Why I Love Being Single

The end of this year was one of the very few times in my life I've had to buy a calendar.  As a Sierra Club member, I usually get one from them or from some other environmental charity (this year's was from the Nature Conservancy).  I don't know if I was too late with my membership fee or if they raised the amount you had to give to get a calendar this year, but all I know is that it's the end of December and no one has sent me a 2012 calendar.  This story does have I point, I promise.  Anyway, knowing that I would need a wall calendar for my "office" (actually just the desk area where I keep my computer and beer), I decided to get something that I would really like.  Now I like puppies and lighthouses as much as the next writer, but this year I decided to buy my very first shirtless model calendar.

Not that this is big deal in itself. I did it partially as a joke, partially because I actually like the calendar, and partially because it helped support an AIDS charity.  The photos are actually very tasteful, I think.  I wish some of the models had slightly less clothing, but it's cool.  But the reason I can get away with putting this thing up on my wall is that I am quite single, and no one is around to complain about what a deviant I am.

Hello, Mr. February.

I swear I'm not whistling in the dark here.  One of my friends broke up with his girlfriend a few months ago and then proceeded to tell me how much he "liked living the single life."  He was just a little too emphatic about it, and I knew that after talking to me about how great the single life was, he was going home and crying in his beer every night (okay, not really, but I suspect it was something like this).  But I've been thinking about this for a couple of weeks, and I have realized that I actually do have many reasons to be grateful I'm single.

1. Shirtless model calendars.

2. No one drinks my beer.

3. I eat what I want, when I want.  Tacos at midnight?  Salad for breakfast?  All good.

4. No one complains about my keeping bikes in the living room.

5. I come home whenever I please.  With whomever I please.

6. Two words: shaveless winters.

7. I am a huge fan of pungent foods.  Smelly Belgian cheeses, smoked mackerel, salmon roe, natto (fermented tofu), Indian curries that make you breathe fire, are all on my menu, anytime.  Alaskan singles can enjoy stink flipper (walrus flipper fermented in a hole in the ground) without upsetting a mate.

Single people food.

8. I enjoy long coversations with myself.  Sometimes I even do different accents.  When you're with another person long enough, you eventually end up talking about nothing.  With myself, I'm infinitely interesting.

9. The lid STAYS down!

10. I am a very clean person.  My stuff stays organized.

11. No arguing about what movie to watch.

12. No buying overly expensive gifts.

13. If there's a problem in the house, I don't have to go very far for the source.

14. I can eat foods that aren't necessarily pungent themselves, but due to their chemistry, lend themselves to pungency: e.g. beans, broccoli, cabbage, etc.  Seriously, I love beans more than a '49er loves gold.

15. No one bothers me about leaving my wetsuit to dry in the bathroom after a day of bodyboarding.
16. Law & Order marathons.  I love you, ADA Rubirosa.

17. Did I mention the shirtless model calendar?

Cons to being single:

1. Can't drive in the carpool lane during rush hour.  

Now I'm not saying that it'll be this way forever or that I envision myself dying alone in my house while my twenty cats eat my remains (I've sworn to not have more than three cats.  Maybe four). Perhaps I'll meet that special someone who will persuade me to abandon my hedonistic lifestyle. Just not anytime soon.

Of Ravel and Sea Ice

Back when I was in Alaska, I mentioned once that I listened to the Passacaglia from Ravel's A minor Piano Trio while flying over Kotzebue Sound.  The almost unbearable loneliness of the piece and crushing beauty of the sea ice in the sidelong winter sun was such that it gave one the urge to commit harakiri right then and there.

This summer I'm helping to conduct a seminar in writing about music, and I see how hard it is to put words to an essentially wordless phenomenon.  How is it that scattered sounds come together to tell their own stories, elicit unspeakable joys, draw out the loneliness of sea ice?  As a classical musician by both training and trade, I've had to write piles of academic papers on the subject, and it seemed like nothing I ever said was of any justice to the matter.  It was like throwing pebbles at a river and expecting to create a dam to contain all its fury.  But I've revisited a favorite author recently for another project, and here is what she had to say on the matter:

"Here is where I come to some trouble with words.  The inside became the outside when Shamengwa played music.  Yet inside to outside does not half sum it up.  The music was more than music - at least what we are used to hearing.  The music was feeling itself.  The sound connected instantly with something deep and joyous.  Those powerful moments of true knowledge that we have to paper over with daily life.  The music tapped the back of our terrors, too.  Things we'd lived through and didn't want to ever repeat.  Shredded imaginings, unadmitted longings, fear and also surprising pleasures.  No, we can't live at that pitch.  But every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence.  We are aware.  And this realization was in the music, somehow, or in the way Shamengwa played it.

"Thus, Shamengwa wasn't wanted at every party.  The wild joy his jigs and reels brought forth might just as soon send people crashing on the rocks of their roughest memories and they'd end up stunned and addled or crying in their beer."

-Louise Erdrich, from The Plague of Doves, describing Ojibwe violinist Shamengwa

Last week I went to see a jazz band downtown.  The gorgeous tenor sax player played a solo that the word "haunting" doesn't even begin to describe.  I stared at the face of my own loneliness, stood on the edge of the blue-gray sea ice as it spread before me, aware of all I had and had not done.  I was thrust into "the river of my existance," as Erdrich put it.  I saw Arctic winter again, and I sat paralyzed staring into my gin.  I could barely applaud when he was done.  Much more upbeat pieces filled the rest of the program, probably to cheer everyone up after that.

Later in the evening I asked that tenor player out, and when he refused, I found myself staring at the sea ice of sunless winter once more.  

The 7-Eleven Man

I used to think San Jose was the capital of 7-Eleven, until I found out today that Tokyo has the most stores at 1,713.  I'm pretty sure we even beat out Norway, though, which has one 7-Eleven for every 47,000 Norwegians.  There are so many 7-Elevens in San Jose that at the corner of Winchester and Payne Avenues, there's one 7-Eleven store on the northwest corner, facing Payne, and another at the southeast corner, facing Winchester (it's not quite on the corner, maybe down the road a little bit, but still less than a block away).  All in all, there are four 7-Elevens within two miles of my house that I can easily bike to, should the mood strike me for cigarettes, chocolate bars, or Playgirl magazines (though I assure you I don't smoke, and everyone knows that Playboy is the one that publishes short stories.  Jeez.).

For those of you that are unfortunate enough to lack 7-Elevens in your home state, I will inform you of the awesomeness you are missing out on.  7-Eleven is a convenience store, similar to what you'd find at a gas station, but usually with more stuff.  Need cat food?  Milk?  Don't forget to pick up condoms for your date tomorrow night, or a pint of Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough for when your date stands you up.  You can even get your weekly lottery ticket or bet on your favorites at Santa Anita or Golden Gate Fields.  They're even writer-friendly by stocking pens, notebooks, and beer (or Red Bull if you're pulling an all-nighter to meet your deadline).  They're called 7-Eleven because the original ones were open from 7:00 am to 11:00 pm, but now many of them are open 24 hours.

The one closest to my house is run by a Pakistani gentleman who always asks me how work is going, usually prefaced by "Long time no see!" or, "How have you been doing?"  At first, I was kind of flattered that he remembered me.  Isn't that what neighborhood shops used to be about, before we had all these big box stores that made everything impersonal?

But then I realized this: the 7-Eleven man knows you by your vices.  Pretty much the only time he sees anyone come into his store is to get their fix for their various habits or addictions.  I wonder if he catalogs this to himself.  "Ah, here comes Cheez-its-and-Marlboros!" he might say to himself.  Or perhaps, "Hey, Snickers-and-24 oz.-Asahi is back!" (that would be me).  Think about it.  Whether it's alcohol, chocolate, tobacco, dirty magazines, caffeine, or gambling, the 7-Eleven man has you nailed.  Perhaps, then, it's not such a good thing to be recognized by the 7-Eleven man.

And I wonder too, what it's like to be the guy who knows everyone's vices.  Does he secretly look down on us, with all our silly, self-destructive habits?  Or is he more of a laissez-faire guy?  Surely he must have some himself.  Maybe it's all relative.  Maybe I need to cut down on the chocolate so he doesn't recognize me anymore.  Nah.  It's not like I'm Woman-Who-Buys-Two-Packs-A-Day or Maxim-Dude.

Paper Sandpipers: Birds in Writing

     Recently I noticed that I use birds a lot in my writing.  A lot.  I went back into some old stuff and saw that nearly every piece work had a least one bird reference in it, and all this time I never realized that I was doing it.

     Sometimes, I'm just using a bird (or birds) as part of the scenery.  For example, one of my characters happens to look out a window and sees a robin on a redwood tree.  Pretty basic; the robin means nothing, other than as a visual cue to the setting.  Other times, I'm using the birds as a reflection of a character's state of mind.  In the same story with our friend on the redwood tree, there's a scene when the protagonist is looking at a bunch of sandpipers scurrying to and fro on a beach.  Their movements feel very unsettled, as are the character's thoughts at that point.   Most frequently, the birds are part of a simile or metaphor.  Raptors seem to be a favorite for this, as are various seabirds (and if they've got extensive migrations, then they seem to be even more desirable).  For example, if someone looks at you like a falcon looks at a squirrel, that's some scary shit.

Turkey vultures at Pinnacles National Monument

     All this has me thinking about why I use birds so frequently.  I'm no ornithologist and don't consider myself a bird fancier.  I even find some wild birds incredibly annoying (baby scrub jays screaming at 5 am drives me absolutely bonkers).  My theory is that birds are naturally fascinating to human beings.  Sometimes, it almost seems as if they are more extreme versions of ourselves.  How many myths and legends contain a bird character?  Ravens and other corvids are some of the smartest animals around; they use tools, solve complex problems, and can imitate human speech.

     Bird sounds fascinate us too.  Psittacines imitate; some can even carry on simple conversations.  Lyre birds and mockingbirds have some of the most complex repertoires in the animal kingdom.  People in temperate and subarctic climes look forward to spring, when the songs of thousands of warblers, thrushes, sparrows, and finches return after a silent winter.  Loons have driven some people to tears with their long and lonely calls (and "Pacific Loon" is the handle of this blog, incidentally).  Though seasonally monogamous (not for life, as many believe), loons will continue to call for their mate if one of the pair does not return, the same repeated howl over and over.  I remember being troubled for no reason I could see by the cries of mourning doves as a child.

     Consider migration.  The memory involved to be able to travel that distance and return to the same place year after year is astounding.  We haven't even begun to understand the complexities of avian navigation.  The lark you see at your southern feeder in March will likely be in Alaska or Nunavut by June.  The arctic tern, whom we're enjoying here on the coast right now, is the master of this feat.  Racing from pole to pole in its pursuit of eternal summer, an arctic tern will likely see more of the world in a year than you will in a lifetime.

     I wonder if any other writers out there find themselves with similar habits.  Maybe you use trees a lot.  Or celestial bodies.  What commonalities have you found in your own writing?

Continued...

After fielding many questions about this blog and hearing many requests, I've decided to continue posting.  I said earlier I wasn't a blogger; however, it seems some people are actually interested in what I have to say.    I've been thinking about what kinds of things I would write about, and found that most of them would probably be unique to the quirky lifestyle and geography of coastal California, hence the new title.  Stay tuned, my friends; there's more to come.

Although this blog won't be about Alaska anymore, it will always occupy a special place within my mind.

Musings

I've been thinking about what I'll miss about Alaska, and what I missed about California while I was here, so I decided to make a list.

What I'll miss about Alaska:

1. No crowds.  I never encountered any place that was crowded, including Anchorage.  I think the most crowded place I went was a drag show in Anchorage.  Those queens know how to party.

2. People who are easy to talk to.  I already mentioned the elders, but that's only one example.  I've been thinking about them a lot.  It's no secret that the voices we carry that endow us with the beautiful stories we tell are the same forces that can drive us to insanity.  Writers and other artists commit suicide at rates four to ten times higher than the national average.  I keep thinking that if we drank and told stories with each other, instead of by ourselves all the time, we might be able to curb some of this.     

3.  Snow.

4. Strong seasonal variations.  Not that we don't have seasons, but the huge swings of Alaska, not only in temperature, but in light, ensure there's always something new to see.

5. The unique and beautiful cultures here.

6. Ravens.  I like crows and their antics too, but they don't wheel around in the wind and play with each other like ravens do.  Watching them makes me wish I had been born a raven.

What I missed about California:

1. Secular radio.  Nome's two stations radio stations are funded by Christian groups, and alternate between cheesy praise songs and country western.  Once in a while you get something good, like Journey's "City by the Bay" (you can bet I was singing along when that came on), or Inuit singing and drumming.  Anchorage had a classical station that was actually pretty good, but when I drove outside the town limits, I lost the signal, and the dial consisted almost entirely of Christian and country western stations.  I think if I'm ever in Hell, that's what my radio will be like.

2. Fresh fruits and vegetables.  There were some in Nome, but you can bet they were expensive, and without much variety.  

3. The sun.  The sun didn't rise until 10:30 am in Nome, 12 pm in Kotzebue, and 9:15 am in Anchorage.  I'm not lying when I say white people in Alaska are pale as parsnips, and for a reason.  I'm a mix and I think I'd be pretty pasty too if I lived up there full-time.  My mother would be horrified if she visited me and then leap into a long lecture on the dangers of being a recluse and not eating enough orange vegetables.

4. Lots of vegetarian options.  Because I don't always eat fish.  I once worked and studied in Dresden for six months, and this was my huge gripe to the folks at home.  At first I tried to assimilate, so I cooked and ate German cuisine, but after a week I got tired of crapping rocks (once I could even crap at all) and started just shopping at the international market all the time so I could make California food.  

5. The relative harmony between the many cultures here.  I met a shopkeeper in Anchorage who had lived for a little while in San Francisco, and he said what he enjoyed most was that many different kinds of people with different backgrounds and different lifestyles could get along in very close company.  I specifically remember one recent July 4th spent with friends and family in San Francisco.  We saw a lion parade in Chinatown, complete with firecrackers, had a British afternoon tea service in the Financial District, and enjoyed amazing sushi and sake at a Japanese restaurant.  I don't see that happening in Alaska.

6. Surf.  I didn't make it to Yakutat or Sitka, Alaska's only surfing destinations, and only towns with surf shops.  Until there was a storm offshore, the waves in Nome were barely ankle high anyway.

Things that came up about even:

1. Recreation.  Plenty of things to do in both places.  I'd probably have to ride the mountain bike all the time in Alaska and set my road bikes aside, but I can fish and kayak quite well in both places, and hiking's good year-round.  I'm not yet crazy enough to do the Iditabike.

2. Seafood.  The seafood was great up in Alaska, but it's great in the Bay Area too.  Maybe there are some different options in both places, but many similarities as well.  We catch halibut from the piers and boats right in the Bay.  We also eat copious amounts of seaweed, and crab when its in season.   

     Jack London ultimately returned to his roots.  After a lifetime traveling the world as an oyster pirate, hobo, war correspondent, and yes, writer, he spent his last years in Sonoma County where he died.  As evidenced in his literature, the North always held a special place for him, and I think for him it was both frightening and fascinating.  I wonder what comparisons he made with the place of his origins, and the place that called to him from the darkness.

Impressions of a Nome-ad

     This journey of mine has been winding down, and I have to admit, I'm a little sad.  I was not expecting to like Nome so much, honestly.  I think if you took my hometown of Sierra Madre, got it liquored up, replaced the mountain lions with polar bears, and put it on the Bering Sea, you'd have Nome.  Even some of the buildings look similar.
     I haven't had people say 'hi' to me on the street since I left Sierra Madre.  I've lived in places where you avoid eye contact, because some of the people you meet might be crazy and try to *gasp!* talk to you.  Here in Nome, I say bring on the crazy.  It makes life interesting.  From cheering the Giants in gay bars in Anchorage to drinking with Inuit elders on the beach in Nome, this has been probably my best research trip.  And going out of town into the country, this is a land of devastating beauty.  The land is punishing in its lyricism, both emotionally and physically.  I've seen the midnight sun before, and now the midday darkness.
     Sometimes in California, we hear that so-and-so "went crazy and moved to Alaska."  The idea of Alaska is always prefixed by the suggestion of insanity.  For Californians, it's both alluring and frightening, full of polar bears and shaggy mountain men and people who vote for Sarah Palin (for your information, I found out that Anchorage hates her guts, and people in Nome weren't too fond of her either).  I like Alaska.  Like all places, it has the good and the bad.  I know I'll be coming back, as soon as I get another opportunity.  And perhaps next time, I won't come back (I grew up in rattlesnake and mountain lion country; you can't scare me).  I hope it retains its wildness and inaccessibility; in California, roads have been the death of us and our beautiful country.
     The sad thing is that it might not last.  Arctic Alaska is at the front line of global warming.  Everything, the wildlife, the unique cultures that have grown here, will all be changed.  One of my former classmates in Maine, dg nanouk okpik, is originally from Barrow, and I think her poetry contains the most eloquent statements of the devastation about to occur, that is already occurring.  Her Alaska won't be there anymore, and honestly, that frightens me more than anything.
     Seeing Alaska from a cruise ship is like snapping a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge and saying you've seen San Francisco.  Northern Alaska is expensive, but less so in the off-season, and Anchorage goods and services are about the same as San Francisco.  It's been more than worth it.
     Check out dg at NewPages Blog: dg nanouk okpik