Ai Wei Wei on Alcatraz

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Praise whatever,

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We have made it to Friday.

We’ve got concerts, ball games (times given in Eastern Time? What gives?), exhibits accessible only by beautiful ferry rides, all over-lapping.

I think I have Saturday mostly free, though, praise something. The gods of scheduling and human capacity.


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Here’s another picture from the great camping adventure.

It’s cooling off, here! I am wearing a long-sleeved shirt today and I am not too hot!

I’m feeling inspired to clean up a few things [downstairs closet] — maybe this weekend — we’ll see.

An adventure

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This weekend I convinced two friends to go backpacking with me!

It was a small trip — we hiked about 3 miles in, spent the night, hiked out.

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It was such a beautiful spot — Castle Rock State Park.

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Isn’t that amazing? Those woods go all the way to the ocean. In fact, there’s a trail that walks down to the ocean — it’s about 28 miles. It’s on the list.

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The weather was glorious. I really love October.

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So, this weekend we attended an anniversary party on the side of a mountain up north of here. It was so lovely — it’s a piece of land that belonged to the host’s grandmother, an old 1950’s Christmas tree farm above a meadow, a few buildings surrounding the meadow — but the whole thing large enough that you don’t actually see the buildings, a lovely pool. We camped overnight which was so much fun. I felt a kind of wistfulness that I don’t have family here, and we have no such family places here — we have, or have had, such places in the east and midwest, but none here, and for the first time I could imagine how nice that would be.

My father’s grandparents, actually, did have such a place in southern California. They (and he, growing up) lived in a small town outside of Los Angeles up near the mountains. The pool at our friend’s place reminded me of the pool at my great grandparents’ big house, but that house and yard is long gone, and as my father died when I was quite small, I really did grow up without much of a connection to the west. One of the home movies playing on a sheet during dinner was a movie of the family (and I’m not even sure which part of their family) climbing a snowy mountain, and it occurred to me that, had my father lived, we might have been the sort of family that did that sort of thing. I have his childhood rock collection, and I know his family used to camp in the high desert. He shared a small airplane with my uncle. I do have pictures of him in wild places.


We rushed home very early — packing up the tent in the dark — because I had a birding field trip, oddly enough at a western spot I do have some attachment to — a park I used to walk in a lot before the kids were born — in fact, I remember walking there in November shortly before N was born and thinking about the fact that she would be born in fall. There were lots of red berries around at that point. It’s been a while since I was there, and it was nice to visit it again — but that also reminds me that there is a difference between private land which is yours (our lake cottage, the woods behind my house growing up, K’s brother’s farm, our host’s mountainside land) and public land — the land I’ve been walking around in for years, now. Public land is wonderful and a lovely thing and often more scenic than a private piece of land, but it doesn’t have the same feeling as your own piece of wild land which is invested with your own memories and your own knowledge — of where the raspberries grow, or the place you were certain, at age 6, that bears lived. Well, it’s also private, and there are no other people there. Certainly public lands are a great thing, but it’s nice to have your own little patch of woods. But where should ours be? Something I can’t yet resolve, I think.

A recommended book

We saw a shrike last sunday —

The Butcher bird, or Red-backed shrike,
Should not be trusted with your bike.
The pump and light he whips away,
And takes the spokes to spike his prey.

According to my brother-in-law, “The poet is James Fenton. The poem is delivered somewhere deep inside the pages of Into the Heart of Borneo, way upriver, at a drunken party in which spontaneous performance is required of guests. You would enjoy that book.”

Ours was a loggerhead shrike, but still something to see.