Seeing Is Not Believing

September 24, 2006

Seeing Is Not Believing

The nights are growing colder, but days remain in the mid to upper 80s, the sun hitting you like a furnace when you stand in the Farmers’ Market at noon, as we just have. Even though it’s traditional apple season everywhere else, all varieties have virtually disappeared from our little Atwater Farmers’ Market and been replaced by plums, peaches, nectarines, and, I hate to say it, pluots.

(Oddly, after years of making fun of them, I just did a test taste of all the former and discovered I liked the pluots best. There’s always something to be said for not being quite so judgmental. Though they taste good, I still have no idea what the difference between a pluot and an aprium is, though they both seem to be a cross between a plum and apricot.)

We still try to keep the house cool naturally as much as we can. Even though we were stupid enough to put in heating and cooling before putting in insulation, we can get by especially comfortably on most fall days keeping the windows shut until 4 or so in the afternoon. On some mornings you have to open up the windows because it’s a heck of a lot warmer outside than in.

The lion’s tail and fennel are making their way back after being cut to the ground so many weeks ago. The Mexican sage is a little slower to recover, but is making the effort. Our zucchini has all but given up producing, which is okay, they’re plentiful and cheap in the market now and our Cherokee Purple tomato plant is still going gangbusters.

I don’t know if I had mentioned it before, but I tried an ancient Chinese method of irrigation a few months ago. (You thought I was going to say “ancient Chinese secret” didn’t you?) What you do is seal the bottom of an unglazed clay pot with silicone, bury it up to its lip by a few thirsty vegetable plants, fill it with water, then cover it with a pie tin. It didn’t work so well with the zucchini I planted it right next to, but the Cherokee Purple plant seems to have gotten its immense roots over there and be sucking up the water up with reckless abandon. I’m starting to believe this is one of the secrets to its success, though I do suspect that the fact that the damn tomato type has been around for over 100 years might have something to do with it.

As I’ve been saying, I’ve been thinking a lot about reality lately. I don’t know if this strikes everyone as a pertinent subject, but it’s been on my mind at least, as I deal with Marketers who deal with “the experience” of restaurants, shopping excursions, and advertisements.

Since we’ve stopped watching TV, lots of other advertisements and “experiences” have started driving me nuts.

I hope I didn’t come off as someone who is Hell Bent on Living in the Now and is trying to undo the shackles of what the Hindu people refer to as Maya, the mask of this world, because, folks, that is not me.

Do I dream ridiculous dreams? With great frequency.

It’s absolutely true that when I operate my little espresso maker I believe that I am actually more Italian than I actually am (which is one-quarter, overwhelmed by the one-half Irish. Ridiculously, I look very Irish. Just so you have this hilarious picture of an Irishman making a cappuccino with a jaunty cap on.) Ditto, when I make pasta, risotto, or lasagna, drink my red wine, and listen to The Big Night soundtrack on the kitchen CD player. Some Buddhist monk is bound to be wagging his finger somewhere. “Where are you?” he’d charge. “I’m in Vernazza, Italy, making my Penne and Broccoli Rabe overlooking the ocean, thank you very much.

And for those few short minutes (or hours, depending on the recipe), I am in Italy, right here in Atwater Village.

But I’m not, right?

That much I believe we can all agree upon.

I was talking to a coworker the other day who said he’d be spending all Sunday inside watching football. Not being a big watcher of TV, much less sports, I began wondering what the men in the world did on Saturdays and Sundays before there was televised football, baseball, basketball, and Pro Bass Fishin’.

I mean, in some ways while you are still at home when you’re watching TV on the weekend (thus fulfilling your promise to your wife to be around the children more), you really count yourself as “in”.

Which might be, after all, be the big clue about men; wanting to get away, but forever feeling the familial pull to stay put. Or maybe just us modern men. Perhaps those men of yesteryear went out fishing, hunting, or down the street with their buddies after they’d gone to church or synagogue. Maybe since the invention of Dads-Who-Pitch-In some of the dads went out to the garage to do their woodwork or fix their car, some sat down with their books and music in the den, or, some (like myself) went out in the garden among the flowers, bugs, and endless amount of nature in the middle of the city.

I’m guessing you know already that raising children involves for most a lot of staying home, so I think we’ve all figured you might as well make the best of it.

I do know, when I’m in the planning stage of gardening that I am Dreaming with a capital “D”. Lusting after the perfect tomato to thrill friends and family alike. Delighting to the imagined sound of my own faux creek in my back yard.

And even though it is Dreaming, I enjoy it immensely.

Where I find my Real Self, not surprisingly, is in the actual act of gardening. Weeding, mostly. And I guess if I asked around I’d find the same with the woodworkers and car fixers of the world, too. The closest Buddhist expression I can think of for this is “being fully present.”

Whether or not you think that’s a load of religious hooey, you can’t deny the power of everything harmonizing and quieting so beautifully that it makes you want to never leave.

Ahhh, but we must leave, right?

This is not the same as running away, (and I’m thinking having a drink to calm your nerves after a hard day’s work), this is exactly the opposite, bringing yourself to the task and having to deal with your real Self during your project.

Actually I can tell when I’m sorely out of practice in my gardening. It’s when I want to talk, write, or fantasize about gardening rather than actually doing it. Perhaps this is what makes me such a Frustrated Gardener in the first place. If the truth be known, I’m more of a writer than a gardener. (Which would explain this blog.)

As luck would have it, I run into the exact same problems writing.

I sit in front of the blank screen and my first thought (especially if the screen is blank), is to get the hell away out of there. I ask myself, “Why the hell would anyone in their right mind actually sit down and write? Isn’t drinking cappuccino at The Coffee Table more enjoyable? Hell, isn’t commuting to work 5 days a week more enjoyable?” Well, no. Easier, yes, but they’re cakewalk stuff. Like reading Cat in the Hat in 9th grade when everyone else is tackling Catcher in the Rye.

So is this false reality called dreaming bad?

Maybe not in moderation.

Which brings back my original point, if the salesmen (the marketers, advertisers, businessmen, etc.) are selling you the idea of something, say a realistic looking early twentieth century milk carrier made in China with the sticker “For decoration purpose only” on the back, and you’ve built a whole little kind of faux Kountry Kitsch house, maybe something’s going wrong.

The unfortunate fact is that those marketers tend to do this kind of stuff a lot.

The real has been replaced by the faux real which is created by someone else.

I mean, isn’t it ridiculous to get a Dream Catcher that’s been created in China, thousands of miles away from Native Americans. Especially when you live within miles of real Native Americans who make Dream Catchers?

“Our view of reality is like a map with which to negotiate the terrain of life. If the map is true and accurate, we will generally know where we are, and if we have decided where we want to go, we will generally know how to get there. If the map is false and inaccurate, we generally will be lost.”

- M. Scott Peck, The Road Less Traveled:

True, Peck is talking about those huge lies in ourselves, but you can see where he’s going.

So we can dream away that we are in Japan or Spain, or wherever we want to be, just as long as we all realize there are quite a few people out there who are willing to sell you that dream state.

And I don’t mean a vacation package. I mean something that disconnects us from our day-to-day reality. Birth, death, pain, true love, all those things that makes life deep and true and meaningful.

When you look at a picture of a beautiful luncheon at a winery in Martha Stewart Magazine, realize that everyone in the picture knew the magazine was coming months in advance. (Which gives you quite a bit of time to get rid of the weeds.) And there was a food stylist, hair stylist, professional photographer, editor, and writer to create that dream. That dream doesn’t exist, though Martha would love you to believe it does. The kids were fighting and had trouble sitting still. Uncle Bob and Uncle Harry still aren’t talking. The duck was too dry, but everyone ate it anyway (and it photographed well). It was a little too chilly to be wearing summer dresses, but that’s what the magazine wanted everyone in.

This, my friend, is what we call a narrative.

Instead of Jack Kerouac selling you the idea of life on the road to break yourself out of yourself, Martha is selling you the idea of privilege, money, taste, and perfection. And none of it is attainable, really. But it’s hard to sell someone the idea of breaking out of themselves.

Plus, hot damn, we really like those new towels Martha’s selling at Target. Admit it.

(If you don’t think consumerism runs like blood in our veins, next time you go to a museum, check out how long people stay in the exhibit versus the museum shop. I think we have a general need to own things.)

Are these Marketers and Salesmen bad? I don’t know, they’re just trying to make a buck, and lord knows, they just go where our wallets take us anyway. They didn’t invent any of the dreaming, they just knew we were headed there anyway and decided to build a town for us.