The Myth of the Breeze

Hebrid is a city that grows in all directions—into earth and sky, towards oceans and deserts. But the growth is slow. As the city changes it shape and height, the hills and fields around it do the same, responding to shifting needs, growing to replenish. The people of Hebrid walk with caution in anticipation of slight fluctuations in the landscape. The shifts are generally slow and continuous. But they can occasionally make you lose your footing, accidentally running into a stranger on the street and inevitably leading to a series of awkward interactions. There are times when houses are set in the hills, but slowly work their way down to the valleys. Hebridians may sometimes find their houses in the sun, and at other times in the shade. But the earth is not expanding. As the earth grows in some areas, it must shrink in others. Areas of the city sink below the surface of the earth, and homes are temporarily located underground. It is considered lucky to have an underground house in the summertime, when Hebrid becomes particularly hot.
You would assume that in a city as large as Hebrid (and it is never quite clear how large it is), buildings would collide and streets would flood as the river changed course. But the city always replies—sometimes even anticipates the upcoming shifts. Most Hebridian buildings are soft and elastic. They bend and twist when the earth beneath (or above) moves and grows. But for those residents of Hebrid who find themselves attached to a particular spot, these shifts in landscape can prove rather dismantling. Their hardened structures are brittle and snap under the motion. A few tragedies have plagued Hebrid when buildings collapsed on passersby, but buildings and builders have learned quickly to respond.
Though a visitor to Hebrid may feel disoriented by the shifts, residents are rarely disturbed by it in their daily routines. There are times when the store is directly underneath your house, and others when it has been relocated to several blocks away. But the people of Hebrid seem to adapt. They have clues to help identify their homes when they have unexpectedly slipped downhill. As the sun rises in the morning (a constant in Hebrid), neighbors must assess changes that occurred during the night. The changes may be subtle, but every morning requires a brief exploration of the land to understand its growth. A series of bridges weave through the city at all levels of sky. Residents have constructed their own shortcut bridges to avoid the new lake in the center of the city. The bridges have become Hebrid’s most popular arteries.
More than that, the fluctuations and visible growth of the earth have actually eased the tension built up in the stagnant city. Because one can never be sure how far away a destination has become, Hebrideans are calm about time’s unpredictability (or rather, the unpredictability of timeliness). The division they draw between work and play is blurred—at times undifferentiated. Perhaps it is the realization that a large yard may soon become small, or that an uphill bike ride may soon be a downhill breeze. The steepness or direction of the climb is never clear, so people are less dependent on standard routes. It is said that there are more chance encounters on the streets of Hebrid. This may be due to the constant need to ask for directions. But more likely, it is a result of the curiosity and exploration required to live in Hebrid, of the consistent fascination with the buildings that have, until now, gone unnoticed. Residents have, amidst the erratic nature of Hebrid, discovered each other as recognizable constants.

For a month or so each year, frothy, soapy water spills from a small Dam feeding water to the Sacramento River. Just outside of the tiny town of Knight's Landing, this location is surrounded by agricultural lands, and boasts a popular fishing spot and boat launch. I traveled there twice (once on my birthday) to learn about the soap skimming along the top of the water, building up onto the sides of boats and rocks, headed Southeastward with the Sacramento.

Ike and Bea fish along the Sacramento, just upstream from the open dam. They are taking advantage of this year's short Salmon season, running from November 1 to Decemeber 31 from this point of the river and north. Salmon season has been closed all year due to record low salmon counts, and many anglers are eager to catch their one salmon per person limit. While scoping out the fishing site, an older man and his young son wrestled a large salmon out of the waters (a busted net meant they almost lost their catch). The first he'd caught in 17 years.

Asking Bea about the foam, she says it is only around this time of year. "The old timers," she remarks, "say that the foam is from the salmon. You know the fish are around if the foam is around.

My hands are tired of typing. More soon...

I attended an all day writing workshop yesterday where we were asking to participate in a number of free writing activities. Prompted only be the phrase "I remember a time when...," I was surprised by the things I wrote about when I was asked to stop thinking and keep writing. We were asked to share our writing, no matter how bad we assumed it to be, after completing the exercise. It is embarrassingly uncommon for people to share their most impromptu and formless work. This was one of my exercises.

I remember a time when my body ached as a child. My mother always called it growing pains. Pain that your body feels when it begins to stretch and shift its shape. The pain was dull and begged me to tug on body parts and stretch my legs out and twist my back. The pain was a sign for me to let my growing body become used to it changing form. I am not sure how long the time was between growing pains and grown pains. Perhaps no longer than ten years. Now I sit at 25 and can discuss my ailments as an adult, can discuss my grown pains. But the pain now is different. It begs for stillness and relaxation. The knots in my neck are at times alleviated only by me keeping my head pointed towards the floor, much in the same direction as it is pointed now. And when I lift, my chest pops and my neck acts as though it has forgotten how to hold my head up straight. My mind must actively tell it to do so, lest it fall and examine nothing more than the sidewalk. I am suddenly reminded of myself at the checkout to a store, straining to make eye contact with the salesperson but feeling that sting in my back.

Staying put is simply not in my nature. In 25 (nearly 26) years of life, I have lived in 17 different residences. My packing abilities are sharp, quick, and well organized. I've adopted my mother's obsession of hardly sleeping until each item of furniture is in its place and each decoration is properly hung on the wall. The instinct arises from the need to find my place within each new space I occupy in light of its impermanence. For some, the instinct is the opposite. Carry few possessions and never entirely settle in, lest you find yourself in need of a speedy escape. But in understanding that each place in which I find myself will only last so long, my urge is to furiously settle, to dig deeply into the soil and ensure I am secure and upright.

Despite the urgency in settling, the equal and opposite force to leave quickly arises. Perhaps it stems from a life of moving around. In order to properly mark the end of the season, the passage of time, I must sort through each possession and decide which are expendable. I must clean my rugs and dust off my books, finally getting rid of those I know I will never read and those I never liked but kept around because they looked so nice on the shelf.

I was not expecting the urge to move to take hold again this year. And yet, come March I found myself in search of somewhere else. A month ago today I left the countryside in favor of a manageable commute and a house full of close friends. And contrary to my obsessive tendencies for everything in its place, there is one piece of art that has yet to find a place on the wall. Well, it has a place, but I have yet to hang it. The image is an aerial photograph of central Los Angeles that I pulled from the closet of my old job. On the bottom left is downtown LA, with shallow shadows cast down the northeast side of the buildings. The LA River runs through the center of the image and trickles down to a dry ditch around LA's industrial corridor. Dodger Stadium and its mammoth parking lot sit heavily at the top of the photograph in the midst of the hills of Elysian Park. Following Sunset Boulevard toward the west and to the far left of the photograph leads to the edge of Echo Park. And nestled next to it is Laguna Avenue and my old house.

My friend and former housemate crafted an incredible frame for the photo, and warned me to use the proper anchors before putting it on the wall. I've purchased the anchors, but can't seem to hang the damn photo. As it stands (atop the chest which holds most of my nostalgia inside it), Echo Park is at eye level and I glance it each time I pass between my bedroom and bathroom. I fear hanging the photo and my old neighborhood moving just above my line of vision.

For the most part, I am irked by my yearly urge to move. I think that there must be another way to channel my anxiety and commitment fears. But I think about Los Angeles everyday, and need Echo Park at eye level, to know that thoughts of moving back can still equate moving forward, that fear of missing out can be left as the comforting feeling that I miss and that I am missed.

"The emptiness is normal. The richness of our neighborhood is the exception."
--Charles and Ray Eames, Powers of Ten