2. We are not luddites. We love our new powerbook and we love being able to go on-line to see what time the drive-in movie starts, to check our email, to read the latest NYTimes headlines…and above all to blog. At home however we have a cable modem, which means no access on the cape. So we were kinda looking forward to this trip back in time to the fun old dial up days. I had confiscated the two AOL install disks that came with our new lab scanners and tucked them into my bag when I headed for home. I figured although I hated junking up the hard drive with all the AOL drek, we needed access and they were offering us two months free. It seemed like a deal to me.
I waited a couple of days before even attempting to set it up. I liked not rushing to the computer, really being away from work and news and social obligations. On the third day I broke down and was hoping for tons of news and friends responding to my newish blog and I slipped an AOL install disk into my slot loading superdrive and double clicked. The disk opened and I was horrified. There were only PC files on this disk. I took it out, reinserted it, tried the second disk and saw it was exactly the same. I knew that AOL was dual platform, had used it myself, eons ago before I knew any better. I couldn’t fathom why this disk didn’t say for PC’s only or give any indication that it wasn’t suitable for Mac OS.
When I broke down and called tech support at AOL, the rep assured me I was wrong and she would guide me through it. However, of course I wasn’t wrong and I know a Mac file when I see one, and so after signing me up for my two free months and giving me a user name and password and taking a secret code word for identification purposes, she transferred me to a Mac specialist. The specialist was equally adamant that of course the disks were dual platform….until she asked the fateful questions: What system are you running? OS X, I answered proudly. What version of AOL is that disk? 7.0 I said. Oh, she said happily. 7.0 doesn’t work with OS X. You need AOL 8.0.
I had that sinking feeling that we were not going to have internet access this vacation. That Alex wouldn’t be able to see if his dorm in China town had cable. And Susan wouldn’t be able to check out the prototype web site for the CSBA. And I, sadly, wouldn’t be able to blog.
But the AOL tech support person was positively cheerful. Don’t worry, she reassured me. You can just pick up a free AOL install disk anywhere!
Great relief!! Where? I asked.
Borders, Kmart, Barnes and Nobles, Circuit City, Walmart…
She wouldn’t have believed me if I told her we were in the one place in the Northeast that had none of these stores anywhere near us. So I thanked her, hung up the phone, and went out to sit on the deck, breathe and listen to the birds.
1. Ah Truro. Utterly peaceful. Birds wake us in the morning, cicadas buzz us to sleep at night. You can see the sky. Mars is closer to earth in its orbit than it has been for 60,000 years and it shimmers pinkish in the late night sky. We missed the meteor shower, overshadowed by the brightness of the full moon. Last year we lie on the beach at Corn Hill in our sleeping bags and giggled with delight as the meteors streaked across the sky. You can ride your bike for miles, seeing no one, listening to the birds and feeling the breezes. No Walmart, no Barnes and Nobles, no Circuit City, no K-Mart…..
The weather was turbulent for the first several days. Crystal clear beach days would turn to downpours at the drop of a sand toy, cranky days at home saved by the return of the sun. But we were just so glad to be here. Finished Oryx and Crake in the first days. Didn’t love it as much towards the end. Hated the actual ending. But quickly moved on to Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons which I adored. Not just because it took place in Italy and focused on a diabolical plot built around Bernini’s sculptures. But I’ve already said too much. I devoured it and am having trouble finding my next book. Tried to start a few, but they paled in comparison. Alex sadly –for him- finishedthe fifth Harry Potter yesterday and was besides himself. He had been laughing aloud everyday at the beach reading it.He only let himself read it at the beach, because otherwise it would go too quickly. Back at the cape house, he switched to reading ancient Dorothy Sayers novels, which he also enjoyed. I will tackle the 900 page Potter when I get home…it will keep the vacation spirit alive. Susan has been reading her newspapers.
We have biked, kayaked in the Pamet river, been to the drive-in, to see Freaky Friday –Alex laughed a lot at that one too; have spent long, luxurious days at Long Nook beach, which we all, as a family, agree, is the most beautiful spot in the world. Quiet evenings are spent reading, singing and playing the guitar, sometimes braving the crowds at the Highland Creamery for ice cream. We haven’t been into town yet. But we will… Life is good.
Yesterday I headed into the Square for some last minute pre-vacation errands. Had to pick up some cash, get one last book and buy a new bathing suit. Don't even get me started on this whole bathing suit thing. Why anyone ever thought that the best thing for women to swim in is a skin tight sleek piece of fabric that you have to wedge yourself into, is beyond me. Why can't women swim in loose fittting madras bermuda's like men? How come men's bathing suits can be light and flowing and cotton? No rubbing, no chafing.
As the heaven's opened yet again in this monsoon summer, I ducked into the Harvard Book Store, skipping the micro sundae I had planned to have at Toscanni's–after the bathing suit episode I lost my appetite–and planning to pick up a copy of Dan Brown's the Da Vinic Code, to complete my trilogy of his books for beach reading. However, they had removed the 20 % off sticker and I just couldn't bring myself to spend the 30 bucks on the hardback book which I would read on the beach, getting sand in the spine, pickle juice and potato chip grease on the pages, so instead, I browsed. Spent the bulk of my time in my new favorite place, the philosophy section. Don't even ask. I don't know how this happend to me. I used to never even look at a book unless it was fiction. Now I finger Gadamer's Philosophical Hermeneutics as if it were gold.
I drifted over to the new paperback section and I noticed a newish book by Thich Nhat Hanh, No Death, No Fear. It was time to leave, but the rain had become torrential; I had no choice but to start reading. I love Thich Nhat Hanh's voice; no matter what he is saying, I hear the soothing quality of it right away. The premise of the book, from what I could absorb in seven minutes through osmosis, was the illusion of duality, of birth and death. Instead he uses the metaphors of water and wave, of a match burning it self up to illustrate the cyclical nature of all things, of things manifesting when conditons are right and not manifesting when they aren't. And that instead of waiting for some heavenly afterlife where all is perfect, perfection is now. Right here in front of us, if we will only stop and perceive it. Of course although a simple idea, not an easy thing to achieve. He used the word 'home' alot, which in my transitional phase in life, grabbed be, saying we are home, now, right here.
I headed out in the downpour which was fast dwindling into drizzle and the sky had that grey quality that saturates the colors and makes everything appear vivid and alive. For six blocks I walked in the brilliance of the moment,-it almost hurt my eyes-and wondered how it was that life can be so awesome and we miss it most of the time because we are rushing to do the next thing or replaying the last hurtful event or planning how we will get through the time between now and then. I felt a renewed sense of purpose for my vacation: even if constrained by too tight synthetic swimwear that reveals unsightly bulges, even if it rains every single day and we all get cranky, even if I am not at all productive, even if I return as pasty white as I am right now, I can practice, as much as possible, being, experiencing, and existing in the perfection of the each and every vacation moment. No small task.
no not the kind that sounds good and makes you want to kick up your heels and dance; trying to get things lined up good and proper and being such a code-challenged weenie, used to having Dreamweaver do it all, it takes me half an hour to just get the not-all-that-interesting post to look half-way decent.
anyway, three new picture galleries are up: some digital work (stuff created in Photoshop mostly, piecing together scanned in items and bits of photos), some digital photos of flowers, and a group of digital shots on solitude. (see sidebar, under Gallery)
I am off to Truro tomorrow for some glorious, mind numbing, body restoring time. Internet access is dial up and molasses, but I may be able to blog. Planning to finish Oryx and Crake, tackle some Dan Brown and luxuriate in Harry Potter, once Alex zips through it. The Globe reveiwed Clem and Ursie's in this week's Calendar section, so we will have to stand in line for our sushi but it will be worth it....
stray thoughts, inspired by various media, sparking connections
Finding Snowman, Magaret Atwood's protagonist in Oryx and Crake, an apt companion. He is alone, totally, the last of his species, among a strange new bio-engineered breed. He talks to himself, quotes to himself, but can't remember from whence the quotes came, reprimands himself for playing and replaying old memory tapes.
I have just begun the book and am loving him all the while Atwood's terrifying future in which he lives is a little too close for comfort. Maybe Snowman's lonelyness too closely mirrors my own...
If anyone told me that I was going to spend three of my precious weekend hours in the Brattle theatre (read old, trendy theatre in Harvard Square that shows classic films in a room akin to a barn, where there is no stadium seating; in other words you spend you time, if you are a height challenged person, craning your neck, looking between this person's head and that, to see the not so big screen) I would have maybe have believed them. But if they told me I was going to spend those three hours watching a guy movie, a buddy film, a Clint Eastwood flic, a cowboy movie, a war movie, a badly dubbed movie, I would have said pshaw. And if they told me that I would be in heaven, happy as a clam, loving every minute of it, hoping it would go on forever, I would have emphatically shaken my head and said, no way, Jose.
However, that was the case, on Saturday, when Alex took us to see The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. (Il buono, il brutto e il cattivo! Don't you just love Italian?) I must have seen the movie when it came out, 37 years ago, but was too young to remember it. I did, however remember the theme song and have sung my rendition of the unintelligible words (I swear they are saying "Don't want no raincoat, don't need no raincoat, don't want no, don't need no" in the background) to those nearest and dearest to me, sending them screaming from the room, hands over their ears. The movie was simply amazing. From the very first ten minutes of close-up shots of rugged, ugly cowboy faces, with no dialog and nothing happening except for in the eyes of the actors, I knew I was in for a treat. After this summers' movie extravaganzas- Matrix Reloaded, (and Animatrix) Xmen 2, the Hulk, Daredevil (on video), Pirates of the Caribbean, and my fav, Finding Nemo, and don't get me wrong I loved them all, it was so wonderful to watch a movie devoid of special effects, of computer graphics of anything more technical than some explosives and to find myself riveted to the screen. The shots were stunningly framed, the direction perfection, Eli Wallach was incredible as Tuco, and even the use of the little stub of a cigar that Eastwood was always smoking, or chewing on or leaving behind in his campfire, was filled with meaning. This feel good, buddy film, who can outsmart who quicker and better was also a riveting indictment of war and I found myself laughing at the delightful play one moment and catapulted into the carnage the next and so appreciative of the fluidity in the film that it could hold such a range of feeling and sensibility and do it all seamlessly, artfully.
Yes I did see Finding Nemo twice and I would see it again in a heartbeat and yes it is Disney, ultimately, and yes they do kill off the mother in the first few minutes (um...like you didn't know that every Disney movie kills off one parent -Bambi-or the other -Lion King-or puts them in jail -Dumbo-or seperates them-Little Mermaid, Pinocchio, Beauty and the Beast- to set the scene) and yes Nemo does get separated from his father and they didn't part on good terms and all that other formulaic Disney crapola, but ooh-la-la what a spectacle it is! Soooo beautiful, I could watch that sea anemone's arms wave endlessly, the water glisten forever, laugh again and again each time those sea turtles say "dude!" or "sweet!"
And yes I had to go see it a second time, because after the first viewing Alex was practically incoherent - he was convinced that whoever wrote the part for Dorie (played by that other Ellen) modelled it after me. "They nailed it!" Alex kept saying. They must have followed you around. She is just like you.
Upon second viewing I could sort of see what he was talking about. Not just the forgetfulness. That I keep creating passwords and then forgetting them so that I can't get on my newly configured Airpot network, isn't what Alex noticed. The part that really got him, was that Dorie kept on singing, Keep on Swimming, even after Marlon, the daddy, told her to shh! and this is Alex's quintessential experience of me. That I keep on singing. In the super market, on Broadway, in the Video store, at work, on the bus, in public, in the shower. He believes me to be wildly inappropriate and out of control. I can see his point of view, although that is so not how I experience myself.
But what I was struck by the second time around, was that Dorie was totally in the moment. Partly because she didn't remember what had gone on seconds before. But partly because she was open to what she was experiencing in that moment. If they were riding the Austrailian current and a slew of baby turtles were playing hide and seek, she was right there. If they were caught in the whale's mouth, she was enjoying the ride, speaking whale to their host. Whatever life brought her she embraced, whole-heartedly. In that regard, I am afraid Alex is wrong. I am nothing like Dorie. And I'm not blue. And I don't have freckles. And I sing better than she does. Even if, in the end, I've got the words to the Good, the Bad and the Ugly all wrong. Maybe they do want that raincoat.