Chemistry

photo by gile

After casting our fortunes in molten lead at midnight (a German tradition), we ventured out to Queens Park post- dusk in search of some green land for a little pagan New Year's Day ritual.  I like setting things on fire and seek out opportunities to make wishes, so I combined these two interests and brought a bit of light to the darkness of a rainy January 1st in London.  The park was closed; determined to stand close to some cold wet earth if not upon it, we gathered outside the locked gates of the park while lighting our wishes on fire and releasing them to the winds of destiny.  It's on, 2012. . . let's do this.

My nephews continue to amuse and amaze -- and have both turned into quite avid hair farmers.  I feel like I'm living in "Dogtown and the Z-boys," starring children under ten with English accents.  It's a charming mash-up; I guess that's what modern life is all about -- disparate parts made new by their combination in unconventional ways.  I'm getting educated about such things, now that I own an iPhone.

photo by flavia rosales

In another mingling of harmonious elements, I spent one of the final weeks of 2011 on my favorite beach in Colombia with a beautiful group of brilliant Spanish-speaking buscadores, swinging in hammocks, following a 'no' diet, and finding ways to incorporate not just a year but a lifetime of memorable and confounding experience.  Igniting the dark horizon, we were guided by lighting; the rains were its cathartic assistant.  Among other endeavors for the new year, I'm revisiting Carlos Castaneda's literary offerings -- they were a little beyond me when they were first presented by my favorite bartender in the restaurant where I bussed tables in high school.



Owen and Rhys experienced a rite of passage as one of their post-Christmas outings: a journey to the local skate park with their new scooters.  This is where boys become men. . . or where a five and eight year old gain initiation to a culture that might actually land them in "Dogtown and the Z-Boys" or the English equivalent.  I grew up with brothers who did stuff with guitars and skateboards and related articles of manhood so it seemed like a natural and necessary act to introduce them to such a place.








My brother Kieran is also a badass.  After spending six years getting a fancy degree, he's had it with academia and is making guitars and bass guitars with his very own hands; all featured in these photos are his creations. I spent Christmas with him and his wife, Laura, and was reminded of what good can come from people who allow each other to be who they are.  A simple concept and yet a challenging feat of humility.

Rhys is still mad cuddly, which we are enjoying while it lasts.  He's almost six.  Inevitably the chemicals will crash and burn and turn against us when he hits puberty and decides we're all douchebags.  We will still love him, and he'll eventually remember that we're not so bad.  Love seems to follow this winding kind of path.

Space for a Universe

I was reading about circles on the beach the other day in this book called A Beginner’s Guide to Constructing the Universe that was recommended to me by a couple of my other nerdy awesome yoga friends. Perhaps I knew intuitively at age 15 or whatever it was that important things in life would all boil down to geometry – literal, psychological, erotic and otherwise -- when I took on Mr. May freshman year for his tendency to allow his narcolepsy to take precedence over his instruction on the Pythagorean Theorem. So here I am, 20 years later, getting back to basics. . . and math is hot!

I hesitate to make a connection between the kind of system being discussed in this book and what people think of when they think of yoga, because there is lots of room for misinterpretation. . . but I’ll try not to be a control freak about clarity and will instead just focus on circles. David, one of my homeboys who has been developing and teaching his own yoga system for many years, was talking to me recently about ‘truing the wheel –‘ based on the idea that the body is its own collection of perfectly fitting parts and precise measurements – and that each person is contained within a sphere that we can’t see but from within which we navigate our lives. A compass or a clock are also good metaphors to understand this point. The idea is that by ‘truing your wheel’ on every level – making ourselves round by radiating out equally in every direction from the perfect center -- there is hope for greater resilience and a less bumpy ride. One could also simply strive for aligning with 12 or true north with the idea of finding the central axis of the sphere. However you visualize it, the idea is about balance. The ten-year anniversary of Sept. 11, 2001 -- an anniversary I was all too happy to experience in Italy -- has spurred a bit of conversation about religion and systems. The alternative to believing in a system is, I guess, to struggle to find meaning within what we call ‘free will.’ I’m not even sure free will actually exists – each of us crashing about in our own little spheres of reality, repeating cycles and riding along our bumpy roads.

There are more than 7000 nuraghe in Sardegna, a big beautiful island in the middle of the Mediterranean. Nuraghe are traditional round single towers that served as both dwellings and fortresses made of stones without mortar. Doug and I saw a bunch of them – or the remains of them -- as we meandered the beaches and winding highways of the Costa Smerelda. Circles are an economical use of space – which is news that apparently has yet to reach our great nation. It has, however, made it to various college campuses and hippie farm compounds where yurts and teepees decorate the landscape. Circles also provide protection – think about the circular shape of a cove giving shelter from the mistral winds, or the closing of a baby’s skull – the closing of the first sphere in life, and thus the point at which one soul begins to operate in this realm of circles and cycles. Today’s reading has been some dysfunctional family fiction, detailing several cycles of tragedy in a family in Nova Scotia in the early 20^th century.

On the topic of circles, cycles and repetition, I was also thinking about Google maps – which are something that Doug likes to use. He likes his IPhone in general, as you can see from his work as my personal paparazzo. Doug is older than I am but far more embracing of technology – an embrace of which I am often the beneficiary. Last year in Barcelona, he used one of his fancy little apps (has this really become a word?) to find me the perfect not-too-hip-but-hip-enough salon for some much needed maintenance of my unruly tresses. There are over 200 beaches on the island of Sardegna – I think we visited maybe seven or eight of them – and we used the aerial views in G.maps to guide our graceful careening toward them, top down, blasting some nouveau Italian renaissance music purchased in a gift shop in Castelsardo. Seeing everything from an aerial view and then experiencing things on a street level is a reminder of repetition. How many cafes and beach towns and old Italian men drinking mirto (a lovely herbal digestivo of Sardegna) and vacationing families and piazzas and beaches and tops of heads there are in the world. . . so many! It’s enough to make someone feel insignificant.

Speaking of the top of the head, I ran up to Capo Testa a couple of times at sunset – Doug is currently other-abled, due to a recent knee surgery, so stayed at our house in Santa Teresa and fashioned delicious meals with one perfectly functioning knee. Once again, I was the grateful beneficiary of his aptitude and artistry. Capo Testa is the northernmost point on the island, and from it, Corsica is clearly visible. The top of the head is covered in the same glowing pink wind-sculpted granite seen throughout the island. The light in Italy seems to caress these rough craggy slabs of earth as candlelight does a weary face. One feels the impulse to merge with the stones and spend her days staring out at the deeply, shamelessly blue water – the land alternately enclosing and being pulverized by it. Ahhhh – sweet dichotomy. . . no rest for we beginning constructors of the universe. How can we possibly make peace with all these oppositions? Just as surely and deftly as the ocean can pull you out to sea, it can cast your sorry ass right back up to shore.

Last night in Olbia, where I would begin my air journey this morning, an almost-full moon shone down upon me as I wandered classically romantic cobblestone streets. I was following the map to what I later realized was not an ‘x’ but the imprint of a wet ‘x’ drawn in ink by the lovely hosts at Il Giardino dei Folleti (The Garden of the Gnomes – no joke). Though I never reached my planned destination – I have learned to appreciate happenstance, -- I did sit in an idyllic little piazza with a bunch of other late-summer travelers and rounded out my Italian vacation with a perfect capricciosa and some grilled radicchio. The impressive framed unicorn puzzle that hung over my extremely comfortable bed seemed to signal nothing less than magic for the coming weeks and months -- contained in my sphere, truing my wheel, rounder by the day.

Five Fountains and a Doorway

I like to give myself assignments – they help provide focus, a sense of purpose. I still have a hard time simply allowing myself to be and enjoy, and maybe somehow having homework assuages the guilt I feel about a rarefied lifestyle that frequently involves wandering foreign cities, swimming in exotic waters and imbibing decadent food and beverages sold in currencies with much higher value than the dollar. I maintain that these spoils are my house mortgage, my flat screen t.v., my twins in an ergonomic carriage, my debt-free existence. I suppose we all make our choices. It’s interesting to mingle with people whose lives I can only assume are quite different from my own – to imagine their blissful or miserable marriages, the affairs they might have with their surgeons, how they might empty or fill the spaces in their heads and hearts and wallets, how they might either never vacation or do nothing but vacation. I like to imagine how other people have meandered these streets, marveled at these ruins and creations, sipped Campari and soda in this or that piazza -- and to wonder what they thought about, what they felt, who they were talking with, whether they were happy, whether they had dreams.

Over the past five years, one of my oldest and dearest friends and I have met annually in Paris to reassess our lives, buy lingerie, drink wine and tell stories. Last summer we decided our 2011 trip would be a return to the country where we met, and to a city that neither of us knew well. I’d made a few trips to Rome during my year in Italy – once to see a Balthus retrospective, once to see a New York rockstar who had stirred my heart in a Communist youth club in Florence, and once to see a Giacometti exhibit. After not hearing about Rome being a big cultural destination for years, all of a sudden these past few months it’s seemed like everyone is flocking to Rome. I’ve wondered if the impulse is connected to the crumbling U.S. empire and our need to understand the history of another fallen empire. Who knows. In any case, we set our sights southward and adjusted our vision to Rome’s earthy amber-hued glow.

Italians are generally a bit warmer than the French. . . or maybe it's just that I feel more comfortable stumbling along through life among them using my stale Italian mixed with a bit of Spanish – being mistaken consistently for a Spaniard or Argentine -- than with French, which I never could pronounce or feel confident speaking. I prefer the roughness and audacity of Romans to the metrosexuality, unironic red pants and sweaters tied round the neck of the Costa Smerelda -- where I landed in Sardegna yesterday. I was picked up by my homeboy Doug to drive yet further north to Santa Teresa Gallura -- which has humble charms beyond those of some of its yacht-tastic neighbors to the south. I feel aligned with the Romans – their lack of subtlety, their unabashed flirtatiousness, their commitment to artichokes. They also mostly have brown eyes, which I find easiest to trust.

There have been other Hilary-Nupu international summits that have yielded a more complicated agenda than the kind that was this year’s result. This year was simple, simplicity being one of the hardest things for a couple of nerdy over-achievers to embrace. Buoyed by the F-train best-seller by Elizabeth Gilbert and decades of young romantics wandering the asymmetrical streets and alleyways of Rome searching for joy, clarity and elevation, we had an obvious frame of reference from which we might approach our journey. But rather than emerging with a couple new pairs of shoes and a list of essential things I need to do more of or do better in order to justify my existence -- a type of list I might have made in the past, -- I am instead engaging the wisdom of the many fountains we posed before, whose music soothed our ears, who reminded us to be more like water: flowing, moving around and over and under and through every obstacle. . . being soft but powerful, contained when necessary, always irrepressible.