It’s afternoon in May. Or at least that seems to be the time and the place in the year. I’m sitting by a river that eventually goes into the ocean. There are ospreys fishing and birds that look a lot like loons (but have much longer necks) swimming and flying. Vultures are circling. People are walking dogs. Inflatable paddle boards are being taken out of the water. People are fishing in many different styles. And I’m feeling invisible to all of them, even though this hammock is a rather uncamouflaged color. It’s not even the blue of the sky or of the water. So visible, but not at all visible. Something about not being able to see facial expressions (though this may be a one-way experience that results from having my glasses off).
I’ve been thinking a lot about how to feel at home when I’m not at home lately. Being around birds helps a lot. As does thinking about thinking about home. As does taking long, deliberate breaks from thinking. As does not being too deliberate. And not drinking too much coffee (as much as it does seem to taste like home, even on the fourth cup). Diminishing returns to everything. Maybe the economists can be forgiven for a few of their concepts. I’m writing and looking at the loon-like birds flying as low as might be physically possible over the river, after a government helicopter went by flying a bit higher than that (but still quite low). The capital of the American states is a strange place. I’m glad the birds are here.
There are many quotes about writing that make it seem like all writing is good, more writing is better, and writing from the hip is best. I tend to agree with these things, except for the good, better, and best parts. I believe that valuation is the great failure of our civilization, the error in transcription from the mystics and sages, the investment banker-led obsession with the price of things and the value of people (and the possibility of math mediated by spreadsheets to prove said value). How is one to live if one cannot rank one thing over another, one option over another? Show me the equation! Such is the wailing of the angry young me from not so long ago. There must be a way to get an A at this thing, living. It turns out that it’s far easier to get an A at dying, and that particular grade isn’t applied to your GPA.
So instead of graduating, I’m going to stay in school, to overextend the metaphor. I’m taking classes from the birds right now. They are very forgiving professors, though the geese have no patience for students that get too close to their eggs or their infant children (the geese understand parental leave better than a lot of the other professors). I’m looking forward to taking the sand hill crane class again this fall: Changing Colors for a Change of Season is a course that I hope to take for the rest of my years. I always learn something new. Particularly during the large group sessions.
I have to take notes in the vultures’ classes when they’re actually around; they seem to be circling in the hallways, sniffing the air, ignoring their diligent pupils. Their class, The Vilification Paradox: Why Being Misunderstood is a Preferred Route to Happiness, is one that I’ve had to retake a couple times. I hear what they’re saying but I am still working on understanding. It’s good to see the ducks here. They have always been patient teachers, mostly unconcerned with research and getting wonderful student feedback.
The part of the river where I’m sitting has a little bit of stink. Not a lot, but enough that there are a few bugs that also have a few things to teach. They always teach their classes as a group, so it’s hard to tell who’s going to give you the grade in the end, but as long as you don’t swat them they usually pass you.
I wonder if the audio book reader of this book will read my passages about my bird teachers with seriousness or lightness. Or some interesting combination of both. I feel like someone writing a play or a screenplay; I’m glad there aren’t any visual elements to have to work with; that would be far too many variables to work with. I’ve already got my hands full with punctuation and all the strange fifth grade stuff that comes up around grammar rules and authority. I always liked the grammar worksheets and tests because I was always very good at them, and if pressed, I could usually explain a rule (by making something up) but I only knew how language worked on a page because I read a lot. Turns out that the editors of fantasy novels adhere to similar grammar rules that are required in American public school classrooms. Lucky me, at least insofar as getting “Meets Expectations” was a lucky thing. I sometimes wonder if I might have realized more about life earlier if school hadn’t come easily. A little struggle with that history exam and a little failure with that standardized test might have led me to question my unspoken assumptions about the world earlier. But as I struggle through life later on, I realize that struggles happen in their own time, and the speaking of assumptions can’t happen any earlier than their actual speaking. And so hurrying toward any thing is a fraught, perhaps impossible, task. So, accept all my commas, editors. Or refuse to edit the manuscript after you’ve observed a few semicolon placements. I’m happy to struggle with grammar authority independently nowadays.
I like learning from the birds in finding places to relieve myself as well. And while I’m not as vindictive as seagulls in my waste-placement, I appreciate being in the woods where peeing discretely is possible and encouraged. That being said, I’ve got something to take care of, so this chapter has come to a close.
Roman Ryan 