embedded in the floating world
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nmazca.blog embedded in the floating world |
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The Blue Angels were going to start their practice flights at 10:30 Thursday morning. If you don't know, Les Anges Bleus are the Navy's precision aerobatics team. They tour the country to wow crowds with their high-speed, higher-volume maneuvers and generally cause folks to nut up or lay low. They are in Seattle to punctuate Seafair, the equivalent of Fleet Week in New York and other Eastern ports of call. And if you have not been able to tell, I'm not too pleased with their arrival. One August morning last year, when I greeted the children to tell them about the day we had planned, they were going apoplectic with anticipation about the Blue Angels, the Blue Angels!!! I almost blurted out "Who the hell are the Blue Angels?" having forgotten about all the nationalist pomp that gets cranked up every summer. When I realized what they were talking about, my next question was "They're coming here?" (meaning, "Why the hell would they come to the People's Republic of Seattle?") But then I remembered that there are three major naval stations up and down the Sound (nuclear subs, naval air, and the base for the Abraham Lincoln (onto which El Presidente puddle-jumped last May to announce the successful end of combat in Iraq). So, in spite of the stalwart vegan yoga demographic, there's still a hometown crowd for this kind of airborne derring-do. Last year, I watched with some admitted fascination as the F-18s climbed and rolled and tore across the sky. It was hard to comprehend how several tons of metal moving with that much speed and under that much stress could not careen out of control. It was when the planes bore down on us that my attitude became more critical. It was during those moments that I was reminded that these were attack manuevers: bombing, strafing, getting in place for the kill shot. It was during these moments that I and many others (thinking of conversations I had with people that weekend) recognized that the stunts presented as hoo-ha, rah-rah, thrill-kill entertainment were all about killing in their intended application. You're sitting on a sunny field, eating lunch with gradeschoolers, and you watch an F-18 descend at what damn-near seems like an inverted 60-deg angle from 10,000 feet and then pull up right above your head. Target acquired. Payload released. Target liquidated. Children holler (while a few cringe). And that sound! Not the growl of the jet as it passes, but the whistling whine as it approaches. It was just like the sound of the jets that drop napalm on the village in Apocalypse Now. And so that's what I kept expecting to see happen... But that was last year. Yesterday's flight briefing began with a few hushed words from the principal of the school: a reminder that the practice flights were to begin that morning, and that the jets fly right over the school. "If the alarm goes off" -- meaning, if the concussive reverb from these planes made the walls tremble -- "or if some of the children get scared, just reassure them that there's not an emergency and that they'll be alright." Fortunately, we weren't going to be part of the more-than-metaphorically captive audience in the Central District that morning. We had a trip to the Asian Art Museum planned. This wouldn't mean that we'd be out of earshot or away from flight lines by any means (my old school is four blocks from the Museum and Volunteer Park). It just meant that we wouldn't be right under what I've heard is the spine-gripping sensory assault that Mt. Baker and the CD endure during this annual invasion. Oh, but it seemed I was wrong. We weren't more than a hundred yards into the park, walking toward the reservoir, when that shrill turbine whine came in high and fast from the southwest. We turned and I swear those planes were singeing the trees, vapor forming on the wing edges, and coming right at us. There was no fascination this time. A barely contained wave of Uncut Fucking Terror rolled up my sacrum to my skull as the duo of jets roared past and made an improbable skid-bank above Lake View Cemetery (skydancing on the dead?). The mother of one of our girls simply remarked: "That's just not good." "Indeed" was my reply. "It just makes me realize what it must be like for the people who have to face that for real." Which is just what I'm talking about. A month or so ago, a friend was over here and we were talking about some recent military posturing or the new wolf-cry terror alert. "People don't want the terror... but then they want the terror (the militarism, show of force). It's insane." This Blue Angel thing -- this glorification of an instrument of massive force and violence -- is played out and serves no good purpose. What else did Stephanie say? "It's all about the rush, fuel, speed. It's so adolescent." ______________________________________ We continued up the hill, past the reservoir, and arrived at the Asian Art Museum. We left our bags with the docents and the kids went to relieve their little bladders.  At the bottom of the stairs that led to the restrooms there sat a four-foot tall, Ming Dynasty luohan statue. Luohan is the Chinese term for the Sanskrit arhat, the realized disciples of Buddhism who "have the supernatural capability to extend their lives... and whose mission is to protect Shakyamuni Buddha's teachings." The children who'd completed their business milled around the glass case in which the statue sat, pointing out details in its constuction ("I see Chinese script!"), mimicking the meditative pose, and suggesting that I steal it and bring it back to the school. And through all of this, the vibration and muted thunder of the jets made its way into that underground chamber. An interesting counterpoint. Once everyone was prepared, we ascended the steps and began a loop of the museum. The museum's main exhibit focused on Buddhist art, and the first section was devoted to work from China. The children moved too quickly into the next room, leading me take hold of one boy's hand for the remainder of the visit, and they gathered in front of a Chinese rendition of the 1000-armed Chenrezig. Someone asked a question about all the arms or heads (since this version has 11 of the latter) and I gave them a quick 101 on bodhisattvas: "They pledge to help all people..." "And so it has all the arms so that it can reach a lot of people at once!" "Right. It has the 10 other heads so that it can see into what the ancient people called the 10 directions." Their attention then shot off into one of those other directions, and I had to pursue them into the Japanese section. At some point, we crossed the main hall, which contains large statuary work from Indian temples. One girl, with whom I've had all sorts of challenges throughout the summer, and from whom I was pleasantly surprised to hear this question, asked: "Ooh, where's Siva? I want to see Siva." I scanned the walls and was surprised to see no representations of The Lord of the Dance. I informed the girl of this and she said, "Ok, I want to see Ganesa, Ganesa!" And very quickly we found one. As we exited, I spied a standing Siva in a glass case by the entrance. Don't recall seeing that representation before, so I suppose that's why I hadn't spotted Siva earlier. What else? More Japanese statues, the kids wanted to sit in the Chinese imperial throne, they were completely engrossed by the side exhibit on sumo (complete with a video on teevee), and they spent the last chunk of time in the kids' area making tissue paper mandalas. We exited and walked down the hill to the wading pool. One of the girls hadn't known we were going to have lunch on the trip; her food was back in the classroom. So Stephanie ambled on down the hill to my former boss' favorite eatery, Café Europa, and bought a grilled tuna sandwich for this girl (who is six and the creator of her own stylized alphabet; more on that another day). The Angels had gone back from whence they came, and we enjoyed our food in relative peace. There was a moment of upset when a child became very agitated and teary about not wanting to go into the wading pool. I said, "You don't have to, you can go to the playground if you want," and that was that. An hour later, we packed up and briskly beat feet past the Noguchi sculpture, down along the other side of the reservoir, and then to the corner of Aloha and 10th just as a bus rolled up. Fortunately, it wasn't ours and I sat in the shade of a square-trimmed rhododendron with the youths. Our bus wound its way over the Hills (Capitol and First), and turned east on Jackson. It was about 2 p.m. Time for the Angels' Second Coming: their practice show above Lake Washington. The bus was stopped for awhile at Jackson and 11th in Little Saigon, and all of a sudden I was struck by the horrific irony of watching shoppers and passers-by in the Vietnamese business district crane their necks and cover their ears while these jets cut through the air. Somewhere across the street I heard a child screaming and my eyes began to water. It turned out that a bunch of middle-schoolers were hanging off the patio of their school watching the show and hollering, but still... ______________________________________ We returned well-early, I packed up and got ready go to Child Wrangling, Part Two (at the aforementioned school from last year). I was going to sub while the staff had a prep meeting for the approaching fall term. I'd visited just the day before, and when I mentioned to one of the recent elementary graduates that I'd be working the following day, I was browbeaten (as if I resist) into making chai when I returned. How did that start...? One day I heated up the remains of some Oregon Chai and some rice milk, and the ever-inquisitive crew of fourth-grade girls asked what I was making. I said it was chai, and (not too surprisingly) a couple of them knew what it was. I offered them little cups of it (not knowing until months later that chai is indeed caffeinated), and it was slalom from there. This recurring preparation became enough of a thing that, months after I left Seattle on my false-start to Ohio and points east, I saw a page of chai recipes in the Plain Dealer and sent it to the crew. Decaf, this time. I came in with the new Celestial Seasonings chai blend, a liter of rice milk and fresh ginger root. I played it down for a few minutes, and then smiled when they remembered what I was going to make. I've playfully (but seriously) called this conglomeration of folks "the family," and a day like this was a perfect example. After incessant begging, they got all tweeted on decaf paddy lattes. One girl, deterred from slathering anymore honey into her Dixie cup, made off with my Kawabata Makoto CD and sequestered herself into the pitch-dark laundry room to meditate to the atonal beauty. It was a joke at first, but then she actually got into the space she was in and I shooed the others away. The younger ones, still in damp bathing suits or without shirts, got their chai fix and then wanted a turn in the meditation cave. The original patron for the chai expressed her all-too-sweet gratitude for the rose I "gave" to her for her birthday, although it was actually the case that the older girls made off with the flower (that I'd been offered an hour earlier) and decided it would be a nice gift for their friend. Through all of this, I laughed and served, then pulled away the pot demanding that the nuttiness desist; chased a couple out of the cabinet where the sugar is kept, sent another out when he got too selective with his listening. Again, the question came up: "Why did you leave us?" Or, to the summer camp director, "Why did you fire Damon?" I've explained what I wanted to do many times, but they still want to know why I'm not working there. And even as I consider making another move, and know that I need to take my work and energy to another level and location, I still cherish having this time with these charming short people. I visited once more yesterday, after running into the same group on the 48 bus to the University District. I didn't plan to stop in, but since I'd get to see a few people I didn't think I'd get to, I walked up the hill with them. Ended up eating popcorn while reading and analyzing the brushwork in The Rainbow Goblins with one eight-year-old who, despite her thorough blondeness, took to calling me Daddy for months (in play, though unintentionally a couple of times). As I tried to leave after half an hour, she grabbed onto my right index and ring fingers and wouldn't let go. I manuevered the two of us toward the door and she began to ask (as children and several adults do) about my necklace, with its candy-colored beads and large teardrop turquoise. Appraising this, the rings on my (two) fingers, the large dark-blue dashiki, and the missing, continually scandalized purple earrings [amethyst]), BB asked: "Why are you always dressed so stylish, so religionish?" I was already laughing when she said "stylish," and "religionish" was too much. I said that I don't go out of my way to look any way, this was just how I dressed... although, I mentioned to her, I wore blue was because it was Friday and Friday is related to Venus (Vendredi/Viernes). This made more sense to her when I talked about Sunday-The Sun-Yellow and Monday-The Moon-White. She made me promise ("Pinky-promise!") that I'd come back next week, and then I made my way. Death angels, arhats and a taste of ginger |
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