Stream of Consciousness

Blogging These Days...

...at www.writersdojo.org. Follow this link for Nancy Flynn's explorations of life, liberty, and the pursuit of creative writing happiness.

Off to La La Land...

The City of Angels, Los Angeles, to see C. and see what nightmare urban sprawl really looks like after all these years. Then to Yosemite on Monday. It's been an exhausting few weeks with political ups, downs, and gaping-open mouths of disbelief. Who knows where the time goes? All I know if that November 4th can't come fast enough for me...

The End of the Road

We have arrived. Here. The end of the road. A small wiggle that peters out on every map. What is here? A noisy, churning brook. Vertical mountains that were lit earlier by unexpected, almost out-of-place lightning and thunder for this time of year. A small deck off a cottage where, wrapped in fleece and WiFi, I can inhale a clean drink of fir and pine. This may  be some of the best it gets. In addition to nature, we also have the best pizza in Oregon because a New York City transplant (long freaking story with Hollywood money in the mix) landed in this neck of the wood and set up shop. Greasy, gorgeously triangular, flat, cheesy, delicious, every single slice. Are we back in high-calorie heaven yet? Gary and Wide's blues festival radio show just finished. DJs with good DJ voices? Who knew?

It's holiday time here at Wallowa Lake. Tomorrow, a few errands, and a gathering at Terminal Gravity for food and brews by eve.  Before that? Waking, walking, breathing. We are so lucky! As it say on a poster in our Flying Arrow cabin (below the head of a dead deer -- fine by me I hate those f-ers) "If you're lucky enough to be in the mountains, you're lucky enough." Aloha and mahalo!

Wing and the Wheel

A pigeon just flew past our open living room window. Earlier today I saw one emerge from the front door of a cafe along a narrow calle behind the swank Grand Canal hotels.  Friday must be changing-of-the-tourist-guard at Ca' Rezzonico, the B&B next door, because the sound of wheeled luggage on the stones of the fondamenta has been the soundtrack clatter as we recover from today's outing (and 7+ miles of walking and art-viewing), as I rested and read a novel on the couch.

Clouds have appeared to cover today's cielo azzuro, to inch the thermometer down, make it almost too chilly to have the shutters and windows open, the fresh (mostly) air lifting up from the Rio de San Barnaba canal. Today our paths to and from the Correr Museum took us through the Campi of San Maurizio and San Moise, past the high-end retail of Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Ferragamo--I'm so out of it anymore I don't even know the names of all the fashion houses. What I did notice is that fashion has definitely co-opted (it's been going on for some time I guess) the hippie style that those of us of a certain age felt we invented, out of ease and practicality, 35 or 40 years ago. What goes around comes around but, increasingly, seems to be tied to turning every damn thing into a marketable commodity, taking anything that would reflect an individual's elan, esprit, sense of color and zest and life, and selling it until it becomes banal and a fad. Now I really sound cranky and middle-aged. Maybe I'm mostly unhappy I can't fit into all the skinny, skimpy fashions? Meanwhile, many of the locals, the Venetian women of all ages -- shopkeepers, professoressas, studenti, etc.  -- look very stunning when they are out and about.

It's almost Friday night and there is jazz at the Jazz Club across the street but  I'll be amazed if I can keep my eyes open past 9 pm. This is one of the downsides of being "middle-aged" and trying to be in a tourist a-go-go mode day in and out. The need for naps and regular meals catches up with one. Well, at least me.

As we wandered through the Campo San Maurizio ceramics fair (pottery here similar to what we find at the Oregon Country Fair -- amateur) to and from the Correr, we passed plaques that commemorated the visit, the brief stay, the passing through of Dante, Goethe, and Mozart. Fancy markers, chiseled and secured high into the wall above a bridge or along a canal in Mozart's case.

Rain Falling on a Venetian Canal

John's been having so much fun documenting the first days of our holiday in Venezia -- see   John's Blog --  that I thought I'd join in and add some daily posts of my own. This morning is the first day we've had rain, and cooler temperatures after an absolutely stunning Sunday of spring warmth--and the crowds of both tourists and out-and-about Venetians in campi, crossing ponti, and crowding calli and fondamente in every sestiere of the city. And how do we know this? Because we were in five out of six on Sunday, our Bataan death march of sorts, that started out innocently enough as a stroll to end up at the gothic cathedral of San Zanipolo and ended up with a few wrong turns and nine miles as clocked on the pedometer at my waist. John had already done five miles earlier in the morning while I recovered from jet lag by sleeping in...

We're having a slow start today. That's the beauty of being here for longer than a few days. We don't feel like we have to cram everything in, like we have to be on-the-go touring and taking it all in in every waking moment. It will be nice to have a break from so much city hiking today.  The big plan is to stroll to the very nearby Campo San Rocco and see the Tintorettoes in the scuola there and maybe pop into the Frari again to marvel at Titian's paintings...

After finishing the last of three  memoirs that all ended up with the common theme of women adopted at infancy or giving children up for adoption, I'm now read Joseph Brodsky's book about Venice, Watermark. It's  a series of short meditations on this city, how he came to be enchanted by it, and why he ended up choosing to be buried here when he died in 1996. All a prelude to a visit to the cemetery island where other luminaries have their final resting places as well.  Tomorrow we are off to Padova by train. Our admission time for the Scrovegni Chapel is 12:45 pm. Like the Sistine Chapel, these art treasures require tickets in order to control the madding crowds.

Other favorite moments so far? 

After an exhausting 24 hours off travel, sitting out in the open air on the back of the Alilaguna water bus just after sunset, the wind off the water in my face, the lights of Venice and the Lido still off in the distance, beckoning us on.

Wandering into the eastern corner of Castello the first evening we were here until we find ourselves on the tiny island of San Pietro near the boat yards where old vaporetti go to be repaired and/or rust and realizing we have walked ourselves off the trusty Rough Guide map.

My first gatto sighting down the unmowed, grassy path into a prison over on the Giudecca where we stayed in the Hilton Molino Stucky our first two nights.

Off to Venezia!

We're about to take a Radio Cab to the airport and start our long journey to Venice, Italy. This vegetable and fruit boat is just down the street -- well rather, canal -- from our apartment. Address is 2817 Dorsoduro, not far from Campo San Barnabe where we'll be enjoying our mid-morning caffe by the weekend...

Ciao!

Back from the Friendly Skies

I arrived back to sane, springing-ahead Portland last night, weary from my sojourn to home turf in northeastern Pennsylvania and a pilgrimage to icy, snow-drift and dreary Ithaca for a friend's memorial service on March 1st. It was a grueling trip. Lots of down time, time to observe the shabby, broken-down weariness of that part of the east. Time to obsessively read Philip Roth and reflect on my own exile, to make peace with why I can't truly ever go home again and, more and more, no longer want to. Maybe everybody else by their middle age has made peace with this scenario but me. And, perhaps in ways, I too already have. But this trip really brought it horribly home: the fearfulness, the general daily anxiety, the xenophobia about outsiders (and that catchall category can include just about anybody), the overall weariness associated with travel in a too-crowded, crumbling-infrastructure place. Highlights were the real bagels and pizza. And, of course, seeing Ithaca friends. It's good to be back even if my life here needs re-structuring, new priorities, and more unpacking awaits. The camellia is blooming and there are happy daffodils in the back garden yard. I may have to re-read Thomas Wolfe on home, place, exile, and family to re-gain some universally-acknowledged perspectives on why some of us, particularly the creative ones, often have to head, solo and unscripted, out into the big, bad world.

Crisp and Clear

Arctic chill has blanketed our corner of Oregon. Winds are stirring the firs and sequoias, up from the Columbia River which isn't that far from our house. Even around the summit of Mt. Hood, it's so clear you can see the snow swirl. Bright blue sky by day, bright white full moon at night. The kind of brisk that makes you feel achingly good and tired after a walk. Chill that makes you glad to be able to stay in a warm inside.

A woman behind the deli counter at New Seasons is wearing a skirt made of knotted scarves, all different colors and lengths, tied to a belt or waistband and this get-up over tights or a pair of pants. A white truck spent a good part of the afternoon in the driveway of our new house. When I headed out to walk earlier, it was rumbling down the street past here. Rhododendrons are starting to bud, as well as other shrubs that I don't yet recognize along a few houses on my walk. How can it be the 3rd week of January and hinting at spring? That's what I love about living out here. The overall temperateness. Even with a few days, or a week, of temperatures that barely climb above freezing, a purple primrose and a red rosebud bloom.

Other Details of a Morning

Here's what gets noticed when a person's isn't trying to figure out how to get an imaginary person into and out of a rental car at a diner along the highway in the Coast Range of western Oregon:

One of the yellow tulips in the blue porcelain vase droops.

The noise of the dehumidifer running in the basement, the no-frost freezer running up here.

A cat on an ottoman on a floor that isn't level so that it rocks on the hardwood every time he shifts his weight to clean himself, or find a better position for more sleep.

A parade of water droplets along the branch of the red maple in the yard next door. I only noticed this past few days they seem to stay like that rather than falling. Is it only a matter of time, until the next wind?

Sound of garbage trucks out on the street, recycling trucks, stopping with a brake squeak to pick up paper, cans, glass bottles. Train horns, more motors, more brakes.

A woman in a yellow puffy jacket that's tight at her waist and big sunglasses even though there's no sun walks by with a black Lab, en route to Alberta Park where there's an off-leash area.

The orange fire hydrant on the corner and the way it stands out, vivid color alongside the green, green grass.

Food for Thought

We are back from a reconnaissance mission to near Cleveland, Ohio to check up on the situation with J's nearly 98-year old father. I have many thoughts on mortality, community, and the American farflung lifestyle that I hope to get around to collecting and posting a bit later today.