:120307: My cell is firmly established on solid ground. Early Monday morning, two strong earthquakes awakened the Bay Area. At 5:33 am, a magnitude 3.5 quake, followed immediately by a magnitude 4.0 quake shook approximately 5.5 miles below the surface in El Cerrito, CA. Another mild aftershock was felt a half hour later.

Though the quakes served as a rude awakening and were felt as far away as Santa Cruz, they were relatively minor. Police dispatchers in the surrounding cities received no reports of injuries or major damage. Nearby transit systems and bridges were inspected and given the all-clear.

My friend, Mac (below) was less than 2.5 miles from the epicenter that morning, and his important job of keeping my mother's feet warm while she sleeps was interrupted by the jolt.

Earthquakes are a constant threat in the vicinity of the seismically active San Andreas Fault, but individual minor quakes are only as significant as something like a nearby tornado: sure you pay attention to it, but if it doesn't destroy your house or community, you can forget about it pretty quickly. Here it is just a few days later and I bet most people have forgotten it already.

Every once in a while, though, an earthquake is a big deal. Longtime residents of the Bay Area will certainly remember the Loma Prieta earthquake (a.k.a. the Quake of '89 or the World Series Earthquake) as vividly as others remember 9/11 or the assassination of JFK.

The Loma Prieta Quake measured 6.9 on the Richter Magnitude Scale. The Richter Scale is logarithmic in nature, so each whole number is 10 times as powerful as the preceding number. That makes the '89 quake roughly 1000 times as powerful as Monday's quake.

Because of the timing of the event, the earthquake happened during the warm-up of a World Series game, making it the first major quake to have live, national coverage on television. It was also the event that triggered more long-distance phone calls than any other date in history up to that point. Everyone wanted to know if their Bay Area loved ones were OK.

As, of course, did I. My mother (the one whose feet are warmed by Mac) was unable to cross the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge because of the collapsed section, and took a circuitous route around the bay on public transportation to get home from work that night, along with everyone else in the same boat. A commute that normally took about an hour on the bus ended up taking her closer to seven hours.

Before cell phones, there was really no way for me to know if she was going to be able to come home at all that night. As a ten-year-old who had just experienced a major earthquake, it was pretty scary. I stayed at a friend's house that night, as did my brother. We didn't leave a note for Mom, mostly because we didn't want to remain in the high-rise apartment building longer than necessary, but she knew exactly where to find us anyway. She called our respective friends' houses around midnight when she finally got home.

Twenty-two years later, I can still remember exactly what I was eating just a moment before the shaking started. I can remember the underside of the heavy wooden table under which we took cover. I can remember exactly what the shaking felt like. I can remember the color of my friend's socks as we ran down eleven flights of stairs without stopping to put on our shoes. I can remember debating whether to continue walking to my friend's (one story) house in just our socks, or to risk going back inside for shoes (ultimately, we decided to go back inside for shoes and to rescue the cat). I can remember the exact clothing items I had to borrow from my friend to wear to school the next morning. I can remember looking around at the empty desks of my classmates the next day, and hoping that nothing terrible had happened to them.

And I can remember swapping where-where-you-when? stories for years afterward.

:110528: I escaped, for a few weeks. I didn't go very far, but everything is different there. It is physically, emotionally, and intellectually demanding, but my soul is at peace.

This time more than any other, I experienced pleasant week after pleasant week, with my peers consistently giving me and each other exactly what was needed at precisely the correct time.

And I laughed. Harder and longer than I have in a while. Every day.

I am exhausted; I am rejuvenated.

:110305: My captors asked for a photograph taken with actual film. I dug deep into the archives for this one, taken with a 35mm film point and shoot, and a broken one at that.

I didn't know it when I took this shot, or the rest of that roll, that there was something wrong with the camera. I think there was a slowly increasing light leak somewhere. This was one of the first shots on the roll, and subsequent shots included ever-increasing strangely over-exposed shapes on the final prints.

This one escaped with only a mildly hazy over-exposed feel to it. I like it because it gives the shot a dream-like quality (matching my memory of the place) that I probably couldn't have done on purpose if I tried. This is a completely un-edited shot, and you can see dust specks from when it was scanned who knows how long ago, and a scratch on the print.

I spent 9 summers on this lake, and this image certainly brings back memories. I can hear in my mind the sounds of paddles gently tapping and scraping the sides of those plastic kayaks as kids tooled around in them exploring the lake. I can remember where every large rock is in that swimming area, and exactly where the deepest and shallowest parts are. I can smell those Ponderosa Pines, and I can feel the texture of the "grass" (not really grass, but it served the same purpose) in the meadow on my fingertips. The flavor of the juice we always requested whenever we cooked meals over an open fire is unlike any other, and the image of the stars we would gaze at as we fell asleep each night, framed by the starburst-shaped clusters of pine needles sticks with me to this very day.

I could go on, nearly indefinitely, but these are my memories, and probably not as interesting to you as your own. Leave a comment and tell me about a time in your past when you can remember with all five of your senses, with your whole being, every detail of an experience. What was your favorite part (if you can choose)? Which tiny detail had you forgotten about completely, but through the process of remembering the whole picture, came back to you as clearly as though you were there yesterday?

:110302: My captors wanted me to choose a favorite tree. I love trees. All of them. It took me many years to decide on a favorite tree, and even still I find myself questioning my resolve. I frequently become re-enamored with Douglas-firs, and what's not to love about a nice, stately Coast Redwood...

And yet, when I get close enough to a Madrone to touch it, I remember that the Arbutus menziesii is my power tree. Something about that cool, smooth green bark, with the papery russet-colored peelings reminds me that I love this planet which can spawn such beautiful things.

I was, at first, attracted by the peeling bark. It's difficult not to grab one of those curls and just give it a tug, or to rub one's hand over a stretch of bark and remove all of the loose bits.

This nearly irresistible temptation is part of the power of the tree. Anyone can peel the bark off. Not peeling the bark off allows for a whole new understanding. I can stand near a Madrone, crunch the formerly waxy fallen leaves beneath my feet, lean in close to smell the woody trunk, and find a green peely-bark-free spot to rest my palm. The longer I remain in silence, without disturbing a single irresistible curl of bark, the more the tree becomes my fortress of solitude: a source of power and knowledge, a beacon to draw me away from the hum-drum life of everyday humans, an emblem of all I have yet to learn.

:110223: When I was a young captive, I thought this would be the best job: cleaning the insides of the giant tanks at an aquarium, and holding yourself in place with a little suction-cup handle. I'm not sure what about it appealed to me so much...

For a while there, I wanted to be a marine biologist. Maybe it had something to do with that, although cleaning tanks is only obliquely related to marine biology. Maybe it was the free-floating aspect of it - the little suction-cup handle made it clear that without it, you'd have no leverage for cleaning the window and you'd float away. Maybe it was the appeal of being inside a photograph - the exotic colored fish in the impossibly green water wasn't real on this side of the glass, it was more like watching a movie. But on the other side of the glass, you were really there.

I can tell you now what doesn't appeal to me about that job. I don't really like the idea of not being completely surrounded by breathable air (which is why I'll never be an astronaut). I don't really like to have lots of people looking at me; performance gives me hives. I know I wouldn't be putting on a show or anything, but I also know that as an aquarium visitor, I'm much more interested in the window-washer than the fish. I don't really like to swim, nor do I like wearing the things you need to wear in order to swim—they're uncomfortable to wear, uncomfortable to put on, even more uncomfortable to take off when they're wet, and then putting on dry clothes afterward is uncomfortable, too.

Oh, and fish are creepy.

Good think I never became a marine biologist, eh?

:110214: My captors have no sympathy for my self-imposed torture.

I walked, once, from a few blocks from the Campanile (that bell / clock tower you see in the blue hazy distance) to a few blocks from where this picture was taken - about four and a half miles.

It seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. I didn't have a driver's license for the entirety of the time I spent living in this area, so most of my solo travel involved public transportation.

Much of the public transportation was underground, so I would emerge from the tunnels with an understanding of the immediate radius of the station, but not so much a clear understanding of how those radii connected to each other.

On this particular day, I realized that I not only knew precisely where I was, but I also could envision all of the connecting streets between my present location and my destination.

Knowing how to get from point A to point B makes public transportation obsolete, right? I'm pretty sure that was the rationalization I made to myself.

Things I had going for me: My understanding of my route was accurate, it was a lovely day, it was nearly 100% downhill, and I had no deadlines. Things I failed to consider: I had no water or sunblock, I was wearing flip-flops, I had already been walking around downtown Berkeley all day, and I had no realistic concept of the distance involved.

Parts of the route were quite lovely in their city way; Telegraph, Shattuck, and Solano Avenues are great for people-watching. Henry and Sutter Streets have broad, leafy trees. Mostly, though, I realized pretty early on that I should have just taken the bus.

I arrived at my destination sunburned, dehydrated, exhausted, and with sore feet. Also, I had nothing to show for it. So what if I walked? It wasn't so great a distance that it actually mattered. The dollar or so I saved in bus fare wasn't significant enough to mean anything. I got no sympathy for my exhaustion. Nobody cared. Nobody even really noticed.

Therein lies the lesson, the thing I can take away from that walk, and from subsequent instances in which I have decided it might just be easier to walk. It's not easier physically, but it's a form of catharsis that makes sense to me.

When the "easy" way will get me there too fast, the journey too banausic. When I'm not ready to be at my destination, but I know I have to go. When I want to take the time to see every step of my journey, no matter how many steps it might take. When I need to organize my thoughts before I get there, or before I get anywhere.

Little things happen along the way, which remind me of little other things, which remind me of still more little things, and I can't help but smile at how all things truly are connected. Nobody could possibly follow along with all the leaps my thoughts make as I walk. Even walking next to me and seeing what I saw, a companion could not comprehend how the scene before us translated in my mind to the interconnectedness of the universe.

So, I arrive, sunburned and sweaty, thirsty and tired. And grinning.




What took you so long?

I walked.

:060114: I have something, and my captors do not know it. It is a treasure. It is a library book, small and unassuming. A thick hardcover, but small nonetheless. There are no words on the front cover, not even any designs on the back cover. A sticker on the spine reads "shelved in closed stacks." Your ordinary library patron browsing through the books will never find it. They will also never find it because I have it. I intend to continue renewing it until they won't let me anymore (or at least until I've finished it, which seems to be taking me a while).

It is old. Very old. 109 in fact. Copywright 1897. It has that old-fashioned date-stamp sheet glued to the first page. The first stamp is September 27, 1977. It was only checked out 5 more times with stamps. The last one was July 8, 1991. When did the library switch over to computers? Maybe then, or maybe it's been shelved in closed stacks the whole time, and I am only the 7th person to ever check out this book. Three pages later, there is another date stamp, September 2, 1965. Is that when the library acquired the book? Perhaps. But for now it it mine. The pages are yellowed and they smell like dust. This book has spent some time in some sort of puddle because the first 147 pages have the same identical water mark.

This is no ordinary old book. Its age makes it fascinating alone, but how many books that old are actually interesting to read, as well? This one has a gem on almost every page.

"This ground beneath me is old as the Milky Way. Call it what you please, —clay, soil, dust: its names are but symbols of human sensations having nothing in common with it. Really it is nameless and unnamable, being a mass of energies, tendencies, infinite possibilities; for it was made by the beating of that shoreless Sea of Birth and Death whose surges billow unseen out of eternal Night to burst in foam of stars. Lifeless it is not: it feeds upon life, and visible life grows out of it."

Nice, eh? I shall keep it and keep it hidden until my captors figure it out.