1) Hmm...well, actually, this isn't all that tough. Because as much as I liked all of your children, I haven't spent enough time with you to actively desire distractions ;) I'd have to say the littlest chicklet because, although she certainly has demands, a shriek that makes ears bleed, and a tendency to lose her shoes, she is of an age where she does not have much interest in either telling adults her thoughts or understanding what they are talking about. And I'm selfish--I want you as much to myself as possible.
2) I was surprised at how much I like Utah. Land of Mormons, melons, sandstone, and...not much else. I love Utah. It's gorgeous and raw. Moab is--or was, about eight years ago--an extremely cool place, full of gorgeous, sunburned, athletic, tourist-hating kids in vintage sundresses and baggy shorts sneering at those of us who were passing through. It's a mountain biking mecca, and Mr. G was off hurting himself while I spread out on a blanket and read Ursula Hegi's Stones From the River under a tree and ate literally buckets of fresh watermelon all day long. Other than a few tent caterpillars falling on me (well, and the oppressive 100+ temperatures at the coolest times), it was pretty well perfect.
3) They're all really different, the experiences that fall in that category, but in recent years they've had mostly to do with landscapes, and distortion of landscapes through weather. Driving through horizontal rainbows in California almond country, the trees a foam of creamy white behind the colors. Mojave desert at rush hour (yes, there's rush hour all the way out in the desert), when I realized (driving bumper to bumper at 95+ mph, so an act of faith itself) that if I pulled off the road, I could disappear forever, change everything, turn myself inside out. Crossing the mountains in New Mexico, driving barefoot in summer clothes, and suddenly hitting a wall of snow. Standing at the edge of the ocean in Oregon, brown foam crawling up my boots, then rolling over the top edges and soaking my feet, and I was unable to do anything about it; I had to retreat. Anything where I get to realize that nature isn't concerned with me, specifically, is terribly freeing. Feeling tiny scares me, but when it's in relation to something semi-planetary/non-human, it also thrills me. I am suspicious of the idea of a god who cares about individual humans; it seems like wasteful micromanagement. I love the idea of a god who will sweep us all out of the way if we make too many irritating mistakes. I'm always alone when I have these very non-verbal moments of profound joy; I don't think they could happen for me with another person beside me.
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Date: 2004-04-16 08:49 pm (UTC)2) I was surprised at how much I like Utah. Land of Mormons, melons, sandstone, and...not much else. I love Utah. It's gorgeous and raw. Moab is--or was, about eight years ago--an extremely cool place, full of gorgeous, sunburned, athletic, tourist-hating kids in vintage sundresses and baggy shorts sneering at those of us who were passing through. It's a mountain biking mecca, and Mr. G was off hurting himself while I spread out on a blanket and read Ursula Hegi's Stones From the River under a tree and ate literally buckets of fresh watermelon all day long. Other than a few tent caterpillars falling on me (well, and the oppressive 100+ temperatures at the coolest times), it was pretty well perfect.
3) They're all really different, the experiences that fall in that category, but in recent years they've had mostly to do with landscapes, and distortion of landscapes through weather. Driving through horizontal rainbows in California almond country, the trees a foam of creamy white behind the colors. Mojave desert at rush hour (yes, there's rush hour all the way out in the desert), when I realized (driving bumper to bumper at 95+ mph, so an act of faith itself) that if I pulled off the road, I could disappear forever, change everything, turn myself inside out. Crossing the mountains in New Mexico, driving barefoot in summer clothes, and suddenly hitting a wall of snow. Standing at the edge of the ocean in Oregon, brown foam crawling up my boots, then rolling over the top edges and soaking my feet, and I was unable to do anything about it; I had to retreat. Anything where I get to realize that nature isn't concerned with me, specifically, is terribly freeing. Feeling tiny scares me, but when it's in relation to something semi-planetary/non-human, it also thrills me. I am suspicious of the idea of a god who cares about individual humans; it seems like wasteful micromanagement. I love the idea of a god who will sweep us all out of the way if we make too many irritating mistakes. I'm always alone when I have these very non-verbal moments of profound joy; I don't think they could happen for me with another person beside me.