and it doesn't seem to offer enough substance for writing. Only little drips and drops fall onto the page, instead of fluid outpourings.

The weather is quiet and overcast. The birds are few and repetitive. The routine of our days is, well, routine, centered around the needs of the cat, our bellies, teaching, and the yearning for sleep and idle moments of television.

I spent today thinking about my shoes. They are a pair of navy blue pumps from Aerosoles, with a low heel and a "kiltie" decoration across the toe. I admire the way they look on my feet, the loveliness of the blue, the contrast of the fringe and brass studs. My feet complain about their rigidity along the heel-line, and the pressure they exert on the sides of the toes (they are still new, this being their first real wearing). Walking to and from campus, I shed them in favor of my patent-fake-leather Birks; at home I shift into my house shoes, a well-loved pair of flip-flops with woven tatami soles. I live in dread of their wearing out; I have yet to find another pair with the same sort of sole.

One evening I found myself with ink-black fingers and lines of darkness under my nails, throwing ink-soaked paper towels repeatedly into the garbage. I was clever enough to put a plastic bag under the inkpot when I hunkered down to doodle in my sketchbook; I was not clever enough to anticipate that the cat, seeing me on the floor occupied with something other than her, would try to lie down on the inkpot. I am grateful that the cat did not get in the ink. I am regretful that our new rug is now marred by a spot that looks like an out-of-place shadow that never moves.

I have been cramming information about French and Spanish frontier activities into my head, fodder for this week's lectures. I am both glad that the lectures are so short, so I can do this in haste, and sorrowful that the class is too busy for a leisurely exploration of these stories. At least I am not teaching one of those thousand-years-in-15-weeks courses.

I tried cooking some black-eyed peas the other night. The pods were so lovely - long and green with purple stripes - and the peas themselves intriguing little nuggets of pale green with dark spots and a coating of green-white pith. I pan-cooked them in oil with a bit of butter and garlic, and some water to steam them. Alas, the theory was better than the practice; they remained chewy and challenging to eat.

I went to the ceramics studio last week, riding my bicycle there for the first time. The hills in town are much more daunting than they look from the car or on foot. I carved and smoothed the pinch pot and lumpy cat sculpture of last week, and began a small container out of slabs. I've given up going in there with any deliberate projects in mind; instead, I seem to be working my way through all of the skills that have grown rusty with disuse, recapitulating the process of being a new student.

When I have quiet moments, and when my hands are not tired from writing paper comments and lecture notes, I work on a moss-stitch cardigan. The yarn is a deep blue called "Blue Ink" and although the progress is slow, it is satisfying. One little bump at a time, the sweater grows.

I have little moments to write about, but I can't seem to make them add up into anything larger. It's like my life, as I think about it.

Fall Has Come?

Autumn seems to have arrived: the air is cooler, even cold, especially early in the morning. Now when I let the cat out onto the porch in the morning I close the door behind her, and I find it difficult shedding my warm pajamas for crisper clothing.

My mood is subdued, my energy waning. Is it a seasonal shift? I wonder, or is it an accumulation of sleep deprivation resulting from allergies and early-rising, loud-meowing cat? Either way, I find myself feeling out of sorts more frequently than I'd like - a sort of mental bloat.

The department chair has approached me about carrying a full load in the spring. It is a generous offer, as it means a substantial increase in income. I feel a certain reluctance, partly because of the work it represents, partly because it feels like a step backwards to be teaching again, and partly because I am already regretting my inability to make the full use of the free time I do have now. There are so many things I would like to do, and there is not time enough for all of them as it is.

I do not do intensely busy well anymore. I struggled with it during graduate school, and eventually found ways to cope, but I think I was designed for a slower pace. In life I'm a long-distance through-hiker, not a sprinter. I can manage short bursts of speed, but like a cat, my endurance is low, and I tire and become distracted easily.

Or maybe it's just fall, and I haven't been sleeping well.

Dog-Paddling Upstream

Recently I read an article in Orion by Janisse Ray, called "Altar Call for True Believers." In it she addresses the question of "preaching to the choir" among environmentalists, and argues that the choir is more in need of preaching than one might think. She calls for environmentalists to make more of an effort to walk their talk, to fully live their lives according the principles they espouse.

Now, I don't have much of a complaint with this argument in its general form. I agree that it's silly to suggest that people ought to use reusable bags at the grocery and switch to fluorescent bulbs when one is unwilling to do the same. These are small changes, and they add up.

But I found, by the end of the article, that my hackles were raised, and I'm trying to put a finger on why. What I've come to believe - and it's an uncomfortable belief - is that, if Janisse is correct, I am not a good environmentalist, if I am an environmentalist at all. On the heels of this belief is an even more disturbing one - faced with the possibility that my efforts are not only practically but symbolically empty, why should I bother? Why should I struggle, if nothing I do will ever be "enough"?

Little Cat Feet, My A**

Anyone who talks about cats being light on their feet has never heard b on our wooden stairs. She has three modes of navigating them. Only one, the slow creep, comes close, but her pedal silence is negated by her plaintive, demanding yowls.

Usually, she surges up the stairs in a rush, muscular little legs churning beneath her while her head and torso race smoothly towards me. It is simultaneously amusing, endearing, and alarming. I've never seen her do this from below; she walks with me when I go down the stairs. Her running descents I've witnessed only from above, her little form rippling down the stairs, each foot hitting one step in turn, frantic motion and swift gliding serenity both, often with a skid at the bottom.

Her other primary mode is bounding up and down. Here she hits each riser with two feet at once, bobbing and bouncing like a feline cross between a rabbit and one of those plastic rocking horses on springs. The sound that accompanies this action is an entertaining cacophony of hollow thuds: boomp-bomp-boomp-bomp-boomp-bomp... When she does this, I know she's full of energy and wants to play. If I wish to sleep without the refrain of cat wails beyond the door, I know that I must first wave the peacock feather above her head, up and down, like a servant waving a fan above a maharaja's spoiled daugher.

The daughter probably makes less noise, however!

The Rushing of Squirrel Feet

Our bedroom is a zone of white noise: there's an air conditioner in the window, and an air filter by my side of the bed for my allergies. (I need to change it, I think.) As a result, the usual sounds of birds in the morning are not audible.

In the bathroom, on the other hand, the window is cracked open for ventilation. When I get up and go into the bathroom, cat meowing at my heels, I have my first encounter with the morning. Air temperature, humidity, the sounds of animals - all come through six inches of space blocked only by a screen.

This morning I heard a rippling sound outside, a noise somewhere between fingers tapping on a keyboard and a bubbling fountain. I could not imagine what it might be.

Squirrels. Two squirrels, to be precise, spiraling around and up and down a tree in a prolonged game of tag.