The Rain Dances Begin
An Ode to Pulp and Paper
All of his addresses are there in the palm of his hand, but it’s not a smart phone he holds. No touch screen showing contacts. The Bohemian is flipping actual pages. As in, real, pulp-made paper, bound together in a rare relic known as the Address Book. Yes, he’s still got one.
I’m reclined on the bed watching him reference this little piece of the past, as he addresses a box to be mailed.
“You’ve still got an address book,” I say from the pillows.
“I’ve had this for sixteen years.”
“You know, everyone just has their addresses on their computers or their cell phones these days.”
Pen in hand, he’s writing letters neatly on the box, eyes carefully moving from page to label. “But if something happens to your phone, you lose all of your addresses.”
Right.
I love that the Bohemian still has an address book.
“I had an address book – the same one – for over twenty years.”
“Really?” He rarely rushes. Slow as molasses. Not a multi-tasker. He’s listening to me, but quite intent, filling out his postal custom’s form.
“My grandmother gave it to me in high school and I had it into my thirties.”
I sound as though I’m lobbying to be included in the cool club. Trying to prove that even if I have acquiesced to technology by inputting data rather than handwriting names, that this segue hasn’t happened unnoticed. I still honor the value of a book, even if mine has transitioned to virtual.
It was in the name of simplicity and streamlined effectiveness that I finally recycled the 5×8 inch book that had twenty-plus years of characters inscribed. Many people were long-lost to me, addresses and phone numbers outdated. Heck, there wasn’t even a place on the template to enter an email. The internet didn’t exist when the book was printed.
A digital database of contacts can seem more neat and tidy. Easily updated, accessible anywhere, hyperlinks, et al. It goes without saying that if you don’t keep a back up, then all is gone to the ether. But such was the case for anyone, back in the day, that lost their address book, as well (though those king-sized, desktop Rolodexes weren’t going anywhere).
That’s the thing. I never thought of a “back up,” and I never lost that address book. The blue and pink flower design on the cover faded through years of schlepping, but that bridge to all my people wasn’t going to be misplaced. It was precious.
There were doodles in the margins. Ink-laden entries in greens and blues and reds. Sometimes I would have my friends fill in their phone numbers, the pages holding the handwriting of the very characters it charted. Flipping through, eras were revealed. Addresses in Vermont and New Hampshire chronicled my year in New England. The Oregon names came from that scorching summer near Grants Pass. Entries with monikers like “Pony” and “Sunshine” recall the months I spent camping with the nomads at Rainbow Gatherings when I was 21.
That address book was rich with texture. So full of third-dimension it had a smell: the scent of fading paper layered with dried flowers and forest floor, as real and tangible as the people documented within.
The Bohemian, he’s a bit of a keeper, like me. Holding on to his address book for sixteen years. But he strikes an even finer balance. No clunky 5×8 sentimental scrapbook, logging a lifetime journey, as much as listing zip codes. No, his address book is a mere 4×3 inch example of streamlined efficiency. Smaller than a cell phone, with paper light as a feather, detailing only the necessities.
He’s now done with his packaging project. He puts away the address book in the single box that sits neatly on the shelf of the closet that houses his ten shirts, three pairs of pants, and zero clutter.
I am not that zen. And I don’t know if I’m included in the hip club of retro techno-rebels, either. I use iCal and Google Contacts. But I used to have a real-life address book. And it was really cool.
Points of Power
We read that the albatross doesn’t fly as much as it glides. It uses wind and a massive wingspan (six to eleven feet, on average) to let the air propel it for millions of miles in its lifetime.
I think this plants some sort of seed in the mind of the Bohemian. Over the weekend, he obsesses on “free energy,” sketching diagrams from his imagination of self-propelling water pumps. He watches YouTube videos with titles like “Forbidden Knowledge,” that document sophisticated technology used in ancient civilizations. This project grabs him like a water wheel from which he can’t get off.
For days he’s staring into the distance and I say, “I know what you’re thinking about.”
And he’ll sigh, “I know.”
“It’s free energy isn’t it?”
“Hmmm.”
He says he knows everything he’s mulling over is probably just the basics of what’s already been figured out. If he Googled the right term online he figures he’d find the research published.
He says he works all week on the farm, only using his body. On the weekends, “I just need something to do with my brain.”
On Sunday, I walk twice to my special lookout point. Once at sunrise, once at sunset. In the morning, I watch a lone albatross swoop above an orange-lit wave. Not far are the Ironwood trees where these birds come once a year, to find a mate, lay their eggs and take their first flight.
At sunset, the waves have gotten bigger. Large sets come in mountainous succession, crashing on the rocks below. I can gaze to a horizon line, with nothing but water in sight. Water, and the waves that move in my direction, unceasing. I realize they have been doing this all day. They will do this all night. That this has been done before I was born and will continue long after I am dead.
Our dream house is nearby this cliff top location. It’s been months of almost knowing if there was a chance for us to make it our home. Each deadline made to hear whether we were moving forward, has been met with postponement. “I’ll let you know by Wednesday,” turns into Friday’s “There’s still more paperwork. I think I can tell you next week.”
Financial institutions and the forms that come with them seem the epitome of inefficiency when you’re waiting on a dream.
And last night I dreamt of monk seals. The ‘oldest living fossil’ was with her baby. They were covered in mud, sleeping there, right on the asphalt, where a side road met the highway. The baby inched itself to rest upon its mother’s back. Vulnerable as fish out of water, resting in harm’s way, I stood sentry with my cell phone. In my hand materialized some nifty pocket card from the non-profit formed to protect these animals. I flipped it over, trying to read past the verbiage to find the phone number to call for their aid. Seems the organization was so focused on describing what they do, they forgot to include how to reach them to do it.
I wake feeling helpless, but relieved it was only a dream.
This Monday morning, I fire up the gas stove to make my coffee, pondering the threads. Winged masters that have evolved past muscling their way to flight. My husband’s hunt for harnessing power. The infinite push of waves to shore. An ancient sea mammal at the crossroads in my dream. That house – our house? – that keeps eluding us.
What is that force? That essence found in something as invisible and real as gravity? Don’t we all wish we could capture it and have it do our bidding? We want to sit in that seat of power and have every one of our wishes come true.
I’d like to be an albatross. Rather than fighting the wind, work with the forces that hold me.
That’s the dream, anyway.
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