on THE TAPHANDLE

Fish Tale Winterfish Ale, an India Pale Ale by Fish Brewing Company

12 ounce bottle. A nice looking deep yellow, soft orange pour with a thin white head and fair lacing. The aroma is yeasty and fruity. I am unsure if the citrus coming through is grapefruit or orange. The flavor begins nice and bitter, and continues that way for some time. Citrus drives the flavor, although, here as well, I cannot quite place whether it is grapefruit or orange or somewhere between the two. Honey, lightly toasted grain, and a dash of spiciness also make appearances. This is slightly less bitter than what I think of when I hear India Pale Ale, but a good drink nonetheless. This is a nice variation on what I think of as the traditional winter seasonal offering.

The wife's homemade sloppy joes were a good match for this ale. The sloppy joes were served in a shallow bowl, with the meat sauce covering open-faced buns. They were rather spicy, which really helped pull some of the quieter, subtler flavors into the foreground of the ale.

GREATER AND LESSER HELLS

"Often, just before sleep, Red sees Grandma's gold tooth gleaming in the perpetual twilight of the long hallway as she opens her mouth to destroy him: bitch, gorgon, harpy, goon."
—page 209, Red the Fiend by Gilbert Sorrentino

"More generally, denial is understood as the mind's default reaction to serious forms of trauma, such as terminal illness or child abuse. Indeed, denial has been recognized as an essential coping mechanism in some situations where intense pain or psychic stress cannot be otherwise relieved."
—page 25, Norman Rockwell: Underside of Innocence by Richard Halpern

"There’s going to come a day when you feel better:
You’ll rise up free and easy on that day,
Float from branch to branch, lighter than the air.
Just when that day is coming, who can say? Who can say?"
—from "Up the Wolves" by The Mountain Goats on The Sunset Tree

I recently completed Red the Fiend by Gilbert Sorrentino. It was a brutal, painful, harrowing journey through a few months in the hell of Red. Red is a twelve-year old boy who has been held back and placed in the "morphodite" class at school. This is primarily due to the physical, verbal, and emotional abuse he suffers from his maternal grandmother. However, she is not alone. Her "allies" include a grandfather who stands by while he is abused, a mother who is slowly becoming her own mother, and a drunken father who is divorced from his mother and mostly absent. The book will shatter any notion of a past "golden age" with which you may surround the Great Depression. These people are the poor and uneducated marginalized.

I found myself drawn into Red's story like a moth to a flame. I knew that I would be consumed. I knew there was going to be little hope. Red's story is too futile, too desperate. He is slowly heading down the path of someone who will in turn abuse because they know nothing else. He is beginning to stand up to Grandma, but it feels hollow. It is his only hope for survival, yet it is nihilistic. I felt drained every time I began to read it again. I felt exhausted when I finished. Now don't get me wrong: this is a well-written book. It may even be a must-read for anyone who wants to better understand the cycle of abuse. It is not, however, for everyone.

---

A story of abuse that is infused with hope is that of John Darnielle. John is the singer-songwriter who is the primary member of The Mountain Goats. His album The Sunset Tree is a mostly autobiographical collection of tales about abuse suffered at the hands of his stepfather. Intriguing lyrics of pain and hope, of escape into the world of music, of an attempt to comprehend the monster that inflicts one's suffering, are the hallmarks of the songs on The Sunset Tree.

I pulled the album out and began listening to it again, mostly to get a viewpoint of a victim of child abuse other than that of Red alone. John Darnielle's tale is a survivor's tale, a tale of hope in the face of nightmare; Red's tale is a tale of complete destruction, of a soul extinguished, of death.

---

I needed a change of pace. First: a novel about one boy's experiences of the civil war and genocide in Sudan. Then: a novel about one boy's experiences growing up in poverty and abuse. Now: an examination of the painter Norman Rockwell and how his artwork is misunderstood. The interesting connection for me is how Richard Halpern is placing some of the same defense mechanisms that victims of abuse use to survive their torment before us as readers as ways that we try to avoid what Rockwell is actually showing us. Disavowal is laid bare. According to Halpern, we see things but pretend we don't. We bifurcate. We split.

It is interesting to see the sex and violence that seethe beneath the facade of our culture. Halpern's argument is that Rockwell was merely showing the "monsters below" in many of his most well-known and cherished paintings; we just don't want to admit what we see there. So far, the book is a fascinating read, and even though some of the same themes of Red the Fiend are present, they are discussed and examined in a way that makes them more palatable.

---

Now, for a brief respite from talk of abuse, of children or otherwise...

I never really liked any of the "cutesy" characters that were prevalent when I was growing up. In fact, I rather loathed Strawberry Shortcake and pals, the Care Bears, the Smurfs, and My Little Ponies. Who knew that when I had a child of my own that My Little Ponies would make a comeback, people would give them to the child as presents, and that I would sit in my own living room brushing the hair of Blushie and Sunny Sparkle with the child? Yet, there is something quiet and calming about brushing the plastic hair of these peach and pink and purple ponies. There is something soothing about pretending to give them numbers (the child's idea) and have them race across the couch. I could almost imagine the blueberry scented air racing past my lavender nostrils and through my mane and tail, as syrupy songs were sung by choirs of Care Bears floating by on cotton-candy clouds. Ah, dreams of cartoon utopia...

[Styling on Blushie and Sunny Sparkle, above, by me!]

on THE TAPHANDLE

Santa's Private Reserve, an American Strong Ale, by Rogue Ales

12 ounce bottle. Another gift from the sister. I like this a lot. The pour is an orange-red, like the last light of sunset on a partly cloudy day, with a tan head to cap it off. The aroma is of a floral base with a light breadiness and hint of pear. Great mouthfeel on the taste. Flavor moves from sweet to a more complex sweetness infused with bitterness. A good slightly burnt flavor speaks of caramel and chocolate and wheat bread. There are also pear and plum tones that peek through. This is what a winter seasonal should taste like. Highly recommended.

TAGGERS VS. CITY

Blank concrete canvasses beg for color. The Riverfront Trail wants for color in places. Juveniles and young adults, mostly male, heed the call. They come with their spray cans and markers and "crayon sticks." They mark the space, attempt to be immortal, to name their place and time, or, at the very least, claim their fifteen minutes of time. They paint and draw and dream of their names lit large. And, the city waits, bides its time, dreams of blocks of ochre and cream to cover and erase. The tide of youth washes up again and leaves behind a swash of life.

CITY VS. TAGGERS

Nice blocks of paint, not quite the color of the host building, are the City of Puyallup's attempt to beautify the Riverfront Trail. The "ugliness" of graffiti is replaced by the "ugliness" of miscolored geometry. The white block on one building would have worked better on the adjacent building. Likewise, its gray block would have been a better match for the previous building. Another building is bisected by color: ivory "terrain" and silver "sky."

on THE TAPHANDLE

Snow Cap Ale, an English Strong Ale, brewed by Pyramid Breweries

12 ounce bottle. Pour leaves a dark brown ale with a half-inch tan head. The aroma is rich caramel, slight chocolate, mild spices. Pseudo-chocolate flavor on initial draught is almost instaneously replaced with a slightly bitter "wet wood bark" flavor. The "wet wood bark" is not as overpowering as Snow Plow, but is not altogether pleasant, either. Slight disconnect between the aroma and the flavor. If the flavor were just slightly adjusted this might be somewhat good. The flavor did increase slightly over the course of my meal, so perhaps this was a bad bottle...

The wife made Broiled Mustard and Brown Sugar Glazed Salmon Fillets with Dill. A beer lighter in color and with more hops probably would have been a better choice for the meal. But, I am trying to drink through my Christmas gifts before going out in search of new ales. This one was a gift from the sister. So, a big thank you to her!

THE JOYS OF LIFE

Today, the child and I went to the library for Toddler Storytime. Along with singing about, and playing with, pretend bubblegum, we also "danced" and listened and wiggled. Then it was "craft time," which consisted of constructing a "funny face" of a rice cake, cream cheese, and raisins. The child insisted on taking a couple of pictures of the "funny face" masterpiece. The child said the rice cake tasted "like popcorn," which meant that it was enjoyable. I took some pictures of the child peeping through a toddler book. The green of the one picture is the camera having its own fun with colors.

THE JOYS OF LIFE

Two toddlers in a darkened hallway of the house waving flashlights while the camera is set for night pictures/long exposure and no flash.

SHADES OF RED

"The first one came out ruddy, like a hairy mantle all over, so they called his name: Esav/Rough-One."
—Genesis 25:25

"Esav said to Yaakov: Pray give me a gulp of the red-stuff, that red-stuff, for I am so weary! Therefore they called his name: Edom/Red-One."
—Genesis 25:30, both verses from The Schocken Bible: Volume I: The Five Books of Moses, translated by Everett Fox

"Grandma often wants to hurt Red for reasons that remain her secret. At such times, she patiently constructs an edifice of Red's wrongdoing that, when complete, stands as witness to his crimes, crimes that must be punished. Sometimes these aberrant exercises in domestic sadism take Red into areas of his mind that are darkly inexplicable, but that, even so, act as antidotes to the poisons that surround and invade him."
—page 70, Red the Fiend by Gilbert Sorrentino

"Suddenly Geryon's brother stepped behind Geryon and seized him by the neck. This is the silent death hold, Geryon, in war they use this for knocking out sentries. With one surprise twist I can break your neck."
—page 31, Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson

Today, I am three-quarters of the way through Red the Fiend by Gilbert Sorrentino. This novel is a brutal description of one boy's life, as he is physically, emotionally, and verbally abused by his grandmother while his "mollycoddle" grandfather, "tramp" of a mother, and absent "drunk" of a father stand by and allow it to happen. Red is slowly being sculpted by Grandma's abuse into the very person she claims to be trying to save him from becoming. A harrowing look at life in one poverty-stricken dysfunctional family in Depression-era New York, Red the Fiend is nothing if not brutal. It is like watching the aftermath of a car crash. I want to look away but cannot. I am pulled into the story, even as I find it difficult to identify with any of the characters. It is even somewhat to identify with Red, since he is a difficult character to love in spite of the abuse he endures. He is not very sympathetic.

Today, in our weekly staff meeting, we read the story of Esau and the "abuse" he endures at the hand of his brother Jacob. He sells his birthright for a bowl of red lentil stew! The "hunter" is "vanquished" by the "civilized" brother. Soon, he will also lose the blessing of his father, as the first-born son, to the continuing trickery of his brother, with the help and encouragement of his own mother. He will, of course, fight back, but ultimately "lose." It is also, I fear, what is coming for Red as he is transformed into Red the Fiend.

Both stories remind me of Geryon in Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson. He is also Red, in actual coloring, and in spirit. He is also abused by those who love him: first by his older brother, and later by his lover Herakles and Herakles' new lover Ancash. It is another story of a Red who is treated poorly by those who supposedly love him. Geryon, though—unlike Red, who is becoming a monster, and Esau, who is monstrously grotesque ("like a [red] hairy mantle all over")—is a monster who in some ways is the most human of the three Reds, is the most easy to identify with. We can easily feel his pain and predicament, while loving him deeply.

Still: today is not a good day to be Red.

RANDOM THOUGHT

Today on the radio I heard a mashup of Oasis versus Green Day. I couldn't quite place the Oasis song, but knew that the Green Day song was "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" from American Idiot. There are a couple of things wrong with this picture. First, I was listening to commercial radio. Second, didn't mashups come and go sometime last year or the year prior? Third, mashups really do highlight the inadequacies of each song, and downplay the strengths of each. Fourth, the very end of the song segued into some Aerosmith song. What? The "mashup master" didn't know how to end the song? Maybe he or she shouldn't have started...

TWO-FOR-ONE on THE TAPHANDLE

The weekend began with a beer and ended with a beer. It was a good weekend!

Friday night saw me visiting with my friend in Seattle. At his suggestion, we had dinner at McMenamin's Six Arms. I ordered their on tap India Pale Ale, which was a decent representative of IPAs. The aroma and flavor was primarily citrus, with less grapefruit and more lemon than I would have liked. There also seemed to be a hint of plum at the edges. Color was a great gold and the ale had very nice lacing. I had it with McMenamin's bacon cheeseburger and fries. The bacon was overdone, as well as the fries, but all in all a good meal.

Next was the movie Ugetsu on DVD. The movie was brilliant. It is a ghost story that takes place during the sixteenth-century Japanese civil war. Occasionally, I was reminded of some of the absurd, illogical short ghost stories of Uchida Hyakken's Realm of the Dead. Then conversation of various topics: narrative, therapy, suicide, death, child-rearing, loss, art, James Hillman, mythology, cats, friendship, photography, religion, India.

Sunday brought the celebration of the fortieth wedding anniversary of the parental units. The brother, the sister-in-law, the sister, the wife, and I took the mother and the father to Anthony's Homeport in Bremerton. I ordered Scuttlebutt Porter on tap. The flavor was of chocolate with a biscuity base. Ephemeral wisp of cinnamon and/or nutmeg. The color was of a vaguely translucent dark brown with a thick light brown head. Good lacing. I had one with my entree of Alaskan silver salmon in a red pepper sauce, potatoes, and butternut squash, as well as with Anthony's signature clam chowder. I had another after dinner, accompanied by Bailey's Irish Cream Chocolate Mousse. A great ale with a great meal.

THE IMPORTANCE OF STORY

"How could I put everything down on paper? It seemed impossible. No matter what, the majority of life would be left out of this story, this sliver of a version of the life I'd known." (432)


—Valentino Achak Deng in What is the What by Dave Eggers

The story was important enough that all other activity needed to cease. Work had to continue and rearing of the child and eating and sleeping, but otherwise the story had to be followed and finished, squeezed in wherever time allowed. But, then, does the story finish just because it is followed to completion?

What is the What will most likely be the best book I read in 2007. It easily makes my list of top books. It is a story that compels the reader to read it. It is a story that haunts, that shifts one’s outlook on the world, and leaves the reader different, changed.

I began the book partly due to word of mouth—on the street, a good review in The New York Times Book Review, press on the McSweeney's website—and partly due to interest in the synopsis of the story and enjoyment of Egger's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. The story is very compelling, and once I was immersed I knew that I had to keep reading, I had to get to the "other side" of the novel. But, what really compelled me to read with a sense of urgency was getting to hear Achak Deng's story in person, and to speak with him.

I am exhausted, and know that I will have to revisit the book at some point in the near future. But, for now, I am blessed to have lived in Achak Deng's story for the past two weeks. I hope that you will also live there very soon.

WILD PLACES

"I have no history.
I have no memory.
I am a fool."
—Don Cheadle as Paul Rusesabagina in Hotel Rwanda

"My anger was more intense than it had ever been toward the murahaleen. It was born of the realization that there were castes within the displaced. And we occupied the lowest rung on the ladder. We were utterly dispensable to all—to the government, to the murahaleen, to the rebels, to the better-situated refugees." (205)
—Valentino Achak Deng in What is the What by Dave Eggers

Sudan: Baggara Arab horsemen slaughter Dinka and Nuer. Dinka and Nuer eventually feud and kill each other, before once again collectively turning their attention against the Muslim-led northern government. Rwanda: Hutus kill Tutsis. The only way they can be told apart is by their identity cards, identities created during the time of colonization by Belgium. Yugoslavia: Croats murder Serbs; Serbs murder Croats; both murder Muslims. The nation fractures into individual states. Civil war: neighbor kills neighbor; friend murders friend; father turns against son and daughter, daughter turns against mother and mother-in-law.

What is the What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng by Dave Eggers has become the seminal, defining voice of a conflict for me, in this case the civil war of Sudan. In the same way that William T. Vollmann did for the Soviet-Afghanistan conflict in An Afghanistan Picture Show; Or How I Saved the World; Misha Glenny did for the Yugoslavia civil war in The Fall of Yugoslavia: The Third Balkan War; and Philip Gourevitch did for the Rwandan genocide in We Wish To Inform You that Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families; Dave Eggers, channeling the voice of Achak Deng in What is the What, has now forced me to confront savagery that has taken place in my own lifetime. This is not distant history that has no overt connection to me. This is not the First World War or the Second World War, or even Vietnam. This civil war in Sudan is a conflict that continues to rage. This civil war in Sudan is a conflict that has claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, displaced millions, and should have spoken deep into my soul well before now and motivated me into action. This civil war in Sudan is complicated further by the presence of multinational oil companies in the region that want to ensure that they can take their oil at whatever human cost in order that they can reap billions in profits.

Therefore, I am having to educate myself further, in order that I can speak to some of the truth that has been kept from me. (Or, more importantly, the truth that I have kept from myself. The Buddha is telling the truth when he states that, "Ignorance is bliss." We "keep" things from ourselves, on purpose, all the time.) This means having to continue with What is the What until I am finished and then moving deeper into the history of the Sudanese civil war and genocide, through research and other works.

---

The wife and I viewed Hotel Rwanda last night. This is another piece of art that is cutting deep into me at the moment. The world stood by while 800,000 to one million people were slaughtered in 100 days, the most people killed in the shortest amount of time in world history. Paul Rusesabagina saved 1200, all the while risking his own life and those of his family members. I am sick. I am ashamed at my culpability. I wish I was more courageous, more bold. I wish that I could speak against these atrocities with fervor and faithfulness to who I believe that I am, rather than just hiding in the safety of my home, my middle-class American life.

I am pretty sure that I am no prophet, however. There is a reason that people like Paul Rusesbagina and Valentino Achak Deng need to speak, to continue to tell their stories. I believe they truly are called to "fulfill a mission."

---

Paul Rusesbagina and Valentino Achak Deng and hundreds of thousands of others have been to wild places that I will never know. They have been taken into the wilderness and tempted by the Devil in ways that I cannot even begin to imagine. They have stared into the mouths of the dogs of war, and won small victories in their own ways: they are still alive and still speak. Their presence is a testament to human will and persistence, in the face of the evil and sin that resides deep within us as a people.

VALENTINO ACHAK DENG

"I do not believe that I was saved because I am unique, an individual. I believe that I was saved because I have a mission to fulfill."
—Valentino Achak Deng, Elliott Bay Book Company, Tuesday 09 January 2007

Tuesday night brings more tales of the destruction of Marial Bai. Of the armed militias of Arab horsemen, known then as the murahaleen, known now as the janjaweed, who were intent on killing the Dinka, the tribe of which Achak belongs. Of death and survival in the bush. Of the loss of so many friends. Of years living in refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya. Of an opportunity to come to the United States, almost thwarted, since he was initially flying here on September 11, 2001, and incoming air traffic was halted due to the terrorist attacks in Washington DC and New York. Of the difficulty of adjusting to a new language and culture and people. Of his being mugged and robbed. The tales were right from the mouth of the man known as Valentino Achak Deng.

The child and I journeyed up to Seattle to hear Achak speak to a room of two hundred people at Elliott Bay Book Company. Achak is the subject of the novel, What is the What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng by Dave Eggers. Achak not only told his story, but also spoke of the way that the book was written. He told us about his initial meeting with Dave Eggers and their trip to Sudan in 2003. He told us about their talks and email exchanges. He told us how Eggers would write a section and have Achak review it for accuracy. He told us how Eggers would write a draft for a section and email Achak questions he had about that particular section. The book truly seems a collaboration between author and subject, between the facts that non-fiction provides and the truth that fiction provides.

So there we sat, a group of mostly young, middle-class, white people listening to this humble, generous man, who feels that he must speak out against the atrocities in his homeland in order that others will know about those atrocities, and also speak out and act to see them stopped. And, I kept wondering if any of us, myself included would actually do anything. I felt paralyzed and impotent to act, just as I did when Yugoslavia was tearing itself apart. I felt paralyzed and impotent to act, just as I did when the Tutsis and Hutus were killing each other in Rwanda, even after reading Philip Gourevitch's We Wish to Inform You that We Will Be Killed with Our Families. I felt paralyzed and impotent to act, just as I did when the United States invaded Iraq for the first time in 1991 during Desert Storm and more recently during our current quagmire known as Gulf War 2.

This time, however, I have met a survivor of genocide in Africa. I have heard his story. I have seen it enfleshed. I have spoken to him. I have shaken his hand. He flirted with the child, and treated her as though she was just as important as anyone else there. In my copy of What is the What he wrote "To Troy! With gratitude, Valentino Achak Deng." He thanked me for coming. I couldn't believe that he was thanking me. I thanked him for his story, at which he seemed somewhat embarrassed. He glanced down at his hands and thanked me again. Then he looked up at the child, raised his brow, and told her to be good. At that we departed.

I can read and inform myself, as I am doing right now, becoming more upset the more of What is the What that I read.

If I do nothing else, however, I hope to direct someone else to some of the story of Achak and the stories of the people of Southern Sudan and the grievous injuries that they have suffered, individually and collectively. Please take some time to visit the following links:

*Valentino Achak Deng—this website is hosted by Achak as he attempts to tell the world his story and to help the people, his people, of Southern Sudan.

*What is the What—learn more about the book.

*Southern Sudanese Community of Washington—an organization that helps the refugees of Southern Sudan who are relocated in Washington State start to rebuild their new lives.

*Eric Reeves—the website for a man who has spent the past seven years researching and speaking out against the atrocities committed by the Sudanese government against its own people. Reeves is considered an enemy by the government of Sudan. He is also a thorn in the side of many other governments that refuse to put an end to the violence, including the United States.

*Save Darfur—an alliance of over 170 religious, advocacy, and human rights organizations dedicated to speaking out against the genocide in Sudan and obtaining some sort of response to the 2.5 million people killed and 2 million people displaced by the violence.

TIME AT WAR

So now I set about fitting into the training programme of my platoon some of the stalking and catch-me-if-you-can games that I had played with Raleigh Trevelyan’s platoon at Ranby—for did not war seem to be a horribly over-the-top version of a children’s game? (56)

It was all quite like, yes, an apotheosis of a mad apocalyptic children’s game. (124)

—Time at War by Nicholas Mosley.

Two days ago, I completed Time at War by Nicholas Mosley. This was a Christmas gift from the mother-in-law.

Time at War is a memoir of Mosley's experiences in the Second World War. What I liked about the book is Mosley's deflation of his younger self. He challenges his youthful arrogance from the standpoint of a man at the end of life, but also shows how he was challenging many of his assumptions and values even as a young man. He is snivelling and brash and spoiled. He is warm and compassionate and warm-hearted. He revels in the friendships of his fellow students and officers. He wonders about their "playing" at homosexuality, which, for most of them, is left behind once the brutality and horror of war rears its ugly head. He finds fulfillment in war, even as he protests it. He faces the failure of being captured, the thrill of escape, and the redemption of being allowed to "repent" of his failure through the success of leading his platoon into battle. Mosley is contradiction squared. He is human. This humanity and confusion and self-effacement and reevaluation makes him rather endearing.

---

Every minute I have to give to this war I grudge angrily. And when things are dangerously active I go about my business in a spirit of complete misery.
—Time at War by Nicholas Mosley, page 143

I was talking with a soldier and his wife on Sunday. He is about to be redeployed at a moment's notice to Iraq, as soon as President George W. Bush decides how many troops he wants to increase our current numbers with. His platoon could leave in a few weeks. It could leave tonight. He doesn't know. But, he does know that he is afraid and mad and wants American involvement in the war to come to conclusion. The insecurity and anxiety is gnawing at him. His fear and worry were visible upon his face and that of his wife. He looked sick and pissed off.

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One could begin to see how the simplicities of war might be easier to deal with than the complexities of peace.
—Time at War by Nicholas Mosley, page 160

Which is how President Bush was reelected. It was simpler to keep him in office and slog through the nightmare we have helped to create than to roll up our sleeves, put someone else into office, and do the real work of diplomacy, withdrawal, coalition building.

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Humans seem at home in war: they do not feel at home in peace. This cannot often enough be said.
—Time at War by Nicholas Mosley, page 161

May God have mercy upon us!

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As soon as I completed Time at War, I immediately began What is the What by Dave Eggers. What is the What is a fictionalized account of the life of Valentino Achak Deng. Deng survived the civil war of Sudan in the early 1980s and his subsequent trek to find shelter in refugee camps in western Ethiopia and northern Kenya.

This is another attempt of an individual to wrap his mind around the concept of war. Only this time the individual is not in his early twenties when he first experiences war, but six years old. I am only 85 pages into the novel at this point, but young Deng has seen his village of Marial Bai destroyed, had his family split up, seen bodies scattered about, and seen and heard fellow boys attacked by lions in the scrub as they flee. He has also been victimized in the United States as a young adult refugee due to his African heritage. His tale is being told to us while he is tied up on the floor of his own apartment after being robbed.

We really are filthy beasts, all of us...

on THE TAPHANDLE

Snoqualmie Wildcat IPA by Snoqualmie Falls Brewing Company

This is a great India Pale Ale. It looks like a pint of apple juice with a thick frothy head. The head lasted for quite some time and left good lacing behind. The aroma is of flowers and citrus, mostly grapefruit. Hints of apple and alcohol also hide in the nose. The flavor was very bitter, with an intense, slightly acidic, grapefruit flavor. This is a hop lover's dream. It was a good match for homemade tacos.

THE JOYS OF LIFE

These are pictures of a salt shaker taken by the child. The child took these pictures in the cafe of Elliott Bay Book Company.

The child insisted that she be allowed to take some photographs as I was readying a new 35mm camera for our visit to the Frye. I had to explain to the child that she could not use the 35mm camera as it was not ready and she was too young to play with it. (Well, not really. It's the Pop Cam, and functions very much like our low-resolution digital camera, relying upon ambient lighting and a vague "viewfinder.")

The fruit of the compromise—use of our low-resolution digital camera to take pictures—is Salt Shaker 1 and Salt Shaker 2.

PICK OF THE WEEK

Today is the pick of the week. The day was a fun one for the child and I.

First, we visited Elliott Bay Book Company. I had a gift certificate that I received from my boss. I was able to pick out four books today, which still left me a little bit to use in the future. This allows me to have new reading material for the winter and spring, along with the books I received for Christmas. Today I picked up:

*What is the What by Dave Eggers. Subtitled The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng, this is a novel based upon the life of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. Eggers extensively interviewed Deng, had access to pieces Deng had written himself, used other source material written about the Sudanese civil war, and then fictionalized it. It reminds me of William T. Vollmann's Afghanistan Picture Show, which was a blend of "fiction" and reportage, humility and bravado.

*Red the Fiend by Gilbert Sorrentino. A novel about victimization and abuse. Red is transformed into Red the Fiend through the physical and emotional torments of his grandmother, as well as others.

*I'm Not Stiller by Max Frisch. A man is framed by authorities for crimes he did not commit. Or did he? He insists that he is not Stiller.

*Norman Rockwell: The Underside of Innocence by Richard Halpern. A critical look at the work of Rockwell and the subversion contained within his art.

Next, we visited the Frye Art Museum. Our main reason for visiting was to see the sound sculpture by Trimpin. His installation, entitled Klompen, consists of 120 Dutch wooden clogs that contain wooden mallets. Each clog is suspended from a thin computer cable that also serves to tie the mallet to the computer that runs the compositions. Each "play" of the sculpture cost 25 cents, the proceeds of which are donated to charity. Different sized clogs and different sized mallets allow for different notes. The percussive songs were short, each about a minute in length.

The child was intrigued by "the dancing shoes" "that make music." She was also intrigued by her "interaction" in inserting quarters into its box to make it function.

We also had fun at the Erwin Wurm exhibit, I Love My Time, I Don't Like My Time: Recent Work by Erwin Wurm. It included photographs, video, sculptures, and spectator-involvement performance pieces, all of which bordered on the absurd. The child sat on one of the spectator-involvement sculptures and contemplated Spinoza. The child asked questions about some of the photographs and videos. I attempted to explain them to the child as best as possible. The child would watch me as I laughed at some of the photographs.

The child also really enjoyed a couple of video sculptures created by children inspired by the work of Wurm. Collectively entitled Pieces of Clothing, the child enjoyed stop-motion animations of clothing, shoes, and infant outfits that moved about. The child kept asking to go back and look at them.

Another exhibit that intrigued me was Spectatorship and Desire: Loss. These were rooms in the front galleries filled with paintings from the Frye's permanent collection. The layout of the paintings was such that it looked as though some pieces were missing, which upon more exploration I discovered was the case. The exhibit "catalogs" in the rooms duplicated the layouts of the walls, naming the artist and title for each painting, as well as for each negative space! The idea was that the "hole" was the size that the painting it represented would take up if it were hanging on the wall. Loss, indeed. I found it an interesting way to make the spectator think about the pieces that we see, or remember seeing in the past.

Later in the evening, at home, the child took a box, flipped it over, and began making her shoes "dance" on the box by dangling them from their laces like some strange marionettes. She insisted that she was "doing a puppet show." I would consider that the perfect end to a wonderful day: life imitating art.

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The pictures of Elliott Bay, the Klompen exhibit, and the Spectatorship and Desire: Loss exhibit were taken with the pocket digital camera. This allowed the child and I to continue our surreptitious photography in art museums and galleries. I don't think either Elliott Bay or the Frye would have objected to our camera, but it felt good to be continuing our own art project. The purple in one of the Klompen pictures is just one of the "hiccups" of a low-resolution digital camera. The darkness of the others is due to reliance upon ambient lighting.

THE OCEAN CALLS

"Dunes are classified by their shape, which is a function of sand and topography interacting with the wind. Sand particles begin to move when wind velocity reaches about eleven miles per hour."
—D.J. Waldie in the entry "Dune" from Home Ground: Language for an American Landscape, edited by Barry Lopez and Debra Gwartney, page 117

One week ago today, the atmosphere of Ocean Shores changes. The wind quiets until it approaches stillness. The temperature drops below freezing. In the early morning, I climb into the Clam Castle hot tub. The contrast of the 101 degree Fahrenheit temperature of the water with the chill of the dunes and their standing water, now frozen, is soothing. I relax as I watch woodsmoke puff from a nearby house's chimney.

The rest of the day is spent walking the beach with the immediate and extended family. We look at the snow covered Olympics to the northeast. We splash about in the waves. We wander. We explore. We return to the warmth of our temporary home.

I nap. I awake to a quiet house, where most of the children are also napping and most of the adults have left for a casino visit. I take pictures of the sun as it sets over the sea. I take pictures of Sasha, the dog who does not like her picture taken. I play with the child and the nephew.

We eat dinner. We ready the children for bed. The adults plays board and card games until midnight. Then we ourselves retire, but not before the wife and I take another dip in the hot tub, the chill of the ocean and dunes kept at bay for another short while. Then comes slumber and its attendant dreams...

THE OCEAN CALLS

"Shore can be parsed into the subsets of beach and coast. One could say that shore is the more formal-sounding and "elegant" of the three—as evidenced by real estate developers and bad poets."
—Luis Alberto Urrea in the entry "Shore" from Home Ground: Language for an American Landscape, edited by Barry Lopez and Debra Gwartney, page 326

One week ago today, I am walking the beach at Ocean Shores, being assailed by very strong winds and even stronger gusts that threaten to knock me over. I am alone, except for the occasional sea gull or group of plovers. I am wearing my father-in-law's spare coat because I forgot mine in the final chaotic moment of packing up and departing. The neck of the coat is drawn up over my mouth and nose. My fleece cap is pulled down to my brow. I am shielding the half-inch of space between with both gloved hands, walking into the wind. Even so, my eyelids are "flapping." Mist spatters the small amount of my facial skin that is exposed.

I am taking photographs of the few items that are actually on the beach and not being moved about by the wind or scoured by the waves: a bird braving the elements, a stranded jelly fish adorned with a thick stalk of sea grass, a water-logged feather, half of a sand dollar, driftwood. Every so often, a sports-utility vehicle passes. Otherwise, it is me and my camera being battered about by a minor storm.

It is cold. It is wet. I turn to walk with the wind rather than against it. I walk back toward the direction of Clam Castle, the rental house that is home for the week. I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my borrowed coat and walk and think and pray and wallow in being alive and aware of how small I am. I walk into the dunes of sand and grass. I try to get away from the line-of-sight of anyone who might be on the beach. I urinate and the wind carries the stream farther than I imagine it would. I finish and walk back toward the road and then "home." I need to be back before the wife and the child wake from their afternoon naps. Life is good today.

NEW YEAR

New Year's Eve was a quiet one for us. That was good. We enjoyed a dinner of steak and crab (no crab for me, thank you very much). I had a Thomas Hardy's Ale, my favorite beer of the year, and favorite barley wine; the wife had a Kahlua and Cream; the child had 2% milk. We toasted the past year and the year to come.

After dinner, we headed off to ZooLights at the Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium. The weather was good: no wind, no precipitation, brisk and cold, but manageable. The people were few: even better. The child had a good time.

Then, it was off to home to ring in the new year in the warmth and quiet of our own living room.