The Motherland

As soon as I step foot in Arkansas my heart relaxes. Despite the heat, the humidity, my lungs fill up faster. My body was born here and it recognizes Home. I am happy in Minneapolis, as I was happy in Kansas City, and St. Louis, and so happy in New Orleans. But my happiness in Arkansas has a heavier feel. The weight of family and love and barbeque and the hill where I crashed my bike and the vacant lot where I played house and the best dog in the world and the plum trees I laid under and the yellow jackets that made my feet swell and the walk to the bus stop at the top of the hill and the cinnamon toast at Mamaw's when I had the chickenpox and the swing set that tipped too high and...

Craving a Place

I crave Arkansas the way some people crave chocolate or red wine or a perfectly baked apple. I crave the heat of the South these days, because Minnesota does not have a real summer. Summer here is a warmer version of spring, with little humidity, and too much wind. I crave the heaviness of Southern heat, the thickness of the air, the feel of sweat sliding swiftly down your spine or hanging lightly on your collarbone. I crave that pregnant silence in the afternoon, when even the bugs are too hot to talk, and the whole earth feels like the quiet calm before some great storm.

I spent a hiccup of time in North Little Rock following my evacuation from New Orleans. On several occassions I skipped class (did I retain anything that strange semester?) and drove to Pinnacle Mountain (pictured). I packed tuna salad and crackers and carrots and hiked to the top in the indian summer heat of September, and held orange leaves in my hand in October, November. I took my journal to the summit, wrote horrible poems about broken New Orleans, and sat for hours. Pinnacle probably doesn't even qualify as a mountain. It's not part of the Ozark chain, and having spent ample time in the Blue Ridge, Pinnacle doesn't come close to those old giants. And the Rockies, those young upstarts, have Pinnacle dwarfed by thousands of feet. But I crave that ancient, sloping, easy "mountain" and the quiet rocks at her top. I grew up climbing that glorified hill and I cannot wait to climb her again. Soon.

It Isn't A Regret Exactly

Last night I saw The Government Inspector at the Guthrie, a new adaptation of the 19th century Gogol comedy. The play was good, funny and light. But it made me somewhat homesick for the years I spent onstage. I miss the smell and the heaviness of stage makeup, how it erased my own face and gave me a new one. And I miss too-tight shoes and corsets and the sound of my voice and the echoes of an audience.


But more than the joys of performance and applause, I miss doing something I knew I excelled at. I've been an attorney for all of 9 months and I don't have much intention of pursuing a traditional legal practice. I haven't truly begun my career so I have no idea if I will be successful. I love to write and have written poems and stories since I was a child, but I also hate my writing 90% of the time and cannot remember the last time I finished a piece I wanted to share with anyone. Writing feels too personal, too important to be enjoyed sometimes. But acting was never like that. I always knew I was good, often excellent. I always knew I had a lovely stage voice, knew I could slip into a character with the ease of a new dress. So even when I felt ugly or sad or stupid or completely lost, I always knew that on stage I would give the impression of assurance and purpose.


I don't regret not trying harder. I flipped a coin after Peace Corps, move to New York and give acting a go (heads) or apply to law school again (tails). And when it landed heads, I flipped again. I knew I didn't want that life and the happiness I found onstage was not enough to carry me through years of waiting tables. But I do miss backstage jitters, the rush to find the lost eyeliner, the heat of the lights, the sound of the audience coughing and sighing into their seats, the momentary forgetfulness of that first damn line, the sadness of the last night's applause. I miss it all.

Books I Should Be Reading

Sons and Lovers: I've read and reread 3/4 of this book at least three times. Why can't I finish it? I love it. It's beautiful. So why do I get tired 45 pages from the end?

The Omnivore's Dilemma: I don't own this yet but I pick it up everytime I'm at the bookstore (which is too often). There's a new one, too, called In Defense of Food (I think) that a couple friends have recommended.

Catch-22: In the past 6 months, several people, randomly, have said that this is their favorite book. People who, by my assessment, seem like intelligent, not-entirely-insane people. But I hated this book when I read it and haven't gone near Heller since. But I've been told he deserves a second go. I'm hesitant but maybe...

Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Volume Two): I haven't read Volume One but I only own Volume Two, and yes, I know it's a cookbook. But it's Julia Child! And my copy is so worn and dusty and wonderfully old, it would be fun to read it. Is it weird to read a cookbook?

Pilgrim's Progress: Isn't this something everyone is supposed to read at some point? Am I missing something?

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men: I've heard tons about this and Southern lit has a special sway in my heart, so the sharecropping angle intrigues me. And I loved Agee's A Death in the Family. So this one is near the top of my "must read" list.

The Magic Mountain: I owned a copy of this for awhile but loaned it to someone before I read it and never got it back. It's time to find it again.

Your Typical Wednesday at 2:12 P.M.

I am craving a glass of spicy red wine and fantastic company.