CITY ISLAND LINES
I unapologetically advocate for adverbs. Rightly or wrongly, adverbs have been widely labelled as distractingly superfluous by multiple pundits.
But if actions speak louder than words, why are nouns forgiven their adjectives while verbs are maligned for having their own modifiers? Of course, I readily admit that, sometimes, an adverb could easily be replaced by a tidily tailored verb or a deftly reconfigured noun and adjective. It is certainly considered best practice to surgically and unsparingly pare down one’s paragraphs – leaving behind only the most ascetically and aesthetically pleasing sentences. Nonetheless, I believe wholeheartedly in the value of a sensibly selected and showcased adverb. Anyone can smile. But who smiles saucily? Who smiles shyly? And who smiles slyly? These are clearly smilers of different sorts. And anyone can write. But who can write concisely, captivatingly, compellingly? Wouldn’t each of these authors allow the odd adverb into their creative fold? In the end, ‘de gustibus non est disputandum’, and while I ecstatically embrace adverbs, others may just as emphatically eschew them. To each his or her own. For now, I will attentively endeavour to critically evaluate the strengths and weaknesses of any adverb I intentionally unleash in my text. By diligently focusing on strict self-editing, I will strive to strip away extraneous adverbs. But those that still trip prettily off the tongue will, naturally, be spared, even if I risk being labelled ‘adverbose’. 6 Feb 2021
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When it comes to tackling packing, I have a long way to go. I don’t mean that my destination is distant. I mean that my skill set is lacking in this department.
I have read countless articles on the subject. The pros and cons of folding vs. rolling. How to prepare for any sort of weather or social occasion. I even read a piece describing a handy dandy equation to calculate the number of outfits you could conjure up by multiplying your ‘tops’ by your ‘bottoms’. It seems there’s a lot to unpack about packing. And, in my case, there is often a lot to repack as well. As far as I can tell, all the sage advice and arithmetic concerning optimal packing hinges on having clothes in more or less harmonious hues. Now I am fond of all my clothes and choose them like a teenage crush. I fall head-over-heels for each one, but it doesn’t seem that they care much for one another. Nevertheless, I optimistically fling them all together in a suitcase and hope that they will negotiate some sort of truce en route. So far, the peace process isn’t going all that well. My husband, in contrast, is the James Bond of packing. From a bag the size of a shoebox, he is able to produce an array of elegant outfits worthy of a French fashion show. Not only does he always look dapper, but he is also prepared to summit the Matterhorn or dive a sunken wreck. His bags may be shaken, but their contents are never stirred. He looks freshly pressed and ready for adventure the minute he arrives. I, on the other hand, am completely disheveled and discombobulated. I usually look like I have slept fitfully in my clothes. All of them. Not a single piece survives transit without notable kinks and creases. I have tried on some ‘wrinkle-resistant’ garments, but the fabric feels as though it is trying to slip off me, like a snake shedding its skin. Neither comfortable nor confidence-inspiring. So, when we travel together, I resemble a tossed salad: multi-colored, slightly shredded, and all jumbled up. My husband is more like a sleek sushi-sashimi plate. Everything is fresh and neat and looks like a work of art. Luckily for me, he doesn’t seem to mind traveling with what could be mistaken for an out-of-work scarecrow. And we enjoy our trips regardless of our attire. That being said, he offers to buy me ‘a nice outfit’ just about everywhere that we go. So, maybe one day, I’ll find that magical item to unify my motley wardrobe, and I will finally crack this packing thing. 3 March 2020 After two years here on City Island, I am beginning to appreciate, from a distance, the four seasons of sailboats. From our living room, we can see multiple moorings in Eastchester Bay, while behind us sits the boat yard for a yacht club. So, we are intimate with boats, surrounded by and immersed in them. They are our neighbours.
In Winter, I pity the poor creatures huddled together in the boat yard. They stand tall but awkward, shoulder to shoulder, swaddled in shiny white jackets. Solemn and somnolent, they look almost like gravestones, or perhaps just ghosts of their former selves. Masts rattle, and the wind whistles through taut lines and furled sails to create an eerie symphony. Then comes Spring, when eager ships emerge like butterflies from their cocoons. Each waits its turn to be released back to its natural environment. Longing to spread their sails and wings, many must content themselves with bobbing tamely beside a buoy and merely dreaming of the open water. They long to break free of their tethers and leave the ball and chain behind. As summer settles, the boats sulk sullenly, hoping that water borne breezes will tempt their owners aboard or even convince them to sally forth. When their sails are finally hoisted, you can feel the delirium as they are released to run with the wind. Of course, Autumn follows, and one by one, each boat is herded to shore and winched laboriously out of the water. Like tadpoles morphing into frogs, these previously slender agile creatures now seem bloated and ungainly, as they squat uncomfortably close to one another. They are mortified to have their private parts, their hulls, their keels, their tender underbellies so exposed. All the more so, since these bits must be scraped, and hosed and scrubbed in public view. Finally, most are tightly wrapped- not like a Christmas gift with ribbons and bows but rather with lurid white plastic that smothers the boat’s beauty and sentences it to involuntary torpor. But we know what phoenixes they are, and these boats will emerge again to claim their places in moorings, marinas and regattas. What goes around comes around, and these salty sailors are accustomed to coming about and taking a new tack. We look forward to wishing them bon voyage come Spring. 19 Nov 2019 Oh, what tales we were told, when we were young!
We were told that if you lost a tooth, the tooth fairy would give you 25 cents. Now we know that, if you lose a tooth, you will pay someone else thousands of dollars. We were told that, if you stepped on a crack, you would break your mother’s back. Now we know that osteoporosis, a cocktail of hormones, nutrition, exercise and genetics, is what will crinkle a spinal column. We were told that the moon was made of green cheese. Now we know that the moon is made of minerals, trace elements and even an as yet unanalyzed gel-like substance detected by the Chinese moon rover, Yutu-2. We were told that ‘germs’ were a threat to our health and a hazard to avoid. Now we know that there are ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys’ amongst all the earth’s organisms and that it is healthy to eat yogurt that is wriggling with bacteria. We were told that smoking cigarettes was cool. Now we know that smoking cigarettes is not cool. We were told that if we turned off lights and kept the thermostat at 68, we could save the rain forest. Now we know that that was not enough. We were told that the government was elected by the people and for the people. Now we know what tales we were told. 10 Sept 2019 I protest. I am not sure with whom to register my dissatisfaction, but I would like to go on record as being disappointed. I have discovered that several of my body parts are faulty and clearly malfunctioning. In fact, there has been a notable decline in speed and output across all sectors.
Fluid levels have dropped appreciably. For instance, sometimes when I wake up, I feel like my eyeballs have been rolled in salt and then dusted with chili powder. I wonder if this explains the vertiginous visual decline that reduces written words to impressionist runes. And it’s not just the eyes that have it. The rest of my face behaves like a garden ill-suited to its environment- constantly in need of plucking and pruning, watering and weeding. Higher maintenance and lower performance. Decay of the hardware is merely cosmetic, but the software is also devolving -running slowly and inaccurately. Data is being corrupted or lost daily. I thought I’d kept up with recommended service and maintenance, but entropy seems irreversible. I am experiencing disruptions, downgrades, and discontinuation of many basic services. I wont even go into how infrastructure is crumbling below my wrinkled neckline. Suffice to say, nothing feels or functions the way it used to. It’s like waking up inside an alien’s body. Knowing that this experience is shared by countless others is hollow consolation. The singularity of one’s own suffering is not diminished by communal anguish. I am at the helm of a dangerously unseaworthy ship eternally on the brink of mutiny. No doubt, my complaint will fall on deaf ears (maybe even deafer than my own). Perhaps then my protest should be re-directed. The cult of youth glorifies being sleek and smooth, fit and fast. These are transient traits that we cannot claim forever. That’s just not how time’s arrow flies. Should we not, instead, embrace and extol the gift of experience, the grace of knowledge, the wealth of a shoebox overflowing with memories? Yes! Instead of protesting against lumps and lines and lapses, I will celebrate the smile that created those creases and happily deepen those furrows by laughing at and with myself. 5 Feb 2019 It was the snow that made me go. It must have fallen furiously all night, because when I awoke, the whole world was white. With the morning sun just wriggling above the trees, everything looked soft, shiny, and inviting.
So, filled with an uncharacteristic confidence, I drove to a new park I’d been longing to visit, leapt out of the car, and trotted along an unfamiliar trail. The woods were spectacular blanketed and bedecked as they were. Frozen branches and brooks dazzled me. So taken was I by this winter wonderland that I threw caution to the snowdrifts and dashed up then down, right then left, over then under, until a realisation stopped me in my tracks: I had no idea how to get back to the car. Snow was still falling and made retracing my steps impossible. So flustered was I, that I made a mental note to attach a large ball of yarn to my backside next time and let it reel out behind me. Preposterous I know, but so was my current predicament. Less intrepid now, I pivoted around and headed slowly back the way I’d come. I passed a hunched and grumpy man accompanied by a hulking German Shepherd. Neither one acknowledged me; although the dog may have curled his lip. The snowflakes that been delicately dancing before now seemed to pummel me from all sides. I was encircled by a pearly curtain, a white black-box that obscured my view of all but a leg’s length ahead of me. I was not, however, buffered from a sound that had crept up from behind. It was the sound of footfalls that were not my own. Of course, when I looked over my shoulder, all I could see was snow. Onward I ran, sometimes accelerating to escape, other times slowing to catch my pursuer off guard. But every change of pace was merely mirrored, and the following footsteps clung doggedly to me. Images of stalkers and thugs pierced my thoughts. I tried to rebuff them - conjuring benevolent forest spirits, who guided lost souls to safety. On I ploughed with my unseen and unshakeable shadow plodding tirelessly behind. Suddenly, a familiar landmark lurched into view: the bridge I had crossed shortly after leaving the carpark. I bounded madly toward it, nearly bowling over two stout women gingerly approaching from the opposite side. With a heady mixture of relief and delight, I galloped along the final trail to my car. Then I slowed my stride- listening for the ominous echo behind me. But all was snowy silence. 22 Jan 2019 I started my run earlier than usual today. Initially I was propelled prematurely into the day by jet lag, my internal clock arguing with the external one; but the main reason for my early start was the murderous heat, a runner’s greatest foe. So, with the dusky sky casting a subtle blush on the distant buildings, I donned just enough clothing to avoid indecency and started my local round.
The half-light made me feel stealthy and sleek. Capitalising on this welcome sensation, I accelerated through the residential portion of my route, which brought me swiftly to the bike path that then bent toward the beach. Rounding the corner, I was startled to see the early bird actually getting the worm. The Robin in question was equally startled to encounter me, and hopped off crossly. But as soon as I’d trotted by, he puffed up his red breast and returned to mercilessly pecking and shaking the hapless annelid. A few strides further, I nearly tripped over a turkey hen proudly strutting ahead of her two skulking chicks. The threesome barely registered my presence in the half-light of morning. Nor did they give a moment’s notice to the stout ungainly geese confidently waddling about behind them. As I entered the woods, I could sense the heat seeking and sneaking up on me. Onward I went, starting to feel a slick skein of sweat coating my limbs. Around me the air was humid and heavy with a feral fertile scent. I veered gratefully toward the beach, and the breeze, and the sand, where the normally raucous seagulls were still abed, perhaps hung-over from the previous night’s brawls. A few lurched drunkenly to their feet in order to avoid me, as I puttered along the shoreline. An osprey floated elegantly above. The last leg of my run took me back through the woods, where a blue jay skittered off leaving a fleeting streak of sapphire in its wake. I could hear occasional rustlings in the bushes, as crepuscular creatures made their final forays. Sounds of a wakening world echoed around me, and I felt myself awakening too. So I picked up the pace toward the end of my route, as the hot yolk of sun nosed its way above the horizon. Trying to outrun the villainous heat was futile, and when I’d finished my route, I slouched slowly back home through a restaurant car park. Here I stumbled across a selection of coins scattered in the gravel, change fallen from an unwitting diner’s pocket. A windfall of 58 cents. So the early bird does indeed get the worm, or in my case, 58 cents; but more importantly, the early runner gets to witness the morning magic of the waking world. We are all waiting for the bus. The sun is blazing down and reflecting back off the cement. The heat is deflating and dispiriting. We each seek some relief under the meager shield of the plastic shelter.
Next to me stands a small stout woman gripping her young son’s sweaty little fingers. In her other hand strain the straps of an over-stuffed shopping bag. The boy stares up at me with large melancholy eyes. His left iris strains to focus on the bridge of his nose. Why do they call this a ‘lazy eye’? Noticing me beside them, the mother yanks on the boy’s hand and hisses something quietly in Spanish. Sheepishly, he turns his gaze to the ground. Sitting on the two flimsy seats are an unlikely pair. A frail grey woman, whose feet barely reach the floor, bows her head so low that her chin rests on her chest. She appears to be sleeping, but this may also be her normal anatomical configuration. Lodged in her lap is an equally old and tiny handbag, from which spills an array of used tissues and tickets. Next to her, and occupying some of her seat space, is a corpulent middle-aged man with massive purple calves that bulge out above his mismatched socks. He has a greasy paper bag from which he intermittently fishes out a cheeseburger. With each bite we hear the crinkling of paper and watch a rivulet of fat pool atop his prominent chin. His round face seems to float in a bowl of pink flesh. A heavily pregnant woman lumbers toward us. She is panting and perspiring for two. As soon as she reaches the scant shade that we share, the large luncher leaps nimbly to his feet. In so doing, he topples an enormous plastic cup with his right foot. He apologises as sticky liquid oozes along the pavement. The pregnant woman takes no notice of the syrupy river and heaves herself into the vacated seat. With one extra body we are now starting to encroach on one another’s unspoken borders. As we shimmy about to accommodate the latest addition, clouds suddenly appear overhead. Initially, this brings some welcome respite from the inferno above. Then, slowly, the clouds begin to bump into one another, not unlike us watching below. As they start to stack up, their bellies swell ominously, until, like compressed water balloons, they finally burst disgorging their guts and soaking the street with fat splatting drops. Once again, we reluctantly move closer to capitalise on the limited protection available. As swiftly as it started, the rain stops, and the tyrannous sun returns with a vengeance. Incomprehensibly, it seems to have gotten even hotter. Luckily, the sunlight now glints off a shiny moving object. At last: the bus. We all shuffle about, adjusting our bags and belongings in anticipation of escape. In spite of its precipitous appearance, the bus moves at a glacial pace, and we all wriggle with expectation. After a brief eternity, the bus finally drives toward us. However, instead of the customary slowing, it maintains its stately pace. The driver looks at us with something between pity and disdain. He raises his right index finger. Simultaneously, we all look up to see the bus’s banner, which reads, ‘Not In Service.’ And then the bus is gone. For a moment, in collective disbelief, we shake off our veils of invisibility. Astonished, we share sharp exhales and expletives. Then, like an orchestra of hermit crabs in unison, we each retreat back into our individual shells and continue to wait for the bus. 5 June 2018 ** Published in 'pacificREVIEW: A West Coast Arts Review Annual - synchronous' - March 2020** I enjoy journeys, and I enjoy being at home. Both offer opportunity and appeal. Sometimes, I am able to combine both of these pleasures, when I wriggle into my running shoes and plunge out the back door. Of course, the delights that decorate my journey from home depend on time, season, weather and mood.
In the winter, nose-crinkling cold quickly melts into the pleasant embrace of a temperature custom-made for running. What would be a soppy sloppy slog in the heat of summer is more like a puppy dash through the snow- bounding along wildly and enthusiastically just to keep warm. Buildings are decorated like gingerbread houses, blanketed with white and twinkling with holiday lights. In the woods, the naked trees reveal secrets, and hardy woodpeckers hammer out their haunting Morse code messages. The beach is bleak but beautiful, edged with frost and driftwood. When spring arrives, some protective layers can be shed, lightening the load and easing the speed. Now houses are dwarfed by effusive Magnolia trees almost obscene in their pink and purple opulence. In the woods, blue jays and cardinals look like small sapphires and rubies tossed into the profusion of emerald buds that adorn the reborn trees. On the beach, sandpipers scuttle officiously to and fro deferring to the more imposing gulls, who glean the same briny harvest. Soon summer, languid and oversaturated with sunlight, settles its heavy humid mantle on the world. My tempo decreases, and time itself seems more sticky and sluggish. Homes are now dappled with over-worked cooling units. The woods offer slight relief from the heat, with their shade and silence, but even the squirrels seem to slow down at this point. The hot sand scorches small feet and watermelons wash up unexpectedly on the shore. And then it is autumn, a golden time of waning days and lingering light. I run like a squirrel shoring up my cache for the winter. The comforting smell of burning logs emanates from chimneys. The woods hold muffled footfalls and mulchy aromas. On the sand, a raccoon has left a long line of distinctive paw-prints that suddenly intersects with those of a large dog. Perhaps there is a story there. A little further on is the unmistakable scent of a startled skunk. Listening to my footfalls as I trot back home, I hear their asymmetric rhythm –cause or effect of injuries accrued over time. I too have experienced my seasons and the inexorable changes that they entail. Clomping through the back door, slapping the mud from my shoes and swiping the sweat from my lids, I am grateful for this journey, and all the others, that leads me back home. 1 May 2018 When I think about some of the largest creatures I’ve met, I am struck not just by their daunting and incredible enormity but also by the tiny details that make them personal and approachable individuals.
Standing beside an elephant, the earth’s largest land mammal, is both humbling and inspiring. A tall person may reach no higher than an elephant’s elbow. Trying to grasp the full surface area of an elephant, like sizing up an ocean liner from the gangway, really requires several steps back in order to properly appreciate the dimensions. To say that elephants are mammoth is redundant. Yet individual elephants can be recognised by the unique patterns fashioned from veins, arteries and scars on their ears. Additionally, Asian elephants sport singular constellations of freckles on their faces and foreheads, much like Pippi Longstocking, or SpongeBob SquarePants,. In the lizard realm, the Komodo dragon holds the heavyweight title. Their very name suggests mythic magnitude and majesty. Still, each dragon has a distinguishable disposition: some with the temperament of a Labrador puppy and others who live up to their fearsome moniker. It’s best to ascertain which personality type you are dealing with before getting too close. Slipping into the sea, we encounter the most massive mammals of all: Whales. Again, a whale up close is really too gigantic to completely comprehend- like a honeybee on a hippopotamus. And to most people, one enormous aquatic beast looks much like another- particularly when shielding one’s face from the pungent exhalation that often accompanies a whale’s appearance at the surface. Nevertheless, each Humpback whale possesses a unique tail fluke, tattooed by time and travel, a cetacean fingerprint, and biologists can reliably identify individuals this way. Back on terra firm, Redwoods are the mightiest and longest-lived entities on earth. Towering majestically, having seen centuries of world history, they seem like inscrutable colossi. But each titan holds within it a unique pattern of rings that chronicles its entire and particular life. The study of this autobiography is called dendrochronology. Zoom to outer space and ogle our planet from afar. It is the largest organism that we can imagine. Nonetheless, it has features, blue and green swatches, geographic silhouettes, so distinct that they immediately identify it as home. A jolly round face as familiar as that of a friend or family member. Even in the largest lives lie intimate details that make them less formidable and more accessible. Good things come in small packages that are sometimes wrapped up in large packages. 6 March 2018 |
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