Mike's enticing narrative about the backwoods writer's camp conjured memories of Dick Proenneke, who, if you have not heard of him, lived several years alone in the Alaskan wilderness of the Twin Lakes area. Proenneke was a true outdoorsman--he hand built his own cabin, grew and hunted his own food. He was a meticulous chronicler of his experiences which became a book and then a documentary both titled _Alone In the Wilderness_ (available for purchase on Amazon, PBS, and elsewhere). His life appears quite idyllic on film, but how he endured such solitude I cannot comprehend. You can get an idea of his experiences from this YouTube clip of _Alone..._. The voiceover is not Proenneke but he is the man appearing in the footage:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gsfB6oJ55wM
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Something totally different...
Damian, fantastic painting. It calls for more serious commentary than I am prepared to come up with right now. As does Mike's account of the Santander Maritime Museum.
However, if you want to know what Tara and I are up to in our spare time, check this out. She made it and sent it to me.
However, if you want to know what Tara and I are up to in our spare time, check this out. She made it and sent it to me.
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Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Santander Maritime Museum
Nice to see Damian on the site and moving the discussion backward chronologically. In honor of Damian’s recent sojourn in Santander (and his affinity for odd museums), I dug up this old email about the Museo Marítimo.
Thurs. Aug. 3, 2000
I have found in my wanderings a museum that surpasses in sheer weirdness even the crinkled, stuffed and preserved animals in the Monasterio de Santo Tomas in Avila. I´m referring to the Museo Maritimo de Santander.
I´ve been looking for this place for days, because I always love a good marine museum. I realized today that I had walked right by it a handful of times and never recognized it. This is not a museum that jumps out at you. It´s tucked under some trees near the waterfront, beyond the little marina, beyond the bulk of the town. It´s rather non-descript and announces itself with a small faded sign. You don´t wander in off the street to check it out. You kind of have to be looking for it. I found it after following the seawall past rows of fishermen (who have yet to catch anything of substance in my presence, by the way. I´m beginning to suspect that they´re just subsized by the tourist board to pose for visitors), down a little side street littered with the refuse of the previous night´s sexual activity and boom, I was there.
The main floor is rather boring. Displays and explanations on the history of shipbuilding in Santander will only take you so far. Some of the models were really cool, but most of it looked kind of thrown together. Walk downstairs, though, and you enter a wonderland of oddities. Vast quantities of local and non-local sea life float preserved in bottles of formaldehyde, some as big as aquariums. Sea snails, clams, mussels, worms, eels, a sardine (caught in 1918. For the life of me I could not understand why a sardine captured in 1918 merited preservation), sponges, jellyfish, two jars of dolphin fetuses and a whale fetus. It didn´t specify what kind of whale, but there it was, looking pale and ghostly, wondering why it only saw the light of day sealed in a jar. Reminds me of a teacher I knew in sixth grade who sponsored the elementary school science fair. She had a human fetus floating in a jar, cut in half lengthwise so you could see the development of organs and things. Every year she had one of her students do a booth with the fetus for the science fair.
Anyway, along with the floating exhibits there were quite a few mounted and stuffed fish some of which looked like models. A sturgeon definitely was not a model, nor were many of the more withered examples of the local fauna. The swordfish looked fake, though. Hanging overhead were the skeletons of half a dozen whales and whale relatives that had washed up on Santander shores over the years (or perhaps been taken alive). A massive skeleton of a baleen whale of some kind (perhaps a fin whale. The sign said it was a ballena comun: all I know is it was not a blue whale) hung next to a sperm whale. Nearby hung the skeletons of various dolphins and a killer whale. In back a few tanks exhibited live fish, but somehow these were not nearly as interesting as the dead ones.
Thurs. Aug. 3, 2000
I have found in my wanderings a museum that surpasses in sheer weirdness even the crinkled, stuffed and preserved animals in the Monasterio de Santo Tomas in Avila. I´m referring to the Museo Maritimo de Santander.
I´ve been looking for this place for days, because I always love a good marine museum. I realized today that I had walked right by it a handful of times and never recognized it. This is not a museum that jumps out at you. It´s tucked under some trees near the waterfront, beyond the little marina, beyond the bulk of the town. It´s rather non-descript and announces itself with a small faded sign. You don´t wander in off the street to check it out. You kind of have to be looking for it. I found it after following the seawall past rows of fishermen (who have yet to catch anything of substance in my presence, by the way. I´m beginning to suspect that they´re just subsized by the tourist board to pose for visitors), down a little side street littered with the refuse of the previous night´s sexual activity and boom, I was there.
The main floor is rather boring. Displays and explanations on the history of shipbuilding in Santander will only take you so far. Some of the models were really cool, but most of it looked kind of thrown together. Walk downstairs, though, and you enter a wonderland of oddities. Vast quantities of local and non-local sea life float preserved in bottles of formaldehyde, some as big as aquariums. Sea snails, clams, mussels, worms, eels, a sardine (caught in 1918. For the life of me I could not understand why a sardine captured in 1918 merited preservation), sponges, jellyfish, two jars of dolphin fetuses and a whale fetus. It didn´t specify what kind of whale, but there it was, looking pale and ghostly, wondering why it only saw the light of day sealed in a jar. Reminds me of a teacher I knew in sixth grade who sponsored the elementary school science fair. She had a human fetus floating in a jar, cut in half lengthwise so you could see the development of organs and things. Every year she had one of her students do a booth with the fetus for the science fair.
Anyway, along with the floating exhibits there were quite a few mounted and stuffed fish some of which looked like models. A sturgeon definitely was not a model, nor were many of the more withered examples of the local fauna. The swordfish looked fake, though. Hanging overhead were the skeletons of half a dozen whales and whale relatives that had washed up on Santander shores over the years (or perhaps been taken alive). A massive skeleton of a baleen whale of some kind (perhaps a fin whale. The sign said it was a ballena comun: all I know is it was not a blue whale) hung next to a sperm whale. Nearby hung the skeletons of various dolphins and a killer whale. In back a few tanks exhibited live fish, but somehow these were not nearly as interesting as the dead ones.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Holy Week in Seville, 1879
I recently visited San Francisco's Palace of the Legion of Honor museum. Though originally intended to display works of art from France, the Legion of Honor now houses what was the fine art collection of Golden Gate Park's De Young Museum. I was surprised and fascinated to see this work by José Jiménez y Aranda, "Holy Week in Seville, 1879." This is a painted cuadro de costumbres if there ever was one. I am intrigued to find out more about JJyA.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Writer's Camp
Great report, Mike. I'll be saving my pennies for next year's sequel. If things go my way just maybe I'll meet up with ya'll in the Sierras next year.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Writing Camp
The first annual writing camp at Poso Cabin was a raging success.
Tuesday, July 22
Damian and I set out about 1 p.m. We crossed the Central Valley and stocked up with food in Porterville, before heading up to the cabin. Porterville, which has surprisingly hard to locate grocery stores, proclaims itself an All America City on every street sign, with banners proclaiming “100 Years of the Good Life.” Despite the charms of the All America City, we soldiered on toward the cabin, which is in Sequoia National Forest in the Sierra foothills about an hour southeast of Porterville.
As we climbed in elevation, the valley shifts to rolling grassland dotted with live oaks, a terrain very reminiscent of the train ride from Madrid to Escorial and Avila. Damian and I decided it would be perfect for raising Iberian pigs (the best jamón ibérico is raised on an exclusive diet of acorns, as you no doubt know). The road wound, and I found myself getting motion sick for the first time in years; hard to tell whether it was because I wasn’t driving, or because Damian was. As we transitioned from live oak to evergreens, a black tarantula crossed the road in front of us. An omen?
We arrived at the cabin at 7 p.m. We met up with Kent and had the first of four nightly campfires.
Wednesday, July 23
Reveille at 6:15, which we ignored. The cabin has two beds in the bedroom and a sofa bed in the main room. I took the sofa bed the first night, and it felt like I was sleeping on jagged rocks. None of us had slept well that first night, and it seemed that a little laziness was in order. We were up by 7, showered, breakfasted and working by 8 a.m.
The plan was to work for a couple hours, take a break, work some more, have lunch, work some more, then be done by 2 or 2:30, with the rest of the day for fishing.
Damian and I set out about 1 p.m. We crossed the Central Valley and stocked up with food in Porterville, before heading up to the cabin. Porterville, which has surprisingly hard to locate grocery stores, proclaims itself an All America City on every street sign, with banners proclaiming “100 Years of the Good Life.” Despite the charms of the All America City, we soldiered on toward the cabin, which is in Sequoia National Forest in the Sierra foothills about an hour southeast of Porterville.
As we climbed in elevation, the valley shifts to rolling grassland dotted with live oaks, a terrain very reminiscent of the train ride from Madrid to Escorial and Avila. Damian and I decided it would be perfect for raising Iberian pigs (the best jamón ibérico is raised on an exclusive diet of acorns, as you no doubt know). The road wound, and I found myself getting motion sick for the first time in years; hard to tell whether it was because I wasn’t driving, or because Damian was. As we transitioned from live oak to evergreens, a black tarantula crossed the road in front of us. An omen?
We arrived at the cabin at 7 p.m. We met up with Kent and had the first of four nightly campfires.
Wednesday, July 23
Reveille at 6:15, which we ignored. The cabin has two beds in the bedroom and a sofa bed in the main room. I took the sofa bed the first night, and it felt like I was sleeping on jagged rocks. None of us had slept well that first night, and it seemed that a little laziness was in order. We were up by 7, showered, breakfasted and working by 8 a.m.
The plan was to work for a couple hours, take a break, work some more, have lunch, work some more, then be done by 2 or 2:30, with the rest of the day for fishing.
It was a good plan; usually it’s hard to sustain writing for more than a few hours. I had two papers I was attempting to finish, though, and was convinced I could finish one of them if I just kept working, so when it came time to knock off for the day, I decided to keep going. As it got closer to evening, though, Kent was getting antsy about doing some fishing, so we walked down to the nearby creek to look around. Kent tried fishing the creek with his fly rod, declared himself disgusted and decided to drive to a spot up the road about 16 miles which he had seen on the map.
I finished the draft of my paper at about 7 p.m. that first day, then decided I had had enough. Kent returned, disappointed in the fishing up the road. We shooed some cattle away from the cabin, and stoked up the fire. I cooked dinner that night: pork chops and a sort of ersatz pisto manchego.
The Rest of the Trip
More work. We were all in a groove by this time, working heavily. Kent was absorbed in his work, and Damian was charging through the translation he’s working on at a rate of about 20 pages a day.
On the fishing front, I discovered that trout like sharp cheddar better than dry flies. We grilled the trout outdoors, and ate it with chorizo.
Good work, good food, good friends, roaring fire. What more could we ask for? We're definitely doing it again next year.
I finished the draft of my paper at about 7 p.m. that first day, then decided I had had enough. Kent returned, disappointed in the fishing up the road. We shooed some cattle away from the cabin, and stoked up the fire. I cooked dinner that night: pork chops and a sort of ersatz pisto manchego.
The Rest of the Trip
More work. We were all in a groove by this time, working heavily. Kent was absorbed in his work, and Damian was charging through the translation he’s working on at a rate of about 20 pages a day.
On the fishing front, I discovered that trout like sharp cheddar better than dry flies. We grilled the trout outdoors, and ate it with chorizo.
Good work, good food, good friends, roaring fire. What more could we ask for? We're definitely doing it again next year.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Not a mysoginst!
The violence in the poem is absolutely crucial since it cannot be separated from eroticism. The violent death and erotic feelings operate on the same plane in the primitive psychology of the lover. In nature there are many examples of one insect devouring another after sex.
Maybe the lover anticipates treason or the betrayal of his real lover and destroys her before pain and sacrifice become a reality. By making himself vulnerable, which we all must do if we are to love deeply, he also fears the rejection by his lover.
Maybe the lover is so guilt ridden that any erotic feelings which he has, which are perfectly natural, are accompanied by an awareness of sin, which is a construct. This produces a conflict between nature and culture. It seems that violence is the dialectical result from the drive for death and love. In all three cases, eroticism and death cannot be separated.
Maybe the lover anticipates treason or the betrayal of his real lover and destroys her before pain and sacrifice become a reality. By making himself vulnerable, which we all must do if we are to love deeply, he also fears the rejection by his lover.
Maybe the lover is so guilt ridden that any erotic feelings which he has, which are perfectly natural, are accompanied by an awareness of sin, which is a construct. This produces a conflict between nature and culture. It seems that violence is the dialectical result from the drive for death and love. In all three cases, eroticism and death cannot be separated.
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