The Furious Spinner

We went from one end of the Gorge to the other this weekend, indulging ourselves in social activities and a bit of culture. On Saturday, we went to the coffee house salon in Hood River, put on by my friend Linda Short from our peace group. Ten of us discussed world politics, education, and the lying liars who tell the lies. Linda is amazing. She's been working with Veterans for Peace and getting counter-recruiters into the high school in Hood River. She has a son in high school, and she's working hard to make certain young people know they have more alternatives than military service. Most of the people going into the military come from poor rural areas like here. Most of them feel as though they are "stupid" and have no other choices. Who knows how many lives she is saving with her work? One is worth it.

After the coffee house salon, Mario and I drove to Maryhill Museum, the incongruous "castle" that sits on the edge of the gorge, plopped down in the middle of the high desert like some lost relic from a malfunctioning time machine. You wonder if a patch of the desert is now in England or Ireland—do people come visit that patch they way they come to visit this place?

Anyway, we went to the First Annual Maryhill Arts Festival. Tented booths filled with art had been pitched beneath the tall thin osage-orange trees. A live band played jazz so mellow I kept wanting to fall to sleep. We chatted with many friends—artists and other wanderers from our town—and then we went into the museum. We only stayed a few minutes, long enough for me to gaze, alone, at Frederic Leighton's "Solitude." Then we drove west again. I fell to sleep next to Mario as he drove us home. Normally at this time of the year the huge hills on either side of the Columbia River are golden. Recent rains had transformed the gold into green. I wondered if wildflowers would start blooming again.

After stopping at home for a while, we drove to Portland. We ate sushi and noodles at Yuki's. Then we wandered around the Pearl District. We didn't buy anything. We just walked amongst the diners—those who sat at the outdoor tables—and bar hoppers, our arms around one another. We stopped to gaze at some menus, to see if we might come another time. Night took over day. I loved being amongst all the people. They talked enthusiastically, excitedly, eating and drinking with gusto. Tall young women dressed only in skimpy black outfits and pale skin with shiny baubles bouncing from their ears, necks, arms walked by us. Too many people smoked; did they realize how unattractive addiction was? I loved being in this place with all these people—communing in a strangely deep and superficial way. Deep because it felt so ordinary and normal, as if this was what people had always done. Superficial because I didn't know any of these people I claimed to be communing witih.

After a while, we returned to our car and started for home. As we headed for the Fremont Bridge, we saw the nearly full moon just above the city, like a huge communion wafer offered by the Divine to the city.

This morning, Mario and I ate breakfast, then drove to Falling Creek. It was cool, green, quiet in the old forest. For some reason, I ranted almost the entire walk to the waterfalls. Yesterday we had heard Bush's poll numbers were going up. I think I am so fearful about what will happen if he has four more years that I'm not certain what to do—so I’m angry and ungrounded. What else can I do, I keep wondering? And if he wins, do we leave the country? Stay and try to make our own way in this world? I stared at the water cascading over the rocks, and my anger faded. Would this place remain? Some of the trees in this forest were 500 years old. The current administration sees these trees as timber. If I see anything as God/dess, if I see the Divine at all, feel the Divine even a bit, it is in places like Falling Creek. I am walking on the Sacred. I am walking on the face of God. Is She laughing? Can I save Her? Imagine—those of you who believe in God—that you believed a group of people was trying to kill your god, literally. What would you do?

As always, as Mario and I left the forest, I poured water on a sprig of Oregon grape and thanked the Spirits and Beings for this place.

Home again. I lay on the couch and fell into dreams I can no longer remember. We went to Portland for dinner. I outlined a novel, Killing Beauty, and talked with Mario about it. When we drove home, the sky was pale pale blue—so pale it was nearly green. Or such a pale green, it was nearly blue. Mount Hood was ghostly in the blue light. We knew the full moon was just below the pale blue horizon. But we could not see it.

Later, after we had been home for a while, I stepped outside into the cool night. The full moon hung in the sky like a star on steroids. And the crickets cheered the moon's performance loudly, rubbing elbows with their fellow crickets. Tomorrow, real life would exert itself—work, obligations, all that. I was grateful for this weekend and the time with Mario and my fellow human beings. For tonight, right this moment, I was glad for this moon. I listened to the crickets for a moment. I clapped, too, and then I went back into the house. 0 comments

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.