Dreamers Rise An Open Notebook And for those who choose the twisty road, prefer it to the straight Let joy beat out old misery, as love will conquer hate. Illustration by Henry L. Stephens from The Goblin Snob (ca. 1855) A sort of electronic broadside, composed of rants and reviews, conceits and speculations, and whatever else feels the need to be here. Issued as chance will have it. Too busy to write A correspondent from the Netherlands informs me that it's already summer over there. It was summer here as well, a week ago, but now it's turned back into spring again, as the weather has been damp and a bit colder than usual for this time of year. I expect that my postings here will be on the sparse side for the rest of May, as I have a variety of projects to attend to, some of which may bear fruit in these pages and some of which will not. (I hope that at least one of them will bear fruit in my back yard.) Minor items, if they present themselves, will probably be added below rather than granted a space to themselves. If time allows I also intend to devote some time to eventually continuing the story I launched a few days ago. In regard to the latter: I know what the piece is “about” and more or less where I want it to end up, but as yet I have only the vaguest sense of how it will get there. Consider it an experiment in serialization. (But an abortive one, for now. And I'm not very happy with the last sentence of the piece.) Stowing their oars? Word is that Jake Smith, the bassist for the Indiana branch of the Vulgar Boatmen, is moving to England to teach at the University of Nottingham, and that the group will be making a farewell tour — of Indianapolis, at least — this summer. Since the Gainesville, Florida branch has apparently been inactive for some time, that may be more or less the end of the Boatmen saga. [Update: as of Fall 2008 the Indiana Boatmen remain active.] Drive time My morning commute, of late, is a fifteen-minute drive, mostly on back roads through suburban woods. About halfway out a stream comes out of the woods and runs parallel to the road for a while. I take a left, cross a stone bridge above the stream, and continue into a stand of pines. Then the reservoir emerges, circled by trees with not a building in sight, a few swans in the shallows. A mile or so along its shore there's an intersection, a traffic light and a busier road, then five minutes more and I'm at work. It's not news that bodies of water have a restorative effect on the spirits. I'm not much affected by the sea; I enjoy it and honor it but can't shake the feeling that the sea is not particularly interested in our activities, that no matter how much we try to muck it up its scale remains of another order entirely than ours. But I grew up near fresh water and so lakes and streams always seem right, especially when they're surrounded by an illusion of wildness. And it is an illusion, for the most part, because my ride isn't through wild country at all, it just happens to skirt watershed property that's been kept free of encroaching development, all in order to better slake the thirst of a far-off city that is one of the least wild places in the world. An island, then, or better an archipelago of the wild, a reminder that all our involvements, compelling as they are, are not the only way to be in the world, that there was once and may be again and in a sense if we are fortunate always is a terrain beyond from which we came and to which we can always return, at least in the mind. May 15, 2006 [ Permalink ] Previous page Next page Home Index About Email me