OMG You haven't had a real hangover since they coined OMG and funded Uber. You forgot the rules. You forgot to drink a glass of water before you went to bed. For that matter you also forgot to drink a glass of water between cocktails. You forgot to take off the big earrings before sleeping on them. You forgot about the red puffy eyes. You especially forgot that a hangover gets a lot worse before it gets better.
But the birthday party was so fun and the bar so cool. You knew dozens of people. And, yes, you probably shouldn't have gotten up on that karaoke stage with the birthday girl, her mother and six others from your hometown, to sing a song you'd never heard. Do TelePrompTer words turn red while you sing them or before? You probably shouldn't have done that but at least you stood in the back. You should have checked with Len first, the bouncer, your new best friend. Poor guy. He'd hold your cocktail on his tall stool while you wandered outside to look for smokers, to take a break from shouting over the volume. He'd watch you on the sidewalk from his perch at the window. You'd pat his knee upon returning and thank him kindly, like a 70 year old. Wait, what?
You probably shouldn't have asked the daughter of a newspaper columnist, a beaming bride-to-be, how she felt when her father wrote smack about her. No you would take that back or at least rephrase it. You forgot on purpose that you didn't smoke and you wondered if there were any smokers left. Too bad you didn't find the cool inner patio sooner—with trees and benches and lots of people offering cigarettes and vapes. The patio where you could actually sit and hear what people were saying. You probably would have had fewer cocktails if you'd found the cool patio or the dimly lit back room with all the food. Too bad you forgot to eat. Food would have been a good idea.
And you forgot that feeling of momentary morning panic when you glance outside and find your car missing. Bless your little hearts Uber.
I’m riding the bow of a ferryboat on the 8 AM staff transport with 25 botanical artists, our guide, and employees on their singularly spectacular commute to work. On a rare sunny March morning, the fog backs off the Golden Gate Bridge early this crisp breezy day, and like me, the city begins to awaken. Feeling touristy, I snap photos of the city receding from the boat's stern: Coit Tower, B of A and the Pyramid, sunlit divas on tip-toe jostling their brethren for camera time. I snap the Golden Gate Bridge port-side, the fog bank seemingly held off by her mammoth steel profile, and then The Rock looming larger, closer with each snap. I nearly spill my coffee as the bow wind blows hard at my face and the ocean chop heaves the deck under my boots, but I do not intend to relinquish my camera or my hastily eaten breakfast to the bay.
Pop quiz: Which local National Historic Landmark is one of the most widely visited in the U.S.? Where can you find the oldest American lighthouse operating in the western United States? Which residents have survived here for nearly 150 years? What is a florilegium?
Time's up. The HistoricLandmark is Alcatraz, popularly named The Rock, because in 1865 all that San Francisco's hilltop residents could see from their windows was a barren white rock with a lighthouse and thousands of seabirds leaving tons of guano. The civic minded residents of Nob Hill decided to do something about it. They sent seed packets of colorful flowersin order for the soldiers guarding this island fortress to plant a Victorian garden at the summit. All of this, I learned within minutes of planting my feet on solid ground and shaking off my newly acquired sea-legs.
Additional trees, shrubs and seeds were planted in the 1920’s by military prisoners and members of the California Blossom and Wildflower Association. When the Federal Bureau of Prisons took over in 1933, there were terraces, a rose garden and a greenhouse. At that point the prisoners, and the guards and their families planted fruit and vegetable gardens. After the Federal Penitentiary closed in 1963, the gardens were abandoned and eventually failed from neglect. Or so it was believed for forty years.
We're led around the island by Garden Conservancy volunteer, Dick Miner. He developed an innovative worm composting system which generated more than enough soil for the gardeners’needs. Soil was originally hauled by boat from nearby Angel Island and the Presidio to the Rock. In 2003 the Garden Conservancy, joined forces with The National Park Service's Golden Gate National Parks Conservancyand began the Alcatraz Garden Restoration Project. Volunteer gardeners sought to restore the gardens by clearing out the smothering vines and underbrush. They found surprising survivor species thriving on the windswept foggy island. The survivors and newly introduced sustainable plants have been tended by volunteers ever since.
In January of 2013 the GGNPC, the Garden Conservancy, and the Northern California Society of Botanical Artists (NCalSBA) worked together to celebrate these tenacious residents by creating The Alcatraz Florilegium. In Latin, a florilegium is a gathering of flora or an anthology of bouquets. In plain English it’s a collection of botanical paintings documenting plants from a designated garden, Prince Charles’ Highgrove Florilegium in England is the most widely known;Filoli in Woodside and Heather Farm in Walnut Creek are the locals.
At this point, literally and figuratively, I climb aboard. NCalSBA member, Lyn Dahl, saw the garden rehabilitation in 2012 and suggested the creation of a florilegium. “I marveled at the garden's beauty in such a forbidding environment. As a botanical artist, I thought an Alcatraz Florilegium might be an exciting project for the NCalSBA. As it turns out it coincides with the 50th anniversary of the closing of the prison and the 10th anniversary of the Garden Restoration Project. The timing was perfect."
We artists were shown the various surviving species that we might choose to paint. I'd always wanted to paint nasturtium with their bright colors, scalloped margins and curlicue stems. As kids, we, like pollinators, would take sips from the funnel shaped nectar tube--a delicious amino acid, vitamin and mineral sugar rush. By nature, nasturtium nectar comes in limited quantities so bees, butterflies, hummingbirds and kids never get as much as they want, causing them to shift to the next flower--a bribe for pollinators.
Our work was to be executed in traditional botanical art form, as in the days before photography of Captain Cook's 1770s explorations: specimens painted with no background, life-size, and measured with calipers for botanical accuracy. One problem was the mid-July deadline. I am quite the slow painter. The other problem? The upcoming permanent exhibit was juried-- not everyone who received their cuttings would have their completed painting accepted. The accepted artists keep their original work and surrender the first fine art printing: a signed and numbered piece which is then matted and framed for gallery consistency. The exhibit is currently hung in the Band Rehearsal Room of the Main Cell Block, sharing ghostly presence with the spirit of Al “Scarface” Capone strumming banjo with the Alcatraz prison band, The Rock Islanders.
These 45 scientifically depicted, artistically composed replicas from nearly 100 survivors were juried by Restoration Project Manager, Shelagh Fritz and renowned botanical artist Kristen Jokob. There will be another round of submissions accepted next year until the collection is complete. The artists, who adhere to strict requirements of paper size, orientation and medium, are given cuttings which they collect on their garden tour. The specimens include common species seen throughout the Bay Area, however the texture and color are Alcatraz specific, as salt, wind and fog change the growing patterns, sometimes dramatically. Their colors are subdued; their stubborn contours bend leeward away from the relentless wind and sea foam spray. Jury regulations require artwork painted from Alcatraz cuttings only. No painting from your soldier-straight fertilized home garden snipping; no unreliable photo color matching. More than one artist made several island trips for cuttings, as botanical art is detail specific and time consuming. Finally, Shelagh tells me, "Just go ahead and get your own cuttings. You can have as many as you want because nasturtium self seed prolifically. It's a battle."
This writer/artist spent over twelve weeks on her 11x14" painting, not counting visits to the Rock,cajoling her elder specimens to survive in a vase. She almost lost her tender blossoms and delicate buds on one blustery ferryboat ride home. More daunting, she spent some time reminding her hungry family not to put those carefully refrigerated nasturtiums into their tossed salads.
Many botanical artists paint with watercolor due to the translucence of the medium. Contrary to popular belief, watercolors are forgiving. My art teacher of ten years, Catherine Watters, can help fix any watercolor mistake, save for a hole scrubbed clear through the paper. Artists can lift misplaced color by wet-scrubbing softly with a stiff paintbrush, then blot. Others say there are no mistakes in art. Botanical paintings are scientifically accurate renderings composed creatively with the eye of an artist.
So I paint in class, I paint at home and when the last class before summer break occurs, I've measured, drawn and traced the completed pencil composition onto Fabriano 5 paper. I've lightly tea-washed the greens, leaving colorless the flowers, bug bite holes and one lone dewdrop observed on a leaf. After layering in the deeper greens, I paint the yellow gamboge and cadmium red flowersthen mix the two colors for orange flowers, all with petals surrounding the tiny pistil and stamen. I color wash the light veins and center petiole; I shadow the stems, twining tendrils and buds. In class I sienna the edges of bug bites and, fortified by my teacher's coaxing and instruction, attempt my first ever dewdrop on paper. But the blurry blob looks bad--really bad. I scrub it into a muddy murky leaf bruise and pack up for the summer, certain I will never finish the intricate shadowing and stubborn dewdrop. I return home despondent, unsure if I can finishwithout the weekly instruction I find so comforting.And I am scheduled to leave town the next day.
I drive a broken-ankled friend to her cabin in Idaho that week, which is two weeks before my completed professionally scanned painting is due for jury submission. Carefully I pack the budding masterpiece into the car, dangerously close to drooling, bounding, wagging Rex the dog. I hold my breath and drive. The first day at the lake is so blissful that floating and reading is all I can muster. Perhaps I won't paint; perhaps I'll just forget it, blurry blob and all. Perhaps I shall simply lie on my air mattress and drink a beer.
Fate intervenes. Thunder, lightening and rain begin and doesn't let up for the entire week. Rex and I are housebound, so I reluctantly begin to paint. For days I paint shaded nuances, highlight veins, darken crevices, and differentiate each of 18 overlapping leaves with a deft stroke of shadow. The leaves take on dimension and the fluttery petals begin to dance on the page. Following a careful formula, I begin the dewdrop. Beginning with darker green, I shadow below the top circumference leaving a bright white highlight, gradually darkening until I reach the bottom circumference with a thicker crisp edge. Next I add the tiny shadow cast by the bead of moisture on the leaf. No smudging or it, too, will suffer the fate of becoming a big blobby leaf bruise. Realize, this droplet is painted life-size at 1/4 of an inch in diameter. My friend comes into the room and gasps, "Look at that. You did it." The clear tremulous liquid looks nothing like a bug hole. It rests cleanly on top of the leaf: a reflecting, shimmering dewdrop. Hard to believe I painted it.
So ride the ferry and come see one of the most popular National Historic Landmarks, the oldest operating lighthouse on the Pacific coast, and pay your respects to the 150 year old surviving residents. Now that you know about a florilegium, as they say: Won't you come into the garden? My nasturtiums would like to see you.
NCalSBA.org/alcatraz/ Alcatrazgardens.org
Sunday, April 18, 2021
Old Words—New Meaning
By Bonnie Bonner
Look, let’s be clear, it’s unprecedented. There’re a lot of improperly overused words and phrases being thrown around lately.
It’s a grim milestone when elbow bump no longer means smacking your funny bone, stimulus check is not the doctor tapping your knee with a rubber mallet, outdoor dining, formerly known as a picnic, is now held in heated dining parklets to enjoy with your pod people. Pods are no longer about dolphins and neither are bubbles. Remember when mitigate the curve was for driver training, a load was not viral just heavy or perhaps in a diaper, long haulers were cross-country truck drivers, lockdowns were for jailbreaks, a super spreader was a large butter knife, testing sites were for the DMV, and exponential was just hard to pronounce—and explain?
Hoarding toilet paper would’ve been and continues to be baffling. Just one year ago, if we were spiking, it meant vodka in the punchbowl or a celebratory football move, surging depicted high tide and peaking was summiting Mt. Everest. A case load was about how much Chardonnay you could carry into the house. Only germaphobes obsessed over hand sanitizer, aerosol droplets were to be avoided from hairspray cans, curbside pickup was for trash, work from home was playing hooky in your slippers, sheltering saved lost dogs, and injecting bleach was solely for embalming—it still is.
Wash your hands and mask up kids—this is not Halloween and that is not a chinstrap. Great news, all the pandemic puppies are adopted. Did you get one? You used to zoom when you were late for school. Now school is Zoom but it’s called distance learning or remote learning—unmute yourself—and social distancing used to be avoiding your ex-boyfriend. U R still on mute! Meeting in the breakout room sounds tantalizingly similar to the makeout room but no. Reopening anyone?
There are, however, some words that cannot be used enough. Words that are now immortal: risk, exposure, PPE, front line and essential workers, first responders, medical practitioners, heroes—those who hold our dying loved one’s hand. That word is sacrifice.
There are a multitude of overused brand new words this year as well. Did you gain the Quarantine 15 while Cheeto binging through Zoom fatigue? CV, the Vid, the Rona would've meant nothing a year ago. Would you click a link to join a Virtual Happy Hour featuring BYO Quarantinis and Ronaritas followed by everyone stepping outside for The 7pm Cheer? Probably not. Stay safe no longer means don’t drink and drive because there is nowhere to drive. Is it Blursday yet? Bigly is not, never was, and never will be a word but another President, Harding, also misspoke using the word normalcy in place of normality. Unfortunately it stuck.
Look, let’s be clear, it’s unprecedented. We are now placed in a tier or color or protocol called the new normal and those of us who survive will bond forever remembering the old normal when Corona-19 was ‘just the twinkle in a bat’s eye.’
Walking out toward the point to attend Jack O’Neill's Memorial Paddle-Out, I feast my eyes on three thousand surfers and paddle boarders forming a gigantic circle beyond the surf at Pleasure Point in Santa Cruz. Black dots on the ocean become visible in succession as the breaking sun backlights the scrim of morning fog. More and more wetsuits glisten into view, way out there, when sunlight hits their shoulders. The watery circle comes into focus and the enormity of it takes my breath.
Jack, who died this summer, would be humbled. He lived on the cliff overlooking the point, where his wooden fence is now strewn with flowers and notes of sorrow. The late surfing legend Jack O'Neill invented the wetsuit in the 1960s simply because he wanted to stay in the water and surf longer. His son Pat invented the surf-leash ten years later because it let him paddle less and surf more.
Today his grieving family enters the honored circle on Jack’s first sailboat, an old double-mast he'd rescued as a teen. There are hundreds of small kayaks and larger watercraft moored beyond the circle, which itself is more than a mile-and-a-half in diameter. A few close friends and dignitaries speak from a catamaran. Someone hands out white orchids and many wear flower leis to toss into the circle--biodegradable all. The circle grows so large that the loudspeaker becomes useless. No one minds. We’re simply glad to be part of this impressive community of watermen and women of all ages and races. Here to honor our best.
Afterwards, they quietly climb back up the cliff, one-by-one, wet and barefooted, boards tucked under their arms, looking at once exhilarated and blessed. They gaze down on the crumbling steps with solitary smiles. I lean over the top staircase wall and watch as their sandy toes hit the cement stairs below: long toes, suntanned toes, bandaged toes, pierced toes, gnarly toes, polished blue toes, hammer toes, kid toes. All colors of toes with one common denominator, reverence for Jack O’Neill. Most wear his wetsuit. We thousands onshore applaud each one as they hit the top step, thanking them for representing us on the water. Coming off the peaceful sea, they look surprised to see the throngs onshore. We wear our faded O'Neill t-shirts with pride.
A serene vibe is in the air with rocking music, dogs, skaters and kids. Nobody protests anything. Nobody asks for anything. Nobody sells anything, except two blond girlchildren presiding sandy-footed over their lemonade stand. One small boy pulls a little red wagon full of bottled water. Reverent Santa Cruz Police block off Pleasure Point to cars. They knew Jack and the unselfish work he did for kids with his Sea Oddessy Foundation. Jack put thousands of kids on the water who had never been on a boat. He offered kids hands-on education while encouraging them to protect our environment. He wanted us all to experience the power, beauty and magic of the ocean. It was Jack's way of giving back to the living seas which gave him so much.
A Red Cross truck arrives with hot coffee and water. No medical emergencies occur—the water lies flat and calm. Great Whites stay beyond the kelpline. One surfer paddles out with a scruffy brown dog riding the nose, ears flying. The dog bails out once when the guy duck-dives into a breaking wave but, incredibly, the mutt springs back on board and shakes it off. We bystanders cheer. Over at the music stand they pass out commemorative waterproof packages of Jack’s favorite fruit-and-nut surf mix that advises: FEED YOUR ADVENTURE. His picture on the label makes me smile. Wearing the familiar eyepatch, Jack flashes a sideways glance and that wicked grin.
"We'll start out as human gongs. Become a human gong--spread harmony." Gongggggggggggggggggg some of us can control our gong breath for quite some time.
"Breathe.”
Our writing group is practicing Sufi breathing, focusing on the journey while moving towards wholeness. Eyes closed, our leaders explain water breath: hands on heart breathe in through the nose out through the mouth, as if breathing in and out of your heart. Fire is the opposite: in through the mouth out the nose. Air: in and out the nose. Earth: in and out the mouth . . . or the other way around. Not sure.
Holding hands in a circle we breathe in deeply as our leader explains "Send the whole of your life force from your heart center down your arm into your hand and into the hand of the person on your right. Send them your strength."
Gregory to my left begins to make choking noises. I squeeze his hand and without opening my obedient eyelids I hiss through my teeth "Are you giggling?"
He makes a mewing sound. "Yes"' he moans. He can barely speak.
I sneak a peek. His face is contorted, eyes squeezed shut. Breaking up he leans forward, shoulders shuddering with silent guffaws. Church laugh.
I learned about church laugh when I was seven years old at Laurie's father's funeral. She got really nervous and began to giggle in the church. The rest of her second grade girlfriends sitting behind her began to stifle inappropriate nervous laughter which then welled up into tears, which in turn was appropriate. I learned at age seven, if you get church laugh just let the tears flow and you might get away with it. Parents nearby began to pat and comfort us which of course made us more hysterical.
But Gregory's an acupuncturist and Sufi breathing practice is meant to enlighten our 90 upcoming minutes of mindful writing. This can't seem funny to an acupuncturist. When he was leader he stuck needles into our foreheads which he left dangling there through our hour long check-in meeting. Yet he is definitely giggling now.
"Breathe in from your heart and out through your right arm and hand." Our leader gently guides us. "Send that strength you've generated into the person's hand on your right. Send your vitality, your full life force to that person, send it with all your heart."
Gregory is leaning down, wiping his eyes, silently convulsed. I can't look at him. I bite the insides of my cheeks. "Breathe Gregory. Send it to me".
"C-can't send" he stutters and snorts, "have heart problems."
As a Cal Berkeley freshman in 1965, my greatest fear was being caught up in a spontaneous political uprising inside Sproul Hall, while waiting in the endless pre-computer registration line at No. 120, and maybe being tear-gassed and locked in for the night with an angry bunch of protesters . . . maybe even being swayed by Mario Savio's eloquence. As a Berkeley senior in 1998, I worry about losing the protests and eloquent speeches, losing the old ways of communicating. I worry about becoming subservient to and dependent upon technology. Just in case, I accidentally drop a few apple- cinnamon muffin crumbs into my keyboard.
On the family-room couch at midnight, I hover over my eldest son's Toshiba 4800 CT laptop, which glows on the oak trunk, the trunk I used to have time to dust and polish. I need desperately for this thing to boot up. My youngest son's Macintosh, in the dining room, has mercilessly crashed and taken the first scene of my screenplay with it.
Luckily, I'm a realist about the techno-age and have roughed it out longhand, but I'm left with a novice- unfriendly PC. I'm presenting my work in a screenwriting class tomorrow and need 12 copies.
I've read somewhere that hackers cajole their computers. "Come on, don't you like me? I'll treat ya good. I won't drink coffee near you or drop muffin crumbs between your tiny fingers. I'll put you in your little docker every night and cover you. Nothing . . . suddenly, PC VIRUS, gibberish, SAFE MODE, STICKY A DRIVE. No language I can grasp.
It's so late; please boot. My eyes well up. Falling back into my formerly comforting corduroy couch, I put one foot up on the edge of the trunk. Dangerously close to the monitor, it takes all the willpower I've ever had not to boot the frigging thing smack across the room.
When my boys set up a computer folder for me, they named it Wally's Folder. They were referring to Wally Cleaver, the Beav's brother, the clueless one.
I remember "Leave It to Beaver" before the reruns; I remember when a megabite was something you took from your roommate's late-night Giant Burger. A printer was someone who refused to do it in cursive. A curser was my Dad when Cal was losing the Big Game.
I personally remember when boot up was something you did with your Red Mountain wine all over your cheap date, who wove his VW up the nauseating horseshoe turns of Panoramic Drive. I remember Cal when English majors used typewriters and engineering students were content with slide rules.
The morning after the night I almost sent the Toshiba to the moon, the telephone rings. It's 7:15 a.m. After four rings, I find the phone under the bed. "MMMMM lo? This better be good," my standard remark to anyone who calls before 8 a.m.
"Well, it is my birthday," my eldest son asserts from job training in New York.
"Happy birthday, sweetie. Thanks for letting me be the first one to say it. How's your day going?"
"Considering I have a 104-degree fever and didn't get the birthday package you sent, I'd say I've had better: It's my tonsils again. They're so huge, they block the passage to my nose. I have to walk around with my mouth hanging open to breathe.There are also globs of putrid pus stuck in them."
This is a bit more wake-up information than I need. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Matthew." I can't make his birthdays wonderful anymore.
"How was your first week back at the Big U, after a 30-year sabbatical?"
"Oh my gosh, I've got to get up." Remembering my unfinished document, I bolt out of bed. "I hate your computer."
"What have you done to my computer now, Mom? Mom?"
"Happy birthday, baby. Stay in bed. I'll call you tonight."
This morning is too late to tackle the campus Computer Lab for the first time, So I opt for Copy Central. At least there, I'll have an understanding employee, one I'll be paying by the minute to help me.
Instead of breakfast, I jump in my car, but can't find the anti-theft key that'll let the motor start, so I run upstairs for a flashlight, try to search under the car seat. Of course the flashlight doesn't work. New plan. Run back upstairs to get my bike lock, change from a skirt to pants, catch my pants' button as it flies off, and decide to sew on the button in my first class in 12 minutes, a good seven miles away. I pedal my bike to campus like a maniac at Mach-10.
The bike locks on campus are like nothing I've ever seen; apparatus you couldn't figure out if your life depended on it. I'm sure a bright engineering student won a prize for economy of design and creativity, but I am confounded. Which bike wheel is it that thieves steal anyway?
I lock my bike to a nearby Stop sign, certain of a parking ticket when I return, the campus kind you have to stand in line to pay off, or the kind you don't find out about until your registration is blocked. Winded and late to my overcrowded class, I disrupt the esteemed guest lecturer, sit on the floor, and have a hot flash.
The debacle the night before compelled me to retrieve my original disk from the headstrong Mac by poking that hard-driving little Apple in the eye. It is a simple and hopefully painful procedure: Just open up a paper clip and poke clean into that tiny hole near the floppy drive.
Between classes, disk in hand, I run over to Copy Central to print my screenplay scene on their Mac. How can I command respect from these insolent machines when I can't domesticate my own? I flail under the contentious Copy Central mistress' cold stare. She prints my 12 copies with a deft hand and a curled lip. I hand over $6.49 with a deft hand, as my lip curls discreetly back at her.
By the time I get to Screenwriting, my professor is explaining why the first scene presentations will be delayed until next week. "And because you're late, Bonnie, you may be first to present the second scene, on October 1." This doesn't surprise me. October 1 is the day after our 30th wedding anniversary, when 20 people are coming to our house to celebrate.
It's time to bite the bullet, to descend the basement steps to hell, the steps of Evans Hall and the world of the Cal Computer Lab. Can't find the stairs that go down, so I wait for a locked elevator that never comes. I reluctantly ask an observant-looking student, "Where are the steps that go down?"
"Right next to the ones that go up."
Oh.
At the window with the sign, "E- mail next door," a man with dull eyes and a slack jaw listens to my spiel. "I've never been to the Computer Lab before, so I'll need some help. You see, I'm a re-entry student . . ."
"Lab's next door, ma'am," he says, without moving his lips.
I'm obviously the only student who read the Daily Cal article saying 10-story Evans Hall is one of the most seismically unsafe buildings on campus, because the waiting room is packed with unsuspecting potential earthquake victims.
The sign-up sheet says Mac or PC. Since our Mac has crashed, my only hope is to try the PC. "Do you have a printer account?" the young computer expert behind the counter asks. The way my luck is going, I'd better sign up for everything.
"Go ahead and sign up," she coaxes, angling the desk monitor and sliding the mouse toward me. But the little rodent has a mind of its own. The on-screen arrow moves in the opposite direction, like looking into a mirror. I try to direct it backwards. "You're holding it upside down. Up-side-down?"
Oooh.
My turn comes; the girl takes my Student ID and gives me card 6G in return. Passing a hundred computer cubicles, I see three student helpers on staff. This is good. Cubicle 6G looks private enough, in case this machine too, needs a poke in the eye. My PC commands PASSWORD. Don't have one. The helper in the hall directs me to the front desk to sign up for a password. I get my SID card back and someone else gets 6G while I register for a password. I do not hold the mouse upside down. I choose the first six numbers of my new SID card and write them on my hand, wisely remembering they hold your SID card hostage at the desk. My new Cubicle 4A is right next to the helper's desk for Wallys. It occurs to me that unless I want to look up my first six SID numbers every time, I should return to the front desk and change my password to a real word. By now the front desk girl calls me by name, and they let me keep 4A. Back in my cubicle, I type in my official personal password. Next it commands Userid, which the helper discreetly explains is my SID number, which is on my SID card, which is with the front desk clerk. The clerk is vey sweet. She writes down my number, suggesting, "Students who haven't memorized their numbers usually keep a copy in their wallet." I swear she adds "Dummy," under her breath. Now I'm ready to type in the password, user ID number, and choose a program. ERROR OF THE FIRST TYPE HAS OCCURRED. Frozen screen. The hapless-helper is busy with another Wally for nearly 10 minutes. Returning, he shrugs at my monitor and simply reboots. We wait another five minutes. Ready. I type in my password, my SID, get that tootling connecting sound and smugly lean back, arms crossed, and ask the boy in 4B for the time. He looks confused, "Isn't it right there on your screen?"
Yikes. I have four minutes to make it across campus to my 3 p.m. library Meta-Search Engine workshop.
I hear Moffitt Library has user- friendly Gladys and Melville, but no longer to my surprise, I find they're not a couple of sweet old librarians, but a computer index database. Pity the lady who inadvertently sits down at one of the talking computers while others are waiting and pacing.
There is a secret card I know of to use on the copy machines at Doe Library. Once someone closed a row of shelves on me in the bowels of Doe, while searching the stacks. Now, I cough politely when I hear incoming footsteps.
I want to learn how to renew my library books online and get my grades from the glassed-in computer in Wheeler basement. I want e-mail, a Berkeley Internet kit, my own UCLink. I want to understand the hostile lesbian rhetorical fury scribbled on the bathroom stalls. I want to know the difference between Tele-BEARS, Info-BEARS and Bear Facts. I intend to scan my transparencies on a slide scanner with Photoshop, and turn an image of my dog into a three-headed Cerberus. I'll have Lexis-Nexus and HTML at my beck and call.
And I'll not be intimidated by the hallowed Bancroft, the library of rare documents, where before entering, you must lock up all your earthly belongings, sign your life away in two places, get metal-detected, no pens, no browsing, take a seat number, a place mat, request your title and "Sit, you will be summoned." I'll no longer worry about such trivialities. I've outgrown that.
Except for almost falling down a flight of stairs, my bike ride home is beautifully uneventful. Around 11 p.m. of this longest day, I go downstairs to lock up. A luminous full moon shines on me through the open door. "Oh, no wonder," I say out loud to no one in particular.
From upstairs, my husband calls, "Does the full moon affect you?"
"Nooooooo," I howl sweetly.
Pretend you’re blind.Close your eyes and don’t open them for two days.Flat on your back.And if you move your head in any way whatsoever the room lurches and whirls.It reels so fast you feel your eyeballs spin in their sockets. Your ears ring in time to the rotation.You have the warm drools.
Oldest son calls from New York.“Lo?” you murmur.
“Are you sleeping this late?”
“Sick.”
“Oh, what is it?”
“Dizzy.”Saying it makes you more so.
“From what?”
“Vertigo.Google it.”
“OK.It says, extreme dizziness, nausea, inner ear disorder, often accompanied by nystagmus, jerky eye movements and tinnitus, ringing in the ears.’Oh great, I have that.”
“How long does it last?”
“Um—no known cure, remain immobile, treat with motion sickness medication.Oh, that’s not good.”
“What?”
“You can’t have this.”
“How many days?”
“Can take eight or nine months to subside.”
You want to cry but it’ll only clog up your inner ear.It looks like you’re going to miss your writing workshop today.The one for which you cut up sixty orange sections.And it looks like you’re going to miss the birthday party tonight.The one where you’re the only guest invited.
You have to go to the bathroom so you carefully roll sideways, eyes closed.Don’t open your eyes because you will be sorry.Seeing the room thrash and spin is much worse than just feeling it.Your feet touch the ground, but the room tilts.The force of the whirl rips you out of bed.You lurch up off kilter and fall flat on the floor. You decide to crawl. The dog at eye-level trots shoulder-to-shoulder, ever faithful by your side. You arrive just before the vomit, thankful the porcelain is steady. You shake and sweat and coil up--cheek on the cool tile floor.God, you feel ninety and scared as well.You are in trouble.
“Can you help me?” you plead into the cell phone.You sound like a bad commercial for Oldster Alert, ironic since commercials are what you do for a living.Your friend does not pick up.You call another friend, the one who is deathly afraid of sick people.
“Can you help me?”
Yes, blessed saint.She arrives with Dramamine, drops one then two into your mouth without reading the dosage. She holds water to your lips then backs up nervously.“You look awful.”She is a blunt blessed saint.You picture yourself: black T-shirt, pallid skin, hollow purple eye sockets, disheveled hair tangled on a crooked pillow, like any moment you will spring upright and project green vomit.
Your friend glances furtively toward the door.“Well, if you’re OK then I’ll let you rest.” She rushes out--runs practically and leaves the back gate open, the gate that prevents your dog from wandering into the street.But that does not happen because your dog is loyal and you could not lift your head from the pillow if the bed was ablaze.
You feel around for the cell phone, hold it at arm’s length and self-photo for later when you can open your eyes.Then you’ll laugh about it, right?The meds are not working.
Your body aches from lying in corpse pose, so you lock your head in position and rotate the remains.You’re amazed you’ve slept for most of the morning in spite of Latino music blaring outside your second story window.Painters hang from the neighbor’s house, ten feet as the crow flies.Hopefully they’ll cut the cord on the co-worker, the Blabberator who never stops talking, shouting over the boom box’s screeching violin, frenzied accordion, throbbing trumpet beat.He pontificates: ‘Habla blabla donde estero la cinestera, ha ha ha.’Can you please go home now? You have to go to the bathroom again so you crawl past the window and brave a peek.On wobbly knees you hold onto the window sill, lift the blinds, and open your eyes for a half-second.Babble-boy hangs directly at eye level, gaping at you with large shocked eyes, just like your own.You drop and crawl to the vomitorium—not quite in time.
When the room swirls, your eyeballs orbit in your head like Daffy Duck cold-cocked with a fry pan.You’re sure if you looked in the mirror you’d see it, but you cannot because when you open your eyes even a slit, you are on that rocket ride at the County Fair diving toward the earth and back up again.Over and over, faster and faster, whipping around until you climb up into your bed and immobilize for five full minutes.Then it can stop—but only until you move again.On the crawl back you drag the wastebasket along—portable vomitorium.
The neighbors on the other side are planning a pool party.You know because people have been swarming all morning: mowing, blowing, skimming, dragging chairs, sampling gazpacho soup.They slurp, ‘Oh this is yummy. Does it need a dollop of sour cream?Chives?’You salivate, in spite of or because of the nausea.You wish someone would bring you gazpacho soup.
Youngest son arrives with girlfriend and grandchildren, tipped off by the oldest.“You can’t get up?What’s wrong?”
“Vertigo. Google it.” They pull out their smart phones.
The girlfriend flops on the bed and rubs your forehead.“Poor thing.You look terrible.I brought pills that will fix anything. These will relieve the sickest cancer patient on chemo.” She shakes a few pills into her hand without checking the dosage.
“Oh no thanks, I already took something.What does the label say?”
“Open up.”She holds big white pills up to your lips with water and commands “Swallow.”
You open like a baby bird.
Your grandchildren sidle up with handmade get-well cards and hold your hand.“We love you Grammy.Get well soon.”They sound scared or wary, you can’t tell without looking.
“Don’t worry, I will.”They reach over with hugs.“Oh, but don’t shake the bed.”
“What the hell is all that noise outside?”Your son looks down into the backyard next door.“I’ll go tell them you’re sick and to keep it down.”
“No no, I have to live here.”Your family traipses down the stairs as you murmur, “Can someone please feed the dog?And close the gate.”You hear it slam then swing back open.
The guests arrive poolside and the lady next-door mikes up with an amplified squeal.‘Welcome to the Lesbian Alliance Auction Committee.We provide educational grants to foster children with LGBT parents.We want you to gear up and encourage your friends to sponsor a table for our gala auction this year.And everyone please belly-up to the bar for your Grape Jello shooters.’
It’s amazing what you hear when you can’t see or move.You need a Grape Jello shot.You hear the familiar click-click-click of their automatic sprinkler system then, ‘Ohhh shit.’The guests run for it and you smile uncharitably, full of mirth.
By Sunday you open your eyes slowly, steadily without the whirl.Don’t move your head.Focus on the wall and make it stay.You click on the TV and it doesn’t rotate.Your eyes no longer spin in their sockets unless you watch Tiger Woods putt the green.The little white ball zips by and circles the hole but you track it too quickly, then reach for the portable vomitorium.But the meds may be working because you lie back and gain control.Your friend who didn’t pick up yesterday, calls back—thirty hours later.“Are you sick?”But you no longer thrash and lurch, only stagger and wobble.
Late in the afternoon from your open window, sunlight breaks through the elm tree leaving patterns of heat on your upturned cheek.Leaves rustle and a soft breeze brushes your eyes, somewhere a screen door slams, you smell barbecue, a plane passes overhead and slowly you open one eye, then the other. The sunset is dusty pink and your tree barely rotates, a languid kaleidoscope.Elm leaves steady then stop.It’s not perfect but you take a deep breath, reach for pen and paper and begin to write.
Pretend you’re blind.Close your eyes and don’t open them for two days.Flat on your back . . .
