Walking Women Writers

I'm reading two books right now, both on walking, one by Rebecca Solnit, whom I have for the past decade referred to as my Doppleganger, a term that I just learned from Wikipedia is taken from the German (Doppel (double) and Gänger (walker)). Solnit lives in San Francisco and publishes books I always think I should have written, an opinion based on their titles, because I haven't, up until last week, been able to bring myself to read her work. Why? Because she writes the books I think I should have written and, if that weren't enough, we share the same first name. But that isn't it entirely. No. She has beautiful hair. Long wavy blond hair that spills around her face like a waterfall in a sunlit spring.  How is that fair? If she gets the published books, she ought to have to take my mousy straight thin locks.

So after ten years, I made myself download her book Wanderlust: The History of Walking, onto my Kindle. Seemed like less of a book that way. And now I'm 15% into it (that's how Kindles count progress, not by pages but by percents) and am so relieved to find out that while she is very smart, we couldn't be more different in how we see the world, how we write, or even how we walk. I still envy the hair, but she makes some excellent observations about walking. 

After reading one too many sentences like this: "Feminism and postmodernism both emphasize that the specifics of one's bodily experience and location shape one's intellectual perspective," (location 605-10, 8%) I took a break and picked up a used hardbound copy of Geoff Nicholson's The Lost Art of Walking at my favorite local bookstore. Infinitely more entertaining and humble. I like to laugh while I read and he writes with wit. But, he just went through a litany of writers who walk and, with the exception of Wordworth's tag-along sister, Dorothy, who wrote in her journal while her brother traipsed around with her in the Lake's District waxing poetic about daffodils (see poem below), nobody on his list was a woman.

Why?

Where are the walking women writers? Other than Solnit herself, the walkers in her book (so far) also are mainly  of the penile (the adjective for penis, a word derived from the Latin term for tail) persuasion.

If anyone has references for walking women writers, please let me know.


Daffodils by William Wordsworth

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils. 

Changing Water

This little canal where I walk seems to suffer
from bi-polar disorder.
One day the water surges down the channel
all full of slosh and vigor. And then. . .
empty--it's debris and thick mud, full of sticky smells
exposed and raw.

This week my mood reflects
these watery fluctuations--
A happy life gushing forward
full of promise and reward
followed by the same life seeming stuck
snagged on junk around the house--
dirty dishes, recyclables, laundry.

How is it that the same circumstances
can appear so
inconstant?

Lessons from the Wise and Furry

I'm still walking on the canal and to temper my habit of taking the fun out of walking by turning it into a workout, I invited my two gurus of fun.

This is their grammar lesson about the important distinction between on and in.

Today, I am Grasshopper. Thank you Masters.

And now a word from Master Khan:
"See the way of life as a stream. A man floats, and his way is smooth. The same man turning upstream exhausts himself. To be one with the universe, each must find his true path and follow it."  Kung Fu, season one episode 9: "Chains"

Putting it into Words

Yesterday, I found a precious little book by poet Mark Doty called The Art of Description. Read the first chapter this morning which ended (the chapter, not the morning) with this:

"The need to translate experience into something resembling adequate language is the writer's blessing or the writer's disease, depending on your point of view. That's why Whitman [in his poem "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking] isn't sure if what sings in him is a demon or a bird. It is indeed a symptom of a problem, of life not having been really lived until it is narrated, at least that's a condition that winds up giving real gifts to others. The pleasure of recognizing a described world is no small thing."

Such a relief to finally have a diagnosis for what has ailed me for. . .my whole life, perhaps. That gnawing obsession to put into words all experience. Thank you, Dr. Doty, for recognizing what so many medical professionals could not:

I am a writer.

He's right, too: It is a blessing and a disease.

This book is part of The Art of Series, which is sponsored in part by Target, go figure. If you aren't familiar with Doty's work, he writes awesome poetry.

What a Difference 185 Days Make

Sometimes when I walk, I get thoughts I think are worth remembering, so I type them into my notes app on my phone. This way I can e-mail them to myself for use later, if I still think they are worth remembering. For example on July 3, 2010, while walking on the canal, I wrote this:

"Late afternoon winds pickkingg up like a river rushing through the tall trees efood along the canal citrus fig pomegrAnit fish canal muddy with new flow watering time summer dove coos walking into the sun glare hand up to psee edibles mesquite beNs it's raining pine needles in the strong desert wind the canal is cat jumpable a long hair turtle coated cat jumped in front of me dates too I solve prnlems while walking like how aunt and uncle can get neighbor not to look in back yard take up nude gardening"

Then on Jan 4 2011, strolling down the same canal:

"185 days later winter I can see more through the naked trees
Cold air no wind to stir up dust"

So, observations: I like trees and nakedness, regardless of the season. And wind, but not dust. I write more with warm fingers, but still can't type well on a phone.

I also caught this shot as a train passed by on my way back home. I like the idea of a graffiti poet.