We Write from the Archives of Memory

I’ve been working a lot on a new novel recently, and there is actually very little I want to say about it except to note that I have found myself immersed in memories of the El Paso of my childhood, of L.A. and San Francisco, of people and events long past.  It is wonderful, but at the same time, all those memories must compete with the present, which is full, so full, of its own tasks and people and experiences.  Those things belonging to the present also enter into the story sometimes, though they must go through the filter of the past in which the story is set.  And yet, there is so much that will never find its place in this story, or any other.  They are parts of me, of my experience, that will remain hidden and as a result will perhaps go unexamined; never be fully understood.  Every one of us, if we just pay attention, is witness to a constant stream of wonder. 

     The other day I thought about the first time I fell in love.  When I was six, and in the first grade, I fell for one of my classmates, a short-haired, freckled, red-faced girl who wore pink dresses and pink bows in her short, tidy hair.  I would stare at her instead of paying attention to the teacher (I had already checked out by the first grade and would be a terrible student throughout what was left of my mercifully truncated formal education).  Each time her eyes met mine, I literally felt as if my heart and my head were going to explode.  Terrifying, that a six-year-old could feel that kind of passion!  The following year, she would chase me around the playground at school, calling me “honey” and “darling” and trying to kiss me (I suspect she was imitating the way she saw lovers behave on television, as I did not have the impression that her parents were very demonstrative toward each other).  I would run from her and complain to the teacher and other adults, but I was secretly delighted.  Because it wasn’t just about loving anymore, it was about being loved.  I also have a most vivid memory of a field day at a park that we participated in with the rest of our class a couple of years later.  By this time, we were both getting to an age where—at least at that time—boys and girls tended not to mingle. On a grassy lawn in a secluded section of the park, she ran up and tackled me, in an ostensibly playful manner.  We wrestled about rather innocently, but when we separated, hot and sweating and covered with newly-mown grass, I could tell by her expression that she now hated me—for what I will never know—but something had affected the way she felt about me: a slight, perhaps, or possibly something I had done to make her jealous, or because I had somehow changed, or because we had simply entered a new stage of life, but what was certain was that we were finished; as friends, as playmates, as associates, and as puppy lovers, forever.  The following year her parents enrolled her in a highly respected all-girl private school, and I never saw her in person again.  Years later, one of my sisters went to the same high school as she did, and I learned that she was a popular and diligent student, involved in all sorts of extra-curricular activities and held up as an example by the school administration.  She died tragically in an accident a few years later while living in England.  Some years ago, I found a seven-year-old's drawing she had given to me with the inscription, “I love you, Chalres,” among papers that my mother had saved from my childhood.  I really don’t know what the significance of all of this might be to the person I am now, but I’m sure that it somehow played a role in making me who I am.  The compulsion to write, in large part, comes from the power experience has over us; from the need to process and preserve and share our experiences.  And even the smallest experience encompasses this magic, this power.  I think of the house I walked by this evening that has a Christmas tree up year-round, and that seems to be filled with very social residents—or at least serious tipplers.  And that apartment down the street, where the residents have installed green light bulbs in every socket, so that the whole place swims in a murky jade ether.  What does all of this mean, and why would I want to share it?  I don’t have an answer.  But I share it with you, anyway.  And if you’ve read this far, I hope you don’t feel that I’ve wasted your time.

July 2-Hermann Hesse's Birthday

Und ich begann auch zu verstehen, daß das Leid und die Enttäuschungen und die Schwermut nicht da sind, um uns verdrossen und wertlos und würdelos zu machen, sondern um uns zu reifen und zu verklären.

I began to understand that suffering and disappointment and sadness do not exist to vex us or make us feel worthless or deprive us of our dignity, but to mature and transfigure us.

                                                                                  --Hermann Hesse Peter Camenzind                                                                      

Osha Root

I remember back when I worked in a fair trade store and we sold osha root from a Native American producer group.  The fragrance of osha root, perfumy, earthy, slightly sweet and pungent as a rare incense, would overpower me whenever I opened one of the mason jars where it was stored.  In the midst of so many other wonderful scents: smudge sticks, incense, sheshem wood, palm leaf and kaisa grass baskets, oils, resins, pine needle and beargrass Tarahumara baskets, dream pillows and handmade paper, the pungent aroma of osha root would seduce me like a rare flower.  Osha, truly a queen among herbs!  As a tea or infusion or tincture, osha root is comfort for the sick.  One of the names given to it is bear root, because Native peoples observed that bears would seek it out when they were ill.  Osha root is used to treat colds, ’flu, and other respiratory infections, as well as gastrointestinal disturbances and sore throat.  Though it tastes a little strong (a bit like fresh parsnips to me), it is also somehow wonderfully soothing.  It is not safe for use during pregnancy.  The root is used both fresh and dry.

     Osha (Ligusticum porteri) is found in the mountain areas of the American Southwest, as well as the mountains of northern Mexico.  It is generally found in rich, partially-shaded soils.  It has been very seriously overharvested in the wild, as it is difficult (some would say nearly impossible) to artificially cultivate.  Though not considered endangered, it is definitely threatened in many areas.  Some commercial interests have cleaned out whole ranges.  It is important to obtain osha root from small, environmentally-conscious sources; or if harvesting in the wild, care must be used to leave plenty behind.  It is against the law to harvest osha on some public or tribal lands, so know what the law is before you harvest.  Actually, osha foraging is a matter best left to those who are experienced at it, as it is very easy to mistake poisonous water hemlock for osha (a mistake that you’ll make, as they say, only once).  There are some good books and sites on the internet that explain how to tell these two plants apart, but a knowledgeable herbalist is your best bet if you have any doubts.  And remember, always ask about the harvesting methods that suppliers use, and if you have any doubt about whether their emphasis is on sustainability when they harvest this sacred plant, just say no.  

Rouault’s Autumn ou Nazareth

I am moved by Georges Rouault’s Autumn ou Nazareth (1948) as by few other paintings.  Jesus stands in a serene, dreamy, radiant--yet slightly melancholy--little French village with a group of women and children.  The landscape surrounding them seems timeless: old trees, soft hills, water, all under a warm late afternoon sun.  There is so much serenity, so much of eternity and peace, in the colors, the images, the Expressionist brushwork.  Rouault gave us this work.  Rouault, who could paint human misery like no other, whose Miserere et Guerre was one of the most powerful artistic outcries against war, injustice, and the hard-heartedness of the bourgeoisie ever created.  Autumn ou Nazareth inspires me to remember that in the midst of daily hardships, especially those associated with caring for our children, and all our other endless domestic responsibilities, in the midst of the inevitable loss of family and friends, in the midst of the frustrations and difficulties of living in a society whose economy is based on greed and individual self-interest instead of cooperation and caring for one another, we can find (and fashion among ourselves, amongst our brother and sisters of the whole human family) the glowing serenity and beauty that is at the heart of life and of the journey to the East.  I stand looking out at Sunset Heights and the great jade elms of Dunn Park on the near horizon, and the blue mountains weathered by wind and rain and by the magician Time rising in the distance, with the crows laughing and finches singing overhead in the ash and crab apple and orange and peach trees, and children shouting and playing in the morning's bright absterging sunlight, and I know that Rouault’s Autumn ou Nazareth is everywhere.

Saturday Afternoon Part Two

August traced with a touch the black spiral that is the primordial and universal symbol of the sun.  It was painted on the searing days that always ended in rain, a coil with a tiny barb on its end like the scorpion’s tail.  White peaches were almost (or perhaps already) ripe, and the grapes were turning dark, slowly shifting from the ghostly tea color that was the chrysalis of their successful development in the searing mist of San Carlos to a rich royal magenta, imago for must.  The hands and hearts that had planted the vines and trees, those daughters of Helios, beset, yearning, were now old women, invisible as the Samaritan, bent and burnt by the years.  No golden cormorant rises out of the water, but the parrots and bee-eaters, caracaras and kites, all cloud and hunt and fill the arboreal atmosphere of palms, ceibas, parasitic vines and orchids—the continuously encroaching jungle.  The confinement of August has passed, as all labor does, and soon the rains will begin to thin.  Only the newborn will see the month for what it is, a cycle that begins with the uncoiling of life itself.  The white hawk carries meat and skin to its young.

This passage begins the excerpt from my novel, Before the Rains, found in the latest issue of The Mayo Review.  (Yes, I finally received a contributor’s copy!)  It is exceptionally satisfying to see at least a little portion of this book I have worked on for over a decade finally in print.  I really couldn’t be happier with how well the story, “Saturday Afternoon,” made up of two separate but related vignettes in the book, actually reads.  Hopefully, the rest of the book will someday (soon!) see the light of day as well.

The Mayo Review

The Mayo Review, Texas A & M University - Commerce

North Franklin Mountains

Here are some photos from a hike that we took in the North Franklin Mountains.

I am so grateful for the mountains built of rock laid down over measureless ages that go all the way back to the Precambrian age (1.25 billion years ago), the hardy shrubs and flowers and ocotillo, the little cloud that hovered overhead providing shade like Jonah's gourd plant, and for Libby.

Saturday Afternoon

I was intending to post about a story of mine that came out in a journal late last month, an excerpt from a novel I have been working on for over a decade.  I wanted to write something about finally seeing a small part of this colossal, extended project in print.  Unfortunately, I never received a contributor’s copy, or an answer to my email enquiries. (I did see the cover online, with my name among the contributors, so I’m assuming that it did get issued.)  I even sent a check for additional copies, but the check hasn’t been cashed.  I’ll still write something if I ever actually see a copy of the (print-only) journal.  I do understand that the staff are graduate students and may be graduating about this time.  So they are certainly entitled to have other things on their minds! 

     Oh well.  Instead, I am posting a couple of pictures of the Hueco Mountains, where Libby and the dogs and I went hiking today.