My dad was barreling down The 405 (Southern California seems to be the only place where people precede the number of the freeway with the word “the”) at 75 miles an hour. Traffic was moving smoothly underneath the cloudless blue sky and swaying palm trees, past the green-brown fields, and over the ten-lane speedway. A freight truck was in front of us, rolling along around 65 miles an hour. He stepped on the accelerator and swiftly passed the long, lumbering, rolling box.
“You know,” I commented, squinting, “over the past seven months, I’ve been in all four corners of the country.”
“Uh huh,” he replied, rolling down his window some more. The warm morning air flowed through the car.
“I was in New York in September, I live in Seattle, I was in Louisiana in March, and now I’m here [in Orange County],” I continued, looking away from the glare bouncing off of all of the cars on the road.
“Hey, that’s true,” he answered. My eyes wandered to all of the SUVs rumbling past us. I almost had difficulty tolerating all of the sunlight.
It was chilly at the bus stop this morning in Seattle. The rain started to fall as I watched those few dedicated runners take to the streets before dawn greeted the day. By the time I set foot on the tarmac in Southern California, I had shed two layers and wondered when I last used sunglasses.
I’ve only purchased two copies of Runner’s World in my life; both copies originated from airports. And I read both copies from cover to cover while on the planes. My restriction of movement on planes prompts me to seek the other pole—if I can’t run, I might as well read about it.
At least that’s how I justify it to myself. After all, the best way to learn about running, I think, is to run. All the shoes, GPS systems, heart rate monitors, energy bars, Coolmax socks, and other shiny distractions probably don’t contribute as much to the experience of running as actually doing it. (There is an interesting article about the state of political affairs in Kenya in this month’s issue.)
My flight was delayed and, thus, I had read most of the magazine by the time the plane actually took off. Slumber coaxed me into her arms. I finally regained consciousness over Yosemite National Park.
“If you’re sitting on the left side of the plane,” the pilot drawled, “you can see the Merced River and Half Dome—it’s that patch of snow.”
Writers often describe rivers as “ribbons” from afar. And, indeed, the Merced River looked like a delicate, shiny, burgundy ribbon twirling through tree-covered mountains. And there was Half Dome, a small blotch of white amongst a uneven canvas of brown and green. I recalled my last visit to the national park. I wondered when I would go there again.
Soon, the Central Valley filled the screen that was my double-paned window. It looked like a mosaic, a tiled floor with squares and rectangles of many different colors. They all interlocked with each other perfectly, as if the entire valley was a agricultural game of Tetris. Though I-5 (people do not precede the number of the freeway with the word “the” in Northern California, a fact they frequently point out to people from Southern California) was not in view, I recalled my ~450-mile commutes through the Central Valley during my time in medical school. Though road trips have their merits, I felt grateful that I no longer do that. (There isn’t much to see but those same squares of fields on I-5 in the Central Valley.)
The plane flew a graceful loop over the Pacific Ocean before its jostling landing. Though Seattle sits on Puget Sound, it is breathtaking to see the seemingly endless expanse of the true ocean. The spring Sun generously sprayed its blinding glitter over the never-ending blue waves. The plane gradually flew closer to the undulating surface of the water, so close that I imagined that I could run my fingertips across the crests of the blue waves if I could stick my arm out the window.
“Every single time I return to Orange County,” I said, “my perception about it changes.”
My dad laughed. “What do you think of it now?”
“It really is a suburb,” I replied. “And there may come a time when I may like the suburbs, but, for now, I really prefer cities.”
“Yes; Orange County is truly a suburb,” he said. “But, you are moving to New York City soon.”
We both fell silent. The wind continued to rush through the car.
7 Apr 2008 | 2 comments.
Cookies and Community.
I had brunch this morning at Baja Bistro with an intueri reader. (In his former life, this fellow was a staff writer for a well-known, major publication—my mind still boggles a bit with the knowledge that people of that writing caliber routinely read my writing.) I had hoped to sample the scrambled eggs with cactus (as (1) I have never eaten cactus and (2) then I could say that I’ve eaten cactus specifically in Seattle), but the dish was apparently unavailable. The huevos a la Mexicana were not disappointing. Tasty corn tortillas.
Our conversation eventually wandered over to writing. I expressed frustration with my seemingly ongoing lack of inspiration.
“It’s not that I don’t have ideas—there are plenty things to write about. I just don’t think anyone would care to read them. I don’t think *I* would care to read them,” I lamented. I then offered some paltry reasons to further support my wobbly assertion and ultimately noted, “I just don’t think that I’m writing anything that isn’t already being said somewhere else. What contributions am I making to the literature?”
He looked at me, exasperated.
After some discussion with him and then some private reflection later, I wondered specifically about the idea of community. Some people magnify their roles within a community; they may perceive that they are more influential than is accurate. Others may minimize their participation, suggesting that they are superfluous for a variety of reasons.
Such are group dynamics.
I think I’ve expounded upon interconnectivity and interdependence here before. I’ve used the example that the entire universe is contained within one chocolate chip cookie (just wait for it…). The flour used in cookies results from energy from the Sun, nourishment from the Earth (probably somewhere in California), and rain water that has arguably travelled around the world (due to trade winds, precipitation patterns, etc.). The same ideas apply for the cacao beans (which may or may not have come from South America) and sugar (Hawaii). Eggs represent the poultry factor (and how long have chickens roamed the Earth?). A threshing machine harvested the wheat. Where was the steel mined to fashion the blades? Where was the machine assembled? The machine was developed from whose plans from how long ago? Perhaps the machine was assembled in the Midwest; maybe a 49 year-old man who was mourning the loss of his wife ensured that the engine would function within normal parameters.
I don’t know if that is true, but if it is, that means that this 49 year-old man contributed to my experience of eating a cookie.
So then there’s the cookie factory, right? (Unless *I* am the cookie factory, which is occasionally true.) An architect designed plans for the factory; someone designed the vats and mixers and conveyor belts within the factory; someone helped to manufacture the hair nets the employees wear as they are making cookies. Inspector 23 might be a 35 year-old woman who wanted to become an opera singer, but an unexpected child foiled her plans.
Could it be that she cast an annoyed and perhaps despondent eye upon the cookie that I would ultimately eat?
Then there’s the paper that forms the bag that holds the cookies. What tree produced that paper? In what region of the country was the tree rooted? And if the paper is of the recycled variety, what paper products contributed to the bag? Discarded love notes? Last year’s newspaper? The “Escort” section from the yellow pages? Who read those lines of text before the paper was sent to the mill (where, again, people facilitated the recycling…) for turnover?
Someone then loaded the bag of cookies onto a truck. Someone drove the truck (powered by gasoline, which represents fossil fuels dating back to who knows when) across city streets and traffic lights (which are derivatives of ideas of electricity from Thomas Edison and Benjamin Franklin…) to the market.
A grocer (a thoughtful, handsome fellow who has run four marathons? a new mother with blonde hair, small eyes, and a bright smile?) then placed the bag on a shelf (constructed from metal obtained from some distant locale, etc. etc. etc.).
And I eventually procured the cookies.
Do I think about the 49 year-old man who inspected the engine of the threshing machine when I eat my cookie? Nope. Does that mean that his role is superfluous? Nope. Of course, there are other inspectors for other machines, but, arguably, in inspecting the safety of that specific machine, he played a notable role in my consumption of confections.
It is a large community that produces a single cookie.
And perhaps I minimize my role within the blogosphere, medical or otherwise.
5 Apr 2008 | 3 comments.
The Aging is Getting Worse.
The irritable old man leaned forward and glowered at me.
“What’s bothering me?” the curmudgeon repeated. Maybe he was actually mocking me.
“Constipation,” he finally conceded.
“Anything else?”
“My feet hurt.”
“And?”
“I’m aging.”
He leaned back and sighed.
“And they’re all getting worse,” he added, scowling.
3 Apr 2008 | Comments?
One-Way Ticket.
I’ve never purchased a one-way plane ticket before. My flight trips in the past have always constituted visits. I knew that I would unpack my bags in the same place where I had initially stuffed them.
I have already purchased my (round trip) plane ticket to New York City to search for an apartment. The appropriate notations are already in my planner: a long black arrow travels from one week to the next. (I remain hopeful that I shall secure a place to live within seven days. Perhaps my hope is misplaced.)
Though my first day of work in New York City has not yet been confirmed, I am fairly certain of its date.
I am fully aware of my last day in Seattle.
I already know on what date I should will relocate to New York City.
And, yet, I have not bought that one-way ticket.
Apparently, I’m not ready.
1 Apr 2008 | 4 comments.