emerson

Observations

By Kendra Smith
It’s finally summer. Magazine and newspaper articles have been touting it for a while now, with their advice on affordable vacations. “Take a road trip, it’s cheaper.” “No, don’t take a road trip, gas is too expensive. Take a package tour.” Now, with school out, graduations past, and the solstice upon us, it’s time to seriously think about some time off.

Thumbing through the Sunsets and Travel & Leisures lying in a pile on our living room floor (next to the overstuffed magazine bin; come to think of it, I should probably take a day off to clean those out), I realized I already have my own guide at hand. In our glove box, a little notebook from a small letterpress company in Petaluma, adorned with butterflies and the word “Observations.” My husband and I picked it up last year at a late spring street fair, to carry with us as we travel around the west and note places we want to go back to.

It has been handy, say, for keeping track of that little café we visit twice a year on the way to the Ashland Shakespeare Festival (Common Grounds, in Willows) and knowing just how far down Highway 1 you’ll find delectable berry goodness (Swanton’s Berry Farm, just past Davenport). We sleep under the stars and the next day note better campsites than the one we’re in—for next time.

So, as much as I like so-called “travel porn,” I’m going to look to my own observations for trips close to home this summer. And hopefully find something to leave undone for next year.

Let’s stay in touch.

I Heart Bike to Work Day

By Kendra Smith

How much more motivated would I be to ride to work if,
instead of my green guilt and that bag of Lay’s I ate
this week calling me out of bed and onto two wheels,
there were people standing on the corner cheering,
offering me free bananas and bagels and entering me to
win prizes? This is why Bike to Work Day is heaven.

And today was so gloriously warm, no wind. I learned
something about myself, too: I am a cyclist. The ride
actually felt easy. I had been dreading it, putting
off my first ride of the season until I could no
longer fake it. "I have to go. It’s Bike to Work Day."

I may have stood out at the Energizer Station as the
only person whose bike had a kick stand (don’t ask),
but it just shows that you don’t need fancy equipment
to cycle anywhere. Although I did finally get those
pants with the puffy crotch. You need those pants if
you’re going 13 miles. Trust me.

My favorite moment: As I turned the corner onto the
Bay Trail by the Marriot Residence, 2 bikers passed
me, then 2 more, then 7 (all in a line, wow), then 2,
then 3. Usually I pass just one other cyclist and a
guy exercising his collies. For a second there, I
thought I was in Holland. It was awesome.

So, thank you to those sweet Peninsula Bicycle
Coalition volunteers from San Bruno, the guy in front
of Summit Bicycles in Burlingame, and all those other
bikers who waved at me as I made my way.

And now, my wish: Can’t every day be like Bike to Work Day?

Let’s stay in touch.

Headphones on, headphones off

By Dale Conour

I wore my headphones on my walk to work once. And didn’t like it. I couldn’t hear the birds. Couldn’t hear the leaves rustling. Couldn’t enjoy the relative quiet of the morning. Couldn’t have my tunes and be in tune.

The other day, just for kicks, I fired up the ’pod on the way home from the train. Not much in the way of birds, leaves and quiet at that time of day, especially along El Camino Real. What was there to lose?

Once again, I felt the distance, the removal from the environment. The lights progressed through their colors. The traffic flowed (a distant murmur). People made their way home, strolling with their heads down. Leaves shimmered silently in the late afternoon sun. I followed my route by rote.

Even though I had The National on, what I couldn’t get out of my head was:

A pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And though she feels as if she’s in a play
She is anyway.

And I couldn’t decide if I was more disconnected or less.

Let’s stay in touch.

Early Mother’s day

By Dale Conour

My mom’s in the hospital

She was helicoptered from the coast to a larger city hospital for surgery after a couple of crazy-ass EKGs

My mom’s in the hospital

And I’ve spent a few days here seeing people wheeled in and wheeled out (including one covered head to toe by a green cotton blanket)

My mom’s in the hospital

And it’s probably been the most quality time I’ve ever put in with her

My mom’s in the hospital

And I’m thinking that no matter how old we get or how independent we feel or how mature we become or how many kids of our own we have or how gosh sorry just so busy we get or how little we call our mother

That when you write

My mom’s in the hospital

You become one of those people who have had the meaning of Mother shoved in their face

She was our gateway from nothing to something, from the ether to life

And it might seem like they cut that cord

But when they say each and every one of us is all alone in this great big universe they’re wrong because we’re not really alone

until our mothers are gone

My mom’s in the hospital

But this time, I get to take her back home

Let’s stay in touch.

Movin’ to the country

A view of the Russian River, by Nik Schulz

By Nik Schulz

I just walked down the street today and this guy waiting at the bus stop said to me, what I thought was, “Do you have a dime?” I said that no, sorry, I didn’t have any change and kept walking. He then looked at me sort of confusedly and said, “No, not a dime, the time, do you have the time?” at which point I felt embarrassed that had mistaken him for homeless and said, “Oh, yeah, sorry, it’s ten to one.” Either my hearing is terrible or I’ve been in the city way too long. Possibly both.

Ever since I returned from St. Agnes, I wondered how to get more nature into my life. Yes, that was eight years ago. I suppose some things take a while to figure out. Or, more to the point perhaps, some people (meaning me) take a while to figure themselves out. But that’s another story.

So here’s the thing. I’m an illustrator. I work from home. I don’t actually need to live in one of the most expensive cities in America. I could live in a place that’s beautiful, inexpensive and get my nature on at the same time. So, what did I do? I did what we all do. I got on Craigslist and started looking. All of a sudden I was staring at an ad for a cabin with pine paneled walls and a freestanding wood stove. The paneling went halfway up the walls and the rest was all windows. And what was outside of those windows? Nothing but redwood trees. Gah!… So great!

The cabin was located in the Russian River. Instead of bookmarking and endlessly browsing, as I’m wont to do, I called the next day. Too late—it was already gone. I sat, stroked my beard and thought, “Russian River, eh?...” The next place I found looked like a keeper. It’s right on the river, a little two-bedroom place that looks like it was built in the 30s, except that it’s been totally remodeled. It’s got knotty pine walls, wooden floors and a big deck, and it’s a sweet deal. I know…

If all goes well, I’ll be signing the lease this Saturday.

I’m looking forward to the smell of the air through the redwood trees, the sight of ducks, having lunch by the river. Ok, the house is in a secondary flood plain but that’s not that big of a deal, right? Actually, it should be fine. Flood insurance is included. More importantly I’m looking forward to addressing this long-standing desire and to starting a new chapter in life. Also, if my proposal for 1-Mile Island is accepted, it seems like it’d be a great place to write a book.

Cheers to that.

Link: Nik Schulz’s site

Let’s stay in touch.

Letting it all go

Photo by Calvina Yang Nguyen

By Kendra Smith

I’m starting to think about downsizing. Sure, it has something to do with tax season and all the dire predictions about the economy. But it has just as much to do with a desire to have less, to simplify. When it takes me 10 minutes to find something I’m looking for, I think I probably have too much stuff. When I start to forget more than I can remember, I know it.

That’s why I’m intrigued by Australian Ian Usher, who has put up his life for sale, ala John Freyer, the Iowa artist who auctioned his possessions on eBay and wrote a 2002 book, All My Life for Sale, about it. The reason for Usher’s downsizing—a messy divorce—is more tragic than pragmatic, but the questions it raises are universal. The key one is posited in a poll on Usher’s home page: Could you do it?

Like Freyer, Usher is offering it all: the car, a motorcycle, his jetski and kitesurfing gear, the house and everything in it. “I take nothing with me,” Usher writes on the website (note: his future plans are to travel the world, not to disappear from it).

Since, ultimately, we take nothing with us, I have to wonder why our stuff is so important to us, and why a simpler life is still a choice outside the norm. These men challenge us with the notion that we are not our stuff. And yet, in this age of consumption, many of us must believe that our possessions, what we choose to surround ourselves with, do say something about what we value and believe in.

Could you do it?

Links:
Telegraph article
Life4Sale
All My Life For Sale

Let’s stay in touch.

Acting my age

By Dale Conour

I am 45 years old.

My 19-year-old son recently gave me a hard time for using "totally" in a sentence, like I was being some old guy trying to act like a cool young guy. I thought about it, and realized I totally use totally all the time, and also have to confess to "jonesing" for sundry items over the past few years, which isn’t exactly the latest phrase to hit pop culture, but definitely didn’t originate in my generation—either the last straggling Boomers or the pioneering Gen Xers, depending on whose definition you use.

It got me thinking about age, about being young versus being old. And if I’m in some kind of denial about getting older? I mean, I am, cliché of clichés, remarried to a younger woman. (I do not, however, have a sports car; in fact, I am totally not even jonesing for a sports car.)

And I’m often told I seem 10 years younger than I am.

I have a 16-year-old son to go with that 19-year-old, and when I tell people this they’re often surprised, and suggest that I hail from some trailer in the backwoods of Virginia. (With apologies to all you backwoods people of Virginia—I’m just, you know, reporting here.) And get this: I’ve been carded several times in ’08.

Wouldn’t all this go to my head?

Let’s dig into this more. There are a few reasons I think people assume I’m younger, one more obvious than the other.

One has to be, of course, that I must look younger—nothing like a shaved head to take care of the gray hairs, and I’ve so far avoided the white sneakers, high-waisted jeans and tucked-in polos that make up the uniform of the dad-of-a-certain-age.

There’s the arrested development factor. I often act, and think, like I’m still 12 and reading comics up in my favorite tree. Truth be told, I am currently writing book two of a script for a three-part "graphic novel" (not a comic book, darn it) and frankly, if I had a tree, I’d be writing it up there.

But the more interesting reason, I think, is my approach to life.

If it’s new I’m interested. My sons and I routinely share new music. I recently spent several minutes explaining to two skeptical women a good deal younger than me what Twitter was, and why it was, well, kinda cool in a tapping-into-the-world-hum kind of way.

So have I set myself up as some poor goofball with a Peter Pan complex?

But look, here’s the funny part: I’m not really a big fan of Youth, and the glorification of it is one cultural Kool-Aid I haven’t downed yet.

Do I miss the physical benefits of being 25? Sometimes, but would I take back that vertical leap and miracle metabolism if it meant I had to be a dumbshit again? Not even tempting. We’re not championing what can be the benefits of aging—maturity, experience, thoughtfulness, wisdom.

Okay, emerson’s trusty generalization alarm is going off, so it’s time to be smart about all this. Really, young and old are relative concepts. I’ve met "young" people who were old, "old" people who were young. I’ve encountered young people sitting around waiting to get old.

I mean, Christ, the Ellen Page-Barbara Walters interview is on the TV in the background right now, and who comes off as the wise, soulful woman with great emotional depth? (And which one has had every last wrinkle magically brushed away in her photo?)

One of my favorite quotes ever is from some really "old" guy who was being interviewed because he was spotted roller skating:

"People tell me I should I act my age; but I don’t even know what that means."

We need to marry the positive energy and the fresh creative look at challenges that youth represents with the mindfulness, centeredness and perspective of experience that age can reward us with.

Let’s embrace the new without ever forgetting that nothing’s ever totally new, and maybe we’ll learn how to allow this world to be the better place it’s meant to be.

Hmmm—am I griping?

Maybe I am getting old...

Let’s stay in touch.

Watching the wheels

By Dale Conour

Most days so many things pass me by and I don’t take note. Flowers nod, trees wave, clouds push through the sky overhead and I don’t know the names of any of them when I should be greeting each in turn. And sure, I know Lao Tzu or somebody said if you know the names of a hundred flowers you don’t know a single flower, and I get that, but I think recalling names can be a trigger for awareness. A little acknowledgment.

Photography by Steve Berliner

Take last weekend. Hiking in San Pedro Valley County Park, Pacifica. That’s a big manzanita, not a small madrone, ’cause the leaves are so different, smaller, more compact, dealing with a lot of sun and heat here on the high south slope of the hill. We’re hiking through chaparral. Not just a bird, but a hummingbird. Not just a hummingbird but an Allen’s hummingbird. Not just an Allen’s hummingbird, but a male Allen’s performing the annual mating ritual: zoom high in the air, pause, rocket down and pop up, displaying scarlet throat feathers in the sunlight to the nearby female, perched in the coyote bush. She flies away, unimpressed I guess. Coyote bush or brush? Can’t remember, not that important, but at least there I was paying attention to life going about its business around me, and feeling a little more

connected to it. So here I am now, upstairs in the Cafe del Dogge, the hot barista churning out cappuccinos below. I’m tapping my foot along to a song. Wait, what am I listening to? Really listen to it: Wow, mashup of Modern English’s "I’ll melt with you" and the Who’s "You better , you bet" and a little of Lennon’s "Watching the wheels." What are the lyrics to these songs really? How often do I really really try to comprehend songs? Too late, song's almost over, but geez, listen to stuff every once in awhile will you?

And now that I’m clueing in a little, I’m noticing the scent of those tangerine peels mingling with the lingering aroma of the chocolate croissant I had has formed a pretty darned wonderful cloud of fragrance around me, no? Let’s just savor that a second or two....

If we don’t mind the little stuff, soon there’s no tangibility to the big stuff, right? And then we’re just floating through life. But more than ever, we need to be tuned into the big picture. Hey, now Mika’s playing: Relax (take it easy) is the song, but I can’t catch all the lyrics because he’s singing in the vocal register of a porpoise. But I’m going to look them up.

Doing it probably won’t save the world, but it’s a start.

Let’s stay in touch.

One-Mile Island finale

Living what's a dream for many of us, graphic designer Nik Schulz checked out and headed for a remote island, St. Agnes, in the north Atlantic. This is the last in a series of 17 excerpts that have run every other day. You can find previous excerpts through the link at right (or by scrolling down).

By Nik Schulz

Excerpt 17
---01.01.2000---

Even minutes before midnight, I doubted the clocks unstoppable march. Would they really manage to make it to 2000? Would that last passing second really have the strength to roll over all those zeros? Incredibly, it did and we found ourselves drunkenly stumbling into yet another 1000 years.

New Year’s Eve on St. Agnes was to be celebrated with a “fancy dress” party (which is fancy English for “costume party”) at a deconsecrated church known as the Island Hall. By late afternoon I was still trying to get a costume together but coming up short. In deciding what to bring for a six-month stint on a remote island, I hadn’t figured on needing a costume. Show’s how much I know... I ended up improvising, finding some wire-framed sunglasses, a skin-tight, striped, blue and purple shirt paired with white overalls, recovered from the wreck of the cargo ship, Cita (which, I’m told, littered the islands with overalls when it crashed on local rocks a couple of years ago). I then blow-dried my as-yet-uncut-on-English-soil hair into an afro of gigantic proportions. This ensemble I somewhat convincingly passed off as 60s-era, art scene-chic.

To start off the evening, Ellen and Bryce had kindly invited me to join them and their friends for dinner.

For costumes, they had decided to all dress like their ancestors. While I knew this, I wasn’t prepared for the moment I walked into the sitting room and saw Mia sitting there in strappy, low-cut, vaguely Egyptian shift, wearing a black, onyx necklace fanned out from pronounced clavicle to pronounced clavicle. False eyelashes, a long, platinum-white wig and a tiny, butterfly tattoo, probably taken from a child’s sticker book and sparkling below the corner of her left eye, only added to her otherworldly appeal. She was so gorgeous, I almost stopped breathing. After a moment I recovered and spent the whole dinner trying to figure out how to spend as much time with her as possible over the coming week. The only thing that distracted me was the fact that Ellen and Bryce had prepared a fantastically delicious meal of local beef, sea spinach mouse and potatoes, alongside unspeakably good crepes topped with salmon, creme fresh and caviar, all accompanied by an astounding 10-year-old champagne, one bottle of which they uncork at every significant milestone in their lives.

At some point this fine dinner among friends degenerated into a raucous, champagne-fueled sing-a-long as we charged, at top volume, through the musical standards of our generation. It was, without a doubt, the most fun I’ve ever had exiting a year.

We ate, we sang, we ate some more and slowly made our way down to the Island Hall. It had been decorated to ring in the New Year and shined like a beacon at the far end of the island. Inside, the tinfoil stars and dark sailcloth sky, the snowy white and frosty blue windows, white plaster walls and wide-planked floor gave the impression of a high school theater set. “2000” was spelled out over the door in Christmas lights, rendering the date in home-town proportions. It looked lovely and they had done a marvelous job decking it out for the occasion. As we arrived, we saw that the revelers were already in full swing, so we got drinks and stood outside.

I found Mia and struck up a conversation. After few minutes her mouth formed the bullet, “My boyfriend blah, blah, blah...” I wasn’t sure if she realized she’d been carrying a rifle, or was even aware that it had gone off, but the words left her lips like a gunshot. Wits not yet dulled by the champagne, I dove out of the way hoping to avoid the little missile as it flew past. Too late. As I got up and brushed myself off, still in mid conversation, I knew I’d been hit. The flash of her words erased from my memory everything else that she said the entire evening. All I can remember is her platinum hair, demur smile and the most perfect fireworks display I’ve ever seen, as a group of men lined up to launch expired ship’s flares at the stroke of midnight. They rocketed into the air and exploded, floating in the near sky like weightless lanterns, illuminating us in the misty-wet night, as we huddled together behind a little round hill, glowing in front of the Island Hall.

Let’s stay in touch.

One-Mile Island #16

Living what's a dream for many of us, graphic designer Nik Schulz checked out and headed for a remote island, St. Agnes, in the north Atlantic. You can find previous excerpts through the link at right (or by scrolling down).

By Nik Schulz

Excerpt 16
---12.30---
Even before I left for Christmas, intuition told me that pilgrims coming to St. Agnes for New Year would bring

with them a young woman, whom I would find undeniably beautiful. Providence, always looking out for me, ensured that she would be among the group of friends staying with Ellen and Bryce across the way.

This afternoon, Jack, his brother, his brother’s wife (who were also here for New Year) and I, went out for a walk and ran into more friends of friends, all here for the coming celebration. On our way home, the four of us went over to Ellen and Bryce’s to say hello. We saw Ellen through the window of one of the guest rooms, relaxing on a bed with two other women, slumber-party-style. She smiled and came to meet us at the side door. After a round of hellos and kisses, we poured into her already full sitting room. She disappeared into the kitchen to prepare tea. For once it was nice to see the little island full of people my own age. There was joy in the room as we all talked and introduced ourselves. The two girls I’d seen through the guest room window were missing, presumably still talking to one another. When one of them came into the sitting room for a cigarette and left again, I didn’t even have to see her face to know she was the one my intuition had told me about. Her movements, clear in the corner of my eye, drawing my attention away from the conversation I was having, were all effortless grace and easy elegance. This grace, established so many generations ago that the characteristics were inseparable from her person, such that they no longer described her, but rather, she described them. Her name, I would find out later, is Mia. What all this foreshadows can only remain to be seen, but I am loath to say more.

------

This brings me to the subject of my vulnerability, which I don’t mean to trot out like a trained horse at every opportunity in my life and in this journal, but merely hope to free for use. So many times in the past, when I’ve tried to open the door of my heart to allow people in, I’ve found it stuck like a rusty hinge. Being here helps. If I don’t open myself up to people, I’ll surely go insane. That simple bit of added urgency does wonders.

Let’s stay in touch.