The Week: In Another State (of Mind)

Tuesday, 8/27/24

At the top of a fire tower on top of a mountain in the Catskills, two crows cawed past me, soaring above the canopy. I briefly wondered if birds were initially afraid of heights. The adrenaline was pumping in my body even though I’m not afraid of heights. I heard two women talking as if they were right behind me but they were on the trail far below, getting quieter and quieter as they gained distance. I was by myself with no one to talk to.

And it was wonderful.

And on this mountain were the concrete ruins of an old hotel. In the hotel was a grand fireplace, the chimney still jutting upwards with the trees that grew inside the ruins. One particular room smelled of rancid mushroom rot. I sat in a window frame and wrote in my journal as voices called to each other across the foundation.

I was there for an hour or so. No one saw or heard me until down the mountain I went, passing many different people. The path was now exposed to the sun, so whoever was going up the mountain relished in every bit of shade. Orthodox Jews in their black-and-whites, their payos frizzy at the sides of their faces, were brave in the heat. Some people sprawled out like lizards on large boulders. I watched a rattlesnake cross the trail in front of me, beautiful friend.

I said hello and kept walking.

My sister’s birthday was yesterday, the day I arrived at the trifecta of Kingston, Saugerties, and Woodstock in New York. She would have turned 48. Her birthday is harder for me than her deathday. She never would have gone on a trip like this. She didn’t appear to have many passions but I’m sure she kept many things to herself. I think about her often, but not because I am reminded of her. I don’t often see things and think of Mandy, unless I see family. I experience things, though, and think of her because she will never experience them and that hurts. Mom told me that when she thinks of Mandy, she thinks of her as a little girl. When I think of Mandy, I think of a body sitting. I think of soft hands and cigarettes. I think of her children who grew up with me. When pregnant with Aaron, she craved milk with ice in it. I think about picking those children up and holding them in my arms even though they were almost as tall as I was. I think about how when I would pick them up I would wonder if they were getting too big for that. I think about how there was a one final time that I picked each of them up. I remember holding Aaron for the first time when I was 9 years old and he was a newborn. I remember soon after saying that I would never have children. I think of Mandy’s many boyfriends and husbands. The many houses she lived in--to the point where it was a game I played in my head. Think of every home she lived in, in order. I think of the brown speckles Mandy had on her thin legs. I have a small patch of those speckles too on my right thigh.

That’s about all that we had in common other than the likeliness to get cancer.

Sweat crystallizing on my skin from hiking up and down the mountain, I afterwards visited a Buddhist temple. The monk who met with me told me I walked in like I had been there before.

Wednesday, 8/28/24

My relationship to sleep has always been off--lots of anxieties surrounding it. As a child, I had rituals to ensure that not only would I fall asleep quickly, but stay asleep, and not get sick. It bordered on what a doctor might have called OCD but I kept it all a secret. I took a Tylenol every night before bed, sometimes two, even though I didn’t need one. I drank a little cup of Mylanta every night, its coolness coating my stomach. I faced away from the clock radio blaring the time at me. If I dared look at the clock, anxiety seized my gut and radiated outward, rendering my insides vulnerable and pulpy. The anxiety would worsen when mom and dad were doing their nighttime routines. That must mean it was really late and I was still awake. They played Pink Floyd’s “The Division Bell” album to go to sleep and I heard it from my room on nights that I wasn’t already asleep. The music scared me. I had irrational fears like the roof of my mouth was too soft. I’d wake up my mom to have her check the roof of my mouth. I once sleepwalked to the bathroom but the dream itself had me standing at the edge of a steep plateau in a desert. In the valley below were tomato plants growing as far as the eye could see. No one was there to tell me, but I knew I had to count all of them, which seemed impossible. This dream felt like broken eggshells and smelled of motor oil. Eggshells, motor oil, and tomato plants have been linked in my brain nearly all my life. Again, I woke up my mom telling her that I couldn’t count all the tomato plants.

I am an adult with tomato plants in my garden. I don’t know how many are in my garden. So many is what I will tell you.  

I just finished reading a book about darkness. Once light was invented and daylight therefore extended, we have lost our relationship to darkness. Our ancestors bedded when the sun bedded. Our ancestors awakened in the middle of the night to feed hungry babies or make love and then go back to sleep. This awakening in the middle of the night wasn’t a full awakening but a transient state between sleep and wakefulness, ruled by the hormone prolactin (the same hormone that allows bears to hibernate all winter and for mothers to peacefully breastfeed). Nearly all my life, my sleep has been overruled by this waking in the middle of the night. But instead of dwelling peacefully in it, I worried. All my life I have called it a panic attack. My own mother awakens in the middle of the night. She might read or eat a bowl of cereal and then go back to bed as if it’s the most natural thing.

Maybe I can rewire my brain to be peaceful in that awakening.

I have been in the forest a couple days now. In the evenings, I have been reading under the trees. In these woods, dark comes earlier than the dark does in the open fields. I read until I can’t see anymore and the mosquitos start to bite my forehead and knuckles. When I retire to the tent, I do read some more by flashlight. Because my phone is rendered useless in these woods, I don’t even look at the time. I just go to sleep when my body and mind agree that it is time.

Thursday, 8/29/24

Light plays so many interesting games. This morning was the only overcast morning I’ve had in the woods. Overcast skies create a white light in coniferous forests. It’s a type of light that you can feel and hear. It has a high-pitch buzz to it. One doesn’t actually hear the buzz but it’s there. It is cool and damp and makes one squint at least just a little. I think I will go into town for a bagel before I head home.

Friday, 8/30/24

Twist the tomatoes off the plants and put them in the baskets. Be proactive and pull the stems off before placing them in the basket. Throw the split or soggy tomatoes over the fence where the groundhog and deer will find them. Only gently scratch at the itchy bumps developing on your arms that smell like tomato plants.

Boil two large pots of water. Carefully place the mason jars in one pot, the rings and lids in the other. Boil for a while, remove. Continue with the rest of the mason jars.

As things boil and tumble, rinse off the tomatoes.

Once all the jars are sterilized, dump a batch of tomatoes in the pot to blanche them. Skins, when canned, turn bitter. Let them boil just a minute or two, depending on their size.

Carefully ladle out the tomatoes and put them in a bowl of cold water. Remove the skin and the inner pith with your hands. Dump the rest of the tomato in a blender. Once the blender is full of tomato guts, blend. Once blended, pour into mason jars for future use (Bloody Mary? Soup base?). Feel free to put a tiny bit of citric acid in the jars for preservation if you prefer; however, tomatoes have their own citric acid. Lid them up and boil the jars to seal.

Jars will sing their metallic pop on the countertops.

Be careful. Sometimes a jar may bottom out during the boil, tomato seeds dancing on the rolling water.

Glass clattering at the bottom of the pot.

Saturday, 8/31/24

At first, the air was still, not a bough or leaf moving. A low rumble came from behind the house. We stood on the patio and looked westward at the impressive shelf cloud heading our way. The thunder lingered closer and the wind picked up. I felt Brian standing behind me. I turned my head and said No wonder our ancestors made Gods of lightning and thunder. What looked like haze or fog in our neighbor’s horse field across the road was a wall of rain. We watched as rain poured on the horse we named Neighbor as we stood there dry, without a drop. It poured across the street for what seemed like a minute or so before we felt some drops and then suddenly a downpour.

We went inside where I applied Egyptian oil to my neck and wrists. I slid my feet into dress shoes, clipped some of my hair back. Applied lipstick. Brian tucked his white button-down into his black pants. Snapped on his suspenders.

Mammatus clouds roiled in the sky as we headed to a wedding.

Sunday, 9/1/24

Rabbit, rabbit.

My mother turned 72 today. On days like today, I wish I could have held her and loved her when she was a little girl. Everything she would have pointed to, I would have looked at. Every time she would try to use words to share her thoughts, I would have patiently hung on every word. I would have followed her into the woods of her childhood. I would have lifted all the stones with her. I would have read to her anything she wanted for however long she wanted. I would have taken her places.

Anywhere she wanted.

I would have called her what she calls me.

Bunny. Bunny.

Monday, 9/2/24

Throughout the day, I moved with the shifting shadows in my yard. In the shade, I wore a sweater and stared at the almost impossible-looking blue in the sky. My last day of vacation before going back to work. Time and attention are my precious currency. 

There is so much that I want to do and not enough currency.