Once upon a time, this blog was going to be all about my pet bird, when I got one. But I never did get that bird. So, now this blog is about the beautiful, curious things that keep me in a near-constant state of happy distraction. Ironically, many people find these writings when they wonder what "peristerophobia" means. It's a fear of pigeons. I've made a bird blog after all.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
What I would have awakened you to say:
Get up and come outside, come on, come on, come for a drive. Don't look at the clock. Just trust me: get up. Not far from here is a field of hills sleeping under a thin sheet of fog, and the fog is flat and six feet off the ground with which it is parallel, and I will not let you sleep through its slumber. And I need you to hold the camera while I drive: I need your eyes to be as good as mine, to catch that that barn that only has one windowpane left has gone silver again and that the soybeans that have started to yellow this week are a wiser gold in the night and that the just-past-full moon has turned everything a cooler shade of quiet. And I need you not to say What? when I can't help but say Ohh under my breath.
I can do the midnight grocery trip alone, can even ring up and bag all my hundreds of dollars of party groceries alone because no one seems to be working a register. I can load the car alone and leave the parking lot alone. For that matter, I can learn the fogged fields by heart alone, too. But that's where I stop wanting to, where gratitude for the deep breath of quiet I just bought myself because of whatever possessed me to drive the moonlit backroads to Kroger at 10:30 p.m. starts tingeing with desire for enough boldness to find someone to pull out into that silvered rising fog with me.
Annie Dillard could have been writing about me when she said (of herself), "I like the slants of light; I'm a collector." Or Willem de Kooning: "I'm like a slipping glimpser." And don't forget Brenda Ueland: "I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten--happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another." But the Beastie Boys might have said it best: "When it comes to panache, I can't be beat." There's a reason I wear a ring that says Badass.