I just finished reading this baby. The premise is that a shipping container traveling form Asia goes overboard with 28,000 rubber bath toys, and these self-same toys travel thousands of miles on complicated oceanic currents, washing ashore everywhere from Alaska and Hawaii to Maine, Nova Scotia, and the United Kingdom.
I foolishly thought this to be an adventure travel tale of the kind I like to read, but slowly, over the course of many pages, I began to aprehend Moby Duck as a somber book about the savagely polluted state of our oceans, about the mythical indestructability of plastics, and about how when you throw something away, there just IS no away. It’s not a feel-good story necessarily, but I mean as humans in charge of our own destinies, we should know this stuff.
Anyhoo, chew on this: The top trash items most frequently found in the ocean:
Did you know that on the bridge of freighters, they turn off all the lights at night so’s to see out into the darkness better? Easier to spot icebergs and whatnot. Similarly, we turned off all the lights the other night (maybe we left the TV on) in order to watch the winter storm on 57th street. Felt like little kids inside a fort.
When you become part of a bad ass two-man gang—or, like other some people call it, a “relaaaationship”—you don’t do stuff alone all that often. Sure, you’re not with your other gang member every second, but the times you aren’t, you kinda gotta maximize by catching up with all the other humans in your life: ladies night, coffee dates, brunch, and the like. That’s all fine, too.
But what about doing something straight up alone?
It’s weird and cool, and there’s a kind of renewal that unfolds. Plus, there’s no discussing/rehashing the experience—it just … is.
Aaanyway, that was me, yesterday, walking up the side of a mountain, past the snow line, to obtain a small fragment of winter.
When you work constantly, it’s hard to know what to do with your day off. When it rains constantly, it’s hard to know what to do when the sun breaks out. The answer to both: NOTHING. Maybe just stay right where you are?
I don’t have time to go to the movies anymore. Or I do now and then, but evening-time Jen either wants to be out with friends deconstructing things over beers or at home, sweat-panted, on the couch with bubby. However, when I was at home over “holidays” I went to the theater TWICE and it was totally awesome and hedonistic. I even liked watching the trailers, which of course, are mini movies in themselves deftly crafted to manipulate your emotions (the right song, the right scene, et cetera). I was down for it. Manipulate me!
So, I went to see The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (the American adaptation). As someone who has read all the books and seen all the Swedish movies, I can say from an informed place: It was GOOD—dark and haunting, et cetera. Plus, I’ve long approved of Lisbeth Salandar as a female role model for modern American women. Like, it would be obvious, maybe, for you or me to heroicize Lisbeth. But this book was a best-seller, meaning “regular folk” read it in spades. All those random frumpy women in windpants at my gym palming through the pages, and the fancy ladies in gold lamé at the airport—they all secretly wanted to be a highly intelligent ass-kicking bisexual female on the fringe of society … Cool!
On Christmas Day we all went to watch The Adventures of Tin Tin. A tale of international intrigue—completely acceptably entertaining. Anytime my attention wandered, all I had to do was sneak a glance at li’l nephew Patrick, his 7-year-old face rapt with wonder, and I’d be suddenly awash in a wave of innocence and well being.
The whole of New Year’s Eve day pulses with a kind of electricity. Or it doesn’t. Depending on whether or not you feel like giving a shit. I find that when you spend holidays in the wilderness, though, they do take on a bit of raw purity.
When I was laying on my back staring at the ceiling of our cabin in the woods, I felt like I always feel when I spend time alone in the natural world. That maybe this is all I need. A room to rest my head and cook my meals. Another small room to scrub my teeth and soak my bones. A heater that can maintain 73 degrees room temp so I can walk around in my undershorts. Of course … but then where would I get my americano in the morning?
It’s New Year’s time again. Things I thought would happen didn’t. Things I never anticipated unfolded. The year’s vacations and long lazy days seem like ages ago. The crazy work seems like it happened yesterday. Time was, is, and will continue to be a mystery.
However, it’s a new year and there are things to do. Here’s Woody Guthrie’s resolutions from 1942. I got a lengthy list of my own. Number 13, 17 and 26 are the same on both our lists, though.
My stocking this year consisted of this: wool socks (I used to be “whatever” about socks until I started wearing the fine wicking Merino ones and now I’m a hardliner about them), goat’s milk soap and a wee tin of lip balm, deodorant (you laugh—but this was actually on my list!), broad-spectrum sunscreen, and (obviously) chocolate. This is a very grown-ass woman set of gifts, and I’m not even ashamed about that. And I love my mom for knowing this about me.
Despite the natural seismic tremors of tensions that every family feels (I think?) when compressed together into one house and timeframe, I get to know my parents better every time I go home on holiday. My very favorite thing is when they tell some previously un-recounted anecdote from their pre-“me” life. Like, who ARE these people who gave birth to me?
I got up before sunrise one morning and caught a ride into town with mom and dad on their way to work. I was alone, sitting on a swiftly moving chairlift by 8:30 a.m. The sun was still behind the mountain and all was blue, ’cept for a little pink puff of cold-fog effervescing in the minus-3 degree air. It was a deeply cold, deeply pure moment that I immediately stuck in my cap of fine, pure moments from this year.
I don’t know what’s up with this guy’s jacket but I’d gladly take these chubby Bernese pups off his hands, immediately.
Nephew Patrick—whom I played with extensively—making his bed like a good boy. Now can he come do mine?
Red skies in the morning, sailors take warning.
My parents’ dog Fergus. He wears diapers to bed at night—I shit you not!
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