Top 10 things about being home.

1. I located the following in my kitchen, without having to give any of it a thought: box of pancake mix, egg, milk, sunflower oil, maple syrup, griddle, plug for griddle, butter, knife. My favorite mug. A yellow plate.

2. I slept till the blessed hour of 10 a.m.

3. The comfortable bed in my study.

4. Quiet morning.

5. Buying groceries for the week.

6. The sounds of my son's friends downstairs.

7. Going to my daughter's for 'hodge podge bbq,' her words, and eating outside while the children played and ran around, as if it were spring or something.

8. Bruiser, ever faithful, ever waggy, ever at the door when I'm carrying the groceries in from the car.

9. My bed, ever faithful, ever cozy, ever the best night sleep guarantor. Well, usually.

10. The whole street has burst into bloom.

(the item that is without number): Seeing the historian at the airport, and when I woke up. Taking a walk in the morning and evening with him and Bruiser. Listening to him at his desk in the next room. Watching television together.

Tomorrow: work. But today: home.

Back.

I heard the historian rustling around this morning at 5:30 a.m. I got up when I heard him go out the front door. I stood there in my nightgown as he picked up the paper from the driveway. It was light, the sky was gray. The whole yard--our meadow--was in bloom.

We got back in to the SLC last night around 10:30. We had been up, more or less--if you count the hours shoved into a coach seat on a transatlantic flight as "up"--for a little more than twenty four hours. I slept most of the flight from Dallas-Ft. Worth to SLC, but that was about it. So it was a little strange to be up at 5:30. Continuing our fine household tradition of not ever quite enough sleep, I guess.

All last night I dreamed about children, my own and my children's children, and rivers.

We've both unpacked. I'm on the last load of laundry. I have sent the first message of what, I'm sure, will be the many it will take to resolve an insurance issue, which we put off until we got home. My son kept everything in good shape while we were gone. Bruiser came in to say hello this morning and heaved a sigh as he settled in between us on the bed.

I am glad to be home. I wish I were still there.

I am downloading the pictures and paying some bills and considering some sandals and preparing to buy food and go to Target.

Hello, everyone. I'm looking forward to seeing you. But first I hope I manage a nap.

Dear getting back to it,

It was nice to go. I always feel that the most keenly when we're in the car, driving away from everything. Leaving the city, the county, the state, another state. Staying in a room that is not permanently ours--only ours for a night or a few nights.

But while we're there, seeing new regions and talking about things we don't usually talk about, seeing bears and other wildlife, &c., there are always moments that remind us of what we miss at home, like lots of vegetables, and Bruiser, and home comforts, such as our own full libraries and medicine cabinets and snacks and our own pillows and bed. It is churlish to long for home whilst on a longed-for trip, so we set those feelings aside, mostly. Except at 3 a.m. when the tiny refrigerator in the room is making funny noises and something very small seems to be knocking on the door. Or not. Maybe I was just making it up while I wasn't sleeping.

On our way home today, we stopped for breakfast at the bakery that was to close for the winter at 2 p.m. We admired for the last time the aspens and the red-twigged dogwood still blazing. We stopped in to see our friends at the little Island Park grocery, and visited our cabin closed up tight for the winter. We stopped to look into the river flowing past us, and drove down the mountain. I remembered my grandmother's big back yard when we drove past Idaho Falls, and we talked some more about things we wanted to do and see this winter, and thought about it when we weren't talking.

A few hours later when we drove up our street, the cosmos were blooming their best--the most beautiful and prolific they'd been all year. Bruiser came out to greet us in a whole-body wag. We unpacked and checked everything out, in great shape thanks to my son who had taken care. Looked through the mail and washed our faces.

And if there's still an election happening in the newspapers, and nine e-mails awaiting me in Canvas, and a full agenda for tomorrow, butter but no eggs, there was nonetheless time to make shortbread and take the dog for a walk, run over to have spaghetti with family, to brag about the bear sightings and do a puzzle with a grandson. Time to be home, in other words.

It really was a great trip,

htms

Reentry.

First, you go to the store for cereal and bread and juice, because you have none. You eat, which makes you tired enough to lie down again, because you need to. About halfway through the day, you discover that the slightly crappy way you feel seems to be turning into a little cold. The kind of cold that is made out of lousy airport food, not enough sleep, and a crowded last flight that makes you feel like you might have to crawl right out of your skin.

Nonetheless, you can make it 75% of the way through a midday outing to buy more food--how can you have thought about broccoli and apples when you had no cereal and therefore no breakfast? The remaining 25% of the outing is constructed out of sheer gritty, upright character and also the fact that you have to complete your transactions and drive home--otherwise, you will have to wander the aisles of the grocery store forever.

You get home, throw the fresh food into your newly clean refrigerator (thanks sons and son-in-law and friends of son!) and fall back into bed. You complete a deep perusal of the catalogs that arrived while you were gone. You drift.

If you calculate, you may have spent 50% of your waking hours supine and drowsy. And sniffing.

You pull up 0.5% of the morning glory in the flower bed. You note that the weather in Utah is slightly less warm than the weather you left in Scotland. Weird. You talk to almost all the kids, you eat a boca burger at a lowkey family barbecue, you deliver some of the candy you brought back for grandkids. You take note of how many things are blooming in the yard. Roses upon roses upon roses. And...you're back in bed.

(So glad to have gone. So glad to be back.)

Mundane update.

Today, a day mostly at home, I washed clothes until I (apparently) broke my washing machine; washed dishes; made bread; made dinner; contemplated my own poetic project as well as my poetic means until I felt a little dizzy; walked the Bruiser; felt just fine.

A day mostly at home is pretty swell. But I wish my washing machine would spontaneously heal itself.

California sketches.

Day 2: Lunch at Neiman Marcus in Union Square. There are ladies there, of the "who lunch" variety. They make, for the lunch special, a crab sandwich, Dungeness crab on a soft sourdough roll, with wholegrain mustard, arugula, and a peach compote. When you ask the server to find out what's in the peach compote, he returns with the following list, written on a folded piece of paper in black ink: "white peaches, thyme, lemon zest, orange juice, honey, white onion, salt & pepper." You can, and should, eat every single possible bite of this sandwich, and tuck the peach compote list into your wallet.

After lunch, downstairs, when you attempt to purchase a Chanel lipgloss in a neutral, non-sparkly color by the name of "Giggle," you will need to have a Neiman Marcus credit card, an American Express card, or cash, because the MasterCard and/or Visa you actually have in your wallet is too déclassé, too gauche, too cru, not enough cuit, apparently. But that's all right. That sandwich makes it all right, and you happen to have the cash.

Day 3: Cake. Because it is your friend's birthday, cake must be obtained. This means that, after your excellent lunch (for her, an egg salad sandwich, with tomato and olive tapenade and smoked salmon, on semolina bread; for you, ancho chili braised pork shoulder on the creamiest polenta ever devised by human hands), you go back to the counter and order up two cupcakes (for her, chocolate with chocolate frosting; for you, a banana cupcake with cream cheese icing). Each is wrapped in its own little white box. Because we are no longer hungry (sandwich/pork/polenta), we bring the cupcakes with us. And then we go hither and yon, here and there, checking out this and that, until cupcake time arrives.

But the sun has also arrived, and the heady crown of icing on the chocolate cupcake is a slick of melted butter, leaving only a little glisten of chocolate on the cake itself. Alas.

But because you are in Sonoma County, great bakeries abound, and thus all is not even close to being lost. Also, your quick-witted friend, the birthday girl, happens to know where cake is to be obtained. A chocolate cupcake for her, a coconut cupcake for me: happy birthday! And then, it is high time to catch a late afternoon showing of Bridesmaids. Cheers to that.

Day 4: this, that, departure, arrival. We get up and eat a medley of toast--cinnamon toast and meyer lemon rosemary toast. Berries and creme fraiche. Because, two days before, I had mistakenly thought that I didn't really need this book, we go back to Copperfield's to rectify that error, where I also buy another detective novel, a book about cake, a copy of Boom, and a book of poems. Lunch. Then on the shuttle to Oakland.

In San Rafael, travelers to Oakland de-board the bus, then step onto another, a transition that takes but a few minutes. At the platform, there are a dozen, or six, young men, boisterous, in good spirits. I think to myself, I am not one of those people who find boisterous young men to be threatening. But I feel a little cautious, all the same.

At the Oakland airport, which joins a small but select list of small airports that are a pleasure to fly to and from, one of the Delta people comes and, before I can get my confirmation number out, checks me in at the kiosk and prints out my boarding pass. At security, there are exactly two people ahead of me. We saunter through. I take off my rings and put them in the bin. A young man tells me, in a friendly advisory way, "Rings won't set it off. You don't have to take them off. Unless you're wearing a ton of them." I buy noodle salad and read my magazine.

And now I'm home. I woke up this morning feeling dehydrated, and also as if I'd had bad dreams. Also, disoriented. I forgot about a meeting I was going to have this morning--my colleague and I had agreed to meet on the Thursday of the second week of June. Is that now? It's, like, week 1.5, was my feeling this morning. By one o'clock or so I more or less had my bearings. And now I know I'm home because, for dinner, (a) I made soup, (b) I baked bread, and (c) I am baking a cake as we speak.

Things I overheard myself saying to my hair care professional.

Last week:

"...In fact, I would argue that the Thursday New York Times is the best weekday Times, and you know why? Because (1) the Style section, and (2) the Home section, and also, (3) the crossword is challenging but not as hard as the Friday crossword."

Sometimes, the little things, such as the Thursday New York Times, are enough to keep you going on the days when your outfit is good, but you have 2.5 more things to do in the amount of time you have allocated to do things, such as run the contract down to the Provost, and also your travel request because the dean is supposed to sign it but you're married to the dean, but you forgot to get your chair to sign it first, so up and down the stairs you go in high heeled boots, hooray for everyday cardio!, and then the e-mail and the phone call and still there are midterms to grade, as well as the last minute preparations for class, 0.50 of which goes better than you could hope considering your colleague is there for classroom visit one of your post-tenure review, and 0.50 of which is a little bit meh.

On such a day, the prospect of the Thursday New York Times is the earthly reward for getting 88% of the available items on the "I must get this done TODAY" list. And now, I will turn my attention to it.

THAT was a pretty good vacation.

Our last night. See you soon, the SLC.

Start the party without me.

The people,

I was in California for the last few days. It was glorious.

Yesterday, I came home to the historian in a bower of roses, and the leaping up of dogs.

Tomorrow, we will be driving to Idaho. I'm thinking at the moment of never coming back. Oh, except for the part about the children, the grandchildren, Bruiser, the roses, the farmer's market and the Scotlands coming to visit. Also, later, my job. Other than that, I will be staying in Idaho forever.

Love,

htms

Writing lessons.

Some things I learned at AWP, in no particular order:

1. from Michael Chabon, on the question "How do you get your ideas?": "Ideas are the easiest--hence the least interesting--aspect of the job [of the novelist]. Ideas are like the one pound of insects you [apparently] unwittingly ingest every year. They're like the air that we breathe. The hard part is sticking with the ideas when they start to lose their luster."

2. Lidia Yuknavitch, on writer's block, advises ritualizing every minute of every day. She also says she doesn't believe in writer's block. She suggests that what we call writer's block is usually something else--and that if we experience such a thing, we should ask ourselves better questions about what's going on.

3. On digital storytelling, part one: the ur-story for digital stories appears to be, "I never really had a friend--truth be told, I didn't even know what one was."

4. On digital storytelling, part two: "most of our photos are lies--'please look back into the camera and smile.'"

5. On digital storytelling, part three: at the beginning, most digital storytellers want to make "a one-t0-one correspondence between the image and the noun."

6. On the relationship between creative and critical work: "creative work *is* theoretical practice."

7. From Don Stinson's painting "The Necessity for Ruins": ruins are necessary.

8. From Keith Jacobshagen's landscape painting "By June the light begins to breathe": "Face it, landscape painting is a cliche. It's a long history of cliches. The best landscape painters are the ones who have done something interesting with the cliches."

9. From the Denver Art Museum's collection of Decorative Arts: furniture elucidates and enacts a vision of the human body and of human activity.

10. From Campbell McGrath, on the elegy: Elegies are not for the dead, they are for the living, and elegies are really about life.

and a bonus:

11. Nick Flynn, on the elegy: "Looking at the art is cathartic, but writing it isn't. Aristotle doesn't promise catharsis for the makers."

And today, my observance of National Poetry Month resumes.

The conference that ate me alive.

Officially Day 2 of AWP was a good one. Here is the data:

• I cruised the book fair for a good period of time, and bought some chapbooks for the Publication Center, collected a massive amount of witty, arty, or informational postcards, bought a broadside, also for the Publication Center, and got ideas of places to send my work.
• I went to a session about digital writing. It was great. One thing that was great about it was I realized that I had, effectively, taught myself how to do everything that was in the session last year on my sabbatical. Another great thing, however, is that I learned there is an organization that will teach you how to both make digital stories/essays (i.e., video essays), and how to teach others how to do it. Thirdly, I realized that I could do this at my own institution, and easily. I could set up workshops teaching teachers how to make their own and how to teach their students to make them. And now, I have a few more resources to call upon.
• [there was another panel in here that has stimulated my thinking about another thing or two, but other than demonstrating my session-going diligence and virtue, I am too tired to explain it. British blah blah critical research etc., many important outcomes will derive and the world will be a better place because I went to this panel.]
• I went to the University of Utah faculty and alumni reading. Dr. Write was, it must be said, the hit of the program. She was excellent, reading the story that appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, and reading it very well.
• I ran into two former students of mine, both of whom went on to finish B.A.s in English and then MFAs. It was nice to think that perhaps I played a small role in their development as writers.
• Rather than fleeing the social scene of the hotel bar, this time I stayed, and did some world-class schmoozing, at least in my league. That would be the Pee Wee League, but still. A girl has to start. Anyhoo: I think there may be a panel proposal for next year in the offing, I have been formally introduced hither and thither, and reconnected with some writer friends from the days of yore. The kind of thing, you know, that is supposed to go on at conferences. Whoo hoo!
• AND THEN there was a reception given by the U of U people, and again, rather than fleeing, I stayed, I socialized, I reconnected. AND THEN there was dinner with friends at a French-ish place:

Our Party (charming! high spirited!): How long for a table for four (with a dozen manifestly empty tables surrounding us, and it was almost 9 p.m.)?

Our hostess: Oh (surveying her table chart) that will be 30-40 minutes, or maybe never. Let's just say: when hell freezes over. [not what she really said, that last part]

Our Party: Wha????

Our hostess: (faintly starchy) Well, don't expect to come to our happening boite with no reservation on a Friday night and get a table, hicks/rubes from out of town. [not what she really said, that last part--or any of it.]

Well, once we actually got a table, it was great.

BUT, the people, that was an exhausting day, what with all the schmoozing and the socializing and the extending myself beyond my comfort zone. And today? Today, Officially Day 3 of AWP, it was a full-on conference exhaustion situation.

I will tell you all about it later. Because it's time to pack (WOE) and go to bed (cue: sound of angels singing).

The silence.

There are times when a bunch of new music and a bunch of old music, a loaded iPod, a car, a day with a lot of festive cooking ahead in it, some rejuvenating housecleaning--times when such conditions call for music, lots of it, for a heady, raucous blast of sound is the ne plus ultra. Is the very-much-to-be-desired. Is exactly what I want.

Those times, the people, are not now.

I remember sometimes when the kids were growing and had soundtracks of their own to play, whenever I had a moment when the sounds could be my own, those sounds would be silence. Such silence would be cleansing. The silence was spaciousness in the form of the absence of something that, when there was no silence, crowded me till sometimes I thought my brain was made of nothing but noise.

I wonder if it's that, after more than a year of no one at home but me and the historian, we had a hit of what it used to be like: our house the guy-crossroad again, with their music and movies and video games, their talk and jokes, their fast food and their late hours. A hit of their beautiful noise, which is now gone. In the clear, quiet space here, just a few faint echoes remaining.

In five days we will be driving to L.A. There is music galore to be listened to, and I am thinking that we'll find ourselves--maybe about the time we hit Vegas, and maybe before--in the mood, ready for the music that will inflect our good time and be a part of our consciousness and imbue these new memories with sounds. Music for the desert, for the freeway, for the ocean and pier, for driving and for arriving.

tags: noise, travel

Down the mountain.

The people, it is hot.

And, in that environment, I must begin to think about work, as in my job. As in:

• syllabi
• online content
• reading the governing documents for faculty
• developing some content that other faculty can use (one of the outcomes/deliverables of my sabbatical proposal)

I think we can all agree that "hot" is an unconducive environment for any of that. But I am a professional and therefore I will execute faithfully all of the above with only minimum amount of whining.

I have various pieces of the manuscript to mull over still. And I have some video essays I'd still like to make, let alone movies I would like to see! Maybe tomorrow has to be my laundry day/make a plan day.

I don't want to start counting down the weeks or days or hours, but it sure feels like it's about that time.