Accommodatingly

Nathan and Jessie and I spent the morning on a whale watch with Grammy and Kevin, had lunch at the place that says it invented fried clams, and– rather than dinner– had something better than dinner: a rock show at the Lowell Spinners field, with K and W (friends), and with Conor Oberst, whose work I still love, and Wilco, whose new record is just fine. We are having a summer!

During the brief interval of inaction at home this afternoon Nathan lay down in a dark room on a “beach” made of pillows and told me, and then told Jessie and Grammy, all about the African hawk seagull, whose friends are regular seagulls, but who is different from the regular seagull species: the African hawk seagull is purple and orange, has a light in the tail like a firefly, eats blowfish which it finds by diving into blowfish schools, and lives on the moon. I hope this sort of imagination persists into adulthood. Or else I hope for something very like it.

Jessie says Nathan’s been reading the development books, just so that he knows what to do. Now more than ever that seems to be true. Downside: he’s stunningly contrarian on occasion– a two-and-a-half year old trying to get in, after a slightly late start, his full quota of one million times saying “No!” before he turns three. Upside: Monday night, after I lay in the dark with him for a couple of minutes (something we do after we finish reading stories and turn out the light) he said “I’m a different person. I’m not you!”

Last week Jordan accomplished a great deal of David Foster Wallace memorial blogging. You should go read it. I wasn’t quite as deeply affected as Jordan was by DFW’s sudden, grim passing, but I was very deeply affected by Infinite Jest when I read it, perhaps a year after it came out– I took it with me on trains, couldn’t put it down, found it not daunting but completely absorbing, and I think that if I reread it I’d still find it so. The intellectual games served a temperament; they were fun and sad and they got me to say “Life really might be like that.” What if it is?

When you’re done reading Jordan’s blog, but before you tear yourself away from the Internets, you should go look at Forrest Gander’s new writing on the Poetry Foundation blog– and at the rest of the fall team of bloggers there, too, especially Javier Huerta, whose verse I did not know at all but whose short piece about privilege will go on provoking talk for some time.

This week I don’t know which of the two desiderata I want more intensely, or more often: for Barack Obama to win this election, or simply for the election and its attendant news blitz to end, so that I can clear the mental real estate now devoted to such questions as whether cell phone-only voters skew polls (turns out they do) and what happens if there’s a 269-269 tie (if Obama has won the popular vote, Obama probably becomes President; if McCain has won the popular vote, it’s a national tangle that makes Florida 2000 look like a slice of pie).

If you too are way too close to the election, and if you have a couple of slices of time in which you can do something (other than write a check– checks are nice) to affect the outcome, and if you too would like Obama to win, you can use his state-by-state tool in order to learn where to go and what to do, even if you live in an uncontested state. If you live in Massachusetts and want to do something from home, you will almost certainly be asked to call New Hampshire.

We just came back from seeing Jessie’s mom and stepdad reenacting social dancing from the late 1830s at Old Sturbridge Village. We liked it. Nathan liked it, mostly because he saw his Grammy and Kevin, but also because he could watch a fiddler. War reenactors get attention all the time: how about some props for the people who learn some social history, make or otherwise acquire elaborate period costume, and re-enact the arts of peace?

I’m in the Sunday Book Review praising August Kleinzahler, whose new book you should read even if you have all the old ones, since some of the new poems in it stand among his best (especially the ones about his marriage– I couldn’t imagine him writing poems about married love at all, let alone good ones, until I saw that he had done just that).

I’m also in the new Believer praising Juliana Spahr, and on the Poetry Magazine website admiring A. R. Ammons, in a piece about Ammons’ superb book A Coast of Trees. Lots of praise, I know. Maybe I should attack something soon. Or not.

Here’s an attack worth reading, though not from me: Linh Dinh disembowels the commercially successful translations and adaptations John Balaban has been bringing into American English from Vietnamese. I hope Balaban responds.

I just finished Robert Markley’s good book about Mars in fiction and in popular science. I recommend it highly if and only if you read seriously academic books, either lit-crit or history or history-of-science, for pleasure. It is not a sexy exciting fast read. It is a fine book with multiple strong arguments and memorable discoveries in every chapter– and, since so much of the writing Markley deals with is not known for the verve of its style, it’s the sort of book (more commonly written by historians than by lit-crit types) that makes me glad he’s read all these books so that I don’t have to read them all myself. (He’s also got something to say about the usual suspects of quality sf– Wells, for example, and Kim Stanley Robinson.)

And speaking of Mars, the University of Arizona is going there. I can’t say I’ll follow the Phoenix lander’s descent live, but I will be reading about it with attention– and some anxiety. Imagine the life of a xenogeologist, or areologist: years and millions of dollars on each mission, and a serious chance, with each attempt at a landing, that it will all go away.

Take a look– this time you should be able to see it!– at Jessie’s cool new project (link fixed), which has now, really, gone live.

Jessie’s really cool project did not in fact go live today, but I thought it did and posted a link that won’t work for you unless you are Jessie, are one of her co-workers, or are working on a computer she’s recently been using (which is why I thought it had gone live). Whoops. We’ll link to it as soon as it’s something you can actually see: many apologies to our only temporarily frustrated friends. (Is there a category called “overenthusiastic bonehead husband”? or maybe just “red-faced mistakes”?)

Walden pond

Originally uploaded by Jessie and Steve

A few weekends ago, two wonderful friends came to visit and prompted us to join them for an early-evening swim in Walden Pond. It was idyllic, if a bit chilly, and although he was a bit timid at first, eventually Nathan splashed in the water and dug in the sand with gusto. I thought to myself, “Why haven’t we come here every spare day since we moved?” and also, “We’ll have to come once more before it gets too cold to swim.”

Last Saturday was hot and sticky–a perfect day for a swim in the pond. We once again waited until late in the day to head out, figuring it would be less crowded. I donned my swimsuit and a pullover, packed Nathan’s gear, and the three of us were off. When we left the house, the skies were blue; Nathan was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing the Pond again. However, as we approached Concord, the skies darkened threateningly. To make matters worse, we arrived a 5:05pm, and the park had just closed its doors until 6pm–a completely asinine policy, particularly post-Labor Day when the days are getting shorter. Undecided about what to do, we drove around downtown Concord, stopped in a parking lot for a bathroom break and diaper change, and watched the skies turn black with roiling clouds and the lightning start. We finally gave up and drove back home, disappointed.

Yesterday, it was gloomy all day until mid-afternoon, when the sun started making an appearance in ever-increasing patches. “We should go to the park,” hubby and I said to each other, deciding that we should try Walden Pond once more. I packed up some snacks, diapers, and a full change of clothes for Nathan and we headed off once more, hoping that the gray clouds still lingering about were all headed east while we drove west.

When we arrived at the Pond, the parking lot was practically empty and the sun was shining. We speculated on whether the stroller could handle the hiking path around the pond, decided that it was worth a try, and set forth. The walking path embarks right next to the beach where Nathan had enjoyed himself so a few weeks back, so of course he insisted on going down to the water. Seeing other small children wading on the shore, we figured what the heck. His socks got a soaking in his eagerness to experience the wonders of the water again, but we took them off, returned his faux-crocs to his feet, rolled up his pants, and sent one shoeless parent into the drink with him.

All was splendid for a few idyllic moments. I snapped a photo or two on the cell phone of our lovely blond boy wading in the glistening pond. Steve threw a rock into the pond, and Nathan cheerfully threw his own rock, then, off-balance from the effort, bellyflopped into the two-inch water.

He was shocked, but surprisingly okay with things after I changed him into dry clothes, and eager to return to the water. We nipped that in the bud and opted instead for a walk around the pond. It was beautiful.

Maybe next week we should just bring our suits. Indian summer, anyone?

Steve has been holding down the blog-fort for a while. I’ve been too consumed by household stuff to think of sitting down at the computer to post. Today the distraction of television presented itself, wresting me away from the process of putting together Ikea furniture.

Which brings to mind this exchange:

Nathan: Kee-ya! Kee-ya! Kee-ya!
Steve: Did you go to Ikea?
Nathan: No.
Steve: Who went to Ikea?
Nathan: Mommy!
Steve: What did Mommy get at Ikea?
Nathan: Daddy!

Dan came over with his son Louie this morning, bearing yummy scones for breakfast and, as an added bonus, beautiful purple and yellow tomatoes (perhaps in an homage to the Vikings?). We ate the tomatoes tonight with freshly-made mozzarella from the Belmont Farmer’s Market and basil from our very first box from Boston Organics. For $37 a week, they will be delivering a great big box of organic produce to our door! Definitely one of the perks of moving here.

It’s been strange reading and listening to coverage of the bridge collapse. We drove over that bridge several times a week, usually on my way to and from work and often with Nathan in tow for day care. Very scary stuff.

Our Belmont condo is still full of stuff, but at least it’s not (or doesn’t feel) full of sealed boxes: we are, as fast as we can, unpacking. It’s psychologically exhausting while in progress, but slightly exhilarating (if anything can be only slightly exhilarating) to see the floor, and some books and dishes on shelves, where, the day before, we saw nothing but boxes. (We have a lot of books. And a lot of dishes.)

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Still prepping for the science fiction course that’s going to run this fall, I came across this bit from Kim Stanley Robinson’s Green Mars:
“One night Art sat up suddenly from his couch. ‘I’m losing the content of things,’ he said to Nadia seriously, still half dreaming. ‘I’m just seeing forms now.’” –Admits of several applications, no?

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Not only do we miss our friends in Minnesota: we miss the Current. And Blanche’s show on KFAI. On the other hand, it’s pretty great to be able to wake up on weekdays with WMBR’s Breakfast of Champions when Nathan lets us sleep that late, and to go to bed with Record Hospital. In a manner of speaking, of course.

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Speaking of radio, Minnesota Public Radio last month asked me to write lyrics for a few Twin Cities indie bands who would then compose songs around them– I’ll let you know if and when the segment on the songs is likely to air. I like what the Owls did a lot. One of the others is… a bluegrass number! A well-done bluegrass number. I like it too, though I fear that my lyrical sensibility is about as “country” as the Flatiron Building. (And not as cool.) The third song, by Matt Wilson, has a cycling piano riff that’s super-catchy, and still growing on me.
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Have you been reading the Poetry Foundation blog? Worth a look– especially Ange’s posts (every word of which, so far, strikes me as true). Apparently I’ll be blogging there once school starts after the WNBA playoffs after our full-time day care starts starting sometime in September.

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Nathan loves Amy Winehouse. In fact, if you sing him the first line of her hit “Rehab,” he will answer “No, no, no!”

Nathan is currently rattling the bars to his cell…uh…crib. He’s had a real time of it getting to sleep several nights recently (though the last two nights were okay). I’ve already been upstairs once for a rock and a cuddle–I’m hoping that further visits will be unnecessary.

We got our first moving quote today–we could buy a new car (not a nice car, but a new one) for what they are charging, and that’s with the 62% Harvard discount. Zoiks! Individual items, like Ikea furniture and cheap dishes, seem silly to move, given that the cost will probably exceed what we paid for them, but if we have a giant moving sale, we’ll just have to replace things once we move in to our new place. Sigh.

I keep finding out new things about our soon-to-be-new home. Namely, Mitt Romney lives there. (Shudder.) Also, the roads, apparently, suck. It’s a bit ritzier than I thought it was initially, but no one wants to spend money to repave. Of course, now the shit will hit the fan and 20 years of undermaintained asphalt will come out of OUR tax bill. Thanks, Mitt.