befuckled:

When you are not really sure what just happened, but you are pretty sure you just got screwed.

-definition by Ruth.

Miss Annie Oakley

On PBS "American Experience" last night was a really great show on Annie Oakley. What a lady.


awesome.

Ripe Fruit: metaphorically speaking

Last week, in my writing class, we discussed the metaphor. Coming up with creative ways of discussing one thing in terms of something else is difficult, and I must admit that I bungled a bit, made up some bad "defnitions" before stumbling on to something appearing metaphoric. Our instructor passed around a sheet in class with examples of "very very bad metaphors" and similes on it. I grinned as I read the entire thing, and then some made me laugh out loud. For your pleasure, I selected a few of my favorites:

"He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree."

"The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't."

"From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you are on vacation in another city and 'Jeopardy' comes on at 7pm instead of 730."

And my most favorite:

"John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met."

So, I implore you. Hit me with your worst metaphor. Bring it. Bring it exactly as someone timid wouldn't.

We didn't start the fire,

no, we didn't light it, but we stood by it at Ocean Beach in the freezing windy fog in bare feet and rolled jeans. Laura's "dirty 30" birthday lured Tara, Mish, and me out to OB. The plan had been to fly kites and tug-of-war pre-sunset, then bonfire post-sunset, all the while enjoying libations. If you were anywhere near the city this weekend, you know how freakin wet and cold it was; Mother Nature drove us into the bar at Park Chalet early. After doing some "warming" there, a late night bonfire was created, along with an enthusiastic tug-of-war. We broke the rope. Good times.

Roll Call. Opening Credits:
Miss MishTara on fireum, and me. On the road. Can I get a brrrr?Me, shiny. There was much tee hee-ing occurring around this time. Tara and I wondered if our drinks actually had vodka in them. Mish said they did, and then Tara said that if it was just seltzer water, her mouth wouldn't still have vodka taste in it. We decided this was sound logic.Bonfires at OB. Fog abounds.Birthday folk round the fire. They could be rapping. Lady in galoshes is miss dirty 30 laura.The road home, late night and covered in sand, post running through stupid, unnecessary sprinklers. We were 17 cents short on the Muni fare. The driver didn't mind, and told us we were so classy, we should have a personal driver. Tara is head butted by unknown hair. This is actually a re-enactment of events earlier in the evening when an unknown woman rested her head on Tara's arm. It was amazing. And creepy. I now have the song in the title of this blog in my head. I hope you do too. Let me know if you remember any lines from it so I can stop humming with random burst of "Pope Paul, Malcom X, British politicians, sex".......

A favorite photo

Photocredit: Laura Wainer. Location: Southern California Desert Spring 2005

This is what I do: ugh

The less glamorous side of biological work.On Tuesday, Stacie, John, and I were tasked with some maintenance at a pretty cool wetland site in Palo Alto. I had seen a clapper rail there once. I knew it wasn't going to be a super exciting field day, but I didn't know how un-glamorous it would end up being.

John and I in the morning rain, the toils of the day unbeknownst to us:Our task? To remove chicken wire cages around planted shrubs in a restoration site, a task that the client should have completed years earlier. Because of the neglect, plants wove in and out of wire. Some were just dead. We had metal clippers, clipped plants free, and then had to twist and pull the cages out from their earthly restraints. Flatten them. Pile them. Into the back of the truck and recycle them. We must have taken apart over a hundred, each with two wooden stakes stapled (which we had to cut) into the frame. It rained. More or less all day, tapering off to a drizzle....but as it drizzled, it became colder. I was soaked through. John's leather gloves turned his hands bright yellow, a spot of humour in an otherwise tedious day. My gloves, twisted, wrung water. Stacie had mud in her ear. We were filthy.

Upside of the day? Hurling wooden stakes at the dump. John "strong like bull" threw his the farthest. Stacie and I each hit the dirt pile and were pleased. Then the guys next to us dumped insulation and we all breathed a nice lung full. Lovely.

Tup o' the mornin to ya....

St. Patrick's Day celebration this years was split between the Fairfax Brewfest and bars in the Haight, which also means a day split between sun and fog. After almost getting side-swiped on a crowded 101 north above the Golden Gate, my heart was pounding at the potential travesty and the brewfest was a much needed release. 20 bucks and all the beer you could muster... Geoff's and Sarah's BBQ in Fairfax provided much needed sustenance to balance amber goodness.

A crazy little boy named Chase was intent to breakdance throughout the brewfest. He did not have beer.Mark and Maureen in green. Holding beer.Dan not in green (pinch). Holding beer.Geoff and Justin D at the Fairfax house. More beer.Justin D and Christy. They are in green, but you can't tell. They also became engaged in September. Three cheers....with more beer.Me. In green. Not holding beer. I was driving, so beer was limited, although apparently I'm full of cheese.

Ripe Fruit I

In January, I began taking a writing course through Ripe Fruit, a writing school in San Francisco. On Thursday nights, a group of us gather in Leslie Kirk Campbell's (the instructor and guide) living room, drinking tea, eating apples, and taking part in creative exercises focusing on writing and energy. In one such session, we composed a collective poem from our in-class writing.....everyone contributed a line until we had an eclectic piece that is at times humorous, at others, poignant, and always interesting. As always, these things are best when read aloud (allowed).

"They Laughed But I Didn't"

I
My hair needs to sleep
Piano filled my car; nothing else, only piano
Listen to the voices of your ancestors
Dating the devil to find heaven
You block out the world if you pull the covers over you
and open your eyes
Great expanses of black spandex
Out with the wigs and spf strongest
Depression makes a great gardener
Black space opens to bright wilderness

II
It's there all along all the time
Wake up and start fresh tomorrow
She told me life would be easier if she didn't see me
We cry as babies, we cry as children, we cry as adults
To spend the day immersed in blood
dripping through pipes of inertia
Maybe if I think less more will happen
We all pull from the same lexicon
They are not lies; they are stories
A prism to fix the astigmatism
Silver droplet of eternal soul

-Collective Random Poem
Ripe Fruit I
2/08/07

Shots from Mendo

The early morning view from my room at the Little River Inn.

Calypso bulbosa. Common name: fairy slipper. Native to Northern California. You don't find these too often.
Partially down a really steep ravine. Jen is taking this photo from about 30 feet above me, although she was balanced on the slope as well. The ravine continued, steep, for about 50-75 feet below me to a small creek. I think I was precariously perched on a sword fern clump. Acrobatic biology.cool.We look at soils using a Munsell Color Chart.

A magnesium concretion we found in the soil. Black on the inside. Tim analyzes color in the background. This is all in search of wetlands.

In Mendocino,

I sat on the sun deck of my room at the bed and breakfast and turned my face to the sun. My face to the sun, I closed my eyes and heard the ocean in front of me. My socks and shoes lay by the base of the rocking chair. Coffee, forgotten, cooled on the table next to the dining menu of the B&B. Jen was inside, showering away the dirt of the day. I sat, eyes closed, face warming, and rocked.

I can still feel the nettle sting on my knee. My left thigh boasts some blackberry thorns, small and hard to find, like fiberglass. There may be dirt under my fingernails still. Cheeks? wind burned. Two days in Mendocino, along the brutally beautiful north coast, looking at wetlands, looking for elusive rare plants (beneath the willows, by the stream, almost to the beach), and (today) clamoring along the side of a redwood ravine, marking the riparian boundary, scaling rocks and grabbing limbs, swinging up and ducking under like a ten year old. Jen says "how did you get there?" I say, "I just did."

Good days. Anticipate soreness tomorrow. Pictures soon.