If I wear the collar long enough, after a while I forget it’s there.
I’m a great fan of the rhetorical question. In fact, it may well be my favorite kind of question. It’s more than a question, you see, but also a kind of dialogue, in miniature. Unlike the typical query, it requests nor requires any response, and yet, paradoxically, suggests and embodies an answer uniquely its own. It is the expression of an idea existing in an indefinite, and suspended, state of self-examination.
If I’ve resorted to rendering my point explicitly, I’ve done a poor job in making the point at all.
THE ARTIST IN ME is the conjoined twin of the worker bee in me. We must live together, by Nature’s decree. The worker bee must rise and shine and shower and brush and drive to work and punch the clock and file these papers and dig those holes and put out that fire and punch the clock again and get in the car and drive again and shop for food and fill the gas tank and wash the dishes and feed the pets, and vacuum the floors or pull the weeds, depending on the season. The artist in me must wait and watch while the worker bee balances the checkbook and budgets the month and lists all the things to do tomorrow and check off all the things that were done today.
Nominally in charge, sometimes the worker bee will set aside some time for the artist, but always remembering the importance of the structure that keeps the machine running smoothly. This, the artist would hasten to admit, is only fair.
Sometimes however the artist will, seized by inspiration (a fancy word for creative starvation), stage a coup, and commandeer the ship’s bridge for a while. The worker bee will always step aside and graciously allow this, because he knows the artist is acting neither capriciously, nor gratuitously, and that he is compelled by grave necessity.
Sadly, regardless of whether the artist has seized his time or received it, he carries with him many of the habits of the worker bee. After all, they live side by side. Without realizing it, he often finds himself using the worker bee’s tools to form his art. But the artist and his art are at the same time naturally resistant to his brother’s ways; to the precise, linear implements so necessary to the worker bee, to help him navigate the day, to allow him to steer clear of the many hazards that lurk beneath the surface.
The artist stands before his canvas and maps out his color scheme. He divides it into complementary yet dynamic segments. He considers the cost of his paints, and the paucity of sunlight his garret allows. He wonders how far he will get, or if he will ever finish. Similarly, he sits before his typewriter and wrestles with family trees and chronologies, with story arcs and denouements. He finds himself tiring before he even begins. But how else can he proceed? It all needs to make sense, doesn’t it? Otherwise, he’s left with chaos, and what then?
He has forgotten what he once knew, and what he’s forgotten and remembered many times since: that the best of his ideas are born from chaos. They are begotten within the turmoil of dreams, from the swirl of memories that in turn blend with his childhood fantasies and teenage heroes, from inspirational myths and exciting movies and insightful books and sublime music, all of which at one time or another in his lifetime ignited a spark and then a flame within him, all of which stirred him before he even had a chance to put his finger on why.
Faced with the absence of structure though, he feels adrift: alone and afraid. He clings to the comfort of the idea of a solid foundation, unaware that he is, in a way, a prisoner of it.
But what if his first impulse, the attempt to impose a pattern onto the chaos, is doomed before the fact? Sometimes he succeeds. Sometimes the conventional approach bears fruit. He remembers also that too often the attempt begins well but peters out, stillborn. So what to do?
He has read Breton’s first manifesto, and agrees with him, more or less, but finds him pompous and long-winded. Besides, of what help to the artist can the hundred-year-old musings of a French intellectual possibly be? Then the artist concedes his admiration for the man, and admits that he is perhaps a little jealous.
The artist allows his thoughts to float upon the surface of the question, but then allows himself to sink, to slowly fall until he is resting upon and then deeply embedded in the spongy earth of the seabed. Oddly, he is not holding his breath, but breathing deeply. What if there is a pattern, he asks himself, to be found buried within the chaos? Don’t patterns emerge, regardless of whether they are conjured or unbidden?
We are by nature inclined to see patterns where none (seemingly) exist. We see problems and search for solutions. Addicted to rational thought we look for linear and concrete answers to creative dilemmas in much the same way we set about organizing our day, or in the way we approach a clogged drain, or a malfunctioning appliance. We make lists, sometimes on paper, sometimes not. We enumerate the benefits and line them up beside the disadvantages. We believe a measured series of observations will yield a path forward.
This works fine for the worker bee. But perhaps, the artist wonders, he should be searching for less confining solutions. Perhaps the idea of a solution is itself a misdirection.
No one taught us how to seek out chaos. We’re taught that it’s a dangerous place. But what if invoking the word chaos is just another way of talking about the unexpected? Every day we stumble upon it inadvertently, and are continually startled by its therapeutic effects. The best of jokes catch us by surprise. We laugh, or cry, when we least expect to.
And then we forget. We close the book, and bookmark the page; we change the channel. We resume our normal lives. We fluff the pillow and pull back the bedding. We rise and shine. This is no surprise. It’s where we spend most of our time, within the here and now, between yesterday and tomorrow.
So, we return. But consider, the artist asks himself, that as we do so we might also be re-surfacing, and by the logic of the dream, by the laws of chaos, by virtue of the unexpected point of view, we are by necessity also holding our breaths, wondering, as the weeks become months, and the months become years, where the devil the magic went.
And by we, the worker bee says, I mean me.
I rose before the sun. I hugged momma and poppa and cried. I wondered where I was going. I passed into mountains. I sat to tea among empty chairs and watched the trucks roll by. I wished I was a truck driver. I stopped at the edge of the valley, looked over, and forgot to take pictures. I wished I was a photographer. I found the small roads. I drove past gas stations with one pump. At red lights, I looked through the trees at houses with white-washed gables. I wished that I lived in them. I wrinkled my nose and watched as grass fires ran past. I wondered when I would see my friends again. I remembered an old friend who had moved before me and swerved off the main road to meet her. She lived in Detroit with a man whose company she disliked, so we met in her car. Once she had seemed so grown up. Now her car seemed to be her crib and I wanted to get out and I wanted to stay but my aunt was waiting in Chicago. Besides it just ain’t like it was cause we just ain’t like we were like when my aunt used to tickle me till the laughing hurt and I cried. Now her fingers are busy with Lucky Strikes and crosswords and the garden by the back fence where she grows bonsai in her trench-coat and sunglasses while above the trains go by every ten minutes like thunder rumbling through the old gray house where grandma died and grandpa died before I could remember to remember. I followed my aunt to a lake in Wisconsin where we found a boat with three white sails, a ready captain and ready mates. Since it was summer she put on her sunglasses and trench-coat. At night I slept in the hold and used a hand-held flashlight to see the pictures I drew and read the letters I wrote on lined yellow pages. I pressed my nose against the plastic window to watch the storms that leaked onto my bed and kept me awake. I wished my home was a houseboat. I followed my uncle to his house in Minneapolis. I lived in his attic and dreamed about the lover I left behind. Together in the den my uncle and I watched educational television. Together in the kitchen we crushed gimlets. Together we lost each other in a bar. Together we coveted women with yellow hair and empty eyes. I secretly made love to a Navajo, while secretly he bedded a Viking. I painted pictures and gave his Viking lover one and another to him. My Navajo lover gave me a charm. I took long walks in the wood. I wished I lived in a wood. Winter came. My winter lover found me. I wrote a poem for her, and she played her piano for me. But summer was gone and I knew it was time to leave.
Allow me to climb the soapbox, in the spirit of Bughouse Square, and declaim for a few moments. My subject is a particular cocktail, what is by many colloquially and euphemistically referred to as an adult beverage. I wish to speak to you about the Martini, and one of the unwritten difficulties it presents. There are some that are well known, primary among them whether to use vodka or gin, and to what degree to allow the vermouth entrée into the recipe. Shaken or stirred? Made with both vodka and gin? What garnish to use? If the ingredients are completely different, but the distinctive glass remains, is it still a Martini?
Well, as it happens, it is about the glass I wish to speak, and the secret challenge it presents. Within its shape and design lies a test that determines the fitness of any man or woman to be worthy of the drink. Permit me an example. If you find yourself at the home of a dear friend, who’s either hired a bartender, or taken it upon themselves to vigorously shake the tumbler and bruise the ice, to determine the exact proportion of vermouth per drink for either the guest before them, or for the party as a whole, then, as a Martini aficionado, there is an obligation to respect the power of the drink, and strive not to spill it onto the feet of whatever party-goers one happens to encounter while navigating a particularly tricky passage from the bar to that easy chair you’ve so assiduously scouted, and so tenderly courted. Then again, if you’ve obtained your Martini while sitting at a public establishment, you need only let the glass sit in front of you, and every once in a while lift it an inch and lean forward, and sip it like a child might pull its milk from a sippy-cup.
It’s all very well and good for the wine drinker, with the softly curving bowl of their glass, which they love to agitate while they swish and sniff the contents. Usually the wine glass is filled only halfway, leaving plenty of margin for error. You’ll notice the wine drinker’s habit of grasping their drink by the stem, an extremely unstable center of gravity, but counteracted by the empty top half of the glass. The Martini glass on the other hand is very often filled to the top, leaving the liquid to lap gently against the edges, which only the slightest nudge can cause to spill. To make matters worse, the Martini is nearly always garnished, usually with olives or a twist of lemon, thereby making the contents even more, if ever so slightly, unstable.
It is a childishly simple task for the drinker of wine to take their just-filled glass and walk from the bar to their seat or waiting friends. The liquid sloshes around (apparently, the wine drinker encourages this, something about aeration) to and fro. The higher the drink count, of course, the more sloshing. But the bowl of their glass, only half-filled, curves inward at the top, minimizing socially awkward liquid-based interactions, that is to say spills. It’s as if the wine glass were designed specifically with insobriety in mind. I imagine the inventor of the wine glass saying something like, we’ll curve the lines like so, and taper them gently, and curve them inward, so as to contain in the glass the many inevitable accidents so endemic to parties since time, or at least since adult beverages, began.
The Martini glass allows no such easement. Its design is a direct rebuke to that of the wine glass. Where the latter is protective, the former is downright hazardous. Its angular profile, and its unforgiving geometric precipitousness, demands constant attention, especially if one insists on aping the wine drinker, and holding the glass by the stem. This will not do. The wise Martini drinker will grasp the recently filled glass around the rim while carrying it, or, barring that, cradle it from beneath with their palm, although this has the distinct disadvantage of warming a drink meant to be consumed cold. They will lift it high and keep it at eye level, especially during the later rounds, when the floor is beginning to feel much like a ship’s deck on a rough patch of sea. When simply sitting and sipping, it is still advisable to continue to avoid the wine drinker’s habit, either by touching only the rim, or by cradling the Martini glass where the stem meets the bowl, much like the drinker of cognac does.
No other beverage glass presents so daunting a challenge. The whiskey drinker’s tumbler is short and squat, as stable as the rock of Gibraltar, and can be held firmly between thumb and palm. The beer drinker’s stein is just as foundationally sound, if not more so, made as it is with a handle for grasping, topped off with light suds that pose little to no threat to the occasional clumsy encounter. And for the drinker of brandy or cognac, although their glass superficially resembles the wine glass, it’s a safer container, with a bowl angling more inward toward the top than its cousin’s, and with a much shorter stem, encouraging the holder to cradle the bottom, which is, we reiterate, always less problematic than grasping the stem.
Here then, is my contribution to the literature of that most iconic of cocktails, the heretofore (and perhaps for good reason) unremarked challenge of the Martini glass, and for the Martini drinker. It is one the wine or beer drinker will never have to face, and may never understand, but one the seasoned and discerning drinker of Martinis will, if they are observant, have taken to heart.
As democracy is perfected, the office [of the presidency] represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. We move toward a lofty ideal. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart’s desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.
H.L. Mencken, 1920, from a Baltimore Sun article.
When this was written, the word moron was undergoing a transition from medical term to insult, having only recently been used to designate a mental age range between 7 and 10 years. Similarly, an imbecile was considered by the medical lights of the time as someone slightly less gifted, with a mental age of 3 to 7 years. At the bottom of this dubious hierarchy stood the idiot, whose range worked backwards from the age of three.
Of the three, it is the term “idiot” that most interests me. The word hails from ancient Greece, referring to someone of private, or selfish disposition. Athenians for example, expected their citizens to participate in the city’s politics, and didn’t look kindly on those who did not. Furthermore, participation required a rigorous education. Someone who hadn’t embraced public life therefore, a private person, a selfish person, very often an uneducated person, was considered lacking in good judgment, and unworthy of contributing to the civic dialogue. Back then, the word embraced all of these attributes, with little practical distinction between a person who avoids the general polity, a selfish person, and a person who’s ignorant of the issues, a stupid person.
Clearly, Mencken saw the vital link between education and civic participation, and even back then noted the absence of that link, and foresaw the disastrous results that disconnect would eventually entail. His quote, which could easily be dismissed as glib and dismissive, even cynical, can now be seen, in the fullness of time, as a profound expression of sadness.
We have done it. One year ago this month we did it. The American people has finally made manifest the essence of Mencken’s dire prediction. After a long succession of the privileged sons of Harvard and Yale and West Point, after a prideful procession of the scions of Boston and Philadelphia and Virginia, no small number of whom proved to be, by varying degrees, either corrupt, incompetent, adulterous, or venal; not to mention the bullies, racists, criminals, and war-mongers; we have sent to the White House a man who embodies all of those odious traits.
Truly, we are a schizophrenic people. Again, I return to the language of the ancient Greeks. The word’s etymology is literally “split mind.” I am not the first to observe the pendular nature of our national elections. And I’m not the first to note the strain of anti-intellectualism that has plagued our politics since at least the days of Woodrow Wilson. Even the more conventional definition of schizophrenia cites fragmentation and disconnection between thoughts, emotions, and observable facts. The violent swings that characterize our presidential elections can be explained by either of these definitions. This country needs an intervention. But what do you do, when the grownups are all half the size of the self-destructive, abusive addict? You tread with care, or you avoid confronting the situation altogether.
Upon taking office, Harry Truman, a relative neophyte and unwitting patsy to his Communist hating Secretary of State Jimmy Byrnes, undoes FDR’s tripartite agreements with Stalin and Churchill, in favor of confrontational standoffs with the Soviet Union. He becomes obsessed with the “Soviet Menace,” and acts accordingly. Byrnes personally threatens Molotov at Potsdam, and the Cold War is on. Like the portrait of Dorian Gray, the inner soul of the American people, as Mencken put it, still closely resembles the image it projects to the world, but no longer faithfully.
His successor, General Eisenhower, a man who has actually seen war, turns inward. He creates the interstate highway system, and presides over domestic growth unparalleled in the nation’s history; but warns the country, during his farewell address, of the danger of the “military-industrial complex,” initiating a uniquely American tradition of retiring politicians speaking truth to power only after they’ve decided to leave any position of influence that might have made a difference.
When Kennedy beats Eisenhower’s Vice President Richard Nixon, he walks into a rat’s nest of rampant Cold War paranoia, forcing him to look outward. He bravely defies his generals and unapologetically resists their lizard-brain need for combat against the “Communist Horde.” He refuses to instigate war with either Cuba or the Soviet Union. Also a neophyte, at least to the realities of executive branch politics, he underestimates the forces arrayed against him. He dies as a result.
His Vice President, LBJ, sweltering beneath the progressive shadow of his predecessor, sees the folly of continued war in Vietnam, but is wise enough to see the folly of trying to pull out. Representing another sweep of the pendulum, he looks inward, towards Civil Rights, hoping for redemption for an increasingly barbaric war abroad. But he alienates the South by embracing the Negro cause, while still being vilified as a warmonger, dooming his presidency. He concedes the office after a single term.
Richard Nixon, nominally a Quaker, his true religion is hardball politics. Turning the nation’s gaze again outward, he escalates the Vietnam War, carpet bombing a neutral country in the process. A disinterested observer might ask whether the massacre of civilians, and the defoliation of their forests and crops by means of Napalm and Agent Orange, constitutes war-crimes. But we live in a country in which an infinite number of questions may be asked of our representatives and leaders, but the answers will emanate only from the soulless memoranda of an automated and entrenched bureaucracy. Ironically, despite these monstrous actions, Nixon is forced to resign because he tries to cover up a bungled burglary carried out by a gaggle of CIA operatives more akin to the the Keystone Cops than any intelligence service. I have no doubt the ancient Greek goddess of destiny smiled at this turn of events.
We move on to Nixon’s hapless successor, Gerald Ford. He pardons Nixon for all crimes, past, present, and future, initiating yet another uniquely American political tradition: acting as if one’s predecessor’s transgressions never occurred. Ford’s largess however, far from ensuring a place of honor for him in the presidential pantheon, condemns him. He is relegated to history’s dustbin. Trust in its institutions by the American people is now at an all-time low. The country’s inner soul is now showing clear signs of wear and tear.
Ford is replaced by Jimmy Carter, Nixon’s antithesis, a born-again Christian, a plainspoken, God-fearing farmer, the people’s anticipated antidote to the excesses of executive privilege. He looks inward, the only modern president under whom no American soldier dies abroad. But the world will not be ignored. OPEC reduces oil production, forcing gas prices up and supply to a trickle. Desperate for gasoline, the people’s thirst remains un-slaked for too long. Instead of pulling together, they complain bitterly. Any concept of shared sacrifice has been lost over the past thirty years of material growth and expansion. Carter’s attempt to bring a level of sobriety to the office is met with derision. The Arabs withhold their oil. Carter attempts to talk to the American people as if they were adults, a mistake Nixon never would have considered, and one LBJ was wise enough to avoid. The Iranians kidnap his citizens. Carter fails to rescue them. He is replaced after one term.
The pendulum swings again. Carter’s successor, Ronald Reagan, while still a candidate, negotiates in secret with the Iranians for the release of the hostages. They are set free on the day of his inauguration. Shortly afterward, Reagan tears down from the White House roof the solar panels Carter installed to symbolize energy independence. “The Gipper,” as he is fondly remembered, trains his sights on the Soviet Union, declaring them the “Evil Empire,” although the term empire hardly fits the ragtag collection of impoverished countries held under Russia’s thrall. In a manner more befitting the description of empire, Reagan repays the Iranian’s release of the hostages with armaments paid for with cash from a secret, illegal deal with the Contras of Nicaragua. After eight years, Reagan has raised taxes several times and more than doubled the national debt, after promising to do the very opposite, but in the process bankrupts the Soviet Union. When finally brought to heel for the Iran-Contra scandal, he is in the early stages of dementia, while his wife consults with astrologers. Despite high crimes and misdemeanors, he is remembered instead for spending the Soviets into oblivion. He sails into the sunset on waves of adulation bordering on consecration.
The adoration of Reagan carries his Vice President, George H. W. Bush into the White House, but only so far as one term. He attempts to slow the pendulum’s progress, but is not up to the task. It carries him out of the picture and William Jefferson Clinton into it. The country wants to look inward again. The public loves Clinton, but the Washington establishment, both the Media and the Legislature, hates him. Their venom for him is exceeded only by their detestation of his wife, Hillary. The ensuing eight years are underlined by sustained, pitched, political battle, but the country stays out of wars abroad, preferring to argue over health-care and blow-jobs. The country’s inner soul is crying out for something, but it still doesn’t know what.
By the time Clinton terms out, he’s been so vilified by his enemies that the term “Clinton fatigue” is coined to describe the weariness that accompanied the relentless attacks against him and Hillary, with whom he had the temerity to publicly enlist as an equal partner in policy development. Their progressive ideas trigger a backlash that stuns those pitiable Panglossian souls who still consider America a shining beacon of fairness and clear-eyed practicality. Still in a state of denial, America’s inner soul is finally beginning to get glimpses of its true self in the mirror.
Still prey to its own extreme mood swings, the American public goes on to elect the barely literate son of Reagan’s Vice President to replace a policy-savvy Rhodes Scholar and his civically engaged, accomplished wife. Once again the world will not allow America to collapse beneath the weight of its myriad internal contradictions, its refusal to acknowledge its pervasive racism and misogyny and homophobia. Early into George W. Bush’s administration, extremists from one of its closest allies, Saudi Arabia, kill 3,000 Americans, giving the warmongers in his cabinet a cause around which to rally the country. They proceed to embroil the country in a conflict at least as disastrous and expensive and foolhardy as the war in Vietnam, if not more so. Besides turning the nation’s gaze once again outward and away from the rot within, the administration’s foreign interventions highlight yet another corrosive agent eating away at the fabric of the republic: the burden of global empire. After eight disastrous years, Bush leaves office with one of, if not the, lowest approval ratings in American history. So inept does he prove himself to be at conducting foreign policy, he leaves the country’s international reputation in tatters. On top of that, by approving detention without recourse to due process at Guantanamo, and by approving the use of torture, and extraordinary rendition, and by initiating a vast and intrusive surveillance state, he manages to layer onto the nation’s numerous burdens the palpable veneer of fascism, the very ideology so reviled when wielded by Hitler and Mussolini.
The ugliness and immorality of America’s behavior has become so blatant, so brazen, one might believe it impossible for it to disregard. But ignore it, it does. The inner soul of the country is nothing if not addicted to its own inflated sense of moral rectitude. The appearance of Barack Hussein Obama upon the political scene sends through it a shock wave no less potent than an eighteen-year-old’s first snort of cocaine. His followers are giddy with the prospect of electing the nation’s first black president. All of the nation’s sins against African Americans, the unspoken implication goes, can be expiated by the full-bodied support and election of a man so apparently different than his predecessors. The evidence is undeniable: his name, so foreign and provocative; his skin, so clearly a rebuke to the previous forty-three presidents. Here lies proof, for anyone with eyes to see, of the inherent purity of the American soul, of its capacity to leave behind for good the sins it never truly acknowledged.
Yes, once again, denial prevails. The deluded, naive expectations of the nation’s inner soul are projected onto Barack Obama. The progressives see their savior, and the conservatives see their anti-Christ. Neither see the truth. Obama rides into office on promises to reduce the American footprint abroad, but the expansion of empire continues, as does the growth of the surveillance state. More Mexicans are rounded up and returned to their country in Obama’s first four years than had been detained in his predecessor’s eight. Whistleblowers are hunted down and prosecuted with unprecedented vehemence. Drone strike numbers rise, exceeded only by the number of civilians incinerated in their wake, more often than not redefined as “enemy combatants.” But all of this is ignored by both his allies and adversaries. Baby steps towards progress domestically are made, cautiously. But they are insufficient, considering the enormity and weight of America’s refusal to confront its demons.
Still, Obama’s administration is, in retrospect, remarkable, considering the colossal missteps perpetrated by his predecessors. Despite his adherence to the conventional wisdom as preached by Wall Street and the Pentagon, no scandals plague his term; no hint of impropriety, either personal or political, haunts his stewardship. Some movement, however small, seems to be visible, toward the calming refuge of sanity and rationality. But the American inner soul will have none of it. Like a statute of limitations, the end of Obama’s eight years seems to trigger a frenzy of heretofore repressed and barely controlled rage against the system. To be fair, an argument could be made that this misdirected spleen revealed itself much earlier, but that would be a distinction without much of a difference.
Despite eight years of service by a man whose probity, dignity, forbearance and intelligence cannot by any honest person be doubted, America has, only a year ago, managed to elect the exact opposite: a spoiled child in the body of a wealthy man with no moral compass. The pendulum swings again. Despite all rational instincts to the contrary, emotion once again prevails, and a demonstrable racist and philanderer, a provable con-man and liar, is installed into the office of the presidency. The inner soul of this nation has raised to its chief political office a man whose temperament is, by any definition, equivalent to that of a toddler.
A year into this execrable administration, unsurprisingly absent its leader’s own awareness, the seed of fascism has sprouted. The sabres rattle. The “other” is demonized. Despots are coddled. His cabinet plunders the coffers. His base feels unfettered. Attacks against people of color go unremarked. Attacks by people of color are condemned in the harshest terms. Up is down. Black is white. The logic of the tyrant, which is the absence of logic, prevails. The inner soul of the people now wheezes like an asthmatic, straining through deafness to hear the voice of reason, and squinting against myopia to see what is directly in front of it. It limps forward on arthritic legs, flailing through thin air for some sort of support, and finding none, falls to its knees to rail against implacable fate. But the sound that comes forth is a raspy creak, a hollow rattle accompanied by an almost childlike squeak.
Representing our nation now is a man whose name I cannot bring myself to utter. A man steeped in intemperance; a man who is the embodiment of habitual selfishness and willful stupidity. We have not, Mr. Mencken, elected a moron, nor even an imbecile.
We have elected, in the truest sense of the term, an idiot.
John has, but Marsha had, a tense disagreement.
It’s the height of summer, and a spider has taken over my backyard. I was slow to realize the extent of her labors, or to recognize that she was the sole author. They were at first simply increasingly frequent annoyances. I found myself brushing away webs when I didn’t expect them, where they hadn’t been only the day before.
Bounded on two sides by six-foot-high fences, and on the other two sides by the house and the garage, canopied in one corner by a grand and venerable maple, and in the other by a humble, muslin-shrouded gazebo, the yard is an oasis. Beneath the maple a smallish pond is fed continuously by water streaming from an urn carried by a gray stone statue of a Greek woman. The water attracts the birds: sparrows mostly, but occasionally doves and cardinals as well. Raccoons and rabbits have found their way inside our little paradise, as well as possums, but they’re inevitably driven out by our three dogs. Alert and perpetually spoiling for action, they keep the squirrels treed and the larger creatures from setting down roots.
Spiders on the other hand, fall a bit below their radar, although they’re not above snapping at the occasional fly. Throughout the yard, the flies are a constant and insistent presence. When the doors to the house are open, they wander in and allow themselves to become entangled in the swirling eddies of air beneath the spinning ceiling fans, or struggle helplessly to get back outside through window screens, apparently incapable of finding their way back to the doorways through which they entered. It’s these poor stragglers the dogs set their sights on, leaping and biting into the air where a fly had been only a microsecond before.
Ironically, it’s the dogs’ continuous and reliable output that, more than anything, attracts the flies. The easiest way to find their droppings is to locate the shimmering and pulsating metallic green that marks the swarm that surrounds what the dogs have left behind. Often, when the heat becomes too much to take, they abandon their meals and congregate in the cool of the concrete stairwell that leads down to the basement of the house. It was there that I first saw her.
On my way from the basement out to the backyard, I braced myself for the usual swirl of flies cooling themselves just outside the door. Instead, I ran head first into the sticky white threads, just before seeing the intricate and meticulous web at the center of them. Careful to break only the edges in order to pass through, the heart of the web retained its integrity, and I saw her crawl away slowly but deliberately from her perch. As I watched, I made note of her thick torso and hairy legs, and of the concentric yellow stripes that ringed them.
Once safely past, I remembered the recent proliferation of webs throughout the yard, the ones I’d noticed but not quite made note of. At least three graced each of the two fences, spaced at even intervals, reminiscent of the safety nets used by trapeze artists with nothing to prove. Another had caught me unawares the day before in the narrow space between the corner of the house and one of the fences.
And finally, I remembered the recent easing of the sense of inundation so typical to hot summer days dense with the buzzing of those innumerable and relentless, fecal-sniffing and carrion-seeking pests, whose very presence unnerves and disgusts on such a visceral level. I suppose the same could be said about spiders, but it wouldn’t by me. I, for one, am grateful for her work, and regret every web of hers that I find myself breaking, either by accident or necessity.
A spider has taken over my backyard, and I have no doubt that it is a she, and I welcome her with open arms.
They were never before, when I lived on the eastern seaboard, an item of interest. Now, in Chicago, or what they call Chicago-land (God knows where those borders reside), interminable freight trains, not to mention the occasional idling commuter transport, insist on inserting themselves into daily life. No schedule of mine therefore, is safe, and must be flexible enough to accommodate these hulking, cacophonous conveyances.
They remain for me to this day, some twenty years later, alien interruptions that continue to take me by surprise. But I accept them with grace and patience (rarely forgetting to congratulate myself on my equanimity). While I wait, I look around to peek in on my counterparts in the neighboring cars, looking for any signs of frustration or impatience, for the fuming, for the steam coming out of their ears. But no, they too seem unconcerned.
But no matter. These trains, I contend, are a blight. No, that’s unfair. Not the trains themselves, of course. Clearly, they represent a failure of urban planning, the unwillingness or inability on the part of townships and counties and the state to come to some sort of understanding. Where are the bridges and underpasses? Few and far between is where. This is hardly rural Oklahoma, but a major American city, around which a multitude of communities have spread outward until a map became the only real way to tell them and their five million inhabitants apart. And yet, countless pairs of train-tracks criss-cross Chicago’s many interlocking communities, seemingly willy-nilly, their only rhyme or reason being whatever individual history can explain them.
Yes, these constant, random, unpredictable interruptions of traffic demonstrate a clear indifference to the admittedly provincial needs of what must seem, to the Grand Poo-Bahs, to be the great unwashed, of which I proudly count myself a member. I suppose there’s just a little steam coming from my ears after all.
On the other hand, I willingly concede that the tracks, along with the trains that roll along them, are a lifeblood coursing through our collective, arterial thoroughfares. They carry the raw materials necessary to our society to those places where they can be smelted down for building, or burned for fuel, or cut down to a more manageable scale, where they can eventually be converted into that in which we live, or upon which we sit, or at which we eat.
In fact, I love them. I love the look of them: the official stenciling upon their iron walls, as well as the rebellious graffiti beside it. As frustrating and unaccountable as I find the occasional delays they impose, I love to watch them as much when they sit as when they rush by. I love the sound of them: the rumble of their weight, the clacking of metal. When the sun is down, and I am safely home, sitting on my back porch stoop, I hear the distant, prolonged wail of the Burlington Northern, and feel somehow comforted.
But in the early AM, when I’m racing to be on time for work, I see them only as impeding my forward progress. They obstruct me no less when I’m rolling home, but somehow the effect is less pronounced. Sitting in my car with the day behind me, the wait takes on a meditative respect. In those final moments, as I watch the last of the blinking of the cautionary red lights, and the rising of the flimsy, striped, wooden gates, and the slow rolling past of the last of the innumerable freight cars, I think to myself, each time almost without exception, how much I miss and how much I long to once again see, that traditional punctuation following what seems like the longest sentence in the world, the humble red caboose, whose sole occupant would, a long time ago, sometimes emerge to wave, as if in thanks, to all the cars quietly waiting for his train to pass by.