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.

Comments

[Toast]

The hills in town are much more daunting than they look from the car or on foot.

Don't you just love that? It's amazing how many hills one discovers on a bike ride where, previously, flat land was thought to reside. ;-)

[Rana]

Yes! And it's not just the uphills - there are a few downgrades that were steep enough I had to get off the bike and walk, I was scaring myself so!

(Good to see you, btw!)

[Jennifer]

'The birds are few and repetitive' -- I liked that. It's the case here, too.

[Pica]

Rana -- this reads like a prose poem.

Oh the cat and the ink. I have to rig up all kinds of cat-proof things when I'm using ink in a dippable container. They mostly don't work, so I mostly make sure to do it over and around place that can be mopped and wiped if calamity befalls.

Which it does.

Walnut ink stains the hands but it's easier to get out of fabric than india ink, it's a lovely ink for sketching...

[Linkmeister]

I Googled tatami-soled slippers and got one hit, but a bunch of ads which might be worth investigating.

[Rana]

Jennifer - it's rather odd, this business with the birds. When we moved in there were tons - robins and starlings and sparrows and woodpeckers and jays and mockingbirds and catbirds and cardinals and chickadees. Now I hear the mockers and catbirds, and occasionally see the chickadees and once in a while a sparrow, but the rest are all gone. It's disconcerting.

Pica - do you make the walnut ink yourself?

I have to admit to feeling very stupid about the ink and putting it on the ground where the cat can easily knock it over - it's not like I'm not aware of that tendency of cats, as she does that with the newspaper, and I've grown up with sprawling cats. She's a weird little cat in that she doesn't do a number of typically obnoxious cat things - jumping on the counter, eating food that's within reach, knocking things over - so it's a bit surprising when she, well, acts like a cat.

Linkmeister - Living up to your name, I see! :) I'll have to look. I've been mostly searching for flip-flops (which these shoes are) but perhaps I should broaden my horizons to include slip-on shoes. (I like them because they are light and easy to wear around the house, and because the tatami doesn't stick to my bare feet like leather or rubber does.)

[Linkmeister]

It's how I got the name in the first place, posting links to newspaper articles in a Yahoo book club. ;)