The King of Delenia

On a remote and windswept and tumbling down pile of rocks, on a large and lonely island in the ancient world of Greece, there is a magical realm known as Delenia, and it is ruled by a king. The King of Delenia is a noble and beautiful and well-mannered dog that was rescued from the dog catchers in Athens some years ago, and brought to this place to reign, forever and always, until the end of his days. I do not know how a dog can be caught by dogcatchers five times, and live to tell the tale, much less escape, and become sovereign to a magical kingdom on the edge of the sea, but such is the legend of Public, His Royal Highness, the King of Delenia.

Having spent, admittedly, only a very little time observing the customs in this part of the world, I still find myself able to imagine those Greek dog catchers taking a small siesta from their canine catching activities, sprawling on rickety metal chairs, or standing in dark clumps in doorways, smoking, talking loudly, gesticulating wildly, the caught dogs cowering somewhere nearby. I imagine Public escaping somehow, again and again, the noisy men so distracted by their cigarettes and their conversations that they fail to see what is happening right in front of them.

I don't really know what happened. I know that Panagiotis, the chess playing self-taught carpenter, lawyer and political activist, a man once considered to be one of the most dangerous civilians in the country, founding member of Greenpeace Greece, and dreamer upper of Delenia, somehow saved this handsome dog with the Egyptian eyes, and brought him here. I know Panagiotis died suddenly several years ago. I know that Public has been under the care of house-sitters, and caretakers, and assorted ragged and random people passing in and out of his kingdom ever since.

I know that Public is damaged. He does not like Greek men. He does not like sudden movements towards him, or small confined spaces. He keeps his tail tucked in tight between his hind legs. When we arrive his belly is covered in red sores from the sharp edges of the Pampas grass that he loves to make nests in, but he won't allow anyone to examine his sores, or put ointment on them. He will not let you help him, and if you try he will run away, and remember for a little while to stay away from you. And maybe this is why I fall so quickly and easily in love with him. Because he doesn't ask for anything. Because he is proud and quiet and polite, and lives and survives on his own terms. And also of course because I want to save him.

After we are left in charge of Public we start to go for walks. I have no idea if walking with people is a thing that he has done before. There is no one here to tell me. The first few times I have to coax him with cheese. But once he realizes where we are going and what we are doing his tail comes out from between his legs. He prances. His steps become jaunty and his mouth opens in a smile and he runs ahead fast, and then stops to wait for the humans. Pretty soon he starts to recognize the English words let's go for a walk, and pretty soon we are climbing the steep driveway nearly every day, exploring the rutted roads and rocky hillsides of his wild and isolated realm.

We find little stone huts everywhere. Some are visible from the road
and some are tucked away, hidden in among tangled thorny masses of overgrown vegetation.

Sometimes we follow the main road up to a tiny village,
where we go to the well to fill up our big plastic jugs with drinking water. 

Sometimes we walk down to the edge of the sea. 

Sometimes Public takes off in another direction, running around fences, bounding over great green expanses of grass, disappearing for a little while, off on his own adventure. But most often he stays close, a little ahead, or a little behind. When it's time to go home Public often has a better idea, he'll start out in another direction, stop, look at us, and wait. Let's go down this road he seems to be saying, or up this hill, or over here. But if we just keep heading back he is soon trotting along beside us.

We work on fattening Public up. We feed him kibble mixed with cans of chunky wet gravy-filled dog food, and rice and lentils, and fresh eggs from the chickens in the coop by the driveway. By the time we leave Delenia his sores have healed, the bones on his hips are not protruding quite as much, his coat is softer and his stomach rounder. The better to survive the winter here.

Because it is cold at night in Greece in December. And Public's bed is outside. He trembles a lot out there. Sometimes it's hard to tell if he is trembling from the temperature, or his memories. I came upon him once shivering so badly that his teeth were chattering. But still he will not come inside. Every night we try and entice him in to the warmth, to the light, to our company. We coo to him and hold out food. We say ella, the Greek word for come. And every night there is the dance at the door. He wants to come in, but the parts of him that are damaged won't let him. When he finally wins the battle and walks inside it is always slowly, with his head down. He steps gingerly across the floor as if it might explode, glancing back at the door to make sure it's still open. When he takes whatever it is we are offering he does so gently, and then quickly turns and escapes. The first week it takes hours for him to tiptoe in and take the food we are holding out. But as the weeks go by the ritual speeds up, and on a few rare nights towards the end of our six week stay he comes in and sits down a while, and then lies down, and then closes his eyes.

There are two thunderstorms while we are at Delenia, and when the lightning and thunder start up Public comes in without a bribe, comes inside and stays, quivering at my feet until it is quiet outside. There is also one memorable night when he comes in by himself without the help of a storm, and lies at our feet the entire evening, and when we get up to go to bed he follows us into the bedroom, and stays there all night on his cushion at the foot of our bed. And when we wake up in the morning he is still there, breathing his deep sleep breathing, and it feels like we have saved him, at least a little bit, at least for one night.

Sometimes, if it isn't too cold, we just sit together on the steps and stare out at the sea. 

Everywhere the sea. And I cannot help where my mind goes when all that water is there in front of me. The water they call the Aegean Sea. The one where the trembling frightened tired refugees climb in the boats that may or may not make it to the other side. The ones that wrap up their babies in warm clothes and hold them tight and just step in. And some of them reach dry land and some of them do not. My arm is around Public as we look out, and when I feel the tears I do not know if they are for the noble King of Delenia, patiently waiting for someone to come and stay with him forever and always, and feed him eggs and cheese, and walk with him in the hills of his kingdom, and rub his belly until he snores, or if they are for the cold hungry wet scared children that the world doesn't want, and tries not to see. Or how to tell the difference.

And when Public comes inside that night and eats what we have held out to him, and stays for a while in the warmth and the light, resting on the cushion at our feet, I think that I do not know what could be more holy in all this wide and confusing and sometimes despairing world, than to invite a damaged soul inside with the offer of some food and a warm safe place to lie their body down.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Panagiotis, 

dreamer upper and builder of Delenia, 

rescuer of Public, 

playing chess at the place he dreamed up and built, 

on a large and lonely island, 

in the ancient country of Greece.

Chasing the Light

While we were house-sitting on Cape Cod I thought I was going to die. I thought perhaps our last work exchange in New York had killed me. I had a fever for 13 days. I stayed in bed with my books, checked my social media accounts way too often, and let the cats crawl under the blankets with me.

When I stood up there was a sharp pain in my head and a wild whooshing in my ears and I felt dizzy, which made me feel like throwing up. So I tried not to stand up too much. I lay in bed reading, and clicking on every link anyone posted on my FB feed, and when I found myself watching a video of a cat giving birth to her kittens I thought it might be the last thing on earth I saw before I died, and it made me inexplicably sad.

After 12 days of the whooshing and the pain and the fever I finally let Gary drive me to the doctor. Where I found out my blood pressure was 194/104. The nurse thought there was something wrong with her machine and brought in another one to check the numbers again. The doctor said patiently that it isn't that unusual to have blood pressure this high when you have been sick, and are at the doctor's office. The doctor's office where you have come to see the doctor who is probably going to tell you that you're dying. That you have been killed by your own adventure. The doctor who isn't even listening when you start telling him about rodents and mold and a dead groundhog in a toxic swimming pool. The one who spends two minutes with you, suggests that you might want to set up a plan to manage your high blood pressure with your primary care physician, and then hurries away before you can tell him that you do not in fact have a primary care physician.

But I did not die on Cape Cod. And once I felt better we went out to explore this narrow curving spit of land my sister describes as the place between 'the wild ocean and the giant bathtub.' We chased sunrises and sunsets and moonrises. We chased lighthouses and beaches and boardwalks and tides. We chased the colors of Cape Cod, and walked in her light for a little while.

We walked in the light of a pink sunrise at Nauset Beach. We stood at the top of the stairs and saw the colors reflected in the still waters to our left, and in the crashing waves to our right. I ran down to the ocean's edge and looked out at the rising sun. Seabirds on the sand were watching with me. A seal swam by in the shore break, poking his dark head out of the water and staring at me. For a long time we were the only people standing in the glow. Then pinks turned to yellows, and a woman walked by. The sun came fully up, and everything changed, but the miracle of the first colors stayed with me for a long time.

We walked on the moonscape of Skaket Beach when the tide had gone all the way out. We walked on waves of sand, feeling the ripples under our feet. Our shoes were dangling in our hands, and our bare feet turned pink and numb. Low tide revealed the oyster farms, each with a unique design. Families were harvesting. Dogs were barking. Kids were running. We walked far away out to the edge of the water, and when we stopped and looked down we could see the tide coming in fast, covering our toes. When we turned back towards the beach a small crowd had gathered and the sun went down all orange and black.

We  walked on the breakwater in Provincetown chasing a lighthouse. We could barely see it at the end of the jumbled pile of boulders. The sun was going to disappear soon, but we stepped out anyway. I only had rubber slippers on, and the rocks were all angled and wet, with big gaps I had to jump across. Gary held out his hand, and I kept telling myself to trust my feet. The tide was low and birds were everywhere. Gulls and blue herons and shearwaters and petrels. They were floating and walking and diving and flying, and dropping their shellfish dinners on the giant rocks of the jetty to crack them open. The sun was setting to our right all heat and fire, and to our left were the pastel reflections. We were in the middle of the birds and the wonder of the light. We never made it to the lighthouse, and had to run to make it off the boulders before it was too dark to see.

We watched the blood moon rise at Nauset Beach. There was a festive feeling in the air. Photographers set up tripods. Young kids laughed and ran. An old bundled up couple held hands on a bench. Everyone was facing the same way, waiting and hoping. And when the round pink barely moon emerged from the ocean everyone looked at each other and smiled. Smiling, shivering, sharing the same thing. The sun was setting behind us and the moon was rising in front of us and all the light was intermingling.

We walked for hours on Chatham Lighthouse Beach on a cold and cloudy day. Seals on the sandbars, birds on the beach, wind in our hair. The moody light made me wish I was a painter, made me wish I could capture what I saw and keep it with a brush.

We walked into the sunset at Sandwich Boardwalk,

and got up for one last sunrise at Nauset Light Beach. Where we parked in the huge empty parking lot designed for the summer crowds. We took the stairs down to the beach, and as we stood there the world turned and brought the light up one more time. And the handful of people watching with us took pictures, or didn't. Drank coffee, or were just quiet. And then we ran. We ran back the way we had come to find the lighthouse. Because that's where the real show was going to be. We ran towards the light because we knew it wouldn't last long.

I am of course going to die. Though I would like to delay that moment for a little while longer if possible. We did buy a blood pressure monitor, and last time I checked everything seemed okay. But I am thinking seriously about reducing my sodium intake. I am thinking about giving up canned meat. Like that staple of the Hawaiian diet, the mystery molded meatlike product known as Spam. And canned corned beef hash.  I'm also thinking about giving up potato chips. Potato chips. I am vowing to exercise every day from now on for the rest of my life, and eat blueberries for breakfast and spinach for lunch. And even if I do all that I will still die.

But before I do, maybe I will keep on walking towards lighthouses I know I'll never reach. Even when I have on the wrong kind of footwear and the path is tilted and slippery. Maybe I will keep looking, and hoping for the moon. Keep going out at all hours, barefoot, wide eyed, chasing the light.

She said there was a pool.

In the hope of gaining a deeper and more scientific understanding of my innermost being, I took a quiz on Facebook. The quiz showed you a word, and a bunch of colors, and based on the color you chose to represent each word it calculated how idealistically or realistically you saw the world. My results were shockingly accurate. According to what I am sure is a peer reviewed analysis of the data, my innermost being is 90% idealist, and 10% realist. In other words: "The world in your eyes is a magical place filled with goodness, hope, and beauty."

And those eyes are the same eyes that saw this ad on a work exchange website, when we were looking for a way to stay cheaply on the East coast, until it was time for all that famous fall foliage to appear:

"This is a lovely country house, with huge private guest quarters, on 3.5 acres, with a pool, gazebo, gardens, 350 acre lake, kayaks + more. You'll have your own large, beautifully furnished private suite 25' x 40' with full bathroom, private entrance that opens to a private deck, gazebo, gardens, etc. Looking for one or two people to help with gardening, outdoor yardwork, and some help in house with small projects. Hours will be reasonable - about 5-6 hours day, leaving plenty of time to enjoy biking, hiking, exploring town, local concerts, etc. I only have print photos - will take digital + upload photos of beautiful property when I return. Photos WILL NOT DISAPPOINT!"

The lack of photos didn't bother me. Soon I was envisioning work days filled with light pruning in the lush gardens of a country estate. There might be bulb planting. Perhaps a little raking. In the late afternoon there would be a dip in the pool, to wash off the day's genteel perspiration, followed by a glass of wine in the gazebo, as the sun went down on an idyllic late summer day. After work, or on our days off, we would float in kayaks on the lake, and take in the beauty of the New England countryside. We would shake our heads in disbelief at our good fortune.

We decided to apply. And were almost immediately accepted.

Day 1

We tried to act nonchalant when S. was showing us around that first day. She took us up to her top deck, and started telling us what she hoped we could accomplish while we were there. She was planning to sell her house, and there were things she wanted done before she put it on the market. Number one on her list was to clean her three thousand square foot wooden deck. Her multi-level, bigger than any house I ever lived in deck, with three flights of stairs, and built-in benches and tables and planters. A deck that was covered in dirt and mold. A deck that hadn't been cleaned in at least ten years. We nodded politely. I asked if there was a power washer we could use. She said no. She had been googling madly, and consulting with the experts at Lowes. There would be no power washing. She had been convinced it would destroy the wood. She showed us lots of big plastic containers filled with chemicals. She showed us two scrub brushes on long handles. We nodded politely. As we were standing up there on the deck we saw the pool down below. It was on the lowest level, with a sun-bleached cover strapped on top. Through the mesh edges of the cover we glimpsed the water. It looked murky, almost black. We asked about it. She shrugged and said, "Oh, I haven't opened that in at least ten years."

Then she took us downstairs to show us our private deck.

And our private suite.

Which really wasn't too bad.

Once we got used to the smell.

Later that night S. cooked fresh mussels for us, and pasta, and served it with salad and bread. She filled our wine glasses from her own bottle. She talked about her life and her travels, her estranged drug-addicted daughter, and her talented far-away son. She told us she was the owner, proprietor, and sole employee of a boutique marketing firm in NYC. And suddenly everything made just a little bit more sense.

Day 2

We get up prepared to start scrubbing the three thousand square foot multi-level deck. S. says, "Oh, by the way, the outside faucets aren't working, you can carry buckets of water from the kitchen sink to rinse everything off." We do not nod politely. Gary spends the morning fishing hoses out from under the house, and trying to get the faucets to produce water. Which they do by midday. Except we can only use one, because when you turn the other one on water gushes into the wall inside the closet in our basement apartment. Which explains the mold. And at least part of the smell. S. seems upset that we don't volunteer to tear open the wall and fix her plumbing.

The day is half gone by the time we start working on the front deck. S. wants us to use the cheap chemical first. It isn't working very well on the thick layer of mold and grime. So we get down on our hands and knees and start scrubbing. There is no nozzle for the hose. S. suggests we use our thumb. In between spraying and scrubbing we walk around to the side of the house and turn off the water, so her well won't run dry. S. is working in the yard nearby watching our every move. She criticizes us for scrubbing too hard, and taking some of the ancient stain off as we go. Gary and I look at each other and mouth silently, "This is insane."

Later that night we hear creatures in the drop ceiling above our basement bed. The creatures sound larger than mice. They seem to be having a party. I suggest packing up and sneaking out in the middle of the night. Gary says no.

  Day 3

Gary has made a list of things we need to buy to make our life easier. Like a nozzle for the hose. He goes to the store before S. is up. I go outside and try to make myself useful. I'm weeding under an open window when I hear stomping and swearing inside. I hear the words, "F**K! What did they do?!" There is no other they than us, and I can't imagine what we have done, other than leaving our scrambled egg pan soaking in the sink. I start to think that in addition to everything else our hostess may be dealing with some anger management issues. I briefly wonder if she has a gun.

We spend the day scrubbing the deck. We use the new stronger chemical which works better. We don't get down on our hands and knees. S. criticizes us for using too much chemical, because she doesn't want to have to buy more. She doesn't seem to notice the nozzle that has magically appeared on the end of the hose. The nozzle she will use every day from now on to water her plants. The nozzle she will not offer to pay for.

During the day we come across a large pile of trash and broken furniture that looks as if it has been thrown over the side of the top deck. S. confirms that everything in the pile has been thrown over the side of the top deck. We suggest that if she wants to sell her house it might be a good idea to get rid of this pile. S. says no. Adamantly. She says, "That's the next owner's responsibility."

Later that night S. cooks us salmon and asparagus, and pours us wine from her own bottle. We go downstairs, and listen to the party above our heads. Gary bangs on the drop ceiling panels and we hear years of dried up poop bouncing up and down. We hear the creatures that are bigger than mice growl. I suggest packing up and sneaking out in the middle of the night. Gary says no.

Day 4

It's raining after breakfast, so I get out the brand new sewing machine from Walmart that S. bought. The one she's planning to return after I'm done using it. I sew curtain rod casings and hems for all of the drapes in her living and dining rooms. I tear apart, and sew back together, three sets of valances, matching the pattern on the fabric. S. doesn't know how to sew, but she offers suggestions. She criticizes me for being a perfectionist when I start measuring the hems with a ruler.

Gary scrubs the deck.

After dinner I suggest packing up and sneaking out in the middle of the night. Gary says we can't sneak out, that if we decide to go we will have to tell S.

Day 5 & 6

S. decides to try her hand at scrubbing. She gets down on her hands and knees. When she stands up there is lots of mold left. And bare patches of wood. She laughs and says, "Your section clearly looks better." Then she moves to the "garden," and I follow. She shows me where to weed. She watches me work and tells me I'm doing it wrong. I pull out giant vines with thorns on them. I dig out huge ornamental grasses to transplant. I cut back overgrown rose bushes and get stuck in the thorns.

I help Gary take off the ancient rotting pool cover so he can clean the wood that's underneath. When the cover comes off we see a strange object floating in the water. It's about the size of a basketball. It's hard to tell what it is. It might be furry. As Gary scrubs the deck it seems to follow him around.

Day 7 & 8

We take two days off and go to Great Barrington, where we walk around and go into little shops. We buy comfort food. Like fudge. And potato chips. And wine. On the way home we take our wet and smelly laundry to a laundromat, because the washer and dryer at the country estate are not working. The next day we climb Monument Mountain,

 and drive to Stockbridge, the place James Taylor sings about. We eat lunch with all the NYC people in their Berkshire costumes. We look for, but cannot find, the first official monument in the U.S. to an alien abduction.

Day 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

I work in the garden and try to reclaim it from the forest. I pull vines and dig out thorny bushes. I cut dead branches, and haul everything into a giant pile on the edge of the trees. S. tells me I'm weeding wrong, I'm putting things in the garbage can wrong, I'm making my lunch salad wrong, I'm doing everything wrong. But at the end of the day she also says, "You're like a human backhoe." And my lacerated ego flickers faintly to life.  

Before

After

I wash windows and sliders, and do small sewing projects. Then S. decides she wants to build a rock wall, for a planting bed in the front of her house. She recruits me to haul the rocks. I climb the hill into the forest with a five gallon plastic bucket and fill it with stones. I carry the biggest ones I can lift in one hand, and the bucket filled with smaller ones in the other. I roll the heaviest ones down the hill. My perspiration is not genteel.

Gary scrubs the deck.

At the end of the day we do not go out exploring. We do not try to find the paddles for the kayaks that are shoved in the basement by the broken washer, and figure out how to haul them in our car down to the lake that seems so far away.  

The lake we never go kayaking in.

We do not sit in the gazebo and drink wine with the spiders and the mice. What we do is peel off our filthy soaking clothes and drape them around the room, to see if they will dry by the next day. We wash away our sweat, and count the days.

S. cooks us chicken fajitas, and hamburgers, and pesto pasta salad. She grills steak, and corn on the cob, and zucchini. She fills the frig with bagels and eggs and salad stuff. She buys big bottles of wine. Some nights she sits with us, and tells us about hanging out with John and Sean Lennon in NYC, back in the day, back when she was a "looker." She and Gary share music with each other on their phones and computers. She tells us her children aren't interested in this house, or anything in it, including the family heirlooms. She tells us the only other relative she has is her sister. She tells us if we ever settle down we can take whatever we want.

Later on a mouse runs between our feet as we are sitting in the basement. When we tell S. she shrieks, and when we go downstairs for the night she seals up the crack in the bottom of the basement door, with us and the mouse inside. We both say half-heartedly, "We could still leave." But we don't.

Day 15 & 16

Two days off. We drive to the Walkway Over the Hudson, and meet some of Gary's friends from college that he hasn't seen in years. We rest and read and run errands. The faint smell of death appears in the basement. Perhaps one of the creatures that is bigger than a mouse has died in our ceiling. When I look at my fingers they are swollen like little sausages, and when I examine my heart I'm surprised by what I see.

Day 17 & 18

Gary scrubs the deck.

S. tells him to dilute the chemicals and do it "half-assed," and "only 75%." Then she tells him to use the chemicals full strength and try to get every bit of mold off. She tells him not to scrub so hard, so there won't be bare wood. Then she tells him the experts at Lowes said bare wood is better than mold, so go ahead and scrub hard. Gary starts wearing his earbuds all day. And swearing more than usual.

S. and I start to work on the pile of junk on the side of the house. She says we have shamed her into doing it, and that she can't believe she thought she didn't have to deal with it. We move everything closer to the driveway, where it will be easier to haul away.

S. cooks us pork and black beans, with onions and rice. She says she wishes she could cook as well as we work. We have her taking Advil for her aches and pains, and drinking wine with her dinner. She says we have saved her life.

Day 19

S. is up unusually early, bustling around the kitchen making an apple tart. She says, "Happy birthday" when I come in for breakfast.

S. and I go out and work on the junk pile until it's done. Then we start raking leaves, and hauling them into the forest. S. says I'm putting the leaves into the garbage can wrong. Then we move to the top of the driveway, where I saw down a gigantic overgrown vine. S. says, "You make everything look so easy." She says, "You give me hope."

We come back to the house, and S. is trying to figure out what to do with me next. While she's thinking I decide to see if I can remove the mysterious floating object from the pool. I find a net, and start to fish it out. Pinkish yellowish grayish globules of what is surely disintegrated groundhog rise to the surface, and then sink. I heave the fur, which is the only thing left intact, over the deck and off into the woods. The smell is blooming all around me. Gary hears me scream, but I don't remember that part.

Gary scrubs the deck.

S. says, "This is probably one of your more intense work exchange experiences," and tells us to take the rest of the day off. We drive into town for sashimi and tempura, and I hardly notice that I have turned 56.

Day 20 & 21

Gary does not scrub the deck, because the deck is scrubbed. All three thousand multi-level square feet of it. The trumpets do not sound. Instead S. hurries him on to the last two projects. One he does without the proper tools, and the other he does after he goes out one last time to buy one last tool. But then he puts his tools away, and I stop cleaning the muck from the gazebo, and we are officially done.

We awkwardly hug S. goodbye, and she presses a $100 bill into my hand. She says she wishes we would move in. She says she'll feed us and make our workload lighter and we can stay forever. She invites us to visit her in NYC anytime. She says we can stay in her extra bedroom. I am thinking we will need to see some pictures first.

And then we leave. But before we left, we stayed. Why did we stay? Was it because of all that food S. bought and all those meals she prepared? Was it because her daughter is sick and broken, which broke the mother too, and her son is far away, and once you count her sister there is no more family to count? Or was it because in the magical world of goodness, hope, and beauty that lives inside my head, that's just what people do. Even when those people are sweaty and crabby, and their fingers are swollen like little sausages, and all they can think about is sneaking away in the middle of the night. We stay. We just stay. And help each other anyway.

The Mattress Factory

I look up things to do off the beaten track in Pittsburgh, and the Mattress Factory keeps showing up on all the lists. I don't understand what could be so great about a mattress factory, until I realize that the Mattress Factory isn't a factory, and there are no mattresses there. When I figure out it's an art museum, with large scale immersive installations, I put it on our list. And a few days later we drive to Pittsburgh to immerse ourselves. We eat a big greasy breakfast at a diner in Lawrenceville, then head to the Mexican War Streets neighborhood to find the modern art museum with the funny name.

It's half price Tuesday, so we pay half price, pick up headphones from the bowl by the desk, and take the elevator up to the third floor. 

We go past a door and around a corner, and find the white trash house installation of the woman who used to be a man. There is green astro turf on the fake front porch. There are crucifixes and raggedy anns and empty pill bottles inside the house. There is horror and hunger and love and loss. We listen to the narrative on our headphones, and try to connect to the human being that created this, to hear what she has to say. And when the loud kids come in, mocking and laughing, I feel sad. And then mad. But when they see us, and what's inside the windows, they get quiet, and quickly leave. Because what's inside the windows of this house, which is built inside this museum, is the inside of a real person's head, and it isn't easy to see.

Then we go around the corner and find a basket full of booties that we are instructed to put on over our shoes. We open a door and go inside a mirrored room, and there are fluorescent dots everywhere, and black lights making everything glow. We take pictures, but we can't figure out how to make ourselves disappear.

Infinity Dots - Yayoi Kusama

There are more doors, and we go through to the next room.

It's bright, and white, with painted mannequins and orange dots on everything.

Repetitive Vision - Yayoi Kusama

Two of the three mannequins are Asian, and all of them are naked and nippled. We are immersed in dots, and we can't escape ourselves, because everywhere we look we are reflected back.

Then we go down to the second floor, which we have been warned doesn't have much light. When we get off the elevator it's dim and quiet. There's a gallery attendant standing there to help us figure out what to do. She says there are three exhibits on this floor and that we can go left or right, but there is a fifteen to thirty minute wait for the one in the middle. So we go left first, and I run into the wall. Then I stretch out my hands and grope my way into the room with the blue rectangle of light. We've been told the best way to experience this one is to go in and pause, and then go all the way forward. So we go in and pause, standing in light and shadow. I go forward first and see that up close the blue box looks three dimensional. From back by the door it looked flat, like paint on a wall. I go back and forth and all around. Then Gary goes up to the front, and we wander for a little while in the small dark room. We're getting ready to leave when Gary asks if I touched it. I say no, and go up to feel the rectangle of light. And it isn't there. And even when I was standing right next to it before, I didn't see it was an emptiness that went inside the wall. And as we leave I'm thinking about how easy it is to believe in things that aren't true, about how you can't just stand next to something and think you know everything about it.

Danae - James Turrell - photo credit Heather Kresge

So then we go to the right and find the red room. Where there's a projection of light in the corner. It's a three dimensional red box hanging there on the wall, and it could be poking out, or it could be poking in, depending on how you look at it. I go up and touch the red light box. But it's flat. Only light on the wall. I walk all around, and stand back and look, and it feels like something is missing.

We go out of the red room and stand in the hall, because the last exhibit is different. Only two people can go in at once, and it takes fifteen minutes to fully experience it, because your eyes have to adjust to the dark. So we wait. There are two couples ahead of us. People keep getting off the elevator in the dim light looking confused and unsure about what they're supposed to do. Gary and the gallery attendant exchange life stories, and it turns out she has made a study of these light art pieces. Her name is Heather, and she seems really happy to be standing there helping people in the gray light of the hallway. We make plans to find each other in cyberworld.

Finally it's our turn to go in. We fumble in the dark and find the two chairs, one on each side of the room, and sit down. We're staring straight ahead in the almost blackness. There's a very faint big squarish light far away in front of us. It's so dim I don't know if it's really there, and there's so much noise from the people waiting in the hallway that we both plug our ears with our fingers. We're quiet and it's dark, and we're trying to see or find or experience whatever it is this artist wants us to see or find or experience. I look away from the faint square. I look up and down and all around, and after what must be five minutes or more I start to see little purplish wisps of smoke-like things flying upwards above my head in three different places. Upwards in the same shape, always the same shape upwards, and then dissolving. I think I'm imagining it, I'm pretty sure I am, but they keep doing the same thing in the same way with the same patterns. Then they disappear, and I see little whooshing lights like meteors, and then sparkly dots like stars, little pin pricks of light, and then white gaseous floaty smoky shapes, in and out, growing and dying. Then the purple things come back and they're more intense, making outlines of faces or creatures, moving always from down to up, and always floating like smoke or ghosts or mist. I'm mesmerized and I don't want it to end. I ask Gary if he sees it and he says, see what? Then Heather comes in and tells us our time is up. I get up reluctantly and we stumble out. Back in the dim light of the hallway we try to talk about what happened, why Gary didn't see anything, or only the same thing he sees when he closes his eyes, and I saw purple ghosts. Heather says it took her four times to see anything, the first time it was only like white noise on a tv. But she doesn't tell us what she saw the fourth time. And we leave with more questions than answers.

Pleiades - James Turrell - photo credit Heather Kresge

There are two more buildings left to see, so we head out the door and down the block to an old converted house. We go inside and climb the stairs and see a created room filled with color and chaos, order in disorder, endless things to look at, piles of everyday objects tumbled together constructed. Somehow it feels comforting to me. And when I listen to the artist's words in my headphones, talking about family and foundations and collective agreements, things that are solid and things that are not, I want to stay in this room for a long time, and look for everything I can find.

The Color of Temperance: Embodied Energy - Julie Schenkelberg

The next room is the colored strings that make my breath pull all inside, they are there and not there, translucent, barely seen, but making all the difference.

Shift Lens - Anne Lindberg

There are other realities in other rooms, and then we are out the door and down an alley to the last building, which is another old house, only this one is filled with black spider webs. There are three stories of rooms and every room has an object, or objects, stacked or suspended or silently sitting. And every room and all of those objects are covered and connected and controlled by layers and layers of black woven yarn like cobwebs. And the words in my headphones are words about memories. Threads of memory everywhere, memories of the house itself, of the people that lived there, of objects used and unused. And it feels like the artist has made touchable things that cannot be touched. Everyone that comes in is hushed, and no one disturbs the black cords everywhere. And I think about how long it must have taken to fill this whole house with these black memory webs, and about how fine the line is between art and insanity.

Trace of Memory - Chiharu Shiota

And when we finally walk out of the Mattress Factory, we've been immersed in the minds of strangers for hours. We walk over the uneven brick sidewalks and find our car. We drive back to Gibsonia, eat dinner outside on the deck, and watch the light in the trees going away for the day. And then I go to my computer and start reading everything I can about James Turrell and his light art. I am fascinated that sitting in that dark room with my fingers plugging my ears, staring at the amorphous gray shape in front of me, and the cloudy smoky purple things swooshing above me that were either there or not there, is the thing I am still thinking about eight hours later. And that I still don't know what I saw, and if what I saw was real.

As I'm reading I come across this quote from James Turrell: "I was maybe 5 or 6, and my grandmother would begin sitting me in the Quaker meeting house. I asked my grandmother, What am I supposed to do? and she said, Just wait, we're going inside to greet the light."

"We live within this reality we create, and we're quite unaware of how we create the reality.  

So the work is often a general koan into how we go about forming this world in which we live, in particular with seeing.  

I'm very interested in how we perceive because that informs how we live."

James Turrell