Little waves on the north shore

I just pushed the camera out the car window and shot without looking...
didn't realize my Home Shopping Network hands would be in it. Doesn't it look like I'm trying to sell the camera?

Ko Olina at sunset

Our favorite lagoon is abandoned and romantic...

In Oahu

Ah, Hawaii. Here is our favorite place to swim, the Ko Olina lagoon. It’s a manmade series of lagoons with rock walls to break the waves. It’s pretty exciting to swim in the tranquil water and watch the fearsome breakers dashing against the rocks – like being indoors in the middle of a lightning storm.

I swam at Makaha, which is unprotected, and what a difference. Hard to explain how powerful the undertow is. Just walking along the surf, no deeper than my ankles, I was literally afraid I would get knocked over. It just pulls. I swam in maybe three feet of water and definitely got the sense that only vigilance kept me from being swept out to sea. I’m chicken but I almost died in skyscraper-sized surf in Maui a few years ago, so I learned my lesson from the sea.

Hilariously, Waikiki is not safe to swim in right now (sewage problem)… one of the world’s most exclusive beaches is untouchable.

A marine biologist student I met on the bus explained to me, though, that two currents fork around the island, so beaches on the leeward side or on the north shore are fine.

I’ve been taking some bus trips on my own since Alan is working. Everyone is really nice and I’ve had good talks with fellow busriders and with drivers. Very friendly.

We did a nice hike today in Makiki and drove out by Koko Head which is gorgeous.

As for writing: it took me a few days to settle in and open the laptop. But I’m happy with my production so far: three days of writing and 16 double-spaced pages to show for it. One scene involves a man planning a sophisticated dinner so I took some cookbooks out of the library (yes, I’m such a dork I got a library card already. The library in Kapolei is gorgeous) and enjoyed looking at the recipes. One recipe requires you to start cooking 2 weeks beforehand! (Duck confit)

I’ve been reading a collection of short stories by Andre Dubus III, one of which was the basis for the movie In the Bedroom. What an amazing writer. I hope the folks at Chabot are enjoying House of Sand and Fog. Remember, always open your mail even if you're depressed and thought you dealt with the county already!

Seattle airport

Here’s a picture from the airport. A boy was kneeling counting the rings in the translucent image of a redwood. He never saw me on the other side of the glass. His dad eventually joined him and they were pointing and counting together, but their shadows merged and looked monstrous so it didn’t make a nice photograph like this one.

Pirate store

In case you can't read the sign, the pirate's joke is "How much did the pirate pay to get his ears pierced?"
Answer: a buccaneer.

Hello Seattle

Seattle is a beautiful city.

I had a five hour layover there, because of course when flying from Oakland to Hawaii the most expeditious route is to go north…. When you’re using a frequent flyer coupon you go where the airline tells you, without complaining. Well, maybe just a little complaining.

Anyway, Seattle is fabulous and it was totally worth it. I love their public transportation system. Downtown, the buses are all free, and the routes/schedules are very easy to figure out. I took a bus from the airport and walked along the waterfront. There’s a great view across the water of snow-capped mountains (look at the background of the photo of a boat being lifted by a crane). I was excited to find a Pirate store… in my car, 9/10s of the time I am listening to my pirates sing on a cassette. I almost bought a mini pirate bobblehead for my dashboard.

I also went in Ye Old Curiosity Shop. Fascinating for a look at the morbidity of last century’s collectors. But I was distressed to see that they were also selling fudge! I mean, after looking at the shrunken human heads with their overly-long eyelashes and the mummified woman whose flesh was ravaged by larvae and the sad, curled-up stillborn fawn and the momma cat and kittens, all poisoned by eating a poisoned rat, my last thought is of “What can I put in my mouth?” Especially given that the fudge seems to be manufactured on the premises.

Pike’s Market is fun to wander around in… but if you enter at street level on one street, it’s impossible to figure out how to exit on the parallel street, which I needed to do to find my bus back to the airport. Construction around the structure didn’t help, either… A nice shoptender kindly left his till and walked me up two or three flights – how counterintuitive to ascend when you are trying to exit; this never would have occurred to me!

I’m so glad I had a chance to see Seattle (my first but not last time). I can’t wait to return.

Ginger versus Bush

Paul Robeson

Paul Robeson…. a pity we don’t know this name better. He was an amazing man. This guy fought for what he believed at great personal cost. For one thing, visit here to read the transcripts of his appearance before the House Un-American Activities Committee; he held his own and showed those interrogators as the buffoons they were. It’s interesting to read this after seeing Good Night and Good Luck not too long ago.

The funny thing is, I had decided quite randomly to write my history column on Robeson, based on a photograph in the Oakland History Room of him singing to inspire WWII shipworkers in Oakland. For lack of a better reason, I was going to tie my column in with the movie I just mentioned… but the librarian at the History Room said, “Oh, you’re writing about the exhibit?”

Huh?

Turns out that serendipitously, there’s a fabulous exhibit up now at the African American Museum and Library at Oakland (AAMLO) with all kinds of video monitors so you can see the great man in action and hear his insanely deep baritone voice. One of the things this exhibit stresses is that Robeson was the first to underscore the importance of Negro spirituals by performing them in sanctified concert halls. They're more than just work songs—they have a depth and power and distinct philosophy about life and pain; they are a legitimate artform.

Speaking of powerful songs, the exhibit also talks about “Old Man River” and how Robeson was best known for that song, although its lyrics are stereotypical and he had to change them. I still get chills, however, at that line, “I’m tired of living and scared of dying/But Old Man River he jes keeps rolling along.” As a young girl growing up in Vermont looking through our Broadway showtunes book, I remember being awed at the desperation that lyric expressed. I’ve still never seen Showboat; I should rent it.

There’s a Paul Robeson tomato on display, created by Moscovites… maybe that’s why the HUAC was so suspicious!

AAMLO is graced with six Arthur Mathews murals, out of an intended 12 (the library ran out of money, back in the early 1900s). Two panels were completed and burned in the fire associated with the 1906 earthquake (whose centennial was yesterday), so Mathews had to repaint them. My museum friend Diana says the Oakland Museum will be doing a Mathews exhibit next year: can’t wait.

Tulips and morbidity

My favorite flower is a tulip, and my favorite color in tulips is red. These are at the Mountain View Cemetery right now, for the Tulips Days they hold annually.

Frederick Law Olmsted, who designed the cemetery and also New York's Central Park, was adamant that cemeteries should not be like parks. I had a hard time understanding this for a while. Mountain View is designed with beautiful curving roads that sinuously and organically cut into the hillside, and its stretches of greenery are visually stunning... isn't that what you mean by park?

But yesterday I spent some time thinking about it as I climbed the cemetery's hills. I think the Victorians were into picnicking at cemeteries, bringing the whole family and a gingham blanket to sit upon. And maybe that's what park meant then: simple, mindless enjoyment -- whereas Olmsted wanted an acknowledgment of the sobriety of death...?

I think he would have approved of how I visited the cemetery yesterday. I was there initially to take a photograph of a monument for my history column, and then decided to walk for an hour (yes, the cemetery is that large) for exercise... but the tombstones I read as I walked soon had me in a thoughtful frame of mind.

The mowers had just mown the grass, so the air was filled with that staggering scent of summer, and the trees in blossom also sent their odors wafting... the grass was the bright almost translucent green of a heavily rainy winter... The lawn rolled down to a vista of ocean and distant cities. I stood there gulping down all the ecstasy the earth was serving up: dazzled; really, lucky. Lucky to still be here and experience it.

As I looked at the 1800s graves of children who lived for hours, or lived for months, with a granite lamb atop their stone to say how the parents grieved, as I smiled at some of the outlandish names, as I saw newly-placed flowers and even several true mourners crouched or on their knees, fresh in their sadness, I thought that all I could do was try to be good in my own way. This would all pass, this sensation, this brightness, my skin... my only job was to be aware and thankful.

And Olmsted's landscape made such "large" thoughts possible. It is easy to see the earth's cycle and know your place in it when nature is hand in hand with the dead.

And on to some cemetery gossip: the unendowed section of the cemetery? What a frightening mess. Gravestones buried half-cocked under grasses, split into pieces. I found a pile that looked like they had simply been thrown in a mass from wherever they once stood. I thought if ghosts exist, they're here in the unendowed section, furious, bewailing their forgotten state...

My cats were like bishops....

...but Gary's dog is God. Come see my writer friend Gary Turchin read from his very cool novel in progress My Dog God. Happens 7 p.m. on Thursday the 20th at the Rickshaw Stop in San Francisco. More details here.

Kismet

Yesterday I was out photographing various Oakland landmarks that had been saved through efforts of Oakland Heritage Alliance members. Here’s a startling one: City Hall itself!

After the Loma Prieta earthquake, there was a strong push to knock it over and start over. Luckily, our gorgeous Beaux Arts building got the seismic retrofit it deserved.

I was photographing these buildings for the Oakland Heritage Alliance newsletter, which I lay out. It's OHA's 25th anniversary, so I was trying to get images to illustrate a looking-back kind of article. Since Friends of the Oakland Fox, the group working to re-open the fabulous old Fox Theater which has been abandoned for decades, was an OHA offshoot, I decided to take pictures of the Fox façade.

Façade only, since the front is barred with chain link fence. I’d only been inside the theater twice, for very abbrievated looks.

So I was there holding my camera, peering through the fence, when I discerned a live human behind it, sitting in a chair. Upon seeing me, he rose to his feet and walked to the gate, saying, “You’re here to take photographs? Come on in.”

He was treating me like he was expecting me!

Although it crossed my mind to pretend I was whoever he thought I was (which always works in movies), I decided to come clean. “Are you expecting a photographer?”

“Yes.”

“Someone from a newspaper, media?”

“No, a preservation group or something.”

“Oh. It’s just a random coincidence that I’m here taking pictures of the Fox. But I wonder… is that preservation group the Oakland Heritage Alliance?”

He wasn’t sure, but he was kind enough to let me inside anyway. I was blown away by the luck of my timing, to be there holding a camera when he expected someone holding a camera….

So for the third time in my life, I entered the cavernous and gorgeous Fox Theater, built in 1928 and moldering since the 1970s. The 4,000 or some odd seats are all gone, so the auditorium is vast and curved and empty. On either side of the stage are two gigantic Buddha statues. Back when the Fox was operational, incense would burn in the figures’ laps and their eyes would glow. One statue’s eyes glowed ruby, and the other’s emerald.

The theater was very dark and of course my flash didn’t serve to light the space, so the interior shots didn’t work. But here are some shots of the dazzling Art Deco entrance, where the ticket booth used to stand. The marquee and blade (the long vertical sign) were very badly deteriorated, and in 2001 the city paid to have them professionally restored, so they beam brightly at night although the Fox itself is still pretty dismal. 

The Friends of the Oakland Fox just kicked off a capital campaign to get the theater restored enough to hold performances there, sort of a placeholder until the whole thing can be restored. Even just this stopgap restoration, called the Ruins project (i.e., keep the theater as a ruin, but operational) is supposed to cost $27 million! I’ll be making a donation once I get my advance, and you should too!

My love affair

Today I renewed my love affair with Oakland. What a city! Usually, I'm overcome by city love when I'm at the lake, but today it was the cherry blossoms in front of City Hall that got me going. My feelings were probably fortified by sunlust... after all this rain, it's so great to take a breath that doesn't involve getting water in your lungs.

Also, something very special and coincidental happened to me... more later.

Aht! Culchah! My dawgs were bawkin!

Went to the SF MoMa yesterday (sans Randolph and Kirsten this time) to see the 1906 earthquake photographs. Odd that a museum of MODERN art is showing 100-year-old photos, but no matter; for me, history and modernity co-exist peacefully.

Because I was wearing high-heeled and quite pointy-toed boots*, standing and looking at the exhibits for three hours became painful. So I sat down to watch Steve McQueen’s Drumroll for a lot longer than I would have otherwise.

This is a film McQueen made with three cameras affixed in a rolling cement mixer he pushed down the street, apologizing to passersby as he went for the space he took up on the sidewalk. Two cameras were mounted inside the mixer, facing outside right and left, and one on the outside that rotates with the drum, so you can see the blur of McQueen’s body over and over. The three circular images are displayed side by side. As soon as you walk into the dark exhibit space, you’re instantly disoriented because the circling images make you feel like you’re rotating as well.

At first I thought the images were mundane, endless taxi wheels and pedestrians’ feet, but my cruel shoes encouraged me to stay and watch longer. And hey, it got really cool the longer I stayed. I’m always telling my critical thinking students to “observe longer,” and it definitely paid off here.

I started noticing little things I wouldn’t have otherwise, like how the three images fit together and share some cornerspace with each other and figuring out that the blur was the artist (of course the placard says this, but I didn’t get it until I got it, and then it was an aha). I became in tune with the rotation, breathing with the grinding sound the mixer made, at peace with being upside down. Way cool.

And I’m guessing this is not the Steve McQueen of the acting world.

The day previous, I had heard a DJ on the radio saying that the Beatles and the Beach Boys had a sort of competition to see who could be more revolutionary and groundbreaking in their music, apropos of “Yesterday” being the first rock song to use a classical quartet. And then I came to the MOMA and saw that artists were doing the same thing: Jeff Koons with his ceramic Michael Jackson and monkey, the surrealistic photographers, the artist who bounced a basketball covered with paint over a canvas and called it art, the artist who did the same with naked women’s bodies (well, I guess instead of dribbling the women, they writhed on their own.) It was a nice synchronicity to see the same principle applied to two different art forms.

I loved my afternoon there.

And then I walked to BART, seriously looking around to see if there were any shoe stores because my feet hurt that badly. And wouldn’t you know it, it was commuter rush hour after five o’clock and I didn’t get a seat. I stood all the way to Oakland thinking evil thoughts about my beautiful boots.

*my boots are taller and pointier than the ones pictured… and also less Prada.

Redhead returns to east coast

I was so sad to say goodbye to my redhaired sister... we had such a wonderful time together. Her whirlwind visit was the highlight of the spring! Can't wait to lure her back out here again. Actually, the airline owes her a free flight, imho, for how they treated her on her return. Maybe a strongly-worded letter will yield a certificate that she just has to use before it expires.

One of the most fun things we did was have high tea at Lovejoy's Tea Room in San Francisco. I just love those hot scones with lemon curd! And the teeny triangle sandwiches without their crusts... The place is filled with antiques, as is the store across the street, which made the redhead very happy and in her proper habitat.

We had other great adventures as well, like when she kicked a dinosaur in the head... repeatedly. So sorry about the inside joke, but she told me not to put her on my blog so I'm going very under the radar here. Miss you, Red!!!!

No logs in peasant fireplaces in the 1500s, it turns out

This week I finished a small self-inflicted revision of Hexe. Teo Ruiz, the man whose Terror of History lectures inspired the book, very kindly agreed to read it and comment on historical accuracy. He has been so patient and wonderful and answers all my follow-up email questions (every one of which I’m convinced will be the last one… but then… wait! what about 16th century window sills?) I owe him so much.

So I did a round of firming up little anachronisms and next my editor will read that version and send me her edits. I’m dying to see what she has to say.

Useless update

Today I finally put fingers to keyboard and eked out six pages on a short story, just enough to bring to my writers group tonight (we're allowed a maximum of six double-spaced pages; I was typing right up until I left!) Right now I feel all sort of "between projects" -- but it's just better to keep writing. I do look forward to my five weeks in Hawaii and the ability to dedicate each day to working on a new book, whatever it will be (I have three ideas: one historical, one not, and one involves re-tackling my first-ever novel).

That first-ever novel is very badly written but has such a cool concept that I really want to try to do it justice. In fact, I tried for eight years to give it, uh, justice... the sheriff just wasn't in town apparently.

But I think writing two full-length novels (and a few other shorter projects) since then has helped me become a better writer. It'd be fun to test that theory.

They say every published novelist has six unpublished manuscripts under their bed... that's a very unpleasant number to contemplate. When you finish the first draft of your first novel, you're exhilarated! You think this is it! Editors across the globe are simultaneously drawing up contracts for you! It's time to figure out all the witty things you'll say in interviews! You must decide now whether you should smile or look mildly contemplative in your author photo! Ah yeah... and then ... years pass... cobwebs develop on the manuscript... and then eventually, with a sigh, you put it under the bed (in my case, the closet).

I spent eight years on that first book, rewriting, changing the ending probably five times (I mean how the book ended, not just the way it was written), changing the beginning, making some characters more malevolent, adding more supernatural hoodoo... I'm glad I was smart enough to stop working on it, because my next book sold. And so did the third one.

So that six books under the bed theory? I guess it applies to me if you consider that I should have written that many books in eight years rather than spinning my wheels on just one.
But I'm just idiotic enough to want to go back to it.

C'mon, what's another eight years?!

At the bottom of a dark Scottish lake

I just yesterday realized the synchronicity of the fact that I am reading White Oleander, about foster care, at the same time that we are hosting Boddington for five weeks.

Boddington is an amazing cat and we don't want to let him go. We've had him for five weeks while his mom was in Hawaii. And now she's back in Oakland. She wanted to come get him yesterday. The heartbreak began.

She'll be coming today to get him... and the little furry guy who would nestle under my chin to sleep, lodged against my neck, will be gone. The sound of scampering claws as he bats around one of my hair ties on the hardwood floor, and then races after it as it flies: gone. His idiosyncratic way of twisting his head upside down, as if the floor had fingers and would scratch his head: not to be seen by me any longer.

I'm sure Boddington would prefer to stay, given the top tier treatment we offer cats in this household. Ah, Boddington, I hardly knew ya!

(Here's Boddington emerging from the bottom of a "dark Scottish loch"-- the mural of Lake Merritt).

What the hail?

Before I left the house yesterday morning for my run, our visiting cat Boddington was on the windowsill basking in the sunlight. His fur was hot to the touch.

Halfway around the lake, it began to hail. Big white chunks that hurt my skin. I continued to run, watching the hail bounce on the ground like someone had dropped a bunch of very, very tiny ping pong balls. I muscled on, because running through hail makes you feel like an Olympian. But when it turned to rain a mile later, it was dreary.

After my run, it became hail again.

I came home and saw hail nestled in the grass, not melting, like some infestation of insects had laid their icy eggs all through the lawn. Here is a picture of some plants on our porch, with the hail nestled in the pot and on the leaves.

An hour later, I stepped back onto the porch and the hail still hadn’t melted.

Fast forward to the evening: big time thunder, which we almost never get here. Lightning too. We went through some weather extremes yesterday.

And now I know I am officially a grown-up, since I thought it was interesting to write about the weather.

My day in the hills has come to an end, I know

I am in ecstasy. Why? Because last night my German dance group began learning a very special dance, the Laendler.

This is the dance from the patio scene in The Sound of Music, where Maria dances with the Captain and they have some serious chemistry. I love that dance!
In the movie, Maria says that it's a traditional Austrian folk dance, but my dance leader says it's German. Nuns in training do lie.

It involves a Mazurka step which we were all sort of floundering with, but it is a pretty dance step if we can master it. We just learned the first half and will learn the second part two weeks from now, with the romantic "windows." I can't wait.

The only person that I know reads this blog on a regular basis is my oldest sister, and I'm sure she will be excited to hear we're learning this dance. We grew up in a musical household, with that sister playing piano for the vocal stylings of the Mailman Family Singers! The Family von Mailman! Another round of applause for the von Mailman Family Singers! (this joke makes sense if you remember the scene where the von Trapps win the contest). And we had a player piano with a fat piano roll of all the Sound of Music songs.

Maria von Trapp is very dear to us, because after the family climbed every mountain at the end of the movie, they came out on the other side and came to America, where they settled in... Vermont. My home state. They established a ski resort called the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe. My mother said when she and dad first moved to Vermont, the family was still giving concerts, but by the time my oldest sister saw Maria on the street one time (by then, widowed, portly and apparently grumpy), she was not very enthused by her young fan.

We still loved her, though, and watched TSOM every year on TV, suffering through the endless commercials. For Xmas this year, one of my other sisters gave me a copy of the deluxe anniversary DVD. I can't wait to look at the bonus features. (And I want to watch the dance scene a few times).

So, Brenda, deep in the dark green shadows are voices that urge you to stay... so you pause and you wait and you listen... for one more sound, for one more lovely thing that the hills might say.

Chico in a Day

One thing Alan and I like to do to revive ourselves is to get away for a night. Sure, it’s great to get on an airplane for a week, but sometimes we’ll just throw a change of clothes in a gym bag and get in the car. That’s what happened recently, when we decided to hit Chico and were on the road within a few hours of the decision.

Why Chico? Alan wanted to see a concert of Kaki King, who was performing at Chico State that night. We left around 4 p.m., the concert was at 7:30, and Chico was three hours away. Cutting it a little close, wouldn’t you say?

Alan had heard Kaki on Prairie Home Companion and thought she was reminiscent of Michael Hedges. She performed that night with two other guitarists in an evening called La Guitara.

Afterwards, we bought one of her CDs and waited to have her sign it. The woman ahead of us in line had not been foresightful enough to take the plastic wrapping off her CD, so Kaki did it for her, breaking the jewel case in the process. Mystifyingly, she did not laugh or apologize or make any kind of comment. She was utterly silent through the signing process. Alan asked her, when it was his turn, “Will you please sign this for me?” Again, no response, not even to a direct question! No smile, not so much as a tic.

In the car, Alan said, “She’s young, she’s talented, and she’s autistic.”

We stayed at a motel that I convinced myself was haunted, based on the very frightening sounds of a ghost peeing in the bathroom (thought it was Alan, but then I turned my head and he was still *** in *** bed***. Creepy!)

We visited the Bidwell Mansion, the highlight of our trip, where Mr. Bidwell of the 1800s refused to bribe people to become governor, and his wife was a suffragette.

We had an amazing breakfast at the Sin of Cortez (I thought the sin was how he treated the native peoples, but Alan says it’s coffee). Check out this hipster offering on the menu:

Bohemian Breakfast. Three eggs scrambled with scallions, roma tomatoes, jack cheese, with salsa, rosemary potatoes and your choice of a cigarette or a multi-vitamin.

We also trekked part of Bidwell Park, which reminded me of Canada for its barren winter trees and almost-Europeaness. The fast-flowing Chico Creek is apparently so clean that you can swim in it: one stretch is partially dammed to form a swimming area, with aqua-painted walls, stepladders for getting in and out, and white wooden lifeguard chairs. We were impressed.

Chico is charming. After our 20-hour visit, we turned around and drove home.