3 July. Last night, one of those final nights where hell is naturally defined as part of the process of saying goodbye. Poliny, a vice of icebergs as if spring, urged them south, ride the Gulfstream towards North America. Ice shelves at the north pole. I never knew that the polini were so tortures. It’s as if the eye of the sky had opened.
4 July. Flying over Baffin Bay and then, seeing the long striations on the rock, the finger lakes continue to amaze me. The relentless scouring of the glaciers from eons ago and still the land hasn’t recovered.
Am I looking at the Yukon territories? We’re pretty far north, you can see forest fires in the north, somewhere above Saskatchewan. The Columbia River below us, shining in the afternoon sun, a bend in the river. A lot of water even from this height. It’s big, not as big as the Mississippi, but bigger than the European rivers, even the Rhine. The mouth of the Rhine, Rotterdam, the world is poured in, and the mad rivers small by comparison.
Herman, Ton and I took a boat trip up the harbor, visiting lock after lock, the cranes like strange beast at play, at rest. Ton, a drummer friend of Mark Peters, has become seduced by poetry, though. The festival is a bit sketchy. Herman brings him to several events as he is a houseguest. I had arranged the connection via Mark while I was in Lissel with Jan, but I digress…
Back to the landscape, the only thing I can believe in.
Snowy summit, one of the cascade peaks, ravaged Mt. Saint Helens, and Hood at the end. We’re flying at a slight angle. Hard to get my bearings as there’s too much cloud cover all the way down. There is eternal sunlight this far north so close to the solstice.
We experience mid-day all the way home, having left at 3:30 PM and arrive in San Francisco a scant two hours later with nine hours in the air. Stoppage in time. Suspended animation Time is passing for us. Nine hours, we are experiencing some kind of adverse time travel where we age five times faster than the clock by flying with the sun. West to the edge of the continent.
Of course the reverse is true when flying east, but it’s not so obvious that we arrive in a different timeframe. It was it is not so spectacular to fly back Mid day when there’s a cloud cover most of the way, or in the evening when it’s dark. I prefer to fly on the cusp of dawn and evening because the transition from light to dark is spectacular.
Nothing has replaced that first vision of the earth’s curvature. When I was 19 on my way to London, over the Polar route, the plane turned, and I was looking straight up into the night, sky, stars, and all, and the curve of the earth casting a shadow upon the sunset, below me, in pale green and vermilions, and above me the stars. I have flown to Europe many times since then, and have yet to see such a sight.
I’ve spent over four months in Amsterdam since last July and I’m coming back to teach a two-day class, a $200 commitment that wasn’t worth it, but I had promised. I could’ve stayed another three weeks. I love the process of living elsewhere, a part of the year but when I return, I don’t want to be here. This place doesn’t seem so much like home, but like stepping back into a mold, where I no longer fit.
My second night home, I dreamt I was still in Europe, and everything was cluttered and dark. I slept, walked to the front door and stood naked in the waxing moonlight, looking out over the shadows, thinking I was still in Europe, only to discover this cluttered dark past was my home, it was America and I didn’t feel like I belonged to her any longer.
Living so long with Russians and Europeans since 1989 and half-and-half since 1998. I’ve lived nearly a year abroad since August 1989. It is my intention to try to get away from the states at least one time yearly in three month intervals.
Well, I’ve managed to fritter away several hours, watering, picking boysenberries, making pie and doing laundry. I’m housesitting at Marsha Connell’s in Santa Rosa.
I am in need of mindlessness and tranquility alone in America on the Fourth of July, the sizzle of sprinklers, the sighs of pines, the fireworks and sirens. The heat has bleached the color from the horizon as if in the pastel landscape not favored by Mary Silverwood, or Marsha Connell for that matter.
This is the kind of day to sit on a chaise lounge and let the water ply over my feet. Anything to keep from writing about what matters—why do I keep avoiding it? I barely wrote while I was in Amsterdam, I’ve barely written anything since February. I’ve barely dreamed and suddenly I’m remembering my dreams for the first time in ages.
Also, today was the first time I actually slept in until 9 AM, too keyed up at my place, too many things to do, too many pressures upon me. To sleep, per chance to dream.
And all those feelings towards the futility of life, call it depression, or am I deeply discouraged. Hard to say. Only that I want another life and I seem to be locked into this one, which allows me to travel, but something is missing and I know the lack of family in relationship is part of it.
I’m finally tired of being alone. Funny most of the time. I love it. Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve been alone in months. First living part-time here at Marsha’s while doing the book, then with Vins for six weeks. I can barely stand to be still, some inner force is driving me onward every 10 to 15 minutes. This is how I’m writing this journal today, in spurts, afraid to be all in. What is lying in back of my subconsciousness? I never finished the journal.
We fly over Crater Lake, and see the bathtub ring of the central valley as we near Shasta. Shasta! An extraordinary snow, God, rising from all that lava. The return to America punctuated with the pristine beauty of the land compared to Europe’s cities and ruins and civilization. This is why I need both places.
A part of me can never be free, or relax without the wilderness, another part needs the antiquities. Somewhere in all of this, I need both alone and a home and a relationship. Lee is right. Where I live is depressing.
I still don’t know if I have my CAC grant, I am at a 3+, number 50 and the budget hasn’t been cut, I suspect I’m right on the borderline for funding, all residencies have first priority. We shall see. Reentry is rough.
