[Powderworks] This is something I will remember ...
Kate Adams
kate@dnki.net
Tue, 03 Dec 2002 21:58:01 -0500
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Dear Powdies,
Queen of delayed reactions that I am, this is only really starting to sink
in here.
I was driving on Storrow Drive this evening, the weather too cold for my
aging bike's brittle parts and for lungs loathe to let out any of their
warm air. The sun was ending the day with that shocking abruptness of days
ending near the longest of nights. I was taking in the colors of the
sky. Transparent jewel tones of emerald green, lapis, azure, periwinkle,
and garnet deepened the air, reflected back in turn by the skyscrapers of
the Back Bay. The Charles River, stilled and thickened by the inescapable
chill, reflected the sky like liquid metal under glass. Water in a trance,
waiting for the gathering December darkness to place it in a crystalline coma.
As it would happen, traffic came to a halt near the Hatch Shell. I looked
out over the oval, the lagoon, and the river, rewinding time to a day when
spring burst forth the leaves from the trees and broke the blossoms from
the buds and my sons and I danced and sang and ate free yogurt and shared a
most glorious end to winter with a hundred thousand people and Midnight
Oil. I remembered staring up at the sun through a fuzzy tree making its
annual deciduous decision about photosynthesis while hearing Bonesy's sweet
voice sing "Oh Guiding Light you will shine". My six year old son was
watching Peter gyrate on stage with far more attention than he pays much of
anything, and Peter monitored my tiny red-jacketed elfling high on the
utility vault like only a surf lifeguard could. Recalling that concert,
when the land was coming alive and the band was coming together, I was
seized by a certain empty and cold sadness as desolate as the place where
my sons and I reveled a few short months ago now stands on this bitter
evening.
This is something I will remember.
Its about 2:30 am, 1 July 1994. I am still awake and alone in bed, a fetal
ball with headphones, my pillow covered with a man's shirt and wet with
tears. My husband is in the hospital for heart surgery and sleep comes
hard and slow in the dewy heat. I chew hard on the pillowcase so as not to
wake my restless Mother-in-law on the futon beside me and tell the CD
player to repeat Bushfire for about the fifteenth time since I went to bed.
This is something I will remember.
Driving in the Boston Greenpeace office, my work at the time, 10 July
1995. I play Species Diseases twice through as I suck down altoids and soy
milk to ward off "Morning? More like all the goddamn time" sickness. I
find out on arrival that our little "10th Anniversary of the Rainbow
Warrior" vigil at the French Consulate has exploded into a full-on media
circus, as the French have just seized the RWII in international
waters. My boss Scott and I preview the tape of the takeover with the
staff, complete with screaming and crashing, and I prepare my memorial
poster of Fernando Pereira, "Victim of French Terrorism". We walk to the
vigil and I hum Blossom and Blood and Hercules to myself to calm my nerves
and my stomach and strengthen my resolve. I turn the corner and get hit by
the fumes of the idling trucks and the blinding lights of the mass-market
media. Two numbered microphones push to my face as I am identified as the
assistant manager. I soundbyte. I pose. My poster and I make the UPI
wire. I don't throw up.
This is something I will remember.
The people of the Powderworks. Kerry in Seattle, with whom I've shared
many an Oily and non-Oily time on the roller coaster of life. Paul
Whiting, the homesick Aussie who broadened my world a bit while I helped
him come to terms with living in the US. Paul VanDenBergen in Melbourne,
who I corresponded with in my first powderworking stint and traded many a
tape and materials science department t-shirt. Virgil, who really
appreciates that blue album vinyl I found with the zeal of a
collector. Brigitte, who generously offered to share her room in NYC, cuts
her hair like I do mine, and livens up a place with her bright smile, her
attitude, her joie de vivre. Nina, who suffered my endless penchant for
convoluted conversation during two four-hour drives, with one of the most
amazing concerts and nights I have ever lived in between. James and Rich,
who I met at the Hatch Shell gig. Mai, who seems to know every "grown up"
I ever encountered in junior high and high school and makes them feel old
to know me as a 35 year old I'm sure! Rhonda the GVG and her warmth and the
stories I hope I have not heard the end of. Other people I've shared beer
and laughs and Oilfandom with in many cities ... too many to remember at
this late hour ... and those with whom I have a standing date should I ever
visit their turf. People I know only through correspondence but hope to
meet in person someday, like Rhonda the Kayaker and Jim McD and Bruce
(Dude! I'll let you know when brother Eric and Luci set the date for the
Calgary nuptials, OK?). Instant common ground around the world. I love you
all.
This is something I will remember.
This band has served as my role models and inspiration. Their lyrics are a
source of comfort and direction and often a reflection of my own values
waiting to be discovered in trying times. Their music has pushed me up and
through moments of doubt, moments of exhaustion, moments of paralysis,
moments of fear and flagging resolve. Their drive and thrash and beat will
never, ever allow me to sit still physically or get caught metaphorically
sleeping on a burning bed ever again. I think my husband put it best when
he said to me last night that the Oils were such a neat little collection
of all the artistic, social, political, environmental values I hold dear
and can dance to. A message for my heart, a message for the most
intellectual parts of my head, and a message for the most visceral and
primal parts of my body and soul.
Thank you Peter. Thank you Martin, Rob, Bones, and Jim for all the
memories and all the music and all the inspiration.
This is something I will remember.
Godspeed,
Kate
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kate Parker Adams
kate@dnki.net
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"She's gonna dream up the world she wants to live in,
She's gonna dream out loud" - U2 (Zooropa)
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go Out Of Mind ... http://www.kpasoutput.blogspot.com
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Dear Powdies,<br>
<br>
Queen of delayed reactions that I am, this is only really starting to
sink in here.<br>
<br>
I was driving on Storrow Drive this evening, the weather too cold for my
aging bike's brittle parts and for lungs loathe to let out any of their
warm air. The sun was ending the day with that shocking abruptness
of days ending near the longest of nights. I was taking in the
colors of the sky. Transparent jewel tones of emerald green, lapis,
azure, periwinkle, and garnet deepened the air, reflected back in turn by
the skyscrapers of the Back Bay. The Charles River, stilled and
thickened by the inescapable chill, reflected the sky like liquid metal
under glass. Water in a trance, waiting for the gathering December
darkness to place it in a crystalline coma.<br>
<br>
As it would happen, traffic came to a halt near the Hatch Shell. I
looked out over the oval, the lagoon, and the river, rewinding time to a
day when spring burst forth the leaves from the trees and broke the
blossoms from the buds and my sons and I danced and sang and ate free
yogurt and shared a most glorious end to winter with a hundred thousand
people and Midnight Oil. I remembered staring up at the sun through
a fuzzy tree making its annual deciduous decision about photosynthesis
while hearing Bonesy's sweet voice sing "Oh Guiding Light you will
shine". My six year old son was watching Peter gyrate on stage
with far more attention than he pays much of anything, and Peter
monitored my tiny red-jacketed elfling high on the utility vault like
only a surf lifeguard could. Recalling that concert, when the land
was coming alive and the band was coming together, I was seized by a
certain empty and cold sadness as desolate as the place where my sons and
I reveled a few short months ago now stands on this bitter evening.
<br>
<br>
This is something I will remember.<br>
<br>
Its about 2:30 am, 1 July 1994. I am still awake and alone in bed,
a fetal ball with headphones, my pillow covered with a man's shirt and
wet with tears. My husband is in the hospital for heart surgery and
sleep comes hard and slow in the dewy heat. I chew hard on the
pillowcase so as not to wake my restless Mother-in-law on the futon
beside me and tell the CD player to repeat Bushfire for about the
fifteenth time since I went to bed.<br>
<br>
This is something I will remember.<br>
<br>
Driving in the Boston Greenpeace office, my work at the time, 10 July
1995. I play Species Diseases twice through as I suck down altoids
and soy milk to ward off "Morning? More like all the goddamn
time" sickness. I find out on arrival that our little
"10th Anniversary of the Rainbow Warrior" vigil at the French
Consulate has exploded into a full-on media circus, as the French have
just seized the RWII in international waters. My boss Scott and I
preview the tape of the takeover with the staff, complete with screaming
and crashing, and I prepare my memorial poster of Fernando Pereira,
"Victim of French Terrorism". We walk to the vigil and I
hum Blossom and Blood and Hercules to myself to calm my nerves and my
stomach and strengthen my resolve. I turn the corner and get hit by
the fumes of the idling trucks and the blinding lights of the mass-market
media. Two numbered microphones push to my face as I am identified as the
assistant manager. I soundbyte. I pose. My poster and I make
the UPI wire. I don't throw up.<br>
<br>
This is something I will remember.<br>
<br>
The people of the Powderworks. Kerry in Seattle, with whom I've
shared many an Oily and non-Oily time on the roller coaster of
life. Paul Whiting, the homesick Aussie who broadened my world a
bit while I helped him come to terms with living in the US. Paul
VanDenBergen in Melbourne, who I corresponded with in my first
powderworking stint and traded many a tape and materials science
department t-shirt. Virgil, who really appreciates that blue album
vinyl I found with the zeal of a collector. Brigitte, who
generously offered to share her room in NYC, cuts her hair like I do
mine, and livens up a place with her bright smile, her attitude, her joie
de vivre. Nina, who suffered my endless penchant for convoluted
conversation during two four-hour drives, with one of the most amazing
concerts and nights I have ever lived in between. James and Rich,
who I met at the Hatch Shell gig. Mai, who seems to know
every "grown up" I ever encountered in junior high and high
school and makes them feel old to know me as a 35 year old I'm sure!
Rhonda the GVG and her warmth and the <i>stories</i> I hope I have not
heard the end of. Other people I've shared beer and laughs and Oilfandom
with in many cities ... too many to remember at this late hour ... and
those with whom I have a standing date should I ever visit their
turf. People I know only through correspondence but hope to meet in
person someday, like Rhonda the Kayaker and Jim McD and Bruce (Dude! I'll
let you know when brother Eric and Luci set the date for the Calgary
nuptials, OK?). Instant common ground around the world. I love you
all.<br>
<br>
This is something I will remember.<br>
<br>
This band has served as my role models and inspiration. Their lyrics are
a source of comfort and direction and often a reflection of my own values
waiting to be discovered in trying times. Their music has pushed me up
and through moments of doubt, moments of exhaustion, moments of
paralysis, moments of fear and flagging resolve. Their drive and
thrash and beat will never, ever allow me to sit still physically or get
caught metaphorically sleeping on a burning bed ever again. I think
my husband put it best when he said to me last night that the Oils were
such a neat little collection of all the artistic, social, political,
environmental values I hold dear and can dance to. A message for my
heart, a message for the most intellectual parts of my head, and a
message for the most visceral and primal parts of my body and soul.<br>
<br>
Thank you Peter. Thank you Martin, Rob, Bones, and Jim for all the
memories and all the music and all the inspiration.<br>
<br>
This is something I will remember.<br>
<br>
Godspeed,<br>
Kate<br>
<x-sigsep><p></x-sigsep>
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<br>
Kate Parker Adams<br>
kate@dnki.net<br>
----------------------------------------------------------------------------=
<br>
"She's gonna dream up the world she wants to live in,<br>
She's gonna dream out loud" - U2 (Zooropa)<br>
----------------------------------------------------------------------------=
<br>
go Out Of Mind ...
<a href=3D"http://www.kpasoutput.blogspot.com/"=
eudora=3D"autourl">http</a>://www.kpasoutput.blogspot.<a=
href=3D"http://www.kpasoutput.blogspot.com/" eudora=3D"autourl">com<br>
</a>------------------------------------------------------------------------=
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