White Noise

 

"The supermarket shelves have been rearranged. It happened one day without warning. There is agitation and panic in the aisles, dismay in the faces of older shoppers. They walk in a fragmented trance, stop and go, clusters of well-dressed figures frozen in the aisles, trying to figure out the pattern, discern the underlying logic, trying to remember where they'd seen the Cream of Wheat. They see no reason for it, find no sense in it. The scouring pads are with the hand soap now, the condiments are scattered. The older the man or woman, the more carefully dressed and groomed. Men in Sansabelt slacks and bright knit shirts. Women with a powdered and fussy look, a self-conscious air, prepared for some anxious event. They turn into the wrong aisle, peer along the shelves, sometimes stop abruptly, causing other carts to run into them. Only the generic food is where it was, white packages plainly labeled. The men consult lists, the women do not. There is a sense of wandering now, an aimless and haunted mood, sweet-tempered people taken to the edge. They scrutinize the small print on packages, wary of a second level of betrayal. The men scan for stamped dates, the women for ingredients. Many have trouble making out the words. Smeared print, ghost images. In the altered shelves, the ambient roar, in the plain and heartless fact of their decline, they try to work their way through confusion. But in the end it doesn't matter what they see or think they see. The terminals are equipped with holographic scanners, which decode the binary secret of every item, infallibly. This is the language of waves and radiation, or how the dead speak to the living. And this is where we wait together, regardless of our age, our carts stocked with brightly colored goods. A slowly moving line, satisfying, giving us time to glance at the tabloids in the racks. Everything we need that is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks. The tales of the supernatural and the extraterrestrial. The miracle vitamins, the cures for cancer, the remedies for obesity. The cults of the famous and the dead."

Don DeLillo

White Noise

CHS Field

 

the internet was a mistake

 

"Look at the telephones for shattering the little peace of mind given to us in this world."

Joseph Conrad

"The Inn of the Two Witches" (1913)

A Minnesota February Night, Dontcha Know

Heavy traffic on westbound I-94 on a route from NE Minneapolis to Uptown -- "seven luminary events tonight, KARE 11 News said, they must all be at the same lake," I observe from the passenger seat; that, or high school hockey games, I think without saying. Outside my window the frozen Mississippi River dissects the city like a fault line, steel bridges arching over it, smokestacks and loading docks on either side; when we reach the far side of the river, the skyscrapers of downtown Minneapolis rise up alongside U.S. Bank Stadium, the domed residence of the Vikings, to form the skyline, dazzled by a thousand city lights. 

It's been some time since I stepped foot in my studio apartment. Open the door, flip on the lights, and scan the floor for mice with a silent prayer. Phew. No signs of rodents. Put on a clean pair of long underwear and fill my new jumbo Stanley mug with Michigan Cherry-flavored coffee. Pull on my Charlie Conway jersey over my winter jacket. Water my three plants. 

Kim and I walked to World Street Kitchen on Lyndale for dinner. Sat down at a two-seat table with a view of the city street outside, where cars of a monotone chalk gray color motored through boulders of slush and pedestrians trudged down the salt-coated sidewalks. Across the street, above a yoga studio, an old-fashioned neon sign said "TRAVEL" in red. 

After dinner, we walked up 27th Avenue towards Lake of the Isles. Outside of Nat's Books, the bookstore with live-in rabbit, I first heard the cover band playing from the lake. They must be playing loud!

Double snowblower engines revved across the street, obscuring the music, annoyingly, momentarily. "Sounds of a Minnesota February night," I mused, adding, "scrapers mashing ice off a windshield, engines breathing heavily, grunting, as if hacking up phlegm." We'd gotten about 5 inches of heavy snow overnight and into this morning.

The Luminary Loppet took place on the frozen surface of the lake, this year (last year, the event consisted of a hike around the lake as the lake was not frozen across); the garden canopy of hanging ice orbs glowed from the middle of the lake, visible as we crested the residential hill that slopes down to the lake, the tire swing hanging from the gargantuan oak tree in the front yard to the right.

The band played "Hot to Go," "Pink Pony Club," "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life," "Don't Stop Believin'" and other bangers that made me dance and sing out loud. We followed the various trails in every diagonal direction across the lake, each one bordered by rows of sand-filled paper bags lit by candlelight. We saw the ice pyramids, the life-sized sailboat sculptures carved from ice, multiple hot cocoa stands consisting of long wooden tables, the aforementioned garden of hanging ice orbs, and a fire dancing performance, where two androgynous bodies twirled flaming batons as spectators surrounded in a circle. We also passed ice fishing tents, a pop-up sauna tent, porta johns, and the neon-lit party zone, which included the bandstand, adult beverage stands, and a dance area. 

Lakefront houses, many of which feature vast windows that invite voyeurism, hosted big parties in conjunction with the event. The social aspect of the whole affair, undisguised, reminded me of a scene from Sinclair Lewis' Main Street, perhaps at White Bear Lake; it made me proud to be a Minnesotan, dontcha know, celebrating rather than hiding from winter. With the wind nip it felt like zero degrees and you felt it when you took off your gloves to take a photo. 

"That's a hard-ass jersey, dude," a solo loppeter remarked in passing. Behind him a quartet of snowshoers pushed ahead, onward to the next station a quarter mile down. The jersey felt like a fitting choice for an event in Minneapolis, at one of the filming locations of the movie no less, fitting for a night of winter magic. 

The stars and moon glowed a whitish yellow overhead, making the sky above look like the cold purplish midnight blue of a Graveyard slushie from Dairy Dan. 

 

the paradise of snakes

" Two big lamps with unpolished glass globes bathed in a soft and abundant light the four white walls of the room, with a glass case of arms, the brass hilt of Henry Gould's cavalry sabre on its square of velvet, and the water-color sketch of the San Tomé gorge. And Mrs. Gould, gazing at the last in its black wooden frame, sighed out:

"Ah, if we had left it alone, Charles!"

"No," Charles Gould said, moodily; "it was impossible to leave it alone."

"Perhaps it was impossible," Mrs. Gould admitted slowly. Her lips quivered a little, but she smiled with an air of dainty bravado, "We have disturbed a good many snakes in that paradise, Charley, haven't we?"

"Yes; I remember," said Charles Gould, "it was Don Pépé who called the gorge the paradise of snakes. No doubt we have disturbed a great many. But remember, my dear, that it is not now as it was when you made that sketch." He waved his hand towards the small water-color hanging alone upon the great bare wall. "It is no longer a paradise of snakes. We have brought mankind into it, and we cannot turn our backs upon them to go and begin a new life elsewhere."

He confronted his wife with a firm, concentrated gaze, which Mrs. Gould returned with a brave assumption of fearlessness before she went out, closing the door gently after her.

In contrast with the white glaring room the dimly lit corridor had a restful mysteriousness of a forest shade, suggested by the stems and the leaves of the plants ranged along the balustrade of the open side. In the streaks of light falling through the open door of the reception-rooms, the blossoms, white and red and pale lilac, came out vivid with the brilliance of flowers in a stream of sunshine; and Mrs. Gould, passing on, had the vividness of a figure seen in the clear patches of sun that checker the gloom of open glades in the woods. The stones in the rings upon her hand pressed to her forehead glittered in the lamp-light abreast of the door of the sala.

"Who's there?" she asked, in a startled voice. "

Joseph Conrad

Nostromo