notes from a trip upstream

As we leave the open water to re-enter the jungle, we pass through an arch of hanging roots and towering mangrove trees. The river is dark, and through the dense tangle of wood and leaves and life, there is not even a glimpse of land – only roots and the shimmer of blackwater. It is as if the plants themselves have created the earth of water and sun.

In a sky-boat. Racing along lines that won't stay straight. Steady hum over the jungle's voices, over motor and city.

Nose up, I can see only where I am, and where I've been, and the sky beneath us in blackwater.

I share this boat with factory men, my friend AGE, and precious cargo: sacks of potatoes and onions, big tins of paint thinner, and our carefully water-proofed boxes of teaching supplies. And the wind, always the sound and the fury of the wind of constant motion. When we stop, here and there for Pudding, our driver, to assess the danger of a submerged tangle of roots or wood, I'm pleased to find that the reality I'd grown accustomed to was not reality at all. The jungle's voice rises up in the quiet that had been the engine's roar, and there is laughter in the splash of water against the sides of our wooden boat.

Tonight we will sleep beneath grasshoppers clinging to our bed-nets, and albino geckos racing along the rafters in search of the mosquitoes that would feed on us. But before we sleep, we will meet some of the women who live here in the jungle at this factory 'camp' for most of the year. We will sit on benches on the dock with them, bugs buzzing in the lamp-light, and we will talk about health. They are full of questions, because they rarely have anyone to ask. And I am new at this, but amazed to find that I have some helpful words. And amazed by their lives - there are few choices, but they have chosen to live here, far from their families, because here they'll have steady and strenuous work, and something to send home. Toil: I haven't ever, though I am working hard here with them.

The minutes here pass in a blur, but there is such a collection of moments left in my mind. I'm a world away again, trying to write something sensible for an article, wondering about them. I don't know, either, if there is anything left of me there, nor whether it matters. There's a lot of there left in me, for what it's worth. Slowly decompressing, to become, I hope, something bigger in me than the space it will fill.

Perhaps more musings later. For now bed.

and the band played on

recycling, ads from my professional mags. torn and transformed into a forest of birches. collage is satisfying. i can follow my own rules - this time no scissors, no paint. and completion delights almost as much as creation.

hypo hyper. same same for once. and for all? thought i'd forgotten the joy of this particular etat d'affaires.

bender this week with my from-far friend. we watched and danced, ate and drank. it was good. public displays of affectation in my lubricated state.

and my task this week to learn about minds weak and otherwise. learning about self through the tales of others. less frightening than i'd have thought it would be.

we-heeeeee!

agony

play .wmv

play .mpg

tres tree

triste - about that crazy bush.

but i got to sit in a tree today. that was nice. it had a low, angled branch perfect for perching. i got to wait there a little while, for i was early.

and tonight the sky is very clear. winter's near - i love such nights when the sky is bright with star-light. the moon is half-hanging and tinted roux.

hey!

election day, hey! we shall see what we see. it matters, but then again, it don't. little changes, but nothing really does.
instead, each child should get a day a year in the curriculum to learn about how not to join the rat-race, how not to want what the jones' have, how to live a humane life without needing stuff. sound funny coming from one of the elite-to-be? what can i say - hooray for non-specialists in my conservative, elitist field??

back from 4 loverly days in the north. tamarac en jaune, flat water, grey skies, and birch that have filled my head with collages and charcoal drawings to come.

i wrote this to meine freundin:

Looking out at seaguls in the bright waters of lake Superior. The house smells of woodsmoke and forest, and the sky is both grey and light and pink. I've been picking mushrooms, and drinking cheap red wine, and having fun.

that's about true. and karaoke and value-villaging and salt fish w/ clabbered milk (!) and a rainy pic-nic in the dark, and stacking wood and more.

and now i'm home, and delighted to be here for a few weeks to get down to business. soccer's off due to the weather tonight, so i've a free few moments, hooray!

(and i know what rhymes with oranges!)