WANDERINGS

Seattle Aquarium

UTILITY ACCESS COVERS

A doorway to another world, another place, another time.

Rectangular. Rusted welded writing on silver. Metal. Electrical. Inset.

This is ELECTRiC High-VoLTAgE and don’t you forget it.


This is how we do things here on Mount Rainier.

This is rough and tumble. This is tough and ready for a fight.

This is The West. This is Frontier. This is The Land of the Dead.

The land of tomorrow. The land of no tomorrow.

Now it's "make or break" time.

Say your prayers.

Do not touch.

MOUNTAIN TIME

No hiking today. We pack up camp after breakfast. We walk to the river to retire our walking sticks gathered two days prior. We ceremoniously throw them into the rapids from the footbridge.

The plan is to drive from White River to Ohanapecosh, to see what that campground has to offer, and to return home. The plan changes when we encounter road construction near Panther Creek. We decide, after twenty-five minutes of combined waiting at three separate sites of construction within two miles, to travel home by going around The Mountain. The map shows that it is the same distance and then we don't have to encounter the same road construction. Our day turns into an auto tour of The Mountain. We make brief stops at Ohanapecosh, Paradise, Longmire. We stop at Cougar Rock for lunch. The child vomits her lunch all over herself as we pass through the Nisqually Entrance gate, so we stop to change her clothes. We pull over in Elbe so that the child can see some of the locomotives near the Mount Rainier Scenic Railroad depot. She is currently facinated by the book Freight Train by Donald Crews. We read it every night before she goes to bed. Now she gets to see the real thing.

We were glad to be able to camp and hike and enjoy the company of one another. Now, we are glad to be home and take hot showers and sleep in our own beds.

MOUNTAIN TIME

The wife, the child, and I hike from White River campground to Glacier Basin. The view of The Mountain from this basin is spectacular: forest, meadow, river, rock, basalt cliffs, sun, puffs of clouds that assemble and spin and quickly dissipate. We thank God for being here to see this because we almost didn't make it.

First, we are not hikers by nature. The wife would most likely rather not, and I engage in the activity far too infrequently. Second, the wife was battling a cold. Third, I am horribly out of shape and was carrying the child in a backpack. Fourth, sleep was fitful for all of us last night.

Last night, after gathering walking sticks from the riverbed, and then going through bedtime rituals, we all went to bed at the same time. The child was not going to sleep in a strange place—the tent—by herself. The wife and the child were sleeping in their individual sleeping bags on an air mattress, while I was sleeping in my sleeping bag in the "trench" next to it. The child is an "active" sleeper. This was compounded by any movement by the wife, which would propel the child about due to the weight difference. Therefore, the child was often propelled into the trench and onto me. At one point, the child even crawled down to curl up at my feet, whereupon I placed her back into her sleeping bag. The decision was made that the air mattress would only serve one night of duty.

Today, our slow pace, fatigue, and various aches and pains meant that our seven mile round-trip hike, with an overall ascent of 1640 feet in elevation, took much longer than a fit, less encumbered hiker could do the same. We did make it, however. Then we enjoyed our lunch and hiked back—most of it downhill—with much less effort. Overall, it was a great experience and the first hike of the child, some of which she did actually walk.

It made our dinner of steak, corn on the cob, and roasted vegetables that much better. The only thing missing was a good beer!

Tonight, the child is more comfortable with the idea of sleeping in the tent. This allows the wife and I to stay up slightly later than her to enjoy the fire and the company of one another, under the canopies of hemlocks and summer stars. We also know there is no air mattress this evening to hinder sleep.

MOUNTAIN TIME

Tonight, the child, the wife, and I are retiring to our sleeping bags in our three-man tent in our campsite of White River Campground of Mount Rainier National Park. The fire has just been extinguished and the sky is filled with thousands of visible stars, most of which cannot be seen from our home due to the lights of suburban and urban living that washout the night sky. Our bellies are full of hotdogs and baked beans. This meal was chosen by the child, who in her toddler mind, thought this would be good food for the evening. It was.

This is the child's first camping trip. She is excited about her sleeping bag. She is excited about marshmallows toasted over hot coals. She is excited by hotdogs and baked beans. She is excited by the river whose rapids we stood inches above upon a footbridge. She is excited by all of the rocks. It is wonderful to see her interaction with nature and the world around her. Everything is new. Everything is full of potential. Nothing, or very little, has yet to be soured by those around her, or events, or her own shortcomings. This is paradise.

GENTLEMEN, START YOUR ENGINES

"I saw in [the] eyes [of neighbors who came to visit] something I was to see over and over in every part of the nation—a burning desire to go, to move, to get under way, anyplace, away from any Here."
—John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley

One of my favorite memories is the night I had to keep watch over the Puyallup Jaycee firework stand. I was not allowed to sleep. Therefore, my plan was to sit in a lawnchair, outside the stand, and read John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley. I did that despite the cold, damp night and the constant parade of cars that pulled up before the nearby Goodwill trailer either to dump off items or surreptitiously steal them again. I had the good fortune of observing the best and worst of America with my own eyes and through the eyes of John Steinbeck and his poodle Charley.

I recently read three articles that reminded me of Steinbeck's tribute to America and its roads. They are

1. "Flâneur at 55 MPH" by Joan Ockman in the Summer 2006 issue of Arcade.
2. "Capitalist Roaders" by Ted Conover, with photographs by Nick Waplington, in the July 02, 2006 issue of The New York Times Magazine.
3. "Perpetual Motion: Volume One" by Robert Sullivan, with photographs by Matthew Monteith, in the September 2006 issue of Dwell. This is part one of four.

The article by Ted Conover, "Capitalist Roaders," captures some of the excitement of a culture that is just beginning to really discover individual ownership of automobiles. There is a new middle class emerging in China that is changing the way that China views itself. Subsequently, freeways and highways are being built across China to ensure the growth of car ownership and ease, for some, of moving about the country. Conover traveled with members of the Beijing Target Auto Club as they drove a circuitous route from Beijing to Hubei Province and back, with stops at the recently completed Three Gorges Dam on the Yangtze River and Shennongjia, an UNESCO biosphere reserve. Most of their journey, however, is spent in their cars, on the roads, oftentimes for twelve or more hours each day.

Conover captures some of the thrill and excitement of a burgeoning car culture, while pondering what that culture will look like in the near future. China will soon have the most miles of roads for a single nation, second only to the United States, and then will quickly surpass even that number. China's need for petroleum to fuel the cars, as well as for the asphalt, will speed up the depletion of global oil resources, and has already dramatically increased air pollution. There is also the question of how the world's largest communist country will embrace the capitalism that underlies the car culture. McDonald's is already in partnership with China's state-run petroleum giant Sinopec. The plan is to build filling stations that include drive-thru McDonald's restaurants along major highways and freeways. Will China's road system soon resemble that of the United States?

The question of what the United States road system looks like, and how it influences other aspects of our culture and our lives is examined in the article by Robert Sullivan. In the first of four examinations, he looks at the automobile infrastructure of New England. As he states in his opening paragraph: "The roads—and the routes and the paths, the trails and the rights-of-way—take us away and they bring us home. They make us who we are and they make the places where we live."

These two sentences are at the heart of what Ted Conover is expressing about China's new car culture and its auto clubs; are what Robert Sullivan's explorations are based upon; are what John Steinbeck was attempting to discover in his travels with Charley; and are the flavor of Joan Ockman's beautiful prose poem about wandering about in her car.

What intrigues me, in addition to the consistent flavor that runs through all three of the articles and Steinbeck's book, is Sullivan's conversations with people whose professions are to think about driving and its effects upon us. He talks with both Dolores Hayden, a professor of architecture and author of the book A Field Guide to Sprawl, and with Andy Wiley-Schwartz, vice-president for transportation of Project for Public Places. Their conversations with Sullivan help to really solidify his argument that roads "make us who we are and they make the places where we live."

While reading the Sullivan article, the myriad of images already in my mind from Ockman's piece, the Conover article, and Steinbeck's book, as well as the photographs that accompany the Sullivan article, collided with one another to create some huge "accident" or "traffic jam" in my mind. My thoughts kept slowing down like traffic in New York City or Beijing or Seattle, which was not necessarily a bad thing, since it allowed for more intense focus and reflection upon what car culture means for me, and for you. One of Matthew Monteith's photographs is of the side of a McDonald's restaurant with the prevalent image of a Big Mac and the words "Super Size It!" The caption below the photograph reads "McDonald's, I-95, Connecticut." But, it could easily read "McDonald's drive-thru at Sinopec gasoline station, Chinese Freeway, Hubei Province."

What will our cars make us? What will they make the places where we live? Will they help us to rediscover who we are? As Steinbeck laments before he sets off on his journey across the United States: "I had not heard the speech of America, smelled the grass and trees and sewage, seen its hills and water, its color and quality of light. I knew the changes only from books and newspapers." Steinbeck did get out of his car, though, in order to hear and smell and see; I have just been reading books, magazines, and newspapers. Perhaps I need to go for a drive.

---

I also find it interesting that Robert Sullivan's article in Dwell is sponsored and underwritten by Saturn. Why is a car company supporting an article on how cars affect our lives? As the Dwell introduction to the article proclaims: "With the generous support of Saturn, who shares our mobile fascination..."

So, I figured that this post should also be sponsored by a car, although without the knowledge of the car's maker. If Dwell undergirds its article with a relationship to a particular brand of automobile, then surely I can express my own bias toward the Smart car, which is coming soon to the United States. See what Europeans have been enjoying for the past few years at www.smartusa.com.

Economical. Environmentally friendly. Safe. SMART.

WANDERINGS

PERSPECTIVES

The child and I wandered around a bookstore this evening. It was fun to watch her as she bounced from book to book, aisle to aisle, giggling and chattering.

She has a great eye. There is no consistency that I can recognize to what catches her attention, but she knows what she likes. One book was liked because of its color, pink or green; another was liked because of an image on the cover, a monkey or a bunch of flowers; another due to its shape, square rather than rectangular; yet another for its size, large relative to all its neighbors. Her choices were many of the same books that caught my attention as well.

So, we wandered about without any aim, unfettered, and free to gaze at whatever peaked our interest, collectively or individually.

APOCALYPTIC DREAMS

"These are not joyful times. These are challenging times. These are difficult times."
—President George W. Bush, speaking about the War in Iraq during this morning's press conference regarding Israel's incursions into sovereign Lebanon

Can I fault someone else for their dreams? My dreams don't involve my finger resting on the nuclear trigger. My dreams don't command the world's most powerful army. My dreams don't believe that God is using me as the mouthpiece for his great plan or that Jesus and I are best friends that chat in the Rose Garden. John of Patmos had a vision of great turmoil and the second coming of Christ. It was a glimmer of hope in the midst of chaos. It was faithful. It stood in opposition to the powers that be. It wasn't the powers that be. Jesus stood in opposition to the powers that be. He was the powers that be and chose not to exercise any of his power. He emptied himself out. He obeyed his Father unto death. He suffered for his dreams.

Where are the prophets who will speak out against our current king, our current empire?

NIGHT WANDERINGS

TERROR DREAMS

"Do you suffer what a French paleontologist called 'the distress that makes human wills founder daily under the crushing number of living things and stars'? For the world is as glorious as ever, and exalting, but for credibility's sake let's start with the bad news."
—Annie Dillard, For the Time Being

Just as I have never lived without the spectre of The Bomb, the child will never live without the spectre of The Terror. That hit close to home this morning, literally and figuratively, when someone attempted to bomb the Puyallup Municipal Courthouse. This building is in an area that the child and I frequent on our walks and wanderings. Two pipe bombs were thrown in through windows, but neither bomb detonated as expected. The Puyallup Police and Puyallup Fire are within blocks of the building so their response was quick. The bombs were also tossed into the courthouse close to midnight so there was little chance passersby being harmed. Still, the idea is unsettling, but it won't diminish my wanderings in the area. If anything, it has strengthened my resolve to be there as a way of defiance in the face of idiocy. Furthermore, as one with some anti-authoritarian tendencies, let it be known that I thank the police officers and firefighters who potentially risked their lives on the behalf of the citizenry of Puyallup.

Now to the meat of the problem... It seems that our nation has lost its mind again. Yes, a plot to detonate bombs on jetliners en route from London to the United States was stopped. Yes, security measures need to be tightened. Yes, we need to halt the activity of terrorists. But, no water bottles on domestic flights? No books on transatlantic flights between the United States and Britain? If there is a will then there is a way. It is only a matter of time before a new technology replaces the current methods of terrorism, be it liquids or gels or organic microbombs surgically concealed in the bodies of terrorists. Sin will have its say. We really are vile creatures in many aspects.

There are three slim volumes that were published shortly after the attacks of 9/11 that I have recently returned to in the wake of the London air scare, and are all the more personally relevant with the Puyallup scare. All three are published by Verso Books and complement one another. I recommend that you take the time to read all three of them, and do so in the order that it appears that Verso recommends them read: (1) The Spirit of Terrorism by Jean Baudrillard; (2) Ground Zero by Paul Virilio; and (3) Welcome to the Desert of the Real by Slavoj Žižek. Each book ponders the world that we, the Western world—and more specifically, the United States—have created, and why there are people that would want to attack that world.

Part of Žižek's argument is that we have helped to create the event [of violence] by dreaming it in advance. He has a point. Look at the summer blockbuster movies. They are filled with violence and death and destruction that mirrors the "real" world, and, in turn, is mirrored by the "real" world. The technology of these movies also helps to echo the use of same and similar technological advances in killing. Advances in optics, computers, digital tracking—just to name a few—have benefited both the Pentagon and Hollywood. We can dream things, do things, see things that we were not capable of even ten years ago. So, why do we dream of death? As Žižek himself states: "This is what psychoanalysis is about: to explain why in the midst of well-being, we are haunted by nightmarish visions of catastrophe" (Žižek 2002, 17). This is by no means the only question that Žižek is trying to pose, or answer, but it is really at the core of his questioning.

Virilio also attempts to understand the dream we have created and from which we cannot seem to awake. Perhaps the terrorists are trying to wake us up, but to what end? Virilio writes: "The tragic events in New York in September 2001 showed us the alarming situation of an overpowerful state suddenly brought up short against its own consciousness—or, rather, against its techno-scientific unconsciousness: in other words, against the Gnosticist faith on which it is founded" (Virilio 2002, 65). Lest you think it is only those on the left who think this way, you also need to read American Theocracy by Kevin Phillips, a former Republican strategist who has not given up his conservative views, but has become disillusioned with the current Washington, DC regime and mindset. He argues, in the same spirit as Virilio, against the illusion we have created, as the true dream shakes, quivers, and threatens disillusion and disappearance. The Gnosticist faith that Virilio challenges is also the fundamentalist Christianity that Phillips challenges. Both are sure of their own righteousness, are sure of the sin of the rest of humanity, and are willing to escape what they view as the filth of this world. Which means that neither has to be concerned with the here-and-now world and all its attendant problems. Ultimately, who cares if the world goes up in nuclear flames or collapses at the hand of terrorists? The gnosticist gets to "move up" to the next level, the world of spirit; the fundamentalist gets whisked away by Jesus and taken to the realm of heaven. If only it were so simple. I, for one, do care what happens to the world. I just need to be more proactive in my concern.

Baudrillard also takes on the dream we have created—as well as the "real" world, which he sees as another illusion—something consistent in all of his work (and something that I don't quite entirely grasp, but I'm working on it). Like Virilio and Žižek, he also attempts to ask and answer questions about what motivates the terrorist by examining not only the terrorist but his or her target. Baudrillard states: "The terrorist hypothesis is that the system itself will commit suicide in response to the multiple challenges posed by deaths and suicides" (Baudrillard 2002, 17). Baudrillard is not alone in his thought, either. Episcopal priest Robert Farrar Capon explores the same line of thought in his book The Astonished Heart. He writes about the "angels" that guard institutions, and their role in protecting their assigned institution at all costs: "Only two things can destroy a corporate persona: revolution from the inside or catastrophe from the outside. You can't reform an angel; violence is the only solution" (Capon 1996, 80).

I am not sure that I completely agree with Capon, however. If violence includes sudden and drastic change then I can accept that violence is the only solution, and I do believe that he is speaking of more than physical violence. But, I am not sure that the "terrorist hypothesis" that Baudrillard examines is always going to be effective. In fact, I think that the opposite is more likely: it builds its own resistance.

I think that some of the resistance built is healthy. It is like an immune response to invasion of a virus. The next time the virus attacks, the body is more prepared to fight, and to know how to fight. We just need to hope that the resistance itself doesn't become cancerous and destroy the very thing that it is trying to save—the body. I am worried that the response of our nation is becoming cancerous; our own response may kill us before the terrorists do.

I do not pretend to have answers to the violence and terror and chaos and turmoil that swirls about us, partly because I do not understand it, partly because I cannot understand it. Like the authors listed above—Baudrillard, Virilio, Žižek, Phillips, and Capon—I am merely trying to make sense of the mess in which we find ourselves. I wish that I had answers for my own mental well-being. I wish I had answers for the child when she begins to ask some of the same questions that I ask.

I wish the violence would end and that we could all awake from the terror dreams. Until then, may your sleep, and mine, be relatively calm.

on THE TAPHANDLE
Peroni Nastro Azzuro by Birra Peroni Brewing Company
This is a great Italian lager, one of my favorites. Last night, it was the highlight of my meal. That is because we had a gift certificate to Olive Garden we needed to use. My meal of chicken giardino wasn't terrible, but it was mediocre. It was Olive Garden, after all.

Guinness Draught by St. James Gate Brewery
Tonight, was an old favorite. The wife made a chicken dish that was somewhat similar to what I had last night at Olive Garden. However, tonight's meal far outshined that of last night. Why wouldn't it? The wife is a good cook.

UTILITY ACCESS COVERS

A covert operation.

Rectangular. Polished brass. Metal. Electrical. Slightly upraised.

Nested faceplates. Four within two within one frame. Screws to lock each faceplate in place.

Do NOT enter.

A new idea. A new place. Indoors.

This one is interior. On the carpeted floor. Between stacks of books and videos and DVDs. Puyallup Library.

"Can I photograph some of the fixtures and features of the library?"
Silence. Stares.

Our manager doesn't like photos taken of the staff or of patrons. This is one to whom I do not speak.

"Yes, I understand that. Am I allowed to photograph features of the building?"

The hostility is palpable even though they assent.

That was a different day.

Today, the camera gazes without permission.

The child is the foil. The charm.

I crouch. The cover sings.

NUCLEAR DREAMS

It is clear the dreams are not mine alone.

I do not know who shares them with me. The grocer? The barber? The police officer? The librarian? Perhaps.

I do not know on which side they stand. Vision or nightmare? Friend or foe?

UTILITY ACCESS COVERS

This one is a beauty.

Round. A rich, weathered chocolate. Metal. Telephone. Inset.

Approximately two feet in diameter. Large and looming.

The teeth of the gear, inside and out, number twelve. Biblical. The number of perfection. 3 x 4. 3 the number of holiness, of God. 4 the number of creation. Holiness and God multiplied by the realm of mineral and flora and fauna.

Each circle of hexagons also numbers twelve. Clock-like. This time is not your time.

The words in the center of the gear: U.S. West Communications. The bell.

You can almost hear the ringing.

You can almost hear the singing of the Holy of Holies at the foot of the throne. "Hosanna. Hosanna. Hosanna in the highest."

You can almost imagine the phone lines that snake underneath. Line upon line wrapped together into a cable as thick as a young girl's calf. Cable upon cable wrapped together into the thickness of a man's torso.

It guards the sidewalk that approaches Union Station.

It waits for you to notice, chameleon-like. Then it springs upon you.

You are weak.

You are weak to resist.

You cannot resist.

PERSPECTIVES

Perhaps my outlook on life is too dour. The child and I were playing in my "nostalgia box" this evening. It is filled with an assortment of clutter—old birthday cards, my high school and college graduation caps, Cub Scout arm bands and neckerchiefs, crappy poems I wrote in 1988, and various toys. The child was intrigued by the toys, and, truth be told, so was I. Pretty soon we had various tops, a gyroscope, a miniature Slinky, and a magnifying glass scattered about the kitchen floor.

We used the magnifying glass to read the print on cards and look at the faces of action figures up close. We looked at each other's distorted eyes. We had three tops zipping about the floor, a gyroscope spinning upon my fingertip, and Slinky bouncing from one hand to another. Before I realize it we are flying green, red, and yellow paper airplanes around the dining room. The child then wanted to play with her Play-Doh. To the high chair! Red Play-Doh became a baby, bowl of pancakes, and spoon with which to feed the baby. Pancakes morphed into a bottle. Blue Play-Doh became a snake, which in turn became a stack of cookies and a frog head to feed them into. Yellow Play-Doh became a locomotive and boxcars, a tunnel turned into a rainbow. Boxcars became blocks. It was silly and organic and fluid. It was fun. It was unfettered.

Three days ago, the child saw the cover of the August 03-09 issue of local "newsweekly" The Stranger lying on the floor of our home library. It featured a painting by artist Gordon Wiebe. The piece is called Possible Ghosts, which is a "tree" of assembled, mostly earth-tone "ghosts" that is raining upon the ground beneath it. When I initially saw it, I thought it somewhat depressing with a miniscule glimpse of hope hidden somewhere within. When the child saw it, she was filled with joy. Perplexed, I asked her if the faces were happy, sad, or mad. She emphatically stated, "Happy," and proceeded to point out the faces that were the most happy. They were the faces with their mouths slightly more agape than the others.

When the child has insisted that she is happy, she drops her jaw as low as possible and forms her mouth into an exaggerated oval. Her face becomes distorted as though in rictus. I find the display rather absurd and disturbing, but she insists she is "happy." Much like some of the mouths in Possible Ghosts.

Two days ago, the child accompanies me to the barber. As we are waiting for my turn to get my hair cut, we begin to rummage through the shop's magazines and books for wee ones. Much to the delight of the child, we find a magazine on gorillas. Flipping through its pages, we come upon a picture of a young gorilla displaying the same face as the child's "happy" face. The child points at it and gleefully shouts, "Happy!" The title at the top of the page informs me that these are gorilla emotions. The caption below the picture that the finger of my child rests upon informs me that this is a display of gorilla happiness.

I found a new perspective on the world, thanks to the child, through Play-Doh, "possible ghost" paintings, and gorilla faces. Now, let's see if I can make it last for a short while.

[You really need to check out some of Gordon Wiebe's other works as well. They are not depressing at all, as I first thought. In fact, they are all infused with hope, something I was unable to see, but which the child immediately recognized. Hopefully, she can keep some of that awareness and sensitivity with her as she grows!]

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Another story:
The child finds this small porcelain Chinese doll that I have, pictured above. She pulls it out of the box and announces, "Night-night. Baby. Baby, night-night." Sure enough, before me, in the child's hand, is a "baby" that is in the position that the child sleeps in: head down, arms pulled in, knees tucked under the belly, posterior pointing toward the ceiling or the night sky. It does appear that it is a baby going night-night. It is familiar to the child because it is her. A new perspective on an old item.

HEADSPACE

"Free my mind, levitate/Don't let any of those f***ers in my headspace."
—Velvet Revolver, "Headspace," Contraband

If only it were so easy.

The past few weeks have seen a lot of people trying to stake a claim to the real estate of my mind. This, in turn, affects my emotional life, my spirit, my body. Subsequently, the stress and drama have left my body open to attack. Here it comes: the summer cold.

I dislike the summer cold much more than colds or illnesses suffered through during fall, winter, or spring. The season of summer doesn't seem to fit with the sluggishness, lethargy, and dullness of the cold. The disparity intensifies the illness and its symptoms for me.

With the addition of my own proclivity toward depression, the combination of the stress, the sickness, and the drudgeries of quotidian life becomes overly taxing. The problem is my work place is my worship space, which only heightens the attendant difficulties of each. The problem is that the agenda of other people conflict with my own, be they those of the President, terror organizations, the State, national and local media, neighbors, friends, family, even the wife and child. (Now, mind you, I have, to one extent or another, let each into the realm of my mind; most with welcome arms. I just tire quickly when others try to get me to act out their own projected neuroses or psychoses. Those are the people that really need to back off right now.) The problem is that there is not enough time to address all of the problems.

And, it circles in upon itself. I need a brief moment of rest in the linear.

on THE TAPHANDLE
Wildcat India Pale Ale by Snoqualmie Falls Brewing Company
There are always the wonderful things that shine in the midst of the chaos and turmoil of life. Thank God for the wife's lemon chicken piccata. It made for a great dinner last night. It was accompanied by my new favorite IPA. Wildcat had a strong, hoppy nose. The head was thick and lingered around, leaving a nice lacing once it departed. It was richly honey colored. The taste was good and bitter, with a lot of fruity and floral tones. I highly recommend a pint or two of Wildcat IPA.

UTILITY ACCESS COVERS

I have recently become obsessed with Utility Access Covers.

It doesn't matter what kind, although I prefer circular covers over rectangular.

I also prefer those that are painted to those that are not.

I probably need to be taking measurements of those I photograph, because the way that I have cropped these photographs it appears that they are all of similar size. In this case, that is true, but it can mislead. Some covers are three inches in diameter, others two feet. Most are somewhere in between. I like those the best.

Utility Access Cover #1 is my favorite. Round. Red. Metal. Gas. Inset. Hard not to notice in the sidewalk.

Utility Access Cover #2 is my third favorite. Round. Weathered green. Plastic. Irrigation. Upraised. Not immediately noticeable.

Utility Access Cover #3 is my least favorite. Rectangular. Silver. Metal. Water meter. Inset. A slab of protective concrete to set it apart from the landscape. I still like it, though, just less than the others.

Utility Access Cover #4 is my second favorite. Round. White. Metal. Gas. Inset. It tries to blend in with its surroundings. It is, however, more noticeable than some because of its proximity to Utility Access Cover #1, which draws attention to all within its general vicinity.

If you ever desire to view these four for yourself, then you need to take a trip to Freighthouse Square in Tacoma. All four of these are on the sidewalk outside of the Tacoma Dome Station parking garage. How will you find them? It seems that coordinate recording is also in order. Where are these? What are their exact locations?

There is a need to know. You must know.

A travel guide for Utility Access Covers is in order. You must not deny yourself.

I must not deny myself.

WANDERINGS

When I hear people speak of deja vu I think that they must not have really experienced what they were doing either time! The child and I visited Tacoma again today. We wandered the same areas that we visited two weeks ago. This was partly to get photographs of some of the architectural pieces and works of public art in the Museum District that intrigue me. Two weeks ago, the keychain camera we were using "dumped" the photographs we took and almost all of them were lost. This time we took the keychain camera and the wife's digital camera to ensure that we would "capture" the things we photographed again.

The child and I wandered the same area but discovered new things. We found new nooks and crannies to hide in. The child found new things to climb, to walk under or through, to hug and pat. There was no sense of deja vu, even though there was now a sense of familiarity. The child also seemed to have more fun this time, which made the experience more enjoyable than the last. She enjoyed the Link tram ride more. She was less crabby. She shouted in Union Station, while I took pictures of the Chihuly chandelier and other glass pieces, which garnered the attention of other visitors and the guards. She liked the acoustics and how her voice carried and echoed, so she kept shouting: "Noise!"

Good times.

NUCLEAR DREAMS

The evening is quiet. There are no wanderings tonight. Only games with the child. Feeding babies with bottles. Feeding monkeys "mushy-mush." Camping with frogs, turtles, chickens.

I dream of Yucca Mountain National Nuclear Repository. The desert is aflame.

The Woman labors and grunts. The Dream of 1862 is reborn in this wasteland: an iron leviathan, rather than The Child, snakes forth, hauling its poisonous cargo toward the waiting maw of the mountain's tunnel. Leviathan rumbles through Caliente Canyon and Murphy Gap, ever closer to the North Portal. It trundles on rails anchored in boulders prematurely crushed and ground into gravel, clacking along over creosote-soaked timbers.

I hear the ghosts of timber barons singing, chanting. The ghoulish inside traders and venture capitalists of yesterday's tomorrow harmonize. I hear the moans of Nevada as she suffers at court, the judiciary in collusion with the priests of legislature and the executive. We never talk anymore, these places and times erased from our lives. The birds disappear, go silent. We do not notice when their singing ends.

These names are scrawled on City in the desert: Union Pacific Railroad, Central Pacific Railroad, Southern Pacific Railroad, Northern Pacific Railway, Great Northern Railroad. They are the words that make leviathan's entry possible. From Sacramento, Seattle, Topeka, St. Paul, Omaha, New Orleans, Chicago, New York it comes: the food to feed this five-headed hydra, this monstrosity of iron and wood and coal. The food to propel it deep into the heart of the earth.

The earth cries out. I can hear it speaking to me in the middle of the night. Unlike us, it speaks sweetly, succinctly. I listen attentively. I nod off. I awake again. This is fever I tell myself. You do not stir.

The desert is aflame and I am small. I do nothing because it feels right, comfortable. I speak to no one. I know nothing.

I am quiet, compelled to keep to myself.

The Woman cries out from the edge of City. I hear her panting. A monster is being born.

THE DARK SIDE OF SESAME STREET

It seems that there is a darker side to the work that the City of Puyallup is doing along the Riverfront Trail. There is still plenty of graffiti. You just have to poke around a bit. The dark side is not the graffiti itself, however, but the way in which the city is making it seem as though there is no graffiti. They have made sure to clean up anything you can see from the trail. That's right: it is all about image. On the back side of the bridge, on the other side of an embankment, on the side of a building just out of purview of the walker, jogger, or cyclist—the graffiti is still there. From those spots, even in close proximity, it is difficult to see the trail. It's Disneyfication with decay!

Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Louise and Uncle Ernie can still take their leisurely stroll down the trail and think they are in a wonderland free of dirt and detritus. The kids that hang out under the bridge—smoking their joints and drinking crap beer and screwing each other, all of which I have seen along the trail—can think they are in their wonderland of grit and grime. As the graffiti states: "Punks not dead."

THE PUBLIC READER

Well, I have finally hit the big time. I feel like a rock star with his own groupie. Why, you ask? Because I have my own public reader.

Yes, just like major public newspapers, such as The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and The Pierce County Herald, I have someone that reads my work with you, the reader, in mind. Who is providing this valuable service for you and me? She has been mentioned in previous posts by the affectionate moniker of The Wife. She also takes her job (as public reader, that is) very seriously.

She has alerted me to typographical errors, such as "mutli-family" instead of "multi-family" in the Sumner Dreams post. Likewise, she has corrected factual faux pas. A perfect example of such a correction was informing me that the "garlic infused bread" in the from The Wine Cellar post was actually "Asiago cheese bread." Now, "garlic infused bread" actually sounds pretty cool to me, even though "Asiago cheese bread" has quite a nice ring to it as well. However, you can check the post and see that it now reads "Asiago cheese bread." It has been corrected because the public reader is ensuring that you receive the best product I can deliver, even if I cannot quite deliver it right the first time. And, I did have a couple beers and a swig of wine, so it is quite easy to confuse garlic and cheese. (Okay, I was really just faking my way through the whole bread piece. Hey, I had ribs and ale to think about. Who had time to worry about what the exact ingredients of the bread were?)

Thank God for my public reader!

THE JOYS OF LIFE

The child and I continued our explorations of urban greenspaces. These pictures were taken by the child at two interconnected City of Puyallup parks: Decoursey and Clark's Creek. I have been showing her how to take pictures of things she finds fascinating. She showed great interest in the camera this evening, even if key elements of her photographic subjects are partially or completely missing. Clockwise from upper left: (1) "Man" - She was very intrigued by "man." He was playing tennis with his wife. The child spoke of "man" for five minutes after we left him behind. (2) "Sign" - This is her picture of a stop sign bolted to a gate on a path between the two parks. (3) "Water" - Her picture of Clark's Creek. (4) "You" - A self-portrait. The child refers to herself as "you" when viewing pictures of herself because everyone else refers to the person in the picture as "you."

THE PAYOFF

My wanderings with the child have been pleasant in their own right. I imagine that this is how most of life should be: somewhat aimless, with no real goal, all the while enjoying the scenery and experiences and events and people along the way. There has been no expectation on my part that anything has to happen. Today, however, it did.

The child and I took our weekly walk to the Puyallup Farmers Market. It usually entails stopping in at the library, playing on the slides and swings in the park, sometimes purchasing some local produce or bread, and looking at a few booths. We usually head out in the morning and are back home for lunch by noon. On this trip, I decided we would take lunch so that the child could play in the public wading pool when it opened. After she "swam," we went searching for something to be the anchor of my meal, which in this case meant a chili dog. As we headed over to the food booths to obtain the aforementioned chili dog, I noticed that there was to be a poetry reading in the park. Considering that the poetry reading was in the park and in Puyallup, I figured we might sit for a few minutes and go home. But, the headliner for the event was Marvin Bell, one of my favorite poets whom I have had the pleasure of hearing read before.

So, the child and I ate our lunch while the opener, a high school student whose name I forget (sorry), read three well-written poems. Next, while Boyd Benson, a poet who teaches English at Washington State University read for 20 or so minutes, the child decided to take a nap in her stroller, albeit with a noisy beginnings to her slumber. I walked out of the range of other audience members, so they could not hear the child, and started pushing the stroller back and forth across the park. She fell asleep in time for me to regain a seat close to hear Marvin Bell read.

It was wonderful. He read some old poems, he read some newer poems, and he read some poems from a forthcoming book to be published in July 2007. He read one of my favorite poems he has written, "White Clover." His newer poetry was about war and dreams, especially the dream that our nation has fallen into during this current war in Iraq. It was exactly what I feel political poetry should be about: subtle rather than blunt, challenging without being overly accusatory, personal while speaking to all. This was definitely "payoff" for all of my wanderings, even though a "payoff" was not necessary.

Afterwards, I went home and grabbed my volumes of Bell's poetry off of my library shelves. The inscription inside my copy of Poetry for a Midsummer's Night, which includes "White Clover," reads: To Troy - with much pleasure - Marvin Bell - 6 August 1998 - Open Books. That was eight years ago tomorrow.

I cannot make this stuff up.

I should also mention that the poetry reading was presented by River and Sound Review, a non-profit that is affiliated with Valley Arts United. Valley Arts always seems to be an organization on the brink of collapse; their website hasn't been completely updated in over two years. However, River and Sound Review seems to be of a higher caliber than what normally passes for Valley Arts affiliates. River and Sound Review did a good job of hosting and also had two literary games involving audience members between the readings. I was impressed enough to add myself to their email list.

from THE WINE CELLAR

Last night, we had friends over for dinner. This dinner was part of a series of Christmas gifts to coworkers and friends. The idea was for the wife and I to work on our hospitality. We had taken a spiritual gifts inventory at our church a few years ago and on a scale of 0 to 5, 0 being least hospitable and 5 being most hospitable, I scored a zero! Therefore, I had some work to do, and figured that during the process of improvement we would get to have some good meals, with good drink, in good company.
For the wife and I, this was the best dinner of the series so far. The meal felt the most complete of all that we have prepared, with various dishes complementing each other nicely, as well as great ale and wine to match. We served hickory-smoked ribs grilled in a dry rub the wife made and that I cooked on our charcoal grill for the better part of the day. Additional dishes included a barbecue macaroni salad, corn with zucchini and thyme, Asiago cheese bread, and a green salad of lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and feta cheese. The ales were St. Peter's English Ale and Deschutes Brewery's Brush Fire Summer Ale, both of which were great accompaniments to the ribs.

The star of the night, however, other than the ribs, had to be the wine. Being less than a novice wine drinker, I have relied upon the knowledge of Puyallup's local wine shop, Corkscrew Cellars, to provide the fine wine for our dining pleasure. They have recommended wine for each menu of our dinner series. When I mentioned the ribs they sent me in the direction of their Spanish wines. I went home with the 2002 Oristan Crianza (70% Tempranillo, 20% Cabernet, 10% Shiraz) from Juan Ramon Lozano vineyards in the La Mancha region of Spain. I didn't have any wine with dinner, but after our friends left I figured I should see what this wine entailed. I like my beer. I have never been much of a fan of wine. This crianza was some good stuff, though.

Which brings us to this evening. I figured that since we were having leftover ribs, and since there was about a third of the bottle left, I should really try to enjoy it with dinner and forego any beer. As per the recommendation of Corkscrew Cellars, the crianza was a wonderful partner to the ribs. The spiciness of the ribs was echoed in the wine's flavor, and the flavor held in my mouth long after drinking. I won't even pretend to talk about the bouquet of the wine, or the complexity of its flavor, or its various notes (because I would be making most of it up), but I could definitely become more of a wine drinker if they were all this good. This was by far my best wine experience to date. Thank you again Corkscrew Cellars.

LIKE TAKING CANDY FROM A BABY

What is all the uproar over the photographs in the exhibit End Times by Jill Greenberg? Is it really child abuse like some loud-mouthed bloggers, and right-wing pundits, are claiming? Is it art?

Jill Greenberg photographed toddlers in the presence of their parents. In each shoot, she gave the toddler a lollipop, had their parent(s) take it away, took a few photographs while they cried, and then the parent(s) gave the lollipop back. Some people are claiming emotional abuse of the children. If having a lollipop taken away from you and then given back after someone takes a few snapshots is classified as child abuse, then we live in a world with a very skewed set of priorities.

But, then again, this is the nation that (1) elected George W. Bush to two terms in office, while he lines the pockets of his cronies, rapes our world of its natural resources, and rattles his saber at anyone willing to speak against him; (2) is mired in combat in Iraq, the new Vietnam; (3) has made sure that the poor remain that way in the gutting of social security, health care, and fair wages; and (4) now watches in silence as "our ally" Israel runs rampant over Lebanon (a sovereign nation), The West Bank, and The Gaza Strip. All the while, the ultraconservative "Christians" of this nation have hijacked my faith and the public square. And, why does all of this happen? Because we are more interested in who gets voted off of Supernova, Survivor, or American Idol. Because we have confused knee-jerk moral reactions with actual thought. Because we are so overmedicated that our senses are constantly dulled. We have forgotten how to actually think.

The above picture of the child is of her crying. I was trying to take a picture of her with her new purse, but she has been teething the past few days and is very uncomfortable and quickly irritable. So, once she started to cry, I took some pictures anyway. She was comforted within thirty seconds from the time she began crying. Is this child abuse? Will she be so emotionally traumatized by this minor incident as to become a dysfunctional adult? Furthermore, is it art? I digitally blurred the photograph so as to make the child less recognizable. I also changed a color picture to gray scale, as well as resized it. The photograph is as stylized, in its own way, as Jill Greenberg's crisp, "bronzed," haunting photography.

My "work" is neither child abuse nor is it art. Jill Greenberg's work is the latter but not the former. Just as my child suffered no long-term or permanent damage, neither did the subjects of Greenberg. Whereas my photograph is just a crappy, altered, low-resolution image taken on a $15 dollar keychain camera (even though I like my photograph, but then I am extremely biased on multiple counts: it is my child, I took the picture, I invested time in the process), Greenberg's photographs reflect her years of study and practice in the art of photography. She also has the advantage of being displayed in a well-known gallery, and supported by well-connected patrons and clients.

To dislike the photographs because of the emotions that the images evoke in the viewer is valid. However, you need to explain why you react the way you do. The blogger that started the whole controversy, "Thomas Hawk," keeps stating in his blog that something should be done about Greenberg (in the legal sense), and that the photography is wrong, but never gives me, the reader, a rational explanation for what makes it wrong. Instead, the word "evil" is bandied about; he refers to the photography as "child pornography of the worst kind," even though the pictures are not "sexualized;" compares the photo sessions to parents allowing their children to spend the night with Michael Jackson; and other such absurdities.

In other words, he sets up a duality where you are either in or out, black or white, good or evil, us or them, using language similar to that of our current president: a language saturated with morality and smug righteousness, of being on the side ordained by God. Remember the simpler times when we could just worry about the world being obliterated in nuclear annihilation in the race to see whether the United States or the Soviet Union could dominate the planet? Now that was child abuse! And, the logic is just as irrational, but it's mine! Then again, I'm just some loud-mouthed blogger...

CONVERSATIONS

“In order to come out with a species, it takes an enormous amount of work, let’s call it, with lots of waste, and lots of abortions, and so on. But once an organism is defined, then that living organism, every living organism, is a model of frugality, of leanness.”
—Paolo Soleri, “Beginning, Ends, and Means,” The Urban Ideal, p. 42

I am really enjoying The Urban Ideal. It is a challenging look at the concept of miniaturization in architecture: the idea that structures can serve multiple, overlapping purposes, and that what would cover a large area of land or space in a traditional city could be “compressed” in the cities proposed by Soleri. It is also a look at how we influence our environment and vice versa. I like the influence that the paleontologist and Jesuit priest Pierre Teilhard de Chardin has upon Soleri, even if Soleri has taken Teilhard de Chardin’s Omega Point concept and divorced it of any of the spiritual impact that was intended for it. At times, there is also a tension between Soleri’s concepts and those borrowed from Teilhard de Chardin, which I find rather refreshing. Soleri allows his work and thoughts to evolve, to move, to be messy and dynamic rather than static, to be dialogic. Such is the case when you compare Soleri’s model of frugality above with Teilhard de Chardin’s look at modern humanity.

“Nowadays, over and above the bread which to simple Neolithic man symbolized food, each man demands his daily ration of iron, copper and cotton, of electricity, oil and radium, of discoveries, of the cinema and of international news. It is no longer a simple filed, however big, but the whole earth which is required to nourish each one of us.”
—Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, “The Collective Issue,” The Phenomenon of Man, pp. 245-246

Perhaps, the case could be made that Homo sapiens, as an organism, is not yet well defined. That would help reduce the tension between the two passages. But, I am not quick to reduce any tension that might exist. I think it is the place that really helps to jumpstart my own thought processes and get me thinking in a more open-minded and holistic fashion.

Furthermore, upon reading and reflecting upon both of these pieces, I am reminded of Annie Dillard’s wonderful prose on fecundity:

“I don’t know what it is about fecundity that so appalls. I suppose it is the teeming evidence that birth and growth, which we value, are ubiquitous and blind, that life itself is so astonishingly cheap, that nature is as careless as it is bountiful, and that with extravagance goes a crushing waste that will one day include our own cheap lives, Henle’s loops and all. Every glistening egg is a memento mori.
—Annie Dillard, “Fecundity,” Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, p. 160

Next, the piece that really holds all three authors together in conversation for me is Annie Dillard’s book For the Time Being. In each of its seven chapters (a holy number), she ruminates upon ten impressions, always in the same order: (1) birth, (2) sand, (3) China, (4) clouds, (5) numbers, (6) Israel, (7) encounters, (8) thinker, (9) evil, and (10) now. One of the key figures that holds it all together is Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Dillard examines his paleontological work in China in the 1930s and 1940s, as well as his religious and spiritual struggles. In addition, she reflects upon the concepts of frugality and fecundity as they play in our lives as temporal and spatial beings.

In other words, the reading of The Urban Ideal is going rather slowly for me because I keep being compelled into the pages other books. I am inviting good friends into my library to converse with one another and me about life—mine, yours, theirs, ours. And, that is quite all right with me. I think it makes for the most rewarding read.

CAN YOU TELL ME HOW TO GET, HOW TO GET TO SESAME STREET?

Which one of these is not like the others? Which one of these does not belong?

The child and I went out on one of our wanderings this evening. There was really no purpose initially, except to visit Fred Meyer for baby wipes. Soon, however, I got the idea in my head that I would take some pictures of the graffiti that flourishes along the Riverfront Trail. I quickly discovered that the Parks & Recreation crews have been very busy over the past few days. The majority of the graffiti had been painted over or scrubbed away by diligent city employees. Except down by my house. Three of the four photos were taken within 200 yards of my front door, and the esp tag is only 1/2 mile away. But that is not what makes one of them different. The jilt, esp, and ofa tags have been missed in past graffiti cleanup days. But that is not what makes one of them different. The GV↑15 tag was missed in those cleanups as well. The GV↑15 tag is different because it was made by a locate company that works for the utility companies, and therefore is legitimate "street art" in the eyes of the city employees. So, it gets to stay no matter what!

The child didn't seem to care much for the explanation either, but she did dance to the song...

MAD SKILLZ

"Merge" done by The Wonderful Alien.

This dumpster graffiti is intriguing for two reasons:

First, it is done in marker. Not in paint. Not in paint stick or grease marker. But marker. Most marker graffiti tends to be a name scribbled here, an obscenity scribbled there. This piece, "Merge" includes some intricacy rarely seen in marker art.

Second, I saw this dumpster a few days earlier without the graffiti. The dumpster sits one block north and two blocks east of the Puyallup police station. It also sits behind a six foot high chainlink fence directly beneath a streetlight in a work area that often has workers on site late into the evening. The dumpster faces the street, Pioneer Avenue, one of the most travelled streets in downtown Puyallup, and one frequented with police cruisers passing by on Pioneer to and from the station. The art is not necessarily executed as well as some other graffiti art I have seen, but The Wonderful Alien must have some big cojones!