Today I went on a hike. After dragging myself up a steep hill for thirty minutes, I saw a bench surrounded by trees. As I turned to sit, I was hit with a wave of dizziness. All of the Bay Area was at my feet. Berkeley. San Francisco. Oakland.
It reminded me of a summer day in Iran. I sat with my cousin at the top of a hike, and all of Tehran was at our feet. We opened cold cans of artificial orange juice. She told me how she was in love and how he'd left.I listened, and watched an old man continue past us.
Today I realized how small I am, and how little I've seen. There's so much left for me to...
Friday, February 4, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Rooted
These days I feel like grapefruit flesh. Strange, perhaps, but for days it's all that comes to my mind when I think about how I'm feeling. Like my thick skin has been peeled, and the thin screen that surrounds each slice of me has been peeled, and all that's exposed of me is flaky grapefruit flesh, vulnerable. I'm not sure how I came to feel this way. I'm not sure why. I think I've been so wrapped up in my life that I've forgotten to root myself.
Facing my window, there's a home being built, almost from scratch. Since we moved here seven months ago they've been tearing down walls and rebuilding them. For some time, they had torn the roof off the backside of the house to build another story. The stairs from the first floor lead to the sky. The construction workers would walk up the stairs and onto the roof, that is now the floor of the second story. It's become one of my favorite past times, to pour myself a cup of tea and sit on my couch and watch the construction workers through my blinds. They measure wood and draw lines with pencils. They saw off segments, just enough so that the piece fits perfectly into the space they've made for it. And before they drill it to the house, they rub the surface several times as if preparing it for its new responsibilities. As I eat lunch, I watch them with sweat dripping off their faces as they all find a corner of the house covered in shade to sit in and open a can of soda or eat a sandwich. Two days ago, they built walls around the second story, and now its insides are concealed again. And half the workers are out of view. Only when they finished the walls did I notice a tree that had somehow grown right against the house, among all the construction. It's leaves reached the start of the second story. It resembled the Money Tree I have at home. The branches were covered with skinny green leaves. The day the walls were put up and the stairs no longer lead to the roof, I sipped my tea and looked at the tree. It looked happy. Every leaf in view was vibrant green. Not a single one wilted or even a faded yellow. As if it had been there all its life. Perhaps it had.
Today, there's only one worker here. It's near 5pm. He's been drilling all day. And the tree's gone. Not sure what happened. I stepped out during his lunch break and walked past the home hoping to catch sight of its leaves, only to be reassured that it's gone. And for a second I wondered, Did I imagine it there yesterday and the day before?
Facing my window, there's a home being built, almost from scratch. Since we moved here seven months ago they've been tearing down walls and rebuilding them. For some time, they had torn the roof off the backside of the house to build another story. The stairs from the first floor lead to the sky. The construction workers would walk up the stairs and onto the roof, that is now the floor of the second story. It's become one of my favorite past times, to pour myself a cup of tea and sit on my couch and watch the construction workers through my blinds. They measure wood and draw lines with pencils. They saw off segments, just enough so that the piece fits perfectly into the space they've made for it. And before they drill it to the house, they rub the surface several times as if preparing it for its new responsibilities. As I eat lunch, I watch them with sweat dripping off their faces as they all find a corner of the house covered in shade to sit in and open a can of soda or eat a sandwich. Two days ago, they built walls around the second story, and now its insides are concealed again. And half the workers are out of view. Only when they finished the walls did I notice a tree that had somehow grown right against the house, among all the construction. It's leaves reached the start of the second story. It resembled the Money Tree I have at home. The branches were covered with skinny green leaves. The day the walls were put up and the stairs no longer lead to the roof, I sipped my tea and looked at the tree. It looked happy. Every leaf in view was vibrant green. Not a single one wilted or even a faded yellow. As if it had been there all its life. Perhaps it had.
Today, there's only one worker here. It's near 5pm. He's been drilling all day. And the tree's gone. Not sure what happened. I stepped out during his lunch break and walked past the home hoping to catch sight of its leaves, only to be reassured that it's gone. And for a second I wondered, Did I imagine it there yesterday and the day before?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Isabel Allende's House of the Spirits
I finished reading Isabel Allende's "House of the Spirits" this morning. It took me much longer to read than I expected, considering I love Isabel Allende's writing. This was her first novel, and after reading some of her other novels, one can tell. The first half of the book is a bit slow. The characters do not develop as quickly and as powerfully as they do in her later works, and she seems to have really nailed how to switch between characters and move between time periods in her later novels. But it was really interesting to read this book and see how she's grown as a writer. I consider her one of my favorite authors. I love her "Portrait in Sepia." She's the only writer who can really get me hooked emotionally into a book, in such a way that I feel furious when her characters are angry and in love when her characters are passionate.
There is a particular paragraph from the book I found compelling:
She tried to explain Miguel's point of view: that it was not possible to keep waiting for the slow passage of history, the laborious process of educating and organizing the people, because the world was moving ahead by leaps and bounds and they were being left behind; and that radical change is never brought about willingly and without violence. History confirmed this. The argument went on and on and they became locked in a confused rhetorical exchange that left them exhausted, each accusing the other of being more stubborn than a mule. But in the end they kissed each other good night and both were left with the feeling that the other was an extraordinary human being.
The most admirable skill she has as a writer is that she can evoke such powerful emotion without every getting sentimental or poetic. Her images and the way she pushes a tone into her words creates the emotion.
The second half of the book is amazing! As she tells the story of the Communist movement in Chile and the dictatorship it faced, I couldn't help but notice how the political censorship, political prisoners, confessions, and even the conversations the young revolutionaries had in the book were mirror images of those currently in Iran.
There is a particular paragraph from the book I found compelling:
She tried to explain Miguel's point of view: that it was not possible to keep waiting for the slow passage of history, the laborious process of educating and organizing the people, because the world was moving ahead by leaps and bounds and they were being left behind; and that radical change is never brought about willingly and without violence. History confirmed this. The argument went on and on and they became locked in a confused rhetorical exchange that left them exhausted, each accusing the other of being more stubborn than a mule. But in the end they kissed each other good night and both were left with the feeling that the other was an extraordinary human being.
The most admirable skill she has as a writer is that she can evoke such powerful emotion without every getting sentimental or poetic. Her images and the way she pushes a tone into her words creates the emotion.
The second half of the book is amazing! As she tells the story of the Communist movement in Chile and the dictatorship it faced, I couldn't help but notice how the political censorship, political prisoners, confessions, and even the conversations the young revolutionaries had in the book were mirror images of those currently in Iran.
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