eating weeds.

Because I am apparently the kind of person that can be talked into almost anything (especially anything involving "wilderness"), Jay recently convinced me to sign up for a series of Friday evening lectures at a local community college on "wilderness survival." The series is by this guy and the content is in fact interesting. (10 points for Jay.) However, we have discovered a subclass of people that will turn out for *anything* with the word "survival" in the main title and who are totally, and completely OUT. OF. THEIR. MINDS. (-50 points for Jay.)

When asked why they were interested in the course, approximately 50% of our class answered, "the coming apocalypse."

The rest of us just tried not to make eye contact.

The first lecture was on edible plants--the growing and green things around us and in our own yards that actually serve as food. I've posted some pictures and descriptions on flickr. I'm not officially endorsing any of this info--you can eat this stuff at your own risk--but I tasted everything that I took a picture of. It IS sort of fascinating to think about how narrowly we define what is "food." Many of the plants covered in the lecture are commonly used ornamentals, but not-to-be-found in your local grocery store.

Personally, I found the carob pods surprisingly tasty. And the sow thistle? Unsurprisingly not.

helpful. ish.

You know how "truthiness" is all about things that bear some semblance of truth, without necessarily meeting the annoying requirement of actually BEING true? Well, there ought to be a word for services that give the appearance of being helpful, without actually providing any help at all.

This word should then be used as a synonym for "modern customer service."

it smolders.

From my paper and pen journal, on the Griffith Park fire:

"Before the sun set, we walked to the reservoir to see the helicopters dipping down. In they came, to sip hungrily at the water, bright yellow birds extending their dark proboscises, slender plastic hoses. It was hot that afternoon, and sweating neighbors on bikes, with dogs, children on their shoulders, gathered to watch. We pressed ourselves against the chain-link and watched as swirls of leaves and dust and water spray circled towards us, passing through the fence and showering us all in a fine mist of mud. We shielded our eyes and turned away and squealed, but still we stayed, to watch the spectacle, to be there. Maybe it was to feel like part of something. Or at least, to not be left out. Maybe so we could say to our friend the next day: oh yes, we saw it. We were there, yes.

---

Later that evening, we walked outside and down the block for another look. The sky was dark and heavy with smoke. It filled our nostrils with the smell of burning and stung our eyes. The hill behind the house, which had always been present, a distant hulk of lighted points, was suddenly swallowed up by the dark. It was no longer. Until we walked closer, and could see the many points of light replaced by a smoldering, red angry glow.

I had left my window open, and when I returned, my pillow was dusted with ash. The remnant of a tree, of someone’s couch? Now made to snow. It was one thing, now transformed to something else. This tree, this flake of couch, it floated down the hill, and rested on my pillow. And through the roaring buzz of helicopters and blare of unending live news coverage, I dreamed that night of precious things on fire."

you.

I found this string of small bells and birds shapes in many colors. It was sweet and jingly. It made me think of you.

almost.

Perhaps the irony of my taking a geography course is that I have such a notoriously bad sense of direction. Among the familiar, I am well-known for being lost, getting lost, and sending others in the wrong direction.

"So, where's the concert hall?"
"It will be on your right."
"Uh, isn't that the concert hall up there on the left side?"
(I shrug.) "Oh. Yeah. Well, I was almost right."
"Yes, Miwa. If you define 'almost right' as not right at all."

But I always get there. Eventually.