thinking about...aftermath & irene

Hurricane Irene turned out to be more of a monsoon-ish rainstorm in my neck of Manhattan; the morning after we went out to survey the damage and found that it was minor, but a threatening sky still hung over the high-rises, every so often wind whipped the streets, and with the subways down and nowhere to go, the city had an unusually somber, quiet mood.

As I walked through my neighborhood and discovered the spontaneous ponds, re-arranged park paths, and newly-formed archways formed by bowed branches, I was surprised by the little ways that the storm had transformed the landscape of the city, and let me see it in ways that I hadn't before, or at least, with an attention to detail that I hadn't used for a long time. The colors of the drenched buildings on my street seemed more vibrant, and verdigris and moss took on an unusual intensity.

All over the ground were unexpected little still lifes: trapped duckweed, the texture of washed-out wood chips, clumps of leaves, acorns and seed balls that had been knocked down, flowering vine that had been tattered in the wind, a lichen-covered tree limb.

I liked the way that paved pathways were washed out to look more like something you'd see in in actual woods, and the brimming streams and waterfalls seemed to fill out Central Park and show off its beauty full-tilt. Perhaps my favorite, though, was this enormous old tree that had been uprooted. Seeing a giant from this angle kind of throws off your equilibrium. I was fascinated by the cool/gross texture of the roots and earth, and the bizarre silhouette that it cut. It was like the storm had unearthed a little piece of another world.

My two cents on "The Book of Mormon: The Musical" in the Tribune

"Despite the sweep of last month’s Tony Awards, I have noticed that many fellow Mormons, including a few of my open-minded New York City neighbors, have said they do not intend to see “The Book of Mormon: The Musical”...I think it would be a mistake for church members to reject the musical en masse; doing so would cut us out of an important part of the national conversation about our faith...." Read the whole article here:

http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/opinion/52272104-82/church-musical-university-mormon.html.csp

Pioneer Day, Y'all

I love this version of this classic song by my friend Mark Abernathy, and the Sabre Rattlers. It makes me a little homesick, which is funny, because I haven't called Utah home for years and years.

thesis week intensity

If I haven't returned your phone calls, texts, smoke signals...it is because my thesis is due one week from today. Unfortunately, imminent doom is my only real motivator, but it is quite effective.

For motivation, my dissertating friend and I have been coming up with motivational themes every week. A couple weeks ago it was "Keep up the intensity," to remind myself that I have to stay on top of it, and can't just lapse into five-hour sessions of watching 30 Rock and eating Hot Tamales--just to give you one example of a completely hypothetical distraction.

Last week I upgraded to Shark Week intensity--because what is more intense than a whole week of sharks???

If you have any ideas for me for even intenser themes--I can use all the help I can get. There are a zillion distractions and at least two hopelessly crappy chapters between here and next Monday.

and uzi!

I went to DC to meet this little one last weekend, and he stood me up. He decided to come five days late. I have to say, from the looks of it, he is worth the wait.

The advent of Ali and Curt's baby, or "Uzi" as he has been nicknamed, means the family offspring has tripled in the last week and a half. I think I am won over by the power of babies. I had almost forgotten how a newborn makes the whole family unabashedly sentimental, and in the best way, a little bit giddy.

welcome elle marie

A niece! Little does she know what an extaordinarily long line of women, and more women, she has fallen into. We are so happy to have her--the long-awaited next installment.

I wish I could be with her and see her almond eyes and touch her little seashell ears. If I could, maybe I would read her this poem:


Mrs. Adam
by Kathleen Norris

I have lately come to the conclusion that I am Eve,
alias Mrs. Adam. You know, there is no account
of her death in the Bible, and why am I not Eve?
Emily Dickinson in a letter,
12 January, 1846


Wake up,
you’ll need your wits about you.
This is not a dream,
but a woman who loves you, speaking.


She was there
when you cried out;
she brushed the terror away.
She knew
when it was time to sin.
You were wise
to let her handle it,
and leave that place.


We couldn’t speak at first
for the bitter knowledge,
the sweet taste of memory
on our tongues.


Listen, it’s time.
You were chosen too,
to put the world together.

harvest display

When I got this month's New Yorker from my mailbox yesterday, I was startled and happy to see Wayne Thiebaud on the cover. The tell-tale signs were all there: the food, the little halos around the food, the sometimes garish colors.

I have been thinking about food the last few weeks, we are talking about food in class, ala my on-going preoccupation with Michael Pollan. This particular Thiebaud echoes something I think about when I go to the grocery store, especially here in New York. At my neighborhood market right now, there are pumpkins and bubbly squash spilling onto the sidewalks, autumn apples in ten varieties, and, oddly, an overabundance of raspberries...? which are on special.

The "Harvest Display" in our modern world is a funny thing--not just displaying our harvest, but everyone else's, including South America's, which is where the November bumper crop of raspberries comes from. Next to Theibaud's pumpkin lies a summer treat--watermelon--and below are boxes of goods from Chile, Australia, Mexico. On the bottom shelves is that ubiquitous fruit that still seems a little out of place in New York in the winter--bananas.

All of this aside, though, the thing I liked best about Thiebaud's cover was the idea that he might have just painted it, that it might be new. If I feel uninspired or tired, I picture old Thiebaud next to his easel, stooped and squinting, still delighted by the world and churning out work.