More than the working man's scribe

It’s good to be reminded there is still nobility in literature, in every sense of that word. These days my world is made up of outlandishly commercial fiction, the gossipy media bubble of publishing, and the hardscrabble existence of my writer friends. Seven years out of English academia, I’ve almost forgotten that there is a writing universe that exists on a different plane from that in which I dwell.

Last night, Brian and I attended an event that brought that world crashing back into glorious focus for me. Philip Levine is a legendary poet, winner of a Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, two National Book Critics Circle awards, and just about every other honor a poet can receive. Not only that, but he’s one hell of a guy, if his friends and colleagues can be believed. And it seemed all of them came out last night to the Cooper Union for an 80th birthday tribute. Those speaking and reading in his honor included E.L. Doctorow, Edward Hirsch, Galway Kinnell, Yusuf Komunyakaa, and several other poets too famous for me to even have heard of.

It was really a collection of contemporary poetry’s nobility. And that’s one thing that struck me: that there still exists this rarefied cadre of writers who support, teach, tease, and inspire each other. They cling together in this tiny community that the rest of the world ignores but that performs an unspeakably vital service. In their unwavering determination to both capture and create beauty on the page, to point up the injustices of the world, and to explore the idea of truth, they are truly noble. And Phil Levine embodies this spirit of nobility better than almost any living writer, having spent fifty years throwing himself at the darkness of truth. He yokes art and the mundane together to create a sublime and terrible honesty on the page that is frightening in its power.

And this from a man who last night expounded gleefully upon the term “ratfuck” and attributed his best poems to his wife, Fanny. Nobody said nobility precludes a sense of humor.

Christmaswatch '07 continues

I suppressed my fear of looking like a tourist and took photos on my walk to work this morning to decorate yesterday’s post, so please check that out. Also, I spied a new nativity scene at the Our Lady of Pompeii church. Sorry for the glare—sunlight is harsh at 8:45 a.m and I was in a hurry.



And in the category of festive-but-bordering-on-annoying Christmas indicators, the guy who’s always playing a marimba-sounding instrument* in the Pacific/Atlantic subway station this morning played “Jingle Bell Rock” followed by “Winter Wonderland.” How long until this gets really, really old while I’m waiting impatiently to change trains?

*And no, it’s not a marimba. It’s a big, metal, concave thing that he hits with a mallet. Anyone know what that’s called? I’m musically illiterate.

Christmaswatch ‘07

In this city of cities, Christmastime (or, the “holiday season” to be religiously encompassing) is taken very seriously. If I had time to put my old reporter hat on, I’d dig around and see just what this period between Thanksgiving and New Year’s means for the Big Apple in economic terms. I’m sure it’s huge, when you include the dollars spent by people gift shopping, going to Broadway shows, and coming to town to see sights such as Rockefeller Center and the department store windows.

So it’s not surprising that New York is already undergoing a rapid transformation from its dingy, late-fall look to the magical, sparkle-lighted, red-bow-festooned appearance that tourists expect. Indications could be seen as early as the week of Halloween, when CVS and Duane Reade stores across the city changed out candy corn for candy canes. But only now does the NYC Christmas juggernaut really begin to roll.

Evidence from my corner of the world: (now with pictures!*)

Exhibit A: Two sidewalk tree lots have sprung up since the weekend just on my walk from the subway to work. I do love the smell of conifers in the city, although I feel bad for the poor guys who have to sit there in the cold all day and night for the next month. The exorbitant Manhattan tree prices make me feel less bad. The news this morning showed a $600 Frasier fir. Honestly!

Exhibit B: Sometime over the weekend little Saatchi & Saatchi elves erected a gigantic (fake) Christmas tree in the lobby of the Penguin building, and hoisted correspondingly huge, matching wreaths around the elevator bank. No sign yet of a menorah, but as I recall, last year they did place a tiny one on the corner of our absurdly large security desk in the lobby as it got closer to Chanukah. How kind, especially considering that at my imprint alone we’re about evenly split between readers of the Tanakh and readers of the New Testament. (Although really, there’s more reading of Nora Roberts going on than of either of those.)

I will keep my eyes peeled for other obvious and/or quirky signs of the holidays around town. For myself, I’m waiting until at least December 1 before I put up any decorations. We’ve got to hold the line on this or soon we’ll be subjected to Christmas jingles in August. No thank you.

* I hesitated to take pictures of our lobby for fear I would be tackled by one of our brawny, black-suited security guards. Those guys look mean and I'm sure they're itching for a terrorism scare. But I said I'd do it if it would increase your viewing and reading pleasure, so voila!.

Sunday in the cemetery with Brian

On Sunday Brian and I walked through Green-Wood Cemetery near our house to go tree-watching. It’s as much arboretum as resting place, and its 478 acres were carefully sculpted and landscaped when it was created in 1838.

It seems like we’ve missed the peak of the fall foliage, but there were some fabulous colors covering the ground. And Brian got to play his favorite new game, “Catch the Leaf.”

Here he is diving for one that got away.

If you look long enough, one will fall.

Got it!

Of course, the leaves take their revenge by surrounding Brian in a sea of churning red.

Meanwhile, I contemplate mortality, or just the fact that our long, relaxing weekend is coming to a close...

As the shadows fall across a road hidden by bright yellow ginkgo leaves.

Happy Monday!

Fun with turkeys

Brian and I went to Thanksgiving dinner at the apartment of our friends Amy and Daniel. Thanks for having us, guys! It was lovely. We very much missed those of you we didn't get to see, so here are a few photos so you can experience a bit of our holiday.

Brian chatting with Gina's cousin, Danielle. She was upset it was so warm yesterday as she's visiting New York from Florida and was hoping for more of a crisp fall day. I hope she was happy today when it dropped by like 30 degrees.



The crowd via self-timer.



The crowd via Amy and Daniel's loft. (Taken by Brian.)



Alex and Gina proving themselves once again the cutest little married couple ever.


Brian and I looking very WASP-y.



Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Another eency bit of Belize

After Ambergris we took a boat to a taxi to a public bus for a long ride west to the Cayo district and the town of San Ignacio. This gets more jungle-y and mountain-y, and we saw far too many fascinating sights to discuss here. But here are a few!

One of the most thought-provoking aspects of Belize was the relative poverty, which was particularly evident in the countryside between towns. This house is representative of the way much of the population lives. (Taken out the bus window.)

Here’s me at Cahal Pech, a small, intimate, and incredibly peaceful Mayan site that we had almost entirely to ourselves.

Later, we visited the nearby Mayan site of Xunantunich. Here’s Brian contemplating life from atop El Castillo, the second-tallest structure in Belize, at 130 feet.

On our last day, we hiked through the jungle to a glorious cave full of Mayan artifacts, called Actun Tunichil Muknal. Here we are near the mouth of the cave, preparing to get very wet.

A tiny smidgeon of our Belize trip

Here are a few pictures from the first two days of our trip, when we stayed in San Pedro, the town on Ambergris Caye (pronounced "key"). I don't want to put up too many photos because we'd rather share them with people in person so we can make you listen to our delightful commentary.

Ambergris is an island in a long string of islands off the coast of Belize. It’s sheltered from the Caribbean proper by a long chain of reefs just to the east.

The view from the third floor deck, just outside our room at Ruby’s Hotel. Even I can’t believe how idyllic this looks. It was surreal!

We took a bike ride up the beach for a few miles on our last morning there. It was amazing!

Here’s Brian walking through the town of San Pedro, which is super tiny, has sand-covered streets, and in which the prevalent mode of transportation is golf carts.

Me at one of the many colorful restaurants we frequented.

Tomorrow, if I have time (it's a half-day for Thanksgiving--yay!), I'll put up photos from the other half of our trip, in which we went inland.

Soup for you!

Yes, Brian, I intend to use this blog to comment on the world of ideas, politics, the media, and pressing issues of the day.

But it’s a rainy Monday and I don’t feel good, so instead you’re all getting a recipe for squash soup. Voila.

I made this for a soup-and-bread get-together yesterday, and I must say it’s one of my proudest culinary achievements in some time. Although squash (I used acorn) is a pain to cut up, the end result was delightful! I recommend making it if anyone ever has some spare time on a Sunday and a large enough pot.


(Not my photo—I don’t have bowls that nice. Or garnish, for that matter.)

Celebrity sighting of the week

On a completely different note from oil-soaked birds...

Working in the West Village I often see celebrities. After eight years in Santa Barbara I've learned to be nonchalant when bumping into movie stars on the sidewalk. But it's still cool!

Today: Janel Maloney of "The West Wing," walking on Prince Street in SoHo.

Last month, I nearly ran right into

these two dashing men on Hudson Street preparing to film a scene for "Law & Order."

Jeremy Sisto (a Grass Valley native!)

and Jesse L. Martin.

Debacle in the Bay Area

Every single thing about the recent oil spill in the San Francisco Bay makes me sick. Now it seems to have devolved into an orgy of finger-pointing: The Coast Guard didn’t warn the tanker before it hit a support of the Bay Bridge and spewed 58,000 gallons of fuel. The pilot blames the Chinese shipping company and crew, but they’re not talking. Hundreds of volunteers eager to help clean up the slick as it spread to beaches and coated wildlife were turned away in the crucial first days, and they’re angry at the government. Crabbers and fishermen, whose season has been ruined, are suing the shipping company. Emergency officials are being accused of withholding news of the spill for hours.

Yes, there has been wrongdoing and negligence, and in the coming months those at fault should be held responsible, and efforts should be taken to make sure this never happens again. But I worry that the blame game is taking attention away from the more pressing matter: cleaning up the oil itself, which is creeping out to cover more and more of California’s beautiful and vital beaches; and rescuing the animals, mostly birds, whose lives are endangered.

I wish I could be there to join the volunteers picking up gobs of oily muck—horrible as that sounds, at least I would be doing something instead of merely despairing from 3,000 miles away the besmirching of a place I hold dear.

SF Chronicle stories:

Spill closes bay beaches as oil spreads, kills wildlife

Response to fuel spill under Bay Bridge called 'unusually slow'

Coast Guard may be neglecting its maritime mission

Spill puts hundreds of thousands of migrating birds at risk

Ocean Beach closed

Google map of affected areas

How to help

(photos © San Francisco Chronicle)

Back!

So the odyssey is over. After six days of adventure and relaxation, Brian and I have returned from colorful, fascinating Belize to gloomy, stressed-out New York. Sigh. Let’s compare, shall we?

Ambergris Caye, Belize (where I was a few days ago):

New York City (where I am today):

But! We have our memories of all the places we saw, people we met, and unforgettable experiences we had. I will inflict my own photos on everyone as soon as I get them uploaded. (If you’re in the New York area, prepare to be subjected to a slideshow bonanza as soon as we see you next.) In the meantime, know that we went snorkeling with sharks and stingrays, spelunked through a beautiful, relic-laden cavern, climbed ancient Mayan ruins, and drank our share of Belikin, Belize’s best (and only) beer.

Going south

With any luck, I will soon be here:


This is one of the cayes in Belize, which, strangely enough, is the destination of my first international trip. Coming soon to a caye near you: a pale, recovering, blonde New Yorker.

Creep-crawlin' away

Ah, so many wonderful aspects of the country life to miss: the sound of frogs croaking at the lakeside in the morning, the smell of woodsmoke lying in the valleys, the feel of redwood bark under your palms….

But the sight of horny male tarantulas prowling around in search of good holes to sink their hooks into? Not so much. As this story in The Union Democrat reports, autumn is the time for lovin’ in the Sierra Nevada foothills if you are a lonely Theraphosidae.

I vividly remember this creepy phenomenon, coinciding with the dusty, dry time of year long after summer has withered away but before the rains of winter come. Once while playing tennis with my brother, our game was interrupted by a black, hairy, leggy creature scuttling across the court. I shrieked the way only a 12-year-old girl can, my brother laughed, and I demanded he get rid of it while I cowered near the fence. Turns out tarantulas curl up in a very disconcerting way when swept across a tennis court with a broom.

A better way to dispense with them is to run the eerie bastards over with the tires of your car. Or so I hear. Now, of course, I’m an enlightened, environmentally conscious adult who respects all living things for their place in the universe.

Or so I say.

P.S. I was going to include a picture of a tarantula with this post, but upon looking I realized they are just too damn shudder-inducing. Google it yourself and see.