Year: 2011

Stark Raving Martin

I like long books.

Some readers don’t. Some prefer slender paperbacks, which tuck tidily into a suitcase, books which promise not to weigh the reader down with sorrow or reality, even when the plots involve serial murders or child molesters. In fiction, we can expect to enjoy the satisfactions of justice, or, failing that, at least the comfort of revenge.

I’m a fan of Dickens and Melville. I like sagas which go long, take detours, ramble through the wayside and offer disparate views of the action. But, in all my years of reading I’d never met a fantasy saga that got under my skin until I took a chance on George. That’s George R.R. Martin, for those of you who, like me, pay little attention to The New York Times bestseller lists. Had I been taking notice in the past decade I would have been aware of this colossus of invention.

But, wait, you may say, what about Tolkien? Yeah. About that. Back in the day (that would be the late 60s for those of you born too late to enjoy the peculiar blend of insanity and merriment that flourished under the reign of King Richard) the legions of Lord of the Ring worshippers were recruiting heavily, and I tried to like the books. But seriously, I could barely stomach The Hobbit, with its almost complete lack of female characters, its tiresome pacing, its creaky attempts at humor and its general tedium. For years I refused to even pick up the actual trilogy, until the looming film version inspired me to see what all the fuss was about. I dutifully plowed through all three books. And I repeat: almost complete lack of female characters, tiresome pacing, creaky humor, and OMG the tedium.

I realize there are those who hold LoTR as a sacred text, and I mean no disrespect to Tolkien, or the thousands of wannabes who have been trying to follow in his literary footsteps ever since. But really, I think literature grows through innovation that draws not only from the past, but from the gritty present and the vast and unknowable future. And, if that’s the criterion on which we judge the merits of fantasy epics, then the contest is over and George R.R. Martin is the clear winner.

I started A Game of Thrones after reading a funny piece in The New Yorker about Martin’s difficulties with his immense fan base, a vocal minority of whom were irritated because they thought he was taking too long writing the final book of the five-part epic fantasy A Song of Ice and Fire. Within the first hundred pages I was trapped. There was no way I could stop reading this thing.

Some critics have described the work as a blend of Lord of the Rings and The Sopranos, and I can see why they’d make that connection. The story contains some of the classic elements of fantasy – the sword fights, knights, castles, magic, etc., combined with the cold-blooded violence and misogynistic male bonding of the Mafioso genre. Fundamentally it’s about power struggles, and how they warp and wound everyone who gets in the way. But Martin’s epic offers much more in the way of characterization, plot development, and stunning action.

For me one of the most striking aspects is Martin’s credible use of children in central roles. Harking to the grim realities of our own medieval times, when children had to grow up quickly and education was only for the nobility, Martin tells much of the story through the eyes of the five Stark children, most of whom are under 10 years of age at the start of the saga. It’s a measure of his gifts as a writer that we soon forget about age entirely, the way children themselves do, living in the now, believing themselves capable of almost anything, and in many cases suffering terrible consequences.

Another strong point in Martin’s favor is that he has fitted out his saga with more than one strong female character, some of them noble and good, some of them not so much.

And then there’s Tyrion, the dwarf. Brave, cunning, far more decent and kind than he lets on, and supremely likable, for this character alone Martin deserves some sort of merit badge. He’s added to the literary lexicon of unforgettable characters. I don’t get HBO, but I’m already looking forward to seeing the new series based on the saga, especially after I learned that the estimable Peter Dinklage is playing Tyrion. And Jason Momoa is Khal Drogo. OMG.

I’m up to page 700 in Book Two, with miles to go before I’m through. Just how I like it. So that’s what I’m taking to the beach this summer.

Because in Seattle, winter is always coming.

A Lock on Summer

Boats, trains, strolling gardens, salmon and seals, the Locks has it all.

For two days in a row last weekend the temperatures here in Seattle rose above 80. There was much rejoicing in the land.

While we were keenly aware of the suffering of our fellow Americans in the midst of their blistering heat wave, still, for those of us who have yet to put away our sweaters even though it’s almost August, the chance to bask was blissful.

Knowing it can’t last is part of what makes any pleasure sweeter, of course. So when Saturday dawned fair and mild we headed over to the Hiram Chittendon Locks in Ballard to spend a few sunny hours watching the boats come and go.

A commercial fishing boat passes through the Locks.

The Locks provide the sort of real-world diversion that never stales. Tourists rub elbows with locals who come to watch the continual floating parade: fishing boats,  jumbo yachts, sleek wooden sailboats, kayaks and humble dinghies all line up to pass through the locks which control the intersection of the salty Shilshole Bay and the freshwater of the ship canal.

The operation is a marvel of heavy gates, swinging walkways, pumps and bells which runs remarkably smoothly considering the hundreds of boats which go through it each day. But it does take a little bit of time. And as we watch the water level rise and fall inside the locks we always find ourselves musing on the Hollywood miracle in Sleepless in Seattle.

Wave sculptures enliven the scene.

There’s a point in the film when Meg Ryan’s character, Annie, is in Seattle, trying to work up the nerve to introduce herself to Tom Hanks’s character, Sam, and she supposedly follows him, in her car, when he and his son leave their houseboat on Lake Union in a small motorboat and go to Alki. Presumably Meg was able to intuit where Tom was headed. There’s no way she could have followed him out of Ballard and around Magnolia to get to Alki by car. Luckily, Hollywood doesn’t have to concern itself with the logistics of mere mortals.

Anyway. Quibbling about the inconsistencies in Sleepless in Seattle is just another way to pass the time on the sunny green hills which overlook the Locks. Reality is not the issue here. We come to get away from it all at The Locks. At least while summer lasts.

The castle at the Locks has a magic of its own.

The Upside of Downsizing

One of the reasons we moved out of our last house in Virginia was that, although it was gorgeous, beautifully sited, and roomy as all get out, it was just too roomy for us once our children grew up and left. But although our children had left home, a lot of their stuff remained, and when we were packing to move across country I kept having to make decisions about the  boxes of Lego, Breyer horses, soccer trophies, old report cards, baby clothes, bureaus, fencing gear, fabric, jigsaw puzzles, board games, and tons of books. All of this stuff, to take or not to take. That was the question.

It should be easy to throw old stuff away, but sometimes stuff is not just stuff. It’s stuff with a past, and when you toss it, a little bit of your past goes with it. Sometimes that’s a good thing. But sometimes, you wonder. I mean, consider stuffed animals. Every parent buys these for their kids at some point. And other people give them to your kids. Before long you have closets full of the things – and you can’t get rid of them. In these germaphobic days almost nobody wants a used stuffed animal. Yet to toss these once-beloved toys in the trash seems wrong in so many ways.

However, once the moving process picks up speed, you run out of time to linger over sentimental attachments. You just have to throw stuff out or stuff stuff in boxes and hope you can remember where the important stuff is once you get to your destination.

Stuff. It’s everywhere. It’s everything. But some stuff is more important than other stuff.

Recently, we’ve been trying to clear space in our small house and I’ve been going through some of those hastily filled boxes which made the trip west with us. I still have trouble letting go of old letters, photos and some books. But as I’ve been learning to let go of more stuff, I’ve become interested in the fate of all stuff, and the mystery of how we came to acquire so much. When my husband and I started out together we could fit everything we owned in a Dodge van, with room for our dog too.

In 1807 the poet William Wordsworth wrote “Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers,” describing the trap of materialistic consumerism long before the word consumer was commonplace. The getting and purging of stuff has become such a fundamental activity in this country that few people remember how they spent their time and money before there were credit cards and online shopping 24/7.

Annie Leonard hopes to change that. Leonard launched The Story of Stuff Project (http://www.storyofstuff.com) in 2009 to help educate people on the true costs and consequences of the ravenous consumer cycle in which the modern world is trapped. In her 20-minute video overview Leonard gives a lucid analysis of the complex problems which arise from the current system, and she also offers some hope for solutions.

It’s not too late. There’s stuff we need, and stuff we can live without. The Earth is not a huge planet, but if we can get back to concentrating on the right stuff, it could still be roomy enough for all of us to share the good stuff.

Tourist Season

All Ashore

When the sun shines in Seattle, the cruise ships come out to play. Tourists flood the market at Pike’s Place,  get their pictures taken with the pig, watch the fish fly, buy trinkets. Some determined visitors even venture beyond downtown, riding the Duck to see Lake Union, the Space Needle, and beyond. But for those who have to hurry back to the ship, there’s never enough time to take in all of Seattle’s quirky charms.

Small wonder then that travelers who arrive from far away sometimes suffer from tourist fatigue, the inevitable result of trying to cram in too much tourism in too short a time. These are the sort of folks who need a vacation after their vacation. I sympathize. I think there’s a kind of axiom that applies to this syndrome – the farther you have to go to reach your destination, the more likely you are to feel driven to grab all the gusto available.

You see a lot of this in Paris, a must-see destination for many tourists, but also the site of a lot of vacation meltdowns brought on by the super-inflated hopes of an over-the-top romantic experience crashing into the crowded, confusing, over-priced reality of a town which doesn’t exactly exude hospitality.

Yet we keep on traveling. We are a restless species. And, perhaps we’re not the only ones.

Waiting for the Mother Ship to return.

Free For All

Dark storm clouds were getting their game face on, tossing lightning back and forth as I walked across Key Bridge, the one named for Francis Scott Key, who gave us “The Star Spangled Banner,” the world’s worst national anthem, when I saw a driver execute a sudden, and I would guess, highly illegal u-turn in the middle of the bridge.

The traffic around him braked and swerved to avoid him as he whipped a u-ee and took off back to Georgetown. Perhaps he’d forgotten his wallet. Or suddenly realized that the only girl he ever loved was back there, soon to be lost to him forever (cue soundtrack). Or . . . maybe he just figured, “What the hell, why shouldn’t I?”

Well, setting aside issues of public safety, general adult responsibility and civil order, it could be argued that there was no actual sign forbidding the maneuver. And it could be further argued that creative driving is as much an inherent right in this country as the right to pursue pursue happiness – in whatever insane manner one chooses.

In truth, in this country, the right to be reckless, ridiculous, and a little bit nuts is one of our more cherished notions. Although our nation is founded on a firm platform of law, we began as revolutionaries, and the call of the wild card remains potent in our deck. We are a nation of innovators, risk takers, rule breakers. It runs in our genes to admire outlaws and thieves, as long as they accomplish their feats with flair and without hurting the innocent.

Perhaps we’ve all watched too many movies. And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that, until some fool tries to drive as if he were in a Hollywood chase scene, forcing the rest of us to be his expendable extras.

Ah well. It’s the Fourth of July. Time to celebrate our freedoms, which apparently, in the minds of some, includes the right to act like idiots.

So here’s to you, USA. Long may you wave, strike up the bands, set off fireworks, play ball, etc., etc.

But maybe go easy on the crazy.

Parade Grind

The Fremont parade heats up the street.Summer officially begins June 21st. In other parts of the country shorts and flip-flops will be worn, barbecues will smoke. Some people may even work up a sweat at local ball games and festivities.

In Seattle, summer arrives like a rock star, fashionably late and so beautiful that all is forgiven. You can’t stay mad at a summer like that. You don’t want to waste a minute in pointless ire.

But all too often it takes an act of will to believe in summer here before July. The weather rarely provides supportive evidence. The forecast for tomorrow is typical: a high of 61 degrees with an 80 percent chance of showers throughout the day. Folks back East might find such a forecast discouraging. In Seattle, it’s parade weather.

Syncopated stripes

And nobody parades quite like they do in Fremont, the neighborhood whose self-proclaimed position as “The Center of the Universe” belies its decidedly leftish bent. Fremont champions the quirky and the freedom to come as you are, or who you wish you were, or whatever. No one will judge you on your attire, or lack of same, and the annual Fremont Fair Solstice Parade kicks off the summer season whether or not summer, as traditionally defined, has arrived.

The parade is famous for its first course: the hundreds of naked bicyclists who streak by the crowds, flaunting feathers, flowers and bodypaint. But the real excitement arrives with the bands. They don’t exactly march. And their costumes lean more toward Mardi Gras than military. Their rhythm is irresistible. Playing everything from hip-hop to salsa to swinging zoot suit tunes that defy categories, these bands rock the streets.

But for my money the unsung heroes of the Fremont parade are the strong silent crews who power the floats. Because, in accordance with Seattle’s ubiquitous “greener-than-thou” ethic, the Fremont parade has one rule: no machines, motors, electricity or animals can be used to move the floats. It’s all old-school push and pull by strong silent men and women. Even in the chilliest weather you can easily pick them out. They’re the ones sweating.

Rockin' and rollin'.

Dividing Lines

The splashing water of thirteen cascading pools helps relieve D.C.'s summer heat.

Many visitors to Washington, D.C., never get beyond the nexus of grandeur and gee whiz spectacle concentrated around the Capitol and the National Mall, but for those who venture past the gentrified corridors of power, the city has its share of fascinating sights, though not always an abundance of wealth to maintain them.

Because of its unique status as the last continental colony (taxation without representation remains a fact of life in D.C.) the District of Columbia has long suffered under the benign mismanagement of Congress, which controls the city like a benevolent but harried great uncle who doesn’t really care what happens in the city as long as his chauffeur can always get through the traffic easily and deliver him safely from one seat of power to the next.

Those lacking access to such power can be grateful for the magnificent museums which we are all welcome to visit and support with our tax dollars. The District is forced to operate under the oversight of Congress for funding of its schools, emergency staff, police and parks, to say nothing of roads, water, and the thousand and one little things that go into making a city livable. To its credit, D.C. has managed to survive centuries of neglect, in part because of the energy and resources of some of its residents.

Before a giant apartment building blocked the view, you could see straight to the Washington Monument from the top of Meridian Hill Park.

On a recent visit to the “other” Washington I got a chance to spend a little time appreciating the lasting contributions of a pair of remarkable women whose names are less well known than that of Pierre L’Enfant, the French architect whose 1791 plan for the city helped ensure its destiny as a world-class metropolis. A city needs more than grand boulevards and stately monuments if it is to nourish the people who actually live there. Public parks, large and small, are essential. D.C. is blessed by the vision of the Olmsted Brothers, who mapped out the lasting beauty that is Rock Creek Park, a sinuous corridor of greenery and tumbling water flowing from north to south through the center of the city.

But other visionaries have left their marks on the District, with varying degrees of legibility. High up on 16th Street, in an area where few tourists venture, Meridian Hill Park remains a remarkable testament to one woman’s dream of putting Washington, D.C., at the center of the world. Mary Henderson, wife of Missouri Senator John B. Henderson, who introduced the amendment to the Constitution that abolished slavery, settled in Washington in 1887 and began buying up property outside the then-northern boundary of the city. Mrs. Henderson had grand plans for the Meridian Hill area. The place was named for the so-called “Washington Meridian,” the longitudinal line along which nine geographically significant landmarks are located including the Jefferson Memorial, the Washington Monument (give or take a degree), the Meridian Stone on the Ellipse, the center of the White House and the equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson in Lafayette Park.

Vandals left the handle.

Mrs. Henderson lobbied Congress for years to support various projects to improve the Meridian Hill area, including one plan to build a bigger presidential mansion on Meridian Hill to replace the White House. Obviously, that bird never flew. But thanks to her tireless efforts the Commission of Fine Arts eventually agreed to develop Meridian Hill as a public park. The result is a remarkable 12-acre European-style strolling garden replete with fountains and sculpture. It was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1974. But even Historic Landmarks need funds for upkeep. On the day I visited, crews were planting new trees on the upper tier. But the equestrian statue of Joan of Arc, a gift to the women of America from the women of France, was still missing her sword, broken off and stolen by vandals some years ago.

On a hillside across town, on a quiet street north of bustling Georgetown, an entirely different sort of garden opens to the public for a few hours each day. Here, beginning in 1921 and continuing for  nearly 30 years, the brilliant landscape designer Beatrix Farrand created a work of living art on land owned by Mildred and Robert Woods Bliss. The gardens here are sequestered, carefully maintained and designed with a view to intimacy and introspection.A small admission fee charged during the blooming seasons helps pay for the small army of groundskeepers and staff who keep the gardens immaculate.

The difference between a privately endowed garden and a public park overseen by Congress can  be summed up by a tranquil bench in Dumbarton Oaks  inscribed with the Bliss family motto: Quod Severis Metes: As you sow, so shall you reap.

Congress might consider adopting that one.

Cherubs cavort in the pebble mosaic garden.
Stillness and serenity abide in the rose garden.

New Moon Rising

Deborah Harris created the evocative cover art.

My new book, Moon’s Blues, just went live.

It’s another adventure in the off-the-beaten-path life of Duggie Moon, Latin scholar and slacker extraordinaire. This time out Duggie tries to mend a broken heart in the time honored way, with music, which, as we’ve all been led to believe, can feed the soul, soothe the savage breast, and lull the unwitting into making unwise choices.

At any rate, there’s no question that mountain acoustics lend power to the smallest voice. Ask any yodeler. In the hills and hollows of Rapidan County, Virginia, where the blues and bluegrass weave patterns in the dusky air, homemade music pays tribute to the loved and lost. While many mountain musicians are content to play for family and friends, there are always a few restless visionary types who aspire to stages greater than the front porch. And when these ambitious souls connect, they sometimes play with enough thrust to escape the dense gravitational pull of the mountains and enter into the rarified atmosphere of the big city, where phoenix bands rise and soar before burning up in the intense heat of public expectation.

The dream of riding on the wings of such a band smolders in the heart of many a young man, who may not himself be equal to the task of playing a three chord progression in time, but who knows what he likes when he hears it. Duggie Moon is such a man. And when Duggie decides to manage a motley crew of musical misfits, he’s convinced it won’t be hard to lead them to financial success and popular acclaim.

Even after he discovers that the members of Identity Crisis are one frayed nerve away from implosion, Duggie remains hopeful, knowing that on a good night the band can lift a room to the stars. What he doesn’t know is that lasting success in the music business only comes along once in a blue moon.

Moon’s Blues is available now from Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.

Garden High

Bougainvillaea trained to tree-shape exemplifies the garden's living art.

A garden is performance art of the most ephemeral and transcendent kind.

Blooms come and go. The aspect of the landscape alters with every passing cloud, every sudden shower. So for the travelers like me who go out of their way to visit gardens, it’s always hit or miss. You never know if the garden will be at its best on the one day you have an hour to spare to see it.

But in the stunning Central Garden at the Getty Center in Los Angeles I suspect you could never be disappointed, no matter when you visit. I got the chance to see it last week, and it took my breath away. The museum itself is a glorious structure, designed by noted architect Richard Meier, and sited on a spectacular bluff high above the city, with changing exhibitions of world class art inside. Van Gogh’s celebrated iris painting was among the treasures on display when we were there. But for me, Van Gogh’s irises, lovely as they are, couldn’t compete with the sun-drenched spectacle of the Central Garden.

Designed by artist Robert Irwin in a flowing spiral of stonework which allows visitors to savor the garden’s tapestry of color and texture from constantly changing perspectives, the garden is an oasis of serenity and beauty high above the clamorous city.

The maze at the center of the garden is set in water, framed by sedum.

Irwin is quoted in the Getty’s brochure saying that his aim was to produce “a sculpture in the form of a garden aspiring to be art.” That he succeeded is obvious.

What is not so obvious is the wondrous fact that the Center is open to the public free of charge. School children by the dozens scamper past the fountains, pose for photos on the parapets. Sure, you have to pay to park at the bottom of the hill before riding the tram up to the Center. And yes, bottled water from any of the kiosks will set you back three bucks. But it would be churlish to complain. To be allowed to walk in flower-scented beauty, warmed by walls of sun-baked stone, to hear the music of fountains and feel the soft breeze on your face, surely this is what paradise should be.

Hope is the thing with petals.

The cactus garden frames a view Los Angeles, veiled by smog.