Note: Spring Studies

On the first day of spring I’m in New Orleans among the live oaks, some of them over a thousand years old. Research warns us that loneliness kills, which may explain the oaks’ secret to survival: they are never alone, the Spanish Moss and Resurrection Fern clinging to trunks and branches with the fierce loyalty of first love. I’ve read that two trees can supply the oxygen needs of one person for one year, a gift so disproportionately generous that I’m sure the trees have noticed, and have long ago closed their eyes and imagined us gone.

*

The white azaleas of Louisiana are soon replaced with the familiar wildflowers of California. I rehearse their names as they rise from the ground——Indian paintbrush, fiddleneck, buttercups, goldfields——and by the time they blossom their names roll off my tongue.

*

I drive away from the city before 5 a.m. and study the high rises alongside the highway, a scatter of lit windows that double as signs of life. The inhabitants beam out their lives absent of details so I imagine the familiar shapes of routine and ritual. The everyday is a strong edifice until “you sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends,” writes Joan Didion, whose husband died at the dinner table. I remember the increased anxiety surrounding air travel after September 11, and the common retort that there was no reason to worry as we were far more likely to die in a car accident anyway, as if consolation can be found in disasters of “the ordinary instant.” (Didion first writes, “life changes in the instant,” then adds, “the ordinary instant,” then determines there is no need because there is no forgetting.)

*

I walk up Taylor Street and first notice the immaculate red brick, then the bronze owls, and finally the inscribed motto. “Weaving spiders come not here,” a fairy sings in Midsummer Night’s Dream. The line was adopted as motto — and the owl as symbol — of the Bohemian Club, a private boy’s club that confirms what we already know about wealth, power, and privilege: it pools into a pinprick. Rumors of elite members and bizarre activities swirl, lending the club an allure largely indebted to mystery. But then in April the club’s dishwashers, cooks, servers, and front desk attendants went on strike because working for the rich paid less than minimum wage, and despite decades of employment, raises were measured in single cents. Suddenly the club looked terribly familiar and behold the mystery vanished.

*

Within steps of the club I pass an alley, look up, and the street sign reads Hobart. I whirl around to share my disbelief but of course no one is there. I arrive at the small bar where I’m meeting a friend and because I’m the first and only customer, a bartender bounds over to take my order, a miracle on most nights. I dutifully smile and rattle off an order and then I see the owl, a wooden brooch that sits atop the bartender’s necktie. I turn around as if I’m being watched but of course no one is there. Soon my drink arrives and then my friend, so I tuck away these signs I’ve collected——the owl, weaving spiders, Hobart Alley, the other owl——because the magic of serendipity fades under the withering gaze of others, and I plan to conjure up some meaning for a bit longer.

 

Note: Farewell, April


Deep into spring and through with April, I look back to discover moments that quietly slipped by to be some of the easiest to make out. Like rainfall on the second to last night in Amsterdam en route to purchase tickets for the Rijksmuseum, or the bartender briskly correcting my pronunciation of “La Chouffe” at the historic Café Pieper. I see too many cups of pitch black coffee, far too many miles on my car, and picture frames on my bookshelf that now house Van Gogh’s Roses and Beetle and Cypresses and Two Women. I see an 8-year-old on a swing set who asks, “Have you ever made up an animal?” to which I answer, “Have you?” because the little experience I have with children informs me that it is easier to have them talk than listen. “Yeah! A lot! All the time!”
 
I see my last copy of the New York Times followed by my first issue of The New Yorker. For weeks, each day’s delivery of the Times remained in its plastic blue sleeve, arriving only to join its predecessors in a pile by the door. The pile grew, each delivery adding its own variation on dirt and rain, and I saw the gradual decay of what was important a day ago, a week ago, two weeks ago, and it was not only depressing but also confusing. What is important to know, remember or revisit? After canceling my subscription, I felt a pang of guilt when on my bank statement I noticed a $2.13 reimbursement for what remained of it, as print media may soon be gone and I think I will miss it. A subscription to The New Yorker is my way to make amends. Theatre openings, museum exhibits and restaurant reviews all reflect New York City, which is of little practical use yet rewarding to read, a reminder that on any given night there are countless variations on person and place, swirls of activity sending up dust clouds across the city, all cities, yours and mine. Then the flip side to consider, everything that takes place within the quiet and unseen. Taking it all in “makes you seem very small, and if you have difficult things in your life it is nice to think that they are what is called negligible, which means that they are so small you don’t have to take them into account when you are calculating something.” The character in The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is referring to the stars, though it rings true for the city as well.
 
I also see roses, roses of colors I’ve never seen growing all around. Amber Flush, Evelyn and Iceberg are some of the varieties I’ve seen if I did my homework right, though pinpointing the name of any given rose has never satisfied me nearly as simply admiring one. Despite their abundance, roses appear rare and precious, more on par with gold and platinum than their floral counterparts. I often encounter them in such rigid contexts, alongside baby’s breath and tied together with a bow, obliged to admire or sympathize or congratulate, depending on the occasion. But this spring, my first in Sonoma, I encounter them most often growing in the front yard. I can see roses through no less than four windows, often blurred by the breeze, buds alongside blooms and colors ranging from pastel to neon. Upon closer inspection, I see stems lined with thorns and spiders tucked deep beneath petals. Everything is alive and in spring it is felt. Let May pick up where April left off, roses abound.
 
Best, Yuri