Brown Summer of Blues

On Nesting and Ephemera
A day not working! But lest I go 24 hours without bending over and cramming dirt under my fingernails, I went out to "my" front yard and planted some ornamental grasses. I have been Setting Up House, you see. I've moved into a more permanent location in Geneva, a simple farm house which will eventually contain a total of 5 occupants. As for now here, it is just me and an ambitious and nervous Chinese boy. (There might not be much oxygen to go around when all 5 of us are here, and I can't even imagine sharing a fridge. But I shall fuss about that one when I actually have to.)

After living out of boxes since December (leaving the much-adored grad student house, squatting at home for a bit, bicycling 'round SE Asia, floating in Washington and Idaho for a few moments, and then crossing the states back to central NY) I have invincible callings to have all my clothes again on hangers, my spice jars labeled and awaiting, and generally feel nesty and territorial.

Except this needs to be a practice of dis-attachment for me, because this is by no means "my" place. This is a lesson in sharing. Wanting to claim and cozy-up in all expansive solitude, instead I need to share counter space with Mr. China's drying brownies and be careful not to startle him as I enter the kitchen. Likewise, he has to deal with my Chenopodium album weeds taking up space in the fridge.

Furthermore, at this point I have no inclination to stay in Geneva past the Time of Colored Leaves. So hanging photos on the wall, stringing Christmas lights, and digging ornamental grasses into the ground feels like a great effort for something only temporary. But what really isn't temporary? I might as well put my full heart into setting a nook for myself in this town, even if it's just for a bit.

A great blessing about this housing situation has been that Mrs. Landperson has allowed me to expedition to her neighboring half-empty student houses, to search and rescue furniture, plug strips, and dish drainers. I've spent essentially no money to settle in here, for which I am grateful, because I am certainly not making a "grown-up's" salary. But I may adopt as many plants as I want from work.


On Writing
Mornings are precious to me, a quiet freshness and expectancy hangs over a new day--before anyone starts their lawnmower--and I've spent this one conducting pancake trials and reading a novel. And also hoping the wind is from the east, as I'm bicycling to Rochester soon (powered by said pancake trials). 

And writing. It has been so long! I come back from my days of planting cabbages, weeding, and setting irrigation and I don't find myself inclined to write. I was wondering what this is about: that I feel that which I'd write about has become repetitive (worked really hard bent over in the sun, went biking, made food, played organ) or that I can't find a nice ribbon to tie around my anecdotes to be a theme or take-home message or little perky inspiration.

Some writing came upon me as I was just arriving at work yesterday by bicycle. Writing in my head. It was the most inconvenient time, yet charmingly composed sentences were rolling forth and diving wastefully off my handlebars into the ditch. I enjoyed them, but they were ephemeral and could not be kept. I wonder if there is merit in that though, the head writing? To just in the moment enjoy what one's brain is creating? I call them Word Birds.

A random anecdote:
I woke in the middle of the night, one of those rather hot nights. I was pulling my sheets neat and smoothing my quilt: I was making my bed in my sleep. I eventually became cognizant enough, wondered why I was doing this, and got back in it. All freshly made.


A Title
I have characterized this time in my life. I like doing this; I like to look back and title the chapters of my past. And if I do it currently I believe it may help me with Pre-Nostalgia, with the "We Now", the living fully in the present regardless of what past gold I may be pining for. Last summer was the Summer of (India) Love. The summer previous was one of Big City and Becoming Bold, in Seattle. I reveled completely in these times; they may indeed have been the zenith of me so far.

This summer is the Brown Summer of Blues. Because I am working in the brown soil, I have become brown myself: and the blues have been the soundtrack to this. The sweat, the sun, the soil: the basic goodness of physical work outdoors. Mr. Bossman donated to me his old iPod (my first "device!"), and is lending me CDs of blues, jazz, and bluegrass--and this raw expressive type of music seems fitting to this place. The beauty of the finger lakes, the rocks in even the prime soil here, the unpredictable tirades of thunderstorms, the people satisfied with bad cover bands behind the Ramada and chicken barbeques. Generally, this is not the sleek, New-Yorker reading, commuter-train riding, coffee-shops-open-on-Sundays place of Seattle.

So bluegrass and blues it is. The blues are about love and not having love. About working hard. These are very applicable to me right now. But in a bigger way the blues are about Expression, participating in the human experience actively, not just moping in depression. Standing up and singing about it. Feeling and contributing.